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{^ CARLISLE, j 
 
tJRITISH JJRAMATISTS (, 1 ne w orKS oi incj, c 
 original editions, including the best play j.' 
 Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher, Phihp M 
 biographies, and a historical introduction, 
 
 ' lecten Trom 
 
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Drawn by J, rhurst 
 
 Ingravea Vy^ C "Warren . 
 
 BBH JT©M^®M, 
 
 
 

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 F THE 
 
 
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 CAREFULLY SELECTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES &c. &c. 
 
 THE CEIEBEATED G-LOBE TEEATRE . 
 
 EBXKB XJRGH 
 WILXjXAM p. KfXMMG 
 
THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE BRITISH DRAMATISTS 
 
 dnxdxxlhj Sdtdtii from i\ft §^sl Siri&tts, 
 
 COPIOUS NOTES, BIOGRAPHIES, AND A HISTORICAL 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 : 
 
 BY JOHN S. KELTIE, F.S.A. Scot., 
 
 ELITOK OF ' DEFOE's WORKS,' ETC. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 WILLIAM P. N I M M O. 
 
 1873- 
 

 • i®. 
 
 I^O. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PREFACE, , 
 
 OEIGIN AXD EARLY HISTORY OF THE BRITISH DRAMA, 
 
 JOHIT LILLY- 
 BIOGRAPHICAL Notice, . , . . , . . 
 Alexander and Campaspe, ...... 
 
 GEORGE PEELE— 
 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 The Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe, with the Tp^agedy of 
 Absalon, ........ 
 
 v/rOBERT Greene- 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 The Honourable History of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, . 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE— 
 
 Biographical Notice, ........ 
 
 The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, 
 King of England, ....... 
 
 ^ The Tragical History OF Dr. Faustus, . . . . . 
 
 BEN JONSON— 
 
 Biographical Notice, ....<»... 
 
 . The Alchemist, ........ 
 
 - Epic(ene ; OR, The Silent Woman, ...... 
 
 /Every Man in His Humour, ....... 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER— 
 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 Philaster ; OR, Love lies A-Bleeding, ..... 
 
 A King and no King, ....... 
 
 - . The Knight of the Burning Pestle, ..... 
 
 JOHN Webster- 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 The Duchess of Malfi, .••..,. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 V 
 
 41 
 
 42 
 
 58 
 59 
 
 76 
 78 
 
 97 
 
 100 
 127 
 
 140 
 142 
 179 
 
 209 
 
 237 
 240 
 264 
 291 
 
 316 
 317 
 
 ly 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 JOHX MARSTON— 
 
 Biographical Notice, . , , . . 
 
 Antonio and Mellida, ....... 
 
 Antonio's Revenge. The Second Part of the History of Antonio and 
 Mellida, ......... 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER— 
 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 The Virgin-Martyr, ........ 
 
 The Duke of Milan, ........ 
 
 \/ A New Way to Pay Old Debts, ...... 
 
 JOHN ford- 
 Biographical Notice, . . . . . 
 The Lady's Trial, ..>...... 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD— 
 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 A Woman Killed with Kindness, ...... 
 
 JAMES Shirley- 
 Biographical Notice, ....... 
 
 The Traitor. A Tragedy, ....... 
 
 The Brothers. A Comedy, »,.,»,/ 
 
 paqk 
 346 
 347 
 
 364 
 
 386 
 411 
 435 
 
 460 
 461 
 
 483 
 
 484 
 
 503 
 505 
 528 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 jEETAIN periods in British history have been marked "by the 
 prevalence of particular forms of literature. The present age, 
 for example, is characterized by the superabundance of prose 
 fiction ; this is the period of the novel. During the early half of last 
 century, the most popular and common form of literature was the short 
 essay, which appeared in shoals in such periodicals as the Spectator and 
 Tatler. It is not difficult to account for the shower of pamphlets which 
 deluged the period comprehended in the greater part of the reign of 
 Charles I. and the time of the Commonwealth ; while the latter half of 
 the sixteenth, and the beginning of the seventeenth century, was em- 
 phatically the period of the drama, during which this form of imaginative 
 literature held supreme and unexampled sway. It would be interesting 
 to inquire into the causes which in each age determine the groove in 
 which its popular literature will run; for although, as in the case of 
 the pamphleteering period, these do not always lie on the surface, still 
 no doubt a close scrutiny would prove that they are always clear and 
 well defined, depending mainly upon the political, social, religious, and 
 commercial state of the country at the time. Why the reigns of Eliza- 
 beth and James should have given birth to so many men of high and 
 prolific genius, and why those men should spontaneously adopt the drama 
 as the form of literature best adapted to afford an outlet for their welling- 
 up thoughts and fancies, we have not the space, even if we had the 
 requisite knowledge and insight, to attempt to discover. We believe it 
 would be found that the drama was the channel most suited to receive 
 the overflowings of the abundant intellectual energy of the age ; although 
 those who adopted it did not cut it out for themselves, but found it ready 
 made to their hands. Indeed, it will be found that a great genius seldom, 
 if ever, creates a new form of literature, into which to throw the products 
 of his intellect ; he generally adopts that which is already popular, and 
 consecrates it to his purpose. During the reign of Elizabeth our country 
 had got fairly over the turmoils and distractions of the Eeformation ; it 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 had become 'a land of settled government;' it was a time of great com- 
 mercial prosperity and of comparative peace; an era of unprecedented 
 intellectual and religions freedom had dawned upon men; all the old 
 beliefs had been shaken, and many of them dethroned. The forces which 
 had been so vigorously at work to bring about all this were now unem- 
 ployed ; a new-born spirit of restless, inquisitive, vigorous mental activity 
 was abroad, prying into all things, divine and human, and bound to take 
 some tangible form. All the circumstances of the time being considered, 
 we think no more suitable form could have been found than the drama, 
 peculiarly the literature of action, of restless many-sided human life, by 
 means of which to give utterance to the multitudinous and strange 
 thoughts and fancies engendered of this restless, unrestrainable, abun- 
 dant mental energy. 
 
 Whatever may have been the causes at work, for about sixty years 
 after 1570, hundreds of dramas, many of them of supreme excellence, 
 laden with deep and striking thoughts as well as rich and exquisite 
 fancies, were produced by a race of authors, of many of the greatest of 
 whom almost all we know is their names; even the biography of the 
 very greatest among them is little else than a series of unsatisfactory 
 conjectures. These dramatists appear to have formed a class by them- 
 selves, mixing little with general society ; but most of them leading a 
 strange kind of wild ' Bohemian ' existence, having no fixed abode, living 
 mostly in taverns and other strange places, and forming themselves into 
 clubs for drinking, smoking, ' quipping,' and contriving plays. Whether 
 this was a consequence or a cause of their being tabooed from respect- 
 able society, we cannot say. What little we know of the lives of most 
 of them is rather saddening : few of them lived long ; most of them were 
 penniless, and generally in debt to the managers ; and many of them died 
 from excessive indulgence in eating, drinking, and other gratifications. 
 Nevertheless, they have left behind them much that men ought not ' will- 
 ingly to let die.' Of the many hundred works produced by these old 
 dramatists, comparatively few have reached our time, although those 
 extant might still be counted by the hundred. Possibly we need not 
 regret the loss, as only the most vigorous may have survived. It is 
 needless for us to show here why those extant works of the Elizabethan 
 dramatists are worthy of attention, and deserving of admiration ; it is 
 long since this has been allowed by all competent critics ; and it is quite 
 customary for all who pretend to any knowledge of English literature, to 
 accord to them, as to other literary masterpieces, as a matter of course, 
 the highest praise, although, we fear, many of those who talk thus do so 
 without knowledge. However, few men perhaps are to be blamed for 
 » the want of a thorough acquaintance with the works of these dramatists, 
 considering the many all -important matters demanding attention in 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 the present, the great number of the dramas extant, and to men of 
 moderate means, the comparatively great expense of even the cheapest 
 editions. Many, too, would not care to read through the whole works 
 of any one dramatist, and to most, such a task would be tiresome and 
 profitless ; and therefore to such, as well as to all who desire to know 
 wherein the glory of these old writers consisted, it is hoped the present 
 volume will prove acceptable. 
 
 The editor, assisted by the criticisms of those writers most competent 
 to judge, has endeavoured to select from the works of the greatest of the 
 Elizabethan dramatists those which display the highest genius, are most 
 characteristic of their authors, and are best fitted for general perusal. 
 With regard to this last point, he has found that the best dramas are 
 generally the freest from impurity, and in the following pages almost 
 nothing has been thought necessary in the way of purgation. As any 
 one who can spare a sixpence can purchase the works of Shakespeare, 
 they have been excluded from the selection. To ensure correctness of 
 text, the best editions — in the case of Ben Jonson, the original quarto — 
 have been used. Prefixed to each selection is a brief biography of the 
 author, which, sad to say, is generally little more than a confession of 
 inability to write a biography for lack of material. Where no good pur- 
 pose was to be served by retaining the antiquated spelling, it has been 
 modernized ; and wherever it was thought necessary to the understand- 
 ing of the text by an ordinary reader, notes have been appended at the 
 foot of the page. The editor has avoided wasting space by indulging in 
 the note critical, or by pointing out to the reader — what he is no doubt 
 able enough to discover for himself — the beauties of an author, and the 
 feelings which it has been generally thought they are fitted to call forth. 
 The notes are purely explanatory ; and where the editor has been unable 
 to throw light on a word or passage, he has seldom attempted a con- 
 jecture which might be misleading. Those notes which are not his 
 own, the editor has always endeavoured to remember to acknowledge, 
 although, no doubt, he has occasionally omitted to do so ; and to the 
 labours of the editors of the various excellent editions of the dramatists 
 he has been indebted for much valuable assistance. It is hoped that 
 these notes will be found conducive to the purpose which this volume 
 is designed to serve, viz. to enable the general reader to form an in- 
 telligent acquaintance with, and appreciation of, the best works of our 
 greatest dramatists. 
 
 It has been thought appropriate to prefix a short Introduction, giving 
 a brief account of the origin and early history of the British Drama ; and 
 as the book is meant mainly for general readers, the editor has deemed it 
 not out of place to begin by describing what is generally allowed to be 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 the origin of the Greek, the parent of the European Drama. The chief 
 purpose of the Introduction, however, is to endeavour to discover the 
 germs from which arose the early British Drama, and to trace its history 
 down to the time when what is known as the ' legitimate drama ' had 
 taken firm root in our literature, i.e. down to about the date of our first 
 specimen from John Lilly. Of course, with the small space which could 
 be allotted to this purpose, the editor has been compelled to restrict him- 
 self to a brief statement of facts ; and many things have been necessarily 
 omitted which are highly interesting in connection with our dramatic 
 history, but which would have been out of place in a book of this kind. 
 All the best and most recent authorities have been consulted to obtain 
 material for the Introduction ; but any one at all acquainted with the 
 subject, knows that any writer on the early history of our Drama must be 
 largely indebted to the invaluable work of Mr. J. P. Collier. 
 
 In conclusion, both publisher and editor hope that, as a whole, this 
 volume will be found adapted to the purpose for which it is intended. 
 
 J. S. K. 
 
 Edineuegh, February 1870. 
 
ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 BRITISH DRAM^.,,,,,^^ 
 
 OETRY, in respect of the form which it may assume, has been 
 divided into three kinds — Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic: the first 
 (from the Greek epos^ a Avord) consisting of the stately narration 
 of heroic actions ; the second (from the root of lyre) setting forth 
 human emotions in such a form as admits of being set to music ; and the last 
 (in Greek signifying * action,' from drao^ to do, to act) is concerned with the 
 representation (as distinct from the narration) of human actions, and exhibits 
 a number of persons, called the dramatis personoe^ or persons of the drama, in 
 continued and animated conversation, — the progress of the story, action, or plot 
 being gathered from their sayings and doings. The two main divisions of the 
 drama are tragedy and comedy ; the former of which Aristotle well defines as 
 the imitation of some action that is serious, entire, and of a proper magnitude, — 
 effecting through pity and terror the refinement of these and similar affections of 
 the soul. Tragedy, in its best form, concerns itself with the deepest, noblest^ 
 most earnest side of man's nature, striving to elicit our strongest sympathy in 
 behalf of others who are vividly represented before us as actually taking part in 
 certain scenes of life which bring upon them sorrow and suffering. Comedy, 
 on the other hand, deals with the ordinary commonplace events of everyday 
 life, and ministers to the amusement of the spectator by exhibiting the ludicrous 
 mistakes and follies of his fellow-men. Tragic poetry has been described as 
 that which interests the mind in the highest degree, and comic poetry as that 
 which engages us in the most complete lawlessness. In comedy, gloom, sadness^, 
 sobriety, have no recognised existence ; while gaiety, joviality, riotous mirth, are 
 unknown in tragedy. Tragedy, consistently with its origin, as will be seen, shows 
 us man, if we may so speak, in the * struggle for existence,' fighting against fate-, 
 striving to hold his ovn\ against unfeeling nature and man's inhumanity ; while 
 comedy exhibits him in a state of unconcern and self-abandonment. 
 
 If it were left to mere conjecture to account for the origin of the drama, one 
 might very naturally suppose that it took its rise partly from what appears 
 to be an innate propensity in man, as it is certainly a universal practice, to 
 take an interest in and to recount the sayings and doings of others. Even 
 among the cultivated classes of the present day — and far more so is it the case 
 among the uncultivated and uneducated, who are living examples of what all 
 classes at one time were — Avhen two or three are met together, are not the affairs 
 of themselves and their friends almost invariably the staple subject of conversa- 
 
ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 tion ? And if any one with his ears open passes two gossips in conversation, he 
 is almost sure to observe that the one is recounting to the other, in an animated 
 and dramatic manner, some exploit of which he or she is the victorious hero or 
 heroine. In this way, however, the origin of the epic would perhaps be more 
 appropriately accounted for, it being essentially a narrative set forth by one 
 narrator, generally interspersed with fragments of conversation, and resembling 
 the drama in being concerned with the exhibition of a progressive action. The 
 epic, we believe, was the first form of poetry, if not of all literature, and at first 
 was probably nothing more than mere narrative vigorously and picturesquely 
 set forth. The epic in many respects bears a considerable resemblance to, 
 and one would fancy could not fail to suggest, the drama, which, we shall see, 
 was not exactly the case. Theoretically, however, to account for the origin 
 of the latter, in addition to the gossiping or story-telling propensity in man, 
 we have also to take into consideration the earliest developed and perhaps the 
 strongest of all his propensities — that of imitation or mimicry. This propensity 
 is seen in earhest childhood : without it there would be no possibility of educa- 
 tion. Are not the very games of children merely the mimicry of the serious 
 life-business of their elders ? Savages have been described as the children of 
 nature ; and they do resemble children in many respects, especially in the nature 
 of their amusements, which are generally mere imitations or representations of 
 their most serious employments — war and the chase. Among nearly every known 
 people on the face of the globe, from the ultra-civilised and theatre-loving Parisian 
 down to the almost brute-like Australian, is there something to be found corre- 
 sponding to dramatic representation, something imitative of active life. Doubtless 
 in many instances, among savage nations, this takes a very rude form ; but even 
 in its rudest form it is an outcome of the same propensity as the most elaborate pro- 
 duction of the greatest dramatist, — viz. a desire to afford pleasure by representing 
 the realities of active life. In its rudest form it is to be seen in the war-dance 
 of the North American Indians and other savages, which is simply a representa- 
 tion of a battle, and may be regarded as tragedy in its crudest form ; while the 
 comic and love dances of the South Sea Islanders and others exhibit comedy in 
 its earliest stage. Indeed, dancing seems at all times to have been intimately 
 connected with dramatic representation ; and one of the most important parts ot 
 the ancient classic drama, the chorus^ takes its name from this fact. When the 
 Spaniards visited Peru, they found the natives in possession of a drama of a 
 comparatively advanced order. ' The Incas,' says Garcilaso de la Vega, ' repre- 
 sented upon festival days tragedies and comedies in due form, intermingling 
 them with interludes which contained nothing low or grovelling. The subjects 
 of their tragedies were the exploits and victories of their kings and heroes. On 
 the other hand, their comedies were drawn from agriculture and the most com- 
 mon actions of human hfe ; the whole mingled with sentences full of sense and 
 gravity.' The Chinese are kno"svn to have had a drama from a very early period 
 — no doubt of a somewhat grotesque kind, characteristic of the people — which 
 to all appearance must have been of native growth ; and there is no satisfactory 
 proof that the Indians were indebted to the Greeks for the idea of their most 
 elaborate and certainly ancient drama. Indeed, the love of dnimatic represen- 
 tation is as prevalent and as natural to man as religion itself, with which it is 
 very often found in some way connected, and to which the European drama, 
 ancient and modern, owes to a large extent its origin. 
 
 Notwithstanding this innate propensity to dramatize the facts of human 
 life, it can scarcely be said that to it is to be ascribed the origin of the Greek 
 drama, of which the modern European drama may be regarded as the lineal 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xi 
 
 descendant. The idea of dramatic representation was familiar to the Greeks 
 even before the invention of the drama proper. It was customary among them 
 to represent certain legends connected with the gods in a visible dramatic form. 
 * Thus,' says Ottfried Miiller, the historian of Greek literature, ' Apollo's combat 
 with the dragon, and his consequent' flight and expatriation, were represented by 
 a noble youth of Delphi ; in Samos, the marriage of Zeus (Jupiter) and Hera 
 (Juno) was exhibited at the great festival of the goddess. The Eleusinian 
 Mysteries were (as an ancient writer expresses it) "a mystical drama," in which 
 the history of Demeter and Ceres was acted, like a play, by priests and priestesses. 
 . . . There were also mimic representations in the worship of Bacchus : thus, at 
 the Anthesteria at Athens, the wife of the second archon, who bore the title of 
 Queen, was betrothed to Dionysus in a secret solemnity, and in public processions 
 even the god himself was represented by a man.' But it is to the rites connected 
 with the worship of Bacchus that we must look for the immediate origin of the 
 drama. It was the custom, especially among the Dorians of the Peloponnesus, 
 to celebrate at certain seasons of the year, generally in early spring and in 
 autumn, the worship of Dionysus (popularly identified with the Latin Bacchus), 
 not so much as the god of wine, or the vine, but mainly as the personification of 
 the productive force of nature. This they did at first by singing wild, impassioned 
 songs, known as dithyrambs, generally improvised under the influence of wine, 
 and which were accompanied with sacrifices, orgies, and rites of various kinds. 
 ' But the worship of Bacchus,' says Miiller, ' had one quality which was more than 
 any other calculated to give birth to the drama, and particularly to the tragedy ; 
 namely, the enthusiasm^ which formed an essential part of it. This enthusiasm 
 proceeded from an impassioned sympathy with the events of nature in connection 
 with the course of the seasons ; especially with the struggle which Nature seemed 
 to make in winter, in order that she might break forth in spring with renovated 
 beauty.' About 580 B.C., Arion the lyric poet, we have good authority for 
 believing, improved upon the wild, improvised dithyrambs mentioned above, by 
 inventing what was called the tragic chorus, being a regular choral song sung by a 
 number of people who probably represented the companions of Bacchus, and who 
 danced around the altar, on which a goat was sacrificed. Hence, it is said, the 
 origin of tragedy, which thus means literally the goat-song, from the Greek tragos^ 
 a goat, and ode^ a song : chorus in Greek literally means a dance, or company 
 of dancers. This dithyrambic tragic chorus continued to chant the sorrows and 
 mishaps of Bacchus as the god of nature, in his struggle for life with the adverse 
 powers of winter, — the particular festival at which it was sung being held at the 
 end of winter or in early spring ; hence the meaning which came to be attached 
 to the words tragic and tragedy, for it was from this particular part of the worship 
 of Bacchus that tragedy was developed. The further development of tragedy, 
 according to Miiller, belongs to the Athenians ; while among the Dorians it seems 
 to have been preserved in its original lyric form. Miiller supposes that, even in 
 the above elementary form of tragedy, the leaders of the chorus came forward 
 separately, and narrated the perils which threatened the god, and his final 
 escape from or triumph over them ; the body of the chorus afterwards express- 
 ing its feelings, as if at passing events. 
 
 The next important innovation in connection with the worship of Bacchus, 
 which indeed marks the birth of the regular tragic drama, according to all ac- 
 counts, was made by Thespis, a native of Attica, about 535 B.C. To give rest 
 to the singers, and relieve the monotony of the long effusions of the chorus, he 
 is said to have come forward, or caused an actor to come forward, probably on a 
 small platform, and recite a legend connected with some god or hero. * Now,' 
 
xii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 says Muller, * according to the idea which we have formed from the finished 
 drama, one actor appears to be no better than none at all. When, however, it is 
 borne in mind that, according to the constant practice of the ancient drama, one 
 actor played several parts in the same piece (for which the linen masks intro- 
 duced by Thespis must have been of great use) ; and, moreover, that the chorus 
 was combined with the actor, and could maintain a dialogue with him, — it is easy 
 to see how a dramatic action might be introduced, continued, and concluded by 
 the speeches inserted between the choral songs.' It is thought by some authori- 
 ties that these actors might at first be chosen from among the professional rhap- 
 sodists who were in the habit of traversing the country, and reciting the works 
 of Homer and other poets. This they often did wdth characteristic gesticulation, 
 sometimes several together, each representing a different hero, and reciting his 
 speeches in character. 
 
 Thus was tragedy born, and in a comparatively short time it reached its full 
 development in the works of j^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, all nearly 
 contemporary during the fifth century B.C. The first of these made the next 
 important innovation and improvement in the character of the drama, by intro- 
 ducing another actor, — thus giving the dramatic element its due development. 
 * Tragedy, as he received it, was still an infant, though a vigorous one : when 
 it passed from his hands, it had reached a firm and goodly youth.' Sophocles 
 introduced a third actor, and otherwise improved on his predecessor. Euripides 
 invented the prologue, which Muller thinks was a step in the backward direction • 
 and he and his immediate successors made further additions and improvements, 
 tending to render the Greek tragic drama as complete in form as it could well 
 be, consistently with the stringent rules which Greek notions of art imposed 
 upon it. 
 
 Comedy, like tragedy, had also its origin in the worship of Bacchus, but, 
 according to the best authorities, took its rise in an entirely different way, and 
 in connection with quite another festival. Tragedy, as we have seen, had origi- 
 nated in the winter celebrations of the worship of Bacchus, when the powers of 
 nature were struggling to free themselves from the thralls of griping winter ; and, 
 as in a struggle of life and death, the minds of the people seemed filled with sadness 
 and apprehension, finding utterance in the tragic chorus. Comedy, on the other 
 hand, took its rise in connection with the joyous ingathering of the vintage, the 
 fruit of nature's triumphant efforts, when all was mirth and jollity. The festivals 
 of this joyous period were held in autumn, and by the country people ; comedy 
 thus, unlike tragedy, having a rustic origin. At these joyous country festivals it 
 was the custom of the people, having drunk freely of the gifts of their generous 
 god, to go round in procession from village to village, carrying aloft an image of 
 the phallus, the emblem of nature's productive powers, the chorus singing songs of 
 thanksgiving to the liberal Bacchus. After doing their god due honour, it was the 
 custom of the people to indulge in the wildest and often most licentious revelry ; 
 and the chorus, turning their attention to the spectators, quizzed and satirized them 
 in the most unrestrained manner. It was from this custom, it is said, that the 
 regular comedy took its rise ; its origin being generally ascribed to Susarion, a 
 native of Megara, who had removed to Icaria in Attica, and who, according to 
 one account, was the first to contend with a chorus of Icarians in order to obtain 
 the prize — a basket of figs and a jar of wine. According to another account, 
 quite consistent with the above, Susarion, somewhere between 580-564 B.C., was 
 the first to regulate this amusement, and thus lay the foundation of regular 
 comedy. The name applied by the Greeks to a drunken revel like the above 
 was komos (comus), so that comedy literally means the ' revellers' song.' The 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xiii 
 
 derivation of comedy from Tcome^ a village, because it is said the actors went 
 about from village to village satirizing the follies and vices of the people, rests 
 on no good foundation. We have no such means of marking the gradual rise of 
 comedy to perfection as we have in the case of tragedy. By what means it was 
 gradually developed, can only be inferred, as Muller says, from the drama itself, 
 which still retained much of its original organization, and from the analogy of 
 tragedy. 
 
 Comedy, however, took much longer than tragedy to attain to the perfection 
 of art, retaining its original form — that of personal satire — till the time of the 
 greatest Greek comedian, Aristophanes (444—380 B.C.). In this form, known as 
 the old comedy^ the characters were real persons, introduced under their own 
 names : most of the comedies of Aristophanes are of this class. This form of 
 the comic drama inevitably became unbearable ; and after passing through the 
 stage of what is known as the middle comedy^ in which real characters were 
 introduced under assumed names, the comic art gradually reached perfection in 
 the new comedy, essentially resembling the modern comic drama, in which the 
 characters are purely fictitious, the only requirements being that they should be 
 true to reality, and conformable to the rules of art. 
 
 As we are not writing a history of the Greek drama, nor even of the drama 
 in general, but have introduced the above statements only because we deemed 
 it necessary briefly to lay before the reader what is known of the origin of the 
 European drama, we shall not enter into further details on this part of the 
 subject. Suffice it to say, that the great difference in form between the ancient 
 Greek or classic drama, and the modern English or romantic drama, is, that in the 
 former was introduced what is known as the chorus, which, from the supreme 
 part it played originally at the festivals of Bacchus, gradually came to be re- 
 garded as an altogether subordinate part of the main drama. This chorus 
 consisted of a group of persons, in some way connected with the dramatis personce, 
 who, at intervals in the progress of the drama, gave utterance to certain moral 
 reflections suggested by the scenes, or were used by the dramatist as a means 
 of letting the audience know any details that were necessary to the full under- 
 standing of the plot. Even after the regular Greek drama had made consider- 
 able progress, the chorus seems to have continued to chant its part in the play, 
 and, true to its name, enlivened the performance by dancing to its own music. 
 Only one other difference between the classic and modern or romantic drama 
 can we mention here : it is, that the former generally endeavoured to adhere 
 rigidly to what are known as the dramatic unities of time, place, and action. 
 The first of these enacts that, to keep up the illusion, everything represented 
 in the drama should happen on the same day; the second, that, for the same 
 reason, all the actions should take place on the same spot, or very nearly so ; 
 and the third, that there should be only one main action or plot, to which 
 everything else must be subservient. This difference between the Greek and the 
 English drama is not, however, merely formal ; it arises from the very different 
 principles on which ancient Greek and modern English, or rather Gothic, art is 
 based. A writer quoted by Hazlitt says, that the great difference between 
 ancient and modern poetry is, that the one is the poetry of form, the other of 
 effect. ' The one seeks to identify the imitation with the external object — clings 
 to it, is inseparable from it — is either that or nothing ; the other seeks to identify 
 •the original impression with whatever else, within the range of thought or feeling, 
 <jan strengthen, relieve, adorn, or elevate it. Hence the severity and simplicity 
 of the Greek tragedy, which excluded everything foreign or unnecessary to the 
 subject. Hence the Unities.' 
 
xiv ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 It may not be deemed out of place to mention that the ancient theatres were 
 immense semicircular buildings, open to the sky, the base of the semicircle being 
 occupied by the stage, and the seats rising in tiers in the form of an amphi- 
 theatre, and often capable of containing thousands of spectators. The actors 
 always wore masks suited to the characters they represented, the mouths of 
 tke masks being constructed on the principle of the speaking-trumpet, through 
 which the voices of the performers sounded in a sort of loud chant, which was 
 necessary in order that their speeches might be heard throughout the immense 
 building. Hence the origin of the phrase dramatis personcB (from the Latin per^ 
 through, and sono^ to sound), i.e. persons, literally and originally masks of the 
 drama, each character having its own particular mask. Such is the origin of 
 person., which literally means a ' speaking-trumpet.' 
 
 The Romans borrowed their drama, which is mainly of the comic order, 
 chiefly from the Greeks. The Greek and Roman drama flourished down to a 
 considerable time after the Christian era, and was so extremely popular in all 
 the provinces and colonies, and was latterly of such a licentious nature, that the 
 authorities of the Christian Church deemed it necessary to threaten with severe 
 censure all those who frequented the theatres, and ultimately persuaded some 
 of the Emperors to issue edicts against the performance of stage-plays. But 
 neither church censures nor imperial edicts were found sufficient to eradicate 
 from the people the inborn love of dramatic representation ; and therefore the 
 clergy determined to direct this passion into what they deemed a more proper 
 channel, — an example which it would be wise in our modern clergy to follow 
 oftener than they do. The modern European, like the ancient Greek drama, 
 owes its origin to religion. The first known play on a religious subject, of 
 which some fragments in Greek iambics are still extant, is said to have been 
 written by Ezekiel, a Jew, shortly after the destruction of Jerusalem. It 
 is taken from the Exodus, or the departure of the Israelites from Egypt 
 under their leader Moses, and is supposed to have been written by Ezekiel for 
 the purpose of animating his brethren with the hopes of a future deliverance 
 from their captivity under the conduct of a new Moses. The principal 
 characters are, Moses, Sapphora, and * God from the bush.' Moses delivers the 
 prologue in a speech of sixty lines, and his rod is turned into a serpent on 
 the stage. The first known Christian writer of plays was ApoUinarius, Bishop 
 of Laodicea in the fourth centmy a.d., who is said to have turned some of the 
 subjects of the Old Testament into plays. The oldest play extant on a Christian 
 subject is written in Greek, entitled Christos Paschon, ' The Passion of Christ,' 
 and is somewhat doubtfully attributed to Gregory Nazianzen, Patriarch and 
 Archbishop of Constantinople in the fourth century : it is written on the model 
 of Euripides, and is said to have been intended to supersede the representation 
 of the works of the Greek dramatists. In this play, which is a poor production, 
 the Virgin Mary makes her fii-st appearance on the stage, and is represented 
 with many weaknesses, and as indulging in most undignified and unchristian 
 language. We hear no more of miracle plays, as these religious dramas are 
 called, until the tenth century, when Roswitha, a nun in the convent of Gan- 
 dersheim in Saxony, wrote six plays in Latin on subjects connected with the 
 lives of the saints, which were intended, however, solely for the amusement and 
 instruction of her sister nuns. Although this is the only instance on record 
 of the performance of religious dramas at such an early period, still it is 
 probable that the practice of representing plays of this kind in churches and 
 religious houses by the clergy for their own amusement, may not have been 
 uncommon even at this eai'ly period. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xv 
 
 It is known that from the time of Pope Gregory the Great (the eleventh 
 century), it became quite common for the clergy to commemorate the passion 
 of Christ by processions, choruses, chants, and dialogues, at first only in the 
 churches, the laity taking no part in them. A writer in the Revue des Deux 
 Mondes of July 1, 1868, says that it is in the mass, of which the dramatic 
 character became most distinctly marked from the time of Gregory the Great, 
 that the most recent research finds the germ of the modern drama. Ere long 
 the gratification of the eye as well as the ear was ministered to in these 
 periodical representations. By the side of Christ and His disciples were to 
 be seen, figuring before the altar and in the procession, Adam and Eve bearing 
 the tree of knowledge, John the forerunner and his lamb, Judas and his bag, 
 the devil and the executioner, and ere long the patron saint of the locality 
 on horseback, dragging after him some vanquished monster. Naturally this 
 became not the least agreeable part of the service to the faithful ; and the 
 clergy, perceiving this, soon began to represent in the churches a sort of tableaux 
 vivants of the chief scenes in biblical history, first from the New Testament 
 — as the miracle of Cana, that of the loaves and fishes, the Lord's Supper, the 
 curing of the blind, the resurrection of Lazarus, and the more popular parables, 
 such as those of the prodigal son and the foolish virgins. It could be shown 
 that in France these vast representations embraced the whole of biblical history. 
 Although these exhibitions can scarcely be said to be the origin of the religious 
 drama — religious plays having been privately represented at an earlier period — 
 still there is no doubt that they tended in a great degree, along with other 
 influences, to convert it into a regular and popular institution, fostering and 
 sanctioning with the Church's approval the natural love of the people for 
 dramatic representation. 
 
 Another powerful influence tending in the same direction, and which, working 
 along with and modifying the above, gave to a certain extent the religious 
 drama its ultimate form, was the Feast of Fools and the Feast of the Ass, 
 instituted by Theophylact, Patriarch of Constantinople, about 990, in order, 
 according to Hone, to wean the people from the ancient spectacles, particularly 
 the bacchanalian and calendary solemnities, on the principle, we suppose, of 
 similia similihus curantur. These feasts, the orgies connected with which lasted 
 from Christmas to the end of January, rapidly became highly popular, and 
 were celebrated, in France at least, in the maddest, most sacrilegious, and most 
 licentious manner. The most sacred persons and offices were burlesqued, and 
 the churches were made the scenes of the coarsest buffoonery ; indeed, during 
 the continuance of these feasts, the people seemed to be so many devils let loose 
 for the purpose of holding hellish revelry, and making game of all that is 
 generally considered sacred. ' The Feast of Fools,' says a writer in Blackwood's 
 Magazine for December 1869, * was carried on with the utmost licence of action 
 and language, the maskers singing obscene songs, taking lascivious postures, 
 playing dice and eating sausages and puddings on the altar, wearing spectacles 
 with orange-peel in place of glasses, and mocking the practice of incensing by 
 burning an old shoe or excrement in the censer, and incensing the priest with its 
 smoke. The mock office being finished, they leaped and danced through the 
 church like madmen, sometimes stripping themselves quite naked in their dances. 
 They then recited a farce in the atrium or cemetery of the church, where they 
 shaved their heads and arranged their beards.' The Feast of the Ass, as cele- 
 brated in France, consisted almost entirely of dramatic show. The clergy, 
 habited in different vestments to represent the ancient prophets and other 
 celebrated characters, including John the Baptist, Virgil, Balaam — in honour of 
 
xvi ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 whose ass it was instituted — Nebuchadnezzar, and others, moved in procession 
 through the body of the church chanting versicles, and conversing in character 
 on the nativity of Christ, till they came into the choir. At Eouen they per- 
 formed the miracle of the furnace : Nebuchadnezzar spoke, the sibyl appeared 
 at tlie last, then an anthem was sung, which concluded the ceremony. The 
 Feast of the Ass, as it was performed at Beauvais every year on the 14th of 
 January, commemorated the flight of the Virgin into Egypt with the infant Jesus. 
 To represent the Virgin, the most beautiful girl in the city, with a pretty child 
 in her arms, was placed on an ass richly caparisoned. Thus mounted, she pre- 
 ceded the bishop and his clergy, all marching in procession through the streets 
 to the Church of St. Stephen. There they ranged themselves on the right side 
 of the altar, when mass was performed, the various parts of the service being 
 terminated by the burden Hin-han^ to imitate the braying of an ass. At the 
 conclusion of the service, the officiating priest, instead of saying Ita missa esty 
 repeated Hin-han three times, and during the service various hymns were sung 
 in praise of the ass. These facts prove, that even so early as the eleventh 
 century, exhibitions of a dramatic nature, connected with Old and New Testament 
 subjects, were quite common in the west of Europe, and that the people took 
 part in them both as spectators and actors. ' Originally,' says the writer above 
 quoted, ' in the church dramas proper, as distinguished from the Asinaria, the 
 language employed was Latin. But toward the close of the eleventh century 
 Latin began to give way to the popular tongue ; and in a dialogue between the 
 wise and foolish virgins, written in France in the eleventh century, the Proven9al 
 dialect is adopted. ... As the language of the people superseded the Latin, so 
 did the wild, irregular, and undisciplined sentiment of the people overcome the 
 restrictions of the Church, and run riot into licence and folly.' To such a 
 scandalous extent was the farcical element in these exhibitions carried, that the 
 Church authorities, who themselves had set the stone rolling, deemed it necessary 
 t^o interfere, and endeavoured by edicts and bulls at length to purge or put a stop 
 to them. But this was impossible. The clergy, however, gradually withdrew 
 from taking any prominent part in them ; and finally the religious orgies were 
 prohibited altogether from being performed in churches. On the withdrawal of 
 the clergy, societies of laymen were formed for the purpose of representing 
 plays founded on biblical subjects, such as the ' Fraternity of the Gonfalone,' 
 founded in Rome in 1264, and the 'Brothers of the Passion' at Paris. 
 
 On the whole, consistently with the most recent researches, the above is 
 the most satisfactory way to account for the origin, or perhaps revival, of the 
 strictly modern rehgious drama, — the precursor, in England at least, of what is 
 known as the regular drama. Apparently it was in France that it received the 
 strongest impulse, and soonest became established as a popular institution ; but 
 by the fourteenth century the representation of miracle plays and mysteries had 
 become common over nearly the whole of Europe : indeed, the Church itself, as 
 a writer remarks, might be said to have become a theatre. It was mainly at 
 the principal Church festivals that these dramas were enacted ; and it is worthy 
 of notice how considerable a resemblance, in this and other respects, the origin 
 and early history of the modern European religious drama bear to those of the 
 Greek drama. Each in its origin formed an integral part of the religious 
 services connected with the commemoration of the sufferings and triumph of 
 One whom his worshippers considered their greatest benefactor, and for a long 
 time each continued to be intimately associated with the festivals of the religious 
 institution out of whose form of worship it was developed. 
 
 Various other causes are given by Dibdin, the uncritical historian of the 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xvii 
 
 stage, and others, as contributing to the origin of the earliest form of the 
 modern drama. About the time that it took its rise, the mad furor connected 
 with the Crusades was at its height, and everything and everybody connected 
 with religion enjoyed the greatest popularity. The people were never wearied 
 of hearing the highly coloured stories narrated by the pilgrims and palmers 
 of their adventures on their pious journeys. Menestrier, a French antiquary, 
 quoted in Bayle's Dictionary, ascribes the origin of the mystery to the habit of 
 the pilgrims who had returned from the Holy Land, the shrine St. James of 
 Compostella, and other holy places, composing songs on their travels, mixing them 
 with a recital of the life and death of the Son of God, or of the last judgment, 
 miracles of saints, etc. These pilgrims, we are told, who went in companies, and 
 who took their stand in streets and public places, where they sang with their staves 
 in their hands, and their hats and mantles covered with shells and painted images 
 of divers colours, formed a kind of spectacle which pleased and excited the 
 piety of some citizens of Paris to raise a fund for purchasing a proper place to 
 erect a theatre, in which to represent these mysteries on holy days, as well for 
 the instruction of the people as for their diversion. It appears also to have been 
 the custom of the merchants who frequented the many fairs held throughout 
 Europe from the time of Charlemagne, to be accompanied with jugglers, 
 minstrels, and buffoons, who used every art to inveigle the people to become 
 purchasers of their masters' wares. These exhibitions soon became very popular, 
 and for various reasons were regarded with disfavour by the clergy, who, when 
 they saw they could not extinguish them, substituted in their stead dramatic 
 exhibitions of a religious character. 
 
 It appears to us, then, that one might venture to assert that, from the time the 
 Greek drama was instituted by Thespis, down to the present time, dramatic 
 representation in one form or other has been kept alive in Europe. We have 
 seen that at a very early period of the Christian era, the clergy attempted to 
 substitute plays of a religious character for those pagan dramas which they 
 deemed must exercise an evil influence on the people. What little record Ave 
 have, seems to authorize a presumption that the drama was kept alive in monas- 
 teries and convents, where it was not unusual to represent subjects of a religious 
 character, and even the plays of the Latin comedians ; for we are told that Nun 
 Koswitha, in the tenth century, wrote the religious plays formerly referred to 
 as a substitute for the comedies of Terence, which were favourites with the nuns. 
 But, as we have already said, what especially gave rise to the modern mystery and 
 miracle play, was the more dramatic character assumed by the mass in the eleventh 
 century, combined with the farcical exhibitions connected with the celebration of 
 the Feast of Fools and the Feast of the Ass ; the other causes mentioned above no 
 doubt contributing to render them more and more popular and common. 
 
 As the reader will have perceived, what we have written above concerning 
 the origin of the religious drama of the middle ages refers chiefly to France : 
 we have no direct means of knowing what were the earliest causes at work in 
 England in the same direction, although doubtless most of the above statements 
 would apply, to a greater or less extent, to nearly all the Catholic countries 
 of Europe. The main reason, hoAvever, why we have been so particular in set- 
 ting forth the influences at work in France which tended to originate the 
 religious drama, is, that there seems to be no doubt that from that country the 
 earliest miracle plays were imported into England. There is no record of any- 
 thing which could in any strict sense be called a drama having existed among 
 our stohd ancestors the Anglo-Saxons. Their gleemen, like the ancient Greek 
 rhapsodists, went about among the palaces of the Anglo-Saxon princes, reciting 
 
xvili ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 or chanting the deeds of their heroes, and no doubt, Hke their protoiypes, 
 would put as much action into their recitations as possible ; but the idea of 
 dramatic representation apparently never occurred to them. Still it is possible, 
 nay probable, especially in the later period of Anglo-Saxon domination, that, 
 as in the religious houses of the Continent, religious and even profane plays 
 were performed by the monks and nuns for their own amusement : for there 
 was a considerable amount of good scholarship among the Anglo-Saxon clergy. 
 This, however, is mere conjecture. It would be a waste of space and time to 
 go back to the Celtic period. 
 
 The scanty records we have concur with probability in authorizing us 
 to assign to the French the introduction of the earliest form of the modern 
 drama into England. The Norman Conquest (1066) took place just about the 
 time when the various causes above referred to were conspiring to give a 
 regular form to, and render popular, the religious drama or miracle play. That 
 event, we know, made French influence for the time supreme in England : all 
 offices of any importance were taken out of the hands of the conquered Anglo- 
 Saxons, and filled with the French followers of William ; and among others, all 
 the important offices connected with the Church were speedily filled with French 
 ecclesiastics. * As there can be no doubt that both clergy and laity would bring 
 -with them from France their recently formed tastes for religious dramatic repre- 
 sentations, we might naturally expect to find the religious drama soon becoming 
 an English institution. Facts show that this was actually the case. According 
 to Mr. Collier, the learned historian of the English stage, * no country of 
 Europe, since the revival of letters, has been able to produce any notice of 
 theatrical performances of so early a date as England.' Matthew Paris, writing 
 about 1240, informs us that Geoffrey, who afterwards became Abbot of St. 
 Albans, was at first brought from Normandy to teach the school there, but that, 
 in consequence of some delay, he took up his residence at Dunstable ; and while 
 there he brought out the play of St. Catherine, borrowing copes from the 
 neighbouring monastery of St. Albans for the purpose of decorating those who 
 took part in the play. As Geoffrey was raised to the dignity of Abbot of St. 
 Albans in 1119, it is certain that the above performances must have taken 
 place before that date; Warton says about the year 1110, and Collier thinks 
 possibly even earlier. According to Bulaeus, who refers to the performance of 
 the play in his History of the University of Paris, the above performance was no 
 novelty, sed de consuetudine magistrorum et scholarum — ' but was according to the 
 custom of masters and scholars.' The performance of miracle plays, however, is 
 referred to by a much earlier writer than Matthew Paris, viz. William Fitz- 
 stephen, the biographer of Thomas a Becket, who, as he speaks of what came 
 within his own observation, is a witness of the highest value. Fitzstephen 
 probably wrote about the year 1180; and in giving a description of the city 
 of London, he tells us that in that city holy plays were enacted — * represen- 
 tations of those miracles which were wrought by the holy confessors, or of the 
 sufferings in which the martyrs so signally displayed their fortitude.' Tliis 
 latter statement shows that, so early as the twelfth century, the representation of 
 religious plays was quite a common thing in London ; and from the former, we 
 might infer that they were occasionally to be seen even in the provinces. 
 
 The allusions to the performance of these religious plays are exceedingly 
 rare until we come down to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries ; but the few 
 notices that are to be met with warrant us in inferring that, during the course 
 of the thirteenth century, they had become a recognised and regularly estab- 
 lished amusement in England. Under the year 1258 there is a passage in the 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xix 
 
 Annates Burtonemes forbidding the performance of plays by histrioneSj which 
 probably here means strolling players, who were no doubt laymen, for as yet 
 the clergy were not only the composers, but the only authorized actors of these 
 plays. In an Anglo-French poem entitled Manuel de Peche\ generally ascribed to 
 Bishop Grossetete, who lived about the middle of the thirteenth century, there is a 
 minute account of the authors of miracle plays, their subjects, and the circum- 
 stances under which they were usually performed. The institution of the festival 
 of Corpus Christi in 1264 appears to have given a strong impulse to the more 
 general performance of miracle plays, — one of the chief features of that festival, 
 even at the present day, being pageants and processions. It is supposed that four 
 years after the institution of this festival, i.e. about 1268, the custom of perform- 
 ing plays in the streets of large towns was introduced into this country ; and 
 Collier and other authorities think that it was about this date that the annua] 
 representation of miracle plays during Whitsuntide was instituted at Chester. 
 ' Exhibitions of a similar kind took place at Coventry, York, Newcastle-upon- 
 Tyne, Durham, Lancaster, Leeds, Preston, Bristol, Witney, Cambridge, Man- 
 ningtree, and other places ; and it may be conjectured that they were originally 
 introduced into large towns nearly contemporaneously, for the purpose of dis- 
 seminating a certain degree of knowledge of Scripture history.' During the 
 fourteenth century frequent allusions are made to these performances in contem- 
 porary poets, chronicles, and statutes. They are spoken of in Piers Plowmaris 
 Creede^ and Chaucer refers to them again and again, attending ' plays of miracles' 
 being one of the amusements indulged in during Lent by the lusty Wife of Bath. 
 In the latter part of the fourteenth century the choristers and scholars of St. Paul's 
 Cathedral petitioned Eichard ii. to prohibit certain persons, probably laymen, 
 *from acting the history of the Old and New Testament, to the great prejudice 
 of the clergy of the Church, w^ho had expended considerable sums for a public 
 representation of plays founded upon that portion of Scripture at the ensuing 
 Christmas ;' and in 1391, according to Stow, the parish clerks of London per- 
 formed a play at Skinner's Well, near Smithfield, in presence of the king, 
 queen, and nobles, which lasted three days. 
 
 As we are more concerned here with the literature of the drama than with 
 the history of the stage, it is unnecessary to pursue this part of the subject 
 further. Sufficient evidence has been adduced to show that the earliest form of the 
 British drama is nearly as old as the Norman Conquest ; that the custom of re- 
 presenting miracle plays at certain Church festivals, and on other great occasions, 
 gradually spread itself over the length and breadth of the land : the custom was 
 almost as universal as the celebration of the Church festivals themselves. During 
 the fifteenth century these exhibitions had made such progress, that nearly every 
 large city had its own company of performers, generally composed of the various 
 trade corporations ; and the king himself, and many of the nobility, kept among 
 their retainers complete companies of players, who often went about from place 
 to place giving performances. They continued to be as common and popular 
 as ever during the sixteenth century, even after the regular drama had been 
 developed, and did not cease to be represented in England till at least the begin- 
 ning of the seventeenth century. Miracle plays have never entirely ceased to be 
 represented on the Continent, and still continue to be acted in Germany, Spain, 
 and Italy. Some years ago an article appeared in MacmillarCs Magazine^ giving 
 a minute description of a most elaborate and well-acted religious drama on the 
 Passion, which was represented in the open air in a most decorous manner at 
 Oberammergau, in Bavaria, in the year 1860. This representation takes place 
 every ten years, in fulfilment of a vow made by the inhabitants in the 17th 
 
XX ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 century. In All the Year Round is an interesting description of one on the 
 same subject, which took place at Brixlegg, in the Tyrol, in August 1868. There 
 were 300 performers and sixteen acts : the play began at nine in the morning, 
 and, with the exception of an hour for refreshment, lasted till four in the after- 
 noon. The most recent English religious drama is Byron's Cam, a Mysterij. 
 
 As we have already remarked, miracle plays originated Avith the clergy; and 
 they were for a long time mostly written and performed by them as a part of 
 the celebration of Church festivals, of which they were a regular adjunct down 
 to the time of the Eeformation. Even after the corporations of the towns and 
 choristers of the churches had become the regular performers in these religious 
 dramas, which practice probably began to be common during the fifteenth century, 
 there is evidence that, so late as about 1540, the clergy occasionally took part in 
 the performances, probably in the country districts; and so long at least as the 
 Eoman Catholic religion maintained its ground, they seem generally to have acted 
 as superintendents and directors. This we need be neither surprised nor shocked 
 at, if we bear in mind the origin and object of these religious plays: they arose, as 
 we have seen, from the very nature of the Koman Catholic Church service, some 
 parts of which even at the present day are of a highly dramatic character ; and 
 whether or not the clergy had this object in view in encouraging them, they were 
 the only means within the reach of the great majority of the people of obtaining a 
 knowledge of the events of Scripture kistory. No doubt these exhibitions gave 
 rise to many disorders, and the language of the plays themselves was often very 
 coarse, and even what we should call blasphemous ; but there is no doubt that, had 
 it not been for the superintendence of the clergy, these evils would have been 
 immeasurably aggravated : witness the ribaldry and licentiousness that charac- 
 terized the Feasts of Fools and of the Ass mentioned above. Indeed, Collier 
 supposes that certain great disorders, ' revellings, drunkenness, shouts, songs, and 
 other insolences,' which took place at York during the representation of the Corpus 
 Christi plays previous to 1426, arose from the non-interference of the clergy. 
 These miracle plays, the manner of their representation, and all their accompani- 
 ments and consequences, were quite in keeping with the character of the people 
 and the times, and were no outcome of a spirit of irreverence or irreligion : their 
 character arose from the very materialistic notions of religion that then pre- 
 vailed ; and we need be no more shocked at the people of those times indulging 
 in such amusements, than we need be at an uncultured hind of the present day 
 preferring the tumbling, grimaces, and rude jests of a clown to the performance 
 of Shakespeare's Hamlet. It is within the memory of some still living, that scenes 
 not unlike what attended the performance of these miracle plays, were the usual 
 concomitants of the celebration of the Communion in many of our Scotch country 
 districts : any one may read of them in Burns's Holy Fair. 
 
 As the clergy were the originators, and for long the only performers, in these 
 holy plays, so it is certain that churches and monasteries were the theatres in 
 which they were at first represented. We formerly mentioned that the abuses 
 which arose from the performance of those dramas were carried to such a height, 
 that various edicts were issued by the Church authorities, forbidding the clergy 
 to take part in them, and prohibiting the churches from being used as theatres 
 for their performance. In the reign of Alexander ii. of Scotland, penalties were 
 decreed against all players who desecrated by their performances either the inside 
 of the church or the churchyard ; and in a provincial synod held at Worcester in 
 1240, the clergy were forbidden to appear at such exhibitions. The Manuel de 
 Peche^ mentioned above, expressly mentions both the interior and the cemeteries 
 of churches as the scenes of such performances. Even long after it had become 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxi 
 
 customary to exhibit miracle plays on scaffolds or platforms constructed for the 
 purpose, and erected in the open air, churches were occasionally made use of 
 as theatres. So late as 1542, Bishop Bonner issued a proclamation to the clergy 
 of his diocese, prohibiting ' all manner of common plays, games, or interludes, to 
 be played, set forth, or declared within their churches and chapels.' From a 
 tract published in 1572, quoted by Mr. ColUer, the practice seems to have been 
 not altogether given up even then. The author, speaking of the manner in which 
 the clergy neglect their duties, says : ' He again posteth it (the service) over 
 as fast as he can gallop : for either he hath two places to serve, or else there are 
 some games to be played in the afternoon, ... or an interlude to be played; 
 and if no place else can be gotten, it must be done in the church.' 
 
 It is certain, however, that at a very early period, in the large towns the 
 clergy ceased to take an active part in the getting up and representation of 
 these religious plays, the task being taken up by various corporations. We 
 have seen that in London the corporation of parish-clerks exhibited a miracle 
 play at Skinner's Well ; but in most instances it was the trading companies 
 of the various cities where these plays were represented that took upon them- 
 selves the duty of management, each guild undertaking a portion of the 
 performance,. and sustaining a share in the expense. In the case of the Chester 
 plays, for example, it was the duty of the tanners to represent The Fall of 
 Lucifer ; the drapers undertaking to set forth The Creation and Fall; the water- 
 drawers of the Dee, Noah's Flood; The Slaughter of the Innocents devolving upon 
 the goldsmiths ; The Passion of Christ falling to the lot of the fleshers, bowyers, 
 coopers, and strangers ; and The Crucifixion to the ironmongers. From the 
 number of actors engaged, the elaborate nature of the ' properties,' and the 
 amount of time consumed, the corporations must have been put to considerable 
 expense in these representations. 
 
 At an early period the representations seem at times to have taken place in 
 the open air. The Manuel de Peche\ written about the middle of the thirteenth 
 century, alluded to above, particularly reprobates the performance of miracle 
 plays ' in the streets of cities ; ' and it is well known that, when the acting 
 of these plays devolved upon the city trade corporations, the performances 
 always took place in the streets, attracting immense crowds from all the districts 
 round about. The stage was generally a scaffold, which in its most perfectly 
 developed form consisted of three platforms or storeys ; but on this point we 
 shall take the liberty of quoting from Mr. Collier, still the greatest authority 
 on all matters connected with the early British drama. 'Miracle plays,' he 
 says, ' were acted on temporary erections of timber, indifferently called scaffolds, 
 stages, and pageants ; and there is no doubt that in some instances they 
 were placed upon wheels, in order that they might be removed to various 
 parts of large towns or cities, and the plays exhibited in succession. The 
 testimony of Archdeacon Eogers, who wrote his account of Chester prior to 
 the death of Elizabeth, seems decisive on this point, as far as the perform- 
 ances there are concerned. He says that the scaffold consisted of two rooms, a 
 higher and a lower : in the lower the performers attired themselves ; and in the 
 higher they acted, which was open at the top in order that all might be able to 
 see the exhibition. The same authority would lead to the conclusion that only 
 one scaffold, stage, or pageant was present at the same time in the same place ; 
 and doubtless such was the fact, according to the arrangement of the plays to 
 which Archdeacon Rogers refers. It is indisputable, however, that the Chester 
 miracle plays, as they exist in the British Museum, could not have been so 
 represen<,ed. Some of the pieces require the employment of two, and even of 
 
xxu 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 three scaffolds, independent of other contrivances : the street also must have 
 been used, as several of the characters enter and go out on horseback. In the 
 Coventry Plays^ " the place" and " the mid-place " are mentioned ; and there can 
 be no doubt, from the terms of some of the stage directions, that two, three, 
 and even four scaffolds were erected round a centre — the performers proceeding, 
 as occasion required, from one to the other, across "the mid-place." In one 
 Widkirk play Cain is exhibited at plough with a team of horses ; and in another 
 it is absolutely necessary for the story that something like the interior of a 
 cottage should be represented, with a peasant's Avife in bed, who pretends to 
 have been just delivered of a child, which lies by her side in a cradle.' Strutt, 
 however, according to Hone, informs us that the stage consisted of three plat- 
 forms, one above another. On the uppermost sat God the Father, surrounded 
 by his angels ; on the second, the glorified saints ; and on the last and lowest, 
 men who had not yet passed from this life. On one side of the lowest platform 
 was the resemblance of a dark pitchy cavern, from which issued the appearance 
 of fire and flames ; and when it was necessary, the audience was treated wdth 
 hideous yellings and noises, in imitation of the bowlings and cries of wretched 
 souls tormented by relentless demons. From this yawning cave the devils them- 
 selves constantly ascended to delight and to instruct the spectators, . Mr. Wright, 
 editor of the Chester Plays^ says that he has somewhere read of charges for coals 
 to keep up hell-fire ; and that on one occasion hell itself took fire, and was 
 nearly burnt down. Among other extracts from the books of accounts con- 
 nected with the representation of some of these plays, are found the following 
 articles of expenditure : — 'Item, paid for mending hell-mouth, 2d. ;' 'Item, paid 
 for keeping of fire at hell-mouth, 4d. ; ' ' Paid for setting the world on fire, 5d.' 
 This last entry would lead us to infer that the ' sensation drama' is, after all, not 
 quite so modern as the days of !Mr. Boucicault, who, if he were consulting some 
 of these antiquated miracle plays, might get a few hints as to the production of 
 certain stage eflfects that would completely eclipse any ' sensation ' scene hitherto 
 attempted. We learn from some other entries in the records connected with the 
 performance of these plays, that the actors must have dressed in character, and 
 also that they must have been allowed either a certain salary or so much for 
 necessary expenses. Some of these entries will sound to modern ears ludicrously 
 profane, but certainly no feeling of impiety or irreverence actuated those who 
 dictated them. Thus we meet with such entries as, ' God's coat of white leather, 
 (6 skins) ; ' ' Cheverel (peruke) for God ; '■ ' Paid to God, 2s. ; ' ' Item, to Herod, 
 3s. 4d. ; ' ' Item, to the devil and to Judas, 18d. ; ' * Item, paid to the two 
 angels, 8d. ; ' 'Item, paid to the demon, 16d.' So rigid, indeed, were their 
 notions of dressing in character, and so strictly did our simple ancestors adhere 
 to the letter of what is written, that in the Chester and Coventry plays on The 
 Creation^ Adam and Eve are made to appear on the stage ' in all the simplicity 
 of immortal costume,' until, after having eaten of the forbidden fruit, they 
 discover their nakedness. In the Chester play, Adam, after having tasted the 
 * griefful' (to use an obsolete but expressive term) fruit, says : 
 
 Out ! alas ! what ailetli me ? 
 1 am naked, well 1 see ! . . . 
 
 Eve. 
 
 Alas, this adder hath done me [nye !]' 
 Alas, her rede '^ why did I ? 
 
 Naked we ben both for thy, a 
 And of our shape ashamed. 
 
 Adam, husband, I rede we take 
 These figdeaves for shame's sake. 
 And to our members a hilling* make 
 Of them for thee and me. 
 
 nye — annoyance, injury. 
 
 rede — advice. 
 
 ^for thy — therefore. * hlllhig — covering. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxiii 
 
 The stage directions instruct that ' Adam and Eve shall cover their members 
 with leaves, hiding themselves under the trees.' Warton observes ' that this 
 extraordinary spectacle was beheld by a numerous comxpany of both sexes with 
 great composure : they had the authority of Scripture for such a representation, 
 and they gave matters just as they found them in the third chapter of Genesis.' 
 It is only fair to mention, however, that Mr. Wright is strongly inclined to think 
 that it is altogether an error to suppose that the representatives of our first 
 parents appeared in a perfectly nude condition on the stage — that the direction 
 is merely figurative, and that they were only to be supposed to be in a state of 
 nudity. ' Still,' he adds, ' that part of the performance which related to the 
 fig-leaves could not be otherwise than what would now be considered very inde- 
 corous.' Altogether, when we take into account the subjects of these miracle 
 plays, the language put into the mouths of the dramatis personce, the actors, the 
 stage appointments, and all the accompanying details, together with the absurd 
 beliefs which they lead us to infer must have been held by those who looked 
 upon them as a genuine representation of reality, we cannot fail to be amused at 
 the simplicity of our ancestors ; at the same time regarding them with that feeling 
 of tender pity with which every thoughtful man is filled when he thinks on the 
 trifles that afforded him infinite pleasure, and the absurd beliefs he cherished, 
 in the days of his childhood and boyhood. We must now, however, review the 
 plays themselves, which we can afford to do briefly, as we intend to give a 
 specimen of one. 
 
 This earliest form of the British drama, as the reader will have perceived, is 
 indifferently denominated Miracle Play or Mystery ; the latter term, however, 
 seems to have been a late importation from France, — the only names under Avhich 
 these religious dramas were known to our ancestors being Miracles or Plays of 
 Mii^acles. In France there was always a distinction made between the appli- 
 cation of the two terms : the term mystery was used to designate a drama 
 founded on some incident or story in the Old or New Testament, or in the 
 apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus ; miracle play being applied to one founded on 
 some miraculous incident in the life of a saint. The two terms, however, as we 
 have said, are applied indifferently by English writers to the same thing. The 
 origin of the term miracle or miracle play as applied to these early dramas is 
 obvious, as in most of them, from the nature of their subjects, there is a strong 
 infusion of the supernatural. The word mystery, again, it is generally said, is 
 appropriately used in this connection to indicate that the plays thus denominated 
 were intended to set forth to the populace the mysteries of the Christian faith. 
 But this is the case with very few of these dramas, most of which are founded 
 on simple narratives devoid of all mystery, taken from both the Old and New 
 Testaments. Moreover, in many French manuscripts the word is written mistere, 
 — its origin, according to some of the latest and best authorities, being found in 
 the Latin ministerium, * service,' * office,' pointing to the time when these plays 
 formed a regular part of religious service or worship. At all events, we know 
 that the English miracle play or mystery was a drama founded on some historical 
 part of the Old or New Testament, or on some incident in the life of a saint : 
 those extant are mostly of the former character. 
 
 The oldest specimen of a miracle play extant is a fragment of that alluded 
 to formerly as generally ascribed to Gregory Nazianzen, which has been trans- 
 lated into French. The oldest extant specimen of a miracle play in English is, 
 according to Mr. Collier, to be found among the Harleian Manuscripts in the 
 British Museum, the MS. being as old as the earlier part of the reign of EdAvard iii., 
 i.e. the early half of the fourteenth century. It is founded upon the sixteenth 
 
xxlv ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 chapter of the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus — which is the source of many later 
 ones — and relates to the descent of Christ to hell to liberate Adam, Eve, John 
 the Baptist, and the prophets. However, the principal extant miracle plays 
 written in English consist of three separate sets known as the Towneley or Wid- 
 kirk collection, consisting of thirty plays supposed to have belonged to Widkirk 
 Abbey before the suppression of the monasteries, the manuscript of which appears 
 to have been written about the reign of Henry vi. (1422—1461) ; the Coventiy 
 Plays^ forty-two in number, consisting of miracle plays said to have been repre- 
 sented at Coventry on the feast of Corpus Christi^ the manuscript of which was 
 written at least as early as the reign of Henry vii. (1485—1509) ; the Chester 
 Whitsun Plays^ twenty-four in number, of which the oldest extant manuscript 
 was written in 1581, — there being four others of the dates 1592, 1600, 1604, 1607 
 respectively. The first collection has been published by the Surtees Society, and 
 the two others by the Shakespeare Society. Although the manuscripts are of 
 the above dates, the plays themselves bear internal evidence of being very much 
 older, although it is impossible to fix the dates with anything like certainty, 
 especially as most of the plays have apparently been modernized and otherwise 
 tampered with. The Chester plays, according to the prologue, were originally 
 composed in the mayoralty of John Arnway by one Done Randall, a monk of 
 Chester Abbey, whom certain good authorities suppose to have been no other 
 than Randal, Ranulph, or Ralph Higden, author of the Polychronicon ; but this 
 can scarcely be credited, if, as the best authorities say, Higden died about 1360. 
 A note on one of the British Museum Manuscripts of these plays mentioned 
 above, however, says that Higden ' was thrice at Rome before he could obtain 
 leave of the Pope to have them in the English tongue,' which indicates that the 
 writer of the note believed that these plays were not originally written in English. 
 Warton conjectured that they must have been written in Latin ; but Mr. Col- 
 lier's hypothesis, that they were originally in French, is far more likely to be the 
 truth. This supposition he bases on certain remarkable coincidences in language 
 between some of the Chester plays and old French plays on the same subjects, 
 and on the fact that, at the time these are said to have been composed, French 
 was still the prevailing fashionable and literary language. Another note, appa- 
 rently written at the end of the sixteenth century, appended to a ' proclamation* 
 used for these plays in the time of Henry viii., contained in another Harleian 
 manuscript, contains the following statement : — ' Sir John Arnway, mayor, 
 1327 and 1328, at which time these plays were written by Randall Higgenett, 
 a monk of Chester Abbey, and played openly in the Whitsun week.' The 
 inference from these statements is, that Avhen the Chester plays were first insti- 
 tuted in 1268, the dramas exhibited were written in French, but that when 
 English became the recognised and prevailing language of all classes under 
 Edward in., these plays were translated from French into English, possibly by 
 Ralph Higden the chronicler, who may have added a few of his own composition. 
 We know that plays were regularly performed at Chester and other large towns 
 shortly after the institution of Corpus Christi festival; and the probability is, that 
 the dramas now extant are those which were used from the beginning, the language 
 having been at various periods modernized in order to suit the changes undergone 
 by the English tongue. ' The Chester series,' says Mr. Collier, * affords specimens 
 of orthography of different ages, from the middle of the fourteenth to the 
 beginning of the seventeenth century.' The Coventry plays have been altered 
 even to a greater extent ; the Widkirk collection being the only one which has 
 been handed down in a comparatively pure state. 
 
 The dramas in these three collections are nearly all on the same subjects ; and 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 XXV 
 
 tlie language and mode of treatment are in rnany instances so very much alike, 
 as to lead to the belief that they were translated or adapted from a common 
 source. The subjects are mostly taken from the Old and New Testaments, and 
 from the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus, — the Chester series, however, draw- 
 ing very sparingly from the latter source. The language of most of these plays 
 is very rude, and often disgustingly coarse and obscene : the most sacred and 
 divine persons are frequently made to speak in a manner that would be now 
 considered unbecoming even in Billingsgate, though no doubt the language was 
 regarded by those who heard it as perfectly proper and appropriate. As the 
 writers of these dramas were not likely to make their characters and the lan- 
 guage they used coarser and more nauseous than what they saw and heard 
 around them in their contemporary men and Avomen, we may safely regard 
 them as a very faithful picture of society at the time the plays were written. 
 No doubt the scene between Noah and his wife in the play of The Deluge^ 
 common to the three collections, may be regarded as a faithful picture in lan- 
 guage and action of scenes then common in the married life of all classes of 
 society ; and indeed, scenes not very different, and language equally forcible, 
 are not so rare, even at the present day, between husband and wife among 
 certain classes of society. The progress of refinement in manners and language 
 must indeed be very slow, since even at this distance from the time at which 
 these plays were written, improvement in these as in other respects is only 
 slowly working its way down through the lower strata of society. In the 
 structure and conduct of the miracle plays, as might be expected, there is little 
 or no display of art or taste ; and although occasionally we meet with scenes 
 and language naively natural and life-like, full of dramatic effect, ' and 
 even of gentle and tender sentiment,' still, on the whole, they are devoid of 
 literary merit. The composers of these plays seem to have felt bound to mix 
 the dulce with the utile^ and therefore in almost every one of them we meet with 
 scenes of the coarsest humour and most riotous and inappropriate fun, which 
 no doubt well served the purpose for which they were intended, viz. to keep 
 the rude audience in good humour by furnishing them with food for uproarious 
 laughter. Altogether, they Avill seem to readers of the present day — what they 
 certainly were not meant to be by their writers, and assuredly were not 
 considered by the audiences who witnessed them — coarse caricatures of the 
 most sacred persons and events in holy writ, and a lamentable picture of the 
 state of society in the time of our ancestors. Few of them can be said to be 
 intrinsically interesting : they soon pall upon the modern taste, and are likely 
 to be perused with profit only by the antiquarian, diligent historian, and perse- 
 vering student of manners. 
 
 The Towneley plays are the coarsest of the three collections ; the Coventry 
 series being the best in language, and least indelicate in sentiment ; and the 
 Chester dramas a shade better than the Towneley. As a specimen of the subjects 
 of these primitive dramas, we shall here transcribe the titles of the mysteries 
 contained in the Chester collection. From these the reader will perceive that 
 many of the most important episodes in Scripture history, and especially in the 
 life of Christ, were dramatized, and doubtless would serve the same purpose 
 in these dark and rude ages as the ' Pictorial Bible ' does at the present day. 
 The following are the titles of the Chester plays as they occur in the Shake- 
 speare Society edition : — 
 
 1. The Fall of Lucifer. 
 
 2. The Creation and Fall, and Death of 
 
 Abel. 
 
 3. Noah's Flood. 
 
 4. The Histories of Lot and Abraham. 
 
 5. Balaam and his Ass. 
 
XXVI 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 6. The Salutation and Nativity. 
 
 7. The Play of the Shepherds. 
 
 8. The Three Kings. 
 The Offering and Return of the Three 
 
 Kings. 
 The Slaughter of the Innocents. 
 The Puriiication of the Virgin. 
 
 12. The Temptation, and the Woman taken 
 
 in Adultery. 
 
 13. Lazarus. 
 
 14. Christ's Entry into Jerusalem. 
 
 15. The Lord's Supper and Christ's Betrayal. 
 
 9. 
 
 10. 
 11. 
 
 16. The Passion of Christ. 
 
 17. The Crucifixion. 
 
 18. The Harrowing of Hell. ^ 
 
 19. The Resurrection of Christ. 
 
 20. Christ and the Disciples on the way to 
 
 Emmaus. 
 
 Christ's Ascension. 
 
 The Election of Matthias, and the Emis- 
 sion of the Holy Spirit. 
 
 Ezekiel. 
 
 On the Appearance of Antichrist. 
 
 21. 
 
 22. 
 
 25. On the Last Judgment. 
 
 As a specimen of these miracle plays, and to give the reader the means of 
 forming for himself an idea of what they really were, we have given at the end 
 of this Introduction the greater part of the one entitled NoaKs Flood. 
 
 Having dwelt Avith such comparative minuteness on the origin, history, and 
 nature of the earliest form of the British drama, we shall now briefly trace its 
 progress through the intermediate phase of what is known as the ' morality,' till 
 it reached its full development in that form which has been consecrated by the 
 genius of Shakespeare and his contemporaries. As we shall give at the end of 
 this Introduction specimens illustrating the gradual progress of the drama to what 
 is known as its 'legitimate' form, there is no great necessity for discursiveness here. 
 
 At a comparatively early period there were occasionally introduced into 
 miracle plays characters of an abstract or allegorical nature, intended to 
 represent virtues, vices, passions, etc. ; but when this innovation was first made, 
 there is no means of ascertaining. One of the earliest specimens of a drama of 
 this kind is to be found in the Coventry series, in the eleventh play of which 
 Truth^ Justice^ Peace, and Pity are introduced into the Parliament of Heaven. In 
 other plays of the same series. Death and the Mother of Death are represented as 
 taking part ; ' until at length such characters as Reufin and Lyon were employed, 
 partaking of greater individuality, though still personifying the feelings and 
 passions which are supposed to have actuated the Jews against our Saviour.' 
 Gradually such characters became more and more numerous, until, instead of 
 being merely subsidiary to the scriptural characters forming the dramatis personce 
 of the miracle play, they ultimately put the latter into the shade, and a kind of 
 play was established in which they were the sole or chief part of the characters. 
 This kind of drama was called a ' Moral ' or ' Moral Play,' though now it is 
 generally known under the name of a 'Morality.' It must not, however, be 
 imagined that these moral plays entirely superseded the mysteries, which long 
 after the invention of the former continued to be almost as popular as ever, and, 
 as we have seen, did not entirely cease out of the land until the beginning of the 
 seventeenth century. 
 
 A moral or moral play is well defined by Collier to be 'a drama, the 
 characters of which are allegorical, abstract, or symbolical, and the story of which 
 is intended to convey a lesson for the better conduct of human life.' Evidence 
 can be adduced to show that early in the fifteenth century the morality was in 
 a state of considerable advancement ; and Warton thinks it reached the highest 
 perfection of which it was capable about the end of the same century, although, 
 as Collier remarks, it subsequently acquired a greater degree of complication, 
 and exhibited more labour and ingenuity in its construction. As much of 
 what we have said with regard to miracle plays is equally applicable to moral 
 plays, it is not necessary here to enter into a minute examination of the cha- 
 
 1 i.e. The descent of Christ into hell, to release Adam and other old saints. 
 taken from the Gospel of Nicodenius. 
 
 This is 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxvii 
 
 racter and structure of the latter. In many instances they are characterized 
 by as much coarseness and buffoonery as are their predecessors the mysterieSj 
 although, as might be expected from the later date, and the improvement which 
 had taken place in literary taste generally, they manifest greater skill in the use 
 of language, and greater art in dramatic construction. Although the change in 
 the characters of the drama from persons to personifications might seem a step 
 backward, yet as, from the nature of these plays, there was a greater necessity 
 for distinctiveness in the portraiture of character, they were really a step in 
 advance of the miracle play, and no doubt in this respect paved the way for the 
 invention of the legitimate drama. Nevertheless the pure morality, we cannot 
 but imagine, must have been a very tedious affair indeed, and could not long 
 have maintained its popularity, had there not been introduced into it, perhaps 
 from the very first, scenes of buffoonery and coarse wit such as were almost 
 invariably mixed up with the miracle play. Many of the later moralities, while 
 still retaining their peculiar character as dramas of personification, show that 
 vast advances had been made in the dramatic art and literary skill generally, 
 being not unfrequently characterized by considerable force and originality of 
 language, as well as genuine humour, while they show much insight into human 
 nature, and power of depicting character. Still even the best of them, as 
 compared with the regular drama, would now be considered ' stale, flat, and 
 unprofitable,' 'tolerable, and not to be endured,' and seem as little calculated 
 to accomplish their moral end as Kichardson's Pamela. As we shall see, how- 
 ever, they were ere long so considerably modified in their character, as to be 
 Dut a little removed from the legitimate drama. What we have said with 
 regard to the structure of the stage, and the representation of miracle plays, 
 applies equally well to the plays under consideration. 
 
 We have already said that, to relieve the tedium which must have been 
 induced by the representation of the unmodified moral plays, scenes of coarse 
 fun and uproarious buffoonery were frequently introduced ; and in nearly all 
 moral plays, the great suppliers of these articles are two staple characters in 
 nearly all dramas of this kind, known as The Devil and The Vice. Any notice 
 of moralities would be incomplete without a description of these characters, the 
 latter of Avhich is frequently alluded to by the Elizabethan dramatists. We 
 shall take the liberty of quoting Mr. Collier's account of these two stock 'moral' 
 characters : 
 
 ' The Devil was no doubt imported into moral plays from the old miracle plays, where he 
 figured so amusingly, that when a new species of theatrical diversion had been introduced, 
 he could not be dispensed with : accordingly, we find him the leader of the Seven Deadly 
 Sins, in one of the most ancient moral plays that have been preserved. He was rendered as 
 hideous as possible by the mask and dress he wore ; and from Ulpian Fulwell's Like will to 
 Like, 1568 (and from other sources of the same kind which need not be particularized), we 
 learn that his exterior was shaggy and hairy, one of the characters tliere mistaking him for 
 **a dancing bear." His "bottle-nose" and "evil face" are mentioned both in that piece, 
 and in T. ""Lupton's All for Money, 1578 ; and that he had a tail, if it required proof, is 
 evident from the circumstance that the Vice asks him for a piece of it to make a fly-flap. 
 His ordinary ezclamation on entering was, "Ho, ho, ho ! " and on all occasions he was prone 
 to roaring and crying out, especially when, for the amusement of the spectators, he was 
 provoked to it by castigation at the hands of the Vice. Malone states that "his constant 
 attendant was the Vice," as if the Devil never appeared without him but in The Disobedient 
 Cliild (n. d. but printed about 1560), and in one or two other morals he exhibited alone. 
 
 * Regarding the Vice, ]\Ir. Douce is of opinion (with that sagacity and knowledge which 
 distinguish him, and make diff"erence dangerous) that the name was derived from the nature 
 of the character ; and certain it is that he is represented most wicked by design, and never 
 good but by accident. As the Devil now and then appeared without the Vice, so the Vice 
 sometimes appeared without the Devil. Malone tells us that " the principal employment of 
 the A^ice was to belabour the Devil ;" but although he was frequently so engaged, he had 
 also higher duties. He figured now and then in the religious plays of a later date ; and in 
 
xxviii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 The Life and Repentance of Mary Magdalen, 1567, he performed the part of her lover, 
 before her conversion, under the name of Infidelity : in King Darius, 1565, he also acted a 
 prominent part, by his own impulses to mischief, under the name of Iniquity, without any 
 prompting from the representative of the principle of evil. Such was the general style of the 
 Vice, and as Iniquity he is spoken of by Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. The Vice and 
 Iniquity seem, however, sometimes to have been distinct persons, and he was not unfre- 
 quently called by the name of particular vices. 
 
 ' The Vice was wholly unknown in our "religious plays" which have hitherto gone by 
 the name of Mysteries. 
 
 * With regard to " Moralities," it is certainly true, that in the most ancient moral plays 
 characters of gross buffoonery and vicious propensities were inserted for the amusement and 
 instruction of the audience; but although we hear of "the fool" in Medwall's interlude 
 performed before Henry viii. in 1516, such a character seems very rarely to have been speci- 
 fically called " the Vice" anterior to the Eeformation. 
 
 *0n the external appearance of the Vice, Mr. Douce has observed, that "being generally 
 dressed in a fool's habit," he was gradually and undistinguishably blended with the domestic 
 fool ; and there is every probability that such was the result. Ben Jonson, in his Devil is 
 an Ass, alludes to this very circumstance when he is speaking of the fools of old kept in the 
 houses of the nobility and gentry : 
 
 " Fifty years agone and six, 
 When every great man had his Vice stand by him « 
 
 In his long coat, shaking his wooden dagger." 
 
 The Vice here spoken of was the domestic fool of the nobility about the year 1560, to whom 
 also Puttenham, in his Arte of English Poesie, alludes, under the terms "*' buffoon or vice in 
 plays. " In the second Intermean of his Staple News, Ben Jonson tells us that the Vice 
 sometimes wore "a juggler's jerkin with false skirts ;" and though Mr. Douce is unquestion- 
 ably correct when he states that the Vice was "generally dressed in a fool's habit," he did 
 not by any means constantly wear the parti-coloured habiliments of a fool : he was some- 
 times required to act a gallant, and now and then to assume the disguise of virtues it suited 
 his purpose to personate. The Vice, like the fool, was sometimes furnished with a dagger 
 of lath, and it was not unusual that it should be gilt. 
 
 'Just preceding the mention of the "juggler's jerkin" by Ben Jonson, as part of the 
 dress of the Vice, is an allusion to the ludicrous mode in which poetical justice was not 
 unfrequently done to him at the conclusion of a moral. Tattle observes, " but there is never 
 a fiend to carry him away ; " and in the first Intermean of the same play, Mirth leads us to 
 suppose that it was a very common termination of the adventures of the Vice, for him to be 
 carried off to hell on the back of the Devil : "he would carry away the Vice on his back, 
 quick to hell, in every play where he came. " ' 
 
 Of moral plays a considerable number are still extant, some in manuscript, 
 and some printed. The subjects or aims of them are various, though the moral 
 of very many, especially of the earlier ones, may be expressed appropriately in 
 a slight modification of a well-known proverb, ' Do right and shame the devil ; ' 
 or, as the epilogue attached to one of the oldest of these plays, The Castle of 
 Perseverance, pjuts it — 
 
 * All men example hereat may take. 
 To maintain the good and menden their 
 
 [ways]. 
 Thus endeth our gamys : 
 
 To save you fro sinning, 
 Ever at the beginning. 
 Think on your last ending. 
 Te Deum laudamus ! ' 
 
 Of this class are, besides the one just mentioned, Mind, Will, and Understanding, 
 Mankind, Nature, The World and the Child, Hick Horner, Every Man, Lusty 
 Juventus. Others are of a more general character, but still have for their aim 
 to enforce various lessons for human conduct, — one of them, entitled The Nature 
 of the Four Elements, being intended ' to bring humanity to a conviction of the 
 necessity of studying philosophy and the sciences ; ' another, The longer thou 
 livest, the more Fool thou art, written by a W. Wager, probably soon after the 
 accession of Elizabeth, is intended to enforce the necessity of giving children a 
 good education. One which was licensed about 1569 (but founded on one 
 much older), and entitled The Man^iage of Art and Science, has the peculiarity 
 which belongs to no other extant play of this class, of being regularly divided 
 into five acts, and each act into a number of scenes. Besides Art and Science, 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 some of the other characters are, Eeason, Experience, Instruction, Study, Dili- 
 gence, Will, Idleness, Ignorance, and Tediousness, a Giant the deadly foe of 
 Science. After various adventures, Art manages to strike off the head of 
 Tediousness and presents it to Science, to whom he is then married ; Art con- 
 cluding thus : 
 
 * My pain is past, my gladness to begin, 
 My task is done, my heart is set at rest, 
 My foe subdued, my lady's love possest. 
 I thank my friends whose help I have at need ; 
 And thus you see how Art and Science are agreed. 
 We twain henceforth one soul in bodies twain must dwell : ' 
 
 Eejoice I pray you all with me, my friends, and fare ye well.' 
 
 Other morals of this general character are. All for Money (printed 1578), by 
 Thomas Lupton ; TJie Three Lords and Three Ladies of London (1590) ; and 
 Liberality and Prodigality (1602). Some of these are scarcely entitled to be 
 called pure morals, i.e. plays in which the characters are purely allegorical, as 
 there are introduced into them characters with personal names, often, however, 
 representing some particular quality or abstract idea. As we cannot afford 
 space to give a lengthened example of a pure moral play, we shall, before going 
 further, quote Mr. Collier's analysis of one, by the famous John Skelton (1460- 
 1529), the only important author, so far as is known, who attempted this kind 
 of dramatic writing. Skelton probably wrote several plays of this kind, but 
 the only one extant is that entitled Magnificence^ written very possibly before 
 1509. In order to show the state of the language at the time this piece was 
 written, we shall, in the quotation, retain the original spelling, which will offer 
 very little difficulty to the reader : — 
 
 * The moral purpose of Magnyfycence is to show the vanity of worldly grandeur. It 
 opens with a soliloquy by Felicity, who is soon joined by Liberty ; and while they are 
 discussing the degree to which freedom ought to be allowed, Measure enters to moderate 
 between the disputants, and enlarges on his own importance. 
 
 * Magnificence is immediately afterwards introduced, and becomes acquainted with Fancy 
 (who calls himself Largess), with Counterfeit-countenance, Crafty-conveyance, Cloked-collu- 
 sion, Courtly-abusion, and Folly, who also impose upon him under feigned names. Courtly- 
 abusion offers to carry him to a young lady, whose virtue is not inaccessible, and whose 
 beauty is described with some luxuriance of style : 
 
 As lyly white to loke upon her heyre, 
 Her eyen relucent as carbuncle so clere; 
 Her mouth embawmed dylectable and mery, 
 Her lusty lyppes ruddy as a chery." 
 
 " A fayre maystresse, 
 That quycklyis envyvedwith rudyes of the rose, 
 Inpurtured with features after your purpose. 
 The streynes of her veynes as asure Inde blewe, 
 Enbudded with beautye and colour fresshe of 
 hewe, 
 
 * Magnificence, ruined by his friends and retainers, falls into the hands of Adversity and 
 Poverty, and the latter, in the following striking lines, contrasts the present with the former 
 condition of Magnificence : 
 
 That was wonte to lye on fetherbeddes of 
 
 downe, 
 Nowe must your fete lye hyer than your 
 
 crowne. 
 Where you were wonte to have cawdels for 
 
 your hede, 
 Nowe must you monche mamokes and lumpes 
 
 of brede. 
 And where you had chaunges of ryche aray, 
 Now lap you in a coverlet full fayne that 
 
 you may. 
 
 And where that ye were pomped with what 
 
 that ye wolde, 
 Nowe must ye suff re bothe hungre and colde. 
 With courtely sylkes ye were wonte to be 
 
 drawe, 
 Nowe must ye lerne to lye on the strawe. 
 Your skynne that was wrapped in shertes of 
 
 raynes, 
 Nowe must be stormy beten with showres 
 
 and raynes." 
 
 * Despair and Mischief next encounter Magnificence, and at the suggestion of the latter, 
 who furnishes him with a halter and a knife, he is on the point of committing suicide, when 
 Good-hope steps in, and stays his hand ; he is followed by Kedress, Circumspection, and 
 
XXX ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 Perseverance, and they convince Magnificence of the weakness and vanitj^ of his former state 
 of exaltation, and he is content to move in a humbler and happier sphere. Several attempts 
 are made to enliven the serious part of the "interlude," by comic incident and dialogue, the 
 burden chiefly resting upon Fancy and Folly, who on one occasion get Crafty-conveyance 
 into their company, and persuade him to lay a wager that Folly will not be able to laugh 
 him out of his coat ; it is accomplished in the following humorous, but not ver}'- delicate 
 manner : 
 
 " \Here foly maketh semhlaunt to take a loxose 
 
 from crafty-conveyaunce shoulder. 
 Fancy. What hast thou found there ? 
 Foly. By God, a lowse. 
 Crafiy-convey. By cockes harte, I trowe thou 
 
 lyste. 
 Foly. By the masse, a spanyshe moght with a 
 
 gray lyste. 
 
 Fancy. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 Crafiy-convey . Cockes armes, it is not so, I 
 trowe. • 
 
 \H.ere Crafty-conveyaunce putteth ofhisgowne. 
 
 Foly. Put on thy gowne agayne, for nowe thou 
 
 hast lost. 
 Fancy. Lo, John a bonam, where is thy brayne ? " 
 
 * The versification is varied, and the length of the piece required that much should be 
 done to lighten the burden. 
 
 * The moralization at the end of the piece is spoken by Redress, Circumspection, Perse- 
 verance, and Magnificence : 
 
 " And ye that have harde this dysporte and game, 
 Jhesus preserve you frome endlesse wo and shame." 
 
 * Skelton's aim in this moral play was against grandeur in general.' 
 
 As we have said, characters not strictly allegorical, but representative of 
 persons, are introduced into some of the above morals, although when this 
 innovation first took place cannot be ascertained ; probably early in the sixteenth 
 century. The earliest instance we have seen of the introduction of the repre- 
 sentative of a person into a moral play is in the case of The Nature of the Four 
 Elements^ where a Taverner is one of the characters ; and in some of the others 
 of a not very much later date, it is attempted ' to invest even symbolical repre- 
 sentatives with metaphysical as well as physical peculiarities, and to attract for 
 them a personal interest.' In Ulpian Fulwell's Like Will to Like^ not printed till 
 1568, besides allegorical impersonations there are characters with such names as 
 Rafe Roister, Tom Tosspot, Philip Fleming, Cuthbert Cutpurse, etc. 
 
 Other plays, generally considered as belonging to this class, but which more 
 nearly resemble the regular drama than any above mentioned, are Tom Tiler and 
 his Wife, The Conflict of Conscience, Jack Juggler, Camhyses, and Appius and 
 Virginia. Tom Tiler and his Wife is a sort of comedy, the plot of which turns 
 on the sufferings of a husband, Tom Tiler, under the affliction of a shrewish wife 
 named Strife. It was first printed in 1578, but was probably written some 
 years earlier, and contains among its dramatis personce, besides Destiny, Desire, 
 and Patience, two friends of the wife known as Sturdy and Tipple, and Tom 
 Tiler's friend Tom Tailor. The poor henpecked husband's friend proposes to 
 Tom to cure his shrewish wife by disguising himself in the husband's clothes, 
 and administering to Strife a sound beating. This is done to such purpose that 
 the shrew is brought to humble submission ; but Tom Tiler goes home, and in 
 a weak moment confesses the truth to his own cost, for she, snatching up a 
 stick, * lays load upon him ' most unmercifully, until he exclaims — 
 
 * wife, wife ! I pray thee save my life ! That ever Tom Tayler, that ruffian and 
 You hurt me ever, I hurted you never : railer. 
 
 For God's sake, content thee. Was set to be at me : he had better had 
 Strife. Nay, thou shalt repent thee, eat me. ' 
 
 However, matters are brought to a happy conclusion by the intervention of 
 Patience, who renders Tom Tiler contented with his wife, and Strife more 
 merciful to her husband. Six songs are interspersed in various lyrical measures, 
 but none of them, according to Collier, of peculiar merit. The Conflict of 
 Conscience, by Nathaniel Woodes, minister of Norwich, was probably written 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxxi 
 
 about 1560, and is remarkable as being one of the earliest moral plays in wliicli 
 a historical character is introduced. This is Francis Spiera, an Italian lawyer, 
 who in the drama is named Philologus, and who, as the title-page expresses it, 
 
 * forsook the truth of God's gospel for fear of the loss of life and worldly goods.' 
 Besides Spiera, other personal characters are his two sons. Cardinal Eusebius, 
 Cacenos, a Catholic priest who speaks the Scotch dialect, etc.; the allegorical 
 characters being Conscience, Hypocrisy, Tyranny, Sensual Suggestion, etc. 
 Jack Juggler., which was printed about 1562, but probably written about ten 
 years before that, resembles a moral mainly in its design, and in the fact that a 
 
 * vice ' Jack Juggler is introduced, — all the other characters having personal 
 names, as Martha Bongrace, Dame Coy, Jenkin Careaway, etc., mostly significant, 
 and indicative of the character of the persons to whom they belong. Its main 
 peculiarity, however, is, that it is one of the very oldest pieces in Enghsh 
 founded on a classic original, the author professing, in his prologue, to have 
 been indebted to Plautus's first comedy. Of the other two plays mentioned 
 above, Camhyses and Appius and Virginia^ both containing a mixture of history 
 and allegory, the latter is superior to the former both in construction and in 
 literary merit, though neither can boast of much of these two qualities. The latter 
 is founded on a well-known incident in Roman history, and is called by its 
 author, whose initials R. B. only are known, a ' tragical comedy,' the exact 
 signification of neither of these words being yet well defined. The characters 
 are, besides Virginius, Virginia his daughter, her mother, Judge Appius, and 
 Claudius ; Conscience, Haphazard, Justice, Eumour, Comfort, Reward, and 
 Doctrina, and some domestics. It was written not later than 1563, and, like 
 most plays before and for some time after this, it is in rhyme. The author 
 apparently had no notion of dramatic propriety and decorum, as he makes 
 Virginius well acquainted with the events narrated in the beginning of Genesis, 
 and makes him talk of his wife and daughter going to church like Christians ; 
 one of the servants swearing ' by the mass.' Still, notwithstanding these draw- 
 backs, it compares favourably with preceding productions of the same class, 
 and is interesting as marking an important stage in the development of the 
 historical drama out of the old moral play, although there was produced about 
 the same time a drama, which, so far as the characters are concerned, is entitled 
 to be called a regular historical play. 
 
 We cannot follow the history of moral plays further, as our only design in 
 noticing them is to show the share they had in giving birth to the legitimate 
 drama ; and what we have said above is sufficient for this purpose, as we have 
 brought our observations down to a point when the first regular dramas, some- 
 what crude in form, make their appearance. We have traced the history of the 
 miracle play, the earliest form of the British drama, down to the period when 
 it gave birth to the morality, although the former for a long time still con- 
 tinued to be represented, especially in the country districts ; and we have shown 
 how the latter gradually became modified, by admitting among its allegorical 
 impersonations, characters representative of persons, and ultimately assumed a 
 form which could not fail to suggest the historical drama. Like the miracle play, 
 the morality kept the stage for long after its legitimate child had reached its 
 vigour, one of the last and worst of its kind being The Contention between 
 Liberality and Prodigality (1602), which was acted before Queen Ehzabeth. 
 Even in the works of some of our greatest dramatists, there are occasionally 
 short allegorical episodes ; and the best production of George Peele, David and 
 Bethsabe (printed in the following pages), may, so far as the subject and 
 characters are concerned, be fairly entitled a miracle play. 
 
xxxii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 Before concluding this Introduction, by noticing some of the earliest regu- 
 lar dramas, we must go back in point of time and mention shortly a species 
 of dramatic composition, which no doubt contributed largely to suggest the 
 regular comedy; indeed it might itself be regarded as the earliest form of 
 comedy, bearing somewhat of a resemblance to the modern farce. The kind of 
 dramatic entertainment to which we refer is known as an * Interlude,' and, as its 
 name indicates, seems to have been intended for representation during the 
 intervals of a longer and more serious entertainment. The term Interlude was 
 not confined to plays of this peculiar kind, but as early as the reign of Edward 
 IV. was applied to theatrical productions generally, both miracle and moral plays 
 being sometimes so designated. The name, however, since the time of John 
 Heywood, has been applied to a class of dramatical productions of which, Mr. 
 Collier thinks, he has a claim to be considered the inventor ; Heywood, at all 
 events, is the earliest known author of interludes proper, those written by him 
 being likewise the most meritorious. The interlude is a short farcical comedy, 
 which w^ould probably occupy not above half an hour in the performance, 
 founded on some ludicrous or absurd incident, and carried on generally by only 
 three or four characters. How the idea of such a composition was suggested to 
 Heywood is not known, although there was often such a mixture of comedy 
 and even ' screaming farce ' in the old mysteries and morals, that it is not 
 improbable the ludicrous scenes in some of these might have suggested to his 
 merry mind the notion of the comic interlude; indeed, his earliest known 
 composition of this kind resembles somewhat a short comical miracle play. 
 The date of John Heywood's birth is not known, but early in the reign of Henry 
 VIII. he is found attached to the court and in receipt of a salary as a ' player or 
 the virginals ; ' in this capacity, and also as a writer of plays and a professed 
 wit, he continued to be a retainer of the court during Henry's reign and that 
 of his daughter Mary, and, though a zealous Catholic, was patronized even by 
 the rigid Elizabeth. He died at Mechlin in Brabant in 1565. Heywood is 
 perhaps better known as an epigrammatist than a writer of plays ; he also wrote 
 several songs. The earliest known of his interludes is A Merry Flay between the 
 Pardoner^ the Friar ^ the Curate^ and Neighbour Pratte^ written before 1521. The 
 tricks and imposition of both friars and pardoners are freely exposed and 
 ridiculed during the course of the play. 
 
 Heywood's best interlude is undoubtedly the one entitled The Four P's, written 
 probably about 1530. The play turns upon a dispute between a Pardoner, a 
 Palmer, a Poticary (Apothecary), and a Pedlar. The play commences by each 
 of the four boasting of the pre-eminence of his own profession, doing his best 
 to cast contempt on that of his neighbours. The language here, as throughout 
 the interlude, while sometimes highly ludicrous and full of wit and humour, is 
 often very coarse and filthy ; and Heywood, though a Catholic, does not scruple 
 to expose the unclean lives and low tricks of the priesthood. Tired of reviling 
 each other's occupation, they resolve, at the Pedlar's suggestion, to decide their 
 dispute for pre-eminence by awarding it to him who will tell the greatest lie ; 
 and after some further wrangling, they agree each to put his lie in the form of 
 a story. The Poticary begins, but his tale is so full of dirt and obscenity, that 
 it is impossible for us to give even an abstract of it in these pages. The Par- 
 doner takes his turn next, and commences by telling them that a female friend 
 of his having died suddenly, he resolved to find out * in what estate her sould 
 did stand.' For this purpose he went to Purgatory — he apparently never 
 dreamt of commencing higher up — but not finding her there, he made his way 
 to heU. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 XXXlll 
 
 * And first to the devil that kept the gate_ 
 I came, and spake after this rate : 
 All hail, Sir Devil, and made low courtesy : 
 Welcome, quoth he, thus smilingly. 
 He knew me well, and I at last 
 Eemembered him since long time past : 
 For as good hap would have it chance. 
 This devil and I were of old acquaintance ; 
 For oft in the play of Corpus Christi, 
 He hath played the devil at Coventry. 
 By his acquaintance and my behaviour. 
 He showed to me right friendly favour ; 
 
 He gets his passport, and his tale proceeds 
 
 • This devil and I walked arm in arm, 
 So far, till he had brought me thither, 
 Where all the devils of hell together 
 Stood in array, in such apparel 
 As for that day there meetly fell. 
 Their horns well gilt, their claws full clean, 
 Their tails well kempt, and, as I ween. 
 With sothery ' butter their bodies anointed ; 
 I never saw devils so Avell appointed. 
 The master devil sat in his jacket, 
 And all the souls were playing at racket. 
 None other rackets they had in hand, 
 Save every soul a good firebrand ; 
 Wherewith they played so prettily. 
 That Lucifer laughed merrily ; 
 And all the residue of the fiends 
 Did laugh thereat full well like friends. 
 
 He beseeches Lucifer to tell him where his friend is ; the devil, after hearing 
 her name, exclaims : 
 
 And to make my return the shorter, 
 I said to this devil, Good master porter, 
 For all old love, if it lie in your power, 
 Help me to speak with my lord and your. 
 Be sure, quoth he, no tongue can tell. 
 What time thou couldst have come so well ; 
 For as on this day Lucifer fell, 
 Which is our festival in hell. 
 Nothing unreasonable craved this day, 
 That shall in hell have any nay. 
 But yet beware thou come not in, 
 Till time thou may thy passport win.' 
 
 thus : 
 
 But of my friend I saw no whit. 
 Nor durst not ask for her as yet. 
 Anon all this rout was brought in silence. 
 And I by an usher brought in presence 
 Of Lucifer : then low, as well I could, 
 I kneeled, which he so well allowed, 
 That thus he becked, and by Saint Anthony 
 He smiled on me well favouredly, 
 Bending his broAvs as broad as barn-doors, 
 Shaking his ears as rugged as burrs ; 
 Eolling his eyes as round as two bushels ; 
 Flashing the fire out of his nostrils ; 
 Gnashing his teeth so vain gloriously, 
 That methought time to fall to flattery, 
 Wherewith I told, as I shall tell. ' 
 
 * Now, by our honour, said Lucifer, 
 No devil in hell shall withhold her ; 
 And if thou wouldst have twenty mo, 
 Wer't not for justice, they should go. 
 For all we devils within this den 
 Have more to do with two women, 
 Than with all the charge Ave have beside : 
 Wherefore if thou our friend will be tried, 
 Apply thy pardons to Avomen so 
 That unto us there come no mo. 
 To do my best I promised by oath ; 
 Which I have kept, for as the faith goeth 
 At this day, to heaven I do procure 
 Ten women to one man, be sure. 
 Then of Lucifer my leave I took. 
 And straight unto the master-cook ,• 
 I was had, into the kitchen, > 
 
 For Margery's office Avas therein. 
 All things handled there discreetly. 
 For every soul beareth office meetly : 
 Which might be seen to see her sit 
 So basely turning of the spit. 
 
 The Palmer allows that the Pardoner's 
 
 hoAV the devils could complain ' that w 
 
 ' Whereby much marvel to me ensueth, 
 That AVomen in hell such shrews can be, 
 And here so gentle as far as I see. 
 Yet have I seen many a mile. 
 And many a woman in the while. 
 Not one good city, town, nor borough, 
 In Christendom, but I have been thorough 
 
 For many a spit here hath she turned. 
 And many a good spit hath she burned : 
 And many a spit full lioth hath roasted ; 
 Before the meat could be half roasted, 
 And ere the meal Avere half roasted indeed, 
 I took her then from the spit with speed. 
 But Avhen she saAV this brought to pass, 
 To tell the joy Avherein she Avas ; 
 And of all the devils for joy how they 
 Did roar at her delivery, 
 And hoAV the chains in hell did ring. 
 And hoAv all the souls therein did sing ; 
 And hoAV we Avere brought to the gate, 
 And hoAV Ave took our leave thereat, 
 Be sure lack of time suff'ereth not 
 To rehearse the twenty part of that, 
 Wherefore this tale to conclude briefly, 
 This Avoman thanked me chiefly 
 That she Avas rid of this endless death, 
 And so we departed on NcAvmarket Heath. 
 And if that any man do mind her, 
 Who list to seek her, there shall he find her. ' 
 
 tale is * all much perilous,' but marvels 
 
 omen put them to such pain.' 
 
 And this I Avould ye should understand, 
 
 I have seen women five hundred thousand. 
 
 And oft Avith them have long time tarried. 
 
 Yet in all places where I have been. 
 
 Of all the Avomen that I have seen, 
 
 I never saw nor knew in my conscience, 
 
 Any one woman out of patience. 
 
 * «o;^ery— savoury. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 Poticary. By the mass, there is a great lie. 
 Pardoner. I never heard a greater, by oiu- 
 
 Lady. 
 Pedlar. A greater ! nay, know ye any so 
 
 great ? 
 
 Palmer. Sir, whether that I lose or get, 
 For my part judgment shall be prayed. 
 Pardoner. And I desire as he hath said. 
 Poticary. Proceed, and ye shall be obeyed.' 
 
 The Pedlar then proceeds to give his award, and of course decides in favour of 
 the Palmer, who has thus unwittingly, by the confession of all, told the greatest 
 lie: 
 
 * Thus I award by way of judgment : 
 Of all the lies ye all have spent, 
 His lie to be most excellent. ' 
 
 Notwithstanding the rudeness of the language and the coarseness of the fun of 
 this unique play, it is full of humour, sarcasm, liveliness, and vigour of expres- 
 sion, and is, on the whole, not an unworthy harbinger of the regular British 
 comic drama. 
 
 Besides the two above spoken of, other interludes by Heywood are — A play 
 hehveen John the husband, Tyh his wife, and Sir John the priest ; it is a 
 ' merry play,' resembling in its structure and composition a one -act farce ; The 
 Play of the Weather, written to enforce and illustrate a point of natural 
 philosophy, and under the name of Jupiter, to vindicate Providence in the 
 course and distribution of the seasons. Both these were printed in 1533, but 
 probably written much earlier. 
 
 The last interlude we shall notice is one of some importance, in so far as it 
 bears the same relation to the serious drama that Heywood's productions do to 
 comedy. It was published about 1530, and bears the following title : 
 
 * A new comedy in English, in manner of an interlude, right elegant and full of craft of 
 rhetoric, wherein is showed and described, as well the beauty and good properties of women, 
 as their vices and evil conditions, with a moral conclusion and exhortation to virtue. ' 
 
 The characters are the hero Calisto, the heroine Melibea, Danio her father, 
 Sempronio, a parasite, and a procuress Celestina. The following is Mr. Collier's 
 account of the plot : 
 
 ' The story is simply this : Calisto, a gay young man, is in love with Melibea, the 
 daughter of Danio, but she dislikes him. By the advice of a parasite, called Sempronio, he 
 engages by gifts old Celestina, who keeps a common brothel, on his side. She endeavours 
 to seduce the heroine into her house to meet Calisto, but failing, pretends that he has a 
 dreadful fit of the toothache, which cannot be cured without the loan of the relic-hallowed 
 girdle of Melibea, aided by the maiden's prayers. Melibea, thus importuned, consents to 
 lend her girdle (which seems to be taken figuratively for a much less innocent concession), 
 and immediately after she has given it, she repents her rashness, confesses her fault to her 
 father, puts up prayers to Heaven for assistance and forgiveness, and the performance ends 
 with a moralization and warning to old and young by Danio. ' 
 
 There are several other interludes extant, written about the same time as 
 these just mentioned, but we have not space to go further into the subject ; and 
 indeed, considering the aim of this Introduction, more details on this point are 
 unnecessary, as we have said enough to show that early in the sixteenth century 
 English comedy had come into being, though in a sufficiently crude state. It 
 is the writer's fault if the reader has not also been able to understand abarly 
 the influences which were at work about the middle of the sixteenth century, 
 tending to give rise to a kind of serious drama, whose characters would be 
 entirely distinct both from the scriptural and saintly personages of the miracle 
 play and the tiresome abstractions of the morality. Into the latter, as we have 
 seen, were gradually introduced, alongside the abstract impersonations peculiar 
 to the moral, characters taken both from everyday life and from history ; and 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxxv 
 
 to us it seems that this must have had a considerable share in suggesting the 
 forms of the regular drama, known as Tragedy and History. There may have 
 been other influences at work which we have now no means of ascertaining, and 
 previous to the appearance of the first regular tragedy, there may have existed 
 moral plays much more nearly resembling it in their characters and construc- 
 tion than any now extant. Still, we think that the mixed moral plays which 
 have come down to us, containing, as some of them do, a serious or tragical 
 element, — combined with the interludes and earlier comedies, which in their 
 construction approximate closely to the form of the legitimate drama, — would 
 of themselves be to a great extent suggestive of the earliest form assumed by 
 the regular serious drama. No doubt, however, the greater attention given to 
 the Greek and Koman classics, consequent on the revival of learning, during 
 the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, had its share in giving 
 birth to the last form assumed by the English drama. One of the interludes, 
 Thyestes, took its title from a Homeric hero, and the moral Jack Juggler is 
 founded on a comedy of Plautus. It is also known the Andrea of Terence 
 was not only translated but acted before the middle of the sixteenth century ; 
 and somewhat later a drama appeared having for its title Julius Ccesar. 
 Later still, we learn from Gosson's School of Abuse, published in 1579, there 
 existed dramas bearing such titles as Ccesar and Fompey, The Fabii, Cupid 
 and Psyche, etc. ; and Gosson also informs us that ' comedies in Latin, French, 
 Italian, and Spanish, have been thoroughly ransacked to furnish the playhouses 
 in London.' These statements show that somewhere about the middle of the 
 sixteenth century the attention of British play-writers was attracted not only 
 to the dramatic and other productions of Greece and Rome, but also to the 
 theatrical productions of the continental nations, in some of which the regular 
 drama had begun to flourish. While, then, the British drama of the latter 
 half of the sixteenth century is doubtless the legitimate child of the later moral 
 plays, it appears highly probable that the influences, just mentioned had some- 
 thing to do in helping to give it birth, and in bestowing upon it the character 
 which ultimately marked it. 
 
 The English drama, it is well known, in reference to subject, is divided into 
 tragedy, comedy, and a species which may partake of the nature of either 
 of these, known as history or chronicle-history. The use of the terms tragedy 
 and comedy was well enough defined both by the Greek and Roman dramatists ; 
 but in the earlier days of the English drama they appear to have been used in- 
 differently to designate any kind of play, and were sometimes also applied to 
 poetical compositions of other kinds. The play of Appius and Virginia is styled 
 by its author a ' tragical comedy ; ' and Bale calls his miracle play, God's Pi-onuses, 
 a tragedy, and his Christ's Temptation a comedy. Before his time, ' tragedy ' was 
 used to signify any serious narrative in verse, and even late in the reign of 
 Elizabeth the term was applied to other besides dramatic productions. Dante, 
 we know, calls his Inferno a commedia. The terms, however, with the rise of 
 the regular drama, began to be generally confined to theatrical productions ; 
 and although we have already attempted to define them, we shall here take the 
 liberty of quoting a paragraph from the work of Mr. Collier, in which he 
 describes the terms with particular reference to their use in the English drama : 
 
 * By tragedy and comedy, I mean theatrical productions, the characters in which are 
 either drawn from life, or are intended to represent life, whether those characters be actual 
 or imaginary ; the terms include also a species of drama, well known of old in the literature 
 of this country, called " history," or " chronicle-history," which consisted of certain 
 passages, or events detailed by annalists, put into a dramatic form, often without regard to 
 the course in which they happened ; the author sacrificing chronology, situation, and 
 
xxxvi ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 circumstance to the superior object of producing an attractive play. It is the disregard of 
 the trammels of the unities which constitutes our "romantic drama," whether the story be 
 real or fictitious ; and from the earliest period to the time of Shakespeare, there is not a 
 play in our language in which they are strictly observed. The words "romantic drama" 
 have reference to form and construction merely, and do not in any respect relate to senti- 
 ment or language. ' 
 
 In order to connect this Introduction with the body of the work, we shall 
 conclude by noticing one or two of the earliest extant regular comedies and 
 tragedies. As we shall give specimens of these, our remarks here will be 
 brief. 
 
 Judging from the remains that have reached our time, comedy had its birth 
 at least ten years before tragedy. The earliest extant regular English comedy, 
 discovered not many years ago, is entitled Ralph Roister Doister; it was certainly 
 in existence in 1551, though probably written some years earlier. Its author 
 was Nicholas Udall, a native of Hampshire, who was born in 1506, matriculated 
 at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, in 1520, and died about 1557, after having 
 been successively Master of Eton and Westminster Schools. He appears to have 
 Avritten other comedies, but this is the only one which has come down to us, and 
 in the prologue the author calls it a comedy or interlude. From this prologue 
 we might infer that the comedies of Plautus and Terence were the models which 
 he endeavoured to imitate. Before the discovery of Udall's play, the palm of 
 precedence in point of time was given to Gammer Gurtorts Needle^ a comedy by 
 Bishop Still, written not much earlier than 1566, and much inferior both in plot, 
 construction, and literary merit to Ralph Roister Doister. The latter is regularly 
 divided into five acts and scenes ; and whereas Still's play depicts the manners of 
 coarse rustic life, the scene of Udall's comedy is in London, and it possesses 
 much interest as representing in no slight degree the manners of more polished 
 society, exhibiting some of the peculiarities of thinking and acting in the 
 metropolis at the period when it was written. The plot is interesting and well 
 conducted, the language on the whole natural and vigorous, the characters 
 marked by considerable individuality. As we shall give as much of this comedy 
 as will enable the reader to judge of its merits for himself, it is unnecessary to 
 notice it more minutely ; it is certainly a great advance on the meagre interlude. 
 It is written in rhyme, but it was not till the time of Marlowe that the stage was 
 fairly freed from this trammel, and even Shakespeare himself sometimes con- 
 cludes his speeches with a jingle. 
 
 There w^as an interval of ten years before the next regular extant drama 
 made its appearance. Not that during this time no other theatrical productions 
 besides morals made their appearance, — the probability is that there were ; and 
 Mr. Collier thinks that the play we are about to notice was preceded by a 
 tragedy upon Luigi da Porto's famous novel of Romeo and Juliet; and it is 
 known that in 1559 and 1560 respectively, appeared translations of two of 
 Seneca's tragedies. The Troas and Thyestes^ by Jasper Heywood, son of the author 
 of the Interludes. Between 1559 and 1566, other eight translations from the 
 same author appeared by various hands. However, we are speaking only of 
 those dramas that have reached our own time. The earliest extant drama 
 which may be regarded as the harbinger of the regular tragedy, was played 
 before the queen at Whitehall, by the members of the Inner Temple, on the 
 18th of January 1561, and was first printed in 1565 under the title of The 
 Tragedy of Gorboduc, although in the second edition of 1571 it is entitled The 
 Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex. The author of this piece was Thomas Sackville, 
 afterwards Lord Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset, who appears to have been 
 assisted by Thomas Norton, although it is probable that the latter had a very 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxxvii 
 
 small share in its composition. Thomas Sackville, the only son of Sir Richard 
 Sackville, was born at Buckhurst, in Sussex, in 1536 ; studied at Oxford and 
 Cambridge, where he acquired a high reputation as a poet, both in Latin and 
 English ; and afterwards became a student of the Inner Temple. It was while a 
 student there that he wrote his tragedy. He was the author of two other poems, 
 — The Induction, a noble and dignified preface to the Mirror for Magistrates, and 
 The Complaint of the Duke of Buckingham. After travelling in France and Italy, 
 he returned to England, and entered public life, and soon after 1566 was created 
 Lord Buckhurst. He became a great favourite with the queen ; and after the 
 death of Burleigh, succeeded him as Lord High Treasurer. In 1604 he was 
 created Earl of Dorset by King James, died in 1608, and was buried in West- 
 minster Abbey. The play of Gorhodac is regularly divided into five acts and 
 scenes, and is so far an imitation of the classical drama that it has a chorus of 
 ' four ancient and sage men of Britain,' although in the main it may be regarded 
 as an early example of the romantic drama. Preceding each act there is a 
 dumb show intended to prefigure what is to occur, although, as Warton re- 
 marks, 'it is not always typical of the ensuing incidents.' In that which 
 precedes Act V., the impropriety has been committed of introducing a troop of 
 soldiers, 600 years before Christ, with fire-arms, which are discharged to indi- 
 cate the bloodshed about to ensue. Such anachronisms were frequent enough 
 in the old miracle and moral plays, and, as is well known, Shakespeare himself 
 occasionally 'nods' in this respect. 'Dumb show' was not entirely disused 
 even in the more advanced days of the stage. The subject of this drama is 
 taken from the early legendary history of Britain, and the following is Hawkins' 
 abstract of the plot : 
 
 * Gorboduc, a king of Britain about 600 years before Christ, made in his lifetime a 
 division of his kingdom to his sons Ferrex and Porrex. The two young princes within five 
 years quarrelled for universal sovereignty. A civil war ensued, and Porrex slew his elder 
 brother Ferrex. Their mother Viden, who loved Ferrex best, revenged his death by enter- 
 ing Porrex's chamber in the night, and murdering him in his sleep. The people, exaspe- 
 rated at the cruelty and treachery of this murder, rose in rebellion and killed both Viden and 
 Gorboduc. The nobility then assembled, collected an army, and destroyed the rebels. An 
 intestine war commenced between the chief lords ; the succession of the crown became 
 uncertain and arbitrary for want of the lineal royal issue ; and the country, destitute of a 
 king, and wasted by domestic slaughter, was reduced to a state of the most miserable 
 desolation. ' 
 
 The tragedy ought properly to have ended with the fourth act, for there the 
 catastrophe is complete j but the author has eked out the play, ' certainly not 
 very amusingly, by various harangues and narrations, relative to the civil war 
 which followed the death of all the members of the royal family.' Although 
 no doubt vastly superior in design and execution to most of the preceding 
 and contemporary theatrical performances, 'it cannot,' says Mr. Collier, 'be 
 disputed that the story proceeds with laborious sluggishness, and that the 
 dialogue is generally as weighty as the plot it developes. The speeches are 
 usually of most tedious extent, and the thoughts and sentiments more than 
 sufficiently trite and commonplace.' Still, considering the circumstances under 
 which this drama was produced, taking into account the rubbish which had 
 possession of the stage at the time, the wretched examples which the author 
 had before him for imitation, as the foundation of our regular tragic drama, 
 it must be considered on the whole a creditable performance. Notwith- 
 standing its inflated language, bad taste, and want of individuality in the 
 characters, the language is occasionally vigorous, and often sweet and musicah 
 This great improvement it has on its predecessors, which, however, was not 
 generally adopted for many years after, viz. its want of rhyme ; it is written in 
 
XXXVIU 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 blank verse. As we have seen before, Marlowe was the first to introduce this 
 improvement on the public stage. A few extracts from this play will be found 
 at the end of this Introduction. 
 
 At the same time as Gorboduc, or possibly a little earlier, was written a 
 comedy which exists in manuscript in a mutilated state, and is spoken of with 
 approval by Mr. Collier. It is entitled Misogonus, and is probably founded on 
 an Italian novel. 
 
 Another dramatist, who wrote about the same time as Sackville, was Richard 
 Edwardes, born 1523, died 1566; he was a native of Somersetshire, and was 
 educated at Oxford. Little else appears to be known about him, except that he 
 was the author of several plays, the names of only two of which have come down 
 to us, Palemon and Arcite^ and Damon and Pythias^ the latter alone being extant. 
 It was acted in 1564, but was probably written somewhat earlier. It is a tragi- 
 comedy written in rhyme, and is fuU of all kinds of dramatic improprieties and 
 absurdities, but contains some sweet and fanciful though conceited poetry ; alto- 
 gether, it is a fair production for the time, and may be regarded as one step in 
 advance towards the perfection of the regular drama. 
 
 In 1566 appeared Bishop Still's Gammer GurtovUs Needle^ a comedy of the 
 same class as Ralph Roister Doister, though much inferior to that production. 
 The plot turns on the loss of Gammer Gur ton's needle, which, after much talk 
 and searching, is found sticking in the seat of her servant Hodge's breeches. 
 The language is even more coarse and antiquated than in its predecessor, which 
 may be accounted for by the lower class of characters that form the dramatis 
 personcB. It contains one of the earliest drinking songs in the language, which, 
 as it has considerable merit and a jolly ring about it, we shall make bold to 
 quote here : 
 
 * Back and side go bare, go bare, 
 
 Both foot and hand go cold : 
 But belly, God send thee good ale enough, 
 
 Whether it be new or old. 
 
 I cannot eat, but little meat, 
 
 My stomach is not good; 
 But sure I think, that I can drink 
 
 With him that wears a hood. 
 Though I go bare, take ye no care, 
 
 1 am nothing a cold; 
 I stuff my skin so full within 
 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 Back and side go bare, etc. 
 
 1 love no roast, but a nut-brown toast, 
 
 And a crab laid in the fire ; 
 A little bread shall do me stead, 
 
 Much bread I not desire. 
 No frost nor snow, no wind, I tix)w, 
 
 Can hurt me if I wold. 
 
 I am so wrapt, and throughly lapt 
 Of jolly good ale and old. 
 Back and side go bare, etc. 
 
 And Tyb my wife, that as her life 
 
 Loveth well good ale to seek. 
 Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 
 
 The tears run down her cheek; 
 Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, 
 
 Even as a malt worm should; 
 And saith, sweet heart, I took my part 
 
 Of this joJly good ale and old. 
 Back and side go bare, etc. 
 
 iSTow let them drink, till they nod and winlc. 
 
 Even as good fellows should do. 
 They shall not miss to have the bliss 
 
 Good ale doth bring men to : 
 And all poor souls, that have scoured bowls. 
 
 Or have them lustily trold, 
 God save the lives of them and their wives, 
 
 AVhether they be young or old. 
 Back and side go bare, etc. ' 
 
 In the same year as Bishop Still's play appeared, there were represented at 
 Gray's Inn two plays by George Gascoigne (born 1536, died 1577); the one 
 entitled The Supposes, being a translation from Gli Suppositi of Ariosto, and the 
 other Jocasta, adapted from the Phoenissce of Euripides by Gascoigne and a 
 poet named Francis Kinwelmarsh. The former is mainly a close translation 
 from the original, and is remarkable chiefly as being the earliest extant specimen 
 of an English play written in prose. The Siipposes, which is more of an adapta- 
 tion than a translation, is, like Gorboduc, written in blank verse, and contains 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 many passages of spirit, force, and harmony. We quote the following descrip- 
 tion of the fight between Eteocles and Polynices (Act V.) : 
 
 ' Oh. blind Tinhridled search of sovereignty, 
 Oh tickle train of evil attained state ! 
 Oh fond desire of princely dignity ! 
 Who climbs too soon, he oft repents too late. 
 The golden mean the happy doth suffice ; 
 They lead the poasting day in rare delight, 
 They fill (not feed) their uncontented eyes, 
 They reap such rest as doth beguile the 
 night : 
 
 They not envy the pomp of haughty train, 
 ISTor dread the dint of proud usurping swords ; 
 But plast alow more sugred joys attain, 
 Than sway of lofty sceptre can afford. 
 Cease to aspire, then ; cease to soar so high, 
 And shun the plague that pierceth noble 
 
 breasts. 
 To glittering courts what fondness is to fly 
 When better state in baser towers rests ! ' 
 
 We cannot afford to notice more in detail the productions which appeared 
 previous to the time when the ' great race' of Elizabethan dramatists, commenc- 
 ing with Lilly, began to pour forth their unequalled productions ; indeed there 
 are few pieces extant, produced during that time, of any great merit in them- 
 selves, and we have noticed those above mentioned chiefly to show the reader 
 when and how the regular drama came into being. Enough has been said to 
 prove that shortly after 1560 it was fairly afloat on the sea of literature; and 
 as a proof that the morality was being rapidly superseded by its more vigorous 
 and life-like successor, as well as of the immense productiveness of the period 
 between 1560 and 1580, we may mention that Avhile, during that time, only 
 six moralities were represented at court, there were enacted forty-six regular 
 tragedies and comedies, none of which are now extant. 
 
 As we are mainly concerned here with the drama as a form of literature, we 
 have not thought it necessary, and, indeed, we have not space, to give any 
 details concerning it in its theatrical aspect. With regard to theatres, it 
 must suffice to say that long after the commencement of the regular drama, 
 moralities and even regular plays w^ere played in public on stages erected in 
 the open air, very often in inn yards. The 3dle Savage in London was a 
 favourite locality for such performances. It would appear, however, that 
 latterly it was customary to represent plays in private in such places as the 
 Inns of Court, and the residences of the sovereign and the nobility. The 
 first regularly licensed theatre was opened at Blackfriars in 1576; and in a 
 very short time it had about half a dozen rivals, as The. Theatre in Shoreditch, 
 The Curtain near Belle Savage, Paris Garden^ Whitefriars, and others. The 
 Globe theatre, with which Shakespeare was connected, was erected on the 
 Bankside in Southwark about 1593, where also were erected The Rose, The 
 Hope, and The Swan theatres. In the time of Shakespeare there would appear 
 to have been at least a dozen of these buildings. 'The theatres were con- 
 structed of wood, of a circular form, open to the weather, excepting over the 
 stage, wdiich was covered with a thatched roof. Outside, on the roof, a flag was 
 hoisted during the time of the performance, which commenced at three o'clock, 
 at the sounding or flourish of trumpets. The cavaliers and fair dames of the 
 court of Elizabeth sat in boxes below the gallery, or were accommodated with 
 stools on the stage, where some of the young gallants also threw themselves at 
 length on the rush-strewn floors, while their pages handed them pipes and 
 tobacco, then a fashionable and highly-prized luxury. The middle classes were 
 crowded in the pit or yard, which was not furnished with seats. Moveable 
 scenery was first introduced by Davenant after the Restoration, but rude imita- 
 tions of towers, woods, animals, or furniture, served to illustrate the scene. To 
 point out the place of action, a board containing the name, painted or written 
 in large letters, was hung out during the performance.' Actresses were not 
 seen on the stage till after the Restoration, the female parts being taken by boys 
 
xl 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 or effeminate-looking young men. It was customary for the king or queen 
 and some of the nobles to retain companies of actors in their service for their 
 own entertainment, although they were also allowed to act in public ; hence 
 the phrases attached to the titles of many old plays, 'Acted by the Queen's 
 Majesty's Servants,' ' the Earl of Leicester's Servants,' etc. As will be seen in 
 the following pages, many of the dramatists were actors as well. 
 
 SPECIMENS OF EARLY ENGLISH DRAMAS. 
 
 In order to illustrate the preceding remarks, and enable the reader to judge 
 for himself of the nature and progress of the early English drama, we shall here 
 give specimens of a miracle play, and of an early comedy and tragedy. We 
 have not space to introduce a morality ; but as, with the exception of the 
 characters, it differed but little from a miracle play, an example of a morality 
 can be dispensed with, especially as we have given an abstract of one or two in 
 the Introduction, which we have also done in the case of one of the best 
 Interludes. 
 
 The miracle play we have selected is the one entitled NocilUs Flood^ from the 
 Chester series ; it was played by the ' Water Leaders and the Drawers of the 
 Dee.' The whole series appears to have been played at one time, and to have 
 occupied a number of days. Previous to the commencement of their exhibi- 
 tion, were read the Banes or proclamation, which gives an account of the sup- 
 posed origin of the plays, and assigns to each of the trade-companies the part it 
 is to take in the performance. Noa/i's Flood was the third in the order of 
 performance, being preceded by The Fall of Lucifer^ and The Creation and the 
 Fall. 
 
 The first speaker is God, who laments the universal wickedness of the world, 
 declaring his determination to exterminate *man, beast, worm, and fowl.' He 
 then gives Noah the details of the construction of the ark, and the play pro- 
 ceeds as follows : — 
 
 ' No All. 
 
 ' Lord, I thank thee loud and still, 
 That to rtie art in such will, 
 And spares me and my household to spill, 
 As I now soothly find. 
 Thy bidding. Lord, I shall fulfil, 
 And never more thee grieve nor grill,* 
 That such grace hath sent me till 
 Amongst all mankind. 
 Have done, you men and women all, 
 Hie you, lest this water fall. 
 To work this ship, chamber and hall. 
 As God hath bidden us do. 
 
 Shem. 
 Father, I am all ready bowne ;' 
 An axe I have, by my crown! 
 As sharp as any in all this town, 
 For to go thereto. 
 
 Ham. 
 
 I have a hatchet wondrous keen, 
 To bite well, as may be seen, 
 A better ground one, as I ween, 
 Is not in all this town. 
 
 Japheth. 
 
 And I can make well a pin, ' 
 And with this hammer knock it in ; 
 Go we work but din ^ 
 And I am ready bound. 
 
 Noah's Wife, 
 
 And we shall bring timber too, 
 For we must nothing else do ; 
 Women be weak to undergo 
 Any great travail. 
 
 S hem's Wife. • 
 
 Here is a good hacking stock, 
 On this you may hew and knock 
 Shall none be idle in this flock; 
 Nay, now may no man fail. 
 
 Ham's Wife. 
 
 And I will go gather slyche,* 
 The ship for to caulk and pitch, 
 Anointed it must be with stick, 
 Board, tree, and pine. 
 
 1 grill — provoke. 
 
 3 but din— without din, i.e. witliout any more noise or talk. 
 
 2 6owne— ready. 
 
 * slyche— slhriQ, mud, or lime. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. xH 
 
 i 
 
 Japheth's Wife. 
 
 AVife, we shall in this vessel be kept. 
 
 And I will gather chips here 
 
 My children and thou I would ye in leapt. 
 
 To make a fire for you in fere.^ 
 
 Noah's Wife. 
 
 And for to dight- your dinner, 
 
 
 Against your coming in. 
 
 In faith, Noah, I would as lief thou slept ! 
 
 
 For all thy frynish* fare, 
 
 Then Noah beginneth to build the ark, and 
 
 I will not do after thy rede.* 
 
 speaketh Noah : 
 
 
 
 Noah. 
 
 Noah. 
 
 
 Now in the name of God, I begin 
 
 Good wife, do now as I thee bid. 
 
 To make the ship that we shall in, 
 That we may be ready for to swim 
 
 Noah's Wife. 
 
 At the coming of the flood : 
 
 By Christ ! not or I see more need. 
 
 These boards here T pin together, 
 To bear us safe from the weather, 
 
 Though thou stand all day and stare. 
 
 That we may row hither and thither, 
 
 Noah. 
 
 And safe be from the flood. 
 
 
 Of this tree will I make the mast. 
 
 Lord, that women be crabbed aye, 
 
 Tied with cables that will last, 
 
 And none are meek I dare well say ; 
 
 With a sail yard for each blast, 
 
 That is well seen by me to-day. 
 
 And each thing in their kind: 
 
 In witness of you each one. 
 
 With topcastle and bowsprit. 
 
 Good wife, let be all this beare, 
 
 Both cords and ropes I have all mette,' 
 
 That thou makest in this place here ; 
 
 To sail forth at the next wet, 
 
 For all they ween that thou art master. 
 
 This ship is at an end. 
 
 And so thou art, by Saint John ! ' 
 
 • God then gives Noah a list of all the animals he is to take with him into the 
 
 ark, concluding by declaring that he sh 
 
 all cause rain to fall for forty days and 
 
 nights in order that men may be destro} 
 
 ^ed for their ' unrights.' 
 
 ' Noah. 
 
 They shall not drown, by Saint John ' 
 
 ' Lord, to thy bidding I am beane,« 
 Seeing no other grace will gain. 
 It will I fulfil fain, =• 
 For gracious I thee find ; 
 A hundred winter and twenty 
 
 An I may save their life. 
 They loved me full well, by Christ ! 
 But thou let them into thy chest. 
 Else row now where thou list. 
 And get thee a new wife. 
 
 This ship making tarried have I : 
 
 Noah. 
 
 If through amendment thy mercy 
 Would fall to mankind. 
 
 Shem, son, lo ! thy mother is wroth ; 
 
 
 By God, such another I do not know! 
 
 Then Noah shall go into the ark with all his 
 
 Shem. 
 
 family, his wife excepted, and the ai'k must 
 
 
 be boarded round about, and on the boards 
 
 Father, I shall fetch her in, I trow. 
 
 all the beasts and fowls painted. 
 
 Withouten any fail. — 
 
 Shem. 
 
 Mother, my father after thee sends. 
 
 And bids thee into yonder ship wend. 
 
 Sir, here are lions, leopards in. 
 
 Look up and see the wind, 
 
 Hoi'ses, mares, oxen, and swine ; 
 
 For we be ready to sail. 
 
 Goat and calf, sheep and kine ; 
 
 Noah's Wife. 
 
 Here sitting thou may see. 
 
 Ham. 
 
 Shem, go again to him, I say; 
 
 
 I will not come therein to-day. 
 
 Camels, asses, man may find. 
 
 
 Buck and doe, hart and hind, 
 
 Noah. 
 
 And beasts of all manner kind, 
 Here be, as thinketh me. 
 
 Come in, wife, in twenty devils' way! 
 
 Or else stand there all day. 
 
 Noah. 
 
 Ham. 
 
 Wife, come in : why stand thou there ? 
 
 Shall we all fetch her in? 
 
 Thou art ever fro ward, I dare well swear; 
 
 Noah. 
 
 Come in, in God's name ! half time it were, 
 
 Yea, sons, in Christ's blessing and minGl 
 
 For fear lest we drown. 
 
 
 I would you hied you betime. 
 
 Noah's Wife. 
 
 For of this flood I am in docbt. 
 
 Yea, sir, set up your sail, 
 
 The Good Gossip's Sono. 
 
 And row forth with evil hail, 
 
 
 For withouten fail 
 
 The flood comes flitting in full fast. 
 
 I will not out of this town ; 
 
 On every side that spreads full far ; 
 
 But I have my gossips every one, 
 
 For fear of drowning I am aghast ; 
 
 One foot further I will not go : 
 
 Good gossips, let us draw near, 
 
 1 m /ere— in company. ^ dighl 
 
 —prepare. ^ 7ne«g— measured. 
 
 * frynish — nice. * rede- 
 
 -advice. * (*eane— obedient. 
 
xlii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 And let us drink or we depart, 
 
 This window I will shut anon, 
 
 For ofttimes we have done so ; 
 
 And into my chamber I will go. 
 
 For at a draught thou drinks a quart, 
 
 Till this water so great mone * 
 
 And so will I do or I go. 
 
 Be slacked through thy might. 
 
 Here is a pottle full of Malmser good and 
 
 
 strong; 
 
 Then shall Noah shut the window of the ark, 
 
 It will rejoice both heart and tongue ; 
 
 and for a little space be silent, and afterwards 
 
 Though ISToah think us never so long, 
 
 looking round about shall say : 
 
 Here we will drink alike. 
 
 Noah. 
 
 Japheth. 
 
 Lord God, in majesty, 
 
 Mother, we pray you all together, 
 
 That such grace hath granted me, 
 Where all was born false to be, 
 
 For we are here, your own children. 
 Come into the ship for fear of the weather. 
 For his love that you bought ! 
 
 Therefore now I am bound, 
 
 My wife, my children, and my meanye,* 
 
 With sacrifice to honour thee, 
 
 Noah's Wife, 
 
 Of beasts, fowls, as thou may'st see 
 And full devotion. 
 
 That will I not, for all your call, 
 
 
 But^ I have my gossips all. 
 
 God. 
 
 Shem. 
 
 Noah, to me thou art full able,^ 
 
 And to my sacrifice acceptable, 
 
 In faith, mother, yet you shall, 
 
 For I have found thee true and stable ; 
 
 Whether thou wilt or not. 
 
 On thee now must I mind ; ' 
 
 
 Warray « earth I will no more. 
 
 Noah. 
 
 For man's sins that grieves me sore. 
 
 Welcome, wife, into this boat. 
 
 You shall now grow and multiply, 
 
 
 On earth again to edify ; 
 
 Noah's Wife. 
 
 • 
 
 Have thou that for thy note I^ 
 
 My bow between you and me 
 In the firmament shall be, 
 
 Noah 
 
 By every token that you shall see. 
 
 
 That such vengeance shall cease. 
 
 Ha, ha ! marry, this is hot! 
 
 Man shall never more 
 
 [It] is good for to be still. 
 
 Ha ! children, methinks my boat removes, 
 
 Be wasted with water, as he hath been 
 
 before ; 
 
 Our tarrying here highly me grieves, 
 
 But for sin that grieveth me sore. 
 
 Over the land the water spreads ; 
 
 Therefore this vengeance was. 
 
 God do as he will. 
 
 . 
 
 Ah ! great God, thou art so good, 
 
 My blessing, Noah, I give thee here, 
 
 That works not thy will is wood,3 
 
 To thee, Noah, my servant dear ; 
 
 Now all this world is one flood, 
 
 For vengeance shall no more appear, 
 
 As I see well in sight. 
 
 And now farewell, my darling dear. 
 
 "SVe shall next present to the reader 
 
 so much of the earliest extant Endish 
 
 comedy {Ualyli Roister Doister) as will enable him to form a notion of its merits | 
 
 as a drama. 
 
 
 gramaiis 
 
 ^jers0nsf. 
 
 Men. 
 
 Harpax. 
 
 Ealph Roister Doister. 
 
 A Scrivener. 
 
 Matthew Merrygreeke. 
 
 
 Gavin Goodlucke. 
 
 \\ omen. 
 
 Sym Suresby. 
 
 Christlvn Custance. 
 
 Tristram Trusty'. 
 
 Madge Mumblecrust. 
 
 Dobinet Dougiitie. 
 
 Tibet Talkapace. 
 
 Truepenny. 
 
 Annot Alyface. 
 
 ACT !.-{ 
 
 3CENE I. 
 
 Matthew Merrygre 
 
 eke (entereth singing). 
 
 As long liveth the me 
 
 rry man (they say), 
 
 As doth the sorry ma 
 
 n, and longer by a day. 
 
 After a few more lines in this strain, he 
 
 says : 
 
 1 52<«— without, unless. 2 „ote-0) headornos 
 
 e. She evidently makes him feel the weight of her flat. 
 
 ' wood— mad. * mone — may. 
 
 5 meanye — menage, liousehold. 
 
 « a6/e— fit, proper. ' mtnc^-think. 
 
 * Warray — war with, curse. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 xliii 
 
 Know ye, that for all this raei'ry note of mine, 
 He might pose me now that should ask where I 
 
 dine. 
 My living lieth here and there, of God's grace: 
 Sometime with this good man, sometime in that 
 
 place ; 
 
 But this day on Ealph Eoister Bolster's, by his 
 
 For truly of all men he is ray chief banker, 
 Both for meat and money, and my chief sheet- 
 anchor. 
 For sooth Eoister Doister in that he doth say, 
 And require what ye will, ye shall have no nay. 
 But now of Eoister Doister somewhat to express, 
 That ye may esteem him after his worthiness, 
 In these twenty towns, and seek them through- 
 out, 
 Is not the like stock whereon to graft a lout. 
 All the day long is he facing and craking * 
 Of his great acts in fighting and fraymaking ; 
 But when Eoister Doister is put to his proof, 
 To keep the queen's peace is more for his 
 
 behoof. 
 If any woman smile or cast on him an eye, 
 Up is he to the hard ears in love by and by, 
 And in all the hot haste must she be his wife, 
 Else farewell his good days, and farewell his 
 
 life : 
 Master Ealph Eoister Doister is but dead and 
 
 gone, 
 Except she on him take some compassion. 
 
 I will seek him out. But, lo, he cometh this way. 
 
 I have yonder espied him sadly coming, 
 
 And in love for twenty pound by his glooming. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 Ealph Eoister Doister ; Matthew Merry- 
 
 GREEKE. 
 
 R. Roister. Come, death, when thou wilt: I 
 am weary of my life. 
 
 M. Merry. What is it then ? 
 Are ye in danger of debt to any man ? 
 If ye be, take no thought, nor be not afraid : 
 Let them hardly take thought how they shall 
 be paid. 
 R. Roister. Tut, I owe nought. 
 M. JSJei^'y. What then.' fear ye imprisonment? 
 R. Roister. No. 
 
 M. Merry. No, I wist, ye offend not so to be 
 shent.'"^ 
 But if he had, the Tower could not you so hold. 
 But to break out at all times ye would be bold. 
 V/hat is it.' hath any man threatened you to 
 beat? 
 R. Roister. What is he that durst have put me 
 in that heat ? 
 He that beateth me, by his arms, shall well find, 
 That I will not be far from him, nor run behind. 
 M. 21erry. That thing know all men, ever 
 since ye overthrew 
 The fellow of the lion which Hercules slew. 
 But what is it then ? 
 R. Roister. Of love I make my moan. 
 M. Meii'y. Ah, this foolish love ! wil't ne'er 
 let us alone ? 
 But because ye were refused the last day, 
 Te said ye would ne'er more be entangled that 
 
 way. 
 I would meddle no more, since I find all so 
 unkind. 
 
 craking — boasting. 
 
 shent — disgraced. 
 
 R. Roister. Yea, but I cannot so put love out 
 of my mind. 
 
 M. Merry. What is her name ? 
 R. Roister. Her yonder. 
 M. Merry. Who ? 
 R. Roister. Mistress ah — 
 M. Merry. Fie, fie for shame ! 
 Love ye and know not whom ? but her yonder, 
 
 a woman ? 
 We shall then get you a wife, I cannot tell 
 when. 
 R. Roister. The fair woman, that supped with 
 us yesternight ; 
 And I heard her name twice or thrice, and had 
 it right. 
 M. Merry. Yea, ye may see ye ne'er take me 
 to good cheer with you ; 
 If ye had, I could have told you her name now. 
 R. Roister. I was to blame indeed, but tho 
 next time perchance. 
 And she dwelleth in this house. 
 
 M. Meii'y. What, Christian Custance ? 
 
 R. Roister. Except I have her to my wife, I 
 
 shall run mad. 
 M. Merry. Nay, unwise, perhaps, but I war- 
 rant you for mad. 
 R. Roister. I am utterly dead unless I have 
 
 my desire. 
 M. Merry. Where be the bellows that blew 
 
 this sudden fire ? 
 R. Roister. I hear she is worth a thousand- 
 pound and more. 
 M. Merry. Yea, but learn this one lesson of 
 me afore : 
 An hundred pound of marriage money doubtless. 
 Is ever thirty pound sterling, or somewhat less ; 
 So that her thousand pound, if she be thrifty, 
 Is much near about two hundred and fifty. 
 Howbeit, wooers and widows are never poor. 
 R. Roister. Is she a widow ? I love her better 
 
 therefore. 
 M. Merry. But I hear she hath made promise 
 
 to another. 
 R. Roister. He shall go without her, and ho 
 
 were my brother. 
 M. Merry. I have heard say, I am right well 
 advised. 
 That she hath to Gavin Goodlucke promised. 
 R. Roister. What is that Gavin Goodlucke ? 
 M. Merry. A merchant man. 
 Yet a fitter wife for your ma'ship i might be 
 found. 
 
 R. Roister. I am sorry God made me so 
 
 comely, doubtless. 
 For that maketh me each where so highly 
 
 favoured, 
 And all women on me so enamoured. 
 M. Merry. Enamoured, quoth you ? have ye 
 
 spied out that ? 
 Ah, sir, marry now I see you know what is what. 
 Enamoured, ka ? 2 Marry, sir, say that again ; 
 But I thought not ye had marked it so plain. 
 R. Roister. Yes, each where they gaze all 
 
 upon me and stare. 
 M. Merry. Yea, Malkyn, I warrant you as 
 
 much as they dax-e. 
 And ye will not believe what they say in the 
 
 street, 
 When your ma'ship passeth by all such as I 
 
 meet. 
 That sometimes I can scarce find what answer 
 
 to make. 
 
 * /na's/ujj— mastership. 
 
 2 ka — quotli'a 
 
xllv 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 ^Matthew then tells Ralph what great heroes the women mistake him for, and 
 
 proceeds thus : 
 
 O Lord ! (say some) tliat the sight of his face 
 
 we lack. 
 It is enough for you (say I) to see his back. 
 His face is for ladies of high and noble parages, 
 With -whom he hardly 'scapeth great marriages. 
 "With much more than this, and much otherwise. 
 i?. Roister. I can thee thank that thou canst 
 such answers devise : 
 But I perceive thou dost me throughly know. 
 31. Merry. I mark your manners for mine own 
 learning, I trow ; 
 But such is your beauty, and such are your acts, 
 Such is your personage, and such are your facts, 
 That all women, fair and foul, more and less, 
 They eye you, they love you, they talk of you 
 
 doubtless. 
 Your pleasant look maketh them all merry, 
 Ye pass not by, but tbey laugh till they be 
 
 weary ; 
 Yea and money could I have, the truth to tell. 
 Of many to bring you that way where they 
 dwell. 
 R. Roister. Merrygreeke, for this thy report- 
 ing well of me — 
 M. 3Ier>-y. What should I else, sir ? it is my 
 
 duty, pardee. 
 R. Roister. I promise thou shalt not lack, 
 
 Wiiile 1 have a groat. 
 M. Merry. Faith, sir, and I ne'er had more 
 
 need of a new coat. 
 R. Roister. Thou shalt have one to-morrow, 
 
 and gold for to spend. 
 M. Meri'y. Then I trust to bring the day to a 
 good end. 
 
 M. Merry. "What if Christian Custance will 
 
 not have you, what ? 
 R. Roister. Have me ? yes I warrant yoii, 
 
 never doubt of that. 
 I know she loveth me, but she dare not speak. 
 
 She looked on me twenty times yesternight. 
 An d laughed so. 
 
 M. Merry. In the meantime, sir, if you please, 
 
 I Avill home. 
 And call your musicians ; for in this your case, 
 It would"^set you forth, and all your wooing 
 
 grace : 
 Ye may not lack your instruments to play and 
 
 sins:. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE III. 
 
 Madge Mujiblecuust spinning on the distaff; 
 Tibet Talkapace sewing ; Annot Alyface 
 hiitting ; E. Koistek. 
 
 I After some sharp practice between Madge, 
 Tibet, and Ealph, the latter and Madge are left 
 alone.] 
 
 R. Roister. Ah, good sweet nurse. 
 
 M. Mumbl. Ah, good sweet gentleman. 
 
 R. Roister. What ? 
 
 M. Mumbl. Nay, I cannot tell, sir ; but what 
 thing would you ? 
 
 R. Roister. How doth sweet Custance, my 
 heart of gold, tell me how ? 
 
 M. Mumbl. She doth very well, sir, and com- 
 mand me to you. 
 
 R. Roister. To me ? 
 
 M. Mumbl. Yea, to you, sir. 
 
 R. Roister. To me ? Nurse, tell me plain. 
 To me ? 
 M. Mumbl. Yea. 
 R. Roister. That woi'd maketh me alive again. 
 
 I promise thee, nurse, I favour her. 
 aM. Mumbl. E'en so, sir. 
 R. Roister. Bid her sue to me for man-iage. 
 J/". Mumbl. E'en so, sir. 
 R. Roister. And surdy for thy sake she shall 
 
 speed. 
 3f. Mumbl. E'en so, sir. 
 R. Roister. I shall be contented to take her. 
 M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir. 
 R. Roister. But at thy request, and for thy 
 
 sake. 
 3[. Mumbl. E'en so, sir. 
 R. Roister. And come, hark in thine ear what 
 
 to say. 
 M. Mumbl. E'en so, sir. 
 
 [Here let him tell her a great long tale in 
 her ear. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Matthew Merrygreeke; Dobinet Doughtie; 
 Kalph PiOister ; Madge Mumbleckust ; 
 Harpax. 
 
 M. Men-y. Come on, su-s, apace, and quit your- 
 selves like men. 
 Your pains shall be rewarded. 
 
 But with whom is he now so sadly rounding » 
 yond? 
 D. Dough. With Nobs Nicehecetur Miserwe 
 
 fond. 
 M. Merry. God be at your wedding: be ye 
 sped alreadj' 7 
 I did not suppose that your love was so greedy. 
 I perceive now ye have choice of devotion. 
 And joy have \e, lady, of your promotion. 
 R. Roister. Tush, fool, thou art deceived : 
 
 this is not she. 
 M. Meri^y. Well, make much of her, and keep 
 her well, I advise ye. 
 I will take no charge of such a fair piece 
 keeping. 
 M. Mumbl. What aileth this fellow? he 
 
 driveth me to weeping. 
 J/. Merry. What, weep on the wedding day ? 
 be merry, woman: 
 Though I say it, ye have chosen a good gentle- 
 man. 
 R. Roister. What meanest thou man? tut, 
 
 a whistle. 
 M. Men^. Ah sir, be gopd to her, she is but 
 a gristle. 
 Ah, sweet lamb and coney. 
 
 R. Roister. Tut, thou art deceived. 
 M. Merry. Weep no more, lady, ye shall bo 
 well received. 
 Up with some merry noise, sirs, to bring home 
 the bride. 
 R. Roister. Gogs arms ! knave, art thou mad ? 
 I tell thee, thou art wide. 
 
 R. Roister. This same is the fair widow's nurse, 
 
 of whom ye wot. 
 3f. Mtri-y. Is she but a nurse "of a house? 
 
 I * Now so seriously whispering yonder. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA, 
 
 xlv 
 
 R. Roister. This is our best friend, man. 
 M. Merry. Then teach her what to say. 
 M. Mumbl. I am taught ah-eady. 
 
 M. Mumbl. And what shall I show your 
 
 mastership's name is ? 
 R. Roister. Nay, she shall make suit, ere she 
 
 shall know that, ywis. 
 M. Mumbl. Yet, let me somewhat know. 
 ' M. Merry. This is he, understand, 
 
 That killed the blue spider in Blanchepouder 
 
 land. 
 M. Mumbl. Yea, Jesus, William, zee law ! did 
 
 he zo law ? 
 M. Merry. Yea, and the last elephant that 
 
 ever he saw, 
 As the beast passed by, he start out of a buske,i 
 And e'en with pure strength of arms pluck'd out 
 
 his great tusk. 
 M. Mumhl. Jesus, Nomine Patris, what a 
 
 thing was that ! 
 R. Roister. Yea, but Merrygreeke, one thing 
 
 thou hast forgot. 
 M. Merry. What ? 
 R. Roister. Of the other elephant. 
 M. Merry. Oh, him that fled away ? 
 R. Roister. Yea. 
 3f. Merry. Yea, he knew that his match was 
 
 in place that day. 
 
 M. Mumbl. Oh Lord! my heart quaketh for 
 
 fear, he is so sore. 
 R. Roister. Thou makest her too much afi-aid, 
 
 Merrygreeke ; no more. 
 This tale would fear my sweetheart Custance 
 
 right evil. 
 
 R. Roister. Now, nurse, take this same letter 
 
 here to thy mistress ; 
 And as my trust is in tliee, ply my business. 
 M. Mumbl. It shall be done. 
 M. Merry. Who made it ? 
 R. Roister. I wrote it each whit. 
 M. Merry. Then needs it no mending. 
 R. Roister. No, no. 
 M. Meiiy. No, I know your wit. 
 R. Roister. I warrant it well. 
 M. Mumbl. It shall be delivered ; 
 But, if ye speed, shall I be considered? 
 
 M. Merry. Whough! dost thou doubt of that? 
 
 M. Mumbl. What shall I have ? 
 
 M. Merry. An hundred times more than thou 
 
 canst devise to crave. 
 M. Mumhl. Shall I have some new gear ? for 
 
 my dole is all spent. 
 31. Merry. The worst kitchen wench shall go 
 
 in ladies' raiment. 
 Jf. Mumhl. Yea? 
 31. 3Ie^'ry. And the worst dri;dge in the house 
 
 shall go better 
 Than your mistress doth now. 
 31. Mumbl. Then I trudge with your letter. 
 R. Roister. Now may I repose me: Custance 
 
 is mine own. 
 Let us sing and play homeward, that it may be 
 
 known. 
 3{. 3Ierry. But, are you sure that your letter 
 
 is well enough ? 
 R. Roister. I wrote it myself. 
 31. 3Ierry. Then sing we to dinner. 
 
 [//ere they sing, and go out singing. 
 
 The letter is delivered to Christian Custance, who refuses to open it. 
 
 Now this is the best way; now that way is 
 
 better. 
 ' Up before day, sirs, I charge you, an hour or 
 
 twain ; 
 Trudge, do me this message, and bring word 
 
 quick again.' 
 
 And now am I sent to Dame Christian Cus- 
 tance ; 
 
 But I fear it will end with a mock for pastance.* 
 
 I bring her a ring, with a token in a clout ; 
 
 And, by all guess, this same is her house out of 
 doubt. 
 
 I know it now perfect, I am in my right way ; 
 
 And lo ! yonder the old nurse, that was with us 
 last day. 
 
 ACT IL-SCENE L 
 
 DOBINET DOUGHTIE. 
 
 D. Dough. Where is the house I go to, before 
 
 or behind ? 
 I know not where, nor when, nor how I shall 
 
 it find. 
 If I had ten men's bodies, and legs, and strength. 
 This trotting that I have must needs lame me 
 
 at length. 
 And now that my master is new set on woo- 
 
 I trust there shall none of us find lack of 
 
 doing : 
 Two pair of shoes a day will now be too little 
 To sex've me, I must trot to and fro so mickle. 
 ' Go, bear me this token ; carry me this letter; ' 
 
 Dobinet then meets with Truepenny, Tibet, and Annot, and persuades them to 
 convey Ealph's token to their mistress, who rewards them with a sound scolding. 
 
 But, if ever I see that false boy any more. 
 By your mistresship's licence, I tell you afore, 
 I will rather have my coat twenty times swinged, 
 Than on the naughty wag not to be avenged. 
 C. Custance. Good wenches would not so ramp 
 
 abroad, idly. 
 But keep within doors, and ply their work 
 
 earnestly. 
 If one would speak with me, that is a man 
 
 likely. 
 Ye shall have right good thank to bring me 
 
 word quickly ; 
 
 C. Custance. Well, ye naughty girls, if ever I 
 perceive 
 That henceforth ye do letters or tokens receive, 
 To bring unto me, from any person or place. 
 Except ye first show me the party face to face. 
 Either thou or thou, full truly abide thou shalt. 
 Tib. Talk. Pardon this, and the next time 
 
 powder me in salt. 
 C. Custance. I shall make all girls, by you 
 
 twain, to beware. 
 Tib. Talk. If I ever offend again, do not me 
 spare. 
 
 itiske—XtM&ix. 
 
 s ^a5^a7ic«— pastime. 
 
xlvi 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 But, otherwise, with messages to come iu post, 
 From heuceforth, I promise you, shall be to 
 
 your cost. 
 Get you in to your work. 
 
 Tih. and Annot. Yes, forsooth. 
 
 C. Cusfance. Now will I in too, for I think, so 
 God me mend, 
 This will prove some foolish matter in the end, 
 
 {_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Christian 
 
 Tibet; M. Merrygreeke 
 custaxce. 
 
 Tib. Talh. Ah! that I might but once in my 
 
 life have a sight 
 Of him who made us all so ill shent ; by this 
 
 light, 
 He should never escape, if I had him by the 
 
 eai'. 
 But, even from his head, I would it bite or tear. 
 Yea, and if one of them were not enough, 
 I would bite them both off, I make God a vow. 
 
 C. Custance. In at doors ! 
 
 Tib. Talk. I am gone. [Exit. 
 
 M. Merry. Dame Custance, God ye save. 
 
 C. Custance. Welcome, friend Merx-ygreeke : 
 
 and, what thing would ye have ? 
 M. Mo'ry. I am come to you, a little matter 
 
 to break. 
 
 C. Custance. No creature hath my faith and 
 troth but one. 
 That is Gavin Goodlucke : and if it be not he. 
 He hath no title this way, whatever he be. 
 For I know none to whom I have such word 
 spoken. 
 M. Merry. Ye know him not you, by his letter 
 
 and token ? 
 C. Custance. Indeed true it is, that a letter I 
 have. 
 But I never read it yet, as God me save. 
 M. Merry. Ye a woman, and your letter so 
 
 long unread ! 
 C. Custance. Ye may thereby know what 
 haste I have to wed. 
 
 But now, who is it for ni}^ hand, I know by 
 guess. 
 M. Merry. Ah ! well, I say. 
 C. Custance. It is Roister Doister, doubtless. 
 M. Merry. Will ye never leave this dissimu- 
 lation ? 
 Ye know him not ? 
 
 C. Custance. But by imagination ; 
 For, no man there is, but a very dolt and lout, 
 That to woo a widow would so go about. 
 He shall never have me his wife while he do 
 live. 
 M. Merry. Then will he have you if he may, 
 so miglit 1 thrive; 
 And he biddeth j'ou send him word by me, 
 That ye humbly beseech him ye may his wife 
 
 be, 
 And that there shall be no let in you, nor 
 
 mistrust, 
 But to be wedded on Sunday next if he list ; 
 And biddeth you to look for him. 
 C. Custance. Doth he bid so ? 
 M. Merry. When he cometh, ask him whether 
 
 he did or no. 
 C. Custance. Go say, that I bid him keep him 
 warm at home, 
 For, if he come abroad, he shall cough me a 
 
 mome.i 
 My mind was vexed, I 'shrew his head, sottish 
 dolt. 
 M. Merry. He hath in his head — 
 C. Custance. As much brain as a burbolt.2 
 M. Moi'y. Well, Dame Custance, if he hear 
 
 you thus play choplogic. 
 C. Custance. What will he ? 
 M. Merry. Play the devil in the horologe.^ 
 C. Custance. I defy him, lout. 
 M. Merry. Shall 1 tell him what ye say ? 
 C. Custance. Yea, and add whatsoever thou 
 canst, I thee pray. 
 And I will avouch it whatsoever it be. 
 M. Merry. Then letine alone; we will laugh 
 well, ye shall see : 
 It will not be long ere he will hither resort. 
 C. Custance. Let him come when him list, I 
 wish no better sport. 
 Fare ye well, I will in, and read my great 
 
 letter : 
 I shall to my wooer make answer the better. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Matthew goes and gives Ralph an exaggerated version of Custance's answer, 
 
 taking the opportunity of letting his silly friend know his own real opinion of 
 
 his character. Under cover of Christian's answer, Kalph is called 
 
 The veriest dolt that ever was born ; 'Ye are happy (quo' I) that ye are a woman. 
 
 And veriest lubber, sloven, and beast. This would cost you your life in case ye were 
 
 Living in this world, from the west to the east ; man,' 
 
 Yet, of himself hath he such opinion. 
 
 That in all the world is not the like minion. R. Roister. I will go home and die. 
 
 He thinketh each woman to be brought in M. Merry. Then shall I bid toll the bell ? 
 
 R. Roister. No. 
 
 M. Merry. God have mercy oh your soul : ah, 
 good gentleman. 
 That e'er you should thus die for an unkind 
 
 woman ! 
 Will you drink once ere you go? 
 R. Roister. No, no, I will none. 
 M. Merry. How feel your soul to God ? 
 R. Roister. 1 am nigh gone. 
 M. Merry. And shall we hence straight ? 
 
 J A mome is another word for a fool, and tlie phrase ' cough me a fool ' is common in old plays, 
 2 A burbolt is a biid-bolt, or arrow with which boys knocked down birds ; it had a nob at the end. 
 • 'To play the devil in the horologue,' or in the dock, is an expression to indicate the making of confusion. 
 •The divell is in th' orloge, the houres to trye : 
 Searche houres by the sjin, the devyll's dyal will lie.' 
 
 J. Haywood's Proverbs, 1562. 
 
 With the only sight of his goodly personage : 
 
 Yet, none that will have him : we do him lout 
 and flock, 
 
 And make him among us, our common sporting- 
 stock ; 
 
 And so would I now (quo' she), save only be- 
 cause, — 
 
 * Better nay,' (quo' I) — ' I list not meddle with 
 daws,' 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 xlvii 
 
 R. Roister. Yea. 
 
 M. Merry. Placebo dilexi. [ut infra} 
 
 Master Koister Doister will straight go home 
 and die. 
 R. Roister. Hecb. how, alas! the pangs of 
 
 death my heart do break. 
 M. Merry. Hold your peace, for shame, sir! 
 a dead man may not speak. 
 Neqiiando: What mourners and what torches 
 shall we have ? 
 R. Roister. Kone. 
 
 M. Merry, Dirige. He will go darkling to 
 his grave, — 
 Neque lux, neque crux, neque mourners, neque 
 
 clink, 
 He will steal to heaven, unknowing to God, I 
 
 think, 
 A porta inferi. Who shall yoiu' goods possess ? 
 
 Ealph is however persuaded to live, and by Matthew's advice resolves to try what 
 a personal interview with Christian will do. Matthew tells him not to 
 
 . . . Speak with a faint heart to Custance, 
 But with a lusty breast and countenance, 
 That she may know she hath to answer to a 
 man. 
 
 Te must have a portly brag after your estate. 
 
 R. Roister. Thou shalt be my sectour,2 and 
 
 have all, more and less. 
 M. Merry. Requiem xternam. Now God 
 reward your mastership, 
 And I will cry halfpenny dole for your worship. 
 
 . . . All men take heed by this one gentleman, 
 How you set your love upon an unkind woman: 
 For these women be all such mad, peevish elves. 
 They will not be won, except it please them- 
 selves. 
 But, in faith, Custance, if ever ye come in hell, 
 Master Koister Doister shall serve you as well. 
 And will ye needs go from us thus in very 
 deed? 
 R. Roister. Yea, in good sadness. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IV. 
 Custance ; Merrygreeke ; Eoister Doister. 
 
 C. Custance. Get ye home, idle folks. 
 M. Merry. Why may not we be here ? 
 Nay and ye will haze, haze ; ^ otherwise, I tell 
 
 you plain. 
 And ye will not haze, then give us our gear 
 again. 
 C. Custance. Indeed I have of youi's much gay 
 
 things, God save all. 
 R. Roister. Speak gently unto her, and let her 
 
 take all. 
 M. Merry. Ye are too tender-hearted : shall 
 she make us daws ? 
 Nay dame, I will be plain with you in my friend's 
 cause. 
 R. Roister. Let all this pass, sweetheart, and 
 
 accept my service. 
 C. Custance. I will not be served with a fool 
 in no wise. 
 When I choose a husband, I hope to take a man. 
 
 M. Merry. Ye know not where your prefer- 
 ment lieth, I see. 
 He sendeth you such a token, ring, and letter. 
 C. Custance. Marry, here it is, ye never saw a 
 
 better. 
 M. Merry. Let us see your letter. 
 C. Custance. Hold, read it if ye can, 
 And see what letter it is to win a woman. 
 M. Merry. ' To mine own dear coney bird, 
 sweetheart, and pigsny, 
 Good Mistress Custance, present these by and by.' 
 Of this superscription do ye blame the style ? 
 C. Custance. With the rest, as good stuff as ye 
 
 read a great while. 
 M. Men^y. ' Sweet Mistress, whereas I love 
 you nothing at all, 
 Regarding your substance and riches chief of 
 
 all; 
 For your personage, beauty, demeanour, and wit, 
 I commend me unto you never a whit. 
 Sorry to hear report of your good welfare, 
 For (as I hear say) such your conditions are. 
 That ye be worthy favour of no living man, 
 To be abhorred of every honest man. 
 To be taken for a woman inclined to vice. 
 Nothing at all to virtue giving her due price. 
 Wherefore concerning marriage, ye are thought 
 Such a fine paragon, as ne'er honest man bought. 
 And now by these presents I do you advertise 
 That I am minded to marry you in nowise. 
 For your goods and substance, I could be content 
 To take you as ye are. If ye mind to be my 
 wife.' . . . 
 
 The letter goes on thus to some length, it being capable of affording two very 
 different senses, according to the punctuation. 
 
 R. Roister. Ye may so take it, but I meant it 
 
 not so, by cock. 
 M. Merry. Who can blame this woman to 
 
 fume, and fret, and rage ? 
 
 €. Custance. Might not a woman be proud of 
 
 such a husband ? 
 M. Merry. Ah, that ye would in a letter show 
 
 such despite. 
 R. Roister. Oh, I would I had him here, the 
 
 which did it indite ! 
 M. Merry. Why, ye made it yourself, ye told 
 
 me, by this light. 
 R. Roister. Yea, I meant I wrote it mine own 
 
 self yesternight. 
 C. Custance. Yes, sir, I would not have sent 
 
 you such a mock. 
 
 C. Custance. God be with you both, and seek 
 
 no more to me. [Exeat. 
 
 R. Roister. Wough ! she is gone for ever, I 
 
 shall her no more see ! 
 M. MeiTy. What weep ? fie for shame ! and 
 blubber ? for manhood's sake 
 Never let your foe so much pleasure of you take. 
 Rather play the man's part, and do love refrain : 
 If she despise you, e'en despise ye her again. 
 
 1 Meaning at the end of the play, where ' the Psalmodie ' is inserted, which is supposed to be sung below. 
 •».e. executor. 3 jjaze means 'ha' us,' or 'have us.' 
 
xlviii 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 R. Roister. By gosse, and for thy sake I defy 
 
 her indeed. 
 M. Meri'y. Yea, and perchance that way ye 
 shall much sooner speed. 
 For one mad property these women have, in 
 
 faith. 
 When ye will, they will not ; will not ye, then 
 will they. 
 
 R. Roistei'. Thou dost the trath telL 
 M. Merry. Well, I lament. 
 R. Roister. So do I. 
 M. Meii'y. Wherefore ? 
 R. Roister. For this thing; 
 Because she is gone. 
 
 M. Merry. I mourn for another thing. 
 R. Roister. What is it, Merrygreeke, where- 
 fore dost thou grief take 7 
 M. Merry. That I am not a woman myself for 
 your sake. 
 
 For though I say it, a goodly person ye be. 
 R. Roister. Ko, no. 
 
 M. Merry. Yes, a goodly man as e'er I did see. 
 R. Roister. No, I am a poor homely man, as 
 
 God made me. 
 M. Meri-y. By the faith that I owe to God, 
 
 sir, but ye be. 
 Would I might, for your sake, spend a thousand 
 
 pound land. 
 R. Roister. I daresay thou wouldst have me 
 
 to thy husband. 
 
 M. Mei-ry. Yea; and I were the fairest lady 
 in the shire. 
 And knew you as I know you, and see you now 
 
 here. 
 Well, I say no more. 
 
 R. Roister. Gramercies, with all my heart. 
 M. Merry. But since that cannot "be, will ye 
 
 play a wise part ? 
 R. Roister. How should I ? 
 M. Merry. Kefrain from Custance awhile 
 now. 
 And I warrant her soon right glad to seek to 
 
 you: 
 You shall see her anon come on her knees 
 
 creeping. 
 And pray you to be good to her, salt teara 
 weeping. 
 R. Roister. But what and she come not ? 
 M. Mei'i-y. In faith, then farewell she ; 
 Or else, if ye be wroth, ye may avenged be. 
 
 R. Roister. But I would be avenged in the 
 mean space. 
 On that vile scribbler, that did my wooing 
 disgrace. 
 J/. Merry. Scribbler (quo' you) ? Indeed, he is 
 worthy no less. 
 I will call him to you, and ye bid me, doubtless. 
 
 R. Roister. He shall never 'scape death on my 
 sword's point, 
 Though I should be iom therefor joint by 
 joint. 
 
 They then have an interview with the Scrivener, whom Ralph tries to bully, 
 but is made to eat humble-pie. The Scrivener reads the letter, pointing it so 
 as to bring out a sense different from Ralph's copy. Matthew and Ralph then 
 resolve to have another interview with Christian, and put her right as to the 
 letter. 
 
 C. Custance. If he have perfect health, I am 
 as I would be. 
 
 Sym Sure. Such news will please him well, 
 this is as it should be. 
 
 C. Custance. I think now long for him. 
 
 Sym Sure. And he as long for you. 
 
 C. Custance. When will he be at home .' 
 
 Sym Sure. His heart is here e'en now ; 
 His body cometh after. 
 
 C. Custance. I would see that fain. 
 
 Sym Sure. As fast as wind and sail can cairy 
 it amain. 
 But what two men are yonder, coming hither- 
 ward ? 
 
 C. Ctistance. Now, I shrew their best Christmas 
 cheeks both togetherwArd ! 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 Sym Suresby. 
 
 Sym Suresby. My master, Gavin Goodlucke, 
 
 after me a day, 
 Because of the weather, thought best his ship 
 
 to stay ; 
 And now that I have the rough surges so well 
 
 past, 
 God grant I may find all things safe here at 
 
 last; 
 Then will I think all my travel well spent. 
 Now, the first point wherefore my master hath 
 
 me sent 
 Is to salute Dame Christian Custance, his wife 
 Espoused ; whom he tendereth no less than his 
 
 life. 
 
 But lo, forth cometh herself happily indeed. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 Christian Custance; Sym Suresby. 
 
 C. Custance. I come to see if any more stirring 
 be here. 
 But what stranger is this, which doth to me 
 appear ? 
 Sym Sure. I will speak to her. — Dame, the 
 
 Lord you save and see. 
 C. distance. What, friend Sym Suresby? 
 Forsooth, right welcome ye be. 
 How doth mine own Gavin Goodlucke ? I pray 
 thee tell. 
 Sym Sure. When he knoweth of your health 
 he will be perfect well. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 
 Christian Custance ; Sym Suresby ; PiALpii 
 EoisTER Doister ; Matthew Merrygreeke; 
 Truepenny. 
 
 C. Custance. What mean these lewd fellows 
 
 thus to trouble me still ? 
 Sym Suresby here perchance shall thereof deem 
 
 some ill. 
 And shall suspect me in some point of naughti- 
 
 An they come hitherward. 
 
 R. Roister. Well found, sweet wife (I trust), 
 
 for all this your sour look. 
 C. Custance. Wife! why call ye me wife ? 
 Sym Sure. Wife ! This gear goeth a-erook. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 xlfx 
 
 M. Merry. Nay, Mistress Custance, I warrant 
 you, our letter 
 Is not as we read e'en now, but mucli better. 
 
 C. Custance. I did not refuse him for the 
 
 letter's sake. 
 R. Roister, Then ye are content me for your 
 
 husband to take. 
 C. Custance. You for my husband to take? 
 
 Nothing less truly. 
 
 But what prate I with fools.'' have I nought 
 
 else to do ? 
 Come in with me, Sym Suresby, to take some 
 repast. 
 Sym Sure. I must, e'er I di'ink, by your leave, 
 go in all haste 
 To a place or two with earnest letters of his. 
 C. Custance. Then come drink here with me. 
 Sym Sure. I thank you. 
 C. Custance. Do not miss. 
 You shall have a token to your master with you. 
 Sym Sure. No tokens this time, gramercies. 
 God be with you. [^Exeat. 
 
 C. Custance. I will be even with thee, thou 
 
 beast, thou may be bold. 
 R. Roister. Will ye have us, then ? 
 C. Custance. I will never have thee. 
 R. Roister. Then will I have you ? 
 C. Custance. No, the devil shall have thee. 
 I have got this hour more shame and harm by 
 
 thee, 
 Than all thy life days thou canst do me honesty. 
 
 Faith, rather than to marry with such a doltish 
 
 lout, 
 I would match myself with a beggar out of 
 
 doubt. 
 
 R. Roister. Yes, dame, I will have you whether 
 ye will or no. 
 I command you to love me, wherefore should 
 
 ye not ? 
 Is not my love to you chafing and burning hot ? 
 ]\[. Merry. To her, that is well said. 
 R. Roister. Shall I so break my brain 
 To dote upon you, and ye not love us again? 
 M. Merry. Well said yet. 
 C. Custance. Go to, thou goose. 
 R. Roister. I say. Kit Custance, 
 In case yo will not haze, well, better yes per- 
 chance. 
 C. Custance. Avaunt, lozell, pick thee hence. 
 M. Merry. Well, sir, ye perceive, 
 For all your kind offer, she will not you receive. 
 R. Roister. Then a straw for her, and a straw 
 for her again. 
 She shall not be my wife, would she never so 
 
 fain, 
 No, and though she would be at ten thousand 
 pound cost. 
 M. Merry. Lo, dame, ye may see what a 
 
 husband ye have lost. 
 C. Custance. Yea, no force; a jewel much 
 
 better lost than found. 
 M. Merry. Ah, ye will not believe how this 
 doth my heart wound. 
 How should a marriage between you be toward, 
 If both parties draw back, and become so 
 f reward ? 
 R. Roister. Nay, dame, I will fire thee out of 
 thy house, and destroy 
 Thee and all thine, and that by and by. 
 M. Merry. Nay, for the passion of God, sir, 
 
 do not so. 
 R. Roister. Yes, except she will say yea to 
 that she said no. 
 
 Christian then sends for Tristram Trusty, and she and her maids resolve that 
 if Ralph makes his appearance again they will give him a warm reception. 
 Trusty meantime endeavours to console her ; Merrygreeke joins them, and 
 assures Christian that he takes part in Ralph's wooing merely for sport and 
 pastime. 
 
 C. distance. I'll ache your heads both ! I was 
 never wearier. 
 Nor never more vexed since the first day I was 
 born. 
 
 M. Merry. Hither will he repair with a sheep's 
 look full grim. 
 By plain force and violence to drive you to 
 yield. 
 C. Custance. If ye two bid me, we will with 
 him pitch afield, 
 And my maids together. 
 M. Merry. Let us see ; be bold. 
 C. Custance. Ye shall see women's war. 
 T. Trtisty. That fight will 1 behold. 
 M. Merry. If occasion serve, taking his part 
 full brim, 
 I will strike at you, but the rap shall light on 
 When we first appear — [him. 
 
 C. Custance. Then will I run away, 
 As though I were afraid. 
 
 M. Merry. A stomach, quoth you : he that will 
 
 that deny, 
 I know, was never at dinner in your company. 
 R. Roister. Nay, the stomach of a man it is 
 
 that 1 mean. 
 
 3f. 3ferry. Nay, the stomach of a horse or a 
 
 dog, I wean. 
 7?. Roister. Nay, a man's stomach with a 
 
 weapon mean I. 
 M. Merry. Ten men can scarce match you 
 
 with a spoon in a pie. 
 R. Roister. Nay, the stomach of a man to try 
 
 in strife. 
 M. Meii^y. I never saw your stomach cloyed 
 
 yet in my life. 
 R. Roister. Tush, I mean in strife or fighting 
 
 to try. 
 M. Meivy, We shall see how ye will strike 
 
 now being angry. 
 
 R. Roister. Nay, as for they, shall every 
 
 mother's child die, 
 And in this my fume a little thing might make 
 
 me 
 To beat down house and all, and else the devil 
 
 take me. 
 
 31. Merry. Be not at one with her upon any 
 amends.^ 
 
 That is, be not reconciled with her upon any amends 
 
1 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 R. Roister. No, though she make to me never 
 so many friends ; 
 Not if all the world for her would undertake : 
 No, not God himself neither, shall not her peace 
 
 make. 
 On, therefore! march forward! Soft^ stay a 
 while yet. 
 M. Meiiy. On. 
 R. Roister. Tarry. 
 31. Meri'y. On. 
 
 R. Roister. Soft. Now forward set. 
 C. distance. What business have we here.' 
 
 Out, alas, alas ! 
 R. Roister. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 Didst thou see that, Merrygreeke, how afraid 
 
 she was ? 
 Didst thou see how she jQled apace out of my 
 
 sight ? 
 Ah, good sweet Custance! I pity her, by this 
 light. 
 M. Mei'^'y. That tender heart of yours will 
 mar altogether ; 
 Thus will ye be turned with waggiug of a 
 feather. 
 R. Roister. On, sirs, keep your ray. 
 M. Me)'ry. On forth, while this gear is hot. 
 R. Roister. Soft, the Arms of Calais, I have 
 
 one thing forgot. 
 M. Merry. What lack we now ? 
 R. Roister. Retire, or else we be all slain. 
 M. Meivy. Back, for the passion of God! 
 back, sirs, back again ! 
 What is the great matter ? 
 
 R. Roister. This hasty forthgoing 
 Had almost brought us all to utter undoing : 
 It made me forget a thing most necessary. 
 M. Merry. Well remembered of a captain, by 
 
 Saint Mary. 
 R. Roister. It is a thing must be had. 
 3f. Meivy. Let us have it then. 
 R. Roister. But I wot not where, nor how. 
 M. Meri-y. Then wot not I when. 
 But what is it 7 
 R. Roister. Of a chief thing I am to seek. 
 M. Mei'ry. Tut so will ye be, when ye have 
 studied a week. 
 But tell me what it is. 
 R. Roister. I lack yet an headpiece. 
 M. Merry. The kitchen coUocavit, ^ the best 
 hens to gi-ace. 
 Eun, fetch it, Dobinet, and come at once withal, 
 And bring with thee my potgun, hanging by 
 
 the wall. 
 I have seen your head with it, full many a time. 
 Covered as safe as it had been with a screen ; 
 And I wan-ant it save your head from any 
 
 stroke, 
 Except perchance to be amazed with the smoke. 
 I warrant your head therewith, except for the 
 
 mist. 
 As safe as if it were locked up in a chest. 
 And lo, here our Dobinet cometh with it now. 
 D. Dough. It will cover me to the shoulders 
 
 well enough. 
 M. Merry. Let me see it on. 
 R. Roister. In faith, it doth metely well. 
 M. Merry. There can be no fitter thing. Now 
 ye must us tell 
 What to do. 
 R. Roister. Now forth in array, sirs, and stop 
 
 no more. 
 M. Meri^. Now, Saint George to borrow ! - 
 Drum, dubbe a dubbe afore. 
 
 * It is not at all clear what kitchen utensil is here 
 meant— perhaps a culender. 
 2 To borrow is to protect or guard. Thus in Every 
 
 T. Trusty. What mean you to do, sir ? Com- 
 mit manslaughter ? 
 R. Roister. To kill forty such is a matter of 
 
 laughtex'. 
 T. Trusty. And who is it, sir, whom ye intend 
 
 thus to spill ? 
 R. Roister. Foolish Custance here forceth me 
 
 against my will. 
 T. Trusty. And is there no means your ex- 
 treme wrath to slake ? 
 She shall some amends unto your good ma'ship 
 make. 
 R. Roister. I will none amends. 
 T. Trusty. Is her offence so sore ? 
 M. Merry. And he were a lout she could 
 have done do more. 
 She hath called him fool, and dressed him like 
 ' a fool, 
 
 Mocked him like a fool, used him like a fooL 
 T. Trusty. Well yet the sheriff, the justice, or 
 constable. 
 Her misdemeanour to punish might be able. 
 R. Roister. No, sir, I mine own self will in 
 this present cause 
 Be sheriff, and justice, and whole judge of the 
 
 laws. 
 This matter to amend, all officers be I shall, 
 Constable, bailiff, sergeant. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE VIIL 
 
 M. Merrygreeke ; C. Custance ; R. Roister; 
 Tibet Talk. ; An. Alyface ; M. Mumble- 
 crust; Truepenny; Dobinet Doughtie; 
 Harp AX. 
 
 Two dmims with their Ensigns. 
 
 C. Custance. What caitiffs are those that 
 
 shake my house wall ? 
 M. Mei-ry. Ah, sirrah, now Custance, if ye 
 
 had so much wit, 
 I would see you ask pardon, and yourselves 
 
 submit. 
 C. Custance. Have I still this ado with a 
 
 couple of fools ? 
 M. Meri^. Here ye what she saith ? 
 C. Custance. Maidens, come forth with your 
 
 tools 
 In array. 
 M. Meii'y. Dubbadub, sirrah. 
 R. Roister. In array ! 
 They come suddenly on us. 
 M. Merry. Dubbadub. 
 R. Roister. In array ! 
 That ever I was born ! we are takea tardy. 
 M. Merry. Now, sirs, quit ourselves like tall 
 
 men and hardy. 
 C. Custance. On afore, Truepenny, hold thine 
 
 own, Annot, 
 On toward them, Tibet, for escape us they can- 
 not. 
 Come forth, Madge Mumblecrust : so, stand fast 
 
 together. 
 M. Merry. God send us a fair day. 
 R. Roister. See, thej' march on hither. 
 Tib. Talk. But mistress — 
 C. Custance. What sayst you ? 
 Tih. Talk. Shall I go fetch our goose ? 
 C. Custance. What to do ? 
 Tih. Talk. To yonder captain I will turn her 
 
 Man, ' Fro payne it wyll you borowe.' Shakespeare in 
 Richard ii. has the exclamation, ' Saint George to thrive,' 
 which has much the same meaning. 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 li 
 
 And she gape and hiss at him, as she doth at 
 
 me, 
 I durst jeopard my hand, she will make him flee. 
 
 C. Custance. On, forward. 
 
 R. Roister. They come. 
 
 M. Merry. Stand. 
 
 R. Roister. Hold. 
 
 M. Merry. Keep. 
 
 R. Roister. There. 
 
 M. Merry. Strike. 
 
 R. Roister. Take heed. 
 
 C. Custance. Well said, Truepenny. 
 
 Truepenny. Ah, whoresons ! 
 
 C. distance. Well done, indeerl. 
 
 M. Merry. Hold thine own, Harpax : down 
 with them, Dobinet. 
 
 C. Custance. Now Madge, there Annot ; now 
 stick them, Tibet. 
 
 Tib. Talk. All my chief quarrel is to this same 
 little knave. 
 That beguiled me last day : nothing shall him 
 save. 
 
 D. Dough. Down with this little quean, that 
 hath at me such spite : 
 
 Save you from her, master, it is a very sprite. 
 C. Custance. I myself will mounsire grand 
 
 captain ^ undertake. 
 R. Roister. They win ground. 
 M. Merry. Save yourself, sir, for God's sake ! 
 R. Roister. Out, alas, I am slain ! help ! 
 M. Merry. Save yourself ! 
 R. Roister. Alas ! 
 
 M. Merry. Nay then, have at you, mistress. 
 R. Roister. Thou hittest me, alas. 
 M. Merry. I will strike at Custance here. 
 R. Roister. Thou hittest me. 
 M. Merry. So I will. 
 Nay, Mistress Custance. 
 
 R. Roister. Alas, thou hittest me still. 
 Hold! 
 
 M. Men'y. Save yourself, sir ! 
 R. Roister. Help ! Out alas, I am slain. 
 M. Merry. Truce, hold your hands ! 
 How, how say you, Custance, for saving of your 
 
 life. 
 Will ye yield and grant to be this gentleman's 
 
 wife ? 
 C. Custance. He told me he loved me : call ye 
 
 this love .'' 
 M. Merry. He loved a while, even like a 
 
 turtle-dove. 
 C. Custance. Gay love, God save it, so soon 
 
 hot, so soon cold. 
 M. Merry. I am sorry for you : he could love 
 
 you yet, so he could. 
 R. Roister. Nay, she shall be none of mine. 
 M. Mei-ry. Why so ? 
 R. Roister. Come away, by the mass, she is 
 
 mankine.'^ 
 I durst adventure the loss of my right hand, 
 If she did not slay her other husband. 
 And see if she prepare not again to fight. 
 
 M. Merry. What then? Saint George to 
 
 borrow, our lady's knight. 
 R. Roister. Slay else whom she will, by Gog, 
 
 she shall not slay me. 
 M. Merry. How then ? 
 
 R. Roister. Rather than to be slain, I will flee. 
 C. Custance. To it again, my knightnesses : 
 
 down with them all! 
 R. Roister. Away, away, away ! she will else 
 
 kill us all. 
 
 1 That is, Monsieur grand Capitaine. 
 
 " ' She is mankine,' or of the male species. So Sicinius, 
 In Coriolanus, Act iv. scene 2, asks Volumnia, ' Are you 
 mankind ? ' — See the notes upon this passage. 
 
 3f. Merry. Nay, stick to it, like an hardy man 
 
 and a tall. 
 R. Roister. Oh, bones ! thou hittest me. Away, 
 
 or else die we shall. 
 3f. Merry. Away, for the passion of our sweet 
 
 Lord Jesus Christ. 
 C. Custance. Away, lout and lubber, or I shall 
 
 be thy priest. 
 So, this field is ours, we have driven them all 
 
 away. 
 
 Now Eoister Bolster will no more wooing begin. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 C. Custance; Gavin Goodlucke; Sym 
 
 SURESBY. 
 
 C. Custance, I come forth to see and hearken 
 for news good ; 
 
 For about this hour is the time, of likelihood, 
 
 That Gavin Goodlucke, by the sayings of 
 Suresby, 
 
 Would be at home ; and lo ! yonder I see him I. 
 
 What, Gavin Goodlucke ! the only hope of my 
 life, 
 
 Welcome home, and kiss me, your true espoused 
 wife. 
 G. Good. Nay, soft, Dame Custance; I must 
 first, by your licence. 
 
 See whether all things be clear in your con- 
 science. 
 
 I hear of your doings to me very strange. 
 
 C. Custance. What! fear ye that my faith 
 
 towards you should change ? 
 G. Good. I must needs mistrust ye be else- 
 where entangled. 
 
 For I hear that certain men with you have 
 wrangled 
 
 About the promise of marriage by you to them 
 made. 
 
 Sym Sure. If ye be honest, my words can 
 hurt you nothing ; 
 But what I heard and saw, I might not but 
 report. 
 
 C. Custance. Why, Tristram Trusty, sir, your 
 
 true and faithful friend. 
 Was privy both to the beginning and the end. 
 Let him be the judge, and for me testify. 
 
 G. Good. I will the more credit that he shall 
 
 verify : 
 And, because I will the truth know, e'en as it is, 
 I will^ to him myself, and know all, without 
 
 miss. 
 Come on, Sym Suresby, that before my friend 
 
 thou may 
 Avouch thee the same words, which thou didst 
 
 to me say. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Gavin Goodlucke ; Tristram Trusty; C. 
 Custance; Sym Suresby. 
 
 G. Good. And was it none other than ye to 
 
 me report ? 
 T. Trusty. No ; and here were ye wished, to 
 
 have seen the sport. 
 G. Good. AVould I had, rather than half of 
 
 that in my purse. 
 Sym Sure. And I do much rejoice the matter 
 
 was no worse : 
 
lii 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 And like as to open it I was to you faithful, 
 So of Dame Custance honest truth I am joyful. 
 For, God forfend that I should hurt her by false 
 report. 
 G. Good. Well, I will no longer hold her in 
 
 discomfort. 
 C. Custance. Now come they hitherward: I 
 trust all shall be well. 
 
 G. Good. Sweet Custance, neither heart caa 
 think, nor tongue tell, 
 How much I joy in your constant fidelity. 
 Come now, kiss me, the pearl of perfect honesty. 
 C. Custance. God let me no longer to continue 
 in life. 
 Than I shall towards you continue a true wife. 
 
 In the last scene Ealph is badgered, and at last pardoned, and allowed to take 
 part in the general merrymaking. 
 
 Our last example of the early regular English drama, is Thomas Sackville's 
 (Lord Buckhurst) Ferrex and Porrex, the oldest extant tragedy. 
 
 gramHtjs ^jersonae. 
 
 GoRBODUC, King 0/ Great Britain. 
 ViDENA, Queen, and Wife to King GoR- 
 
 BODUC. 
 
 Ferrex, Fddei' Son to King Gorboduc. 
 PoRREX, Younger Son to King Gorboduc 
 Clotyn, Duke q/" Cornwall. 
 Fergus, DuTce 0/ Albany. 
 Mandud, Duke o/Loegris. 
 Gwenard, Duke o/" Cumberland. 
 EuBULUS, Secretary to the King. 
 Arostus, a Counsellor to the King. 
 D CRD AN, a Counsellor assigned by the King 
 to his Eldest Son Ferrex. 
 
 Philander, a Counsellor assigned by the 
 
 King to his Youngest Son Porrex. 
 Both being of the old King's Council before. 
 Hermon, a Parasite remaining ivith Ferrex. 
 Tyndar, a Parasite remaining loith Porrex. 
 NuNTius, a Messenger of the Elder Brothers 
 
 Death. 
 NuNTius, a Messenger of Duke Fergus rising 
 
 in arms. 
 Marcet.la, a Lady of the Queeii's Pi-ivy 
 
 Chamber. 
 Chorus, four ancient and sage men of 
 
 Bi-itain. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 ViDEXA; Ferrex. 
 
 Vid. The silent night that brings the quiet 
 pause. 
 From painful travails of the weary day, 
 Prolongs my careful thoughts, and makes me 
 
 blame 
 The slow Aurore, that so for love or shame 
 Doth long delay to show her blushing face ; 
 And now the day renews my grieful plaint. 
 
 Fe7'. My gracious lady, and my mother dear, 
 Pardon my grief for your so grieved mind 
 To ask what cause tormenteth so your heart. 
 
 Vid. So great a wrong, and so unjust despite, 
 Without all cause against all course of kind ! 1 
 
 Fer. Such causeless wrong, and so unjust 
 despite, 
 May have redress, or, at the least, revenge. 
 
 Vid. Neither, my son; such is the froward 
 will, 
 The person such, such my mishap and thine. 
 
 Fer. Mine ! know I none, but grief for your 
 distress. 
 
 Vid. Yes ; mine for thine, my son. A father ? 
 No: 
 In kind a father, not in kindliness. 
 
 Fer. My father.'' why, I know nothing at all. 
 Wherein I have misdone unto his grace. 
 
 Vid. Therefore, the more unkind to thee and 
 me. 
 For, knowing well, my son, the tender love 
 That I have ever borne, and bear to thee, 
 He, grieved thereat, is not content alone 
 To spoil thee of my sight, my chiefest joy, 
 But thee, of thy birthright and heritage, 
 Causeless, unkindly, and in wrongful wise, 
 Against all law and right, he will bereave : 
 Half of his kingdom he will give away. 
 
 Fer. To whom ? 
 
 * iimf— nature. 
 
 Vid. Even to Porrex, his younger son ; 
 Whose growing pride I do so sore suspect, 
 That, being rais'd to equal rule with thee, 
 Methinks 1 see his envious heart to swell, 
 Fill'd with disdain and with ambitious hope. 
 Fer. Madam, leave care and careful plaint 
 
 for me. 
 Just hath my father been to every wight : 
 His first injustice he will not extend 
 To me, I trust, that give no cause thereof; 
 My brother's pride shall hurt himself, not me. 
 Vid. So grant the gods ! But yet, thy father 
 
 so 
 Hath firmly fixed his unmoved mind. 
 That plaints and prayers can no whit avail ; 
 For those have I essay'd ; but even this day 
 He will endeavour to procure assent 
 Of all his council to his fond devise. 
 Fer. Their ancestors from race to race have 
 
 borne 
 True faith to my forefathers and their seed : 
 I trust they eke will bear the like to me. 
 
 Vid. There resteth all. But if they fail 
 
 thereof. 
 And if the end bring forth an ill success, 
 On them and theirs the mischief shall befall, 
 And so I pray the gods requite it them ; 
 And so they will, for so is wont to be. 
 When lords and trusted rulers under kings. 
 To please the present fancy of the prince. 
 With wrong transpose the course of gover- 
 nance. 
 Murders, mischief, or civil sword at length, 
 Or mutual treason, or a just revenge, 
 When right succeeding line returns again. 
 By Jove's just judgment and deserved wrath. 
 Brings them to cruel and reproachful death. 
 And roots their names and kindreds from the 
 
 earth. 
 Fer. Mother, content you, you shall see the 
 
 end. 
 Vid. The end! thy end I fear: Jove end me 
 
 first! 
 
THE BRITISH DRAHA. 
 
 liii 
 
 The second act is occupied with long speeches from Gorboduc, Arostus, 
 Philander, and Eubulus, concerning the king's proposed division of the king- 
 dom between his two sons. Gorboduc concludes thus : 
 
 G(yr. I take your faithful hearts in thankful 
 
 part : 
 But since I see no cause to draw my mind, 
 To fear the nature of my loving sons, 
 Or to misdeem that envy or disdain 
 Can there work hate, where nature planteth 
 
 love; 
 In one self purpose do I still abide. 
 My love extendeth equally to both, 
 My land sufficeth for them both also. 
 Humber shall part the marches of their realms : 
 The southern part the elder shall possess, 
 The northern shall Porrex, the younger, rule. 
 In quiet I will pass mine aged days, 
 Free from the travail, and the painful cares. 
 That hasten age upon the worthiest kings. 
 But lest the fraud, that ye do seem to fear, 
 Of flattering tongues, corrupt their tender youth, 
 And writhe them to the ways of youthful lust. 
 To climbing pride, or to revenging hate, 
 Or to neglecting of their careful charge. 
 Lewdly to live in wanton recklessness. 
 Or to oppressing of the rightful cause, 
 Or not to Avreak the wrongs done to the poor. 
 To tread down truth, or favour false deceit ; 
 I mean to join to either of my sons 
 Some one of those, whose long approved faith 
 And wisdom tried, may well assure my heart. 
 That mining fraud shall find no way to creep 
 Into their fenced ears with grave advice. 
 This is the end ; and so I pray you all 
 To bear my sons the love and loyalty 
 That I have found within your faithful breasts. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 Ferrex; Hermon; Dordan. 
 
 Fer. I marvel much what reason led the king, 
 My father, thus, without all my desert, 
 To reave ' me half the kingdom, which by course 
 Of law and nature should remain to me. 
 
 Eer. If you with stubborn and untamed pride 
 Had stood against him in rebelling wise ; 
 Or if, with grudging mind, you had envied 
 So slow a sliding of his aged years ; 
 Or sought before your time to haste the course 
 Of fatal death upon his I'oyal head ; 
 Or stain'd your stock with murder of your kin ; 
 Some face of reason might perhaps have seem'd 
 To yield some likely cause to spoil ye thus. 
 
 Dor. Ne yet your father, O most noble 
 prince. 
 Did ever think so foul a thing of you ! 
 For he, with more than father's tender love. 
 While yet the fates do lend him life to rule 
 (Who long might live to see your ruling well), 
 
 To you, my lord, and to his other son, 
 Lo, he resigns his realm and royalty ; 
 Which never would so wise a prince have done, 
 If he had once misdeem'd that in your heart 
 There ever lodged so unkind a thought. 
 But tender love, my lord, and settled trust 
 Of your good nature, and your noble mind, 
 Made him to place you thus in royal throne, 
 And now to give you half his realm to guide ; 
 Yea, and that half which, in abounding store 
 Of things that serve to make a wealthy realm, 
 In stately cities, and in fruitful soil, 
 In temperate breathing of the milder heaven, 
 In things of needful use, which friendly sea 
 Transports by traffic from the foreign parts. 
 In flowing wealth, in honour, and in force. 
 Doth pass the double value of the part 
 That Porrex hath allotted to his reign. 
 Such is your case, such is your father's love. 
 Fer. Ah love, my friends ! Love wrongs not 
 
 whom he loves. 
 Dor. Ne yet he wrongeth you, that giveth 
 
 you 
 So large a reign, ere that the course of time 
 Bring you to kingdom by descended right. 
 Which time perhaps might end your time 
 
 before. 
 Fer. Is this no wrong, say you, to reave 
 
 from me 
 My native right of half so great a realm, 
 And thus to match his younger son with me 
 In equal pow'r, and in as great degree ? 
 Yea, and what son ? The son whose swelling 
 
 pride 
 Would never yield one point of reverence, 
 When I, the elder, and apparent heir. 
 Stood in the likelihood to possess the whole ; 
 Yea, and that son which from his childish age 
 Envieth mine honour, and doth hate my life. 
 What will he now do, when his pride, his rage. 
 The mindful malice of his grudging heart 
 Is arm'd with force, with wealth, and kingly 
 
 state ? 
 
 Dor. Alas, my lord, what grieful thing is 
 
 this. 
 That of your brother you can think so ill ? 
 I never saw him utter likely sign, 
 Whereby a man might see or once misdeem 
 Such hate of you, nor such unyielding pride. 
 Ill is their counsel, shameful be their end. 
 That raising such mistrustful fear in you, 
 Sowing the seed of such unkindly hate. 
 Travail by reason to destroy you both. 
 Wise is your brother, and of noble hope, 
 Worthy to wield a large and mighty realm. 
 So much a stronger friend have you thereby. 
 Whose strength is your strength if you 'gi-ee in 
 
 one. 
 
 Hermon, in a long insidious speech, advises Ferrex to 
 
 Attempt redress by arms, and wreak yourself 
 Upon his life that gaineth by your loss. 
 Who now to shame of you, and grief of us, 
 In your own kingdom triumphs over you. 
 
 But if you like not yet so hot device. 
 
 ^ r&avt — bereave of. 
 
 Ne list to take such vantage of the time, 
 But, though with peril of your own estate. 
 You will not be the first that shall invade ; 
 Assemble yet your force for your defence. 
 And for your safety stand upon your guard. 
 Dor. heaven! was there ever heard 
 known 
 So wicked counsel to a noble prince ? 
 Let me, my lord, disclose unto your grace 
 
liv 
 
 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 
 
 This heinous tale, what mischief it contains ; 
 Your father's death, your brother's, and your 
 
 own, 
 Your present murder, and eternal shame. 
 Hear me, king, and suffer not to sink 
 So high a treason in your princely breast. 
 Fer. The mighty gods forbid that ever I 
 Should once conceive such mischief in my 
 
 heart. 
 
 The gods forbid, I say : 
 
 Cease you to speak so any more to me ; 
 
 Nor you, my friend, with answer once repeat 
 
 So foul a tale : in silence let it die. 
 
 But, since I fear my younger brother's rage, 
 And since, perhaps, some other man may give 
 Some like advice, to move his grudging head 
 At mine estate ; which counsel may perchance 
 Take greater force with him, than this with 
 
 me; 
 I will in secret so prepare myself, 
 As, if his malice or his lust to reign 
 Break forth in arms or sudden violence, 
 I may withstand his rage and keep mine own. 
 
 \_Extunt. 
 
 ACT II.-SCENE II. 
 PORKEX ; Tyndar ; Philander. 
 
 For. And is it thus .-* and doth he so prepare 
 Against his brother as his mortal foe 1 
 And now, while yet his aged father lives, 
 Neither regards he him, nor fears he me ? 
 "War would he have ? and he shall have it so. 
 
 Tyn. I saw myself the great prepared store 
 Of horse, of armour, and of weapons there. 
 
 The rascal numbers of unskilful sort 
 
 Are filled with monstrous tales of you and 
 
 yours. 
 In secret, I was counsell'd by my friends 
 To haste me thence, and brought you, as you 
 
 know. 
 Letters from those that both can truly tell. 
 And would not write unless they knew it well. 
 Phil. My lord, yet ere you move unkindly 
 
 war. 
 Send to your brother, to demand the cause. 
 Perhaps some traitorous tales have filled his 
 
 ears 
 With false reports against your noble grace ; 
 Which, once disclos'd, shall end the growing 
 
 strife. 
 That else, not stay'd with wise foresight in 
 
 time. 
 Shall hazard both your kingdoms and your 
 
 lives. 
 Send to your father eke, he shall appease 
 Your kindled minds, and rid you of this fear. 
 Poi\ Rid me of fear ! I fear him not at all ; 
 Nor will to him, nor to my father send. 
 If danger were for one to tarry there. 
 
 Think ye it safety to return again .? 
 
 In mischiefs, such as Ferrex now intends. 
 
 The wonted courteous laws to messengers 
 
 Are not observ'd, which in just war they use. 
 
 Shall I so hazard any one of mine 1 
 
 Shall I betray my trusty friends to him. 
 
 That have disclosed his treason unto me ? 
 
 Let him entreat that fears ; I fear him not. 
 
 Or shall I to the king, my father, send ? 
 
 Yea, and send now, while such a mother lives, 
 
 That loves my brothei-, and that liateth me ? 
 
 Shall I give leisure, by my fond delays. 
 
 To Ferrex to oppress me all unaware ? 
 
 I will not ; but I will invade his realm, 
 
 And seek the traitor prince within his court. 
 
 Mischief for mischief is a due reward. 
 
 His wretched head shall pay the worthy price 
 
 Of this his treason and his hate to me. 
 
 Shall I abide, and treat, and send, and pray. 
 
 And hold my yielding throat to traitor's knife, 
 
 While I, with valiant mind and conquering 
 
 force. 
 Might rid myself of foes, and win a realm ? 
 Yet rather, when I have the wretch's head. 
 Then to the king, my father, will I send. 
 The bootless case may yet appease his wrath : 
 If not, I will defend me as I may. 
 
 {Exmnt PoRREX and Tyndar. 
 Phil. Lo, here the end of these two youthful 
 
 kings ! 
 The father's death ! the ruin of their realms ! 
 
 But I will to the king, their father, haste, 
 Ere this mischief come to the likely end. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE L 
 
 GORBODUC; EUBULUS; Arostus. 
 
 Gov. cruel fates, mindful wrath of gods. 
 Whose vengeance neither Simois' stained 
 
 streams 
 Flowing with blood of Trojan princes slain. 
 Nor Phrygian fields made rank with corpses 
 
 dead' 
 Of Asian kings and lords, can yet appease; 
 Nor slaughter of unhappy Priam's race. 
 Nor Ilion's fall, made level with the soil. 
 Can yet sufiice : but still continued rage 
 Pursues our lives, and from the farthest seas 
 Doth chase the issues of destroyed Troy. 
 ' Oh, no man happy till his end be seen.' 
 If any flowing wealth and seeming joy 
 In present years might make a happy wight, 
 Happy was Hecuba, the wofull'st wretch 
 That ever lived to make a mirror of; 
 And happy Priam, with his noble sons; 
 And happy I, till now, alas ! I see 
 And feel my most unhappy wretchedness. 
 Behold, my lords, read ye this letter here; 
 Lo, it contains the ruin of our realm, 
 If timely speed provide not hasty help. 
 
 A letter is read from Eubulus making known the resolution taken by Ferrex, 
 immediately after which Philander enters and announces that Porrex 
 
 In haste prepareth to invade 
 His brother's land, and with unkindly war 
 Threatens the murder of your eldest son. 
 
 After some tedious speechifying, a messenger enters and tells the king, 
 
THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 Iv 
 
 Porrex, your younger son, 
 With sudden force invaded hath the land 
 That you to Ferrex did allot to rule ; 
 And with his own most bloody hand he hath 
 His brother slain, and doth possess his realm. 
 Got. O heavens, send down the flames of 
 your revenge ! 
 Destroy, I say, with flash of wreakful fire 
 The traitor son, and then the wretched sire ! 
 But let us go, that yet perhaps I may 
 Die with revenge, and 'pease the hateful gods. 
 
 \Extunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. ' 
 
 ViDENA sola. 
 
 Why should I live, and linger forth my time 
 In longer life to double my distress "i 
 
 But whereunto waste I this ruthf ul speech. 
 
 To thee that hast thy brother's blood thus 
 
 shed .' 
 Shall I still think that from this womb thou 
 
 sprung "i 
 That I thee bare ? or take thee for my son ? 
 No, traitor, no ; I thee refuse for mine : 
 Murderer, I thee renounce ; thou art not mine. 
 Never, wretch, this womb conceived thee ; 
 Nor never bode I painful throes for thee. 
 Changeling to me thou art, and not my child, 
 Nor to no wight that spark of pity knew. 
 Ruthless, unkind, monster of nature's work, 
 Thou never suck'd the milk of woman's breast; 
 But, from thy birth, the cruel tiger's teats 
 Have nursed thee ; nor yet of flesh and blood 
 Eorm'd is thy heart, but of hard iron wrought ; 
 And wild and desert woods breed thee to life. 
 But canst thou hope to 'scape my just revenge ? 
 Or that these hands will not be wroke ^ on thee .' 
 Dost thou not know that Ferrex' mother lives. 
 That loved him mox'e dearly than herself ? 
 And doth she live, and is not 'venged on thee ? 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 GoRBODuc; Arostus. 
 
 Gor. We marvel much, whereto this ling'ring 
 
 stay 
 Falls out so long. . . . 
 Aros. Lo, where he comes, and Eubulus with 
 
 him. 
 
 Erder Exjbulus and Porrex. 
 
 Evh. According to your highness's hest to me. 
 Here have I Poi-rex brought, even in sucli sort 
 As from his wearied horse he did alight, 
 For that your grace did will such haste therein. 
 Gor. We like -and praise this speedy will iu 
 
 you, 
 To work the thing that to your charge wo 
 
 gave. 
 Poi-rex, if we so far should swerve from kind, 
 And from those bounds which law of nature 
 
 sets, 
 As thou hast done by vile and wretched deed. 
 In cruel murder of thy brother's life ; 
 Our present hand could stay no longer time, 
 But straight should bathe this blade in blood 
 
 of thee. 
 As just revenge of thy detested crime. 
 No ; we should not offend the law of kind, 
 If now this sword of ours did slay thee here : 
 For thou hast murder'd him, whose heinous 
 
 death 
 Even nature's force doth move us to revenge 
 By blood again ; and justice forceth us 
 To measure death for death, thy due desert. 
 Yet since thou art our child, and since as yet 
 In this hard case what word thou canst allege 
 For thy defence, by us hath not been heard, 
 We are content to stay our will for that 
 Which justice bids us presently to work. 
 And give thee leave to use thy speech at full. 
 If ought thou have to lay for thine excuse. 
 
 Porrex then, in a long speech, endeavours to exculpate himself by urging 
 that what he had done was purely in self-defence. 
 
 Gor. Oh cruel wight, should any cause prevail 
 To make thee stain thy hands with brothei^'s 
 
 blood? 
 But what of thee we will resolve to do 
 Shall yet remain unknown. Thou in the mean 
 Shalt from our royal presence banish'd be, 
 Until our piincely pleasure further shall 
 To thee be show'^d. Depart therefore our sight, 
 Accursed child! [.E'xtV Porrex.] .What cruel 
 
 destiny. 
 What froward fate hath soi-ted - us this chance, 
 That even in those, where we should comfort 
 
 find. 
 Where our delight now in our aged days 
 Should rest and be, even there our only grief 
 And deepest sorrows to abridge our life. 
 Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grow. 
 Aros. Your grace shall now, in these grave 
 
 years of yours, 
 Have found ere this the price of mortal joys; 
 How short they be, how fading here in earth, 
 How full of change, how brittle our estate, 
 Of nothing sure, save only of the death. 
 To whom both man and all the world doth owe 
 Their end at last ; neither shall nature's power 
 In other sort against your heart prevail, 
 
 Than as the naked hand whose stroke essays 
 The armed breast where force doth light in vain. 
 Gor. Many can yield right sage and grave 
 
 advice 
 Of patient spirit to others wrapp'd in woe, 
 And can in speech both rule and conquer kind ; 
 Who, if by proof they might feel nature's force. 
 Would show themselves men as they are indeed. 
 Which now will needs be gods. But what doth 
 
 mean 
 The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? 
 
 Enter Marcella. 
 
 Mar. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? 
 Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled 1 
 Ai'e they exil'd out of our stony breasts, 
 Never to make return ? is all the world 
 Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty ? 
 If not in women mercy may be found, 
 If -not, alas, within the mother's breast. 
 To her own child, to her own flesh and blood; 
 If ruth be banish'd thence, if pity there 
 May have no place, if there no gentle heart 
 Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ? 
 
 Gor. Madam, alas, what means your woful 
 tale? 
 
 ^ wroXre— wreak'd, revenged. 
 
 soriecf— allotted. 
 
Ivi 
 
 ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE BRITISH DRAMA. 
 
 Mar. silly woman I ! "why to tliis hour 
 Have kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath, 
 That I should live to see this doleful day ? 
 Will ever wight believe that such hard heart 
 Could rest within the cruel mother's breast, 
 With her own hand to slay her only son ? 
 But out, alas ! these eyes beheld the same : 
 They saw the dreary sight, and are become 
 Most ruthf ul records of the bloody fact. 
 Porrex, alas, is by his mother slain. 
 And with her hand, a woful thing to tell. 
 While slumbering on his careful bed he rests. 
 His heart stabb'd in with knife is reft of life. 
 
 Gor. Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, 
 And pierce this heart with speed ! O hateful 
 
 light, 
 O loathsome life, sweet and welcome death ! 
 Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech ! 
 
 Eub. Patience, your grace ; perhaps he liveth 
 
 yet. 
 
 With wound receiv'd, but not of certain death. 
 
 Gor. Oh let us then repair imto the place, 
 And see if Porrex live, or thus be slain. 
 
 [Exeunt Gorboduc and Eubulus. 
 
 Mar. Alas, he liveth not ! it is too true, 
 That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince, 
 Son to a king, and in the flower of youth. 
 Even with a twink a senseless stock I saw. 
 
 Aros. Oh damned deed! 
 
 Mar. But hear this ruthf ul end : 
 The noble prince, pierc'd with the sudden wound. 
 Out of his wretched slumber hastily start. 
 Whose strength now failing straight he over- 
 threw. 
 When in the fall his eyes, e'en new unclos'd. 
 Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help. 
 We then, alas, the ladies which that time 
 Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed. 
 And hearing him oft call the wretched name 
 Of mother, and to cry to her for aid. 
 Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound, 
 Pitying, alas (for nought else could we do), 
 His ruthful end, ran to the woful bed, 
 Dispoiled straight his breast, and all we might 
 Wiped in vain, with napkins next at hand, 
 The sudden streams of blood that flushed fast 
 Out of the gaping wound. Oh what a look ! 
 Oh what a ruthful steadfast eye methougbt 
 He fixed upon my face, which to my death 
 Will never part from me, when with a braid ^ 
 A deep-fetched sigh he gave, and therewithal 
 Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight. 
 
 And straight pale death pressing within his face, 
 The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook ! 
 
 Aros. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. 
 
 Mar. Oh hard and cruel hap, that thus 
 assigned 
 Unto so worthy a wight so wretched end ; 
 But most hard cruel heart, that could consent 
 To lend the hateful destinies that hand, 
 By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought. 
 queen of adamant, marble breast, 
 If not the favour of his comely face. 
 If not his princely cheer^ and countenance, 
 His valiant active arms, his manly breast, 
 If not his fair and seemly personage. 
 His noble limbs in such proportion cast 
 As would have wrapt a silly woman's thought ; 
 If this might not have moved thy bloody heart. 
 And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon 
 Even to let fall, and kissed him in the face, 
 With tears for i*uth to reave such one by death; 
 Should natui-e yet consent to slay her son ? 
 Oh mother, thou to murder thus thy child ! . . , 
 Ah, noble prince, how oft have I beheld 
 Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed. 
 Shining in armour bright before the tilt, 
 And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy helm, 
 And charge thy staff to please thy lady's eye. 
 That bowed the headpiece of thy friendly foe ! 
 How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace, 
 How oft in arms on foot to break the sword. 
 Which never now these eyes may see again ! 
 
 Aros. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are 
 shed ; 
 Rather with me depart, and help to swage 
 The thoughtful griefs that in the aged king 
 Must needs by nature grow by death of this 
 His only son, whom he did hold so dear. 
 
 Mar. What wight is that which saw that I 
 did see. 
 And could refrain to wail with plaint and 
 
 tears ? 
 Not I, alas, that heart is not in me : 
 But let us go, for I am grieved anew. 
 To call to mind the wretched father's woe. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 Choinis. 
 Oh happy wight, that suffers not the snare 
 Of mui'derous mind to tangle him in blood ! 
 And happy he that can in time beware 
 By other's harms, and turn it to his good. 
 But woe to him that, fearing not to offend. 
 Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end. 
 
 The fifth act concludes with the following couplet, Tennysonian in style and 
 sentiment : 
 
 For right will always live, and rise at length, 
 But wrong can never take deep root to last. 
 
 a braid — a start. 
 
 ' c/ieer— appearance, face. 
 
JOHN LILLY 
 
 [John Lilly or Lyly, probably the earliest regular dramatist after Lord Buckhurst, was 
 born in Kent about 1553. He became a student of Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1569 ; 
 took his degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1573, and his Master's degree in 1575. According 
 to Anthony a Wood, he appears not to have been a very hard student, ' but always averse to 
 the crabbed studies of logic and philosophy. ' Thdre is extant among the Lansdowne manu- 
 scripts a letter, in very good Latin, dated 1574, written by Lilly to Lord Burghley, desiring 
 his Lordship's patronage and assistance ; with what result is not known. Burghley, how- 
 ever, seems afterwards to have conferred upon him some office connected with his own house- 
 hold. From two letters extant, written by Lilly to Queen Elizabeth, it is inferred that he 
 was a candidate for the office of Master of the Kevels, probably with no success. After 
 leaving college, he appears to have spent most of his time in London, supporting himself by 
 his pen. When he died is unknown, probably somewhere about the beginning of the 
 seventeenth century. Mr. Fairholt, editor of Lilly's dramatic works, infers from certain 
 allusions in a work of Nash's, that our author ' was a little man, was married, and fond of 
 tobacco. ' The works by which Lilly is now best known are his two prose works, entitled 
 Euphues ; or, the ATUttomy of Wit, and Euphues and his England, which gave rise to the 
 term and the aff'ected style of writing known as Euphuism. However tedious and trifling 
 these works may appear to modern readers, there can be no doubt that Lilly's contem- 
 poraries admired and imitated them to an incredible extent. Euphuism became the rage, 
 even Shakspeare being smitten by the fever. Blount, the editor of an edition of his plays 
 published in 1632, says 'that beauty in court which could not parley Euphuisme, was as 
 little regarded as she which now there speaks not French ; ' and Anthony a Wood tells us 
 that ' in these books of Euphues, 'tis said that our nation is indebted for a new English in 
 them, which the flower of the youth thereof learned. ' By most of his contemporaries he 
 seems to have been held in great estimation. 'The chief characteristic of his style,' says 
 Mr. Collier, 'besides its smoothness, is the employment of a species of fabulous or un- 
 natural natural philosophy, in which the existence of certain animals, vegetables, and 
 minerals with peculiar properties is presumed, in order to afford similes and illustrations. ' 
 As far as the dramatic style allows, Lilly's dramas are to a great extent disfigured by this 
 painfully unnatural fine writing, although there is comparatively little of it in the work we 
 have selected. Campaspe, or Alexander and Campaspe, as it is sometimes entitled, has 
 some claim to be considered a historical play, in that the dramatis personce are mostly his- 
 torical characters. The incident on which the play is founded is mentioned by Pliny ; and 
 the plot, though slight, is, on the whole, well wrought out by the author. Although the 
 scene is laid in Athens, in the time of Alexander the Great, the persons of the drama are, 
 in character and manners, Englishmen of Lilly's own time. It is one of the best and most 
 interesting of the author's plays, some of the characters, such as Diogenes and his servant 
 Manes, being drawn with considerable force and distinctness ; and the wit is sometimes 
 clever, amusing, and original. Hazlitt says of it : ' This play is a very pleasing transcript 
 of old manners and sentiment. It is full of sweetness, and point, of Attic salt and the 
 honey of Hymettus.' Although, when compared with many of his contemporaries, Lilly 
 cannot be ranked very high as a dramatist, still he aff"ords a not unpalatable foretaste of 
 the rich feast of wit and wisdom which immediately followed. As we learn from the pro- 
 
 41 
 
42 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 logues and epilogues, this play was written in liaste, for representation at court, after which 
 it made its appearance at Blackfriars theatre. 
 
 Besides Campaspe, first printed in 1584, Lilly wrote the following dramas : — Sapho and 
 Phao (1584) ; Endymion (1591) ; Galathea (1592) ; Midas (1592) ; Mother Bombie (1594) ; 
 The Maid's Metamorphosis (1600) ; Lovers Metamorphosis (1601). It is doubtful whether 
 Lilly was the author of the last two.J 
 
 CAMPASPE 
 
 PLAYED BEFORE THE QUEEN'S MAJESTY ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, AT NIGHT, 
 BY HER MAJESTY'S CHILDREN, AND THE CHILDREN OF ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 Imprinted at London for Thomas Cadman^ 1584. 
 
 THE PEOLOGUE AT THE BLACK- 
 FEIAKS. 
 They that fear the stinging of wasps make fans 
 of peacocks' tails, whose spots are like eyes ; and 
 Lepidus, which could not sleep for the chattering 
 of birds, set up a beast, whose head was like a 
 dragon ; and we, which stand in awe of report, 
 are compelled to set before our owl Pallas's 
 shield, thinking by her virtue to cover the 
 other's deformity. It was a sign of famine to 
 Egypt when Nylus flowed less than twelve 
 cubits, or more than eighteen ; and it may 
 threaten despair unto us, if we be less courteous 
 than you look for, or more cumbersome. But 
 as Theseus, being promised to be brought to an 
 eagle's nest, and travelling all the day, found 
 but a wren in a hedge, yet said, This is a bird ; 
 so we hope, if the shower of our swelling moun- 
 tain seem to bring forth some elephant, perform 
 but a mouse, you will gently say. This is a 
 beast! Basil softly touched yieldeth a sweet 
 scent, but chafed in the hand, a rank savour. 
 "We fear, even so, that our labours, slily^ glanced 
 on, will breed some content, but examined to the 
 proof, small commendation. The haste in per- 
 forming shall be our excuse.^ There went two 
 nights to the begetting of Hercules. Feathers 
 appear not on the Phoenix under seven months, 
 and the mulberry is twelve in budding ; but our 
 travails are like the hare's, who at one time 
 bringeth forth, nourisheth, and engendereth 
 again; or hke the brood of Trochilus, whose 
 eggs in the same moment that they are laid be- 
 come birds. But howsoever we finish our work, 
 wo crave pardon if we offend in matter, and 
 patience if we transgress in manners. We have 
 mixed mirth with counsel, and discipline with 
 
 1 SHly glanced ow— read superficially. 
 
 2 It was, as we have said, written in haste for per- 
 formance at court. 
 
 delight, thinking it not amiss in the same garden 
 to sow pot-herbs that we set flowers. But we 
 hope, as harts that cast their horns, snakes their 
 skins, eagles their bills, become more fresh for 
 any other labour; so our charge being shaken 
 off, we shall be fit for greater matters. But lest, 
 like the Myndians, we make our gates greater 
 than our towns, and that our play runs out at 
 the preface, we here conclude, wishing that 
 although there be in your precise judgments an 
 universal mislike, yet we may enjoy by your 
 wonted courtesies a general silence. 
 
 THE PKOLOGUE AT THE COURT. 
 
 We are ashamed that our bird, which fluttereth 
 by twilight, seeming a swan, should be proved 
 a bat set against the sun. But as Jupiter placed 
 Silenus's ass among the stars, and Alcibiades 
 covered his pictures, being owls and apes, with 
 a curtain embroidered with lions and eagles, so 
 are we enforced upon a rough discourse to draw 
 on a smooth excuse, resembling lapidaries, who 
 think to hide the crack in a stone by setting it 
 deep in gold. The gods supped once with poor 
 Baucis, the Persian kings sometimes shaved 
 sticks: our hope is your Highness will at this 
 time lend an ear to an idle pastime. Appion, 
 raising Homer from hell, demanded only who 
 was his father ; and we, calling Alexander from 
 his grave, seek only who was his love. What- 
 soever we present, we wish it may be thought 
 the dancing of Agrippa his shadows, who, in the 
 moment they were seen, were of any shape one 
 would conceive ; or Lynces, who having a quick 
 sight to discern, have a short memory to forget. 
 With us it is like to fare as with these torches 
 which, giving light to others, consume them- 
 selves ; and we, showing delight to others, shame 
 ourselves. 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 43 
 
 ^ramati^ P^r^onit. 
 
 Alexander, King of Macedon. 
 Hephestion, Ms General. 
 Clytus, \ 
 
 PaRMENIO, f -TTT 
 MiLECTDS, ( ^«^^<'^^- 
 
 Phrygius, ) 
 
 Melippus, Chamberlain to Alexander. 
 
 Aristotle, 
 
 Diogenes, 
 
 Crisippus, 
 
 Crates, )■ Philosophers. 
 
 Cleanthes, 
 
 Anaxarchus, 
 
 Crysus, 
 
 Apelles, a Painter. 
 
 i?ivms;} ^^'^^'^^"^ ^2/ ^'^^'«- 
 
 Perim, \ 
 
 Mild, [• /Sows to Sylvius. 
 
 Trico, ) 
 
 Granichus, Servant to Plato, 
 
 Manes, Servant to Diogenes. 
 
 PsYLLUS, Servant to Apelles. 
 
 Page to Alexander. 
 
 Citizens of Athens. 
 
 CaMPASPE,} rri 1, n ^^ 
 
 TiMocLEA,! ^^^^^« Captives. 
 Lais, a Courtezan. 
 
 Scene — Athens. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE I. 
 
 Clytus, Parmenio, Timoclea, Campaspe, 
 Alexander, Hephestion. 
 
 Clytus. Parmenio, I cannot tell whethei' I 
 should more commend in Alexander's victories 
 courage or courtesy ; in the one being a resolu- 
 tion without fear, in the other a liberality above 
 custom : Thebes is razed, the people not racked, 
 towers thrown down, bodies not thrust aside, a 
 conquest without conflict, and a cruel war in a 
 mild peace. 
 
 Par. Clytus, it becometh the son of Philip to 
 be none other than Alexander is ; therefore see- 
 ing in the father a full perfection, who could 
 have doubted in the son an excellency ? For as 
 the moon can borrow nothing else of the sun 
 but light ; so of a sire, in whom nothing but 
 virtue was, what could the child receive but 
 singular ?i It is for turkies^ to stain each other, 
 not for diamonds ; in the one to be made a dif- 
 ference in goodness, in the other no comparison. 
 
 Clytus. You mistake me, Parmenio, if, whilst 
 I commend Alexander, you imagine I call Philip 
 into question ; unless happily^ you conjecture 
 (which none of judgment will conceive) that, 
 because I like the fruit, therefore I heave at the 
 tree ; or coveting to kiss the child, I therefore 
 go about to poison the teat. 
 
 Par. Ay, but Clytus, I perceive you are born 
 in the east, and never laugh but at the sun rising ; 
 which argueth though a duty where you ought, 
 yet no great devotion where you might. 
 
 Clytus. We will make no controversy of that of 
 which there ought to be no question ; only this 
 shall be the opinion of us both, that none was 
 worthy to be the father of Alexander but Philip, 
 nor any meet to be the son of Philip but Alex- 
 ander. 
 
 Par. Soft, Clytus, behold the spoils and pri- 
 soners ! — a pleasant sight to us, because profit is 
 joined with honour ; not much painful to them, 
 because their captivity is eased by mercy. 
 
 Timo. Fortune, thou didst never yet deceive 
 virtue, because virtue never yet did trust fortune. 
 Sword and fire will never get spoO, where wis- 
 dom and fortitude bear sway. Thebes, thy 
 walls were raised by the sweetness of the harp, 
 but razed by the shrillness of the trumpet. Alex- 
 ander had never come so near the walls, had 
 
 * singular—yfhat is singular, rare, or excellent. 
 
 * Turquoises. 
 
 * happily— h&^ly, perhaps ; from Aop— chance. 
 
 Epaminondas^ walked about the walls; and yet 
 might the Thebans have been merry in their 
 streets, if he had been to watch their towers. 
 But destiny is seldom foreseen, never prevented. 
 We are here now captives, whose necks are 
 yoked by force, but whose hearts cannot yield 
 by death. Come, Campaspe and the rest, let us 
 not be ashamed to cast our eyes on him, on 
 whom we feared not to cast our darts. 
 
 Par. Madam, you need not doubt ; it is Alex- 
 ander that is the conqueror. 
 
 Timo. Alexander hath overcome, not con- 
 quered. 
 
 Par. To bring all under his subjection is to 
 conquer. 
 
 llmo. He cannot subdue that which is divine. 
 
 Par. Thebes was not. 
 
 Timo. Virtue is. 
 
 Clytus. Alexander, as he tendreth ^ virtue, so 
 he will you ; he drinketh not blood, but thirsteth 
 after honour ; he is greedy of victory, but never 
 satisfied with mercy; in fight terrible, as be- 
 cometh a captain ; in conquest mild, as beseemeth 
 a Iriog. In all things, than which nothing can 
 be greater, he is Alexander. 
 
 Camp. Then, if it be such a thing to be Alex- 
 ander, I hope it shall be no miserable thing to 
 be a virgin ; for if he save our honours, it is 
 more than to restore our goods. And rather do 
 I wish he preserve our fame than our lives ; 
 which, if he do, we will confess there can be no 
 greater thing than to be Alexander. 
 
 Alex. Clytus, are these prisoners ? of whence 
 these spoils ? 
 
 Clytus. Like^ your Majesty, they are prisoners, 
 and of Thebes. 
 
 Alex. Of what calling or reputation ? * 
 
 Clytus. I know not, but they seem to be ladies 
 of honour. 
 
 Alex. I will know. — Madam, of whence yoa 
 are I know, but who, I cannot tell. 
 
 Timo. Alexander, I am the sister of Theagines, 
 who fought a battle with thy father before the 
 city of Ohieronte, where he died, I say, which 
 none can gainsay, valiantly. 
 
 Alex. Lady, there seem in your words sparks 
 of your brother's deeds, but worser fortune in 
 your life than his death. But fear not., for you 
 shall live without violence, enemies, or necessity.' 
 
 1 One of the greatest Greeks. He raised Thebes to 
 the supremacy of Greece, which she lost almost as 
 soon as he died, b.c. 362. 
 
 2 tendreth— has a tender regard for, loveth. 
 
 3 Like your Majesty— m&y it please your Majesty. 
 
 * reputation — repute or rank. ^ want or poverty. 
 
44 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 — But what are you, fair lady — another sister to 
 Theagines ? 
 
 Camp. No sister to Theagines, but an humble 
 handmaid to Alexander, born of a mean parent- 
 age, but to extreme fortune. 
 
 Alex. Well, ladies (for so your virtues show 
 you), whatsoever your births be, you shall be 
 honourably entreated.' Athens shall be your 
 Thebes, and you shall not be as abjects2 of war, 
 but as subjects to Alexander. Parmenio, con- 
 duct these honourable ladies into the city, charge 
 the soldiers not so much as in words to offer 
 them any offence, and let all wants be supplied 
 so far forth as shall be necessary for such persons 
 and my prisoners. [Exeunt Parmenio and cap- 
 tives.'] Hephestion, it resteth now that we have 
 as great care to govern in peace as conquer in 
 war ; that, whilst arms cease, arts may flourish, 
 and, joining letters with lances, we endeavour to 
 be as good philosophers as soldiers, knowing it 
 no less praise to be wise than commendable to 
 be valiant. 
 
 Hep. Your Majesty therein showeth that you 
 have as great desire to rule as to subdue ; and 
 needs must that commonwealth be fortunate 
 whose captain is a philosopher, and whose phi- 
 losopher a captain. [Exeunt.] 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 Manes, Granichus, Psyllus. 
 
 Manes. I serve instead of a master,* a mouse, 
 whose house is a tub, whose dinner is a crust, and 
 whose bed is a board. 
 
 Psyllus. Then art thou in a state of life which 
 philosophers commend. A crumb for thy supper, 
 an hand for thy cup, and thy clothes for thy 
 sheets. For natura paucis contenta.^ 
 
 Gran. Manes, it is pity so proper a man should be 
 cast away upon a philosopher : but that Diogenes, 
 that dog, should have Manes, that dog-bolt,^ it 
 grieveth nature and spiteth art : the one having 
 found thee so dissolute, absolute, I would say, 
 in body, the other so single, singular in mind. 
 
 Manes. Are you merry .' It is a sign by the trip 
 of your tongue, and the toss of your head, that 
 you have done that to-day which I have not done 
 these three days. 
 
 Psyllus. What's that? 
 
 Manes. Dined. 
 
 Gran. I think Diogenes keeps but cold cheer. 
 
 Manes. I would it were so, but he keepeth 
 neither hot nor cold. 
 
 Ch'an. What then, lukewarm? That® made 
 Manes run from his master the last day. 
 
 Psyllus. Manes had reason ; for bis name fore- 
 told as much. 
 
 Manes. My name ? how so, sir boy ? 
 
 Psyllus. You know that it is called Mons a 
 Movmdo^'' because it stands still. 
 
 Manes. Good. 
 
 1 entreated— iraaXQ^. 2 captives or slaves. 
 
 3 It is a curious inconsistency that Diogenes, the 
 cynic and despiser of luxury, should here be made to 
 keep a servant in his tub. 
 
 * ' Nature is content with a few things.' 
 
 5 dog-bolt — evidently a term of reproach, nearly syno- 
 nymous with dog, only perhaps more contemptuous. 
 Butler uses it as an adj., in the sense of base. — Nakes. 
 
 ® Dodsley reads what here. 
 
 ^ 'Mountain from moving,' on the lucus a non lucendo 
 principle. Lilly here, in jest or earnest, makes Psyllus 
 derive mons (mountain) from Lat. moveo, to move. 
 Following out the principle, Psyllus tries to make a 
 wretched joke, and raise the laugh against Manes, by 
 deriving his name from Lat. maneo, to remain. 
 
 Psyllus. And thou art named Manes, a Manen- 
 do, because thou runnest away. 
 
 Manes. Passing' reasons ! I did not run away, 
 but retire. 
 
 Psyllus. To a prison, because thou wouldst have 
 leisure to contemplate. 
 
 Manes. I will prove that my body was immor- 
 tal, because it was in prison. 
 
 Gran. As how ? 
 
 Manes. Did your masters never teach you that 
 the soul is immortal? 
 
 Gran. Yes. 
 
 Manes. And the body is the prison of the soul ? 
 
 Gran. True. 
 
 Manes. Why then, thus to make my body im- 
 mortal, I put it in prison. 
 
 Gran. Oh bad ! 
 
 Psyllus. Excellent ill ! 
 
 Manes. You may see how dull a fasting wit 
 is ; therefore, Psyllus, let us go to supper with 
 Granichus : Plato is the best fellow of all philo- 
 sophers. Give me him that reads in the morning 
 in the school, and at noon in the kitchen. 
 
 Psyllus. And me. 
 
 Gran. Ah ! sirs, my master is a king in his 
 parlour for the body, and a god in his study for 
 the soul. Among all his men, he commendeth 
 one that is an excellent musician ; then stand I 
 by, and clap another on the shoulder, and say, 
 this is a passing good cook. 
 
 Manes. It is well done, Granichus ; for, give me 
 pleasure that goes in at the mouth, not the ear ; 
 I had rather fill my guts than my brains. 
 
 Psyllus. I serve Apelles, who feedeth me, as 
 Diogenes doth Manes; for at dinner, the one 
 preacheth abstinence, the other commendeth 
 counterfeiting.^ When I would eat meat, he 
 paints a spit ; and when I thirst, ' Oh,' saith he, 
 ' is not this a fair pot .'' and points to a table which 
 contains the banquet of the gods, where are 
 many dishes to feed the eye, but not to fill the 
 gut 
 
 Gran. What doest thou then ? 
 
 Psyllus. This doth he then, bring in many 
 examples that some have lived by savours, and 
 proveth that much easier it is to fat by colours, 
 and tells of birds that have been fatted by painted 
 grapes in winter; and how many have so fed 
 their eyes with their mistress's picture, that they 
 never desired to take food, being glutted with 
 the delight in their favours. 3 Then doth he shoAv 
 me counterfeits,* such as have surfeited with their 
 filthy and loathsome vomits, and with the riotous 
 bacchanals of the god Bacchus, and his disorderly 
 crew, which are painted all to the life in his shop. 
 To conclude, I fare hardly, though I go richly, 
 which maketh me, when I should begin to sha- 
 dow* a lady's face, to draw a lamb's head, and 
 sometime to set to the body of a maid a shoulder 
 of mutton; for semper animus vieus est in pa- 
 tinis.^ 
 
 Manes. Thou art a god to me ; for, could I see 
 but a cook's shop painted, I would make mine 
 eyes fat as butter. For I have nought but sen- 
 tences to fill mj' maw : as, plures occidit cropula 
 quam gladius;^ musa jejunantibus arnica;^ re- 
 pletion killeth delicately ; and an old saw of 
 
 ' Passing reasons— ^ne reasoning indeed. 
 
 2 covnte7'feiting — painting. 
 
 3 favours — graces ; beauties. 
 
 * Counterfeits — pictures or portraits. 
 ^ Shadotc — outline. 
 
 6 'My mind is always among the stew-pans,' or 'my 
 belly is always crying cupboard.' — From Terence. 
 
 ' ' Surfeit (or intemperance) slayeth more than the 
 sword.' 
 
 • ' The Muse Is a friend to the fasting.' 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 45 
 
 abstinence by Socrates, The belly is the head's 
 grave. Thus with sayings, not with meat, he 
 maketh a gallimafray.^ 
 
 Gran. But how dost thou then live ? 
 
 Manes. With fine jests, sweet air, and the dogs' 
 alms. 
 
 Gran. Well, for this time I will stanch thy 
 gut, and, among pots and platters, thou shalt see 
 what it is to serve Plato. 
 
 Psyllus. For joy of it, Granichus, let's sing. 
 
 Manes. My voice is as clear in the evening as 
 in the morning. 
 
 Gran. Another commodity' of emptiness. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Gran. for a bowl of fat canary. 
 Rich Palei-mo, sparkling sherry, 
 Some nectar else, from Juno's dairy, 
 these draughts would make us merry. 
 
 Psyllm. for a wench (I deal in faces, 
 And in other daintier things) ; 
 Tickled am I with her embraces, 
 Fme dancing in such fairy rings. 
 
 Manes. for a plump fat leg of mutton, 
 Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and coney ;* 
 None is happy but a glutton, 
 None an ass but who wants money. 
 
 Chor. Wines (indeed) and girls are good. 
 But brave victuals feast the blood ; 
 For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer, 
 Jove would leap down to surfeit here. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE III. 
 
 Melippus, Plato, Aristotle, Crisippus, Crates, 
 Cleanthes, Anaxarchus, Alexander, He- 
 PHESTioN, Parjienio, Clytus, Diogenes. 
 
 Melip. I had never such ado to warn scholars 
 to come before a king. First, I came to Crisippus, 
 a tall, lean, old mad man, willing* him presently 
 to appear before Alexander. He stood staring 
 on my face, neither moving his eyes nor his 
 body. I urging him to give some answer, he 
 took up a book, sat down, and said nothing. 
 Melissa, his maid, told me it was his manner, and 
 that oftentimes she was fain to thrust meat into 
 his mouth, for that he would rather starve than 
 cease study. Well, thought I, seeing bookish 
 men are so blockish, and great clerks such simple 
 courtiers, I will neither be partaker of their 
 commons nor their commendations. From thence 
 I came to Plato and to Aristotle, and to divers 
 other ; none refusing to come, saving an old ob- 
 scui'e fellow, who, sitting in a tub turned towards 
 the sun, read Greek to a young boy. Him, when 
 I wiDed to appear before Alexander, he answered, 
 ' If Alexander would fain see me, let him come to 
 me ; if learn of me, let him come to me ; what- 
 soever it be, let him come to me.' ' Why,' said I, 
 he is a king.' He answered, ' Why, I am a philo- 
 sopher.' ' Why, but he is Alexander.' ' Ay, but 
 I am Diogenes.' I was half angry to see one so 
 crooked in his shape, to be so crabbed in his 
 sayings. So, going my way, I said, ' Thou shalt 
 repent it, if thou comest not to Alexander.' ' Nay, ' 
 smiling, answered he, ' Alexander may repent it 
 if he come not to Diogenes : virtue must be 
 sought, not offered.' And so, turning himself to 
 his cell, he grunted I know not what, like a pig 
 
 ^ galUmafray—'h&%h, or hodge-podge, a mixture of 
 many ingredients; used also metaphorically. 
 
 2 commodity — advantage, or convenience. 
 
 3 coney — rabbit; pronounced here Arure'e. 
 * wi7/»n$r— desiring. 
 
 iinder a tub. But I must be gone, the philoso- 
 phers are coming. {^Exit.'] 
 
 Plato. It is a difficult controversy, Aristotle, 
 and rather to be wondered at than believed, how 
 natural causes should work supernatural effects. 
 
 Aris. I do not so much stand upon the appari- 
 tion* is seen in the moon, neither the Demonium 
 of Socrates, as that I cannot by natural i-eason 
 give any reason of the ebbing and flowing of the 
 sea ; which makes me, in the depth of my studies, 
 to cry out, ' ens entium miserere mei.'' '^ 
 
 Plato. Cleanthes, and you attribute so much 
 to nature, by searching for things which are not 
 to be found, that, whilst you study a cause of 
 your own, you omit the occasion itself. There 
 is no man so savage, in whom resteth not this 
 divine particle, that there is an omnipotent, 
 eternal, and divine mover, which may be called 
 God. 
 
 Cleant. I am of this mind, that that first mover, 
 which you term God, is the instrument of all 
 the movings which we attribute to nature. The 
 earth, which is mass, swimmeth on the sea, 
 seasons divided in themselves, fruits growing in 
 themselves, the majesty of the sky, the whole 
 firmament of the world, and whatsoever else 
 appeareth miraculous, what man, almost of mean 
 capacity, but can prove it natural ? 
 
 Anax. These causes shall be debated at our 
 philosophers' feast, in which controversy I will 
 take part with Aristotle, that there is Natura 
 naturans^3 and yet not God 
 
 Cra. And I with Plato, that there is Devs 
 optimtts maximiis^* and not nature. 
 
 Aris. Here cometh Alexander. 
 
 Alex. I see, Hephestion, that these philosophers 
 are here attending for us. 
 
 Hep. They are not philosophers if they know 
 not their duties. 
 
 Alex. But I much marvel Diogenes should b& 
 so dogged. 
 
 Hep. I do not think but his excuse will be 
 better than Melippus' message. 
 
 Alex. I will go see him, Hephestion, because I 
 long to see him that would command Alexander 
 to come, to whom all the world is like to come. 
 Aristotle and the rest, sithence^ my coming from 
 Thebes to Athens, from a place of conquest to 
 a palace of quiet, I have resolved with myself ia 
 my court to have as many philosophers as I had 
 in my camp soldiers. My court shall be a school, 
 wherein I will have used as great doctrine in 
 peace as I did in war discipline. 
 
 Aris. We are all here ready to be commanded^ 
 and glad we ai'e that we are commanded, for 
 that nothing better becometh kings than litera- 
 ture, which maketh them come as near to the 
 gods in wisdom as they do in dignity. 
 
 Alex. It is so, Aristotle ; but yet there i& 
 among you, yea, and of your bringing up, that 
 sought to destroy Alexander: Calistenes, Aris- 
 totle, whose treasons against his prince shall not 
 be borne out with the reasons of his philosophy. 
 
 Aris. If ever mischief entered into the heart 
 of Calistenes,^ let Calistenes suffer for it; but 
 that Aristotle ever imagined any such thing of 
 Calistenes, Aristotle doth deny. 
 
 1 Probably which should be inserted before is. 
 
 2 ' Being of beings, pity me.' 
 
 3 Somewhat equivalent to the Force of certain raodera 
 philosophers. 
 
 * ' God, the Best and Greatest' 
 
 * sithence — since. 
 
 fi Callisthenes was a pupil and relation of Aristotle, 
 and rendered himself so obnoxious to Alexander by his 
 arrogance and independence, that he was accused of 
 being privy to a plot to assassinate the king. 
 
46 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Alex. Well, Aristotle, kindred may blind thee, 
 and affection me ; but in kings' causes I will 
 not stand to scholars' arguments. This meeting 
 shall be for a commandment, that you all fre- 
 quent my court, instruct the young with rules, 
 confirm the old with reasons. Let your lives be 
 answerable ^ to your learnings, lest my proceed- 
 ings be contrary to my promises. 
 
 Hep. You said you would ask every one of 
 them a question, which yesternight none of us 
 could answer. 
 
 Alex. I will. Plato, of all beasts, which is the 
 subtilest ? 
 
 Plato. That which man hitherto never kneAv. 
 
 Alex. Aristotle, how should a man be thought 
 a god? 
 
 Aris. In doing a thing impossible for a man. 
 
 Alex. Crisippus, which was first, the day or 
 the night ? 
 
 Cris. The day, by a day. 
 
 Alex. Indeed ! strange questions must have 
 strange answers. Cleanthes, what say you, is 
 life or death the stronger ? 
 
 Cle. Life, that suffereth so many troubles. 
 
 Alex. Crates, how long should a man live ? 
 
 Crates. Till he think it better to die than to 
 live. 
 
 Alex. Anaxarchus, whether doth the sea or 
 the earth bring forth most creatures ? 
 
 Anax. The earth, for the sea is but a part of 
 the earth, 
 
 Alex. Hephestion, methinks they have answered 
 all well, and in such questions I mean often to try 
 them. 
 
 Hep. It is better to have in your court a wise 
 man than in your ground a golden mine. There- 
 fore would I leave war to study wisdom, were J 
 Alexander. 
 
 Alex. So would I, were I Hephestion. But 
 come, let us go and give release, as I promised, 
 to our Theban thrall.2 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Plato. Thou art fortunate, Aristotle, that Alex- 
 ander is thy scholar. 
 
 Aris. And all you happy, that he is your sove- 
 reign. 
 
 Cris. I could like the man well, if he could 
 be contented to be a man. 
 
 Aris. He seeketh to draw near to the gods in 
 knowledge ; not to be a god. 
 
 Enter Diogenes. 
 
 Plato. Let us question a little with Diogenes, 
 why he went not with us to Alexander. Dio- 
 genes, thou didst forget thy duty, that thou went'st 
 not with us to the king. 
 
 Diog. And you your profession that went to 
 the king. 
 
 Plato. Thou takest as great pride to be peevish 
 as others do glory to be virtuous. 
 
 Diog. And thou as great honour, being a philo- 
 sopher, to be thought court-like, as others shame 
 that be courtiers to be accounted philosophers. 
 
 Aris. These austere manners set aside; it is 
 well known that thou didst counterfeit money. 
 
 Diog. And thou thy manners, in that thou didst 
 not counterfeit money. 
 
 Aris. Thou hast reason to contemn the court, 
 being, both in body and mind, too crooked for a 
 courtier. 
 
 Diog. As good be crooked, and endeavour 
 to make myself straight from' the court; as be 
 straight, and learn to be crooked at the court. 
 
 1 answerable to, &c.— in accordance with your teach- 
 ings. 
 
 2 thrall — prisoner. Probably Timoclea is meant. 
 
 3 from — away from. 
 
 Cris. Thou thinkest it a gx-ace to be opposite 
 against Alexander. 
 
 Diog. And thou to be jump* with Alexander. 
 
 Anax. Let us go; for in contemning him, we 
 shall better please him than in wondering at him. 
 
 Aris. Plato, what doest thou think of Diogenes? 
 
 Plato. To be Socrates, furious.^ Let us go. 
 
 [Exeunt philosophen. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE L 
 Diogenes, Psyllus, Manes, Granichus. 
 
 Psylltis. Behold, Manes, where thy master is ; 
 seeking either for bones for his dinner, or pins 
 for his sleeves. I will go salute him. 
 
 3fanes. Do so ; but mum, not a word that you 
 saw Manes. 
 
 Gi^an. Then stay thou behind, and I will go 
 with Psyllus. 
 
 Psyllus. All hail, Diogenes, to your proper' 
 person. 
 
 Diog. All hate to thy peevish conditions. 
 
 Gran. dog! 
 
 Psyllus. What dost thou seek for here ? 
 
 Diog. For a man and a beast. 
 
 Gran. That is easy, without thy light, to be 
 found. Be not all these men ? 
 
 Diog. Called men. 
 
 Gran. What beast is it thou lookest for ? 
 
 Diog. The beast, my man. Manes. 
 
 Psyllus. He is a beast indeed that v/ill serve 
 thee,! 
 
 Diog. So is he that begat thee. 
 
 Gran. What wouldst thou do if thou shouldst 
 find Manes ? 
 
 Diog. Give him leave to do as he hath done 
 before. 
 
 Gran. What's that? 
 
 Diog. To run away. 
 
 Psyllus. Why, hast thou no need of Manes? 
 
 Diog. It were a shame for Diogenes to have 
 need of Manes, and for Manes to have no need of 
 Diogenes. 
 
 Gran. But put the case he were gone, wouldst 
 thou entertain any of us two ? 
 
 Diog. Upon condition. 
 
 Psyllus. What? 
 
 Diog. That you should tell me wherefore any 
 of you both were good. 
 
 Gran. Why, I am a scholar, and well seen * in 
 philosophy. 
 
 Psyllus. And I a 'prentice, and well seen in 
 painting. 
 
 Diog. Well then, Granichus, be thou a painter 
 to amend thine ill face ; and thou, Psyllus, a 
 philosopher, to correct thine evil manners. But 
 who is that Manes? 
 
 Manes. I care not who I were, so I were not 
 Manes. 
 
 Gran. You are taken tardy.' 
 
 Psyllus. Let us slip aside, Granichus, to see 
 the salutation between Manes and his master. 
 
 Diog. Manes, thou knowest the last daj"- I 
 threw away my dish, to drink in my hand, be- 
 cause it was superfluous; now 1 am determined 
 to put away my man, and serve myself; quia 
 no7i egeo tui vel te.^ 
 
 1 to be jump — to agree ; Scotch ji7r)p, exact. 
 
 2 furious — raging, or intemperate. 
 
 3 proper— comely ; liandsome. 
 
 * Well seen — liave good insight; well skilled. 
 
 * ' You liave turned lazy.' 
 
 ' ' For I don't want either thyself or thy service.' 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 47 
 
 Manes. Master, you kuow a while ago I ran 
 away ; so do I mean to do again, quia scio tibi 
 non esse argentum.^ 
 
 Diog. I know I have no money, neither will 
 I have ever a man; for I was resolved long 
 sithence^ to put away both my slaves, money and 
 Manes. 
 
 Manes. So was I determined to shake off Loth 
 my dogs, hunger and Diogenes. 
 
 Psyllus. sweet consent^ between a crowd* 
 and a Jew's harp. 
 
 Grail. Come, let us reconcile them. 
 
 Psyllus. It shall not need, for this is their use, 
 now do they dine one upon another. 
 
 \_Exit Diogenes. 
 
 Gran. How now, Manes, art thou gone from 
 thy master.' 
 
 Manes. No, I did but now bind myself to him. 
 
 Psyllus. Why, you are at mortal jars. 
 
 Manes. In faith no ; we brake a bitter jest one 
 upon another. 
 
 Gran. Why, thou art as dogged as he. 
 
 Psyllus. My father knew them both little whelps. 
 
 Manes. Well, I will hie me after my master. 
 
 Gran. Why, is it supper time with Diogenes ? 
 
 Manes. Ay, with him at all time when he hath 
 meat. 
 
 Psyllus. Why then, every man to his home ; 
 and let us steal out again anon. 
 
 Gran. Where shall we meet? 
 
 Psyllus. Why, at Ala vendihili suspensa hxdera 
 non est opus.^ 
 
 Manes. Psyllus, habeo te loco parentis,^ thou 
 blessest me. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 
 
 Alexander, Hephestion, Page, Diogenes, 
 
 Apelles. 
 
 Alex. Stand aside, sir boy, till you be called. 
 Hephestion, how do you like the sweet face of 
 Campaspe ? 
 
 Hep. I cannot but commend the stout courage 
 of Timoclea. 
 
 Alex. Without doubt Campaspe had some great 
 man to her father. 
 
 Hep. You know Timoclea had Theagines to 
 her brother. 
 
 Alex. Timoclea still in thy mouth ! Art thou 
 not in love ? 
 
 Hep. Not I. 
 
 Alex. Not with Timoclea you mean ; wherein 
 you resemble the lapwing, who crieth most where 
 her nest is not.? And so you lead me from espy- 
 ing your love with Campaspe, you cry Timoclea. 
 
 Hep. Could I as well subdue kingdoms as I 
 can my thoughts, or were I as far from ambition 
 as I am from love, all the world would account 
 me as valiant in arms, as I know myself moderate 
 in affection. 
 
 Alex. Is love a vice? 
 
 Hep. It is no virtue. 
 
 1 ' Because I know you've got no money.' 
 
 2 ' since.' 3 consent — hannony. 
 
 * Crowd — a musical instrument like a fiddle, with six 
 strings; Welsh crwth—a, bulge, a fiddle; Gael, emit— 
 a bunch, fiddle. 
 
 * Possibly this may be meant as an alehouse motto 
 or sign; ala should be alx, and the literal translation 
 is, 'There is no need of hanging ivy over saleable ale; ' 
 or more freely rendered, ' Good wine needs no bush.' 
 The ivy was sacred to Bacchus, and formerly used to 
 be painted over tavern doors as a sign, as the spmce is 
 in Germany at the present day. 
 
 « ' I look upon you as my father.' 
 ' Dodsley says that this simile perhaps occurs more 
 frequently in our old writers than any other. 
 
 Alex. Well, now shalt thou see what small 
 difference I make between Alexander and He- 
 phestion. And sith i thou hast been always par- 
 taker of my triumphs, thou shalt be partaker of 
 my torments. I love, Hephestion, I love ! I love 
 Campaspe, a thing far unfit for a Macedonian, 
 for a king, for Alexander. Why hangest thou 
 down thy head, Hephestion ? Blushing to hear 
 that which I am not ashamed to tell ? 
 
 Hep. Might my words crave pardon and my 
 counsel credit, I would both discharge the duty 
 of a subject, for so I am, and the office of a 
 friend, for so I will. 
 
 Alex. Speak, Hephestion ; for whatsoever is 
 spoken, Hephestion speaketh to Alexander. 
 
 Hep. I cannot tell, Alexander, whether the re- 
 port be more shameful to be heard, or the cause 
 sorrowful to be believed ? What ! is the son of 
 Philip, king of Macedon, become the subject of 
 Campaspe, the captive of Thebes ? Is that mind, 
 whose greatness the world could not contain, 
 drawn within the compass of an idle alluring 
 eye? Will you handle the spindle with Her- 
 cules, 2 when you should shake the spear with 
 Achilles ? Is the warlike sound of drum and 
 trump turned to the soft noise of lyre and lute ? 
 the neighing of barbed steeds, whose loudness 
 filled the air with terror, and whose breaths 
 dimmed the sun with smoke, converted to deli- 
 cate tunes and amorous glances ? Alexander ! 
 that soft and yielding mind should not be in him, 
 whose hard and unconquered heart hath made 
 so many yield. But you love,— ah grief! but 
 whom ? Campaspe ? — ah shame ! a maid forsooth 
 unknown, unnoble, and who can tell whether 
 immodest? whose eyes are framed by art to 
 enamour, and whose heart was made by nature 
 to enchant. Ay, but she is beautiful ; yea, but 
 ilot therefore chaste: ay, but she is comely in 
 all parts of the body ; but she may be crooked in 
 some part of the mind: ay, but she is wise; 
 yea, but she is a woman: beauty is like the 
 blackberry, which seemeth red, when it is not 
 ripe, resembling precious stones that are polished 
 with honey, which the smoother they look, the 
 sooner they break. It is thought wonderfid 
 among the sea-men, that Mugill,^ of all fishes the 
 swiftest, is found in the belly of the Bret,* of all 
 the slowest: and shall it not seem monstrous 
 to wise men that the heart of the greatest con- 
 queror of the world should be found in the 
 hands of the weakest creature of nature? of a 
 woman ? of a captive ? Hermyns * have fair 
 skins, but foul livers ; sepulchres fresh colours, 
 but rotten bones ; women fair faces, but false 
 hearts. Eemember, Alexander, thou hast a camp 
 to govern, not a chamber; fall not from the 
 armour of Mars to the arms of Venus ; from the 
 fiery assaults of war, to the maidenly slrirmishes 
 of love ; from displaying the eagle in thine en- 
 sign, to set down the sparrow. I sigh, Alex- 
 ander, that where fortune could not conquer, 
 folly should overcome. But behold all the per- 
 fection that may be in Campaspe : a hair curling 
 by nature, not art ; sweet, alluring eyes ; a fair 
 face made in despite ^ of Venus, and a stately port 
 in disdain of Juno ; a wit apt to conceive, and 
 quick to answer ; a skin as soft as silk, and as 
 
 1 ' since.' 
 
 2 Hercules is said to have spun, and done other effemi- 
 nate things, when living with Omphale. 
 
 2 Mugil — a Latin word, probably mullet. 
 
 * Bret— tviY\)Qt or halibut ; the word is still used in 
 some districts. 
 
 5 Hermyns — ermines. 
 
 ^ in despite of— in defiance, in disdain of— in mockery 
 or contempt. 
 
48 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 smooth as jet ; a long white hand, a fine little 
 foot; to conclude, all parts answerable to' the 
 best part ; what of this ? Though she have 
 heavenly gifts, virtue and beauty, is she not of 
 earthly inetal, flesh and blood ? Ton, Alexander, 
 that would be a god, show yourself in this worse 
 than a man, so soon to be both overseen and over- 
 taken in a woman,2 whose false tears know their 
 true times, whose smooth words wound deeper 
 than sharp swords. There is no surfeit so dan- 
 gerous as that of honey, nor any poison so deadly 
 as that of love ; in the one physic cannot prevail, 
 nor in the other counsel.' 
 
 Alex. My case were Hght, Hephestion, and not 
 worthy to be called love, if reason were a remedy, 
 or sentences could salve, that sense cannot con- 
 ceive. Little do you know, and therefore slightly 
 do you regard the dead embers in a private per- 
 son, or live coals in a great prince, whose passions 
 and thoughts do as far exceed others in extremity 
 as their callings do in majesty. An eclipse in 
 the sun is more than the falling of a star : none 
 can conceive the torments of a king, unless he 
 be a king, whose desu-es are not inferior to their 
 dignities. And then judge, Hephestion, if the 
 agonies of love be dangerous in a subject, 
 whether they be not more than deadly unto 
 Alexander, whose deep and not -to -be -con- 
 ceived sighs cleave the heart in shivers, whose 
 wounded thoughts can neither be expressed nor 
 endured. Cease then, Hephestion, with argu- 
 ments to seek to refell* that which with their 
 deity the gods cannot resist ; and let this sufiice 
 to answer thee, that it is a king that loveth, and 
 Alexander ; whose affections are not to be mea- 
 sured by reason, being immortal ; nor, I fear me, 
 to be borne, being intolerable. 
 
 Hep. I must needs yield, when neither reason 
 nor counsel can be heard. 
 
 Alex. Yield, Hephestion, for Alexander doth 
 love, and therefore must obtain. 
 
 nep. Suppose she loves not you ; affection 
 cometh not by appointment or birth ; and then, 
 as good hated as enforced. 
 Alex. I am a king, and will command. 
 Hep. You may, to yield to lust by force ; but 
 to consent to love by fear, you cannot. 
 
 Alex. Why, what is that which Alexander 
 may not conquer as he list ? 
 
 Hep. Why, that which you say the gods can- 
 not resist — love. 
 
 Alex. I am a conqueror, she a captive ; I as 
 fortunate as she fair. My greatness may answer 
 her wants, and the gifts of my mind the modesty 
 of hers. Is it not likely, then, that she should 
 love 1 Is it not reasonable "i 
 
 Hep. You say that in love there is no reason, 
 and therefore there can be no likelihood. 
 
 Alex. No more, Hej)hestion ; in this case I will 
 use mine own counsel, and in all other thine ad- 
 vice. Thou may'st be a good soldier, but never 
 good lover. Calf my page. {Enter 'page.'\ Sirrah, 
 go presently to Apelles, and will him to come to 
 me without either delay or excuse. 
 Page. I go. 
 
 Alex. In the mean season,' to recreate my 
 spirits, being so near, we will go see Diogenes. 
 And see where his tub is. — Diogenes ! 
 
 • answerable to — corresponding to. 
 
 2 overseen and overtaken in a teoman— tricked or de- 
 ceived, and captivated or intoxicated by a woman. 
 
 3 Tills long liarangue is a fair example of the tedious 
 and affected style of the author's Euphues. 
 
 • ^e/e«— disprove or refute ; from Lat. refello, to dis- 
 prove, from fallo, to deceive, and re, denoting an un- 
 doing. 
 
 • mean season— meantime. 
 
 Diog. Whocalleth.' 
 
 Alex. Alexander. How happened it that you 
 would not come out of your tub to my palace ? 
 
 Diog. Because it was as far from my tub to 
 your palace, as from your palace to my tub. 
 
 Alex. Why, then, dost thou o^tq no reverence 
 to kings ? 
 
 Diog. No. 
 
 Alex. Why so ? 
 
 Diog. Because they be no gods. 
 
 Alex. They be gods of the earth. 
 
 Diog. Yea, gods of earth. 
 
 Alex. Plato is not of thy mind. 
 
 Diog. I am glad of it. 
 
 Alex. Why? 
 
 Diog. Because I would have none of Diogenes* 
 iHind, but Diogenes. 
 
 Alex. If Alexander have anything that may 
 pleasure Diogenes, let me know, and take it. 
 
 Diog. Then take not from me that you cannot 
 give me — the light of the world. 
 
 Alex. What dost thou want ? 
 
 Diog. Nothing that you have. 
 
 Alex. I have the world at command. 
 
 Diog. And I in contempt 
 
 Alex. Thou shalt live no longer than I will. 
 
 Diog. But I shall die whether you will or no. 
 
 Alex. How should one learn to be content ? 
 
 Diog. Unlearn to covet. 
 
 Alex. Hephestion, were I not Alexander, I 
 would wish to be Diogenes. 
 
 Hep. He is dogged, but discreet ; I cannot tell 
 how 1 sharp, with a kind of sweetness ; full of 
 wit, yet too wayward. 
 
 Alex. Diogenes, when I come this way again. 
 I will both see thee and confer with thee. 
 
 Diog. Do. 
 
 Alex. But here cometh Apelles. — How now, 
 Apelles ; is Venus' face yet finished ? 
 
 Apel. Not yet ; beauty is not so soon shadowed,^ 
 whose perfection cometh not within the compass 
 either of cunning or of colour. 
 
 Alex. Well, let it rest unperfect, and come you 
 with me, where I wiU show you that finished by 
 nature that you have been trifling about by art. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 Apelles, Casipaspe, 
 
 Apel. Lady, I doubt whether there be any 
 colour so fresh, that may shadow a countenance 
 so fair. 
 
 Camp. Sir, I had thought you had been com- 
 manded to paint with your hand, not to glose * 
 with your tongue ; but, as I have heard, it is 
 the hardest thing in painting to set down a hard 
 favour,* which maketh you to despair of my 
 face ; and then shall you have as great thanks 
 to spare your labour as to discredit your art. 
 
 Apel. Mistress, you neither differ from your- 
 self nor your sex ; for, knowing your own per- 
 fection, you seem to dispraise that which men 
 most commend, draAving them by that mean into an 
 admiration, where, feeding themselves, they fall 
 into an ecstasy ; your modesty being the cause 
 of the one, and of the other, your affections.* 
 
 Camp. I am too young to understand your 
 
 » In some editions there is a semicolon after how. 
 
 2 s/iadowed— depicted. 
 
 3 (^tose— flatter ; generally said to be allied to gloss-^ 
 explain; but in meaning rather connected with gloss— 
 glitter; polish. 
 
 * favour— look or countenance. 
 
 » Dodsley (ed. 1744) xQaids perfections. 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 49 
 
 epeech, though old enough to withstand youi- 
 device. You have been so long used to colours, 
 you can do nothing but colour. 
 
 Apel. Indeed, the colours I see I fear will alter 
 the colours I have. But come, Madam, will you 
 draw near.'* for Alexander will be here anon. 
 Psyllus, stay you here at the window ; if any 
 inquire for me, answer, Non luhet esse dorni.^ 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 Psyllus, Manes. 
 
 Psyllus. It is always my master's fashion, when 
 any fair gentlewoman is to be drawn within, to 
 make me to stay without. But if he should paint 
 Jupiter like a bull, like a swan, like an eagle, 
 then must Psyllus with one hand grind colours, 
 a,nd with the other hold the candle. But let him 
 alone ; the better he shadows ^ her face, the more 
 will he burn his own heart. And now, if any 
 man could meet with Manes, who, I dare say, 
 looks as lean as if Diogenes dropped out of his 
 nose — 
 
 Manes. And here comes Manes, who hath as 
 much meat in his maw as thou hast honesty in 
 thy head. 
 
 Psyllm. Then I hope thou art very hungry. 
 
 Manes. They that know thee know that. 
 
 Psyllus. But dost thou not remember that we 
 have certain liquor to confer' withal ? 
 
 Manes. Ay, but I have business; I must go 
 cry a thing. 
 
 Psyllus. Why, what hast thou lost ? 
 
 Manes. That which I never had — my dinner ! 
 
 Psyllm. Foul lubber, wilt thou cry for thy 
 dinner ? 
 
 Manes. I mean, I must ciy ; not as one would 
 say cry,^ but cry, that is, make a noise. 
 
 Psyllus. Why, fool, that is all one ; for if thou 
 cry, thou must needs make^ a noise. 
 
 Manes. Boy, thou art deceived : Cry hath divers 
 significations, and may be alluded* to many 
 tilings; knave but to one, and can be applied 
 but to thee. 
 
 Psyllus. Profound Manes ! 
 
 Manes. We Cynics are mad fellows ; didst thou 
 not find I did quip ® thee 1 
 
 Psyllus. No, verily ; why, what's a quip ? 
 
 Manes. We great girders^ call it a short saying 
 of a sharp wit, with a bitter sense in a sweet 
 word. 
 
 Psyllus. How canst thou thus divine, divide, 
 define, dispute, and all on the sudden ? 
 
 Manes. Wit will have his swing; I am be- 
 witched, inspired, inflamed, infected. 
 
 Psyllus. Well, then will I not tempt thy gibing 
 spirit. 
 
 Manes. Do not, Psyllus, for thy dull head will 
 be but a grindstone for my quick wit, which, if 
 thou whet with overth warts, ^ periisti, actum est 
 de te.^ I have drawn blood at one's brains with 
 a bitter bob.** 
 
 Psyllus. Let me cross myself, for I die if I 
 cross thee. 
 
 • ' It is not his pleasure to be at home.' 
 
 2 ' depicts.' 3 con/er— discuss, consume. 
 
 * cry— weep. * alluded- -referred. 
 
 6 quip— t&\mt or retort upon. A quip is a cut or 
 smart stroke of wit ; it is allied to whip. 
 
 ' girder — one wlio girds, gibes, or uses sarcasm. To 
 gird is to cut with a switch, to lash with wit. Anglo- 
 Sa.xon, geard, gird, and German, gerte — switch or rod. 
 
 8 overthwarts — cross or sharp answers. 
 
 9 ' Thou art done for, it's all over with thee.' 
 
 10 j)ob—ta\XD.t or scoff. 
 
 Manes. Let me do my business ; I myself am 
 afraid lest my wit should wax warm, and then 
 must it needs consume some hard head with fine 
 and pretty jests. I am sometimes in such a vein, 
 that for want of some dull pate to work on, I 
 begin to gird' myself. 
 
 Psyllus. The gods shield me from such a fine 
 fellow, whose words melt wits like wax ! 
 
 Manes. Well, then, let us to the matter. In 
 faith, my master meaneth to-morrow to fly. 
 
 Psyllus. It is a jest. 
 
 Manes. Is it a jest to fly? should'st thou fly 
 so soon, thou should'st repent it in earnest. 
 
 Psyllus. Well, I wUl be the cryer. 
 
 Manes and Psyllus, one after another. Oyez, 
 Oyez, Oyez, 2 All manner of men, women, or chil- 
 dren, that will come to-morrow into the market- 
 place, between the hours of nine and ten, shall 
 see Diogenes, the Cynic, fly. 
 
 Psyllus. I do not think he will fly. 
 
 Manes. Tush ! say fly.' 
 
 Psyllus. Fly. 
 
 Manes. Now let us go, for I will not see him 
 again till midnight. I have a back way into his 
 tub. 
 
 Psyllus. Which way callest thou the back way, 
 when every way is open } 
 
 Manes. I mean to come in at his back. 
 
 Psyllus. Well, let us go away, that we may 
 return speedily. ' [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IIL 
 Apelles, Caivipaspe. 
 
 Apel. I shall never draw your eyes well, be- 
 cause they blind mine. 
 
 Camp. Why then, paint me without eyes, for 
 I am blind. 
 
 Apel. Were you ever shadowed before of any ? 
 
 Camp. No. And would you could so now 
 shadow me that I might not be perceived of any. 
 
 Apel. It were pity but that so absolute* a face 
 should furnish Venus's temple amongst these 
 pictures. 
 
 Camp. What are these pictures ? 
 
 Apel. This is Laeda, whom Jove deceived in 
 likeness of a swan. 
 
 Camp. A fair woman, but a foul deceit. 
 
 Apel. This is Alcmena, unto whom Jupiter 
 came in shape of Amphitrion, her husband, and 
 begat Hercules. 
 
 Camp. A famous son, but an infamous fact. 
 
 Apel. He might do it because he was a god. 
 
 Camp. Nay, therefore it was evU done, because 
 he was a god. 
 
 Apel. This is Danae, into whose prison Jupiter 
 drizzled a golden shower, and obtained his desire. 
 
 Camp. What gold can make one yield to desire.' 
 
 Apel. This is Europa, whom Jupiter ravished ; 
 this Antiopa. 
 
 Camp. Were all the gods like this Jupiter.' 
 
 Apel. There were many gods in this like 
 Jupiter. 
 
 Camp. I think, in those days, love was well 
 ratified* among men on earth, when lust was so 
 full authorized by the gods in heaven. 
 
 Apel. Nay, you may imagine there were women 
 
 1 grircJ— jibe at. 
 
 - Oyez is French— hear ye ; the form used at the com- 
 mencement of public proclamations. 
 
 ' Psyllus is no doubt supposed to have hesitated to 
 say/y. 
 
 * absolute — perfect ' ratified — established. 
 
50 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 passing amiable -when there were gods exceeding 
 amorous. 
 
 Camp. "Were -women never so fair, men ■would 
 be false. 
 
 Apel. Were women never so false, men would 
 be fond. 
 
 Camp. "WTiat counterfeit^ is this, Apelles? 
 
 Apel. This is Venus, the goddess of love. 
 
 Camp. "What ! be there also loving goddesses ? 
 
 Apel. This is she that hath power to command 
 the very affections of the heart. 
 
 Camp. How is she hired ? by prayer, by sacri- 
 fice, or bribes ? 
 
 Apel. By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes. 
 
 Camp. What prayer ? 
 
 Apel. Vows irrevocable. 
 
 Camp. What sacrifice ? 
 
 Apel. Hearts ever sighing ; never dissembling. 
 
 Camp. What bribes ? 
 
 Apel. Koses and kisses. But were you never 
 in love ? 
 
 Camp. Xo ; nor love in me. 
 
 Apel. Then have you injured many! 
 
 Camp. How so ? 
 
 Apel. Because you have been loved of many. 
 
 Camp. Flattered, perchance, of some. 
 
 Apel. It is not possible that a face so fair and 
 a wit so sharp, both without comparison, should 
 not be apt to love. 
 
 Camp. If you begin to tip your tongue with 
 cunning, I pray dip your pencil in colours, and 
 faU to that you must do, not that you would do. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IV, 
 
 Clttus, Parmexio, Alexander, Hephestiox, 
 Ckysus, Diogenes, Apelles, Cajmpaspe. 
 
 Clytiis. Parmenio, I cannot tell how it cometh 
 to pass that in Alexander, now-a-days, there 
 groweth an unpatient kind of life : in the morn- 
 ing he is melancholy, at noon solemn, at all 
 times either more sour or severe than he was 
 accustomed. 
 
 Par. In king's causes, I rather love to doubt 
 than conjecture, and think it better to be ignorant 
 than inquisitive. They have long ears and 
 sti'etched arms in whose head suspicion is a 
 proof, and to be accused is to be condemned. 
 
 Clytus. Yet, between us, there can be no danger 
 to find out the cause, for that there is no malice 
 to withstand it. It may be an unquenchable 
 thirst of conquering maketh him unquiet: it is 
 not unlikely his long ease hath altered his humour. 
 That he should be in love, it is not impossible. 
 
 Par. In love, Clytus ? No, no ; it is as far from 
 his thought as treason in ours : he, whose ever 
 waking eye, whose never tired heart, whose body 
 patient of labour, whose mind unsatiable of vic- 
 tory hath always been noted, cannot so soon be 
 melted into the weak conceits of love, Ax-istotle 
 told him there were many worlds, and that he 
 hath not conquered one that gapeth for all, gaUeth 
 Alexander. But here he cometh. 
 
 Alex. Parmenio and Clytus, I would have you 
 both ready to go into Persia about an ambassage,^ 
 no less profitable to me than to yourselves honour- 
 able. 
 
 Clytus. We are ready at all commands ; wishing 
 nothing else but continually to be commanded. 
 
 Alex. Well, then, withdraw yourselves till I 
 have further considered of this matter. [Exeunt 
 Clytus and Parmenio.'] Now we will see how 
 
 1 counterfeit — picture or portrait. 
 
 • etbout an ambassage — on an embassy, or business. 
 
 Apelles goeth forward : I doubt me that nature 
 hath overcome art, and her countenance his 
 cunning. 
 
 Hep. You love, and therefore think anything, 
 
 Alex. But not so far in love with Campaspe as 
 with Bucephalus, if occasion serve either of con- 
 flict or of conquest 
 
 Hep. Occasion cannot want, if will do not. 
 Behold all Persia swelling in the pride of their 
 own power; the Scythians careless what courage 
 or fortune can do ; the Egyptians dreaming m 
 the soothsayings of their augurs, and gaping over 
 the smoke of their beasts' entrails.^ All "these, 
 Alexander, are to be subdued, if that world be 
 not slipped out of your head, which you have 
 sworn to conquer with that hand. 
 
 Alex. I confess the labour's fit for Alexander, 
 and yet recreation necessary among so many 
 assaults, bloody wounds, intolerable troubles: 
 give me leave a little, if not to sit, yet to breathe. 
 And doubt not but Alexander can, when he 
 will, throw affections as far from him as he can 
 cowardice. But behold Diogenes talking with 
 one at his tub ! 
 
 Crysus. One penny, Diogenes ; I am a Cynic. 
 
 Diog. He made thee a beggar that first gave 
 thee anything. 
 
 Crysus. W^hy, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody 
 will give thee. 
 
 Diog. I want nothing till the springs dry and 
 the earth perish. 
 
 Crysus. 1 gather for the gods. 
 
 Diog. And I care not for those gods which 
 want money. 
 
 Crysus. Thou art not a right Cynic that wilt 
 give nothing. 
 
 Diog. Thou art not, that wilt beg anything. 
 
 Crysus. Alexander, King Alexander, give a 
 poor Cynic a groat. 
 
 Alex. It is not for a king to give a groat. 
 
 Crysus. Then give me a talent. 
 
 Alex. It is not for a beggar to ask a talent. 
 Away. — Apelles ! 
 
 Apel. Here. 
 
 Alex. Now gentlewoman? doth your beauty 
 put the painter to his trump .'^ 
 
 Camp. Yes, my lord, seeing so disordered a 
 countenance, he feareth he shall shadow' a de- 
 formed counterfeit. 
 
 Alex. Would he could colour the life with the 
 feature.* And, methinketh, Apelles, were you as 
 cunning as report saith you are, you may paint 
 flowers as well with sweet smells as fresh colours, 
 observing in your mixture such things as should 
 draw near to their savours. 
 
 Apel. Your Majesty must know it is no less 
 hard to paint savours than virtues : colours can 
 neither speak nor think. 
 
 Alex. Where do you first begin when you draw 
 any picture ? 
 
 Apel. The proportion of the face in just com- 
 pass, as I can. 
 
 Alex. I would begin with the eye, as a light to 
 all the rest. 
 
 Apel. If you wiU paint, as you are a king, your 
 Majesty may begin where you please ; but, as you 
 would be a painter, you must begin with the face. 
 
 Alex. Aurelius would in one hour colour fovur 
 faces. 
 
 AjJel. I marvel in half an hour he did not four. 
 
 ^ Alluding to the method of augury by inspection of 
 the entrails of animals. 
 
 2 put the painter to his trump — make him play his 
 trump card, i.e. put him to his last push. 
 
 * shadoiD. &c. — paint an untrue likeness. 
 
 * colour the life, <fec.— paint the features to the Ufa 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 51 
 
 Alex. Why, is it so easy? 
 
 Apel. No ; but he doth it so homely.* 
 
 Alex. When will you finish Campaspe ? 
 Apd. Never finish ; for always in absolute 
 beauty there is somewhat above art. 
 
 Alex. Why should not I, by labour, be as 
 cunniug2 as Apelles? 
 
 Apel. God shield' you should have cause to be 
 so cunning as Apelles ! 
 
 Alex. Methinketh four colours are svffficient to 
 shadow any countenance, and so it was in the 
 time of Phidias. 
 
 Apel. Then had men fewer fancies, and women 
 not so many favours. For now, if the hair of 
 her eyebrows be black, yet must the hair of her 
 head be yellow:* the attire of her head must be 
 different from the habit of her body, else would 
 the picture seem like the blazon of ancient 
 armoury, not like the sweet delight of new-found 
 amiableness. For as, in garden knots,^ diversity 
 of odours make a more sweet savour, or as, in 
 music, divers strings cause a more delicate con- 
 sent,® so in painting, the more colours the better 
 counterfeit ; observing black for a ground, and 
 the rest for grace. 
 
 Alex. Lend me thy pencil, Apelles ; I will 
 paint, and thou shalt judge. 
 
 Apel. Here. 
 
 Alex. The coal? breaks. 
 
 Apel. You lean too hard. 
 
 Alex. Now it blacks not. 
 
 A'pel. You lean too soft. 
 
 Alex. This is awry. 
 
 Apel. Your eye goeth not with your hand. 
 
 Alex. Now it is worse. 
 
 Apel. Your hand goeth not with your mind. 
 
 Alex. Nay, if all be too hard or soft, so many 
 rules and regards, ^ that one's hand, one's eye, 
 one's mind must all draw together, I had rather 
 be setting of a battle^ than blotting of a board.i*> 
 But how have I done here ? 
 
 Apel. Like a king. 
 
 Alex. I think so ; but nothing more unlike a 
 painter. Well, Apelles, Campaspe is finished as 
 I wish; dismiss her, and bring presently her 
 counterfeit after me. 
 
 Apel. I will. 
 
 Alex. Now, Hephestion, doth not this matter 
 cotton" as I would ? Campaspe looketh plea- 
 santly ; liberty will increase her beauty, and my 
 love shall advance her honour. 
 
 Hep. I will not contrary^^ you, your Majesty ; 
 for time must wear out that^^ love hath wrought, 
 and reason wean what appetite nursed. 
 
 Alex. How stately she passe th by, yet how 
 soberly ! a sweet consent'* in her countenance 
 •with a chaste disdain !'^ desire mingled with coy- 
 
 * homely — commonly, poorly. 
 2 cunning — skilful. 
 
 ' shield — guard against, forbid. 
 
 * Alluding to the fashion, preralent in the time of 
 Lilly, of dyeing the hair yellow, which was the natural 
 colour of Queen Elizabeth's. Yellow hair was much 
 admired in ancient times, and has come into fashion 
 again at the present day. 
 
 5 It was fashionable in Elizabeth's time to arrange 
 flower-beds in intricate knotted convolutions. 
 
 * consent — harmony. 
 
 ' Charcoal was used as a pencil to outline a picture. 
 
 * Things to be regarded or attended to. 
 
 ' setting of a battle — arranging an army for battle. 
 ^^ blotting of a hoard — painting a picture. In old 
 times, pictures were painted on boards or panels. 
 
 11 cotton — succeed, or goon prosperously; probably 
 from the finishing of cloth, which, when it cottons, or 
 rises to a nap, is quite complete. 
 
 12 'contradict.' 13 ^Aa<— what. 
 1* consent — acquiescence, or compliance. 
 1* disdain— "^vido, or reserve. . 
 
 ness ! and I cannot tell how to term it, a curst* 
 yielding modesty ! 
 
 Hep. Let her pass. 
 
 Alex. So she shall for the fairest on the earth. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE V. 
 PsYLLUs, Maxes, Apelles. 
 
 Psyllus. I shall be hanged for tarrying so long. 
 
 Manes. I pray God my master be not flown 
 before I come. 
 
 Psyllus. Away, Manes ! my master doth come. 
 
 Apel. Where have you been all this while .? 
 
 Psyllus. Nowhere but here. 
 
 Apel. Who was here dthens my coming 7 
 
 Psyllus. Nobody. 
 
 Apel. Ungracious wag, I perceive you have 
 been aloitering. Was Alexander nobody ? 
 
 Psyllus. He was a king; I meant no mean 
 body. 
 
 Apel. I will cudgel your body for it, and then 
 will I say it was no body, because it was no 
 honest body. Away in. [Exit Pstjllus.'] Un- 
 fortunate Apelles, and therefore unfortunate 
 because Apelles! Hast thou, by drawing her 
 beauty, brought to pass that thou canst scarce 
 draw thine own breath ? And by so much the 
 more hast thou increased thy care, by how much 
 the more thou hast showed thy cunning : was 
 it not sufficient to behold the fire, and warm 
 thee, but Avith Satyrus thou must kiss the fire 
 and burn thee? Campaspe, Campaspe, art 
 must yield to nature, reason to appetite, wisdom 
 to affection ! Could Pygmalion 2 entreat by 
 prayer to have his ivory turned into flesh ? and 
 cannot Apelles obtain by plaints^ to have the 
 picture of his love changed to life ? Is painting 
 so far inferior to carving ? or dost thou, Venus, 
 more delight to be hewed with chisels then 
 shadowed with colours? What Pygmalion, or 
 what Pyrgoteles,* or Avhat Lysippus is he, that 
 ever made thy face so fair, or spread thy fame so 
 far as I ? unless Venus, in this thou enviest mine 
 art, that in colouring my sweet Campaspe, I have 
 left no place by cunning to make thee so ami- 
 able. But alas ! she is the paramour to a prince : 
 Alexander, the monarch of the earth, hath both 
 her body and affection. For what is it that 
 kings cannot obtain by prayers, threats, and 
 promises? Will not she think it better to sit 
 under a cloth of estate^ like a queen, than in a 
 poor shop like a housewife? and esteem it 
 sweeter to be the concubine of the lord of the 
 world, than spouse to a painter in Athens? 
 Yes, yes, Apelles, thou mayest swim against the 
 stream with the crab, and feed against the wind 
 with the deer, and peck against the steel with the 
 cockatrice :® stars are to be looked at, not reached 
 
 1 Dodsley (ed. 1744) reads courteous: yielding modesty, 
 i.e. modesty without prudery. 
 
 * Pygmalion, a king of Cyrus, is said to have fallen in 
 love with the ivory image of a maiden, which he himself 
 had made; and, on Venus ansAvering his prayer to 
 breathe life into it, married the maiden. 
 
 ' plaints — lamentations, or violent entreaties. 
 
 * Pyrgoteles was a celebrated gem engraver, and Ly- 
 sippus a distinguished statuary of ancient Greece, botll 
 contemporaries of Apelles. 
 
 5 The canopy placed over royalty. 
 
 6 cockatrice — from cock, and Anglo-Saxon ater, a snake ; 
 supposed to be produced from a cock's egg, with the 
 head of a cock and body of a sei-pent. It Avas said to 
 have a deadly eye, and many fables are told about it. 
 It was supposed to have the power to pierce steel by 
 pecking at it. 
 
52 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 at; princes to be yielded unto, not contended 
 with ; Campaspe to be honoured, not obtained ; 
 to be painted, not possessed of thee. O fair 
 face ! unhappy hand ! and why didst thou draw 
 it so fair a face ? beautiful countenance ! the 
 express image of Venus, but somewhat fresher : 
 the only pattern of that eternity which Jupiter, 
 dreaming asleep, could not conceive again wak- 
 ing. Blush, Venus, for I am ashamed to end 
 thee. Now must I paint things unpossible for 
 mine art, but agreeable with my affections : deep 
 and hollow sighs, sad and melancholy thoughts, 
 wounds and slaughters of conceits, a life posting 
 to death, a death galloping from life, a wavering 
 constancy, an unsettled resolution, and what 
 not, Apelles ? And what but Apelles ? But as 
 they that are shaken with a fever are to be 
 warmed with clothes, not groans, and as he that 
 melteth in a consumption is to be recured by 
 colices,! not conceits; so the feeding canker of 
 my care, the never-dying worm of my heart, is 
 to be killed by counsel, not cries ; by applying of 
 remedies, not by replying of reasons. And sith 
 in cases desperate there must be used medicines 
 that are extreme, I will hazard that little life 
 that is left, to restore the greater part that is lost ; 
 and this shall be my first practice, for wit must 
 work where authority is not. As soon as Alexan- 
 der hath viewed this portraiture, I will, by device, 
 give it a blemish, that by that means she may 
 come again to my shop; and then as good it 
 were to utter my love, and die with denial, as 
 conceal it, and live in despair. 
 
 SoxG BY Apelles. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 
 
 At cards for kisses, Cupid paid; 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 
 
 His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; 
 
 Loses them too ; then down he throws 
 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 
 Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), 
 
 With these, the crystal of his brow, 
 
 And then the dimple of his chin : 
 
 All these did my Campaspe win. 
 
 At last he set^ her both his eyes ; 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 love ! has she done this to thee ? 
 
 What shall, alas ! become of me ? 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 SOLINUS, PSYLLUS, GkANICHUS, MANES, 
 
 Diogenes, Pofulus (the People). 
 
 Sol. This is the place, the day, the time, that 
 Diogenes hath appointed to fly. 
 
 Psyllus. I will not lose the flight of so fair a 
 fowl as Diogenes is, though my master cudgel my 
 no body, as he threatened. 
 
 Gran. What, Psyllus, will the beast wag his 
 wings to-day ? 
 
 Psyllus. We shall hear ; for here cometh Manes. 
 — Manes, will it be ? 
 
 Manes. Be ! he were best be as cunning as a 
 bee, or else shortly he will not be at all. 
 
 Grmi. How is he furnished to fly? hath he 
 feathers ? 
 
 Manes. Thou art an ass ! capons, geese, and 
 
 ' colices. Cullis was a strong broth for invalids, 
 strained or gelatinized. French coulis — a brotli, or 
 jelly, from couhr, to strain. It was most elaborately 
 prepared, containing, among many other more edible 
 and savoury ingredients, pieces of gold, ambergris, and 
 dust of oriental pearls. 
 
 * Set as a stake. 
 
 owls have feathers. He hath found Dedalus' 
 old waxen wings, and hath been piecing them 
 this month, he is so broad in the shoulders. O, 
 you shall see him cut the air even like a tortoise. 
 
 Sol. Methinks so wise a man should not be so 
 mad ; his body must needs be too heavy. 
 
 Manes. Why, he hath eaten nothing this se-9 en- 
 night but cork and feathers. 
 
 Psyllus. Touch him, Manes. 
 
 Manes. He is so light that he can scarce keep 
 him from flying at midnight. 
 
 Populus intrat (the Populace enters). 
 
 Manes. See, they begin to flock; and behold, my 
 master bustles himself to fly. 
 
 Diog. You wicked and bewitched Athenians, 
 whose bodies make the earth to groan, and whose 
 breaths infect the air with stench. Come ye to 
 see Diogenes fly ? Diogenes cometh to see you 
 sink : yea, call me dog ; so I am, for I long to 
 gnaw the bones in your skins. Ye temi me a 
 hater of men : no, I am a hater of your manners. 
 Your lives dissolute, not fearing death, wiU prove 
 your deaths desperate, not hoping for life. What 
 do you else in Athens but sleep in the day, and 
 surfeit in the night: back-gods in the morning 
 Avith pride, in the evening belly-gods with glut- 
 tony ! You flatter kings, and" call them gods; 
 speak truth of yourselves, and confess you are 
 devils! From the bee you have taken not the 
 honey, but the wax, to make your religion ; 
 framing it to the time, not to the truth. Your 
 filthy lust you colour under a courtly colour of 
 love; injuries abroad under the title of policies at 
 home ; and secret malice creepeth under the name 
 of public justice. You have caused Alexander 
 to dry up springs and plant vines, to sow rocket 
 and weed endive, to shear sheep, and shrine^ 
 foxes. All conscience is sealed at Athens. 
 Swearing cometh of a hot mettle ; lying of a 
 quick wit; flattery of a flowing tongue ; indecent 
 talk of a merry disposition. All things are law- 
 ful at Athens. Either you think there are no 
 gods, or I must think ye are no men. You build 
 as though you should live for ever, and surfeit 
 as though you should die to-morrow. None 
 teacheth true philosophy but Aristotle, because 
 he was the king's schoolmaster! times! 
 men ! corruption in manners ! Eemeraber 
 that green grass must turn to dry hay. When 
 you sleep, you are not sure to wake ; and when 
 you rise, not certain to lie down. Look you 
 never so high, your heads must lie level with 
 your feet. Thus have I flown over your dis- 
 ordered lives; and if you will not amend your 
 manners, I will study to fly farther from you, 
 that I may be nearer to honesty. 
 
 Sol. Thou ravest, Diogenes, for thy life is 
 different from thy words. Did not I see theo 
 come out of a brothel house ? was it not a 
 shame ? 
 
 Diog. It was no shame to go out, but a shame 
 to go in. 
 
 Gran. It were a good deed, Manes, to beat thy 
 master. 
 
 Manes. You were as good eat my master. 
 
 One ofthepeople. Hast thou made us all fools, 
 and wilt thou not fly ? 
 
 Diog. I tell thee, unless thou be honest, I will 
 
 fly. 
 
 1 5/»rmc— enshrine or deify. ' He means,' says Nares, 
 ' that the Athenians had occasioned Alexander to en- 
 courage luxury in preference to utility, and the plunder 
 of the innocent, while he exalted or deified the wicked; 
 this he calls shearing,' &c. 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 53 
 
 People. Dog ! dog ! take a bone ! 
 
 Diog. Thy father need fear no dogs, but dogs 
 thy father. 
 
 People. We will tell Alexander that thou re- 
 provest him behind his back. 
 
 Diog. And I will tell him that you flatter him 
 before his face. 
 
 People. We will cause all the boys in the street 
 to hiss at thee. 
 
 Diog. Indeed, I think the Athenians have their 
 children ready for any vice, because they be Athe- 
 nians. 
 
 Manes. Why, master, mean you not to fly ? 
 
 Diog. No, Manes, not without wings. 
 
 Manes. Everybody will account you a liar. 
 
 Diog. No, I warrant you; for I will always 
 say the Athenians are mischievous. 
 
 Psyllus. 1 care not, it was sport enough for me 
 to see these old huddles * hit home. 
 
 Gi'an. Nor I. 
 
 Psyllus. Come, let us go ! and hereafter, when 
 I mean to rail upon any body openly, it shall be 
 given out, I will fly. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 Camp^spe, Apelles. 
 
 Camp, {cilone.'] Campaspe, it is hard to judge 
 whether thy choice be more unwise, or thy 
 chance unfortunate. Dost thou prefer — but stay, 
 utter not that in words which maketh thine ears 
 to glow with thoughts. Tush ! better thy tongue 
 wag, than thy heart break ! Hath a painter crept 
 further into thy mind than a prince ? Apelles, 
 than Alexander? Fond wench! the baseness of 
 thy mind bewrays ^ the meanness of thy birth. 
 But alas! affection is a fire, which kindleth as 
 well in the bramble as in the oak ; and catcheth 
 hold where it first lighteth, not where it may 
 best burn. Larks that mount aloft in the air, 
 build their nests below in the earth ; and women 
 that cast their eyes upon kings, may place their 
 hearts upon vassals. A needle will become thy 
 fingers better than a lute, and a distaff is fitter 
 for thy hand than a sceptre. Ants live safely 
 till they have gotten wings, and juniper is not 
 blown up till it hath gotten an high top. The 
 mean estate is without care as long as it con- 
 tinueth without pride. But here conieth Apelles, 
 in whom I would there were the like affection. 
 
 Apel. Gentlewoman, the misfortune I had with 
 your picture will put you to some pains to sit 
 again to be painted. 
 
 Camp. It is small pains for me to sit still, but 
 infinite for you to draw still. 
 
 Apel. No, Madam. To paint Venus was a plea- 
 sure ; but to shadow the sweet face of Campaspe, 
 it is a heaven ! 
 
 Camp. If your tongue were made of the same 
 flesh that your heart is, your words would be as 
 your thoughts are ; but such a common thing it 
 is amongst you to commend, that oftentimes, for 
 fashion's sake, you call them beautiful whom 
 you know black. 
 
 Apel. What might men do to be believed ? 
 
 Camp. Whet their tongue on their hearts. 
 
 Apel. So they do, and speak as they think. 
 
 Camp. I would they did ! 
 
 Apel. I would they did not I 
 
 1 huddle— 2l term of contempt applied to old decrepid 
 persons; possibly from having their clothes huddled 
 about them, or from being bent or huddled together 
 with age. 
 
 2 bewrays — betrays. 
 
 Camp. Why, would you have them dissemble ? 
 
 Apel. Not in love, but their love.^ But will 
 you give me leave to ask you a question without 
 offence ? 
 
 Camp. So that you will answer me another 
 without excuse. 
 
 Apel. Whom do you love best in the world ? 
 
 Camp. He that made me last in the world. 
 
 Apel. That was a god. 
 
 Camp. I had thought it had been a man. But 
 whom do you honour most, Apelles.' 
 
 Apel. The thing that is likest you, Campaspe. 
 
 Camp. My picture ? 
 
 Apel. I dare not venture upon your person. 
 But come, let us go in, for Alexander will think 
 it long till we return. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 Clytus, Pakmenio. 
 
 Chjtus. We hear nothing of our embassage ; 2 
 a colour^ belike to blear* our eyes, or tickle our 
 ears, or inflame our hearts. But what doth Alex- 
 ander in the mean season, but use for tantaras — 
 sol, fa, la ; for his hard couch, down beds ; for 
 his handful of water, his standing cup of wine ? 
 
 Par. Clytus, I mislike this new delicacy and 
 pleasing peace ; for what else do we see now than 
 a kind of softness in every man's mind ; bees to 
 make their hives in soldiers' helmets, our steeds 
 furnished with foot-cloths of gold^ instead of 
 saddles of steel ; more time to be required to 
 scour the rust off our weapons, than there was 
 wont to be in subduing the countries of our 
 enemies. Sithence ^ Alexander fell from his hard 
 armour to his soft robes, behold the face of his 
 court: youths that were wont to carry devices 
 of victory in their shields, engrave now posies 8 
 of love in their rings ; they that were accustomed 
 on trotting horses to charge the enemy with a 
 lance, now in easy coaches ride up and down to 
 court ladies; instead of sword and target to 
 hazard their lives, use pen and paper to paint 
 their loves. Yea, such a fear and faintness is 
 grown in coui't, that they wish rather to hear 
 the blowing of a horn to hunt, than the sound 
 of a trumpet to fight. O Philip, wert thou alive 
 to see this alteration, — thy men turned to women, 
 thy soldiers to lovers, gloves worn in velvet 
 caps,^ instead of plumes in graven helmets, — thou 
 would'st either die among them for sorrow, or 
 confound them for anger. 
 
 Clytus. Cease, Parmenio, lest, in speaking what 
 becometh thee not, thou feel what liketh thee 
 not. Truth is never without a scratch'd face, 
 whose tongue, although it cannot be cut out, yet 
 must it be tied up. 
 
 Par. It grieveth me not a little for Hephestion, 
 who thirsteth for honour, not ease ; but such is 
 his fortune and nearness in friendship to Alex- 
 ander, that he must lay a pillow under his head 
 
 ^ This sentence may mean that there should be no 
 dissembling in true love, but that there may be in men's 
 love, which is false. 
 
 '^ embassage — embassy. 
 
 ^ colour belike — pretence likely. 
 
 * blear our eyes — make our eyes water. 
 
 * use for tantara, &c. — i.e., instead of listening to the 
 sound of the war-trumpet, he now enjoys soft singing. 
 
 ^ Housings of horses worn in times of peace. 
 
 '^ Sithence — since. 
 
 8 A posy was a poetic motto or conceit inscribed on a 
 ring. 
 
 ^ Alluding to the custom of gallants wearing their 
 mistress's glove in their cap as a favour. 
 
54 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 when he would put a target in his hand. But 
 let us dra-w in, to see how well it becomes them 
 to tread the measures in a dance, that were wont 
 to set the order for a march. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 
 Apelles, Campaspe. 
 
 A'ptl. 1 have now, Campaspe, almost made an 
 end. 
 
 Camp. You told me, Apelles, you would never 
 end. 
 
 Apel. Never end my love; for it shall be 
 eternal. 
 
 Camp. That is, neither to have beginning nor 
 ending. 
 
 Apel. You are disposed to mistake; I hope 
 you do not mistrust. 
 
 Camp. What will you say if Alexander per- 
 ceive your love ? 
 
 Apel. I will say it is no treason to love. 
 
 Camp. But how if he will not suffer thee to 
 see my person ? 
 
 ^ Apel. Then will I gaze continually on thy 
 picture. 
 
 Camp. That will not feed thy heai-t. 
 
 Apel. Yet shall it fill mine eye. Besides, the 
 sweet thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested 
 faith, will cause me to embrace thy shadow con- 
 tinually in mine arms, of the which, by strong 
 imagination, I will make a substance. 
 
 Camp. Well, I must be gone ; but this assure 
 yourself, that I had rather be in thy shop grind- 
 ing colours, than in Alexander's court, following 
 higher fortunes. {Campaspe alone.'] Foolish 
 wench ! what hast thou done ? that, alas ! which 
 cannot be undone, and therefore I fear me un- 
 done. But content is such a life, I care not for 
 abundance. Apelles, thy love cometh from 
 the heart, but Alexander's from the mouth. The 
 love of kings is like the blowing of winds, which 
 whistle sometimes gently among the leaves, and 
 straightways turn the trees up by the roots ; or 
 fire, which warmeth afar off, and burneth near 
 hand ; or the sea, which maketh men hoise ^ their 
 sails in a flattering calm, and to cut their masts 
 in a rough storm. They place affection by times, 
 by policy, by appointment. If they frown, who 
 dares call them unconstant ? if bewray secrets, 
 who will term them untrue ? if fall to other loves, 
 who trembles not, if he call them unfaithful .^ 
 In kings there can be no love but to queens ; 
 for as near must they meet in majesty as they 
 do in affection. It is requisite to stand aloof 
 from kings, love, Jove, and lightning. [Exit. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE V. 
 Apelles, Page. 
 
 Apel. Now, Apelles, gather thy wits together. 
 Campaspe is no less wise than fair ; thyself niust 
 be no less cunning than faithful. It is no small 
 matter to be rival with Alexander. 
 
 Page. Apelles, you must come away quickly 
 with the picture. The king thinketh that, now 
 you have painted it, you play with it 
 
 Apel. If I would play with pictures, I have 
 enough at home. 
 
 Page. None, perhaps, you like so well. 
 
 Apel. It may be I have painted none so well. 
 
 Aoise— hoist. 
 
 Page. I have known many fairer faces. 
 
 Apel. And I many better boys. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 Diogenes, Sylvius, Perim, Milo, Trico, 
 Manes. 
 
 Syl. I have brought my sons, Diogenes, to be 
 taught of thee. 
 
 Diog. What can thy sons do ? 
 
 Syl. You shall see their qualities. Dance, 
 sirrah! [Then Perim danceth.] How like you 
 this ? doth he well ? 
 
 Biog. The better the worser. 
 
 Syl. The music very good. 
 
 Diog. The musicians very bad ; who only 
 study to have their strings in tune, never framing 
 their manners to order. 
 
 Syl. Now shall you see the other. Tumble, 
 sirrah ! {Milo tumbleth.'] How like you this ? 
 why do you laugh ? 
 
 I)iog. To see a wag, that was born to break 
 his neck by destiny, to practise it by art. 
 
 3filo. This dog will bite me ; I will not be 
 with him. 
 
 Diog. Fear not, boy ; dogs eat no thistles. 
 
 Perim. I marvel what dog thou art, if thou be 
 a dog. 
 
 Diog. When I am hungry, a mastiff ; and 
 when my belly is full, a spaniel. 
 
 Syl. Dost thou believe that there are any gods, 
 that thou art so dogged ? 
 
 Diog. I must needs believe there are gods, for 
 I think thee an enemy to them. 
 
 Syl. Why so.? 
 
 Diog. Because thou hast taught one of thy sons 
 to rule his legs, and not to follow learning; the 
 other to bend his body every way, and his mind 
 no way. 
 
 Perim. Thou doest nothing but snarl and bark 
 like a dog. 
 
 Diog. It is the next' way to'drive away a thief. 
 
 Syl. Now shall you hear the third, who sings 
 like a nightingale. 
 
 Diog. I care not, for I have a nightingale to sing 
 herself. 
 
 Syl. Sing, sirrah! 
 
 [Trico singeth.'] 
 
 Song. 
 
 What bird so sings, yet so does wail? 
 O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale. 
 'Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,' she cries, 
 And still her woes at midnight rise. 
 Brave prick-song! 2 who is't now we hear? 
 None but the lark, so shrill and clear; 
 How at heaven's gates she claps her wings, 
 The morn not waking till she sings. 
 Hark ! hark ! with what a pretty throat 
 Poor robin redbreast tunes his note! 
 Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing, 
 ' Cuckoo!' to welcome in the spring; 
 ' Cuckoo !' to welcome in the spring, 
 
 Syl. Lo, Diogenes! I am sure thou canst not 
 do so much. 
 Diog. But there is never a thrush but can. 
 Syl. What hast thou taught Manes, thy man ? 
 Diog. To be as unlike as may be thy sons. 
 
 ' next— nearest, i.e. soonest or readiest. 
 
 2 prick-song — music written down was so called, from 
 the points or dots with which it is noted; hence the 
 nightingale's song, being more regularly musical than 
 any other, was often termed a prick-song. — Nakes. 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 55 
 
 Manes. He hath taught me to fast, lie hard, and 
 run away. 
 
 Syl. How sayest thou, Perim, wilt thou be with 
 him? 
 
 Perim. I, so he will teach me first to run away. 
 
 Diog. Thou needest not be taught, thy legs are 
 so nimble. 
 
 • Syl. How sayest thou, Milo, wilt thou be with 
 him? 
 
 Diog. Nay, hold your peace ; he shall not. 
 
 Syl Why? 
 
 Diog. There is not room enough for him and 
 me to tumble both in one tub. 
 
 Syl. Well, Diogenes, I perceive my sons brook 
 not thy manners. 
 
 Diog. I thought no less, when they knew my 
 virtues. 
 
 Syl. Farewell, Diogenes; thou neededst not 
 have scraped roots ^ if thou wouldst have fol- 
 lowed Alexander. 
 
 Diog. Nor thou have followed Alexander if 
 thou hadst scraped roots. [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 
 Apd. [alone.'] I fear me, Apelles, that thine 
 eyes have blabbed that which thy tongue durst 
 not. What little regard hadst thou, whilst 
 Alexander viewed the counterfeit of Canipaspe, 
 thou stoodest gazing on her countenance ! If he 
 espy, or but suspect, thou must needs twice 
 perish, with his hate and thine own love. Thy 
 pale looks when he blushed, thy sad countenance 
 when he smiled, thy sighs when he questioned, 
 may breed in him a jealousy, perchance a frenzy. 
 O love ! I never before knew what thou wert, and 
 now hast thou made me that I know not what 
 myself am ; only this I know, that I must endure 
 intolerable passions ^ for unknown pleasures ! Dis- 
 pute not the cause, wretch, but yield to it ; for 
 better it is to melt with desire than wrestle with 
 love. Cast thyself on thy carefuP bed; be con- 
 tent to live unknown, and die unfound.* 
 Campaspe! I have^painted thee in my heart: 
 painted? nay, contrary to mine art, imprinted; 
 and that in such deep characters, that nothing 
 can raise it out, unless it rub my heart out. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE III. 
 MiLECTUS, Phrygius, Lais, Diogenes. 
 
 Mil. It shall go hard, but this peace shall bring 
 us some pleasure. 
 
 Phry. Down with arms, and up with legs, this 
 is a world for the nonce.* 
 
 Lais. Sweet youths, if you knew what it were 
 to save your sweet blood, you would not so 
 foolishly go about to spend it. AVhat delight 
 can there be in gashing, to make foul scars in 
 fair faces, and crooked maims ^ in straight legs ? 
 as though men, being born goodly ^ by nature, 
 would of purpose become deformed by folly ; and 
 all, forsooth, for a new-found term, called valiant, 
 
 1 Referring, no doubt, to the primitive way in -whicli 
 Diogenes got his living. 
 
 2 passions — sufferings. 
 
 3 careful — full of care or sorroTiv ; sorrowful. 
 •* unfound — undiscovered. 
 
 * nonce — present occasion, immediate purpose: for 
 the nonce— i.e., probably for then, or the once— for the 
 enjoyment of the present hour. 
 
 fi maim — defect, injury, lameness. 
 
 ' goodly — good-looking, well made. 
 
 — a word which breedeth more quarrels than the 
 sense can commendation. 
 
 Mil. It is true, Lais, a feather bed hath no 
 fellow ; good drink makes good blood, and shall 
 pelting ^ words spill it ? 
 
 Phry. I mean to enjoy the world, and to di-aw 
 out my life at the wire-drawer's, not to ciirtail it 
 off at the cutler's. 
 
 Lais. You may talk of war, speak big, conquer 
 worlds with great words: but stay at home, 
 where, instead of alarums you shall have dances; 
 for hot battles with fierce men, gentle skirmishes 
 with fair women. These pewter'^ coats can never 
 sit so well as satin doublets. Believe me, you 
 cannot conceive the pleasure of peace, unless you 
 despise the rudeness of war. 
 
 3Iil. It is so. But see Diogenes prying over 
 his tub — Diogenes, what sayest thou to such a 
 morsel ? 
 
 Diog. I say, I would spit it out of my moiith, 
 because it should not poison my stomach. 
 
 Phry. Thou speakest as thou art ; it is no meat 
 for dogs. 
 
 Diog. I am a dog ; and philosophy rates ' me 
 from carrion. 
 
 Lais. Uncivil wretch, whose manners are 
 answerable* to thy calling, the time was thou 
 wouldst have had my company, had it not been, 
 as thou saidst, too dear. 
 
 Diog. I remember there was a thing that I 
 repented me of, and now thou hast told it ; in- 
 deed, it was too dear of nothing, and thou dear 
 to nobody. 
 
 Lais. Down, villain ! or I will have thy head 
 broken. 
 
 3Iil. Will you couch ? ' 
 
 Phry. Avaunt, cur ! Come, sweet Lais, let us 
 go to some place and possess peace. But first 
 let us sing; there is more pleasure in tuning of 
 a voice than in a volley of shot. 
 
 Mil. Now let us make haste, lest Alexander 
 find us here. [Exeu2it. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Alexander, Hephestion, Page, Diogenes, 
 Apelles, Campaspe. 
 
 Alex. Methinketh, Hephestion, you are more 
 melancholy than you were accustomed; but, I 
 perceive, it is all for Alexander. You can neither 
 brook this peace nor my pleasure : be of good 
 cheer ; though I wink, I sleep not. 
 
 Hep. Melancholy I am not, nor well content ; 
 for I know not how, there is such a rust crept 
 into my bones with this long ease, that I fear I 
 shall not scour it out with infinite labours. 
 
 Alex. Yes, yes ; if all the travails of conquer- 
 ing the world will set either thy body or mind in 
 tune, we will undertake them. But what think 
 you of Apelles ? Did ye ever see any so per- 
 plexed? He neither answered directly to any 
 question, nor looked stedfastly upon anything. 
 1 hold my life, the painter is in love. . 
 
 Hep. It may be ; for commonly we see it in- 
 cident^ in artificers to be enamoured of their 
 own \vorks, as Archidamus of his wooden dove, 
 
 1 pelting— -paltry, and comes from the same root. 
 
 2 pewter coats — probably applied in jest to steel 
 annour. 
 
 » rate here probably means to ' call off,' a sense whidi 
 it has still in the Kentish dialect. 
 
 * answerable — suitable. 
 
 ' couch — crouch, or lie down. 
 
 * incident — falling to, happening. 
 
56 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 Pygmalion of his ivory image, Arachne of liis 
 wooden swan ; especially painters, who, playing 
 with their own conceits, now coveting to draw a 
 glancing eye, then a rolling, now a winking, still 
 mending it, never ending it, till they be caught 
 with it; and then, poor souls, they kiss the 
 colours with their lips, with which before they 
 were loth to taint their fingers. 
 
 Alex. I will find it out. Page, go speedily for 
 Apelles ; will him to come hither ; and*^ when you 
 Bee us earnestly in talk, suddenly cry out, A_pelles's 
 shop is on fire! 
 
 Page. It shall be done. 
 
 Alex. Forget not your lesson. 
 
 Ilep. I marvel what your device shall be. 
 
 Alex. The event shall prove. 
 
 Hep. I pity the poor painter, if he be in love. 
 
 Alex. Pity him not, I pray thee ; that severe 
 gravity set aside, what do you think of love ? 
 
 Hep. As the Macedonians do of their herb 
 beet, which, looking yellow in the ground, and 
 black in the hand, think it better seen than 
 touched. 
 
 Alex. But what do you imagine it to be ? 
 
 Hep. A word, by superstition thought a god, 
 by use turned to an humour,^ by self-will made 
 a flattering madness. 
 
 Alex. You are too hard-hearted to think so of 
 love. Let us go to Diogenes. — Diogenes, thou 
 mayst think it somewhat that Alexander cometh 
 to thee again so soon. 
 
 Diog. If you come to learn, you could not come 
 soon enough ; if to" laugh, you be come too soon. 
 
 Hep. It would better become thee to be more 
 courteous, and frame thyself to please. 
 
 Diog. And you better to be less, if you durst 
 displease. 
 
 Alex. What dost thou think of the time we 
 have here ? 
 
 Diog. That we have little, and lose much. 
 
 Alex. If one be sick, what wouldst thou have 
 him do? 
 
 Diog. Be sure that he make not his physician 
 his heir. 
 
 Alex. If thou mightest have thy will, how 
 much ground would content thee ? 
 
 Diog. As much as you in the end must be 
 contented withal. 
 
 Alex. What, a world .^ 
 
 Diog. No, the length of my body. 
 
 Alex. Hephestion, shall I be a little pleasant 
 with him ? 
 
 Hep. You may ; but he will be very perverse 
 with you. 
 
 Alex. It skills not,2 I cannot be angiy with 
 him. — Diogenes, I pray thee, what dost^ thou 
 think of love ? 
 
 Diog. A little worser than I can of hate. 
 
 Alex. And why ? 
 
 Diog. Because it is better to hate the things 
 which make to love, than to love the things 
 which give occasion of hate. 
 
 Alex. Why, be not women the best creatures 
 in the world ? 
 
 Diog. Next men and bees. 
 
 Alex. What dost thou dislike chiefly in a 
 woman ? 
 
 Diog. One thing. 
 
 Alex. What? 
 
 Diog. That she is a woman. 
 
 Alex. In mine opinion thou wert never born of 
 a woman, that thou thinkest so hardly of women. 
 
 * humour — caprice, temporary inclination or pro- 
 pensity. 
 
 * It skills no^— it matters not; makes no difference. 
 Anglo-Saxon scylan — to distinguislL 
 
 But now cometh Apelles, who, I am sure, is as far 
 from thy thoughts as thou art from his cunning. 
 Diogenes, I will have thy cabin removed nearer 
 to my court, because I will be a philosopher. 
 
 Diog. And when you have done so, I pray j'ou 
 remove your court further from my cabin, be- 
 cause I will not be a courtier. 
 
 Alex. But here cometh' Apelles. — Apelles, what 
 piece of work have you now in hand? 
 
 Apel. None in hand, if it like your Majesty; 
 but I am devising a platform ^ in my head. 
 
 Alex. I think your hand put it in your head. 
 Is it nothing about Venus ? 
 
 Apel. No ; but something above Venus. 
 
 Page. Apelles ! Apelles ! look about you, your 
 shop is on fire ! 
 
 Apel. Ay me! if the picture of Campaspe be 
 burnt, I am undone ! 
 
 Alex. Staj', Apelles, no haste : it is your heart 
 is on fire, not your shop ; and if Campaspe hang 
 there, I would she were burnt. But have you 
 the picture of Campaspe ? Belike you love her 
 well, that you care not though all be lost so she 
 be safe. 
 
 Apel. Not love her ; but your Majesty knows 
 that painters in their last works are said to excel 
 themselves, and in this I have so much pleased 
 myself, that the shadow as much delighteth me 
 being an artificer, ^ as the substance doth others 
 that are amorous. 
 
 Alex. You lay your colours grosly : ' though I 
 could not paint in your shop, I can spy into 
 your excuse. Be not ashamed, Apelles, it is a 
 gentleman's sport to be in love. Call hither 
 Campaspe. Methinks I might have been made 
 privy to your affection ; though my counsel had 
 not been necessary, yet my countenance might 
 have been thought reqi;isite. But Apelles, for- 
 sooth, loveth under hand, yea and under Alex- 
 ander's nose, and— but I say no more. 
 
 Apel. Apelles loveth not so : but he liveth to 
 do as Alexander will. 
 
 Alex.* Campaspe, here is news. Apelles is 
 in love with you. 
 
 Camp. It pleaseth your Majesty to say so. 
 
 Alex. Hephestion, I will try her too. Cam- 
 paspe, for the good qualities 1 know in Apelles, 
 and the virtue I see in you, I am determined you 
 shall enjoy one another. How say you, Cam- 
 paspe ? would you say a.j ? 
 
 Camp. Your handmaid must obey, if you com- 
 mand. 
 
 Alex. Think you not, Hephestion, that she 
 would fain be commanded ? 
 
 Hep. I am no thought-catcher, but I guess un- 
 happily.* 
 
 Alex. I will not enforce marriage, where I 
 cannot compel love. 
 
 Camp. But your Majesty may move a question, 
 where you be willing to have a match. 
 
 Alex. Believe me, Hephestion, these parties are 
 agreed ; they would have me both priest and wit- 
 ness. Apelles, take Campaspe; why move ye 
 not ? Campaspe, take Apelles ; will it not be ? 
 If you be ashamed one of the other, by my con- 
 sent you shall never come together. But dis- 
 semble not, Campaspe ; do you love Apelles ? 
 
 i^Za(/V>rm— (literally) flat form, groundwork, or design 
 drawn on a level surface ; here it means design, plan, 
 or sketch. 
 
 2 arti^cer— artist. 
 
 3 That is, ' your attempt at deception is clumsy, and 
 easily seen through.' 
 
 * There should have been an Enter Campaspe here, 
 and Enter Apelles above; but stage directions were 
 seldom used by the earlier dramatists. 
 
 * Mn/iai?/)iVj/— mischievously. 
 
JOHN LILLY. 
 
 57 
 
 Camp. Pardon, my lord, I love Apelles ! 
 
 Alex. Apelles, it were a shame for you, being 
 loved so openly of so fair a virgin, to say tlie 
 contrary. Do you love Campaspe ? 
 
 Apel. Only Campaspe ! 
 
 Alex. Two loving worms, Hephestion! I per- 
 ceive Alexander cannot subdue the affections of 
 men, though he conquer their countries. Love 
 falleth like a dew as well upon the low grass, as 
 upon the high cedar. Sparks have their heat, 
 ants their gall, flies their spleen. Well, enjoy 
 one another; I give her thee frankly, Apelles. 
 Thou shalt see that Alexander maketh but a toy 
 of love, and leadeth affection in fetters; using 
 fancy as a fool to make him sport, or a minstrel 
 to make him merry. It is not the amorous glance 
 of an eye can settle an idle thought in the heart ; 
 no, no, it is children's game, a life for sempsters 
 and scholars: the one, pricking in clouts, have 
 nothing else to think on ; the other, picking 
 fancies out of books, have little else to marvel 
 at. Go, Apelles, take with ydU your Campaspe ; 
 Alexander is cloyed with looking on that which 
 thou wond'rest at. 
 
 Apel. Thanks to your Majesty on bended knee, 
 you have honoured Apelles. 
 
 Camp. Thanks with bowed heart, you have 
 blessed Campaspe. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Alex. Page, go warn Clytus and Parmenio 
 and the other lords to be in a readiness ; let the 
 irumpet sound, strike up the drum, and I will 
 presently into Persia. How now, Hephestion, is 
 Alexander able to resist love as he list ? 
 
 Hep. The conquering of Thebes was not so 
 honourable as the subduing of these thoughts. 
 
 Alex. It were a shame Alexander should 
 desire to command the world, if he could not 
 command himself. But come, let us go, I will 
 xry whether I can better bear my hand with my 
 heart, than I could with mine eye. And, good 
 Hephestion, when all the world is won, and 
 every country is thine and mine, either find me 
 out another to subdue, or, on my word, I will fall 
 in love. \_Exeunt. 
 
 THE EPILOGUE AT THE BLACK- 
 PRIARS. 
 
 Where the rainbow toucheth the tree, no cater- 
 pillars will hang on the leaves; where the 
 glow-worm creepeth in the night, no adder will 
 go in the day. We hope in the ears where our 
 travails^ be lodged, no carping shall harbour in 
 those tongues. Our exercises must be as your 
 judgment is, resembling water, which is always 
 of the same colour into what it runneth. In the 
 Trojan horse lay couched soldiers, with children : 
 
 » <rai>at75— labours ; work*. 
 
 and in heaps of many words we fear divers unfit, 
 among some allowable.^ But as Demosthenes, 
 with often breathing ^ up the hill, amended his 
 stammering; so we hope with sundry labours 
 against the hair^ to correct our studies. If the 
 tree be blasted that blossoms, the fault is in the 
 wind, and not in the root ; and if our pastimes 
 be misliked that have been allowed,* you must 
 impute it to the malice of others, and not our 
 endeavour. And so we rest in good case,* if you 
 rest well content. 
 
 THE EPILOGUE AT THE COUET. 
 We cannot tell whether we are fallen among 
 Diomedes's birds or his horses ; the one received 
 some men with sweet notes, the other bit all men 
 with sharp teeth. But as Homer's gods conveyed 
 them into clouds whom they would have kept [ 
 from curses; and as Venus, lest Adonis should 
 be pricked with the stings of adders, covered his 
 face with the wings of swans ; so we hope, being 
 shielded with your Highness's countenance, we 
 shall, though we hear the neighing, yet not feel 
 the kicking of those jades ; and receive, though 
 no praise (which we cannot deserve), yet a pardon, 
 which in all humility we desire. As yet we 
 cannot tell what we should term our labours, 
 iron or bullion ; only it belougeth to your Ma- 
 jesty to make them fit either for the forge or the 
 mint; current by the stamp, or countei-feit by 
 the anvil. For as nothing is to be called white, 
 unless it had been named white by the first 
 creator, so can there be nothing thought good 
 in the opinion of others, unless it be christened 
 good by the judgment of yourself. For our- 
 selves again, we are like these torches of wax,^ 
 of which, being in your Highness's hands, you 
 may make doves or vultures, roses or nettles, 
 laurel for a garland, or elder " for a disgrace. 
 
 1 aUowahle — passable; praiseworthj'. 
 
 2 We talk now-a-days of taking a breather, a climb or 
 walk that tries the power of our lungs. 
 
 3 against the hair — against the grain. 
 
 * a//owecf— approved ; praised. In this sense the word 
 comes from Lat. laudo, to praise. 
 
 5 case — condition. 
 
 6 Alluding to the candles which lighted the hall in 
 Greenwich, where the play was performed before Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 ' The elder was regarded as a disgraced tree, because 
 Judas was popularly supposed to have hanged himself 
 on it. 
 
GEORGE PEELE 
 
 [George Peele, a gentleman by birth, was born in Devonshire about 1558. He waa 
 educated at Oxford, having been a member of Broadgate's Hall (nov*^ Pembroke College), 
 probably taking his degree of Master of Arts in 1579. We are informed by Anthony a Wood 
 that Peele * was esteemed a most noted poet in the University ; ' and Mr. Dyce thinks it 
 probable that the Tale of Troy, which he published in 1589, and which he calls 'an old 
 poem of mine own,' was written during his academic course. He repaired to London about 
 1580 ; there he no doubt passed most of the remainder of his life, figuring as one of the 
 
 * authors by profession,' who formed so numerous a body during the reign of Elizabeth. 
 He was on terms of intimacy with most of his contemporary brother-dramatists, and shared 
 but too freely in the wild Bohemianism which characterized most of their lives. * Among 
 the town wits of those days,' says Mr. Dyce, 'habits of debauchery were but too prevalent. 
 Not a few of them hung loose upon society, now struggling with poverty, and "driven to 
 extreme shifts, " and now, when successful plays or poems had put money in their purses, 
 revelling in the pleasures of taverns and ordinaries, some of them terminating a career of 
 folly by a miserable and untimely death. Peele, there is every reason to believe, mingled as 
 eagerly as any of his contemporaries in the dissipations of London.' Peele must have been 
 one of the most thriftless and dissipated of this mad crew ; and if we may believe the tract 
 entitled Metric Conceited Jests of George Peele, he frequently resorted to the lowest and 
 most rascally shifts to relieve his wretched poverty, and supply him with the means of 
 dissipation. Mr. Dyce professes to believe that these stories are most of them fictitious, 
 although he does not doubt the authenticity of some of them. But, making every allow- 
 ance, we are afraid that he must be regarded as having been almost entirely destitute of 
 honour, and even of common honesty. He appears for a time to have held the post of city 
 poet, and devised several of the pageants which graced the inauguration of a new Lord 
 Mayor. The date of Peele's death is not known, * This person, ' says Anthony a Wood, 
 
 * was living, in his middle age, in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth ; but when or where he 
 died I cannot tell.' He certainly died previous to 1598; for, in a book published in that 
 year, we are told that his death was the result of disease caught by licentious indulgence. 
 Perhaps, with the exception of Greene, Peele's life and death were more miserable, and his 
 character certainly more contemptible, than those of any of the brilliant Bohemians with 
 whom he mingled. Of Peele's dramatic works, Dyce thinks that not half has survived the 
 ravages of time. The following are his dramas still extant : — The Arraignment of Paris: 
 a Pastoral (printed 1584) ; The Famous Chronicle History of King Edward the First (1593), 
 one of our most ancient ' Chronicle Histories, ' and deserving attention, Mr. Collier thinks, 
 more on this account than because it possesses much merit as a theatrical production ; 
 The Battle of Alcazar (1594), with much probability, ascribed to Peele ; Old Wives' Tale 
 (1595) ; this is chiefly remarkable as containing the same story as that upon which Milton 
 founded his mask of Comus. Warton has attempted to show that Milton derived the narra- 
 tive and idea of his poem from Peele ; but, as Mr. Collier says, it yet remains to be seen 
 whether they do not each make use of the same original narrative. David and Bethsdbz 
 was first printed in 1599, but how much earlier it was written there is no means of ascer- 
 taining. Besides these dramas, Peele wrote several poems and pageants. Collier's estimate 
 of Peele as a dramatist appears to us to be just. 'When Thomas Nash, in 1587, gave 
 
 58 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 59 
 
 Peele the praise of being primus verhorum artifier, he adopted a phrase which seems happily 
 to describe the character of Peek's poetry : his genius was not bold and original, and he 
 was wanting in the higher qualities of invention ; but he had an elegance of fancy, a grace- 
 fulness of expression, and a melody of versification which, in the earlier part of his career, 
 was scarcely approached.' The play, David and Bethsdbe, which we have selected as a 
 specimen, is universally admitted to be his best. It is founded on a well-known incident 
 in the life of King David, and is chiefly characterized by the smoothness of its language, 
 occasional pathos and vigour of expression, and richness of imagery. There is not much of 
 a plot, little art is displayed in the conduct of the story, and none of the characters can be 
 said to be distinctly marked ; still, on the whole, it is pleasant and readable.] 
 
 THE LOYE OF KING DAYID AND FAIR BETHSABE, 
 WITH THE TRAGEDY OF ABSALON: 
 
 AS IT HATH BEEF DIYERS TIMES PLAYED OX THE STAGE. 
 
 WRITTEN BY GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 London: Printed by Adam IsUp, 1599. 
 
 PEOLOGUE. 
 
 Of Israel's sweetest singer now I sing, 
 His holy style and happy victories ; 
 Whose Muse was dipt in that inspiring dew 
 Archangels stilled ^ from the breath of Jove,'' 
 Decking her temples with the glorious flowers 
 Heavens rain'd on tops of Sion and Mount Sinai. 
 Upon the bosom of his ivory lute 
 The cherubims and angels laid their breasts ; 
 And, when his consecrated fingers struck 
 The golden wires of his ravishing harp, 
 
 » itilkd—distmQa. 
 
 * Jove — Jehovah. 
 
 He gave alarm to the host of heaven, 
 
 That, wing'd with lightning, break the clouds, 
 
 and cast 
 Their crystal armour at his conquering feet. 
 Of this sweet poet, Jove's musician. 
 And of his beauteous son, I press to sing. 
 Then help, divine Adonai, to conduct 
 Upon the wings of my well-temper'd verse 
 The hearers' minds above the towers of heaven, 
 And guide them so in this thrice-haughty flight, 
 Their mounting feathers scorch not with the fire 
 That none can temper but thy holy hand : 
 To thee for succour flies my feeble Muse, 
 And at thy feet her iron pen doth use. 
 
 gramalis '§n$on'^. 
 
 David. 
 
 Amnon, Son of David hy Ahinoam. 
 
 Chileab, Son of David by Abigail. 
 
 Absalon, Son of David by Maacah. 
 
 Adonia, Son of David by Hagyith. 
 
 Salomon, Son of David by Bethsahe. 
 
 T n ^ ' j-^-L -L ^ (Nephews of David., and 
 
 JoAB,Capamofthehost] £^^^ ^j. j^,-^ ;-,^,^ 
 
 Abisai, [to David, 1^ ^^^,^.J^ 
 
 A A«A ^Nepheio of David, and Son of his sister 
 AMASA, ^ Abigail; Captain ofthe host to Absalon. 
 y (Nephew of David, and Son of his 
 
 J 02, ADAB, -| j^^^^g,, Shimeah ; friend to Amnon. 
 U TAs J Husband of Bethsabe, and a Warrior in 
 
 ' \ Davids army. 
 Nathan, a Prophet. 
 Sadoc, High priest. 
 Ahimaas, his Son. 
 
 Abiathar, a Priest. 
 Jonathan, his Son. 
 AcHiTOPHEL, Chief Counsellor to Absalon. 
 
 CUSAY. 
 
 Ithay. 
 
 Semei. 
 
 Jethray. 
 
 Hanon, King of Ammon. 
 
 Machaas, King of Gath. 
 
 Messenger, Soldiers, Shepherds, and Attendants. 
 
 Thamar, Daughter of David by Maacah. 
 Bethsabe, Wife of tirias. 
 Woman of Thecoa. 
 Concubines to David. 
 Maid to Bethsabe. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
6o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 The Prologue-speaker, before going out, draws a 
 curtain and discovers Bethsabe, with her Maid, 
 bathing over a spring. She sings, and David 
 sits above viewing her. 
 
 THE SOXG. 
 
 Hot sun, cool fire, temper'd with sweet air, 
 Black shade, fan' nurse, shadow my white hair : 
 Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me; 
 Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me, and please me : 
 Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning; 
 Make not my glad cause cause of [my] mom-ning. 
 
 Let not my beauty's fire 
 
 Inflame unstaid desire. 
 
 Nor pierce any bright eye 
 
 That wandereLh lightly. 
 
 Beth. Come, gentle zephyr, trick'd with those 
 perfumes 
 That erst in Eden sweeten'd Adam's love, 
 And stroke my bosom with thy silken fan. 
 This shade, sun-proof, is yet no proof for thee ; 
 Thy body, smoother than this waveless spring, 
 And purer than the substance of the same. 
 Can creep through that his lances cannot pierce. 
 Thou, and thy sister, soft and sacred Air, 
 Goddess of life, and governess of health, 
 Keep every fountain fresh and arbour sweet. 
 No bi'azen gate her passage can repulse, 
 Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath : 
 Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes. 
 And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes. 
 To play the wanton with us through the leaves. 
 Dav. What tunes, what words, what looks, 
 what wonders pierce 
 My soul, incensed i with a sudden fire ? 
 What tree, what shade, what spring, what para- 
 dise, 
 Enjoys the beautj'- of so fair a dame ? 
 Fair Eva, placed in perfect happiness, 
 Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens. 
 Struck with the accents of archangels' tunes, 
 Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's 
 
 thoughts 
 Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine. 
 May that sweet plain, that bears her pleasant 
 
 weight. 
 Be still enamell'd with discolour'd^ flowers; 
 That precious fount bear sand of purest gold ; 
 And, for the pebble, let the silver streams 
 That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source. 
 Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ; 
 The brims let be embraced with golden curls 
 Of moss, that sleeps with sound the waters make, 
 For joy to feed the fount with their recourse. 
 Let all the grass that beautifies her bower 
 Bear manna every morn instead of dew ; 
 Or let the dew be sweeter far than that 
 That hangs, like chains of pearl, on Hermon hill, 
 Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard. — 
 Cusay, come up, and serve thy lord the king. 
 
 Enter Cusay, above. 
 
 Cu. What service doth my lord the king com- 
 mand ? 
 
 Dav. See, Cusay, see the flower of Israel, 
 The fairest daughter that obeys the king 
 In all the land the Lord subdued to me ; 
 Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well, 
 Brighter than inside-bark of new-hewn cedar, 
 Sweeter than flames of fine-perfum6d myrrh. 
 And comelier than the silver clouds that dance 
 On zephyr's wings before the King of Heaven ! 
 
 Cu. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife, 
 Urias, now at Eabbah siege with Joab ? 
 
 1 incensed — inflamed. 
 
 2 discoloured— v&riou&ly coloured. 
 
 Dav. Go know, and bring her quickly to the 
 king; 
 Tell her, her graces have found grace with him. 
 
 Cu. I will, my lord. [^Exit. 
 
 Dav. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's 
 bower, 
 In water mix'd with purest almond-flower, 
 And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids. 
 Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires, 
 Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers ; 
 To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings, 
 That carry pleasures to the hearts of kings. 
 
 Enter Cusay, beloio, to Bethsabe, she starting 
 as something affright.^ 
 
 Cu. Fair Bethsabe, the king of Israel 
 From forth his princely tower hath seen thee 
 
 bathe. 
 And thy sweet graces have found grace with 
 
 him. 
 Come, then, and kneel unto him where he stands ; 
 The king is gracious, and hath liberal hands. 
 
 Beth. Ah ! what is Bethsabe to please the king ? 
 Or what is David, that he should desire, 
 For fickle beauty's sake, his servant's wife ? 
 Cu. David, thou know'st, fair dame, is wise 
 and just, 
 Elected to the heart of Israel's God ; 
 Then do not thou expostulate with him 
 For any action that contents his soul. 
 Beth. My lord the king, elect to God's own 
 heart. 
 Should not his gracious jealousy incense 2 
 Whose thoughts are chaste : I hate incontinence. 
 Cu. Woman, thou wrong'st the king, and 
 doubt'st his honour. 
 Whose truth maintains the crown of Israel, 
 Making him stay that bade me bring thee straight. 
 Beth. The king's poor handmaid wiU obey my 
 
 lord. 
 Cu. Then come, and do thy duty to his grace, 
 And do what seemeth favour in his sight. 
 
 [Exit, below, with Bethsabe. 
 Dav. Now comes my lover tripping like the 
 roe, 
 And brings my longings tangled in her hair. 
 To joy 3 her love I'll build a kingly bower, 
 Seated in hearing of a hundred streams, 
 That, for their homage to her sovereign joys,* 
 Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests 
 In oblique turnings, wind their nimble waves 
 About the circles of her curious walks. 
 And with their murmur summon easeful sleep 
 To lay his golden sceptx'e on her brows. — 
 Open the doors, and entertain my love ; 
 Open, I say, aud, as you open, sing — 
 ' Welcome, fair Bethsabe, King David's darling !' 
 
 Enter, above, Cusay with Bethsabe. 
 
 Welcome, fair Bethsabe, King David's darling. 
 Thy bones' fair covering, erst* discovered fair,® 
 And all mine eyes with all thy beauties pierced ; 
 As heaven's bright eye biims most when most 
 
 he climbs 
 The crooked zodiac with his fiery sphere. 
 And shineth furthest from this earthly globe ; 
 So, since tliy beauty scorch'd my conquer'd soul, 
 I call'd thee nearer for my nearer cure. 
 
 1 i.e. ' somewhat afifrighted.' 
 
 2 incense— Mndle. Bethsabe no doubt here refers to 
 her husband. 
 
 3 >y— enjoy. 
 
 * Joys. Dyce thinks the sense seems to require 
 ' charms.' * erst— hrst or formerly. 
 
 6 and all mine eyes. Mr. Dyce thinks a line has pro- 
 bably dropt out here. 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 6i 
 
 Beth. Too near, my lord, was your unarmed 
 heart, 
 When furthest off my hapless beauty pierced ; 
 And would this dreary day had turu'd to night, 
 Or that some pitchy cloud had cloak'd the sun. 
 Before their lights had caus'd my lord to see 
 His name disparag'd and my chastity ! 
 
 Dav. My love, if want of love have left thy soul 
 A sharper sense of honour than thy king 
 (For love leads princes sometimes from their 
 
 seats), 
 As erst my heart was hurt, displeasing thee, 
 So come and tasie thy ease with easing me. 
 
 Beth. One medicine cannot heal our different 
 harms. 
 But rather make both rankle at the bone ; 
 Then let the king be cunning in his cure, 
 Lest flattering both, both perish in his hand. 
 
 Dav. Leave it to me, my dearest Bethsabe, 
 Wliose skill is conversant in deeper cures. — 
 And, Cusay, haste thou to my servant Joab, 
 Commanding him to send Urias home 
 With all the speed can possibly be us'd. 
 
 Cu. Cusay will fly about the king's desire. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Joab, Abisat, Urias, and others, with drum 
 and ensign. 
 
 Joab. Courage, ye mighty men of Israel, 
 And charge your fatal instruments of war 
 Upon the bosoms of proud Ammon's sons, 
 That hath disguis'd your king's ambassadors. 
 Cut half their beards and half their garments off, 
 In spite of Israel and his daughters' sons ! 
 Ye fight the holy battles of Jehovah, 
 King David's God, and ours, and Jacob's God, 
 That guides your weapons to their conquering 
 
 strokes, 
 Orders you»footsteps, and directs your thoughts 
 To stratagems that harbour victory: 
 He casts his sacred eyesight from on high, 
 And sees your foes run seeking for their deaths. 
 Laughing their labours and their hopes to scorn ; 
 While 'twixt your bodies and their blunted 
 
 swords 
 He puts on armour of his honour's proof. 
 And makes their weapons wound the senseless 
 
 winds. 
 Abis. Before this city Kabbah we will lie, 
 And shoot forth shafts as thick and dangerous 
 As was the hail that Moses mix'd with fire. 
 And threw with fury round about the fields. 
 Devouring Pharaoh's friends and Egypt's fruits. 
 
 Ur. First, mighty captains, Joab and Abisai, 
 Let us assault and scale this kingly tower, 
 Where all their conduits and their fountains are ; 
 Then we may easily take the city too. 
 
 Joab. Well hath Urias counsell'd our attempts ; 
 And as he spake us, so assault the tower : 
 Let Hanon now, the king of Ammon's son, 
 Eepulse our conquering passage if he dare. 
 
 E?iter Haxox, Macha^vs, and others, upon the 
 walls. 
 
 Ha. What would the shepherd's-dogs of Israel 
 Snatch from the mighty issue of King Ammon, 
 The valiant Ammonites and haughty Syrians ? 
 'Tis not your late successive victories 
 j Can make us yield, or quail our courages ; 
 But if ye dare assay to scale this tower, 
 Our angry swords shall smite ye to the ground, 
 And venge^ our losses on your hateful lives. 
 
 Joab. Hanon, thy father Nahas gave relief 
 To holy David in his hapless exile. 
 
 * venge—veveagG. 
 
 Lived his fixed date, and died in peace ; 
 But thou, instead of reaping his reward. 
 Hast trod it under foot, and scorn'd our king ; 
 Therefore thy days shall end with violence. 
 And to our swords thy vital blood shall cleave. 
 
 Mach. Hence, thou that bear'st poor Israel's 
 shepherd's-hook, 
 The proud lieutenant of that base-bom king, 
 And keep within the compass of his fold ; 
 For, if ye seek to feed on Ammon's fruits, 
 And stray into the Syrians' fruitful meads, 
 The mastiffs of our land shall worry ye. 
 And pull the weesels' from your greedy throats. 
 
 Abis. Who can endure these pagans' blas- 
 phemies ? 
 
 Ur. My soul repines at this disparagement. 
 
 Joab. Assault, ye valiant men of David's host, 
 And beat these railing dastards from their doors. 
 
 Assault, and they win the toicer ; and then Joab 
 speaks above. 
 
 Thus have we won the tower, which we will 
 
 keep, 
 Maugre^ the sons of Ammon and of Syria. 
 
 Enter Cusay, below. 
 
 Cu. Where is Lord Joab, leader of the host ? 
 Joab. Here is Lord Joab, leader of the host. 
 Cusay, come up, for we have won the hold.' 
 Cu. In happy hour, then, is Cusay come. 
 
 Cl'say ^oes up. 
 
 Joab. What news, then, brings Lord Cusay 
 from the king ? 
 
 Cu. His Majesty commands thee out of hand 
 To send him home Urias from the wars. 
 For matter of some service he should dp. 
 
 Ur. 'Tis for no choler hath surprised the king, 
 I hope, Lord Cusay, 'gainst his servant's truth? 
 
 Cu. No ; rather to prefer Urias' truth. 
 
 Joab. Here, take him with thee, then, and go 
 in peace ; 
 And tell my lord the king that I have fought 
 Against the city Kabbah with success, 
 And scaled where the royal palace is. 
 The conduit-heads and all their sweetest springs: 
 Then let him come in person to these walls, 
 With all the soldiers he can bring besides, 
 And take the city as his own exploit. 
 Lest I surprise it, and the people give 
 The glory of the conquest to my name. 
 
 Cu. We ■will. Lord Joab; and great Israel's 
 God 
 Bless in thy hands the battles of our king ! 
 
 Joab. Farewell, Urias ; haste away the king. 
 
 Ur. As sure as Joab breathes a victor here, 
 Urias will haste him and his own return. 
 
 [Exeunt Cusay and Ukias. 
 
 Abis. Let us descend, and ope the palace gate, 
 Taking our soldiers in to keep the hold. 
 
 Joab. Let us, Abisai : — and, ye sons of Judah, 
 Be valiant, and maintain your victor)'. [Exewit. 
 
 Enter Thamar. 
 
 Tha. Whither, alas, ah ! whither shall I fly, 
 With folded arms and all-amazed soul ? 
 Cast as was Eva from that glorious soil 
 (Where all delights sat .bating, wiug'd with 
 
 thoughts, 
 Keady to nestle in her naked breasts), 
 To bare and barren vales with floods made waste. 
 To desert woods, and hills with lightning scorch'd, 
 
 1 weesels — weasands, i.e. windpipes. 
 
 2 Maugr-e — in spite of. Freucli malgr4. 
 
 3 AoW— stronghold, or keep. 
 
62 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 With death, with shame, with hell, with horror 
 
 sit; 
 There will I wander from my father's face ; 
 There Absalon, my brother Absalon, 
 Sweet Absalon shall hear his sister mourn; 
 There will I lure with my windy sighs 
 Night-ravens and owls to rend my bloody side, 
 Which with a rusty weapon I Avill wound. 
 And make them passage to my panting heart. 
 Why talk'st thou, wretch, and leav'st the deed 
 
 undone ? 
 Eend hair and garments, as thy heart is rent 
 With inward fuiy of a thousand griefs. 
 And scatter them by these unhallow'd doors, 
 To figure Amnon's resting cruelty, 
 And tragic spoil of Thamar's chastity. 
 
 Erder Absalon. 
 
 Ms. What causeth Thamar to exclaim so 
 
 much? 
 Tha. The cause that Thamar shameth to dis- 
 close. 
 Abs. Say; I thy brother will revenge that 
 cause. 
 Hath Amnon forced thee ? by David's hand. 
 And by the covenant God hath made with him, 
 Amnon shall bear his violence to hell ; 
 Traitor to heaven, traitor to David's throne, 
 Traitor to Absalon and Israel. 
 This fact hath Jacob's ruler seen from heaven, 
 And through a cloud of smoke and tower of fire. 
 As he rides vaunting him upon the greens. 
 Shall tear his chariot-wheels with violent winds, 
 And throw his body in the bloody sea ; 
 At him the thunder shall discharge his bolt ; 
 And his fair spouse, with bright and fiery wings. 
 Sit ever burning on his hateful bones : 
 Myself, as swift as thunder or his spouse,' 
 Will hunt occasion with a secret hate. 
 To work false Amnon an ungracious end. — 
 Go in, my sister ; rest thee in my house ; 
 And God in time shall take this shame from thee. 
 Tha. Nor God nor time will do that good for 
 me. {Exit. 
 
 Enter David with his train. 
 
 Dav. My Absalon, what mak'st thou here alone. 
 And bear'st such discontentment in thy brows ? 
 
 Abs. Great cause hath Absalon to be displeas'd. 
 And in his heart to shroud the wounds of wrath. 
 
 Dav. 'Gainst whom should Absalon be thus 
 displeas'd ? 
 
 Abs. Gainst wicked Amnon, thy ungracious 
 son. 
 My brother and fair Thamar's by the king, 
 My step-brother by mother and by kind : ^ 
 He hath dishonour'd David's holiness. 
 And fii'd a blot of lightness on his throne. 
 
 Dav. Hath Amnon brought this evil on my 
 house, 
 And suffer'd sin to smite his father's bones ? 
 Smite, David, deadlier than the voice of heaven. 
 And let hate's fire be kindled in thy heart : 
 Frame in the arches of thy angry brows. 
 Making thy forehead, like a comet, shine. 
 To force false Amnon ti'emble at thy looks. 
 Sip , with his sevenfold cr ow n and purple robe, 
 ]pegmSTIs trium ph^ in m^P":gpmy tnrona j. 
 There si ts^e watc Eng with his hund red] eyes^ 
 Our j dl£natnT gteslind our w an ton tJiOrtghtg^ '^"' 
 And'lv'ilh his' baits, made of our f i-ail desires, 
 Gives us the hook that hales our souls to hell : 
 But with the spirit of my kingdom's God 
 I'll thrust the flattering tyrant from his throne. 
 
 * Kind—n&tuie. 
 
 And scourge his bondslaves from my hallow'd 
 
 court 
 With rods of iron and thorns of sharpen'd steel. 
 Then, Absalon, revenge not thou this sin; 
 Leave it to me, and I will chasten Mm. 
 
 Abs. I am content: then grant, my lord the 
 king. 
 Himself with all his other lords would come 
 Up to my sheep-feast on the plain of Hazor. 
 
 Dav. Nay, my fair son, myself ^vith all my lords 
 Will bring thee too much charge ; yet some shall 
 go. 
 
 Abs. But let my lord the king himself take 
 pains ; 
 The time of year is pleasant for your grace, 
 And gladsome summer in her shady robes. 
 Crowned with roses and with painted flowers. 
 With all her nymphs, shall entertain my lord, 
 That, from the thicket of my verdant groves, 
 Will sprinkle honey-dews about his breast. 
 And cast sweet balm upon his kingly head : 
 Then grant thy servant's boon, and go, my lord. 
 
 Dav. Let it content my sweet son Absalon, 
 That I may stay, and take my other lords. 
 
 Abs. But shall thy best-beloved Amnon go ? 
 
 Dav. What needeth it, that Amnon go with 
 thee? 
 
 Abs. Yet do thy son and servant so much 
 grace. 
 
 Dav. Amnon shall go, and all my other lords, 
 Because I will give grace to Absalon. 
 
 Enter Cusay and Urias, with others. 
 
 Cu. Pleaseth my lord the king, his servant Joab 
 Hath sent Urias from the Syi'ian wars. 
 
 Dav. Welcome, Urias, from the Syrian wars. 
 Welcome to David as his dearest lord. 
 
 Ur. Thanks be to Israel's God and David's 
 grace, 
 Urias finds such greeting with the king. 
 
 Dav. No other greeting shall Urias find 
 As long as David sways th' elected seat 
 And consecrated throne of Israel. 
 TeU me, Urias, of my servant Joab ; 
 Fights he with truth the battles of our God, 
 And for the honour of the Lord's anointed? 
 
 Ur. Thy servant Joab fights the chosen wars 
 With truth, with honour, and with high success, 
 And 'gainst the wicked king of Ammon's sons. 
 Hath, by the finger of our sovereign's God, 
 Besieg'd the city Rabbah, and achiev'd ^ 
 The court of waters, where the conduits run, 
 And all the Ammonites' delightsome springs ; 
 Therefore he wisheth David's mightiness 
 Should number out the host of Israel, 
 And eome in person to the city Kabbah, 
 That so her conquest may be made the king's, 
 And Joab fight as his inferior. 
 Dav. This hath not God and Joab's prowess 
 done 
 Without Urias' valour, I am sure. 
 Who, since his true conversion from a Hethite 
 To an adopted son of Israel, 
 Hath fought like one whose arms were lift by 
 
 heaven, 
 And whose bright sword was edg'd with Israel's 
 
 wrath. 
 Go therefore home, Urias, take thy rest ; 
 Visit thy wife and household with the joys 
 A victor and a favourite of the king's 
 Should exercise with honour after arms. 
 
 U7\ Thy servant's bones are yet not half so 
 craz'd. 
 Nor constitute on such a sickly mould. 
 
 » achiev'd— von, or reached. 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 63 
 
 That for so little service lie should faint, 
 And seek, as cowards, refuge of his home : 
 Nor are his thoughts so sensually stirr'd, 
 To stay the arms with which the Lord would 
 
 smite 
 And* fill their circle with his conquer'd foes, 
 For wanton bosom of a flattering wife. 
 
 Dav. Urias hath a beauteous sober wife, 
 Then go, Urias, solace in her love ; 
 Whom God hath knit to thee, tremble to loose. 
 
 Ur. The king is much too tender of my ease : 
 The ark, and Israel, and Judah dwell 
 In palaces and rich pavilions ; 
 But Joab and his brother in the fields, 
 Suffering the wrath of winter and the sun : 
 And shall Urias (of more shame than they) 
 Banquet, and loiter in the work of heaven ? 
 As sure as thy soul doth live, my lord. 
 Mine ears shall never lean to such delight, 
 When holy labour calls me forth to fight. 
 
 Dav. Then be it with Urias' manly heart 
 As best his fame may shine in Israel. 
 
 Ur. Thus shall Urias' heart be best content. 
 Till thou dismiss me back to Joab's bands : 
 This ground before the king my master's doors 
 Shall be my couch, and this unwearied arm 
 The proper pillow of a soldier's head ; 
 
 [Lies down. 
 For never will I lodge within my house. 
 Till Joab triumph in my secret vows. 
 
 Dav. Then fetch some flagons of our purest 
 wine. 
 That we may welcome home our hardy friend 
 With full carouses to his fortunes past, 
 And to the honours of his future arms ; 
 Then wiU I send him back to Eabbah siege, 
 And follow with the strength of Israel. 
 
 Enter one with flagons of wine. 
 
 Arise, Urias ; come and pledge the king. 
 
 Ur. If David think me worthy such a grace, 
 I will be bold and pledge my lord the king. 
 
 [Rises. 
 
 Dav. Absalon and Cusay both shall drink 
 To good Urias and his happiness. 
 
 Abs. We will, my lord, to please Urias' soul. 
 
 Dav. I will begin, Urias, to thyself. 
 And aU the treasure of the Ammonites, 
 Which here I promise to impart to thee. 
 And bind that promise with a full carouse. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Ur. What seemeth pleasant in my sovereign's 
 eyes. 
 That shall Urias do till he be dead. 
 
 Dav. Fill him the cup. [Urias drinlcs.']— 
 Follow, ye lords that love 
 Tour sovereign's health, and do as he hath done. 
 
 Ahs. Ill may he thrive, or live in Israel, 
 That loves not David, or denies his charge. — 
 Urias, here is to Abisai's health. 
 Lord Joab's brother and thy loving friend. 
 
 [Drinlcs. 
 
 Ur. I pledge Lord Absalon and Abisai's health. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Cu. Here now, Urias, to the health of Joab, 
 And to the pleasant journey we shall have 
 When we return to mighty Kabbah siege. 
 
 ^ [Drinks. 
 
 Ur. Cusay, I pledge thee with all my' heart. — 
 Give me some drink, ye servants of the king ; 
 Give me my drink. [Drinks. 
 
 Dav. Well done, my good Urias ! drink thy fill, 
 That in thy fulness David may rejoice. 
 
 Ur. I will, my Lord. 
 
 Ahs. Now, Lord Urias, one carouse to mo. 
 
 Ur. No, sir, I'll drink to the king ; 
 Tour father is a better man than you. 
 
 Dav. Do so, Urias ; I will pledge thee straight 
 
 Ur. 1 will indeed, my lord and sovereign ; 
 I'll once in my days be so bold. 
 
 Dav. Fill him his glass. 
 
 Ur. Fill me my glass. 
 
 Dav. Quickly, I say. 
 
 Ur. Quickly, I say. — Here, my lord, by your 
 favour now I drink to you. [Drinks. 
 
 Dav. I pledge thee, good Urias, presently. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Ahs. Here, then, Urias, once again for me. 
 And to the health of David's children. [Drinks. 
 
 Ur. David's children ! 
 
 Ahs. Ay, David's children: wilt thou pledge 
 me, man ? 
 
 Ur. Pledge me, man ? 
 
 Ahs. Pledge me, I say, or else thou lov'st us not. 
 
 Ur. What, do you talk 7 do you talk ? I'll no 
 more ; I'll lie down here. 
 
 Dav. Eather, Urias, go thou home and sleep. 
 
 Ur. 0, ho, sir ! would you make me break my 
 sentence? [Lies doxon.'] Home, sir ! no, indeed, 
 sir : I'll sleep upon mine arm, like a soldier ; 
 sleep like a man as long as I live in Israel. 
 
 Dav. [aside.'] If naught will serve to save hia 
 wife's renown, 
 I'll send him with a letter unto Joab 
 To put him in the forefront of the wars. 
 That so my purposes may take effect. — 
 Help him in, sirs. 
 
 [Exeunt David and Absalon. 
 
 Cu. Come rise, Urias ; get thee in and sleep. 
 
 Ur. I will not go home, sir ; that's flat. 
 
 Cu. Then come and rest thee upon David's bed. 
 
 Ur. On afore, my lords, on afore. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 
 Chorus. O proud revolt of a presumptuous man, 
 Laying his bridle in the neck of sin, 
 Eeady to bear him past his grave to hell ! 
 Like as the fatal raven, that in his voice 
 Carries the dreadful summons of our deaths, 
 Flies by the fair Arabian spiceries. 
 Her pleasant gardens and delightsome parks. 
 Seeming to curse them with his hoarse exclaims, 
 And yet doth stoop with hungry violence 
 Upon a piece of hateful carrion ; 
 So wretched man, displeas'd with those delights 
 Would yield a quickening savour to his soul, 
 Pursues with eager and unstanched thirst 
 The greedy longings of his loathsome flesh. 
 If holy David so shook hands with sin, 
 What shall our baser spirits glory in ? 
 This kingly giving lust her rein 
 Pursues the sequel with a greater ill. 
 Urias in the forefront of the wars 
 Is murdered by the hateful heathens' sword, 
 And David joys his too dear Bethsabe. 
 Suppose this past, and that the child is born, 
 Whose death the prophet solemnly doth mourn. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Bethsabe toith her Maid. 
 
 Beth. Mourn, Bethsabe, bewail thy foolishness, 
 Thy sin, thy shame, the sorrow of thy soul : 
 Sin, shame, and sorrow swarm about thy soul ; 
 And, in the gates and entrance of my heart, 
 Sadness, with wreathed arms, hangs her complaint. 
 No comfort from the ten-string'd instrument, 
 The tinkling cymbal, or the ivory lute; 
 Nor doth the sound of David's kingly harp 
 Make glad the broken heart of Bethsabe : 
 Jerusalem is fill'd with thy complaint, 
 And in the streets of Sion sits thy grief. 
 The babe is sick, sick to the death, I fear. 
 The fruit that sprung from thee to David's house; 
 Nor may the pot of honey and of oil 
 
64 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Glad David or his handmaid's countenance. 
 
 Urias — wo is me to think hereon ! 
 
 For who is it among the sons of men 
 
 That saith not to my soul, ' The king hath sinn'd ; 
 
 David hath done amiss, and Bethsabe 
 
 Laid snares of death unto Urias' life ? ' 
 
 My sweet Urias, fall'n into the pit 
 
 Art thou, and gone even to the gates of hell 
 
 For Bethsabe, that wouldst not shroud her shame. 
 
 Oh, what.is it to serve the lust of kings ! 
 
 How lion-like they rage when we resist! 
 
 But, Bethsabe, in humbleness attend 
 
 The grace that God will to his handmaid send. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter David in his gown, walking sadly; Servants 
 attending. 
 
 Dav. [aside.'\ The babe is sick, and sad is David's 
 heart. 
 To see the guiltless bear the guilty's pain. 
 David, hang up thy harp ; hang down thy head ; 
 And dash thy ivory lute against the stones. 
 The dew, that on the hill of Hermon falls. 
 Rains not on Sion's tops and lofty towers ; 
 The plains of Gath and Askaron rejoice, 
 And David's thoughts are spent in pensiveness : 
 The babe is sick, sweet babe, that Bethsabe 
 With woman's pain brought forth to Israel. 
 
 Enter Nathan. 
 
 But what saith Nathan to his lord the king ? 
 
 Na, Thus Nathan saith unto his loi'd the king. 
 There were two men both dwellers in one town : 
 The one was mighty, and exceeding rich 
 In oxen, sheep, and cattle of the field ; 
 The other poor, having nor ox, nor calf, 
 Nor other cattle, save one little lamb 
 Which he had bought and nourish'd by the hand ; 
 And it grew up, and fed with him and his. 
 And eat and drank as he and his were wont^ 
 And in his bosom slept, and was to him 
 As was his daughter or his dearest child. 
 There came a stranger to this wealthy man ; 
 And he refus'd and spar'd to take his own, 
 Or of his store to dress or make him meat. 
 But took the poor man's sheep, partly, poor man's 
 
 store, ^ 
 And dress'd it for this stranger in his house. 
 What, tell me, shall be done to him for this ? 
 
 Dav. Now, as the Lord doth live, this wicked man 
 Is judg'd and shall become the child of death ; 
 Fourfold to the poor man shall he restore, 
 That without mercy took his lamb away. 
 Na. Thou art the man ; and thou hast judg^ 
 
 thyself. 
 David, thus saith the Lord thy God by me: 
 I thee anointed king in Israel, 
 And sav'd thee from the tyranny of Saul ; 
 Thy master's house I gave thee to possess ; 
 His wives into thy bosom did I give, 
 And Judah and Jerusalem withal ; 
 And might, thou know'st, if this had been too 
 
 small. 
 Have given thee more : 
 
 Wherefore, then, hast thou gone so far astray. 
 And hast done evil, and sinned in my sight ? 
 Urias thou hast killed with the sword ; 
 Yea, with the sword of the uncircumcis'd 
 Thou hast him slain : wherefoi-e, from this day 
 
 forth. 
 The sword shall never go from thee and thine ; 
 For thou hast ta'en this Hethite's wife to thee : 
 Wherefore, behold, I will, saith Jacob's God, 
 
 * But took the poor man's sfieep, partly, poor man's 
 store Some conuption or omission here. 
 
 In thine own house stir evil up to thee ; 
 Yea, I before thy face will take thy vnyes, 
 And give them to thy neighbour to possess : 
 This shall be done to David in the day. 
 That Israel openly may see thy shame. 
 
 £>av. Nathan, I have against the Lord, I have, 
 Sinned ; Oh, sinned grievously ! and, lo, 
 From heaven's throne doth David throw himself, 
 And groan and grovel to the gates of hell ! 
 
 [Falls down. 
 
 Na. [raising him.] David, stand up: thus 
 saith the Lord by me,: 
 David the king shall live, for he hath seen 
 The true repentant sorrow of thy heart; 
 But, for thou hast in this misdeed of thine 
 Stirr'd up the enemies of Israel 
 To triumph, and blaspheme the God of Hosts, 
 And say, he set a wicked man to reign 
 Over his loved people and his tribes, — 
 The child shall surely die, that erst was born, 
 His mother's sin, his kingly father's scorn.' 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dav. How just is Jacob's God in all his works ! 
 But must it die that David loveth so ? 
 Oh, that the Mighty One of Israel 
 Nill2 change his doom, and says the babe must 
 
 die! 
 ^Fourn, Israel, and weep in Sion-gates ; 
 Wither, ye cedar-trees of Lebanon ; 
 Ye sprouting almonds, with your flowering tops, 
 Droop down, and drench in Hebron's fearful 
 
 streams : 
 The babe must die that was to David born. 
 His mother s sin, his kingly father's scorn. 
 
 [Sits sadly. 
 
 Enter Cusay. 
 
 First Serv. What tidings bringeth Cusay to 
 the king ? 
 
 Cu. To thee, the servant of King David's court. 
 This bringeth Cusay, as the prophet spake ; 
 The Lord hath surely stricken to the death 
 The child new-born by that Urias' wife. 
 That by the sons of Ammon erst was slain. 
 
 First Serv. Cusay, be still ; the king is vex^d 
 sore: 
 How shall he speed that brings this tidings first. 
 When, while the child was yet alive, we spake. 
 And David's heart would not be comforted ? 
 
 Dav. Yea, David's heart will not be comforted! 
 What murmur ye, the servants of the king ? 
 What tidings telleth Cusay to the king ? 
 Sa}', Cusay, lives the child, or is he dead ? 
 
 Cu. The child is dead, that of Urias' wife 
 David begat. 
 
 Dav. Urias' wife, say'st thou ? 
 The child is dead, then ceaseth David's shamo : 
 Fetch me to eat, and give me wine to drink ; 
 Water to wash, and oil to clear my looks ; 
 Bring down your shalms, ^ your cymbals, and 
 
 your pipes ; 
 Let David's harp and lute, his hand and voice. 
 Give laud to him that loveth Israel, 
 And sing his praise that shendeth* David's fame, 
 That put away his sin from out his sight. 
 And sent his shame into the streets of Gath. 
 Bring ye to me the mother of the babe, 
 That I may wipe the tears from off her face, 
 And give her comfort with this hand of mine. 
 And de'ck fair Bethsabe with ornaments, 
 
 1 scorn — disgrace ; reproach. 2 ym—yfiw not. 
 
 3 A kind of pipe like a hautboy; properly shawm. 
 German schalmei, hautboy ; probably connected with 
 French chalumeau, pipe, reed ; Latin, calamus, a reed. 
 
 < shendeth — defendeth here, though shend properly— 
 injure, reproach. Anglo-Saxon, scandu, scandal. 
 
That she may bear to me another son, 
 That may be lov^d of the Lord of Hosts ; 
 For where he is, of force must David go, 
 But never may he come where David is. 
 
 They bring in icater, wine, and oil. Music and a 
 banquet ; and enter Bethsabe. 
 
 Fair Bethsabe, sit thou, and sigh no more : — 
 And sing and play, you servants of the king : 
 Now sleepeth David's sorrow with the dead. 
 And Bethsabe liveth to Israel. 
 
 They use all solemnities together, and sing, ^x. 
 
 Now arms and warlike engines for assault 
 Px-epare at once, ye men of Israel, 
 Ye men of Judah and Jerusalem, 
 That Eabbah may be taken by the king. 
 Lest it be called after Joab's name. 
 Nor David's glory shine in Sion streets. 
 To Eabbah marcheth David with his men, 
 To chastise Ammon and the wicked ones. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Absalon with several others. 
 
 Abs. Set up your mules, and give them well to 
 eat, 
 And let us meet our brothers at the feast. 
 Accursed is the master of this feast, 
 Dishonour of the house of Israel, 
 His sister's slander, and his mother's shame : 
 Shame be his share that could such ill contrive. 
 But may his wickedness find just reward! 
 Therefore doth Absalon conspire with you, 
 That Amnon die what time he sits to eat ; 
 For in the holy temple have I sworn 
 Wreak 1 of his villany in Thamai''s rape. 
 And here he comes : bespeak him gently all. 
 Whose death is deeply graved in my heart. 
 
 Enter AivixoN, Adoxia, and Joxadab. 
 
 Am. Our shearers are not far from hence, I 
 wot; 
 And Amnon to you all his brethren 
 Giveth such welcome as our fathers erst 
 Were wont in Judah and Jerusalem ; — 
 But, specially. Lord Absalon, to thee, 
 The honour of thy house and pi'ogeny : 
 Sit down and dine with me. King David's son, 
 Thou fair young man, whose hairs shine in mine 
 
 eye 
 Like golden wires of David's ivory lute. 
 Abs. Amnon, where be thy shearers and thy 
 men. 
 That we may pour in plenty of thy wines, 
 And eat thy goats'-milk, and rejoice with thee ? 
 Am. Here cometh Amnon's shearers and his 
 men: — 
 Absalon, sit and rejoice with me. . 
 
 Enter a company q/'Shepherds, who dance and sing. 
 
 Drink, Absalon, in praise of Israel; 
 Welcome to Amnon's fields from David's court, 
 Abs. \ stabbing Amnon.] Die with thy draught ; 
 » perfsh, and die accurs'd ; 
 Dishonour to the honour of us all ; 
 Die for the villany to Thamar done, 
 Unworthy thou to be King David's son ! 
 
 [Exit with others. 
 Jonad. Oh, what hath Absalon for Thamar 
 done, 
 Murder'd his brother, great King David's son ! 
 
 Ad. Kun, Jonadab, away, and make it known 
 What cruelty this Absalon hath shown. 
 Amnon, thy brother Adonia shall 
 
 1 TFreai— vengeance. 
 
 Bury thy body 'mong the dead men's bones ; 
 And we will malie complaint to Israel 
 Of Amnon's death, and pride of Absalon, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter David, Joab, Abtsai, Cusay, and others, 
 with drum and ensign against Eabbah. 
 
 Dav. This is the town of the uncircumcis'd, 
 The city of the kingdom, this is it, 
 Eabbah, where wicked Hanon sitteth king. 
 Despoil this king, this Hanon, of his crown ; 
 Unpeople Eabbah and the streets thereof ; 
 For in their blood, and slaughter of the slain, 
 Lieth the honour of King David's line. 
 Joab, Abisai, and the rest of you. 
 Fight ye this day for great Jerusalem. 
 
 Enter Hanon and others on the walls. 
 
 Joab. And see where Hanon shows him on the 
 walls ; 
 Why, then, do we forbear to give assault, 
 That Israel may, as it is promised, 
 Subdue the daughters of the Gentiles' tribes ? 
 All this must be perfonn'd by David's hand, 
 
 Dav. Hark to me, Hanon, and remember well : 
 As sure as He doth live that kept my host, 
 What time our young men, by the pool of Gibeon, 
 Went forth against the strength of Isboseth, 
 And twelve to twelve did with their weapons 
 
 play; 
 So sure art thou and thy men of war 
 To feel the sword of Israel this day. 
 Because thou hast defied Jacob's God, 
 And suffer'd Eabbah with the Philistine 
 To rail upon the tribe of Benjamin, 
 
 Ha. Hark, man : as sure as Saul thy master 
 fell. 
 And gor'd his sides upon the mountain-tops, 
 And Jonathan, Abinadab, and Melchisua, 
 Water'd the dales and deeps of Askaron 
 With bloody streams, that from Gilboa ran 
 In channels through the wilderness of Ziph, 
 What time the sword of the uncircumcis'd 
 Was drunken with the blood of Israel ; 
 So sure shall David perish with his men 
 Under the walls of Eabbah, Hanon's town. 
 
 Joab. Hanon, the God of Israel hath said, 
 David the king shall wear that crown of thine, 
 That weighs a talent of the finest gold, 
 And triumph in the spoil of Hanon's town. 
 When Israel shall hale thy people hence. 
 And turn them to the tile-kiln, man and child, 
 And put them under harrows made of iron. 
 And hew their bones with axes, and their limbs 
 With iron swords divide and tear in twain, 
 Hanon, this shall be done to thee and thine, 
 Because thou hast defied Israel. — 
 To arms, to arms, that Eabbah feel revenge. 
 And Hanon's town become King David's spoil ! 
 
 Alaimm, excursions, assault; exeunt. Then the 
 trumpets sound, and re-enter David with 
 Hanon's crown, Joab, etc. 
 
 Dav. Now clattering arms and wrathful storms 
 of war 
 Have thunder'd over Eabbah's razed towers ; 
 The AvreakfuP ire of great Jehovah's arm. 
 That for his people made the gates to rend, 
 And cloth'd the cherubims in fiery coats 
 To fight against the wicked Hanon's town. 
 Pay thanks, ye men of Judah, to the King, 
 The God of Sion and Jerusalem, 
 That hath exalted Israel to this. 
 And crownfed David with this diadem. 
 
 ^ tcreai/j(Z— vengeful. 
 
66 
 
 EARL Y DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Joab. Beauteous and bright is lie among the 
 
 tribes ; 
 As when the sun,^ attir'd in glistering robe, 
 Comes dancing from his oriental gate, 
 And bridegroom-like hurls through the gloomy 
 
 air 
 His radiant beams, such doth King David show, 
 Crown'd with the honour of his enemies' town, 
 Shining in riches like the firmament, 
 The starry vault that overhangs the earth : 
 So looketh David, king of Israel. 
 Abis. Joab, why doth not David mount his 
 
 throne. 
 Whom Heaven hath beautified with Hanon's 
 
 crown ? 
 Sound trumpets, shalms, and instruments of 
 
 IDraise, 
 To Jacob's God for David's victory. 
 
 Enter Jonadab. 
 
 Jonad. "Why doth the king of Israel rejoice ? 
 Why sitteth David crown'd with Eabbah's rule ? 
 Behold, there hath great heaviness befall'n 
 In Amnon's fields by Absalon's misdeed ; 
 And Amnon's shearers and their feast of mirth, 
 Absalon hath o'erturnfed with his sword ; 
 Nor liveth any of King David's sons 
 To bring this bitter tidings to the king. 
 
 Dav. Ay me, how soon are David's triumphs 
 dash'd! 
 How suddenly declineth David's pride ! 
 As doth the daylight settle in the west, 
 So dim is David's glory and his gite.^ 
 Die, David ; for to thee is left no seed 
 That may revive thy name in Israel. 
 
 Jonad. In Israel is left of David's seed. 
 Comfort your lord, you servants of the king. — 
 Behold, thy sons return in mourning weeds. 
 And only Amnon Absalon hath slain. 
 
 Enter Adonia with other Sons 0/ David. 
 
 Dav. Welcome, my sons ; dearer to me you are 
 Than is this golden crown or Hanon's spoil. 
 Oh, tell me, then, tell me, my sons, I say, 
 How cometh it to pass that Absalon 
 Hath slain his brother Amnon with the sword 7 
 
 Ad. Thy sons, king, went up to Anmon's 
 fields, 
 To feast with him and eat his bread and oil ; 
 And Absalon upon his mule doth come, 
 And to his men he saith, ' When Amnon's heart 
 Is merry and secure, then strike him dead. 
 Because he forced Thamar shamefully. 
 And hated her, and threw her forth his doors.' 
 And this did he ; and they with him conspire, 
 And kill thy son in wreak of Thamar's wrong. 
 
 Dav. How long shall Judah and Jerusalem 
 Complain, and water Sion with their tears? 
 How long shall Israel lament in vain, 
 And not a man among the mighty ones 
 Will hear the sorrows of King David's heart ! 
 Amnon, thy life was pleasing to thy lord. 
 As to mine ears the music of my lute. 
 
 1 As when the sun, <fec. Hawkins, who (Preface to 
 The Origin of the English Drama, vol. i. p. 11) justly 
 praises this simile, had forgotten the following lines of 
 Spenser : — 
 
 ' At last, the golden orientall gate 
 Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fayre ; 
 And Phoebus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate. 
 Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre ; 
 And hurl'd his glist'ring beams tlirough gloomy ayre.' 
 The Faerie Queene, B. 1, c. 5, st. 2. 
 — Dtce. 
 
 2 gite—a. gown ; used here metaphorically for splen- 
 dour, brightness. 
 
 Or songs that David tuneth to his harp; 
 And Absalon hath ta'en from me away 
 The gladness of my sad distressed soul. 
 
 lExeunt Joab and some others. 
 
 Enter Woman of Thecoa. 
 
 Wo. of T. [kneeling.'] God save King David, 
 Idng of Israel, 
 And bless the gates of Sion for his sake ! 
 JDav. Woman, why mournest thou ? rise from 
 the earth ; 
 Tell me what sorrow hath befall'n thy soul. 
 Wo. of T. [rising.'] Thy servant's soul, king, 
 is troubled sore. 
 And grievous is the anguish of her heart; 
 And from Thecoa doth thy handmaid come. 
 
 Dav. Tell me, and say, thou woman of Thecoa, 
 What aileth thee, or what is come to pass. 
 
 Wo. of T. Thy servant is a widow in Thecoa. 
 Two sons thy handmaid had ; and they, my lord, 
 Fought in the field, where no man went betwixt. 
 And so the one did smite and slay the other. 
 And, lo ! behold, the kindred doth arise. 
 And cry on him that smote his bi'other, 
 That he therefore may be the child of death ; 
 ' For we will follow and destroy the heir.' 
 So will they quench that sparkle that is left. 
 And leave nor name nor issue on the earth 
 To me or to thy handmaid's husband dead. 
 Dav. Woman, return ; go home unto thy 
 house : 
 I will take order that thy son be safe. 
 If any man say otherwise than well, 
 Bring him to me, and I shall chastise him ; 
 For, as the Lord doth live, shall not a hair 
 Shed from thy son or fall upon the earth. 
 Woman, to God alone belongs revenge : 
 Shall, then, the kindred slay him for his sin ? 
 Wo. of T. WeU hath King David to his hand- 
 maid spoke : 
 But wherefore, then, hast thou determined 
 So hard a part against the righteous tribes, 
 To follow and pursue the banished, 
 Whenas^ to God alone belongs revenge? 
 Assuredly thou saist against thyself : 
 Therefore call home again the banished, 
 Call home the banished, that he may live. 
 And raise to thee some fruit in Israel. 
 
 Dav. Thou woman of Thecoa, answer me. 
 Answer me one thing I shall ask of theo 
 Is not the hand of Joab in this work ? 
 Tell me, is not his finger in this fact.' 
 
 Wo. of T. It is, my lord ; his hand is in this 
 work: 
 Assure thee, Joab, captain of thy host, 
 Hath put these words into thy handmaid's mouth; 
 And thou art as an angel from on high, 
 To understand the meaning of my heart : 
 Lo, where he cometh to his lord the king. 
 
 Re-enter Joab. 
 
 Dav. Say, Joab, didst thou send this woman in 
 To put this parable for Absalon ? 
 
 Joab. Joab, my lord, did bid this woman speak; 
 And she hath said, and thou hast understood. 
 
 Dav. I have, and am content to do the thing. 
 Go fetch my son, that he may live with me. 
 
 Joab. [kneeling.] Now God be blessed for King 
 David's life ! 
 Thy servant Joab hath found grace with thee, 
 In that thou sparest Absalon thy child. [Rises. 
 A beautiful and fan- young man is he ; 
 In all his body is no blemish seen ; 
 His hair is like the wire of David's harp, 
 
 * IF/jenai— when 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 67 
 
 That twiues about liis bright and ivory neck; 
 
 In Israel is not such a goodly man : 
 
 And here I bring him to entreat for grace. 
 
 JoAB brings in Absalox. 
 
 Dav. Hast thou slain [Amnon] in the fields of 
 Hazor ? 
 Ah, Absalon, my son ! ah, my son, Absalon ! 
 But wherefore do I vex thy spirit so ? 
 Live, and return from Gesur to thy house ; 
 Return from Gesur to Jerusalem : 
 What boots it to be bitter to thy soul ? 
 Amnon is dead, and Absalon survives. 
 
 Abs. Father, I have offended Israel, 
 I have offended David and his house ; 
 For Thamar's wrong hath Absalon misdone : 
 But David's heai't is free from sharp revenge, 
 And Joab hath got grace for Absalon. 
 
 Dav. Depart with me, you men of Israel, 
 You that have f ollow'd Eabbah with the sword, 
 And ransack Amnon's richest treasuries. — 
 Live, Absalon, my son, live once in peace : 
 Peace [be] with thee, and with Jerusalem ! 
 
 [Exeunt all except Absalon. 
 
 Abs. David is gone, and Absalon remains. 
 Flowering in pleasant springtime of his youth : 
 Why liveth Absalon, and is not honour'd 
 Of tribes and elders and the mightiest ones, 
 That round about his temples he may wear 
 Garlands and wreaths set on with reverence ; 
 That every one that hath a cause to plead 
 Might come to Absalon and call for right ? 
 Then in the gates of Sion would I sit, 
 Ajid publish laws in great Jerusalem ; 
 And not a man should live in all the land 
 But Absalon would do him reason's due : 
 Therefore I shall address me, as I may, 
 To love the men and tribes of Israel. [Exit. 
 
 Enter David, Ithay, Sadoc, Aiiimaas, Jona- 
 than, and others; David barefoot., with some 
 loose covering over his head; ana all mourning. 
 
 Dav. Proud lust, the bloodiest traitor to our 
 
 souls. 
 Whose greedy throat nor earth, air, sea, or 
 
 heaven. 
 Can glut or satisfy with any store, 
 Thou art the cause these torments suck my blood. 
 Piercing with venom of thy poison'd eyes 
 The strength and marrow of my tainted bones. 
 To punish Pharaoh and his cursed host. 
 The waters shrunk at great Adonai's voice, 
 And sandy bottom of the sea appear'd. 
 Offering his service at his servant's feet ; 
 And, to inflict a plague on David's sin, 
 He makes his bowels traitors to his breast, 
 Winding about his heart with mortal gripes. 
 Ah, Absalon, the wrath of Heaven inflames 
 Thy scorched bosom with ambitious heat! 
 And Satan sets thee on a lofty ^ tower. 
 Showing thy thoughts the pride of Israel, 
 Of choice to cast thee on her ruthless stones ! — 
 Weep with me, then, ye sons of Israel ; 
 Lie down with David, and with David mourn 
 Before the Holy One that sees our hearts ; 
 
 [Lies down, and all the rest after him. 
 
 Season this heavy soil with showers of tears, 
 And fill the face of every flower with dew ; 
 Weep, Israel, for David's soul dissolves. 
 Lading the fountains of his drowned eyes, 
 And pours her substance on the senseless earth ! 
 Sa. Weep, Israel ; oh, weep for David's soul, 
 
 lo/ty—^ lustiQ ' is another reading. 
 
 Strewing the ground with hair and garments torn, 
 For tragic witness of your hearty woes ! 
 Aki. Oh, would our eyes were conduits to our 
 
 hearts. 
 And that our hearts were seas of liquid blood, 
 To pour in streams upon this holy mount, 
 For witness we would die for David's woes ! 
 Jonath. Then should this mount of Olives seem 
 
 a plain 
 Drown'd with a sea, that with our sighs should 
 
 roar, 
 And, in the murmur of his mounting waves, 
 Report our bleeding sorrows to the heavens, 
 For witness we would die for David's woes. 
 Ith. Earth cannot weep enough for David's 
 
 woes: 
 Then weep, you heavens, and, all you clouds, 
 
 dissolve. 
 That piteous stars may see our miseries. 
 And drop their golden tears upon the ground, 
 For witness how they weep for David's woes ! 
 Sa. Now let my sovereign raise his prostrate 
 
 bones. 
 And mourn not as a faithless man would do ; 
 But be assur'd that Jacob's righteous God, 
 That promis'd never to forsake your throne., 
 Will still be just and pure in his vows. 
 
 Dav. Sadoc, high priest, preserver of the ark, 
 Whose sacred virtue keeps the chosen crown, 
 I know my God is spotless in his vows. 
 And that these hairs shall greet my grave in 
 
 peace : 
 But that my son should wrong his tender'd^ soul, 
 And fight against his father's happiness. 
 Turns all my hopes into despair of him, 
 And that despair feeds all my veins with grief, 
 
 Ith. Think of it, David, as a fatal plague 
 Which grief preserveth, but preventeth not ; 
 And turn thy drooping eyes upon the troops 
 That, of affection to thy worthiness, 
 Do swarm about the person of the king : 
 Cherish their valours and their zealous loves 
 With pleasant looks and sweet encouragements. 
 Dav. Methinks the voice of Ithay fills mine ears. 
 Ith. Let not the voice of Ithay loathe thine 
 
 ears, 
 Whose heart would balm thy bosom with his 
 
 tears. 
 Dav. But wherefore go'sl thou to the wai-s 
 
 with us ? 
 Thou art a stranger here in Israel, 
 And son to Achis, mighty king of Gath ; 
 Therefore return, and with thy father stay. 
 Thou cam'st but yesterday ; and should I now 
 Let thee partake these troubles here with us ? 
 Keep both thyself and all thy soldiers safe : 
 Let me abide the hazards of these arms, 
 And God requite the friendship thou hast show'd. 
 
 Ith. As sure as Israel's God gives David life. 
 What place or peril shall contain the king, 
 The same will Ithay share in life and death. 
 
 Dav. Then, gentle Ithay, be thou still with us, 
 A joy to David, and a grace to Israel, — 
 Go, Sadoc, now, and bear the ark of God 
 Into the great Jerusalem again : 
 If I find favour in his gracious eyes. 
 Then will He lay his hand upon my heart 
 Yet once again before I visit death ; 
 Giving it strength, and virtue to mine eyes. 
 To taste the comforts and behold the form 
 Of his fair ark and holy tabernacle : 
 But if He say, ' My wonted love is worn, 
 And I have no delight in David now,' 
 Here lie I armed with an humble heart 
 
 * tendered— \OYQ^. 
 
68 
 
 EARLY DRAMATISTS. 
 
 T' embrace the pains that anger shall impose, 
 
 And kiss the sword my Lord shall kill me with. 
 
 Then, Sadoc, take Ahimaas thy son, 
 
 "With Jonathan son to Abiathar ; 
 
 And in these fields will I repose myself, 
 
 Till they return from you some certain news. 
 
 Sa. Thy servants will with joj' obey the king, 
 And hope to cheer his heart with happy news. 
 
 \Exeunt Sadoc, Ahimaas, and Jonathan. 
 
 Ith. Kow, that it be no grief unto the king, 
 Let me for good inform his Majesty, 
 That^ with unkind and graceless Absalon, 
 Achitophel, your ancient counsellor, 
 Directs the state of this rebellion. 
 
 Dav. Then doth it aim with danger at my 
 crown. — 
 Oh Thou, that hold'st his raging bloody bound 
 Within the circle of the silver moon, 
 That girds earth's centre with his watery scarf. 
 Limit the counsel of Achitophel, 
 Ko bounds extending to my soul's distress, 
 But turn his wisdom into foolishness ! 
 
 Enter Cusay with his coat turned and head 
 covered. 
 
 Cu. Happiness and honour to my lord the 
 king ! 
 
 Dav. "What happiness or honour may betide 
 His state that toils in my extremities ? 
 
 Cu. Oh, let my gracious sovereign cease these 
 griefs, 
 Unless he wish his servant Cusay's death, 
 "Whose life depends upon my lord's relief I 
 Then let my presence with my sighs perfume 
 The pleasant closet of my sovereign's soul. 
 
 iJav. No, Cusay, no ; thy presence unto me 
 "Will be a burden, since I tender^ thee, 
 And cannot brook thy sighs for David's sake : 
 But if thou turn to fair Jerusalem, 
 And say to Absalon, as thou hast been 
 A trusty friend unto his fathei''s seat. 
 So thou wilt be to him, and call him king, 
 Achitophel's counsel may be brought to naught 
 Then having Sadoc and Abiathar, 
 All three may learn the secrets of my son, 
 Sending the message by Ahimaas, 
 And friendly Jonathan, who both are there. 
 
 Cu. Then rise, referring the success to Heaven. 
 
 Dav. Cusay, I rise; though with unwieldy 
 bones 
 I carry arms against my Absalon. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Absalon, Amasa, Achitophel, icith the Concu- 
 bines q/* David, and others, are discovered in 
 great state; Absalon crowned. 
 
 Abs. Now, you that were my father's concu- 
 bines, 
 Liquor to his inchaste and lustful fire. 
 Have seen his honour shaken in his house, 
 "Which I possess in sight of all the world ; 
 I bring ye forth for foils to my renoAvn, 
 And to eclipse the glory of your king, 
 "Whose life is with his honour fast enclos'd 
 "Within the entrails of a jetty cloud, 
 "Whose dissolution shall pour down in showers 
 The substance of his life and swelling pride : 
 Then shall the stars light earth with rich aspdcts, 
 And heaven shall bum in love with Absalon, 
 "Whose beauty will suffice to chase all mists, 
 And clothe the sun's sphere with a triple fire. 
 Sooner than his clear eyes should suffer stain. 
 Or be offended with a lowering day. 
 
 1 tender— love. 
 
 First Cone. Thy father's honour, graceless Ab- 
 salon, 
 And ours thus beaten with thy violent arms, 
 Will cry for vengeance to the host of heaven, 
 Whose power is ever arm'd against the proud, 
 And will dart plagues at thy aspiring head 
 For doing this disgrace to David's thi'one. 
 
 Second Cone. To David's thi-one, to David's 
 holy throne, 
 Whose sceptre angels guard with swords of fire, 
 And sit as eagles on his conquering fist, 
 Ready to prey upon his enemies : 
 Then think not thou, the captain of his foes, 
 Wert thou much swifter than AzahelP was. 
 That could outpace the nimble-footed roe, 
 To 'scape the fury of their thumping- beaks, 
 Or dreadful scope of their commanding wings. 
 
 Ach. Let not my lord the king of Israel 
 Be angry with a silly woman's threats ; 
 But, with the pleasure he hath erst enjoy'd, 
 Turn them into their cabinets again, 
 Till David's conquest be their overthrow. 
 
 Abs. Into your bowers, ye daughters of disdain, 
 Gotten by fury of unbridled lust. 
 And wash your couches with your mourning 
 
 tears, 
 For grief that David's kingdom is decay'd. 
 
 First Cone. No, Absalon, his kingdom is en- 
 chain'd 
 Fast to the finger of great Jacob's God, 
 Which wiU not loose it for a rebel's love. 
 
 [^Exeunt Concubines. 
 
 Ama. If I might give advice unto the king, 
 These concubines should buy their taunts Avith 
 blood. 
 
 Abs. Amasa, no ; but let thy martial sword 
 Empty the veins of David's armed men, 
 And let these foolish women 'scape our hands 
 To recompense the shame they have sustain'd. 
 Fii-st, Absalon was by the trumpet's sound 
 Proclaim'd through Hebron, king of Israel ; 
 And now is set in fair Jerusalem 
 With c&mplete state and glory of a crown : 
 Fifty fair footmen by my chariot run, 
 And to the air whose rupture^ rings my fame, 
 Where'er I ride, they offer reverence. 
 Why should not Absalon, that in his face 
 Carries the final pui-pose of his God, 
 That is, to work him grace in Israel, 
 Endeavour to achieve with all his strength 
 The state that most may satisfy his joy. 
 Keeping his statutes and his covenants pure ? 
 His thunder is entangled in my hair, 
 And with my beautj' is his lightning quench'd : 
 I am the man he made to glory in. 
 When by the errors of my father's sin 
 He lost the path that led into the land 
 Wherewith our chosen ancestors were bless'd. 
 
 Enter Ccsay. 
 
 Cu. Long may the beauteous king of Israel 
 live. 
 To whom the people do by thousands swarm ! 
 
 Abs. What meaneth Cusay so to greet his foe ? 
 Is this the love thou show'st to David's soul. 
 To whose assistance thou hast vow'd thy life ? 
 Why leav'st thou him in this extremity ? 
 
 Cu. Because the Lord and Israel chooseth thee; 
 And as before I serv'd thy father's turn 
 With counsel acceptable in his sight, 
 So likewise will I now obey his son. 
 
 1 AzaheU. 'And there were three sons of Zeniiah 
 there, Joah, and Abishai, and Asahel : and Asahel was 
 as light of foot as a wild roe.' — 2 Sam. ii. 18. 
 
 - thumping— heavy, large, great. 
 
 3 rupture — cleaving, hreaking. 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 69 
 
 Ahs. Then welcome, Ousay, to King Absalon. — 
 And now, my lords and loving counsellors, 
 I think it time to exercise our arms 
 Against forsaken David and his host. 
 Give counsel first, my good Achitophel, 
 What times and orders we may best observe 
 For prosperous manage^ of these high exploits. 
 
 Ach. Let me choose out twelve thousand va- 
 liant men : 
 And, while the night hides with her sable mists 
 The close endeavours cunning soldiers use, 
 I will assault thy discontented sire ; 
 And, while with weakness of their weary arms, 
 Surcharg'd with toil, to shun thy sudden power 
 The people fly in huge disorder'd troops 
 To save their lives, and leave the king alone, 
 Then will I smite him with his latests wound, 
 And bring the people to thy feet in peace. 
 
 Abs. Well hath Achitophel given his advice. 
 Yet let us hear what Ousay counsels us, 
 Whose great experience is well worth the ear. 
 
 Cu. Though wise Achitophel be much more 
 meet 
 To purchase hearing with my lord the king, 
 For all his former counsels, than myself, 
 Yet, not offending Absalon or him, 
 This time it is not good nor worth pursuit ; 
 For, well thou know'st, thy father's men are 
 
 strong, 
 Chafing as she-bears robbed of their whelps : 
 Besides, the king himself a valiant man, 
 Train'd up in feats and stratagems of war ; 
 And will not, for prevention of the worst, 
 Lodge with the common soldiers in the field ; 
 But now, I know, his wonted policies 
 Have taught him lurk within some secret cave, 
 Guarded with all his stoutest soldiers ; 
 Which, if the forefront of his battle faint, 
 Will yet give out that Absalon doth fly, 
 And so thy soldiers be discouraged : 
 David himself withal, whose angry heart 
 Is as a lion's letted^ of his walk. 
 Will fight himself, and all his men to one, 
 Before a few shall vanquish him by fear. 
 My counsel therefore is, with trumpet's sound 
 To gather men from Dan to Bersabe, 
 That they may march in numbers like sea-sands, 
 That nestle close in [one] another's neck: 
 So shall we come upon him in our strength. 
 Like to the dew that falls in showers from 
 
 heaven. 
 And leave him not a man to march withal. 
 Besides, if any city succour him, 
 The numbers of our men shall fetch us ropes. 
 And we will pull it down the river's stream, 
 That not a stone be left to keep us out. 
 
 Als. What says my lord to Cusay's counsel 
 now? 
 
 Ama. I fancy Cusay's counsel better far 
 Than that is given us from Achitophel ; 
 And so, I think, doth every soldier here. 
 
 All. Cusay's counsel is better than Achi- 
 tophel's. 
 
 Ahs. Then march we after Cusay's counsel all: 
 Sound trumpets through the bounds of Israel, 
 And muster all the men will serve the king, 
 That Absalon may glut his longing soul 
 With sole fruition of his father's ci-own. 
 
 Ach. [aszrfe.] Ill shall they fare that follow thy 
 attempts, 
 That scorns the counsel of Achitophel. 
 
 \Exeunt all except Cusay. 
 
 ^ manage — management. 
 2 latest— last, or fatal. 
 » fe«ed— hindered. 
 
 Cu. Thus hath the power of Jacob's jealous 
 God 
 Fulfill'd his sei-vant David's drifts by me, 
 And brought Achitophel's advice to scorn. 
 
 Enter Sadoc. Abiathae, Ahimaas, and 
 Jonathan. 
 Sa. God save Lord Cusay, and direct his zeal 
 To purchase David's conquest 'gainst his son ! 
 Abi. What secrets hast thou glean'd from 
 
 Absalon ? 
 Cu. These, saci-ed priests that bear the ark of 
 God:— 
 Achitophel advis'd him in the night 
 To let him choose twelve thousand fighting 
 
 men, 
 And he would come on David at unwares, 
 While he was weary with his violent toil : 
 But I advis'd to get a greater host, 
 And gather men from Dan to Bersabe, 
 To come upon him strongly in the fields. 
 Then send Ahimaas and Jonathan 
 To signify these secrets to the king, 
 And wilP him not to stay this night abroad ; 
 But get him over Jordan presently, 
 Lest he and all his people kiss the sword. 
 
 Sa. Then go, Ahimaas and Jonathan, 
 And straight convey this message to the king. 
 AM. Father, we will, if Absalon's chief spies 
 Prevent not this device, and stay us here. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter Semei. 
 
 Sem. The man of Israel that hath nil'd as king, 
 Or rather as the tyrant of the land, 
 Bolstering his hateful head upon the throne 
 That God unworthily hath blessed him with, 
 Shall now, I hope, lay it as low as hell, 
 And be depos'd from his detested chair. 
 Oh that my bosom could by nature bear 
 A sea of poison, to be pour'd upon 
 His cursed head, that sacred balm hath grac'd. 
 And consecrated king of Israel ! 
 Or would my breath were made the smoke of 
 
 hell,_ 
 Infected with the sighs of damned souls, 
 Or with the reeking of that serpent's gorge 
 That feeds on adders, toads, and venomous roots, 
 That, as I open'd my revenging lips 
 To curse the shepherd for his tyranny, 
 !My words might cast rank poison to his pores, 
 And make his swoln and rankling sinews crack, 
 Like to the combat- blows that break the clouds 
 When Jove's stout champions fight with fire. 
 See where he cometh that my soul abhors ! 
 I have prepar'd my pocket full of stones 
 To cast at him, mingled with earth and dust, 
 Which, bursting with disdain, I greet him with. 
 
 Enter David, Joab, Abisai, Ithay, and others. 
 
 Come forth, thou murderer and wicked man : 
 The Lord hath brought upon thy cursed head 
 The guiltless blood of Saul and all his sons, 
 Whose royal throne thy baseness hath usurp'd, 
 And, to revenge it deeply on thy soul, 
 The Lord hath given the kingdom to thy son. 
 And he shall wreak the traitorous wrongs of 
 
 Saul: 
 Even as thy sin hath still importun'd Heaven, 
 So shall thy murders and adultery 
 Be punish'd in the sight of Israel, 
 As thou deserv'st, with blood, with death, and 
 
 hell. 
 Hence, murderer, hence ! 
 
 [Throws stones and earth at David. 
 
 * wtY^desire, 
 
70 
 
 EARLY DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Abis. Why doth this dead dog curse my lord 
 the king ? 
 Let me alone to take a-vv^ay his head. 
 
 Dav. Why meddleth thus the son of Zeruia 
 To interrupt the action of our God ? 
 Semei useth me with this reproach 
 Because the Lord hath sent him to reprove 
 The sins of David, printed in his brows 
 With blood, that blusheth for his conscience' 
 
 guilt ; 
 Who dares, then, ask him why he curseth me ? 
 Sem. If, then, thy conscience tell thee thou 
 hast sinn'd, 
 And that thy life is odious to the world, 
 Command thy followers to shun thy face, 
 And by thyself here make away thy soul, 
 That I may stand and glory in thy shame. 
 
 Dav. I am not desperate, Semei, like thyself, 
 But trust unto the covenant of my God, 
 Founded on mercy, with repentance built, 
 And finish'd with the glory of my soul. 
 
 Sem. A murderer, and hope for mercy in thy 
 end! 
 Hate and destruction sit upon thy brows 
 To watch the issue of thy damned gliost. 
 Which, with thy latest gasp, they'll take and tear, 
 Hurling in every pain of hell a piece. 
 Hence, murderer, thou shame to Israel ! 
 Foul lecher, drunkard, plague to heaven and 
 earth ! [Throws again at David. 
 
 Joab. What ! is it piety in David's thoughts 
 So to abhor 1 from laws of policy 
 In this extremity of his distress, 
 To give his subjects cause of cai'elessness ? 
 Send hence the dog with sorrow to his grave. 
 Dav. Why should the sons of Zeruia seek to 
 check 2 
 His spirit, which the Lord hath thus inspir'd .' 
 Behold my son, which issued from my flesh, 
 With equal fury seeks to take my life : 
 How much more, then, the son of Jemini, 
 Chiefly since he doth naught but God's com- 
 mand ? 
 It may be He will look on me this day 
 With gracious eyes, and for his cursing bless 
 The heart of David in his bitterness. 
 Sem. What ! dost thou fret my soul with suf- 
 ferance ? 3 
 Oh that the souls of Isboseth and Abner, 
 Which thou sent'st swimming to their graves in 
 
 blood, 
 With wounds fresh bleeding, gasping for revenge, 
 Were here to execute my burning hate ! 
 But I will hunt thy foot with curses still : 
 Hence, monster, murderer, min-or of contempt ! 
 [Throws again at David. 
 
 Enter Ahisiaas and Jonathan. 
 
 AM. Long life to David ; to his enemies death ! 
 
 Dav. Welcome, Ahimaas and Jonathan, 
 What news sends Cusay to thy lord the king ? 
 
 AM. Cusay would wish my lord the king 
 To pass the river Jordan presently. 
 Lest he and all his people perish here ; 
 For wise Achitophel hath counsell'd Absalon 
 To take advantage of your weary arms, 
 And come this night upon you in the fields. 
 But yet the Lord hath made his counsel scorn, 
 And Cusay's policy with praise preferred ; 
 Which was to number every Israelite, 
 And so assault you in their pride of strength. 
 
 Jonath. Abiathar, besides, entreats the king 
 
 * abh(yi — shrink. 
 
 * The sons of Zeruia are Abisai and Joab. 
 ' sufferance — suffering, endurance. 
 
 To send his men of war against his son, 
 And hazard not his person in the field. 
 
 Dav. Thanks to Abiathar, and to you both, 
 And to myCusay, whom the Lord requite ; 
 But ten times treble thanks to his soft hand, 
 Whose pleasant touch hath made my heart to 
 
 dance. 
 And play him praises in my zealous breast, 
 That turn'd the counsel of Achitophel 
 After the prayers of his servant's lips. 
 Now will we pass the river all this night. 
 And in the morning sound the voice of war. 
 The voice of bloody and unkindly ^ war. 
 
 Joah. Then tell us how thou wilt divide thy 
 men, 
 And who shall have the special charge herein. 
 
 Dav. Joab, thyself shall for thy charge conduct 
 The first third part of all my valiant men ; 
 The second shall Abisai's valour lead ; 
 The third fair Ithay, which I most should grace 
 For comfort he hath done to David's woes ; 
 And I myself will follow in the midst. 
 
 Ith. That let not David ; for, though we should 
 
 fly, 
 
 Ten thousand of us were not half so much 
 Esteem'd with David's enemies as himself : 
 Thy people, loving thee, deny thee this. 
 
 Dav. What seems them best, then, that will 
 David do. 
 But now, my lords and captains, hear his voice 
 That never yet pierc'd piteous heaven in vain ; 
 Then let it not slip lightly through your ears; — 
 For my sake spare the young man Absalon. 
 Joab, thyself did'st once use friendly words 
 To reconcile my heart incens'd to him : 
 If, then, thy love be to thy kinsman sound, 
 And thou wilt prove a perfect Israelite, 
 Friend - him with deeds, and touch no hair of 
 
 him, — 
 iSTot that fair hair with which the wanton winds 
 Delight to play, and love to make it curl. 
 Wherein the nightingales would build their nests, 
 And make sweet boAvers in every golden tress, 
 To sing their lover every night asleep. 
 Oh, spoU not, Joab, Jove's^ fair oraaments, 
 Which He hath sent to solace David's soul ! 
 The best, ye see, my lords, are swift to sin. 
 To sin, oitr feet are wash'd with milk of I'oes,* 
 And dried again with coals of lightning. 
 O Lord, Thou see'st the pi'oudest sin's poor slave, 
 And with his bridle ^ puH'st him to the grave ! 
 For my sake, then, spare lovely Absalon. 
 
 Ith. We will, my lord, for thy sake favour him. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Achitophel with a halter. 
 
 Ach. Now hath Achitophel order'd his house, 
 And taken leave of every pleasure there ; 
 Hereon depend Achitophel's delights. 
 And in this cu-cle must his life be clos'd. 
 
 1 vnkindly — unnatural, against kindred. 
 
 - Friend— \)QiY\er\A.. 
 
 3 Jove's — Jehovah's. 
 
 < Milk of roes. — Walker, -who (Shalespeare's Yersifica- 
 tion, &c., p. 18) quotes this as if the reading of the old 
 copy was ' milk of roses,' justly calls it ' a strange pas- 
 sage.'— Dtce. 
 
 5 And with his bridle, <fec. — ' This line,' says Mr. Col- 
 lier, ' as printed by the Rev. Mr. Dyce, exhibits almost 
 the solitary verbal blemish of his edition. It there 
 stands, 
 
 " And with his bridle pull'st him to the grave ; " 
 
 as if David, addressing the Lord, said, "Thou pull'st 
 man to the grave with the bridle of sin : " M'hereas the 
 meaning is, that " sin with his bridle pulls man to the 
 grave." The passage would read better could we alter 
 and in the last line to " who." ' 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 71 
 
 The -wise Achitophel, -whose counsel prov'd 
 
 Ever as sound for fortunate success 
 
 As if men ask'd the oracle of God, 
 
 Is now us'd like the fool of Israel. 
 
 Then set thy angry soul upon her wings, 
 
 And let her fly into the shade of death ; 
 
 And for my death let heaven for ever weep, 
 
 Making huge floods upon the land I leave, 
 
 To ravish them and all their fairest fruits. 
 
 Let all the sighs I breath'd for this disgrace 
 
 Hang on my hedges like eternal mists. 
 
 As mourning garments for their master's death. 
 
 Ope, earth, and take thy miserable son 
 
 Into the bowels of thy cursed womb : 
 
 Once in a surfeit thou didst spue him forth ; 
 
 Now for fell hunger suck him in again, 
 
 And be his body poison to thy veins. 
 
 And now, thou hellish instrument of heaven, 
 
 Once execute th' arrest of Jove's just doom, 
 
 And stop his breath that curseth Israel ! \Exit. 
 
 Enter Absalox, with Amasa and the rest of his 
 train. 
 Abs. Now for the crown and throne of Israel, 
 To be confirm'd with virtue of my sword, 
 And writ with David's blood upon the blade. 
 Now, Jove, let forth the golden firmament. 
 And look on him, with all thy fiery eyes, 
 AVhich thou hast made to give their glories light. 
 To show thou lov'st the virtue of thy hand, 
 Let fall a wreath of stars upon my head, 
 Whose influence may govern Israel 
 With state exceeding all her other kings. 
 Fight, lords and captains, that your sovereign's 
 
 face 
 May shine in honour brighter than the sun ; 
 And with the virtue of my beauteous rays 
 Make this fair land as fruitful as the fields 
 That with sweet milk and honey overflow'd. 
 God, in the whizzing of a pleasant wind. 
 Shall march upon the tops of mulberry-trees,^ 
 To cool all breasts that burn with any griefs. 
 As whilom 2 He was good to Moses' men. 
 By day the Lord shall sit within a cloud. 
 To guide your footsteps to the fields of joy ; 
 And in the night a pillar, bright as fire, 
 Shall go before you, like a second sun, 
 Wherein the essence of his Godhead is ; 
 That day and night you may be brought to peace, 
 And never swerve from that delightsome path 
 That leads your souls to perfect happiness. 
 This shall he do for joy when I am king. 
 Then fight, brave captains, that these joys mayfly 
 Into your bosoms with sweet victory. [Exeunt. 
 
 The haftle ; and then Absalon hangs by the hair. 3 
 
 Abs. What angry angel, sitting in these shades. 
 Hath laid his cruel hands upon my hair. 
 And holds my body thus 'twixt heaven and earth ? 
 Hath Absalon no soldier near his hand 
 That may untwine me this unpleasant curl. 
 Or wound this tree that ravisheth his lord ? 
 O God, behold the glory of thy hand, 
 And choicest fruit of nature's workmanship, 
 
 1 Shall march upon the tops of mulberry-trees, &c. — 
 ♦And it sliall be, -when thou shaft hear a sound of going 
 in the tops of the mulberry-trees, that then thou shalt 
 go out to battle : for God is gone forth before thee,' &c. 
 —1 Chkon. XIV. 15. 
 
 2 tchilom— formerly, once. 
 
 3 Absalon hangs by the hair.— The following entry 
 occurs in Henslowe's Diary, under Oct. 1602:— 
 
 ' Pd for poleyes and workmanshipp for to hange Ab- 
 salome, xiiijd.' 
 
 p. 241, ed. Shake. Soc. Does Henslowe allude to the 
 present play, or to some other drama in which Absalon 
 was ' hung ? ' — DrcE. 
 
 Hang, like a rotten branch, upon this tree. 
 Fit for the axe and ready for the fire ! 
 Since Thou withholdest all ordinary help 
 To loose my body from this bond of death. 
 Oh let my beauty fill these senseless plants 
 With sense and power to loose me from this 
 
 plague. 
 And work some wonder to prevent his death 
 Whose hfe Thou mad'st a special mu-acle ! 
 
 Enter Joab with a soldier. 
 
 Sol. My lord, I saw the young Prince Absalon 
 Hang by the hair upon a shady oak. 
 And could by no means get himself unloosed. 
 
 Joab. Why slew'st thou not the wicked Absalon, 
 That rebel to his father and to Heaven, 
 That so I might have given thee for thy pains 
 Ten silver shekels and a golden waist ? ^ 
 
 Sol. Not for a thousand shekels would I slay 
 The son of David, whom his father charged 
 Nor thou, Abisai, nor the son of Gath^ 
 Should touch with stroke of deadly violence. 
 The charge was given in hearing of us all ; 
 And had I done it, then, I know, thyself, 
 Before thou wouldst abide the king's rebuke, 
 Wouldst have accused me as a man of death. 
 Joab. I must not now stand trifling here with 
 
 thee. 
 Abs. Help, Joab, help, oh help thy Absalon ! 
 Let not thy angry thoughts be laid in blood, 
 In blood of him that sometimes nourish'd thee. 
 And softened thy sweet heart with friendly love : 
 Oh give me once again my father's sight, 
 My dearest father and my princely sovereign ! 
 That, shedding tears of blood before his face. 
 The ground may witness, and the heavens record, 
 My last submission sound^ and full of ruth,* 
 Joab. Bebel to nature, hate to heaven and 
 earth ! 
 Shall I give help to him that thirsts the soul 
 Of his dear father and my sovereign lord ? 
 Now see, the Lord hath tangled in a tree 
 The health and glory of thy stubborn heart, 
 And made thy pride curb'd with a senseless plant. 
 Now, Absalon, how doth the Lord regard 
 The beauty whereupon thy hope was built. 
 And which thou thought'st his grace did glory in ? 
 Find'st thou not now, with fear of instant death, 
 That God affects not any painted shape 
 Or goodly personage, when the virtuous soul 
 Is stuff 'd with naught but pride and stiibbornness? 
 But preach I to thee, while I should revenge 
 Thy cursed sin that staineth Israel, 
 And makes her fields blush with her children's 
 
 blood ? 
 Take that as part of thy deserved plague. 
 Which worthily no torment can inflict. 
 
 [Stabs him. 
 Abs. Joab, Joab, cruel, ruthless Joab ! 
 Herewith thou wound'st thy kingly sovereign's 
 
 heart. 
 Whose heavenly temper hates his childi-on's 
 
 blood, 
 And will be sick, I know, for Absalon. 
 Oh, my dear father, that thy melting eyes 
 Might pierce this thicket to behold thy son, 
 Thy dearest son, gored with a mortal dart ! 
 Yet, Joab, pity me; pity my father, Joab ; 
 Pity his soul's distress that mourns my life. 
 And will bo dead, I know, to hear my death. 
 
 Joab. If he were so remorsefuP of thy state, 
 Why sent he me against thee with the sword ? 
 
 1 waist— girdiie. ^ the son of Gath — Ithay. 
 
 3 sound— perfect. * ruth — sorrow. 
 
 5 re/ftarje/«i— compassionate. 
 
72 
 
 EARLY DRAMATISTS. 
 
 All Joab means to pleasure thee withal 
 Is, to despatch theo quickly of thy pain : 
 Hold, Absalon, Joab's pity is in this ; 
 Ln this, proud Absalon, is Joab's love. 
 
 \Stabs him again ; and then exit with Soldier. 
 Ahs. Such love, such pity Israel's God send 
 thee, 
 And for his love to David pity me ! 
 Ah ! my dear father, see thy bowels bleed ; 
 See death assault thy dearest Absalon ; 
 See, pity, pardon, pray for Absalon ! 
 
 Enler five or six Soldiers. 
 
 First iSol. See where the rebel in his glory 
 hangs. — 
 Where is the virtue of thy beauty, Absalon ? 
 Will any of us here now fear thy looks. 
 Or be in love with that thy golden hair, 
 Wherein was wrapt rebellion 'gainst thy sire, 
 And cords prepar'd to stop thy father's breath ? 
 Our captain, Joab, hath begun to us, 
 And here's an end to thee and all thy sins. 
 
 [They stab Absalon, who dies. 
 Come let us take the beauteous rebel down, 
 And in some ditch, amids this darksome wood, 
 Bury his bulk beneath a heap of stones. 
 Whose stony heart did hunt his father's death. 
 
 Re-enter in triumph^ with drum and ensign, Joab, 
 Abisai, and Soldiers. 
 
 Joah, Well done, tall soldiers ! ^ take the traitor 
 down, 
 And in this miry ditch inter his bones, 
 Covering his hateful breast with heaps of stones ; 
 This shady thicket of dark Eiohraim 
 Shall ever lower on his cursed grave ; 
 Night-ravens and owls shall ring his fatal knell, 
 And sit exclaiming on his damned soul ; 
 There shall they heap their preys of carrion, 
 Till all his grave be clad with stinking bones, 
 That it may loathe the sense of every man ! 
 So shall his end breed horror to his name, 
 And to his traitorous fact^ eternal shame. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 
 Chorus. Oh dreadful precedent of his just doom, 
 Whose holy heart is never touch'd with ruth 
 Of fickle beauty or of glorious shape ; 
 But with the virtue of an upright soul, 
 Humble and zealous in his inward thoughts. 
 Though in his person loathsome and deformed ! 
 Now, since this story lends us other store, 
 To make a third discourse of David's life, 
 Adding thereto his most renowned death. 
 And all their deaths that at his death he judg'd. 
 Here end we this, and what here wants to please, 
 We will supply with treble willingness. [Exit. 
 
 Trumpets sound. Enter Joab, Ahimaas, Cusay ; 
 AikiASA, with all the other followers q/" Absalon. 
 
 Joab. Soldiers of Israel, and ye sons of Judah, 
 That have contended in these irksome broils, 
 And ript old Israel's bowels with your swords, 
 The godless general of your stubborn arms 
 Is brought by Israel's Helper to the grave, — 
 A grave of shame, and scorn of all the tribes ! 
 Now, then, to save your honours from the dust. 
 And keep your bloods in temper by your bones, 
 Let Joab's ensign shroud your manly heads. 
 Direct your eyes, your weapons, and your hearts, 
 To guard the life of David from his foes. 
 Error hath mask'd your much-too-forward minds, 
 And you have sinn'd against the chosen state. 
 
 toff— sturdy, bold, brave. 
 
 2 /ac«— deed. 
 
 Against his life for whom your lives are bless' d. 
 
 And follow'd an usurper to the field ; 
 
 In whose just death your deaths are threatened \ 
 
 But Joab pities your disordered souls, 
 
 And therefore offers pardon, peace, and love. 
 
 To all that will be friendly reconcil'd 
 
 To Israel's weal, to David, and to Heaven. 
 
 Amasa, thou art leader of the host 
 
 That under Absalon have raised their arms ; 
 
 Then be a captain wise and politic. 
 
 Careful and loving for thy soldiers lives. 
 
 And lead them to this honourable league. 
 
 Ama. I will ; at least, I'll do my best : 
 And for the gracious offer thou hast made 
 I give thee thanks, as much as for my head. — 
 Then, you deceiv'd poor souls of Israel, 
 Since now ye see the ei-rors you incui-r'd, 
 With thanks and due submission be appeas'd ; 
 And as ye see your captain's precedent. 
 Here cast we, then, our swords at Joab's feet, 
 Submitting with all zeal and reverence 
 Our goods and bodies to his gracious hands. 
 
 [Kneels with others. 
 
 Joah. Stand up, and take ye all your swords 
 again : [All stand up. 
 
 David and Joab shall be bless'd herein. 
 
 AM. Now let me go inform my lord the king 
 How God hath fi-eed him from his enemies. 
 
 Joab. Another time, Ahimaas, not now. — 
 But, Cusay, go thyself, and tell the king 
 The happy message of our good success. 
 
 Cu. I will, my lord, and thank thee for thy 
 grace. [Exit. 
 
 AM. What if thy servant should go too, my 
 lord ? 
 
 Joab. What news hast thou to bring since he 
 is gone ? 
 
 AM. Yet do Ahimaas so much content. 
 That he may run about so sweet a charge. 
 
 Joab. Run, if thou wilt ; and peace be with 
 thy steps. [Exit Ahimaas. 
 
 Now follow, that you may salute the king 
 With humble hearts and reconciled souls. 
 
 Ama. We follow, Joab, to our gracious king; 
 And him our swords shall honour to our deaths 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter David, Bethsabe, Solomon, Nathan, 
 Adonia, Chileab, with their train. 
 
 Beth. What means my lord, the lamp of Israel, 
 From whose bright eyes all eyes receive their light. 
 To dim the gloiy of his sweet aspdct, 
 And paint his countenance with his heart's dis- 
 tress .'' 
 Why should his thoughts retain a sad conceit,^ 
 When every pleasure kneels before his throne. 
 And sues for sweet acceptance with his grace ? 
 Take but your lute, and make the mountains 
 
 dance, 
 Retrieve the sun's sphere, and restrain the clouds. 
 Give ears to trees, make savage lions tame, 
 Impose still silence to the loudest v/inds. 
 And fill the fairest day with foulest storms : 
 Then why should passions of much meaner power 
 Bear head against the heart of Israel ? 
 Dav. Fair Bethsabe, thou might'st increase the 
 strength 
 Of these thy arguments, drawn from my skill, 
 By urging thy sweet sight to my conceits, 
 Whose virtue ever scrv'd for saci-ed balm 
 To cheer my pinings past all earthly joys. 
 But, Bethsabe, the daughter of the Highest, 
 Whose beauty builds the towers of Israel, 
 She that in chains of pearl and unicorn 2 
 
 1 conceit — conception, thought. 
 
 2 unicorn— Qly. ' ivory V 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 73 
 
 Leads at her train the ancient golden world, 
 
 The world that Adam held in paradise, 
 
 Whose breath refineth all infectious airs, 
 
 And makes the meadows smile at her repair, — 
 
 She, she, my dearest Bethsabe, 
 
 Pair Peace, the goddess of onr graces here, 
 
 Is fled the streets of fair Jerusalem, 
 
 The fields of Israel, and the heart of David, 
 
 Leading my comforts in her golden chains, 
 
 Link'd to the life and soul of Absalon. 
 
 Beth. Then is the pleasure of my sovereign's 
 heart 
 So wrapt within the bosom of that son, 
 That Salomon, whom Israel's God affects. 
 And gave the name unto him for his love. 
 Should be no salve to comfort David's soul ? 
 
 Dav. Salomon, my love, is David's lord ; ^ 
 Our God hath nam'd him lord of Israel : 
 In him (for that, and since he is thy son) 
 Must David needs be pleased at the heart ; 
 And he shall surely sit upon my throne. 
 But Absalon, the beauty of my bones. 
 Fair Absalon, the counterfeit ^ of love, 
 Sweet Absalon, the image of content. 
 Must claim a portion in his father's care, 
 And be in life and death King David's son. 
 
 Naih. Yet, as my lord hath said, let Salomon 
 reign. 
 Whom God in naming hath anointed king. 
 I^Tow is he apt to learn th' eternal laws, 
 Whose knowledge being rooted in his youth 
 Will beautify his age with glorious fruits ; 
 While Absalon, incens'd with graceless pride, 
 Usurps and stains the kingdom with his sin : 
 Let Salomon be made thy staff of age, 
 Fair Israel's rest, and honour of thy race. 
 
 Dav. Tell me, my Salomon, wilt thou embrace 
 Thy father's precepts graved in thy heart, 
 And satisfy my zeal to thy renown 
 With practice of such sacred principles 
 As shall concern the state of Israel .'' 
 
 Sal. My royal father, if the heavenly zeal. 
 Which for my welfare feeds upon your soul, 
 Were not sustain'd with virtue of mine own ; 
 If the sweet accents of your cheerful voice 
 Should not each hour beat upon mine ears 
 As sweetly as the breath of heaven to him 
 That gaspeth scorched with the summer's sun, 
 I should be guilty of unpardon'd sin. 
 Fearing the plague of heaven and shame of earth : 
 But since I vow myself to learn the skill 
 And holy secrets of his mighty hand 
 Whose cunning tunes the music of my soul. 
 It would content me, father, first to learn 
 How the Eternal fram'd the firmament ; 
 Which bodies lend their influence by fire, 
 And which are fill'd with hoary winter's ice ; 
 What sign is rainy, and what star is fair ; 
 Why by the rules of true pi-oportion 
 The year is still divided into months, 
 The months to days, the days to certain hours ; 
 What fruitful race shall fill the future world ; 
 Or for what time shall this round building stand ; 
 What magistrates, what kings shall keep in awe 
 Men's minds with bridles of th' eternal law. 
 
 Dav. Wade not too far, my boy, in waves so 
 deep: 
 The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts 
 Behold things present, and record things past ; 
 But things to come exceed our human reach. 
 And are not painted yet in angels' eyes : 
 For those, submit thy sense, and say, 'Thou 
 power. 
 
 ' Salomon, my love, is David's Zortf— corrupted.— Dyce. 
 2 co«?t<«r/feJi— portrait, likeness, image. 
 
 That now art framing of the future world, 
 
 Know'st all to come, not by the course of heaven, 
 
 By frail conjectures of inferior signs, 
 
 By monstrous floods, by flights and flocks of birds, 
 
 By bowels of a sacrificed beast, 
 
 Or by the figures of some hidden art ; 
 
 But by a true and natural presage, 
 
 Laying the ground and perfect architect^ 
 
 Of all our actions now before thine eyes, 
 
 From Adam to the end of Adam's seed : 
 
 Heaven, protect my weakness with thy strength ! 
 
 So look on me that I may view thy face, 
 
 And see these secrets written in thy brows. 
 
 sun, come dart thy rays upon my moon ! 
 
 That now mine eyes, eclipsed to the earth. 
 
 May brightly be refin'd and shine to heaven ; 
 
 Transform me from this flesh, that I may live, 
 
 Before my death, regenerate with thee. 
 
 thou great God, ravish my earthly sprite ! * 
 That for the time a more than human skill 
 May feed the organons^ of all my sense; 
 
 That, when I think, thy thoughts may be my 
 
 guide. 
 And, when I speak, I may be made by choice 
 The perfect echo of thy heavenly voice.' 
 Thus say, my son, and thou shalt learn them all. 
 
 Sal. A secret fury* ravisheth my soul. 
 Lifting toy mind above her human bounds ; 
 And, as the eagle, roused from her stand 
 With violent hunger, towering in the air, 
 Seizeth her feather'd prey, and thinks to feed, 
 But seeing then a cloud beneath her feet, 
 Lets fall the fowl, and is emboldened 
 With eyes intentive* to bedare" the sun, 
 And styeth ^ close unto his stately sphere ; 
 So Salomon, mounted on the burning wings 
 Of zeal divine, lets fall his mortal food 
 And cheers his senses with celestial air, 
 Treads in the golden starry labyrinth. 
 And holds his eyes fix'd on Jehovah's brows. 
 Good father, teach me further what to do. 
 
 Nath. See, David, how his haughty spirit 
 mounts, 
 Even now of height to wield a diadem : 
 Then make him promise that he may succeed. 
 And rest old Israel's bones from broils of wai'. 
 
 Dav. Nathan, thou prophet, sprung from Jesse's 
 root, 
 
 1 promise thee and lovely Bethsabe, 
 My Salomon shall govern after me. 
 
 Beth. He that hath touch'd thee with this 
 righteous thought 
 Preserve the harbour of thy thoughts in peace ! 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mess. My lord, thy servants of the watch have 
 seen 
 One running hitherward from forth the wars. 
 Dav. If he be come alone, he bringeth news. 
 Mess. Another hath thy servant seen, my lord, 
 Whose running much resembles Sadoc's son. 
 Dav. He is a good man, and good tidings 
 brings. 
 
 ■ Enter Ahimaas. 
 
 AM. Peace and content be with my lord the 
 king. 
 Whom Israel's God hath bless'd with victory. 
 
 1 architect— Dyce suggests ' archetype ' as the correct 
 reading. 
 
 2 sprite — spirit. 
 
 3 organons— organs, or instmments. 
 
 * /wrj/— enthusiasm, or rapture. 
 
 * intentive — attentive, gazing. 
 <' bedare— defy, dare. 
 
 ^ styeth — soareth, ascendeth. 
 
74 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Dav. Tell me, Ahimaas, lives my Absalon ? 
 
 Ahi. I saw a troop of soldiers gathered, 
 But know not what the tumult might import. 
 
 Dav. Stand by, until some other may inform 
 The heart of David with a happy truth. 
 
 Entii- CusAY. 
 
 Cu. Happiness and honour live with David's 
 soul, 
 "Whom God hath bless'd with conquest of his foes. 
 
 Dav. But, Cusay, lives the young man Absalon 7 
 
 Cu. The stubborn enemies to David's peace. 
 And all that cast their dai-ts against his crown. 
 Pare ever like the young man Absalon ! 
 For as he rid the woods of Ephraim, 
 Which fought for thee as much as all thy men, 
 His hair was tangled in a shady oak ; 
 And hanging there, by Joab and his men, 
 Sustain'd the stroke of well-deserved death. 
 
 Dav. Hath Absalon sustain'd the stroke of death? 
 Die, David, for the death of Absalon, 
 And make these cursfed news the bloody darts 
 That through his bowels rip thy wretched breast. 
 Hence, David, walk the solitary woods, 
 And in some cedar's shade the thunder slew. 
 And fire from heaven hath made his branches black. 
 Sit mourning the decease of Absalon : 
 Against the body of that blasted plant 
 In thousand shivers break thy ivory lute, 
 Hanging thy stringless harp upon his boughs ; 
 And through the hollow sapless sounding trunk 
 Bellow the torments that perplex thy soul. 
 There let the winds sit sighing till they burst ; 
 Let tempest, muffled with a cloud of pitch, 
 Threaten the forests with her hellish face. 
 And, mounted fiercely on her iron wings, 
 Bend up the wretched engine ^ by the roots 
 That held my dearest Absalon to death. 
 Then let them toss my broken lute to heaven, 
 Even to his hands that beats me with the strings, 
 To show how sadly his poor shepherd sings. 
 
 l^Goes to his pavilion and sits close a while. 
 
 Beth. Die, Bethsabe, to see thy David mourn, 
 To hear his tunes of anguish and of hell. 
 Oh, help, my David, help thy Bethsabe, 
 Whose heart is pierced with thy breathy swords,- 
 And bursts with burden of ten thousand griefs ! 
 
 [^Lies down. 
 Now sit thy sori'ows sucking of my blood : 
 Oh that it might be poison to their powers. 
 And that their lips might di-aw my bosom dry, 
 So David's love might ease him, though she die ! 
 
 Nath. These violent passions come not from 
 above ; 
 David and Bethsabe offend the Highest, 
 To mourn in this immeasurable sort. 
 
 Dav. [loohing Jvrth.l Absalon, Absalon ! 
 my son, my son! 
 Would God that I had died for Absalon ! 
 But he is dead ; ah ! dead ; Absalon is dead : 
 And David lives to die for Absalon. 
 
 [jSits close again. 
 
 Enter Joab, Abisai, Ithay, and their train. 
 
 Joah. Why lies the queen so prostrate on the 
 ground ? 
 Why is this company so tragic-hu'd ? 
 Why is the king now absent from his men. 
 
 1 engine— agent or means. 
 
 2 breathy swords — ' We suggest whether it should not 
 be "breathed words; " but if the text is suflfered to re- 
 main, we can onlj' say, that "thy breathy swords," for 
 "the swords of thy breath," is more barbaric than any- 
 thing which we have met with in Peele.' — Rev. J. IM it- 
 ford, — Gent. Mag. for Feburaiy 1833, p. 103. Dyce 
 nevertheless believes it to be the genuine reading. 
 
 And marcheth not in triumph through the gates ? 
 [Unfolds the 2>(iviliou. 
 David, awake ! if sleep have shut thine eyes, 
 Sleep of affection, that thou canst not see 
 The honour offer'd to the victor's head : 
 Joab brings conquest piercfed on his spear, 
 And joy from all the tribes of Israel. 
 Dav. Thou man of blood, thou sepulchre of 
 
 death. 
 Whose marble breast intombs my bowels Quick,* 
 Did I not charge thee, nay, entreat thy hand. 
 Even for my sake, to spare my Absalon ? 
 And hast thou now, in spite of David's health, 
 And scorn to do my heart some happiness. 
 Given him the sword and spilt his purple soul ? 
 Joab. What, irks it David, that he victor 
 
 breathes. 
 That Juda and the fields of Israel 
 Should cleanse their faces from their children's 
 
 blood.? 
 What ! art thou weary of thy royal i-ule ? 
 Is Israel's throne a serpent in thine eyes, 
 And 'He that set thee there so far from thanks. 
 That thou must curse his servant for his sake ? 
 Hast thou not said that, as the morning light. 
 The cloudless morning, so should be thine house, 
 And not as flowers by the brightest rain 
 Which grow up quickly and as quickly fade ? 
 Hast thou not said, the wicked are as thorns. 
 That cannot be preserved 2 with the hand, 
 And that the man shall touch them must be arm'd 
 With coats of iron and garments made of steel, 
 Or with the shaft of a defenced spear ? 
 And art thou angry he is now cut off 
 That led the guiltless swarming ^ to their deaths, 
 And was more wicked than an host of men ? 
 Advance thee from thy melancholy den. 
 And deck thy body with thy blissful robes. 
 Or, by the Lord that sways the heaven I swear, 
 I'll lead thine armies to another king 
 Shall cheer them for their princely chivahy. 
 And not sit daunted, frowning in the dark, 
 When his fair looks, with oil and wine refresh'd. 
 Should dart into their bosoms gladsome beams. 
 And fill their stomachs with triumphant feasts ; 
 That when elsewhere stern war shall sound his 
 
 trump, 
 And call another battle * to the field, 
 Fame still may bring thy valiant soldiers home, 
 And for their service happily confess 
 She wanted worthy trumps to sound their 
 
 prowess : 
 Take thou this course and live; refuse and die. 
 Abis. Come, brother, let him sit there till he 
 
 sink; 
 Some other shall advance the name of Joab. 
 
 [Offei's to go out with Joab. 
 Beth, \jnsi7ig.'] Oh, stay, my lords, stay ! David 
 
 mourns no more. 
 
 1 quick — alive. 
 
 2 preserved— held, taken, grasped. The passage of 
 Scripture to which our author here alhides is as follows : 
 
 ' And he shall be as the light of the morning when 
 the sun riseth, even a morning without clouds; as the 
 tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining 
 after rain. 
 
 ' Although my house be not so with God ; yet he hath 
 made vrith me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all 
 things, and sure : for this is all my salvation, and aU my 
 desire, although he make it not to grow. 
 
 'But the sons of Belial shall be all of them as thorns 
 thrust away, because they cannot be taken with hands 
 [The Vulgate ' quce non toUuntur manibus '] : 
 
 'But the man that shall touch them must be fenced 
 with iron and the stafif of a spear,' &c. 
 
 2 Sam. xxiiL 4 sqq. 
 
 3 sicarming — swarm, crowd. 
 * battle — army. 
 
GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 75 
 
 But riseth to give honour to your acts. 
 
 Dav. {j'ising^and coming from his pavilion.'] Then 
 happy art thou, David's fairest son, 
 That, freed from the yoke of earthly toils, 
 And s^quester'd i from sense of human sins, 
 Thy soul shall joy ^ the sacred cabinet, 
 Of those divine ideas that present 
 Thy changed spirit with a heaven of bliss. 
 Then thou art gone ; ah, thou art gone, my son ! 
 To heaven, I hope, my Absalon is gone : 
 Thy soul there plac'd in honour of the saints, 
 Or angels clad with immortality, 
 
 » segMes^er'af— separated, withclrawn. 
 a^oy— enjoy. 
 
 Shall reap a sevenfold grace for all thy griefs ; 
 Thy eyes, now no more eyes but shining stars, 
 Shall deck the flaming heavens with novel lamps ; 
 There shalt thou taste the drink of seraphins. 
 And cheer thy feelings with archangels' food ; 
 Thy day of rest, thy holy Sabbath-day, 
 Shall be eternal ; and, the curtain drawn. 
 Thou shalt behold thy sovereign face to face, 
 With wonder, knit in triple unity — 
 
 Unity infinite and innumerable. 
 
 Courage, brave captains! Joab's tale hath stirr'd, 
 And made the suit of Israel preferr'd. 
 
 Joab. Bravely resolv'd, and spoken like a king : 
 Now may old Israel and his daughters sing. 
 
 {Exeunt omnts. 
 
ROBERT GREENE 
 
 [EoBEET Greene, the contemporary and friend of Peele, and one of the most profligate and 
 ucfortunate of the Elizabethan dramatists, was horn in Norwich, probably about 1560 : 
 Dyce, however, dating his birth ten years earlier. He was educated at Cambridge, where he 
 took the degree of B.A. in 1578, and that of M.A. in 1583. He was also connected in 
 some way with Oxford, — he himself vaunting that he was a Master of Arts of both Universi- 
 ties. The interval between 1578 and 1583 he spent in travelling through Spain, Italy, and 
 other parts of the continent. The following extract from his work, Tlie Repentance of Robert 
 Greene (1592), will give the reader an idea of the life he led while there, and after he re- 
 turned home : — 
 
 * For, being at the University of Cambridge, I lit amongst wags as lewd as myself, with 
 whom I consumed the flower of my youth ; who drew me to travel into Italy and Spain, in 
 which places I saw and practised such villany as is abominable to declare. Thus, by their 
 counsel, I sought to furnish myself with coin, which I procured by cunning sleights from my 
 father and my friends ; and my mother pampered me so long, and secretly helped me to the 
 oil of angels, that I grew thereby prone to all mischief : so that, being then conversant with 
 notable braggarts, boon companions, and ordinary spendthrifts, that practised sundry super- 
 ficial studies, I became as a scion grafted into the same stock, whereby I did absolutely par- 
 ticipate of their nature and qualities. At my return into England, I rufiled out in my silks 
 in the habit of malcontent, and seemed so discontent, that no place would please me to 
 abide in, nor no vocation cause me to stay myself in ; but, after I had by degrees proceeded 
 Master of Arts, I left the University and away to London, where, after I had continued some 
 short time, and driven myself out of credit with sundry of my friends, I became an author 
 of plays, and a penner of line-pamphlets, so that I soon gi'ew famous in that quality, that 
 who, for that trade, known so ordinary about London as Eobin Greene? Young yet in 
 years, though old in wickedness, I began to resolve that there was nothing bad that was 
 profitable ; whereupon I grew so rooted in all mischief, that I had as great a delight in 
 wickedness as sundry have in godliness, and as much felicity I took in villany as others had 
 in honesty. ' 
 
 It is doubtful whether our author was the ' Robert Greene ' mentioned as being one of 
 the Queen's chaplains in 1576, although there is good reason for believing that he did enter 
 the Church, and was presented to the vicarage of Lollesbury in Essex in 1584, resigning it, 
 however, next year, probably because he found the clerical profession and a country life in- 
 compatible with his unholy tastes. That Greene was married is certain, — Dyce thinks in 
 1586, — and it is as certain, that although on his own authority his wife was a most amiable 
 and loving woman, he ere long forsook her to indulge without restraint his passion for 
 debauchery and every species of self-indulgence. After leaving his wife, he lived with a 
 woman, the sister of an infamous character, well known then under the name of * Cutting 
 Ball,' and by her he had a son who died the year after his father. After leading one of the 
 maddest lives on record, he died a miserable death on the 3d of September 1592, his last ill- 
 ness being caused by a surfeit of Rhenish wine and pickled herrings. On his deathbed he 
 was deserted by all his former boon companions except his mistress, and was indebted to the 
 wife of a poor shoemaker for the last bed on which he laid his miserable body — his dying 
 injunction to his compassionate and admiring hostess being to crown his vain head after 
 
 76 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 77 
 
 death with a garland of bays. This request, it seems, the poor woman attended to. On his 
 deathbed he wrote his Repentance, in which he expresses the greatest contrition for his mis- 
 spent life, and beseeches all his old companions to take warning by his sad fate and repent 
 ere it be too late. Appended to his GroaCs Worth of Wit, which is to a great extent auto- 
 biogi-aphical, and which he finished on his deathbed, is a sad and tender letter to his wife, 
 expressing great sorrow for his treatment of her, and imploring her forgiveness. He also left 
 a note to her, beseeching her, ' by the love of our youth and my soul's rest, ' to reimburse the 
 shoemaker, whose wife had befriended him in his last and friendless days. Although 
 Greene's character may have been made blacker than it really was by the enmity of 
 Gabriel Harvey, the friend of Spenser, still there is no room for doubt that a sadder life 
 and death could not possibly be imagined. 
 
 Greene wrote many prose stories, and pamphlets of various kinds, many of which are 
 interesting, and all were highly popular and extensively read ; but it is only with his dra- 
 matic works we are concerned here. Five dramas are still extant which were undoubtedly 
 written by Greene : The History of Orlando Furioso, one of the Twelve Peers of France, 
 not printed till 1594, but probably one of his earliest plays ; The Honourable History of 
 Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, first published in 1594, but written much earlier ; The 
 Scottish History of James the Fourth, slain at Flodden (1598) ; The Comical History of 
 Alphonsus, King of Arragon (1599) ; and, along with Lodge, A LooUng -Glass for London 
 and England (1594). Another play, superior to any of the above, is by some authorities 
 attributed to Greene, but the testimony as to its authorship is very slender ; it is entitled 
 George-a-Green, the Pinner of Wakefield (1599). As a dramatist, Greene occupies about the 
 same rank as Peele, and was one of the first to introduce blank verse on the stage. His 
 versification is not so smooth as that of Peele ; but as it is more broken, it is less tedious. 
 His dramas possess no very striking merit, although there is an occasional vigour of language, 
 richness of fancy, originality of thought, and a distinctness and consistency in the por- 
 trayal of character. They are, however, much disfigured by bombast, affectation, and 
 pedantry, his lowest boors and most ignorant dairy-maids being made to interlard their talk 
 with classical allusions that would be pedantic even in an Oxford Don. The drama we have 
 selected as a specimen is by many considered his best, and in it he has followed the well- 
 known prose tract, entitled The Famous History of Friar Bacon. The character of Mar- 
 garet, the fair maid of Fressingfield, is, however, original ; the humour of Miles is often 
 genuiae and pleasing.] 
 
7^ 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 THE HONOURABLE HISTORY OF FRIAR BACON AND 
 
 FRIAR BUNGAY: 
 
 AS IT WAS PLAYED BY HER MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 MADE BY EGBERT GKEENE, MASTER OF ARTS. 
 
 London : Printed for Edward JVJiite, and are to he sold at his shop, at the little North door of 
 Paul's, at the sign of the Gun. 1594. 
 
 gramatis ^jersona. 
 
 King Heney the Third. 
 
 Edward, Prince of Wales, his iSon. 
 
 Emperor of Geraiany. 
 
 King of Castile. 
 
 Lacy, Earl of Lincoln. 
 
 Warren, Earl of Sussex. 
 
 Ermsby, a Gentleman. 
 
 Ralph Slmnell, the King^s Fool, 
 
 Friar Bacon. 
 
 Miles, Friar Bacon's Poor Scholar, 
 
 Friar Bungay. 
 
 Jaques Vandermast. 
 
 Burden, "| 
 
 Mason, > Doctors of Oxford. 
 
 Clement, ) 
 
 l^^' } «-«--• 
 
 Two Scholars, their Sons. 
 
 Keeper. 
 
 Tholis, \ r7^,.„, 
 
 Richard, | <^^^««- 
 
 Constable. 
 
 A Post. 
 
 Lords, Clowns, &c. 
 
 Elinor, Daughter to the King of CastiUt 
 Margaret, the Keeper's Daughter. 
 Joan, a Country Wench. 
 Hostess of the Bell at Henley. 
 
 A DE^^L. 
 
 Spirit in the shape of Hercules. 
 
 Enter Prince Edward malconiented., with Lacy, 
 Warren, Ermsby, and Ralph Simnell. 
 
 Lacy. Why looks my lord like to a troubled 
 sky [fog ? 
 
 When heaven's bright shine is shadow'd with a 
 Alate 1 we ran the deer, and through the lawnds.^ 
 Stripp'd 3 with our nags the lofty frolic bucks 
 That scudded 'fore the teasers * Uke the wind : 
 Ne'er was the deer of merry Fressingfield 
 So lustily pull'd down by jolly mates. 
 Nor shai-'d the farmers such fat venison. 
 So frankly dealt this hundred years before ; 
 Nor have 
 
 I seen my lord more froHc ^ in the chase. 
 And now chang'd to a melancholy dump.^ 
 
 War. After the Prince got to the Keeper's 
 lodge, 
 And had been jocund ' in the house awhile, 
 Tossing off ale and milk in country cans, 
 Whether it was the country's sweet content, 
 Or else the bonny damsel fill'd us drink 
 That seem'd so stately in her stammel red,^ 
 Or that a qualm did cross his stomach then, 
 But straight he feU into his passions. 
 
 1 Alate — lately. * lawnds — lawns. 
 
 3 >S;n>j9'(Z_ outstripped. 
 
 * A teaser was a kind of hound. 
 
 5 /roZic— frolicsome, joyful. 
 
 6 dump was formerly applied to a melancholy strain 
 of music, and was also used as equivalent to sorrow. 
 
 ' jocund — ^jocose, meiTy. 
 
 * stammel — a kind of woollen cloth. According to 
 Nares, stammel was a coarse kind of red, inferior to 
 fine scarlet; but Halliwell says it w^as a kind of fine 
 worsted; and Dyce a sort of woollen cloth: here, it ap- 
 pears to be applied to a garment. 
 
 Erms. Sirrah Ralph, what say you to your 
 master. 
 Shall he thus all amort ^ live malcontent ? 
 
 Ralph. Hearest thou, Ned? — Nay, look if he 
 will speak to me ! 
 
 P. Edw. What say'st thou to me, fool ? 
 
 Ralph. I prithee, tell me, Ned, art thou in love 
 with the Keeper's daughter 7 
 
 P. Edw. How if I be, what then? 
 
 Ralph. Why, then, sirrah, I'll teach thee how- 
 to deceive Love. 
 
 P. Edw. How, Ralph ? 
 
 Ralph. Marry, SuTah Ned, thou shalt put on 
 my cap and my coat and my dagger, and I wiU 
 put on thy clothes and thy sword ; and so thou 
 shalt be my fool. 
 
 P. Edw. And what of this ? 
 
 Ralph. Why,^ so thou shalt beguile Love ; for 
 Love is such a proud scab - that he will never 
 meddle with fools nor children. Is not Ralph's 
 counsel good, Ned ? 
 
 P. Edw. Tell me, Ned Lacy, didst thou mark 
 the maid. 
 How lovely in her country-weeds she look'd ? 
 A bonnier wench all Suffolk cannot yield, — 
 All Suffolk ! nay, aU England holds none such. 
 
 Ralph. Sirrah Will Ermsby, Ned is deceived. 
 
 Erms. Why, Ralph ? 
 
 Ralph. He says all England hath no such ; and 
 I say, and I'U stand to it, there is one better in 
 Warwickshire. 
 
 1 all amort, and sometimes alamort; probably Fr. h 
 la mort, to the death, lifeless, dejected — but sometimes 
 used as if equivalent to ' all as if dead.' 
 
 2 scab — according to Halliwell— ape ; used as a term 
 of contempt 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 79 
 
 War. Ho-w prove st thou that, Ealph ? 
 
 Ralph. Why, is not the abbot a learned man, 
 and hath read many books, and thinkest thou 
 he hath not more learning than thou to choose 
 a bonny wench? Yes, warrant I thee, by his 
 whole grammar. 
 
 Erms. A good reason, Ealph. 
 
 P. Edw. I tell thee, Lacy, that her sparkling 
 eyes 
 Do lighten forth sweet love's alluring fire ; 
 And in her tresses she doth fold the looks 
 Of such as gaze upon her golden hair : 
 Her bashful white, niix'd with the morning's red, 
 Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks ; 
 Her front is beauty's table, where she paints 
 The glories of her gorgeous excellence ; 
 Her teeth are shelves of precious margarites,^ 
 Eichly enclos'd with ruddy coral cleeves.2 
 Tush, Lacy, she is beauty's over-match. 
 If thou survey'st her curious imagery. 
 
 Lacy. I grant, my lord, the damsel is as fair 
 As simple Suffolk's homely towns can yield ; 
 But in the court be quainter dames than she. 
 Whose faces are enrich'd with honour's taint, ^ 
 Whose beauties stand upon the stage of fame. 
 And vaunt their trophies in the courts of love. 
 
 P. Edw. Ah ! Ned, but hadst thou watch'd her 
 as myself, 
 And seen the secret beauties of the maid, 
 Their courtly coyness were but foolery. 
 
 Erms. Why, how watch'd you her, my lord ? 
 
 P. Edw. Whenas she swept like Venus through 
 the house. 
 And in her shape fast folded up my thoughts, 
 Into the milk-house went I with the maid. 
 And there amongst the cream-bowls she did shine 
 As Pallas 'mongst her princely huswifery : 
 She turn'd her smock over her lily arms. 
 And div'd them into milk to run her cheese ; 
 But whiter than the milk her crystal skin, 
 Checked with lines of azure, made her blush * 
 That art or nature durst bring for compare. 
 Ermsby, 
 
 If thou hadst seen, as I did note it well, 
 How beauty play'd the huswife, how this girl, 
 Like Lucrece, laid her fingers to the work, 
 Thou wouldst, with Tarquin, hazard Eome and all 
 To win the lovely maid of Fressingfield. 
 
 Ralph. Sirrah Ned, wouldst fain have her 7 
 
 P. Edw. Ay, Ealph. 
 
 Ralph. Why, Ned, I have laid the plot in my 
 head ; thou shalt have her already. 
 
 P. Edw. rU give thee a new coat, an learn s 
 ine that. 
 
 Ralph. Why, Sirrah Ned, we'U ride to Oxford 
 to Friar Bacon. Oh, he is a brave scholar, sirrah ; 
 they say he is a brave necromancer, that he can 
 make women of devils, and he can juggle cats 
 into costermongers. 
 
 P. Edw. And how then, Ealph ? 
 
 Ralph. Marry, sirrah, thou shalt go to him: 
 and because thy father Harry shall not miss thee, 
 he shall turn me into thee ; and I'll to the court, 
 and I'll prince it out; and he shall make thee 
 either a silken purse full of gold, or else a fine 
 wrought smock. 
 
 P. Edw. But how shall I have the maid ? 
 
 Ralph. Marry, sirrah, if thou be'st a silken 
 purse full of gold, then on Sundays she'll hang 
 thee by her side, and you must not say a word. 
 
 1 mcrrgran'ies— pearls, from Greek. 
 
 2 cleeves or dives was the old plural of cliflf. 
 
 3 taint— imt. 
 
 * made her bltish, ttc.—Dyce thinks this means 'made 
 (would have made) that woman blush whom art,' &c. 
 
 * an ?earn— if thou wilt learn. 
 
 Now, sir, when she comes into a great press i of 
 people, for fear of the cutpurse, on a sudden 
 she'll swap thee into her plackerd ; ^ then, sirrah, 
 being there, you may plead for yourself. 
 
 Erms. Excellent policy ! 
 
 P. Edw. But how if I be a wrought smock ? 
 
 Ralph. Then she'll put thee into her chest and 
 lay thee into lavender, and upon some good day 
 she'll put thee on ; and at night when you go to 
 bed, then being turned from a smock to a man, 
 you may make up the match. 
 
 Lacy. Wonderfully wisely counselled, Ealph. 
 
 P. Edw. Ealph shall have a new coat. 
 
 Ralph. God thank you when I have it on my 
 back, Ned. 
 
 P. Edw. Lacy, the fool hath laid a perfect plot; 
 For why 3 our countiy Margaret is so coy. 
 And stands so much upon her honest points, 
 That marriage or no market with the maid. 
 Ermsby, it must be necromantic spells 
 And charms of art that must enchain her love. 
 Or else shall Edward never win the girl. 
 Therefore, my wags, we'll horse us in the morn, 
 And post to Oxford to this jolly friar: 
 Bacon shall by his magic do this deed. 
 
 War. Content, my lord; and that's a speedy 
 way 
 To wean these headstrong puppies from the teat. 
 
 P. Edw. I am unknown, not taken for the 
 Prince ; 
 They only deem us frolic courtiers, 
 That revel thus among our liege's game : 
 Therefore I have devis'd a policy. 
 Lacy, thou know'st next Friday is Saint James', 
 And then the country flocks to Harleston Fair : 
 Then wiU the Keeper's daughter frolic there, 
 And over-shine the troop of aU the maids 
 That come to see and to be seen that day. 
 Haunt thee disguis'd among the country swainsj, 
 Feign thou'rt a farmer's son, not far from thence, 
 Espy her loves, and who she liketh best ; 
 Cote * him, and court her to control the clown ; 
 Say that the courtier tired all in green. 
 That help'd her handsomely to run her cheese, 
 And fill'd her father's lodge with venison. 
 Commends him, and sends fairings^ to herself. 
 Buy something worthy of her parentage. 
 Not worth her beauty ; f oi', Lacy, then the fair 
 Affords ho jewel fitting of the maid. 
 And when thou talk'st of me, note if she blush : 
 Oh, then she loves ; but if her cheeks wax pale. 
 Disdain it is. Lacy, send how she fares, 
 And spare no time nor cost to win her loves. 
 
 Lacy. I will, my lord, so execute this charge 
 As if that Lacy were in love with her. 
 
 P. Edio. Send letters speedily to Oxford of the 
 news. 
 
 Ralph. And, Sirrah Lacy, buy me a thousand 
 thousand million of fine bells. 
 
 Lacy. What wilt thou do with them, Ealph ? 
 
 Ralph. Marry, every time that Ned sighs for 
 the Keeper's daughter, I'll tie a beU about him : 
 and so within three or four days I will send word 
 to his_ father Harry, that his son and my master 
 Ned, is become Love's morris-dance.^ 
 
 , 1 press— cxovfOi. 
 
 2 plackerd or placket, sometimes means petticoat, and 
 sometimes pocket, and is frequently used in an indecent 
 sense ; it probably comes from Fr. plaquer, to clap on. 
 
 3 For why — ^because. 
 
 * Cote — to pass the side of another, to outstrip; here 
 probably ' keep by his side ;' Fr. cote, side ; coytoer, to 
 keep alongside of. 
 
 ^ fairing— a. present bought at a fair ; still used in 
 Scotland. 
 
 6 A morris-dance was a Moorish dance, in which bella, 
 rattles, &c., were introduced. 
 
8o 
 
 777^ ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 P. Edw. Well, Lacy, look with care unto thy 
 charge 
 And I will haste to Oxford to the friar, 
 That he by art, and thou by secret gifts 
 May'st make me lord of meriy Fressingfield. 
 Lacy. God send your honour your heart's 
 desire. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Friar Bacon and Miles iDith hooTcs under 
 his ai-m ; Burden, Mason, and Clement. 
 
 Bacon. Miles, where are you ? 
 
 Miles. Hie swm, doctbsime et reverendissime 
 doctor.^ 
 
 Bacon. Attulistinos lihrosmeos denecromantiaf- 
 
 Miles. Ecce quam honum et quam jucundum 
 hdbitare lihros in unum P 
 
 Bacon. Now masters of our academic state. 
 That rule in Oxford, viceroys in your place, 
 Whose heads contain maps of the liberal arts. 
 Spending your time in depth of learned skill, 
 Why flock you thus to Bacon's secret cell, 
 A fi'iar newly stall'd in Brazen-nose ? 
 Say, what's your mind, that I may make reply. 
 
 Bwd. Bacon, we hear that long we have 
 suspect 
 That thou art read in magic's mystery ; 
 In pp'omancy, to divine by flames ; 
 To tell, by hydromatic, ebbs and tides ; 
 By aei'omancy to discover doubts, 
 To plain out questions, as Apollo did. 
 
 Bacon. Well, Master Burden, what of all this ? 
 
 3Iiles. Marry, sir, he doth but fulfil, by re- 
 hearsing of these names, the fable of the Fox and 
 the Grapes ; that which is above us pertains 
 nothing to us. 
 
 Burd. I tell thee, Bacon, Oxford makes report, 
 Nay, England, and the court of Henry says, 
 Thou'rt making of a brazen head by art, 
 Which shall unfold strange doubts and aphorisms. 
 And read a lecture in philosophy ; 
 And, by the help of devils and ghastly fiends. 
 Thou mean'st, ere many years or days be past, 
 To compass England with a wall of brass. 
 
 Bacon. And what of this ? 
 
 Miles. What of this, master! Why he doth 
 speak mystically ; for he knows if your skill fail 
 to make a brazen head, yet Mother Water's strong 
 ale will fit his turn to make him have a copper 
 nose. 
 
 Clem. Bacon, we come not grieving at thy skill. 
 But joying that our academy yields 
 A man supposed the wonder of the world ; 
 For if thy cunning woi'k these miracles, 
 England and Europe shall admire thy fame, 
 And Oxford shall in characters of brass. 
 And statues, such as were built up in Borne, 
 Eternize Friar Bacon for his art 
 
 Mason. Then, gentle friar, tell us thy intent. 
 
 Bacon. Seeing you come as friends unto the 
 friar, 
 Eesolve you,^ doctors, Bacon can by books 
 Make storming Boreas thunder from his cave, 
 And dim fair Luna to a dark eclipse. 
 The great arch-ruler, potentate of hell. 
 Trembles when Bacon bids him, or his fiends 
 Bow to the force of his pentageron. 
 What art can work, the frolic friar knows ; 
 And therefore will I turn my magic books. 
 And strain out necromancy to the deep. 
 
 1 ' Here I am, most learned and most reverend teacher.' 
 8 'Hast thou brought us my books on necromancy ?' 
 
 3 ' Behold hoAv good and pleasant it is to keep books 
 in one place ! ' 
 
 4 Resolve yoM— be assured. 
 
 I have contriv'd and fram'd a head of brass 
 (I made Belcephon hammer out the stuff), 
 And that by art shall read philosophy : 
 And I will strengthen England by my skill, 
 That if ten Caesars liv'd and reign'd in Rome, 
 With all the legions Europe doth contain, 
 They should not touch a grass of English ground ; 
 The work that Ninus rear'd at Babylon, 
 The brazen walls fram'd by Semiramis, 
 Carv'd out like to the portal of the sun, 
 Shall not be such as rings the English strand 
 From Dover to the market-place of Rye. 
 
 Burd. Is this possible ? 
 
 Miles. I'll bring ye two or three witnesses. 
 
 Burd. What be those? 
 
 Miles. Marry, sir, three or four as honest devils 
 and good companions as any be in hell. 
 
 Mason. No doubt but magic may do much in 
 this; 
 For he that reads bnt mathematic rules 
 Shall find conclusions that avail to work 
 Wonders that pass the common sense of men. 
 
 Burd. But Bacon roves a bow beyond hia 
 reach, 1 
 And tells of more than magic can perform ; 
 Thinking to get a fame by fooleries. 
 Have I not pass'd as far in state of schools, 
 And read of many secrets ? yet to think 
 That heads of brass can utter any voice, 
 Or more, to tell of deep philosophy ; 
 This is a fable ^sop had forgot. 
 
 Bacon. Burden, thou wrong'st me in detracting 
 thus ; 
 Bacon loves not to stuff himself with lies. 
 But tell me, 'fore these doctors, if thou dare, 
 Of certain questions I shall move to thee ? 
 
 Burd. I will : ask what thou can. 
 
 Miles. Marry, sir, he'll straight be on your 
 pick-pack, 2 to know whether the feminine or the 
 masculine gender be most worthy. 
 
 Bacon. Were you not yesterday. Master Bur- 
 den, at Henley-upon-the-Thames.'' 
 
 Burd. I was ; what then ? 
 
 Bacon. What iDOok studied you thereon all night? 
 
 Burd. I ! none at all ; I read not there a line. 
 
 Bacon. Then, doctors. Friar Bacon's art knows 
 naught. 
 
 Clem. What say you to this, Master Burden ? 
 Doth he not touch you ? 
 
 Burd. I pass3 not of his frivolous speeches. 
 
 Miles. Nay, Master Burden, my master, ere he 
 hath done with you, will turn you from a doctor 
 to a dunce, and shake you so small, that he 
 will leave no more learning in you than is in 
 Balaam's ass. 
 
 Bacon. Masters, for that learn'd Burden's skill 
 
 And sore he doubts of Bacon's cabalism,* 
 I'll show you why he haunts to Henley oft ; 
 Not, doctors, for to taste the fragrant air. 
 But there to spend the night in alchemy, 
 To multiply with secret spells of art ; 
 Thus private steals he learning fi'om us all. 
 To prove my sayings true, I'll show you straight 
 The book he keeps at Henley for himself. 
 
 1 roves a bow, Ac. ' To rove a bow beyond Jiis reach 
 is equivalent to the proverbial phrase of shooting with 
 a long bow: the bow is too long for the stretch of his 
 amis.' — Editor of Dodsley's Old Plays. Rove meant to 
 shoot an arrow at an elevation for a distant mark — not 
 point-blank. 
 
 2 pick-pack, the older form of pick-a-back, i.e. carried 
 like a pack over the shoulder. 
 
 3 ^o&s— care for, or regard. 
 
 * cabalism — secret power. Cabala among the Jews 
 was a method of intei-preting the hidden meaning of 
 Scripture. 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 8i 
 
 Miles. Nay, now my master goes to conjura- 
 tion, take heed. 
 
 Bacon. Masters, 
 Stand ^tiU, fear not, I'll show you but his book. 
 
 [Conjures. 
 
 Per omnes deos infernales, Belcephon!^ 
 
 Enter Hostess with a shoulder of mutton on a 
 spit, and a Devil. 
 
 Miles. Oh, master, ceaso your conjuration, or 
 you spoil all ; for here's a she-devil come with a 
 shoulder of mutton on a spit : you have marred 
 the devil's supper ; but no doubt he thinks our 
 college fare is slender, and so hath sent you his 
 cook with a shoulder of mutton, to make it 
 exceed. 
 
 Hostess, dh, where am I, or what's become of 
 me? 
 
 Bacon. What art thou ? 
 
 Hostess. Hostess at Henley, Mistress of the 
 Bell. 
 
 Bacon. How cam'st thou here ? 
 
 Hostess. As I was in the kitchen 'mongst the 
 maids. 
 Spitting the meat 'gainst supper for my guess,* 
 A motion moved me to look forth of door : 
 No sooner had I pried into the yard. 
 But straight a whirlwind hoisted me from thence 
 And mounted me aloft unto the clouds. 
 As in a trance I thought nor fearfed naught, 
 Nor know I where nor whither I was ta'en. 
 Nor where I am, nor what these persons be. 
 
 Bacon. No ? Know you not Master Burden ? 
 
 Hostess. Oh yes, good sir, he is my daily 
 guest. — 
 What ! Master Burden ; 'twas but yesternight 
 That you and I at Henley play'd at cards. 
 
 Burd. I know not what we did. A pox of all 
 conjuring friars ! 
 
 Clem. Now, jolly friar, tell us, is this the book 
 That Burden is so careful to look on? 
 
 Bacon. It is. But, Burden, tell me now, 
 Think'st thou that Bacon's necromantic skill 
 Cannot perform his head and wall of brass. 
 When he can fetch thine hostess in such post ? ' 
 
 Miles. I'll warrant you, master, if Master Bur- 
 den could conjure as well as you, he would have 
 his book every night from Henley to study on at 
 Oxford. 
 
 Mason. Burden, 
 What ! are you mated * by this frolic friar ? — 
 Look how he droops ; his guilty conscience 
 Di-ives him to 'bash,^ and makes his hostess blush. 
 
 Bacon. Well, mistress, for I will not have you 
 miss'd. 
 You shall to Henley to cheer up your guests 
 'Fore supper 'gin. Burden, bid her adieu ; 
 Say farewell to your hostess 'fore she goes. — 
 Sirrah, away, and set her safe at home. 
 
 Hostess. Master Bui'den, when shall we see you 
 at Henley ? 
 
 Burd. The devil take thee and Henley too. 
 
 [Exeiont Hostess and Devil. 
 
 Miles. Master, shall I make a good motion ? 
 
 Bacon. What's that ? 
 
 Miles. Marry, su', now that my hostess is gone 
 to provide supper, conjure up another spirit, and 
 send Doctor Burden flying after. 
 
 Bacon. Thus, rulers of our academic state. 
 You have seen the friar frame his art by proof ; 
 And as the college called Brazen-nose 
 
 1 ' By all the infernal deities, Belcephon ! ' 
 
 2 guess was often used for guests by our early writers. 
 8 ^05<— speed ; post-haste we now say. 
 
 ♦ Tnafed— confounded ; same as mate in checkmate. 
 
 * 'bash — abash ; i.e. to feel abashed or atfronted. 
 
 Is under him, and he the master there. 
 So surely shall this head of brass be fram'd, 
 And yield forth strange and uncouth aphorisms ; 
 And hell and Hecate shall fail the friar, 
 But I will circle England round with brass. 
 Miles. So be it et nunc et semper; ^ amen. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Margaret and Joan ; Thomas, Eichard, 
 and other Clowns ; and Lacy disguised in country 
 apparel. 
 
 Thorn. By my troth, Margaret, here's a weather 
 is able to make a man call his father 'whoreson.' 
 If this w^eather hold, we shall have hay good 2 
 cheap, and butter and cheese at Harleston will 
 bear no price. 
 
 3{ar. Thomas, maids when they come to see 
 the fair 
 Count not to make a cope ^ for dearth of hay : 
 When we have turn'd our butter to the salt, 
 And set our cheese safely upon the racks. 
 Then let our fathers prize it as they please. 
 We country sluts of merry Fressingfield 
 Come to buy needless naughts to make us fine, 
 And look that young men should be frank this day, 
 And court us with such fairings as they can. 
 PhcBbus is blythe, and frolic looks from heaven, 
 As when he courted lovely Semele, 
 Sweai-ing the pedlars shall have empty packs, 
 If that fair weather may make chapmen b\iy. 
 
 Lacy. But, lovely Peggy, Semele is dead. 
 And therefore Phoebus from his palace pries, 
 And, seeing such a sweet and seemly saint, 
 Shows all his glories for to court yourself. 
 
 Mar. This is a fairing, gentle sir, indeed, 
 To soothe me up with such smooth flattery ; 
 But learn of me, your scoff's too broad before. — 
 Well, Joan, our beauties must abide their jests ; 
 We serve the turn in jolly Fressingfield. 
 
 Joan. Margaret, 
 A farmer's daughter for a farmer's son : 
 I warrant you, the meanest of us both 
 Shall have a mate to lead us from the church. 
 
 [All this while Lacy whispers Margaret 
 
 in the ear. 
 
 But, Thomas, what's the news? what! in a dump? 
 
 Give me yom- hand, we are near a pedlar's shop ; 
 
 Out with your purse, we must have fairings now. 
 
 Thom. Faith, Joan, and shall: I'll bestow a 
 fairing on you ; and then we will to the tavern, 
 and snap off a pint of wine or two. 
 
 Mar. Whence are you, sir? — of Suffolk? for 
 your terms 
 Are finer than the common sort of men. 
 
 Lacy. Faith, lovely girl, I am of Beccles by. 
 Your neighbour, not above six miles from hence, 
 A farmer's son, that never was so quaint 
 But that he could do courtesy to such dames. 
 But trust me, Margaret, I am sent in charge 
 From him that revell'd in your father's house. 
 And fiU'd his lodge with cheer and venison, 
 'Tired in gi-een : he sent you this rich purse. 
 His token that he help'd you run your cheese, 
 And in the milkhouse chatted with yoiu'self. 
 
 Mar. To me ? You forget yourself. 
 
 Lacy. Women are often weak in memory. 
 
 Mar. Oh, pardon, sir, I call to mind the man : 
 'Twere little manners to refuse his gift. 
 And yet I hope he sends it not for love ; 
 For we have little leisure to debate of that. 
 
 Joan. What! Margaret, blush not: maids must 
 have their loves. 
 
 1 'botli now and ever.' 
 
 2 good — very. 
 
 3 cope— a. bargain or purchase ; from same root as chop, 
 cheap, chap. 
 
83 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Tliom. Na}', by the mass, she looks pale as if 
 she were angry. 
 
 Rich. Sirrah, are you of Beccles ? I pray, how 
 doth goodman Cob ? My father bought a horse of 
 Mm. — I'U tell you, Margaa-et, 'a* were good to be 
 a gentleman's jade; for of all things the foul hild- 
 ing 2 could not abide a dung-cart. 
 
 Mar. \aside7\ How different is this farmer from 
 the i-est, 
 That erst 3 as yet have pleas'd my wandering sight ! 
 His words ai-e witty, quicken'd with a smile, 
 His courtesy gentle, smelling of the coui't ; 
 Facile and debonair in all his deeds ; 
 Proportion'd as was Paris, when in grey ♦ 
 He courted CEnon in the rale by Troy. 
 Great lords have come and pleaded for my love : 
 Who but the Keeper's lass of Fressingfield "i 
 And yet methinks this farmer's jolly son 
 Passeth the proudest that hath pleas'd mine eye. 
 But, Peg, disclose not that thou art in love, 
 And show as yet no sign of love to him, 
 Although thou well wouldst wish him for thy 
 
 love : 
 Keep that to thee till time doth serve thy trnm, 
 To show the grief Avherein thy heart doth bum. — 
 Come, Joan and Thomas, shall we to the fair ? — 
 You, Beccles man, will not forsake us now .? 
 
 Lacy. Not whilst I may have such quaint^ 
 girls as you. [field, 
 
 Mar. Well, if you chance to come by Pressing- 
 Make but a step into the Keeper's lodge. 
 And such poor fare as woodmen can afford, 
 Butter and cheese, cream and fat venison. 
 You shall have store, and welcome therewithal. 
 
 Lacy. Gramercies,^ Peggy; look for me ere long. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Kixg Henry the Third, tlie Emperor, the 
 King of Castile, Elinor, and Vandermast. 
 
 K. Hen. Great men of Europe, monarchs of the 
 west, 
 Eing'd with the walls of old Oceanus, 
 Whose lofty surges ^ like the battlements 
 That compass'd high-built Babel in with towers, 
 Welcome, my lords, welcome, bi'ave western kings, 
 To England's shore, whose promontoiy-cleeves ^ 
 Show Albion is another little world ; 
 Welcome says English Hemy to you all ; 
 Chiefly unto the lovely Elinor, 
 Who dar'd for Edward's sake cut through the seas. 
 And venture as Agenor's damsel through the deep. 
 To get the love of Henry's wanton son, 
 
 K. of Cast. England's rich monarch, brave 
 Plantagenet, 
 The Pyren Mounts swelling above the clouds. 
 That ward the wealthy Castile in with walls, 
 Could not detain the beauteous Elinor ; 
 But hearing of the fame of Edward's youth. 
 She dar'd to brook Neptunus' haughty pride. 
 And bide the bnmt of f roward ^olus ; 
 Then may fair England welcome her the more. 
 
 1 'a — ^he. 
 
 » ?iilding—a base, menial wretch, a term of contempt 
 often used by old writers; possibly from hinderling, 
 a provincial word signifying degenerate, or from Anglo- 
 Saxon, hyldan, to bend. 
 
 3 erst generally means formerly, but is here equivalent 
 to ere, or hitherto. 
 
 * grey ' was the phrase for a homely shepherd's garb,' 
 equivalent to the Scotch homespun "hodden grey.'" 
 
 — Rev. J. MiTFOED. 
 
 * quaint, which, according to some, comes from old 
 Fr. coint, pretty, affable, Lat. comptus, trimmed, here 
 means, trim, neat. 
 
 6 Gramercies, from Fr. grande merci, means, many 
 thanks, much obliged. 
 '^ This, perhaps, should be surge is. 
 
 * promontory-ckeves—See note 2, p. 79, 1st coL 
 
 Elm. After that English Henry by his lords 
 Had sent Prince Edward's lovely counterfeit,^ 
 A present to the Castile Elinor, 
 The comely portrait of so brave a man, ' 
 The virtuous fame discoursed of his deeds, 
 Edward's courageous resolution, 
 Done at the Holy Land 'fore Damas' walls. 
 Led both mine eye and thoughts in equal links. 
 To like so of the English monarch's son, 
 That I attempted perils for his sake. 
 
 Enip. Where is the prince, my lord ? 
 
 K. Hen. He posted down, not long since, from 
 the court, 
 To Suffolk side, to meny Framlingham, 
 To sport himself amongst my fallow deer : 
 From thence, by packets sent to Hampton House, 
 We hear the prince is ridden, with his lords, 
 To Oxford, in the academy there 
 To hear dispute amongst the learned men. 
 But we will send forth letters for my son. 
 To will him come from Oxford to the court. 
 
 Emp. Nay, rather, Henry, let us, as we be, 
 Eide for to visit Oxford with our train. 
 Fain would I see your universities. 
 And what learn'd men your acaddmy yields. 
 From Hapsburg have 1 brought a learned clerk 
 To hold dispute with English oratoi'S : 
 This doctor, surnam'd Jacques Vandermast, 
 A German born, pass'd into Padua, 
 To Florence and to fair Bologna, 
 To Paris, Eheims, and stately Orleans, 
 And, talking there with men of art, put down 
 The chiefest of them all in aphorisms. 
 In magic, and the mathematic rules : 
 Now let us, Henrj'-, try him in your schools. 
 
 K. Hen. He shall, my lord; this motion likef 
 me well. 
 We'll progress straight to Oxford with our trains, 
 And see what men our academy brings. — 
 And, wonder Vandermast, welcome to me: 
 In Oxford shalt thou find a jolly fi'iar, 
 Call'd Friar Bacon, England's only flower: 
 Set him but nonplus in his magic spells. 
 And make him yield in mathematic rules, 
 And for thy glory I will bind thy brows, 
 Not with a poet's garland made of bays. 
 But with a coronet of choicest gold. 
 Whilst'-^ then we set to Oxford with our troops, 
 Let's in and banquet in our English court 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Ealph Simnell in Prince Edward's 
 apparel; and Prince Edward, Warren, 
 and Ermsby, disguised. 
 
 Ralph. Where be these vagabond knaves, that 
 they attend no better on their master ? 
 
 P. Edio. If it please your honour, we are all 
 ready at an inch. 
 
 Ralph. Sin-ah Ned, I'll have no more post- 
 horse to ride on : I'll have another fetch.s 
 
 Erms. I pray you, how is that, my lord ? 
 
 Ralph. Marry, sir, I'll send to the Isle ef Ely 
 for four or five dozen of geese, and I'll have them 
 tied six and six together with whip-cord : now 
 upon their backs will I have a fair field-bed with 
 a canopy ; and so, when it is my pleasure, I'll 
 flee into what place I please. This will be easy. 
 
 War. Your honour hath said well: but shall 
 we to Brazen-nose College before we pull off our 
 boots ? 
 
 Erms. Warren, well motion'd ; we will to the 
 friar 
 Before we revel it within the town. — 
 
 1 counterfeit— -^oxXxsAt. 
 
 2 Whilst, &c.— Until we set out. 
 
 ' fetch — stratagem or contrivance. 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 83 
 
 Ealph, see you keep your countenance like a 
 prince. 
 
 Ralph. Wherefore have I such a company of 
 cutting 1 knaves to wait upon me, but to keep and 
 defend my countenance against all mine enemies? 
 Have you not good swords and bucklers ? 
 
 Erms. Stay, who comes here ? 
 
 War. Some scholar ; and we'll ask him where 
 Fi'iar Bacon is. 
 
 Enter Friar Bacon and Miles. 
 
 Bacon. "Why, thou arrant dunce, shall I never 
 make thee a good scholar? Doth not all the 
 town cry out and say. Friar Bacon's subsizer is 
 the greatest blockhead in all Oxford ?^ Why, thou 
 canst not speak one word of true Latin, 
 
 Miles. No, sir? yet, what is this else? Ego 
 sum tuus homo, ' I am your man : ' I warrant you, 
 sir, as good Tully's phrase as any is in Oxford. 
 
 Bacon. Come on, sirrah ; what part of speech 
 is Ego? 
 
 Miles. Ego, that is ' I ; ' marry, nomen substantivo."^ 
 
 Bacon. How prove you that ? 
 
 Miles. Why, sir, let him prove himself an a^ 
 will, I can be heard, felt, and understood. 
 
 Bacon. gross dunce ! [Beats him. 
 
 P. Edw. Come, let us break off this dispute 
 between these two. — Sii'rah, where is Brazen- 
 nose College? 
 
 Miles. Not far from Coppersmith's Hall. 
 
 P. Edw. What ! dost thou mock me ? 
 
 Miles. Not I, sir; but what would you at 
 Brazen-nose ? 
 
 Erms. Marry, we would speak with Friar Bacon. 
 
 Miles. Whose men be you ? 
 
 Erms. Marry, scholar, here's our master. 
 
 Ralph. Sirrah, I am the master of these good 
 fellows; mayst thou not know me to be a lord 
 by my reparrel ? * 
 
 Miles. Then here's good game for the hawk ; 
 for here's the master-fool and a covey of cox- 
 combs. One wise man, I think, would spring you 
 aU. 
 
 P. Edw. Gog's wounds ! Wan-en, kill him. 
 
 War. Why, Ned, I think the devil be in my 
 Bheath ; I cannot get out my dagger. 
 
 Erms. Nor I mine. Swones,^ Ned, I think I 
 am bewitched. 
 
 Miles. A company of scabs !^ the proudest of 
 you all draw your weapon, if he can. — \Aside.'\ 
 See how boldly I speak, now my master is by. 
 
 P. Edw. I strive in vain; but if my sword 
 be shut 
 And conjui-'d fast by magic in my sheath, 
 Villain, here is my fist. 
 
 [Stynkes Miles a box on the ear. 
 
 Miles. Oh, I beseech you conjure his hands too, 
 that he may not lift his arms to his head, for he 
 is light-fingered ! 
 
 Ralph. Ned, strike him; I'll warrant thee by 
 mine honour. 
 
 Bacon. What! means the English prince to 
 wrong my man ? 
 
 P. Edw. To whom speak'st thou? 
 
 Bacon. To thee. 
 
 P. Edw. Who art thou ? 
 
 Bacon. Could you not judge when all your 
 swords grew fast, 
 That Friar Bacon was not far from hence ? 
 Edward, King Henry's son and Prince of Wales, 
 
 » CM«ingr— swaggering. 2 ' Xoun substantive.' 
 
 3 an a — if he. ■* reparrel — apparel. 
 
 * swones or zwounds, and Gog's wounds, both mean 
 the same thing, viz. God's wounds, a common form of 
 oath in Greene's time. 
 
 « See note 2, p. 78, 2d coL 
 
 Thy fool disguis'd cannot conceal thyself: 
 I know both Ermsby and the Sussex Earl, 
 Else Friar Bacon had but little skill. 
 Thou com'st in post from merry Fressingfield, 
 Fast-fancied' to the Keeper's bonny lass, 
 To crave some succour of the jolly friar : 
 And Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, hast^thou left 
 To treat 2 fair Margaret to allow thy loves; 
 But friends are men, and love can baffle lords ; 
 The earl both woos and courts her for himself. 
 
 War. Ned, this is strange ; the friar knoweth all. 
 
 Erms. Apollo could not utter more than this. 
 
 P. Edw. I stand amaz'd to hear this jolly friar 
 Tell even the very secrets of my thoughts. — 
 But, learned Bacon, since thou know'st the cause 
 Why I did post so fast from Fressingfield, 
 Help, friar, at a pinch, that I may have 
 The love of lovely Margaret to myself, 
 And, as I am true Prince of Wales, I'll give 
 Living and lands to strength thy college-state.' 
 
 War. Good friar, help the prince in this. 
 
 Ralph. Why, servant Ned, will not the friar do 
 it ? Were not my sword glued to my scabbard 
 by conjuration, I would cut off his head, and 
 make him do it by force. 
 
 Miles. In faith, my lord, your manhood and 
 your sword is all alike; they are so fast conjured 
 that we shall never see them. 
 
 Erms. What ! doctor, in a dump! tush, help 
 the prince. 
 And thou shalt see how liberal he will prove. 
 
 Bacon. Crave not such actions greater dumps 
 than these ? 
 I will, my lord, strain out my magic spells ; 
 For this day comes the earl to Fressingfield, 
 And 'fore that night shuts in the day with dark, 
 They'll be betrothed each to other fast. 
 But come with me ; we'll to my study straight, 
 And in a glass prospective I will show 
 What's done this day in merry Fressingfield. 
 
 P. Edw. Gramercies, Bacon ; I will quite thy pain. 
 
 Bacon. But send your train, my lord, into the 
 town: 
 My scholar shall go bring them to their inn ; 
 Meanwhile we'll see the knavery of the earl. 
 
 P. Edw. Warren, leave me: — and, Ermsby, 
 take the fool ; 
 Let him be master, and go revel it, 
 Till I and Friar Bacon talk awhile. 
 
 War. We will, my lord. 
 
 Ralph. Faith, Ned, and I'll lord it out till thou 
 comest. I'll be Prince of Wales "over all the 
 black-pots in Oxford. 
 
 [_Exeunt Warren, Ermsby, Ealph Simnell, 
 and Miles. 
 
 Friar Bacon and Prince Edward go into the 
 
 study. 
 
 Bacon. Now, frolic* Edward, welcome to my 
 cell; 
 Here tempers Friar Bacon many toys. 
 And holds this place his consistory-court. 
 Wherein the devils plead homage to his words. 
 Within this glass prospective thou shalt see 
 This day what's done in merry Fressingfield 
 'Twixt lovely Peggy and the Lincoln Earl. 
 P. Edw. Friar, thou glad'st me: now shall 
 Edward try 
 How Lacy meaneth to his sovereign lord. 
 Bacon. Stand there and look directly in the 
 glass. 
 
 1 Fast-fanciedr—hel^ fast by fancy. 
 
 2 treat — entreat. 
 
 3 thy college-state — ^probably means the state of ihy 
 college. 
 
 * /roiic— gay, merry ; Ger. frohlich—g&j, joy fuL 
 
84 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Enter Margaret and Friar Buxgay. 
 
 What sees my lord ? 
 
 P. Edio. I see the Keeper's lovely lass appear, 
 As brightsome as the paramour ^ of Mars, 
 Only attended by a jolly friar. 
 
 Bacon. Sit still, and keep the crystal in your 
 eye. 
 
 Mar. But tell me, Friar Bungay, is it true ^ 
 That this fair courteous country SAvain, 
 Who says his father is a farmer nigli, 
 Can be Lord Lacy, Earl of Lincolnshire ? 
 
 Bun. Peggy, 'tis true, 'tis Lacy for my life, 
 Or else mine art and cunning both do fail. 
 Left by Prince Edward to procure his loves ; 
 For he in green, that holp you run your cheese. 
 Is son to Henry, and the Prince of Wales. 
 
 Mar. Be what he will, his lure is but for lust : 
 But did Lord Lacy like poor Margaret, 
 Or would he deign to wed a country lass. 
 Friar, I would his humble handmaid be. 
 And for great wealth quite ^ him with courtesy. 
 
 Bun. Why, Margaret, dost thou love him ? 
 
 Mar. His personage, like the pride of vaunting 
 Troy, 
 Might well avouch* to shadow Helen's rape : * 
 His wit is quick and ready in conceit. 
 As Greece afforded in her chiefest prime : 
 Courteous, ah friar, full of pleasing smiles ! 
 Trust me, I love too much to tell thee more ; 
 Suffice to me he's England's pai-amour. 
 
 Bun. Hath not each eye that view'd thy pleas- 
 ing face 
 Surnamfed thee Fair Maid of Fressingfield ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, Bungay ; and would God the lovely 
 earl 
 Had that in esse that so many sought. 
 
 Bun. Fear not, the friar will not be behind 
 To show his cunning to entangle love. 
 
 P. Edw. I think the friar courts the bonny 
 wench : 
 Bacon, methinks he is a lusty churl. 
 
 Bacon. Now look, my lord. 
 
 Enter Lacy disguised as hejbre. 
 
 P. Edw. Gog's wounds, Bacon, here comes 
 Lacy! 
 
 Bacon. Sit still, my lord, and mark the comedy. 
 
 Bun. Hex'e's Lacy, Margaret; step aside awhile. 
 [ketires tuith Margaret. 
 
 Lacy. Daphne, fhe damsel that caught Phoebus 
 fast. 
 And lock'd him in the brightness of her looks, 
 Was not so beauteous in Apollo's eyes 
 As is fair Margaret to the Lincoln Earl. 
 Becant thee, Lacy, thou art put in trust : 
 Edward, thy sovereign's son, hath chosen thee, 
 A secret friend, to court her for himself. 
 And dar'st thou wrong thy px'ince with treachery? 
 Lacy, love makes no exception of a friend, 
 Nor deems it of a prince but as a man. 
 Honour bids thee control him in his lust ; 
 His wooing is not for to wed the girl. 
 But to entrap her and beguile the lass. 
 Lacy, thou lov'st, then brook not such abuse, 
 But wed her, and abide thy prince's frown ; 
 For better die than see her life disgrac'd. 
 
 * paramour of Mars — i. e. Venus. 
 
 2 'What passes between Bungay and Margaret, and 
 afterwards with Lacy, must have been represented on 
 a sort of inner stage, or perhaps at the back of the 
 stage, while Edward and Bacon were in front, looking 
 at them in the "glass perspective.'" — Dodsley's Old 
 Flays (ed. 1825). 
 
 ' quite — requite. ■* avouch — answer. 
 
 6 rope— another reading is • cape.* 
 
 Mar. Come, friar, I will shake him from his 
 dumps. — \_Comes forward. 
 
 How cheer you, sir ? a penny for your thought. 
 You're early up, pray God it be the near.i 
 What ! come from Beccles in a morn so soon ? 
 
 Lacy. Thus watchful are such men as live in 
 love. 
 Whose eyes brook broken slumbei's for their 
 
 sleep. 
 I tell thee, Peggy, since last Harleston fair 
 My mind hath felt a heap of passions. 
 
 Mar. A trusty man, that court it for your 
 friend : 
 Woo you still for the courtier all in gi-een ? 
 I marvel that he sues not for himself. 
 
 Lacy. Peggy, 
 I pleaded first to get your grace for him ; 
 But when mine eyes survey'd your beauteou* 
 
 looks. 
 Love, like a wag, straight div'd into my heart, 
 And there did shrine the idea of yourself. 
 Pity me, though I be a farmer's son, 
 And measure not my riches, but my love. 
 
 Mar. You are very hasty, for to garden well, 
 Seeds must have time to sprout before they 
 
 spring. 
 Love ought to creep as doth the dial's shade. 
 For timely ^ ripe is rotten too-too soon. 
 
 Bun. Deus hie ; ^ room for a merry friar ! 
 What ! youth of Beccles, with the Keeper's lass ? 
 'Tis well ; but tell me, hear you any news ? 
 
 Mar. No, friar ; what news ? 
 
 Bu7i. Hear you not how the pursuivants do 
 post 
 With proclamations through each country-town ? 
 
 Lacy. For what, gentle friar ? Tell the news. 
 
 Bun. Dwell'st thou in Beccles, and hear'st not 
 of these news ? 
 Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln is late fled 
 From Windsor court, disguised like a swain, 
 And lurks about the country here unknown. 
 Henry suspects him of some treachery. 
 And therefore doth proclaim in eveiy way, 
 That who can take the Lincoln Earl shall have, 
 Paid in the exchequer twenty thousand crowns. 
 
 Lacy. The Earl of Lincoln! Friar, thou art 
 mad : 
 It was some other ; thou mistak'st the man. 
 The Earl of Lincoln ! why, it cannot be. 
 
 3£ar. Yes, very well, my lord, for you are he r 
 The Keeper's daughter took you prisoner. 
 Lord Lacy, yield, I'll be your gaoler once. 
 
 P. Edw. How familiar they be. Bacon ! 
 
 Bacon. Sit still, and mark the sequel of their 
 loves. 
 
 Lacy. Then am I double prisoner to thyself. 
 Peggy, I yield. But are these news in jest ? 
 
 Mar. In jest Avith you, but earnest unto me ; 
 For why* these wrongs do wring me at the 
 
 heart. 
 Ah, how these earls and noblemen of birth 
 Flatter and feign to forge poor women's ill ! 
 
 Lacy. Believe me, lass, I am tjae Lincoln Earl : 
 I not deny, but, 'tirfed thus in rags, 
 I liv'd disguis'd to win fair Peggy's love. 
 
 Mar. What love is there where wedding ends 
 not love ? 
 
 Lacy. I meant, fair girl, to make thee Lacy's 
 wife. 
 
 Mar. I little think that earls will stoop so low. 
 
 » You're early up, pray God it be the near— near, i.e. 
 nearer. Dyce thinks this an allusion to the proverb, 
 ' Early up and never the nearer,' 
 
 2 <j?ne/y— early. ^ ' God be here.' 
 
 * For why— hccausz. 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 85 
 
 Lacy. Say shall I make thee countess ere I 
 sleep ? 
 
 Mar. Handmaid unto the eai-1, so please him- 
 self : 
 A wife in name, but servant in obedience. 
 
 Lacy. The Lincoln Countess, for it shall be so. 
 I'll phght the bands, and seal it with a kiss. 
 
 P. JEdto. Gog's wounds, Bacon, they kiss ! I'll 
 stab them. 
 
 Bacon. Oh, hold your hands, my lord, it is the 
 glass ! 
 
 P. Edit). Choler to see the traitors gree so well 
 Made me [to] think the shadows substances. 
 
 Bacon. Twere a long poniard, my lord, to 
 reach between 
 Oxford and Fressingfield ; but sit still and see 
 more. 
 
 Bun. AVell, Lord of Lincoln, if your loves be 
 knit, 
 And that your tongues and thoughts do both 
 
 agree, 
 To avoid ensuing jars, I'll hamper up the match. 
 I'll take my portace ^ forth and wed you hei-e : 
 Then go to bed and seal up your desires. 
 
 Lacy. Friai', content. — Peggy, how like you 
 this? 
 
 Mar. What likes my lord is pleasing unto me. 
 
 Bun. Then hand-fast hand, and I will to my 
 book. 
 
 Bacon. What sees my lord now ? 
 
 P. Edw. Bacon, I see the lovers hand in hand. 
 The friar ready with his portace there 
 To wed them both : then am I quite undone. 
 Bacon, help now, if e'er thy magic serv'd ; 
 Help, Bacon ; stop the marriage now, 
 If devils or necromancy may suffice, 
 And I will give thee forty thousand crowns. 
 
 Bacon. Fear not, my lord, I'll stop the jolly friar 
 For mumbling up his orisons this day. 
 
 Lacy. Why speak'st not, Bungay? Friar, to 
 thy book. 
 
 [Bungay is mute, o^ing ' Hud, hud.' 
 
 Mar. How look'st thou, friar, as a man dis- 
 traught ? 
 Keft of thy senses, Bungay 7 show by signs, 
 If thou be dumb, what passion holdeth thee. 
 
 Lacy. He's dumb indeed. Bacon hath with 
 his devils 
 Enchanted him, or else some strange disease 
 Or apoplexy hath possess'd his lungs : 
 But, Peggy, what he cannot with his book, 
 We'll 'twixt us both unite it up in heart. 
 
 Mar. Else let me die, my lord, a miscreant. 
 
 P. Edw. Why stands Friar Bungay so amaz'd 7 
 
 Bacon. I have struck him dumb, my lord ; 
 and, if your honour please, 
 I'll fetch this Bungay straightway from Fress- 
 
 ingfield. 
 And he shall dine with us in Oxford here. 
 
 P. Edio. Bacon, do that, and thou contentest me. 
 
 Lacy. Of courtesy, Max'garet, let us lead the 
 friar 
 Unto thy father's lodge, to comfort him 
 With broths, to bring him from this hapless 
 trance. 
 
 Mar. Or else, my lord, we were passing unkind 
 To leave the friar so in his distress. 
 
 Enter a Devil, who caj'ries o^ Bungay on his bach. 
 
 Oh, help, my lord! a devil, a devil, my lord! 
 Look how he carries Bungay on his back ! 
 Let's hence, for Bacon's spirits be abroad. 
 
 [^Exit loith Lacy. 
 
 ^portace, also portasse, portesse, porthose, etc.— pori- 
 uble prayer-boolc-or breviary. 
 
 P. Edio. Bacon, I laugh to see the jolly friar 
 Mounted upon the devil, and how the earl 
 Flees with his bonny lass for fear. 
 As soon as Bungay is at Brazen-nose, 
 And I have chatted with the merry friar, 
 I will in post hie me to Fressingfield, 
 And 'quite these wrongs on Lacy ere't be long. 
 Bacon. So be it, my lord: but let us to our 
 dinner ; 
 For ere we have taken our repast awhile. 
 We shall have Bungay brought to Brazen-nose, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter Burden, Mason, and Clement. 
 
 Mason. !N"ow that we are gather'd in the Be- 
 gent house, 
 It fits us talk about the king's repair. 
 For he, troopfed with all the western kings, 
 That lie alougst the Dantzic seas by east, 
 North by the clime of frosty Germany, 
 The Almain monarch, and the Saxon ' duke, 
 Castile and lovely Elinor with him, 
 Have in their jests ^ resolv'd for Oxford town. 
 
 Burd. We must lay plots of stately tragedies, 
 Strange comic shows, such as proud Eoscius 
 Vaunted before the Eoman emperois. 
 
 Clem. To welcome all the western potentates. 
 But more ; the king by letters hath foretold 
 That Frederick, the Almain emperor. 
 Hath brought with him a German of esteem, 
 Whose surname is Don Jaques Vandermast, 
 Skilful in magic and those secret arts. 
 
 Mason. Then must we all make suit unto the 
 friar, 
 To Friar Bacon, that he vouch 3 this task. 
 And undertake to countervail in skill 
 The German ; else there 's none in Oxford can 
 Match and dispute with learned Vandermast, 
 
 Burd. Bacon, if he will hold the German play, 
 Will teach him what an English friar can do : 
 The devil, I think, dare not dispute with him. 
 
 Clem. Indeed, Mas^ doctor, he [dis]pleasur'd 
 you. 
 In that he brought your hostess with her spit, 
 From Henley, posting unto Brazen-nose. 
 
 Burd. A vengeance on the friar for his pains I 
 But leaving that, let's hie to Bacon straight, 
 To see if he will take this task in hand. 
 
 Clem. Stay, what rumour is this ? The town 
 is up in a mutiny : what hurly-burly is this 7 
 
 Enter a Constable, with Ealph Simnell, War- 
 ren, Ermsby, all three disguised as he/ore., and 
 Miles. 
 
 Cons. Nay, masters, if you were ne'er so good, 
 you shall before the doctors to answer your mis- 
 demeanour. 
 Burd. What's the matter, fellow ? 
 Cons. Marry, sir, here's a company of rufilers,* 
 that, drinking in the tavern, have made a great 
 brawl, and almost killed the vintner. 
 
 3Eies. Salve,^ Doctor Burden ! 
 This lubberly lurden,^ 
 
 1 Saxon. ' Scocon ' is the common reading. 
 
 2 jests or gests. ' In the time of the royal progresses, 
 the king's stages, as we may see by the jom-nals of them 
 in the herald's office, were called his gests, from the old 
 Fr. word giste, diversorium.'— Nakes. It may possibly, 
 however, mean here merely doings, from Lat. gero, 
 gestum, to do. 
 
 3 vouch— to maintain, undertake; literally, to call 
 upon, to defend. 
 
 4 i/as— probably an abbreviation for Master. 
 
 5 ruffler—n disturber, a lawless violent person. 
 
 6 'Hail.' 
 
 7 lurden or lour den— a heavy, lumpish, lazy fellow; 
 Fr. lourd, heavy, dull. 
 
S6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ill-shap'd and ill-fac'd, 
 Disdain'd and disgrac'd, 
 What he tells unto vdbis ^ 
 Mentitur de nobis. 
 
 Burd. Who is the master and chief of this 
 crew? 
 
 Miles. Ecce asinum mundi 
 Figura rotundi,'^ 
 Neat, sheat, and fine, 
 As brisk as a cup of wine. 
 
 Burd. What are you ? 
 
 Ralph. I am, father doctor, as a man would say, 
 the bell-wether of this company : these are my 
 lords, and I the Prince of Wales. 
 
 Clem. Are you Edward, the king's son? 
 
 Ralph. Sirrah Miles, bring hither the tapster 
 that drew the wine, and, I warrant, when they 
 see how soundly I have broke his head, they'll 
 say 'twas done by no less man than a prince. 
 
 Mason. I cannot believe that this is the Prince 
 of Wales. 
 
 War. And why so, sir ? 
 
 Mason. Por they say the prince is a brave and 
 a wise gentleman. 
 
 War. Why, and think'st thou, doctor, that he 
 is not so ? 
 Dar'st thou detract and derogate from him, 
 Being so lovely and so brave a youth ? 
 
 Erms. Whose face, shining with many a 
 sugar'd smile. 
 Bewrays that he is bred of princely race. 
 
 Miles. And yet, master doctor, 
 To speak like a proctor. 
 And tell unto you 
 What is veriment and true ; 
 To cease of this quarrel, 
 Look but on his apparel ; 
 Then mark but my talis, 
 He is great Prince of Walis, 
 The chief of our gregis^^ 
 Andifilius regis : * 
 Then 'wai-e what is done. 
 For he is Henry's white ^ son. 
 
 Ralph. Doctors, whose doting nightcaps are 
 not capable of my ingenious dignity, know that 
 I am Edward Plantagenet, whom if you dis- 
 please, will make a ship that shall hold all your 
 colleges, and so carry away the niniversity with 
 a fair wind to the Bankside® in South wark. — 
 How sayest thou, Ned Warren, shall I not do it ? 
 
 War. Yes, my good lord ; and, if it please your 
 lordship, I will gather up all your old pantofles,^ 
 and with the cork make you a pinnace of five 
 hundred ton, that shall serve the turn marvellous 
 well, my lord. 
 
 Erms. And I, my lord, will have pioneers 
 to undermine the town, that the very gardens 
 and orchards be carried away for your summer 
 walks. 
 
 Miles. And I, with scientia 
 And great diligentia, 
 Will conjure and charm. 
 To keep you from harm ; 
 That utrum horum mavis^' 
 Your very great navis,^ 
 
 1 vobis, <fcc. — 'you concerning us is false.' 
 
 * ' Behold the ass (with) the figure of the round world.' 
 
 * ' flock.' * ' son of the king.' 
 
 * white son. White was formerly used as a term of 
 endearment. 
 
 * the Bankside was a part of the burgh of Southwark, 
 where were once four public theatres— the Globe, the 
 Swan, the Rose, and the Hope; it was also a noted 
 haunt of frail women. 
 
 ' pantofles — slippers ; Fr. pantoufle. 
 
 » ' Whichever of these you choose or prefer.' 
 
 * 'ship.' 
 
 Like Barclay's ship,* 
 
 From Oxford do slcip 
 
 With colleges and schools, 
 
 Full-loaden with fools. 
 
 Quid diets ad hoc,"^ 
 
 Worshipful Domine Dawcock ? ' 
 
 Clem. Why, hare-brain'd courtiers, are you 
 drunk or mad, 
 To taunt us up with such scurrility ? 
 Deem you us men of base and light esteem, 
 To bring us such a fop for Henry's son? — 
 Call out the beadles and convey them hence 
 Straight to Bocardo :* let the roisters^ lie 
 Close clapt in bolts, until their wits be tame. 
 
 Erms. Why, shall we to prison, my lord ? 
 
 Ralph. What sayest. Miles, shall I honour the 
 prison with my presence ? 
 
 Miles. No, no : out with your blades, 
 And hamper these jades ; 
 Have a flurts and a crash, 
 Now play revel-dash. 
 And teach these sacerdos 
 That the Bocardos, 
 Like peasants and elves. 
 Are meet for themselves. 
 
 3fason. To the prison with them, constable. 
 
 War. Well, doctors, seeing I have sported me 
 AVith laughing at these mad and merry wags, 
 Know that Prince Edward is at Brazen-nose, 
 And this, attired like the Prince of Wales, 
 Is Kalph, King Henry's only loved fool ; 
 I, Earl of Sussex, and this Ermsby, 
 One of the privj' chamber to the king ; 
 Who, while the prince with Friar Bacon stays, 
 Have revell'd it in Oxford as you see. 
 
 Mason. My lord, pardon us, we knew not what 
 you were : 
 But courtiers may make greater 'scapes than 
 
 these. 
 Wilt please your honour dine with me to-day ? 
 
 War. I will, master doctor, and satisfy the 
 vintner for his hurt ; only I must desire you to 
 imagine him all this forenoon the Prince of 
 Wales. 
 
 Mason. I will, sir. 
 
 Ralph. And upon that I will lead the way; 
 only I will have Miles go before me, because I 
 have heard Henry say that wisdom must go be- 
 fore majesty. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Peixce Edwap.d with his poniard in his 
 hand^ Lacy, and Margaret. 
 
 P. Edw. Lacy, thou canst not shroud thy 
 traitorous thoughts. 
 Nor cover, as did Cassius, all thy wiles ; 
 For Edward hath an eye that looks as far 
 As Lynceus from the shores of Grsecia. 
 Did not I sit in Oxford by the friar, 
 And see thee court the maid of Fressingfield, 
 Sealing thy flattering fancies with a kiss ? 
 Did not proud Bungay draw his portace ' forth, 
 
 1 Barclay's ship. The common reading is ' Bartlet's 
 ship.' It is probably either a printer's error, or Miles is 
 meant to err from ignorance. Miles alludes to The shyp 
 of Folys of the Worlde, translated out of Laten, Frenche, 
 and Doche, into Englysshe Tonge, by Alexander Barclay 
 Preste. London, 1509. 
 
 2 ' \Miat say you to that.' 
 
 3 Domine Dawcock. An expression borrowed from 
 Skelton, whose style is here imitated. — Dtcb. 
 
 4 Bocardo was the name of the old north gate of Ox- 
 ford, formerly used as a prison. Dyce thinks it was so 
 called from some allusion to the Ai-istotelian syllogism 
 in Bocardo. 
 
 5 roisters— yi'ilA, lawless, roystering fellows; rioters. 
 
 6 flurt. To flurt or flirt is to snap the fingers de- 
 risively, to mock. 
 
 ' portace— SiQe. note 1, p. 85, 1st coL 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 87 
 
 And joining hand in liaud had married you, 
 If Friar Bacon had not struck him dumb, 
 And mounted him upon a spirit's back, 
 That we might chat at Oxford with the friar ? 
 Traitor, what answer'st ? is not all this true ? 
 
 Lacy. Tnith all, my lord; and thus I make reply. 
 At Harleston fair, there courting for your grace, 
 Whenas mine eye sui-vey'd her curious shape. 
 And drew the beauteous glory of her looks 
 To dive into the centre of my heart, 
 Love taught me that your honour did but jest, 
 That princes were in fancy but as men ; 
 How that the lovely maid of Fressingfield 
 Was fitter to be Lacy's wedded wife 
 Than concubine unto the Prince of Wales. 
 
 P. Edw. Injiu-ious Lacy, did I love thee more 
 Than Alexander his Hephaestion ? 
 Did I unfold the passions of my love, 
 And lock them in the closet of thy thoughts ? 
 Wert thou to Edward second to himself, 
 Sole friend, and partner of his secret loves ? 
 And coidd a glance of fading beauty break 
 Th' enchained fetters of such private friends ? 
 Base coward, false, and too effeminate 
 To be corrival with a prince in thoughts ! 
 From Oxford have I posted since I din'd, 
 To quite a traitor 'fore that Edward sleep. 
 
 Mar. 'Twas I, my lord, not Lacy stept awry ; 
 For oft he sxied and courted for yoiirself. 
 And still woo'd for the courtier all in green ; 
 But I, whom fancy made but over-fond, 
 Pleaded myself with looks as if I lov'd ; 
 I fed mine eye with gazing on his face. 
 And still bewitch'd lov'd Lacy with my looks ; 
 My heart with sighs, mine eyes pleaded with tears, 
 My face held pity and content at once, 
 And more I could not cipher-out by signs. 
 But that I lov'd Lord Lacy with my heart. 
 Then, worthy Edward, measure with thy mind 
 If women's favours will not force men fall, 
 If beauty, and if darts of piercing love, 
 Ajre not of force to bury thoughts of friends. 
 
 P. Edw. I tell thee, Peggy, I will have thy loves : 
 Edward or none shall conquer Margaret. 
 In frigates bottom'd with rich Sethin planks, 
 Topt with the lofty firs of Lebanon, 
 Stemm'd and incas'd with burnish'd ivory, 
 And overlaid with plates of Persian wealth. 
 Like Thetis shalt thou wanton on the waves, 
 And draw the dolphins to thy lovely eyes, 
 To dance lavoltas ^ in the purple streams : 
 Sirens, with harps and silver psalteries, 
 Shall wait with music at thy frigate's stem. 
 And entertain fair Margaret with their lays. 
 England and England's wealth shall wait on thee ; 
 Britain shall bend unto her prince's love, 
 And do due homage to thine excellence, 
 if thou wilt be but Edward's Margaret. 
 
 Mar. Pardon, my lord : if Jove's great royalty 
 Sent me such presents as to Danae ; 
 If Phcebus, tired ^ in Latona's webs. 
 Came courting from the beauty of his lodge ; 
 The dulcet tunes of frolic Mercury, 
 Nor all the wealth heaven's treasury affords, 
 Should make me leave Lord Lacy or his love. 
 
 P. Edw. I have learn'd at Oxford, then, this 
 point of schools, — 
 Ahlata causa, tollitur effectus:^ 
 Lacy, the cause that Margaret cannot love 
 Nor fix her liking on the English prince ; 
 Take him away, and then th' effects will fail. 
 
 J lavoltas— s. lavolta was a dance for two persons, who 
 whined quickly round, face to face, each leaping alter- 
 nately ; Ital. volta ; from Latin, volvo, volutum, to roll. 
 2 tired. Perhaps this should be ' tired.' 
 * 'The cause being removed, the effect will fail.' 
 
 Villain, prepare thyself ; for I will bathe 
 My poniard in the bosom of an earl. 
 
 Lacy. Rather than live, and miss fair Margaret's 
 love, 
 Prince Edward, stop not at the fatal doom. 
 But stab it home : end both my loves and life. 
 
 Mar. Brave Prince of Wales, honour'd foi 
 royal deeds, 
 'Twere sin to stain fair Venus' courts with blood; 
 Love's conquest ends, my lord, in courtesy : 
 Spare Lacy, gentle Edward ; let me die, 
 For so both you and he do cease your loves. 
 
 P. Edw. Lacy shall die as traitor to his lord. 
 
 Lacy. I have deserv'd it, Edward ; act it well. 
 
 Mar. What hopes the prince to gain by Lacy's 
 death ? 
 
 P. Edw. To end the loves 'twixt him and 
 Margaret. 
 
 3Iar. Why, thinks King Henry's son that 
 Margaret's love 
 Hangs in th' uncertain balance of proud time ? 
 That death shall make a discord of our thoughts ? 
 No, stab the earl, and, 'fore the morning sun 
 Shall vaunt ^ him thrice over the lofty east, 
 Margaret will meet her Lacy in the heavens. 
 
 Lacy. If aught betides to lovely Margaret 
 That wrongs or wrings her honour from content, 
 Europe's rich wealth nor England's monarchy 
 Should not allure Lacy to over-live. 
 Then, Edward, short my life, and end her loves. 
 
 Mar. Rid 2 me, and keep a friend worth many 
 loves. 
 
 Lacy. Nay, Edward, keep a love worth many 
 friends. 
 
 Mar. An' if thy mind be such as fame hath 
 blaz'd. 
 Then, princely Edward, let us both abide 
 The fatal resolution of thy rage : 
 Banish thou fancy, and embrace revenge, 
 And in one tomb knit both our carcases, 
 Whose hearts were linked in one perfect love. 
 
 P. Edw. [aside.'] Edward, art thou that famous 
 Prince of Wales, 
 Who at Damasco beat the Saracens, 
 And brought'st home triumph on thy lance's 
 
 point ? 
 And shaU thy plumes be pull'd by Venus down? 
 Is't princely to dissever lovers' leagues ? 
 Leave, Ned, and make a virtue of this fault, 
 And further Peg and Lacy in their loves : 
 So in subduing fancy's passion, 
 Conquering thyself, thou gett'st the richest 
 
 spoil. 
 
 Lacy, rise up. Fair Peggy, here's my hand : 
 The Prince of Wales hath conquer'd all his 
 
 thoughts, 
 And all his loves he yields unto the earl. 
 Lacy, enjoy the maid of Fressingfield ; 
 Make her thy Lincoln Countess at the church, 
 And Ned, as he is true Plantagenet, 
 Will give her to thee frankly for thy wife. 
 
 Lacy. Humbly I take her of my sovereign, 
 As if that Edward gave me England's right, 
 And rich'd me with the Albion diadem. 
 
 Mar. And doth the English prince mean true? 
 Will he vouchsafe to cease his former loves, 
 And yield the title of a country maid 
 Unto Lord Lacy ? 
 
 P. Edw. I will, fair Peggy, as I am true lord. 
 
 Mar. Then, lordly sir, whose conquest is as 
 great. 
 In conquering love, as Caesar's victories, 
 Margaret, as mild and humble in her thoughts 
 
 1 vaunt — display, show. 
 
 2 Rid— get rid of. 
 
8S 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 As was Aspasia unto Cyrus' self, 
 
 Yields thanks, and, next Lord Lacy, doth enshrine 
 
 Edward the second secret in her heart. 
 
 P. Edw. — Gramercy, Peggy. — Now that vows 
 are past, 
 And that your loves are not to be revolt, 
 Once, Lacy, friends again. Come, we will post 
 To Oxford ; for this day the king is there, 
 And brings for Edward Castile Elinor. 
 Peggy, I must go see and view my wife : 
 I pray God I like her as I loved thee. 
 Beside, Lord Lincoln, we shall hear dispute 
 'Twixt Friar Bacon and learn'd Vandermast. 
 Peggy, we'll leave you for a week or two. 
 
 Mar. As it please Loi'd Lacy : but love's foolish 
 looks 
 Think footsteps miles and minutes to be hours. 
 
 Lacy. I'll hasten, Peggy, to make short return. — 
 But please your honour go unto the lodge, 
 We shall have butter, cheese, and venison ; 
 And yesterday I brought for Margaret 
 A lusty bottle of neat claret wine : 
 Thus can we feast and entertain your grace. 
 
 P. Edw. 'Tis cheer, Loi-d Lacy, for an emperor, 
 If he respect the person and the place. 
 Come, let us in ; for I will all this night 
 Hide post until I come to Bacon's cell. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter King Henry, the Emperor, the Kixg of 
 Castile, Elinor, V^v>'dermast, and Bungay. 
 
 Emp. Trust me, Plantagenet, these Oxford 
 schools 
 Are richly seated near the river-side : 
 The mountains full of fat and fallow deer, 
 The battling i pastures lade with kine and flocks, 
 The town gorgeous with high-built colleges, 
 And scholars seemly in their grave attire. 
 Learned in searching principles of art. — 
 What is thy judgment, Jaques Vandermast ? 
 
 Van. That lordly are the buildings of the 
 town. 
 Spacious the rooms, and full of pleasant walks ; 
 But for the doctors, how that they be learned. 
 It may be meanly, for aught I can hear. 
 
 Bun. I tell thee, German, Hapsburg holds 
 none such, 
 None read so deep as Oxenford contains. 
 There are within our academic state 
 Men that may lecture it in Germany 
 To all the doctors of your Belgic schools. 
 
 K. Hen. Stand to him, Bungay, charm this 
 Vandei'mast, 
 And I will use thee as a royal king. 
 
 Van. Wherein dar'st thou dispute with me 7 
 
 Bun. In what a doctor and a friar can. 
 
 Van. Before rich Europe's worthies put thou 
 forth 
 The doubtful question unto Vandermast. 
 
 Bun. Let it be this : Whether the spirits of 
 pyromancy 2 or geomancy be most predominant 
 in magic ? 
 
 Van. I say, of pyromancy. 
 
 Bun. And I, of geomancy. 
 
 Van. The cabalists that write of magic spells. 
 As Hermes, Melchie,^ and Pythagoras, 
 Affirm that, 'mongst the quadruplicity 
 Of elemental essence, ter^a* is but thought 
 To be a,punctum^ squared to the rest ; 
 
 ' battling— lia,ttemng, fattening, increasing. 
 
 ^ pyromanaj is composed of two Greelc words, mean- 
 ing divination by fire; and geomancy, from Gr. ge, the 
 eartli, means divination by figures on tlie eartla. 
 
 3 Melchie, probably meant for Malchus (Syro-Phoeni- 
 cian Melech, king), the original name of Poi-phyrius, a 
 philosopher of the thii-d cent. a.d. 
 
 « ' the earth.' » ' point.' 
 
 And that the compass of ascending elements 
 
 Exceed in bigness as they do in height ; 
 
 Judging the concave circle of the sun 
 
 To hold the rest in his circumference. 
 
 If, then, as Hermes says, the fire be greatest. 
 
 Purest, and only giveth shape to spirits, 
 
 Then must these daemones that haunt that place 
 
 Be every way superior to the rest. 
 
 Bun. I reason not of elemental shapes, 
 Nor tell I of the concave latitudes. 
 Noting their essence nor their quality, 
 But of the spirits that pyi'omancy calls, 
 And of the vigour of the geomantic fiends. 
 I tell thee, German, magic haunts the ground, 
 And those sti'ange necromantic spells. 
 That work such shows and wondering in the 
 
 world. 
 Are acted by those geomantic spirits 
 That Hermes calleth terras filii.^ 
 The fiery spirits are but transparent shades. 
 That lightly pass as heralds to bear news ; 
 But earthly fiends, clos'd in the lowest deep. 
 Dissever mountains, if they be but charg'd. 
 Being more gross and massy in their power. 
 
 Van. Kather these earthly geomantic spirits 
 Are dull and like the place where they remain ; 
 For when proud Lucifer fell from the heavens, 
 The spirits and angels that did sin with him, 
 Ketain'd their local essence as their faults, 
 All subject under Luna's continent. 
 They which offended less hung in the fire. 
 And second faults did rest within the air ; 
 But Lucifer and his proud-hearted fiends 
 Were thrown into the centre of the earth. 
 Having less understanding than the rest, 
 As having greater sin and lesser grace. 
 Thei-efore such gross and earthly spii'its do serve 
 For jugglers, witches, and vile sorcerers ; 
 Whereas the pyromantic genii 
 Are mighty, swift, and of far-reaching power. 
 But grant that geomancy hath most force ; 
 Bungay, to please these mighty potentates, 
 Prove by some instance what thy art can do. 
 
 Bun. I will. 
 
 Emp. Now, English Harry, here begins the 
 game ; 
 We shall see sport between these learned men. 
 
 Van. What wilt thou do ? 
 
 Bun. Show thee the tree, leav'd with refined 
 gold. 
 Whereon the fearful dragon held his seat, 
 That watch'd the garden call'd Hesperides, 
 Subdu'd and won by conquering Hercules. 
 
 Here Bungay conjures^ and the tree ajppears 
 with the dragon shooting Jire. 
 
 Van. Well done ! 
 
 K. Hen. What say you, royal lordings, to my 
 friar ? 
 Hath he not done a point of cunning skill ? 
 
 Van. Each scholar in the necromantic spells 
 Can do as much as Bungay hath perform'd. 
 But as Alcmena's bastard raz'd this tree. 
 So will I raise him up as when he liv'd, 
 And cause him pull the dragon from his seat. 
 And tear the branches piecemeal from the root. — 
 Hercules! Prodi, prodi,^ Hercules! 
 
 Hercules aj^pears in his lianas shin. 
 
 Her. Quis me vult?^ 
 
 Van. Jove's bastard son, thou Libyan Hercules, 
 Pull off the sprigs from off th' Hesperian tree. 
 As once thou didst to win the golden fruit. 
 
 1 ' sons of earth.' * ' Come forth, come forth.' 
 
 3 ' Who wants me ? ' 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 89 
 
 Eer. Fiat. I [Begins to hreah the hranclies. 
 
 Van. Now, Bungay, if thou canst by magic 
 charm 
 The fiend, appearing like great Hercules, 
 From pulling down the branches of the tree, 
 Then art thou worthy to be counted learned. 
 
 Bun. I cannot. 
 
 Van. Cease, Hercules, until I give thee 
 charge. — 
 Mighty commander of this English isle, 
 Henry, come from the stout Plantagenets, 
 Bungay is learn'd enough to be a friar ; 
 But to compare with Jaques Vandermast, 
 Oxford and Cambridge must go seek their cells 
 To find a man to match him in his art. 
 I have given non-plus to the Paduans, 
 To them of Sien, Floi'ence, and Bologna, 
 Eheims, Louvain, and fair Kotterdam, 
 Frankfort, Lutrech,^ and Oi-leans : 
 And now must Henry, if he do me right, 
 Crown me with laurel, as they all have done. 
 
 Enter Bacon. 
 
 Bacon. All hail to this royal company, 
 That sit to hear and see this strange dispute ! — 
 Bungay, how stand'st thoii as a man amaz'd ? 
 What ! hath the German acted more than thou ? 
 
 Van. What art thou that question'st thus ? 
 
 Bacon. Men call me Bacon. 
 
 Van. Lordly thou look'st, as if that thou wert 
 learn'd ; 
 Thy countenance as if science held her seat 
 Between the circled arches of thy brows. 
 
 K. Hen. Now, monarchs, hath the German 
 found his match. 
 
 Emp. Bestir thee, Jaques, take not now the 
 
 foil, 3 
 
 Lest thou dost lose what foretime thou didst gain. 
 
 Van. Bacon, wilt thou dispute ? 
 
 Bacon. No, 
 Unless he were more learn'd than Vandermast : 
 For yet, tell me, what hast thou done ? 
 
 Van. Eais'd Hercules to ruinate that tree 
 That Bungay mounted by his magic spells. 
 
 Bacon. Set Hercules to work. 
 
 Van. Now, Hercules, I charge thee to thy task ; 
 Pull off the golden branches from the root. 
 
 Her. I dare not. Seest thou not great Bacon 
 here. 
 Whose frown doth act more than thy magic can ? 
 
 Van. By all the thrones, and dominations, 
 Virtues, powers, and mighty hierarchies, 
 I charge thee to obey to Vandermast. 
 
 Her. Bacon, that bridles headstrong Belcephon, 
 And rules Asmenoth guider of the north. 
 Binds me from yielding unto Vandermast. 
 
 K. Hen. How now, Vandermast ! have you met 
 with your match ? 
 
 Van. Never before was't known to Vandermast 
 That men held devils in such obedient awe. 
 Bacon doth more than art, or else I fail. 
 
 Emp. Why, Vandennast, art thou overcome ? — 
 Bacon, dispute with him, and try his skill. 
 
 Bacon. I came not, monarchs, for to hold 
 dispute 
 With such a novice as is Vandermast ; 
 I came to have your royalties to dine 
 With Friar Bacon here in Brazen-nose : 
 And, for this German troubles but the place. 
 And holds this audience with a long suspence, 
 I'll send him to his acaddmy hence. — 
 Thou Hercules, whom Vandermast did raise. 
 
 1 ' Let it be done.' 
 
 2 Lutrech. Probably Utrecht is meant. 
 
 3 foil— defe&t, failm-e. 
 
 Transport the German unto Hapsburg straight, 
 That he may learn by travail, 'gainst the spring, 
 More secret dooms and aphorisms of art. 
 Vanish the tree, and thou away with him ! 
 
 [Exit Hercules with Vandermast and the tree. 
 
 Emp. Why, Bacon, whither dost thou send him ? 
 
 Bacon. To Hapsburg : there your highness at 
 return 
 Shall find the German in his study safe. 
 
 K. Hen. Bacon, thou hast honour'd England 
 with thy skill. 
 And made fair Oxford famous by thine art : 
 I will be English Henry to thyself. 
 But tell me, shall we dine Avith thee to-day ? 
 
 Bacon. With me, my lord ; and while I fit my 
 cheer. 
 See where Prince Edward comes to welcome you, 
 Gracious as the morning-star of heaven. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Prince Edward, Lacy, Warren, Ermsby. 
 
 Emp. Is this Prince Edward, Henry's royal 
 
 son.? 
 How martial is the figure of his face ! 
 Yet lovely and beset with amorets.i 
 K. Hen. Ned, where hast thou been ? 
 P. Edw. At Framlingham, my lord, to try 
 
 your bucks 
 If they could scape the teasers or the toil. 
 But hearing of these lordly potentates 
 Landed, and progress'd up to Oxford town, 
 I posted to give entertain to them : 
 Chief to the Almain monarch ; next to him. 
 And joint with him, Castile and Saxony 
 Are welcome as they may be to the English court. 
 Thus for the men : but see, Venus appears, 
 Or one 
 
 That overmatcheth Venus in her shape ! 
 Sweet Elinor, beauty's high-swelling pride, 
 Kich nature's glory and her vv'ealth at once. 
 Fair of all fairs, welcome to Albion; 
 Welcome to me, and welcome to thine own. 
 If that thou deign'st the welcome from myself. 
 Elin. Martial Plantagenet, Henry's high-minded 
 
 son, 
 The mark that Elinor did count her aim, 
 I lik'd thee 'fore I saw thee : now I love. 
 And so as in so short a time I may ; 
 Yet so as time shall never break that so. 
 And therefore so accept of Elinor. 
 K. of Cast. Fear not, my lord, this couple will 
 
 agi-ee. 
 If love may creep into their wanton eyes : — 
 And therefore, Edward, I accept thee here. 
 Without suspence, as my adopted son. 
 K. Hen. Let me that joy in these consorting 
 
 greets, 
 And glory in these honours done to Ned, 
 Yield thanks for all these favours to my son. 
 And rest a true Plantagenet to all. 
 
 Enter Miles with a cloth and trenchers and salt. 
 
 Miles. Salcete^ omnes reges,^ 
 That govern your greges ' 
 In Saxony and Spain, 
 In England and in Almain ! 
 For all this frolic rabble 
 Must I cover the table 
 With trenchers, salt, and cloth ; 
 And then look for your broth. 
 
 Emp. What pleasant fellow is this ? 
 
 K. Hen. 'Tis, my lord, Doctor Bacon's poor 
 scholar. 
 
 1 omorefe— looks of love. 
 ' 'flocks.' 
 
 2 ' Hail, all kings.' 
 
90 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Miles, [aside.'] My master hath made me sewer ^ 
 of these great lords ; and, God knows, I am as 
 serviceable at a table as a sow is under an apple- 
 tree. 'Tis no matter; their cheer shall not be 
 great, and therefore what skills ^ where the salt 
 stand, before or behind ? \Exit. 
 
 K. of Cast. These scholars know more skill in 
 axioms, 
 How to use quips and sleights of sophistry, 
 Than for to cover courtly for a king. 
 
 Re-enter Miles with a mess of pottage and broth ; 
 and, after him, Bacon. 
 
 Miles. SpiU, sir ? why, do you think I never 
 carried twopenny chop before in my life ? — 
 By your leave, nobile decus,^ 
 For here comes Doctor Bacon's ^ec««,* 
 Being in his full age 
 To carry a mess of pottage. 
 
 Bacon. Lordings, admire ^ not if your cheer be 
 For we must keep our academic fare ; [this, 
 
 No riot where philosophy doth reign : 
 And therefore, Henry, place these potentates, 
 And bid them fall unto their frugal cates.« 
 
 £mp. Presumptuous friar ! what ! scoff 'st thou 
 at a Idng ? 
 What! dost thou taunt us with thy peasant's fare, 
 And give us cates fit for country swains ?— 
 Henry, proceeds this jest of thy consent, 
 To twit us with a pittance of such price ? 
 Tell me, and Frederick will not gi-ieve thee long, 
 
 K. Hen. By Henry's honour, and the royal faith 
 The English monarch beareth to his friend, 
 I knew not of the friar's feeble fare. 
 Nor am I pleas'd he entertains you thus. 
 
 Bacon. Content thee, Frederick, for I show'd 
 thee cates. 
 To let thee see how scholars use to feed ; 
 How little meat refines our English wits. — 
 Miles, take away, and let it be thy dinner. 
 
 Miles. Marry, sir, I will. 
 This day shaU be a festival-day with me ; 
 For I shall exceed in the highest degree. [Exit. 
 
 Bacon. I tell thee, monarch, all the German 
 Could not afford thy entertainment such, [peers 
 So royal and so full of majesty. 
 As Bacon will present to Frederick. 
 The basest waiter that attends thy cups 
 Shall be in honours greater than thyself ; 
 And for thy cates, rich Alexandria drugs, ' 
 Fetch'd by carvels ^ from Egypt's richest streights, 
 Found in the wealthy strand of Africa, 
 Shall royalize the table of my king ; 
 Wines richer than th' Egyptian courtesan * 
 Quaff 'd to Augustus' kingly countermatch, 
 ShaU be carous'd in English Henry's feast ; 
 Candy shall yield the richest of her canes ; 
 
 1 sewer was an oflBcial who set on and removed the 
 dishes at a feast; perhaps from sew, sue, to follow; old 
 Fr. sewer, squire. 
 
 2 skills — signifies. The seats at table above the salt- 
 cellar were assigned to the more distinguished guests; 
 the seats below it, to those of inferior rank. 
 
 3 'noble ornament or dignity.' 
 
 * pectis means a herd or single head of cattle or sheep, 
 also a beast or brute, literally or figuratively. 
 
 * admire— wonder. 
 
 * cates or acates — provisions, delicacies ; old Fr. acater ; 
 Fr. acheter, to buy, provide. 
 
 ' drug's— from the same root as dry, means originally 
 and literally, dried herbs, &c., not necessarily for 
 medicine. 
 
 8 carvel or caravel. * A kind of light roimd ship, with 
 a square poop, rigg'd and fitted out like a galley, hold- 
 ing about six score or seven score tun.' — Kersey inNAREs. 
 Fr. caravelle, Span, carabela, from Lat. carabus, Gr.kara- 
 bos, a small wicker vessel covered with hides. 
 
 9 jEgyptian courtesan — Cleopatra no doubt is meant. 
 
 Persia, down her Volga ^ by canoes. 
 Send down the secrets of her spicery ; 
 The Afric dates, mirahioles^ of Spain, 
 Conserves and suckets * from Tiberias, 
 Cates from Judaea, choicer than the lamp 
 That firfed Rome with sparks of gluttony,* 
 Shall beautify the board for Frederick : 
 And therefore grudge not at a friar's feast. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Lambert and Serlsby with the Keeper. 
 
 Lam. Come, frolic Keeper of our liege's game, 
 Whose table spread hath ever venison 
 And jacks of wine to welcome passengers. 
 Know I'm in love with jolly Margaret, 
 That overshines our damsels as the moon 
 Darkeneth the brightest sparkles of the night. 
 In Laxfield here my land and living lies : 
 I'll make thy daughter jointer of it all, 
 So thou consent to give her to my wife ; 
 And I can spend five hundred marks a year. 
 
 AS'e?'. I am the lands-lord. Keeper, of thy holds, 
 By copy * all thy living lies in me ; 
 Laxfield did never see me raise my due : 
 I will enfeoff fair Margaret in all. 
 So she will take her to a lusty squire. 
 
 Keep. Now, courteous gentles, if the Keeper's 
 girl 
 Hath pleas'd the liking fancy of you both. 
 And with her beauty hath .subdu'dyour thoughts, 
 'Tis doubtful to decide the question. 
 It joys me that such men of great esteem 
 Should lay their liking on this base estate, 
 And that her state should grow so fortunate 
 To be a wife to meaner men than you : s 
 But sith such squires will stoop to Keeper's fee, 
 I will, to avoid displeasure of you both. 
 Call Margaret forth, and she shall make her choice. 
 
 Lam. Content, Keeper ; send her unto us. 
 
 [Exit Keeper. 
 Why, Serlsby, is thy wife so lately dead, 
 Are all thy loves so lightly passed over. 
 As thou canst wed before the year be out ? 
 
 Ser. I live not, Lambei-t, to content the dead, 
 Nor was I wedded but for life to her : 
 The grave ends and begins a married state. 
 
 Enter Margaret. 
 
 Lam. Peggy, the lovely flower of all towns, 
 Suffolk's fair Helen, and rich England's star. 
 Whose beauty, temper 'd with her huswifery, 
 Makes England talk of merry Fressingfield ! 
 
 Ser. I cannot trick it up with poesies. 
 Nor paint my passions with comparisons, 
 Nor tell a tale of Phoebus and his loves : 
 But this believe me, — Laxfield here is mine, 
 Of ancient rent seven hundred pounds a year. 
 And if thou canst but love a country squire, 
 I will enfeoff thee, Margaret, in all : 
 I cannot flatter ; try me, if thou please. 
 
 3Iar. Brave neighbouring squires, the stay of 
 Suffolk's clime, 
 
 1 Persia, down her Volga, &c. — ' This,' observes my 
 friend, Mr. "W. N. Lettsom, ' is much as if France were 
 to send claret and burgundy down her Thames.' — Dyce. 
 
 2 Probably mirabolans, or dried plums, are meant. 
 
 3 suckets — dried sweetmeats for sucking. 
 * Cates from Judxa, choicer than the lamp 
 
 That fired Rome with sparks of gluttony. — 
 Dyce thinks this a mutilated passage. The Eev. J. Mifc- 
 ford (Gent. Mag. for March 1833, p. 217) alters ' lamp ' 
 to ' balm.' 'Balm,' he says, ' or the exudation of the 
 Balsamum, was the only export of Judaea to Rome ; and 
 the balm was peculiar to Judaea.' 
 
 5 7i_v copy, &c. This evidently means that the keeper 
 held his lands by copyhold from his landlord Serlsby. 
 I 6 This passage is obscure, probably it is corrupted. 
 
■■■iPBPBS^i^BS" 
 
 ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 91 
 
 A Keeper's daughter is too base in gree ^ 
 
 To match with men accounted of such wortJi : 
 
 But might I not displease, I would reply. 
 
 Lam. Say, Peggy ; naught shall make us dis- 
 content. 
 
 Mar. Then, gentles, note that love hath little 
 stay, 
 Nor can the flames that Venus sets on fire 
 Be kindled but by fancy's motion : 
 Then pardon, gentles, if a maid's reply- 
 Be doubtful, while 2 I have debated with myself. 
 Who, or of whom, love shall constrain me like. 
 
 Ser. Let it be me ; and trust me, Margaret, 
 The meads environ'd with the silver streams, 
 Whose battling ^ pastures fatten all my flocks. 
 Yielding forth fleeces stapled with such wool 
 As Lemnster cannot yield more finer stuff, 
 And forty kine with fair and burnish'd heads, 
 With strouting-* dugs that paggle^ to the ground, 
 Shall serve thy dairy if thou wed with me. 
 
 Lam. Let pass the country wealth, as flocks and 
 kine, 
 And lands that wave with Ceres' golden sheaves, 
 Filling my barns with plenty of the fields ; 
 But, Peggy, if thou wed thyself to me, 
 Thou shalt have garments of embroidered silk, 
 Lawns and rich networks for thy head attire : 
 Costly shall be thy fair habiliments. 
 If thou wilt be but Lambert's loving wife. 
 
 Mar. Content you, gentles, you have proffer'd 
 fair. 
 And more than fits a country maid's degree : 
 But give me leave to counsel me a time, 
 For fancy blooms not at the first assault ; 
 Give me but ten days' respite, and I will reply, 
 Which or to whom mj^self affectionates. 
 
 Ser. Lambert, I tell thee, thou'rt importunate ; 
 Such beauty fits not such a base esquire : 
 It is for Serlsby to have Margaret. 
 
 Lam. Think'st thou with wealth to overreach 
 me ? 
 Serlsby, I scorn to brook thy country braves :° 
 I dare thee, coward, to maintain this wrong. 
 At dint of rapier, single in the field. 
 
 Ser. I'll answer, Lambert, what I have 
 avoxich'd. — 
 Margaret, farewell ; another time shall serve. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Lam. I'll follow. — Peggy, farewell to thyself : 
 Listen how well I'll answer for thy love. {Exit. 
 
 Mar. How fortune tempers lucky haps with 
 frowns. 
 And wrongs me with the sweets of my delight ! 
 Love is my bliss, and love is now my bale. 
 Shall I be Helen in my froward fates. 
 As I am Helen in my matchless hue. 
 And set rich Suffolk with my face afire ? 
 If lovely Lacy were but with his Peggy, 
 The cloudy darkness of his bitter frown 
 Would check the pride of these aspiring squires. 
 Before the term of ten days be expir'd, 
 Whenas they look for answer of their loves. 
 My lord will come to merry Fressingfield, 
 And end their fancies and their follies both : 
 Till when, Peggy, be blithe and of good cheer. 
 
 Enter a Post with a letter and a bag of gold. 
 
 Post. Fair lovely damsel, which way leads this 
 path? 
 How might I post me unto Fressingfield? 
 Which footpath leadeth to the Keeper's lodge ? 
 
 1 grree— degree. 2 while— i.e. while I debate. 
 
 3 battling. See note 1, p. 88. 
 
 * strouting— same as strutting, i.e. swollen or pufifed 
 out. 
 5 j^agrgfZe— probably run out or drop the milk. 
 ^ braves— hoasts or challenges. 
 
 Mar. Your way is ready, and this path is 
 right : 
 Myself do dwell hereby in Fressingfield ; 
 And if the Keeper be the man you seek, 
 I am his daughter : may I know the cause ? 
 
 Post. Lovely, and once beloved of my lord, — 
 No marvel if his eye were lodg'd so low. 
 When brighter beauty is not in the heavens, — 
 The Lincoln Earl hath sent you letters here, 
 And, with them, just an hundred pounds in 
 gold. {Gives letter and hag. 
 
 Sweet, bonny wench, read them, and make reply. 
 
 Mar. The scrolls that Jove sent Danae, 
 Wi-apt in rich closures of fine burnish'd gold. 
 Were not more welcome than these lines to me. 
 Tell me, whilst that I do unrip the seals. 
 Lives Lacy well ? how fares my lovely lord ? 
 
 Post. Well, if that wealth may make men to 
 live well. 
 
 Mar. {reads.'] The blooms of the almond-tree 
 grow in a night and vanish in a morn ; the flies 
 hsemene,^ fair Peggy., take life with the stin, and 
 die loith the deio ; fancy that slippeth in with a 
 gaze^ goeth out with a loink ; and too timely- loves 
 have ever the shortest length. I write this as thy 
 grief and my folly who at Fressingfield loved that 
 which time hath taught me to be but mean dainties : 
 eyes are dissemblers, and fancy is bid queasy -^ 
 therefore hioio, Margaret, 1 have chosen a Sjmnish 
 lady to be my wife, chief waiting-woman to the 
 Princess Elinor ; a lady fair, and no less fair than 
 thyself honourable and wealthy. In that I forsake 
 thee, I leave thee to thine own liking; and for 
 thy doxory I have sent thee an hundred jjounds ; 
 and ever assure thee of my favour, which shall 
 avail thee and thine much. 
 
 Farewell. Not thine, nor his oion, 
 
 Edward Lacy. 
 
 Fond Ate,* doomer of bad-boding fates, 
 That wrapp'st proud fortune in thy snaky locks, 
 Didst thou enchant my birthday with such stai's 
 As lighten'd mischief from their inf ancj'- ? 
 If heavens had vow'd, if stars had made decree, 
 To show on me their froward influence, 
 If Lacy had but lov'd, heavens, hell, and all, 
 Could not have wrong'd the patience of my mind. 
 Post. It grieves me damsel; but the earl is 
 
 forc'd 
 To love the lady by the king's command. 
 Mar. The wealth combin'd within the English 
 
 shelves, 
 Europe's commander, nor the English king. 
 Should not have moved the love of Peggy from 
 
 her lord. 
 Post. What answer shall I return to my lord ? 
 Mar. First, for thou cam'st from Lacy whom I 
 
 lov'd, — 
 Ah, give me leave to sigh at every thought ! — 
 Take thou, my friend, the hundred pounds he 
 
 sent; 
 For Margaret's resolution craves no dower : 
 The world shall be to her as vanity ; 
 Wealth, trash ; love, hate ; pleasure, despair : 
 For I will straight to stately Framlingham, 
 And in the abbey there be shorn a nun. 
 And yield my loves and liberty to God. 
 Fellow, I give thee this, not for the news, 
 For those be hateful unto Margaret, 
 But for thou'rt Lacy's man, once Margaret's love. 
 
 1 /j^mera;— better known as the ephemerx or day-flies. 
 
 2 timely — early. 
 
 3 queasy — squeamish or fastidious. 
 
 * Ate— a Greek goddess, whose character resembled 
 that of Xemesis. 
 
92 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Post. Wliat I have heard, what passions I have 
 seen, 
 I'll make report of them unto the earl. 
 
 Mar. Say that she joys his fancies be at rest, 
 And prays that his misfortunes may be hers. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Friar Bacon is discovered in his cell, lying on a 
 bed, tcifh a white stich in one hand, a book in 
 the other, and a lamp lighted beside him; and 
 the Brazen Head, and Miles with weai)ons by 
 him. 
 
 Bacon. Miles, where are you ? 
 
 Miles. Here, sir. 
 
 Bacon. How chance you tarry so long ? 
 
 Miles. Think you that the watching of the 
 Brazen Head craves no furniture ? I warrant 
 you, sir, I have so armed myself that if all your 
 devils come, I will not fear them an inch. 
 
 Bacon. Miles, 
 Thou know'st that I have div^d into hell. 
 And sought the darkest palaces of fiends ; 
 That with my magic spells great Belcephon 
 Hath left his lodge and kneelfed at my cell ; 
 The rafters of the earth rent from the poles, 
 And three-formed Luna hid her silver looks, 
 Trembling upon her concave continent, 
 When Bacon read upon his magic book. 
 With seven years' tossing necromantic charms. 
 Poring upon dark Hecat's principles, 
 I have framed out a monstrous head of brass. 
 That by the enchanting forces of the devil. 
 Shall tell out strange and uncouth aphorisms. 
 And girt fair England with a wall of brass. 
 Bungay and I have watch'd these threescore days, 
 And now our vital spirits crave some rest ; 
 If Argus liv'd and had his hundred eyes, 
 They could not over-watch Phobetor's night. 
 Kow, Miles, in thee rests Friar Bacon's weal ; 
 The honour and renown of all his life 
 Hangs in the watching of this Bi-azen Head ; 
 Therefore I charge thee by the immortal God, 
 That holds the souls of men within his fist. 
 This night thou watch ; for ere the morning-star 
 Sends out his glorious glister on the north, 
 The head will speak : then. Miles, upon thy life, 
 Wake me ; for then by magic art I'll work 
 To end my seven years' task with excellence. 
 If that a wink but shut thy watchful eye. 
 Then farewell Bacon's glory and his fame ! 
 Draw close the curtains, Miles : now, for thy life, 
 Be watchful, and— [Falls asleep. 
 
 Miles. So ! I thought you would talk yourself 
 asleep anon ; and 'tis no marvel, for Bungay on 
 the days, and he on the nights, have watched 
 just these ten and fifty days. Now this is the 
 night, and 'tis my task, and no more. Now, 
 Jesus, bless me, what a goodly head it is ! and a 
 nose ! you talk of nos autem glorijicare ;* but 
 here's a nose that I warrant may be called nos 
 autem populare,"^ for the people of the parish. 
 Well, I am furnished with weapons : now, sir, I 
 will set me down by a post, and make it as good 
 as a watchman to wake me, if I chance to slum^ 
 ber. I thought, Goodman Head, I would call 
 you out of your memento. Passion o' God, I 
 have almost broke my pate! [A great noise.'\ 
 Up, Miles, to your task; take your brown-bill^ 
 
 * nos autem, &c.— literally, 'forsooth to glorify tis,' 
 nos being a pun on nose; in another play, Greene speaks 
 of nose glorificam, a glorious nose. 
 
 - nos autem populare, ' a popular or common nose, 
 forsooth.' 
 
 3 brown-bill— a sort of halbert, with a hooked point, 
 fonueily borne by foot soldiers and watchmen. 
 
 in your hand ; here's some of your master's hob- 
 goblins abroad. 
 
 The Brazen Head. Time is. 
 
 Miles. Time is ! Why, Master Brazen Head, 
 have you such a capital nose, and answer you 
 with syllables, ' Time is ? ' Is this all my master's 
 cunning, to spend seven years' study about ' Time 
 is ? ' Well, sir, it may be we shall have some 
 better orations of it anon : well, I'll watch you 
 as narrowly as ever you were watched, and I'll 
 play with you as the nightingale with the slow- 
 worm ; I'll set a prick against my breast. Now 
 rest there. Miles. Lord have mercy upon me, I 
 have almost killed myself ! [A great noise.'] Up, 
 Miles ! list how they rumble. 
 
 The Brazen Head. Time was. 
 
 Miles. Well, Friar Bacon, you have spent your 
 seven years' study well, that can make your 
 head speak but two words at once, ' Time was.' 
 Yea, many, time was when my master was a 
 wise man ; but that was before he began to make 
 the Brazen Head. You shall lie while^ your arse 
 ache, an your head speak no better. Well, I will 
 watch, and walk up and down, and be a peripa- 
 tetian,2 and a philosopher of Aristotle's stamp. 
 [A great noise.] What ! a fresh noise ? Take 
 thy pistols in hand, Miles. 
 
 The Brazen Head. Time is past. 
 
 [A lightning flashes forth, and a hand appears^ 
 that breaks down the Head with a hammer. 
 
 Miles. Master, master, up! hell's broken loose ; 
 your head speaks; and there's such a thunder 
 and lightning, that I warrant all Oxford is up 
 in arms. Out of your bed, and take a brown-bill 
 in your hand ; the latter day is come. 
 
 Bacon. Miles, I come. [Rises and comes for~ 
 ward.] Oh, passing warily watch'd ! 
 Bacon will make thee next himself in love. 
 When spake the head ? 
 
 Miles. When spake the head ! Did not you say 
 that he should tell strange principles of philo- 
 sophy ? Why, sir, it speaks but two words at a 
 time. 
 
 Bacon. Why, villain, hath it spoken oft ? 
 
 Miles. Oft ! ay, marry, hath it, thrice ; but in 
 all those three times it hath uttered but seven 
 words. 
 
 Bacon. As how ? 
 
 Miles. Marry, sir, the first time he said ' Time 
 is,' as if Fabius Commentator should have pro- 
 nounced a sentence ; he said, ' Time was ; ' and 
 the third time, with thunder and lightning, as 
 in great choler, he said, ' Time is past.' 
 
 Bacon. 'Tis past indeed. Ah, villain ! time is 
 past: 
 My life, my fame, my glory, all are past. — 
 Bacon, 
 
 The turrets of thy hope are ruin'd down, 
 Thy seven years' study lieth in the dust : 
 Thy Brazen Head lies broken through a slave 
 That watch'd, and would not when the head did 
 What said the head first ? ^ [will. — 
 
 Miles. Even, sir, ' Time is.' 
 
 Bacon. Villain, if thou hadst call'd to Bacon 
 then, 
 If thou hadst watch'd, and wak'd the sleepy friar, 
 The Brazen Head had utter'd aphorisms, 
 And England had been circled round with brass: 
 But proud Asmenoth, ruler of the north. 
 And Demogorgon, master of the fates, 
 Grudge that a mortal man should work so much. 
 
 1 M:7«7e— until. 
 
 2 peripatetian—a walker about; in allusion to the 
 Peripatetic philosophers. 
 
ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 93 
 
 Hell trembled at my deep-commanding spells, 
 Fiends frown'd to see a man their over-matcli ; 
 Bacon might boast more than a man might boast. 
 But now the braves^ of Bacon have an end, 
 Europe's conceit of Bacon hath an end, 
 His seven years' practice sorteth to ill end : 
 And, villain, sith my glory hath an end, 
 I will appoint thee fatal to some end. 
 Villain, avoid ! get thee from Bacon's sight ! 
 Vagrant, go roam and range about the world, 
 And perish as a vagabond on earth ! 
 
 3Iiles. Why, then, sir, you forbid me your 
 service ? 
 
 Bacon. My service, villain ! with a fatal curse, 
 That direful plagues and mischief fall on thee. 
 
 Milts. 'Tis no matter, I am against you with 
 the old proverb. The more the fox is cursed, 
 the better he fares. God be with you, sir : I'll 
 take but a book in my hand, a wide-sleeved 
 gown on my back, and a crowned cap on my 
 head, and see if I can want promotion. 
 
 Bacon. Some fiend or ghost haunt on thy 
 weai-y steps. 
 Until they do transport thee quick to hell : 
 For Bacon shall have never merry day, 
 To lose the fame and honour of his head. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Emperor, the King of Castile, King 
 Henry, Elinor, Prince Edward, Lacy, 
 and Ealph Simnell. 
 
 Emp. Now, lovely prince, the prince of Albion's 
 How fare the Lady Elinor and you 7 [wealth. 
 What, have you courted and found Castile fit 
 To answer England in equivalence ? 
 Will't be a match 'twixt bonny Nell and thee ? 
 
 P. Edio. Should Paris enter in the courts of 
 Greece, 
 And not lie fetter'd in fair Helen's looks ? 
 Or Phcebus 'scape those piercing amorets2 
 That Daphne glanced at his deity ? 
 Can Edward, then, sit by a flame and freeze. 
 Whose heat puts Helen and fair Daphne down ? 
 Now, monarchs, ask the lady if we gree. 
 
 K. Hen. What, madam, hath my son found 
 grace or no ? 
 
 Elin. Seeing, my lord, his lovely counterfeit,^ 
 And hearing how his mind and shape agreed, 
 I came not, troop'd with all this warlike train. 
 Doubting of love, but so affectionate. 
 As Edward hath in England what he won in 
 Spain.4 
 
 K. of Cast. A match, my lord; these wantons 
 needs must love: 
 Men must have wives, and women will be wed : 
 Let's haste the day to honour up the rites. 
 
 Ralph. Sirrah Harry, shall Ned marry Nell ? 
 
 K. Hen. Ay, Ealph : how then ? 
 
 Ralph. Marry, Harry, follow my counsel: send 
 for Friar Bacon to marry them, for he'll so conjure 
 him and her with his necromancy, that they shall 
 love together like pig and lamb whilst they live. 
 
 K. of Cast. But hearest thou, Ealph, art thou 
 content to have Elinor to thy lady 7 
 
 Ralph. Ay, so she will promise me two things. 
 
 K. of Cast. What's that, Ealph .> 
 
 Ralph. That she will never scold with Ned, 
 nor fight with me. — Sirrah Harry, I have put her 
 down with a thing unpossible. 
 
 K. Hen. What's tJiat, Ralph ? 
 
 Ralph. Why, Harry, didst thou ever see that 
 a woman could both hold her tongue and her 
 
 2 amorets — loving looks. 
 
 1 braves — vaunts. 
 3 counterfeit — portrait. 
 < As Edward hath in England what he won in Spain. 
 -Dyce thinks this line corrupted. 
 
 hands ? no : but when egg-pies grow on apple- 
 trees, then will thy grey mare prove a bag-piper. 
 
 Emp. What say the Lord of Castile and the 
 Earl of Lincoln, that they are in such earnest 
 and secret talk ? 
 
 K. of Cast. I stand, my lord, amazed at his talk, 
 How be discourseth of the constancy 
 Of one surnam'd, for beauty's excellence. 
 The Fair Maid of merry Fressingfield. 
 
 K. Hen. 'Tis true, my lord, 'tis wondrous for 
 to hear; 
 Her beauty passing Mars's paramour. 
 Her virgin's right as rich as Vesta's was. 
 Lacy and Ned have told me miracles. 
 
 K. of Cast. What says Lord Lacy ? shall she 
 be his wife? 
 
 Lacy. Or else Lord Lacy is unfit to live. — 
 May it please your highness give me leave to post 
 To Fressingfield, I'll fetch the bonny girl, 
 And prove, in true appearance at the court. 
 What I have vouched often with my tongue. 
 
 K. Hen. Lacy, go to the 'queiTy of my stable, 
 And take such coursers as shall fit thy turn : 
 Hie thee to Fressingfield, and bring home the lass; 
 And, for her fame flies through the English coast, 
 If it may please the Lady Elinor, 
 One day shall match your excellence and her. 
 
 Elin. We Castile ladies are not very coy ; 
 Your highness may command a greater boon: 
 And glad were I to grace the Lincoln Earl 
 With being partner of his marriage-day. 
 
 P. Edw. Gramercy, Nell, for I do love the lord, 
 As he that's second to myself in love. 
 
 Ralph. You love her.? — Madam Nell, never 
 believe him you, though he swears he loves you. 
 
 Elin. Why, Ealph.? 
 
 Ralph. Why, his love is like unto a tapster's 
 glass that is broken with every touch; for he 
 loved the fair maid of Fressingfield once out of 
 all ho.^ — Nay, Ned, never wink upon me ; I care 
 not, I. 
 
 K. Hen. Kalph tells all ; you shall have a good 
 secretary of him. — 
 But, Lacy, haste thee post to Fressingfield ; 
 For ei'e thou hast fitted all things for her state, 
 The solemn marriage-day will be at hand. 
 
 Lacy. I go, my lord. [Exit. 
 
 Emp. How shall we pass this day, my lord ? 
 
 K. Hen. To horse, my lord ; the day is passing 
 fair. 
 We'll fiy the partridge, or go rouse the deer. 
 Follow, my lords ; you shall not want for sport. 
 
 \Exeuat. 
 
 Enter to Friar Bacon in his cell, Friar Bungay. 
 
 Bun. What means the friar that frolick'd it 
 of late, 
 To sit as melancholy in his cell 
 As if he had neither lost nor won to-day ? 
 
 Bacon. Ah, Bungay, my Brazen Head is spoil'd, 
 My glory gone, my seven years' study lost ! 
 The fame of Bacon, bruited through the world, 
 Shall end and perish with this deep disgrace. 
 
 Bun. Bacon hath built foundation of his fame 
 So surely on the wings of true report, 
 With acting strange and uncouth miracles. 
 As this cannot infringe what he deserves. 
 
 Bacon. Bungay, sit down, for by prospective 
 skill 
 I find this day shall fall out ominous : 
 Some deadly act shall 'tide me ere I sleep ; 
 But what and wherein, little can I guess. 
 
 1 out of all ho — out of all hounds or measure; pro- 
 bably from the notion of calling in or restraining a 
 sporting dog or hawk, with a call or ho, or from calling 
 after a person to stop him.— Nares. 
 
94 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bun. My mind is heavy, -whatsoe'er shall hap. 
 [Knocking icithin. 
 Bacon. Who's that knocks ? 
 Bun. Two scholars that desire to speak with 
 
 you. 
 Bacon. Bid them come in. 
 
 Enter two Scholars. 
 Now, my youths, what would you have ? 
 
 First Schol. Sir, we are Suffolk men and neigh- 
 bouring friends ; 
 Our fathers in their countries lusty squires ; 
 Their lands adjoin : in Cratfield mine doth dwell, 
 And his in Laxfield. We are college-mates, 
 Sworn brothers, as our fathers live as friends. 
 
 Bacon. To what end is all this ? 
 
 Second Schol. Hearing your worship kept with- 
 in your cell 
 A glass prospective, wherein men might see 
 Whatso their thoughts or hearts' desire could 
 
 wish, 
 We come to know how that our fathers fare. 
 
 Bacon. My glass is free for every honest man. 
 Sit down, and you shall see ere long, how 
 Or in what state your friendly fathers live. 
 Meanwhile, tell me j^our names. 
 
 First Schol. Mine Lambert. 
 
 Second Schol. And mine Serlsby. 
 
 Bacon. Bungaj^, I smell there will be a tragedy. 
 
 Enter Lajmbert and Serlsby with rapiers and 
 
 Lam. Serlsby, thou hast kept thine hour like 
 a man : 
 Thou'rt worthy of the title of a sqiiire, 
 That durst, for proof of thy affection 
 And for thy mistress' favour, prize ^ thy blood. 
 Thou know'st what words did pass at Fressing- 
 
 field, 
 Such shameless braves as manhood cannot brook: 
 Ay, for I scorn to bear such piercing taunts, 
 Prepare thee, Serlsby ; one of us will die. 
 
 Ser. Thou seest I single thee the field,' 
 And what I spake, I'll maintain with my sword : 
 Stand on thy guard, I cannot scold it out. 
 An if thou kill me, think I have a son, 
 That lives in Oxford in the Broadgates-hall, 
 Who will revenge his father's blood with blood. 
 
 Lam. And, Serlsby, I have there a lusty boy, 
 That dares at weapon buckle with thy son, 
 And lives in Broadgates too, as well as thine : 
 But draw thy rapier, for we'll have a bout. 
 
 Bacon. Now, lusty younkers, look within the 
 glass, 
 And tell me if you can discern j'our sires. 
 
 First Schol. Serlsby, 'tis hard ; thy father offers 
 wrong, 
 To combat with my father in the field. 
 
 Second Schol. Lambert, thou liest, my father's 
 is th' abuse. 
 And thou shalt find it, if my father harm. 
 
 Bun. How goes it, sirs ? 
 
 First Schol. Our fathers are in combat hard by 
 Fressingfield. 
 
 Bacon. Sit still, my friends, and see the event. 
 
 La7n. Why stand'st thou, Serlsby? doubt'st 
 thou of thy life ? 
 A veney,* man ! fair Margaret craves so much. 
 
 * The fathers of the two scholars are seen in the 
 same way as Edward beheld Lacy, Bungay, and Mar- 
 garet in the glass — viz. at the hack of the stage. — 
 DoDSLEY (ed. 1825). 
 
 2 prize— risk in combat. 
 
 3 Thou seest, &c.— Dyce reads this line, Thou seest I 
 tingle [meet] thee [in] the field. 
 
 * veney — a venue or bout, from Fr. venue, a coming on. 
 
 Ser. Then this for her. 
 
 First Schol. Ah, well thrust ! 
 
 Second Schol. But mark the ward. 
 
 [Lambert and Serlsby stab each other. 
 
 Lam. Ob, I am slain ! {Dies. 
 
 Ser. And I, — Lord have mercy on me! [Dies. 
 
 First Schol. My father slain !— Serlsby, ward 
 that. 
 
 Second Schol. And so is mine! — Lambert, I'll 
 quite thee well. 
 
 [The Two Scholars stah each oiher^ and die. 
 
 Bun. strange stratagem ! 
 
 Bacon. See, friar, where the fathers both lie 
 dead ! — 
 Bacon, thy magic doth eifect this massacre : 
 This glass prospective worketh many woes ; 
 And thei-efore seeing these brave lusty Brutes, 
 These friendly youths, did perish by thine art^ 
 End all thy magic and thine art at once. 
 The poniard that did end the fatal lives. 
 Shall break the cause efficiat ^ of their woes. 
 So fade the glass, and end with it the shows 
 That necromancy did infuse the crystal with. 
 
 [Breafcs the glass. 
 
 Bun. What means learn'd Bacon thus to break 
 his glass ? 
 
 Bacon. 1 tell thee, Bungay, it repents me sore 
 That ever Bacon meddled in this art. 
 The hours I have spent in pyromantic spell*, 
 The fearful tossing in the latest night. 
 Of papers full of necromantic charms. 
 Conjuring and adjuring devils and fiends. 
 With stole and alb and strange pentageron ; 
 The wresting of the holy name of God, 
 As S other, Eloim, and Adonai, 
 Alpha, Manoth, and Tetragrammaton, 
 With praying to the fivefold powers of heaven, 
 Are instances that Bacon must be damn'd 
 For using devils to countervail his God. — 
 Yet, Bacon, cheer thee, drown not in despair : 
 Sins have their salves, repentance can do much : 
 Think Mercy sits where Justice holds her seat, 
 And from those wounds those bloody Jews did 
 
 pierce. 
 Which by thy magic oft did bleed afresh, 
 From thence for thee the dew of mercy drops, 
 To wash the wrath of high Jehovah's ire, 
 And make thee as a new-born babe from sin. — 
 Bungay, I'll spend the I'emnant of my life 
 In pure devotion, praying to my God 
 That He would save what Bacon vainly lost. 
 
 [Exewif. 
 
 Enter Margaret in min^s apparel^ the Keeper, and 
 their Friend. 
 
 Keeper. Margaret, be not so headstrong in these 
 vows : 
 Oh, bury not such beauty in a cell. 
 That England hath held famous for the hue ! 
 Thy father's hair, like to the silver blooms 
 That beautify the shrubs of Africa, 
 Shall fall before the dated time of death, 
 Thus to forego his lovely Margaret. 
 
 Mar. Ah ! father, when the harmony of heaven 
 Soundeth the measures of a lively faith. 
 The vain illusions of this flattering world 
 Seem odious to the thoughts of Margaret. 
 I lov^d once, — Lord Lacy was my love ; 
 And now I hate myself for that I lov'd, 
 And doted more on him than on my God, — 
 For this I scourge myself with shai'p repents. 
 But now the touch of such aspiring sins 
 Tells me all love is lust but love of heaven ; 
 That beauty used for love is vanity : 
 The world contains naught but alluring baits, 
 
 1 ej??ciaf— efficient. 
 
ROBERT GREENE, 
 
 95 
 
 Pride, flattery, and inconstant thoughts. 
 To shun the pricks of death I leave the world, 
 And vow to meditate on heavenly bliss, 
 To live in Framlingham a holy nun, 
 Holy and pure in conscience and in deed ; 
 And for to wish all maids to learn of me 
 To seek heaven's joy before earth's vanity. 
 
 Friend. And will you, then, Margaret, be shorn 
 a nun, and so leave us all ? 
 
 Mar. Now farewell world, the engine of allwoe ! 
 Farewell to fi'iends and father ! Welcome Christ ! 
 Adieu to dainty robes ! this base attire 
 Better befits an humble mind to God 
 Than all the show of rich habiliments. 
 Love, love ! and, with fond love, farewell 
 Sweet Lacy, whom I loved once so dear ! 
 Ever be well, but never in my thoughts, 
 Lest I offend to think on Lacy's love : 
 But even to that, as to the rest, farewell ! 
 
 Enter Lacy, Warrex, ancZERMSBY, hooted and 
 spurred. 
 
 Lacy. Come on, my wags, we're near the 
 Keeper's lodge. 
 Here have I oft walk'd in the watery meads. 
 And chatted with my lovely Margaret. 
 War. Sirrah Ned, is not this the Keeper ? 
 Lacy. 'Tis the same. 
 
 Erm. The old lecher hath gotten holy mutton^ 
 to him ; a nun, my lord. 
 Lacy. Keeper, how far'st thou? holla, man, 
 what cheer ? 
 How doth Peggy, thy daughter and my love ? 
 Keeper. Ah, good my lord ! Oh, woe is me for 
 ■Peggy! 
 See where she stands clad in her nun's attire, 
 Eeady for to be shorn in Framlingham : 
 She leaves the world because she left your love. 
 Oh, good my lord, persuade her if you can ! 
 Ixicy. Why, how now, Margaret! what! a mal- 
 content ? 
 A nun 7 what holy father taught you this, 
 To task yourself to such a tedious life 
 As die a maid? 'twere injury to me, 
 To smother up such beauty in a cell. 
 
 Mar. Lord Lacy, thinking of my former 'miss,^ 
 How fond' the prime of wanton years were spent 
 In love (oh, fie upon that fond conceit. 
 Whose hap and essence hangeth in the eye !), 
 I leave both love and love's content at once, 
 Betaking me to Him that is true love, 
 And leaving all the world for love of Him. 
 Lacy. Whence, Peggy, comes this metamor- 
 phosis ? 
 What ! shorn a nun, and I have from the court 
 Posted with coursers to convey thee hence 
 To Windsor, where our marriage shall be kept! 
 Thy wedding-robes are in the tailor's hands. 
 Come, Peggy, leave these peremptory vows. 
 Mar. Did not my lord resign his interest. 
 And make divorce 'twixt Margaret and him ? 
 
 Lacy. 'Twas but to try sweet Peggy's constancy. 
 But will fair Margaret leave her love and lord ? 
 Mar. Is not heaven's joy before earth's fading 
 bliss. 
 And life above sweeter than life in love ? 
 Lacy. "Why, then, Margaret wiU be shorn a nun ? 
 Mar. Margaret 
 Hath made a vow which may not be revok'd. 
 War. We cannot stay, my lord ; an if she be 
 so strict, 
 
 1 mutton— a. term at the time often applied to a pros- 
 titute. 
 
 2 'miss— amiss, i.e. fault. 
 
 3 fond, i.e. fondly— foolishly, vainly; old Eng. fonne, 
 Scotch fon, to be foolish. 
 
 Our leisure grants us not to woo afresh. 
 
 Erms. Choose you, fair damsel, yet the choice 
 is yours, — 
 Either a solemn nunnery or the court, 
 God or Lord Lacy : which contents you best. 
 To be a nun, or else Lord Lacy's wife ? 
 
 Lacy. A good notion. — Peggy, your answer 
 must be short. 
 
 31a7\ The flesh is frail : my lord doth know it 
 well. 
 That when he comes with his enchanting face, 
 Whate'er betide, I cannot say him nay. 
 Off goes the habit of a maiden's heart, 
 And, seeing fortune will, fair Framlingham, 
 And all the show of holy nuns farewell ! 
 Lacy for me, if he will be my lord. 
 
 Lacy. Peggy, thy lord, thy love, thy husband. 
 Trust me, by ti'uth of knighthood, that the king 
 Stays for to marry matchless Elinor, 
 Until I bring thee richly to the court. 
 That one day may both marry her and thee. — 
 How say's thou, Keeper? art thou glad of this ? 
 
 Keep. As if the English king had given 
 The park and deer of Fressingfield to me. 
 
 Erm. I pray thee, my Lord of Sussex, why art 
 thou in a brown study ? 
 
 Wa7\ To see the nature of women; that be 
 they never so near God, yet they love to die in a 
 man's arms. 
 
 Lacy. What have you fit for breakfast ? We 
 have hied 
 And posted all this night to Fressingfield. 
 
 Mar. Butter and cheese, and umbles^ of a deer. 
 Such as poor keepers have within their lodge. 
 
 Lacy. And not a bottle of wine ? 
 
 Mar. We'll find one for my lord. 
 
 Lacy Come, Sussex, let us in : we shall have 
 more. 
 For she speaks least, to hold her promise sure. 
 
 l^ExeunU 
 Enter a Devil. 
 
 Devil. How restless are the ghosts of hellish 
 sprites. 
 When every charmer with his magic spells 
 Calls us from ninefold-trenched Phlegethon, 
 To scud and over-scour the earth in post 
 Upon the speedy wings of swiftest winds ! 
 Now Bacon hath raised me from the darkest deep, 
 To search about the world for Miles his man, 
 For Miles, and to torment his lazy bones 
 For careless watching of his Brazen Head. 
 See where he comes : Oh, he is mine. 
 
 Enter Miles in a gown and a comer-cap. 
 
 Miles. A scholar, quoth you! marry, sir, I 
 would I had been made a bottle-maker when I 
 was made a scholar; for I can get neither to be 
 a deacon, reader, nor schoolmaster, no, not the 
 clerk of a parish. Some call me dunce ; another 
 saith, my head is as full of Latin as an egg's full 
 of oatmeal : thus I am tormented, that the devil 
 and Friar Bacon haunt me. — Good Lord, "here's 
 one of my master's devils ! I'll go speak to him. 
 — What, Master Plutus, how cheer you? 
 
 Lev. JDost thou know me ? 
 
 Miles. Know you, sir! why, are not you one 
 of my master's devils, that were wont to come to 
 my master. Doctor Bacon, at Brazen-nose ? 
 
 Dev. Yes, marry, am I. 
 
 Miles. Good Lord, Master Plutus, I have seen 
 you a thousand times at my master's, and yet I 
 had never the manners to make you drink. But, 
 sir, I am glad to see how conformable you are to 
 
 1 umbles — i.e. the inward parts of a deer, a hunting 
 term ; of these was umble pie made. 
 
96 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the statute. — I warrant you, he's as yeomanly a 
 man as you shall see : mark you, masters, here's 
 a plain honest man, without welt or guard.' — 
 But I pray you, sir, do you come lately from 
 hell? 
 
 Dev. Ay, marry : how then ? 
 
 Miles. Faith, 'tis a place I have desired long to 
 see: have you not good tippling-houses there? 
 May not a man have a lusty fire there, a pot of 
 good ale, a pair^ of cards, a swinging piece of 
 chalk, and a brown toast that will clap a white 
 waistcoat on a cup of good drink ? 
 
 Dev. All this you may have there. 
 
 Miles. You are for me, friend, and I am for 
 you. But, I pray you, may I not have an ofKce 
 there ? 
 
 Dev. Yes, a thousand : what wouldst thou be ? 
 
 Miles. By my troth, sir, in a place where I may 
 profit myself. I know hell is a hot place, and 
 men are marvellous dry, and much drink is spent 
 there ; I would be a tapster. 
 
 Dev. Thou shalt. 
 
 Miles. There's nothing letss me from going 
 with you, but that 'tis a long journey, and I have 
 never a horse. 
 
 Dev. Thou shalt ride on my back. 
 
 Miles. Now surely here's a courteous devil, 
 that, for to pleasure his friend, will not stick to 
 make a jade of himself. — But I pray you, good- 
 man friend, let me move a question to you. 
 
 Dev. What's that? . 
 
 Miles. I pray you, whether is your pace a trot 
 or an amble ? 
 
 Dev. An amble. 
 
 Miles. 'Tis well; but take heed it be not a 
 trot ; but no matter, I'll prevent it. 
 
 [Puts on spurs. 
 
 Dev. What dost ? 
 
 Miles. Marry, friend, I put on my spurs ; for if 
 I find your pace either a trot or else uneasy, I'll 
 put you to a false gallop ; I'll make you feel the 
 benefit of my spurs. 
 
 Dev. Get up upon my back. 
 
 [Milks mounts on the Devil's hacTc. 
 
 Miles. Lord, here's even a goodly marvel, 
 when a man rides to hell on the devil's back ! 
 
 [Exeunt, the devil roaring. 
 
 Enter the EjrpEROR with a pointless sword ; next 
 the King of Castile carrying a sword loith a 
 point ; Lacy carrying the globe ; Prince Ed- 
 ward ; Warren carrying a rod of gold xoitli a 
 dove on it ; Ermsby with a crown and sceptre ; 
 Princess Elinor with Margaret Countess of 
 Lincoln on her left hand; King Henry, Bacon, 
 and Lords attending. 
 
 P. Edw. Great potentates, earth's miracles for 
 state, 
 Think that Prince Edward humbles at your feet, 
 And, for these favours, on his martial sword 
 He vows perpetual homage to yourselves, 
 Yielding these honours unto Elinor. 
 
 K. Hen. Gramercies, lordings ; old Plantagenet, 
 That rules and sways the Albion diadem, 
 With tears discovers these conceived joys, 
 And vows requital, if his men-at-arms. 
 The wealth of England, or due honours done 
 To Elinor, may quite his favourites. 
 But all this while what say j^ou to the dames 
 That shine like to the crystal lamps of heaven ? 
 
 Emp. If but a third were added to these two. 
 They did surpass those gorgeous images 
 That gloried Ida with rich beauty's wealth. 
 
 ^ welt or guard. Welts are borders or edging, guards 
 trimmings or facings. 
 2 i?air— pack. ^ lets^'hSxi^&xs. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis I, ray lords, who humbly on my knee 
 Must jdeld her orisons to mighty Jove 
 For lifting up his handmaid to this state ; 
 Bx'ought from her homely cottage to the court. 
 And grac'd with kings, princes, and emperors. 
 To whom .(next to the noble Lincoln Earl) 
 I vow obedience, and such humble love 
 As may a handmaid to such mighty men. 
 
 P. Elin. Thou martial man that wears the 
 Almain crown. 
 And you the western potentates of might. 
 The Albion princess, English Edward's wife, 
 Proud that the lovely star of Fressingfield, 
 Fair Margai-et, Countess to the Lincoln Earl, 
 Attends on Elinor, — gramercies, lord, for her, — 
 'Tis I give thanks for Margaret to you all. 
 And rest for her due bounden to yourselves. 
 
 K. Hen. Seeing the marriage is solemnised. 
 Let's march in triumph to the royal feast. — 
 But why stands Friar Bacon here so mute ? 
 
 Bacon. Eepentant for the follies of my youth, 
 That magic's secret mysteries misled. 
 And joyful that his royal marriage 
 Portends such bliss unto this matchless realm. 
 
 K. Hen. Why, Bacon, 
 What strange event shall happen to this land ? 
 Or what shall grow from Edward and his queen ? 
 
 Bacon. I find * by deep prescience of mine art. 
 Which once I temper'd in my secret cell, 
 That here where Brute^ did build his Troynovant, 
 From forth the royal garden of a king 
 Shall flourish out so rich and fair a bud, 
 Whose brightness shall deface proud Phoebus' 
 
 flower. 
 And ovei-shadow Albion with her leaves. 
 Till then Mars shall be master of the field. 
 But then the stormy threats of wars shall cease : 
 The horse shall stamp as careless of the pike. 
 Drums shall be turn'd to timbrels of delight ; 
 With wealthy favours plenty shall enrich 
 The strand that gladded wandering Brute to see, 
 And peace from heaven shall harbour in these 
 
 leaves 
 That gorgeous beautify this matchless flower : 
 Apollo's heliotropion then shall stoop, 
 And Venus' hyacinth shall vail ^ her top ; 
 Juno shall shut her gilliflowers up. 
 And Pallas' bay shall 'bash her brightest green ; 
 Ceres' carnation, in consdrt with those, 
 Shall stoop and wonder at Diana's rose. 
 
 K. Hen. This prophecy is mystical. — 
 But, glorious commanders of Europa's love, 
 That make fair England like that Avealtliy isle 
 Circled with Gihon and first Euphrates, 
 In royalizing Henry's Albion 
 With presence of your princely mightiness, — 
 Let's march : the tables all are spread, 
 And viands, such as England's wealth affords^ 
 Are ready set to furnish out the boards. 
 You shall have welcome, mighty potentates : 
 It rests to furnish up this royal feast, 
 Only your hearts be frolic ; for the time 
 Craves that we taste of naught but jouissance : * 
 Thus glories England over all the west. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci.^ 
 
 1 1 find, &c. — an obvious compliment to Queen Eliza- 
 beth, but not half so fulsome and extravagant as many 
 at the conclusion of plays acted previous to her death. 
 — DoDSLEY (ed. 1825). 
 
 2 Brutus, grandson of ^neas, the fabulous founder of 
 New Troy or London. 
 
 3rat7— lower; Fr. avaler, to descend, let down, aval, 
 down ; Lat. ad, to, vallis, a valley. 
 
 * jouissance, Fr. — enjoyment. 
 
 5 Omme tulit, &c. — Green's favourite motto, from 
 Horace's Ars Poet., 343. ' He who mixes the usefuJ 
 with the agreeable carries the applause of all' 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 [The materials for a Liograpliy of Cliristoplier Marlowe are even scantier than in the case of 
 the three dramatists whom we have previously noticed. The facts of his life can be told in 
 a very few words. He was tlie son of John Marlowe, a shoemaker, and was born at Canter- 
 bury in February 1563-4, Probably through the influence of Sir Roger Man wood, a Kentish 
 gentleman, and Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Marlowe was admitted to the King's School 
 at Canterbury ; after remaining at which for a number of years, he proceeded to Cambridge, 
 matriculating as Pensioner of Benet College, March 17, 1580-1. Here he took his degree of 
 B.A. in 1583, and that of M.A. in 1587, previous to which he had probably written his 
 tragedy of Tamberlaine the Great. It must have been shortly after, if not some time 
 previous to 1587, that Marlowe went to London, where, according to an early biographer, 
 his first connection with the drama was as an actor. This vocation, however, he had ere 
 long to resign, as, according to a curious ballad entitled The Atheist's Tragedie, written 
 shortly after Marlowe's death, and of which he is the hero, 
 
 * He brake his leg in one lewd scene, 
 
 "When in his early age. ' 
 
 From this time till his early and sad death in 1593, he gained his livelihood entirely by his 
 pen, writing dramas, poems, and translations. In the words of the ballad above-mentioned — 
 
 * A poet was he of repute. 
 
 And wrote full many a play ; 
 Now strutting in a silken suit, 
 Then begging by the way. ' 
 
 There can be no doubt that he gave himself up unrestrainedly to the riotous living indulged 
 in by so many of his contemporaries, spending his time and his money in the company of 
 such wild spirits as Peele, Greene, and Nash. In the burial register of the parish church of 
 St. Nicholas, Deptford, is the following entry : — * Christopher Marlow, slaine by ffrancis 
 Archer, the 1 of June, 1593.' The manner of his death is told by William Vaughan, in 
 The Golden Grove (a.d. 1600). * It so happened, that at Deptford, a little village about 
 three miles from London, as he (Marlowe) meant to stab with his poignard one named 
 Ingram (Archer) that had invited him thither to a feast, and was then playing at tables ; he 
 (Archer) quickly perceiving it, so avoided the thrust, that withal drawing out his dagger for 
 Lis own defence, he stabbed this Marlowe into the eye in such sort, that his brains coming 
 out at the dagger's point, he shortly after died.' Another authority says that it was 
 Marlowe's owm dagger which Archer turned against him ; and from Meres's Wit's Treasury 
 we learn that Archer was * a bawdy serving man, a rival of his lewd love. ' Marlowe appears 
 to have paid little heed to the warning of his former companion Greene, whose wretched 
 death occurred only a year before. Appended to Greene's Groatsworth of Wit, is an address, 
 ' To those gentlemen, his quondam acquaintance, who spend their wits in making plays. ' 
 As throwing some light on Marlowe's life and character, we shaU quote here the part which 
 refers to him : — 
 
 * If wofuU experience may mooue you, gentlemen, to beware, or vnheard-of wretchednes 
 intreat you to take heed, I doubt not but you will look backe with sorrow on your time past, 
 
98 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 and endeuour with repentance to spend that which is to come. "Wonder not (for with thee 
 will I first beginne), thou famous gracer of tragedians \}.e. Marlowe], that Green, who hath 
 said with thee, like the foole in his heart, " There is no God," should now giue glorie vnto 
 his greatnesse ; for penetrating is his power, his hand lyes heauy vpon me. He hath spoken 
 vnto me with a voyce of thunder, and I haue felt He is a God that can punish enemies. 
 "Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, be so blinded that thou shouldest giue no glory to 
 the giuer ? Is it pestilent Machiuilian policie that thou hast studied ? peevish foUie ! 
 what are his rules but meere confused mockeries, able to extirpate in small time the genera- 
 tion of mankinde ? for if sic volo^ sic iubeo, holde in those that are able to commaund, and if 
 it be lawfull fas et nefas, to doo any thing that is beneficiall, onely tyrants should possesse 
 the earth, and they, striuing to exceed in tiranny, should ech to other be a slaughterman, 
 till, the mightyest outliuing all, one stroke were left for Death, that in one age man's life 
 should end. The brocher^ of this dyabolicall atheisme is dead, and in his life had neuer the 
 felicitie he aymed at, but, as he beganne in craft, lined in feare, and ended in dispaire. 
 Quam inscrutahilia sunt Dei judicial This murderer of many brethren had his conscience 
 seared like Cayne ; this betrayer of Him that gaue his life for him inherited the portion of 
 Judas ; this apostate perished as ill as Julian : and wilt thou, my friend, be his disciple ? 
 Looke vnto mee, by him perswaded to that libertie, and thou shalt finde it an infernall 
 bondage. I know the least of my demerits merit this miserable death ; but wilfuU striuing 
 against knowne truth exceedeth all the terrors of my soule. Deferre not (with mee) till this 
 last point of extremitie ; for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited. ' 
 
 Here it will be seen that Greene charges Marlowe with atheism. The same charge is 
 repeated by Beau in his Theatre of God's Judgments (1597), who also asserts that he wrote 
 a book against the Trinity, ' affirming the Holy Bible to be but vain and idle stories, and all 
 religion but a device of policy. ' Similar charges were brought against him by contemporary 
 and immediately succeeding writers, and their truth has generally been believed in to a 
 greater or less extent by most of his biographers. What weight is to be given to these 
 assertions it is impossible now to say ; but altogether the evidence leads us to believe that 
 Marlowe was an avowed disbeliever in the divine authorship of the Bible, and the super- 
 natural origin of Christianity, and that he rather liked to parade his disbelief in an offensive 
 and coarse manner ; but whether he professed to have any rational ground for this scepticism, 
 or whether it was merely the result of bitterness, conceit, and licentiousness, we cannot 
 make out. He, as was the case with most of his companions, certainly led the life of one 
 who neither believed in God, nor respected himself nor his fellow-men j but whose only 
 creed was * eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' 
 
 Marlowe appears to have been a favourite with his companions, among whom he was 
 familiarly known as * Kit Marlowe, ' and even by his contemporaries his surpassing genius 
 seems to have been recognised. Peele, in the prologue to the Honour of the Garter, 
 apostrophizes him thus : — 
 
 * Unhappy in thine end, 
 Marley, the Muses' darling for thy verse, 
 Fit to write passions for the souls below, 
 If any wretched souls in passion .speak.' 
 
 Marlowe's dramas, like those of most of his contemporaries, are very unequal in merit, they 
 are wanting in coherence, and in orderliness and definiteness of plan, and are occasionally 
 marked by bombast and silliness. As a whole, however, they are characterized by such 
 extraordinary vigour, power, and passion, so great boldness and exuberant richness of imagi- 
 nation, and by such well-marked, consistent, and striking portraiture of character, as to 
 entitle him in these respects to be placed above all his contemporaries, and among the 
 very few who were second to Shakespeare. Had Marlowe lived longer, and given his high 
 powers fair play — which he never did — he would undoubtedly, in the words of Dyce, 
 * have made a much nearer approach in tragedy to Shakespeare than has yet been made 
 by any of his countrymen.' We have selected from Marlowe's dramas his Edward the 
 
 1 'Probably Francis Kennet, A.M., of Winmendham in Norfolk, who was bred at Benet College, and in 15S9 
 was burnt for holding detestable opinions concerning Christ.'— Malone. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 99 
 
 Secondy written, according to Warton, in the year 1590, and first printed in 1598. As 
 a whole it is considered the most perfectly constructed of his plays ; * there is no overdoing 
 of character, no turgidity of language.' 'The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty,' says 
 Charles Lamb, *in Edward, furnished hints which Shakespeare scarce improved in his 
 Richard 11. ; and the death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any 
 scene ancient or modern with which I am acquainted. ' The tragedy of Faustus, probably 
 written about 1587 or 1588, is altogether so remarkable, and contains passages of such super- 
 abundant power, that any selection from Marlowe, or any collection of specimens of the 
 Elizabethan drama, would be altogether defective without it. We have therefore selected 
 the greater part of it for publication, from the earliest known edition, that of 1604, amending 
 it in a few places from that of 1616 ; even this early edition, however, had been touched up 
 and added to by the playwrights of the time, as * in consequence of having been repeatedly 
 performed, it had somewhat palled upon the audience. ' The words of Hazlitt are specially 
 applicable to Faustus : ' There is a lust of power, a hunger and thirst after unrighteousness, 
 a glow of the imagination, unhallowed by anything but its own energies. His thoughts 
 burn within him like a furnace with bickering flames, or throwing out black smoke and 
 mists, that hide the dawn of genius, or, like a poisonous mineral, corrode the heart. Faustus 
 himself is a rude sketch, but it is a gigantic one. This character may be considered as a 
 personification of the pride of will and eagerness of curiosity, sublimed beyond the reach of 
 fear and remorse. ' In the details of the story, Marlowe followed closely the prose romance 
 entitled History of Doctor Faustus, published some time before. Besides those already 
 mentioned, the other dramas attributed to Marlowe are The Jew of Malta, written about 
 1589, but not published till 1633 ; The Massacre at Paris, written not long before the 
 author's death, and first published about 1596. Marlowe appears also to have commenced 
 a tragedy entitled Dido, which was finished for the stage by Nash, after his death. These 
 are all the dramas that can be certainly attributed to Marlowe, although it is not improbable 
 that others of his composition have either been lost or have been attributed to others. 
 Maxlowe also translated Hero and Leander, Ovid's Elegies, and the first book of Lucan.] 
 
lOO 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 THE TROUBLESOME REIGN AND LAMENTABLE DEATH 
 OF EDWARD THE SECOND, KING OF ENGLAND: 
 
 WITH THE TRAGICAL FALL OF PROUD MORTIMER: AND 
 ALSO THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PEIRS GAYESTON, THE 
 GREAT EARL OF CORNWALL, AND MIGHTY FAYOURITE 
 OF KING EDWARD THE SECOND:^ 
 
 AS IT WAS PUBLICLY ACTED BY THE EIGHT HONOUEABLE THE EAEL OF 
 PEMBEOKE HIS SEE7ANTS. 
 
 WRITTEN BY CHRI. MARLOW, GENT. 
 
 hnimnted at London by Richard Bradoche, for William Jones, dwelling near Ilolhorn conduit, 
 
 at the sign of the Gun, 1593. 
 
 gramatis ^tx$anvt. 
 
 King Edwaud the Second- 
 Prince Edwaud, his Son, afterwards King Edward 
 
 the Third. 
 Kent, Brother to King Edward the Second. 
 Gaveston. 
 
 Archbishop of Cantekdury. 
 Bishop of Coventry. 
 Bishop of Winchester. 
 Warwick. 
 Lancaster. 
 Pembroke. 
 Arundel. 
 Leicester. 
 Berkeley. 
 Mortimer the elder. 
 ^Mortimer the younger, his Nephew. 
 Spknser the elder. 
 Spknseu the younger, his Son. 
 Baldock. 
 
 Beaumont. 
 
 Trussel. 
 
 GURNEY. 
 
 Matrevis. 
 
 LiGHTBORN. 
 
 Sir John of Hainault. 
 Levune. 
 Rice ap Howel. 
 Abbot. 
 Monks. 
 Herald. 
 
 Lords, Poor Men, James, Mower, Champion, 
 Messengers, Soldiers, and Attendants. 
 
 Queen Isabella, wife to King Edward the Second. 
 Niece to King Edward the Second, Daughter to 
 
 the Duke of Gloucester. 
 Ladies. 
 
 The Scene lies in England and France. 
 
 Enter GA^^:sTON, reading a letter. 
 
 Gav. My father is deceas'd. Come, Gavestone, 
 And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend. 
 Ah, words that make me surfeit with delight ! 
 What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston 
 Than live and be the favourite of a king ! 
 Sweet prince, I come! these, these thy amorous 
 
 lines [France, 
 
 Might have enforc'd me to have swum from 
 And, like Leander, gasp'd upon the sand. 
 So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine 
 
 arms. 
 The sight of London to my exil'd eyes 
 Is as Elysium to a new-come soul : 
 Not that I love the city or the men, 
 But that it harbours him I hold so dear, — 
 
 ' The action of this play includes the whole of the 
 reign of Edwuid ii., commencing with the recall of 
 Gaveston, Mhich happened before the funeral of 
 Edward i. 
 
 The king, upon whose bosom let me die. 
 And with the world be still at enmity. 
 What need the arctic people love star-light. 
 To whom the sun shines both by day and night? 
 !]f are well base stooping to the lordly peers! 
 ^M}' knee shall bow to none but to the king. 
 As for the multitude, that are but sparks, 
 Eak'd up in embers of their poverty, — 
 Tanti, ' — I'll faAvn 2 first on the wind, 
 Thatglanceth at my lips, and flieth away. 
 
 Enter three Poor Men. 
 
 But how now! what are these.' 
 
 Poor Men. Such as desire your worship's 
 service. 
 
 Gav. What canst thou do ? 
 
 * Tanti — compare Fuimus Troes, 1603 : 
 
 ' No kingly menace or censorious frowne 
 Doe I regard. Tanti for all your power.' 
 
 Sig. F 3— DrcE. 
 « /airn— Dodsley reads ' fan,' 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 lOI 
 
 First P. Man. I can ride. 
 Gav. But 1 have no horse. — "What art thou ? 
 Sec. P. Man. A traveller. 
 Gav. Let me see : thou wouldst do well 
 To wait at my trencher, and tell me lies at 
 
 dinner-time ; 
 And, as I like your discoursing, I'll have you. — 
 And what art thou .'' 
 
 Third P. Man. A soldier, that hath serv'd 
 against the Scot. ', 
 
 Gav. Why, there are hospitals for such as you : 
 I have no war ; and therefore, sir, be gone. 
 Third P. Man. Farewell ; and perish by a 
 soldier's hand, 
 That wouldst reward them with an hospital ! 
 Gav. Ay, ay, these words of his move me as 
 much 
 As if a goose should play the porcupine. 
 And dart her plumes, thinking to pierce my 
 
 breast. 
 Bitt yet it is no pain to speak men fair ; 
 I'll flatter these, and make them live in hope.— 
 
 \_Aside. 
 You know that I came lately out of France, 
 And yet I have not view'd my lord the king : 
 If I speed well, I'll entertain you all. 
 All. We thank your worship. 
 Gav. I have some business : leave me to myself. 
 All. We will wait here about the court. 
 Gav. Do. \^Exeunt Poor Men. 
 
 These are not men for me ; 
 I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits. 
 Musicians, that with touching of a string 
 May draw the pliant king which way I please : 
 Music and poetry i is his delight ; 
 Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night, 
 Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows ; 
 And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, 
 Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad ; 
 My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns. 
 Shall with their goat-feet dance the antic hay ; 2 
 Sometime a lovely boy in Dian's shape, 
 With hair that gilds the water as it glides, 
 Crownets ' of pearl about his naked arms, 
 And in his sportful hands an olive tree, 
 To hide those parts which men delight to see. 
 Shall bathe him in a spring ; and there, hard by. 
 One like Actseon, * peeping through the grove. 
 Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd, 
 And running in the likeness of an hart, 
 By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to 
 
 die : 
 Such things as these best please his majesty. — 
 My lord, here comes the king and the nobles 
 From the parliament. I'll stand aside. 
 
 [Retires. 
 
 * Miisic and poetry, &c. — 'How exactly the author, as 
 the learned Dr. Huvd observes, has painted the humour 
 of the times, which esteemed masks and shows as the 
 highest indulgence that could be provided for a luxuri- 
 ous and happy monarch, we may see from the enter- 
 tainment provided, not many years after, for the recep- 
 tion of King James at Altliorp in Northamptonshire, 
 where this very design of Sylvan Nymphs, Satyrs, and 
 Actseon, was executed in a Masque by Ben Jonson, 
 [Kurd's] Moral and Political Dialogues, vol. 1, p. 194.' 
 — Dodsley's Old Plays. 
 
 2 antic hay— antic here means grotesque, fantastic, 
 and is still used as a noun, meaning grotesque capers; 
 it is the same word as ' antique.' Jfay was the name of 
 a round country dance ; ' Shall we go dance the hay ? ' 
 occurs in England's Helicon ; and mention is made of it 
 in Love's Labour Lost, act v., so. 1. 
 
 3 Crownet — the diminutive of crown, i.e., coronet. 
 
 ♦ Actxon, according to the fable, was a hunter who 
 was transformed by Artemis (Diana) into a stag, and 
 torn to pieces by dogs, for peeping at the goddess and 
 her nymphs bathing. 
 
 Enter Ktxg Edward, Kent, Lancasier, iJie elder 
 Mortimer, the younger Moutuier, War- 
 wick, Pembroke, and Attendants. 
 
 K. Edio. Lancaster ! 
 
 Lan. My lord ? 
 
 Gav. That Earl of Lancaster do I abhor. 
 
 [^Aside. 
 K. Edw. Will you not grant me this ? — In spite 
 of them 
 I'll have my will ; and these two Mortimers, 
 That cross me thus, shall know I am displeas'd. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 E. Mor. If you love us, my lord, hate Gave- 
 
 ston. 
 Gav. That villain Mortimer ! I'll be his death. 
 
 [^Aside. 
 Y. Mor. Mine uncle here, this earl, and 1 
 myself, 
 Were sworn to your father at his death, 
 That he should ne'er return into the realm : 
 And know, my lord, ere I will break my oath. 
 This sword of mine, that should offend your 
 
 foes, 
 Shall sleep within the scabbard at thy need. 
 And underneath thy banners march who will. 
 For Mortimer will hang his armour up. 
 
 Gav. Mort dieu! ^Aside. 
 
 K. Edw. Well, Mortimer, I'll make thee rue 
 these words. 
 Beseems it thee to contradict thy king ? 
 Frown'st thou thereat, aspiring Lancaster ? 
 The sword shall plane the furrows of thy brows, 
 And hew these knees that now are grown so 
 
 stiff. 
 I will have Gaveston ; and you shall know 
 What danger 'tis to stand against your king. 
 Gav. Well done, Ned ! lAside. 
 
 Lan. My lord, why do you thus incense your 
 peers. 
 That naturally would love and honour you, 
 But for that base and obscure Gaveston 7 
 Four earldoms have I, besides Lancaster, — 
 Derby, Salisbury, Lincoln, Leicester; 
 These will I sell, to give my soldiers pay, 
 Ere Gaveston shall stay within the realm : 
 Therefore, if he be come, expel him straight. 
 Kent. Barons and earls, your pride hath made 
 me mute ; 
 But now I'll speak, and to the proof, I hope. 
 I do remember, in my father's days. 
 Lord Percy of the North, being highly mov'd, 
 Brav'd Mowbray in presence of the king ; 
 For which, had not his highness lov'd him well. 
 He should have lost his head ; but with his look 
 Th' undaunted spirit of Percy was appeas'd. 
 And Mowbraj'^ and he were reconcil'd : 
 Yet dare you brave the king unto his face. — 
 Brother, revenge it, and let these their heads 
 Preach upon poles, for trespass of their tongues^ 
 War. Oh, our heads ! 
 
 K. Edw. Ay, yours; and therefore I would 
 wish you grant. 
 
 War. Bridle thy anger, gentle Mortimer. 
 Y. Mor. I cannot, nor I will not; I must 
 speak. — 
 Cousin, our hands, I hope, shall fence our heads. 
 And strike off his that makes you threaten us.— 
 Come, uncle, let us leave the brain-sick king. 
 And henceforth parley with our naked swords. 
 E. Mor. Wiltshire hath men enough to save our 
 
 heads. 
 War. All Warwickshire will love ^ him for my 
 sake. 
 
 love — Dyce reads ' leave.' 
 
102 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Lan. And northward Lancaster^ hath many 
 fi'iends. — 
 Adieu, my lord ; and either change your mind, 
 Or look to see the throne, where you should sit, 
 To float in blood, and at thy wanton head 
 The glozing2 head of thy base minion thrown. 
 [Exeunt all except King Edward, Kent, 
 Gaveston, and Attendants. 
 K. Edw. I cannot brook these haughty menaces ; 
 Am I a king, and must be overrul'd .' — 
 Brother, display my ensigns in the field : 
 I'll bandy ^ with the barons and the earls, 
 And either die or live with Gaveston. 
 
 Gav. I can no longer keep me from my lord. 
 
 \_Comesyo7'wa7'd. 
 K. Edw. What! Gaveston! welcome! Kiss 
 not my hand : 
 Embrace me, Gaveston, as I do thee. 
 Why should'st thou kneel? Know'st thou not 
 
 who I am ? 
 Thy friend, thyself, another Gaveston : 
 Not Hylas* was mourned for of Hercules 
 Than thou hast been of me since thy exile. 
 
 Gav. And, since I went from hence, no soul in 
 hell 
 Hath felt more torment than poor Gaveston. 
 K. Edw. I know it. — Brother, welcome home 
 my friend. — 
 Now let the treacherous Mortimers conspire, 
 And that high-minded Earl of Lancaster : 
 I have my wish, in that I joy^ thy sight ; 
 And sooner shall the sea o'erwhelm my lan4 
 Than bear the ship that shall transport thee 
 
 hence. 
 I here create thee Lord High Chamberlain, 
 Chief Secretary to the state and me. 
 Earl of Cornwall, King and Lord of Man. 
 
 Gav. My lord, these titles far exceed my worth. 
 Kent. Brother, the least of these may well 
 suffice 
 For one of greater birth than Gaveston. 
 K. Edw. Cease, brother, for I cannot brook 
 these words. — 
 Thy worth, sweet friend, is far above my gifts : 
 Therefore, to equal it, receive my heart. 
 If for these dignities thou be envied, « 
 I'll give thee more ; for, but to honour thee, 
 Is Edward pleas'd with kingly regiment.^ 
 Fear'st thou thy person ? thou shalt have a 
 
 guard: 
 Wantest thou gold ? go to my treasury : 
 Would'st thou be lov'd and fear'd? receive my 
 
 seal, 
 Save or condemn, and in our name command 
 What so thy mind affects, or fancy likes. 
 
 Gav. It shall suffice me to enjoy your love ; 
 Which whiles I have, I think myself as great 
 As Caesar riding in the Koman street, 
 With captive kings at his triumphal car. 
 
 Enter the Bishop of Coventry. 
 
 K. Edw. Whither goes my Lord of Coventry 
 so fast ? 
 
 1 Lancaster— 0\& eds. ' Gaueston.' 
 
 2 glazing — flattering. 
 
 3 bandy — i.e., ' oppose with all my force; totis virihus 
 $e opponere, says Skinner, voce bandy.' — Dodsley's Old 
 Plays. 
 
 4 Hylas, according to the fable, was the friend and 
 perhaps the son of Hercules; he was so beautiful that 
 the naiads stole him, and Hercules tried in vain to find 
 him. 
 
 5 _;oy— enjoy. 
 
 8 envied — hated. 
 
 7 regiment — rule, government ; Lat. regimentum, regi- 
 men, from rego, to rule. 
 
 Bish. of Gov. To celebrate your father's 
 exequies. 
 But is that wicked Gaveston return'd ? 
 K. Edw. Ay, priest, and lives to be reveng'd 
 on thee. 
 That wert the only cause of his exile. 
 
 Gav. 'Tis true ; and, but for reverence of these 
 robes. 
 Thou should'st not plod one foot beyond this 
 place. 
 Bish. of Gov. I did no more than I was bound 
 to do: 
 And, Gaveston, unless thou be reclaim' d. 
 As then I did incense the parliament. 
 So will I now, and thou shalt back to France. 
 
 Gav.^ Saving your reverence, you must pardon 
 me. 
 
 K. Edw. Throw off his golden mitre, rend his 
 stole. 
 And in the channel ^ christen him anew. 
 
 Kent. Ah, brother, lay not violent hands on 
 him! 
 For he'll complain unto the see of Bome. 
 
 Gav. Let him complain unto the see of hell : 
 I'll be reveng'd on him for my exile. 
 K. Edw. No, spare his life, but seize upon his 
 
 Be thou lord bishop, and receive his rents. 
 And make him serve thee as thy chaplain : 
 I give him thee ; here, use him as thou wilt. 
 Gav. He shall to prison, and there die in bolts. 
 K. Edw. Ay, to the Tower, the Fleet, or where 
 
 thou wilt. 
 Bish. of Gov. For this offence be thou accurs'd 
 
 of God! 
 K. Edw. Who's there ? Convey this priest to 
 
 the Tower. 
 Bish. of Gov. True, true.' 
 K. Edw. But, in the mean time, Gaveston, away, 
 And take possession of his house and goods. 
 Come, follow me, and thou shalt have my guard 
 To see it done, and bring thee safe again. 
 
 Gav. What should a priest do with so fair a 
 house ? 
 A prison may best beseem his holiness. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter on one side the elder Mortimer and the 
 younger Mortimer; on the other, Warwick 
 and Lancaster. 
 
 War. 'Tis true, the bishop is in the Tower, 
 And goods and body given to Gaveston ! 
 
 Lan. What! will they tyrannize upon the 
 church ? 
 Ah, wicked king ! accursed Gaveston ! 
 This ground, which is corrupted with their steps, 
 Shall be their timeless* sepulchre or mine. 
 
 Y. Mar. Well, let that peevish Frenchman 
 guard him sure ; 
 Unless his breast be sword-proof, he shaU die. 
 
 E. Mor. How now! why droops the Earl of 
 Lancaster ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Wherefore is Guy of Warwick dis- 
 content ? 
 
 Lan. That villain Gavestone is made an earl. 
 
 E. Mor. An earl ! 
 
 War. Ay, and besides, Lord Chamberlain of the 
 realm. 
 And Secretary too, and Lord of Man. 
 
 1 Oav., &c. — 'He "lays violent hands" upon the 
 bishop.' See p. 103, 1st col.— Dodslet's Old Plays. 
 
 2 c/taraneZ— kennel or gutter. 
 
 3 True, true. Altered in Dodsley (ed. 1S25) to ' Do, 
 do.' Dyce suggests ' Prut, pint ' (an exclamation of 
 contempt). 
 
 * timeless — ^untimely. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 103 
 
 E. Mor. We may not nor we will not suffer this. 
 Y. Mor. Why post we not from hence to levy 
 
 men? 
 Lan. 'My Lord of Cornwall' now at every 
 word ; 
 And happy is the man whom he vouchsafes, 
 For vailing^ of his bonnet one good look. 
 Thus, arm in arm, the king and he doth march : 
 Nay more, the guard upon his lordship waits, 
 And all the court begins to flatter him. 
 
 War. Thus leaning on the shoulder of the king, 
 
 He nods, and scorns, and smiles at those that 
 
 pass. 
 
 E. Mor. Doth no man take exceptions at the 
 
 slave ? 
 
 Lan. All stomach ^ him, but none dare speak a 
 
 word. 
 Y. Mor. Ah, that bewrays their baseness, Lan- 
 caster ! 
 Were all the earls and barons of my mind. 
 We'll 3 hale him from the bosom of the king, 
 And at the court-gate hang the peasant up. 
 Who, swoln with venom of ambitious pride, 
 Will be the ruin of the realm and us. 
 
 War. Here comes my Lord of Canterbury's 
 
 grace. 
 Lan. His countenance bewrays he is displeas'd. 
 
 Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury, and an 
 
 Attendant. 
 
 Archh. of Cant. First were his sacred garments 
 rent and torn ; 
 Then laid they violent hands upon him ; next, 
 Himself imprison'd, and his goods asseiz'd : 
 This certify the Pope: away, take horse. 
 
 \^Exit Attendant. 
 Lan. My lord, will you take arms against the 
 king? 
 
 Archh. of Cant. What need 1 ? God himself is 
 up in arms 
 When violence is offer'd to the church. 
 
 Y. Mor. Then will you join with us, that be 
 his peers, 
 To banish or behead that Gaveston ? 
 Archh. of Cant. What else, my lords? for it 
 concerns me near ; 
 The bishoprick of Coventry is his. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella. 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, whither walks your majesty 
 so fast ? 
 
 Q. Isah. Unto the forest, gentle Mortimer, 
 To live in grief and baleful discontent ; 
 For now my lord the king regards me not, 
 But dotes upon the love of Gaveston : 
 He claps his cheeks, and hangs about his neck, 
 Smiles in his face, and whispers in his ears ; 
 And, when I come, he frowns, as who should say, 
 ' Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have Gaveston.' 
 
 E. Mor. Is it not strange that he is thus be- 
 witch'd? 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, return unto the court again : 
 That sly inveigling Frenchman we'll exile. 
 Or lose our lives ; and yet, ere that day come, 
 The king shall lose his crown ; for we have power, 
 And courage too, to be reveng'd at full. 
 
 Archh. of Cant. But yet lift not your swords 
 against the king. 
 
 Lan. No; but we will Hft Gaveston from hence. 
 
 War. And war must be the means, or he'll stay 
 Btill. 
 
 1 vailing — lowering. 
 
 - stomach meant to brook or resent; here it means 
 to be angry at. 
 3 We'll. Dyce reads 'We'd' here. 
 
 Q. Isah. Then let him stay ; for, rather than 
 my lord 
 Shall be oppress'd with civil mutinies, 
 I will endure a melancholy life, 
 And let him frolic ^ with his minion. 
 
 Archh. of Cant. My lords, to ease all this but 
 hear me speak : 
 We and the rest, that are his counsellors, 
 Will meet, and with a general consent 
 Confirm his banishment with our hands and seals. 
 
 Lan. What we confirm the king will frustrate. 
 
 Y. Mor. Then may we lawfully revolt from him. 
 
 War. But say, my lord, where shall this meet- 
 ing be ? 
 
 Archh. of Cant. At the New Temple. 
 
 Y. Mor. Content. 
 
 Archh. of Cant. And, in the meantime, I'll en- 
 treat you all 
 To cross to Lambeth, and there stay with me. 
 
 Lan. Come, then, let's away. 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, farewell. 
 
 Q. Isah. Farewell, sweet Mortimer; and, for 
 my sake, 
 Forbear to levy arms against the king, 
 
 Y. Mor. Ay, if words will serve ; if not, I must. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Gaveston and Kent. 
 
 Gav. Edmund, the mighty prince of Lancaster, 
 That hath more earldoms than an ass can bear, 
 And both the Mortimers, two goodly men, 
 With Guy of Warwick, that redoubted knight, 
 Are gone towards Lambeth : there let them re- 
 main. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Lancaster, Warwick, Pembroke, the 
 elder Mortimer, the younger Mortimer, the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, ano? Attendants. 
 
 Lan. Here is the form of Gaveston's exile ; 
 May it please your lordship to subscribe your 
 name. 
 
 Archb. of Cant. Give me the paper. 
 
 Lan. Quick, quick, my lord ! I long to write 
 my name. 
 
 War. But I long more to see him banish'd 
 hence. 
 
 Y. Mor. The name of Mortimer shall fright 
 the king. 
 Unless he be declin'd from ^ that base peasant. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Gaveston, and Kent. 
 
 K. Edw. What ! are you mov'd that Gaveston 
 sits here ? 
 It is our pleasure ; we will have it so. 
 Lan. Your grace doth well to place him by 
 your side, 
 For nowhere else the new earl is so safe. 
 
 E. Mor. What man of noble birth can brook 
 this sight ? 
 Quam male conveniunt ! ^ 
 See what a scornful look the peasant casts ! 
 Pern. Can kingly lions fawn on creeping ants ? 
 War. Ignoble vassal, that, like Phaeton, 
 Aspir'st unto the guidance of the sun ! 
 
 Y. Mor. Their downfall is at hand, their forces 
 down: 
 We will not thus be fac'd and over-peer'd. 
 K. Edw. Lay hands on that traitor Mortimer ! 
 E. Mor. Lay hands on that traitor Gaveston ! 
 Kent. Is this the duty that you owe your king ? 
 War. We know our duties : let him know his 
 peers. 
 
 1 frolic — play or amuse himself. 
 
 2 declin'd from — turned or estranged from. 
 
 3 Quam, &c.— 'how badly are they matched.* 
 
104 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 K. Edw. Whitlier will you bear him ? stay, or 
 ye sliall die. 
 
 E. Mor. We are no traitors ; therefore threaten 
 not. 
 
 Gav. No, threaten not, my lord, but pay them 
 home. 
 Wei-e I a king — 
 
 Y. Mor. Thou villain ! wherefore talk'st thou 
 of a king, 
 That hardly art a gentleman by birth 7 
 
 K. Edw. Were he a peasant, being my minion, 
 I'll make the proudest of you stoop to him. 
 
 Lan. My lord, you may not thus disparage 
 us — 
 Away, I say, with hateful Gaveston ! 
 
 E. Mor. And with the,Earl of Kent that favours 
 him. 
 
 [Gaveston and Kent are removed. 
 
 K. Edw. Nay, then, lay violent hands upon 
 your king : 
 Here, Mortimer, sit thou in Edwai'd's throne ; 
 Warwick and Lancaster, wear you my crown. 
 Was ever king thus overruled as 1 7 
 
 Lan. Learn, then, to rule us better, and the 
 realm. 
 
 Y. Mor. What we have done, our heart-blood 
 shall maintain. 
 
 War. Think you that we can brook this up- 
 start pride ? 
 
 K. Edw. Anger and wrathful fury stops my 
 speech. 
 
 Archb. of Cant. Why are you moved ? be 
 patient, my lord. 
 And see what we your counsellors have done. 
 
 Y. Mor. My lords, now let us all be resolute, 
 And either have our wills, or lose our lives. 
 
 K. Edw. Meet you for this, proud over- daring 
 peers ? 
 Ere my sweet Gaveston shall part from me, 
 This isle shall fleet * upon the ocean, 
 And wander to the unfrequented Inde. 
 
 Archb. of Cant. You know that I am legate to 
 the Pope : 
 On your allegiance to the see of Rome, 
 Subscribe, as we have done, to his exile. 
 
 Y. Mor. Curse him, if he refuse ; and then may 
 we 
 Depose him, and elect another king. 
 
 K. Edw. Ay, there it goes ! but yet I will not 
 yield : 
 Curse me, depose me, do the worst you can. 
 
 Lan. Then linger not, my lord, but do it 
 straight. 
 
 Archb. of Cant. Eemember how the bishop was 
 abus'd : 
 Either banish him that was the cause thereof, 
 Or I will pi-esently discharge these lords 
 Of duty and allegiance due to thee. 
 
 K. Edw. It boots 2 me not to threat; I must 
 speak fair : 
 The legate of the Pope will be obey'd. — [Aside. 
 My lord, you shall be Chancellor of the realm ; 
 Thou, Lancaster, High- Admiral of our fleet; 
 Young Mortimer and his uncle shall be earls ; 
 And you. Lord Warwick, President of the North; 
 And thou of Wales. If this content you not, 
 Make several kingdoms of this monarchy, 
 And share it equally amongst you all. 
 So I may have some nook or corner left, 
 To frolic with my dearest Gaveston. 
 
 Archb. of Cant. Nothing shall alter us ; we are 
 resolved. 
 
 Lan. Come, come, subscribe. 
 
 * fleet— f^o&t ; Anglo-Saxon, fleotan, to float 
 ^ boots — profits; Anglo-Saxon, bot, compensation, 
 httan, to cement, from the same root as better. 
 
 Y. Mor. Why should you love him whom the 
 world hates so ? 
 
 K. Edw. Because he loves me more than all 
 the world. 
 All, none but rude and savage-minded men 
 Would seek the ruin of my Gaveston ! 
 You that be noble-born should pity him. 
 
 War. You that are princely-born should shake 
 him off : 
 For shame, subscribe, and let the lown ^ depart. 
 
 E. Mor. Ui-ge him, my lord, 
 
 Archb. of Cant. Are you content to banish him 
 the realm ? 
 
 K. Edw. I see I must, and therefore am content : 
 Instead of ink, I'll write it with my tears. 
 
 [Subscribes. 
 
 Y. Mor. The king is love-sick for his minion. 
 
 K. Edw. 'Tis done : and now accursed hand, 
 fall off! 
 
 Lan. Give it me : I'll have it publish'd in the 
 streets. 
 
 Y. Mor. I'll see him presently despatch'd away. 
 
 Archb. of Cant. Now is my heart at ease. 
 
 War. And so is mine. 
 
 Pern. This will be good news to the common 
 sort. 
 
 E. Mor. Be it or no, he shall not linger here. 
 [Exeunt Nobles. 
 
 K. Edw. How fast they run to banish him \ 
 love! 
 They would not stir, were it to do me good. 
 Why should a king be subject to a priest ? 
 Proud Eome, that hatchest such imperial grooms,'' 
 With these thy superstitious taper-lights, 
 Wherewith thy antichristian churches blaze, 
 I'll fire thy crazed buildings, and enforce 
 Thy papal towers to kiss the lowly ground ; 
 With slaughter'd priests may Tiber's channel 
 
 swell. 
 And banks rais'd higher with their sepulchres ! 
 As for the peers that back the clergy thus. 
 If I be king, not one of them shall live. 
 
 . Enter Gaveston. 
 
 Gav. My Lord, I hear it whisper'd everywhere. 
 That I am banish'd and must fly the land. 
 
 K. Edio. 'Tis true, sweet Gaveston : Oh were it 
 false ! 
 The legate of the Pope will have it so, 
 And thou must hence, or I shall be depos'd. 
 But I will reign to be reveng'd of them ; 
 And therefore, sweet friend, take it patiently. 
 Live where thou wilt, I'll send thee gold enough ; 
 And long thou shalt not stay; or, if thou dost, 
 I'll come to thee : my love shall ne'er decline. 
 
 Gav. Is all my hope turn'd to this hell of grief ? 
 
 K. Edw. Rend not my heart with thy too- 
 piercing words : 
 Thou from this land, I from myself am banish'd. 
 
 Gav. To go from hence grieves not poor 
 Gaveston ; 
 But to forsake you, in whose gracious looks 
 The blessedness of Gaveston remains ; 
 For nowhere else seeks he felicity. 
 
 K- Edw. And only this torments my wretched 
 soul, 
 That, whether I will or no, thou must depart. 
 Be governor of Ireland in my stead, 
 And there abide till fortune call thee home. 
 Here, take my picture, and let me wear thine : 
 Oh might I keep thee here, as I do this, 
 Happy were I ! but now most miserable. 
 
 Gav. 'Tis something to be pitied of a king. 
 
 1 lown, loon — base low fellow, still used in Scotland. 
 "^grooms — groom originally means a man; Anglo- 
 Saxon, gutna, a man ; Dutch, grom, a youth. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 lOS 
 
 K. Edw. Thou shalt not hence ; I'll hide thee, 
 Gaveston. 
 
 Gav. I shall be found, and then 'twill grieve 
 me more, 
 K, Edw. Kind words and mutual talk make our 
 grief greater : 
 Therefore, with dumb embracement, let us part. 
 Stay, Gaveston ; I cannot leave thee thus. 
 
 Gav. For every look, my love drops down a 
 tear : 
 Seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow. 
 K. Edw. The time is little that thou hast to 
 stay, 
 And therefore give me leave to look my fill. 
 But come, sweet friend, I'll bear thee on thy 
 way. 
 Gav. The peers will frown. 
 K. Edw. I pass ^ not for their anger. Come, 
 let's go : 
 Oh, that we might as well return as go ! 
 
 Enter Edmukd [Earl, of Kent and] Queen 
 Isabella. 
 
 Q. Isah. Whither goes my lord ? 
 
 K. Edw. Fawn not on me, French strumpet ; 
 get thee gone ! 
 
 Q. Isah. On whom but on my husband should 
 I fawn ? 
 
 Gav. On Mortimer; with whom, ungentle 
 queen — 
 I say no more— judge you the rest, my lord. 
 
 Q. Isah. In saying this, thou wrong'st me, 
 Gaveston : 
 Is't not enough that thou corrupt'st my lord, 
 And art a bawd to his affections, 
 But thou must call mine honour thus in question ? 
 
 Gav. I mean not so ; your grace must pardon 
 me. 
 
 K. Edw. Thou art too familiar with that Mor- 
 timer, 
 And by thy means is Gaveston exil'd: 
 But I would wish thee reconcile the lords, 
 Or thou shalt ne'er be reconcil'd to me. 
 
 Q. Isah. Your highness knows, it lies not in my 
 power. 
 
 K. Edw. Ayfa-Y^ then ! touch me not.— Come, 
 Gaveston. 
 
 Q. Isah. Villain, 'tis thou that robb'st me of mv 
 lord. •" 
 
 Gav. Madam, 'tis you that rob me of my lord. 
 
 K. Edw. Speak not unto her: let her droop 
 and pine. 
 
 Q. Isah. Wherein, my lord, have I deserv'd 
 these words ? 
 Witness the tears that Isabella sheds, 
 Witness this heart, that, sighing for thee, breaks. 
 How dear my lord is to poor Isabel ! 
 
 K. Edw. And witness heaven how dear thou 
 art to me ! 
 There weep ; for, till my Gaveston be repeal'd. 
 Assure thyself thou com'st not in my sight. 
 
 [^Exeunt King Edavard and Gavestox. 
 
 Q. Isah. Oh miserable and distressed queen ! 
 Would, when I left sweet France, and was em- 
 
 bark'd, 
 That charming Circe,2 walking on the waves, 
 Had chang'd my shape ! or at the marriage-day 
 The cup of Hymen had been full of poison ! 
 Or with those arms, that twin'd about my neck, 
 I had been stifled, and not liv'd to see 
 The king my lord thus to abandon me ! 
 Like frantic Juno, will I fill the earth 
 
 » pass—c&YQ. 
 
 2 charming Circe— charming is here used in its literal 
 sense, tnplying one who charms or bewitches. 
 
 With ghastly murmur of my sighs and cries ; 
 For never doted Jove on Ganymede 
 So much as he on cursed Gaveston : 
 But that will more exasperate his wrath ; 
 I must entreat him, I must speak him fair, 
 And be a means to call home Gaveston : 
 And yet he'll ever dote on Gaveston ; 
 And so am I for ever miserable. 
 
 Enter Lancaster, Warwick, Pembroke, the 
 elder Mortimer, and the younger Mortimer. 
 
 Lan. Look, where the sister of the king of 
 France 
 Sits wringing of her hands, and beats her breast ! 
 
 War. The king, I fear, hath ill-entreated ' her. 
 
 Pern. Hard is the heart that injures such a 
 saint. 
 
 Y. Mor. I know 'tis 'long of Gaveston she 
 weeps. 
 
 E. Mor. Why, he is gone. 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, how fares your grace .' 
 
 Q. Isah. Ah, Mortimer, now breaks the king's 
 hate forth. 
 And he confesseth that he loves me not! 
 
 }'. Mor. Ci-y quittance, madam, then, and love 
 not him. 
 
 Q. Isah. No, rather will I die a thousand deaths : 
 And yet I love in vain ; he'll ne'er love me. 
 
 Lan. Fear ye not, madam ; now his minion's 
 gone. 
 His wanton humour will be quickly left. 
 
 Q. Isah. Oh, never, Lancaster ! I am enjoin'd 
 To sue unto you all for his repeal : 
 This wills my lord, and this must I perfonn. 
 Or else be banish'd from his highness' presence. 
 
 Lan. For his repeal, madam! he comes not 
 bade. 
 Unless the sea cast up his shipwreck'd body. 
 
 War. And to behold so sweet a sight as that. 
 There's none here but would run his horse to 
 death. 
 
 Y. Mor. But, madam, would you have us call 
 him home ? 
 
 Q. Isah. Aj, Mortimer ; for, till he be restor'd. 
 The angry king hath banish'd me the court ; 
 And therefore, as thou lov'st and tender'st 2 me. 
 Be thou my advocate unto these peers. 
 
 Y. Mor. What ! would you have me plead for 
 Gaveston ? 
 
 E. Alor. Plead for him that will, I am resolv'd. 
 
 Lan. And so am I, my lord: dissuade the 
 queen. 
 
 Q. Isah. Oh, Lancaster, let him dissuade the king I 
 For 'tis against my will he should return. 
 
 War. Then speak not for him ; let the peasant go. 
 
 Q. Isah. 'Tis for myself I speak, and not for 
 him. 
 
 Pern. No speaking will prevail ; and therefore 
 cease. 
 
 Y. Mor. Fair queen, forbear to angle for the 
 fish 
 Which, being caught, strikes him that takes it 
 
 dead; 
 I mean that vile torpedo, Gaveston, 
 That now, I hope, floats on the Irish seas. 
 
 Q. Isah. Sweet Mortimer, sit down by me a 
 while. 
 And I will tell thee reasons of such weight 
 As thou wilt soon subscribe to his repeal. 
 
 Y. Mor. It is impossible : but speak your mind. 
 
 Q. Isah. Then thus; — but none shall hear it 
 but ourselves. [Talks to Y. Mor. apart. 
 
 Lan. My lords, albeit the queen win Mortimer, 
 Will vou be resolute, and hold with me ? 
 
 1 ill-enireated — ill-treated. 
 
 2 tender'st — hast a tender regard for. 
 
io6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 E. Mor. Not I, against my nephew. 
 
 Pern. Fear not ; the queen's words cannot alter 
 him. 
 
 War. No? Do but mark how earnestly she 
 pleads .' 
 
 Lan. And see how coldly his looks make denial! 
 
 War. She smiles : now, for my life, his mind 
 is chang'd ! 
 
 Lan. I'll rather lose his friendship, I, than grant. 
 
 Y. 3for. Well, of necessity it must be so. 
 My lords, that I abhor base Gaveston, 
 I hope your honours make no question ; 
 And therefore, though I plead for his repeal, 
 'Tis not for his sake, but for our avail ; ^ 
 Nay, for the realm's behoof, and for the king's. 
 
 Lan. Fie, Mortimer, dishonour not thyself ! 
 Can this be true, 'twas good to banish him ? 
 And is this true, to call him home again ? 
 Such reasons make white black, and dark night 
 day. 
 
 r. Mor. My Lord of Lancaster, mark the 
 respect.2 
 
 Lan. In no respect can contraries be true. 
 
 Q. Isah. Yet, good my lord, hear what he can 
 allege. 
 
 War. All that he speaks is nothing ; we are 
 resolv'd. 
 
 Y. Mor. Do you not wish that Gaveston were 
 dead? 
 
 Pern. I would he were ! 
 
 Y. Mor. Why, then, my lord, give me but 
 leave to speak. 
 
 E. Mor. But, nephew, do not play the sophister. 
 
 Y. Mor. This which I urge is of a burning zeal 
 To mend the king and do our country good. 
 Know you not Gaveston hath store of gold,_ 
 Which may in Ireland purchase him such friends 
 As he wdU front the mightiest of us all ? 
 And whereas^ he shall live and be belov'd, 
 *Tis hard for us to work his overthrow. 
 
 War. Mark you but that, my Lord of Lancaster. 
 
 Y. Mor. But, were he here, detested as he is. 
 How easily might some base slave be suborn'd 
 To greet his lordship with a poniard, 
 And none so much as blame the murderer. 
 But rather praise him for that brave attempt, 
 And in the chronicle enrol his name, 
 For purging of the realm of such a plague ! 
 
 Pern. He saith true. 
 
 Lan. Ay, but how chance this was not done 
 before ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Because, my lords, it was not thought 
 upon. 
 Nay more, when he shall know it lies in us 
 To banish him, and then to caU him home, 
 'Twill make him vail* the top-flag of his pride. 
 And fear to offend the meanest nobleman. 
 
 E. Moi\ But how if he do not, nephew ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Then may we with some colour rise 
 in arms ; 
 For, howsoever we have borne it out, 
 'Tis treason to be up against the king ; 
 So shall we have the people on our side, 
 Which, for his father's sake, lean to the king, 
 But cannot brook a night-grown mushroom, 
 Such a one as my Lord of Cornwall is, 
 Should bear us down of the nobility : 
 And, when the commons and the nobles join, 
 'Tis not the king can buckler^ Gaveston ; 
 We'll pull him from the strongest hold he hath. 
 My Lords, if to perform this I be slack, 
 Think me as base a groom as Gaveston. 
 
 » arat7— profit. 
 
 ' res^ec^— consideration or reason. 
 
 • whereas — wiiere. ■* vail — Slower. 
 
 * buckler — shield. 
 
 Lan. On that condition Lancaster wiU grant. 
 
 War. And so will Pembroke and I. 
 
 E.Mor. AndL 
 
 Y. Mor. In this I count me highly gratified, 
 And Mortimer will rest at your command. 
 
 Q. Isah. And when this favour Isabel forgets, 
 Then let her Uve abandon'd and forlorn. 
 But see, in happy time, my lord the king. 
 Having brought the Earl of Cornwall on his way, 
 Is new return'd. This news will glad him much: 
 Yet not so much as me ; I love him more 
 Than he can Gaveston : would he lov'd me 
 But half so much ! then were I treble-blest. 
 
 Re-enter King Edward mourning. 
 
 K. Edw. He's gone, and for his absence thus I 
 mourn : 
 Did never sorrow go so near my heart 
 As doth the want of my sweet Gaveston ; 
 And, could my crown's revenue bring him back, 
 I would freely give it to his enemies. 
 And think I gain'd, having bought so dear a friend. 
 
 Q. Isah. Hark, how he harps upon his minion ! 
 
 K. Edw. My heart is as an anvil unto sorrow, 
 Which beats upon it like the Cyclop's hammers, 
 And with the noise turns up my giddy brain, 
 And makes me frantic for my Gaveston. 
 Ah, had some bloodless Fxiry rose from hell, 
 And with my kingly sceptre struck me dead. 
 When I was f orc'd to leave my Gaveston ! 
 
 Lan. Diablo ! what passions call you these ? 
 
 Q. Isah. My gracious Iprd, I come to bring you 
 news. 
 
 K. Edw. That you have parled^ with your 
 Moi-timer ? 
 
 Q. Isah. That Gaveston, my lord, shall be repeal'd. 
 
 K. Edw. Eepeal'd ! the news is too sweet to be 
 true. 
 
 Q. Isah. But will you love me if you find it so? 
 
 K. Edw. If it be so, what will not Edward do ? 
 
 Q. Isab. For Gaveston, but not for Isabel. 
 
 K. Edw. For thee, fair queen, if thou lov'st 
 Gaveston, 
 I'll hang a golden tongue about thy neck. 
 Seeing thou hast pleaded with so good success. 
 
 Q. Isah. No other jewels hang about my neck 
 Than these, my lord; nor let me have more 
 
 wealth 
 Than I may fetch from this rich treasury. 
 Oh, how a kiss revives poor Isabel ! 
 
 K. Edw. Once more receive my hand ; and let 
 this be 
 A second marriage 'twixt thyself and me. 
 
 Q. Isah. And may it prove more happy than 
 the first! 
 My gentle lord, bespeak these nobles fair, 
 That wait attendance for a gracious look, 
 And on their knees salute your majesty. 
 
 K. Edw. Courageous Lancaster, embrace thy 
 king; 
 And, as gross vapours perish by the sun. 
 Even so let hatred with thy sovei^eign's smile : 
 Live thou with me as my companion. 
 
 Lan. This salutation overjoys my heart. 
 
 K. Edw. Warwick shall be my chiefest coun- 
 sellor: 
 These silver hairs will more adorn my court 
 Than gaudy silks or rich embroidery. 
 Chide me, sweet Warwick, if I go astray. 
 
 Wai: Slay me, my lord, when I offend your 
 grace. 
 
 K. Edw. In solemn triumphs and in public sho\^ 
 Pembroke shall bear the sword before the king. 
 
 jsaWed— spoken or conf eiTed, from Fr. parler 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, 
 
 107 
 
 Pern. And with this sword Pembi'oke will 
 fight for you. 
 
 K. Edio. But wherefore walks young Mortimer 
 aside ? 
 Be thou commander of our royal fleet ; 
 Or, if that lofty office like ^ thee not, 
 I make thee here Lord Marshal of the realm. 
 
 Y. Mor. My lord, I'll marshal so your enemies. 
 As England shall be quiet, and you safe. 
 
 K. Edw. And as for you, Lord Mortimer of 
 Chirke,2 
 "Whose great achievements in our foreign war 
 Deserve no common place nor mean reward, 
 Be you the general of the levied troops 
 That now are ready to assail the Scots. 
 
 E. Mor. In this your grace hath highly 
 honour'd me, 
 For with my nature war doth best agree. 
 
 Q. Isab. Now is the king of England rich and 
 strong, 
 Having the love of his renowmfeds peers. 
 
 K. Edw. Ay, Isabel, ne'er was my heart so 
 light- 
 Clerk of the crown, direct our warrant forth, 
 For Gaveston, to Ireland! — Beaumont, fly 
 As fast as Iris or Jove's Mercury. 
 
 Beau. It shall be done, my gracious lord. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 K. Edw. Lord Mortimer, we leave you to your 
 charge. 
 Now let us in, and feast it royally. 
 Against our friend the Earl of Cornwall comes, 
 We'll have a general tilt and tournament ; 
 And then his marriage shall be solemniz'd ; 
 For wot you not that I have made him sure* 
 Unto our cousin,^ the Earl of Gloucester's heir ? 
 
 Lan. Such news we hear, my lord. 
 
 K. Edw. That day, if not for him, yet for my 
 sake. 
 Who in the triumph will be challenger, 
 Spare for no cost ; we will requite your love. 
 
 War. In this or aught your highness shall 
 command us. 
 
 K. Edw. Thanks, gentle Warwick. Come, 
 let's in and revel. 
 
 [Exeunt all except the Mortimers. 
 
 E. Mor. Nephew, I must to Scotland ; thou 
 stay'st here. 
 Leave now to oppose thyself against the king : 
 Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm ; 
 And, seeing his mind so dotes on Gaveston, 
 Let him without coutrolment have his will. 
 The mightiest kings have had their minions ; 
 Great Alexander lov'd Hephsestion, 
 The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept, 
 And for Patroclus stern Achilles droop'd : 
 And not kings only, but the wisest men ; 
 The Koman Tully lov'd Octavius, 
 Grave Socrates wild Alcibiades. 
 Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible, 
 And promiseth as much as we can wish, 
 Freely enjoy that vain light-headed earl; 
 For riper years wiU wean him from such toys. 
 
 Y. Mor. Uncle, his wanton humour grieves 
 not me ; 
 But this I scorn, that one so basely born 
 Should by his sovereign's favour grow so pert, 
 And riot it with the treasure of the realm, 
 
 1 Zzi-e— please, which is its literal meaning, 
 
 2 Chirke—' Or Werke.'— Dodslet's Old Plays. 
 
 ^ renowmed — oia foi-m of renowned; Fr. renomme, 
 from Lat. nomen, a name. 
 
 * made him swre— bound or affianced him. 
 
 * cotAstw— equivalent here to niece. (So in Shake- 
 speare's Hamlet, the king calls his nephew Hamlet 
 'cousin.') — DxcE. 
 
 While soldiers mutiny for want of pay. 
 He wears a lord's revenue on his back, 
 And, Midas-like, he jets^ it in the court, 
 With base outlandish cullions^ at his heels, 
 Whose proud fantastic liveries make such show 
 As if that Proteus, god of shapes, appear'd. 
 I have not seen a dapper Jack so brisk : 
 He wears a short Italian hooded cloak, 
 Larded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap 
 A jewel of more value than the crown. 
 While others walk below, the king and he, 
 From out a window, laugh at such as we, 
 And flout our train, and jest at our attire. 
 Uncle, 'tis this that makes me impatient. 
 
 E. Mor. But, nephew, now you see the king is 
 chang'd. 
 
 Y. Mor. Then so am I, and live to do him 
 service : 
 But, whiles I have a sword, a hand, a heart, 
 I will not yield to any such upstart. 
 You know my mind ; come, uncle, let's away. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the younger Spensers and Baldock. 
 
 Bald. Spenser, 
 Seeing that our lord the Earl of Gloucester's dead, 
 Which of the nobles dost thou mean to serve ? 
 
 Y. Spen. Not Mortimer, nor any of his side, 
 Because the king and he are enemies. 
 Baldock, learn this of me : a factious lord 
 Shall hardly do himself good, much less us ; 
 But he that hath the favour of a king 
 May with one word advance us while we live. 
 The liberal Earl of Cornwall is the man 
 On whose good fortune Spenser's hope depends. 
 
 Bald. What ! mean you, then, to be his 
 follower? 
 
 Y. Spen. No, his companion ; for he loves me 
 well. 
 And would have once preferr'd me to the king. 
 
 Bald. But he is banish'd ; there's small hope oi 
 him. 
 
 Y. Spen. Ay, for a while ; but, Baldock, mark 
 the end. 
 A friend of mine told me in secrecy 
 That he's repeal'd and sent for back again j 
 And even now a post came from the court 
 With letters to our lady from the king ; 
 And, as she read, she smil'd ; which makes me 
 
 think 
 It is about her lover Gaveston. 
 
 Bald. 'Tis like enough ; for, since he was exil'd, 
 She neither walks abroad nor comes in sight. 
 But I had thought the match had been broke off, 
 And that his banishment had chang'd her mind. 
 
 Y. Spen. Our lady's first love is not wavering ; 
 My life for thine, she will have Gaveston. 
 
 Bald. Then hope I by her means to be 
 preferr'd. 
 Having read unto her since she was a child. 
 
 Y. Spen. Then, Baldock, you must cast the 
 scholar off. 
 And learn to court it like a gentleman. 
 'Tis not a black coat and a little band, 
 A,velvet-cap'd cloak, fac'd before with serge, 
 And smelling to a nosegay all the day, 
 Or holding of a napkin in your hand, 
 Or saying a long grace at a table's end, 
 Or making low legs* to a nobleman. 
 
 1 jets— jet, to strut or walk proudly; to throw the 
 body about in walking. — Nares. Fr. jeter, to throw. 
 
 2 cullions — base, cowardly fellows; scoundrels. Fr. 
 co'ion, a dastard, poltroon. 
 
 3 Enter the younger Spenser, &c.— Scene, a hall in the 
 mansion of the Duke of Gloucester. 
 
 * legs — a bow made by throwing out the leg. 
 
io8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Or looking downward, with your eyelids close, 
 And saying, 'Truly, au't may please your 
 
 honour,' 
 Can get you any favour with great men : 
 You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute, 
 And now and then stab, as occasion serves. 
 Bald. Spenser, thou know'st I hate such 
 formal toys, 
 And use them but of mere hypocrisy. 
 Mine old lord, whiles he liv'd, was so precise, 
 That he would take exceptions at my buttons, 
 And, being like pins' heads, blame me for the 
 
 bigness ; 
 Which made me curate-like in mine attire, 
 Though inwardly licentious enough. 
 And apt for any kind of villany. 
 I am none of these common pedants, I, 
 That cannot speak without propterea quod} 
 Y. Spen. But one of those that saith quando- 
 quidem,^ 
 And hath a special gift to form a verb. 
 
 Bald. Leave off this jesting ; here my lady 
 comes. 
 
 Enter King Edward's Niece. 
 Niece. The gi-ief for his exile was not so much 
 As is the joy of his returning home. 
 This letter came from my sweet Gaveston : 
 What need'st thou, love, thus to excuse thyseK ? 
 I know thou couldst not come and visit me. 
 
 [Reads. 
 T will not long he from thee, though I die .' — 
 This argues the entire love of my lord ; — 
 
 [Reads. 
 When I forsake thee., death seize on my heart ! — 
 But stay thee here where Gaveston shall sleep. 
 
 [Puts the letter into her bosom. 
 Now to the letter of my lord the king : 
 He wills me to repair unto the court. 
 And meet my Gaveston : why do I stay, 
 Seeing that he talks thus of my marriage-day? — 
 Who's there ? Baldock ! 
 See that my coach ^ be ready ; I must hence. 
 Bald. It shall be done, madam. 
 Niece. And meet me at the park-pale* presently. 
 
 [Exit 13ALDOCK. 
 
 Spenser, stay you, and bear me company, 
 For 1 have joyful news to tell thee of : 
 My Lord of Cornwall is a-coming over, 
 And will be at the court as soon as we. 
 
 Y. Spen. I ]&new the king would have him 
 
 home again. 
 Niece. If all things sort out,* as I hope they 
 will, 
 Thy service, Spenser, shall be thought upon. 
 Y. Spen. I humbly thank your ladyship. 
 Niece. Come, lead the way: I long till I am 
 there. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter King Edward,* Queen Isabella, Kent, 
 Lancaster, the younger Mortimer, War- 
 wick, Pembroke, and Attendants. 
 K. Edw. The wind is good ; I wonder why he 
 I fear me he is wreck'd upon the sea. [stays .- 
 
 ^propterea quod — 'because that.' 
 
 2 quando-quidem — ' seeing,' or ' since that.' 
 
 3 coach. ' "Tlie reign of Elizabeth is generally cited 
 as the period when coaches were introduced into Eng- 
 land, and under that term carriages of every kind have 
 been considered as included; but long anterior to that 
 reign vehicles with wheels, under the denomination of 
 chairs, cars, chariots, caroches, and whirlicotes, were 
 used in England."— Mr. Markland on Carriages in 
 i;ngland. bee Archaeologia, vol. xx.'— Dodslky's Old 
 Plays. 
 
 * park-pale — pale, fence, or boundary of the park. 
 
 * sort ou«— arrange themselves, happen, or take effect. 
 6 Enter King Edward, &c.— Scene before Tynmouth 
 
 Castle.— Dyck. 
 
 Q. Isa. Look, Lancaster, how passionate * 
 lie is. 
 And still his mind runs on his minion! 
 
 Jmu. My lord, — 
 
 K. Edw. How now ! what news ? is Gaveston 
 arriv'd 7 
 
 Y. Mor. Nothing but Gaveston ? what means 
 your grace ? 
 You have mattex-s of more weight to think upon : 
 The king of France sets foot in Normandy. 
 
 K. Edw. A trifle! we'll expel him when w^^ 
 please. 
 But tell me, Mortimer, what's thy device 
 Against the stately triumph we decreed? 
 
 Y. Mor. A homely one, my lord, not worth 
 the telling. 
 
 K. Edw. Pray thee, let me know it. 
 
 Y. Mor. But, seeing you are so desirous, thus 
 it is: 
 A lofty cedar-tree, fair flourishing, 
 On whose top-branches kingly eagles perch, 
 And by the bark a canker creeps me up, 
 And gets unto the highest bough of all ; 
 The motto, JEque tandem."^ 
 
 K. Edw. And what is yours, my Lord of 
 Lancaster? 
 
 Lan. My lord, mine's more obscure than 
 Mortimer's. 
 Pliny reports, there is a flying-fish' 
 Which all the other fishes deadly hate. 
 And therefore, being pui'su'd, it takes the air : 
 No sooner is it up, but there's a fowl 
 That seizeth it : this fish, my lord, I bear ; 
 The motto this, Undique* mors est. 
 
 Kent. Proud Mortimer ! ungentle Lancaster ! 
 Is this the love you bear your sovereign ? 
 Is this the fruit your reconcilement bears ? 
 Can you in words make show of amity. 
 And in your shields display your rancorous 
 
 minds? 
 What call j^ou this but private libelling 
 Against the Earl of Cornwall and my brother ? 
 
 Q. Isab. Sweet husband, be content; they all 
 love you. 
 
 K. Edw. They love me not that hate my 
 Gaveston. 
 I am that cedar ; shake me not too much ; 
 And you the eagles ; soar ye ne'er so high, 
 I have the jesses ^ that will pull you down ; 
 And jEque tandem shall that canker cry 
 Unto the proudest peer of Britainy. 
 Though thou compar'st him to a flying-fish. 
 And threaten'st death whether he rise or fall, 
 'Tis not the hugest monster of the sea. 
 Nor foulest harpy, that shall swallow him. 
 
 Y. Mor. If in his absence thus he favours 
 him, 
 What will he do whenas ^ he shall be present ? 
 
 Lan. That shall we see : look, where his lord- 
 ship comes ! 
 
 Enter Gaveston. 
 
 K. Edw. My Gaveston ! 
 Welcome to Tynmouth ! welcome to thy friend ! 
 
 1 passionate — sorrowful. Passion is still sometimes 
 used for sulfering. 
 
 2 jEque tandem— ' }-ast\y " or 'justice at last.' 
 
 3 Jlying-fish — ' The Exocxtus. See Plinii Nut. Hist. lib. 
 ix. liJ.' — DoDSLEx's Old Plays. 
 
 < Undique, &c— 'There is death on all sides.' 
 ^ jesses— irom old Fr. ges, jet; from Lat. jacto, to 
 throw. The short straps of leather round the legs of 
 the hawk, in which were fixed the varvels or little rings 
 of silver, and to these the leash or long strap which the 
 falconer twisted round his hand. — Nakes. 
 6 whenas — when. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 109 
 
 Thy absence made me droop and pine away ; 
 For, as the lovers of fair Danae, 
 When she was lock'd up in a brazen tower, 
 Desir'd her more, and wax'd outrageous, 
 So did it fare with me : and now thy sight 
 Is sweeter far than was thy parting hence 
 Bitter and irksome to my sobbing heart. 
 
 Gov. Sweet lord and king, your speech pre- 
 venteth ' mine ; 
 Yet have I words left to express my joy : 
 The shepherd, nipt with biting winter's rage, 
 Frolics not more to see the painted spring 
 Than I do to behold your majesty. 
 
 K. Edw. Will none of you salute my Gaveston? 
 
 Lan. Salute him ! yes. — Welcome, Lord 
 Chamberlain ! 
 
 Y. Mor. AVelcome is the good Earl of Corn- 
 wall ! 
 
 War. Welcome, Lord Governor of the Isle of 
 Man! 
 
 Pern. Welcome, Master Secretary ! 
 
 Kent. Brother, do you hear them ? 
 
 K. Edu). Still will these earls and barons use 
 me thus ? 
 
 Gav. My lord, I cannot brook these injuries. 
 
 Q. hob. Ay me, poor soul, when these begin 
 to jar! \^Aside. 
 
 K. Edw. Return it to their throats ; I'll be thy 
 warrant. 
 
 Gav. Base, leaden earls, that glory in your 
 birth, 
 Go sit at home, and eat your tenants' beef ; 
 And come not here to scoff at Gaveston, 
 Whose mounting thoughts did never creep so low 
 As to bestow a look on such as you. 
 
 Lan. Yet I disdain not to do this for you, 
 
 \^Draws his sword. 
 
 K. Edw. Treason ! treason ! where's the 
 traitor ? 
 
 Pern. Here! here! 
 
 K. Edto. Convey hence Gaveston ; they'll 
 murder him. 
 
 Gav. The life of thee shall salve 2 this foul dis- 
 grace. 
 
 Y. Mor. Villain, thy life ! unless I miss mine 
 aim. [ Wounds Gaveston. 
 
 Q. Isah. Ah, furious Mortimer, what hast thou 
 done? 
 
 Y. Mor. No more than I would answer, were 
 he slain. [Exit Gaveston with Attendants. 
 
 K. Edw. Yes, more than thou canst ansAver, 
 though he live : 
 Dear shall you both abide this riotous deed : 
 Out of my presence ; come not near the court! 
 
 Y. Mor. I'll not be bai'r'd the court for Gave- 
 ston. 
 
 Lan. We'll hale him by the ears unto the 
 block. 
 
 K. Edw. Look to your own heads ; his is sure 
 enough. 
 
 War. Look to your own crown, if you back 
 him thus. 
 
 Kent. Warwick, these words do ill beseem thy 
 years. 
 
 K. Edio. Nay, all of them conspire to cross me 
 thus : 
 But, if I live, I'll tread upon their heads 
 That think with high looks thus to ti'ead me 
 
 down. 
 Come, Edmund, let's away, and levy men : 
 'Tis war that must abate these barons' pi'ide. 
 
 Exeunt King Edward, Queen Isabella, 
 and Kent. 
 
 preceTiteth—f^oeth before, i.e. anticipateth. 
 ' Kilve—heal or wipe out. 
 
 War. Let's to our castles, for the king is 
 mov'd. 
 
 Y. Mor. Mov'd may he be, and perish in his 
 wrath ! 
 
 Lan. Cousin, it is no dealing with him now ; 
 He means to make us stoop by force of arms ; 
 And therefore let us jointly here protest 
 To prosecute that Gaveston to the death. 
 
 Y. Mor. By heaven, the abject villain shall no(; 
 live ! 
 
 War. I'll have his blood, or die in seeking it. 
 
 Pem. The like oath Pembroke takes. 
 
 Lan. And so doth Lancaster. 
 Now send our heralds to defy the king ; 
 And make the people swear to put him down. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Y. M01'. Letters! from whence.' 
 
 Mes. From Scotland, my lord. 
 
 Lan. Why, how now, cousin ; how fare all 
 our friends 7 
 
 Y. Mor. My uncle's taken prisoner by the 
 Scots. 
 
 Lan. We'll have him ransom'd, man: be of 
 good cheer. 
 
 Y. Mor. They rate his ransom at five thousand 
 pounds. 
 Who should defray the money but the king, 
 Seeing he is taken prisoner in his wars ? 
 I'll to the king. 
 
 Lan. Do, cousin, and I'll bear thee company. 
 
 War. Meantime my Lord of Pembroke and 
 myself 
 Will to Newcastle here, and gather head. 
 
 Y. Mor. About it, then, and we will follow you. 
 
 Lan. Be resolute and full of seci'ecy. 
 
 War. I warrant you. [Exit with Pembkoke. 
 
 Y. M01'. Cousin, an' if he will not ransom him, 
 I'll thunder such a peal into his ears 
 As never subject did unto his king. 
 
 Lan. Content; I'll bear my part. — Holla! who's 
 there ? 
 
 Enter Guard. 
 
 Y. Mor. Ay, marry, such a guard as this doth 
 well. 
 Lan. Lead on the way. 
 Guard. Whither will your lordships ? 
 Y. Mor. Whither else but to the king ? 
 Guard. His highness is dispos'd to be alone. 
 Lan. Why, so he may ; but we will speak to 
 
 him. 
 Guard. You may not in, my lord. 
 Y. Mor. May we not ? 
 
 Enter King Edward and Kent. 
 
 K. Edw. How now ! 
 What noise is this ? who have we thei-e ? is"t 
 you? 
 
 Y. Mor. Nay, stay, my lord ; I come to bring 
 you news ; 
 Mine uncle's taken prisoner by the Scots. 
 
 K. Edw. Then ransom him. 
 
 Lan. 'Twas in youi- wars ; you should ransom 
 him. 
 
 Y. Mor. And you shall ransom him, or else — 
 
 Kent. What! Mortimer, you will not threaten 
 him. 
 
 K. Edw. Quiet yourself ; you shall have the 
 broad seal. 
 To gather for him throughout the realm. 
 
 Ixin. Your minion Gaveston hath taught you 
 this. 
 
 Y. Mor. My lord, the family of the Mortimers 
 Are not so poor, but, would they sell their laud, 
 'T would levy men enough to anger yoii. 
 We never beg, but use such prayei'S as thesa. 
 
no 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 K. Edw. Shall I still be haunted thus ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Nay, now you are here alone, I'll 
 speak my mind. 
 
 Lan. And so -will I ; and then, my lord, fare- 
 well. 
 
 Y. Mor. The idle triumphs, masks, lascivious 
 shows, 
 And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaveston, 
 Have drawn thy treasury dry, and made thee 
 
 weak; 
 The murmuring commons, overstretched, break.^ 
 
 Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be depos'd : 
 Thy garrisons are beaten out of France, 
 And, lame and poor, lie groaning at the gates ; 
 The wild O'Neil, with swarms of Irish kerns,^ 
 Lives uncontroll'd within the English pale ; 
 Unto the walls of York the Scots make road,^ 
 And, unresisted, drive away rich spoils. 
 
 Y. Mor. The haughty Dane commands the 
 narrow seas, 
 While in the harbour ride thy ships unrigg'd. 
 
 Lan. What foreign prince sends thee ambas- 
 sadors ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Who loves thee, but a sort* of flat- 
 terers ? 
 
 Lan. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Valois, 
 Complains that thou hast left her all forlorn. 
 
 Y. Mor. Thy court is naked, being bereft of 
 those 
 That make a king seem glorious to the world, 
 I mean the peers, whom thou should'st dearly 
 
 love; 
 Libels are cast again ^ thee in the street ; 
 Ballads and rhymes made of thy overthrow. 
 
 Lan. The northern borderers, seeing their 
 houses burnt, 
 Their wives and children slain, run up and down. 
 Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. 
 
 Y. Mor. When wert thou in the field with 
 banner spread, 
 But once ? and then thy soldiers march'd like 
 
 players, 
 With garish s robes, not armour ; and thyself, 
 Bedatib'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest, 
 Nodding and shakiug of thy spangled crest, 
 Where women's favours hung like labels down. 
 
 Lan. And thereof came it that the fleering^ 
 Scots, 
 To England's high disgrace, have made this 
 
 Maids of England,^ sore may you mourn, 
 
 Foi" your lemans * " you have lost at BannocJcshourn, — 
 
 With a heave and a Iw ! 
 
 What weeneth " the king of England 
 
 So soon to have won Scotland? — 
 
 With a rombelow I 
 
 1 break. The correct rendering is ' hath,' but all the 
 previous editors have altered it thus. Perhaps a line 
 has dropped out. 
 
 2 kerns. This Avas the term formerly applied to the 
 lightly ai-raed Irish foot-soldiers; they are generally re- 
 presented as ' the dioss and scum of the country.' 
 
 3 road — inroad. * sort — lot or set. 
 * again — against. 
 
 8 graris/i— glaring, gaudy, splendid; old Eng. gare, to 
 stare. 
 
 ' fleering — sneering, scoflBng. To fleer means to mock, 
 deride, or taunt with insolence and contempt; it is also 
 used as a noun. 
 
 8 jig, which now means a quick dance, formerly, as in 
 the text, meant also a ballad, particularly a merry one. 
 See next note. 
 
 ^ Maids of England, <fec. Taken (with very slight 
 variations) from Fabyan's Chron. vol. ii. fol. 169, ed. 
 1559. 'This song,' says the Chronicle, 'was, after many 
 days, sung in dances in the carols of the maidens and 
 minstrels of Scotland.' 
 
 1* lemans — lovers. 
 
 *i weeneth— ez.'^ecteth ; Anglo-Saxon wen, hope. 
 
 Y. Mo7\ Wigmorei shall fly, to set my uncle 
 free. 
 
 Lan. And, when 'tis gone, our swords shall 
 purchase more. 
 If you be mov'd, revenge it as you can : 
 Look next to see us with our ensigns spread. 
 
 [Exit vnth Y. Mortimer. 
 
 K. Edw. My swelling heart for very anger 
 breaks : 
 How oft have I been baited by these peers. 
 And dare not be reveng'd, for their power is 
 
 great ! 
 Yet, shall the crowing of these cockerels 
 Affright a lion ? Edward, unfold thy paws. 
 And let their lives'-blood slake thy fury's 
 
 hunger. 
 If I be cruel and grow tyrannous, 
 Now let them thank themselves, and rue too 
 late. 
 
 Kent. My lord, I see your love to Gaveston 
 Will be the ruin of the realm and you. 
 For now the wrathful nobles threaten wars ; 
 And therefore, brother, banish him for ever. 
 
 K. Edw. Art thou an enemy to my Gaveston ? 
 
 Kent. Ay; and it grieves me that I favour'd 
 him. 
 
 K. Edw. Traitor, be gone! whine thou with 
 Mortimer. 
 
 Kent. So wUl I, rather than with Gaveston. 
 
 K. Edw. Out of my sight, and trouble me no 
 more! 
 
 Kent. No marvel though thou scorn thy noble 
 peers, 
 When I thy brother am rejected thus. 
 
 K. Edw. Away ! [Exit Kent. 
 
 Poor Gaveston, thou hast no friend but me ! 
 Do what they can, we'll live in Tynmouth here ; 
 And so I walk with him about the walls. 
 What care I though the earls begirt us round ? 
 Here comes she that is cause of all these jars. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, with Edward's Niece, 
 two Ladies, Gaveston, Baldock, and the 
 younger Spenser. 
 
 Q. Isab. My lord, 'tis thought the earls are up 
 in arms. 
 
 K. Edw. Ay, and 'tis likewise thought you 
 favour 'em. 
 
 Q. Isab. Thus do you still suspect me without 
 cause. 
 
 Niece. Sweet uncle, speak more kindly to the 
 queen. 
 
 Gav. My lord, dissemble with her ; speak her 
 fair. 
 
 K. Edw. Pardon me, sweet ; I forgot myself. 
 
 Q. Isab. Your pardon is quickly got of Isabel. 
 
 K. Edw. The younger Mortimer is grown so 
 brave. 
 That to my face he threatens civil wars. 
 
 Gav. Why do you not commit him to the 
 Tower ? 
 
 K. Edw. 1 dare not, for the people love him 
 well. 
 
 Gav. Why, then, we'll have him privily made 
 away. 
 
 K. Edw. Would Lancaster and he had both 
 carous'd 
 A bowl of poison to each other's health ! 
 But let them go, and tell me what are these. 
 
 Niece. Two of my father's servants whilst he 
 liv'd : 
 May't please your grace to entertain them now. 
 
 K. Edio. Tell me, where wast thou born? what 
 is thine arms ? 
 
 1 Wigmore. 'Mortimer junior was of Wigmore.'— 
 DoDSLKx's Old Plays. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Bald. My name is Baldock, and my gentry ^ 
 I fetch from Oxford, not from heraldry. 
 
 K. Edw. The fitter art thou, Baldock, for my 
 turn. 
 Wait on me, and I'll see thou shalt not want. 
 
 Bald. I humbly thank your majesty. 
 
 K. Edw. Knowest thou him, Gaveston ? 
 
 Gav. Ay, my lord ; 
 His name is Spenser; he is "well allied. 
 For my sake let him wait upon your grace ; 
 Scarce shall you find a man of more desert. 
 
 K. Edw. Then, Spenser, wait upon me for his 
 sake: 
 I'll grace thee with a higher style ere long. 
 
 Y. Spen. No greater titles happen unto me 
 Than to be favour'd of your majesty! 
 
 K. Edw. Cousin, this day shall be your mar- 
 riage-feast : — 
 And, Gaveston, think that I love thee well, 
 To wed thee to our niece, the only heir 
 Unto the Earl of Gloucester late deceas'd. 
 
 Gav. I know, my lord, many will stomach me ;- 
 But I respect neither their love nor hate. 
 
 K. Edw, The headstrong barons shall not limit 
 me; 
 He that I list to favour shall be great. 
 Come, let's away ; and, when the marriage ends, 
 Have at the rebels and their 'complices ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Kent, Lancaster, the younger Mortimek, 
 Warwick, Pembroke, and others. 
 
 Kent. My lords, of love to this our native land, 
 I come to join with you, and leave the king ; 
 And in your quan-el, and the realm's behoof, 
 Will be the first that shall adventure life. 
 
 Lan. I fear me, you are sent of policy, 
 To undermine us with a show of love. 
 
 War. He is your brother ; therefore have we 
 cause 
 To cast 3 the worst, and doubt of your revolt. 
 
 Kent. Mine honour shall be hostage of my 
 truth : 
 If that will not suflBce, farewell, my lords. 
 
 Y. 3Ior. Stay, Edmund: never was Planta- 
 genet 
 False of his word ; and therefore trust we thee. 
 
 Pern. But what's the reason you should leave 
 him now ? 
 
 Kent. I have inform'd the Earl of Lancaster. 
 
 Lan. And it sufficeth. Now, my lords, know 
 this, 
 That Gaveston is secretly arriv'd, 
 And here in Tynmouth frolics with the king. 
 Let us with these our followers scale the wails, 
 And suddenly surprise them unawares. 
 
 Y. Mor. I'll give the onset. 
 
 War. And I'U follow thee. 
 
 Y, Mor. This tatter'd ensign of my ancestors, 
 Which swept the desert shore of that Dead Sea 
 Whereof we got the name of Mortimer,* 
 Will I advance upon this castle's walls. — 
 Drums, strike alarum, raise them from their 
 
 sport. 
 And ring aloud the knell of Gaveston ! 
 
 Lan. None be so hardy as to touch the king ; 
 But neither spare you Gaveston nor his friends. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 > S^ewifry— gentility or nobility. He means that his 
 only claim to he reckoned a gentleman was his having 
 been educated at Oxford. 
 
 2 stomach me. See note 2, p. 103, 1st col. 
 
 3 cas<— judge, reckon, conjecture. 
 
 * A fanciful derivation of Mortimer, from Fr. mort, 
 dead, mer, the sea. 
 
 Enter Kmo Edward and the younger Spenser. 
 
 K. Edw. Oh, tell me, Spenser, where is Gave- 
 ston? 
 
 Y. Spen. I fear me he is slain, my gracious 
 lord. 
 
 K. Edw. No, here he comes: now let them 
 spoil and kill. — 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, King Edward's Niece, 
 Gaveston, and Nobles. 
 
 Fly, fly, my lords ! the earls have got the hold ; 
 Take shipping, and away to Scarborough : 
 Spenser and I will post away by land. 
 
 Gav. Oh, stay, my lord ! they will not injure 
 you. 
 
 K. Edw. I will not trust them. Gaveston, 
 away! 
 
 Gav. Farewell, my lord. 
 
 K. Edw. Lady, farewell. 
 
 Niece. Farewell, sweet uncle, till we meet 
 again. 
 
 K. Edw. Farewell, sweet Gaveston ; and fare- 
 well niece. 
 
 Q. Isab. No farewell to poor Isabel thy queen ? 
 
 K.'^Edw. Yes, yes, for Mortimer your lover's 
 sake. 
 
 Q. Isab. Heavens can witness, I love none but 
 you. 
 
 [Exeunt all except Queen Isabella. 
 From my embracements thus he breaks away. 
 Oh that mine arms could close this isle about, 
 That I might pull him to me where I would ! 
 Or that these tears, that drizzle from mine eyes, 
 Had power to mollify his stony heart. 
 That, when I had him, we might never part ! 
 
 Enter Lancaster, Warwick, the younger 
 Mortimer, and others. Alarums within. 
 
 Lan. I wonder how he 'scap'd. 
 
 Y. Mor. Who's this ? the queen ! 
 
 Q. Isab. Ay, Mortimer, the miserable queen, 
 Whose pining heart her inward sighs have blasted, 
 And body with continual mourning wasted : 
 These hands are tir'd with haling of my lord 
 From Gaveston, from wicked Gaveston, 
 And all in vain-; for, when I speak him fair. 
 He turns away, and smiles upon his minion, 
 
 Y. Mor. Cease to lament, and tell us where's 
 the king ? 
 
 Q. Isab. What would you with the king ? Is't 
 him you seek ? 
 
 Lan. No, madam, but that cursed Gaveston : 
 Far be it from the thought of Lancaster 
 To offer violence to his sovereign ! 
 We would but rid the realm of Gaveston ; 
 Tell us where he remains, and he shall die. 
 
 Q. Isab. He's gone by water unto Scarborough : 
 Pursue him quickly, and he cannot 'scape ; 
 The king hath left him, and his train is small. 
 
 War. Forslow^ no time, sweet Lancaster; let's 
 march. 
 
 Y. Moi\ How comes it that the king and he is 
 parted ? 
 
 Q. Isab. That thus your army, going several 
 ways, 
 Might be of lesser force, and with the power 
 That he intendeth presently to raise. 
 Be easily suppress'd : therefore be gone. 
 
 Y. Moi\ Here in the river rides a Flemish hoy : 
 Let's aU aboard, and follow him amain. 
 
 Lan. The wind that bears him hence will fill 
 our sails : 
 Come, come, aboard ! 'tis but an hour's sailing. 
 
 Forslow—df^&Y. 
 
112 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, stay you within this castle 
 here. 
 
 Q. Isah. No, Mortimer; I'll to my lord the 
 kins. 
 
 Y. Mor. Nay, rather sail with us to Scar- 
 borough. 
 
 d. Isab. You know the king is so suspicious 
 As, if he hear I have but talk'd with you, 
 Mine honour will be call'd in question ; 
 And therefore, gentle Mortimer, be gone. 
 
 Y. Mor. Madam, I cannot stay to answer you : 
 But think of Mortimer as he deserves. 
 
 [Exeunt all except Queen Isabella. 
 
 Q. Isdb. So well hast thou deserv'd, sweet 
 Mortimei', 
 As Isabel could live with thee for ever. 
 In vain I look for love at Edward's hand, 
 Whose eyes are fix'd on none but Gaveston. 
 Yet once more I'll importune him with prayer : 
 If he be strange, and not regard my words. 
 My son and I will over into France, 
 And to the king my brother there complain 
 How Gaveston hath robb'd me of his love : 
 But yet, I hope, my sorrows will have end,* 
 And Gaveston this blessed day be slain. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Gax'E.bto's^'^ pursued. 
 
 Gav. Yet, lusty lords, I have escap'd your 
 hands, 
 Your threats, your 'larums, and your hot pur- 
 suits ; 
 And, though divorced from King Edward's eyes, 
 Yet liveth Pierce of Gaveston unsurpris'd, 
 Breathing in hope (malgrado^ all your beards, 
 That muster rebels thus against your king) 
 To see his royal sovereign once again. 
 
 * Mr. Dyce quoted from Lingard the following par- 
 ticulars as to the close of Gaveston's career. The king 
 and Gaveston having fled from Tynmouth to Scar- 
 borough, the king repaired to York, while Gaveston 
 remained in Scarborough Castle, to which the Earls of 
 Surrey and Pembroke laid siege. ' It was in vain that 
 Edward sent them a mandate to retire. The unfortunate 
 Gaveston finding the place untenable, surrendered with 
 the king's consent to the Earl of Pembroke, on condition 
 that if no accommodation were effected before the 1st of 
 August, he should be reinstated in the possession of Scar- 
 borough. It had been agreed that the prisoner should be 
 confined in his own castle of Wallingford: and the Earl 
 and the Lord Henry Percy bound tliemsel ves for his safety 
 to the king, under the forfeiture of their lands, limbs, and 
 lives. From Scarborough Gaveston proceeded under 
 their protection towards Wallingford ; at Dedington, 
 Pembroke left him in the custody of his servants, and 
 departed to spend the night with his countess in the 
 neighbourhood. The captive retired to rest without 
 any suspicion of danger; but "the Black Dog [Warwick] 
 had sworn that the favourite should feel his teeth ;" and 
 before dawn he received a peremptory order to dress 
 himself and leave his chamber. At the gate, instead of 
 his former guards, he found, to his astonishment, his 
 enemy the Earl of Warwick, with a numerous force. He 
 was immediately placed on a mule, and conducted to 
 the castle of Warwick, where his arrival was announced 
 by martial music and shouts of triumph. There the 
 chiefs of the party sat in council over the fate of their 
 prisoner. To a proposal to save his life, a voice replied, 
 " You have caught the fox : if you let him go, you will 
 have to hunt him again : " and it was ultimately resolved 
 to disregard the capitulation, and to put him to death in 
 conformity with one of the ordinances. When his doom 
 was announced, Gaveston threw himself at the feet of 
 the Earl of Lancaster, and implored, but in vain, the 
 pity and protection of his " gentle lord." He was hunied 
 to Blacklow-hill (now Gaversike), and beheaded in the 
 presence of the Earls of Lancaster, Hereford, and Sur- 
 rey.'— Lingakd's Jlisi. of England, vol. iii. 15, ed. 1849. 
 
 2 malgrado — in spite of (Ital.) ; Fr. malgre; Eng. 
 maugre ; Lat. male, badly, gradu?n, agreeable. 
 
 Enter Warwick, Lancaster, Pembroke, the 
 younger Mortimer, Soldiers, James and other 
 Attendants q/' Pembroke. 
 
 War. Upon him, soldiers ! take away his 
 weapons ! 
 
 Y. Mor. Thou proud disturber of thy country's 
 peace. 
 Corrupter of thy king, cause of these broils. 
 Base flatterer, yield ! and, were it not for shame, 
 Shame and dishonour to a soldier's name, 
 Upon my weapon's point here shouldst thou fall. 
 And welter in thy gore. 
 
 Lan. Monster of men, 
 That, like the Greekish strumpet,' train'd to 
 
 arms 
 And bloody wars so many valiant knights, 
 Look for no other fortune, wretch, than death ! 
 King Edward is not here to buckler*- thee. 
 
 War. Lancaster, why talk'st thou to the 
 slave ? — 
 Go, soldiers, take him hence ; for, by my sword, 
 His head shall off. — Gaveston, short warning 
 Shall serve thy turn : it is our country's cause 
 That here severely we will execute 
 Upon thy person. — Hang him at a bough. 
 
 Gav. My lord, — 
 
 War. Soldiers, have him away. — 
 But, for thou wert the favouj-ite of a king. 
 Thou shalt have so much honour at our hands.* 
 
 Gav. I thank you all, my lords : then I per- 
 ceive 
 That heading is one, and hanging is the othex*, 
 And death is all. 
 
 Enter Arundel. 
 
 Lan. How now, my Lord of Arundel ! 
 
 Arun. My lords. King Edward greets you all 
 by me. 
 
 War. Arundel, say your message. 
 
 Arun. His majesty, hearing that you had taken 
 Gaveston, 
 Entreateth you by me, yet but he may 
 See him before he dies ; for why,* he says. 
 And sends you word, he knows that die he shall; 
 And, if you gratify his grace so far. 
 He will be mindful of the courtesy. 
 
 War. How now ! 
 
 Gav. Eenown^d Edward, how thy name 
 Revives poor Gaveston ! 
 
 War. No, it needeth not : 
 Arundel, we will gratify the king 
 In other matters ; he must jpardon us in this. — 
 Soldiers, away with him ! 
 
 Gav. Why, my Lord of Warwick, 
 Will not these delays beget my hopes ? 
 I know it, lords, it is this life you aim at: 
 Yet grant King Edward this. 
 
 Y. Mor. Shalt thou appoint 
 What we shall grant ?— Soldiers, away with 
 
 him ! — 
 Thus we'll gratify the king; 
 We'll send his head by thee : let him bestow 
 His tears on that, for that is all he gets 
 Of Gaveston, or else his senseless trunk. 
 
 Lan. Not so, my lord, lest he bestow more 
 cost 
 In burying him than he hath ever earn'd. 
 
 Arun. My lords, it is his majesty's request, 
 
 1 Greekish strumpet — Helen and the Trojan war.- 
 
 DODSLKY. 
 
 2 6McA:/er— shield. 
 
 3 Probably a line has dropped out here, 
 * for why — because. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 And in * the honour of a king he swears, 
 
 He will but talk with him, and send him back. 
 
 War. When ; can you tell ? Arundel, no ; we 
 wot, 
 He that the care of his realm remits. 
 And drives his nobles to these exigents ' 
 For Gaveston, will, if he seize him once, 
 Violate any promise to possess him. 
 
 Arun. Then, if you will not trust his grace in 
 
 My lords, I will be pledge for his return. 
 
 Y. Mor. 'Tis honourable in thee to offer this ; 
 But, for we know thou art a noble gentleman, 
 We will not wrong thee so. 
 To make away a true ^ man for a thief. 
 
 Gav. How mean'st thou, Mortimer.^ that is 
 over-base. 
 
 r. Mor. Away, base groom, robber of king's 
 renown ! 
 Question with thy companions and mates. 
 
 Pern. M}'- Lord Mortimer, and you, my lords, 
 each one, 
 To gratify the king's request therein, 
 Touching the sending of this Gaveston, 
 Because his majesty so earnestly 
 Desires to see the man before his death, 
 I will upon mine honour undertake 
 To carry him, and bring him back again ; 
 Provided this, that you, my Lord of Arundel, 
 Will join with me. 
 
 War. Pembroke, what wilt thou do ? 
 Cause yet more bloodshed ? Is it not enough 
 That we have taken him ; but must we now 
 Leave him on ' Had I wist,'* and let him go ? 
 
 Pew. My lords, I will not over- woo your 
 honours : 
 But, if you dare trust Pembroke with the prisoner. 
 Upon mine oath, I will return him back. 
 
 Arun. My Lord of Lancaster, what say you in 
 this.? 
 
 Lan. Why, I say, let him go on Pembroke's 
 word. 
 
 Pern. And you, Lord Mortimer ? 
 
 Y. Mor. How say you, my Lord of Warwick ? 
 
 War. Nay, do your pleasures : I know how 
 'twill prove. 
 
 Pem. Then give him me. 
 
 Gav. Sweet sovereign, yet I come 
 To see thee ere I die ! 
 
 War. Not yet, perhaps, 
 If Warwick's wit and policy prevail. 
 
 Y. Mor. My Lord of Pembroke, we deliver him 
 you : 
 Eeturn him on your honour. — Sound, away! 
 
 [Exeunt all except Pembroke, Arundel, 
 Gaveston, James, and other Atten- 
 dants q/" Pembroke. 
 
 Pern. My lord, you shall go with me : 
 My house is not far hence ; out of the way 
 A little ; but our men shall go along. 
 We that have pretty wenches to our wives. 
 Sir, must not come so near to balk their lips. 
 
 Arun. 'Tis very kindly spoke, my Lord of 
 Pembroke : 
 Tour honour hath an adamant of power 
 To draw a prince. 
 
 Pern. So, my lord. — Come hither, James : 
 I do commit this Gaveston to thee ; 
 
 1 tw— on. 
 
 2 exigents — exigencies. 
 
 3 true — honest. 
 
 * Had I WM<— had I known, — the exclamation of 
 those who repent of what they have rashly done. — 
 Dyce. Wist comes from the same root as wise and wit; 
 Anglo-Saxon, witan, Ger., wissen. to know. 
 
 Be thou this night his keeper ; in the morning 
 We will discharge thee of thy charge : be gone. 
 Gav. Unhappy Gaveston, whither go'st thou 
 now.' 
 
 lExit with James and other Attendants 
 
 q/"PEMBROKE. 
 
 Horse-boy. My lord, we'll quickly be at Cob- 
 ham. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Gaveston ^ mourning^ James and other 
 Attendants o/" Pembroke. 
 
 Gav. Oh, treacherous Warwick, thus to wrong 
 thy friend ! 
 
 James. I see it is your life these arms pursue. 
 
 Gav. Weaponless must I fall, and die in bands .' 
 Oh, must this day be pei*iod of my life, 
 Centre of all my bliss .' An ye be men, 
 Speed to the king. 
 
 Enter Warwick and Soldiers. 
 
 War. My Lord of Pembroke's men. 
 Strive you no longer : I will have that Gaveston. 
 James. Your lordship doth dishonour to your- 
 self. 
 And wrong our lord, your honourable friend. 
 War. No, James; it is my country's cause I 
 follow. — 
 Go, take the villain : soldiers, come away ; 
 We'll make quick work. — Commend me to your 
 
 master, 
 My friend, and tell him that I watch'd it well. — 
 Come, let thy shadow parley with King Edward. 
 Gav. Treacherous earl, shall not I see the 
 
 king? 
 War. The king of heaven perhaps, no other 
 king.— 
 Away ! 
 [Exmnt Warwick an(Z Soldiers with Gaveston. 
 James. Come, fellows : it booted not for us to 
 strive : 
 We will in haste go certify our lord. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter King Edward,^ the younger Spenser, 
 Baldock, Noblemen of the king''s side., and 
 Soldiers loith drums andjjfes. 
 
 K. Edw. I long to hear an answer from the 
 
 barons 
 Touching my friend, my dearest Gaveston. 
 Ah, Spenser, not the riches of my realm 
 Can ransom him ! ah, he is mark'd to die ! 
 I know the malice of the younger Mortimer ; 
 Warwick I know is rough, and Lancaster 
 Inexorable ; and I shall never see 
 My lovely Pierce of Gaveston again : 
 The barons overbear me with their pride. 
 
 Y. Spe7i. Were I King Edward, England's 
 
 sovereign. 
 Son to the lovely Eleanor of Spain, 
 Great Edward Longshanks' issue, would I bear 
 These braves,^ this rage, and suffer uncontroll'd 
 These barons thus to beard me in my land, 
 In mine own realm ? My lord, pardon my speech : 
 Did you retain your father's magnanimity,* 
 Did you regard the honour of your name. 
 You would not suffer thus your majesty 
 Be counterbuff'd of your nobility. 
 Strike off their heads, and let them preach on 
 
 poles : 
 
 1 Enter Gaveston, &c.— the scene is evidently changed 
 to another pai-t of the country. 
 
 2 Mr. Dyce thinks this scene must he in Yorkshire ; 
 as he truly remarks, Marlowe thought little about the 
 location of his scenes. 
 
 3 braves — bravadoes, threats. 
 
 < magnanimity — used here almost in its literal sense, 
 greatness of mind, pride. 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ko doubt such lessons they will teach the rest, 
 As by their preachments they "will profit much, 
 And learn obedience to their lawful king. 
 K. Edw. Yea, gentle Spenser, we have been 
 
 too mild, 
 Too kind to them ; but now have dra-vvn our 
 
 sword, 
 And, if they send me not my Gaveston, 
 We'll steel it on their crest[s], and poll their 
 
 tops. 
 Bald. This haught^ resolve becomes your 
 
 majesty, 
 Not to be tied to their affection. 
 As though your highness were a schoolboy still. 
 And must be aw'd and govern'd like a child. 
 
 Enter Hugh Spenser, an old man, father to the 
 younger Spenser, with his truncheon, and Soldiers. 
 
 E. Spen. Long live my sovereign, the noble 
 Edward, 
 In peace triumphant, fortunate in wars ! 
 
 K. Edw. "Welcome, old man : com'st thou in 
 Edward's aid ? 
 Then tell the prince of whence and what thou 
 art. 
 
 E. Spen. Lo, with a band of bowmen and of 
 pikes, 
 Brown bills'' and targeteers, four hundred strong, 
 Sworn to defend King Edward's royal right, 
 I come in person to your majesty, 
 Spenser, the father of Hugh Spenser there, 
 Bound to your highness everlastingly 
 For favour done, in him, unto us all. 
 
 K. Edw. Thy father, Spenser ? 
 
 Y. Spen. True, an it like^ your grace. 
 That pours, in lieu of all your goodness shown, 
 His life, my lord, before your princely feet. 
 
 K. Edw. Welcome, ten thousand times, old 
 man, again! 
 Spenser, this love, this kindness to thy king, 
 Argues thy noble mind and disposition. 
 Spenser, I here create thee Earl of Wiltshire, 
 And daily will enrich thee with our favour, 
 That, as the sunshine, shall reflect o'er thee. 
 Beside, the more to manifest our love. 
 Because we hear Lord Bruce doth sell his land. 
 And that the Mortimers are in hand withal, 
 Thou shalt have crowns of us t'outbid the 
 
 barons ; 
 And, Spenser, spare them not, lay it on. — 
 Soldiers, a largess, and thrice welcome all ! 
 
 Y. Spen. My lord, here comes the queen. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, Pre!TCe Edward, and 
 Levune. 
 
 K. Edw. Madam, what news ? 
 
 Q. Isah. News of dishonour, lord, and discon- 
 tent. 
 Our friend Levune, faithful and full of trust, 
 Inf');-Viifcl:,L us, V'f let""""" n-nd by woi'ds. 
 That Lord Va! -u; or,,- ui other, king of France, 
 Because your Liu l.:iess hath been slack in homage,* 
 Hath seized Normandy into his hands : 
 These be the letters, this the messenger. 
 
 K. Edw. Welcome, Levune. Tush, Sib, if this 
 be aU, 
 Valois and I will soon be friends again. 
 But to my Gaveston : shall I never see, 
 Never behold thee now ! Madam, in this matter 
 We will employ you and your little son ; 
 You shall go parley with the king of France. — 
 
 * /ia«gA<— proud, high, haughty; Fr., haul. 
 
 * bills— Le. soldiers who carried bills. The hill was a 
 kind of pike or halbert, ■which gave the most ghastly 
 wounds. 
 
 * an it like—li it please. 
 
 Boy, see you bear you bravely to the king. 
 And do your message with a majesty. 
 F. Edw. Commit not to my youth things of 
 more weight 
 Than fits a prince so young as I to bear ; 
 And fear not, lord and father, — heaven's great 
 
 beams 
 On Atlas' shoulder shall not lie more safe 
 Than shall your charge committed to my trust. 
 Q. Isab. Ah, boy, this towardness makes thy 
 mother fear 
 Thou art not mark'd to many days on earth ! 
 K. Edw. Madam, we wiU that you with speed 
 be shipp'd, 
 And this our son : Levune shall follow you 
 With all the haste we can despatch him hence. 
 Choose of our lords to bear you company : 
 And go in peace ; leave us in wars at home. 
 Q. isab. Unnatural wars, where subjects brave 
 their king : 
 God end them once ! My lord, I take my leave. 
 To make my preparation for France. 
 
 [Exit toith Prince Edward. 
 
 Enter Arundel, i 
 
 K. Edw. What ! Lord Arundel, dost thou come 
 alone ? 
 
 Arun. Yea, my good lord, for Gaveston is dead. 
 
 K. Edw. Ah ! traitors, have they put my friend 
 to death ? 
 Tell me, Arundel, died he ere thou cam'st. 
 Or didst thou see my friend to take his death ? 
 
 Arnn. Neither, my lord ; for, as he was sur- 
 pris'd. 
 Begirt with weapons and with enemies round, 
 I did your highness' message to them all, 
 Demanding him of them, entreating rather. 
 And said, upon the honour of my name. 
 That I would undertake to carry him 
 Unto your highness, and to bring him back. • 
 
 K. Edw. And, tell me, would the rebels deny 
 me that ? 
 
 Y. Spen. Proud recreants ! 
 
 K. Edw. Yea, Spenser, traitors all ! 
 
 Arun. 1 found them at the first inexorable ; 
 The Earl of Warwick would not bide the hearing, 
 Mortimer hardly ; Pembroke and Lancaster 
 Spake least ; and when they flatly had denied, 
 Tiefusing to receive me pledge for him, 
 The Earl of Pembroke mildly thus bespake : 
 ' My lords, because our sovereign sends for him. 
 And promiseth he shall be safe return'd, 
 I will this undertake, to have him hence, 
 xind see him redeliver'd to your hands.' 
 
 K. Edw. Well, and how fortunes that he came 
 not.? 
 
 Y. Spen. Some treason or some villany was 
 
 Arun. The Earl of Warwick seiz'd him on his 
 way; 
 For being delivered unto Pembroke's men, 
 Their lord rode home, thinking his prisoner safe; 
 But, ere he came, Warwick in ambush lay, 
 And bare him to his death ; and in a trench 
 Struck off his head, and march'd unto the camp. 
 
 Y. Spen. A bloody part, flatly 'gainst law of 
 arms ! 
 
 K. Edw. Oh ! shall I speak, or shall I sigh and 
 die! 
 
 Y. Spen. My lord, refer your vengeance to the 
 sword 
 Upon these barons ; hearten up your men ; 
 Let them not unreveng'd murder your friends : 
 
 1 We have followed Dyce here and elsewhere in suh- 
 stituting ' Arnndel ' for 'Lord Matrevis,' which by Mis- 
 take has crept into the old editions. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, 
 
 115 
 
 Advance your standard, Edward, in the field. 
 And march to fire them from their starting-holes.^ 
 
 K. Edw. [kneeling.'] By earth, the common 
 mother of us all, 
 By heaven, and all the moving orbs thereof. 
 By this right hand, and by my father's sword, 
 And all the honours 'longing to my crown, 
 I will have heads and lives for him as many 
 As I have manors, castles, towns, and towers ! 
 
 [Rises. 
 Treacherous Warwick ! traitorous Mortimer ! 
 If I be England's king, in lakes of gore 
 Your headless trunks, your bodies will I trail, 
 That you may drink your fill, and quaff in blood, 
 And stain my royal standard with the same ; 
 That so my bloody colours may suggest 
 Kemembrance of revenge immortally 
 On your accursfed traitorous progeny, 
 You villains that have slain ray Gaveston ! — 
 And in this place of honour and of trust, 
 Spenser, sweet Spenser, I adopt thee here ; 
 Ar^d merely of our love we do create thee 
 Earl of Gloucester and Lord Chamberlain, 
 Despite of times, despite of enemies. 
 
 Y. Spen. My lord, here's a messenger from the 
 barons 
 Desires access unto your majesty. 
 
 K. Edw. Admit him near. 
 
 Enter Herald with Ms coat of arms. 
 
 Her. Long live King Edward, England's lawful 
 lord! 
 
 K. Edw. So wish not they, I wis, 2 that sent thee 
 hither ; 
 Thou com'st from Mortimer and his accomplices : 
 A ranker rout^ of rebels never was. 
 Well, say thy message. 
 
 Her. The barons, up in arms, by me salute 
 Your highness with long life and happiness ; 
 And bid me say, as plainer to your grace, 
 That if without effusion of blood 
 You will this grief have ease and remedy. 
 That from your princely person you remove 
 This Spenser, as a putrefying branch 
 That deads the royal vine, whose golden leaves 
 Empale* your princely head, your diadem ; 
 Whose brightness such pernicious upstarts dim, 
 Say they, and lovingly advise your grace 
 To cherish virtue and nobility, 
 And have old servitors in high esteem. 
 And shake off smooth dissembling flatterers ; 
 This granted, they, their honours, and their lives, 
 Are to your highness vow'd and consecrate. 
 
 Y. Spen. Ah! traitors, will they still display 
 their pride ? 
 
 K. Edw. Away! tarry ^ no answer, but be 
 
 gone 
 
 I 
 
 Rebels ! will they appoint their sovereign 
 His sports, his pleasures, and his company ? — 
 Yet, ere thou go, see how I do divorce 
 
 [Emhraces young Spenser. 
 
 Spenser from me. Now get thee tothy lords, 
 
 And tell them I will come to chastise them 
 
 Eor murdering Gaveston: hie thee, get thee 
 
 gone! 
 Edward, with fire and sword, follows at thy 
 
 heels. — [Exit Herald. 
 
 My lord, perceive you how these rebels swell ? — 
 Soldiers, good hearts! defend your sovereign's 
 
 right, 
 
 1 starting-holes— loQ^'hol&i. 
 
 2 MM— know, think. See note 4, p. 113, col. 1. 
 
 ' rout — rabble or crew. Another reading is root. 
 
 * empale— to fence or surround as with pales or stakes. 
 
 * tarry — wait for. 
 
 For, now, even now, we march to make them 
 
 stoop. 
 Away! 
 
 [Exeunt. Alarums^ excursions, a great fis'ht^ 
 and a retreat sounded within. 
 
 Re-enter King Edward, the elder Spenser, the 
 younger Spenser, Baldock, and Noblemen 
 of the king's side. 
 
 K. Edw. Why do we sound retreat? upon 
 them, lords ! 
 This day I shall pour vengeance with my sword 
 On those proud rebels that are up in arms, 
 And do confront and countermand their king. 
 
 Y. Spen. I doubt it not, my lord; right will 
 prevail. 
 E. Spen. 'Tis not amiss, my liege, for either 
 part 
 To breathe a while; our men, with sweat and 
 
 dust 
 All chok'd well near, begin to faint for heat ; 
 And this retire 1 refresheth horse and man. 
 Y. Spen. Here come the rebels. 
 
 Enter the younger Mortimer, Lancaster, 
 Warwick, Pembroice, and others. 
 
 Y. Mor. Look, Lancaster, yonder is Edward 
 Among his flatterers. 
 
 Lan. And there let him be, 
 Till he pay dearly for their company. 
 
 War. And shall, or Warwick's sword shall 
 smite in vain. 
 
 K. Edw. What! rebels, do you shrink and 
 sound retreat ? 
 
 Y. Mor. No, Edward, no ; thy flatterers faint 
 and fly. 
 
 Lan. They'd best betimes forsake thee and 
 their trains, 2 
 For they'll betray thee, traitors as they are. 
 
 Y. Spen. Traitor on thy face, rebellious Lan- 
 caster ! 
 
 Pern. Away, base upstart ! brav'st thou nobles 
 thus? 
 
 E. Spen. A noble attempt and honourable deed, 
 Is it not, trow 3 ye, to assemble aid 
 And levy arms against your lawful king ? 
 
 K. Edw. For which, ere long, their heads shall 
 satisfy 
 T' appease the wrath of their offended king. 
 
 Y. Mor. Then, Edward, thou wilt fight it to 
 the last. 
 And rather bathe thy sword in subjects' blood 
 Than banish that pernicious company? 
 
 K. Edw. Ay, traitors all, rather than thus be 
 brav'd, 
 Make England's civil* towns huge heaps of stoaes, 
 And ploughs to go about our palace-gates. 
 
 War. A desperate and unnatvu-al resolution ! — 
 Alarum to the fight ! 
 Saint George for England, and the barons' right ! 
 
 K. Edto. Saint George* for England, and King 
 Edward's right ! 
 
 [Alai'urns. Exeunt the two parties severally. 
 
 Enter King Edward, and his followers, with the 
 Barons and Kent captive. 
 K. Edw. Now, lusty lords, now not by chance 
 of war, 
 
 ^ rertre— retreat. 
 
 2 trains— i.e. stratagems or artifices. To train, literally 
 means to draw or allure; from Lat. traho, to draw; low 
 Lat. trahino, Fr. trainer. 
 
 3 irow— think. Probably from same root as true, trust ; 
 in the Bible it is used in the sense of 'trust.' 
 
 * civil — municipal. 
 
 s Saint George— t\i6 patron saint of England. This 
 used to be the cry of English soldiery when they charged 
 the enemy. 
 
Ii6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 But justice of the quarrel and the cause, 
 
 VaiFd^ is your pride: methinks you hang the 
 
 heads ; 
 But we'll advance them, traitors : now 'tis time 
 To be aveng'd on you for all your braves,^ 
 And for the murder of my dearest friend, 
 To whom right well j'ou knew our soul was knit, 
 Good Pierce of Gaveston, my sweet favourite : 
 Ah, rebels, recreants, you made him away ! 
 
 Ktnt. Brother, in regard of thee and of thy 
 land, 
 Did they remove that flatterer from thy throne. 
 
 K. Edw. So, sir, you have spoke: awaj', avoid ^ 
 our presence ! [Exit Kknt, 
 
 Accursed wretches, was't in regard or us, 
 When we had sent our messenger to request 
 He might be spar'd to come to speak with us, 
 And Pembroke undertook for his return, 
 That thou, proud Warwick, watch'd the prisoner, 
 Poor Piei-ce, and headed* him 'gainst law of arms ? 
 For which thy head shall overlook the rest 
 As much as thou in rage outwent'st the rest. 
 
 War, Tyrant, I scorn thy threats and me- 
 naces; 
 It is but temporal that thou canst inflict. 
 
 Lan. The worst is death ; and better die to live. 
 Than live in infamy under such a king. 
 
 K. Edw. Away with them, my Lord of Win- 
 chester ! 
 These lusty leaders, WarAvick and Lancaster, 
 I charge you roundly, off with both their heads ! 
 Away ! 
 
 War. Farewell, vain world ! 
 
 Lan. Sweet Mortimer, farewell! 
 
 Y. Mor. England, unkind to thy nobility. 
 Groan for this grief! behold how thou art 
 maim'd ! 
 
 K. Edw. Go, take that haughty Mortimer to 
 the Tower; 
 There see him safe bestow'd ; and, for the rest, 
 Do speedy execution on them aU. 
 Be gone ! 
 
 Y. 3Ior. What! Mortimer, can ragged stony 
 walls 
 Immure thy virtue that aspires to heaven ? 
 No, Edward, England's scourge, it may not be ; 
 Mortimer's hope surmounts his fortune far. 
 
 [The captive Barons are led ojf, 
 
 K. Edto. Sound, drums and trumpets! March 
 with me, my friends, 
 Ed"^ard this day hath crown'd him king anew. 
 
 [Exeunt all except the younger Spenser, 
 Levuxe, and Baldock. 
 
 Y. Spen. Levune, the trust that we repose in 
 thee 
 Begets the quiet of King Edward's land : 
 Therefore be gone in haste, and with advice 
 Bestow that treasure on the lords of France, 
 That, therewith all enchanted, like the guard 
 That suffer'd Jove to pass in showers of gold 
 To Danae, all aid may be denied 
 To Isabel the queen, that now in France 
 Makes friends, to cross the seas with her young 
 
 son, 
 And step into his father's regiment.^ ^ '' 
 
 Levune. That's it these barons and the subtle 
 queen 
 Long levell'd* at 
 
 Bald. Yea, but, Levune, thou seest, 
 These barons lay their heads on blocks together : 
 "What they intend, the hangman friistrates clean. 
 
 1 VaiVd — lowered. 
 
 3 avoid — quit. 
 
 •* headed — beheaded. 
 
 * regiment— wlQ, government, 
 
 » braves — bravadoes, boasts. 
 
 « levelVd—sXraGd. 
 
 Levune. Have you no doubt, my lords, I'll clap 
 so close 
 Among the lords of France with England's gold, 
 That Isabel shall make her plaints in vain. 
 And France shall be obdurate with her tears. 
 Y. Spen. Then make for France amain: Le» 
 vune, away ! 
 Proclaim King Edward's wars and victories. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Kent. 
 
 Kent. Fair blows the wind for France : blow, 
 gentle gale. 
 Till Edmund be arriv'd for England's good ! 
 Nature, yield to my country's cause in this ! 
 A brother.' no, a butcher of thy friends! 
 Proud Edward, dost thou banish me thy presence ? 
 But I'll to France, and cheer the wronged queen, 
 And certify what Edward's looseness is. 
 Unnatural king, to slaughter noblemen 
 And cherish flatterers ! Mortimer, I stay 
 Thy sweet escape. Stand gracious, gloomy nig^t. 
 To his device ! 
 
 Enter the younger Mortimer disguised. 
 
 Y. Mor. Holla ! who walketh there ? 
 Is't you, my lord ? 
 
 Kent. Mortimer, 'tis I. 
 But hath thy potion wrought so happily ? 
 
 Y. Mor. It hath, my lord: the warders all 
 asleep, 
 I thank them, gave me leave to pass in peace. 
 But hath your grace got shipping unto France ? 
 
 Kent. Fear it not. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Queex Isabella^ and Prinxe Edward. 
 
 Q. Isdb. Ah, boy, our friends do fail us all in 
 France ! 
 The lords are cruel, and the king' unkind. 
 What shall we do ? 
 
 P. Edw. Madam, return to England, 
 And please my father well ; and then a fig 
 For all my uncle's friendship here in France ! 
 I warrant you, I'll win his highness quickly ; 
 'A 3 loves me better than a thousand Speusers, 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah, boy, thou art deceiv'd, at least in 
 this, 
 To think that we can yet be tun'd together! 
 No, no, we jar too far. — Unkind Valois ! 
 Unhappy Isabel, v/hen France rejects, 
 Whither, oh, whither dost thou bend thy steps ? 
 
 Enter Sir John op Hainault. 
 
 Sir J. Madam, what cheer ? 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah, good Sir John of Hainault, 
 Never so cheerless nor so far distrest ! 
 
 Sir J. I hear, sweet lady, of the king's un- 
 kindness : 
 But droop not, madam ; noble minds contemn 
 Despair. Will your grace with me to Hainault, 
 And there stay time's advantage with your son ? — 
 How say you, my lord ? will you go with your 
 
 friends. 
 And shake off all our fortunes equally ? 
 
 P. Edw. So pleaseth the queen my mother, me 
 it likes.* 
 The king of England, nor the court of France, 
 Shall have me from my gracious mother's side, 
 Till I be strong enough to break a staff; 
 And then have at the px-oudest Spenser's head ! 
 
 Sir J. Well said, my lord! 
 
 1 Enter Queen Isabella, <fec.— the scene changes to 
 France. 
 
 2 the king— Ch&vlQS v., her brother.— Dodslet s Old 
 Plays. 
 
 3 'A— he. * W^M— pleases. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 117 
 
 <2- Isah. Oh, ray sweet heart, how do I moan 
 thy wrongs. 
 Yet triumph in the hope of thee, my joy ! — 
 Ah, sweet Sir John, even to the utmost verge 
 Of Europe, or the shore of Tanais,^ 
 "Win we with thee to Hainault — so we will : 
 The marquis is a noble gentleman ; 
 His grace, I dare presume, will welcome me. — 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Enter Kent and the younger Mortimer. 
 
 Kent. Madam, long may you live 
 Much happier than your friends in England do ! 
 Q. hob. Lord Edmund, and Lord Mortimer 
 alive ! 
 Welcome to France ! the news was here, my lord, 
 That you were dead, or very near your death. 
 
 Y. Mor. Lady, the last wasjtruest of the twain: 
 But Mortimer, reserv'd for better hap, 
 Hath shaken ofif the thraldom of the Tower, 
 And lives t' advance your standard, good my 
 lord. 
 P. Edw. How mean you, and the king my 
 father lives ? 
 No, my Lord Mortimer, not I, I trow. 
 
 Q. Isah. Not, son ! why not ? I would it were 
 no worse ! — 
 But, gentle lords, friendless we are in France. 
 Y. Mor. Monsieur Le Grand, a noble friend of 
 yours, 
 Told us, at our arrival, all the news, — 
 How hard the nobles, how unkind the king 
 Hath show'd himself : but, madam, right makes 
 
 room 
 "Where weapons won't ; and, though a many 
 
 friends 
 Are made away, as Warwick, Lancaster, 
 And others of our party and faction. 
 Yet have we friends, assure your grace, in 
 
 England, 
 Would cast up caps, and clap their hands for joy. 
 To see us there, appointed 2 for our foes. 
 Kent. Would all were well, and Edward well 
 reclaim'd. 
 For England's honour, peace, and quietness ! 
 r. Mor. But by the sword, my lord, 't must be 
 deserv'd : 3 
 The king will ne'er forsake his flatterers. 
 Sir J. My lords of England, sith ^ th' ungentle 
 king 
 Of France refuseth to give aid of arms 
 To this distressed queen, his sister, here. 
 Go you with her to Hainault : doubt ye not 
 AVe will find comfort, money, men, and friends. 
 Ere long to bid the English king a base ^ — 
 How say, young prince, what think you of the 
 match ? 
 P. Edw. I think King Edward will outinm us 
 all. 
 
 J Dyce, no doubt con-ectly, thinks the meaning to be 
 that they would go with Sir John to Hainault, were it 
 on the utmost verge of Europe, &c. The Tanais (Don) 
 was foi-merly accounted the boundary between Europe 
 and Asia. 
 
 2 appointed— armed, accoutred, furnished with imple- 
 ments of war. "We still speak of a soldier's ' appoint- 
 ments.' 
 
 3 cfe^err'tf— earned. 
 
 * sith— since: Anglo-Saxon, sith, late, after. 
 5 to bid the English king a base. To bid a base is, to 
 run fast, challenging another to pursue, In allusion to 
 the game of Prison-base or Prison-bars, a nistic game 
 that consisted chiefly in running. The following lines 
 from Spencer seem to give some kind of picture of the 
 sport : — 
 
 * So ran they all as they had been at bace, 
 They being chased that did others chase.' 
 
 —Faerie Queene, v. viii. 5. 
 
 Q. Isab. Nay, son, not so ; and you must not 
 discourage 
 Your friends, that are so forward in your aid. 
 
 Kent. Sir John of Hainault, pardon us, I pray, 
 These comforts that you give our woful queen 
 Bind us in kindness all at your command. 
 
 Q. Isab. Yea, gentle brother : — and the God of 
 heaven 
 Prosper your happy motion, good Sir John ! 
 Y. 3for. This noble gentleman, forward in 
 arms, 
 Was born, I see, to be our anchor-hold. — 
 Sir John of Hainault, be it thy renown, 
 That England's queen and nobles in distress 
 Have been by thee restor'd and comforted. 
 /Sir J. Madam, along ; and you, my lord, with 
 me. 
 That England's peers may Hainault's welcome 
 see. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Arundel, the elder Spen- 
 ser, the younger Spenser, and others.^ 
 
 K. Edw. Thus, after many threats of wrathful 
 war, 
 Triumpheth England's Edward with his friends. 
 And triumph Edward with his friends uncon- 
 
 troll'd !— 
 My Lord of Gloucester, do you hear the news ? 
 Y. Spen. What news, my lord ? 
 A'. Edw. Why, man, they say there is great 
 execution 
 Done through the realm. — My Lord of Arundel, 
 You have the note, have you not ? 
 Arun. From the Lieutenant of the Tower, my 
 lord. 
 K. Edw. I pray, let us see it. What have we 
 
 there ? — 
 Read it, Spenser. 
 
 [Spenser reads their names. 
 Why, so : they bark'd apace a month ago ; 
 Now, on my life, they'll neither bark or bite. 
 Now, sirs, the news from France .' Gloucester, I 
 
 trow. 
 The lords of France love England's gold so well 
 As 2 Isabella gets no aid f I'om thence. 
 What now remains? have you proclaim' d, my 
 
 lord, 
 Keward for them can bring in Mortimer .' 
 
 Y. Sjjen. My lord, we have ; and, if he be in 
 England, 
 'A 3 will be had ere long, I doubt it not. 
 
 K. Edw. If, dost thou say ? Spenser, as true as 
 death, 
 He is in England's ground : our port-masters 
 Are not so careless of their king's command. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 How now ! what news with thee ? from whence 
 come these ? 
 Mes. Letters, my lord, and tidings forth of 
 France ; — 
 To you, my Lord of Gloucester, from Levune. 
 
 IGives letters to younger Spenser. 
 K. Edw. Bead. 
 
 Y. Spen. [reading.] My duty to your honour 
 premised, tf-c, / have, according to instructions in 
 that behalf, dealt zcith the king of France, his lords, 
 and effected that the queen, all discontented and dis- 
 comforted, is gone: whither, if you a^k, with Sir 
 John of Hainault, brother to the marquis, into 
 Flanders. With them are gone Lord Edmund and 
 
 ^ Scene in England again, apparently in the royal 
 palace. 
 
 2 ^5— that, in which sense it was often used by old 
 authors. 
 
 3 'A— he. 
 
Ii8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 the Lord Mortimer^ having in their company divers 
 of your nation^ and others ; and, as constant report 
 goeth, they intend to give King Edward battle in 
 England^ sooner than he can loohfoi- them. This 
 is all the news ofimpoi't. 
 jv Your honour's in all service, Levune. 
 
 K. Edw. Ah, villains, hath that Mortimer 
 escap'd ? 
 With him is Edmund gone associate ? , 
 And will Sir John of Hainault lead the round ? 
 Welcome a ^ God's name, madam, and your son ! 
 England shall welcome you and all your rout.- 
 Gallop apace, 3 bright Phoebus, through the sky ; 
 And, dusky Night, in rusty iron car, 
 Between you both shorten the time, I pray, 
 That I may see that most desired day, 
 When we may meet these traitors in the field ! 
 Ah, nothing grieves me, but my little boy 
 Is thus misled to countenance their ills! 
 Come, friends, to Bristol, there to make us strong ; 
 And, winds, as equal be to bring them in. 
 As you injurious were to bear them forth ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella, Prince Edward, Kent, 
 the younger Mortuier, and Sir John of 
 Hainault.* 
 
 Q. Isab. Now, lords, our loving friends and 
 countrymen, 
 Welcome to England all, with prosperous winds ! 
 Our kindest friends in Belgia have we left. 
 To cope with friends at home ; a heavy case 
 When force to force is knit, and sword and glaive,^ 
 In civil broils make kin and countrymen 
 Slaughter themselves in others, and their sides 
 With their own weapons gor'd ! But what's the 
 
 help? 
 Misgovern'd kings are cause of all this wreck ; 
 And, Edward, thou art one among them all. 
 Whose looseness hath betray'd thy land to spoil, 
 Who made the channel « overflow with blood 
 Of thine own people : patron shouldst thou be ; 
 But thou — 
 
 Y. Mor. Nay, madam, if you be a warrior. 
 You must not grow so passionate in speeches. — 
 Lords, sith ^ that we are, by sufferance of heaven, 
 Arriv'd and arm^d in this prince's right. 
 Here for our country's cause swear we to him 
 All homage, fealty, and forwardness ; 
 And for the open wrongs and injuries 
 Edward hath done to us, his queen, and land, 
 We come in arms to wreak it with the sword ; 
 That England's queen in peace may repossess 
 Her dignities and honours ; and withal 
 We may remove these flatterers from the king, 
 That havock England's wealth and treasury. 
 
 Sir J. Sound trumpets, my lord ! and forward 
 let us march. 
 Edward will think we come to flatter him. 
 
 Kent. I would he never had been flatter'd 
 more ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter King Edward, Baldock, and the youngei' 
 Spenser, flying about the stage. 
 
 T. Spen. Fly, fly, my lord ! the queen is over- 
 strong ; 
 
 * a — in. 2 roM<— rabble, crew. 
 
 » Gallop apace. This of course reminds us of the well- 
 known passage in Romeo and Juliet; but it by no means 
 follows that Shakespeare stole the phrase: the drift of 
 the one passage is totally different from that of the 
 other. 
 
 * The scene is, of course, in England — Dyce says, near 
 Harwich. 
 
 * glaive here means halberd; it was also used to 
 signify a kind of broad-sword. 
 
 8 channel— liennel or gutter. ' sith — since. 
 
 Her friends do multiply, and yours do fail. 
 Shape we our course to Ireland, there to breathe. 
 
 K. Edw. What ! was I born to fly and run away, 
 And leave the Mortimers conquerors behind ? 
 Give me my horse, and let's reinforce our troops, 
 And in this bed of honour die with fame. 
 
 Bald. Oh no, my lord ! this princely resolutiou 
 Fits not the time : away ! we are pursu'd. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 Enter Kent, with a sword and target. 
 
 Kent. This way he fled; but I am come too 
 late. 
 Edward, alas, my heart relents for thee ! 
 Proud traitor, Mortimer, why dost thou chase 
 Thy lawful king, thy sovereign, with thy sword ? 
 Vile wretch, and why hast thou, of all unkind, 
 Borne arms against thy brother and thy king ? 
 Eain showers of vengeance on my cursed head, 
 Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs 
 To punish this unnatural revolt ! 
 Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life : 
 Oh fly him, then ! But, Edmund, calm this rage; 
 Dissemble, or thou diest ; for Moi-timer 
 And Isabel do kiss, while they conspire : 
 And yet she bears a face of love, forsooth ! 
 Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate ! 
 Edmund, away ! Bristow to Longshanks' blood 
 Is false ; be not found single for suspect : i 
 Proud Mortimer pries near into thy walks. 
 
 Enter Q.ueen Isabella, Prince Edavard, the 
 younger Mortimer, and Sir John of Hainault. 
 
 Q. Isab. Successful battle gives the God of 
 kings 
 To them that fight in right, and fear his wrath. 
 Since, then, successfully we have prevail'd. 
 Thanked be heaven's great Architect, and you ! 
 Ere farther we proceed, my noble lords. 
 We here create our well-beloved son. 
 Of love and care unto his royal person, 
 Lord Warden of the realm ; and, sith the Fates 
 Have made his father so infortunate. 
 Deal you, my lords, in this, my loving lords. 
 As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all. 
 
 Kejit. Madam, without offence if I may ask, 
 How will you deal with Edward in his fall ? 
 
 P. Edw. Tell me, good uncle, what Edward do 
 you mean ? 
 
 Kent. Nephew, your father ; I dare not call him 
 king. 
 
 Y. Mor. My Lord of Kent, what needs these 
 questions ? 
 'Tis not in her controlment nor in ours ; 
 But as the realm and parliament shall please, 
 So shall your brother be disposed of. — 
 I like not this relenting mood in Edmund: 
 Madam, 'tis good to look to him betimes. 
 
 [Aside to the Queen. 
 
 Q. Isab. My lord, the Mayor of Bristol knows 
 our mind. 
 
 Y. Moi\ Tea, madam; and they 'scape not 
 easily 
 That fled the field. 
 
 Q. Isab. Baldock is with the king : 
 A goodly chancellor, is he not, my lord ? 
 
 Sir J. So are the Spensers, the father and the 
 son. 
 
 Kent."^ This Edward is the ruin of the realm. 
 
 Enter Kice ap Howel, and the Mayor of Bristol, 
 
 with the elder Spenser ^r/sone?-, and Attendants. 
 
 Rice. God save Queen Isabel and her princely 
 
 1 52«/)W<— suspicion. 
 
 2 Dyce substitutes Young Mortimer for Kent. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 119 
 
 Madam, the mayor and citizens of Bristol, 
 In sign of love and duty to this presence, 
 Present by me this traitor to the state, 
 Spenser, the father to that wanton Spenser, 
 That, like the lawless Catiline of Rome, 
 Eevell'd in England's wealth and treasury. 
 
 Q. Isab. We thank you all. 
 
 Y. Mor. Your loving care in this 
 Deserveth princely favours and rewards. 
 But Where's the king and the other Spenser fled ? 
 
 Rice. Spenser the son, created Earl of Gloucester, 
 Is with that smooth -tongu'd scholar Baldock 
 
 gone, 
 And shipp'd but late for Ireland with the king. 
 
 Y. Mor. Some whirlwind fetch them back, or 
 sink them all ! — 
 They shall be started thence, I doubt it not. 
 
 P. Edw. Shall I not see the king my father 
 yet? 
 
 Kent. Unhappy Edward, chas'd from England's 
 bounds ! 
 
 Sir J. Madam, what resteth ? * why stand you 
 in a muse 7 
 
 Q. Isab. I rue my lord's ill-fortune ; but, alas, 
 Care of my country call'd me to this war ! 
 
 Y. Mm'. Madam, have done with care and sad 
 complaint : 
 Your king hath wrong'd your country and him- 
 self. 
 And we must seek to right it as we may. — 
 Meanwhile have hence this rebel to the block. 
 
 E. Spen. Rebel is he that fights against the 
 prince : 
 So fought not they that fought in Edward's right. 
 
 Y. Mor. Take him away ; he prates. 
 
 [Exeunt Attendants with the elder Spenser. 
 You, Rice ap Howel, 
 Shall do good service to her majesty. 
 Being of countenance in your country here, 
 To follow these rebellious runagates. — 
 We in meanwhile, madam, must take advice 
 How Baldock, Spenser, and their 'complices, 
 May in their fall be follow'd to their end. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Abbot, ^ Monks, King Edward, the 
 younger Spenser, and Baldock. 
 
 Abbot. Have you no doubt, my lord ; have you 
 
 no fear : 
 As silent and as careful we will be 
 To keep your royal person safe with us, 
 Free from suspect and fell invasion 
 Of such as have your majesty in chase. 
 Yourself, and those your chosen company, 
 As danger of this stormy time requires. 
 
 K. Edw. Father, thy face should harbour no 
 
 deceit. 
 Oh, hadst thou ever been a king, thy heart, 
 Pierc'd deeply with sense of my distress. 
 Could not but take compassion of my state ! 
 Stately and proud in riches and in train, 
 Whilom 2 I was powerful and full of pomp: 
 But what is he whom rule and empery* 
 Have not in life or death made miserable ? — 
 Come, Spenser, — come, Baldock, — come, sit down 
 
 by me; 
 Make trial now of that philosophy 
 That in our famous nurseries of arts 
 Thou suck'dst from Plato and from Aristotle. — 
 Father, this life contemplative is heaven : 
 
 * resiett— remaineth. 
 
 2 Enter the Abbot, &.c. Scene, -within the Abbey of 
 Neath.— Dyce. 
 
 3 Whilom — once, formerly 
 
 * empery — sometimes means empire, kingdom ; here 
 it means sovereignty. 
 
 Oh that I might this life in quiet lead ! 
 But we, alas, are chas'd ! — and you, my friends, 
 Your lives and my dishonour they pursue. — 
 Yet, gentle monks, for treasure, gold, nor fee, 
 Do you betray us and our company. 
 
 Eirst Monk. Your grace may sit secure, if none 
 but we 
 Do wot ^ of your abode. 
 
 Y. Spen. Not one alive : but shrewdly I suspect 
 A gloomy fellow in a mead below ; 
 'A gave a long look after us, my lord ; 
 And all the land, I know, is up in arms. 
 Arms that pui'sue our lives with deadly hate,. 
 
 Bald. We were embark'd for Ireland ; wretched 
 we, 
 With awkward winds and sore tempests driven, 
 To faU on shore, and here to pine in fear 
 Of Mortimer and his confederates ! 
 
 K. Edw. Mortimer ! who talks of Mortimer ? 
 Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer, 
 That bloody man ? — Good father, on thy lap 
 Lay I this head, laden with mickle ^ care. 
 Oh might I never ope these eyes again. 
 Never again lift up this drooping head, 
 Oh never more lift up this dying heart ! 
 
 Y. Spen. Look up, my lord. — Baldock, this 
 drowsiness 
 Betides no good : here even we are betray'd. 
 
 Enter, with Welsh kooks,^ Rice ap Howel, a 
 Mower, and Leicester. 
 
 Mow. Upon my life, these be the men ye seek. 
 
 Rice. Fellow, enough. — My lord, I pray, be 
 short ; 
 A fair commission warrants what we do. 
 
 Leices. The queen's commission, urg'd by Mor- 
 timer : 
 What cannot gallant Mortimer with the queen ? — 
 Alas, see where he sits, and hopes unseen 
 T' escape their hands that seek to reave * his life ! 
 Too true it is, Qusm^ dies vidit veniens superbum: 
 Hunc dies vidit fugiens jacentem. 
 But, Leicester, leave " to grow so passionate. — 
 Spenser and Baldock, by no other names, 
 I arrest you of high treason here. 
 Stand not on titles, but obey th' arrest : 
 'Tis in the name of Isabel the queen. — 
 My lord, why droop you thus ? 
 
 K. Edw. Oh day, the last of all my bliss on 
 earth ! 
 Centre of all misfortune ! Oh my stars, 
 Why do you low'r unkindly on a king ? 
 Comes Leicester, then, in Isabella's name, 
 To take my life, my company from me ? 
 Here, man, rip up this panting breast of mine. 
 And take my heart in rescue of my friends. 
 
 Rice. Away with them ! 
 
 Y. Spen. It may become thee yet 
 To let us take our farewell of his grace. 
 
 Abbot. My heart with pity earns ^ to see this 
 sight; 
 A king to bear these words and proud commands ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 K. Edw. Spenser, ah! sweet Spenser, thus, then, 
 must we part ? 
 
 1 wot — know; connected with wt^. 
 
 2 mickle— much. ; still used in Scotland ; Anglo-Saxon, 
 
 3 Welsh hooks. What kind of weapons these were is not 
 precisely known. Nares says they were swords made in 
 a hooked form ; another authority thinks they were a 
 species of Lochaber axe. 
 
 * reave — rob ; now bereave ; Anglo-Saxon, refian, to rob. 
 
 ^ Quern, &c.— 'He whom the morning beholds proud, 
 the departing day sees lying low.'— Seneca. 
 
 6 feave— cease. 
 
 " earns— yearns ; Anglo-Saxon, georn, desirous; coi 
 nected with earnest. 
 
120 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Y. Spen. We must, my lord ; so will the angry- 
 heavens. 
 
 K. Edio. Nay, so will hell and cruel Mortimer: 
 The gentle heavens have not to do iu this. 
 
 B(ild. My lord, it is in vain to grieve or storm. 
 Here humbly of your grace we take our leaves : 
 Our lots are cast ; I fear me, so is thine. 
 
 K. Edw. In heaven we may, in earth ne'er shall 
 we meet : — 
 And, Leicester, say, what shall become of us.' 
 
 Leices. Your majesty must go to Killingworth.* 
 
 K. Edw. Must ! it is somewhat hard Avhen kings 
 must go. 
 
 Leices. Here is a letter ready for your grace, 
 That waits your pleasure, and the day grows old. 
 
 Jiice. As good be gone, as stay and be benighted. 
 
 K. Edw. A litter hast thou ? lay me in a hearse, 
 And to the gates of hell convey me hence ; 
 liet Pluto's bells ring out my fatal knell. 
 And hags howl for my death at Charon's shore ; 
 For friends hath Edward none but these, and these 
 Must die under a tyrant's sword. 
 
 Rice. My lord, be going: care not for these ; 
 For we shall see them shorter by the heads. 
 
 K. Edw. Well, that shall be shall be : part we 
 must; 
 Sweet Spenser, gentle Baldock, part we must. — 
 Hence, feigned weeds ! ^ unfeigned are my woes. — 
 Father, farewell. — Leicester, thou stay'st for me ; 
 And go I must. — Life, farewell, with my friends ! 
 lExeunt King Edward and Leicester. 
 
 Y.Spen. Oh, is he gone.' is noble Edward gone? 
 Parted from hence, never to see us more ? 
 Eend, sphere of heaven ! and, fire, forsake thy 
 
 orb! 
 Eai-th, melt to air ! gone is my sovereign, 
 Gone, gone, alas» never to make return ! 
 
 Bald. Spenser, I see our souls are fleeting 
 hence ; 
 We are depriv'd the sunshine of our life. 
 Make for a new life, man ; throw up thy eyes, 
 And heart and hand to heaven's immortal throne ; 
 Pay nature's debt with cheerful countenance : 
 Eeduce we all our lessons unto this, — 
 To die, sweet Spenser, therefoi-e live we all ; 
 Spenser, all live to die, and rise to fall. 
 
 Bice. Come, come, keep these preachments till 
 you come to the place appointed. You, and such 
 as you are, have made wise work in England. 
 Will your lordships away ? 
 
 Mow. Your lordship I trust will remember me ? 
 
 Bice. Remember thee, fellow! what else? 
 Follow me to the town. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter King Edward,3 Leicester, the Bishop of 
 Winchester, and Trussel.< 
 
 Leices. Be patient, good my lord, cease to 
 lament ; 
 Imagine Killingworth Castle were your court, 
 And that you lay for pleasure here a space, 
 Not of compulsion or necessity. 
 
 K. Edw. Leicester, if gentle words might com- 
 fort me, ^ 
 Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrows, 
 For kind and loving hast thou always been. 
 The griefs of private men are soon allay'd ; 
 But not of kings. The forest deer, being struck, s 
 
 1 Killingworth — Kenilworth. 
 
 * ' Hence it appears that Edward has put on the 
 disguise of a monk, and wears it during the scene.' — 
 Dodsley's Old Plays (1825). 
 
 3 Scene, Kenilworth Castle. 
 
 * We have followed Dyce in the name Trussel; Dodsley 
 makes it T>~usty. 
 
 * Thefoi-est deer, being struck, &c.:— 
 
 ' But I suppose not that the earth doth yield 
 In Hill or Dale, in Forrest or in Field, 
 
 Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds : 
 But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd. 
 He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, 
 And highly scorning that the lowly earth 
 Should drink his blood, mounts up to the air: 
 And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind 
 Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb. 
 And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, 
 That thus hath pent and meAv'd me in a prisou ; 
 For such outrageous passions cloy my soul, 
 As with the wings of rancour and disdain 
 Full oft am I soaring up to heaven. 
 To plain i me to the gods against them both. 
 But when I call to mind I am a king, 
 Methinks I should revenge me of my wrongs, 
 That Mortimer and Isabel have done. 
 But what are kings, when regiment ^ is gone. 
 But perfect shadows in a sunshine day ? 
 My nobles rule ; I bear the name of king ; 
 I wear the crown ; but am controll'd by them, 
 By Mortimer, and my uuconstant queen. 
 Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy ; 
 Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care. 
 Where sorrow at my elbow still attends. 
 To company my heart with sad laments, 
 That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. 
 But tell me, must I now resign my crown. 
 To make usurping Mortimer a king ? 
 Bish. of Win. Your grace mistakes; it is for 
 
 England's good. 
 And pi-iucely Edward's right, we crave the crown. 
 K. Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's 
 
 head ; 
 For he's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, 
 Which in a moment will abridge his life. 
 But, if proud Mortimer do wear this crown. 
 Heavens turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire ! 
 Or, like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, 
 Engirt the temples of his hateful head ! 
 So shall not England's vines be perished. 
 But Edward's name survive, though Edward 
 
 dies. 
 Leices. My lord, why waste you thus the time 
 
 away ? 
 They stay your answer: will you yield your 
 
 crown ? 
 K. Edw. Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly I 
 
 can brook 
 To lose my crown and kingdom without cause; 
 To give ambitious Mortimer my right, 
 That, like a mountain, overwhelms my bliss ; 
 In which extremes my mind here murder'd is ! 
 But that the heavens appoint I must obey. — 
 Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too : 
 Two kings in England cannot reign at once. 
 But stay a while : let me be king till night, 
 That I may gaze upon this glittering crown ; 
 So shall my eyes receive their last content. 
 My head, the latest honour due to it, 
 And jointly both yield up their Avished right. 
 Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; 
 Let never silent night possess this clime ; 
 Stand still, you watches of the element ; 
 All times and seasons, rest you at a stay, 
 That Edward may be still fair England's king! 
 But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, 
 And needs I must resign my wished crown. 
 Inhuman creatures, nurs'd Avith tiger's milk, 
 
 A rarer Plant then Candian Dittanie; 
 Which wounded Deer eating, immediately 
 Not only cures their wounds exceeding well. 
 But 'gainst the Shooter doth the shaft repel.' 
 
 —Sylvester's Du Bartas,—The Third Day of the First 
 
 Week, p. 27, ed. 1641.— Quoted by Dyce. 
 
 1 j9Zain— complain. 
 
 2 regiment — goverament. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 121 
 
 Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow — 
 
 My diadem, I mean, and guiltless life? 
 
 See, monsters, see ! I'll wear my crown again, 
 
 [Putting on the a-own. 
 What ! fear you not the fuiy of your king ? — 
 But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly ^ led : 
 They pass ^ not for thy frowns as late they did, 
 But seek to make a new-elected king ; 
 Which fills my mind with sti-ange despairing 
 
 thoughts, 
 Which thoughts are martyred with endless 
 
 torments ; 
 And in this torment comfort find I none, 
 But that I feel the crown upon my head ; 
 And therefore let me wear it yet a while. 
 
 Tnis. My lord, the parliament must have 
 present news ; 
 And therefore say, will you resign or no ? 
 
 [The King rageth. 
 
 K. Edw. I'll not resign, but, whilst I live, be 
 king. 
 Traitors, be gone, and join with Mortimer. 
 Elect, conspire, install, do what you will : 
 Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries. 
 
 Bish. of Win. This answer we'U return ; and 
 60, farewell. 
 
 Leices. Call them again, my lord, and speak 
 them fair ; 
 For, if they go, the prince shall lose his right. 
 
 K. Edw. Call thou them back ; I have no 
 power to speak. 
 
 Leices. My lord, the king is willing to resign. 
 
 Bish. of Win. If he be not, let him choose. 
 
 K. Edw. Oh would I might ! but heavens and 
 earth conspire 
 To make me miserable. Here, receive my crown. 
 Beceive it 7 no, these innocent hands of mine 
 Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime : 
 He of you all that most desires my blood. 
 And will be call'd the murderer of a king. 
 Take it. What! are you mov'd ? pity you me? 
 Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, 
 And Isabel, whose eyes being turn'd to steel 
 Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. 
 Yet stay ; for, rather than I'll look on them, 
 Here, here! — Now, sweet God of heaven, 
 Make me despise this transitory pomp. 
 And sit for aye enthronizfed in heaven ! 
 Come, death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, 
 Or, if I live, lot me forget myself ! 
 
 Enter Berkeley. 
 
 BerJc. My lord. 
 
 K. Edw. Call me not lord 5 away, out of my 
 sight ! 
 Ah, pardon me ! grief makes me lunatic. 
 Let not that Mortimer protect my son ; 
 More safety there is in a tiger's jaws 
 Than his embracements. Bear this to the queen 
 Wet with my tears, and dried again with sighs : ^ 
 If with the sight thereof she be not mov'd, 
 Return it back, and dip it in my blood. 
 Commend me to my son, and bid him rule 
 Better than I : yet how have I transgress'd. 
 Unless it be with too much clemency ? 
 
 Ti-us. And thus, most humbly do we take our 
 leave. 
 
 K.Edw. Farewell. 
 
 [Exeunt the Bishop of Winchester and 
 Trussel with the crown. 
 I know the next news that they bring 
 
 ^/onc/Zy— foolishly; fond, i.e. fonmd, comes from old 
 English /orane, Scotch /on, to be foolish. 
 
 - pass — care. 
 
 3 The king apparently is supposed to give a handker- 
 chief or some such thing here. 
 
 Will be my death ; and welcome shall it be : 
 To wretched men death is felicity. 
 
 Leices. Another post ! what news brings he ? 
 
 K. Edw. Such news as I expect. — Come, 
 Berkeley, come, 
 And tell thy message to my naked breast. 
 
 Be^'k. My lord, think not a thought so vil- 
 lanous 
 Can harbour in a man of noble birth. 
 To do your highness service and devoir. 
 And save you from your foes, Berkeley would 
 die. 
 
 Leices. My lord, the council and the queen 
 commands 
 That I i-esign my charge. 
 
 K. Edw. And who must keep me now ? Must 
 you, my lord ? 
 
 BerTc. Ay, my most gracious lord; so 'tis decreed. 
 
 K. Edw. [Taking the paper. l By Mortimer, 
 whose name is written here ! 
 Well may I rent his name that rends my heart. 
 
 [Tears it. 
 This poor revenge hath something eas'd my 
 
 mind : 
 So may his limbs be torn as is this paper! 
 Hear me, immortal Jove,^ and grant it too ! 
 
 Berk. Your grace must hence with me to 
 Berkeley straight. 
 
 K. Edw. Whither you will: all places are alike. 
 And every earth is fit for burial. 
 
 Leices. Favour him, my lord, as much as lieth 
 in you. 
 
 Berk. Even so betide my soul as I use him ! 
 
 K. Edw. Mine enemy hath pitied my estate. 
 And that's the cause that I am now remov'd. 
 
 Berk. And thinks your grace that Berkeley 
 will be cruel ? 
 
 K. Edw. I know not ; but of this am I assur'd, 
 That death ends all, and I can die but once. — 
 Leicester, farewell. 
 
 Leices. Not yet, my lord ; I'll bear you on your 
 way. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella and the younger Mortimer. 
 
 Y. Mor. Fair Isabel, now have we our desire ; 
 The proud corrupters of the light-brain'd king 
 Have done their homage to the lofty gallows. 
 And he himself lies in captivity. 
 Be rul'd by me, and we will rule the realm : 
 In any case take heed of childish fear, 
 For now we hold an old wolf by the ears, 
 That, if he slip, will seize upon us both, 
 And gripe the sorer, being grip'd himself. 
 Think therefore, madam, that [it] imports ua 
 
 much 
 To erect your son with aU the speed we may, 
 And that I be protector over him : 
 For our behoof, 'twill bear the greater sway 
 Whenas ^ a king's name shall be under- writ. 
 
 Q. Isab. Sweet Mortimer, the life of Isabel, 
 Be thou persuaded that I love thee well ; 
 And therefore, so the prince my son be safe. 
 Whom I esteem as dear as these mine eyes, 
 Conclude against his father what thou wilt. 
 And I myself will willingly subscribe, 
 
 Y. Mor. Fii-st would I hear news he were 
 depos'd. 
 And then let me alone to handle him. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Letters ! from whence ? 
 
 Mess. From Killingworth, my lord. 
 
 1 /ore— Jehovah, a not uncommon abbreviation of the 
 word with old writers, 
 
 2 Whenas — when. 
 
122 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Q. hah. How fares my lord the king ? 
 
 Mess. In health, madam, but full of pensive- 
 ness. 
 
 Q. Isab. Alas, poor soul, would I could ease 
 his grief ! 
 
 Enter the Bishop of "Winchester with the crown. 
 
 Thanks, gentle Winchester. — 
 
 Sirrah, be gone. [Exit Messenger, 
 
 Bish. of Win. The king hath willingly resign'd 
 his crown. 
 
 Q. Isab. Oh, happy news ! send for the prince 
 my son. 
 
 Bish. of Win. Further, or this letter was 
 seal'd, Lord Berkeley came, 
 So that he now is gone from Killingworth ; 
 A.nd we have heard that Edmund laid a plot 
 To set his brother free ; no more, but so. 
 The Lord of Berkeley is so pitiful 
 As Leicester that had charge of him before. 
 
 Q. Isab. Then let some other be his guardian. 
 
 Y. Mor. Let me alone ; here is the privy-seal. — * 
 Who's there ? Call hither Gurney and Matrevis. — 
 [To Attendants within. 
 To dash the heavy-headed Edmund's drift, 
 Berkeley shall be discharg'd, the king remov'd. 
 And none but we shall know where he lieth. 
 
 Q. Isab. But, Mortimer, as long as he survives, 
 What safety rests for us or for my son ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Speak, shall he presently be despatch'd 
 and die.? 
 
 Q. Isab. I would he were, so 'twere not by my 
 means. 
 
 Enter Matrevis 2 and Gurney. 
 
 F. Mor. Enough. — Matrevis, write a letter 
 presently 
 Unto the Lord of Berkeley from ourself, 
 That he resign the king to thee and Gurney ; 
 And, when 'tis done, we will subscribe our name. 
 
 Mat. It shall be done, my lord. 
 
 Y. Mor. Gurney — 
 
 Gur. My lord ? 
 
 Y. Mor. As thou intend'st to rise by Mortimer, 
 Who now makes Fortune's wheel turn as he 
 
 please. 
 Seek all the means thou canst to make him droop, 
 And neither give him kind word nor good 
 look. 
 
 Gur. 1 warrant you, my lord. 
 
 Y. Mor. And this above the rest: because we 
 hear 
 That Edmund casts ^ to work his liberty, 
 Eemove him still from place to place by night. 
 Till at the last he come to Killingworth, 
 And then from thence to Berkeley back again ; 
 And by the way, to make him fret the more. 
 Speak curstly* to him ; and in any case 
 Let no man comfort him, if he chance to weep, 
 But amplify 5 his grief with bitter words. 
 
 Mat. Fear not, my lord; we'll do as you com- 
 mand. 
 
 Y. Mor. So, now away ! post thitherwards 
 amain. 
 
 Q. Isab. Whither goes this letter ? to my lord 
 the king ? 
 Commend me humbly to his majesty, 
 And tell him that I labour all in vain 
 
 > Dyce places the exit of the Bishop of Winchester 
 here; neither his entrance nor exit is marked in the 
 old editions. 
 
 2 Matrevis— Sir John Maltravers. 
 
 3 cowfc— contrives ; we now speak of casting about. 
 * curstly— crossly, ill-naturedly, shrewishly. 
 
 5 amplify is here used in its literal sense, to make 
 large or larger, increase. 
 
 To ease his grief and work his Uberty ; 
 And bear him this as witness of my love. 
 
 [Gives Hng. 
 Mat. I will, madam. [Exit with Gurney. 
 
 Y. Mor. Finely dissembled ! do so still, sweet 
 queen. 
 
 Enter Prince 'EnwAUD^andKEinT talking withhim. 
 
 Here comes the young prince with the Earl of 
 Kent. 
 
 Q. Isab. Something he whispers in his childish 
 ears. 
 
 Y. Mor. If he have such access unto the 
 prince. 
 Our plots and stratagems will soon be dash'd. 
 
 Q. Isab. Use Edmund friendly, as if all were 
 well. 
 
 Y. Mor. How fares my honourable Lord of 
 Kent ? 
 
 Kent. In health, sweet Mortimer, — How fares 
 your grace ? 
 
 Q. Isab. Well, if my lord your brother were 
 enlarg'd.^ 
 
 Kent. I hear of late he hath depos'd himself. 
 
 Q. Isab. The more my grief. 
 
 Y. Mor. And mine. 
 
 Kent. Ah, they do dissemble ! [Aside. 
 
 Q. Isab. Sweet son, come hither; I must talk 
 with thee. 
 
 Y. Mor. You, being his uncle and the next of 
 blood, 
 Do look to be protector o'er the prince. 
 
 Kent. Not I, my lord : who should protect the 
 son. 
 But she that gave him life ? I mean the queen. 
 
 P. Edw. Mother, persuade me not to wear the 
 crown : 
 Let him be king ; I am too yoimg to reign. 
 
 Q. Isab. But be content, seeing 'tis his high- 
 ness' pleasure. 
 
 P. Edw. Let me but see him first, and then I 
 will. 
 
 Kent. Aj, do, sweet nephew. 
 
 Q. Isab. Brother, you know it is impossible. 
 
 P. Edw. Why, is he dead? 
 
 Q. Isab. No ; God forbid! 
 
 Kent. I would those words proceeded from 
 your heart ! 
 
 Y. Mor. Inconstant Edmund, dost thou favour 
 him. 
 That wast a cause of his imprisonment ? 
 
 Kent. The more cause have I now to make 
 amends. 
 
 Y. Mor. [aside to Q. Isab.] 
 
 I tell thee, 'tis not meet that one so false 
 Should come about the person of a prince. — 
 My lord, he hath betray'd the king his brother, 
 And therefore trust him not. 
 
 P. Edw. But he repents, and sorrows for it 
 now. 
 
 Q. Isab. Come, son, and go with this gentle 
 lord and me. 
 
 P. Edw. With you I will, but not with Mor- 
 timer. 
 
 Y. Mor. Why, youngling, 'sdain'st thou so of 
 Mortimer ? 
 Then I will carry thee by force away. 
 
 P. Edw. Help, uncle Kent! Mortimer will 
 wrong me. 
 
 Q. Isab. Brother Edmund, strive not ; we are 
 his friends ; 
 Isabel is nearer than the Earl of Kent. 
 
 Kent. Sister, Edward is my charge; redeem 
 him. 
 
 enlarged— set at large. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 123 
 
 Q. Isctb. Edward is my son, and I -will keep 
 him. 
 Kent. Mortimer shall know that he hath 
 wronged me. 
 Hence will I haste to Killingworth Castle, 
 And rescue ag^d Edward from his foes, 
 To be reveng'd on Mortimer and thee. 
 
 \Exeunt omnes. 
 
 Enter Matrevis, Gurney, and Soldiers, with 
 
 King Edward. 
 Mat. My lord, be not pensive ; we are your 
 friends : 
 Men are ordain'd to live in misery ; 
 Therefore, come ; dalliance dangereth our lives. 
 K. Edw. Friends, whither must unhappy 
 Edward go ? 
 Will hateful Mortimer appoint no rest ? 
 Must I be vex^d like the nightly bird, 
 Whose sight is loathsome to all winged fowls ? 
 When will the fuiy of his mind assuage ? 
 When will his heart be satisfied with blood ? 
 If mine will serve, unbowel straight this breast, 
 And give my heart to Isabel and him : 
 It is the chiefest mark they level at. 
 
 Gur. Not so, my liege : the queen hath given 
 this charge. 
 To keep your grace in safety : 
 Your passions make you dolours 1 to increase. 
 
 K. Edw. This usage makes my misery increase. 
 But can my air of life continue long. 
 When all my senses are annoy'd with stench ? 
 Within a dungeon England's king is kept, 
 Where I am starv'd for want of sustenance ; 
 My daily diet is heart-breaking sobs, 
 That almost rent the closet of my heart : 
 Thus lives old Edward not reliev'd by any. 
 And so must die, though pitied by many. 
 Oh, water, gentle friends, to cool my thirst, 
 And clear my body from foul excrements ! 
 Mat. Here's channel- water, 2 as our charge is 
 given : 
 Sit down, for we'll be barbers to your grace. 
 K. Edw. Traitors, away! What! will you 
 murder me, 
 Or choke your sovereign with puddle-water ? 
 Gur. No, but wash your face, and shave away 
 your beard, 
 Lest you be known, and so be rescued. 
 
 Mat. Why strive you thus ? your labour is in 
 vain. 
 
 K. Edw. The wren may strive against the lion's 
 strength, 
 But all in vain : so vainly do I strive 
 To seek for mercy at a tyrant's hand. 
 
 [They wash him with puddle-water, and 
 shave his beard away. 
 
 Immortal powers, that know the painful cares 
 That wait upon my poor distressed soul. 
 Oh, level all your looks upon these daring men 
 That wrong their liege and sovereign, England's 
 
 king! 
 Oh Gaveston, it is for thee that I am wrong'd ! 
 For me, both thou and both the Spensers died ; 
 And for your sakes a thousand wrongs I'll take. 
 The Spensers' ghosts, wherever they remain, 
 Wish well to mine; then, tush, for them I'll die. 
 Mat. 'Twixt theirs and yours shall be no 
 
 enmity. 
 Come, come, away ! Now put the torches out : 
 We'll enter in by darkness to Killingworth. 
 Gur. How now ! who comes there ? 
 
 * dolours — gi-iefs. 
 
 * channel-water — kennel-water, water from the sewer. 
 
 Enter Kext. 
 
 3fat. Guard the king sure; it is the Earl of 
 Kent. 
 
 K. Edw. Oh, gentle brother, help to rescue me. 
 
 Mat. Keep them asunder : thrust in the king. 
 
 Kent. Soldiers, let me but talk to him one 
 word. 
 
 Gur. Lay hands upon the earl for his assault, 
 
 Kent. Lay down your weapons, traitors ! yield 
 the king ! 
 
 Mat. Edmund, yield thou thyself, or thou shalt 
 die. 
 
 Kent. Base villains, wherefore do you gripe me 
 thus? 
 
 Gur. Bind him, and so convey him to the court. 
 
 Kent. Where is the court but here ? Here is 
 the king ; 
 And I will visit him ; why stay you me ? 
 
 Mat. The court is where Lord Mortimer re- 
 mains : 
 Thither shall your honour go ; and so, farewell. 
 [Exeunt Matrevis and Gurxey 
 with King Edward. 
 
 Kent. Oh, miserable is that commonweal, 
 Where lords keep courts, and kings are locked in 
 prison ! 
 Eij'st Sold. Wherefore stay we ? On, sirs, to the 
 court! 
 Kent. Ay, lead me whither you will, even to 
 my death, 
 Seeing that my brother cannot be releas'd. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the younger Mortimer. 
 
 Y. Mor. The king must die, or Mortimer goes 
 down; 
 The commons now begin to pity him : 
 Yet he that is the cause of Edward's death. 
 Is sure to pay for it when his son's of age ; 
 And therefore will I do it cunningly. 
 This letter, written by a friend of ours. 
 Contains his death, yet bids them save his life. 
 
 [Reads. 
 Edwardum occidere nolite timere, honum est, 
 Fear not to kill the Mng, His good he die : 
 But reads it thus, and that's another sense ; 
 Edwardum occidere nolite, iimere honum est. 
 Kill not the king, His good to fear the worst.^ 
 Unpointed as it is, thus shall it go. 
 That, being dead, if it chance to be found, 
 Matrevis and the rest may bear the blame. 
 And we be quit that caus'd it to be done. 
 Within this room is lock'd the messenger 
 That shall convey it, and perform the rest ; 
 And, by a secret token that he bears. 
 Shall he be murder'd when the deed is done.— 
 Lightborn, come forth ! 
 
 Enter Lightborn. 
 
 Art thou so resolute as thou wast ? 
 
 Light. What else, my lord.-* and far more 
 resolute. 
 
 Y. Mor. And hast thou cast^ how to accom- 
 plish it? 
 
 Light. Ay, ay; and none shall know which 
 way he died. 
 
 Y. Mor. But at his looks, Lightborn, thou wilt 
 relent. 
 
 1 'It is said that King Edward, of Carnarvon, lying at 
 Berkeley Castle prisoner, a cardinal wrote to his keeper, 
 Edwardum occidere noli, iimere bonum est, which heing 
 read with the point at iimere. cost the king his life.'— 
 Sir J. Harrington, quoted in Dodsley (ed. 1825). 
 
 2 cast — contrived. 
 
124 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Lirjht. Relent ! ha ! ha ! I use much to relent. 
 
 Y. Mor. Well, do it bravely, and be secret. 
 
 Light. You shall not need to give insti'uctions ; 
 'Tis not the first time I have kill'd a man : 
 I learn'd in Naples how to poison flowers; 
 To strangle with a lawn^ thrust through the 
 
 throat ; 
 To pierce the wind-pipe with a needle's point ; 
 Or, whilst one is asleep, to take a quill 
 And blow a little powder in his ears ; 
 Or open his mouth, and pour quicksilver down. 
 But yet I have a braver way than these. 
 
 r. Mor. What's that ? 
 
 Light. Nay, you shall pardon me ; none shall 
 know my tricks, 
 
 Y. Mor. I care not how it is, so it be not spied. 
 Deliver this to Gux*ney and Matrevis : 
 
 [Gives letter. 
 At every ten-mile end thou hast a horse : 
 Take this : away, and never see me more ! 
 
 Light. No? 
 
 Y. Mor. No; unless thou bring me news of 
 Edward's death. 
 
 Light. That will I quickly do. Farewell, my 
 lord. [^Exit. 
 
 Y. Mor. The prince I rule, the queen do I 
 command. 
 And with a lowly conge 2 to the ground 
 The proudest lords salute me as I pass ; 
 I seal, 1 cancel, I do what I will. 
 Tear'd am I more than lov'd ; — let me be fear'd. 
 And, when I frown, make all the court look pale. 
 I view the prince with Aristarchus' ' eyes. 
 Whose looks were as a breeching* to a boy. 
 They thrust upon me the protectorship, 
 And sue to me for that that I desire ; 
 While at the council-table, grave enough, 
 And not unlike a bashful Puritan, 
 First I complain of embecility. 
 Saying it is onus quam gravissimum ;' 
 Till, being interrupted by my friends, 
 Suscepi ih&i provinciam^^ as they terra it; 
 And, to conclude, I am Protector now. 
 Now is all sure : the queen and Mortimer 
 Shall rule the realm, the king ; and none rule us. 
 Mine enemies will 1 plague, my friends advance ; 
 And what I list command who dare control ? 
 Major sum quam cui possit fortuna nocereJ 
 And that this be the coronation-day, 
 It pleaseth me and Isabel the queen. 
 
 {Trumpets within. 
 The trumpets sound ; I must go take my place. 
 
 Enttr King Edward the Third, Queen Isa- 
 bella, the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 Champion, and Nobles. 
 
 Archh. of Cant. Long live King Edward, by 
 the grace of God 
 King of England and Lord of Ireland ! 
 
 Cham. If any C/hristian, Heathen, Turk, or 
 Jew, 
 Dares but affirm that Edward's not true king, 
 And will avouch his saying with the sword, 
 I am the Champion that will combat him. 
 Y. Mor. None comes : sound trumpets ! 
 K. Edw. Third. Champion, here's to thee. 
 
 {Gives pur$e. 
 
 1 laicn—a. towel, or something made of lawn ? 
 
 2 C07i(/e — bow. 
 
 3 Aristarchus of Alexandria, who floiuMshed about 150 
 B.C., was the most celebrated critic of antiquity. 
 
 * breeching — whipping. 
 
 ^ ' A burden inconceivably hea^'>'.' 
 
 • ' I have undertaken that office.' 
 
 '^ 'I am too great for fortune to injure.' — Ovid, ilet. 
 vi. 195. 
 
 Q. Isab. Lord Mortimer, now take him to your 
 charge. 
 
 Enter Soldiers toith Kk^t prisoner. 
 Y. Mor. What traitor have we there with 
 blades and bills .' 
 First Sold. Edmund the Earl of Kent. 
 K. Edw. Third. What hath he done ? 
 First Sold. 'A would have taken the king away 
 perforce, 
 As we were bringing him to Killing worth. 
 
 Y. Mor. Did you attempt his rescue Edmund ? 
 Speak. 
 
 Kent. Mortimer, I did ; he is our king, 
 And thou compell'st this prince to wear the 
 crown. 
 Y. Mm: Strike off his head ; he shall have 
 martial law. 
 
 Kent. Strike off my head ! base traitor, I defy 
 thee ! 
 
 K. Edw. Third. My lord, he is my uncle, and 
 shall live. 
 
 Y. Mor. My lord, he is your enemy, and shall 
 die. 
 Kent. Stay, villains ! 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Sweet mother, if I cannot 
 pardon him, 
 Entreat my Lord Protector for his life. 
 
 Q. Isab. Son, be content : I dare not speak a 
 word. 
 K. Edw. Third. Nor I : and yet, methinks, I 
 should command : 
 But, seeing I cannot, I'll entreat for him. 
 My lord, if j'ou will let my uncle live, 
 I will requite it when I come to age. 
 
 Y. Mor. 'Tis for your highness' good, and foi 
 the realm's. 
 How often shall I bid you bear him hence .' 
 
 Kent. Art thou king ? must I die at thy com- 
 mand? 
 
 Y. Mor. At our command. Once more, away 
 with him. 
 Kent. Let me but stay and speak ; I will not 
 go: 
 Either my brother or his son is king, 
 And none of both them thirst for Edmund's 
 
 blood : 
 And therefore, soldiers, whither will you hale 
 me? 
 
 [Soldiers hale Kent away, and carry him 
 to he beheaded. 
 K. Edw. Third. What safety may I look for at 
 his hands. 
 If that my uncle shall be mnrder'd thus ? 
 
 Q. Isab. Fear not, sweet boy ; I'll guai-d thee 
 from thy foes : 
 Had Edmund liv'd, he would have sought thy 
 
 death. 
 Come, son, we'll ride a-hunting in the park. 
 
 K. Edto. Third. And shall my uncle Edmund 
 ride with us ? 
 
 Q. Isab. He is a traitor; think not on him: 
 Come. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 
 
 3fat. Gurney, I wonder the king dies not, 
 Being in a vault up to the knees in water, 
 To which the channels^ of the castle run. 
 From whence a damp continually ariseth. 
 That were enough to poison any man, 
 Much more a king, brought up "so tenderly. 
 
 Gur. And so do I, Matrevis: yesteniight 
 I open'd but the door to throw him meat, 
 And I was almost stifled with the savour. 
 
 Mat. He hath a body able to endure 
 
 channels — kennels. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, 
 
 125 
 
 More than we can inflict : and therefore now 
 Let lis assail his mind another while. 
 
 Gur. Send for him out thence, and I will anger 
 him. 
 
 Mai. But stay ; who's this ? 
 
 Enter Lightborn. 
 
 Light. My Lord Protector greets you. 
 
 {Gives letter. 
 
 Gur. "What's here? I know not how to con- 
 strue it. 
 
 Mat. Gurney, it was left unpointed for the 
 nonce;! 
 Edwardum occidere nolite timere,'^ 
 That's his meaning. 
 
 Light. Know you this token ? I must have the 
 king. {Gives token. 
 
 Mat. Ay, stay a while; thou shalt have answer 
 straight. — 
 This villain's sent to make away the king. 
 
 Guv. I thought as much. 
 
 Mat. And, when the murder's done, 
 See how he must be handled for his labour, — 
 Pereat iste! ^ Let him have the king ; 
 What else ? — Here is the keys, this is the lake : 
 Do as you are commanded by my lord. 
 
 Light. I know what I must do. Get you away : 
 Yet be not far off ; I shall need your help : 
 See that in the next room I have a fii'e, 
 And get me a spit, and let it be red-hot. 
 
 Mat. Very well. 
 
 Gur. Need you anything besides ? 
 
 Light. What else ? a table and a feather-bed. 
 
 Gur. That's all? 
 
 Light. Ay, ay : so, when I call you, bring it in. 
 
 Mat. Fear not thou that. 
 
 Gur. Here's a light to go into the dungeon. 
 
 [Exit with Matrevis. 
 
 Light. So now* 
 Must I about this gear : s ne'er was there any 
 So finely handled as this king shall be. — 
 Fob, here's a place indeed, with all my heart! 
 
 K. Edw. Who's there? what light is that? 
 wherefore com'st thou ? 
 
 Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful 
 news. 
 
 K. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in 
 thy looks : 
 Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. 
 
 Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 
 Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
 The queen sent me to see how you were us'd, 
 For she relents at this your misery : 
 And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, 
 To see a king in this most piteous state ? 
 
 K. Edw. Weep'st thou already ? list a while to 
 me, 
 -And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is. 
 Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Caucasus, 
 Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale. 
 This dungeon where they keep me is the sink 
 Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
 
 Light. Oh, villains! 
 
 K. Edw. And there, in mire and puddle, have 
 I stood 
 This ten days' space, and, lest that J should 
 
 sleep. 
 One plays continually upon a drum ; 
 They give me bread and watex-, being a king ; 
 
 1 for the nonce— {ov the occasion. See note 5, p. 55, 
 1st, col. . i- > 
 
 2 ' Don't be afraid to slay Edward.' 
 
 3 ' Kill this fellow.' 
 
 * So now, <fcc. Of course the scene is supposed to be 
 changed to the dungeon in which Edward is confined. 
 
 * </ear— business ; Anglo-Saxon, girian, to prepare. 
 
 So that, for want of sleep and sustenance. 
 My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd, 
 And whether I have limbs or no I know not. 
 Oh, would my blood dropp'd out from every vein, 
 As doth this water from my tatter'd robes ! 
 Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus 
 When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 
 And there unhors'd the Duke of Claremont. 
 
 Light. Oh, speak no more, my lord ! this breaks 
 my heart. 
 Lie on this bed, and rest yourself a while. 
 
 K. Edw. These looks of thine can harbour 
 naught but death : 
 I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
 Yet stay a while ; forbear thy bloody hand. 
 And let me see the stroke before it comes, 
 That even then when I shall lose my life, 
 My mind may be more stedfast on my God. 
 
 Light. What means your highness to mistrust 
 me thus ? 
 
 K. Edw. What mean'st thou to dissemble wiih 
 me thus ? 
 
 Light. These hands were never stained with 
 innocent blood. 
 Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. 
 
 K. Edw. Forgive my thought for having such 
 a thought. 
 One jewel have I left ; receive thou this : 
 Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause. 
 But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
 Oh, if thou harbour's murder in thy heart, 
 Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul ! 
 Know that I am a king : oh, at that name 
 I feel a hell of grief ! Where is my crown ? 
 Gone, gone ! and do I remain alive ? 
 
 Light. You're overwatch'd,i my lord : lie down 
 and rest. 
 
 K. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I 
 should sleep ; 
 For not these ten days have these eyelids clos'd. 
 Now, as I speak, they fall ; and yet'with fear 
 Open again. Oh, wherefore sit'st thou here ? 
 
 Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. 
 
 K. Edw. No, no ; for if thou mean'st to murder 
 me, 
 Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. 
 
 {Sleeps. 
 
 Light. He sleeps. 
 
 K. Edw. {waking.} Oh, let me not die! yet stay, 
 oh, stay a while ! 
 
 Light. How now, my lord ! 
 
 K. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, 
 And tells me, if I sleep, I never wake : 
 This fear is that which makes me tremble thus ; 
 And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 
 
 Light. To rid thee of thy life.— Matrevis, come! 
 
 Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 
 K. Edw. 1 am too weak and feeble to resist. — 
 Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul ! 
 Light. Run for the table. 
 K. Edw. Oh, spare me, or despatch me in a 
 trice ! 
 
 Light. So, lay the table down, and stamp on it, 
 
 But not too hard, lest that you bruise his body. 
 
 ^Edward is murdered by holding him down 
 
 on the bed with the table, and stanijnng on it.^ 
 
 Mat. 1 fear me that this cry will raise tlie town. 
 
 And therefore let us take liorse and away. 
 
 Light. Tell me, sirs, was it not bravely done ? 
 
 Gur. Excellent well : take this for thy reward. 
 
 {Stabs LiGHTBORN, who dies. 
 
 1 overwatch'd — wearied with too much watching. 
 
 2 The ' red-hot spit,' with which Edward is said to 
 have been murdered, and which is mentioned abovfl, 
 seems not to have been produced on the stage. 
 
126 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Come, let us cast tlie body in the moat, 
 And bear the king's to Mortimer our lord : 
 Away ! \_Exeunt omnes. 
 
 Enter the younger Mokttmer and Matbevis. 
 
 Y. Mor. Is't done, Matrevis, and the murderer 
 dead? 
 
 Mat. Ay, my good lord ; I would it were un- 
 done! 
 
 Y. Mor. Matrevis, if thou now grow'st penitent, 
 I'll be thy ghostly father ; therefore choose, 
 Whether thou wilt be secret in this, 
 Or else die by the hand of Mortimer. 
 
 Mat. Gurney, my lord, is fled, and will, I fear, 
 Betray us both ; therefore let me fly. 
 
 Y. Mor. Fly to the savages ! i 
 
 Mat. I humbly thank your honour. [Exit. 
 
 Y. Mor. As for myself, I stand as Jove's huge 
 tree. 
 And others are but shrubs compar'd to me : 
 All tremble at my name, and I fear none : 
 Let's see who dare impeach me for his death ! 
 
 Enter Queen Isabella. 
 
 Q. Isab. Ah, Mortimer, the king my son hath 
 news. 
 His father's dead, and we have murder'd him ! 
 
 Y. Mor. What if he have ? the king is yet a 
 child. 
 
 Q. Isab. Ay, ay; but he tears his hair, and wrings 
 his hands, 
 And vows to be reveng'd upon us both. 
 Into the council-chamber he is gone. 
 To crave the aid and succour of his peers. 
 Ay me, see where he comes, and they with him ! 
 Now, Mortimer, begins our tragedy. 
 
 Ente^" King Edward the Third, Lords, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 First Lord. Fear not, my lord ; know that you 
 are a king. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Villain!— 
 
 Y. Mor. Ho,^ now, my lord ! 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Think not that I am frighted 
 with thy words : 
 My father's murder'd through thy treachery ; 
 And thou shalt die, and on his moui'nful hearse 
 Thy hateful and accursM head shall lie. 
 To witness to the world that by thy means 
 His kingly body was too soon interr'd. 
 
 Q. Isab. Weep not, sweet son. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Forbid not me to weep ; he 
 was my father ; 
 And, had you lov'd him half so well as I, 
 You could not bear his death thus patiently : 
 But you, I fear, conspir'd with Mortimer. 
 
 First Lord. Why speak you not unto my lord 
 the king ? 
 
 Y. Mor. Because I think scorn to be accus'd. 
 Who is the man dares say I murder'd him ? 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Traitor, in me my loving father 
 
 And plainly saith, 'twas thou that murder'dst 
 him. 
 
 Y. Mor. But hath your grace no other proof 
 than this ? 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Yes, if this be the hand of 
 Mortimer. [Showing paper. 
 
 Y. Mor. False Gurney hath betray'd me and 
 himself. [Aside to Queen. 
 
 Q. Isab. I fear'd as much : murder cannot be 
 hid. 
 
 Y. Mor. It is my hand ; what gather you by 
 this? 
 
 » ifo—stop, hold. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. That thither thou didst send a 
 murderer. 
 
 Y. Mor. What murderer ? Bring forth the man 
 I sent. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Ah, Mortimer, thou know'st 
 that he is slain ! 
 And so shalt thou be too. — Why stays he here ? 
 Bring him unto a hurdle, drag him forth ; 
 Hang him, I say, and set his quarters up : 
 But bring his head back presently to me. 
 
 Q. Isab. For my sake, sweet son, pity Mor- 
 timer ! 
 
 Y. Moi\ Madam, entreat not : I will rather die 
 Than sue for life unto a paltry boy. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Hence with the traitor, with 
 the murderer ! 
 
 Y. Mor. Base Fortune, now I see, that in thy 
 wheel 
 There is a point, to which when men aspire. 
 They tumble headlong down : that point I touch'd, 
 And, seeing there was no place to mount^ up 
 
 higher, 
 Why should I grieve at my declining fall ? — 
 Farewell, fair queen : weep not for Mortimer, 
 That scorns the world, and, as a traveller. 
 Goes to discover countries yet unknown. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. What ! suffer you the traitor to 
 delay? 
 
 [Exit the younger Mortimer with First Lord 
 and some of the Attendants. 
 
 Q. Isab. As thou receiv^dest thy life from me. 
 Spill not the blood of gentle Mortimer ! 
 
 K. Edw. Third. This argues that you spilt my 
 father's blood. 
 Else would you not entreat for Mortimer. 
 
 Q. Isah. I spill his blood ! no. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Ay, madam, you ; for so the 
 rumour runs. 
 
 Q. Isab. That rumoTir is untrue: for loving 
 thee, 
 Is this report rais'd on poor Isabel. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. I do not think her so unnatural. 
 
 Sec. Lord. My lord, I fear me it will prove too 
 true. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Mother, you are suspected for 
 his death, 
 And therefore we commit you to the Tower, 
 Till further trial may be made thereof. 
 If you be guilty, though I be your son. 
 Think not to find me slack or pitiful. 
 
 Q. Isab. Nay, to my death ; for too long have 
 I liv'd, 
 Whenas i my son thinks to abridge my days. 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Away with her! her words 
 enforce these tears. 
 And I shall pity her if she speak again. 
 
 Q. Isab. Shall I not mourn for my beloved lord, 
 And with the rest accompany him to his grave ? 
 
 Sec. Lord. Thus, madam, 'tis the king's will 
 you shall hence. 
 
 Q. Isab. He hath forgotten me : stay ; I am his 
 mother. 
 
 Sec. Lord. That boots not; therefore, gentle 
 madam, go. 
 
 Q. Isab. Then come, sweet death, and rid me 
 of this grief ! 
 
 [Exit with Second Lord and some of the At- 
 tendants. 
 
 Re-enter First Lord, with the head of the younger 
 Mortimer. 
 
 First Lord. My lord, here is the head of Mor- 
 timer. 
 
 » TFAenas— wheiu 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 127 
 
 K. Edw. Third. Go, fetch my father's hearse, 
 Avhere it shall lie ; 
 And bring my funeral robes. 
 
 [Exeunt Attendants. 
 Accursed head, 
 C<nxld I'have rul'd thee then, as I do now. 
 Thou hadst not hatch'd this monstrous treachery ! 
 Here comes the hearse : help me to mourn, my 
 lords. 
 
 Ee-enter Attendants, with the hearse 
 rohes. 
 
 Sweet father, here unto thy murder'd ghost 
 I offer up this wicked traitor's head ; 
 And let these tears, distilling from mine eyes, 
 Be witness of my grief and innocence. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS: 
 
 AS IT HATH BEEN ACTED BY 
 THE RIGHT HOISTOURABLE THE EARL OF NOTTINGHAM HIS SERVANTS. 
 
 WRITTEN BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 London: Printed hy V. S. for Thomas Bushell. 1604. 
 
 Jlramatis '^zx^awst. 
 
 The Pope. 
 
 Cardinal of Lorrain. 
 The Emperor of Germant. 
 Duke of Vanholt. 
 Faust us. 
 
 Cornelius, } friends to Faustus. 
 Wagner, servant to Faustus. 
 Clown. 
 
 EOBIN. 
 
 Ralph. 
 Vintner. 
 Horse-courser. 
 A Knight. 
 An Old Man. 
 
 Scholars, Friars, and Attendants. 
 
 Duchess OF Vanholt. 
 
 Lucifer. 
 Belzebub. 
 M ephistophilis. 
 Good Angel. 
 Evil Angel. 
 
 The Seven Deadly Sins. 
 Devils. 
 
 Spirits in the shapes of Alexander the Great, of. 
 his Paramour, and of Helen. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 
 Chorus. Not marching now in fields of Thrasy- 
 meue, 
 Where Mars did mate ^ the Carthaginians ; 
 Nor sporting in the dalliance of love. 
 In courts of kings where state is overturn'd ; 
 Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds. 
 Intends our Muse to vaunt his heavenly verse : 
 Only this, gentlemen, — we must perform 
 The form 2 of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad : 
 To patient judgments we appeal our plaud, 
 And speak for Faustus in his infancy. 
 Now is he born, his parents base of stock. 
 In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes : 
 Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went, 
 Whereas ^ his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. 
 So soon he profits in divinity. 
 The fruitful plot * of scholarism ' grac'd, 
 That shoi-tly he was grac'd with doctor's name, 
 Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes 
 In heavenly matters of theology ; 
 TUl swoln with cunning,^ of a self-conceit, 
 
 » maie— confound, defeat. 
 
 * /orw— likeness, representation. 
 
 ' >F7iercas— -where 4 plot— fielA. 
 
 * sc/io?artsm— scholarship. 
 
 « cunning— i.e. knowledge; Anglo-Saxon, cunnan, to 
 knovr. 
 
 His waxen wings did mount above his reach, 
 And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; 
 For, falling to a devilish exercise. 
 And glutted more with leai-ning's golden gifts, 
 He surfeits upon cursfed necromancy ; 
 Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, 
 Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss : 
 And this the man that in his study sits. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Faustus discovered in his study. 
 
 Faicst. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin 
 To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess : 
 Having commenc'd, be a divine in shew, 
 Yet level at the end of every art. 
 And live and die in Aristotle's works. 
 Sweet Analytics,^ 'tis thou hast ravlsh'd me! 
 Bene disserere est finis logices. 
 Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end ? 
 Affords this art no greater miracle ? 
 Then read no more ; thou hast attain'd that end: 
 A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: 
 Bid Economy farewell ; Galen come, ^ 
 Seeing, Uhi desinit philosophus^ ibi incipit medi» 
 
 * ^7i(7?2/rtci— science of analysis, logic. 
 2 ' Where the philosopher ends, there the physician 
 begins.' 
 
£28 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Be a physician, Faustus ; heap up gold, 
 And be et^rniz'd for some wondrous cure : 
 Simimum honum medicinss sanitas. 
 The end of physic is our body's health. 
 Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end ? 
 Is not thy common talk found aphorisms ? 
 Are not thy bills hung up as monuments. 
 Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, 
 And thousand desperate maladies been eas'd ? 
 Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. 
 Couldst thou make men to live eternally, 
 Or, being dead, raise them to life again, 
 Then this profession were to be esteem'd. 
 Physic, fai'ewell! 
 
 When all is done, divinity is best : 
 Jerome's Bible, Faustus ; view it welL 
 
 [Reads 
 Stipendlum peccati mors est. Ha ! Sfipendium, ^c. 
 The reward of sin is death : that's hard. 
 
 [Reads. 
 Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est %n nobis 
 Veritas ; If we say that we have no sin, we deceive 
 ourselves, and there's no truth in us. Why, then, 
 belike we must sin, and so consequently die : 
 Ay, we must die an everlasting death. 
 What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera, 
 What will be, shall be ? Divinity, adieu ! 
 These metaphysics of magicians, 
 And necromantic books are heavenly ; 
 Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters ; 
 Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires. 
 Oh, what a world of profit and delight, 
 Of power, of honour, of omnipotence, 
 Is promis'd to the studious artizan ! ^ 
 All things that move between the quiet poles 
 Shall be at my command : emperors and kings 
 Are but obeyed in their several provinces, 
 Nor can they raise the wind, or rend the clouds ; 
 But his dominion that exceeds in this, 
 Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man ; 
 A sound magician is a mighty god : 
 Here, Faustus, try ^ thy brains to gain a deity. 
 
 Enter Wagner. 
 
 Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends, 
 The German Valdes and Cornelius ; 
 Eequest them earnestly to visit me. 
 
 Waff. I will, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Faust. Their confei-encs will be a greater help 
 to me 
 Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast. 
 
 Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel. 
 
 G. Ang. Oh, Faustus, lay that damned book 
 aside, 
 And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, 
 And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head ! 
 Eead, read the Scriptures ; — that is blasphemy. 
 
 E. Ang. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous 
 art 
 Wherein all Nature's treasury is contain'd : 
 Be thou on earth as Jove ^ is in the sky, 
 Lord and commander of these elements. 
 
 [Exeunt Angels. 
 
 Faust. How am I glutted with conceit * of this ! 
 Shall 1 make spirits fetch me what I please, 
 Resolve me ^ of all ambiguities. 
 Perform what desperate enterprise I will ? 
 I'll have them fly to India for gold, 
 Kansack the ocean for orient "^ pearl, 
 
 ^ artizan — artist, one skilled in arts. 
 
 * try— the later 4t03 have ' tire.' 
 ' yot'e— Jehovah. 
 
 * conceit — thought, idea. 
 
 * Res^olve me— free me from, solve for me. 
 
 * orient — shining, sparkling. 
 
 And search all corners of the new-found world 
 For pleasant fruits and princely delicates ; 
 I'll have them read me strange philosophy, 
 And tell the secrets of all foreign kings ; 
 I'll have them wall all Germany with brass. 
 And make swift Rhine circle fair Wertenberg ; 
 I'll have them fill the public schools with silk. 
 Wherewith the students shall be bravely ^ clad ; 
 I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring. 
 And chase the Prince of Parma from our land. 
 And reign sole king of all our provinces ; 
 Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war. 
 Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp's bridge,* 
 I'll make my servile spirits to invent. 
 
 Enter Valdes and Cornelius. 
 
 Come, German Valdes and Cornelius, 
 And make me blest with your sage conference. 
 Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius, 
 Know that your words have won me at the last 
 To practise magic and concealed arts : 
 Yet not your words only, but mine own fantasy, 
 That will receive no object; for my head 
 But ruminates on necromantic skill. 
 Philosophy is odious and obscure ; 
 Both law and physic are for petty wits ; 
 Divinity is basest of the three. 
 Unpleasant, harsh, contemptible, and vile : 
 'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravish'd me. 
 Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt; 
 And I, that have with concise syllogisms 
 Gravell'd^ the pastors of the German church, 
 And made the flowering pride of Wertenberg 
 Swarm to my problems, as the infernal spirits 
 On sweet Musseus when he came to hell. 
 Will be as cunning* as Agrippa* was. 
 Whose shadow made all Europe honour him. 
 
 Vald. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our 
 experience, 
 Shall make all nations to can6nize us. 
 As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords, 
 So shall the subjects of every element 
 Be always serviceable to us three ; 
 Like lions shall they guard us when we please ; 
 Like. Almain rutters^ with their horsemen's 
 
 staves, 
 Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides ; 
 Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids. 
 Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
 Than have the white breasts of the queen of love : 
 From Venice shall they drag huge argosies. 
 And from America the golden fleece 
 That yearly stuffs old Philip's treasury: 
 If learned Faustus will be resolute. 
 
 Faust. Valdes, as resolute am I in this 
 As thou to live : therefore object it not. 
 
 Corn. The miracles that magic will perform 
 Will make thee vow to study nothing else. 
 He that is grounded in astrology, 
 Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals. 
 Hath all the principles magic doth i-equire : 
 Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd,' 
 
 J bravely— finely, gaily ; brave is originally the same 
 as Scotch, braw. 
 
 2 During the blockade of Antwerp by the Prince of 
 Parma in 1585, the inhabitants of Antwerp made 'a 
 great shippe,' which they filled with combustibles, 
 over vrhicli they laid ' millstones, gravestones, and 
 others of great weight;' this ship they contrived to 
 bring under the bridge of boats made across the Scheldt 
 by the enemy, where it Hew up, causing great destruc- 
 tion and loss of life. 
 
 3 Graveir d—ca,i\sed to stick in the sand, puzzled. 
 * cunning — knowing 
 
 5 Agrippa — Cornelius Agi'ippa. 
 
 <>■ Almain rutters — German horsemen or troopers. 
 
 ^ renouv/i'cf— renowned ; Fr. renomme. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 129 
 
 And more frequented for this mystery 
 
 Than hei-etofore the Delphian oracle. 
 
 The spii'its tell me they can dry the sea, 
 
 And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks, 
 
 Ay, all the wealth that our forefathers hid 
 
 Within the massy entrails of the earth: 
 
 Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want ? 
 
 Faust. Nothing, Cornelius. Oh, this cheers my 
 soul! 
 Come, show me some demonstrations magical, 
 That I may conjure in some lusty ^ grove. 
 And have these joys in full possession. 
 
 Void. Then haste thee to some solitai'y grove, 
 And bear wise Bacon's ^ and Albertus'^ works, 
 The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament ; 
 And whatsoever else is requisite 
 We will inform thee ere our conference cease. 
 
 Corn. Valdes, first let him know the words of 
 art; 
 And then, all other ceremonies learn'd, 
 Faustus may try his cunning'* by himself. 
 
 Vald. First, I'll instruct thee in the rudi- 
 ments, 
 And then wilt thou be perfecter than I. 
 
 Fmist. Then come and dine with me, and, 
 after meat. 
 We'll canvass every quiddity ^ thereof ; 
 For, ere i sleep, I'll try what I can do : 
 This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter txoo Scholars. 
 
 First Schol. I wonder what's become of Faustus, 
 that was won't to make our schools ring with sic 
 proho ! ^ 
 
 Sec. Schol. That shall we know, for see, here 
 comes his boy. 
 
 Enter Wagner. 
 
 First Schol. How now, sirrah! where's thy 
 master ? 
 
 Waff. God in heaven knows. 
 
 Sec. Schol Why, dost not thou know ? 
 
 Waff. Yes, I know ; but that follows not. 
 
 First Schol. Go to, sirrah ! leave your jesting, 
 and tell us where he is. 
 
 Wag. That follows not necessary by force of 
 argument, that you, being licentiates, should 
 stand upon't : therefore acknowledge your eiTor, 
 and be attentive. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Why, didst thou not say thou 
 knewest ? 
 
 Waff. Have you any witness on't ? 
 
 First Schol. Yes, sirrah, I heard you. 
 
 Waff. Ask my fellow if I be a thief. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Well, you will not tell us ? 
 
 Waff. Yes, sir, I will tell you : yet, if you were 
 not dunces, you would never ask me such a 
 question ; for is not he corpus naturale ? ^ and is 
 not that mobile ? « then wherefore should you ask 
 me such a question? Thus having triumphed 
 over you, I will set my countenance like a preci- 
 sian, and begin to speak thus : — Truly, my dear 
 brethren, my master is within at dinner with 
 Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could 
 speak, would inform your worships; and so, the 
 Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my 
 dear brethren, my dear brethren ! [Exit. 
 
 First Schol. Nay, then, I fear he is fallen into 
 
 1 lusty — vigorous, biishy. 
 
 2 Bacon — Friar (Roger) Bacon. 
 
 3 Albertus — Albertus Magnus. 
 
 ♦ cunning — sliill, power. 
 
 * quiddity— ongm&Wy essence ; here subtilty, quirk. 
 « • thus I prove.' 
 
 7 ' a natural body.' • 'moveable.' 
 
 that damned art for which they two are infamous 
 through the world. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Were he a stranger, and not allied 
 to me, yet should I grieve for him. But, come, 
 let us go and inform the Rector, and see if he by 
 his grave counsel can reclaim him. 
 ., First Schol. Oh, but I fear me nothing can 
 reclaim him ! 
 
 Sec. Schol. Yet let us try what we can do. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Faustus to conjure. 
 
 Faust. Now that the gloomy shadow of the 
 earth, 
 Longing to view Orion's drizzling look, 
 Leaps from the antarctic world unto the sky. 
 And dims the welkin with her pitchy breath, 
 Faustus, begin thine incantations. 
 And try if devils will obey thy hest,i 
 Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them. 
 Within this circle is Jehovah's name. 
 Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd, 
 Th' breviated names of holy saints, 
 Figures of eveiy adjunct to the heavens, 
 And characters of signs and erring 2 stars, 
 By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise : 
 Then fear not, Faustus, but be resolute. 
 And try the uttermost magic can perform. — 
 
 {Here he beseeches the poioers above and below to 
 cause Mephistophilis to appear before hivi^ 
 
 Enter Mephistophilis. 
 
 I charge thee to return, and change thy shape ; 
 Thou art too ugly to attend on me : 
 Go, and return an old Franciscan friar ; 
 That holy shape becomes a devil best. 
 
 {Exit Mephist. 
 I see there's virtue in my heavenly words : 
 Who would not be proficient in this art ? 
 How pliant is this Mephistophilis, 
 Full of obedience and humility ! 
 
 Re-enter Mephistophilis Vike a Franciscan friar, 
 
 Meph. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have 
 me do .? 
 
 Faust. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I 
 live. 
 To do whatever Faustus shall command, 
 Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere, 
 Or the ocean to overwhelm the world. 
 
 Meph. I am a servant to great Lucifer, 
 And may not follow thee without his leave: 
 No more than he commands must we perform. 
 
 Faust. Did not he charge thee to appear to me ? 
 
 Meph. No, I came hither of mine own accord. 
 
 Faust. Did not my conjuring speeches raise 
 thee ,' speak ! 
 
 Meph. That was the cause, but yet per ao 
 cidens ; ' 
 For, when we hear one rack the name of God, 
 Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ, 
 We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul ; 
 Nor will we come, unless he use such means 
 Whei'eby he is in danger to be damn'd. 
 Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring 
 Is stoutly to abjure the Trinity, 
 And pray devoutly to the prince of helL 
 
 Faust. So Faustus hath 
 Already done ; and holds this principle. 
 There is no chief but only Belzebub ; 
 To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself. 
 
 * hest — ^betiest, command. 2 erring — wandering. 
 
 3 per accidens—'' by accident.' It was not his ' con- 
 juring speeches,' but wliat accompanied them that was 
 the cause. 
 
i-,o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 This word 'damnation' terrifies not liim, 
 For he confounds hell in Elj'sium : 
 His ghost be with the old philosophers ! 
 But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls, 
 Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord ? 
 
 Meph. Arch-regent and commander of all 
 spirits. 
 
 Faust. Was not that Lucifer an angel once ? 
 
 Meph. Yes, Faustus^ and most dearly lov'd of 
 God. 
 
 Faust. How comes it, then, that he is prince of 
 devils ? 
 
 Meph. Oh, by aspiring pride and insolence ; 
 For which God threw him from the face of 
 heaven. 
 
 Faust. And what are you that live with 
 Lucifer ? 
 
 Meph. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, 
 Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer, 
 And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer. 
 
 Faust Where are you damn'd ? 
 
 Meph. In hell. 
 
 Faust. How comes it, then, that thou art out 
 of hell ? 
 
 Meph. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it : 
 Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God, 
 And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, 
 Am not tormented with ten thousand hells, 
 In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss ? 
 Oh, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, 
 Which strike a terror to my fainting soul! 
 
 Faust. What ! is great Mephistophilis so pas- 
 sionate 
 For being deprived of the joys of heaven ? 
 Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude. 
 And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess. 
 Go, bear these tidings to great Lucifer : 
 Seeing Faustus hath incui-red eternal death 
 By desperate thoughts against Jove's * deity, 
 Say, he surrenders up to him his soul. 
 So he will spare him four and twenty years, 
 Letting him live in all voluptuousness ; 
 Having thee ever to attend on me. 
 To give me whatsoever I shall ask, 
 To tell me whatsoever I demand, 
 To slay mine enemies, and aid my friends, 
 And always be obedient to my will. 
 Go and return to mighty Lucifer, 
 And meet me in my study at midnight, 
 And then resolve ^ me of thy master's mind. 
 
 Mefh. I will, Faustus. {Exit. 
 
 Faust. Had I as many souls as there be stars, 
 I'd give them all for Mephistophilis. 
 By him I'll be great emperor of the world, 
 And make a bridge through the moving air. 
 To pass the ocean with a band of men ; 
 I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore. 
 And make that country continent to 3 Spain, 
 And both contributory to my crown : 
 The Emperor shall not live but by my leave, 
 Nor any potentate of Germany. 
 Now that I have obtain'd what I desire, 
 I'll live in speculation of this art. 
 Till Mephistophilis return again. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Wagner and Clown. 
 
 Wag. Sirrah, boy, come hither. 
 
 Clown. How, boy! swowns, boy! I hope you 
 have seen many boys with such pickadevaunts * 
 as I have : boy, quotha ! 
 
 Wag. Tell me, sirrah, hast thou any comings 
 in? 
 
 * Jove's — Jehovah's. 
 
 2 resolve — satisfy, inform. 
 
 3 continent to — continuous or connected with. 
 
 * pt'c/tacfepaMnfs— pointed beards, .formerly fashionable. 
 
 Clown. Ay, and goings out too; you may seo 
 else. 
 
 Wag. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jesteth 
 in his nakedness ! The villain is bare and out of 
 service, and so hungry, that I know he would 
 give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of 
 mutton, though it were blood-raw. 
 
 Clown. How! my soul to the devil for a 
 shoulder of mutton, though 'twere blood-raw! 
 Not so, good friend : by'r lady, I had need have 
 it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so 
 dear. 
 
 Wag. Sirrah, leave your jesting, and bind 
 yourself pi-esently unto me for seven years, or 
 I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars,^ 
 and they shall tear thee in pieces. 
 
 Clown. Do you hear, sir ? you may save that 
 labour ; they are too familiar with me already ; 
 swowns, they are as bold with my flesh as if they 
 had paid for my meat and drink. 
 
 Wag. Well, do you hear, sirrah! hold, take 
 these guilders. 
 
 Clown. Gridirons ! what be they ? 
 
 Wag. Why, French crowns. 
 
 Clown. Iklass, but for the name of French 
 crowns, a man were as good have as many 
 English counters. And what should I do with 
 these ? 
 
 Wag. Why, now, sirrah, thou art at an hour's 
 warning, whensoever or wheresoever the devil 
 shall fetch thee. 
 
 Clown. No, no. Here, take your gridirons 
 again. 
 
 Wag. Truly, I'll none of them. 
 
 Clown. Tnily, but you shall. 
 
 Wag. Bear witness I gave them him. 
 
 Clown. Bear witness I gave them you again. 
 
 Wag. Well, I will cause two devils presently 
 to fetch thee away. — Baliol and Belcher ! 
 
 Enter two Devils ; and the Clown rwTis up and 
 down crying. 
 
 Wag. Baliol and Belcher, — spirits away ! 
 
 [Exeunt Devils. 
 
 Clown. What ! are they gone ? a vengeance on 
 them ! they have vile long nails. There was a 
 he-devil and a she- devil: I'll tell you how you 
 shall know them; all he-devils has horns, and 
 all she-devils has clifts and cloven feet. 
 
 Wag. Well, sirrah, follow me. 
 
 Clown. But, do you hear? if I should serve 
 you, would you teach me to raise up Banios and 
 Belcheos ? 
 
 Wag. I will teach thee to turn thyself to any- 
 thing; to a dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, 
 or anything. 
 
 Clown. How ! a Christian fellow to a dog, or a 
 cat, a mouse, or a rat ! No, no, sir ; if you turn 
 me into anything, let it be in the likeness of a 
 little pretty frisking flea, that I may be here and 
 there and everywhere. 
 
 Wag. Well, sirrah, come. [Exeunt. 
 
 Faustus discovered in his study. 
 
 Faust. Now, Faustus, must 
 Thou needs be damn'd, and canst thou not be 
 
 sav'd : 
 What boots it, then, to think of God or heaven ? 
 Away with such vain fancies, and despair ; 
 Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub : 
 Now go not backward ; no, Faustus, be resolute : 
 Why waver'st thou? Oh, something soundeth 
 
 in mine ears, 
 ' Abjure this magic, turn to God again.' 
 
 ^ familiars— i.e. attendant spirits— generally eviL 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 131 
 
 Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again. 
 
 To God ? He loveS thee not ; 
 
 The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite, 
 
 Wherein is fixed the love of Belzebub : 
 
 To him I'll build an altar and a church. 
 
 And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes. 
 
 Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel. 
 
 G. Aug. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable 
 
 art. 
 Faust. Contrition, prayer, repentance — what 
 
 of them ? 
 G. Ang. Oh, they are means to bring thee unto 
 
 heaven ! 
 E. Ang. Eather illusions, fruits of lunacy, 
 That make men foolish that do ti'ust them most. 
 G. Ang. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and 
 
 heavenly things. 
 E. Ang. No, Faustus, think of honour and 
 wealth. \Exmnt Angels. 
 
 Faust. Of wealth! 
 "Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine, 
 "When Mephistophilis shall stand by me. 
 "What god can hurt thee, Faustus ? thou art safe : 
 Cast no more doubts. Come, Mephistophilis, 
 And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer ; — 
 Is't not midnight ? — come, Mephistophilis, 
 Veni, veni, Mephistophile ! ^ 
 
 Enter Mephistophilis. 
 
 Now, tell me what says Lucifer, thy lord 7 
 
 Meph. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he 
 lives, 
 So he will buy my service with his soul. 
 
 Faust. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for 
 thee. 
 
 Meph. But, Faustus, thou must bequeath it 
 solemnly. 
 And write a deed of gift with thine own blood ; 
 For that security craves great Lucifer. 
 If thou deny it, I will back to hell. 
 
 Faust. Stay, Mephistophilis, and teU me what 
 good will my soul do thy lord ? 
 
 Meph. Enlarge his kingdom. 
 
 Faust. Is that the reason why he tempts us 
 thus? 
 
 Meph. Solamen miseris socios hahuisse doloris."^ 
 
 Faust. Have you any pain that torture others ? 
 
 Meph. As great as have the human souls of 
 men. 
 But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul ? 
 And I wiU be thy slave and wait on thee. 
 And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask. 
 
 Faust. Ay, MephistophOis, I give it thee. 
 
 Meph. Then stab thine arm courageously 
 And bind thy soul, that at some certain day 
 Great Lucifer may claim it as his own ; 
 And then be thou as great as Lucifer. 
 
 Faust. [Stabbing his arm.^ Lo, Mephistophilis, 
 for love of thee, 
 I cut mine arm, and with my proper^ blood 
 Assure my soul to be great Lucifer's, 
 Chief lord and regent of perpetual night ! 
 "View here the blood that trickles from mine arm, 
 And let it be propitious for my wish. 
 
 Meph. But, Faustus, thou must 
 Write it in manner of a deed of gift. 
 
 Faust. Ay, so I will IWrites}. But, Mephis- 
 tophilis, 
 My blood congeals, and I can write no more. 
 
 Meph. I'll fetch the fire to dissolve it straight. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 * ' Come, come, Mephistophilis 1 ' 
 2 'It is a consolation to the miserable to have had 
 companions in their misery.' 
 ' proper — own; L&t, proj)rius, one's own. 
 
 Faust. What might the staying of my blood 
 portend ? 
 Is it unwilling I should write this bill ? 
 Why streams it not, that I may write afresh ? 
 Faustus gives to thee his soul : ah, there it stay'd ! 
 Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul thine 
 
 own? 
 Then write again, Faustus gives to thee Ms soul. 
 
 Re-enter Mephistophilis with a chafer of coals. 
 
 Meph. Here's fire ; come, Faustus, set it on.i 
 
 Faust. So, now the blood begins to clear again ; 
 Now will I make an end immediately. 
 
 Meph. Oh, what will not I do to obtain his 
 soul ? [Aside. 
 
 Faust. Consummatum est ;- this bill is ended, 
 And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer. 
 But what is this inscription on mine arm ? 
 Homo fuge :^ whither should I fly ? 
 If unto God, He'll throw me down to hell. 
 My senses are deceiv'd ; here's nothing writ: — 
 I see it plain ; here in this place is writ, 
 Homo fuge : yet shaU not Faustus fly. 
 
 Meph. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his 
 mind. [Aside^ and then exit. 
 
 Re-enter Mephistophilis with Devils, who give 
 crowns and rich apparel to Faustus, dance, 
 and then depart. 
 
 Faust. Speak, Mephistophilis, what means this 
 show ? 
 
 Meph. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy* 
 mind withal. 
 And to show thee what magic can perform. 
 
 Faust. But may I raise up spirits when I please ? 
 
 Meph. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than 
 these. 
 
 Faust. Then there's enough for a thousand souls. 
 Here, ,Mephistophilis, receive this scroll, 
 A deed of gift of body and of soul : 
 But yet conditionally that thou perform 
 AU articles prescribed between us both. 
 
 Meph. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer 
 To effect all promises between us made ! 
 
 Faust. Then hear me read them. [Reads.'] On 
 these conditions following: — First, that Faustus 
 may be a spirit in form and substance. Secondly, 
 that Mephistophilis shall be his servant, and at his 
 command. 2'hirdly, that Mephistophilis shall do 
 for him, and bring him whatsoever he desires. 
 Fourthly, that he shall be in his chamber or house 
 invisible. Lastly, that he shall appear to the said 
 John Faustus, at all times, in what form or shape 
 soever he pleases. I, John Faustus, of Wertenberg, 
 Doctor, by these presents, do give both body and 
 soul to Lucifer, prince of the east, and his minister 
 Mephistophilis; and furthermore grant unto them 
 that, twenty four years being expired, the articles 
 above written inviolate, full power to fetch or carry 
 the said John Faustus, body and soul, flesh, blood, 
 or goods, into their habitation wheresoever. By me, 
 John Faustus. 
 
 Meph. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as 
 your deed ? 
 
 Faust. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee 
 good on't ! 
 
 Meph. Now, Faustus, ask what thou wilt. 
 
 Faust. First will I question with thee about hell. 
 TeU me, where is the place that men call hell ? 
 
 Meph. Under the heavens. 
 
 Faust. Ay, but whereabout ? 
 
 Meph. Within the bowels of these elements, 
 
 1 The sixth chapter of The History of Doctor Fattstns 
 is headed: 'Hoav Doctor Faustus set his blood in a 
 saucer, on waraie ashes, and writ as followeth.' 
 
 2 ' It is finished.' 3 ' piy^ man ! ' 
 
132 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever : 
 
 Hell batli no limits, nor is circumscrib'd 
 
 In one self place ; for •where we are is Iiell, 
 
 And where hell is, ihust wo ever be : 
 
 And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves, 
 
 And every creature shall be purified. 
 
 All places shall be hell that are not heaven. 
 
 Faust. Come, I think hell's a fable. 
 
 Meph. Ay, think so still, till experience change 
 thy mind. 
 
 Fatist. Why, think'st thou, then, that Faustus 
 shall be damn'd ? 
 
 Meph. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll 
 Wherein thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer. 
 
 Faust. Ay, and body too : but what of that ? 
 Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond^ to imagine 
 That, after this life, there is any pain ? 
 Tush, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales. 
 
 Meph. But, Faustus, I am an instance to prove 
 the contrary, 
 For I am damn'd, and am now in hell. 
 
 Faust. How ! now in hell ! 
 Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd here: 
 What! walking, disputing, etc. 
 But, leaving off this, let me have a wife, 
 The fairest maid in Germany ; 
 For I cannot live without a wife. 
 
 Meph. How ! a wife ! 
 I prithee, Faustus, talk not of a wife. 
 
 Faust. Nay, sweet Mephistophilis, fetch me one ; 
 for I will have one. 
 
 Meph. Well, thou wilt have one! Sit there 
 till I come : I'll fetch thee a wife in the devil's 
 name. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Mephistophilis with a Devil dressed liJce 
 a Woman, with fireworks. 
 
 Meph. TeU me, Faustus, how dost thou like 
 thy wife ? 
 
 Faust. A plague on her ! 
 
 Meph. Tut, Faustus, 
 Marriage is but a ceremonial toy ; 
 If thou lovest me, think no more of it. 
 She whom thine eye shall like, thy heart shall 
 
 have. 
 Be she as chaste as was Penelope, 
 As wise as Saba,2 or as beautiful 
 As was bright Lucifer before his fall. 
 Hold, take this book, peruse it thoroughly : 
 The iterating^ of these lines brings gold; 
 The framing of this circle on the ground 
 Brings whirlwinds, tempests, thunder, and light- 
 ning; 
 Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself, 
 And men in armour shall appear to thee. 
 Ready to execute what thou desir'st. 
 
 Fav^t. Thanks, Mephistophilis : yet fain would 
 I have a book wherein I might behold all spells 
 and incantations, that I might raise up spirits 
 when I please. 
 
 Meph. Here they are in this book. 
 
 Faust. Now would I have a book where I 
 might see all characters and planets of the 
 heavens, that I might know their motions ^nd 
 dispositions. ^ 
 
 Meph. Here they are too. 
 
 Faust. Nay, let me have one book more, — and 
 then I have done, — wherein 1 might see all plants, 
 herbs, and trees, that grow upon the earth. 
 
 Meph. Here they be. 
 
 Faust. O thou art deceived, j 
 
 Meph. Tut, I warrant thee. 
 
 Faust. When I behold the heavens, then I 
 repent, 
 
 » fond—fooWsh. 2 Saba, i.e. the Queen of Sheba. 
 ^ iterating— x&itar&ims, repeating. 
 
 And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis, 
 Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys. 
 
 Meph. Why, Faustus, 
 Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing ? 
 I teU thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou, 
 Or any man that breathes on earth. 
 
 Faust. How prov'st thou that ? 
 
 Meph. 'Twas made for man, therefore is man 
 more excellent. 
 
 Faust. If it were made for man, 'twas made 
 for me : 
 I will renounce this magic and repent. 
 
 Enter Good Angel and Evil Angel. 
 
 G. Ang. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity 
 thee. 
 
 E. Ang. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity 
 thee. 
 
 Faust. Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a 
 spirit ? 
 Be I a devil, yet God may pity me ; 
 Ay, God will pity me, if I repent. 
 
 E. Ang. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent. 
 
 [Exeunt Angels. 
 
 Faust. Mj heart's so harden'd, I cannot 
 repent : 
 Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven, 
 But fearful echoes thimder in mine ears, 
 ' Faustus, thou art damn'd ! ' then swords, and 
 
 knives, 
 Poison, guns, halters, and envenom'd steel 
 Are laid before me to despatch mj'self ; 
 And long ere this I should have slain myself. 
 Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair. 
 Have not I made blind Homer sing to me 
 Of Alexander's love and CEnon's death ? 
 And hath not he,* that built the walls of Thebes 
 With ravishing soxand of his melodious harp. 
 Made music with my Mephistophilis ? 
 AVhy should I die, then, or basely despair ? 
 I am resolv'd ; Faustus shall ne'er repent. — 
 Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again. 
 And argue of divine astrology. 
 Tell me, are there many heavens above the moon ? 
 Are all celestial bodies but one globe, 
 As is the substance of this centric earth ? 
 
 Meph. As are the elements, such are the 
 spheres. 
 Mutually folded in each other's orb, 
 And, Faustus, 
 
 All jointly move upon one axletree, 
 Whose terminine^ is term'd the world's wide pole; 
 Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter 
 Feign'd, but are erring 3 stars. 
 
 Faust. Tush, 
 These slender trifles Wagner can decide : 
 Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill ? 
 Tell me who made the world ? 
 
 Meph. I will not. 
 
 Faust. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me. 
 
 Meph. Move me not, for I will not tell thee. 
 
 Faust. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell 
 me anything ? 
 
 Meph. Ay, that is not against our kingdom ; 
 but this is. Think thou on hell, Faustus, for 
 thou art damned. 
 
 Faust. Think, Faustus, upon God that made 
 the world. 
 
 Meph. Remember this. [Exit. 
 
 Fau^t. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell ! 
 'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul. 
 Is't not too late ? 
 
 1 Amphion. 
 
 2 tenninine. Other editions have • tennine,' i.e. ter- 
 minus or end. 
 
 3 errtnsr— wandering. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 133 
 
 Re-enter Good Angel and Evil Angel. 
 
 E. Ang. Too late. 
 
 G. Ang. Never too late, if Faustus can repent. 
 
 E. Ang. If thou repent, devils shall tear thee 
 
 in pieces. 
 G. Ang. Repent, and they shall never raze thy 
 
 skin. [Exeunt Angels. 
 
 Fmist. Ah, Christy mj Saviour, 
 Seek to save distressed Faustus' soul! 
 
 Enter Lucifer, Belzebub, and Mephistophilis. 
 
 Luc. Christ cannot save thy soul, for He is just : 
 There's none but I have interest in the same- 
 
 Faust. Oh, who art thou that look'st so terrible ? 
 
 Luc. I am Lucifer, 
 And this is my companion-prince in hell. 
 
 Faust. Oh, Faustus, they are come to fetch 
 away thy soul ! 
 
 Luc. We come to tell thee thou dost injure us; 
 Thou talk'st of Chi-ist, contrary to thy promise : 
 Thou shouldst not think of God: think of the 
 
 devil. 
 And of his dam too. 
 
 Faust. Nor will I henceforth: pardon me in 
 this. 
 And Faustus vows never to look to heaven, 
 Never to name God, or to pray to Him, 
 To burn his Scriptures, slay his ministers, 
 And make my spirits pull his churches down. 
 
 Luc. Do so, and we will highly gratify thee. 
 Faustus, we are come from hell to show thee 
 some pastime : sit down, and thou shalt see all 
 the Seven Deadly Sins appear in their proper 
 shapes. 
 
 Fav£t. That sight will be as pleasing unto me, 
 As Paradise was to Adam, the first day 
 Of his creation. 
 
 Luc. Talk not of Paradise nor creation; but 
 mark this show : talk of the devil, and nothing 
 else. — Come away ! 
 
 Enter the Seven Deadly Sins. 
 
 Now, Faustus, examine them of their several 
 names and dispositions. 
 
 Faust. What art thou, the first ? 
 
 Pride. I am Pride. I disdain to have any 
 parents. I am like to Ovid's flea; I can creep 
 into every corner of a wench ; sometimes, like a 
 periwig, I sit upon her brow ; or, like a fan of 
 feathers, I kiss her lips ; indeed, I do — what do I 
 not? But, fie, what a scent is here! PU not 
 speak another word, except the ground were per- 
 fumed, and covered with cloth of arras. 
 
 Faust. What art thou, the second 7 
 
 Covet. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old 
 churl, in an old leathern bag : and, might I have 
 my wish, I would desire that this house and all 
 the people in it were turned to gold, that 1 might 
 lock you up in my good chest. Oh, my sweet 
 gold! 
 
 Faust. What art thou, the third ? 
 
 Wrath. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor 
 mother: I leapt out of a lion's mouth Avhen I 
 was scarce half-an-hour old; and ever since I 
 have run up and down the world with this case 
 of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody 
 to fight withal. I was born in hell ; and look to 
 it, for some of you shall be my father. 
 
 Faust. What art thou, the fourth ? 
 
 Envy. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney- 
 sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and 
 therefore wish all bocks were burnt. I am lean 
 with seeing others eat. Oh that there would come 
 a famine through all the world, that all might 
 
 die, and I live alone! then thou shouldst see how 
 fat I would be. But must thou sit, and I stand ? 
 Come down, with a vengeance ! 
 
 Faust. Away, envious rascal ! — What art thou, 
 the fifth ? 
 
 Glut. Who I, sir ? I am Gluttony. My parents 
 are all dead, and the devil a penny they have 
 left me, but a bare pension, and that is thirty 
 meals a-day and ten bevers,' — a small trifle to 
 suffice nature. Oh, I come of a royal pai-entage! 
 My grandfather was a Gammon ^ of Bacon, my 
 grandmother a Hogshead of Claret-wine ; my 
 godfathers were these, Peter Pickle-herring and 
 Martin Martlemas-beef. Oh, but my godmother, 
 she was a jolly gentlewoman, and well-beloved 
 in every good town and city; her name was 
 Mistress Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, 
 thou hast heard all my progeny ; wilt thou bid 
 me to supper ? 
 
 Faust. No, I'll see thee hanged : thou wilt eat 
 up all my victuals. 
 
 Glut. Then the devil choke thee ! 
 
 Faust. Choke thyself, glutton ! — What art thou, 
 the sixth ? 
 
 Sloth. I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny 
 bank, where I have lain ever since ; and you 
 have done me great injury to bring me from 
 thence : let me be carried thither again by 
 Gluttony and Lechery. I'll not speak another 
 word for a king's ransom. 
 
 Faust. What are you, Mistress Minx, the 
 seventh and last 7 
 
 I^echery. Who I, sir ? and the first letter of my 
 name begins with L. 
 
 Faust. Away, to hell, to hell ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Sins. 
 
 Luc. Now, Faustus, how dost thou like this ? 
 
 Faust. Oh, this feeds my soul ! 
 
 Luc. Tut, Faustus, in hell is all manner of 
 delight. 
 
 Faust. Oh, might I see hell, and return again. 
 How happy were I then ! 
 
 Luc. Thou shalt ; I will send for thee at mid- 
 night. 
 In meantime take this book; peruse it throughlj', 
 And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou 
 wilt. 
 
 Faust. Great thanks, mighty Lucifer ! 
 This will I keep as chary as my life. 
 
 Luc. Farewell, Faustus, and think on the devil. 
 
 Faust. Farewell, great Lucifer. 
 
 Come Mephistophilis. 
 
 [Exeunt several ways. 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 
 Char. Learned Faustus, 
 To know the secrets of astronomy 
 Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament, 
 Did mount himself to scale Olympus' top. 
 Being seated in a chariot burning bright, 
 Drawn by the strength of yoky dragons' necks. 
 He now is gone to prove cosmography. 
 And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome, 
 "T'o see the Pope and manner of his court, 
 And take some part of holy Peter's feast. 
 That to this day is highly solemniz'd. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Faustus and Mephistophilis. 
 Faust. Having now, my good Mephistophilis, 
 
 1 levers— a. liever is a mid-day meal, taken between 
 brealcfast and dinner. It is here used generally, but 
 strictly should be confined to drinking. Ital. bever, t« 
 drink. 
 
 2 Gammon — a smoked or cured ham. 
 
134 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier,^ 
 Environ'd round with airy mountain-tops, 
 "With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes, 
 Not to be won by any conquering prince ; 
 From Paris next, coasting the realm of France, 
 "We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine, 
 Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful 
 
 vines ; 
 Then up to Naples, rich Campania, 
 "Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye, 
 The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest 
 
 brick, 
 Quarter the town in four equivalents : 
 There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb, 
 The way he cut, an English mile in length, 
 Thorough a rock of stone, in one night's space ; ^ 
 From thence to "Venice, Padua, and the rest. 
 In one of which a sumptuous temple stands,3 
 That threats the stars with her aspiring top. 
 Thus hithei-to hath Faustus spent his time : 
 But tell me now what resting-place is this ? 
 Hast thou, as erst I did command. 
 Conducted me within the walls of Eome ? 
 
 Meph. Faustus, I have ; and, because we will 
 not be unprovided, I have taken up his Holiness' 
 privy-chamber for our use. 
 
 Faust. I hope his Holiness will bid us wel- 
 come. 
 
 Meph. Tut, 'tis no matter, man ; we'll be bold 
 with his good cheer. 
 And now, my Faustus, that thou mayest perceive 
 "What Rome containeth to delight thee with. 
 Know that this city stands upon seven hills 
 That underprop the groundwork of the same : 
 Just through the midst runs flowing Tiber's 
 
 stream 
 "With winding banks that cut it in tAvo parts ; 
 Over the which four stately bridges lean, 
 That make safe passage to each part of Rome : 
 Upon the bridge call'd Ponto Angelo 
 Erected is a castle passing strong, 
 "Within whose walls such store of ordnance are, 
 And double cannons fram'd of carved brass. 
 As match the days within one complete year ; 
 Besides the gates, and high pyramidfes, 
 "Which Julius Csesar brought from Africa. 
 
 Faust. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule. 
 Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake 
 Of ever-burning Phlegethon,"* I swear 
 That I do long to see the monuments 
 And situation of bright-splendent Rome : 
 Come, therefore, let's away. 
 
 Meph. Nay, Faustus, stay : I know you'd fain 
 see the Pope,' 
 And take some part of holy Peter's feast. 
 Where thou shalt see a troop of bald-pate friars. 
 Whose summum honum ^ is in belly-cheer. 
 
 Faust. Well, I'm content to compass ^ then 
 some sport. 
 And by their folly make us merriment. 
 Then charm me, that I 
 May be invisible, to do what I please. 
 Unseen of any whilst I stay in Rome. 
 
 [Mephistophilis charms him. 
 
 Meph. So, Faustus ; now 
 Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd. 
 
 1 Trier — ^Triers. 
 
 2 During the middle ages "Virgil was regarded as a 
 great magician. Petrarcli describes the exploit men- 
 tioned above in his Jtinerarium Syriacum. 
 
 3 St. Mark's Church in Venice. 
 
 4 Styx, Acheron, and Phlegethon, all rivers of the 
 infernal regions. 
 
 * summum bonum — 'chief good.' 
 « compass — obtain. 
 
 Sound a Sonnet.^ Enter the Pope and the Car- 
 dinal OF LoRRAiN to the banquet, with Friars 
 attending. 
 
 Pope. My Lord of Lorrain, will't please you 
 draw near ? 
 
 Faust. FaU to, and the devil choke you, an you 
 spare ! 
 
 Pope. How now! who's that which spake? — 
 Friars, look about. 
 
 First Friar. Here's nobody, if it like your 
 Holiness. 
 
 Pope. My lord, here is a dainty dish was sent 
 me from the Bishop of Milan. 
 
 Faust. I thank you, sir. [Snatches the dish. 
 
 Pope. How now! who's that which snatched 
 the meat from me ? — Will no man look ? My lord, 
 this dish was sent me from the cardinal of Flo- 
 rence. 
 
 Faust. You say true ; I'll ha't. 
 
 [Snatches the dish. 
 
 Pope. What, again!— My lord, I'll drink to 
 your grace. 
 
 Faust. I'll pledge your grace. 
 
 [Snatches the cup. 
 
 C. of Lor. My lord, it may be some ghost, newly 
 crept out of Purgatory, come to beg a pardon of 
 your Holiness. 
 
 Pope. It may be so. — Friars, prepare a dii'ge to 
 lay the fury of this ghost.— Once again, my lord, 
 fall to. [The Pope crosses himself. 
 
 Faust. What ! are you crossing of yourself ? 
 Well, use that trick no more, I would advise you. 
 [The Pope crosses himself again. 
 Well, there's the second time. Aware the third ; 
 I give you fair warning. 
 
 [The Pope crosses himself again^ and Faustus 
 hits him a box on the ear ; and they all run 
 axoay. 
 Come on, Mephistophilis ; what shall we do ? 
 
 Meph. Nay, I know not: we shall be cursed 
 with beU, book, and candle. 
 
 Faust. How! bell, book, and candle, — candle, 
 book, and bell, — 
 Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to 
 
 hell! 
 Anon you shall hear a hog grunt, a calf bleat, 
 
 and an ass bray. 
 Because it is Saint Peter's holiday. 
 
 Re-enter all the Friars to sing the Dirge. 
 First Friar. Come, brethren, let's about our 
 business with good devotion. 
 They sing. 
 Cursed he he that stole away his Holiness'' meat 
 from the table ! maledicat Dominus ! 2 
 
 Cursed be he that strucJc his Holiness a blow on 
 the face ! maledicat Dominus ! 
 
 Cursed be he that tooh Friar Sandelo a blow on 
 the pate ! maledicat Dominus ! 
 
 Cursed be he that disturbeth our holy dirge! 
 maledicat Dominus ! 
 
 Cursed be he that took away his Holiness^ wine ! 
 maledicat Dominus ! 
 
 Et omnes Sancti ! ' Amen ! 
 [Mephistophilis and Faustus beat the Friars, 
 and Jling fireworks among them ; and so 
 exeunt. 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 Chor. When Faustus had with pleasure ta'en 
 the view 
 
 1 Sonnet, also Sennet, Signet, Cynet, &c.— A particular 
 set of notes on the trumpet, or cornet, different from a 
 flourish.— Nares. 
 
 2 ' May the Lord curse him I ' 
 
 3 'And all the saints!' 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 3i» 
 
 Of rarest things, and royal courts of kings, 
 He stay'd his course, and so returned home ; 
 •Where such as bear his absence but with grief, 
 I mean his friends and near'st companions. 
 Did gratulate his safety with kind words. 
 And in their conference of what befell, 
 Touching his joTirney through the world and air, 
 They put forth questions of astrology. 
 Which Faustus answer'd with such learned skill 
 As they admir'd and wonder'd at his wit. 
 Now is his fame spread forth in every land : 
 Amongst the rest the Emperor is one, 
 Carolus the Fifth, at whose palace now 
 Faustus is feasted 'mongst his noblemen. 
 What there he did, in trial of his art, 
 I leave untold ; your eyes shall see^'t"] perform'd. 
 
 {Exil. 
 
 Enter Eobin the Ostler^ with a hook in his hand. 
 
 Robin. Oh, this is admirable ! here I ha' stolen 
 one of Dr. Faustus' conjuring-books, and, i' faith, 
 I mean to search some circles for my own use. 
 Now will I make all the maidens in our parish 
 dance at my pleasure, before me. 
 
 Enter Ealph, calling Eobin. 
 
 Ralph. Eobin, prithee, come away; there's a 
 gentleman tarries to have his horse, and he would 
 have his things rubbed and made clean. He keeps 
 such a chafing with my mistress about it ; and 
 she has sent me to look thee out ; prithee, come 
 away. 
 
 Robin. Keep out, keep out, or else you are 
 blown up, you are dismembered, Ealph : keep 
 out, for I am about a roaring piece of work. 
 
 Ralph. Come, what doest thou with that same 
 book ? Thou canst not read ! 
 
 Robin. Yes, my master and mistress shall find 
 that I can read, he for his forehead, she for her 
 pi-ivate study ; she's bom to bear with me, or 
 else my art fails. 
 
 Ralph. Why, Eobin, what book is that ? 
 
 Robin. What book ! why, the most intolerable 
 book for conjuring that e'er was invented by any 
 brimstone devil. 
 
 Ralph. Canst thou conjure with it ? 
 
 Robin. I can do all these things easily with it : 
 first, I can make thee drunk with ippocras i at any 
 tabern ^ in Europe for nothing ; that's one of my 
 conjuring works. 
 
 Ralph. Our Master Parson says that's nothing. 
 
 Robin. No more, sweet Ealph: let's go and 
 make clean our boots, which lie foul upon our 
 hands, and then to our conjuring in the devil's 
 name. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Emperor, Faustus, and a Knight with 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 Emp. Master Doctor Faustus, I have heard 
 strange report of thy knowledge in the black art, 
 how that none in my empire nor in the whole 
 world can compare with thee for the rare effects 
 of magic ; they say thou hast a familiar spirit, by 
 whom thou canst accomplish wliat thou list. 
 This, therefore, is my request, that thou let me 
 see some proof of thy skill, that mine eyes may 
 be witnesses to confirm what mine ears have 
 
 1 fppocros— generally hippocras, an aromatic medi- 
 cated drink, composed usually of red wine, but some- 
 times wliite, with the addition of s^pices and sugar. 
 Derived by some from Gr. hypo, and kerannumi, to mix; 
 but by others from Hippocrates, as being originally com- 
 posed by medical skill, or as being strained thiough a 
 woollen bag called by apothecaries Hippocrates' sleeve. 
 — Nares. Still used on the continent. 
 
 2 tabern — tavern. 
 
 heard reported : and here I swear to thee, by the 
 honour of mine imperial crown, that, whatever 
 thou doest, thou shalt be no ways prejudiced or 
 endamaged. 
 
 Knight. T faith, he looks much like a conjurer. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Faust. My gracious sovereign, though I must 
 confess myself far inferior to the report men have 
 published, and nothing answerable to the honour 
 of your imperial majesty, yet, for that love and 
 duty binds me thereunto, I am content to do what- 
 soever your majesty shall command me. 
 
 Emp. Then, Doctor Faustus, mark what I shall 
 say. 
 As I was sometime solitary set 
 Within my closet, sundry thoughts ai'ose 
 About the honour of mine ancestors, 
 How they had won by prowess such exploits, 
 Got such riches, subdu'd so many kingdoms, 
 As we that do succeed, or they that shall 
 Hereafter possess our throne, shall 
 (I fear me) ne'er attain to that degree 
 Of high renoAvn and great authority : 
 Amongst which kings is Alexander the Great, 
 Chief spectacle of the world's pre-eminence, 
 The bright shining of whose glorious acts 
 Lightens the world with his reflecting beams, 
 As when I hear but motion made of him. 
 It grieves my soul I never saw the man : 
 If, therefore, thou, by cunning of thine ai-t. 
 Canst raise this man from hollow vaults below, 
 Where lies entomb'd this famous conqueror. 
 And bring with him his beauteous paramour, 
 Both in their right shapes, gesture, ^ and attire 
 They us'd to wear during their time of life, 
 Thou shalt both satisfy my just desire, 
 And give me cause to praise thee whilst I live. 
 
 Faust. My gracious lord, I am ready to accom- 
 plish your request, so far forth as by art and 
 power of my spirit I am able to perform. 
 
 Knight. I' faith, that's just nothing at all. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Faust. But, if it like your grace, it is not in my 
 ability to present before your eyes the true sub- 
 stantial bodies of those two deceased princes, 
 which long since are consumed to dust. 
 
 Knight. Ay, marry. Master Doctor, now there's 
 a sign of grace in you, when you will confess the 
 truth. [Aside. 
 
 Faust. But such spirits as can lively resemble 
 Alexander and his paramour shall appear before 
 your grace, in that manner that they best lived 
 in, in their most flourishing estate; which I 
 doubt not shall sufficiently content your imperial 
 majesty. 
 
 Emp. Go to, Master Doctor ; let me see them 
 presently. 
 
 Knight. Do you hear, Master Doctor? You 
 bring Alexander and his paramour before the 
 Emperor ! 
 
 Faust. How then, sir ? 
 
 Knight. V faith, that's as true as Diana turned 
 me to a stag. 
 
 Faust. No, sir ; but, when Actaeon died, he left 
 the horns for you. — Mephistophilis, be gone. 
 
 [Exit Mephistophilis. 
 
 Knight. Nay, an you go to conjuring, I'll be 
 gone. [Exit. 
 
 Faust. I'll meet with you anon for interrupting 
 me so. — Here they are, my gracious lord. 
 
 Re-enter Mephistophilis with Spirits in the 
 shapes o/* Alexaj!Jder and his Paramour. 
 
 Emp. Master Doctor, I heard this lady, while 
 
 1 gesture — bearing, carriage 
 
136 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 she lived, had a wart or mole in her neck : how 
 shall I know whether it be so or no ? 
 
 Faust. Your highness may boldly go and see. 
 
 Emp. Sure, these are no spirits, but the true 
 
 substantial bodies of those two deceased princes, 
 
 \Exeunt Spirits. 
 
 Faust. "WiU't please your highness now to send 
 for the knight that was so pleasant with me here 
 of late ? 
 
 Emp. One of you caU him forth. 
 
 [Exit Attendant 
 
 Re-enter the Knight uith a pair of horns on 
 his head. 
 
 How now, sir knight ! why, I had thought thou 
 hadst been a bachelor ; but now I see thou hast a 
 wife, that not only gives thee horns, but makes 
 thee wear them. Feel on thy head. 
 
 Knight. Thou damned wretch and execrable 
 dog, 
 Bred in the concave of some monstrous rock, 
 How dar'st thou thus abuse a gentleman ? 
 Villain, I say, undo what thou hast done ! 
 
 Faust. Oh, not so fast, sir ! there's no haste : 
 but, good, are you remembered how you <;rossed 
 me in my conference with the Emperor ? I think 
 I have met with you for it. 
 
 Emp. Good Master Doctor, at my entreaty re- 
 lease him : he hath done penance sufficient. 
 
 Faust. My gracious lord, not so much for the 
 injury he offered me here in your presence, as 
 to delight you with some mirth, hath Faustus 
 worthily requited this injurious knight; which 
 being all I desire, I am content to refease him of 
 Lis horns : — and, sir knight, hereafter speak 
 well of scholars. — Mephistophilis, transform him 
 straight. \2tIephistophilis removes the horns.'] — 
 Now, my good lord, having done my duty, I 
 humbly take my leave. 
 
 Emp. Farewell, Master Doctor : yet, ere you go, 
 Expect from me a bounteous reward. 
 
 [^Exeu7it Emperor, Knight a.nd Attendants. 
 
 Faust. Now, Mephistophilis, the restless course 
 That time doth run with calm and silent foot, 
 Shortening my days and thread of vital life, ^ 
 Calls for the payment of my latest years : 
 Therefore, sweet Mephistophilis, let us 
 Make haste to Wertenberg. 
 
 Meph. What, will you go on horseback or on 
 foot? 
 
 Faust. Nay, till I'm past this fair and pleasant 
 green, 
 m walk on foot. 
 
 Enter a Horse-coui'ser.i 
 
 Horse-c. I have been all this day seeking one 
 Master Fustian : mass, see where he is ! — God 
 eave you, Master Doctor ! 
 
 Faust. What, horse-courser ! you are well met. 
 
 Horse-c. Do you hear, sir? I have brought 
 you forty dollars for your horse. 
 
 Faust. I cannot sell him so : if thou likest him 
 for fifty, take him. 
 
 Horse-c. Alas, sir, I have no more ! — I pray 
 you speak for me. 
 
 Meph. I pray you, let him have him : he is an 
 honest fellow, and he has a great charge, neither 
 wife nor child. 
 
 Faust. Well, come, give me your money 
 [Horse-courser gives Faustus the money'] : my 
 boy wiU deliver him to you. But I must tell 
 you one thing before you have him ; ride h{m 
 not into the water, at any hand. 
 
 * Horse-courser — probably horse-scourser, i.e. horse- 
 dealer. From old Eng. scorse, to exchange. 
 
 Horse-c. Why, sir, will he not drink of all 
 waters ? 
 
 Fatist. Oh, yes, he will drink of all waters; 
 but ride him not into the water : ride him over 
 hedge or ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into 
 the water. 
 
 Horse-c. Well, sir. — Now am I made man for 
 ever. [^Exit. 
 
 Faust. What art thou, Faustus, but a man con- 
 demn'd to die ? 
 Thy fatal time doth draw to final end ; 
 Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts : 
 Confound these passions with a quiet sleep : 
 Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the cross ; 
 Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.^ 
 
 [Sleeps in his chair. 
 
 Re-enter Horse-courser, all wet, crying. 
 
 Horse-c. Alas! alas! Doctor Fustian, quoth a ! 
 — mass, Doctor Lopus - was never such a doctor — 
 has given me a purgation, has purged me of 
 forty dollars ; I shall never see them more. But 
 yet/ like an ass as I was, I would not be ruled by 
 him, for he bade me I should ride him into no 
 water : now I, thinking my horse had had some 
 rare quality that he would not have had me 
 known of, ^ I, like a venturous youth, rid him 
 into the deep pond at the town's end. I was no 
 sooner in the middle of the pond, but my horse 
 vanished away, and I sat upon a bottle of hay, 
 never so near drowning in my life. But I'll seek 
 out my doctor, and have my forty dollars again, 
 or I'll make it the dearest horse I — Oh, yonder is 
 his snipper-snapper.* — Do you hear? you hey- 
 pass ; 5 Where's your master ? 
 
 Meph. Why, sir, what would you ? you cannot 
 speak with him, 
 
 Horse-c. But I will speak with him. 
 
 Meph. Why, he's fast asleep : come some other 
 time. 
 
 Horse-c. I'll speak with him now, or I'll break 
 his glass-windows about his ears. 
 
 Meph. I tell thee, he has not slept this eight 
 nights. 
 
 Horse-c. An he have not slept this eight weeks, 
 I'll speak with him. 
 
 Meph. See, where he is, fast asleep. 
 
 Horse-c. Ay, this is he. — God save you. Master 
 Doctor, Master Doctor, Master Doctor Fustian I 
 forty dollars, forty dollars for a bottle of hay ! 
 
 Meph. Why, thou seest he hears thee not. 
 
 Horse-c. So-ho, ho ! so-ho, ho ! [Holloas in 
 his ear.] No; will you not wake? I'll make 
 you wake ere I go. [Pulls Faustus by the hg., 
 and pulls it away.] Alas, I am imdone! what 
 shall I do ? 
 
 Faust. Oh, my leg, my leg ! — Help, Mephisto- 
 philis ! call the oflBcers. — My leg, my leg ! 
 
 Meph. Come, villain, to the constable. 
 
 Horse-c. Oh Lord, su-, let me go, and I'll give 
 you forty dollars more ! 
 
 Meph. Where be they ? 
 
 Horse-c. I have none about me : come to my 
 ostry,6 and I'll give them you. 
 
 Meph. Be gone quickly. 
 
 [Horse-courser runs away. 
 
 1 conceiY— thought. 
 
 2 Doctor Lopus— i.e. Doctor Lopez, domestic physician 
 to Queen Elizabeth, who was put to death for having re- 
 ceived a bribe from the couit of Spain to destroy her.— 
 Dyce. 
 
 3 known o/— acquainted with. 
 
 * snipper-snapper — one who snip-snaps, or speaks snap- 
 pishly. 
 
 * hey-pass—jngg\eT ; this being a favourite conjarin,? 
 phrase. 
 
 6 ustry—ho&tQlry, inn, lodging. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 -^ZJ 
 
 Faust. What ! is he gone ? Farewell he ! Faus- 
 tus has his leg again, and the Horse-courser, I 
 take it, a bottle of hay for his labour. Well, this 
 trick shall cost him forty dollars more. 
 
 Enter Wagner. 
 How now, Wagner! what's tho news with thee? 
 
 Wag. Sir, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly 
 entreat your company. 
 
 Faust. The Duke of Vanholt ! an honourable 
 gentleman, to whom I must be no niggard of my 
 cunning.* — Come, Mephistophilis, let's away to 
 liim. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Duke of Vanholt, the Duchess, 
 and Faustus. 
 
 Duhe. Believe me. Master Doctor, this merri- 
 ment hath much pleased me. 
 
 Faust. My gracious lord, I am glad it contents 
 you so well. — But it may be, madam, you take no 
 delight in this. I have heard that great-bellied 
 women do long for some dainties or other : what 
 is it, madam ? tell me, and you shall have it. 
 
 Duchess. Thanks, good Master Doctor: and, 
 for I see your courteous intent to pleasure me, 
 I will not hide from you the thing my heart 
 desires ; and, were it now summer, as it is 
 January and the dead time of the winter, I 
 would desire no better meat than a dish of ripe 
 grapes. 
 
 Faust. Alas, madam, that's nothing ! — Mephis- 
 tophilis, be gone. \_Exit Mephistophilis.] Were 
 it a greater thing than this, so it would content 
 you, you should have it. 
 
 Re-enter Mephistophilis with grapes. 
 
 Here they be, madam : will't please you taste on 
 them .' 
 
 Duke. Believe me, Master Doctor, this makes 
 me Avonder above the rest, that being in the dead 
 time of winter and in the month of January, how 
 you should come by these grapes. 
 
 Faust. If it like your grace, the year is divided 
 into two circles over the whole world, that, when 
 it is here winter with us, in tho contrary circle 
 it is summer with them, as in India, Saba,^ and 
 farther countries in the east ; and by means of a 
 swift spirit that I have, I had them brought 
 hither, as you see. — How do you like them, 
 madam ? be they good ? 
 
 Duchess. Believe me. Master Doctor, they be 
 the best grapes that e'er I tasted in my life 
 before. 
 
 Faust. I am glad they content you so, madam. 
 
 Duke. Come, madam, let us in, where you 
 must well reward this learned man for the great 
 kindness he hath showed to you. 
 
 Duchess. And so I will, my lord ; and, whilst 
 I live, rest beholding^ for this courtesy. 
 
 Faust. I humbly thank your grace. 
 
 Duke. Come, Master Doctor, follow us, and 
 receive your reward. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Wagner. 
 
 Wag. I think my master means to die shortly, 
 For he hath given to me all his goods : 
 And yet, methinks, if that death were near, 
 He would not banquet, and carouse, and swill 
 Amongst the students, as even now he doth, 
 Who are at supper with such belly-cheer 
 As Wagner ne'er beheld in all his hfe. 
 See, where they come ! belike the feast is ended. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 J cunning — skilL 
 
 ^ beholding — beholden. 
 
 " >S^a6a— Sabsea. 
 
 Enter Faustus with tioo or three Scholars, and 
 Mephistophilis. 
 
 First Schol. Master Doctor Faustus, since our 
 conference about fair ladies, which was the beau- 
 tifulest in all the world, we have determined 
 with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the 
 admirablest lady that ever lived; therefore. 
 Master Doctor, if you will do us that favour, as 
 to let us see that peerless dame of Greece, whom 
 all the world admires for majesty, we should 
 think ourselves much beholden unto you. 
 
 Faust. Gentlemen, 
 For that I know your friendship is unfeignd, 
 And Faustus' custom is not to deny 
 The just requests of those that wish him well. 
 You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece, 
 No otherways for pomp and majesty 
 Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her. 
 And brought the spoils to rich Dardania. 
 Be silent, then, for danger is in words. 
 \_MusiG sounds, and ti.)LL.Y.i^ passeth over the stage. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Too simple is my wit to tell her 
 praise, 
 Whom all the world admires for majesty. 
 
 Third Schol. No marvel though the angry 
 Greeks pursu'd 
 With ten years' war the rape of such a queen. 
 Whose heavenly beauty passeth all compare. 
 
 First Schol. Since we have seen the pride of 
 Nature's works. 
 And only paragon of excellence, 
 Let us depart; and for this glorious deed 
 Happy and blest be Faustus evennore. 
 
 Faust. Gentlemen, farewell : the same I wish 
 to you. [Exeunt Scholars. 
 
 Enter an Old Man. 
 
 Old 3Ian. Ah, Doctor Faustus, that I might 
 
 prevail 
 To guide thy steps unto the way of life, 
 By which sweet path thou may'st attain the goal 
 That shall conduct thee to celestial rest ! 
 Break heart, drop blood, and mingle it with 
 
 tears, 
 Teai's falling from repentant heaviness 
 Of thy most vile and loathsome lilthiness, 
 The stench whereof corrupts the inward soul 
 With such flagitious crimes of heinous sin 
 As no commiseration may expel, 
 But mei'cy, Faustus, of thy Saviour sweet. 
 Whose blood alone must wash away thy guilt. 
 Fau^st. Where art thou, Faustus ? wretch, what 
 
 hast thou done ? 
 Damn'd art thou, Faustus, damn'd; despair and 
 
 die! 
 Hell calls for right, and with a roaring voice 
 Says, ' Faustus, come ; thine hour is almost 
 
 come ; ' 
 And Faustus now will come to do thee right. 
 
 [Mephistophilis gives him a dagger. 
 Old Man. Ah, stay, good Faustus, stay thy 
 
 desperate steps ! 
 I see an angel hovers o'er thy head. 
 And, Avith a vial full of precious grace, 
 Offers to pour the same unto thy soul : 
 Then call for mercy, and avoid despair. 
 
 Faust. Ah, my sweet friend, I feel 
 Thy words to comfort my distressed soul ! 
 Leave me a while to ponder on my sins. 
 
 Old Man. I go, sweet Faustus ; but with heavy 
 
 cheer,* 
 Fearing the ruin of thy hopeless soul. [Exit. 
 
 Faust. Accui-s^d Faustus, where is mercy now? 
 
 1 cfieer—look, countenance ; old Fr. cAjere, countenance. 
 
138 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I do repent ; and yet I do despair : 
 
 Hell strives with grace for conquest in my 
 
 breast : 
 What shall I do to shun the snares of death ? 
 
 Meph. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul 
 For disobedience to my sovereign lord : 
 Kevolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh. 
 
 Faust. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord 
 To pardon my unjust presumption, 
 And with my blood again I will confirm 
 My former vow I made to Lucifer. 
 Meph. Do it then, quickly, with unfeigned 
 heart. 
 Lest greater danger do attend thy drift. 
 
 Faust. Torment, sweet friend, that base and 
 crooked age,* 
 That durst dissuade me from my Lucifer, 
 With greatest torments that our hell affords. 
 Meph. His faith is great; I cannot touch his 
 soul; 
 But what I may afflict his body with 
 I will attempt, which is but little worth. 
 Faust. One thing, good servant, let me crave 
 of thee, 
 To glut the longing of my heart's desire, — 
 That I might have unto my paramour 
 That heavenly Helen which I saw of late. 
 Whose sweet embracings may extinguish clean 
 Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my 
 
 vow. 
 And keep mine oath I made to Lucifer. 
 Meph. Faustus this, or what else thou shalt 
 desire. 
 Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye. 
 
 Re-enter Helen. 
 
 Faust. Was this the face that launch'd a thou- 
 sand ships, 
 And burnt the topless " towers of Ilium ? — 
 Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. — 
 
 [Kisses her. 
 Her lips suck forth my soul : see, where it flies ! — 
 Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. 
 Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, 
 And all is dross that is not Helena. 
 I will be Paris, and for love of thee, 
 Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd ; 
 And I will combat with weak Menelaus, 
 And wear thy colours on my plumed crest , 
 Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel. 
 And then return to Helen for a kiss. 
 Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air 
 Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars ; 
 Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter 
 When he appear'd to hapless Semele ; 
 More lovely than the monarch of the sky 
 In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms ; 
 And none but thou shalt be my paramour ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter the Old Man. 
 
 Old Man. Accursed Faustus, miserable man. 
 That from thy soul exclud'st the grace of heaven, 
 And fly'st the throne of his tribunal-seat ! 
 
 Enter Devils. 
 
 Satan begins to sift 3 me with his pride: 
 As in this furnace God shall try my faith. 
 My faith, vile hell, shall triumph over thee. 
 Ambitious fiends, see how the heavens smile 
 At your repulse, and laugh your state to scorn I 
 Hence, hell ! for hence I fly unto my God. 
 
 [Exeunt^ — on one side Devils, on the other 
 Old Man. 
 
 1 age — old man. 
 
 2 topless — superior in height to any. 
 ' si/t— try or tempt. 
 
 Enter Faustus, with Scholars. 
 
 Faust. Ah, gentlemen ! 
 
 First Schol. What ails Faustus 7 
 
 Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I 
 lived with thee, then had I lived still ; but now 
 I die eternally! Look, comes he not? comes 
 he not ? 
 
 Sec. Schol. What means Faustus ? 
 
 Thii'd Schol. Belike he is grown into some 
 sickness by being over-solitary. 
 
 First Schol. If it be so, we'll have physicians to 
 cure him. — 'Tis but a surfeit ; never fear, man. 
 
 Faust. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath 
 damned both body and soul. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven; 
 remember God's mercies are infinite. 
 
 Faust. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be par- 
 doned: the serpent that tempted Evo may be 
 saved, but not Faustus. Ah, gentlemen, hear me 
 with patience, and tremble not at my speeches ! 
 Though my heart pants and quivers to remember 
 that I have been a student here these thix-ty 
 years, oh, would I had never seen Wertenberg, 
 never read book ! and what wonders I have done, 
 all Germany can witness, yea, all the world ; for 
 which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the 
 world, yea, heaven itself, — heaven, the seat of 
 God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of 
 joy, — and must remain in hell for ever, hell, ah, 
 hell, for ever ! Sweet friends, what shall become 
 of Faustus, being in hell for ever ? 
 
 Third Schol. Yet, Faustus, call on God. 
 
 Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured ! 
 On God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed ! Ah, 
 my God, I would weep ! but the devil draws in 
 my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! 
 yea, life and soul! Oh, he stays my tongue! I 
 would lift up my hands; but see, they hold 
 them, they hold them ! 
 
 All. Who, Faustus .9 
 
 Faust. Lucifer and Mephistophilis. Ah, 
 gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cun- 
 ning ! 1 
 
 All. God forbid ! 
 
 Faust. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus 
 hath done it: for vain pleasure of twenty-four 
 years hath Faustus lost etei-nal joy and felicity. 
 I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the 
 date is espii'ed ; the time will come, and he will 
 fetch me. 
 
 First Schol. Why did not Faustus tell us of 
 this before, that divines might have prayed for 
 thee? 
 
 Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so; 
 but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces if 
 I named God, to fetch both body and soul if I 
 once gave ear to divinity : and now 'tis too late. 
 Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Oh, what shall we do to save 
 Faustus? 
 
 Faust. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, 
 and depart. 
 
 Third Schol. God will strengthen me; I will 
 stay with Faustus. 
 
 Fii'st Schol. Tempt not God, sweet friend ; 
 but let us into the next room, and there pray 
 for him. 
 
 Faust. Ay, pray for me, pray for me ; and what 
 noise soever ye hear, come not unto me, for 
 nothing can rescue me. 
 
 Sec. Schol. Pray thou, and we will pray that 
 God may have mercy upon thee. 
 
 Faust. Gentlemen, farewell : if I live till 
 
 cwnning'— knowledge, skill. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 139 
 
 morning, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone 
 to hell. 
 
 All. Faustus, farewell. 
 
 \Exeunt Scholars. — The clock strikes eleven. 
 Faust. Ah, Faustus, 
 Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 
 And then thou must be damn'd perpetually ! 
 Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 
 That time may cease, and midnight never come ; 
 Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
 Perpetual day ; or let this hour be but 
 A year, a month, a week, a natural day, 
 That Faustus may repent and save his soul ! 
 O lente, lente currite^ noctis equi!^ 
 The stars move still, time runs, the clock will 
 
 strike, 
 The devil will come, and Faustus must be 
 
 damn'd ! 
 Oh, I'll leap up to my God!— Who pulls me 
 
 down ? — 
 See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the 
 
 firmament ! 
 One drop would save my soul, half a drop : ah, 
 
 my Christ ! — 
 Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ ! 
 Yet will I call on Him : Oh, spare me, Lucifer !— 
 "Where is it now ? 'tis gone : and see, where God 
 Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows ! 
 Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, 
 And hide me from the heavy wrath of God ! 
 No, no! 
 
 Then will I headlong run into the earth : 
 Earth, gape: Oh, no, it will not harbour me! 
 You stars that reign'd at my nativity, 
 Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, 
 Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, 
 Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud, 
 That, when you vomit forth into the air. 
 My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths. 
 So that my soul may but ascend to heaven ! 
 
 The clock strikes the half-hour. 
 Ah, half the hour is past ! 'twill all be past anon. 
 O God, 
 
 If Thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, 
 Yet for Chi-ist's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd 
 
 me, 
 Impose some end to my incessant pain ; 
 Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 
 A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd ! 
 Oh, no end is limited to damned souls ! 
 Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 
 Or why is this immortal that thou hast ? 
 Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true. 
 This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd 
 Unto some brutish beast ! all beasts are happy. 
 For, when they die. 
 Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements ; 
 
 * '0 gently, gently run, steeds of night!' 
 
 But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. 
 Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me ! 
 No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer 
 That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. 
 
 [The clock strikes twelve. 
 Oh, it strikes, it strikes ! Now, body, turn to air, 
 Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell ! 
 
 [Thunder and lightning. 
 Oh soul, be chang'd into little water-drops, 
 And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found ! 
 
 Enter Devils. 
 
 My God, my God, look not so fierce on me ! 
 Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while ! 
 Ugly hell, gape not ! come not, Lucifer ! 
 I'll burn my books ! — Ah, Mephistophilis ! 
 
 [Exeunt Devils with Faustus. 
 
 Enter Scholars.^ 
 
 First Schol. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit 
 
 Faustus, 
 For such a dreadful night was never seen ; 
 Since first the world's creation did begin, 
 Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard : 
 Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the danger. 
 Sec. Schol. Oh help us, heaven ! see, here are 
 
 Faustus' limbs, 
 All torn asunder by the hand of death ! 
 
 Third Schol. The devils whom Faustus serv'd 
 
 have torn him thus ; 
 For, 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, me- 
 
 thought 
 I heard him shriek and call aloud for help ; 
 At which self time the house seem'd all on fire 
 With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. 
 Sec. Schol. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' 
 
 end be such 
 As every Christian heart laments to think on, 
 Yet, for he was a scholar once admir'd 
 For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, 
 We'll give his mangled limbs due burial ; 
 And all the students clothed in moui'ning black, 
 Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 
 Chor. Cut is the branch that might have grown 
 full straight. 
 And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough. 
 That sometime grew within this learned man. 
 Faustus is gone : regard his hellish fall. 
 Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise. 
 Only to wonder at unlawful things, 
 Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits 
 To practise more than heavenly power permita. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Terminat hora diem ; terminal auctor opus."^ 
 
 1 This scene is not in the early edition. 
 
 2 'The hour ends the day; the author ends his work.' 
 
BEN JONSON 
 
 [Benjamin, or as lie himself and Ms friends were frequently in the habit of ahhreviating liis 
 name, Ben Jonson, was born in "Westminster in the early part of the year 1574. His gi'and- 
 fatlier belonged to Annandale in Scotland, and subsequently settled in Carlisle. His father 
 was a clergyman, and died before Ben was born ; his mother, shortly after her son's birth, 
 marrying a bricklayer. Ben was sent by his stepfather to a private school near St. Martin's- 
 in-the-Fields, and subsequently to Westminster School, where he had the celebrated Camden 
 for his teacher, whom he ever afterwards revered, and whom he thus addresses in one of his 
 epigrams : — 
 
 * Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe 
 All that I am in arts, and all I know.' 
 
 llalone says that Ben went straight from school to Cambridge University ; but this state- 
 ment appears to have little authority. If he was at college at all, it was only for a few 
 weeks. He was forced, probably from the poverty of his parents, to enter upon his father's 
 occupation, to which, however, he had such an antipathy that he ran off and enlisted as a 
 soldier, and was sent to serve in Flanders. Here he behaved himseK with great bravery ; 
 but probably did not stay longer than one campaign, either disliking' the service or despair- 
 ing of promotion. Shortly after his return home, prompted both by inclination anA 
 necessity, he adopted the profession of an actor, making his debut at a low theatre in 
 Clerkenwell. In this profession he appears to have completely failed. A quarrel with 
 another actor led to a duel, in which Ben killed his antagonist, he himself being severely 
 wounded ; he was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was shortly released with- 
 out trial. While in prison he was visited by a Roman Catholic priest, who induced him to 
 renounce the Protestant faith and become a Roman Catholic. He, however, returned to the 
 bosom of the English Church in 1606. Shortly after his release from prison, probably not 
 later than 1594, he married a woman who appears to have made Ben a good, patient, and 
 faithful wife. Having renounced the stage as an actor, he now began to support himself as 
 a writer of plays, his earliest known piece. Every Man in his Humour, appearing in 1596. 
 The scene was laid in Italy, but in 1598 it was reproduced at the Globe Theatre with the 
 scene changed to England ; Shakespeare, whose friendship with Jonson commenced about 
 this time, is said to have supported one of the characters in this play. In 1599 appeared his 
 Every Man out of his Humour, the representation of which was honoured by the presence of 
 Queen Elizabeth, who patronized the new poet, and ever afterwards he was ' a man of mark 
 and likelihood.' Afterwards appeared Cynthia's Revels, and, in 1600, The Poetaster, in which 
 he satirized two of his brother dramatists, Marston and Dekker. The latter replied with 
 some spirit in his Satiromastix. ' Since the comic muse had proved so ominous ' to him, he 
 resolved to try tragedy, and in 1603 appeared his Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of 
 King James to the English throne appeared a comedy, Eastward Hoe, Avritten conjunctly by 
 Jonson, Chapman, and Marston, in which there were some passages reflecting on the Scottish 
 nation. Chapman and Marston were sent to prison, and Jonson voluntarily accompanied 
 them ; but they were soon released without being tried, although there had been some talk of 
 their getting their ears and noses slit. On Jonson's release, his mother, it is said, produced a 
 paper of poison, which, she declared, had the mutUation and disgrace taken place, she intend(?d 
 to have given to her son in his drink ; and, ' to show that she was no churl, ' says her son, * she 
 designed to have drunk first herself. ' Jonson's three great, undoubtedly his best comedies, 
 
 140 
 
BEN JONS ON. 141 
 
 were his next most important works : Volpone, or the Fox, appearing in 1605, Epicene, or 
 the Silent Woman, in 1609, and The Alchemist in 1610. Between 1605 and 1609 Jonson 
 produced, sometimes for the court, sometimes for the civic bodies, a numher of the repre- 
 sentations known as pageants or masques, so popular in his time. In 1611 appeared his 
 second classical tragedy Catiline; and in 1612 he went abroad, but how long he remained is 
 not known. He was in London again in 1614, in which year appeared his Bartholomew 
 Fair, and in 1616 his comedy of The Devil is an Ass. Either in this year or in 1619, Jonson 
 was created poet-laureate, with a salary of 100 merks. In 1618 he made a journey to 
 Scotland on foot, and appears to have been well received by the Scottish gentry. The last 
 visit he paid was to the poet Drummond of Hawthornden, who took copious notes of the 
 conversations he had with Jonson, which were afterwards given to the world. How far 
 these notes am be depended on for faithfulness it is difficult to say : one would fain hope 
 that Drummond was guilty of considerable exaggeration, as he presents Jonson in no very 
 agreeable light, as full of bitterness and spite towards his brother authors. The following 
 is Drummond's character of Ben : — 
 
 * Ben Jonson was a great lover and praiser of himself, a contemner and scorner of others, 
 given rather to lose a friend than a jest, jealous of every word and action of those about him, 
 especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he lived : a dissembler of the 
 parts which reign in him ; a bragger of some good that he wanted ; thinketh nothing well 
 done but what either he himself or some of his friends have said or done. He is passionately 
 kind and angry, careless either to gain or keep ; vindictive, but if he be well answered at 
 himself ; interprets best sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was for any religion, as 
 being versed in both ; oppressed with fancy which hath overmastered his reason, a general 
 disease in many poets : his inventions are smooth and easy, but above all he excelleth in a 
 translation. ' 
 
 'This character,' says one of Jonson's biographers, *it must be confessed, is far from 
 being a flattering one ; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse 
 habits and staid demeanour of Drummond. "We believe it, however, to be substantially 
 correct. Inured to hardships and to a free boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to 
 have contracted a roughness of manner and habits of intemperance which never wholly left 
 him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight 
 and condemn his less learned associates ; while the conflict between his limited means and 
 his love of social pleasures rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. 
 Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries 
 seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. 
 "When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was 
 capable of a generous warmth of friendship, and of just discrimination of genius and cha 
 racter. His literary reputation, his love of conviviality, and his high colloquial powers, 
 rendered his society much courted, and he became the centre of a band of wits and revellers. 
 Sir "Walter Raleigh founded a club, known to all posterity as the Mermaid Club, at Avhich 
 Jonson, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, and other poets exercised themselves with "wit 
 combats, " more bright and genial than their wine. One of the favourite haunts of tliese 
 bright-minded men was the Falcon Tavern, near the theatre in Bankside. ' After his return 
 to London in 1619, Jonson continued writing, producing a few inferior dramas, a gi-eat many 
 masques, and one or two prose works, including an English Grammar and a translation of 
 Aristotle's Poetics. His best days were however past, his pen had lost much of its vigour 
 and cunning ; but as his extravagant living kept him ver)'- poor, he was compelled to write 
 hurriedly what would pay best. In 1625 he was attacked by palsy, which enfeebled both 
 his body and mind. In 1630, nevertheless, he produced the comedy of The New Inn^ which 
 shows a lamentable falling off from his earlier productions, and which proved unsuccessful 
 on the stage. King Charles, however, sent him a present of £100, and raised his salary as 
 laureate to the same sum, adding a yearly tierce of canary wine. Even this, however, did 
 not suffice to supply his necessities, as we find him shortly after begging assistance from the 
 Lord Chancellor. In 1632 he produced The Magnetic Lady, and, the year after. The Tale of 
 a Tub. His last work, which he left unfinished, was the Sad Shepherd, which is much 
 superior to anything he wrote for years before. He died in 1637, and was buried in "\Yest- 
 
142 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 minster Abbey, a plain stone being placed over his remains, with the short inscription, 
 * Rare Ben Jonson. ' 
 
 To quote again the biographer above referred to : * Jonson founded a style of regular 
 English comedy, massive, well compacted, and fitted to endure, yet not very attractive" in 
 its materials. His Eoman tragedies may be considered literal impersonations of classical 
 antiquity, "robust and richly graced," yet stiff and unnatural in style and construction. 
 They seem to bear about the same relation to Shakespeare's classic dramas that sculpture 
 does to actual life. The strong delineation of character is the most striking feature in 
 Jonson's comedies. Generally his portraits of eccentric characters — men in whom some 
 peculiarity has grown to an egregious excess — are ludicrous and impressive. His scenes and 
 character show the labour of the artist, but still an artist possessing rich resources ; an 
 acute and vigorous intellect ; great knowledge of life, down to its lowest descents ; wit, lofty 
 declamation, and a power of dramatising his knowledge and observation with singular skill 
 and effect. His pedantry is often misplaced and ridiculous. . . . His comic theatre is a 
 gallery of strange, clever, original portraits, powerfully drawn, and skilfully disposed, but 
 many of them repulsive in expression, or so exaggerated as to look like caricatures or libels 
 on humanity. "We have little deep passion, or winning tenderness, to link the beings of his 
 drama with those we love or admire, or to make us sympathize with them as with existing 
 mortals. The charm of reality is generally wanting, or, when found, it is not a pleasing 
 reality. When the great artist escapes entirely from his elaborate wit and personified 
 humours into the region of fancy, we are struck with the contrast it exhibits to his ordinary 
 manner. He thus presents two natures — one hard, rugged, gross, and sarcastic, "a 
 mountain belly and a rocky face," as he describes his own person ; the other airy, fanciful, 
 and graceful, as if its possessor had never combated with the world and its bad passions, but 
 nursed his understanding and his fancy to poetical seclusion and observation. ' 
 
 The selections we have made are two of his three best comedies, TAe Alchemist^ and 
 Epicoene, or The Silent Womarif with neither of which have we deemed it necessary to take 
 much liberty in the way of emasculation ; also Every Man in his Humour, not only on 
 account of its intrinsic excellence as a comedy, but as servingM;o illustrate the use of the 
 word humour so common in Jonson's time, and as containing one of his most celebrated 
 creations. Captain Bobadill.] 
 
 THE ALCHEMIST:^ 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 ACTED IN THE YEAR 1610 BY THE KIJn^G'S MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 THE AUTHOR B. J. 
 
 London : Printed hy William Stanshy, 1616. 
 
 rO THE LADY MOST DESEEVIXG HER NAME AND BLOOD, 
 
 LADY MARY WROTH. 
 
 Madam, — In the age of sacrifices, the truth of 
 
 religion was not in the greatness and fat of the 
 ■ yofiferings, but in the devotion and zeal of the 
 /sacrificers: else what could a handful of gums 
 
 have done in the sight of a hecatomb ? or how 
 
 might I appear at this altar, except with those 
 
 affections that no less love the light and witness, 
 
 than they have the conscience of your virtue ? 
 
 If what I offer bear an acceptable odour, and 
 
 hold the first strength, it is your value of it, 
 
 which remembers where, when, and to whom it 
 
 1 By this expression, says Whalley, is meant one who 
 pretends to the knowledge of what is called the philo- 
 sopher's stone, which was supposed to have the faculty 
 of transmuting baser metals into gold. Alchemy bears the 
 same relation to chemistry that astrology does to astro- 
 nomy. Our poet in the choice of his subject Avas happy ; 
 
 was kindled. Otherwise, as the times are, there 
 comes rarely forth that thing so full of authority 
 or example, but by assiduity and custom grows 
 less, and loses. This, yet, safe in your judgment • 
 (which is a Sidney's) is forbidden to speak more, j 
 lest it talk or look like one of the ambitious faces i 
 of the time, who, the more they paint, are the) 
 less themselves. 
 
 Your ladyship's true hononrer, 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 for the age was then extremely addicted to the pursuit 
 of alchemy, and favourable to the professors of it. The 
 following comedy was therefore no imseasonable satire 
 upon the reigning foible, since, among the few real 
 artists, there was undoubtedly a far greater number of 
 impostors. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 143 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 If thou beest more, thou art an understander, 
 and then I trust thee. If thou art one that takest 
 up, and but a pretender, beware of what hands 
 thou receivest thy commodity; for thou wert 
 never more fair in the way to be cozened, than 
 lin this age, in poetry, especi a,lly in pl ays^^feg^^j 
 now the concupiscence of 3ances'and^ antics 
 Iso reigneth, as to run away fro m natui- e, and be 
 / afraid of her, is theonly point of art that tickles 
 ' the spectators. But how- out of purpose, and 
 placeT-deieame art ? When the professors are 
 grown so obstinate contemners of it, and pre- 
 sumers on their own naturals, ^ as they are 
 deriders of all diligence that way, and, by simple 
 mocking atJ^fijteLms, when they understand not 
 the things, think to get off w'ittOy with their 
 ignoranceT^ Nay, they are esteemed the more 
 learned and suflScient for this, by the many, 
 through their excellent vice of judgment. For 
 they commend writers, as they do fencers or 
 wrestlers; who, if they come in robustuously, 
 and put for it with a great deal of violence, are 
 received for the braver fellows: when many 
 
 times their own ru deness is the c ause of their 
 disgraceTand a Tittle touch of their adversary 
 gives all that boisterous force the foil. I deny 
 not, but that these men, who always seek to do 
 more than enough, may some time happen on 
 some thing that is good, and great; but very 
 seldom ; and when it comes it doth not recom- 
 pense the rest of their ill. It sticks out, perhaps, 
 and is more eminent, because all is sordid and 
 vile about it : as lights are more discerned in a 
 thick darkness, than a faint shadow. I speak 
 not this, out of a hope to do good to any man 
 against his will; for I know, if it were put to 
 the question of theirs and mine, the worse would 
 find more suffrages: becau se the most fav our -| — 
 c ommon errors. But I give thee this warning, 
 that there is a great difference between those 
 that, to gain the opinion of copy,'^ utter aU they 
 can, however unfitly; and those that use elec- 
 tion' and a mean. For it is only the disease of I 
 the unskilful, to think rude things greater than 
 polished ; or scattered more numerous than com- 
 posed. 
 
 gramatis ^tx^au'st. 
 
 Subtle, the Alchemist. 
 Face, the Housekeeper. 
 DoL Common, their Colleague. 
 Dapper, a Lawi/er^s Clerk. 
 Dkugger, a Tobacco Man. 
 LovEWiT, Master of the House. 
 Sir Epicure jMammon, a Knight. 
 Pertixax Surly, a Gamester. 
 
 Tribulation ■Wholeso:me, a Pastor of Am- 
 AxANiAS, a Deacon thei's [stei'danu 
 
 KL<iSTRiLL, the Angry Boy. 
 
 Dame Pliant, his Sister, a Widow. 
 Neighbours. 
 
 Ofiicers, Attendants, &c. 
 Scene — London. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 T he sickness hot,* a master quit, for fear, 
 
 H is house in town, and left one sei'vant there ; 
 
 E ase him corrupted, and gave means to know 
 
 A Cheater, and his punk ; who now brought low, 
 L eaving their narrow practice, were become 
 C ozeners at large ; and only wanting some 
 H otise to set up, with him they here contract, 
 E ach for a share, and aU begin to act. 
 M uch company they draw, and much abuse, 
 I n casting figures, telling fortunes, news, 
 S elling of flies,* flat bawdry with the stone, 
 T ill it, and they, and all iu fume are gone. 
 
 » naturals — native dispositions, natural gifts. 
 • election — choice, discrimination. 
 '^ flies — familiar spirits. 
 
 2 copy— copiousness, plenty. 
 * The sickness Ao(— the plague. 
 
144 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Fortune, that favours fools, these two short hours, 
 
 We wish away both for your sakes and ours, 
 Judging spectators ; and desire, in place, 
 
 To the author justice, to ourselves but grace. 
 Our scene is London, 'cause we would make 
 known, 
 
 No country's mirth is better than our own : 
 No clime breeds better matter for your whore, 
 
 Bawd, squire, impostor,_jnagX_£ersons more, 
 Whose mannefSpEowcall'd humoul^ feed the 
 stage ; 
 
 And which have still been subject for the rage 
 Or spleen'of c^uic writers. Though this pen 
 
 Did never aim to grieve but better men ; 
 
 Howe'er the age he loves in doth endure 
 
 The vices that she breeds, above their cure. 
 But when the wholesdme'reteedtcs'are sweet, 
 
 And in their working gain and pi'ofit meet. 
 He hopes to find no spirit so much diseased, 
 
 But will with such fair corr ectives be pleased : 
 For here he doth not fear who~can"appTyr~ 
 
 If there be any that will sit so nigh 
 Unto the stream, to look what it doth run. 
 
 They shall find things, they'd think or wish 
 were done ; 
 They are so natural follies, but so shown. 
 
 As even the doers may see, and yet not own. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Lovewit's House. 
 
 Enter Face, in a captain's uniform, with his sword 
 drawn, and Subtle with a vial, quaiTelling, and 
 followed bj DoL Commox. 
 
 Face. Believe't, I will. 
 
 Sub. Thy worst. I fart at thee. 
 
 Dol. Have you your wits ? Why, gentlemen ! 
 
 for love — 
 Face. SiiTah, I'll strip vou — 
 Sub. What to do ? Lick figs 
 Out at my — 
 
 Face. Rogue, rogue ! — out of all your sleights. 
 Dol. Nay, look ye, sovereign, general, are you 
 
 madmen ? 
 Sub. Oh, let the wild sheep loose. I'll gum 
 your silks 
 With good strong water, an you come. 
 
 Dol. Will you have 
 The neighbours hear you ? Will you betray all ? 
 Hark! I hear somebody. 
 Face. Sirrah — 
 Sub. 1 shall mar 
 All that the tailor has made, if you approach. 
 
 Face. You most notorious whelp, you insolent 
 Dare you do this ? [slave. 
 
 Sub. Yes, faith ; yes, faith. 
 Face. Why, who 
 Am I, my mongrel ?-^ Who am I ? 
 
 Sub. I'll tell yoUr-*f~ ^ <[' ^ 
 Since you know nof youiseif. 
 Face. Speak lower, rogue. 
 Sub. -Yes, you were once (time's not long past) 
 the good, 
 Honest, plain, livery- three-pound-thrum, > that 
 
 kept 
 Yoiu' master's worship's house here in the Friars, 
 For t'!0 vacations — 
 Fuce. Will you be so loud ? 
 Sub. Since, by my means, translated suburb- 
 captain. 
 Face. By your means, doctor dog 1 
 Sub. Within man's memory, 
 All this I speak of. 
 
 ' three-pound-thrum — one ■whose livery was made of 
 the ends of a weaver's warp (thrums) or co«r5e j-arn, of 
 which three pounds were sufficient to make him a suit, 
 — Whallbt. Gifford thinks it may mean that his livery- 
 cost him bat three poimds. 
 
 Face. Why, I pray you, have I 
 Been countenanced by you, or you by me ? 
 Do but collect,^ sir, where I met you first. 
 
 Sub. 1 do not hear well. 
 
 Face. Not of this, I think it. 
 But I shall put you in mind, sir ; — at Pie-comer, 
 Taking your meal of steam in, from cooks' stalls. 
 Where, like the father of hunger, you did walk 
 Piteously costive,^ with your pinch' d-horn-nose, 
 And your complexion of the Roman wash, 
 Stuck full of black and melancholic worms. 
 Like powder corns shot at the artillery -yard. 
 
 Sub. I wish you could advance your voice a 
 nttle.3 
 
 Face. When you went pinn'd up in the several 
 rags 
 You had raked and pick'd from dunghills, before 
 
 day; 
 Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your kibes ; * 
 A felt of rug, and a thin threaden cloke, 
 That scarce would cover your no buttocks — 
 
 Sub. So, sir! 
 
 Face. When aU your alchemy, and your algebra, 
 Your minerals, vegetals, and animals, 
 Your conjuring, cozening, and your dozen of 
 
 trades. 
 Could not relieve your corps with so much linen 
 Would make you tinder, but to see a fire ; 
 I gave you countenance, credit for your coals, 
 Your stills, your glasses, your materials ; 
 Built you a furnace, drew you customers, 
 Advanced all your black arts ; lent you, beside, 
 A house to practise in — 
 
 Suit. Your master's house! 
 
 Face. Where you have studied the more thriv- 
 ing skill 
 Of bawdry since. 
 
 Sub. Yes, in your master's house. 
 You and the rats here kept possession. 
 Make it not strange. I know you were one could 
 
 keep 
 The buttery-hatch still lock'd, and save the chip- 
 
 Sell the dole beer* to aqua-vitse men ; « 
 
 > collect— TQcoWtcL 
 
 2 cosOiy— dried up, pinched. 
 
 ' advance your ro»c«— speak louder. 
 
 * kibtt — chaps or broken chilblains, especiallj in the 
 lieel. 
 
 * dole 6«er— beer to be doled, or dealt out to the poor. 
 
 * aqua-vitae m«i— sellers of aqaa-vita, or spirits. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 H5 
 
 The wliich, together with your Christmas vails * 
 At post-and-pair, your letting out of counters, 
 Made you a pretty stock, some twenty marks, 
 And gave you credit to converse Avith cobwebs, 
 Here, since your mistress' death hath broken up 
 house. 
 
 Face. You might talk softlier, rascal. 
 
 Suh. No, you scarab, ^ 
 I'll thunder you in pieces : T will teach you 
 How to beware to tempt a Fury again, 
 That carries tempest in his hand and voice. 
 
 Face. The place has made you valiant. 
 
 Suh. No, your clothes. — 
 Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of dung, 
 So poor, so wi*etched, when no living thing 
 Would keep thee company, but a spider, or worse "i 
 Rais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and watering- 
 pots. 
 Sublimed thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee 
 In the third region, call'd our state of grace ? 
 Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with pains 
 Would twice have won me the philosopher's work? 
 Put thee in words and fashion, made thee fit 
 For more than ordinary fellowships ? 
 Giv'n thee thy oaths, thy quarrelling dimensions. 
 Thy rules to cheat at horse-race, cock-pit, cards, 
 Dice, or whatever gallant tincture else ? 
 Made thee a second in mine own great art 7 
 And have I this for thanks ! Do you rebel ? 
 Do you fly out in the projection ? 
 Would you be gone now "i 
 
 Dol. Gentlemen, what mean you ? 
 Will you mar all ? 
 
 Suh. Slave, thou hadst had no name — 
 
 Dol. Will you undo yourselves with civil war ? 
 
 Suh. Never been known, past equi clibanum^^ 
 The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in cellars. 
 Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; been 
 
 lost 
 To all mankind, but laundresses and tapsters, 
 Had not I been. 
 
 Dol. Do you know who hears you, sovereign? 
 
 Face. Sirrah — 
 
 Dol. Nay, general, I thought you were civil. 
 
 Face. I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus 
 loud. 
 
 Sub. And hang thyself, I care not. 
 
 Face. Hang thee, collier. 
 And all thy pots, and pans, in picture, I will, 
 Since thou hast moved me — 
 
 Dol. Oh, this will o'erthrow all. 
 
 Face. Write thee up bawd in Paul's, have all 
 thy tricks 
 Of cozening with a hollow cole, dust, scrapings,* 
 Searching for things lost, with a sieve and sheers, 
 Erecting figures in your rows of houses,' 
 And taking in of shadows with a glass,8 
 
 * vails at post-and-pair, &c.— Vails was money given 
 to servants. Post-and-pair was a card game played 
 with three cards each, wherein much depended on 
 vying or betting on the goodness of your own hand; 
 somewhat lilce brag. The servants received a small 
 gratuity ' for the letting out of counters ' to count with 
 at play. 
 
 2 5cara6— beetle ; Lat. scaraheus. 
 
 3 equi clibanum — ' horses oven,' whatever that may 
 mean. 
 
 * cozening with a hollow cole, &c.— cheating the simple 
 by pretending to conjure with a bit of charcoal having 
 a hole in it, in which was put the ' dust and scrapings' 
 of gold and silver. Searching for things lost, <fec.— this 
 method of divination, says Gilford, of remote antiquity, 
 yet retains its credit among the vulgar. 
 
 5 Erecting figures, Ac— delineating schemes of the 
 ditferent positions of the planets, with respect to the 
 several constellations. House, in astrology, is the twelfth 
 part of the zodiac— Gifford. 
 
 8 taking in, <fec. — this was a common mode of divina- 
 tion. The glass was a globular crysUl, or beryl, into 
 
 Told in red letters ; ^ and a face cut for thee, 
 Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's.^ 
 
 Dol. Are you sound ? 
 Have you your senses, masters ? 
 
 Face. 1 will have 
 A book, but barely reckoning thy impostures. 
 Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to printers. 
 
 Suh. Away, you trencher-rascal ! 
 
 Face. Out, you dog-leach ! 
 The vomit of all prisons — 
 
 Dol. Will you be 
 Your own destructions, gentlemen ? 
 
 Face. Still spew'd out 
 For lying too heavy on the basket.^ 
 
 Sub. Cheater! 
 
 Face. Bawd! 
 
 Suh. Cow-herd! 
 
 Face. Conjui-er! 
 
 Suh. Cut-purse! 
 
 Face. Witch ! 
 
 Dol. Oh me! 
 We are ruin'd, lost ! have you no more regard 
 To your reputations ? Where's your judgment ? 
 
 'slight, 
 Have yet some care of me, of your republic — 
 
 Face. Away, this brach ! * I'll bring thee, rogue, 
 within 
 The statute of sorcery,' tricesimo tertio 
 Of Harry the Eighth : ay, and perhaps, thy neck 
 Within a noose, for laundi'ing*^ gold and barb- 
 ing it. 
 
 Dol. [Snatches Face's szoord.'] You'll bring your 
 head within a cockscomb, will you ? 
 And you, sir, with your menstrue " — 
 
 [Dashes Subtle's vial out of his hand. 
 
 Gather it up. — 
 'S death, you abominable pair of stinkards. 
 Leave off your barking, and grow one again. 
 Or, by the light that shines, I'll cut your throats. 
 I'll not be made a prey unto the marshal. 
 For ne'er a snarling dog-bolt ^ of you both. 
 Have you together cozen'd all this while. 
 And all the world, and shall it now be said. 
 You've made most courteous shift to cozen your- 
 selves ? 
 You will accuse him ! you will bring him in 
 
 [To Face. 
 Within the statute ! Who shall take your word ? 
 A whoreson, upstart, apocryphal captain. 
 Whom not a Puritan in Blackf riars " will trust 
 So much as for a feather : and you too, 
 
 [To Subtle. 
 Will give the cause, forsooth ! you will insult, 
 
 which the angels Gabriel, Uriel, <fec., entered and gave 
 responses, as Lilly says, ' in a voice, like the Irish, 
 much in the throat.' This was one of the most artful 
 and impudent modes of impostui'e, and was usually 
 conducted by confederacy. 
 
 1 Told in red letters — i.e. all these tricks were to be 
 printed in red letters, and hung up by Face in St. 
 Paul's. 
 
 2 Gamaliel Ratsey was a notorious highwayman, who 
 always robbed in a mask, no doubt, as hideous as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 3 For lying, &c. — i.e. for eating more than his share 
 of the broken provisions, collected and sent in for the 
 prisoners.— GiFFOKD. 
 
 * brach— &ny fine-nosed hound ; here used as ' a 
 mannerly name for a bitch.* 
 
 ' By this statute all witchcraft and sorcery were de- 
 clared to be felony without benefit of clergy. 
 
 6 laundring—yraish\ng; hence laundry, from the same 
 root as lave; barbing — clipping. 
 
 ^ menstrue, or menstruum — solvent. 
 
 8 dog-bolt — see p. 45, note 5, col. 1. 
 
 9 Blackfriars was the favourite residence of Puritans 
 at the time ; the principal dealers in feathers and other 
 vanities of the age. 
 
146 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And claim a primacy in the divisions ! 
 
 You must be chief ! as if you only had 
 
 The powder to project with, and the work 
 
 Were not begun out of equality ? 
 
 The venture tripartite ? all things in common ? 
 
 Without priority ? 'S death ! you perpetual curs, 
 
 Fall to your couples again, and cozen kindly, 
 
 And heartily, and lovingly, as you should, 
 
 And lose not the beginning of a term, 
 
 Or, by this hand, I shall grow factious too, 
 
 And take my part, and quit you. 
 
 FacQ. 'Tis his fault ; 
 He ever murmurs, and objects * his pains, 
 And says, the weight of all lies upon him. 
 
 Svh. Why, so it does. 
 
 Dol. How does it ? Do not we 
 Sustain our parts .'' 
 
 Svb. Yes ; but they are not equal. 
 
 Dol. Why, if your part exceed to-day, I hope 
 Ours may, to-morrow, match it. 
 
 Sub. Ay, they may. 
 
 Dol. May, murmuring mastiff! ay, and do. 
 Death on me ! 
 Help me to throttle him. 
 
 [Seizes Sub. 6y the throat. 
 
 Sub. Dorothy! Mistress Dorothy! 
 Ods precious, I'LL do anything. What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Dol. Because o' your fermentation and cibation 2 
 
 Sub. Not I, by heaven — 
 
 Dol. Your Sol and Luna. — Help me. 
 
 [To Face. 
 
 Svb. Would I were hang'd, then ! I'll conform 
 myself. 
 
 Dol. Will you, sir ? Do so then, and quickly : 
 swear. 
 
 Sub. What should I swear ? 
 
 Dol. To leave your faction, sir. 
 And labour kindly in the common work. 
 
 Sub. Let me not breathe if I meant aught beside. 
 I only used those speeches as a spur 
 To him. 
 
 Dol. I hope we need no spurs, sir. Do we .5* 
 
 Face. 'Slid, prove to-day, who shall shark best. 
 
 Sub. Agreed. 
 
 Dol. Yes, and work close and friendly. 
 
 Sub. 'Slight, the knot 
 Shall grow the stronger for this breach, with me. 
 [They shake hands. 
 
 Dol. Why, so, my good baboons ! Shall we go 
 
 A sort of sober, scurvy, precise neighbours, 
 That scarce have smiled twice since the king 
 
 came in,' 
 A feast of laughter at our follies ? Eascals, 
 Would run themselves from breath, to see me ride,* 
 Or you t' have but a hole to thrust your heads in, 
 For which you should pay ear-rent ? No, agree. 
 And may Don Provost ride a feasting long, 
 In liis old velvet jerkin and stain'd scarfs, 
 My noble sovereign, and worthy general. 
 Ere we contribute a new crewel* garter 
 To his most worsted worship. 
 
 * objects — urges. 
 
 2 fermentation is the sixth process in alchemy, and 
 means the mutation of any substance into the nature of 
 the ferment; cibation, the seventh, is feeding the matter 
 •with fresh substances, to supply the waste. Sol and Luna 
 are gold and silver, each of the planets representing a 
 metal. — Giffosd. As Giflford remarks, an adept him- 
 self might be puzzled by some of these terms, and there- 
 fore the reader need not expect an explanation of all. 
 
 3 King James succeeded to the English throne in 
 1603 ; this was written in 1610. 
 
 ^ to see me ride, &c. — ' To see me carted,' as Upton 
 says, ' as a bawd, and you, as a couple of rogues, to 
 lose your ears in the pillory.' 
 
 * crewel— a, kind of fine worsted. 
 
 Sub. Eoyal Dol ! 
 Spoken like Claridiana,* and thyself. 
 Face. For which at supper, thou shalt sit in 
 triumph, 
 And not be styled Dol Common, but Dol Proper, 
 Dol Singular: the longest cut at night. 
 Shall draw thee for his Doll Particular. 
 
 [Bell rings without. 
 Sub. Who's that ? one rings. To the window, 
 Dol. [Exit Dol.] — Pray heaven 
 The master do not trouble us this quarter. 
 Face. Oh, fear not him. While there dies one 
 a week 
 0' the plague, he's safe, from thinking toward 
 
 London : 
 Beside, he's busy at his hop-yards now ; 
 I had a letter from him. If he do. 
 He'll send such word, for airing of the house. 
 As you shall have sufficient time to quit it : 
 Though we break up a fortnight, 'tis no matter. 
 
 Re-enter Dol. 
 
 Sub. Who is it, DoL? 
 
 Dol. A fine young quodling.* 
 
 Face. Oh, 
 My lawyer's clerk, I lighted on last night 
 In Holbom, at the Dagger. He would have 
 (I told j'ou of him) a familiar. 
 To rifle with at horses, and win cups. 
 
 Dol. Oh, let him in. 
 
 Sub. Stay. Who shall do't ? 
 
 Face. Get you 
 Your robes on : I will meet him as going out. 
 
 Dol. And what shall I do ? 
 
 Face. Not to be seen ; away I [Exit Dol. 
 
 Seem you very reserv'd. 
 
 Svb. Enough. [Exit. 
 
 Face, [aloud and retiring. '\ God be wi' you, sir, 
 I pray you let him know that I was here ! 
 His name is Dapper. I would gladly have stayed, 
 but— 
 
 Dap. [within.'] Captain, I'm here. 
 
 Face, who's that.' — He's come, I think, doctor. 
 
 Enter Dapper. 
 
 Good faith, sir, I was going away. 
 
 Dap. In truth, 
 I am very sorry, captain. 
 
 Face, But I thought 
 Sure I should meet you. 
 
 Dap. Ay, I am very glad. 
 I had a scurvy writ or two to make. 
 And I had lent my watch last night to one 
 That dines to-day at the Sheriff's, and so was 
 
 robb'd 
 Of my pass-time. 
 
 Re-enter Subtle, in his velvet Cap and Gown. 
 
 Is this the cunning-man ? s 
 
 Face. This is his worship. 
 
 Dap. Is he a doctor.' 
 
 Face. Yes. 
 
 Dap. And you have broke with him, capkiin ? 
 
 Face. Ay. 
 
 Dap. And how ? 
 
 Face. Faith, he does make the matter, sir, so 
 dainty, 
 I know not what to say. 
 
 1 Claridiana is the hero of the romance called Th$ 
 Mirror of Knighthood. 
 
 2 quodling — Gifford, with some countenance from the 
 context, thinks this a sportive appellation for a young 
 quill-driver, derived from the quods and quids of legal 
 phraseology. Nares and otliers think Dol means codling 
 —a young raw apple, fit for nothing without dressing. 
 
 3 cunning-man — man of skilL 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 147 
 
 Dap. Not so, good captain. 
 Face. Would I were fairly rid of it, believe me. 
 Dap. Nay, now you grieve me, sir. Why should 
 you wish so ? 
 I dare assure you, I'll not be ungrateful. 
 
 Face. I cannot think you will, sir. But the law 
 Is such a thing — and then he says, Kead's ^ matter 
 Falling so lately. 
 
 Dap. Eead ! he was an ass, 
 And dealt, sir, with a fool. 
 Face. It was a clerk, sir. 
 Dap. A clerk ! 
 
 Face. Nay, hear me, sir, you know the law 
 Better, I think — 
 
 Dap. I should, sir, and the danger : 
 You know, I show'd the statute to you. 
 Face. You did so. 
 
 Dap. And will I tell then! By this hand of flesh, 
 Would it might never write good court-hand more, 
 If I discover. What do you think of me, 
 That I am a chiaus ? 2 
 Face. What's that ? 
 Dap. The Turk was here. 
 As one would say, do you think I am a Turk ? 
 Face. I'll tell the doctor so. 
 Dap. Do, good sweet captain. 
 Face. Come, noble doctor, pi-ay thee let's prevail; 
 This is the gentleman, and he is no chiaus. 
 
 Sub. Captain, I havereturn'd you all my answer. 
 I would do much, sir, for your love. — But this 
 I neither may, nor can. 
 
 Face. Tut, do not say so. 
 You deal now with a noble fellow, doctor. 
 One that will thank you richly; and he is no 
 Let that, sir, move you. [chiaus : 
 
 Sub. Pray you, forbear — 
 Face. He has 
 Four angels 3 here. 
 Sub. You do me wrong, good sir. 
 Face. Doctor, wherein ? to tempt you with these 
 
 spirits.^ 
 Sub. To tempt my art and love, sir, to my peril. 
 "Fore heaven, I scarce can think you are my fi-iend, 
 That so would draw me to apparent danger. 
 Face. I draw you! a horse draw you, and a 
 halter, 
 You, and your flies together — 
 Dap. Nay, good captain. 
 Face. That know no difference of men. 
 Sub. Good words, sir. 
 
 Face. Good deeds, sir. Doctor Dogs-meat. 
 'Slight, I bring you 
 No cheating Clim o' the Cloughs, or Claribels,* 
 That look as big as five-and-fifty,5 and flush; 
 And spit out secrets like hot custard — 
 Dap. Captain! 
 
 Face. Nor any melancholic under-scribe, 
 Shall tell the vicar ; but a special gentle. 
 That is the heir to forty marks a year. 
 Consorts with the small poets of the time. 
 Is the sole hope of his old grandmother ; 
 That knows the law, and writes you six fair 
 hands. 
 
 ^ Read was a conjurer of the time, comicted of 
 practising the black art. 
 
 2 Chiaus was a special envoy sent from the Porte. In 
 1609, a chiatis was sent by Sir Robert Shirley from Con- 
 stantinople, who, before his employer an-ived, had 
 chiaused (choused or cheated) the Turkish and Persian 
 merchants out of £4000, and decamped. 
 
 3 An angel was worth about 10 shillings. 
 
 * Clim of the Cloughs, <fcc. — i.e. no ranting heroes of 
 old ballads and romances. Clim was a celebrated archer 
 often mentioned in the Robin Hood ballads. 
 
 5 That look as big, &c.— five-and-fifty was the highest 
 number to stand on at the old game of Primero. If a 
 /lush (a ran of cards of the same suit) accompanied this, 
 the hand swept the table.— Gifford. 
 
 Is a fine clerk, and has his cyphering perfect, 
 Will take his oath o' the Greek Testament, 
 If need be, in his pocket ; and can court 
 His mistress, out of Ovid. 
 Dap. Nay, dear captain — 
 Face. Did you not tell me so ? 
 Dap. Yes ; but I'd have you 
 Use master doctor with some more respect. 
 Face. Hang him, proud stag, with his broad 
 velvet head ! — 
 But for your sake, I'd choak, ere I would change 
 An article of breath with such a puckfist : '■ 
 Come, let's be gone. [Going. 
 
 Sub. Pray you, let me speak with you. 
 Dap. His worship calls you, captain. 
 Face. I am sorry 
 I e'er embark'd myself in such a business. 
 Dap. Nay, good sir ; he did call you. 
 Face. Will he take then 7 
 Sub. First, hear me — 
 Face. Not a syllable, 'less you take. 
 Sub. Pray you, sir — 
 Face. Upon no terms, but an assumpsit. 
 Sub. Your humour must be law. 
 
 [He takes the four angels. 
 Face. Why now, sir, talk. 
 Now I dare hear you with mine honour. Speak. 
 So may this gentleman too. 
 Su^. Why, sir — [Offering to whisper Face. 
 Face. No whispering. 
 
 Sub. Fore heaven, you do not apprehend the 
 loss 
 You do yourself in this. 
 Face. Wherein ? for what ? 
 Sub. Marry, to be so importunate for one, 
 That, when he has it, will undo you all : 
 He'll win up all the money in the town. 
 Face. How ! 
 
 Sub. Yes, and blow up gamester after gamester, 
 As they do crackers in a puppet play. 
 If I do give him a familiar, 
 Give you him all you play for ; never set ^ him : 
 For he will have it. 
 
 Face. You are mistaken, doctor. 
 Why, he does ask one but for cups and horses, 
 A rifling fly ; ^ none of your great familiars. 
 Dap. Yes, captain, I would have it for all games. 
 Sub. I told you so. 
 
 Face. [Taking Dap. aside.'] 'Slight, that is a 
 new business ! • 
 I understood you, a tame bird, to fly 
 Twice in a term, or so, on Friday nights, 
 When you had left the office, for a nag 
 Of forty or fifty shillings. 
 Dap. Ay, 'tis true, sir ; 
 But I do think now I shall leave the law, 
 And therefore — 
 
 Face. Why, this changes quite the case. 
 Do you think that I dare move him ? 
 
 Dap. If you please, sir ; 
 All's one to him, I see. 
 
 Face. What ! for that money ? 
 I cannot with my conscience ; nor should you 
 Make the request, methinks. 
 
 Dap. No, sir, I mean 
 To add consideration. 
 
 Face, Why then, sir, 
 I'U try.— [Goes to Subtle.] Say that it were for 
 all games, doctor ? 
 
 ^ puck-fist— ^Q,rh2c^s origmaMy , pnff-fist; the fungus 
 called puff-ball or faz-ball. Metaphorically, a term of 
 reproach, equal to 'vile fungus,' 'scum of the earth.'— 
 Nares. 
 
 2 set — stake a wager with. 
 
 3 A rifling fly. Rifling was a game at dice ; or does it 
 here mean simply 'robbing?' fly— a. familiar spirit. 
 
148 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Svb. I say, then, not a mouth shall eat for him 
 At any ordinary, but on the score. 
 That is a gaming mouth, conceive me. 
 
 Face. Indeed! 
 
 Sub. He'll di-aw you all the treasure of the 
 realm. 
 If it be set ^ him. 
 
 Face. Speak you this from art ? 
 
 Svb. Ay, sir, and reason too, the ground of art. 
 He is of the only best complexion, 
 The queen of Fairy loves. 
 
 Face. What! is he? 
 
 Suhi Peace! 
 He'll overhear you. Sir, should she but see him. — 
 
 Face. What.' 
 
 Sub. Do not you tell him. 
 
 Face. Will he win at cards too ? 
 
 Sub. The spirits of dead Holland, living Isaac,2 
 You'd swear were in him ; such a vigorous luck 
 As cannot be resisted. 'Slight, he'll put 
 Six of your gallants to a cloke,^ indeed. 
 
 Face. A strange success, that some man shall 
 be born to ! 
 
 Sub. He hears you, man — 
 
 Dap. Sir, I'll not be ingrateful. 
 
 Face. Faith, I have confidence in his good 
 nature : 
 You hear, he says he will not be ingrateful. 
 
 Sub. Why, as you please ; my venture follows 
 yours. 
 
 Face. Ti'oth, do it, doctor; think him trusty, 
 and make him. 
 He may make us both happy in an hour ; 
 Win some five thousand pound, and send us two 
 on't. 
 
 Dap. Believe it, and I will, sir. 
 
 Face. And you shaU, sir. [Talces him aside. 
 You have heard all ? 
 
 Dap. No, what was't ? Nothing, I, sir. 
 
 Face. Nothing! 
 
 Dap. A little, sir. 
 
 Face. Well, a rare star 
 Eeign'd at your birth. 
 
 Doj). At mine, sir ! No. 
 
 Face. The doctor 
 Swears that you are — 
 
 Sub. Nay, captain, you'll tell all now. 
 
 Face. Allied to the queen of Fairy. 
 
 Dap. Who ? that I am ? 
 Believe it, no such matter — 
 
 Face. Yes, and that 
 You were born with a cawl on your head.* 
 
 Dap. Who says so ? 
 
 Face. Come, 
 You knowit well enough, though you dissemble it. 
 
 Dap. I'fac,5 I do not : you are mistaken. 
 
 Face. How! 
 Swear by your fac, and in a thing so known 
 Unto the doctor ? How shall we, sir, trust you 
 In the other matter ? can we ever think. 
 When you have won five or six thousand pound, 
 You'll send us shares in't, by this I'ate ? 
 
 Dap. By Jove, sir, 
 ril win ten thousand pound, and send you half. 
 r fac's no oath. 
 
 Sub. No, no, he did but jest. 
 
 ' set— st&ked. 
 
 ' The poet alludes to the two famous chemists, Isaac 
 and John Isaac IIollandus,-who flourished about this time, 
 and wrote several treatises on alchemy. — Whalley, 
 
 3 he'll put, &c. — i.e. strip tliera to the cloak, the last 
 thing a gallant parted with.— Gifford. 
 
 * This was, and probably by some is still, supersti- 
 tiously supposed to be a token of good fortune througii 
 life. 
 
 * //oc— also i'/ag, f/agins—Vitdth. 
 
 Face. Go to. Go, thank the doctor : he's your 
 fi-iend, 
 To take it so. 
 
 Dap. I thank his worship. 
 
 Face. So ! 
 Another angel. 
 
 Dap. Must I ? 
 
 Face. Must you I 'slight, 
 What else is thanks? will you betrival? — Doctor, 
 
 [Dapper gives him the monejf. 
 
 When must he come for his familiar ? 
 
 Dap. Shall I not have it with me ? 
 
 Sub. Oh, good sir ! 
 There must a world of ceremonies pass ; 
 You must be bath'd and fumigated first : 
 Besides the queen of Fairy does not rise 
 Till it be noon. 
 
 Face. Not, if she danced, to-night 
 
 Sub. And she must bless it. 
 
 Face. Did you never see 
 Her royal grace yet ? 
 
 Dap. Whom? 
 
 Face. Your aunt of Fairy ? 
 
 Sub. Not since she kist him in the cradle^ 
 captain : 
 I can resolve you that. 
 
 Face. Well, see her grace, 
 Whate'er it cost you, for a thing that I know. 
 It will be somewhat hard to compass ; but 
 However, see her. You are made believe it, 
 If you can see her. Her grace is a lone woman. 
 And very rich ; and if she take a fancy. 
 She will do strange things. See her, at any hand. 
 'Slid, she may hap to leave you all she has : 
 It is the doctor's fear. 
 
 Dap. How wiirt be done, then ? 
 
 Face. Let me alone, take you no thought. Do 
 you 
 But say to me, Captain, I'll see her grace. 
 
 Dap. Captain^ Fll see her grace. 
 
 Face. Enough. [Knoching within. 
 
 Sub. Who's there ? 
 Anon. — Conduct him forth by the back way. — 
 
 [^Aside to Fack. 
 Sir, against one o'clock prepare yourself ; 
 Till when you must be fasting ; only take 
 Three drops of vinegar in at your nose. 
 Two at your mouth, and one at either ear; 
 Then bathe your fingers ends and wash your eyes, 
 To sharpen your five senses, and cry hum 
 Thrice, and then buz as often; and then come. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Face. Can you remember this ? 
 
 Dap. I warrant you. 
 
 Face. AVell then, away. It is but your be- 
 stowing 
 Some twenty nobles 'mong her grace's servants, 
 And put on a clean shirt : you do not know 
 What grace her grace may do you in clean linen. 
 \_Exeunt Face and Dapper. 
 
 Sub. [within']. Come in! Good wives, I pray 
 you forbear me now ; 
 Troth I can do you no good till afternoon. — 
 
 Re-enfe}'s,folloiced by Drugger. 
 
 What is your name ? say you, Abel Drugger ? 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. A seller of tobacco? 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. Umph! 
 Free of the grocers? 
 
 Drug. Ay, an't please you. 
 ^Sub. Well— 
 Your business, Abel ? 
 
 Drug. This, an't please your worship: 
 I am a young beginner, and am building 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 149 
 
 Of a new shop, an't likei your worship, just 
 
 At corner of a street: — Here is the plot 2 on't — 
 
 And I would know by art, sir, of your worship, 
 
 Which way I should make my door, by necro- 
 mancy, 
 
 And where my shelves ; and which should be 
 for boxes. 
 
 And which for pots. I would be glad to thrive, 
 sir: 
 
 And I was wish'ds to your worship by a gentle- 
 man, 
 
 One Captain Face, that says you know men's 
 planets, 
 
 And their good angels, and their bad. 
 Svh. I do, 
 
 If I do see them — * 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. What ! my honest Abel ? 
 Thou art well met here. 
 
 Drug. Troth, sir, I was speaking, 
 Just as your worship came here, of your worship : 
 I pray you speak for me to master doctor. 
 
 Face. He shall do anything. — Doctor, do you 
 hear ! 
 This is my friend, Abel, an honest fellow ; 
 He lets me have good tobacco, and he does not 
 Sophisticates it with sack-lees or oil, 
 Nor washes it in muscadel and grains,^ 
 Nor buries it in gravel under ground, 
 Wrapp'd up in greasy leather or piss'd clouts ; 
 But keeps it in fine lily pots, that, open'd, 
 Smell like conserve of roses, or French beans. 
 He has his maple block, his silver tongs, 
 Winchester pipes, and tire of Juniper : ^ 
 A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no goldsmith. « 
 
 Suh. He is a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on. 
 
 Face. Already, sir, have you found it? Lo 
 thee, Abel! 
 
 Siib. And in right way toward riches — 
 
 Face. Sir! 
 
 Svh. This summer' 
 He will be of the clothing of his company, 
 And next spring call'd to the scarlet; spend 
 what he can. 
 
 Face. What ! and so little beard ? 
 
 Sub. Sir, you must think. 
 He may have a receipt to make hair come : 
 But he'll be wise, preserve his youth, and fine for't; 
 His fortune looks for him another way. 
 
 Face. 'Slid, doctor, how canst thou know this 
 so soon ? 
 I am amused at that ! 
 
 Sitb. By a rule, captain. 
 In metoposcopy,io which I do work by; 
 
 1 7/A-e— please. 2 ^?o^— ground-plot or plan. 
 
 3 wisKd — recommencled. 
 
 * Subtle is facetious, and plays on the word angel, 
 which he takes fer a coin, and poor Abel for an atten- 
 dant spirit.— GiFFORD. 
 
 5 Sophisticate— &Ci\jM&i-&ic. 
 
 6 grains— perhaps the grains that remain after brew- 
 iJig. 
 
 '^ It should be observed that the houses of druggists 
 (tobacconists) were not merely furnished with tobacco, 
 but with conveniences for smoking it. Every well- 
 ficquented shop was an academy of this 'noble art,' 
 wliere professors regularly attended to initiate the 
 country aspirant. The maple block was for shredding 
 the tobacco leaf, the silver tongs for liolding tlie coal, 
 and the fire of Juniper for the customers to light their 
 
 pipes. — GiFFORD. 
 
 s no goldsmith — i.e. no usurer — goldsmiths being the 
 bankers and money-lenders of these days. 
 
 9 This summer, &c.—i.e. he will, this year, be brought 
 upon the livery of the grocers' company, and the next, 
 be drunk to as sheriff. — Gifford. 
 
 i° metoposcopij—divinsition by the lines on the forehead 
 —Or. metopon, the forehead, skoped, to examine. 
 
 A certain star in the forehead, which you see not. 
 Your chestnut or your olive-colour'd face 
 Does never fail : and your long ear doth promise. 
 I knew't by certain spots, too, in his teeth, 
 And on the nail of his mercurial finger. 
 
 Face. Which finger's that 7 
 
 Sub. His little finger. Look. 
 You were born upon a Wednesday ? 
 
 Drug. Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 Sub. The thumb, in chiromancy,^ we give Venus; 
 The fore-finger, to Jove ; the midst, to Saturn ; 
 The ring, to Sol ; the least, to Mercury, 
 Who was the lord, sir, of his horoscope ; 
 His house of life being Libra ; which f oreshow'd 
 He should be a merchant, and should trade with 
 balance. 
 
 Face. Why, this is strange I Is it not, honest 
 Nab.? 
 
 Sub. There is a ship now, coming from Ormus, 
 That shall yield him such a commodity 
 Of drugs. — This is the west, and this the south ? 
 [Pointing to the plan. 
 
 Di^g. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. And those are your two sides ? 
 
 Drug. Ay, sir. 
 
 Sub. Make me your door, then, south; yonr 
 broad side, west : 
 And on the east side of your shop, aloft, 
 Write Mathlai, Tarmiel, and Baraborat ; 
 Upon the north part, Rael, Velel, Thiel. 
 They are the names of those mercurial spirits, 
 That do fright flies from boxes. 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. And 
 Beneath your threshold, bury me a load-stone 
 To draw in gallants that wear spurs : the rest, 
 They'll seem to follow. 
 
 Face. That's a secret. Nab ! 
 
 Sub. And, on your stall, a puppet, with a vice » 
 And a coiirt-f ucus ^ to call city dames : 
 You shall deal much with minerals. 
 
 Drug. Sir, I have 
 At home, already — 
 
 Sub. Ay, I know you have arsenic, 
 Vitriol, sal-tartar, argaile,* alkali, 
 Cinoper:* I know all. — This fellow, captain, 
 Will come, in time, to be a great distiller-. 
 And give a say ® — I will not say directly. 
 But vei*y fair — at the philosopher's stone. 
 
 Face. Why, how now, Abel ! is this true ? 
 
 Drug. Good captain, 
 What must I give ? [Aside to Face. 
 
 Face. Nay, I'll not counsel thee. 
 Thou hear'st what wealth (he says, Spend what 
 
 thou canst) 
 Thou'rt like to come to. 
 
 Drug. I would gi' him a crown. 
 
 Face. A crown! and toward such a fortime? 
 heart. 
 Thou shalt rather gi' him thy shop. No gold 
 about thee ? 
 
 Drug. Yes, I have a portague,'^ I have kept 
 this half year. 
 
 ^ chiromancy — divination by examining the hand — Gr. 
 cheir, hand, manieia, soothsaying. 
 
 2 vice. This probably is an allusion to the ' droll 
 antic character so often mentioned in "our old plays,"' 
 though Gifford thinks it is merely some kind of ma- 
 chinery. 
 
 3 A/ucus was a paint or wash for the face. 
 
 * argaile— the impure salt from the lees of wine ; 
 crude tartar, or tartar of wine. 
 
 s Cinoper — cinnabar. 
 
 ^ say — assay, attempt. 
 
 '' portague—a. Portuguese gold coin, worth from £3, 
 10s. to £4, 10s. 
 
ISO 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 Face. Out on thee, Nab ! 'Slight, there was 
 such an offer — 
 Shalt keep't no longer, I'll give't him for thee. 
 
 Doctor, 
 Nab prays your "worship to drink this, and swears 
 He will appear more grateful, as your skill 
 Does raise nim in the world. 
 
 Drug. I would entreat 
 Another favour of his worship. 
 
 Face. Whatis't, Nab? 
 
 Drug. But to look over, sir, my almanack, 
 And cross out my ill days, that I may neither 
 Bargain, nor trust upon them. 
 
 Face. That he shall. Nab; 
 Leave it, it shall be done, 'gainst afternoon, 
 t Svh. And a direction for his shelves. 
 
 Face. Now, Nab, 
 Art thou well pleased. Nab ? 
 
 D)^g. 'Thank, sir, both your worships. 
 
 Face. Away. — {Exit Drugger. 
 
 Why, now, you smoky persecutor of nature ! 
 Now do you see, that something's to be done, 
 Beside your beech-coal, and your corsive i waters. 
 Your crosslets,2 crucibles, and cucurbites ? 
 You must have stuff brought home to you, to 
 
 work on : 
 And yet you think I am at no expense 
 In searching out these veins, then following them. 
 Then trying them out. 'Fore God, my intelli- 
 gence 
 Costs me more money than my share oft comes to, 
 In these rare works. 
 
 Suh. You are pleasant, sir. — 
 
 Re-enter Dol. 
 
 How now ! 
 What says my dainty Dolkin ? 
 
 Dol. Yonder fish-wife 
 Will not away. And thei*e's your giantess, 
 The bawd of Lambeth. 
 
 Svh. Heart, I cannot speak with them. 
 
 Dol. Not afore night, I have told them in a 
 voice. 
 Thorough the trunk, like one of your familiars. 
 But I have spied Sir Epicure Mammon — 
 
 Sub. Where? 
 
 Dol. Coming along, at far end of the lane, 
 Slow of his feet, but earnest of his tongue 
 To one that's with him. 
 
 Suh. Face, go you and shift. — {Exit Face. 
 Dol, you must presently make ready too. 
 
 Dol. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Sub. Oh, I did look for him 
 With the sun's rising : 'marvel he could sleep. 
 This is the day I am to perfect for him 
 The magisterium,^ our great work, the stone; 
 And yield it, made, into his hands : of which 
 He has, this month, talk'd as he were possess'd. 
 And now he's dealing pieces on't away. — 
 Methinks I see him entering ordinaries, 
 Dispensing for the pox, and plaguy houses, 
 Reaching bis dose, walking Moorfields for lepers, 
 And offering citizens' wives pomander-bracelets, ^ 
 As his preservative, made of the elixir ; 
 Seaching the spittal,^ to make old bawds young ; 
 And the highways, for beggars, to make rich : 
 I see no end of his labours. He will make 
 Nature asham'd of her long sleep : when art. 
 
 » corstre— con'osive. 
 
 2 crosiht—dk sort of crucible. 
 
 3 magisterium — a fine substance deposited by precipi- 
 tation. 
 
 ♦ pomander-braceleti. Pomander was a perfumed ball 
 in a box containing perfumery, formerly carried by 
 ladies at the end of a chain, etc. 
 
 * spiltal — hospital 
 
 Who's but a step-dame, shall do more than she, 
 In her best love to mankind, ever could : 
 If his dream lasts, he'll turn the age to gold. 
 
 {Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE I. 
 
 An Outer Room in Lo\'ewit's House. 
 
 Enter Sir Epicure Mammon and Surly. 
 
 Mam. Come on, sir. Now, yon set your foot 
 on shore 
 In Novo Orbe;i here's the rich Peru: 
 And there within, sir, are the golden mines. 
 Great Solomon's Ophir ! he was sailing to't 
 Three years, but we have reach'd it in ten months. 
 This is the day, wherein, to all my friends, 
 I will pronounce the happy word. Be rich ; 
 This day you shall be spectatissemi.2 
 You shall no more deal with the hollow dye,' 
 Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping 
 The livery-punk for the young heir, that must 
 Seal, at all hours, in his shirt : no more, 
 If he deny, have him beaten to't, as he is 
 That brings him the commodity. No more 
 Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger 
 Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloke. 
 To be display' d at Madam Augusta's,* make 
 The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before 
 The golden calf, and on their knees, whole nights 
 Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets : 
 Or go a feasting after di-um and ensign. 
 No more of this. You shall start up young 
 
 viceroys. 
 And have your punks, and punketees, my Surly. 
 And unto thee I speak it first. Be rich. 
 Where is my Subtle, there ? Within, ho. 
 
 Face. [ Within.'] Sir, he'll come to you by and 
 by. 
 
 3Iam. That is his fire-drake, 
 His Lungs, ^ his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals, 
 Till he firks nature up, in her own centre. 
 You are not faithful,^ sir. This night, I'll change 
 All that is metal in my house to gold : 
 And, early in the morning, will I send 
 To all the plumbers and the pewterers. 
 And buy their tin and lead^up ; and to Lothbury * 
 For all the copper. 
 
 Sur. What ! and turn that too ? 
 
 3Iam. Yes, and I'll purchase Devonshire and 
 Cornwall, 
 And make them perfect Indes!^ you admire '<> 
 now? 
 
 Sur. No, faith. 
 
 3fam. But when you see th' effects of the Great 
 Medicine, 
 Of which one part projected on a hundred 
 Of Mercury, 11 or Venus, or the moon. 
 
 1 ' The new world.' 
 
 2 ' Most respected.' 
 
 3 Alluding to loaded dice. 
 
 ■* The keeper of a brothel or an ordinary. 
 
 5 Ltings was a term of art for the under-operators in 
 chemistry, whose business principally was to take care 
 of the fire. 
 
 6;?r/l-— beat. 
 
 ' /aj7A/M?— believing. 
 
 * Lothbury was at that time famous for its copi)er 
 works. 
 
 * He meant to turn all the tin of these counties into 
 gold. 
 
 10 admire— in old -writers generally means wonder, 
 here it seems to be equal to believe. 
 
 11 In the nomenclature of alchemy the Sun represented 
 gold, the Moon, silver, Mars, iron, Mercury, quicksilver, 
 Saturn, lead, Jupiter, tin, and Venus, copper. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 151 
 
 Shall turn it to as many of the sun ; 
 Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : 
 You will believe me ? 
 
 Sur. Yes, when I see't, I will. 
 But if my eyes do cozen me so, and I 
 Giving them no occasion, sure I'll have 
 Them out next day. 
 
 Mam. Ha! why? 
 Do you think I fable with you ? I assure you. 
 He that has once the flower of the sun, 
 The perfect ruby, which we call elixir, 
 Not only can do that, but, by its virtue. 
 Can confer honour, love, respect, long life ; 
 Give safety, valour, yea, and victory. 
 To whom he will. In eight-and-twenty days, 
 I'll make an old man of fourscore a child. 
 
 Sw. No doubt ; he's that already. 
 
 Mam. Nay, I mean, 
 Eestore his years, renew him, like an eagle, 
 To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters. 
 Young giants ; as our philosophers have done, 
 The ancient patriarchs, afore the flood, ^ 
 But taking, once a week, on a knife's point, 
 The quantity of a grain of mustard of it. 
 Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. 
 
 Sw. The decay'd vestals of Pict-hatch^ would 
 thank you. 
 That keep the fire alive there. 
 
 Mam. 'Tis the secret 
 Of nature naturiz'da 'gainst all infections, 
 Cures all diseases coming of all causes ; 
 A month's grief in a day, a year's in twelve ; 
 And, of what age soever, in a month : 
 Past all the doses of your drugging doctors. 
 I'll undertake withal, to fright the plague 
 Out of the kingdom in three months. 
 
 Sur. And I'll 
 Be bound, the players shall sing you praises,^ 
 
 then. 
 Without their poets. 
 
 Mam. Sir, I'll do't. Meantime, 
 I'll give away so much unto my man. 
 Shall serve the whole city, with preservative. 
 Weekly ; each house his dose, and at the rate — 
 
 Sur. As he that built the Waterwork, does 
 with water ? 
 
 Mam. You are incredulous. 
 
 Sur. Faith I have a humour,* 
 I would not willingly be gull'd. Your stone 
 Cannot transmute vcia. 
 
 Mam. Pertinax, [my] Surly, 
 Will you believe antiquity ? records ? 
 I'll show you a book where Moses and his sister, 
 And Solomon, have written of the art ; 
 Ay, and a treatise penn'd by Adam — 
 
 Sur. How! 
 
 Mam. Of the philosopher's stone, and in High 
 Dutch. 
 
 Sur. Did Adam write, sir, in High Dutch ? 
 
 3fam. He did ; 
 Which proves it was the primitive tongue. 
 
 Sur. What paper ? 
 
 1 Pict-hatch—a, noted .tavern or brothel in Turnmill or 
 Turabull Street, Cow-Cross, Clerkenwell ; a haunt of 
 the worst part of both sexes. A hatch ynth pikes upon 
 it was a common mark of a bad house.— Nares. 
 
 2 Our poet seems here to allude to the theological dis- 
 tinction of natura naturans and natura naturata. The 
 former applied to the Creator, as having imparted ex- 
 istence and nature to all things; and the latter to the 
 creatures, as having received their nature and properties 
 tiom the power of another. — Gifford. 
 
 3 The theatres were shut up during the plague. 
 
 * humour — whim, way. This was a favourite and 
 much-abused word in Jonson's days, and had a great 
 variety of meanings. It is ridiculed both by him and 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Mam. On cedar board. 
 
 Sur. Oh that, indeed, they say, 
 Will last 'gainst worms. 
 
 Mam. 'Tis like your Irish wood, 
 'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's fleecei, 
 
 too, 
 Which was no other than a book of alchemy, 
 Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram vellum. 
 Such was Pythagoras' thigh, Pandora's tub. 
 And, all that fable of Medea's charms. 
 The manner of our work ; the bulls, our furnace, 
 Still breathing fire ; our argent- vive, the dragon ; 
 The dragon's teeth, mercury subUmate, 
 That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the 
 
 biting ; 
 And they are gather'd into Jason's helm. 
 The alembic, and then sow'd in Mars his field, 
 And thence sublimed so often, till they're fix'd. 
 Both this, the Hesperian garden, Cadmus' story, 
 Jove's shower, the boon of Midas, Argus' eyes, 
 Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, 
 All abstract riddles of our stone. — 
 
 Enter Face, 
 
 Servant. 
 
 How now ! 
 Do we succeed ? Is our day come ? and holds it? 
 
 Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir ; 
 You have colour for it, crimson : the red ferment 
 Has done his oflSce ; three hours hence prepare 
 
 you 
 To see projection.^ 
 
 Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, 
 Again I say to thee, aloud, Be rich. 
 This day thou shalthave ingots; and, to-morrow, 
 Give lords th' affront.2— Is it, my Zephyrus, right? 
 Blushes the bolt's-head ? s 
 
 Face. Like a wench with child, sir. 
 That were but now discover'd to her master. 
 
 Mam. Excellent witty Lungs ! my only care 
 Where to get stuff enough now, to project on ; 
 This town will not half serve me. 
 
 Face. mo, sir! buy 
 The covering off o' churches. 
 
 3Iam. That's true. 
 
 Face. Yes. 
 Let them stand bare, as do their auditory ; 
 Or cap them, new, with shingles. 
 
 3fam. No, good thatch : 
 Thatch will lie light upon the rafters. Lungs — 
 Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace ; 
 I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe, 
 Lost in the embers ; and repair this brain, 
 Hurt with the fume o' the metals. 
 
 Face. I have blown, sir,^ 
 Hard for your worship ; thrown by many a coal. 
 When 'twas not beech ; weigh'd those t put in, 
 
 just, 
 To keep your heat still even ; these blear'd eyes 
 Have wak'd to read your several colours, sir. 
 Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow. 
 The peacock's tail, the plumed swan.* 
 
 Mam. And, lastly. 
 Thou hast desciy'd the flower, the sanguis agni ? * 
 
 Face. Yes, sir: 
 
 Mam. Where's master ? 
 
 1 projection — the twelfth and last process in alchemy; 
 nothing is left but to pour the medicine on the baser 
 metals, and make gold and silver amain.— Gifford. 
 
 2 i.e. look them in the front or face. 
 
 3 bolt's-head— a. long straight-necked glass vessel, gra- 
 dually rising to a conical figura- Whallet. 
 
 4 These are all terms used by alchemists to express 
 the several effects arising from the different degrees of 
 fermentation. It would occupy too much space to ex- 
 plain them intelligibly; but an explanation of these is 
 not necessary to the understanding of the drama. 
 
 ^ sanguis agni—' blood of the lamb.' , 
 
152 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Face. At bis prayers, sir, he ; 
 Good man, he's doing his devotions 
 For the success. 
 
 Mam. Lungs, I will set a period 
 To all thy labours ; thou shalt be the master 
 Of my seraglio. 
 
 Face. Good, sir. 
 
 Mam. But, do you hear? 
 I'll geld you, Lungs. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mam. For I do mean 
 To have a list of wives and concubines 
 Equal with Solomon, Avho had the stone 
 Alike with me ; and I will make me a back 
 With the elixir, that shall be as tough 
 As Hercules. — 
 Thou art sure thou saw'st it blood ? 
 
 Face. Both blood and spirit, sir. 
 
 Mam. I will have all my beds blown up, not 
 stuft : 
 Down is too hard : and then, mine oval room 
 Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took 
 From Elephantis, and dull Aretine 
 But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses 
 Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse 
 And multiply the figures, as I walk 
 Naked between my succubse. My mists 
 I'll have of perfume, vapour'd 'bout the room, 
 To lose ourselves in ; and my baths, like pits 
 To fall into ; from whence Ave will come forth, 
 And roll us dry in gossamer and roses. — 
 Is it arrived at ruby ? — 
 And my flatterers 
 
 Shall be the pure and gravest of divines, 
 That I can get for money. My mere fools, 
 Eloquent burgesses ; and then my poets 
 The same that writ so subtly of the fart, 
 Whom I will entertain still for that subject. 
 The few that would give out themselves to be 
 Court and town-stallions, and each-where, bely 
 Ladies who are known most innocent for them ; 
 Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of : 
 And they shall fan me with ten ostrich tails 
 Apiece, made in a plume to gather wind. 
 We will be brave, Puffe, now we have the 
 
 med'cine. 
 My meat shall all come in, in Indian shells, 
 Dishes of agate set in gold, and studded 
 With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies. 
 The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' heels, 
 Boiled in the spirit of sol, and dissolv'd pearl, 
 Apicius' diet, I 'gainst the epilepsy : 
 And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, 
 Headed with diamond and carbuncle. 
 My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calver'd^ salmons, 
 Knots,3 godwits, lampreys : I myself will have 
 The beards of barbels served, instead of sallads : 
 Oil'd mushrooms ; and the swelling unctuous paps 
 Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off, 
 Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce ; 
 For which, I'll say unto my cook, There's gold, 
 Go forth and he a knight. 
 
 Face. Sir, I'll go look 
 A little, how it heightens. [Exit. 
 
 Mam. Do. — My shirts 
 I'll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light 
 As cobwebs ; and for all my other raiment 
 
 1 Apicius' diet. Apicius was the name of tliree noto- 
 rious gluttons ; the one alluded to above lived in the time 
 of Tiberius, and is said to have squandered £800,000 
 on his stomach, and then hanged himself because he 
 had only a pittance of £80,000 left. 
 
 2 calver'd salmon— i.e. salmon cut in slices, scalded 
 with wine, water, and salt, boiled up in white wine 
 vinegai-, and set hy to cool. — Nares. 
 
 3 Knots — a small bird of the snipe kind, as was also 
 the godwit. 
 
 It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, 
 Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
 My gloves of fishes and birds' skins, perfumed 
 With gums of paradise, and eastei-n air — 
 
 /Su7\ And do you think to have the stone with 
 this ? 
 
 Mam. No, I do think t' have all this with the 
 stone. 
 
 Sur. Why, I have heard, he must be homo 
 frugi,^ 
 A pious, holy, and religious man. 
 One free from mortal sin, a very virgin. 
 
 Mam. That makes it, sir ; he is so : but I buy it ; 
 My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, 
 A notable, superstitious, good soul. 
 Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald. 
 With prayer and fasting for it : and sir, let him 
 Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes. 
 Not a profane word afore him : 'tis poison. — 
 
 Enter Subtle. 
 
 Good morrow, father. 
 
 Sub. Gentle son, good morrow. 
 And to your friend there. What is he, is with 
 you.^ 
 
 Mam. An heretic, that I did bring along, 
 In hope, sir, to convert him. 
 
 Sub. Son, I doubt 
 You are covetous, that thus you meet your time 
 In the just point : prevent 2 your day at morning. 
 This argues something, worthy of a fear 
 Of importune and carnal appetite. 
 Take heed you do not cause the blessing leave 
 
 With your ungovem'd haste. I should be sorry 
 To see my labours, now even at perfection, 
 Got by long watching and large patience. 
 Not prosper where my love and zeal hath placed 
 
 them. 
 Which (heaven I call to witness, with youi-self. 
 To whom I have pour'd my thoughts) in all my 
 
 ends. 
 Have look'd no way, but unto public good, 
 To pious uses, and dear charity. 
 Now grown a prodigy with men. Wherein, 
 If you, my son, should now prevaricate, 
 And, to your own particular lusts employ 
 So great and catholic a bliss, be sure 
 A curse will follow, yea, and overtake 
 Your subtle and most secret ways. 
 
 Mam. I know, sir ; 
 You shall not need to fear me : I but come, 
 To have you confute this gentleman. 
 
 Su7'. Who is. 
 Indeed, sir, somewhat costive ^ of belief, 
 Toward your stone ; would not be gull'd. 
 
 Sub. Well, son, 
 All that I can convince him in is this. 
 The WORK IS DONE, bright sol is in his robe. 
 We have a medicine of the triple soul, 
 The glorified spirit. Thanks be to heaven, 
 And make us worthy of it !— Ulen Spiegel! * 
 
 Face [withi7i.] Anon, sir. 
 
 Sub. Look well to the register. 
 And let your heat still lessen by degrees, 
 To the aludels.5 
 
 Face, [within.'] Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. Did you look 
 On the bolt's-head yet ? 
 
 1 homo frugi—exjAained. in the next line. 
 
 2 prevent— anticipate. 
 
 3 co.<itive — stiff. 
 
 < C'len Spiegel— i.e. Owl Glass, the hero of a German 
 jest-book, which seems to have been very popular, 
 
 5 a?M(/e?s— pear-shaped earthen vessels open at bota 
 ends. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 153 
 
 Face. [within.\ Which ? on D, sir ? 
 
 Suh. Ay; 
 What's the complexion? 
 
 Face, [within.^ Whitish. 
 
 Sub. Infuse vinegar, 
 To draw his volatile substance and his tincture : 
 And let the water in glass E be filter'd, 
 And put into the gripe's egg.i Lute ^ him well ; 
 And leave him closed in balneo.s 
 
 Face, [within.'] I will, sir. 
 . Sur. What a bi'ave language here is ! next to 
 canting. 
 
 Suh. I have another work, you never saw, son, 
 That three days since passed the philosopher's 
 
 wheel * 
 In the lent^ heat of Athanor,^ and's become 
 Sulphur of nature. 
 
 Mam. But 'tis for me ? 
 
 Sub. What need you ? 
 You have enough in that is perfect. 
 
 Mam. Oh, but — 
 
 Sub. Why, this is covetise ! ' 
 
 Mam. No, I assure you, 
 I shall employ it all in pious uses. 
 Founding of colleges and grammar schools. 
 Marrying young virgins, building hospitals, 
 And now and then a church. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Sub. How now ! 
 
 Face. Sir, please you, 
 Shall I not change the filter? 
 
 Sub. Marry, yes ; 
 And bring me the complexion of glass B. 
 
 [Exit Face. 
 
 Mam. Have you another ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, son ; were I assured — 
 Your piety were firm, we would not want 
 The means to glorify it: but I hope the best. — 
 I mean to tinct C in sand-heat to-morrow, 
 And give him imbibition.* 
 
 Mam. Of white oil ? 
 
 Sub. No, sir, of red. F is come over the helm too, 
 I thank my Maker, in S. Mary's bath,9 
 And shows lac virginis.^^ Blessed be heaven ! 
 I sent you of his faeces there calcined : 
 Out of that calx, I have won the salt of mercury. 
 
 Mam. By pouring on your rectified water ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, and reverberating in Athanor. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 How now ! what colour says it ? 
 
 Face. The ground black, sir. 
 
 Mam. That's your crow's head ? 
 
 Sur. Your cock's-comb's, is it not ? 
 
 Sub. No, 'tis not perfect. Would it were the 
 crow! 
 That work wants something. 
 
 Sur. Oh, I look'd for this. 
 The hay's ^^ a pitching. \_Aside. 
 
 Sub. Are you sure you loosed them 
 In their OAvn mensti-ue ? 
 
 1 gripe's egg — i.e. vulture's egg; the name of a vessel. 
 Gripe properly means griffin, from Gr. gryps. 
 
 2 Lute— sio^ up with lute or clay. Lute—cl&Y or mud, 
 ffom Lat. luo, to wash. 
 
 3 in balneo — Lat. ' in the bath.' 
 
 * philosopher's wheel — some important process. 
 ^ lent — gentle ; Lat. lentus. 
 
 s Athanor— a digesting furnace, calculated for the re- 
 tention of heat. 
 
 ' covetise — covetousness. 
 
 8 imbibition — some kind of washing. 
 
 9 St. Mary's bath— setting a vessel in a larger one 
 filled with water, over the fire. 
 
 10 ' virgin's milk.' 
 
 11 hays were nets for catching rabhits, being usually 
 stretched before their holes; probably from same root 
 as haw, hedge. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, and then married them, 
 And put them in a bolt's-head nipp'd to digestion, 
 According as jon bade me, when I set 
 The liquor of Mars to circulation 
 In the same heat. 
 
 Sub. The process then was right. 
 
 Face. Yes, by the token, sir, the retort brake. 
 And Avhat was saved was put into the pelican, * 
 And sign'd with Hermes' seal.- 
 
 Sub. I think 'twas so. 
 We should have a new amalgama. 
 
 Sur. Oh, this ferret 
 Is rank as any pole-cat. [Aside. 
 
 Sub. But I care not : 
 Let him e'en die ; we have enough beside. 
 In embrion. H has his Avhite shirt on ? 
 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 He's ripe for inceration,^ he stands warm, 
 In his ash-fire. I would not you should let 
 Any die now, if I might counsel, sir. 
 For luck's sake to the rest : it is not good. 
 
 Mam. He saj's right. 
 
 Sur. Ay, are you bolted?* [Aside. 
 
 Face. Nay, I know't, sir, 
 I have seen the ill fortune. What is some three 
 
 ounces 
 Of fresh materials ? 
 
 Mam. Is't no more ? 
 
 Face. No more, sir, 
 Of gold, t' amalgame * with some six of mercury. 
 
 Mam. Away, here's money. What will serve ? 
 
 Face. Ask him, sir. 
 
 Mam. How much ? 
 
 Sub. Give him nine pound : — you may give him 
 ten. 
 
 Sur. Yes, twenty, and be cozen'd, do. 
 
 Mam. There 'tis. [Gives Face the money. 
 
 Sub. This needs not ; but that you will have it 
 To see conclusions of all : for two [so, 
 
 Of our inferior works are at fixation, 
 A third is in ascension. Go your ways. 
 Have you set the oil of luna in kemia ? 
 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. And the philosopher's vinegar ? 
 
 Face. Ay, [Exit. 
 
 Sur. We shall have a salad ! 
 
 Mam. When do you make projection ? 
 
 Sub. Son, be not hasty, I exalt our med'cine, 
 By hanging him in balneo vaporoso,^ 
 And giving him solution ; then congeal him ; 
 And then dissolve him ; then again congeal him : 
 For look, how oft I iterate the work, 
 So many times I add unto his virtue. 
 As, if at first one ounce convert a hundred, 
 After his second loose, he'll turn a thousand ; 
 His third solution, ten ; his fourth, a hundred : 
 After his fifth, a thousand thousand ounces 
 Of any imperfect metal, into pure 
 Silver or gold, in all examinations. 
 As good as any of the natural mine. 
 Get you your stuff here against afternoon. 
 Your brass, your pewter, and your andirons. 
 
 Mam. Not those of iron ? 
 
 Stib. Yes, you may bx'ing them too : 
 We'll change all metals. 
 
 Sur. I believe you in that. 
 
 Mam. Then I may send my spits ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, and your racks. 
 
 ^ pelican— a. kind of alembic. 
 
 " signed with Hermes' seal — i.e. hermetically sealed. 
 
 3 inceration — reducing to the consistency of, or coton 
 ing with wax. 
 
 * bolted— si&ri&i., dislodged, still alluding to the rabbifc- 
 net. — GiFFORD. 
 
 5 amalgame — amalgamate. 
 
 fi 'a vapour bath.' 
 
154 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Sur. And dripi^ing pans, and pot-hangers, and 
 hooks, 
 Shall he not ? 
 
 Sub. If he please. 
 
 Sur. — To be an ass. 
 
 Sub. How, sir! 
 
 Mam. This gentleman you must bear withal : 
 I told you he had no faith. 
 
 Sur. And little hope, sir ; 
 But much less charity, should I gull myself. 
 
 Sub. Why, what have you observ'd, sir, in our 
 art. 
 Seems so impossible ? 
 
 Sur. But your whole wor^ no more. 
 That you should hatch gold in a furnace, sir, 
 As they do eggs in Egypt ! 
 
 Sub. Sir, do you 
 Believe that eggs are hatch'd so ? 
 
 Sur. If I should .J* 
 
 Sub. Why, I think that the greater miracle. 
 No e^^ but differs from a chicken more 
 Than metals in themselves. 
 
 Sur. That cannot be. 
 The egg's ordain'd by nature to that end, 
 And is a chicken inpotentia. 
 
 Sub. The same we say of lead and other metals, 
 Which would be gold, if they had time. 
 
 3Iam. And that 
 Our art doth further. 
 
 Sub. Ay, for 'twere absurd 
 To think that nature in the earth bred gold 
 Perfect in the instant : something went before. 
 There must be remote matter. 
 
 Sur. Ay, what is that ? 
 
 Sub. Marry, we say — 
 
 Mam. Ay, now it heats : stand, father, 
 Pound him to dust. 
 
 Sub. It is, of the one part, 
 A humid exhalation, which we call 
 Materia liquida, or the unctuous water ; 
 On the other part, a certain crass and vicious 
 Portion of earth ; both which, concorporate, 
 Do make the elementary matter of gold ; 
 Which is not yet propria materia, 
 But common to all metals and all stones ; 
 For, where it is forsaken of that moisture, 
 And hath more dryness, it becomes a stone : 
 Where it retains more of the humid fatness. 
 It turns to sulphur, or to quicksilver, 
 Who are the parents of all other metala 
 Nor can this remote matter suddenly 
 Progress so from extreme unto extreme, 
 As to grow gold, and leap o'er all the means. 
 Nature doth first beget the imperfect, then 
 Proceeds she to the perfect. Of that airy 
 And oily water, mercury is engender'd ; 
 Sulphur of the fat and earthy part ; the one, 
 Which is the last, supplying the place of male, 
 The other of the female, in all metals. 
 Some do believe hermaphrodeity, 
 That both do act and suffer. But these two 
 Make the rest ductile, malleable, extensive. 
 And even in gold they are ; for we do find 
 Seeds of them, by our fire, and gold in them; 
 And can produce the species of each metal 
 More perfect thence, than nature doth in earth. 
 Beside, who doth not see in daily practice 
 Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, wasps. 
 Out of the carcases and dung of creatures ; 
 Yea, scorpions of an herb, being rightly placed ? 
 And these are living creatures, far more perfect 
 And excellent than metals. 
 
 Mam. Well said, father! 
 Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an argument., 
 He'll bray you in a mortar. 
 
 Sur. Pray you, sir, stay. 
 Eather than I'll be bray'd, sir, I'll believe 
 
 That alchemy is a pretty kind of game. 
 Somewhat like tricks o' the cards, to cheat a man 
 With charming. 
 
 Sub. Sir? 
 
 Sur. What else are all your terms. 
 Whereon no one of your writei's 'grees with other? 
 Of your elixir, your lac virginis, 
 Your stone, your med'cine, and your chrysospenne, 
 You sal, your sulphur, and your mercury, 
 Your oil of height, your tree of life, your blood, 
 Your marchesite, your tutie, your magnesia, 
 Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your 
 
 panther ; 
 Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop, 
 Your lato, azoch, zernich, chibrit, heautarit. 
 And then your red man, and your white woman. 
 With all your broths, your menstrues, and mate- 
 rials. 
 Of piss and egg-shells, women's terms, man's 
 
 blood, 
 Hair o' the head, burnt clouts, chalk, merds, and 
 
 clay, 
 Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass. 
 And worlds of other strange ingredients, 
 Would burst a man to name ? 
 
 Sub. And all these named. 
 Intending but one thing : which art our wi'iters 
 Used to obscure their art. 
 
 Mam. Sir, so I told him — 
 Because the simple idiot should not learn it, 
 And make it vulgar. 
 
 Sub. Was not all the knowledge 
 Of the Egyptians writ in mystic symbols ; 
 Speak not the Scriptures oft in parables? 
 Are not the choicest fables of the poets, 
 That were the fountains and first springs of 
 
 wisdom, 
 Wrapp'd in perplexed allegories ? 
 
 Mam. I urg'd that. 
 And clear'd to him, that Sysiphus was damn'd 
 To roll the ceaseless stone, only because 
 He would have made ours ^ common. [Dol appears 
 at the (foor.]— Who is this ? 
 
 Sub. 'Sprecious ! — What do you mean ? go in, 
 good lady, 
 Let me entreat you. [Dol re<^Ve5.]— Where's this 
 varlet ? 
 
 Re-enter Pace. 
 
 Face. Sir. 
 
 Sub. You very knave ! do you use me thus ? 
 
 Face. Wherein, sir? 
 
 Sub. Go in and see, you traitor. Go ! 
 
 {Exit Face. 
 
 Mam. Who is it, sir ? 
 
 Sub. Nothing, sir; nothing. 
 
 Mam. What's the matter, good sir ? 
 I have not seen you thus distemper'd : who is't ? 
 
 Sub. All arts have still had, sir, their adver- 
 saries. 
 But ours the most ignorant. — 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 What now? 
 
 Face. 'Twas not my fault, sir ; she would speak 
 with you. 
 
 Sub. Would she, sir ! Follow me. [Exit. 
 
 Mam. [stopping him.'] Stay, Lungs. 
 
 Face. 1 dai-e not, sir. 
 
 Mam. Stay, man ; what is she ? 
 
 Face. A lord's sister, sir. 
 
 Mam. How ! pray thee, stay. 
 
 Face. She's mad, sir, and sent hither — 
 He'll be mad too — 
 
 Mam. I warrant thee. — 
 Why sent hither ? 
 
 ^ ours— i.e. the philosopher's stone. 
 
BEN JONS ON. 
 
 155 
 
 • Face. Sir, to be cured. 
 
 Suh. {wiihin.l Why, rascal ! 
 
 Face. Lo you ! — Here, sir ! [Exit. 
 
 Mam. 'Fore God, a Bradamante,i a brave piece. 
 
 Sur. 'Heart, this is a bawdy-house ! I will be 
 burnt else. 
 
 Mam. Oh, by this light, no : do not wrong him. 
 He's 
 Too scrupulous that way : it is his vice. 
 No, he's a rare physician, do him right, 
 An excellent Paracelsian, and has done 
 Strange cures with mineral physic. He deals all 
 With spirits, he ; he will not hear a word 
 Of Galen, or his tedious recipes. — 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 How now. Lungs ! 
 
 Face. Softly, sir; speak softly. I meant 
 To have told your worship all. This must not 
 hear. 
 
 Mam. No, he will not be ' gull'd : ' let him alone. 
 
 Face. You are very right, sir, she is a most 
 rare scholar. 
 And is gone mad with studying Broughton's^ 
 
 works. 
 If you but name a word touching the Hebrew, 
 She falls into her fit, and will discourse 
 So learnedly of genealogies, 
 As you would run mad too, to hear her, sir. 
 
 Mam. How might one do t' have conference 
 with her, Lungs ? 
 
 Face. Oh divers have run mad upon the con- 
 ference : 
 I do not know, sir. I am sent in haste 
 To fetch a vial. 
 
 Sur. Be not guU'd, Sir Mammon. 
 
 Mam. Wherein ? Pray ye, be patient. 
 
 Sur. Yes, as you are. 
 And trust confederate knaves, and bawds, and 
 whores. 
 
 Mam. You are too foul, believe it.— Come here, 
 Ulen, 
 One word. 
 
 Face. I dare not, in good faith. [Going. 
 
 Mam. Stay, knave. 
 
 Face. He is extreme angry that you saw her, sir. 
 
 Mam. Drink that. [Gives him money. ^ What 
 is she when she's out of her fit ? 
 
 Face. Oh, the most affablest creature, sir! so 
 merry ! 
 So pleasant ! she'll mount you up, like quicksilver, 
 Over the helm ; and circulate like oil, 
 A very vegetal : discourse of state. 
 Of mathematics, bawdry, anything — 
 
 Mam. Is she no way accessible ? no means, 
 No trick to give a man a taste of her — wit — 
 Or so .? 
 
 Sub. \within.'] Ulen! 
 
 Face. I'll come to you again, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Mam. Surly, I did not think one of your 
 breeding 
 Would traduce personages of worth. 
 
 Sur. Sir Epicure, 
 Your friend to use ; yet still loth to be gull'd: 
 I do not like your philosophical bawds. 
 Their stone is lechery enough to pay for, 
 Without this bait. 
 
 Mam. 'Heart, you abuse yourself. 
 I know the lady, and her friends, and means. 
 The original of this disaster. Her brother 
 Has told me all. 
 
 Sur. And yet you never saw her 
 TUl now ! 
 
 1 The name of a heroine in Orlando Furioso. 
 " Mr. Hugh Broughton, a celebrated rabbin in Queen 
 Elizabeth's days, and a great publisher. — Whallei'. 
 
 Mam. Oh yes, but I forgot. I have, believe it. 
 One of the treacherousest memories, I do think, 
 Of all mankind. 
 
 Sur. What call you her brother ? 
 
 Mam. My lord — 
 He will not have his name known, now I think 
 on't. 
 
 Sur. A very treacherous memory ! 
 
 Mam. On my faith — 
 
 Sur. Tut, if you have it not about you, pass it, 
 Till we meet next. 
 
 Mam. Nay, by this hand, 'tis true. 
 He's one I honour, and my noble friend ; 
 And I respect his house. 
 
 Sur. 'Heart, can it be, 
 That a grave sir, a rich, that has no need, 
 A wise sir, too, at other times, should thus. 
 With his own oaths and arguments, make hard 
 
 means 
 To gull himself ? An this be your elixir. 
 Your lapis mineralis,^ and your lunary. 
 Give me your honest trick yet at primero,^ 
 Or gleek ; and take your lutum sapientis.,^ 
 Your menstruum simplex! I'll have gold before you, 
 And with less danger of the quicl^ilver, 
 Or the hot sulphur.* 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Here's one from Captain Face, sir [to 
 
 Surly], 
 Desires you meet him in the Temple church, 
 Some half hour hence, and upon earnest business. — 
 Sir [whispers Mammon], if you please to quit us 
 
 now ; and come 
 Again within two hours, you shall have 
 My master busy examining o' the works ; 
 And I will steal you in, unto the party. 
 That you may see her converse. — Six*, shall I say, 
 You'll meet the captain's worship ? 
 
 Sur. Sir, I will. — [Walhs aside. 
 
 But, by attorney,* and to a second purpose. 
 Now, I am sure it is a bawdy-house ; 
 I'll swear it, were the marshal here to thank me : 
 The naming this commander doth confirm it. 
 Don Face ! why he's the most authentic dealer 
 In these commodities, the superintendent 
 To all the quainter traffickers in town ! 
 He is the visitor, and does appoint, 
 Who lies with whom, and at what hour ; what 
 
 price ; 
 Which gown, and in what smock; what fall;* 
 
 what tire. 
 Him will I prove, by a third person, to find 
 The subtleties of this dark labyrinth : 
 Which, if I do discover, dear Sir Mammon, 
 You'll give your poor friend leave, though no 
 
 philosopher. 
 To laugh ; for you that are, 'tis thought, shall 
 
 weep. 
 
 1 ' Mineral stone.' 
 
 2 A once very fashionable game. Each player got four 
 cards : the 7 was the highest in point of number he could 
 avail himself of, which counted for 21 ; the 6 counted for 
 18 ; the 5 and ace for 15 each ; the 2, 4, and knave for 
 their respective points. The knave of diamonds was 
 commonly fixed on for chief card. If the cards were of 
 different suits, the highest number was the primero, or 
 prime ; but if all of one colour, he that held them won 
 tfhe flush.— IS AUKS. Gleek was played by three persons 
 with forty-four cards, each hand having twelve, and 
 eight being left for the stock. 
 
 3 'lute of the wise.' Lute was a composition for 
 securing the joints of chemical vessels. 
 
 •* Meaning with less danger of being salivated for it. 
 —Upton. 
 
 * by attorney — ^by proxy. 
 
 " The fall was a ruff or band turned back over the 
 shoulders. 
 
156 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Face. Sir. he does pray, you'll not forget. 
 
 Sur. I -will not, sir. 
 Sir Epicure, I shall leave you. {Exit. 
 
 Mam. I follow you, straight. 
 
 Face. But do so, good sii-, to avoid suspicion. 
 This gentleman has a parlous^ head. 
 
 Mam. But wilt thou, Ulen, 
 Be constant to thy promise ? 
 
 Face. As my life, sir. 
 
 Mam. And wilt thou insinuate what I am, and 
 praise me. 
 And say, I am a noble fellow ? 
 
 Face. Oh, what else, sir ? 
 And that you'll make her royal with the stone, 
 An empress, and yourself king of Bantam. 
 
 Mam. Wilt thou do this ? 
 
 Face. Will I, sir ! 
 
 Mam. Lungs, my Lungs ! 
 I love thee. 
 
 Face. Send your stuff, sir, that my master 
 May busy himself about projection. 
 
 Mam. Thou hast witch'd me, rogue : take, go. 
 [Gives him money. 
 
 Face. Your jack, and all, sir. 
 
 Mam. Thou art a villain— I will send my jack. 
 And the weights too. Slave, I could bite thine ear. 
 Away, thou dost not care for me. 
 
 Face. Not I, sir ! 
 
 Mam. Come, I was born to make thee, my good 
 weasel. 
 Set thee on a bench, and have thee twirl a chain 
 With the best lord's vermin of 'em all. 
 
 Face. Away, sir. 
 
 J\ram, A count, nay, a count palatine — 
 
 Face. Good, sir, go 
 
 Mam. Shall not advance thee better: no, nor 
 faster. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Subtle and Dol. 
 
 Sub. Has he bit ? has he bit ? 
 
 Face. And swallowed too, ray Subtle. 
 I have given him line, and now he plays, i' faith. 
 
 Sub. And shall we twitch him ? 
 
 Face. Thorough both the gills. 
 A wench is a rare bait, with which a man 
 No sooner's taken, but he straight firks- mad. 
 
 Sub. Dol, my lord What'ts'hums sister, you 
 must now 
 Bear yourself statelich.^ 
 
 Dol. Oh, let me alone. 
 I'll not forget my race, I warrant you. 
 I'll keep my distance, laugh and talk aloud ; 
 Have all the tricks of a proud scurvy lady, 
 And be as rude as her woman. 
 
 Face. Well said, sanguine ! 
 
 Sub. But will he send his andirons ? 
 
 Face. His jack too, 
 And's iron shoeing horn ; I have spoke to him. 
 
 Well, 
 I must not lose my wary gamester yonder. 
 
 Sub. Monsieur Caution, that tciV/nofJe^u/rcZ. 
 
 Face. Ay, 
 If I can strike a fine hook into him, now ! 
 The Temple church, there I have cast mine angle. 
 Well, pray for me. I'll about it. 
 
 [Knoching without. 
 
 Sub. What ! more gudgeons ? 
 Dol, scout, sccut! [Dot. gots to the window.'] — Stay, 
 
 Face, you must go to the door, 
 Tray God it be my Anabaptist — Who is't, Dol ? 
 
 * parlous — perilous. 
 
 2 firks — drives; expressive of any sudden motion. 
 
 ' statelich—%X&te\Y. This affectation of introducing 
 Dutch and Flemish words was common to our old 
 Uriters. 
 
 Dol. I know him not: he looks like a gold-end- 
 man, i 
 Sub. Ods so ! 'tis he ; he said he would sendi, 
 what call you him 7 
 The sanctified elder, that should deal 
 For Mammon's jack and andirons. Let him in. 
 Stay, help me off, first, with my gown. [Exit 
 
 Face with the goion.'\ Away, 
 Madam, to your withdrawing chamber. [Exit 
 
 Dol.]— Now, 
 In a new tune, new gesture, but old language. — 
 This fellow is sent from one negociates with me 
 About the stone too ; for the holy brethren 
 Of Amsterdam, the exiled saints, that hope 
 To raise their discipline by it. I must use him 
 In some strange fashion, now to make him admire 
 me. — 
 
 Enter Ananias. 
 
 Where is my drudge \ 
 
 [Alovd. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Sir! 
 
 SvJ). Take away the recipient, 
 And rectify your menstrue from the phlegma. 
 Then pour it on the Sol, in the cucurbite, 
 And let them macerate together. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 And save the ground ? 
 
 Sub. No : terra damnata^ 
 Must not have entrance in the work. — Who aro 
 you.' 
 
 Ana. A faithful brother, if it please you. 
 
 Sub. What's that ? 
 A Lullianist ? a Eipley ?^ Filius artis f* 
 Can you sublime and dulcify ? calcine ? 
 Know you the sapor pontic*? sapor stiptic ?* 
 Or what is homogene, or heterogene ? 
 
 Ana. I understand no heathen language, truly. 
 
 Sub. Heathen! you Knipj)er-doling .'"^ is Ars 
 sacra. 
 Or chrysopoeia, or spagyrica, 
 Or the pamphysic, or panarchic knowledge, 
 A heathen language .' 
 
 Ana. Heathen Greek, I take it. 
 
 Sub. How ! heathen Greek ? 
 
 Ana. AU's heathen but the Hebrew. 
 
 Sub. Sirrah, my varlet," stand you forth and 
 speak to him 
 Like a philosopher : answer in the language. 
 Name the vexations, and the martyrizations 
 Of metals in the work. 
 
 Face. Sir, putrefaction, 
 Solution, ablution, sublimation, 
 Cohobation, calcination, aeration, and 
 Fixation. 
 
 Sub. This is heathen Greek, to you, now ! — 
 And when comes vivification ? 
 
 Face. After mortification. 
 
 Sub. What's cohobation ? 
 
 Face. 'Tis the pouring on 
 Your aqua regis, and then drawing him off. 
 To the trine cii'cle of the seven spheres. 
 
 1 A gold-end-man was one who bought broken pieces 
 of fjold and silver. — Giffokd. 
 - ' damned earth.' 
 
 3 A Lullianist, Ac, i.e. a follower of Raymond Lully, 
 one of the most learned men of the 13th century. George 
 Ripley was Canon of Bridlington, in Yorkshire, in the 
 15th century, and wrote a poem on alchemy. 
 
 4 'Son of the art.' 
 
 * * So is the sowerish taste called sapor pontic, 
 
 And less sovoer, also called sapor stiptic' 
 
 — Quoted by Gifford. 
 
 * Knipper-doling was a fanatic Anabaptist of Munster, 
 in Germany. 
 
 ' varlet — servant. 
 
BEN JONSON, 
 
 157 
 
 Svh. What's the proper passion of metals ? 
 
 Face. Malleation. 
 
 Sub. What's your ulthnum suppllcium aurif^ 
 
 Face. Antimonium. 
 
 Sub. This is heathen Greek to you! — And 
 what's your mercury ? 
 
 Face. A very fugitive, he will be gone, sir. 
 
 Sub. How know you him ? 
 
 Face. By his viscosity, 
 Eis oleosity, and his suscitability. 
 
 Sub. How do you sublime him ? 
 
 Face. With the calce of egg-shells, 
 White marble, talc. 
 
 Sub. Your magisterium, now, 
 What's that ? 
 
 Face. Shifting, sir, your elements, 
 Dry into cold, cold into moist, moist into hot, 
 Hot into dry. 
 
 Sub. This is heathen Greek to you still ! 
 Your lapis philosophicus ?'^ 
 
 Face. 'Tis a stone, 
 And not a stone ; a spirit, a soul, and a body : 
 Which if you do dissolve, it is dissolved ; 
 If you coagulate, it is coagulated ; 
 If you make it to fly, it flieth. 
 
 Sub. Enough. ^Exit Face. 
 
 This is heathen Greek to you ! What are you, sir ? 
 
 Ana. Please you, a servant of the exiled 
 brethren, 
 That deal with widows and with orphans' goods ; 
 And make a just account unto the saints : 
 A deacon. 
 
 Sub. Oh, you are sent from Master Wholesome, 
 Your teacher ? 
 
 Ana. From Tribulation Wholesome, 
 Our very zealous pastor. 
 
 Sub. Good ! I have 
 Some orphans' goods to come here. 
 
 Ana. Of what kind, sir.' 
 
 Sub. Pewter and brass, andirons and kitchen- 
 ware, 
 Metals, that we must use our medicine on : 
 Wherein the brethren may have a pennyworth, 
 For ready money. 
 
 Ana. Were the orphans' X)arent3 
 Sincere professors ? 
 
 Sub. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Ana. Because 
 We then are to deal justly, and give, in truth. 
 Their utmost value. 
 
 Sub. 'Slid, you'd cozen else. 
 And if their parents were not of the faithful ! — 
 I will not trust you, now I think on it, 
 'Till I have talk'd with your pastor. Have you 
 
 brought money 
 To buy more coals ? 
 
 Ana. No, surely. 
 
 Sub. No ! how so ? 
 
 Ana. The brethren bid me say unto you, sir, 
 Surely, they will not venture any more, 
 Till they may see projection. 
 
 Sub. How ! 
 
 Ana. You have had 
 For the instruments, as bricks, and lome, and 
 
 glasses, 
 Already thirty pound ; and for materials. 
 They say, some ninety more: and they have 
 
 heard since, 
 That one at Heidelberg made it of an egg. 
 And a small paper of pin-dust. 
 
 Sub. What's your name ? 
 
 Ana. My name is Ananias. 
 
 Sub. Out, the varlet 
 That cozen'd the apostles ! Hence, away ! 
 
 » ' last test of gold.' 
 
 * ' philosopliei-'s stone.' 
 
 Flee, mischief ! had your holy consistory 
 
 No name to send me, of another sound, 
 
 Than wicked Ananias.' send your elders 
 
 Hither to make atonement for you quickly, 
 
 And give me satisfaction ; or out goes 
 
 The fire; and down th' alembics, and the furnace, 
 
 Piger Henricus, or what not. Thou wretch ! 
 
 Both sericon and bufo ^ shall be lost, 
 
 Tell them. All hope of rooting out the bishops, 
 
 Or the antichristian hierarchy, shall perish 
 
 If they stay threescore minutes : the aqueity, 
 
 Terreity, and sulphureity 
 
 Shall run together again, and all be annull'd, 
 
 Thou wicked Ananias ! l_Exit Ananias.] — This 
 
 will fetch 'em, 
 And make them haste towards their gulHng more. 
 A man must deal like a rough nurse, and fi-ight 
 Those that are fro ward to an appetite. 
 
 Re-enter Face in his uniform, followed by 
 Dkuggku. 
 
 Face. He is busy with his spirits, but we'll 
 upon him. 
 
 Sub. How now! what mates, what Baiards* 
 have we here ? 
 
 Face. I told you he would be furious. — Sir, 
 here's Nab, 
 Has brought you another piece of gold to look 
 
 on, — 
 We must appease him. Give it me, — and prays 
 
 you, 
 You would devise — what is it. Nab ? 
 
 Drug. A sign, sir. 
 
 Face. Ay, a good lucky one, a thriving sign, 
 doctor. 
 
 Sub. I was devising now. 
 
 Face. 'Slight, do not say so. 
 He will repent he gave you any more. — 
 What say you to his constellation, doctor, 
 The Balance.' 
 
 Sub. No, that way is stale, and common. 
 A townsman born in Taui-us, gives the bull, 
 Or the bull's head : in Aries, the ram,^ 
 A poor device ! No, I will have his name 
 Form'd in some mystic character, whose radii, 
 Striking the senses of the passers by, 
 Shall, by a virtual influence, breed affections. 
 That may result upon the party owns it: 
 As thus — 
 
 Face. Nab ! 
 
 Sub. He shall have a bel, that's Ahel; 
 And by it standing one whose name is Dee* 
 In a rug gown, there's D, and Rug, that's drugt 
 And right anenst^ him a dog snarling er; 
 There's Drugger, Abel Drugger. That's his sign. 
 And here's now mystery and hieroglyphic ! 
 
 Face. Abel, thou art made. 
 
 Dumg. Sir, I do thank his worship. 
 
 Face. Six o' thy legs more will not do it, Nab.— 
 He has brought you a pipe of tobacco, doctor. 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir: 
 I have another thing I would impart — 
 
 Face. Out Avith it, Nab. 
 
 Drug. Sir, there is lodged, hard by me, 
 A rich young widow — 
 
 Face. Good ! a bona roba ? 
 
 Drug. But nineteen, at the most. 
 
 1 Both sericon, &c,— both the red and the black tinc- 
 ture. These terms are adopted to confound and terrify 
 the simple deacon, 
 
 2 Alluding to the proverb, 'As bold as blind Baiard.' 
 Baiardo is the horse of Rinaldo in Ariosto.— Whallet. 
 
 3 These are all names of constellations. 
 
 * This is evidently levelled at the celebrated Dr. John 
 Dee, a good mathematician, and a great pretender to 
 astrology, alchemy, and magic. 
 
 * anerist—ag&mst, opposite. 
 
158 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Face. Very good, Abel. 
 
 Drug. Marry, slie's not in fashion yet; she 
 ■wears 
 A hood, but it stands a cop.^ 
 Face. No matter, Abel. 
 Drug. And I do now and then give her a 
 
 fucus — 2 
 Face. "What, dost thou deal, Nab ? 
 Svb. I did tell you, captain. 
 Drug. And physic too, sometime, sir; for 
 which she trusts me 
 With all her mind. She's come up here of pur- 
 pose 
 To learn the fashion. 
 Face. Good (his match too !) — On, Nab. 
 Drug. And she doth strangely long to know 
 
 her fortune. 
 Face. Ods lid, Nab, send her to the doctor, 
 
 hither. 
 Drug. Yes, I have spoke to her of his worship 
 already ; 
 But she's afraid it will be blown abroad, 
 And hurt her marriage. 
 
 Face. Hurt it ! 'tis the way 
 To heal it, if 'twere hurt; to make it more 
 Follow'd and sought: Nab, thou shalt tell her 
 
 this. 
 She'll be more known, more talk'd of ; and your 
 
 widows 
 Are ne'er of any price till they be famous ; 
 Their honour is their multitude of suitors : 
 Send her, it may be thy good fortune. What ! 
 Thou dost not know. 
 
 D\'ug. No, sir, she'll never marry 
 Under a knight : her brother has made a vow. 
 Face. What ! and dost thou despair, my little 
 Nab, 
 Knowing what the doctor has set down for thee, 
 And seeing so many of the city dubb'd ? 
 One glass o' thy water, with a madam I know, 
 Will have it done. Nab: what's her brother, a 
 knight? 
 Di'ug. No, sir, a gentleman newly warm in his 
 land, sir. 
 Scarce cold in his one and twenty, that does 
 
 govern 
 His sister here ; and is a man himself 
 Of some three thousand a year, and is come up 
 To learn to quarrel, and to live b;^ his wits, 
 And will go down again, and die in the country. 
 Face. How ! to quarrel ? 
 Drug. Yes, sir, to carry quarrels. 
 As gallants do ; to manage them by line. 
 
 Face. 'Slid, Nab, the doctor is the only man 
 In Christendom for him. He has made a table. 
 With mathematical demonstrations, 
 Touching the art of quarrels : he will give him 
 An instrument to quarrel by. Go, bring them 
 
 both. 
 Him and his sister. And, for thee, with her 
 The doctor haply may persuade. Go to: 
 'Shalt give his worship a new damask suit 
 Upon the premises. 
 Suh. Ohi good captain ! 
 Face. He shall ; 
 He is the honestest fellow, doctor. — Stay not, 
 No offers ; bring the damask, and the parties. 
 Drug. I'll try my power, sir. 
 Face. And thy will too. Nab. 
 Suh. 'Tis good tobacco, this! what is't an 
 
 ounce ? 
 Face. He'll send you a poirnd, doctor. 
 8ub. Oh no. 
 
 1 a cop— conical, terminating m a point; cop or coppe 
 is Anglo-Saxon for head. 
 2/«ci«— a paint for the face. 
 
 Face. He will do't. 
 It is the goodest soul I — Abel, about it. 
 Thou shalt know more anon. Away, be gone. — 
 
 \_Exit Abel. 
 A miserable rogue, and lives with cheese, 
 And has the worms. That was the caxise, indeed, 
 Why he came now : he dealt with me in private, 
 To get a med'cine for them. 
 
 Sub. And shall, sir. This works. 
 
 Face. A wife, a wife for one of us, my dear 
 Subtle! 
 We'll e'en draw lots, and he that fails shall have 
 The more in goods, the other has in tail. 
 
 Sub. Rather the less : for she may be so light 
 She may want grains. 
 
 Face. Ay, or be such a burden, 
 A man would scarce endure her for the whole. 
 
 Suh. Faith, best let's see her first, and then 
 determine. 
 
 Face. Content: but Dol must have no breath 
 on't. 
 
 Suh. Mum. 
 Away you, to your Surly yonder, catch him. 
 
 Face. 'Pray God I have not stayed too long. 
 
 Sub. I fear it. \Exe,wU, 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Lane before Lovewit's House. 
 
 Enter Tribulation Wholesome and ANA^^As. 
 
 Tri. These chastisements are common to the 
 saints, 
 And such rebukes, we of the separation 
 Must bear with willing shoulders, as the trials 
 Sent forth to tempt our frailties. 
 
 Ana. In pure zeal, 
 I do not like the man, he is a heathen, 
 And speaks the language of Canaan, truly. 
 
 Tri. I think him a profane person indeed. 
 
 Ana. He bears 
 The visible mark of the beast in his forehead. 
 And for his stone, it is a work of darkness, 
 And with philosophy blinds the eyes of man. 
 
 Ti%. Good brother, we m^ist bend tmto all 
 means 
 That may give furtherance to the holy cause. 
 
 Ana. Which his cannot : the sanctified cause 
 Should have a sanctified course. 
 
 Tri. Not always necessary : 
 The children of perdition are ofttinies 
 Made instruments even of the greatest works : 
 Beside, we should give somewhat to man's nature, 
 The place he lives in, still about the fire 
 And fume of metals, that intoxicate 
 The brain of man, and make him prone to passion. 
 Where have you greater atheists than your cooks ? 
 Or more profane, or choleric, than your glass- 
 men? 
 More antichristian than your bell-founders ? 
 What makes the devil so devilish, I would ask 
 
 you, 
 Sathan, our common enemy, but his being 
 Perpetually about the fire, and boiling 
 Brimstone and arsenic ? We must give, I say. 
 Unto the motives, and the stirrers up 
 Of humours in the blood. It may be so. 
 When as the work is done, the stone is made, 
 This heat of his may turn into a zeal. 
 And stand up for the beauteous discipline, 
 Against the menstruous cloth and rag of Home. 
 We must await his calling, and the coming 
 Of the good spirit. You did fault, t' upbraid him 
 With the brethren's blessing of Heidelberg, 
 
 weighing 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 159 
 
 What need we have to hasten on the work, 
 
 For the restoring; of the silenced saints, 
 
 Which ne'er will be, but by the philosopher's 
 
 stone. 
 And so a learned elder, one of Scotland, 
 Assured me ; aui'um potabile being 
 The only med'cine, for the civil magistrate, 
 T' incline him to a feeling of the cause ; 
 And must be daily used in the disease. 
 
 Ana. ■ I have not edified more, truly, by man ; 
 Not since the beautiful light first shone on me : 
 And I am sad my zeal hath so offended. 
 
 Tri. Let us call on him, then. 
 
 Ana. The notion's good, 
 And of the spirit ; I will knock first. [KnocTcs.'\ 
 Peace be within ! 
 
 \The door is opened, and they enter. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Lovewit's House. 
 
 Enter Svbtue, followed by Tkibulation and 
 Ananias. 
 
 iSub. Oh, ai-e you come? 'twas time. Your 
 threescore minutes 
 Were at last thread, you see ; and down had gone 
 Furnus acedix, turris circulatorius : ^ 
 Lembec, bolt's-head, retort and pelican 
 Had all been cinders. — Wicked Ananias ! 
 Art thou return'd ? Nay then, it goes down yet. 
 
 Tri. Sir, be appeased ; he is come to humble 
 Himself in spirit, and to ask your patience. 
 If too much zeal hath carried him aside 
 From the due path. 
 
 Sub. Why, this doth qualify ! 
 
 Tri. The brethren had no purpose, verily, 
 To give you the least grievance : but are ready 
 To lend theii' willing hands to any project 
 The spirit and you dii-ect. 
 
 iSub. This qualifies more ! 
 
 Tri. And for the orphan's goods, let them be 
 valued. 
 Or what is needful else to the holy work. 
 It shall be numbered ; here, by me, the saints 
 Thi'ow down their purse before you. 
 
 Sub. This qualifies most ! 
 Why, thus it should be, now you understand. 
 Have I discours'd so unto you of our stone. 
 And of the good that it shall bring your cause ? 
 Show'd you (beside the main of hiring forces 
 Abroad, drawing the Hollanders, your friends. 
 From the Indies, to serve you, with all their 
 
 fleet) 
 That even the med'cinal use shall make you a 
 
 faction 
 And party in the realm ? As, put the case, 
 That some great man in state, he have the gout, 
 Why, you but send three drops of your elixir. 
 You help him straight : there you have made a 
 
 friend. 
 Another has the palsy or the dropsy. 
 He takes of your incombustible stuflF, 
 He's young again : there you have made a friend. 
 A lady that is past the feat* of body. 
 Though not of mind, and hath her face decay'd 
 Beyond all cure of paintings, you restore. 
 With the oil of talc : there you have made a friend ; 
 And all her friends. A lord that is a leper, 
 A knight that has the bone-ache, or a squire 
 
 1 Fumus acedix—a. peculiar kind of furnace; turris 
 circulatorius— a. glass vessel in which the infusion went 
 round about as in a circle. 
 
 * /eat— elegant, handsome. 
 
 That hath both these, you make them smooth and 
 
 sound. 
 With a bare fricace ^ of your med'cine : still 
 You increase your friends, 
 
 Tri. Ay, it is very pregnant.^ 
 
 Sub. And then the turning of this lawyer's pewter 
 To plate at Christmas. — 
 
 Ana. Christ-tide,3 I pray you. 
 
 Sub. Yet, Ananias! 
 
 Ana. I have done. 
 
 Sub. Or changing 
 His parcel gilt * to massy gold. You cannot 
 But raise you friends. Withal, to be of power 
 To pay an army in the field, to buy 
 The king of France out of his realms, or Spain 
 Out of his Indies. What can you not do 
 Against lords spiritual or temporal, 
 That shall oppone s you ? 
 
 Tn. Verily, 'tis true. 
 We may be temporal lords ourselves, I take it. 
 
 Sub. You may be anything, and leave off to 
 make 
 Long-winded exercises ; or suck up 
 Your ha ! and hum ! in a tune. I not deny. 
 But such as are not graced in a state. 
 May, for their ends, be adverse in religion. 
 And get a tune to call the flock together : 
 For, to say sooth, a tune does much with women. 
 And other phlegmatic people ; it is your bell. 
 
 Ana. Bells are profane ; a tune may be religious. 
 
 Sub. No warning with you ! then farewell my 
 patience. 
 'Slight, it shall down: I will not be thus toriured. 
 
 Tri. I pray you, sir. 
 
 Sub. All shall perish. I have spoke it. 
 
 Tri. Let me find grace, sir, in your eyes ; the 
 man 
 He stands corrected : neither did his zeal. 
 But as your self, allow a tune somewhere. 
 Which now, being tow'rd the stone, we shall not 
 need. 
 
 Sub. No, nor your holy vizard, to win widows 
 To give you legacies ; or make zealous wives 
 To rob their husbands for the common cause : 
 Nor take the start s of bonds broke but one day, 
 And say, they were forfeited by providence. 
 Nor shall you need o'er night to eat huge meals. 
 To celebrate your next day's fast the better; 
 The whilst the brethren and the sisters humbled, 
 Abate the stiffness of the flesh. Nor cast 
 Before your hungry hearei'S scrupulous bones ; 
 As whether a Christian may hawk or hunt. 
 Or whether matrons of the holy assembly 
 May lay their hair out, or wear doublets, 
 Or have that idol starch about their linen. 
 
 Ana. It is indeed an idol. 
 
 Tn. Mind him not, sir. 
 I do command thee, spii'it of zeal, but trouble, 
 To peace within him ! Pray you, sir, go on. 
 
 Svh. Nor shall you need to libel 'gainst the 
 prelates. 
 And shorten so your ears against the hearing 
 Of the next wire-drawn grace. Nor of necessity 
 Bail against plays, to please the alderman 
 Whose daily custard you devour : nor lie 
 With zealous rage till you are hoarse. Not one 
 Of these so singular arts. Nor call yourselves 
 By names of Tribulation, Persecution, 
 Eestraint, Long-patience, and such like, affected 
 By the whole family or wood ^ of you, 
 
 ^fricace — rubbing; LuLfrico, to nib. 
 
 2 pregnant— evident. 
 
 ' Ananias abhorred the word mass. 
 
 * parcel gilt— jya.vtiy gilt. * oppone— OY>-posQ. 
 
 6 5«ar;— advantage. 
 
 7 wood is used to signify any miscellaneous collectioa 
 or stock of materials.— Upton. 
 
l6o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Only foi- glory, and to catch the ear 
 Of the disciple, _ 
 
 TH. Ti-uly, sir, they are 
 Ways that the godly brethren have invented, 
 For propagation of the glorious cause, 
 As very notable means, and whereby also 
 Themselves grow soon, and profitably, famous. 
 
 Suh. Oh, but the stone, all's idle to it ! nothing ! 
 The art of angels' nature's miracle, 
 The divine secret that doth fly in clouds 
 From east to west ; and whose tradition 
 Is not from men, but spirits. 
 
 Ana. I hate traditions ; 
 I do not trust them. — 
 
 Tri. Peace! 
 
 Ana. They are popish all.— 
 I will not peace : I will not — 
 
 Tri. Ananias! 
 
 Ana. Please the profane, to grieve the godly ; 
 I may not. 
 
 Suh. Well, Ananias, thou shalt overcome. 
 
 Tri. It is an ignorant zeal that haunts him, sir ; 
 But truly, else, a very faithful brother, 
 A botcher, and a man, by revelation. 
 That hath a competent knowledge of the truth. 
 
 8uh. Has he a competent sum there in the bag 
 To buy the goods within 1 I am made guardian, 
 And must, for charity, and conscience' sake, 
 Now see the most be made for my poor orphan ; 
 Though I desire the brethren too good gainers: 
 There they are within. When you have view'd, 
 
 and bought 'em. 
 And ta'en the inventory of what they are, 
 They are ready for projection ; there's no more 
 To do : cast on the med'cine, so much silver 
 As there is tin there, so much gold as brass, 
 I'll give't you in by weight. 
 
 Tri. But how long time, 
 Sir, must the saints expect yet ? 
 
 Suh. Let me see. 
 How's the moon now? Eight, nine, ten days 
 
 hence. 
 He will be silver potate ; then three days 
 Before he citronise : some fifteen days, 
 The magisterium will be perfected. 
 
 Ana. About the second day of the third week, 
 In the ninth month 1 
 
 Sub. Yes, my good Ananias. 
 
 Tri. What wiU the orphan's goods arise to, 
 think you ? 
 
 Sub. Some hundred marks, as much as fill'd 
 three cars, 
 Unladed now: you'll make six millions of them. — 
 But I must have more coals laid in. 
 
 Tri. How! 
 
 Sub. Another load, 
 And then we have fiuish'd. We must now increase 
 Our fire to ignis ardens ; ^ we are past 
 Fimus equintis, balnei, cineris,^ 
 And all those lenter ^ heats. If the holy purse 
 Should with this draught fall low, and that the 
 
 saints 
 Do need a present sum, I have a trick 
 To melt the pewter, you shall buy now, instantly. 
 And with a tincture make you as good Dutch 
 As any are in Holland. [dollars 
 
 Tri. Can you so ? 
 
 Sub. Ay, and shaU 'bide the third examination. 
 
 Ana. It will be joyful tidings to the brethren. 
 
 Sub. But you must carry it secret, 
 
 Tri. Ay ; *but stay. 
 This act of coining, is it lawful ? 
 
 Ana. Lawful! 
 
 * ' glowing heat.' 
 
 • /enter— gentler. 
 
 » ' horse-dung, the bath, ashes.' 
 
 We know no magistrate ; or, if we did, 
 This is foreign coin. 
 
 Sub. It is no coining, sir. 
 It is but casting. 
 
 Tri. Ha ! you distinguish well : 
 Casting of money may be lawful. 
 
 Ana. 'Tis, sir, 
 
 Tri. Truly, I take it so. 
 
 Sub. There is no scruple. 
 Sir, to be made of it ; believe Ananias : 
 This case of conscience he is studied in. 
 
 Tri. I'll make a question of it to the brethren. 
 
 Ana. The brethren shall approve it lawful, 
 doubt not. 
 Where shall it be done ? [Knocking without. 
 
 Sub. For that we'll talk anon. 
 There's some to speak with me. Go in, I pray 
 
 you. 
 And vieAV the parcels. That's the inventory. 
 I'll come to you straight. \JExeunt Tki. a«c?,ANA.]— 
 Who is it .' — Face ! appear. 
 
 Enter Face, in his unifoi'm. 
 
 How now ! good prize ? 
 
 Face. Good pox ! yond' costive ' cheater 
 Never came on. 
 
 Sub. How then.? 
 
 Face. I've walked the round 
 Till now, and no such thing. 
 
 SuJ). Aiid have you quit him ? 
 
 Face. Quit him ! an' hell would quit him too, 
 he were happy. 
 'Slight ! would you have me stalk like a mill-jade, 
 All day, for one that will not yield us grains ? 
 I know him of old. 
 
 Sub. Oh, but to have gull'd him, 
 Had been a mastery. 
 
 Face. Let him go, black boy ! 
 And turn thee, that some fresh news may possess 
 
 thee. 
 A noble count, a don of Spain, my dear 
 Delicious compeer, and mj^ party-baw'd. 
 Who is come hither private for his conscience, 
 And brought munition with him, six great slops, ^ 
 Bigger than three Dutch hoys, beside round 
 
 trunks. 
 Furnished with pistolets and pieces of eight, 
 Will straight be here, my rogue, to have thy bath, 
 (That is the colour), and to make his battery 
 Upon our Dol, our castle, our cinque-port. 
 Our Dover pier, our what thou wilt. Where is she ? 
 She must prepare perfumes, delicate linen. 
 The bath in chief, a banquet, and her wit, 
 For she must milk his epididimis. 
 Where is the doxy ^ ^ 
 
 Sub. I'll send her to thee : 
 And but despatch my brace of little John Ley dens, 
 And come again myself. 
 
 Face. Are they Avithin, then ? 
 
 Sub. Numbering the sum. 
 
 Face. How much ? 
 
 Sub. A hundred marks, boy. {Exit. 
 
 Face. Why, this is a lucky day. Ten pounds 
 of Mammon ! 
 Three of my clerk ! a portague of my grocer ! 
 This of the brethren ! beside reversions. 
 And states to come in the widow, and my count ! 
 My share to-day will not be bought for forty — 
 
 Enter Dol. 
 Dol. What? 
 
 1 costive — dry, reserved. 
 
 2 six great slops, &c.— large breeches such as are wom 
 by sailors. Round trunks mean the trunk hose, which 
 were the common wear of that and the preceding ag& 
 
 — ^yHALLEY. 
 
 ' doxy— c&nt name for mistress. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 i6i 
 
 Face. Pounds, dainty Dorothy! art thou so 
 near? 
 
 Dol. Yes; say, lord general, how fares our 
 camp ? 
 
 Face. As with the few that had entrench'd 
 themselves 
 Safe, by their discipline, against a world, Dol, 
 And laugh'd within those trenches, and grew fat 
 With thinking on the booties, Dol, bi-ought in 
 Daily by their small parties. This dear hour, 
 A doughty don is taken with my Dol ; 
 And thou mayst make his ransom what thou wilt, 
 My Dousabel ; i he shall be brought here fetter'd 
 With thy fair looks, before he sees thee; and 
 
 thrown 
 In a down-bed, as dark as any dungeon ; 
 Where thou shalt keep him waking with thy drum ; 
 Thy drum, my Dol, thy drum ; till he be tame 
 As the poor blackbirds were in the great frost, 
 Or bees are with a bason ; and so hive him 
 In the swan-skin coverlid, and cambric sheets, 
 Till he work honey and wax, my little God's gif t.^ 
 
 Dol. What is he, general ? 
 
 Face. An adalantado, 
 A grandee, girl. Was not my Dapper here yet ? 
 
 Dol. No. 
 
 Face. Nor my Drugger ? 
 
 Dol. Neither. 
 
 Face. A pox on 'em. 
 They are so long a furnishing ! such stinkai'ds 
 Would not be seen upon these festival days. — 
 
 Re-enter Subtle. 
 
 How now ! have you done ? 
 
 aS'w&. Done. They are gone : the sum 
 Is here in bank, my Face. I would we knew 
 Another chapman now would buy 'em outright. 
 
 Face. 'Slid, Nab shall do't against he have the 
 To furnish household. [widow, 
 
 8vb. Excellent, well thought on : 
 Pray God he come ! 
 
 Face. I pray he keep away 
 Till our new business be o'erpast. 
 
 Suh. But, Face, 
 How cam'st thou by this secret don ? 
 
 Face. A spirit 
 Brought me th' intelligence in a paper here, 
 As I was conjuring yonder in my circle 
 For Surly ; I have my flies ^ abroad. Your bath 
 Is famous, Subtle, by my means. Sweet Dol, 
 You must go tune your virginal, no losing 
 O' the least time: and, do you hear.? good action. 
 Firk, like a flounder ; kiss, like a scallop, close ; 
 And tickle him with thy mother-tongue. His great 
 Verdugoship * has not a jot of language ; 
 So much the easier to be cozen'd, my Dolly. 
 He will come here in a hired coach, obscure, 
 And our own coachman, whom I have sent as guide, 
 No creature else. \^Knocking without] — Who's that.? 
 
 l_Exit Dol. 
 
 Sub. It is not he ? 
 
 Face. Oh no, not yet this hour. 
 
 Re-enter Dol. 
 
 Suh. Who is't ? 
 
 * My Dousabel— i.e. douce et belle, ' sweet and pretty.' 
 A name common in our old pastoral poets, as is Bonni- 
 bel {bonne et belle, 'good and pretty'), which occurs 
 
 just below.— GiFFORD. 
 
 2 God's gift is the meaning of the Gr. Dorothea, Dol's 
 proper name. 
 
 3 /lies — familiar spirits. 
 
 * Verdugo was the name of a noble Spanish family, 
 and was probably the name of some individual known 
 to the writers of Jonson's time. He is mentioned by 
 Fletcher. — Giffobd. 
 
 Dol. Dapper, 
 Your clerk. 
 
 Face. God's will then, queen of Fairy, 
 On with your tire ; [Exit Dol] and, doctor, 
 
 with your robes. 
 Let's despatch him, for God's sake. 
 
 Suh. 'Twill be long. 
 
 Face. I warrant you, take but the cues I give 
 
 you, 
 
 It shall be brief enough. {Goes to the windoio.] 
 
 'Slight, here are more ! 
 Abel, and, I think, the angry boy, the heir. 
 That fain would quarrel — 
 
 Sub. And the widow ? 
 
 Face. No, 
 Not that I see. Away ! [Exit Sub. 
 
 Filter Dappek. 
 
 — Oh sir, you are welcome. 
 The doctor is within a moving for you ; 
 I have had the most ado to win him to it ! — 
 He swears you'll be the darling of the dice : 
 He never heard her highness dote till now. 
 Your aunt has given you the most gracious words 
 That can be thought on. 
 
 Dap. Shall I see her grace ? 
 
 Face. See her, and kiss her too. — 
 
 Enter Abel, followed by Kastril. 
 
 What, honest Nab ! 
 Hast brought the damask 7 
 Drug. No, sir ; here's tobacco. 
 Face. 'T is well done, Nab; thou'lt bring the 
 
 damask too ? 
 Drug. Yes. Here's the gentleman, captain. 
 Master Kastril, 
 I have brought to see the doctor. 
 Face. Where's the widow 1 
 Drug. Sir, as he likes, his sister, he says, shall 
 
 come. 
 Face. Oh, is it so ? good time. Is your name 
 
 Kastril, sir? 
 Kas. Ay, and the best of the Kastrils ; I'd be 
 sorry else, 
 By fifteen hundred a year. Where is the doctor ? 
 My mad tobacco-boy, here, tells me of one 
 That can do things : has he any skill ? 
 Face. Wherein, sir ? 
 
 Kas. To carry a business, manage a quarrel 
 fairly. 
 Upon fit terms. 
 
 Face. It seems, sir, you are but young 
 About the town, that can make that a question. 
 Kas. Sir, not so young, but I have heard some 
 
 Of the angry boys,i and seen them take tobacco ; 
 And in his shop ; and I can take it too. 
 And I would fain be one of 'em, and go down 
 And practise in the country. 
 
 Face. Sir, for the duello, 
 The doctor, I assure you, shall infoma you. 
 To the least shadow of a hair ; and show you 
 An instrument he has of his own making. 
 Wherewith no sooner shall you make report 
 Of any quarrel, but he will take the height on't 
 Most instantly, and tell in what degree 
 Of safety it lies in, or mortality ; 
 And how it may be borne, whether in a right line 
 Or a half circle ; or may else be cast 
 Into an angle blunt, if not acute : 
 All this he will demonstrate. And then, rules 
 To give and take the lie by. 
 
 Kas. How ! to take it ? 
 
 i The roarers and vapourers of the time.— Whalley. 
 
1 62 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Face. Yes, in oblique he'll show you, or in 
 circle, 
 But never in diameter.^ The whole town 
 Study his theorems, and dispute them ordinarily 
 At the eating academies. 
 
 Kas. But does he teach 
 Living by the wits too ? 
 
 Face. Anything whatever. 
 You cannot think that subtlety, but he reads it. 
 He made me a captain. I was a stark pimp. 
 Just of your standing, 'fore I met with him ; 
 It is not two months since. I'll tell you his 
 
 method : 
 JPirst, he will enter you at some ordinary. 
 
 Kas. No, I'll not come there ; you shall pardon 
 me. 
 
 Face. For why, sir ? 
 
 Kas. There's gaming there, and tricks. 
 
 Face. Why, would you be 
 A gallant, and not game ? 
 
 Kas. Ay, 'twill spend a man. 
 
 Face. Spend you ! it will repair you when you 
 are spent. 
 How do they live by their wits there, that have 
 
 vented 
 Six times your fortunes ? 
 
 Kas. What ! three thousand a year ? 
 
 Face. Ay, forty thousand. 
 
 Kas. Are there such "i 
 
 Face. Ay, sir. 
 And gallants yet. Here's a young gentleman 
 Is born to nothing, — {Points to Dapper], — forty 
 
 marks a year. 
 Which I count nothing ; — he is to be initiated. 
 And have a fly ^ of the doctor. He will win you, 
 By unresistible luck, within this fortnight. 
 Enough to buy a barony. They will set him 
 Upmost, at the groom porters, all the Christmas; 
 And for the whole year through, at every place 
 Where there is play, present him with the chair. 
 The best attendance, the best drink ; sometimes 
 Two glasses of Canary, and pay nothing ; 
 The purest linen, and the sharpest knife. 
 The partridge next his trencher ; and somewhere 
 The dainty bed, in private, with the dainty. 
 You shall have your ordinaries bid for him, 
 As play-houses for a poet ; and the master 
 Pray him aloud to name v/hat dish he affects. 
 Which must be butter'd shrimps ; and those that 
 
 drink 
 To no mouth else, will drink to his, as being 
 The goodly president mouth of all the board. 
 
 Kas. Do you not gull one ? 
 
 Face. 'Ods my life ! do you think it ? 
 You shall have a cast commander (can but get 
 In credit with a glover, or a spurrier,^ 
 Tor some two pair of either's ware aforehand), 
 Will, by most swift posts, dealing [butj with him. 
 Arrive at competent means to keep himself. 
 His punk and naked boy, in excellent fashion, 
 And be admired for't. 
 
 Kas. Will the doctor teach this ? 
 
 Face. He will do more, sir : when your land 
 is gone, 
 As men of spirit hate to keep earth long, 
 In a vacation, when small money is stirring, 
 And ordinaries suspended till the term. 
 He'll show a perspective, where on one side 
 You shall behold the faces and the persons 
 Of all sufficient young heirs in town, 
 Whose bonds are current for commodity ;* 
 
 1 in diameter— i.e. the lie direct; the others are the 
 lie circwmtantial. 
 
 2 /y— familiar. 3 spurrier— &Q&\ex in spurs. 
 
 < ^Vhose bonds, &c.— This alludes to a practice often 
 mentioned by the wits of Jonson's time, of' compelling 
 
 On th' other side, the nierchants' forms, and 
 
 others, 
 That without help of any second broker. 
 Who would expect a share, will trust such 
 
 parcels : 
 In the third square, the very street and sign 
 Where the commodity dwells, and does but wait 
 To be deliver'd, be it pepper, soap, * 
 
 Hops, or tobacco, oatmeal, woad, or cheeses. 
 All which you may so handle, to enjoy 
 To your own use, and never stand obliged. 
 
 Kas. I'faith ! is he such a fellow ? 
 
 Face. Why, Nab here knows him. 
 And then for making matches for rich widows, 
 Young gentlewomen, heirs, the fortunat'st man ! 
 He's sent to, far and near, all over England, 
 To have his counsel, and to know their fortunes. 
 
 Kas. God's will, my suster shall see him. 
 
 Face. I'll tell you, sir. 
 What he did tell me of Nab. It's a strange 
 
 thing : — 
 By the way, you must eat no cheese, Nab, it 
 
 breeds melancholy. 
 And that same melancholy breeds worms ; but 
 
 pass it: — 
 He told me, honest Nab here was ne'er at tavern 
 But once in's life ! 
 
 Drug. Truth, and no more I was not. 
 
 Face. And then he was so sick — 
 
 Drug. Could he tell you that too ? 
 
 Face. How should I know it ? 
 
 Drug. In troth we had been a shooting, 
 And had a piece of fat ram-mutton to supper, 
 That lay so heavy o' my stomach — 
 
 Face. And he has no head 
 To bear any wine ; for what with the noise of 
 
 the fiddlers. 
 And care of his shop, for he dares keep no ser- 
 vants — 
 
 Drug. My head did so ache — 
 
 Face. As he was fain to be brought home. 
 The doctor told me ; and then a good old 
 woman — 
 
 Drug. Yes, faith, she dwells in Seacoal-lane— 
 did cure me. 
 With sodden ale, and pellitory of the wall ; 
 Cost me but twopence. I had another sickness 
 Was worse than that. 
 
 Face. Ay, that was with the grief 
 Thou took'st for being cess'd at eighteenpence 
 For the water- work. 
 
 Drug. In truth, and it was like 
 T' have cost me almost my life. 
 
 Face. Thy hair went off ? 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir ; 'twas done for spite. 
 
 Face. Nay, so says the doctor. 
 
 Kas. Pray thee, tobacco-boy, go fetch my 
 suster ; 
 I'll see this learned boy before I go, 
 And so shall she. 
 
 Face. Sir, he is busy now ; 
 But if you have a sister to fetch hither, 
 Perhaps your own pains may command her 
 
 sooner ; 
 And he by that time will be free. 
 
 Kas. I go. lExit. 
 
 Face. Drugger, she's thine : the damask !— 
 {Exit Abel] — Subtle and I 
 Must wrestle for her— [^sicZe].— Come on. Mas- 
 ter Dapper, 
 You see how I turn clients here away. 
 
 the young spendthrift to take a part of the sum which 
 he wanted to borrow in diflferent kinds of damagea 
 goods, at a stated price, of which he made what ho 
 
 could.— GiFFOKD. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 163 
 
 To give your cause despatch : have you perform'd 
 The ceremonies were enjoin'd you ? 
 
 Dap. Yes, of the vinegar, 
 And the clean shirt. 
 
 Face. 'Tis well ; that shirt may do you 
 More worship than you think. Your aunt's a-fire, 
 But that she will not show it, t' have a sight of 
 
 you. 
 Have you provided for her grace's servants ? 
 
 Dap. Yes ; here are six score Edward shillings. 
 
 Face. Good! 
 
 Dap. And an old Harry's sovereign. 
 
 Face. Very good ! 
 
 Dap. And three James shillings, and an Eliza- 
 beth groat, 
 Just twenty nobles. 
 
 Face. Oh ! you are too just. 
 I would you had had the other noble in Maries. 
 
 Dap. I have some Philip and Maries. 
 
 Face. Ay, those same 
 Are best of all ; where are they ? Hark ! the 
 doctor. 
 
 Enter Subtle, disguised like a priest of Fairy, 
 with a stripe of cloth. 
 
 Sub. [In a feigned voice'] Is yet her grace's 
 cousin come ? 
 
 Face. He is come. 
 
 Sub. A^d is he fasting ? 
 
 Face. Yes. 
 
 Sub. And hath cried hum ? 
 
 Face. Thrice, you must answer. 
 
 Dap. Thrice. 
 
 Sub. And as oft buz ? 
 
 Face. If you have, say. 
 
 Dap. I have. 
 
 Sub. Then, to her cuz, 
 Hoping that he hath vinegar'd his senses, 
 As he was bid, the Fairy queen dispenses, 
 By me, this robe, the petticoat of fortune ; 
 Which that he straight put on, she doth im- 
 portune. 
 And though to fortune near be her petticoat, 
 Yet nearer is her smock, the queen doth note : 
 And therefore, ev'n of that a piece she hath sent. 
 Which, being a child, to wrap him in was rent ; 
 And prays him for a scarf he now will wear it. 
 With as much love as then her grace did tear it, 
 About his eyes — {_They blind him with the rag], — 
 
 to show he is fortunate. 
 And, trusting unto her to make his state, 
 He'll throw away all worldly pelf about him ; 
 Which that he will perform, she doth not doubt 
 him. 
 
 Face. She need not doubt him, sir. Alas 1 he 
 has nothing. 
 But what he will part withal as willingly, 
 Upon her grace's word, — Throw away your purse. 
 As she would ask it — handkerchiefs and all. 
 
 [ffe throws away, as they bid him. 
 
 She cannot bid that thing, but he'll obey. — 
 If you have a ring about you, cast it off, 
 Or a silver seal at your wrist ; her grace will send 
 Her fairies here to search you, therefore deal 
 Directly with her highness : if they find 
 That you conceal a mite, you are undone. 
 Dap, Truly, there's all. 
 Face. All what ? 
 Dap. My money ; truly. 
 
 Face. Keep nothing that is transitory about 
 you. 
 Bid Dol play music— [^Aside to Subtle].— Look, 
 the elves are come 
 
 [Dol plays on the cittern ioithin. 
 
 To pinch you, if you tell not truth. Advise you. 
 
 [They pinch him. 
 
 Dap. Oh ! I have a paper with a spur-ryaP in't. 
 Face. Ti, ti.^ 
 They knew't, they say. 
 Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti. He has more yet. 
 Face. Ti, ti-ti-ti. In the other pocket. 
 
 [Aside to Sub. 
 Sub. Titi, titi, titi, titi, titi. 
 They must pinch him, or he will never confess, 
 they say. [They pinch him again. 
 
 Dap. Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Face. Nay, pray you hold ; he is her grace's 
 nephew. 
 Ti, ti, ti ? What care you ? good faith, you shall 
 
 care. — 
 Deal plainly, sir, and shame the fairies. Show 
 You are innocent. 
 Dap. By this good light, I have nothing. 
 Sub. Ti, ti, ti, ti, to, ta. He does equivocate, 
 she says : 
 Ti, ti do ti, ti ti do, ti da; and swears by the light 
 when he is blinded. 
 Dap. By this good dark, I have nothing but a 
 half-crown 
 Of gold about my wrist, that my love gave me ; 
 And a leaden heart I wore since she forsook me. 
 Face. I thought 'twas something. And would 
 you incur 
 Your aunt's displeasure for these trifles ? Come, 
 I had rather you had thrown away twenty half- 
 crowns. [Takes it off. 
 Ydu may wear your leaden heart still. — 
 
 E7iter Dol, hastily. 
 
 How now ! 
 Sub. What news, Dol.? 
 Dol. Yonder's your knight, Sir Mammon. 
 Face. 'Ods lid, we never thought of him till 
 
 now ! Where is he ? 
 Dol. Here, hard by : he is at the door. 
 Sub. And you are not ready, now ! Dol, get 
 his suit. [Exit Dol. 
 
 He must not be sent back. 
 Face. Oh by no means. 
 What shall we do with this same pufiSn here. 
 Now he's on the spit ? 
 
 Sub. Why, lay him back awhile. 
 With some device. 
 
 Re-enter Dol, with Face's clothes. 
 
 — Ti, ti, ti, ti, ti, ti, Would her grace speak with 
 
 me ? 
 I come.— Help, Dol ! [Knocking without. 
 
 Face., [Speaks through the key-hole.] Who's 
 there ? Sir Epicure, 
 My master's in the way. Please you to walk 
 Three or four tui-ns, but till his back be tm-n'd, 
 And I am for you. — Quickly, Dol ! 
 
 Sub. Her grace 
 Commends her kindly to you, Master Dapper. 
 Dap. I long to see her grace. 
 Sub. She now is set 
 At dinner in her bed, and she has sent you 
 From her own private trencher, a dead mouse. 
 And a piece of gingerbread, to be men-y withal, 
 And stay youx stomach, lest you faint with 
 
 fasting. 
 Yet if you could hold out till she saw you, she 
 
 says, 
 It would be better for you. 
 
 Face. Sir, he shall 
 Hold out, an 'twere this two hours, for her 
 highness ; 
 
 * a spur-ryal was a cold coin, and, in the third of 
 James i., it passed for 15s.— Whallet. 
 2 This is suDPOsed to be the fairies' language. 
 
1 64 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I can assure you that. We will not lose 
 All we have done. — 
 
 Sub. He must not see, nor speak 
 To anybody, till then. 
 
 Face. For that we'll put, sir, 
 A stay in's mouth. 
 
 Sub. Of what? 
 
 Face. Of gingerbread. 
 Make you it fit. He that hath pleas'd her grace 
 Thus far, shall not now crincle^ for a little. — 
 Gape, sir, and let him fit you. 
 
 {They thrust a gag of gingerbread in his mouth. 
 
 Sub. Where shall we now 
 Bestow him ? 
 
 Dol. In the privy. 
 
 Sub. Come along, sir, 
 I now must show you Fortune's privy lodgings. 
 
 Face. Are they perfum'd, and his bath ready ? 
 
 Sub. All: 
 Only the fumigation's somewhat strong. 
 
 Face. [Speaking through the key-hole.'] Sir 
 Epicure, I am yours, sir, by and by. 
 
 [^Exeunt with Dapper. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Lovewit's House. 
 Enter Face and Mammox. 
 
 Face. Oh, sir, you are come in the only finest 
 time. — 
 
 Mam. Where's master ? 
 
 Face. Now preparing for projection, sir. 
 Your stuff will be all changed shortly. 
 
 Mam. Into gold 7 
 
 Face. To gold and silver, sir. 
 
 Mam. Silver I care not for. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, a little to give beggars. 
 
 Mam. Where's the lady ? 
 
 Face. At hand here. I have told her such 
 brave things of you. 
 Touching your bounty, and your noble spirit — 
 
 Mam. Hast thou ? 
 
 Face. As she is almost in her fit to see you. 
 But, good sir, no divinity in your conference, 
 For fear of putting her in rage — 
 
 Mam. I warrant thee. 
 
 Face. Six men [sir] will not hold her down : 
 and then. 
 If the old man should hear or see you — 
 
 Mam. Fear not. 
 
 Face. The very house, sir, would run mad. 
 You know it, 
 How scrupulous he is, and violent, 
 'Gainst the least act of sin. Physic, or mathe- 
 matics, 
 Poetry, state, or bawdry, as I told you, 
 She will endure, and never startle ; but 
 No word of controversy. 
 
 Mam. I am school' d, good Ulen. 
 
 Face. And you must praise her house, remem- 
 ber that, 
 And her nobility. 
 
 Mam. Let me alone : 
 No herald, no, nor antiquary. Lungs, 
 Shall do it better. Go. 
 
 Fa^e. Why, this is yet 
 A kind of modern happiness, to have 
 Dol Common for a great lady. [Aside and exit. 
 
 Mam. Now, Epicure, 
 Heighten thyself, talk to her all in gold ; 
 
 1 cnnc?<'— literally, to creep together, to wrinkle ; 
 •~to shrink, to draw back, lose heart. 
 
 here 
 
 Eain her as many showers as Jove did drops 
 Unto his Danae ; show the god a miser, 
 Compared with Mammon. What ! the stone 
 
 will do't. 
 She shall feel gold, taste gold, hear gold, sleep 
 
 gold; 
 Nay, we will concumbere gold : I will be puissant, 
 And mighty in my talk to her. — 
 
 Re-enter Face with Dol richly dressed. 
 
 Here she comes. 
 
 Face. To him, Dol, suckle him This is the 
 
 noble knight, 
 I told your ladyship — 
 
 Mam. Madam, with your pardon, 
 I kiss your vesture. 
 
 Dol. Sir, I were uncivil 
 If I would suffer that ; my lip to you, sir. 
 
 Mam. I hope my lord your brother be in 
 health, lady. 
 
 Dol. My lord my brother is, though I no 
 lady, sir. 
 
 Face. Well said, my Guinea bird. [Aside. 
 
 Mam. Eight noble madam — 
 
 Face. Oh, we shall have most fierce idolatry. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mam. 'Tis your prerogative. 
 
 Dol. Bather your courtesy. 
 
 Mam. Were there nought else to enlarge your 
 virtues to me. 
 These answers speak your breeding and your 
 blood, 
 
 Dol. Blood we boast none, sir, a poor baron's 
 daughter. 
 
 Mam. Poor ! and gat you ? profane not. Had 
 your father 
 Slept all the happy remnant of his life 
 After that act, lien but there still, and panted. 
 He had done enough to make himself, his issue. 
 And his posterity noble. 
 
 Dol. Sir, although 
 We may be said to want the gilt and trappings. 
 The dress of honour, yet we strive to keep 
 The seeds and the materials. 
 
 Mam. I do see 
 The old ingredient, virtue, was not lost, 
 Nor the drug money used to make your com- 
 pound. 
 There is a strange nobility in your eye. 
 This lip, that chin ! me thinks you do resemble 
 One of the Austriac princes.^ 
 
 Face. Very like ! 
 Her father was an Irish costermonger. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mam. The house of Valois just had such a 
 nose. 
 And such a forehead yet the Medici 
 Of Florence boast. 
 
 Dol. Troth, and I have been liken'd 
 To all these princes. 
 
 Face. I'll be sworn, I heard it. 
 
 Mam. I know not how ! it is not any one. 
 But e'en the very choice of all their features. 
 
 Face. I'll in, and laugh. [Aside and exit. 
 
 Mam. A certain touch, or air, 
 That sparkles a divinity, beyond 
 An earthly beauty ! 
 
 Dol. Oh, you play the courtier. 
 
 Mam. Good lady, give me leave— 
 ■ Dol. In faith, I may not. 
 To mock me, sir. 
 
 Mam. To burn in this sweet flame ; 
 The pho3nix never knew a nobler death. 
 
 1 It is observed that all the houses of Austria have a 
 sweet fulness of the lower lip.— Quoted by Gifford. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 165 
 
 Dol. Nay, now you court the courtier, and 
 destroy 
 What you would build : this art, sir, in your 
 
 words, 
 Calls your whole faith in question. 
 
 Mam. By my soul — 
 
 Dol. Nay, oaths are made of the same air, sir. 
 
 Mam. Nature 
 Never bestow'd upon mortality 
 A more unblamed, a more harmonious feature ; 
 She play'd the step-dame in all faces else : 
 Sweet madam, let me be particular — 
 
 Dol. Particular, sir! I pray you know your 
 distance. 
 
 Mam. In no ill sense, sweet lady; but to ask 
 How your fair graces pass the hours ? I see 
 You are lodg'd here, in the house of a rare man, 
 An excellent artist ; but what's that to you ? 
 
 Dol. Yes, sir; I study here the mathematics. 
 And distillation.^ 
 
 Mam. Oh, I ciy your pardon. 
 He's a divine instructor ! can extract 
 The souls of all things by his art ; call all 
 The virtues, and the miracles of the sun, 
 Into a temperate furnace ; teach dull nature 
 What her own forces are. A man, the emperor 
 Has courted above Kelly ; ^ sent his medals 
 And chains, to invite him. 
 
 Dol. Ay, and for his physic, sir — 
 
 Mam. Above the art of ^sculapius, 
 That drew the envy of the thunderer ! 
 I know all this, and more. 
 
 Dol. Troth, I am taken, sir, 
 Whole with these studies, that contemplate 
 natm-e. 
 
 Mam. It is a noble humour ; but this form 
 Was not intended to so dark a use. 
 Had you been crooked, foul, of some coarse 
 
 mould, 
 A cloister had done well ; but such a feature 
 That might stand up the glory of a kingdom, 
 To live recluse ! is a mere solecism. 
 Though in a nunnery. It must not be. 
 I muse, my lord your brother will permit it : 
 You should spend half my land first, were I he. 
 Does not this diamond better on my finger, 
 Than in the quarry ? 
 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Mam. Why, you are like it. 
 You were created, lady, for the light. 
 Here, you shall wear it ; take it, the first pledge 
 Of what I speak, to bind you to believe me. 
 
 Dol. In chains of adamant ? 
 
 Mam. Yes, the strongest bands. 
 And take a secret too — here, by your side, 
 Doth stand this hour, the happiest man in 
 Europe. 
 
 Dol. You are contented, sir ! 
 
 Mam. Nay, in true being, 
 The envy of princes and the fear of states. 
 
 Dol. Say you so. Sir Epicure? 
 
 Mam. Yes, and thou shalt prove it, 
 Daughter of honour. I have cast mine eye 
 Upon thy form, and I will rear this beauty 
 Above all styles. 
 
 Dol. You mean no treason, sir ? 
 
 Mam. No, I will take away that jealousy. 
 I am the lord of the philosopher's stone, 
 And thou the lady. 
 
 Dol. How sir ! have you that ? 
 
 Mam. I am the master of the mastary. s 
 This day the good old wretch here o' the house 
 
 1 i.e. astrology and chemistry.— Gifford. 
 
 2 Edward Kelly, the most daring and unprincipled of 
 ■U the pretenders to alchemy.— Gifford. 
 
 ' mastery— i.e. the magisterium or philosopher's stone. 
 
 Has made it for us ; now he's at projection. 
 Think therefoi-e thy first wish now, let me hear it ; 
 And it shall rain into thy lap no shower, 
 But floods of gold, whole cataracts, a deluge, 
 To get a nation on thee. 
 
 Dol. You are pleased, sir, 
 To work on the ambition of our sex. 
 
 Mam. I am pleased the glory of her sex should 
 know, 
 This nook, here, of the Friars ^ is no climate 
 For her to live obscurely in, to learn 
 Physic and surgery, for the constable's wife 
 Of some odd hundred in Essex ; but come forth, 
 And taste the air of palaces; eat, drink 
 The toils of empirics, and their boasted practice ; 
 Tincture of pearl and coral, gold and amber ; 
 Be seen at feasts and triumphs ; have it ask'd. 
 What miracle she is ? set all the eyes 
 Of court a-fire, like a burning glass. 
 And work them into cinders, when the jewels 
 Of twenty states adorn thee, and the light 
 Strikes out the stars! that when thy name is 
 
 mention'd, 
 Queens may look pale ; and we but showing our 
 
 love, 
 Nero's Poppasa may be lost in story ! 
 Thus will we have it. 
 
 Dol. I could well consent, sir. 
 But, in a monarchy, how will this be ? 
 The prince will soon take notice, and both seize 
 You and your stone, it being a wealth unfit 
 For any pi-ivate subject. 
 
 Mam. If he knew it. 
 
 Dol. Yourself do boast it, sir. 
 
 Mam. To thee, my life. 
 
 Dol. Oh, but beware, sir! you may come to 
 end 
 The remnant of your days in a loath'd prison, 
 By speaking of it. 
 
 Mam. 'Tis no idle fear : 
 We'll therefore go withal, my girl, and live 
 In a free state, where we will eat our mullets. 
 Soused in high-country wines, sup pheasants' 
 
 eggs, 
 And have our cockles boil'd in silver shells ; 
 Our shrimps to swim again, as when they liv'd. 
 In a rare butter made of dolphin's milk. 
 Whose cream does look like opals; and with 
 
 these 
 Delicate meats set ourselves high for pleasure. 
 And take us down again, and then renew 
 Our youth and strength with drinking the elixir, 
 And so enjoy a perpetuity 
 Of life and lust! And thou shalt have thy 
 
 wardrobe 
 Eicher than nature's, still to change thy self, 
 And vary oftener, for thy pride, than she. 
 Or art^ her wise and almost-equal servant. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Sir, you are too loud. 1 hear you every 
 word 
 Into the laboratory. Some fitter place ; 
 The garden, or great chamber above. How like 
 you her ? 
 Mam. Excellent ! Lungs. There's for thee. 
 
 [Gives him money. 
 Face. But, do you hear ? 
 Good sir, beware, no mention of the rabbins. 
 Mam. We think not on 'em. 
 
 [Exeunt Ma3I. and DoL. 
 Face. Oh, it is well, sir.— Subtle ! 
 Enter Subtle. 
 Dost thou not laugh? 
 
 fnars— Blackfriars. 
 
1 66 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Sub. Yes ; are they gone ? 
 
 Face. All's clear. 
 
 Sub. The widow is come. 
 
 Face. And your quarrelling disciple ? 
 
 Sub. Ay. 
 
 Face. I must to my captainship again then. 
 
 Sub. Stay, bring them in first. 
 
 Face. So I meant. What is she ? 
 A bonnibel ? ' 
 
 /S'u6. I know not. 
 
 Face. We'll draw lots : 
 You'll stand to that ? 
 
 Sub. What else.? 
 
 Face. Oh, for a suit,^ 
 To fall now like a curtain, flap ! 
 
 Sub. To the door, man. 
 
 Face. You'll have the first kiss, 'cause I am not 
 ready. [Exit. 
 
 Sub. Yes, and perhaps hit you through both 
 the nostrils. 
 
 Face, [within]. Who would you speak with? 
 
 Kas. [withinX Where's the captain ? 
 
 Face. Iwiihin]. Gone, sir, 
 About some business. 
 
 Kas. [withinl Gone ! 
 
 Face, [withiii]. He'll return straight. 
 But master doctor, his lieutenant, is here. 
 
 Ente7^ Kastril, followed by Dame Pliant. 
 
 Svb. Come near, my worshipful boy, my terrse 
 fili,^ 
 That is, my boy of land ; make thy approaches : 
 Welcome ; I know thy lusts, and thy desires. 
 And I will serve and satisfy them. Begin, 
 Charge me from thence, or thence, or in this line ; 
 Here is my centre : ground thy quarrel. 
 
 Kas. You lie. 
 
 Sub. How, child of wrath and anger ! the loud 
 He.' 
 For what, my sudden boy ? 
 
 Kas. Nay, that look ye to, 
 I am aforehand. 
 
 Sub. Oh, this is no true grammar, 
 And as ill logic ! You must render causes, child, 
 Your first and second intentions, know your 
 
 canons 
 And your divisions, moods, degrees, and differ- 
 ences, 
 Your predicaments, substance, and accident, 
 Series, extern and intern, with their causes, 
 Efficient, material, formal, final. 
 And have your elements perfect ? 
 
 Kas. What is this ! 
 The angry tongue he talks in ? [Aside. 
 
 Sub. That false precept, 
 Of being aforehand, has deceived a number, 
 And made them enter quarrels, oftentimes, 
 Before they were aware ; and afterward, 
 Against their wills. 
 
 Kas. How must I do then, sir ? 
 
 Sub. I cry this lady mercy : she should first 
 Have been saluted. ^Kisses her']. — I do call you 
 
 lady. 
 Because you are to be one, ere't be long, 
 My soft and buxom widow. 
 
 Kas. Is she, i'faith ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, or my art is an egregious liar. 
 
 Kas. How know you ? 
 
 Sub. By inspection on her forehead, 
 And subtlety of her lip, which must be tasted 
 Often, to make a judgment. IKisses her again.'] 
 
 » bonnibel— See note 1, p. 161, col. 1. 
 2 i.e. his captain's uniform, for which he is compelled 
 to go out. 
 ' ' son of the soiL* 
 
 'Shght, she melts 
 Like a myrobolane :' — here is yet a line, 
 In 7'ivo f'ontis,^ tells me he is no knight. 
 
 Dame P. What is he then, sir ? 
 
 Sub. Let me see your hand. 
 Oh, your linea fortunx^ makes it plain ; 
 And Stella here in monte Veneris.*^ 
 But, most of ah, junctura annularis.^ 
 He is a soldier, or a man of art, lady. 
 But shall have some great honour shortly. 
 
 Dame P. Brother, 
 He's a rare man, believe me ! 
 
 Re-enter Face, in his uniform. 
 
 Kas. Hold your peace ! 
 Here comes t'other rare man. — 'Save you, captain. 
 Face. Good Master Kastril! Is this your 
 
 sister ? 
 Kas. Ay, sir. 
 Please you to kuss her, and be proud to know 
 her. 
 Face. I shall be proud to know you, lady. 
 
 [Kisses her. 
 Dams P. Brother, 
 He calls me lady too. 
 Kas. Ay, peace : I heard it. 
 
 \Tahes her aside. 
 Face. The count is come. 
 Sub. Where is he ? 
 Face. At the door. 
 Sub. "N^Tiy, you must entertain hira. 
 Face. What will you do 
 With these the while? 
 
 Sub. Why, have them up, and show them 
 Some fustian book, or the dark glass. 
 
 Face. 'Fore God,1 
 She is a delicate dab-chick ! I must have her. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sub. Must you! ay, if your fortxme will, you 
 
 must. — 
 
 Come, sir, the captain will come to us presently : 
 
 I'll have you to my chamber of demonstrations. 
 
 Where I will show you both the grammar, and 
 
 logic. 
 And rhetoric of quarrelling ; my whole method 
 Drawn out in tables ; and my instrviment. 
 That hath the several scales upon't, shall make you 
 Able to quarrel at a straws-breadth by moonlight. 
 And, lady, I'll have you look in a glass. 
 Some half an hour, but to clear your eyesight. 
 Against you see your fortune ; which is greater, 
 Than I may judge upon the sudden, trust me. 
 
 lExit, followed by Kas. and Dame P. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Where are you, doctor ? 
 Sub. [within]. I'll come to you presently. 
 Face. I will have this same widow, now 1 have 
 seen her, 
 On any composition. 
 
 Re-entei' Subtle. 
 
 Sub. What do you say ? 
 
 Face. Have you disposed of them ? 
 
 Sub. I have sent them up. 
 
 Face. Subtle, in troth, I needs must have this 
 
 widow. 
 Sub. Is that the matter ? 
 Face. Nay, but hear me. 
 Sub. Goto. 
 
 1 See note 2, p. 90, coL 2. 
 
 2 ' In the channel of her forehead.' 
 
 3 'line of fortune.' 
 
 * ' in the hill of Venus.' 
 
 * 'juncture of the ring or circle.' These are also 
 astrological terms. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 167 
 
 If you rebel once, Dol shall know it all : 
 Therefore be quiet, and obey your chance. 
 
 Face. Nay, thou art so violent now. Do but 
 conceive, 
 Thou art old, and canst not serve — 
 
 Svb. Who cannot? I? 
 'Slight, I will serve her with thee, for a — 
 
 Face, Nay, 
 But understand : I'll give you composition. 
 
 Suh. I will not treat with thee. What ! sell my 
 fortune "i 
 'Tis better than my birthright. Do not murmur : 
 Win her, and carry her. If you grumble, Dol 
 Knows it directly. 
 
 Face. Well, sir, I am silent. 
 Will you go help to fetch in Don in state ? 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Sub. I follow you, sir : we must keep Face in 
 Or he will overlook us like a tyrant. [awe, 
 
 He-enter Face, introducing Surly disguised as a 
 Spaniard. 
 
 Brain of a tailor ! who comes here ? Don John ! 
 
 tSw. /Senoj'es, beso lasmanos a vuestras mercedes.^ 
 
 Sub. Would you had stoop'd a little, and kist 
 
 Face. Peace, Subtle. [our anos ! 
 
 Sub. Stab me ; I shall never hold, man. 
 He looks in that deep ruff like a head in a platter 
 Serv'd in by a short cloke upon two trestles. 
 
 Face. Or, what do you say to a collar of brawn, 
 cut down 
 Beneath the souse, and wriggled with a knife ? 
 
 Sub. 'Slud, he does look too fat to be a Spaniard. 
 
 Face. Perhaps some Fleming or some Hollander 
 got him 
 In D 'Alva's time; Couni Egmont's bastard. 
 
 Sub. Don, 
 Your scurvy, yellow, Madrid face is welcome. 
 
 Sur. Gratia.^ 
 
 Sub. He speaks out of a fortification. 
 PrS-y God he have no squibs in those deep sets.s 
 
 Sur. Pen' dios, senores, muy linda casa I * 
 
 Sub. What says he .'' 
 
 Face. Praises.the house, I think ; 
 I^know no more but's action. 
 
 Sub. Yes, the casa., 
 My precious Diego, will prove fair enough 
 To cozen you in. Do you mark ? you shall 
 Be cozen'd, Diego. 
 
 Face. Oozen'd, do you see, 
 My woi-thy Donzel, cozenM. 
 
 Sur. Entiendo.^ 
 
 Sub. Do you intend it ? so do we, dear Don. 
 Have you brought pistolets, or portagues, 
 My solemn Don ? — Dost thou feel any ? 
 
 Face. [Feels his pockets^. Full. 
 
 Sub. You shall be emptied, Don, pumped and 
 Dry, as they say. [drawn 
 
 Face. Milked, in troth, sweet Don. 
 
 Sub. See all the monsters; the great lion of 
 all, Don. 
 
 Suj: Con licencia, se puede ver a esta senora ? « 
 
 Svh. What talks he now ? 
 
 Face. Of the sennora. 
 
 Sub. Oh, Don, 
 That is the lioness, which you shall see 
 Also, my Don. 
 
 Face. 'Slid, Subtle, how shall we do ? 
 
 Sub. For what.? 
 
 Fa^e. Why, Dol's employ'd, you know. 
 
 1 ' Gentlemen, I kiss your honours' hands.' 
 
 * 'Thanks.' 
 
 3 i.e. in the deep plaits of his rufif. 
 
 ■* ' By heaven, gentlemen, a very handsome house ! ' 
 
 * 'I understand.' 
 
 * ' With pennission, is it possible to see this lady ? ' 
 
 Suh. That's true. 
 'Fore heaven, I know not : he must stay, that's all. 
 
 Face. Stay ! that he must not by no means. 
 
 Sub. No! why? 
 
 Face. Unless you'll mar all. 'Slight, he will 
 suspect it : 
 And then he will not pay, not half so well. 
 This is a travelled punk-mastei-, and does know 
 All the delays ; a notable hot rascal, 
 And looks already rampant. 
 
 Sub. 'S death, and Mammon 
 Must not be troubled. 
 
 Face. Mammon ! in no case. 
 
 Sub. What shall we do then ? 
 
 Face. Think : you must be sudden. 
 
 Sur. Entiendo que la senora es tan hermosa, que 
 codicio tan verla^ coma la Men aventuranza de mi 
 vida.^ 
 
 Face. Mi vida! 'Slid, Subtle, he puts me in 
 mind o' the widow. 
 What dost thou say to draw her to it, ha ! 
 And tell her 'tis her fortune ? all our venture 
 Now lies upon't. It is but one man more. 
 Which of us chance to have her : and, beside, 
 There is no maidenhead to be fear'd or lost. 
 What dost thou think on't. Subtle ? 
 
 Sub. Who, I ? why— 
 
 Fac. The credit of our house too is engaged. 
 
 Sub. You made me an offer for my share ere- 
 while. 
 What wilt thou give me, i'f aith ? 
 
 Face. Oh, by that light 
 I'll not buy now. You know your doom to me. 
 E'en take your lot, obey your chance, sir ; win 
 And wear her out for me. [her, 
 
 Sub. 'Slight, I'll not work her then. 
 
 Face. It is the common cause ; therefore bethink 
 Dol else must know it, as you said. [you. 
 
 Sub. I care not. 
 
 Sur. Senores, proque se tarda tanto f 2 
 
 Sub. Faith, I am not fit, I am old. 
 
 Face. That's now no reason, sir. 
 
 Sur. Puedo ser de kazer burla de mi amor ? 3 
 
 Face. You hear the Don too ? by this air, I call, 
 And loose the hinges : Dol ! 
 
 Suh. A plague of heU — 
 
 Face. Will you then do ? 
 
 Sub. You are a terrible rogue ! 
 I'll think of this : will you, sir, call the widow ? 
 
 Face. Yes, and I'll take her too with all her 
 faults. 
 Now I do think on't better. 
 
 Sub. With all my heart, sir ; 
 Am I discharged o' the lot ? 
 
 Face. As you please. 
 
 Sub. Hands. \^They take hands. 
 
 Face. Eemember now, that upon any change. 
 You never claim her. 
 
 Sub. Much good joy, and health to you, sir. 
 Marry a whore ! fate, let me wed a witch first. 
 
 Sur. Por estas honradas barbas * — 
 
 Sub. He swears by his beard. 
 Despatch, and call the brother too. [Exit Face. 
 
 Sur. Tenyo duda, senores, que no me hagan 
 alguna traycion.^ 
 
 Sub. How, issue on? yes, praesto, sennor. 
 Please you 
 Enthratha the chambraia, worthy Don : 
 
 * ' I hear the lady is so handsome, that I am anxious 
 to see her, as the most fortunate circumstance Of my 
 
 life.'— GiFFOBD. 
 
 2 ' Gentlemen, why do you delay so much ? ' 
 
 3 ' Can you he making a jest of my love ? ' 
 •* ' By these honourable beards.' (?) 
 
 ^ ' I f eai-, gentlemen, that you are about to play m© 
 some foul trick.' 
 
1 68 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Where if you please the fates, in your hathada^ 
 You shall be soaked, and stroked, and tubb'd, and 
 
 rubb'd. 
 And scrubb'd, and fubb'd, dear Don, before you 
 
 go. 
 You shall, in faith, my scurvy baboon Don. 
 Be curried, claw'd, and fiaw'd, and taw'd, indeed. 
 I will the heartlier go about it now. 
 And make the widow a punk so much the sooner, 
 Tt) be revenged on this impetuous Face : 
 The quickly doing of it, is the grace. 
 
 \_Exeunt Sub. and Surly. 
 
 ACT IV.-SCENE II. 
 
 Another room in the same. 
 
 Enter Face, Kastril, and Dame Pliant. 
 
 Face. Come, lady: I knew the doctor would 
 not leave, 
 Till he had found the very nick of her fortune. 
 Kas. To be a countess, say you, a Spanish 
 
 countess, sir? 
 Dame P. Why, is that better than an English 
 
 countess .' 
 Face. Better ! 'Slight, make you that a question, 
 
 lady 7 
 Kas. Nay, she is a fool, captain, you must par- 
 don her. 
 Face. Ask from your courtier, to your inns-of- 
 court-man. 
 To your mere milliner ; they will tell you all, 
 Your Spanish jennet is the best horse; your 
 
 Spanish 
 Stoup is the best garb;* your Spanish beard 
 Is the best cut ; your Spanish ruffs are the best 
 Wear; your Spanish pavin^ the best dance ; 
 Your Spanish titillation in a glove 
 The best perfume ; and for your Spanish pike, 
 And Spanish blade, let your poor captain speak — 
 Here comes the doctor.' 
 
 Enter Subtle, with a paper. 
 
 Sub. My most honoured lady, 
 For so I am now to style you, having found 
 By this my scheme, you are to undergo 
 An honourable fortune very shortly. 
 What will you say now, if some — 
 
 Face. I have told her all, sir ; 
 And her right worshipful brother here, that she 
 
 shall be 
 A countess ; do not delay them, sir ; a Spanish 
 countess. 
 
 Sub. Still, my scarce-worshipful captain, you 
 can keep 
 No secret! Well, since he has told you, madam. 
 Do you forgive him, and I do. 
 
 Kas. She shall do that, sir; 
 I'll look to't, 'tis my charge. 
 
 Sub. Well then : naught rests 
 But that she fit her love now to her fortune. 
 
 Dame P. Truly I shall never brook a Spaniard. 
 
 Sub. No! 
 
 Dame P. Never since eighty-eight* could I 
 abide them, 
 
 * your Spanish stoup, &c. Gifford can't explain this; 
 it may mean that the Spanish stoop or bow is the most 
 elegant fashion, or stoup may be some kind of dress. 
 During the early part of James's reign Spanish influence 
 was paramount at court, and Spanish fashions, in con- 
 sequence, were generally adopted there. 
 
 Spavin wsis a grave majestic kind of dance, perhaps 
 from Lat. pavo, a peacock. 
 
 3 eighty-eight— i.e. 1588, the year of the Spanish Ar- 
 mada. 
 
 And that was some three year afore I was born, 
 in truth. 
 
 Sub. Come, you must love him, or be miserable; 
 Choose which you will. 
 
 Face. By this good rush, persuade her. 
 She will cry straAvberries else within this twelve- 
 month. 
 
 Sub. Nay, shads and mackerel, which is worse. 
 
 Face. Indeed, sir! 
 
 Kas. 'Ods lid, you shall love him, or I'll kick 
 you. 
 
 Dame P. Why, 
 I'll do as you would have me, brother. 
 
 Kas. Do, 
 Or by this hand I'll maul you. 
 
 Face. Nay, good sir, 
 Be not so fierce. 
 
 Sub. No, my enraged child ; 
 She will be ruled. What, when she comes to 
 
 taste 
 The pleasures of a countess ! to be courted — 
 
 Face. And kiss'd, and ruffled ! 
 
 Sv^. Ay, behind the hangings. 
 
 Face. And then come forth in pomp ! 
 
 Sub. And know her state ! 
 
 Face Of keeping all the idolaters of the cham- 
 ber 
 Barer to her, than at their prayers ! 
 
 Sub. Is serv'd 
 Upon the knee ! 
 
 Face. And has her pages, ushers, 
 Footmen, and coaches — 
 
 Sub. Her six mares — 
 
 Face. Nay, eight! 
 
 Sub. To hurry her through London, to the 
 Exchange, 
 Bethlem, the China-houses— 
 
 Face. Yes, and have 
 The citizens gape at her, and praise her tires, 
 And my lord's goose-turd bands, that ride with 
 her. 
 
 Kas. Most brave ! By this hand, you are not 
 my suster 
 If you refuse. 
 
 Dame P. I will not refuse, brother. 
 
 Enter Surly. 
 
 Sur. Que es esto, senores, que no venga ? E&ta 
 tardanza me mata ! i 
 
 Face. It is the count come : 
 The doctor knew he would be here, by his art. 
 
 Sub. En gallantamadama, Don! gallantissima!^ 
 
 Sur. Por todos los dioses, la mas acabada hermo- 
 swa, que he visto en mi vida ! ^ 
 
 Face. Is't not a gallant language that they 
 speak ? 
 
 Kas. An admirable language. Is't not French ? 
 
 Face. No, Spanish, sir. 
 
 Kas. It goes like law-French, 
 And that, they say, is the courtliest language. 
 
 Face. List, sir. 
 
 Sur. El sol haperdido su lumbre, con el esplan- 
 dor que trae esta dama ! Valgame Dios ! * 
 
 Face. He admires your sister. 
 
 Kas. Must not she make curt'sy ? 
 
 Sub. 'Ods will, she must go to him, man, and 
 kiss him ! 
 It is the Spanish fashion for the women 
 To make first court. 
 
 1 ' What is the reason, gentlemen, you do not come ? 
 This delay kills me.' 
 2 'The handsome lady, Don! most handsome.' 
 
 3 ' By all the gods, the most perfect beauty I ever saw !' 
 
 4 ' The brightness of the sun is dimmed in presence of 
 the splendour of this lady I Good God 1 ' 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 169 
 
 Fcxe. 'Tis true he tells you, sir: 
 His art knows all. 
 
 Sur. For que no se acudef^ 
 
 Kas. He speaks to her, I think. 
 
 Face. That he does, sir. 
 
 Sur. For el amor de Dios, que es esto que se 
 tarda? ^ 
 
 Kas. Nay, see : she will not understand him ! 
 Noddy. [gull, 
 
 Dame P. What say you, brother ? 
 
 Kas. Ass, my suster. 
 Go kuss him, as the cunning man would have 
 
 you; 
 I'll thrust a pin in your buttocks else. 
 
 Face. Oh no, sir. 
 
 Sur. Senora mia, mi persona esta muy indigna 
 de allegar a tanta hermosu7'a.^ 
 
 Face. Does he not use her bravely ? 
 
 Kas. Bravely, i'faith! 
 
 Face. Nay, he will use her better. 
 
 Kas. Do you think so ? 
 
 iSur. Senora^ si sera servida, entremonos.* 
 
 lExit with Dame Pliant. 
 
 Kas. "Where does he carry her ? 
 
 Face. Into the garden, sir ; 
 Take you no thought : I must interpret for her. 
 
 Sub. Give Dol the word.^ [Aside to Face, toho 
 goes out.l — Come, my fierce child, advance, 
 We'll to our quarrelling lesson again. 
 t Kas. Agreed. 
 I love a Spanish boy with all my heart. 
 
 Sub. Nay, and by this means, sir, you shall be 
 brother 
 To a gi-eat count. 
 
 Kas. Ay, I knew that at first. 
 This match will advance the house of the Kastrils. 
 
 Sub. 'Pray God your sister prove but pliant ! 
 
 Kas. Why, 
 Her name is so by her other husband. 
 
 Sub. How! 
 
 Kas. The widow Pliant. Knew you not that? 
 
 Sub. No, faith, sir ; 
 Yet, by erection of her figure, I guessed it. 
 Come, let's go practise. 
 
 Kas. Yes, but do you think, doctor, 
 I e'er shall quarrel well ? 
 
 Sub. I warrant you. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 
 Another room in the same. 
 
 Enter Dol in her Jit of raving^ followed by Mammon. 
 
 Dol. For after Alexander's death — 
 
 Mam. Good lady — 
 
 Dol. That Ferdiccas and Antigonns were slain, 
 The two that stood, Seleuc\ and Ftolomee — 
 
 Mam. Madam. 
 
 Dol. Made up the two legs, and the fourth beast, 
 That was Gog-north, and Egypt-south : which after 
 Was called Gog-iron-leg, and South-iron-leg — 
 
 Mam. Lady — 
 
 Dol. And then Gog-hoi'ned. So was Egypt, too : 
 Then Egypt-clay-leg, and Gog- clay-leg — 
 
 Mam. Sweet madam. 
 
 Dol. And last Gog-dust, and Egypt-dust, which 
 fall 
 In the last link of the fourth chain. And these 
 Be stag's in story, which none see, or look at — 
 
 » ' Why do you not run to me ? ' 
 2 ' By the love of God, why do you delay ?' 
 ' ' My lady, my person is quite unworthy to approach 
 such beauty.' 
 
 * ' Lady, if you please, let us go within.' 
 
 * i.e. to begm her fit of raving. 
 
 Mam. What shall I do ? 
 
 Dol. For, as he says, except 
 We call the rabbins, and the heathen Greeks — 
 
 Mam. Dear lady. 
 
 Dol. To come from Salem, and from Athens^ 
 And teach the people of Great Bntain — 
 
 Enter Face, hastily, in his sei'vanfs dress. 
 
 Face. What's the matter, sir?; 
 
 Dol. To speak the tongue of Eber and Javan — 
 
 Mam. Oh, 
 She's in her fit. 
 
 Dol. We shall know nothing — 
 
 Face. Death, sir, 
 We are undone ! 
 
 Dol. Where then a learned linguist 
 Shall she the ancient used communion 
 Of vowels and consonants — 
 
 Face. My master will hear ! 
 
 Dol. A wisdom^ which Fythagoras held most 
 high — 
 
 Mam. Sweet honourable lady ! 
 
 Dol. To comprise 
 All sounds of voices, in few mnrks of letters — 
 
 Face. Nay, you must never hope to lay her now, 
 [They all speak together 
 
 Dol. And so we may arrtve by Talmud skill, 
 Andprofane Greek, to raise the building up 
 Of Helen's house against the Ismaelite, 
 King of Thogarma, and his habergions 
 Brimstony, blue, and fiery ; and the force 
 Of king Abaddon, and the beast of Cittimi 
 Which rabbi David Kimchi, Onkelos, 
 And Aben Ezra do interpret Rome. 
 
 Face. How did you put her into't ? 
 
 Mam. Alas ! I talk'd 
 Of a fifth monarchy I would erect 
 With the philosopher's stone, by chance, and she 
 Falls on the other four straight. 
 
 Face. Out of Bi'oughton ! 
 I told you so. 'Slid, stop her mouth. 
 
 Mam. Is't best? 
 
 Face. She'll never leave else. If the old man 
 hear her, 
 We are but faeces, ashes. 
 
 Sub. [within.] What's to do there ? 
 
 Face. Oh, we are lost! Now she hears him, 
 she is quiet. 
 
 Enter Subtle; they run different ways. 
 
 Mam. Where shall I hide me ? 
 
 Sub. How ! what sight is here ? 
 Close deeds of darkness, and that shun the light. I 
 Bring him again. Who is he ? What, my son 1 
 Oh, I have lived too long. 
 
 Mam. Nay, good, dear father, 
 There was no unchaste purpose. 
 
 Sub. Not ! and flee me, 
 When I come in ? 
 
 Mam. That was my error. 
 
 Suh. Error! 
 Guilt, guilt, my son : give it the right name. No 
 
 marvel, 
 If I found check in our great work within, 
 When such affairs as these were managing ! 
 
 Mam. Why, have you so ? 
 
 Sub. It has stood still this half hour : 
 And all the rest of our less works gone back. 
 Where is the instrument of wickedness. 
 My lewd false drudge ? 
 
 Mam. Nay, good sir, blame not him ; 
 Believe me, 'twas against his will or knowledge : 
 1 saw her by chance. 
 
 Sub. Will you commit more sin. 
 To excuse a varlet ? 
 
 Mam. By my hope, 'tis true, sir. 
 
 Sub. Nay, then I wonder less, it you for whom 
 
170 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 The blessing was prepared, would so tempt heaven, 
 And lose your fortunes. 
 
 ikfam.' Why, sir? 
 
 Svb. This will retard 
 The work, a month at least. 
 
 Mam. Why, if it do, 
 What remedy ? But think it not, good father : 
 Our purposes were honest. 
 
 Sub. As they were. 
 So the reward will prove. — 
 
 \A loud explosion wUhin. 
 How now ! ah me ! 
 God, and all saints be good to us. — 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 What's that .' 
 Face. Oh sir, we are defeated ! all the works 
 Are flown infumo, every glass is burst : 
 Furnace, and all rent down ! as if a bolt 
 Of thunder had been driven through the house. 
 Eetorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt-heads, 
 All struck in shivers ! 
 
 [Subtle yaZ^s dovm as in a swoon. 
 
 Help, good sir ! alas. 
 Coldness and death invades him. Nay, Su- 
 
 Mammon, 
 Do the fair offices of a man ! you stand, 
 As you were readier to depart than he. 
 
 \^KnocMng within. 
 Who's there ? my lord, her brother is come. 
 
 Mam. Ha, Lungs ! 
 
 Face. His coach is at the door. Avoid his sight. 
 For he's as furious as his sister's mad. 
 
 Mam. Alas ! 
 
 Face. My brain is quite undone with the fume, 
 sir, 
 I ne'er must hope to be mine own man again. 
 
 Mam. Is all lost, Lungs ? will nothing be pre- 
 serv'd 
 Of all our cost ? 
 
 Face. Faith, very little, sir ; 
 A peck of coals or so, which is cold comfort, sir. 
 
 Mam. Oh, my voluptuous mind ! I am justly 
 punish'd. 
 
 Face. And so am I, sir. 
 
 Mam. Cast from all my hopes — 
 
 Face. Nay, certainties, sir. 
 
 Mam. By mine own base affections. 
 
 Sub. [Seeming to come to himself. ~] Oh, the curst 
 fruits of vice and lust ! 
 
 Mam. Good father. 
 It was my sin. Forgive it. 
 
 Svb. Hangs my roof 
 Over us still, and will not fall, justice, 
 Upon us, for this wicked man ! 
 
 Faxie. Nay, look, sir, 
 You grieve him now with staying in his sight : 
 Good sir, the nobleman will come too, and take 
 
 you, 
 And that may breed a tragedy. 
 
 Mam. I'll go. 
 
 Face. Ay, and repent at home, sir. It may be, 
 For some good penance you may have it yet ; 
 A hundred pound to the box at Bethlem — 
 
 Mam. Yes. 
 
 Face. For the restoring such as — have their 
 wits. 
 
 Mam. I'll do't. 
 
 Face. I'll send one to you to receive it. 
 
 Mam. Do. 
 Is no projection left ? 
 
 Face. All flown, or stinks, sir. 
 
 Mam. WUl nought be sav'd that's good for 
 med'cine, think'st thou ? 
 
 Face. 1 cannot tell, sir. There will be, perhaps. 
 Something about the scraping of the shards, 
 
 Will cure the itch, — though not your itch of 
 
 mind, sir. \_Aside. 
 
 It shall be saved for you, and sent home. Good 
 
 sir. 
 This way, for fear the lord should meet you. 
 
 [Exit Mammon. 
 
 Sub. [Raising his head."] Face ! 
 
 Face. Ay. 
 
 Sub. Is he gone ? 
 
 Face. Yes, and as heavily 
 As all the gold he hoped for were in's blood. 
 Let us be light though. 
 
 Sfib.^ [Leaping up.^ Ay, as balls, and bound 
 And hit our heads against the roof for joy : 
 There's so much of our care now cast away. 
 
 Face. Now to our Don. 
 
 Sub. Yes, your young widow by this time 
 Is made a countess, Face ; she has been in travail 
 Of a young heir for you. 
 
 Face. Good sir. 
 
 Sub. Off with your case, 
 And greet her kindly, as a bridegroom should, 
 After these common hazards. 
 
 Face. Very well, sir. 
 Will you go fetch Don Diego off, the while ? 
 
 Sub. And fetch him over too, if you'll be pleased, 
 sir: 
 Would Dol were in her place, to pick his pockets 
 now! 
 
 Face. Why, you can do't as well, if you would 
 set to't. " 
 I pray you prove your virtue. 
 
 Sub. For your sake, sir. [^Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Another Room in the same. 
 
 'Enter Suklt and Dame Pliant. 
 
 Sur. Lady, you see into what hands you art. 
 
 faH'o ; 
 'Mongst what a nest of villains ! and how near 
 Your honour was t'have catch'd a certain clap, 
 Through your credulity, had I but been 
 So punctually forward, as place, time 
 And other circumstances would have made a man; 
 For you're a handsome woman : would you were 
 
 wise too ! 
 I am a gentleman come here disguised, 
 Only to find the knaveries of this citadel ; 
 And where I might have wrong'd your honour, 
 
 and have not, 
 I claim some interest in your love. You are, 
 They say, a widow, rich ; and I'm a bachelor, 
 Worth nought : your fortunes may make me a man. 
 As mine have preserv'd you a woman. Think 
 
 upon it. 
 And whether I have deserv'd you or no. 
 Dame P. I will, sir. 
 Sur. And for these household rogues, let me 
 
 alone 
 To treat with them. 
 
 Enter Subtle. 
 
 Sub. How doth my noble Diego, 
 And my dear madam countess ? hath the count 
 Been com*teous, lady ? liberal, and open ? 
 Donzel, methinks you look melancholic, 
 After your coitum, and scurvy : truly, 
 I do not like the dulness of your eye ; 
 It hath a heavy cast, 'tis upsee^ Dutch, 
 
 ^ upsee Dutch or Freeze. Tliis is a puzzling phrase. 
 Nares says it is a cant phrase for being intoxicated, 
 being, in the text, equal to looks like intoxication. It 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 171 
 
 And says you are a lumpisli whore-master. 
 Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. 
 
 \A.tUm'pts to pick them. 
 
 tSur. [Throws open his cloak.'] Will you, don 
 bawd and pick- purse ? [strikes him down.'] 
 How now ! reel you ? 
 Stand up, sir, you shall find, since I am so heavy, 
 I'D give you equal weight. 
 
 Sub. Help ! murder ! , 
 
 Sur. No, sir. 
 There's no such thing intended : a good cart 
 And a clean whip shall ease you of that fear. 
 I am the Spanish don that should be cozeti'd, 
 Do you see, cozened ! Where's your Captain Face ? 
 That parcel broker, and whole-bawd, all rascal ! 
 
 Enter Face, in his uniform. 
 
 Face. How, Surly! 
 
 Sur. Oh, make your approach, good captain. 
 I have found from whence your copper rings and 
 
 spoons 
 Come now, wherewith you cheat abroad in 
 
 taverns. 
 'T was here you leam'd t' anoint your boot with 
 
 brimstone, 
 Then rub men's gold on't for a kind of touch, 
 And say 'twas naught, when you had changed 
 
 the colour. 
 That you might have't for nothing. And this 
 
 doctor. 
 Your sooty, smoky-bearded compeer, he 
 Will close you so much gold, in a bolt's-head, 
 And, on a turn, convey in the stead another 
 With sublimed mercury, that shall burst in the 
 
 heat. 
 And fly out all infumo ! Then weeps Mammon ; 
 Then swoons his worship. [Face slips ovi.] Or, 
 
 he is the Faustus, 
 That casteth figures and can conjure, cures 
 Plagues, piles, and pox, by the ephemerides, 
 And holds intelligence with all the bawds 
 And midwives of three shires : while you send 
 
 in — 
 Captain — what ! is he gone ? — damsels with child. 
 Wives that are ban-en, or the waiting-maid 
 With the green sickness. 
 
 [Seizes Subtle as he is retiring. 
 Nay, sir, you must tarry. 
 Though he be 'scaped ; and answer by the ears, sir. 
 
 Re-enter Face, with Kastril. 
 
 Face. Why, now's the time, if ever you will 
 quarrel 
 Well, as they say, and be a true-born child : 
 The doctor and your sister both are abused. 
 
 Kas. Where is he ? which is he } he is a slave, 
 Whate'er he is, and the son of a whore. — Are you 
 The man, sir, I would know ? 
 
 Sur. I should be loth, sir, 
 To confess so much. 
 
 Kas. Then you he in your throat. 
 
 Sur. How ! 
 
 Face. [To Kastril.] A very errant rogue, sir, 
 Employ'd here by another conjurer 
 That does not love the doctor, and would cross him. 
 If he knew how. 
 
 Sur. Sir, you are abused. 
 
 Kas. You lie : 
 And 'tis no matter. 
 
 Face. Well said, sir ! He is 
 The impudent'st rascal — 
 
 has been said that op-zee in Dutch means ' over the sea,' 
 which reminds us of the Eng. ' half seas over.' But 
 op-zyn-fries means ' in the Dutch fashion ;' or, a la mode 
 de Frise, which Nares thinks the best interpretation of 
 the phrase. 
 
 Sur. You are indeed. Will you hear me, sir ? 
 
 Face. By no means : bid him be gone. 
 
 Kas. Begone, sir, quickly. 
 
 Sur, This 's strange ! — Lady, do you inform 
 your brother. 
 
 Face. There is not such a f oist^ in all the town, 
 The doctor had him presently; and finds yet. 
 The Spanish count will come here. — Bear up. 
 Subtle. [Aside. 
 
 Sub. Yes, sir, he must appear within this hour. 
 
 Face. And yet this rogue would come in a 
 disguise, 
 By the temptation of another spirit, 
 To trouble our art, though he could not hurt it ! 
 
 Kas. Ay, 
 I know. — Away [to his Sister], you talk like a 
 foolish mauther.2 
 
 Sur. Sir, all is truth she says. 
 
 Face. Do not believe him, sir. 
 He is the lying'st swabber ! Come your ways, sir. 
 
 Sur. You are valiant out of company ! 
 
 Ka^. Yes, how then, sir ? 
 
 Enter D rugger, with a piece of damask. 
 
 Face. Nay, here's an honest fellow, too, that 
 knows him. 
 And all his tricks. Make good what I say, Abel ; 
 This cheater would have cozen'd thee o' the 
 widow. — [Aside to Drug. 
 
 He owes this honest Drugger here, seven pound, 
 He has had on him, in two-penny'orths of tobacco. 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 And he has damn'd himself three terms to pay me. 
 
 Face. And what does he owe for lotium ?* 
 
 Drug. Thirty shillings, sir; 
 And for six syringes. 
 
 Sur. Hydra of villany ! 
 
 Face. Nay, sir, you must quarrel him out o' 
 the house. 
 
 Kas. I will. — 
 Sir, if you get not out o' doors, you lie ; 
 And you are a pimp. 
 
 Sur. Why, this is madness, sir. 
 Not valour in you ; I must laugh at this. 
 
 Kas. It is my humour : you are a pimp and a 
 trig,* 
 And an Amadis de Gatd, or a Don Quixote. 
 
 Drug. Or a knight o' the cmious coxcomb, do 
 you see ? 
 
 Enter Ananias. 
 
 Ana. Peace to the household ! 
 
 Kas. I'll keep peace for no man. 
 
 Ana. Casting of dollars is concluded lawful. 
 
 Kas. Is he the constable ? 
 
 Sub. Peace, Ananias. 
 
 Face. No, sir. 
 
 Kas. Then you are an otter, and a shad, a whit, 
 A very tim. 
 
 Sur. You'll hear me, sir ? 
 
 Kas. I will not. 
 
 Ana. What is the motive ? 
 
 Sub. Zeal in the young gentleman, 
 Against his Spanish slops.^ 
 
 Ana. They are profane. 
 Lewd, superstitious, and idolatrous breeches. 
 
 Sur. New rascals ! 
 
 ^ /otsi— cheating rogue, sharper. 
 
 2 mauther, said to be from Danish moer, means here 
 a girl. It is still used in a contemptuous way in Norfolk 
 and Suffolk. 
 
 3 lotium— lotion, or a wash. Face wants to insinuate 
 that Surly is a diseased profligate. 
 
 * trig may here mean coxcomb; Scotch trig — neat, 
 fiae. 
 
 * slops — breechee. 
 
1/2 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Kas. Will you begone, sir ? 
 
 Ana. Avoid, Satlian! 
 Thou art not of the light. That ruff of pride 
 About thy neck betrays thee, and is the same 
 With that which the unclean birds, in seventy- 
 seven,^ 
 Were seen to prank it with on divers coasts : 
 Thou look'st like Antichrist, in that lowd hat 
 
 Sur. I must give way. 
 
 Kas. Begone, sir. 
 
 Sur. But I'll take 
 A course with you — 
 
 Ana. Depart, proud Spanish fiend ! 
 
 Sur. Captain and doctor. 
 
 Ana. Child of perdition ! 
 
 Kas. Hence, sir ! — {Exit Surly. 
 
 Did I not quarrel bravely ? 
 
 Face. Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 Kas. Nay, an I give my mind to't, I shall do't. 
 
 Face. Oh, you must follow, sir, and threaten 
 him tame : 
 He'll turn again else. 
 
 Kas. I'll re-turn him then. [Exit. 
 
 [Subtle taTces Ananias aside. 
 
 Face. Drugger, this rogue prevented ^ us for 
 thee : 
 We had determin'd that thou should'st have come 
 In a Spanish suit, and have carried her so ; and 
 
 he, 
 A brokerly slave ! goes, puts it on himself. 
 Hast brought the damask ? 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir. 
 
 Face. Thou must borrow 
 A Spanish suit. Hast thou no credit with the 
 players ? 
 
 Drug. Yes, sir ; did you never see me play the 
 Fool? 
 
 Face' I know not, Nab: — Thou shalt, if I can 
 help it. — 2 [Aside. 
 
 Hieronimo's old cloak, ruff, and hat will serve ; 
 I'll tell thee more when thou bring'st 'em. 
 
 [Exit Drugger. 
 
 Ana. Sir, I know 
 The Spaniard hates the brethren, and hath spies 
 Upon their actions : and that this was one 
 I make no scruple. — But the holy synod 
 Have been in prayer and meditation for it ; 
 And 'tis revealed no less to them than me, 
 That casting of money is most lawful. 
 
 Sub. True; 
 But here I cannot do it : if the house 
 Should chance to be suspected, all would out, 
 And we be lock'd up in the Tower for ever. 
 To make gold there for the state, never come out ; 
 And then are you defeated. 
 
 Ana. I will tell 
 This to the elders and the weaker brethren. 
 That the whole company of the separation 
 May join in humble prayer again. 
 
 Sub. And fasting. 
 
 Ana. Yea, for some fitter place. The peace of 
 mind 
 Rest with these walls ! [Exit. 
 
 Sub. Thanks, courteous Ananias. 
 
 Face. What did he come for ? 
 
 Sub. About casting dollars. 
 
 • The allusion to the ' unclean beasts of seventy-seven ' 
 I do not understand, unless it refer to the number of 
 Spanish troops which poured into the Netherlands about 
 that time, under D'Alva.— Giffokd. 
 
 " prevented — came before, forestalled. 
 
 3 Thou sTiaU, <tec.— if I can forward or promote it, i.e. 
 'playing the fool.' Old Hieronimo, whose stage dress 
 poor Abel is sent to borrow, was the hero of the Spanish 
 Tragedy, so often burlesqued by our poet and his con- 
 temporaries.— Giffobd. 
 
 Presently out of hand. And so I told him, 
 A Spanish minister came here to spy 
 Against the faithful — 
 
 Face. I conceive. Come, Subtle, 
 Thou art so down upon the least disaster ! 
 How wouldst thou ha' done, if I had not help't 
 thee out ? 
 Stib. I thank thee, Face, for the angry boy, 
 
 i' faith. 
 Face. Who would have look'd it should have 
 been that rascal 
 Surly? he had dyed his beard and all. Well, 
 
 sir, 
 Here's damask come to make you a suit 
 Sub. Where's Drugger ? 
 
 Face. He is gone to borrow me a Spanish 
 habit ; 
 I'll be the count, now. 
 Sub. But Where's the widow ? 
 Face. Within, with my lord's sister : Madam 
 Dol 
 Is entertaining her. 
 
 Sub. By your favour. Face, 
 Now she is honest, I will stand again. 
 Face. You will not offer it. 
 Sub. Why ? 
 
 Face. Stand to yotir word, 
 Or — here comes Dol, she knows — 
 Sub. You are tyrannous still. 
 
 Enter Dol, hastily. 
 
 Face. Strict for my right — How now, Dol? 
 Hast [thou] told her 
 The Spanish count will come ? 
 
 Dol. Yes ; but another is come, 
 You little look'd for ! 
 
 Face. Who is that ? 
 
 Dol. Your master ; 
 The master of the house. 
 
 Sub. How, Dol ! 
 
 Face. She lies. 
 This is some trick. Come, leave your quiblina, 
 Dorothy. 
 
 Dol. Look out, and see. 
 
 [Face goes to the window. 
 
 Sub. Ai-t thou in earnest ? 
 
 Dol. 'Slight, 
 Forty o' the neighbours are about him, talking. 
 
 Face. 'Tis he, by this good day. 
 
 Dol. 'Twill prove ill day 
 For some on us. 
 
 Face. We are undone, and taken. 
 
 Dol. Lost, I'm afraid. 
 
 Sub. You said he would not come, 
 While there died one a week within the liberties. 
 
 Face. No ; 'twas within the walls. 
 
 Sub. Was't so ! cry you mercy. 
 I thought the liberties. What shall we do now, 
 Face 7 
 
 Face. Be silent : not a word, if he call or knock. 
 I'll into mine old shape again and meet him. 
 Of Jeremy, the butler. In the mean time, 
 Do you two pack up all the goods and purchase,i 
 That we can carry in the two trunks. I'll keep 
 
 him 
 Off for to-day, if I cannot longer : and then 
 At night, I'll ship you both away to Ratcliff, 
 Where we will meet to-morrow, and there well 
 
 share. 
 Let Mammon's brass and pewter keep the cellar ; 
 We'll have another time for that. But, Dol, 
 'Prythee go heat a little water quickly ; 
 Subtle must shave me : all my captain's beard 
 
 ^ purchase — a cant term for goods stolen or dishonestly 
 come by. — Gifford. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 173 
 
 Must off, to make me appear smooth Jeremy. 
 You'll do it ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, I'll shave you, as well as I can. 
 
 Face. And not cut my throat, but trim me ? 
 
 Sub. You shall see, sii*. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 Before Lovewit's Door. 
 
 Enter Lovewit, ijciih several of the Neighbours. 
 
 Love. Has there been such resort, say you ? 
 
 1 Nei. Daily, sir. 
 
 2 Nei. And nightly, too. 
 
 3 Nei. Ay, some as brave as lords. 
 
 4 Nei. Ladies and gentlewomen. 
 
 5 Nei. Citizens' wives. 
 
 1 Nd. And knights. 
 
 6 Nei. In coaches. 
 
 2 Nei. Yes, and oyster- women. 
 
 1 Nei. Beside other gallants. 
 
 3 Nei. Sailors' Avives. 
 
 4 Nei. Tobacco men. 
 
 6 Nei. Another Pimlico! 
 
 Love. What should ray knave advance. 
 To draw this company } He hung out no banners 
 Of a strange calf with five legs to be seen, 
 Or a huge lobster with six claws ? 
 
 6 Nei. No, sir. 
 
 3 Nei. We had gone in then, sir. 
 Love. He has no gift 
 
 Of teaching in the nose that e'er I knew of. 
 You saw no bills set up that promised cure, 
 Of agues, or the toothach ? 
 
 2 Nei. No such thing, sir. 
 
 Love. Nor heard a drum struck for baboons or 
 puppets ? 
 
 5 Nei. Neither, sir. 
 
 Love. What device should he bring forth now ? 
 I love a teeming wit as I love my nourishment : 
 'Pray God he have not kept such open house, 
 That he hath sold my hangings, and my bedding ! 
 I left him nothing else. If he have eat them, 
 A plague o' the moth, say I ! Sure he has got 
 Some bawdy pictures to call all this ging ! ^ 
 The friar and the nun; or the new motion 
 Of the knight's courser covering the parson's 
 
 mare ; 
 The boy of six year old with the great thing : 
 Or 't may be, he has the fleas that run at tilt 
 Upon a table, or some dog to dance. 
 When saw you him ? 
 
 1 Nei. Who, sir, Jeremy? 
 
 2 Nei. Jeremy butler ? 
 We saw him not this month. 
 ' Love. How! 
 
 4 Nei. Not these five weeks, sir. 
 
 6 Nei. These six weeks at the least. 
 Love. You amaze me, neighbours ! 
 
 5 Nei. Sure, if your worship know not where 
 he is, 
 
 He's slipt away. 
 
 6 Nei. Pray God, he be not made away. 
 Love. Ha ! it's no time to question, then. 
 
 [Knocks at the dooi'. 
 6 Nei. About 
 Some three weeks since, I heard a doleful cry, 
 As I sat up a-mending my wife's stockings. 
 Love. 'Tis strange that none will answer! 
 Didst thou hear 
 A cry, say'st thou ? 
 
 > ging—s&ng. 
 
 6 Nei. Yes, sir ; like unto a man 
 That had been strangled an hour, and could not 
 speak. 
 
 2 Nei. I heard it too, just this day three weeks, 
 at two o'clock 
 
 Next morning. 
 
 Love. These be miracles, or you make them so ! 
 A man an hour strangled, and could not speak, 
 And both you heard him cry ? 
 
 3 Nei. Yes, downward, sir. 
 
 Love. Thou art a wise fellow. Give me thy 
 
 hand, I pray thee, 
 What trade art thou on ? 
 
 3 Nei. A smith, an't please your worship. 
 Love. A smith ! then lend me thy help to get 
 
 this door open. 
 3 Nei. That I will presently, sir, but fetch my 
 
 tools — [Exit. 
 
 1 Nei. Sir, best to knock again, afore you 
 
 break it. 
 Love. [Knocks again.'] 1 will. 
 
 Enter Face in his butler'' s livery. 
 
 Face. What mean you, sir ? 
 
 1, 2, 4 Nei. Oh, here's Jeremy ! 
 
 Face. Good sir, come from the door. 
 
 Love. Why ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Face. Yet farther, you are too near yet. 
 
 Love. In the name of wonder, 
 What means the fellow ! 
 
 Face. The house, sir, has been visited. 
 
 Love. What! with the plague? stand thou 
 then farther. 
 
 Face. No, sir, 
 I had it not. 
 
 Love. Who had it then ? I left 
 None else but thee in the house. 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, my fellow, 
 The cat that kept the buttery, had it on her 
 A week before I spied it ; but I got her 
 Convey'd away in the night : and so I shut 
 The house up for a month — 
 
 Love. How ! 
 
 Face. Purposing then, sir, 
 T'have burnt rose-vinegar, treacle, and tar. 
 And have made it sweet, that you should ne'er 
 
 have known it ; 
 Because I knew the news would but afilict you, 
 sir. 
 
 Love. Breathe less, and farther off ! Why, this 
 is stranger : 
 The neighbours tell me all here that the doors 
 Have still been open — 
 
 Face. How, sir ! 
 
 Love. Gallants, men and women. 
 And of all sorts, tag-rag, been seen to flock here 
 In threaves,! these ten weeks, as to a second 
 
 Hogsden, 
 In days of Pimlico and Eye-bright.* 
 
 Face. Sir, 
 Their wisdoms will not say so. 
 
 Love. To-day they speak 
 Of coaches, and gallants ; one in a French hood 
 Went in, they tell me ; and another was seen 
 In a velvet gown at the window : divers more 
 pass in and out. 
 
 Face. They did pass through the doors then, 
 
 1 threaves—hea^a, bands. Threave properly means a 
 number of sheaves, varying fiom twelve to twenty-four, 
 set up together. 
 
 2 Fimlico was a place near Hogsden, famous for cakes 
 and ale. Pimlico is sometimes spoken of as a person, and 
 may have been the master of a house once famous for 
 ale of a particular description, and so, indeed, may Eye- 
 bright, unless the terra be applied to a sort of liquor, ia 
 which the plant of this name was infused. 
 
174 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Or walls, I assure their eye-sights, and their 
 
 spectacles ; 
 For here, sir, are the keys, and here have been, 
 In this my pocket, now above twenty days : 
 And for before, I kept the fort alone there. 
 But that 'tis yet not deep in the afternoon, 
 I should believe my neighbours had seen double 
 Through the black pot, and made these appari- 
 tions ! 
 For, on my faith to your worship, for these three 
 
 weeks 
 And upwards the door has not been open'd. 
 Love. Strange ! 
 
 1 Nei. Good faith, I think I saw a coach. 
 
 2 Nei. And I too, 
 I'd have been sworn. 
 
 Love. Do you but think it now ? 
 And but one coach ? 
 
 4 Nei. We cannot tell, sir : Jeremy 
 Is a very honest fellow. 
 
 Face. Did you see me at all ? 
 
 1 Nei. No ; that we are sure on. 
 
 2 Nei. I'll be sworn o' that. 
 
 Love. Fine rogues to have your testimonies 
 built on ! 
 
 Re-enter Third Neighbour, with his Tools. 
 
 3 Nei. Is Jeremy come ? 
 
 1 Nei. Oh yes ; you may leave your tools ; 
 We were deceived, he says. 
 
 2 Nei. He has had the\eys ; 
 
 And the door has been shut these three weeks. 
 
 3 Nei. Like enough. 
 
 Love. Peace, and get hence you changelings. 
 
 Enter Surly and Mammon. 
 Face. Surly come ! 
 And Mammon made acquainted ! they'll tell all. 
 How shall I beat them off ? what shall I do ? 
 Nothing's more wretched than a guilty conscience. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Sur. No, sir, he was a great physician. This, 
 It was no bawdy house, but a mere chancel ! 
 You knew the lord and his sister. 
 Mam. Nay, good Surly — 
 Sur. The happy word, Be rich— 
 Mam. Play not the tyrant. — 
 Sur. Should be to-day pronounced to all your 
 friends. 
 And where be your andirons now? and your brass 
 
 pots. 
 That should have been golden flagons, and great 
 wedges ? 
 Mam. Let me but breathe. What ! they have 
 shut their doors, 
 Methinks ! 
 
 Sur. Ay, now 'tis holiday with them. 
 Mam. Rogues, [He and Surly hnoch. 
 
 Cozeners, impostors, bawds! 
 Face. What mean you, sir ? 
 Mam. To enter if we can. 
 Face. Another man's house ! 
 Here is the owner, sir : turn you to hun, 
 And speak your business. 
 
 Mam. Are you, sir, the owner? 
 
 Love. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mam. And are those knaves within your 
 
 cheaters ? 
 Love. What knaves ? what cheaters ? 
 Mam. Subtle and his Lungs. 
 Face. The gentleman is distracted, sir! No 
 lungs, 
 Nor lights have been seen here these three weeks, 
 
 sir, 
 Within these doors, upon my word. 
 
 Sur. Your word, 
 Groom arrogant ! 
 
 Face. Yes, sir, I am the housekeeper. 
 And know the keys have not been out of my 
 hands. 
 
 Sur. This is a new Face. 
 
 Face. You do mistake the house, sir : 
 What sign was't at ? 
 
 Sur. You rascal ! this is one 
 Of the confederacy. Come, let's get officers, 
 And force the door. 
 
 Love. 'Pray you stay, gentlemen. 
 
 Sur. No, sir, we'll come with warrant. 
 
 Mam. Ay, and then 
 We shall have your doors open. 
 
 [Exeunt Mam. and Sur. 
 
 Love. What means this ? 
 
 Face. I cannot tell, sir. 
 
 1 Nei. These are two of the gallants 
 That we do think we saw. 
 
 Face. Two of the fools! 
 You talk as idly as they. Good faith, sir, 
 I think the moon has crazed 'em all. — Oh me, 
 
 Enter Kastril. 
 
 The angry boy come too ! He'll make a noise, ^ 
 And ne'er away till he have betray'd us all. [Aside. 
 Kas. [hnoching.l What rogues, bawds, slaves, 
 you 11 open the door, anon ! 
 Punk, cockatrice, my suster ! By this light 
 I'll fetch the marshall to you. You are a whore 
 To keep your castle — 
 Face. Who would you speak with, sir ? 
 Kas. The bawdy doctor,land the cozening cap- 
 tain, 
 And puss my suster. 
 Love. This is something, sure. 
 Face. Upon my trust, the doors were never 
 
 open, sir. 
 Kas. I have heard all their tricks told me twice 
 over, 
 By the fat knight and the lean gentleman.^ 
 Love. Here comes another. 
 
 Enter Ananias and Tribulation. 
 
 Face. Ananias too ! 
 And his pastor ! 
 
 Tri. [heating at the door."] The doors are shut 
 
 against us. 
 Ana. Come forth, you seed of sulphur, sons of 
 fire! 
 Your stench it is broke forth ; abomination 
 Is in the house. 
 Kas. Ay, my suster's there. 
 Anu. The place. 
 It is become a cage of unclean birds. 
 Kas. Yes, I will fetch the scavenger, and the 
 
 constable. 
 Tn. You shall do well. 
 Ana. We'll join to weed them out. 
 Kas. You will not come then, punk devise,* my 
 
 sister ! 
 Ana. Call her not sister; she's a harlot, verily. 
 Kas. I'll raise the street. 
 Love. Good gentleman, a word. 
 Ana. Satan avoid, and hinder not our zeal ! 
 
 [Exeunt Ana., Trie., and Kas. 
 Love. The world's turn'd Bethlem. 
 Face. These are all bi-oke loose 
 Out of St. Katherine's, where they use to keep 
 The better sort of mad-folks. 
 
 1 Nei. All these persons 
 We saw go in and out here. 
 
 2 Nei. Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 3 Nei. These were the parties. 
 
 1 i.e. by Mammon and Surly. 
 
 2 ie. thou arrant whore. — Giffokd. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 175 
 
 Face. Peace, you drunkards ! Sir, 
 I wonder at it : please you to give me leave 
 To touch the door, I'll try an the lock be chang'd. 
 
 Love. It mazes me! 
 
 Face, {goes to the door.'] Good faith, sir, I believe 
 There's no such thing : 'tis aU deceptio visus.^ 
 Would I could get him away ! \^Aside. 
 
 Dap. \_within^ Master captain ! master doctor! 
 
 Love. Who's that ? 
 
 Face. Our clerk within, that I forgot ! [Aside. 
 I know not, sir. 
 
 Dap. \within.'] For God's sake, when will her 
 grace be at leisure ? 
 
 Face. Ha! 
 Illusions, some spirit o' the air! — His gag is 
 
 melted. 
 And now he sets out the throat. [Aside. 
 
 Dap. [within.'] I am almost stifled — 
 
 Face, w ould you were altogether I [Aside. 
 
 Love. 'Tis in the house. 
 Ha! list. 
 
 Face. Believe it, sir, in the air. , 
 
 Love. Peace, you. • 
 
 Dap. [within.] Mine aunt's grace does not use 
 me well. 
 
 Sub. [within.] You fool, 
 Peace, you'll mar all. 
 
 Face. [speaJcs through the Tcey-hole., while Love- 
 wit advances to the door unobserved.] Or 
 you will else, you rogue. 
 
 Love. Oh! is it so? then you converse with 
 spirits ! — 
 Come, sir. No more of your tricks, good Jeremy, 
 The truth, the shortest way. 
 
 Face. Dismiss this rabble, sir. — 
 What shall I do ? I am catch'd. [Aside. 
 
 Love. Good neighbours, 
 I thank you all. You may depart. [Exeunt 
 
 NeighboursJ — Come sir, 
 You know that I am an indulgent master; 
 And therefore conceal nothing. What's your 
 
 medicine, 
 To draw so many several sorts of wild-fowl ? 
 
 Face. Sir, you were wont to affect mirth and 
 wit — 
 But here's no place to talk on't in the street. 
 Give me but leave to make the best of my fortune, 
 And only pardon me the abuse of your house : 
 It's all I beg. I'U help you to a widow. 
 In recompence, that you shall give me thanks for, 
 Will make you seven years younger, and a rich 
 
 one. 
 'Tis but your putting on a Spanish cloak: 
 I have her within. You need not fear the house ; 
 It was not visited. 
 
 Love. But by me, who came 
 Sooner than you expected. 
 
 Face. It is true, sir, 
 'Pray you forgive me. 
 
 Love. Well : let's see your widow. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Subtle, leading in Dapper, with his eyes 
 bound as be/ore. 
 
 Sub. How ! have you eaten your gag ? 
 
 Dap. Yes, faith, it crumbled 
 Away in my mouth. 
 
 Si^. You have spoil'd all, then. 
 
 Dap. No ! 
 I hope my aunt of Fairy will forgive me. 
 
 'An ocular deception.' 
 
 Sub. Your aunt's a gracious lady ; but in troth 
 You were to blame. 
 
 Dap. The fume did overcome me, 
 And I did do't to stay my stomach. 'Pray you 
 So satisfy her grace. 
 
 Enter Face, in his uniform. 
 
 Here comes the captain. 
 Face. How now ! is his mouth down ? 
 Sub. Ay, he has spoken ! 
 
 Face. A pox, I heard him, and you too. — He's 
 undone then. — 
 I have been fain to say, the house is haunted 
 With spirits, to keep churl back. 
 Sub. And hast thou done it ? 
 Face. Sure, for this night. 
 Svb. Why, then triumph and sing 
 Of Face so famous, the precious king 
 Of present wits. 
 
 Face. Did you not hear the coil 
 About the door .' 
 Sub. Yes, and I dwindled with it. 
 Face. Show him his aunt, and let him be de- 
 spatch'd : 
 I'll send her to you. [Exit Face. 
 
 Sub. Well, sir, your aunt her grace 
 Will give you audience presently, on my suit, 
 And the captain's word that you did not eat your 
 
 gag 
 In any contempt of her highness. 
 
 [Unbinds his eyes. 
 Dap. Not I, in troth, sir. 
 
 Enter Dol, like the Queen of Fairy. 
 Sub. Here she is come. Down o' your knees 
 and wriggle : 
 She has a stately presence. [Dapper kneels, and 
 
 shuffles towards her.] Good ! Yet nearer, 
 And bid, God save you I 
 Dap. Madam! 
 Sub. And your aunt. 
 Dap. And my most gracious aunt, God save 
 
 your grace. 
 Dol. Nephew, we thought to have been angry 
 with you ; 
 But that sweet face of yours hath turn'd the tide, 
 And made it flow with joy, that ebb'd of love. 
 Arise, and touch our velvet gown. 
 
 Sub. The skirts, 
 And kiss 'em. So ! 
 
 Dol. Let me now stroke that head. 
 Much, nephew, shalt thou win, much shalt thou 
 
 Much shalt thou give away, much shalt thou lend. 
 
 Sub. Ay, much ! indeed. — [Aside.] — Why do 
 you not thank her grace ? 
 
 Dap. 1 cannot speak for joy. 
 
 Sub. See the kind wretch! 
 Your grace's kinsman right. 
 
 Dol. Give me the bird. 
 Here is yout fly ^ in a purse, about your neck, 
 
 cousin ; 
 Wear it, and feed it about this day sev'n-night, 
 On your right wrist — 
 
 Sub. Open a vein with a pin, 
 And let it suck but once a week ; till then, 
 You must not look on't. 
 
 Dol. No: and, kinsman. 
 Bear yourself worthy of the blood you come on. 
 
 Sub. Her grace would have you eat no more 
 Woolsack pies. 
 Nor Dagger 2 frumety. 
 
 i^y — familiar spirit. 
 
 ' The Woolsack and the Dagger were ordinaries of 
 low repute, and our old poets have frequent allusions 
 to the coarseness of their entertainments. — Gifjfobd. 
 Frumety ov frumenty was wheat boiled in milk. 
 
1/6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Dol. Nor break his fast 
 In Heaven and Hell. 
 
 Sub. She's with you everywhere ! 
 Nor play with costermongers, at mum-chance, 
 
 tray-trip ; » 
 God make you rich (when as your aunt has done 
 
 it); 
 But keep 
 The gallant'st company, and the best games — 
 
 Dap. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sub. Gleek and primero : and what you get, be 
 true to us. 
 
 Dap. By this hand, I will. 
 
 Sub. You may bring's a thousand pound 
 Before to-morrow night, if but three thousand 
 Be stirring, an you will. 
 
 Daj). I swear I will then. 
 
 Sub. Your fly will leam you all games. 
 
 Face, [within.'l Have you done there ? 
 
 Sub. Your grace will command him no more 
 duties ? 
 
 Dol. No; 
 But come, and see me often. I may chance 
 To leave him three or four hundred chests of 
 
 treasure. 
 And some twelve thousand acres of fairy land, 
 If he game well and comely with good gamesters. 
 
 Sub. There's a kind aunt ! kiss her departing 
 part. — 
 But you must sell your forty mark a year, now. 
 
 Dap. Ay, sir, I mean. 
 
 SvJ). Or, give 't away ; pox on't ! 
 
 Dap. I'll give 't mine aunt : I'll go and fetch 
 the writings. [Exit. 
 
 Sub. 'Tis well — away ! 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. TVTiere's Subtle.' 
 Sub. Here : what news ? 
 
 Face. Drugger is at the door ; go take his suit, 
 And bid him fetch a parson presently ; 
 Say, he shall marry the widow. Thou shalt 
 
 spend 
 A hundred pound by the service ! 
 
 {Exit Subtle. 
 Now, Queen Dol, 
 Have you pack'd up all ? 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Face. And how do like 
 The lady Pliant ? 
 Dol. A good dull innocent. 
 
 Re-enter Subtle. 
 
 Sub. Here's your Hieronimo's cloak and hat. 
 
 Face. Give me them. 
 
 Svb. And the ruff, too .' 
 
 Face. Yes ; I'll come to you presently. [Exit. 
 
 Sub. Now he is gone about his project, Dol, 
 I told you of, for the widow. 
 
 Dol. 'Tis direct 
 Against our articles. 
 
 Sub. Well, we will fit him, wench. 
 Hast thou gull'd her of her jewels or her 
 bracelets ? 
 
 Dol. No ; but I will do't 
 
 Sub. Soon at night, my Dolly, 
 When we are shipp'd, and all our goods aboard. 
 Eastward for Eatcliff ; we will turn our course 
 To Brainford, westward, if thou say'st the word, 
 And take our leaves of this o'er-weening rascal. 
 This peremptory Face. 
 
 Dol. Content, I'm weary of him. 
 
 Sub. Thou'st cause, when the slave will run a 
 wiving, Dol, 
 
 > These were both games at dice ; silence is said to 
 have been enforced in the former. 
 
 Against the instrument that was drawn between 
 us. 
 Dol. I'll pluck his bird as bare as I can. 
 Sub. Yes, tell her, 
 She must by any means address some present 
 To the cunning man ; make him amends for 
 
 wronging 
 His art with her suspicion : send a ring 
 Or chain of pearl ; she will be tortured else • 
 Exti-emely in her sleep, say, and have strange 
 
 things 
 Come to her. Wilt thou ? 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Sub. Mj fine flitter-mouse,» 
 My bird o' the night! we'll tickle it at the 
 
 Pigeons,^ 
 When we have all, and may unlock the trunks, 
 And say, this 's mine, and thine ; and thine, and 
 mine. [They kiss. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. What now I a-billing ? 
 
 Sub. Yes, a little exalted 
 In the good passage of our stock affairs. 
 
 Face. Drugger has brought his parson; take 
 him in, Subtle, 
 And send Nab back again to wash his face. 
 
 Sub. I will : and shave himself. [Exit. 
 
 Face. If you can get him. 
 
 Dol. You are hot upon it. Face, whate'er it is ! 
 
 Face. A trick that Dol shall spend ten pound 
 a month by. 
 
 Re-enter Subtle. 
 
 Is he gone ? 
 
 Sub. The chaplain waits you in the hall, sir. 
 
 Face. I'll go bestow him. | [Exit. 
 
 Dol. He'U now marr^' her, instantly. 
 
 Sub. He cannot yet, he is not ready. Dear 
 Dol, 
 Cozen her of all thou canst. To deceive him 
 Is no deceit, but justice, that would break 
 Such an inextricable tie as ours was. 
 
 Dol. Let me alone to fit him. 
 
 Re-enter Face. 
 
 Face. Come, my venturers, 
 You have pack'd up all ? where be the trunks ? 
 bring forth. 
 Sub. Here. 
 
 Face. Let us see them. Where's the money ? 
 Sub. Here, 
 In this. 
 
 Face. Mammon's ten pound; eight score before ; 
 The brethren's money, this. Drugger's and 
 
 Dapper's. 
 What paper's that ? 
 
 Dol. The jewel of the waiting-maid's, 
 That stole it from her lady, to know certain — 
 Face. If she should have precedence of her 
 
 mistress ? 
 Dol. Yes. 
 
 Face. What box is that ? 
 Sub. The fish-wives' rings, I think. 
 And the ale-wives' single money.' Is't not, Dol ? 
 Dol. Yes; and the whistle that the sailor's 
 wife 
 Brought you to know an her husband were with 
 Ward,* 
 
 1 flitter-mouse or flicker-mouse — i.e. fluttering mouse, 
 i.e. bat 
 
 2 The Three Pigeons at Brentford, the place of ren- 
 dezvous. 
 
 3 single-Tnoney—smz31 money, perhaps, that required 
 no change. — Gifford. 
 
 ■* Ward was a famous pirate. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 177 
 
 Fivce. We'll wet it to-morrow ; and our silver- 
 beakers 
 And tavern cups. Wkere be tlie French petti- 
 coats, 
 And girdles and hangers ? 
 
 Svb. Here, in the trunk, 
 And the bolts ^ of lawn. 
 
 Face. Is Drugger's damask thero^ 
 And the tobacco "i 
 
 Sub. Yes. 
 
 Face. Give me the keys. 
 
 Dol. Why you the keys ? 
 
 Sub. No matter, Dol ; because 
 We shall not open them before he comes. 
 
 Face. 'Tis true, you shall not open them, in- 
 deed; 
 Nor have them forth, do you see ? not forth, Dol. 
 
 Dol. No! 
 
 Face. No, my smock rampant. The right is, 
 my master 
 Knows all, has pardon'd me, and he will keep 
 
 them ; 
 Doctor, 'tis true — you look — for all your figures : 
 I sent for him indeed. Wherefore, good partners, 
 Both he and she be satisfied ; for here 
 Determines ^ the indenture tripartite 
 'Twixt Subtle, Dol, and Face. All I can do 
 Is to help you over the wall, o' the back side, 
 Or lend you a sheet to save your velvet go-\vn, 
 
 Dol. 
 Here will be officers presently, bethink you 
 Of some course suddenly to 'scape the dock ; ^ 
 For thither you will come else. \Loud knocking.'] 
 Hark you, thunder ! 
 
 Sub. You are a precious fiend ! 
 
 Offi. [without.'] Open the door. 
 
 Face. Dol, I am sorry for thee, i' faith; but 
 hear'st thou ? 
 It shall go hard, but I will place thee somewhere : 
 Thou shalt have my letter to Mistress Amo — 
 
 Dol. Hang you ! 
 
 Face. Or Madam C^esarean.* 
 
 Dol. Pox upon you, rogue, 
 Would I had but time to beat thee ! 
 
 Face. Subtle, 
 Let's know where you set up next ; I will send 
 
 you 
 A customer now and then for old acquaintance : 
 What new course have you ? 
 
 Sub. Kogue, I'll hang myself ; 
 That I may walk a greater devil than thou. 
 And haunt thee in the flock-bed and the buttery. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT. v.— SCENE III. 
 An outer room in the same. 
 
 Enter Lovewit in the Spanish dress, with the 
 Parson. 
 
 [Loud knocking at the door.] 
 
 Love. What do you mean, my masters ? 
 
 Mam. [without.] Open your door, 
 Cheaters, bawds, conjurers. 
 
 Offi. [tvithout.] Or we will break it open. 
 
 Love. What warrant have you ? 
 
 Offi. [without.] Warrant enough, sir, doubt 
 not. 
 If you'll not open it. 
 
 Love. Is there an officer there ? 
 
 • A holt was a narrow piece of anything. 
 - Determines — ends. 
 
 3 dock — some apartment in Newgate or Bridewell. 
 Whalley. 
 
 * Tlie names of two bawds in our poet's time. 
 
 Offi. [tcithout.] Yes, two or three for failing.^ 
 Love. Have but patience, 
 And I will open it straight. 
 
 Enter Face as butler. 
 
 Face. Sir, have you done ? 
 Is it a marriage ? perfect ? 
 
 Love. Yes, my brain. 
 
 Face. Off with your ruff and cloak then ; he 
 yourself, sir. 
 
 Stir, [without.] Down with the door. 
 
 Kas. [without.] 'Slight, ding 2 it open. 
 
 Love, [opening the door.] Hold, 
 Hold, gentlemen ; what means this violence ? 
 
 Mammon, Surly, Kastril, Ananias, Tribu- 
 lation, and Officers, rtcsh in. 
 
 Mam. Where is this collier ? 
 
 Sur. And my Captain Face ? 
 
 Mam. These day owls. 
 
 Sur. That are birding in men's purses. 
 
 Mam. Madam suppository. 
 
 Kas. Doxy, my suster. 
 
 Ana. Locusts 
 Of the foul pit. 
 
 TH. Profane as Bel and the dragon. 
 
 Ana. Worse than the grasshoppers, or the lice 
 of Egypt. 
 
 Love. Good gentlemen, hear me. Are you 
 officers, 
 And cannot stay this violence ? 
 
 1 Offi. Keep the peace. 
 
 Love. Gentlemen, what is the matter? whom 
 
 do you seek ? 
 Mam. The chemical cozener. 
 Sur. And the captain pander. 
 Kas. The nun my suster. 
 Mam. Madam Rabbi. 
 Ana. Scorpions, 
 And caterpillars. 
 
 Love. Fewer at once, I pray you. 
 
 2 Offi. One after another, gentlemen, I charge 
 you, 
 
 By virtue of my staff. 
 
 Ana. They are the vessels 
 Of pride, lust, and the cart. 
 
 Love. Good zeal, lie still 
 A little while. 
 
 TH. Peace, deacon Ananias. 
 
 Love. The house is mine here, and the doors 
 are open ; 
 If there be any such persons as you seek for, 
 Use your authority, search on o' God's name. 
 I am but newly come to town, and finding 
 This tumult 'bout my door, to tell you true, 
 It somewhat mazed me ; till my man here, fearing 
 My more displeasure, told me he had done 
 Somewhat an insolent part, let out my fiouse 
 (Belike, presuming on my known aversion 
 From any air o' the town while there was sick- 
 ness), 
 To a doctor and a captain ; who, what they are 
 Or where they be, he knows not. 
 
 Mam. Are they gone ? 
 
 Love. You may go in and search, sir. [Mam- 
 mon, Ana., aiid Trib. go in.] Here I find 
 The empty walls worse than I left them, smoak'd. 
 A few crack'd pots, and glasses, and a furnace : 
 The ceiling fill'd with poesies ^ of the candle, 
 And madam with a dildo writ o' the walls : 
 Only one gentlewoman, I met here. 
 That is within, that said she was a widow — 
 
 ^ for failing — for fear of failing. 
 2 (jiijig — knock or break: still used in Scotland. 
 ^poesies or posies of the candle — probably fancifol 
 figures made with the smoke from a candle. 
 
 M 
 
178 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Kas. Ay, that's my suster ; I'll go thump her. 
 Where is she ? \Goes in. 
 
 Love. And should have married a Spanish 
 count ; but he, 
 When he came to't, neglected her so grossly, 
 That I, a widower, am gone through with her. 
 
 Sur. How ! have I lost her then ? 
 
 Love. Were you the don, sir ? 
 Good faith, now, she does blame you extremely, 
 
 and says 
 You swore, and told her you had taken the pains 
 To dye your beard, and umbre o'er your face, 
 Borrowed a suit, and ruff, all for her love ; 
 And then did nothing. AVhat an oversight, 
 And want of putting forward, sir, was this ! 
 Well fare an old harquebuzier, yet. 
 Could prime his powder, and give fire, and hit, 
 All in a twinkling ! 
 
 Re-enter Ma^imon. 
 
 Mam. The whole nest are fled ! 
 Love. What sort of birds were they ? 
 Mam. A kind of choughs. 
 Or thievish daws, sir, that have pick'd my purse 
 Of eight score and ten pounds within these five 
 
 weeks, 
 Beside my first materials ; and my goods, 
 That lie in the cellar, which I am glad they 
 
 have left, 
 I may have home yet. 
 Love. Think you so, sir ? 
 Mam. Ay. 
 
 Love. By order of law, sir, but not otherwise. 
 Mam. Not mine own stuff ! 
 Love. Sir, 1 can take no knowledge 
 That they are yours, but by public means. 
 If you can bring certificate that you were gull'd 
 
 of them, 
 Or any formal writ out of a court, 
 That you did cozen yourself, I will not hold 
 them. 
 Mam. Ill rather lose them. 
 Love. That you shall not, sir. 
 By me, in troth : upon these terms, they are yours, 
 What ! should they have been, sir, turn'd into 
 gold, all ? 
 Mam. No, 
 I cannot tell — It may be they should — What then? 
 Love. What a great loss in hope have you 
 
 sustain'd I 
 Mam. Not I, the commonwealth has. 
 Face. Ay, he would have built 
 The city new ; and made a ditch about it 
 Of silver, should have run with cream from 
 
 Hogsden ; 
 
 That, every Sunday, in Moorfields, the younkers, 
 
 And tits and tom-boys should have fed on, gratis. 
 
 Mam. I will go mount a turnip caii, and preach 
 
 The end of the world, within these two months. 
 
 —Surly, 
 What ! in a dream ? 
 
 Su7\ Must I needs cheat myself 
 With that same foolish vice of honesty ! 
 Come, let us go and hearken out the rogues : 
 That Face I'll mark for mine, if e'er I meet him. 
 Face. If I can hear of him, sir, I'll bring you 
 word, 
 Unto your lodging; for, in troth, they were 
 
 strangers 
 To me, I thought them honest as myself, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt Mam. a7id Sur. 
 
 Re-enter Axanias and Tribulation. 
 
 Tri. 'Tis well, the saints shall not lose all yet. 
 Go, 
 And get some carts — 
 Love. For what, my zealous friends ? 
 
 Ana. To bear away the portion of the righteous 
 Out of this den of thieves. 
 
 Love. What is that portion ? 
 
 Ana. The goods sometimes the orphan's, that 
 the brethren 
 Bought with their silver pence. 
 
 Love. What, those in the cellar, 
 The knight Sir Mammon claims? 
 
 A7ia. I do defy 
 The wicked Mammon, so do aU the brethren. 
 Thou profane man ! I ask thee with what conscience 
 Thou canst advance that idol against us, 
 That have the seal ? were not the shillings num- 
 
 ber'd, 
 That made the pounds ; were not the pounds told 
 
 out. 
 Upon the second day of the fourth week, 
 In the eighth month,' upon the table dormant, 
 The year of the last patience of the saints. 
 Six hundred and ten ? 
 
 Love. Mine earnest vehement botcher. 
 And deacon also, I cannot dispute with you : 
 But if you get you not away the sooner, 
 I shall confute you with a cudgel. 
 
 Ana. Sir! 
 
 Tri. Be patient, Ananias. 
 
 Ana. I am strong, 
 And will stand up, well girt, against an host 
 That threaten Gad in exile. 
 
 Love. I shall send you 
 To Amsterdam, to your cellar. 
 
 Ana. I will pray there, 
 Against thy house : may dogs defile thy walls. 
 And wasps and hornets breed beneath thy roof, 
 This seat of falsehood, and this cave of cozenage ! 
 [Exeunt Ana. and Trie. 
 
 Enter Drugger. 
 
 Love. Another too ? 
 Drug. Not I, sir, I am no brother. 
 Love [beats him.'] Away, you Harry Nicholas !» 
 do you talk ? [Exit Drug. 
 
 Face. No, this was Abel Drugger. Good sir, go, 
 [To the Parson. 
 And satisfy him ; tell him all is done : 
 He stayed too long a washing of his face. 
 The doctor, he shall hear of him at Westchester ; 
 And of the captain, tell him, at Yarmouth, or 
 Some good port town else, lying for a wind. 
 
 [Exit Parson. 
 If you can get off the angry child, now, sii- — 
 
 Enter Kastril, dragging in his sister. 
 
 Kas. Come on, you ewe, you have match'd most 
 sweetly, have you not ? 
 Did not I say, I would never have you tupp'd 
 But by a dubb'd boy, to make you a lady-torn ? 
 'Slight, you are a mammet.'- Oh, I could touse 
 
 you now. 
 Death, mun' you marry, with a pox I 
 
 Love. You lie, boy ; 
 As sound as you ; and I'm aforehand with you. 
 Kas. Anon ! 
 
 Love. Come, will you quaiTcI? I will feize' 
 you, sirrah ; 
 Why do you not buckle to your tools? 
 
 Kas. Od's light, 
 This is a fine old boy as e'er I saw ! 
 Love. What, do you change your copy now ? 
 proceed. 
 Here stands my dove : stoop* at her, if you dare. 
 
 * Harry Nicholas, a native of Leyden, commonly sup- 
 posed to be tlie founder of that turbulent and mischievoua 
 sect called the Family of Love. — Gifford. 
 
 2 mammet— a. puppet, or owl ; dim. of mam. 
 
 3 feize— drive, or beat ; spelt also pheeze. 
 
 * stoop— fa}\. or pounce. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 179 
 
 Kas. 'Slight, I must love him ! I cannot choose, 
 i' faith, 
 An I should be hang'd f or't ! Suster, I protest, 
 I honour thee for this match. 
 Lovz. Oh, do you so, sir ? 
 Kas. Yes, an thou canst take tobacco and drink, 
 old boy, 
 ril give her five hundred pound more to her 
 
 marriage. 
 Than her own state. 
 
 Love. Fill a pipe full, Jeremy. 
 FacG. Yes ; but go in and take it, sir. 
 Love. "We will — 
 I will be ruled by thee in anything, Jeremy. 
 '^ Kas. 'Slight, thou art not hide-bound,^ thou art 
 
 a jovy^ boy! 
 Come, let us in, I pray thee, and take our whiffs. 
 Lov?. Whiff in with j^our sister, brother boy. 
 [Exeunt Kas. and Dame P.] That master 
 That had received such happiness by a servant, 
 In such a widow, and with so much wealth, 
 Were very ungrateful, if he would not be 
 A little indulgent to that servant's wit. 
 
 1 Au/e-SoMTKi— niggardly. 
 
 ' jovy — joviaL 
 
 And help his fortune, though with some small 
 
 strain 
 Of his own candour.i [advancing.'] — Therefore^ 
 
 gentlemen, 
 And kind spectators, if I have outstript 
 An old viands gravity, or strict canon, think 
 What a young wife and a good brain may do ; 
 Stretch age^s truth sometimes, and crack it too. 
 Speak for thyself, knave. 
 Face. So I will, sir. [advancing to the front ol 
 
 stage.] — Gentlemen, 
 My part a little fell in this last scene. 
 Yet Hwas decorum.- And though I am clean 
 Got off from Subtle, Surly, Mammon, Dol, 
 Hot Ananias, Dapper, Di'ugger, all 
 With whom I traded : yet I put myself 
 On you, that are my country : and this pelf, 
 Which I have got, if you do quit me, rests 
 Tofea^t you often, and invite new guests. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 1 candour — honour, fair reputation. 
 
 2 Yet Hwas decorum, i.e. I have not acted, however, 
 against the decorum the suitableness of the character. 
 — Upton. 
 
 EPICGENE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 ACTED IN THE YEAR 1609 BY THE CHILDREN OF HER MAJESTY'S REVELS. 
 
 THE ATJTHOE B. J. 
 
 LoTidon. 1616. 
 
 TO THE TEULY NOBLE BY ALL TITLES, 
 
 SIR FRANCIS STUART.'' 
 
 Sib, — My hope is not so nourished by example, 
 as it will conclude, this dumb piece should please 
 you, because it hath pleased others before ; but 
 by trust, that when you have read it, you will 
 find it worthy to have displeased none. This 
 makes that I now number you, not only in the 
 names of favour, but the names of justice to 
 what I write ; and do presently call you to the 
 exercise of that noblest, and manliest virtue ; as 
 coveting rather to be freed in my fame, by the 
 authority of a judge, than the credit of an under- 
 taker.2 Read, therefore, I pray you, and cen- 
 
 sure. There is not a line, or syllable in it, 
 changed from the simplicity of the first copy. 
 And when you shall consider, through the cer- 
 tain hatred of some, how much a man's inno- 
 cency may be endangered by an uncertain 
 accusation; you will, I doubt not, so begin to 
 hate the iniquity of such natures, as I shall love 
 the contumely done me, whose end was so 
 honourable as to be wiped off by your sentence. 
 
 Your unprofitable, but true Lover, 
 
 Ben. Jonson. 
 
 gramatxs "^zx^awst. 
 
 Morose, a Gentleman that loves no noise. 
 
 Sir Dauphine Eugenie, a Knight, his Nephew. 
 
 Ned Clerimont, a Gentleman, his Fnend. 
 
 Truewit, another Friend. 
 
 Sir John Daw, a Knight. 
 
 Sir Amorous La-Foole, a Knight also. 
 
 Thomas Otter, a Land and Sea Captain. 
 
 CuTBiiARD, a Barber. 
 
 Mute, one of Morose's Servantt. 
 
 Parson. 
 
 Page to Clerimont. 
 
 I Epiccene, supposed the Silent "Woman. 
 Lady Haughty, ^ 
 
 Lady Centaure, V Ladies Collegiates. 
 
 Mistress Dol. Mavis.) 
 Mistress Otter, the Captain's Wife,'\ 
 Mistress Trusty, Lady Haughty s > Preiencfera. 
 Woman, ) 
 
 Pages, Servants, etc 
 
 S CEXE — London. 
 
 1 A learned gentleman, one of Raleigh's club at the Mermaid Tavern. 
 
 2 An undertaker, considered a very offensive character, was the name given to certain persons who undertook, 
 through their influence in the House of Commons, in the Parliament of 1614, to carry things agreeably to his 
 Majesty's wishes. — Whallet. 
 
, So THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS, 
 
 PROL( 
 
 Truth says, of old the art of making plays 
 Was to content the people ; and their praise 
 "Was to the poet money, wine, and bays. 
 
 But in this age, a sect of writers are, 
 That only for particular likings care, 
 And will taste nothing that is popular. 
 
 "With such we mingle neither brains nor breasts; 
 Our wishes, like to those make public feasts, 
 Are not to please the cook's taste but the guests. 
 
 Yet, if those cunning palates hither come, 
 They shall find guests entreaty, and good room ; 
 And though all relish not, sure there will be some, 
 
 That, when they leave their seats, shall make 
 
 them say, 
 "Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play, 
 But that he knew this was the better way. 
 
 For, to present all custard, or all tart, 
 
 And have no other meats to bear a part. 
 
 Or to want bread, and salt, were but coarse art. 
 
 3GUB. 
 
 The poet prays you then, with better thought 
 To sit; and, when his cates are all in brought, 
 Though there be none far-fet,i there wiU dear- 
 bought, 
 
 Bo fit for ladies : some for lords, knights, 'squires ; 
 Some for your waiting wench, and city wires ;* 
 Some for your men, and daughters of White- 
 friars. 
 
 Nor is it only while you keep your seat 
 Here, that his feast will last ; but you shall eat 
 A week at ord'naries, on his broken meat ; 
 If his muse be true. 
 Who commends her to you. 
 
 1 /ar-/e^— far-fetched. 
 
 2 city wires.— This term, which seems to designate the 
 matrons of tlie city in opposition to the ' Whitefriars 
 nation,' is new to me. In the stiff and formal dresses 
 of those days, wire indeed was much used ; but I know 
 not that it was peculiar to the city dames. Perhaps I 
 have missed the sense. Whitefriars was at this time a 
 privileged spot, the resort of fraudulent debtors, gam- 
 blers, prostitutes, and other outcasts of society.— GiF- 
 
 FOED. 
 
 ANOl 
 
 The ends of all, who for the scene do write, 
 Are, or should be, to profit and delight. 
 And still 't hath been the praise of all best times. 
 So persons v/ere not touch'd, to tax the crimes. 
 Then, in this play, which we present to-night. 
 And make the object of your ear and sight. 
 On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true : 
 Lest so you make the maker to judge you. 
 
 For he knows, poet never credit gain'd 
 
 By writing truths, but things, like truths, well 
 
 feign'd. 
 If any yet will, with particular sleight 
 Of application, wrest what he doth write; 
 And that he meant, or him, or her, will say : 
 They make a libel, which be made a play. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Clerimoxt's House. 
 
 Enter Clerimont, making himself ready, followed 
 hy his Page. 
 
 Cler. Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave 
 you, boy.? 
 
 Page. Yes, sir. 
 
 Cler. Let me hear it. 
 
 Page. You shall, sir ; but i'faith let nobody else. 
 
 Cler. Why, I pray ? 
 
 Page. It will get you the dangerous name of a 
 poet in town, sir ; besides me a perfect deal of 
 ill-will at the mansion you wot of, whose lady is 
 the argument of it ; where now I am the wel- 
 comest thing under a man that comes there. 
 
 Cler. I think ; and above a man too, if the truth 
 were rack'd out of you. 
 
 Page. No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The 
 gentlewomen play with me, and throw me on the 
 bed, and carry me in to my lady : and she kisses 
 me with her oil'd face, and puts a peruke on my 
 head ; and asks me an I will wear her gown ? 
 and I say, no : and then she hits me a blow o' 
 the ear, and calls me Innocent! ^ and lets me go. 
 
 • Cler. No marvel if the door be kept shut against 
 
 your master, when the entrance is so easy to yott 
 —Well, sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be 
 fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, * a 
 fortnight hence. Sing, sir. [Page sings. 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest— 
 
 Enter Truewit. 
 
 True. Why, here's the man that can melt away 
 his time and never feels it ! What between his 
 mistress abroad and his ingle^ at home, high fai-e, 
 soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle, he thinks 
 the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. 
 Well, Sir Gallant, were you struck with the plague 
 this minute, or condemn'd to any capital punish- 
 ment to-morrow, you would begin then to think, 
 and value every article of your time, esteem it at 
 the true rate, and give all for it. 
 
 Cle7: Why, what should a man do ? 
 
 True. Why, nothing ; or that which, when 'tis 
 done, is as idle. Hearken after the next horse- 
 
 J rushes were then used as carpets are at the present 
 
 ^ ingle originally meant a male favourite of the most 
 detestable kind. Nares thinks this the meaning in the 
 text. Afterwards it meant an intimate friend ; and 
 Gilford thinks this the meaning here, connecting it 
 with Scotch ingle, the fire, or fire-place. 
 
 * Innocent— fool, or simpleton. 
 
BEN JONS ON. 
 
 I8l 
 
 race, or hunting-match, lay wagers, praise Puppy, 
 or Peppercorn, Whitefoot, Franklin ;* swear upon 
 Whitemane's party ; speak aloud, that my lords 
 may hear you ; visit my ladies at night, and be 
 able to give them the character of every bowler 
 or better on the green. These be the things 
 wherein your fashionable men exercise them- 
 selves, and I for company. 
 
 Cler. Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave 
 yet. Come, the other are considerations, when 
 we come to have grey heads and weak hams, 
 moist eyes and shrunk members. We'll think on 
 'em then ; then we'll pray and fast. 
 
 True. Ay, and destine only that time of age to 
 goodness, which our want of ability will not let 
 us employ in evil ! 
 
 Chr. Why, then 'tis time enough. 
 
 True. Yes; as if a man should sleep all the 
 term, and think to effect his business the last day. 
 Oh Clerimont, this time, because it is an incor- 
 poreal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock 
 ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and 
 misery indeed ! not seeking an end of wretched- 
 ness, but only changing the matter still. 
 
 CUr. Nay, thou'lt not leave now — 
 
 True. See but our common disease ! With what 
 justice can we complain that great men will not 
 look upon us, nor be at leisure to give our affaii's 
 such despatch as we expect, when we will never 
 do it to ourselves? nor hear, nor regard our- 
 selves ? 
 
 Cler. Foh! thou hast read Plutarch's morals, 
 now, or some such tedious fellow ; and it shows 
 so vilely with thee ! 'Fore God, 'twill spoil thy wit 
 utterly. Talk to me of pins, and feathers, and 
 ladies, and rushes, and such things ; and leave 
 this Stoicity alone, till thou mak'st sermons. 
 
 True. Well, sir, if it will not take, I have 
 learn'd to lose as little of my kindness as I can ; 
 I'll do good to no man against his will, certainly. 
 When were you at the college ? 
 
 Cler. What college l 
 
 True. As if you knew not ! 
 
 Cler. No, faith, I came but from coui't yester- 
 day. 
 
 True. Why, is it not arrived there yet, the 
 news ? A new foundation, six', here in the town, 
 of ladies, that call themselves the coUegiates, an 
 order between courtiers and country madams, 
 that live from their husbands; and give enter- 
 tainment to all the wits and braveries of the time, 
 as they call them : cry down, or up, what they 
 like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with most 
 masculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority; 
 and every day gain to their college some new 
 probationer. 
 
 Cler. Who is the president ? 
 
 True. The grave and youthful matron, the 
 Lady Haughty. 
 
 Cler. A pox of her autumnal face, her pieced 
 beauty ! thei-e's no man can be admitted till she 
 be ready, now-a-days, till she has painted, and 
 perfumed, and wash'd, and scour'd, but the boy 
 here ; and him she wipes her oil'd lips upon, like 
 a sponge. I have maae a song (I pray thee hear 
 it) on the subject. [Page sinys. 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest, 
 As you were going to a feast; 
 Still to be powder' d, still perfura'd : 
 Lady, it is to be presumed, 
 Though art's hid causes are not found, 
 All is not sweet, all is not sound. 
 
 Give me a look, give me a face, 
 That makes simplicity a grace; 
 
 * Names of horses of the time 
 
 Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 
 Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 
 Than all the adulteries ot ait ; 
 They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
 
 True. And I am clearly on the, other side : I 
 love a good dressing before any beauty o' the 
 world. Oh, a woman is then like a delicate gar- 
 den ; nor is thei-e one kind of it ; she may vary 
 every hour ; take often counsel of her glass, and 
 choose the best. If she have good ears, show 
 them ; good hair, lay it out ; good legs, wear short 
 clothes ; a good hand, discover it often : practise 
 any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye- 
 brows ; paint, and profess it. 
 Cler. How! publicly? 
 
 True. The doing of it, not the manner: that 
 must be private. Many things that seem foul 
 in the doing, do please done. A lady should, 
 indeed, study her face, when we think she sleeps ; 
 nor, when the doors are shut, should men be 
 inquiring ; all is sacred within, then. Is it for 
 us to see their perukes put on, their false teeth, 
 their complexion, their eye-brows, their nails ? 
 You see gilders will not work, but inclosed. 
 They must not discover how little serves, with 
 the help of art, to adorn a great deal. How long 
 did the canvas hang afore Aldgate ? ^ Were the 
 people suffered to see the city's Love and Charity, 
 while they were rude stone, befoi'e they were 
 painted and burnish'd ? No ; no more should 
 servants approach their mistresses, but when they 
 are complete and finish 'd. 
 
 Cler. Well said, my Truewit. 
 
 True. And a wise lady will keep a guard 
 always upon the place, that she may do things 
 securely. I once followed a rude fellow into a 
 chamber, where the poor madam, for haste, and 
 troubled, snatch'd at her peruke to cover her 
 baldness ; and put it on the wrong way. 
 
 Cler. Oh, prodigy ! 
 
 True. And the unconscionable knave held her 
 in compliment an hour with that reverst face, 
 when I still look'd when she should talk from the 
 t'other side. 
 
 Cler. Why, thou shouldst have relieved her. 
 
 Ti'ue. No, faith, I let her alone, as we'll let this 
 argument, if you please, and pass to another. 
 When saw you Dauphine Eugenie ? 
 
 Cler. Not these three days. Shall we go to 
 him this morning? He is very melancholy, I 
 hear. 
 
 True. Sick of the uncle, is he ? I met that 
 stiff piece of formality, his uncle, yesterday, with 
 a huge turban of night-caps on his head buckled 
 over his ears. 
 
 Cler. Oh, that's his custom when he walks 
 abroad. He can endure no noise, man. 
 
 T't'ue. So I have heard. But is the disease so 
 ridiculous in him z& it is made ? They say he 
 has been upon divers treaties with the fish-wives 
 and orange-women ; and articles propounded be- 
 tween them : marry, the chimney-sweepers will 
 not be drawn in. 
 
 Cler. No, nor the broom-men : they stand out 
 stiffly. He cannot endure a costard-monger, he 
 swoons if he hear one. 
 
 True. Methinks a smith should be oniinous. 
 
 Cler. Or any hammerman. A braisier is not 
 suffer'd to dwell in the parish, nor an armourer. 
 He would have hang'd a pewterer's prentice once 
 upon a Shrove-Tuesday's riot, for being of that 
 trade, when the rest were quit. 
 
 1 Aldgate, as Stow informs us, ' began to be taken 
 down in 1606, and famously finished in 1609; so that 
 the canvas hung before it about two years.' Love and 
 Charity were figures that graced each side of Aldgate. 
 
I82 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 True. A trumpet should fright him terribly, or 
 the hautboys. 
 
 Cler. Out of his senses. The -waits of the city 
 have a pension of him not to come near that 
 ward. This youth practised on him one night 
 like the bellman ; and never left till he had 
 brought him down to the door with a long 
 sword; and there left liim flourishing with the 
 air. 
 
 Page, "Why, sir, he hath chosen a street to lie 
 in so narrow at both ends, that it will receive no 
 coaches, nor carts, nor any of these common 
 noises: and therefore we that love him, devise 
 to bring him in such as we may, now and then, 
 for his exercise, to breathe him. He would grow 
 resty else in his ease: his virtue would rust 
 without action. I entreated a bearward,^ one 
 day, to come down with the dogs of some four 
 parishes that way, and I thank him he did ; and 
 cried his games under Master Morose's window : 
 till he was sent crying away, with his head made 
 a most bleeding spectacle to the multitude. And, 
 another time, a fencer marching to his prize, had 
 his drum most tragically run through, for taking 
 that street in bis way at my request. 
 
 True, A good wag! How does he for the 
 bells? 
 
 Cler. Oh, in the queen's time, he was wont to 
 go out of the town every Saturday at ten o'clock, 
 or on holy day eves. But now, by reason of the 
 sickness, the perpetuity of ringing has made him 
 devise a room, with double walls and treble ceil- 
 ings ; the windows close shut and caulk'd : and 
 there he lives by candle-light. He turn'd away 
 a man, last week, for having a pair of new shoes 
 that creak'd. And this fellow waits on him now 
 in tennis-court socks, or slippers soled with wool : 
 and they talk each to other in a trunk.2 See, who 
 comes here ! 
 
 Enter Sir Dauphine Eugenie. 
 
 Daup. How now ! "What ail you, sirs ? Dumb ? 
 
 True. Struck into stone, almost, I am here, 
 with tales o' thine uncle. There was never such 
 a prodigy heard of. 
 
 Daup. I would you would once lose this sub- 
 ject, my masters, for my sake. They are such 
 as you are, that have brought me into that pre- 
 dicament I am with him. 
 
 True. How is that ? 
 
 Daup. Marry, that he will disihherit me ; no 
 more. He thinks, I and my company are authors 
 of all the ridiculous Acts and Monuments are 
 told of him. 
 
 True. 'SUd, I would be the author of more to 
 vex him ; that purpose deserves it : it gives thee 
 law of plaguing him. I'll tell thee what I would 
 do. I would make a false almanack, get it 
 printed ; and then have him drawn out on a 
 coronation day to the Tower-wharf, and kill 
 him with the noise of the ordnance. Disinherit 
 thee ! he cannot, man. Art not thou next of 
 blood, and his sister's son ? 
 
 Daup. Ay, but he will thrust me out of it, he 
 vows, and marry. 
 
 Ti'ue. How! that's a more portent. Can he 
 endure no noise, and will venture on a wife ? 
 
 Cler. Yes : why, thou art a stranger, it seems, 
 to his best trick yet. He has employed a fellow 
 this half year all over England to hearken him 
 out a dumb woman ; be she of any form, or any 
 quality, so she be able to bear children : her 
 silence is dowry enough, he says. 
 
 1 bearvcard—\h.Q ward or keeper of a bear for bear- 
 baiting. 
 
 2 trani-— tube. 
 
 Time. But I trust to God he has found none. 
 
 Cler, ^ No ; but he has heard of onfc that's 
 lodged in the next street to him, who is exceed- 
 ingly soft-spoken ; thrifty of her speech ; that 
 spends but six words a day. And her he's 
 about now, and shall have her. 
 
 Trus. Is't possible ! "Who is his agent in the 
 business ? 
 
 Cler. Marry, a barber, one Cutbeard; an honest 
 fellow, one that tells Dauphine all here. 
 
 Time. "Why, you oppress me with wonder: a 
 woman, and a barber, and love no noise ! 
 
 Cler. Yes, faith. The fellow trims him silently, 
 and has not the knack ^ with his sheers or his 
 fingers : and that continence in a barber he 
 thinks so eminent a virtue, as it has made him 
 chief of his counsel. 
 
 True. Is the barber to be seen, or the wench ? 
 
 Cler. Yes, that they are. 
 
 Time. I prithee, Dauphine, let's go thither. 
 
 Daup. I have some business now : I cannot, i' 
 faith. 
 
 True. You shall have no business shall make 
 you neglect this, sir. "We'll make her talk, be- 
 lieve it ; or, if she will not, we can give out at 
 least so much as shall interrupt the treaty ; we 
 will break it. Thou art bound in conscience, 
 when he suspects thee without cause, to torment 
 him. 
 
 Daup. Not I, by any means. I'll give no 
 suffrage to't. He shall never have that plea 
 against me, that I opposed the least phant'sy of 
 his. Let it lie upon my stars to be guilty ; 111 
 be innocent. 
 
 Time. Yes, and be poor, and beg; do, inno- 
 cent : when some groom of his has got him an 
 heir, or this barber, if he himself cannot. Inno- 
 cent! — I prithee, Ned, where Hes she ? Let him 
 be innocent still. 
 
 Cler. Why, right over against the barber's; 
 in the house where Sir John Daw lies. 
 
 True. You do not mean to confound me ! 
 
 Cler. Why.? 
 
 True. Does he that would marry her know bo 
 much? 
 
 Cler, I cannot tell. 
 
 True. 'Twere enough of imputation to her 
 with him. 
 
 Cler, "Why? 
 
 Time. The only talking sir in the town ! 
 Jack Daw! And he teach her not to speak! 
 — God be wi' you. I have some business too. 
 
 Cler. Will you not go thither, then ? 
 
 Time. Not with the danger to meet Daw, for 
 mine ears. 
 
 Cler. Why, I thought you two had been upon 
 very good terms. 
 
 True. Yes, of keeping distance. 
 
 Cler, They say, he is a very good scholar. 
 
 Time, Ay, and he says it first, A pox on him, 
 a fellow that pretends only to learning, buys 
 titles, and nothing else of books in him ! 
 
 Cler. The world reports him to be very 
 learned. 
 
 True. I am sorry the world should so conspire 
 to belie him. 
 
 Cler. Good faith, I have heard very good 
 things come from him. 
 
 Time. You may; there's none so desperately 
 ignorant to deny that: would they were his 
 own ! God be wi' you, gentlemen. 
 
 \Exit hastily. 
 
 Cler. This is very abrupt ! 
 
 Daup. Come, you are a strange open man, to 
 tell everything thus. 
 
 1 knack— ihQ knockinf: or snapping made in dipping. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 183 
 
 Cler. Why, believe it, Dauphine, Truewit's a 
 very honest fellow. 
 
 Daup. I think no other : but this frank nature 
 of his is not for secrets. 
 
 Cler. Nay, then, you are mistaken, Dauphine : 
 I know where he has been well ti-usted, and dis- 
 charged the trust very truly, and heartily. 
 
 Daup. I contend not, Ned ; but with the 
 fewer a business is carried, it is ever the safer. 
 Now we are alone, if you'll go thither, I am for 
 you. 
 
 CUr. When were you there ? 
 
 Daup. Last night: and such a Decameron 
 of sport fallen out ! Boccace never thought 
 of the like. Daw does nothing but court her ; 
 and the wrong way. He would lie with her, 
 and praises her modesty ; desires that she would 
 talk and be free, and commends her silence in 
 verses; which he reads, and swears are the 
 best that ever man made. Then rails at his 
 fortunes, stamps, and mutines,i why he is not 
 made a counsellor, and call'd to affairs of state. 
 
 Cler I prithee let's go. I would fain partake 
 this. — Some water, boy. \Exit Page. 
 
 Daup. We are invited to dinner together, he 
 and I, by one that came thither to him. Sir La- 
 Foole. 
 
 CUr. Oh, that's a precious mannikin ! 
 
 Daup. Do you know him ? 
 
 Cler. Ay, and he will know you too, if e'er he 
 saw you but once, though you should meet him 
 at church in the midst of prayers. He is one of 
 the braveries, 2 though he be none of the wits. 
 He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a 
 bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is plead- 
 ing at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing 
 in a masque, and put her out. He does give 
 plays, and suppers, and invites his guests to 
 them, aloud, out of his window, as they ride by 
 in coaches. He has a lodging in the Strand for 
 the purpose : or to watch when ladies are gone 
 to the China-houses, or the Exchange, that he 
 may meet them by chance, and give them 
 presents, some two or three hundred pounds 
 worth of toys, to be laugh'd at. He is never 
 without a spare banquet, or sweetmeats in his 
 chamber, for their women to alight at, and come 
 up to for a bait. 
 
 Daup. Excellent! he was a fine youth last 
 night ; but now he is much finer ! What is his 
 Christian name "i I have forgot. 
 
 Re-enter Page. 
 
 Cler. Sir Amorous La-Foole. 
 
 Page. The gentleman is here below that owns 
 that name. 
 
 Cler. 'Heart, he's come to invite me to dinner, 
 I hold my life ! 
 
 Daup. Like enough: prithee, let's have him 
 up. 
 
 Cler. Boy, marshal him. 
 
 Page. With a truncheon, sir ? 
 
 Cler. Away, I beseech you. \Exit Page.] — 
 I'll make him tell us his pedigree now ; and 
 what meat he has to dinner ; and who are his 
 guests; and the whole course of his fortunes; 
 with a breath. 
 
 Enter Sir Amorous La-Foole. 
 
 La-F. 'Save, dear Sir Dauphine! honoured 
 Master Clerimont ! 
 
 * mutines — mutinies. 
 
 2 Ttie braveries were the beaus of the age; men dis- 
 tinguished by the splendour and fashion of their ap- 
 parel ; brave and braw are still applied in the same way 
 in Scotland. 
 
 Cle7'. Sir Amorous ! you have very much 
 honested ^ my lodging with your presence. 
 
 La-F. Good faith, it is a fine lodging : almost 
 as delicate a lodging as mine. 
 
 Cler. Not so, sir. 
 
 La-F. Excuse me, sir, if it were in the Strand, 
 I assure you. I am come. Master Clerimont, to 
 entreat you to wait upon two or three ladies to 
 dinner to-day. 
 
 Cler. How, sir! wait upon them? Did you 
 ever see me carry dishes ? 
 
 La-F. No, sir, dispense with * me ; I meant, to 
 bear them company. 
 
 Cler. Oh, that I will, sir: the doubtfulness 
 of your phrase, believe it, sir, would breed 
 you a quarrel once an hour, with the teiTible 
 boys, 3 if you should but keep them fellowship 
 a day. 
 
 La-F. It should be extremely against my will, 
 sir, if I contested with any man. 
 
 Clei\ I believe it^ sir. Where hold you your 
 feast ? 
 
 La-F. At Tom Otter's, sir. 
 
 Daup. Tom Otter ! what's he ? 
 
 La-F. Captain Otter, sir ; he is a kind of 
 gamester, but he has had command both by sea 
 and by land. 
 
 Daup. Oh, then he is animal amphibium f 
 
 La-F. Ay, sir: his wife was the rich china- 
 woman,'* that the courtiers visited so often ; that 
 gave the rare entertainment. She commands all 
 at home. 
 
 Cler. Then she is Captain Otter. 
 
 La-F. You say very well, sir ; she is my kins- 
 woman, a La-Foole by the mother-side, and will 
 invite any great ladies for my sake. 
 
 Daup. Not of the La-Fooles of Essex ? 
 
 La-F. No, sir, the La-Fooles of London. 
 
 Cler. Now, he's in. [Aside. 
 
 La-F. They all come out of our house, the La- 
 Fooles of the north, the La-Fooles of the west, 
 the La-Fooles of the east and south — we are as 
 ancient a family as any is in Europe — but I my- 
 self am descended lineally of the French La- 
 Fooles— and, we do bear for our coat yellow,* or 
 or, checker'd azure, and gules, and some three or 
 four colours more, which is a very noted coat, 
 and has, sometimes, been solemnly worn by 
 divers nobility of our house; but let that go, 
 antiquity is not respected now. — I had a brace 
 of fat does sent me, gentlemen, and half-a-dozen 
 of pheasants, a dozen or two of godwits, and 
 some other fowl, which I would have eaten, 
 while they are good, and in good comjDany : — 
 there will be a great lady or two: my Lady 
 Haughty, my Lady Centaure, Mistress Dol Mavis 
 — and they come o' purpose to see the silent 
 gentlewoman, Mistress Epiccene, that honest Sir 
 John Daw has promised to bring thither — and 
 then. Mistress Trusty, my lady's woman, will be 
 there too, and this honourable knight. Sir Dau- 
 
 1 honested — honoured. 
 
 2 dispense with — excuse. 
 
 3 The terrible boys were the same as the angnj boys 
 mentioned in The Alchemist, and were also called roar- 
 ing boys, roysters, «fec. They were for a long time the 
 terror of peaceful citizens, and caused the streets to 
 swarm 'with bloody quarrels, private duels,' &c. 
 
 ■* In Jonson's time, the trade with the East had not 
 long been opened; and the china and lacquered wares 
 from China and Japan were objects of curiosity to both 
 sexes. Advantage was taken of this to convert the 
 places of exhibition (almost always private houses) into 
 a kind of bagnios, of which the owners were the most 
 convenient of procuresses. — Giffokd. 
 
 5 This is a humorous allusion to the parti-coloured 
 ' dress of the domestic fool of our ancestors. — Gipford. 
 
1 84 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 phine, -wath yourself, Master Clerimont — and 
 ■we'll be veiy merry, and have fiddlers, and dance. 
 — I have been a mad wag in my time, and have 
 spent some crowns since I was a page in court, 
 to my Lord Lofty, and after, my lady's gentle- 
 man-usher, who got me knighted in Ireland, 
 since it pleased my elder brother to die — I had 
 as fair a gold jerkin on that day, as any worn 
 in the island voyage, i or at Cadiz, none dis- 
 praised; and I came over in it hither, show'd 
 myself to my friends in court, and after went 
 down to my tenants in the country, and sur- 
 veyed my lands, let new leases, took their money, 
 spent it in the eye o' the land here, upon ladies : 
 — and now I can take up at my pleasure. 
 
 Dawp. Can you take up ladies, sir ? 
 
 CUr. Oh, let him breathe, he has not recovered. 
 
 Dawp. Would I were your half in that com- 
 modity ! 
 
 La-F. No, sir, excuse me : I meant money, 
 which can take up anything. I have another 
 guest or two to invite, and say as much to, 
 gentlemen. I'll take my leave abruptly, in hope 
 you will not fail — Your servant. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Daup. We will not fail you, sir precious La- 
 Foole; but she shall, that your ladies come to 
 see, if I have credit afore Sir Daw. 
 
 Cler. Did you ever hear such a wind-sucker ^ 
 as this .' 
 
 Daup. Or such a rook as the other, that will 
 betray his mistress to be seen ! Come, 'tis time 
 we prevented it. 
 
 Cler. Go. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Morose's House. 
 
 Enter Mokose, with a tube in his hand, followed 
 hy Mute. 
 
 Mor. Cannot I, yet, find out a more compen- 
 dious method, than by this trunk, to save my 
 servants the labour of speech, and mine ears the 
 discords of sounds? Let me see: all discourses 
 but my own afflict me ; they seem harsh, imper- 
 tinent, and irksome. Is it not possible, that 
 thou shouldst answer me by signs, and I appre- 
 hend thee, fellow ? Speak not, though I ques- 
 tion you. You have taken the ring off from the 
 street door, as I bade you ? answer me not by 
 speech, but by silence; unless it be otherwise 
 [Mute makes a leg.^^ — Very good. And you 
 have fastened on a thick quilt, or flock-bed, on 
 the outside of the door ; that if they knock with 
 their daggers, or with brick-bats, they can make 
 no noise? — But with your leg, your answer, 
 unless it be otherwise [makes a leg.'] — Very good. 
 This is not only fit modesty in a servant, but 
 good state and discretion in a master. And you 
 have been with Cutbeard the barber, to have 
 him come to me? [makes a leg.'] — Good. And, 
 he will come presently? Answer me not but 
 with your leg, unless it be otherwise : if it be 
 
 ' This island voyage was undertaken 1585, Sir Francis 
 Drake being admiral, with a fleet of 120 sail. They went 
 to Hispaniola and made themselves masters of the town 
 of St. Domingo. The other adventure occurred in 1596, 
 when Essex and Raleigh bm-nt the Indian fleet at Cadiz. 
 — Upton. 
 
 2 wind-sucJcer—ih.e. kestrel, a kind of kite, that sup- 
 ports itself for a considerable time in the air with little 
 or no motion, its beak being turned towards the wind, 
 which it seems to suck. 
 
 2 makes a leg — bows, putting the leg out. 
 
 otherwise, shake your head, or shrug, [makes a 
 leg.] — So ! Your Italian and Spaniard are wise 
 in these : and it is a frugal and comely gravity. 
 How long will it be ere Cutbeard come ? Stay ; 
 if an hour, hold up your whole hand ; if half an 
 hour, two fingers ; if a quarter, one ; [holds up a 
 finger hent.] — Good: half a quarter? 'tis well. 
 And have you given him a key, to come in with- 
 out knocking? [makes a leg.] — Good. And, is 
 the lock oil'd, and the hinges, to-day ? [makes a 
 leg.] — Good. And the quilting of the stairs no 
 where worn out and bare ? [rnakes a leg.] — Very 
 good. I see, by much doctrine, and impulsion, 
 it may be effected ; stand by. The Turk, in this 
 divine discipline, is admirable, exceeding all the 
 potentates of the earth ; still waited on by mutes ; 
 and all his commands so executed ; yea, even in 
 the war, as I have heard, and in his marches, 
 most of his charges and directions given by 
 signs, and with silence : an exquisite art ! and I 
 am heartily ashamed, and angry oftentimes, that 
 the princes of Christendom should suffer a bar- 
 barian to transcend them in so high a point of 
 felicity. I will practise it hex-eafter. [-.4 hoim 
 vnnded within.] — How now ? oh ! oh ! what 
 villain, what prodigy of mankind is that ? Look. 
 [Exit Mute.] — [Horn again.] Oh ! cut his 
 throat, cut his thi-oat! what murderer, hell- 
 hound, devil can this be ? 
 
 Re-enter Mute. ^ 
 
 Muie. It is a post from the court — 
 
 Mor. Out, rogue ! and must thou blow thy 
 horn too ? 
 
 Mute. Alas, it is a post from the court, sir, 
 that says, he must speak with you, pain of 
 death — 
 
 Mor. Pain of thy life, be silent ! 
 
 Enter Truiavit with a post-horn, and a halter in 
 his hand. 
 
 True. By your leave, sir, — I am a stranger 
 here, — is your name Master Morose ? is your 
 name Master Morose? Fishes! Pythagoreans 
 all! This is strange. What say you, sir? no- 
 thing ! Has Harpocrates * been here with his 
 club, among you ? Well, sir, I will believe you 
 to be the man at this time : I will venture upon 
 you, sir. Your friends at court commend them 
 to you, sir — 
 
 Mor. men ! manners ! was there ever such 
 an impudence ? 
 
 Tinte. And are extremely solicitous for you, 
 sir. 
 
 Mor. Whose knave are you ? 
 
 Ti'ue. Mine own knave, and your compeer, 
 sir. 
 
 Mor. Fetch me my sword — 
 
 Time. You shall taste the one half of my dag- 
 ger, if you do, groom ; and you the other, if you 
 stir, sir. Be patient, I charge you, in the king's 
 name, and hear me without insurrection. They 
 say, you are to marry ; to marry I do you mark, 
 sir? 
 
 Mor. How then, rude companion ! 
 
 True Marry, your friends do wonder, sir, the 
 Thames being so near, wherein you may drown 
 so handsomely ; or London Bridge, at a low fall, 
 with a fine leap to hurry you down the stream ; 
 or such a delicate steeple in the town, as Bow, 
 to vault fx-om; or a braver height, as Paul's: 
 or, if you affected to do it nearer home, and a 
 
 * Harpocrates was the god of silence. The disciples 
 of Pythagoras had to undergo a long probationary 
 silence. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 185 
 
 shorter "way, an excellent garret-window into 
 the street; or, a beam in the said garret, with 
 this halter \^shows him the halter^ which they 
 have sent, and desii-e, that you would sooner 
 commit your grave head to this knot, than to the 
 wedlock noose ; or, take a little sublimate, and 
 go out of the world like a rat ; or a fly, as one 
 said, with a straw in your arse : any way, rather 
 than follow this goblin Matrimony. Alas! sir, 
 do you ever think to find a chaste wife in these 
 times ? now ? when there are so many masques, 
 plays, Puritan preachings, mad folks, and other 
 strange sights to be seen daily, private and 
 pubKc ? If you had lived in King Etheldred's 
 time, sir, or Edward the Confessor, you might, 
 perhaps, have found one in some cold country 
 hamlet: then, a dull frosty wench would have 
 been contented with one man ; now, they will as 
 soon be pleased with one leg, or one eye. I'll 
 tell you, sir, the monstrous hazards you shall 
 run with a wife. 
 
 Alor. Good sir, have I ever cozen'd any 
 friends of yours of their land.? bought their 
 possessions ? taken forfeit of their mortgage ? 
 begg'd a reversion from them? bastarded their 
 issue ? What have I done, that may deserve 
 this? 
 
 Triie. Nothing, sir, that I know, but your itch 
 of marriage. 
 
 Mor. Why, if I had made an assassinate * upon 
 3'our father, vitiated your mother, ravished your 
 sisters — 
 
 True. I would kill you, sir, I would kill you, 
 if you had. 
 
 Mor. Why, you do more in this, sir : it were 
 a vengeance centuple, for all facinorous- acts 
 that could be named, to do that you do. 
 
 True. Alas, sir, I am but a messenger : I but 
 tell you, what you must hear. It seems your 
 friends are careful after your soul's health, sir, 
 and would have you know the danger (but you 
 may do your pleasure for all them, I persuade not, 
 sir). If, after you are married, your wife do nin 
 away with a vaultei' or the Frenchman that walks 
 upon ropes, or him taat dances the jig, or a fencer 
 for his skill at his weapon ; why, it is not their 
 fault, they have discharged their consciences, 
 when you know what may happen. Nay, suffer 
 valiantly, sir, for I must tell you all the perils that 
 you are obnoxious to. If she be fair, young, and 
 vegetous,3 no sweetmeats ever drew more flies ; 
 all the yellow doublets and great roses in the town 
 will be there. If foul and crooked, she'll be with 
 them, and buy those doublets and roses, sir. If 
 rich, and that you marry her dowry, not her, she'll 
 reign in your house as imperious as a widow. If 
 noble, all her kindred will be your tyrants. If 
 fruitful, as proud as May, and humorous * as April ; 
 she must have her doctors, her midwives, her 
 nurses, her longings every hour ; though it be for 
 the dearest morsel of man. If learned, there was 
 never such a parrot ; all your patrimony will be 
 too little for the guests that must be invited to 
 hear her speak Latin and Greek ; and you must lie 
 with her in those languages too, if you will please 
 her. If precise,^ you must feast all the silenced 
 brethren once in three days ; salute the sisters ; 
 entertain the whole family, or wood of them ; 
 and hear long-winded exercises, singings and 
 
 ^ assff5sina?e— assassination. 
 
 2 /acinoro2«— atrociously wicked ; Lat. 
 
 3 Degre^oMS— vigorous, lusty. 
 
 * humorous— Svll of humour, capricious, changeable. 
 
 * precise — i.e. a precisian, a Puritan, The silenced 
 brethren may he the nonconformist clergy, silenced in 
 the year 1604. 
 
 catechisings, which you are not given to, and yet 
 must give for, to please the zealous matron your 
 wife, who for the holy cause will cozen you over 
 and above. You begin to sweat, sir ! but this is 
 not half, i'faith : you may do your pleasure, not- 
 withstanding, as I said before: I come not to 
 persuade you. [Mute is stealing away.'] — Upon 
 my faith, master serving-man, if you do stir, I 
 will beat you. 
 
 Mor. Oh, what is my sin ! what is my sin ! 
 
 True. Then, if you love your wife, or rather 
 dote on her, sir, oh, how she'll torture you, and 
 take pleasure in your torments! You shall lie 
 with her but when she lists : she will not hurt her 
 beauty, her complexion; or it must be for that 
 jewel, or that pearl, when she does : every half 
 hour's pleasure must be bought anew, and with 
 the same pain and charge you woo'd her at first. 
 Then you must keep what servants she please, 
 what company she will ; that friend must not visit 
 you without her licence, and him she loves most 
 she will seem to hate eagerliest, to decline your 
 jealousy ; or, feign to be jealous of you first, and 
 for that cause go live with her she-friend, or cousin 
 at the college, that can instruct her in all the mys- 
 teries of writing letters, corrupting servants, tam- 
 ing spies ; where she must have that rich gown 
 for such a great day, a new one for the next, a 
 richer for the third; be served in silver; have 
 the chamber fill'd with a succession of grooms, 
 footmen, ushers, and other messengers ; besides 
 embroiderers, jewellers, tire- women, sempsters, 
 feathermen, perfumers ; whilst she feels not how 
 the land drops away, nor the acres melt, nor fore- 
 sees the change, when the mercer has your woods 
 for her velvets ; never weighs what her pride 
 costs, sir, so she may kiss a page, or a smooth 
 chin, that has the despair of a beard : be a states- 
 woman, know all the news, what was done at 
 Salisbury,* what at the Bath, what at court, what 
 in progress; or so she may censure poets, and 
 authors, and styles, and compare them — Daniel 
 with Spenser, Jonson with the t'other youth,^ 
 and so forth : or be thought cunning in contro- 
 versies, or the very knots of divinity ; and have 
 often in her mouth the state of the question ; and 
 then skip to the mathematics, and demonstra- 
 tion : and answer in religion to one, in state to 
 another, in bawdry to a third. 
 
 Mor. Oh, oh ! 
 
 Ti-ue. All this is very true, sir. And then 
 her going in disguise to that conjurer, and this 
 cunning woman, where the first question is. 
 How soon you shall die? next. If her present 
 servant love her ? next. If she shall have a new 
 servant ? and how many ? Which of her family 
 would make the best bawd, male or female ? 
 What precedence she shall have by her next 
 match ? and sets down the answers, and believes 
 them above the Scriptures. Nay, perhaps she'll 
 study the art. 
 
 Mor. Gentle sir, have you done ? have you had 
 your pleasure of me ? I'll think of these things. 
 
 Trme. Yes, sir : and then comes reeking home 
 of vapour and sweat, with going a-foot, and lies 
 in a month of a new face, all oil and birdlime ; 
 and rises in asses' milk, and is cleansed with a 
 new fucus. God be wi' you, sir. One thing 
 more, which I had almost forgot. This too, 
 with whom you are to marry, may have made 
 a conveyance of her virginity aforehand, as your 
 
 1 Salisbury— i.e. at the races there ;— m progress, i.e. 
 when the king went to Scotland, or rather when he 
 visited the nobility at their country residences. 
 
 2 the t'other youth, Upton thinks, is Decker, but Gifford 
 disagrees with him. 
 
1 86 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ■wise widows do of their states, before they many, 
 in trust to some friend, sir : who can tell ? Or if 
 she have not done it yet, she may do, upon the 
 ■wedding-day, or the night before, and antedate 
 you, cuckold. The like has been heard of in 
 nattire. 'Tis no devised, impossible thing, sir. 
 God be wi' you. I'll be bold to leave this rope 
 with you, sir, for a remembrance. — Farewell, 
 Mute ! {Exit. 
 
 Mor. Come, have me to my chamber ; but first 
 shut the door. [Truewit ?i'2nrfs the hornwithout.] 
 Oh, shut the door, shut the door! is he come again.? 
 
 Enter Cutbeard. 
 
 Cut. 'Tis I, sir, your barber. 
 
 Mor. Oh, Cutbeard, Cutbeard, Cutbeard! here 
 has been a cut-throat with me: help me in to 
 my bed, and give me physic with thy counsel. 
 
 [_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II— SCENE IL 
 
 A Boom in Sir John Daw's Hotiss. 
 
 Enter Daw, Clerimont, Dauphine, and 
 Epica2XE. 
 
 Daw. Nay, an she will, let her refuse at her 
 own charges ; 'tis nothing to me, gentlemen : but 
 she will not be invited to the like feasts or guests 
 every day. 
 
 Cler. Oh, by no means, she may not refuse — 
 to stay at home, if you love your reputation. 
 'Slight, you are invited thither o' purpose to be 
 seen, and laughed at by the lady of the college, 
 and her shadows. This trumpeter hath pro- 
 claim'd you. [Aside to Epi. 
 
 Daup. You shall not go ; let him be laugh'd at 
 in your stead, for not bringing you: and put him 
 to his extemporal faculty of fooling and talking 
 loud, to satisfy the company. [Aside to Epi. 
 
 Cle7\ He will suspect us; talk aloud. — 'Pray, 
 Mistress Epicoene, let's see your verses ; we have 
 Sir John Daw's leave ; do not conceal your ser- 
 vant's merit, and your own glories. 
 
 Epi. They'll prove my servant's glories, if you 
 have his leave so soon. 
 
 Daup. His vain-glories, lady ! 
 
 Daio. Show them, show them, mistress ; I dare 
 own them. 
 
 Epi. Judge you, what glories. 
 
 Daw. Nay, I'll read them myself too: an author 
 must recite his own works. It is a madrigal of 
 Modesty. 
 
 Modest and fah\ for fair and good are near 
 
 Neighbours^ however. — 
 
 Daup. Very good. 
 
 Cler. Aj, is't not ? 
 
 Daw. No noble virtue ever was alone, 
 But two in one. 
 
 Daup. Excellent! 
 
 Cler. That again, I pray. Sir John. 
 
 Daup. It has something in't like rare wit and 
 sense. 
 
 Cler. Peace. 
 
 Daw. No noble virtue ever was alone, 
 But two in one. 
 
 Then when I praise sweet modesty, f praise 
 Bright beauty's rays : 
 
 And having praised both beauty and modesty, 
 1 have praised thee. 
 
 Daup. Admirable ! 
 
 Cler. How it chimes, and cries tink in the 
 close, divinely ! 
 
 Daup. Ay, 'tis Seneca. 
 
 Cler. No, I think 'tis Plutarch. 
 
 Daw. The dor ^ on Plutarch and Seneca ! I 
 hate it : they are mine own imaginations, by 
 that light. I wonder those fellows have such 
 credit with gentlemen. 
 
 Cler. They are veiy grave authors. 
 
 Daw. Grave asses! mere essayists: a few loose 
 sentences, and that's aU. A man would talk so, 
 his whole age. I do utter as good things every 
 hour, if they were collected and observed, as 
 either of them. 
 
 Daup. Indeed, Sir John ! 
 
 Cler. He must needs ; living among the wita 
 and braveries too. 
 
 Daup. Ay, and being president of them, as he is. 
 
 Daio. There's Aristotle, a mere commonplace 
 fellow; Plato, adiscourser; Thucydides and Livy, 
 tedious and dry ; Tacitus, an entire knot : some- 
 times worth the untying, very seldom, 
 
 Cler. What do you think of the poets. Sir John? 
 
 Daw. Not worthy to be named for authors. 
 Homer, an old tedious, prolix ass, talks of 
 curriers and chines of beef ; Virgil, of dunging 
 of land, and bees ; Horace, of I know not what. 
 
 Cler. I think so. 
 
 Daw. And so, Pindarus, Lycophron, Anacreon, 
 Catullus, Seneca the tragedian, Lucan, Proper- 
 tius, TibuUus, Martial, Juvenal, Ausonius, Sta- 
 tius, Politian, Valerius Flaccus, and the rest — 
 
 Cler. What a sackful of their names he has got! 
 
 Daup. And how he pours them out ! Politian 
 with Valerius Flaccus ! 
 
 Cler. Was not the character right of him ? 
 
 Daup. As could be made, i' faith. 
 
 Daio. And Persius, a crabbed coxcomb, not to 
 be endured. 
 
 Daup. Why, whom do you account for authors, 
 Sir John Daw ? 
 
 Daw. Syntagma 2 juris civilis ; Corpus juris 
 civilis; Corpus juris canonici; the king of 
 Spain's Bible — ■ 
 
 Daup. Is the king of Spain's Bible an author ? 
 
 Cler. Yes, and Syntagma. 
 
 Daup. What was that Syntagma, sir ? 
 
 Daw. A civil lawyer, a Spaniard. 
 
 Daup. Sure, Corpus was a'Dutchman. 
 
 Cler. Ay, both the Corpuses, I knew 'em: they 
 were very corpulent authors. 
 
 Daw. And then there's Vatablus, Pomponatius, 
 Symancha: the other are not to be received within 
 the thought of a scholar. 
 
 Daup. 'Fore God, you have a simple learned 
 servant, lady, — in titles. [Aside. 
 
 Cler. I wonder that he is not called to the 
 helm, and made a counsellor. 
 
 Daup. He is one extraordinary. 
 
 Cler. Nay, but in ordinary : to say truth, the 
 state wants such. 
 
 Daup. Why, that will follow. 
 
 Cler. I muse a mistress can be so silent to the 
 dotes 3 of such a servant. 
 
 Daw. 'Tis her virtue, sir. I have written some- 
 what of her silence too. 
 
 Daup. In verse, Sir John ? 
 
 Cler. What else? 
 
 Daup. Why, how can you justify your own 
 being of a poet, that so slight all the old poets ? 
 
 Daw. Why, every man that writes in verse is 
 not a poet; you have of the wits that write 
 verses, and yet are no poets : they are poets that 
 live by it, the poor fellows that live by it. 
 
 ^ cfor— a drone or beetle; to give, the dor, a cant phrase 
 for to make a fool of a person, or outwit him. Dor is 
 used in the text as a mock imprecation. 
 
 2 Syntagma, «fcc. — ' book of civil law ; body of civil 
 law ; body of canon law.' 
 
 3 dotes — gifts, endowments. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 187 
 
 Lavp. Why, would not you live by your verses, 
 Sir John ? 
 
 Cler. No, 'twere pity he should, A knight live 
 by his verses! He did not make thena to that end, 
 I hope. 
 
 Daup. And yet the noble Sydney lives by his, 
 and the noble family not ashamed. 
 
 Cler. Ay, he professed himself ; but Sir John 
 Daw has more caution: he'll not hinder his own 
 rising in the state so much. Do you think he 
 wUl? Your verses, good Sir John, and no 
 poems. 
 
 Daw. Silence in woman is liJce speech in man ; 
 
 DenyH who can. 
 Daup. Not I, believe it : your reason, sir. 
 Date. Nor isH a tale 
 
 That female vice should be a virtue male, 
 Or masculine vice a female virtue he : 
 You shall it see 
 Prov''d with increase ; 
 I Tcnow to speak and she to hold her peace. 
 Do you conceive me, gentlemen ? 
 
 Daup. No, faith ; how mean you with increase, 
 Sir John 7 
 
 Daw. Why, with increase is, when I court her 
 for the common cause of mankind, and she says 
 nothing, but consentire videtur ; ^ and in time is 
 gravida. 
 
 Daup. Then this is a ballad of procreation ? 
 Cler. A madrigal of procreation ; you mistake. 
 Epi. 'Pray give me my verses again, servant. 
 Daw. If you'll ask them aloud, you shall. 
 
 [Walks aside with the papers. 
 
 Enter Truewit with his horn. 
 
 Cler. See, here's Truewit again! — Where hast 
 thou been, in the name of madness, thus accoutred 
 with thy horn ? 
 
 True. Where the sound of it might have pierced 
 your senses with gladness, had you been in ear- 
 reach of it. Dauphine, fall down and worship me ; 
 I have forbid the bans, lad; I have been with thy 
 virtuous uncle, and have broke the match. 
 
 Daup. You laave not, I hope. 
 
 True. Yes, faith ; an thou shouldst hope other- 
 wise, I should repent me. This horn got me en- 
 trance ; kiss it. I had no other way to get in, but 
 by feigning to be a post; but when I got in once, 
 I proved none, but rather the contrary, turn'd him 
 into a post, or a stone, or what is stiffer, with 
 thundering into him the incommodities of a wife, 
 and the miseries of marriage. If ever Gorgon 
 were seen in the shape of a woman, he hath seen 
 her in my description : I have put him off o' that 
 scent for ever. — Why do you not applaud and 
 adore me, sirs? why stand you mute? are you 
 stupid ? You are not worthy of the benefit. 
 
 Daup. Did not I tell you ? Mischief ! — 
 
 Cler. I would you had placed this benefit some- 
 where else. 
 
 True. Why so ? 
 
 Cler. 'Slight, you have done the most incon- 
 siderate, rash, weak thing, that ever man did to 
 his friend. 
 
 Daup. Friend ! if the most malicious enemy I 
 have, had studied to infiict an injury upon me, 
 it could not be a greater. 
 
 True. Wherein, for God's sake? Gentlemen, 
 come to yourselves again. 
 
 Daup. But I presaged thus much afore to you. 
 
 Cler. Would my lips had been solder'd when I 
 spake on't ! 'Slight, what moved you to be thus 
 impertinent ? 
 
 True. My masters, do not put on this strange 
 
 seems to consent." 
 
 face to pay my courtesy; off with this vizor. 
 Have good turns done you, and thank 'em this 
 way! 
 
 Daup. 'Fore heaven, you have undone me. 
 That which I have plotted for, and been matur- 
 ing now these four months, you have blasted in 
 a minute. Now I am lost, I may speak. This 
 gentlewoman was lodged here by me o' purpose, 
 and, to be put upon my uncle, hath profest this 
 obstinate silence for my sake; being my entire 
 friend, and one that for the requital of such a 
 fortune as to marry him, would have made me 
 very ample conditions ; where now, all my hopes 
 are utterly miscarried by this unlucky accident. 
 
 Cler. Thus 'tis when a man will be ignorantly 
 officious, do services, and not know his why. I 
 wonder what courteous itch possest you. You 
 never did absurder part in your life, nor a greater 
 trespass to friendship or humanity. 
 
 Daup. Faith, you may forgive it best; 'twas 
 your cause principally. 
 
 Cler. I know it ; would it had not. 
 
 Enter Cutbeard. 
 
 Daup. How now, Cutbeard ! what news ? 
 
 Cut. The best, the happiest that ever was, sir. 
 There has been a mad gentleman with your uncle 
 this morning, {seeing Truewit.] — I think this be 
 the gentleman — that has almost talk'd him out of 
 his wits, with threatening him from marriage — 
 
 Daup, On, I prithee. 
 
 Cut. And your uncle, sii', he thinks 'twas done 
 by your procurement ; therefore he will see the 
 l^arty you wot of presently ; and if he like her, 
 he says, and that she be so inclining to dumb as 
 I have told him, he swears he will marry her to- 
 day, instantly, and not defer it a minute longer. 
 
 Daup. Excellent ! beyond our expectation ! 
 
 Ti-ne. Beyond our expectation ! By this light, 
 I knew it would be thus. 
 
 Daup. Nay, sweet Truewit, forgive me. 
 
 Time. No, I was ignorantly officious, imperti- 
 nent; this was the absurd, weak part. 
 
 Cler. Wilt thou ascribe that to merit now, was 
 mere fortune ! 
 
 Ti-ue. Fortune ! mere providence. Fortune 
 had not a finger in't. I saw it must necessarily 
 in nature fall out so : my genius is never false to 
 me in these things. Show me how it could be 
 otherwise. 
 
 Daup. Nay, gentlemen, contend not ; 'tis well 
 now. 
 
 Ti-ue. Alas, I let him go on with inconsiderate, 
 and rash, and what he pleased. 
 
 Cler. Away, thou strange justifier of thyself, to 
 be wiser than thou wert, by the event ! 
 
 True. Event! by this light, thou shalt never 
 persuade me, but I foresaw it as well as the stars 
 themselves. 
 
 Daup. Nay, gentlemen, 'tis well now. Do you 
 two entertain Sir John Daw with discourse, while 
 I send her away with instructions. 
 
 True. I'll be acquainted with her first, by your 
 favour. 
 
 Cler. Master Truewit, lady, a friend of ours. 
 
 True. I am sorry I have not known you sooner, 
 
 lady, to celebrate this rare virtue of your silence. 
 
 {Exeunt Daup., Epi., and Cutbeard. 
 
 Cler. Faith, an you had come sooner, you 
 should have seen and heard her well celebrated 
 in Sir John Daw's madi'igals. 
 
 True, {advances to Daw.] Jack Daw, 'God save 
 you ! When saw you La-Foole ? 
 
 Daw. Not since last night. Master Truewit. 
 
 True. That's a miracle! I thought you two 
 had been inseparable. 
 
 Daw. He's gone to invite his guests. 
 
i88 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 True. 'Odso ! 'tis true ! What a false memory 
 have I towards that man ! I am one : I met hhn 
 even now, upon that he calls his delicate, fine 
 black horse, rid into foam, with posting from 
 place to place, and person to person, to give them 
 the cue — 
 
 CUr. Lest they should forget ? 
 
 True. Yes. There was never poor captain took 
 more pains at a muster to show men, than he, at 
 this meal, to show friends. 
 
 Daw. It is his quarter-feast, sir 1 
 
 CUr. What ! do you say so. Sir John ? 
 
 True. Nay, Jack Daw will not be out, at the 
 best friends he has, to the talent of his wit. 
 Where's his mistress, to hear and applaud him ? 
 Is she gone ? 
 
 Daw. Is Mistress Epicoene gone ? 
 
 Cler. Gone afore, with Sir Dauphine, I war- 
 rant, to the place. 
 
 True. Gone afore! that were a manifest injury, 
 a disgrace and a half, to refuse him at such a 
 festival-time as this, being a bravery, and a wit 
 too! 
 
 Cler. Tut, he'll swallow it like cream. He's 
 better read in Ji;re civili, than to esteem any- 
 thing a disgrace is offer'd him from a mistress. 
 
 Daw. Nay, let her e'en go ; she shall sit alone, 
 and be duml? in her chamber a week together, 
 for John Daw, I warrant her. Does she refuse 
 me.^ 
 
 Cler. No, sir, do not take it so to heart; she 
 does not refuse you, but a little neglects you. 
 Good faith, Truewit, you were to blame, to put 
 it into his head, that she does refuse him. 
 
 True. Sir, she does refuse him palpably, how- 
 ever you mince it. An I were as he, I would 
 swear to speak ne'er a word to her to-day for't. 
 
 Daw. By this light, no more I will not. 
 
 T'ue. Nor to anybody else, sir. 
 
 Daw. Nay, I will not say so, gentlemen. 
 
 Cler. It had been an excellent, happy condition 
 for the company, if you could have drawn him to 
 it. \_Aside. 
 
 Daw. I'll be very melancholy, i'faith. 
 
 Cler. As a dog, if I were as you, Sir John. 
 
 True. Or a snail, or a hog-louse. I would roll 
 myself up for this day ; in troth, they should not 
 unwind me. 
 
 Daw. By this pick-tooth, so I will. 
 
 Cler. 'Tis well done. He begins already to be 
 angry with his teeth. 
 
 Daw. Will you go, gentlemen ? 
 
 CUr. Nay, you must walk alone, if you be right 
 melancholy. Sir John. 
 
 True. Yes, sir, we'll dog you, we'll follow you 
 afar off. {Exit Daw. 
 
 Cler. Was there ever such a two yards of 
 knighthood measured out by time, to be sold to 
 laughter ? 
 
 True. A mere talking mole, hang him ! no 
 mushroom was ever so fresh. A fellow so utterly 
 nothing, as he knows not what he would be. 
 
 Cler. Let's follow him : but first let's go to 
 Dauphine, he's hovering about the house to hear 
 what news. 
 
 Tme. Content. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE in. 
 A Room in Morose's House. 
 
 Enter Morose and Mute, followed ly Cutbeard 
 with Epiccene. 
 Mor. Welcome, Cutbeard ! draw near with your 
 fair charge : and in her ear softly entreat her to 
 unmask. [Epi. tahes off her mash.']—^o ! Is the 
 door shut? [Mute wa^e« a %.]— Enough. Now, 
 
 Cutbeard, with the same discipline I use to my 
 family, I will question you. As I conceive, Cut- 
 beard, this gentlewoman is she you have provided, 
 and brought, in hope she will fit me in the place 
 and person of a wife ? Answer me not but with 
 your leg, unless it be otherwise. [Cut. makes a 
 leg.'] — Very well done, Cutbeard. I conceive 
 besides, Cutbeard, you have been pre-acquainted 
 with her birth, education, and qualities, or else 
 you would not prefer her to my acceptance, in the 
 weighty consequence of marriage, [makes a leg.] 
 — This I conceive, Cutbeard. Answer me not 
 but with your leg, unless it be othex'wise, [bows 
 again.] — Very well done, Cutbeard. Give aside 
 now a little, and leave me to examine her condi- 
 tion, and aptitude to my affection, [goes about 
 her and views her.] — She is exceeding fair, and of 
 a special good favour; a sweet composition or 
 harmony of limbs ; her temper of beauty has the 
 true height of my blood. The knave hath ex- 
 ceedingly well fitted me without : I will now try 
 her within — Come near, fair gentlewoman ; let 
 not my behaviour seem rude, though unto you, 
 being rare, it may haply appear strange. [Epi. 
 curtsies.] — Nay, lady, you may speak, though 
 Cutbeard and my man might not; for of all 
 sounds, only the sweet voice of a fair lady has 
 the just length of mine ears. I beseech you, say, 
 lady ; out of the first fire of meeting eyes, they 
 say, love is stricken : do you feel any such motion 
 suddenly shot into you, from any part you see in 
 me? Ha, lady? [Epi. cu7-tsies.] — Alas, lady, 
 these answers by silent curtsies from you are too 
 courtless and simple. I have ever had my breed- 
 ing in court ; and she that shall be my wife, 
 must be accomplished with courtly and audacious* 
 ornaments. Can you speak, lady ? 
 
 Epi. [softly.] Judge you, forsooth. 
 
 Mor. What say you, lady ? Speak out, I be- 
 seech you. 
 
 Epi. Judge you, forsooth. 
 
 Mo7'. On my judgment, a divine softness ! But 
 can you naturally, lady, as I enjoin these by 
 doctrine and industry, refer yourself to the search 
 of my judgment, and, not taking pleasure in your 
 tongue, which is a woman's chiefest pleasure, 
 think it plausible to answer me by silent ges- 
 tures, so long as my speeches jump 2 right with 
 what you conceive ? [Epi. cwtsies.] — Excellent ! 
 divine! if it were possible she could hold out 
 thus ! — Peace, Cutbeard, thou art made for ever, 
 as thou hast made me, if this felicity have last- 
 ing : but I will try her further. — Dear lady, I am 
 courtly, I tell you, and I must have mine* ears 
 banquetted with pleasant and witty conferences, 
 pretty girds, ^ scoffs, and dalliance in her that I 
 mean to choose for my bed-phere.* The ladies in 
 court think it a most desperate impair to their 
 quickness of wit, and good carriage, if they can- 
 not give occasion for a man to court 'em; and 
 when an amorous discourse is set on foot, mini- 
 ster as good matter to continue it, as himself. 
 And do you alone so much differ from all them, 
 that what they, with so much circumstance, affect 
 and toil for, to seem learn'd, to seem judicious, to 
 seem sharp and conceited, you can bury in your- 
 self with silence, and rather trust your graces to 
 the fair conscience of virtue, than to the world's 
 or your own proclamation ? 
 
 Epi. [softly.] I should be sorry else. 
 
 Moi\ What say you, lady? good lady, speak out 
 
 * audacious — liberal, spirited. 
 
 2 jump—fit, agree. See note 1, p. 46, col. 2. 
 
 3 girds— jokes, or jibes. See note 7, p. 49, col. 1. 
 
 * bed-pJiere. — Phere or fere means companion, partner, 
 husband; Anglo-Saxon, ge/era. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 189 
 
 Epx. I should be sorry else. 
 
 Mor. That sorrow doth fill me with gladness. 
 Morose, thou art happy above mankind ! pray 
 that thou may est contain thyself. I will only 
 put her to it once more, and it shall be with the 
 utmost touch and test of their sex. — But hear me, 
 fair lady ; I do also love to see her whom I shall 
 choose for my heifer, i to be the first and principal 
 in all fashions, precede all the dames at court by 
 a fortnight, have council of tailors, lineners, lace- 
 women, embroiderers ; and sit with them some- 
 times twice a day upon French intelligences, and 
 then come forth varied like nature, or oftener 
 than she, and better by the help of art, her 
 emulous servant. This do I affect : and how 
 will you be able, lady, with this frugality _ of 
 speech, to give the manifold but necessary in- 
 structions, for that bodice, these sleeves, those 
 skirts, this cut, that stitch, this embroidery, that 
 lace, this wire, those knots, that ruff, those roses, 
 this girdle, that fan, the t'other scarf, these gloves? 
 Ha ! what say you, lady ? 
 
 Epi. [softly.'] I'll leave it to you, sir. 
 
 Mor. How, lady ? Pray you rise a note. 
 
 Epi. I leave it to wisdom and you, sir. 
 
 Mor. Admirable creature ! I will trouble you 
 no more : I will not sin against so sweet a sim- 
 plicity. Let me now be bold to print on those 
 divine lips the seal of being mine — Cutbeard, I 
 give thee the lease of thy house free ; thank me 
 not but with thy leg. [Cut. shakes his head.'] — I 
 know what thou wouldst say, she's poor, and her 
 friends deceased. She has brought a wealthy 
 dowry in her silence, Cutbeard ; and in respect 
 of her poverty, Cutbeard, I shall have her more 
 loving and obedient, Cutbeard. Go thy ways, 
 and get me a minister presently, with a soft, low 
 voice, to marry us ; and pray him he will not be 
 impertinent, but brief as he can ; away : softly, 
 Cutbeard. \_Exit Cut.] — Sirrah, conduct your 
 mistress into the dining-room, your now mistress. 
 [Exit MvTE, followed by Epi.] — Oh, my felicity! 
 Eow shall I be revenged on mine insolent kins- 
 man, and his plots to fright me from marrying ! 
 This night I will get an heir, and thriist him 
 out of my blood, like a stranger. He would be 
 knighted, forsooth, and thought by that means 
 to reign over me ! his title must do it. No, kins- 
 man, I will now make you bring me the tenth 
 lord's and the sixteenth lady's letter, kinsman ; 
 and it shall do you no good, kinsman. Your 
 knighthood itself shall come on its knees, and it 
 shall be rejected ; it shall be sued for its fees to 
 execution, and not be redeemed ; it shall cheat at 
 the twelve-penny ordinary, it knighthood, for its 
 diet, all the term-time, and tell tales for it in the 
 vacation to the hostess ; or it knighthood shall 
 do worse, take sanctuary in Cole harbour,^ and 
 fast. It shall fright all its friends with borrow- 
 ing letters ; and when one of the fourscore hath 
 brought it knighthood ten shillings, it knight- 
 hood shall go to the Cranes, or the Bear at the 
 Bridge foot, and be drunk in fear ; it shall not 
 have money to discharge one tavern-reckoning, 
 to invite the old creditors to forbear it knighthood, 
 or the new, that should be, to trust it knighthood. 
 It shall be the tenth name in the bond to take up 
 the commodity of pipkins and stone-jugs : and 
 the part thereof shall not furnish it knighthood 
 forth for the attempting of a baker's widow, a 
 brown baker's widow. It shall give it knight- 
 hood's name for a stallion, to all gamesome citizens' 
 
 1 Aej/fer— yoke-mate. 
 
 2 A very ancient building in the parish of All-Hallows 
 the Less, near the Thames. It seems at this time to have 
 been a retreat for debtors, gamesters, &c. 
 
 wives, and be refused, when the master of a 
 dancing-school, or how do you call him, the worst 
 reveller in the town is taken : it shall want clothes, 
 and by reason of that, wit, to fool to lawyers. It 
 shall not have hope to repair itself by Constan- 
 tinople, Ireland, or Virginia ;i but the best and 
 last fortune to it knighthood shall be to make 
 Dol Tearsheet, or Kate Common a lady, and so 
 it knighthood may eat. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. 
 
 A Lane near Morose's House. 
 
 Enter Truewit, Dauphine, and CLERi:*roNT. 
 
 Trxie. Are you sure he is not gone by ? 
 
 Daup. No, I stayed in the shop ever since. 
 
 Cler. But he may take the other end of the 
 lane. 
 
 Daup. No, I told him I would be here at this 
 end : I appointed him hither. 
 
 True. What a barbarian it is to stay then ! 
 
 Daup. Yonder he comes. 
 
 Cler. And his charge left behind him, which is 
 a very good sign, Dauphine. 
 
 Enter Cutbeard. 
 
 Daup. How now, Cutbeard ! succeeds it, or no? 
 
 Cut. Past imagination, sir, omnia secunda ;- you 
 could not have pray'd to have had it so well. 
 Saltat senex,^ as it is in the proverb ; he does 
 triumph in his felicity, admires the party ! he has 
 given me the lease of my house too ! and I am 
 now going for a silent minister to marry them, 
 and away. 
 
 True. 'Slight ! get one of the silenced mini- 
 sters ;* a zealous brother would torment him 
 purely. 
 
 Cut. Cum pnvilegio, sir. 
 
 Daup. Oh, by no means ; let's do nothing to 
 hinder it now. When 'tis done and finished, I 
 am for yovi, for any device of vexation. 
 
 Cut. And that shall be within this half hour, 
 upon my dexterity, gentlemen. Contrive what 
 you can in the meantime, bonis avibus.^ [Exit. 
 
 Cler. How the slave doth Latin it ! 
 
 Trzie. It would be made a jest to posterity, 
 sirs, this day's mirth, if ye will. 
 
 Cler. Beshrew his heart that will not, I pro- 
 nounce. 
 
 Daup. And for my part. What is it ? 
 
 Time. To translate all La-Foole's company, 
 and his feast thither, to-day, to celebrate this 
 bride-ale.6 
 
 Daup. Ay, marry ; but how will't be done ? 
 
 True. I'll undertake the directing of all the 
 lady-guests thither, and then the meat must 
 follow. 
 
 Clei\ For God's sake, let's effect it ; it will be 
 an excellent comedy of affliction, so many several 
 noises. 
 
 Daup. But are they not at the other place 
 already, think you ? 
 
 ^ to repair itself, &c. This alludes probably to James's 
 schemes for establishing order in Ireland, one of which 
 was the grant of lands, about this time, to Enghsli 
 settlers in Ulster, and for the revival of the colonies 
 in Virginia. What is meant by Constantinople is not 
 so easy to guess. — Gifford. 
 
 2 ' evei-ything favourable.' 
 
 3 ' The old man dances.' 
 
 4 See note 5, p. 185, coL 1. 
 
 5 bonis avibus — ' with good birds ;' «.«. with favourable 
 omens. 
 
 « bride-ale.— Ale means a festival. 
 
1 90 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 True. I'D warrant you for the college-honours : 
 one of their faces has not the priming colour laid 
 on yet, nor the other her smock sleek'd. 
 
 Cler. Oh, but they'll rise earlier than ordinary 
 to a feast. 
 
 True. Best go see, and assure ourselves. 
 
 CUr. Who knows the house 1 
 
 True. I'll lead you. Were you never there 
 yet? 
 
 Dawp. Not I. 
 
 CUr. Nor I. 
 
 True. Where have you lived then ? not know 
 Tom Otter ! 
 
 Cler. No ; for God's sake, what is he ? 
 
 True. An excellent animal, equal with your 
 Daw or La-Foole, if not transcendent, and does 
 Latin it as much as your barber. He is his wife's 
 subject ; he calls her princess, and at such times 
 as these follows her up and down the house like 
 a page, with his hat off, partly for heat, partly 
 for reverence. At this instant he is marshalling 
 of his bull, bear, and horse. 
 
 Daup. What be those, in the name of Sphynx ? 
 
 True. Why, sir, he has been a great man at 
 the Bear-garden in his time ; and from that 
 subtle sport has ta'en the witty denomination of 
 his chief carousing cups. One he calls his bull, 
 another his bear, another his horse. And then 
 he has his lesser glasses, that he calls his deer 
 and his ape ; and several degrees of them too ; 
 and never is well, nor thinks any entertainment 
 perfect, till these be brought out, and set on the 
 cupboard, 
 
 Cler. For God's love ! — we should miss this, 
 if we should not go. 
 
 True. Nay, he has a thousand things as good, 
 that will speak him all day. He will rail on his 
 wife, with certain commonplaces, behind her 
 back ; and to her face — 
 
 Daup. No more of him. Let's go see him, I 
 petition you. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE L 
 
 A Room in Otter's House. 
 
 Enter Captain Otter with Ms cups, and 
 Mistress Otter. 
 
 Ctt. Nay, good princess, hear me pauca verha.'^ 
 
 Mrs. Ott. By that light, I'll have you chain'd 
 up, with your bull-dogs and bear-dogs, if you be 
 not civil the sooner. I'll send you to kennel, 
 i'faith. You were best bait me with your bull, 
 bear, and horse. Never a time that the courtiers 
 or collegiates come to the house, but you make 
 it a Shrove-Tuesday ! I would have you get 
 your Whitsuntide velvet cap, and your staff in 
 your hand, to entertain them. Yes, in troth, do. 
 
 Ott. Not so, princess, neither ; but under cor- 
 rection, sweet princess, give me leave. — These 
 things I am known to the courtiers by. It is 
 reported to them for my humour, and they re- 
 ceive it so, and do expect it. Tom Otter's bull, 
 bear, and horse is known all over England, in 
 rei'um natura.^ 
 
 Mrs. Ott. 'Fore me, I will na-ture them over 
 to Paris-garden, and na-ture you thither too, if 
 you pronounce them again. Is a bear a fit beast, 
 or a bull, to mix in society with great ladies? 
 Think in your discretion, in any good policy. 
 
 Ott. The horse, then, good princess. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Well, I am contented for the horse ; 
 
 * * a few words.' 
 
 2 ' in the nature of things.' 
 
 they love to be well horsed, I know : I love it 
 myself. 
 
 Ott. And it is a delicate, fine horse this : Poeta- 
 rum Peffasus.i Under correction, princess, Jupiter 
 did turn himself into a — taurus^ or bull, under 
 correction, good princess. 
 
 Enter Truewit, Clerimoxt, and Dauphine, 
 behind. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. By my integrity, I'll send you over 
 to the Bank-side ; 2 I'll commit you to the master 
 of the Garden, if I hear but a syllable more. 
 Must my house or my roof be polluted with the 
 scent of bears and bulls, when it is perfumed for 
 great ladies? Is this according to the instru- 
 ment, when I married you ? that I would be 
 princess, and reign in mine own house, and you 
 would be my subject, and obey me ? What did 
 you bring me, should make you thus peremptory ? 
 Do I allow you your half-crown a day, to spend 
 where you will, among your gamesters, to vex 
 and torment me at such times as these ? Who 
 gives you your maintenance, I pray you ? who 
 allows you your horse-meat and man's meat? 
 your three suits of apparel a year ? your four 
 pair of stockings, one silk, three worsted ? your 
 clean linen, your bands and cufifs, when I can 
 get you to wear them? — 'tis marie 3 you have 
 them on now. Who graces you with courtiers 
 or great personages, to speak to you out of their 
 coaches, and come home to your house ? Were 
 you ever so much as look'd upon by a lord or a 
 lady, before I married you, but on the Easter or 
 Whitsun-holidays, and then out at the banquet- 
 ing-house window, when Ned Whiting or George 
 Stone* were at the stake ? 
 
 True. For God's sake, let's go stave her off 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Answer me to that. And did not I 
 take you up from thence, in an old greasy buff- 
 doublet, with points, and green velvet sleeves, 
 out at the elbows ? You forget this. 
 
 True. She'll worry him, if we help not in 
 time. [They come forward. 
 
 Mrs. Ott Oh, here are some of the gallants ! 
 Go to, behave yourself distinctly, and with good 
 morality ; or, I protest, I'll take away your ex- 
 hibition.* 
 
 Ti'ue. By your leave, fair Mistress Otter, I'll 
 be bold to enter these gentlemen in your ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. It shall not be obnoxious or difficil,' 
 sir. 
 
 Ti've. How does my noble captain? Is the 
 bull, bear, and horse in rerum natura still ? 
 
 Ott. Sir, sic visum superis.'' 
 
 Mrs. Ott. I would you would but intimate 
 them — do. Go your ways in, and get toasts and 
 butter made for the woodcocks ; that's a fit pro- 
 vince for you. [Drices ?iitn off. 
 
 Cler. Alas ! what a tyranny is this poor fellow 
 married to ! 
 
 True. Oh, but the sport will be anon, when 
 we get him loose. 
 
 Daup. Dares he ever speak ? 
 
 True. No Anabaptist ever rail'd with the like 
 licence : but mark her language in the meantime, 
 I beseech you. 
 
 3Irs. Ott. Gentlemen, you are very aptly come. 
 My cousin. Sir Amorous, will be here briefly. 
 
 * ' the Pegasus of the poets.' 
 
 - See note 6, p. 86, col. 1. ' wiar/e— marvel. 
 
 < Two noted bears of that age, who went by the names 
 of their owners. 
 
 * exhibition — allowance. ^ difficil — difflcult. 
 ' 'so it pleased the gods.' 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 191 
 
 Tj-tte. In good time, lady. Was not Sir Jolin 
 Daw here, to ask for him, and the company ? 
 
 Mrs. Ott. I cannot assure you, Master Truewit. 
 Here was a very melancholj' knight in a ruff, 
 that demanded my subject for somebody — a 
 gentleman, I think. 
 
 Cler. Ay, that was he, lady. 
 
 Mrs. Oit. But he departed straight, I can re- 
 solve you. 
 
 Daup. What an excellent choice phrase this 
 lady expresses in ! 
 
 True. Oh, sir, she is the only authentical 
 courtier, that is not naturally bred one, in the 
 city. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. You have taken that report upon 
 trust, gentlemen. 
 
 True. No, I assure you, the court governs it 
 so, lady, in your behalf. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. I am the servant of the court and 
 courtiers, sir. 
 
 True. They are rather your idolaters. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Not so, sir. 
 
 Enter Cutbeakd. 
 
 Daup. How now, Cutbeard ! any cross ? 
 
 Cut. Oh no, sir, omnia bene.^ 'Twas never 
 better on the hinges ; all's sure. I have so 
 pleased him with a curate, that he's gone to't 
 almost with the delight he hopes for soon. 
 
 Daup. What is he for a vicar ? ^ 
 
 Cut. One that has catch'd a cold, sir, and can 
 scarce be heard six inches off ; as if he spoke 
 out of a bulrush that were not pick'd, or his 
 throat were full of pith : a fine quick fellow, and 
 an excellent barber ^ of prayers. I came to tell 
 you, sir, that you might omnem movere lapidem^^ 
 as they say, be ready with your vexation. 
 
 Daup. Gramercy, honest Cutbeard ! be there- 
 abouts with thy key, to let us in. 
 
 Cut. I will not fail you, sir ; ad manum.^ [Exit. 
 
 True. Well, I'll go watch my coaches. 
 
 Cle7\ Do ; and we'll send Daw to you, if you 
 meet him not. {_Exit Truewit. 
 
 3frs. Ott. Is Master Tniewit gone ? 
 
 Daup. Yes, lady; there is some unfortunate 
 business fallen out. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. So I adjudged by the physiognomy 
 of the fellow that came in ; and I had a dream 
 last night, too, of the new pageant, and my lady 
 mayoress, which is always very ominous to me. 
 1 told it my Lady Haughty t'other day, when her 
 honour came hither to see some China stuffs; 
 and she expounded it out of Ax-temidorus, and I 
 have found it since very true. It has done me 
 many affronts. 
 
 Cle7\ Your dream, lady ? 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Yes, sir, anything I do but dream 
 of the city. It stain'd me a damask table-cloth, 
 cost me eighteen pound at one time, and burnt 
 me a black satin gown, as I stood by the fire at 
 my Lady Centaure's chamber in the college, an- 
 other time. A third time, at the lords' masque, 
 it dropt all my wire and my ruff with wax candle, 
 that 1 could not go up to the banquet. A fourth 
 time, as I was taking coach to go to Ware, to 
 meet a friend, it dash'd me a new suit all over (a 
 crimson satin doublet, and black velvet skirts) 
 with a brewer's horse, that I was fain to go in 
 and shift me, and kept my chamber a leash ^ of 
 days for the anguish of it. 
 
 Daup. These were dire mischances, lady. 
 
 » ' all's well.' 2 ie. ' What vicar is he ? 
 
 3 barber, &c.—i.e. one who cuts them short. 
 
 * ' move every stone.' ^ ' at hand.' 
 
 * leash — lot ; it was sometimes used for three. 
 
 Cler. I would not dwell in the city, an 'twere 
 so fatal to me. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Yes, sir ; but I do take advice of my 
 doctor to dream of it as little as I can. 
 
 Datip. You do well, Mistress Otter. 
 
 Enter Sir John Daw, and is taken aside by 
 Clerimont. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Will it please you to enter the house 
 farther, gentlemen ? 
 
 Daup. And your favour, lady ; but we stay to 
 speak with a knight. Sir John Daw, who is here 
 come. We shall follow you, lady. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. At your own time, sir. It is my 
 cousin. Sir Amorous, his feast — 
 
 Daup. I know it, lady. 
 
 3Irs. Ott. And mine together. But it is for 
 his honour, and therefore I take no name of it, 
 more than of the place. 
 
 Daup. You are a bounteous kinswoman. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Your servant, sir. {Exit. 
 
 Cler. [coming foTward with Daw.] Why, do 
 not you know it. Sir John Daw ? 
 
 Daw. No, I am a rook if I do. 
 
 Cler. I'll tell you, then ; she's married by this 
 time. And whereas you were put in the head 
 that she was gone with Sir Dauphine, I assure 
 you Sir Dauphine has been the noblest, honestest 
 friend to you, that ever gentleman of your quality 
 could boast of. He has discover'd the whole 
 plot, and made your mistress so acknowledging, 
 and indeed so ashamed of her injury to you, that 
 she desires you to forgive her, and but grace her 
 wedding with your presence to-day. She is to 
 be married to a very good fortune, she says, his 
 uncle, old Morose ; and she will'd me in private 
 to tell you that she shall be able to do you more 
 favours, and with more security now than be- 
 fore. 
 
 Daw. Did she say so, i'faith ? 
 
 Cler. Why, what do you think of me, Sir John ? 
 ask Sir Dauphine. 
 
 Daw. Nay, I believe you. — Good Sir Dauphine, 
 did she desire me to forgive her ? 
 
 Daup. I assure you. Sir John, she did. 
 
 Daw. Nay, then, I do with all my heart, and 
 I'll be jovial. 
 
 Cler. Yes ; for, look you, sir, this was the in- 
 jury to you. La-Foole intended this feast to 
 honour her bridal day, and made you the pro- 
 perty to invite the college ladies, and promise 
 to bring her ; and then, at the time she would 
 have appear'd, as his friend, to have given 
 you the dor.* Whereas now. Sir Dauphine has 
 brought her to a feeling of it, with this kind of 
 satisfaction, that you shall bring all the ladies 
 to the place where she is, and be very jovial ; 
 and there she will have a dinner, which shall be 
 in your name ; and so disappoint La-Foole, to 
 make you good again, and, as it were, a saver in 
 the main. 
 
 Daw. As I am a knight, I honour her ; and 
 forgive her heartily. 
 
 Cler. About it then presently. Truewit is gone 
 before to confront ^ the coaches, and to acquaint 
 you with so much, if he meet you. Join with him 
 and 'tis well. — 
 
 Enter Sir Amorous La-Foolb. 
 See ; here comes your antagonist ; but take you 
 no notice, but be very jovial. 
 
 La-F. Are the ladies come, Sir John Daw, and 
 your mistress ? [Exit Daw.] — Sir Dauphine ! you 
 
 1 See note 1, p. 186, col. 2. 
 
 2 confront— vdQQt. 
 
192 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 are exceeding welcome, and honest Master Cleri- 
 mont. Where's my cousin ? did you see no col- 
 legiates, gentlemen ? 
 
 Daup. Collegiates ! Do you not hear, Sir 
 Amorous, how you are abused ? 
 
 La-F. How, sir ! 
 
 Chr. Will you speak so kindly to Sir John 
 Daw, that has done you such an affront ? 
 
 La-F. Wherein, gentlemen? Let me be a 
 suitor to you to know, I beseech you. 
 
 Cler. Why, sir, his mistress is married to-day 
 to Sir Dauphine's uncle, your cousin's neighbour, 
 and he has diverted all the ladies, and all your 
 company thither, to frustrate your provision, and 
 stick a disgrace upon you. He was here now to 
 have enticed us away from you too : but we told 
 him his own, I think. 
 
 La-F. Has Sir John Daw wrong'd me so in- ' 
 humanely ? 
 
 Daup. He has done it. Sir Amorous, most ma- 
 liciously and treacherously : but, if you'll be ruled 
 by us, you shall quit him, i' faith. 
 
 La-F. Good gentlemen, I'll make one, believe 
 it. How, I pray ? 
 
 Daup. Marr'y, sir, get me your pheasants, and 
 your godwits, and your best meat, and dish it in 
 silver dishes of your cousin's presently ; and say 
 nothing, but clap me a clean towel about you, like 
 a sewer ; ^ and, bareheaded, march afore it with a 
 good confidence ('tis but over the way, hard by), 
 and we'll second you, where you shall set it on 
 the board, and bid them welcome to't, which shall 
 show 'tis yours, and disgrace his preparation 
 utterly. And for your cousin, whereas she should 
 be troubled here at home with care of making and 
 giving welcome, she shall transfer all that labour 
 thither, and be a principal guest herself; sit 
 rank'd with the college honours, and be honour'd, 
 and have her health drunk as often, as bare, and 
 as loud as the best of them. 
 
 La-F. I'll go tell her presently. It shall be 
 done ; that's resolved. \Ex%t. 
 
 Cler. I thought he would not hear it out, but 
 'twould take him. 
 
 Daup. Well, there be guests and meat now ; 
 how shall we do for music ? 
 
 Chr. The smell of the venison going through 
 the street, will invite one noise ^ of fiddlers or 
 other. 
 
 Daup. I would it would call the trumpeters 
 hither ! 
 
 Cler. Faith, there is hope: they have intelli- 
 gence of all feasts. There's good correspondence 
 betwixt them and the London cooks : 'tis twenty 
 to one but we have them. 
 
 Daup. 'Twill be a most solemn day for my 
 uncle, and an excellent fit of mirth for us. 
 
 Cler. Ay, if we can hold up the emulation be- 
 twixt Foole and Daw, and never bring them to 
 expostulate. 
 
 DauTp. Tut, flatter them both, as Truewit says, 
 and you may take their understandings in a purse- 
 net.3 They'll believe themselves to be just such 
 men as we make them, neither more nor less. 
 They have nothing, not the use of their senses 
 but by tradition. 
 
 Re-enter La-Foole, like a Sewer. 
 
 Cler. See! Sir Amorous has hig towel on 
 already. Have you persuaded your cousin ? 
 La-F. Yes, 'tis very feasible. She'll do any- 
 
 * See note 1, p. 90, col. 1. 
 
 2 noise — company or concert; a term frequently oc- 
 curring in the dramatists. 
 
 ' purse-net — a net, of which the mouth is drawn to- 
 gether in a string. 
 
 thing, she says, rather than the La-Fooles shall 
 be disgraced. 
 
 Daup. She is a noble kinswoman. It will bo 
 such a pestling^ device, Sir Amorous : it will 
 pound all your enemy's practices to powder, and 
 blow him up with his own mine, his own train. 
 
 La-F. Nay, we'll give fire, I warrant you. 
 
 Cler. But you must carry it privately, without 
 any noise, and take no notice by any means — 
 
 Re-enter Captain Otter. 
 
 Ott. Gentlemen, my princess says you shall 
 have all her silver dishes, festinate:'^ and she's 
 gone to alter her tire a little, and go with you — 
 
 Cler. And yourself too. Captain Otter ? 
 
 Daup. By any means, sir. 
 
 Ott. Yes, sir, I do mean it : but I would entreat 
 my cousin Sir Amorous, and you gentlemen, to be 
 suitors to my princess, that 1 may carry my bull 
 and my bear, as well as my horse. 
 
 Cler. That you shall do. Captain Otter. 
 
 La-F. My cousin will never consent, gentlemen. 
 
 Daup. She must consent, Sir Amorous, to 
 reason. 
 
 La-F. Why, she says they are no decorum 
 among ladies. 
 
 Ott. But they are decora.,'^ and that's better, sir. 
 
 Cler. Ay, she must hear argument. Did not 
 Pasiphae, who was a queen, love a bull.^ and 
 was not Calisto, the mother of Areas, turn'd into 
 a bear, and made a star, Mistress Ursula, in the 
 heavens ? 
 
 Ott. Oh lord ! that I could have said as much ! 
 I will have these stories painted in the Bear- 
 garden, ex Ovidii metamoiphosi.* 
 
 Daup. Where is your princess, captain ? Pray, 
 be our leader. 
 
 Ott. That I shall, sir. 
 
 Cler. Make haste, good Sir Amorous. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Morose's House. 
 
 Enter Morose, Epiccene, Parson, and Cutbeard. 
 
 Mor. Sir, there's an angel for yourself, and a 
 brace of angels for your cold. Muse not at this 
 manage of mv bounty. It is fit we should thank 
 fortune, double to nature, for any benefit she 
 confers upon us ; besides, it is your imperfection, 
 but my solace. 
 
 Par. [speaks as having a cold.'] I thank your 
 worship ; so it is mine now. 
 
 Mor. What says he, Cutbeard ? 
 
 Cut. He says, prsssto,^ sir; whensoever your 
 worship needs him he can be ready with the 
 Kke. He got this cold with sitting up late, and 
 singing catches with cloth- workers.^ 
 
 Mor. No more. I thank him. 
 
 Par. God keep your worship, and give yon 
 much joy with your fair spouse ! — uh ! uh ! uh ! 
 
 Mor. Oh, oh ! stay, Cutbeard ! let him give 
 me five shillings of my money back. As it is 
 bounty to reward benefits, so it is equity to mulct 
 injuries. I will have it. What says he ? 
 
 Cler. He cannot change it, sir. 
 
 M01'. It must be changed. 
 
 Cut, Cough again. [Aside to Parson. 
 
 1 pestling— ^oVinAing with a pestle. 
 
 2 'make haste.' ' 'ornaments.' 
 * ' from Ovid's Metamorphoses: * ' ready.' 
 
 6 The Protestants who came from Flanders, and 
 brought with them the woollen manufacture, were much 
 given to singing at their work.— Whallet. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 193 
 
 Mor. What says he ? 
 
 Cut. He will cough out the rest, sir. 
 
 Par. Uh, uh, uh ! 
 
 Mor. Away^, away with him ! stop his mouth ! 
 away ! I forgive it. — 
 
 \Exit Cut. thrusting out the Par. 
 
 Epi. Fie, Master Moi-ose, that you will use this 
 "riolftuce to a man of the church. 
 
 Mor. How ! 
 
 Epi. It does not become your gravity or breed- 
 ing, as you pretend, in court, to have offer'd this 
 outrage on a waterman, or any more boisterous 
 creature, much less on a man of his civil coat. 
 
 Mor. You can speak then ! 
 
 Epi. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mor. Speak out, I mean. 
 
 Epi. Ay, sir. Why, did you think you had 
 married a statue, or a motion only ? one of the 
 French puppets, with the eyes turn'd with a wire .' 
 or some innocent' out of the hospital, that would 
 stand with her hands thus, and a plaise^ mouth, 
 and look upon you ? 
 
 Mor. Oh immodesty! a manifest woman! 
 What, Cutbeard! 
 
 Epi. Nay, never quari'el with Cutbeard, sir : it 
 is too late now. I confess it doth bate somewhat 
 of the modesty I had when I writ simply maid ; 
 but I hope I shall make it a stock still competent 
 to the estate and dignity of your wife. 
 
 Mor. She can talk I 
 
 Epi. Yes, indeed, sii*. 
 
 Enter Mute. 
 
 Mor. What, sirrah ! None of my knaves there ? 
 Where is this impostor Cutbeard ? 
 
 [Mute makes signs. 
 
 Ejyi. Speak to him, fellow, speak to him ! I'll 
 have none of this coacted,^ unnatural dumbness 
 in my house, in a family where I govern. 
 
 lExit Mute. 
 
 Mor. She is my regent already ! I have married 
 a Penthesilea, a Semiramis ; sold my liberty to a 
 distaff. 
 
 Enter Truewit. 
 
 True. Where's Master Morose ? 
 
 If or. Is he come again ! Lord have mercy upon 
 me! 
 
 True. I wish you all joy. Mistress Epicoene, 
 with your grave and honourable match. 
 
 Epi. I return you the thanks. Master Truewit, 
 so friendly a wish deserves. 
 
 Mor. She has acquaintance, too ! 
 
 True. God save you, sir, and give you all con- 
 tentment in your fair choice, here! Before, I 
 was the bird of night to you, the owl ; but now I 
 am the messenger of peace, a dove, and bring you 
 the glad wishes of many friends to the celebra- 
 tion of this good hour. 
 
 Mor. What hour, sir ? 
 
 True. Your marriage hour, sir. I commend 
 your resolution, that, notwithstanding all the 
 dangers I laid afore you, in the voice of a night- 
 crow, would yet go on and be yourself. It shows 
 you are a man constant to your own ends, and 
 upright to your purposes, that would not be put 
 off with left-handed * cries. 
 
 Mor. How should you arrive at the knowledge 
 of so much ? 
 
 True. Why, did you ever hope, sir, committing 
 the secrecy of it to a barber, that less than the 
 
 1 iwraocen^— natural fool. 
 
 2 plaise mouth— i.e. a prim or pnidish mouth; the plaice 
 having a very small, contracted mouth. 
 
 3 coacted — forced ; Lat., coago, cogo, to compel. 
 * left-handed— Wl-QvaQnQi, unlucky. 
 
 whole town should know it.' You might as well 
 have told it the conduit, or the bake-house, or 
 the infantry that follow the court, and with more 
 security. Could your gravity forget so old and 
 noted a remnant as, lippis et tonsoribus notum ? ^ 
 Well, sir, forgive it yourself now, the fault, and 
 be communicable with your friends. Here will 
 be three or four fashionable ladies from the col- 
 lege to visit you presently, and their train of 
 minions and followers. 
 
 Mor. Bar my doors ! bar my doors ! Where 
 are all my eaters ? ^ my mouths now ? — 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Bar up my doors, you varlets ! 
 
 Epi. He is a varlet that stirs to such an oflBce. 
 Let them stand open. I would see him that dares 
 move his eyes toward it. Shall I have a bar- 
 ricade made against my friends, to be barr'd of 
 any pleasure they can bring in to me with their 
 honourable visitation ? [Exeunt Ser. 
 
 Mor. Oh Amazonian impudence ! 
 
 True. Nay, faith, in this, sir, she speaks but 
 reason ; and, methinks, is more continent than 
 you. Would you go to bed so presently, sir, 
 afore noon .'* A man of your head and hair should 
 owe more to that reverend ceremony, and not 
 mount the marriage bed like a town bull or a 
 mountain goat; but stay the due season, and 
 ascend it then with religion and fear. Those 
 delights are to be steeped in the humour and 
 silence of night ; and give the day to other open 
 pleasures, and jollities of feasting, of music, of 
 revels, of discourse ; we'll have all, sir, that may 
 make your Hymen high and happy. 
 
 Mor. Oh ! my torment, my torment ! 
 
 True. Nay, if you endure the first half-hour, 
 sir, so tediously and with this irksomeness, what 
 comfort or hope can this fair gentlewoman make 
 to herself hereafter, in the consideration of so 
 many years as are to come — 
 
 Mor. Of my affliction. Good sir, depart, and 
 let her do it alone. 
 
 Tru^. I have done, sir. 
 
 Mor. That cursed barber ! 
 
 True. Yes, faith, a cursed wretch indeed, sir. 
 
 Mor. I have married his cittern,^ that's common 
 to all men. Some plague above the plague — 
 
 Ti-ue. All Egypt's ten plagues. 
 
 Mor. Revenge me on him ! 
 
 True. 'Tis very well, sir. If you laid on a 
 curse or two more, I'll assure you he'll bear them. 
 As, that he may get the pox with seeking to cure 
 it, sir ; or that, while he is curling another man's 
 hair, his own may drop off ; or for burning some 
 male-bawd's lock, he may have his brain beat out 
 with the curling-iron. 
 
 M(»\ No, let the wretch live wretched. May 
 he get the itch, and his shop so lousy, as no man 
 dare come at him, nor he come at no man ! 
 
 True. Ay, and if he would swallow all his balls 
 for pills, let not them purge him. 
 
 Moi\ Let his wanning-pan be ever cold. 
 
 True. A perpetual frost underneath it, sir. 
 
 Mor. Let him never hope to see fire again. 
 
 True. But in hell, sir. 
 
 » 'known to the blear-eyed and to the barbers'— »,«. 
 everybody. 
 
 2 eaters— servants. 
 
 3 married his cittern.— It appears from innumerable 
 passages in our old writers that barbers' shops were 
 furnished with some musical instrument (commonly a 
 cittern or guitar) for the amusement of such customers 
 as chose to strum upon it, while waiting for their turn 
 to be shaved, <&c. ; and this point once established, no 
 further difficulty remains. Decker speaks of ' A barber's 
 cittern, for every serving-man to play upon.' — Giffokd. 
 
194 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mor. His chairs be always empty, his scissors 
 nist, and his combs mould in their cases. 
 
 True. Very dreadful that ! And may he lose 
 the invention, sir, of carving lanterns in paper. 
 
 Mor. Let there be no bawd carted that year, 
 to employ a bason of his : ^ but let him be glad to 
 eat his sponge for bread. 
 
 True. And drink lotium to it, and much good 
 do him. 
 
 Mor. Or, for want of bread — 
 
 True. Eat ear-wax, sir. Ill help you. Or, 
 draw his own teeth, and add them to the lute- 
 string. 
 
 Mor. 1^0 ; beat the old ones to powder, and 
 make bread of them. 
 
 True. Yes, make meal of the mill-stones, 
 
 Mor. May all the botches and burns that he 
 has cured on others break out upon him. 
 
 Ti-ue. And he now forget the cure of them in 
 himself, sir; or, if he do remember it, let him 
 have scraped all his linen into lint for't, and have 
 not a rag left him for to set up with. 
 
 Mor. Let him never set up again, but have the 
 gout in his hands for ever ! — Now, no more, sir. 
 
 True. Oh, that last was too high set ; you might 
 go less with him, i'faith, and be revenged enough : 
 as, that he be never able to new-paint his pole — 
 
 Moi\ Good sir, no more, I forgot myself. 
 
 True. Or, want credit to take up with a comb- 
 maker — 
 
 Mor. No more, sir. 
 
 Time. Or, having broken his glass in a former 
 despair, fall now into a much greater, of ever 
 getting another — 
 
 Mor, I beseech you, no more. 
 
 True. Or, that he never be trusted with trim- 
 ming of any but chimney-sweepers — 
 
 Mor. Sir — 
 
 Tru^. Or may he cut a collier's throat with his 
 razor, by chance-medley, and yet be hanged for't. 
 
 Mor. I will forgive him, rather than hear any 
 more. I beseech you, sir. 
 
 Enter Daw, introducing Lady Haughty, Cex- 
 TAURE, Mavi's, and Trusty. 
 
 Daw. This way, madam. 
 
 Mor. Oh, the sea breaks in upon me ! another 
 flood ! an inundation ! I shall be overwhelmed 
 with noise. It beats already at my shores. I 
 feel an earthquake in myself for't. 
 
 Daw. 'Give you joy, mistress. 
 
 Mor. Has she servants 2 too ! 
 
 Daw. I have brought some ladies here to see 
 and know you. My Lady Haughty — [as he pre- 
 sents them severally^ Epi. kisses them] — this my 
 Lady Centaure — Mistress Dol Mavis — Mistress 
 Trusty, my Lady Haughty's woman. Where's 
 your husband ? let see him : can he endure no 
 noise ? let me come to him, 
 
 Mor. What nomenclator is this ! 
 
 True. Sir John Daw, sir, your wife's servant, 
 this, 
 
 Mor. A Daw, and her servant ! Oh, 'tis decreed, 
 'tis decreed of me, an she have such servants, 
 
 [Going. 
 
 True. Nay, sir, you must kiss the ladies ; you 
 must not go away, now: they come toward you 
 to seek you out. 
 
 Hau. V faith, Master Morose, would you steal 
 a marriage thus, in the midst of so many friends, 
 and not acquaint us? Well, I'll kiss you not- 
 
 * To make the punishment of these and similar cha- 
 racters more notorious, beadles, and sometimes volun- 
 teers among the rabble, attended the progress of the 
 cart, beating basons, brass kettles, etc. — Giffoed. 
 
 2 «ervan(5— authorized admirers. — Giffokd. 
 
 withstanding the justice of my quarrel. — You 
 shall give me leave, mistress, to use a becoming 
 familiarity with your husband. 
 
 Epi. Your ladj'ship does me an honour in it, 
 to let me know he is so worthy your favour : as 
 you have done both him and me grace to visit so 
 unprepared a pair to entertain you. 
 
 Mor. Compliment! compliment! 
 
 Epi. But 1 must lay the burden of that upon 
 my servant here. 
 
 Hau. It shall not need, Mistress Morose; we 
 will all bear, rather than one shall be opprest. 
 
 Mor. I know it: and you will teach her the 
 faculty, if she be to learn it. 
 
 [ Walks aside while the rest talk apart. 
 
 Hau. Is this the silent woman ? 
 
 Cen. Nay, she has found her tongue since she 
 was married, Master Truewit says. 
 
 Hau. Oh, Master Truewit! 'save you. What 
 kind of creature is your bride here ? She speaks, 
 methinks ! 
 
 True. Yes, madam, believe it, she is a gentle- 
 woman of very absolute^ behaviour, and of a 
 good race. 
 
 Hau. And Jack Daw told us she could not 
 speak ! 
 
 Ti-ue. So it was carried in plot, madam, to put 
 her upon this old fellow, by Sir Dauphine, his 
 nephew, and one or two more of us : but she is a 
 woman of an excellent assurance, and an extra- 
 ordinary happy wit and tongue. You shall see 
 her make rare sport with Daw ere night. 
 
 Hau. And he brought us to laugh at her ! 
 
 Ti-ue. That falls out often, madam, that he that 
 thinks himself the master- wit, is the master-fool. 
 I assure your ladyship, ye cannot laugh at her! 
 
 Hau. No ! we'll have her to the college. An 
 she have wit, she shall be one of us, shall she 
 not, Centaure ? we'll make her a collegiate. 
 
 Cen. Yes, faith, madam, and Mavis and she 
 will set up a side.2 
 
 Ti-ue. Believe it, madam, and Mistress Mavis 
 she will sustain her part. 
 
 Mav. I'll tell you that, when I hare talk'd with 
 her, and tried her. 
 
 Hau. Use her very civilly, Mavis. 
 
 Mav. So I will, madam. [Whispers her. 
 
 Mor. Blessed minute ! that they would whisper 
 thus ever! [Aside. 
 
 Ti-ue. In the meantime, madam, would but your 
 ladyship help to vex him a little. You know his 
 disease ; talk to him about the wedding cere- 
 monies, or call for your gloves, or — 
 
 Hau. Let me alone. Centaure, help me. — 
 Master bridegroom, where are you ? 
 
 Moi\ Oh, it was too miraculously good to last ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Hau. We see no ensignss of a wedding here; 
 no character of a bride-ale. Where be our scarves 
 and our gloves ? I pray you give them us. Let 
 us know your bride's colours, and yours at least. 
 
 Cen. Alas, madam, he has provided none. 
 
 Mor. Had 1 known your ladyship's painter, I 
 would. 
 
 Hau. He has given it you, Centaure, i'faith. 
 But, do you hear, Master Morose ? a jest will not 
 absolve you in this manner. You that have 
 suck'd the milk of the court, and from theuce have 
 been brought up to the very strong meats and 
 wine of it ; been a courtier from the biggeu to the 
 night-cap,* as we may say, and you to offend in 
 
 1 absolute — perfect. 
 
 2 set vp a side — become partners at cards. 
 ' ensigns— signs. 
 
 * from the biygen to the night-cap— from infancy to age. 
 A biggen was a kind of close cap which bound the fore- 
 head closely, used for young children. 
 
BEN JON SON. 
 
 195 
 
 such a high point of ceremony as this, and let 
 your nuptials want all marks of solemnity ! How 
 much plate have you lost to-day (if you had but 
 regarded your profit), what gifts, what friends, 
 through your mere rusticity ! 
 
 Mor. Madam— 
 
 Hau. Pardon me, sir. I must insinuate your 
 errors to you; no gloves? no garters ? no scarves ? 
 no epithalamium ? no masque ? 
 
 Daw. Yes, madam, I'll make an epithalamium, 
 I promise my mistress ; I have begun it already ; 
 will your ladyship hear it ? 
 
 Hail,. Ay, good Jack Daw. 
 
 Mor. Will it please your ladyship command a 
 chamber, and be private with your friend ? you 
 shall have your choice of rooms to retire to after : 
 my whole house is yours. I know it hath been 
 your ladyship's errand into the city at other times, 
 however now you have been unhappily diverted 
 upon me ; but I shall be loath to break any 
 honourable custom of your ladyship's. And 
 therefore, good madam — 
 
 Ejpi. Come, you are a rude bridegroom, to en- 
 tertain ladies of honour in this fashion. 
 
 Cen. He is a rude groom indeed. 
 
 Time. By that light you deserve to be grafted, 
 and have your horns reach from one side of the 
 island to the other. — Do not mistake me, sir ; I 
 but speak this to give the ladies some heart again, 
 not for any malice to you. 
 
 Mor. Is this your bravo, ladies ? 
 
 Ti-ue. As God [shall] help me, if you utter such 
 another word, 111 take mistress bride in, and 
 begin to you in a very sad cup ; do you see ? Go 
 to, know your friends, and such as love you. 
 
 EnXe;)' Clerimont, followed hy a number of 
 Musicians. 
 
 Cler. By your leave, ladies. Do you want any 
 music ? I have brought you vax-iety of noises.' 
 Play, sirs, all of you. 
 
 [Aside to the Musicians, who strike up all 
 together. 
 
 Mor. Oh, a plot, a plot, a plot, a plot, upon me! 
 This day I shall be their anvil to work on ; they 
 will grate me asunder. 'Tis worse than the noise 
 of a saw. 
 
 Cler. No, they are hair, rosin, and guts. I can 
 give you the receipt. 
 
 Trme. Peace, boys! 
 
 Cler. Play ! I say. 
 
 True^ Peace, rascals! You see who's your 
 friend now, sir : take courage, put on a martyr's 
 resolution. Mock down all their attemptings 
 with patience : 'tis but a day, and I would suffer 
 heroically. Should an ass exceed me in fortitude.^ 
 No. You betray your infirmity with your hang- 
 ing dull ears, and make them insult ; bear up 
 bravely, and constantly. [La-Foole passes over 
 the stage as a Sewer^ followed by Servants caivying 
 dishes, and Mistress Otter.] — Look you here, sir, 
 what honour is done you unexpected, by your 
 nephew; a wedding-dinner come, and a knight- 
 sewer before it, for the more reputation : and fine 
 Mistress Otter, your neighbour, in the rump or 
 tail of it. 
 
 Mor. Is that Gorgon, that Medusa come ! Hide 
 me, hide me ! 
 
 True. I warrant you, sir, she will not transform 
 you. Look upon her with a good courage. Pi-ay 
 you entertain her, and conduct your guests in. 
 No! — Mistress bride, wiU you entreat in the 
 ladies? Your bridegroom is so shamefaced, here. 
 
 Epi. Will it please your ladyship, madam ? 
 
 » noises— bands of musicians. 
 
 Hau. With the benefit of your company, mis- 
 tress. 
 Epi. Servant, pray you perform your duties. 
 Dato. And glad to be commanded, mistress. 
 Cen. How like you her wit, Mavis ? 
 Mav. Very prettily, absolutely well. 
 M7's. Ott. 'Tis my place. 
 Mav. You shall pardon me. Mistress Otter. 
 Mrs. Ott. Why, I am a collegiate. 
 Mav. But not in ordinary. 
 Mrs. Ott. But I am, 
 
 Mav. We'll dispute that within. [Exeunt Ladies. 
 Cler. Would this had lasted a little longer ! 
 True. And that they had sent for the heralds. 
 
 Enter Captain Otteb. 
 
 — Captain Otter ! what news ? 
 
 Ott. I have brought my bull, bear, and horse, 
 in private, and yonder are the trumpeters without, 
 and the drum, gentlemen. 
 
 [The drum and trumpets sound within. 
 
 Mor. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Ott. And we will have a rouse * in each of them, 
 anon, for bold Britons, i'faith. [They sound again. 
 
 Mor. Oh, oh, oh I [Exit hastily. 
 
 Omnes. Follow, follow, follow ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Morose's House. 
 
 Enter Tbuewit and Clerimont. 
 
 True. Was there ever poor bridegroom so tor- 
 mented ? or man, indeed ? 
 
 Cler. I have not read of the like in the chroni- 
 cles of the land. 
 
 True. Sure, he cannot but go to a place of rest, 
 after all this purgatory. 
 
 Cler. He may presume it, I think. 
 
 True. The spitting, the coughing, the laughter, 
 the sneezing, the dancing, noise of the music, 
 and her masculine and loud commanding, and 
 urging the whole family, makes him think he 
 has married a fury. 
 
 Cler. And she cames it up bravely. 
 
 Time. Ay, she takes any occasion to speak : 
 that's the height on't. 
 
 Cler. And how soberly Dauphine labours to 
 satisfy him, that it was none of his plot ! 
 
 True. And has almost brought him to the faith, 
 in the article. Here he comes — 
 
 Enter Sir Dauphine. 
 Where is he now ? what's become of him, Dau- 
 phine ? 
 
 Daup. Oh, hold me up a little, I shall go away 
 in the jest else.2 He has got on his whole nest of 
 night-caps, and lock'd himself up in the top of 
 the house, as high as ever he can climb from the 
 noise. I peep'd in at a cranny, and saw him 
 sitting over a cross-beam of the roof, like him on 
 the saddler's horse in Fleet-street, upright : and 
 he wiU sleep there. 
 
 Cler. But where are your collegiates ? 
 
 Daup. Withdrawn with the bride in private. 
 
 Time. Oh, they are instructing her in the col- 
 lege-grammar. If she have grace with them, she 
 knows all their secrets instantly. 
 
 Cl&)\ Methinks the Lady Haughty looks well 
 to-day, for all my dispraise of her in the morning. 
 I think I shall come about to thee again. True wit. 
 
 1 rouse— fixll glass or bumper, usually drunk to some 
 toast. 
 
 2 / shall go away, Scc—l shall faint with laughing.— 
 I Whallex. 
 
196 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ti-ue. Believe it, I told you right. Women 
 ought to repair the losses time and years have 
 made in their features with dressings. And an 
 intelligent woman, if she know by herself the 
 least defect, will be most curious to hide it : and 
 it becomes her. If she be short, let her sit much, 
 lest, when she stands, she be thought to sit. If 
 she have an ill foot, let her wear her gown the 
 longer, and her shoe the thinner. If a fat hand, 
 and scald ^ nails, let her carve the less, and act in 
 gloves. If a sour breath, let her never discourse 
 fasting, and always talk at her distance. If she 
 have black and rugged teeth, let her offer the 
 less at laughter, especially if she laugh wide and 
 open. 
 
 Cler. Oh, you shall have some women, when 
 they laugh, you would think they brayed, it is 
 so rude and — 
 
 Time. Ay, and others, that will stalk in their 
 gait like an ostrich, and take huge strides. I can- 
 not endure such a sight. I love measure in the 
 feet, and number in the voice: they are gentle- 
 nesses that oftentimes draw no less than the face. 
 
 Daup. How earnest thou to study these crea- 
 tures so exactly? I would thou wouldst make 
 me a proficient. 
 
 True. Yes ; but you must leave ^ to live in your 
 chamber, then, a month together upon Amadis 
 de Gaul, or Don Quixote, as you are wont ; and 
 come abroad where the matter is frequent, to 
 coui-t, to tiltings, public shows and feasts, to 
 plays, and church sometimes : thither they come 
 to show their new tires too ; to see, and be seen. 
 In these places a man shall find whom to love, 
 whom to play with, whom to touch once, whom 
 to hold ever. The variety arrests his judgment. 
 A wench to please a man comes not down drop- 
 ping fi'om the ceiling, as he lies on his back dron- 
 ing * a tobacco pipe. He must go where she is. 
 
 Daup. Yes, and be never the nearer. 
 
 True. Out, heretic! That diffidence makes thee 
 worthy it should be so. 
 
 Cler. He says true to you, Dauphine. 
 
 Daup. Why? 
 
 TVwe. A man should not doubt to overcome 
 any woman. Think he can vanquish them, and 
 he shall : for though they deny, their desire is to 
 be tempted. Penelope hersefi cannot hold out 
 long. Ostend, you saw, was taken at last. You 
 must persdver, and hold to your purpose. They 
 would solicit us, but that they are afraid. How- 
 soever, they wish in their hearts we should solicit 
 them. Praise them, flatter them, you shall never 
 want eloquence or trust : even the chastest delight 
 to feel themselves that way rubb'd. With praises 
 you must mix kisses too : if they take them, they'll 
 take more — though they strive, they would be 
 overcome. 
 
 Cler. Oh, but a man must beware of force. 
 
 True. It is to them an acceptable violence, and 
 has oft-times the place of the greatest courtesy. 
 She that might have been forced, and you let her 
 go free without touching, though then she seem 
 to thank you, will ever hate you after ; and glad 
 in the face, is assuredly sad at the heart. 
 
 Cler. But all women are not to be taken all 
 ways. 
 
 Ti'ue. 'Tis true ; no more than all birds, or all 
 fishes. If you appear learned to an ignorant 
 wench, or jocund to a sad, or witty to a foolish, 
 why she presently begins to mistrust herself. 
 You must approach them in their own height, 
 their own line; for the contrary makes many. 
 
 » «ca?c?— scurvy, scabby, disgusting. 
 
 2 leave — cease. 
 
 ' droning — probably smoking drowsily. 
 
 that fear to commit themselves to noble and 
 worthy fellows, run into the embraces of a rascal. 
 If she love wit, give verses, though you borrow 
 them of a friend, or buy them, to have good. If 
 valour, talk of your sword, and be frequent in 
 the mention of quarrels, though you be staunch 
 in fighting.! If activity, be seen on your barbary2 
 often, or leaping over stools, for *^the credit of 
 your back. If she love good clothes or dressing, 
 have your learned council about you every morn- 
 ing, your French tailor, barber, linener, &c. Let 
 your powder, your glass, and your comb be your 
 dearest acquaintance. Take more care for the 
 ornament of your head, than the safety ; and wish 
 the commonwealth rather troubled, than a hair 
 about you. That will take her. Then, if she be 
 covetous and craving, do you promise anything, 
 and perform sparingly ; so shall you keep her in 
 appetite still. Seem as you would give, but be 
 like a barren field, that yields little, or unlucky 
 dice to foolish and hoping gamesters. Let your 
 gifts be slight and dainty, rather than precious. 
 Let cunning be above cost Give cherries at 
 time of year, or apricots ; and say they were sent 
 you out of the country, though you bought them 
 in Cheapside. Admire her tires : like her in all 
 fashions; compare her in every habit to some 
 deity ; invent excellent dreams to flatter her, and 
 riddles ; or, if she be a great one, perform always 
 the second parts to her : like what she likes, praise 
 whom she praises, and fail not to make the house- 
 hold and servants yours, yea the whole family, 
 and salute them by their names ('tis but light 
 cost, if you can purchase them so), and make her 
 physician your pensioner, and her chief woman. 
 Nor will it be out of your gain to make love to 
 her too, so she follow, not usher her lady's plea- 
 sure. All blabbing is taken away, when she 
 comes to be a part of the ci-ime.^ 
 
 Daup. On what courtly lap hast thou late slept, 
 to come forth so sudden and absolute a courtliug? 
 
 True. Good faith, I should rather question you, 
 that are so hearkening after these mysteries. I 
 begin to suspect your diligence, Dauphine. Speak, 
 art thou in love in earnest ? 
 
 Daup. Yes, by my troth, am I ; 'twere ill dis- 
 sembling before thee. 
 
 True. With which of them, I prithee? 
 
 Daup. With all the collegiates. 
 
 Cler. Out on thee ! We'll keep you at home, 
 believe it, in the stable, an you be such a stallion. 
 
 Ti'V^. No ; I like him well. Men should love 
 wisely, and all women: some one for the face, 
 and let her please the eye ; another for the skin, 
 and let her please the touch ; a third for the voice, 
 and let her please the ear ; and where the objects 
 mix, let the senses so too. Thou would'st think 
 it strange, if I should make them all in love with 
 thee afore night ! 
 
 Daup. I would say, thou hadst the best philtre 
 in the world, and couldst do more than Madam 
 Medea, or Doctor Foreman.* 
 
 True. If I do not, let me play the mountebank 
 for my meat, while I live, and the bawd of my 
 drink. 
 
 Daup. So be it, I say. 
 
 1 The sense seems to be :— Though you should really 
 be a brave man, and therefore not naturally inclined to 
 boast of your valour ; yet, to please your mistress, you 
 may often make it the subject of your discom-se. — 
 
 GiFFOKD. 
 
 - 6a/'6ary— horse. 
 
 3 The greater part of the above is taken from Ovid'a 
 Art of Love. 
 
 * This was a poor stupid wretch who pretended to deal 
 with spirits for the recovery of lost spoons, &c.— 
 
 GiFFOKD. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 197 
 
 Enter Otter with his three Cups, Daw, and 
 La-Foole. 
 
 Oft. Oh lord, gentlemen, how my knights and I 
 have missed you here ! 
 
 Cler. Why, captain, what service, what ser- 
 vice ? 
 
 Ott. To see me bring up my bull, bear, and 
 horse ^ to fight. 
 
 Daw. Yes, faith, the captain says we shall be 
 his dogs to bait them. 
 
 Daup. A good employment. 
 
 Tme. Come on, let's see your course, then. 
 
 La-F. I am afraid my cousin will be offended, 
 if she come. 
 
 Ott. Be afraid of nothing. — Gentlemen, I have 
 placed the drum and the trumpets, and one to 
 give them the sign when you are ready. Here's 
 my bull for myself, and my bear for Sir John 
 Daw, and my horse for Sir Amorous. Now set 
 your foot to mine, and yours to his, and — 
 
 La-F. Pray God my cousin come not. 
 
 Ott. St. George and St. Andrew, fear no cousins. 
 — Come, sound, sound! [Drum and trumpets sowid.'] 
 Et rauco strepuerunt cornua cantu.^ {They drink.] 
 
 True. Well said, captain, i'faith ; well fought 
 at the bull. 
 
 Cler. Well held at the bear. 
 
 True. Low, low ! captain. 
 
 Daup. Oh, the horse has kick'd off his dog 
 already. 
 
 La-F. I cannot drink it, as I am a knight. 
 
 True. Ods so ! Off with his spurs, somebody. 
 
 La-F. It goes against my conscience. My 
 cousin will be angry with it. 
 
 Daw. I have done mine. 
 
 True. You fought high and fair, Sir John. 
 
 Cler. At the head. 
 
 Daup. Like an excellent bear- dog. 
 
 Cler. You take no notice of the business, I hope ? 
 
 Daw. Not a word, sir; you see we are jovial. 
 
 Ott. Sir Amorous, you must not equivocate. 
 It must be puU'd down, for all my cousin. 
 
 Cler. 'Sfoot, if you take not your drink, they'll 
 think you are discontented with something; you'll 
 betray all, if you take the least notice. 
 
 La-F. Not I ; I'll both drink and talk then. 
 
 Ott. You must pull the horse on his knees, Sir 
 Amorous ; fear no cousins. Jacta est alea.^ 
 
 True. Oh, now he's in his vein, and bold. The 
 least hint given him of his wife now, will make 
 him rail desperately. 
 
 Cler. Speak to him of her. 
 
 True. Do you, and I'll fetch her to the hearing 
 of it. {Exit. 
 
 Daup. Captain He-Otter, your She-Otter is 
 coming, your wife. 
 
 Ott. Wife ! buz 1 titivilitium ! * There's no such 
 thing in nature. I confess, gentlemen, I have a 
 cook, a laundress, a house-drudge, that serves my 
 necessary turns, and goes under that title ; but 
 he's an ass that will be so uxorious to tie his 
 affections to one circle. Come, the name dulls 
 appetite. Here, replenish again; another bout. 
 [Fills the cups again.'] Wives are nasty, sluttish 
 animals. 
 
 Daup. Oh, captain! 
 
 Ott. As ever the earth bare, tribus verbis.^ — 
 Where's Master Truewit? 
 Daw. He's slipt aside, sir. 
 
 1 The names of his various cups. 
 
 2 ' And the trumpets rang forth with deep sounding 
 note.' 
 
 3 ' The die is cast.' 
 
 * ' A bagatelle ; good for notliing.' 
 
 * in three words ' — i.e. in few words, or to be brief. 
 
 Cler. But you must drink and be jovial. 
 
 Daw. Yes, give it me. 
 
 La-F. And me too. 
 
 Data. Let's be jovial. 
 
 La-F. As jovial as you will. 
 
 Ott. Agreed. Now you shall have the bear, 
 cousin, and Sir John Daw the horse, and I'll have 
 the bull still. Sound, Tritons of the Thames! 
 [Drum and trumpets sound again.~] Nunc est 
 hibendum^ nunc pede libero^ — 
 
 Mor. [above.] Villains, murderers, sons of the 
 earth, and traitors ! what do you there ? 
 
 Cler. Oh, now the trumpets have waked him, 
 we shall have his company. 
 
 Ott. A wife is a scurvy clogdogdo, an unlucky 
 thing, a very foresaid bear-whelp, without any 
 good fashion or breeding, mala bestia.' 
 
 Re-enter Truewit behind, with Mistress Otter. 
 Daup. Why did you marry one then, captain ? 
 
 Ott. A pox! — I married with six thousand 
 pound, I. I was in love with that. I have not 
 kissed my Fury these forty weeks. 
 
 Cler. The more to blame you, captain. 
 
 T)-ue, Nay, Mistress Otter, hear him a little 
 first. 
 
 Ott. She has a breath worse than my grand- 
 mother's, profecto.3 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Oh treacherous liar! Kiss me, sweet 
 Master Truewit, and prove him a slandering 
 knave. 
 
 True. I'll rather believe you, lady. 
 
 Ott. And she has a peruke that's like a pound 
 of hemp, made up in shoe-threads. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Oh viper, mandrake ! 
 
 Ott. A most vile face ! and yet she spends me 
 forty pound a year in mercury and hogs-bones. 
 All her teeth were made in the Black-friars, both 
 her eyebrows in the Strand, and her hair in 
 Silver-street. Every part of the town owns a 
 piece of her. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. [comes foi'ward.] I cannot hold. 
 
 Ott. She takes herself asunder still when she 
 goes to bed, into some twenty boxes ; and about 
 next day noon is put together again, like a great 
 German clock : and so comes forth, and rings a 
 tedious larum to the whole house, and then is 
 quiet again for an hour, but for her quarters- 
 Have you done me right, gentlemen ? 
 
 Mrs. Ott. [falls upon him, and beats him.] No, 
 sir, I'll do you right with my quarters, with my 
 quarters. 
 
 Ott. Oh, hold, good princess ! 
 
 True. Sound, sound! [Drum and trumpets sound. 
 
 Cler. A battle, a battle ! 
 
 Mrs. Ott. You notorious stinkardly bearward, 
 does my breath smell ? 
 
 Ott. Under correction, dear princess. — Look to 
 my bear and my horse, gentlemen. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Do I want teeth, and eyebrows, thou 
 bull-dog ? 
 
 Ti-ue. Sound, sound still ! [They sound again. 
 
 Ott. No, I protest, under correction — 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Ay, now you are under correction, 
 you protest : but you did not protest before cor- 
 rection, sir. Thou Judas, to offer to betray thy 
 princess 1 I'll make thee an example — 
 
 [Beats him. 
 
 Enter Morose with his long sword. 
 Mor. I will have no such examples in my 
 house. Lady Otter. 
 
 1 'Now let us drink, now, with unfettered foot, [let us 
 heat the earth, &c.] '—Horace, Od. i. 37. 
 
 2 ' a dirty beast.' 
 
 3 'really.' 
 
198 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Ah !— 
 
 [Mrs. Ottek, Daw, and La-Foole, I'un off. 
 
 Mor. Mistress Mary Ambree,^ your examples 
 are dangerous, — Eogues, hell-hounds, S ten tors! 
 out of my doors, you sons of noise and tumult, 
 begot on an ill May-day, or when the galley- 
 foist is afloat to Westminster ! 2 [^Drives out the 
 musicians.~\ A trumpeter could not be conceived 
 but then. 
 
 Danp. What ails you, sir ? 
 
 Mor. They have rent my roof, walls, and all 
 jny windows' asunder, with their brazen throats. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 True. Best follow him, Dauphine. 
 
 Daup. So I will. [Exit. 
 
 Cler. Where's Daw and La-Foole ? 
 
 Ott. They are both run away, sir. Good 
 gentlemen, help to pacify my princess, and 
 speak to the great ladies for me. Now must I 
 go lie with the bears this fortnight, and keep out 
 of the way, till my peace be made, for this 
 scandal she has taken. Did you not see my bull- 
 head, gentlemen ? 
 
 Cler. Is't not on, captain ? 
 
 Time. No; but he may make a new one, by 
 that is on. 
 
 Ott. Oh, here it is. An you come over, gentle- 
 men, and ask for Tom Otter, we'll go down to 
 Ratcliff, and have a course i'faith, for all these 
 disasters. There is bona spes left.^ 
 
 True. Away, captain, get off while you are 
 well. [Exit Otteb. 
 
 Cler. I am glad we are rid of him. 
 
 Ti-ue. You had never been, unless we had put 
 his wife upon him. His humour is as tedious at 
 last, as it was ridiculous at first. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 A long open Gallery in the same. 
 
 Enter Lady Haughty, Mistress Otter, Mavis, 
 Daw, La-Foole, Oentauke, and Epicoene. 
 
 Hau. We wonder'd why you shriek'd so, Mis- 
 tress Otter. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Oh lord, madam, he came down with 
 a huge long naked weapon in both his hands, 
 and look'd so dreadfully ! Sure, he's beside him- 
 self. 
 
 Mav. Why, what made you there. Mistress 
 Otter.' 
 
 Mi's. Ott. Alas, Mistress Mavis, I was chas- 
 tising my subject, and thought nothing of him. 
 
 Daw. Faith, mistress, you must do so too : 
 learn to chastise. Mistress Otter corrects her 
 husband so, he dares not speak but under cor- 
 rection. 
 
 La-F. And with his hat off to her : 'twould 
 do you good to see. 
 
 Hau. In sadness, 'tis good and mature counsel; 
 practise it, Morose. I'll call you Morose still 
 now, as I caU Centaure and Mavis ; we four will 
 be all one. 
 
 Cen. And you'll come to the college, and live 
 with us ? 
 
 1 Of this celebrated Amazon, who fought at the 
 siege of Ghent, 1584, Jonson makes fi'equent mention. 
 
 — GiFFORD. 
 
 2 Alluding to the sports which were anciently used 
 on May-day ; and particularly to the insurrection of the 
 apprentices in London, against foreigners and aliens, 
 on May- day, 1517, afterwards called Evil May-day. 
 The galley-foist was the city-barge, used upon the Lord 
 Mayor's day. — Whallei. Foist, Fr. fuste, was a sort of 
 galley, 
 
 * ' good hope.' 
 
 Halt. Make him give milk and honey. 
 
 Mav. Look how you manage him at first, you 
 shall have him ever after. 
 
 Cen. Let him allow you your coach, and four 
 horses, your woman, your chamber-maid, your 
 page, your gentleman-usher, your French cook, 
 and four grooms. 
 
 Hau. And go with us to Bedlam, to the China- 
 houses, and to the Exchange. 
 
 Cen. It will open the gate to your fame. 
 
 Hau. Here's Centaure has immortalized her- 
 self, with taming of her wild male. 
 
 Mav. Ay, she has done the miracle of the 
 kingdom. 
 
 Enter Clerimont and Teuewit. 
 
 Epi. But, ladies, do you count it lawful to 
 have such plurality of servants, and do them all 
 graces ? 
 
 Hau. Why not .' Why should women deny their 
 favours to men ? Are they the poorer or the worse ? 
 
 Daw. Is the Thames the less for the dyers' 
 water, mistress ? 
 
 La-F. Or a torch for lighting many torches ? 
 
 True. Well said, La-Foole. What a new one 
 he has got ! 
 
 Cen. They are empty losses women fear in this 
 kind. 
 
 Hau. Besides, ladies should be mindful of the 
 approach of age, and let no time want his due 
 use. The best of our days pass first. 
 
 Mav. We are rivers, that cannot be call'd back, 
 madam. She that now excludes her lovers, may 
 live to lie a forsaken beldame, in a frozen bed. 
 
 Cen. 'Tis true. Mavis : and who will wait on 
 us to coach then ? or write, or tell us the news 
 then, make anagrams of our names, and invite 
 us to the Cockpit, and kiss our hands all the play- 
 time, and draw their weapons for our honours ? 
 
 Hau. Not one. 
 
 Daw. Nay, my mistress is not altogether unin- 
 telligent of these things ; here be in presence 
 have tasted of her favours. 
 
 Cler. What a neighing hobby-horse is this ! 
 
 Epi. But not with intent to boast them again, 
 servant. — And have you those excellent receipts, 
 madam, to keep yourselves from bearing of chil- 
 dren ? 
 
 Hau. Oh yes, Morose : how should we maintain 
 our youth and beauty else ? Many births of a 
 woman make her old, as many crops make the 
 earth barren. 
 
 Enter Morose and Dauphine. 
 
 Mor. my cursed angel, that instructed* me 
 to this fate ! 
 
 Daup. Why, sir ? 
 
 Mor. That I should be seduced by so foolish a 
 devil as a barber will make ! 
 
 Daup. I would I had been worthy, sir, to have 
 partaken your counsel; you should never have 
 trusted it to such a minister. 
 
 Mor. Would I could redeem it with the loss of 
 an eye, nephew, a hand, or any other member. 
 
 Daup. Marry, God forbid, sir, that you should 
 geld yourself, to anger your wife. 
 
 Mor. So it would rid me of her! — and, that 
 I did supererogatory penance in a belfry, at 
 Westminster Hall, in the Cockpit, at the fall of 
 a stag, the Tower- wharf —what place is there 
 else ? — London-bridge, Paris-garden, Billingsgate, 
 when the noises are at their height, and loudest. 
 Nay, I would sit out a play, that were nothing 
 but fights at sea, drum, trumpet, and target. 
 
 1 instructed — designed, appointed. 
 
BEN JONS ON, 
 
 199 
 
 Baxvp. I hope there shall be no such need, sir. 
 Take patience, good uncle. This is but a day, 
 and 'tis well worn too now. 
 
 Mor. Oh, 'twill be so for ever, nephew, I fore- 
 see it, for ever. Strife and tumult are the dowry 
 that comes with a wife. 
 
 True. I told you so, sir, and you would not 
 believe me. 
 
 Mor. Alas, do not rub those wounds, Master 
 Truewit, to blood again: 'twas my negligence. 
 Add not affliction to affliction. I have per- 
 ceived the effect of it, too late, in Madam Otter. 
 
 Epi. How do you, sir ? 
 
 Mor. Did you ever hear a more unnecessary 
 question ? as if she did not see ! Why, I do as 
 you see, empress, empress. 
 
 Epi. You are not well, sir ; you look very ill : 
 something has distemper'd you. 
 
 Mor. Oh, horrible, monstrous impertinencies ! 
 Would not one of these have served, do you 
 think, sir ? would not one of these have served .' 
 
 True. Yes, sir ; but these are but notes of 
 female kindness, sir ; certain tokens that she has 
 a voice, sir. 
 
 Mor. Oh, is it so ! Come, an't be no otherwise. 
 — What say you .-* 
 
 Epi. How do you feel yourself, sir ? 
 
 Mor. Again that ! 
 
 True. Nay, look you, sir, you would be friends 
 with your wife upon unconscionable terms ; her 
 silence. 
 
 Epi. They say you are run mad, sir. 
 
 Mor. Not for love, I assure you, of you ; do 
 you see ? 
 
 Epi. Oh lord, gentlemen ! lay hold on him, for 
 God's sake. What shall I do ? who's his physi- 
 cian, can you tell, that knows the state of his 
 body best, that I might send for him? Good 
 sir, speak ; I'll send for one of my doctors else. 
 
 Mor. What! to poison me, that I might die 
 intestate, and leave you possest of all! 
 
 Epi. Lord, how idly he talks, and how his eyes 
 sparkle ! He looks green about the temples ! do 
 you see what blue spots he has ! 
 
 Cler. Ay, 'tis melancholy. 
 
 Epi. Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake, counsel 
 me. Ladies ; — servant, you have read Pliny 
 and Paracelsus ; ne'er a word now to comfort a 
 poor gentlewoman.? Ay me, what fortune had 
 I, to marry a distracted man ! 
 
 Daw. I'll tell you, mistress — 
 
 True. How rarely she holds it up ! 
 
 \Aside to Cler. 
 
 Mor. What mean you, gentlemen ? 
 
 Epi. What will you tell me, servant 1 
 
 Daw. The disease in Greek is called (Mtviec,^^ in 
 Latin insania, furor, vel ecstasis melancholica,^ 
 that is, egressio,^ when a man ex melancholico 
 evaditfanaticus.^ 
 
 Mor. Shall I have a lecture read upon me alive ? 
 
 Daw. But he may be but phreneticus yet, mis- 
 tress ; and phrenetis is only delirium, or so. 
 
 Epi. Ay, that is for the disease, servant; but 
 what is this to the cure ? We are sure enough 
 of the disease. 
 
 Mor. Let me go. 
 
 True. Why, we'll entreather to hold her peace,sir. 
 
 Mor. Oh no, labour not to stop her. She is 
 like a conduit pipe, that will gush out with more 
 force when she opens again. 
 
 1 ' mania.' 
 
 ^ insania, &c. — 'insanity, madness, or melancholy 
 ecstasy.' 
 
 -'outgoing,' which is also the literal meaning of 
 ecstasy. 
 
 * * from being melancholy, turns out mad.' 
 
 Hau. I'll tell you, Morose, you must talk 
 divinity to him altogether, or moral philosophy. 
 
 La-F. Ay, and there's an excellent book of 
 moral philosophy, madam, of Reynard the Fox, 
 and all the beasts, called Doni's Philosophy.^ 
 
 Ce7i. There is indeed, Sir Amorous La-Foole. 
 
 Mor. Oh misery! 
 
 La-F. I have read it, my Lady Centaurei, all 
 over, to my cousin here. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. A.J, and 'tis a very good book as any 
 is, of the moderns. 
 
 Daw. Tut, he must have Seneca read to him, 
 and Plutarch, and the ancients ; the moderns are 
 not for this disease. 
 
 Cler. Why, you discommended them too, to- 
 day, Sir John. 
 
 Daw. A.J, in some cases : but in these they are 
 best, and Aristotle's Ethics. 
 
 Mav. Say you so. Sir John ? I think you are 
 deceived ; you took it upon trust. 
 
 Hau. Where's Trusty, my woman? I'll end 
 this difference. I pi-ithee, Otter, call her. Her 
 father and mother were both mad, when they put 
 her to me. 
 
 Mor. I think so. — Nay, gentlemen, I am tame. 
 This is but an exercise, I know a marriage cere- 
 mony, which I must endure. 
 
 Hau. And one of them, I know not which, was 
 cured with the Sick Man's Salve,^ and the other 
 with Green's Groat's-worth of Wit. 
 
 True. A very cheap cure, madam. 
 
 Enter Trusty. 
 
 Hau. Ay, 'tis very feasible, 
 
 Mrs. Ott. My lady call'd for you, Mistress 
 Trusty : you must decide a controversy. 
 
 Hau. Oh, Trusty, which was it you said, your 
 father or your mother, that was cured with the 
 Sick Man's Salve ? 
 
 Trus. My mother, madam, with the Salve. 
 
 True. Then it was the sick woman's salve ? 
 
 Ti'us. And my father with the Groat's-worth 
 of Wit. But there was other means used: we 
 had a preacher that would preach folk asleep 
 still; and so they were prescribed to go to 
 church, by an old woman that was their physi- 
 cian, thrice a week — 
 
 Epi. To sleep ? 
 
 Trus. Yes, forsooth : and every night they 
 read themselves asleep on those books. 
 
 Epi. Good faith, it stands with great reason. 
 I would I knew where to procure those books. 
 
 Moi\ Oh! 
 
 La-F. I can help you with one of them. Mis- 
 tress Morose, the Groat's-worth of Wit. 
 
 Epi. But I shall disfurnish^ you, Sir 1 
 can you spare it ? 
 
 La-F. Oh yes, for a week, or so. I'll read it 
 myself to him. 
 
 Epi. No, I must do that, sir ; that must be my 
 office. 
 
 Mor. Oh, oh ! 
 
 Epi. Sure he would do well enough, if he 
 could sleep. 
 
 Mor. No, I should do well enough, if you could 
 
 1 A very old collection of oriental apologues, called 
 Calilah a Dumnafi (better known as the Fables of 
 Palpay), was rendered into English from Latin by Sir 
 Thomas North in 1605, and called DonVs Moral Phi- 
 losophy. Sir Amorous confounds it with the popular 
 history of Reynard the /'ox.— Gifford. 
 
 2 Sick Man's Salve was a devotional tract written by- 
 Thomas Becon, an old Calvinistical divine, and pub- 
 hshed about 1591. For the other, see Greene's Life. 
 
 3 dis/urnish — deprive. 
 
 Amorous : 
 
200 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bleep. Have I no friend that -will make her drunk, 
 or give her a little laudanum, or opium ? 
 
 True. Why, sir, she talks ten times worse in 
 her sleep. 
 
 Mor. How! 
 
 Cler. Do you not know that, sir ? never ceases 
 all night. 
 
 Ti^e. And snores like a porpoise. 
 
 Mor. Oil, redeem me, fate ; redeem me, fate ! 
 For how many causes may a man be divorced, 
 nephew "i 
 
 Baup. I know not, truly, sir. 
 
 Titie. Some divine must resolve you in that, 
 sir, or canon-lawyer. 
 
 Mw. I will not rest, I will not think of any 
 other hope or comfort, till I know. 
 
 [Exit with Dauphine. 
 
 Cler. Alas, poor man ! 
 
 True. You'll make him mad indeed, ladies, if 
 you pursue this. 
 
 Eau. No, we'll let him breathe now, a quarter 
 of an hour or so. 
 
 Cler. By my faith, a large truce ! 
 
 Uau. Is that his keeper, that is gone with him .' 
 
 Daw. It is his nephew, madam. 
 
 La-F. Sir Dauphine Eugenie. 
 
 Cen. He looks like a very pitiful knight — 
 
 Daw. As can be. This marriage has put him 
 out of all. 
 
 La-F. He has not a penny in his purse, madam. 
 
 Daw. He is ready to cry all this day. 
 
 La-F. A very shark; he set me in the nick 
 t'other night at primero. 
 
 Ttuc. How these swabbers talk ! 
 
 Cler. Ay, Otter's wine has swell'd their hu- 
 mours above a spring- tide. 
 
 Eau. Good Morose, let's go in again. I like 
 yoiir couches exceeding weU ; we'll go lie and 
 talk there. 
 
 [Exeunt Hau., Cen., Mav., Trus., La-Foole, 
 and Daw. 
 
 Epi. [following them.] I wait on you, madam. 
 
 Ti-ue. [stopping he?:] 'Slight, I will have them 
 as silent as signs, and their post too, ere I have 
 done. Do you hear, lady-bride? I pray thee 
 now, as thou art a noble wench, continue this 
 discourse of Dauphine within ; but praise him 
 exceedingly : magnify him with all the height of 
 affection thou canst ; — I have some purpose in't : 
 and but beat off these two rooks, Jack Daw and 
 his fellow, with any discontentment, hither, and 
 I'U honour thee for ever. 
 
 Epi. 1 was about it here. It angered me to the 
 soul to hear them begin to talk so malapert. 
 
 True. Pray thee perform it, and thou winn'st 
 me an idolater to thee everlasting. 
 
 Epi. Will you go in and hear me do't ? 
 
 Titce. No, I'll stay here. Drive them out of 
 your company, 'tis all I ask; which cannot be 
 any way better done, than by extolling Dauphine, 
 whom they have so slighted. 
 
 Epi. I warrant you; you shall expect one of 
 them presently. [Exit. 
 
 Cler. What a cast of kesti-ils* are these, to hawk 
 after ladies, thus ! 
 
 True. Ay, and strike at such an eagle as 
 Dauphine. 
 
 Cler. He will be mad when we tell him. Here 
 lie comes. 
 
 Re-enter Dauphine. 
 
 Cler. Oh sir, you are welcome. 
 
 TT'ue. Where's thine uncle ? 
 
 Baup. Kun out of doors in his night-caps, to 
 
 I cast ofkestrih — cas< means couple ; a kestril is a base, 
 degenerate hawk. 
 
 talk with a casuist about his divorce. Jt'^orks 
 admirably. 
 
 True. Thou wouldst have said so, an thou hadst 
 been here ! The ladies have laugh'd at thee most 
 comically, since thou went'st, Dauphine. 
 
 Cler. And ask'd, if thou wert thine uncle's 
 keeper. 
 
 Ti'ue. And the brace of baboons answer' d, Yes ; 
 and said thou wert a pitiful poor fellow, and 
 did'st live upon posts, and hadst nothing but 
 three suits of apparel, and some few benevolences 
 that the lords gave thee to fool to them, and 
 swagger. 
 
 Daup. Let me not live, I'll beat them : I'll bind 
 them both to gi-and-madam's bedposts, and have 
 them baited with monkeys. 
 
 Ti-ue. Thou shalt not need, they shall be beaten 
 to thy hand, Dauphine. I have an execution to 
 serve upon thee, I warrant them, shall serve ; trust 
 my plot. 
 
 Daup. Ay, you have many plots ! so you had 
 one to make all the wenches in love with me. 
 
 True. Why, if I do it not yet afore night, a3 
 near as 'tis, and that they do not every one invitft 
 thee, and be ready to scratch for thee, take the 
 mortgage of my wit. 
 
 Cler. 'Fore God, I'll be his witness thou shalt 
 have it, Dauphine : thou shalt be his fool for ever, 
 if thou dost not. 
 
 True. Agreed. Perhaps 'twill be the better 
 estate. Do you observe this gallery, or rather 
 lobby, indeed ? Here are a couple of studies, at 
 each end one : here will I act such a tragi-comedy 
 between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, i Daw 
 and La-Foole. Which of them comes out first, 
 will I seize on ; you two shall be the chorus be- 
 hind the arras, and whip out between the acta 
 and speak. If I do not make them keep the peaca 
 for this remnant of the day, if not of the year, I 
 have failed once. I hear Daw coming : hide [they 
 withdraw^ and do not laugh, for God's sake. 
 
 Re-enter Daw. 
 
 Daw. Which is the way into the garden, trow ? 
 
 Ti-ue. Jack Daw ! I am glad I have met with 
 you. In good faith, I must have this matter go 
 no further between you : I must have it taken up. 
 
 Daw. What matter, sir .' between whom ? 
 
 Tru£. Come, you disguise it : Sir Amorous and 
 you. If you love me. Jack, you shall make use 
 of your philosophy now, for this once, and deliver 
 me your sword. This is not the wedding the 
 Centaurs were at, though there be a she one here. 
 [Takes his sword.] The bride has entreated me 
 1 will see no blood shed at her bridal : you saw 
 her whisper me erewhile. 
 
 Daw. As I hope to finish Tacitus, I intend no 
 murder. 
 
 Ti-ue. Do you not wait for Sir Amorous ? 
 
 Daw. Not I, by my knighthood. 
 
 True. And your scholarship too ? 
 
 Daw. And my scholarship too. 
 
 Ti-v^. Go to, then 1 return you your sword, and 
 ask you mercy; but put it not up, for you will be 
 assaulted. I understood that you had apprehended 
 it, and walked here to bi'ave him ; and that you 
 had held your life contemptible, in regard of your 
 honour. 
 
 Daw. No, no ; no such thing, I assure you. Ha 
 and I parted now, as good friends as could be. 
 
 Ti-u^. Trust not you to that visor.^ I saw him 
 
 1 These were two factions that, in the twelfth and 
 thirteenth centuries, harassed Italy with gieat animosity 
 and violence. 
 
 2 A visor was the masque, or part of the helmet that 
 covered the face; here it seems to be used for appear- 
 ance, coiuitenance. 
 
BEN JONSON, 
 
 20 1 
 
 since dinner with another face. I have known 
 many men in my time vex'd with losses, with 
 deaths, and with abuses ; but so offended a wight 
 as Sir Amorous, did I never see or read of. For 
 taking away his guests, sir, to-day, that's the 
 cause ; and he declares it behind your back with 
 such threatenings and contempts. He said to 
 Dauphine, you were the arrant'st ass — 
 Daw. Ay, he may say his pleasure. 
 True. And swears you are so protested a 
 coward, that he knows you will never do him 
 any manly or single right ; and therefore he will 
 take his course. 
 
 Daw. I'll give him any satisfaction, sir — but 
 fighting. 
 
 Ti'ue. Ay, sir ; but who knows what satisfac- 
 tion he'll take ? Blood he thirsts for, and blood 
 he will have ; and whereabouts on you he will 
 have it, who knows but himself ? 
 
 Daw. I pray you, Master Truewit, be you a 
 mediator. 
 
 True. Well, sir, conceal yourself then in this 
 study till I return. {Puts Mm into the study.'] 
 Nay, you must be content to be lock'd in; for, 
 for mine own reputation, I would not have you 
 seen to receive a public disgrace, while I have the 
 matter in managing. Ods so, here he comes ; 
 keep your breath close, that he do not hear you 
 sigh. — In good faith, Sir Amorous, he is not this 
 way ; I pray you be merciful, do not murder him ; 
 he is a Christian, as good as you : you are arm'd 
 as if you sought revenge on all his race. — Good 
 Dauphine, get him away from this place. I never 
 knew a man's choler so high, but he would speak 
 to his friends, he would hear reason. — Jack Daw, 
 Jack ! asleep ! 
 
 Daw. [loithin.'] Is he gone. Master Truewit ? 
 True. Ay ; did you hear him ? 
 Daw. O lord ! yes. 
 True. What a quick ear fear has ! 
 Daw. [coines out of the closet.'] But is lie so 
 arm'd, as you say ? 
 
 True. Arm'd ! Did you ever see a fellow set 
 out to take possession .'* ^ 
 Daw. Ay, sir. 
 
 True. That may give you some light to con- 
 ceive of him ; but 'tis nothing to the principal. 
 Some false brother in the house has furnish'd him 
 strangely ; or, if it were out of the house, it was 
 Tom Otter. 
 
 Daw. Indeed, he's a captain, and his wife is his 
 kinswoman. 
 
 True. He has got somebody's old two-hand 
 Bword, to mow you off at the knees ; and that 
 sword hath spawn'd such a dagger ! — But then he 
 is so hung with pikes, halberds, petronels, cali- 
 vers,2 and muskets, that he looks like a justice of 
 peace's hall ; a man of two thousand a year is not 
 cess'd at so many weapons as he has on. There 
 was never fencer challenged at so many several 
 foils. You would think he meant to murder all 
 St. Pulchre's parish. If he could but victual 
 himself half a year in his bi'eeches, he is suflB.- 
 ciently arm'd to overrun a country. 
 
 Daw. Good lord ! what means he, sir ? I pray 
 you, Master Truewit, be you a mediator. 
 
 Ti'ue. Well, I'll try if he will be appeased with 
 a leg or an arm ; if not, you must die once. 
 
 1 When estates were litigated, or transferred to a 
 hungry favourite, taking possession was a service of some 
 danger, and the new owner set forth with his attendants 
 und servants well armed. 
 
 - petronels and calivers, saj's Gifford, seem to answer 
 to our blunderbusses or horse-pistols and fowling-pieces 
 respectively. 
 
 Daw. I would be loth to lose my right arm for 
 writing madrigals. 
 
 Tj^ue. Why, if he will be satisfied with a thumb 
 or a little finger, all's one to me. You must think^ 
 I'll do my best. [Shuts him up. 
 
 Daw. Good sir, do. 
 
 [Clek. and Daup. come forward. 
 
 Cler. What hast thou done ? 
 
 True. He will let me do nothing, he does all 
 afore ; he offers his left arm. 
 
 Cler. His left wing for a Jack Daw. 
 
 Daup. Take it by all means. 
 
 True. How ! maim a man for ever, for a jest ? 
 What a conscience hast thou ! 
 
 Daup. 'Tis no loss to him ; he has no employ- 
 ment for his arms, but to eat spoon-meat. Beside, 
 as good maim his body as his reputation. 
 
 Tnie. He is a scholar and a wit, and yet he 
 does not think so. But he loses no reputation 
 with us ; for we all resolved him an ass before. 
 To your places again. 
 
 Cler. I pray thee, let me be in at the other a 
 little. 
 
 Ti-ue. Look, yoxx'll spoil all ; these be ever your 
 tricks. 
 
 Cler. No ; but I could|hit of some things that 
 thou wilt miss, and thou wilt say are good ones. 
 
 Ti-ue. I warrant you. I pray forbear, I'll leave 
 it off, else. 
 
 Daup. Come away, Clerimont. 
 
 [Daup. and Clek. withdraw as before. 
 
 Enter La-Foole. 
 
 Time. Sir Amorous ! 
 
 La-F. Master Truewit. 
 
 True. Whither were you going ? 
 
 La-F. Down into the court to make water. 
 
 Tru^. By no means, sir ; you shall rather tempt 
 your breeches. 
 
 La-F. Why, sir? 
 
 True. Enter here if you love your life. 
 
 {Opening the door of the other study. 
 
 La-F. Why? why? 
 
 Tru£. Question till your throat be cut, do. 
 Dally till the enraged soul find you. 
 
 La-F. Who is that ? 
 
 True. Daw it is : will you in ? 
 
 La-F. Ay, ay, I'll in. What's the matter ? 
 
 True. Nay, if he had been cool enough to tell 
 us that, there had been some hope to atone^ you ; 
 but he seems so implacably enraged ! 
 
 La-F. 'Slight, let him rage ! I'll hide myself. 
 
 True. Do, good sir. But what have you done 
 to him within, that should provoke him thus ? 
 You have broke some jest upon him afore the 
 ladies. 
 
 La-F. Not I, never in my life broke jest upon 
 any man. The bride was praising Sir Dauphine, 
 and he went away in snuff,^ and I followed him; 
 unless he took offence at me in his drink erewhile, 
 that I would not pledge aU the horse full. 
 
 Trm. By my faith, and that may be ; you 
 remember well : but he walks the round up and 
 down, through every room o' the house, with a 
 towel in his hand, crying, Whereas La-Foole ? 
 Who saw La-Foole f And when Dauphine and I 
 demanded the cause, we can force no answer from 
 him, but — revenge, hoxo sioeet art thou! I will 
 strangle him in this «ow;eZ— which leads us to con- 
 jecture that the main cause of his fury is, for 
 bringing your meat to-day with a towel about 
 you, to his discredit. 
 
 ' atone — make at one, reconcile. 
 
 2 in snuff— m anger ; probably from sniffing, or mak- 
 ing a contemptuous noise with the nostrils. 
 
202 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 La-F. Like enough. Why, an he be angry for 
 that, I'll stay here till his anger be blown over. 
 
 True. A good, becoming resolutioD, sir; if you 
 can put it on o' the sudden. 
 
 La-F. Yes, I can put it on : or, I'll away into 
 the country presently. 
 
 True. How will you go out of the house, sir ? 
 He knows you are in the house, and he'll watch 
 this se'ennight, but he'll have you : he'll outwait 
 a Serjeant for you. 
 
 La-F. Why", then I'll stay here. 
 
 Time. You must think how to victual yourself 
 in time then. 
 
 La-F. Wliy, sweet Master Truewit, will you 
 entreat my cousin Otter to send me a cold venison 
 pasty, a bottle or two of wine, and a chamber-pot? 
 
 True. A stool were better, sir, of Sir Ajaxi his 
 invention. 
 
 La-F. Ay, that will be better, indeed ; and a 
 pallet to lie on. 
 
 Time. Oh, I would not advise you to sleep by 
 any means. 
 
 La-F. Would you not, sir ? Why, then I will 
 not. 
 
 True. Yet there's another fear — 
 
 La-F. Is there ? what is't ? 
 
 True. No, he cannot break open this door with 
 his foot, sure. 
 
 La-F. I'll set my back against it, sir. I have 
 a good back. 
 
 True. But then if he should batter? 
 
 La-F. Batter ! If he dare, I'll have an action of 
 battery against him. 
 
 True. Oast ^ you the worst. He has sent for 
 powder already, and what he will do with it, no 
 man knows : perhaps blow up the corner of the 
 house where he suspects you are. Here he comes ; 
 in quickly. [Thrusts in La-Foole and shuts the 
 door.'\ — I protest. Sir John Daw, he is not this 
 way : what will you do ? Before God, you shall 
 hang no petard here : I'll die rather. Will you 
 not take my word ? I never knew one but would 
 be satisfied. — Sir Amorous [speaks through the 
 Jcey-hoW] there's no standing out : he has made 
 a petard of an old brass pot, to force your door. 
 Think upon some satisfaction, or terms to offer 
 him. 
 
 La-F. [within.'] Sir, I'll give him any satisfac- 
 tion. I dare give any terms. 
 
 True. You'll leave it to me, then ? 
 
 La-F. Ay, sir. I'll stand to any conditions. 
 
 True, [beckoning Jbi'ward Cler. and Daup.] 
 How now, what think you, sirs? were't not a 
 difficult thing to determine which of these two 
 fear'd most ? 
 
 Cler. Yes ; but this fears the bravest: the other 
 a whiniling 3 dastard. Jack Daw ! But La-Foole, 
 a brave heroic coward ! and is afraid in a great 
 look and a stout accent ; I like him rarely. 
 
 Time. Had it not been pity these two should 
 have been concealed ? 
 
 Cler. Shall I make a motion ? 
 
 True. Briefly ; for I must strike while 'tis hot. 
 
 * Sir Ajax — a title familiarly imposed on Sir John 
 Harrington, for a very meritorious eflfoi-t to introduce 
 cleanliness into our dwellings, at a period when the 
 sv/eetest of them would have offended the dullest nose 
 of modern times. In 1596 he published A new discourse 
 of a state subject, or the metamorphosis of Ajax, in 
 which he pointed out the propriety of adopting some- 
 thing like the water-closets of the present day. — Gxf- 
 FORD. Ajax is a play on A Jakes, i.e. a privy. 
 
 2 Cast— vQckon upon, or look for. 
 
 3 whiniling — perhaps the same as whining, hut may 
 be a mistake for whimling, applied in Beaumont and 
 Fletcher in contempt to a delicate young girl. 
 
 Cler. Shall I go fetch the ladies to the cata- 
 strophe ? 
 
 True. Umph ! ay, by my troth. 
 
 Daup. By no mortal means. Let them con- 
 tinue in the state of ignorance, and err still ; 
 think them wits and fine fellows, as they have 
 done. 'Twere sin to reform them. 
 
 True. Well, I will have them fetch'd, now I 
 think on't, for a private purpose of mine. — Do, 
 Clerimont, fetch them, and discourse to them all 
 that's past, and bring them into the gallery 
 here. 
 
 Daup. This is thy extreme vanity, now. Thou 
 think'st thou wert undone, if every jest thou 
 mak'st were not published. 
 
 Time. Thou shalt see how unjust thou art pre- 
 sently. Clerimont, say it was Dauphine's plot. 
 [Exit Clerimont.] — Trust me not, if the whole 
 drift be not for thy good. There is a carpet i in 
 the next room, put it on, with this scarf over thy 
 face, and a cushion on thy head, and be ready 
 when I call Amorous. Away ! [Exit Daup.] — 
 John Daw ! 
 
 [Goes to Daw's closet and bnngs him out. 
 
 Daw. What good news, sir ? 
 
 Time. Faith, I have followed and argued with 
 him hard for you. I told him you were a knight, 
 and a scholar, and that yon knew fortitude did 
 consist magis patiendo quam Jaciendo, magis fe- 
 rendo quamferiendo.^ 
 
 Daw. It doth so indeed, sir. 
 
 Time. And that you would suffer, I told him. 
 So at first he demanded, by my troth, in my con-« 
 ceit, too much. 
 
 Daw. What was it, sir ? 
 
 Tru£. Your upper lip, and six of your fore- 
 teeth. 
 
 Daw. 'Twas unreasonable. 
 
 True. Nay, I told him plainly, you could not 
 spare them all. So after long argument, pro et 
 con, as you know, I brought him down to your 
 two butter-teeth, and them he would have. 
 
 Daw. Oh, did you so? Why, he shall have 
 them. 
 
 Tru£. But he shall not, sir, by your leave. The 
 conclusion is this, sir : because you shall be very 
 good friends hereafter, and this never to be re- 
 membered or upbraided — besides, that he may 
 not boast he has done any such thing to you in 
 his own person — he is to come here in disguise, 
 give you five kicks in private, sir, take your 
 sword from you, and lock you up in that study 
 during pleasure, which will be but a little while, 
 we'll get it released presently. 
 
 Daw. Five kicks ! he shall have six, sir, to be 
 friends. 
 
 True. Believe me, you shall not over-shoot 
 yourself, to send him that word by me. 
 
 Daw. Deliver it, sir ; he shall have it with all 
 my heart, to be friends. 
 
 True. Friends ! Nay, an he should not be so, 
 and heartily too, upon these terms, he shall have 
 me to enemy while I live. Come, sir, bear it 
 bravely. 
 
 Daw. O lord, sir, 'tis nothing. 
 
 Time. True; what's six kicks to a man that 
 reads Seneca ? 
 
 Daw. I have had a hundred, sir. 
 
 Tim^. Sir Amorous ! 
 
 ^carpet— i.e. table-cover. Cai-pets were not at tliis 
 period laid on the floor, except occasionally to kneel 
 on, or for purposes of state. 
 
 2 ' more in endurance than in action, more in bear- 
 ing than in striking.' 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 203 
 
 Re-enter Dauphine disguised. 
 
 No speaking one to another, or rehearsing old 
 matters. 
 
 Daw. [as Daup. hichs him.'] One, two, three, 
 four, five. I protest, Sir Amorous, you shall have 
 six. 
 
 Ti-ue. Kay, I told you, you should not talk. 
 Come give him six, an he will needs. [Dauphine 
 kicks him again.] — Your sword, [^takes his swo7-d.] 
 Now return to your safe custody ; you shall pre- 
 sently meet afore the ladies, and be the dearest 
 friends one to another. [Puts Daw into the study.] 
 — Give me the scarf now, thou shalt beat the other 
 barefaced. Stand by. [Dauphine retires^ and 
 Truewit goes to the other closet^ and releases La- 
 FooleJ — Sir Amorous ! 
 
 La-F. What's here ! A sword ? 
 
 True. I cannot help it, without I should take 
 the quarrel npon myself. Here he has sent you 
 his sword — 
 
 La-F. I'll receive none on't. 
 
 True. And he wills you to fasten it against a 
 wall, and break your head in some few several 
 places against the hilts. 
 
 La-F. I will not : tell him roundly. I cannot 
 endure to shed my own blood. 
 
 Ti"ue. Will you not ? 
 
 La-F. No. I'll beat it against a fair flat wall, 
 if that will satisfy him ; if not, he shall beat it 
 himself for Amorous. 
 
 Ti^e. Why, this is strange starting off, when 
 a man undertakes for you ! I offer'd him another 
 condition ; will you stand to that ? 
 
 La-F. Ay, what is't ? 
 
 True. That you will be beaten in private. 
 
 La-F. Yes, I am content, at the blunt. ^ 
 
 Enter., above^ Haughty, Centaure, Mavis, 
 Mistress Otter, Epiccene, and Trusty. 
 
 Ti'ue. Then you must submit yourself to be 
 hoodwinked in this scarf, and be led to him, 
 where he will take your sword from you, and 
 make you bear a blow over the mouth, gules, 
 and tweaks by the nose sans nombre.^ 
 
 La-F. I am content. But why must I be blinded ? 
 
 True. That's for your good, sir ; because, if he 
 should grow insolent upon this, and publish it 
 hereafter to your disgrace (which I hope he will 
 not do), you might swear safely, and protest, he 
 never beat you, to your knowledge. 
 
 La-F. Oh, I conceive. 
 
 True, i do not doubt but you'll be perfect good 
 friends upon't, and not dare to utter an ill thought 
 one of another in future. 
 
 La-F. Not I, as God help me, of him. 
 
 True. Nor he of you, sir. If he should JT&mcZs 
 his eyes.] — Come, sir [leads him forward.]— All 
 hid. Sir John ! 
 
 Enter Dauphine, and tweaks Mm ly the nose. 
 
 La-F. Oh, Sir John! Sir John! Oh, 0-0-0-0-0- 
 Oh— 
 
 Ti-ue. Good Sir John, leave tweaking, you'll 
 blow his nose off. — 'Tis Sir John's pleasure, you 
 should retire into the study. [Puts him up again.] 
 — Why, now you are friends. All bitterness be- 
 tween you, I hope, is buried; you shall come forth 
 by and by, Damon and Pythias upon't, and em- 
 brace with all the rankness of friendship that 
 can be. — I trust we shall have them tamer in 
 their language hereafter. Dauphine, I worship 
 thee. — God's will, the ladies have surprised us ! 
 
 1 at the Hunt— \\it\\ the flat side of the sword. 
 ' ' without number.' 
 
 Enter Haughty, Centaure, Mavis, Mistress 
 Otter, Epicoene, and Trusty, behind. 
 
 Hau. Centaure, how our judgments were im- 
 posed on by these adulterate knights ! 
 
 Cen. Nay, madam. Mavis was more deceived 
 than we ; 'twas her commendation utter'd them 
 in the college. 
 
 Mav. I commended but their wits, madam, 
 and their braveries. {L never look'd toward their 
 valours. 
 
 Hau. Sir Dauphine is valiant, and a wit too, it 
 seems. 
 
 Mav. And a bravery too. 
 
 Hau. Was this his project ? 
 
 Mrs. Ott. So Master Clerimont intimates,madam. 
 
 Hau. Good Morose, when you come to the col- 
 lege, will you bring him with you ? He seems a 
 very perfect gentleman. 
 
 Epi. He is so, madam, believe it. 
 
 Cen. But when will you come. Morose ? 
 
 Epi. Three or four days hence, madam, v/hen 
 I have got me a coach and horses. 
 
 Hau. No, to-morrow, good Morose ; Centaure 
 shall send you her coach. 
 
 Mav. Yes, faith, do, and bring Sir Dauphine 
 with you. 
 
 Hau. She has promised that, Mavis. 
 
 Mav. He is a very worthy gentleman in his 
 exteriors, madam. 
 
 Hau. Ay, he shows he is judicial in his clothes. 
 
 Cen. And yet not so superlatively neat as some, 
 madam, that have their faces set in a brake.i 
 
 Hau. Ay, and have every hair in form. 
 
 Mav. That wear purer linen than ourselves, 
 and profess more neatness than the Erench her- 
 maphrodite ! 
 
 Epi. Ay, ladies, they, what they tell one of us, 
 have told a thousand ; and are the only thieves 
 of our fame, that think to take us with that per- 
 fume, or with that lace, and laugh at us un- 
 conscionably when they have done. 
 
 Hau. But Sir Dauphine's carelessness becomes 
 him. 
 
 Cen. I could love a man for such a nose. 
 
 Mav. Or such a leg. 
 
 Cen. He has an exceeding good eye, madam. 
 
 Mav. And a very good lock.^ 
 
 Cen. Good Morose, bring him to my chamber 
 first. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Please your honours to meet at my 
 hoiise, madam. 
 
 True. See how they eye thee, man ! They are 
 taken, I warrant thee. 
 
 [Haughty comes forward. 
 
 Hau. You have unbraced our brace of knights 
 here. Master Truewit. 
 
 Time. Not I, madam; it was Sir Dauphine's 
 ingine :' who, if he have disfurnish'd your lady- 
 ship of any guard or sei'vice by it, is able to 
 make the place good again in himself. 
 
 Hau. There is no suspicion of that, sir. 
 
 Cen. God so. Mavis, Haughty is kissing. 
 
 Mav. Let us go too, and take part. 
 
 [They comefonoard. 
 
 Hau. But I am glad of the fortune (beside the 
 discovery of two such empty caskets) to gain the 
 
 1 brake. This word was formerly used in many senses ; 
 among otliers it meant a powerful iron curb for restive 
 horses, and also a wooden frame in which the feet of 
 young and vicious horses were confined by farriers, 
 preparatory to their being shod. Gifford thinks the 
 latter the reference in the text. 
 
 2 lock— ili& favourite love-lock which it was the fashion 
 of these times to bestow so much attention upon. 
 
 3 jKgrme— ingenuity, wit, clevemess. 
 
204 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 knowledge of so rich a mine of virtue as Sir Dau- 
 phine. 
 
 Cen. We would be all glad to style him of our 
 friendship, and see him at the college. 
 
 Mav. He cannot mix with a sweeter society, 
 I'll prophesy ; and I hope he himself will think 
 so. 
 
 Daup. I should be rude to imagine otherwise, 
 lady. 
 
 Ti-ue. Did I not tell thee, Dauphine ? Why, 
 all their actions are governed by crude opinion, 
 without reason or cause ; they know not why 
 they do anything; but, as they are inform' d, 
 believe, judge, praise, condemn, love, hate, and, 
 in emulation one of another, do all these things 
 alike. Only they have a natui-al inclination 
 sways them generally to the worst, when they 
 are left to themselves. But pursue it, now thou 
 hast them. 
 
 Rau. Shall we go in again, Morose ? 
 
 Epi. Yes, madam. 
 
 Cen. We'll entreat Sir Dauphine's company. 
 
 Time. Stay, good madam, the interview of the 
 two friends, Pylades and Orestes: I'll fetch them 
 out to you straight. 
 
 Eau. Will you, Master Truewit .' 
 
 Daup. Ay ; but, noble ladies, do not confess in 
 your countenance, or outward bearing to them, 
 any discovery of their follies, that we may see 
 how they will bear up again, with what assur- 
 ance and erection. 
 
 Hau. We will not. Sir Dauphine. 
 
 Cen. Mav. Upon our honours, Sir Dauphine. 
 
 True, \goes to the first closet.'] Sir Amorous, Sir 
 Amorous ! The ladies are here. 
 
 La-F. \witMn.'\ Are they ? 
 
 Time. Yes; but slip out by and by, as their 
 backs are turn'd, and meet Sir John here, as by 
 chance, when I call you. [goes to the other.'] — 
 Jack Daw. 
 
 Daw. \_within.'] What say you, sir ? 
 
 True. Whip out behind me suddenly, and no 
 anger in your looks to your adversary. Now, 
 now! 
 
 [La-Foole and Daw slip out of their re- 
 spective closets, and salute each other. 
 
 La-F. Noble Sir John Daw, where have you 
 been.? 
 
 Daw. To seek you, Sir Amorous. 
 
 La-F. Me ! I honour you. 
 
 Daw. I prevent^ you, sir. 
 
 Cler. They have forgot their rapiers. 
 
 True. Oh, they meet in peace, man. 
 
 Daup. Where's your sword. Sir John ? 
 
 Cler. And yours. Sir Amorous ? 
 
 Daw. Mine ! My boy had it forth to mend the 
 handle, e'en now. 
 
 La-F. And my gold handle was broke too, and 
 my boy had it forth. 
 
 Daup. Indeed, sir ! — How their excuses meet ! 
 
 Cler. What a consent there is in the handles ! 
 
 True. Nay, there is so in the points too, I 
 warrant you. 
 
 Enter Morose, with the tioo swords dramn in his 
 hands. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Oh me ! madam, he comes again, the 
 madman ! Away ! 
 
 [Ladies, Daw, and La-Foole, run off. 
 
 Mor. What make these naked weapons here, 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 Ti-ue. Oh, sir, here hath like to have been 
 murder since you went ; a couple of knights 
 fallen out about the bride's favours ! We were 
 
 * prevent-~comQ before, forestall. 
 
 fain to take away their weapons ; your house had 
 been begg'd ^ by this time else. 
 
 Mor. For what ? 
 
 Cler. For manslaughter, sir, as being accessory. 
 
 Mor. And for her favours 7 
 
 Ti-ue. Ay, sir, heretofore, not present. — Cleri- 
 mont, carry them their swords now. They have 
 done all the hurt they will do. 
 
 [Exit Cler. with the two swords, 
 
 Daup. Have you spoke with the lawyer, sir ? 
 
 Mor. Oh no! there is such a noise in th© 
 court, that they have frighted me home with 
 more violence than I went ! Such speaking and 
 counter-speaking, with their several voices, of 
 citations, appellations, allegations, certificates, 
 attachments, interrogatories, references, convic- 
 tions, and afflictions indeed, among the doctors 
 and proctors, that the noise here is silence to't, 
 a kind of calm midnight! 
 
 True. Why, sir, if you would be resolved in- 
 deed, I can bring you hither a very sufficient 
 lawyer, and a learned divine, that shall inquire 
 into every least scruple for you. 
 
 Mor. Can you, Master Truewit? 
 
 Time. Yes, and are very sober, grave persons, 
 that will despatch it in a chamber, with a whisper 
 or two. 
 
 Mor. Good sir, shall I hope this benefit from 
 you, and trust myself into your hands ? 
 
 True. Alas, sir ! your nephew and I have been 
 ashamed and oft-times mad, since you went, to 
 think hoAv you are abused. Go in, good sii", and 
 lock yourself up till we call you ; we'll tell you 
 more anon, sir. 
 
 Mor. Do your pleasure with me, gentlemen. I 
 beHeve in you, and that deserves no delusion. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 True. You shall find none, sir;— but heap'd, 
 heap'd plenty of vexation. 
 
 Daup. What wilt thou do now. Wit 7 
 
 True. Kecover me hither Otter and the barber, 
 if you can, by any means, presently. 
 
 Daup. Why, to what purpose ? 
 
 Ti-ue. Oh, I'll make the deepest divine and 
 gravest lawyer out of them two for him — 
 
 Daup. Thou canst not, man ; these are waking 
 dreams. 
 
 Time. Do not fear me. Clap but a civil ^ gown 
 with a welt on the one, and a canonical cloak 
 with sleeves on the other, and give them a few 
 terms in their mouths, if there come not forth as 
 able a doctor and complete a parson, for this turn, 
 as may be wish'd, trust not my election : and I 
 hope, without wronging the dignity of either 
 profession, since they are but persons put on, 
 and for mirth's sake, to torment him. The 
 barber smatters Latin, I remember. 
 
 Daup. Yes, and Otter too. 
 
 True. Well, then, if I make them not wrangle 
 out this case to his no comfort, let me be thought 
 a Jack Daw or La-Foole, or anything worse. Go 
 you to your ladies, but first send for them. 
 
 Daup. I will. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 A room in Morose's House. 
 Enter La-Foole, Clerimoxt, and Daw. 
 La-F. Where had you our swords, Master 
 
 Clerimont ? 
 
 1 your house had been begg'd— for a riot, <fcc., for which 
 it would have fallen as a deodand to the crown. 
 
 2 civil gown— the gown of a civilian; avelt is a hem 
 or border of fur, .fcc. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 Cler. Why, Daiiphine took them from the 
 madman. 
 
 La-F. And he took them from our boys, I 
 warrant you. 
 
 Cler Very like, sir. 
 
 La-F. Thank you, good Master Clerimont. 
 Sir John Daw and I are both beholden to you. 
 
 Cler. Would I knew how to make you so, 
 gentlemen ! 
 
 Daw. Sir Amorous and I are your servants, sir. 
 
 Enter Mavis. 
 
 Mav. Gentlemen, have any of you a pen and 
 ink? I would fain write out a riddle in Italian, 
 for Sir Dauphine to translate. 
 
 Cler. Not I, in troth, lady ; I am no scrivener. 
 
 Daw. I can furnish you, I think, lady. 
 
 [Exeunt Daw and Mavis. 
 
 Cler He has it in the haft of a knife, I believe. 
 
 La-F. No, he has his box of instruments. 
 
 Cler. Like a surgeon ! 
 
 La-F. For the mathematics : his square, his 
 compasses, his brass pens, and black-lead, to 
 draw maps of every place and person where he 
 comes. 
 
 Cler. How, maps of persons ! 
 
 La-F. Yes, sir, of Nomentack^ when he was 
 here, and of the prince of Moldavia, and of his 
 mistress, Mistress Epicoene. 
 
 He-enter Daw. 
 
 Cler. Away ! he hath not found out her lati- 
 tude, I hope. 
 
 La-F. You are a pleasant gentleman, sir. 
 
 Cler. Faith, now we are in private, let's wanton 
 it a little, and talk waggishly. — Sir John, I am 
 telling Sir Amorous here, that you two govern 
 the ladies wherever you come ; you carry the 
 feminine gender afore you. 
 
 Daw. They shall rather carry us afore them, 
 if they will, sir. 
 
 Cler. Nay, I believe that they do, withal— but 
 that you are the prime men in their affections, 
 and dii-ect all their actions — 
 
 Daio. Not I ; Sir Amorous is. 
 
 La-F. I protest, Sir John is. 
 
 Daio. As I hope to rise in the state. Sir Amo- 
 rous, you have the person. 
 
 La-F. Sir John, you have the person, and the 
 discourse too. 
 
 Daw. Not I, sir. I have no discourse — and 
 then you have activity beside. 
 
 La-F. I protest, Sir John, you come as high 
 irom Tripoly - as I do, every whit : and lift as 
 many join'd stools, and leap over them, if you 
 would use it. 
 
 Cler. Well, agree on't together, knights; for 
 between you, you divide the kingdom or com- 
 monwealth of ladies' affections : I see it, and can 
 perceive a little how they observe you, and fear 
 3'ou, indeed. You could tell strange stories, my 
 masters, if you would, I know. 
 
 Daw. Faith, we have seen somewhat, sir. 
 
 Cler. You lay in the same house with the 
 bride here ? 
 
 Daw. Yes, and conversed with her hourly, sir. 
 
 Cler. And what humour is she of ? Is she 
 coming and open, free ? 
 
 Daio. Oh, exceeding open, sir, I was her ser- 
 vant, and Sir Amorous was to be. 
 
 * Nomevtack was an Indian chief from Virginia, who 
 was brought to England some years before tliis was 
 written. — Giffokd. 
 
 2 A phrase, says Upton, to signify feats of activity, 
 vaulting, leaping, &c. Gifford thinks it a pun on the 
 first part of the name. 
 
 Cler. Come, you. have both had favours from 
 her : I knoAv, and have heard so much. 
 
 Daw. Oh no, sir. 
 
 La-F. You shall excuse us, sir ; we must not 
 wound reputation. 
 
 Cler. Why, I commend you, lads. Little knowa 
 Don Bridegroom of this ; nor shall he, for me. 
 
 Daw. Hang him, mad ox ! 
 
 Cler. Speak softly ; here comes his nephew 
 with the Lady Haughty. He'll get the ladies 
 from you, sirs, if you look not to him in time. 
 
 La-F. Why, if he do, we'll fetch them home 
 again, I warrant you. 
 
 [Exit with Daw. Cler. walks aside. 
 
 Enter Dauphine and Haughty. 
 
 Ilau. I assure you. Sir Dauphine, it is the 
 price and estimation of your virtue only that 
 hath embark'd me to this adventure; and I could 
 not but make out to tell you so : nor can I re- 
 pent me of the act, since it is always an argu- 
 ment of some virtue in ourselves, that we love 
 and affect it so in others. 
 
 Daup. Your ladyship sets too high a price on 
 my weakness. 
 
 Hau. Sir, I can distinguish gems from pebbles — 
 
 Daup. Are you so skilful in stones ? [Aside. 
 
 Hau. And howsoever I may suffer in such a 
 judgment as yours, by admitting equality of rank 
 or society with Centaure or Mavis — 
 
 Daup. You do not, madam ; I perceive they 
 are your mere foils. 
 
 Hau. Then are you a friend to truth, sir; it 
 makes me love you the more. It is not the out- 
 ward, but the inward man that I affect. They 
 are not apprehensive of an eminent perfection, 
 but love flat and dully, 
 
 Cen. {loithin.'] Where are you, my Lady 
 Haughty .' 
 
 Hau. I come presently, Centaure. — My cham- 
 ber, sir, my page shall show you ; and Trusty, 
 my woman, shall be ever awake for you : you 
 need not fear to communicate anything with her, 
 for she is a Fidelia, I pray you wear this jewel 
 for my sake, Sir Dauphine — 
 
 Enter Centaure. 
 
 Where's Mavis, Centaure 7 
 
 Cen. Within, madam, a writing. I'll follow 
 you presently. [Exit Hau.] — I'll but speak a 
 word with Sir Dauphine. 
 
 Daup. With me, madam ? 
 
 Cen. Good Sir Dauphine, do not trust Haughty, 
 nor make any credit > to her, whatever you do 
 besides. Sir Dauphine, I give you this caution, 
 she is a perfect courtier, and loves nobody but 
 for her uses ; and for her uses she loves all. Be- 
 sides, her physicians give her out to be none o' 
 the clearest, whether she pay them or no. Heaven 
 knows ; and she's above fifty too, and pargets ! * 
 See her in a forenoon. Here comes Mavis, a 
 worse face than she ! You would not like this by 
 candle-light. 
 
 Re-enter Mavis. 
 If you'll come to my chamber one o' these morn- 
 ings early, or late in an evening, I'll tell you more. 
 Where's Haughty, Mavis ? 
 
 Mav. Within, Centaure. 
 
 Cen. What have you there ? 
 
 Mav. An Italian riddle for Sir Dauphine, — you 
 shall not see it, i' faith, Centaure. [Exit Cen.] — 
 Good Sir Dauphine, solve it for me : I'll call tor 
 it anon. [Exit. 
 
 1 make any credit — a Latinism for, give her any credit. 
 
 2 pargets— Amb?,, or plasters her face. 
 
2o6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Cler. [coming Jojtoard.] How now, Daupliine ? 
 how dost thou quit thyself of these females ? 
 
 Daup. 'Slight, they haunt me like fairies, and 
 give me jewels here ! I cannot be rid of them ! 
 
 Cler. Oh, you must not tell though. 
 
 Daup. Mass, I forgot that ! I was never so 
 assaulted. One loves for virtue and bribes me 
 with this [shows the jewel] ; another loves me 
 with caution, and so would possess me ; a third 
 brings me a riddle here ; and all are jealous, and 
 rail each at other. 
 
 Cler. A riddle ! pray let me see it. [Reads. 
 
 Sir Dauphine, I chose this way of intimation for privacy. 
 The ladies here, I know, have both hope and purpose to 
 make a collegiate and servant of you. If I might he so 
 honoured as to appear at any end of so noble a work, 
 I would enter into a fame of taking physic to-morrowj 
 and continue it four or five days, or longer for your visita- 
 tion. Mavis. 
 
 By my faith, a subtle one! Call you this a 
 riddle ? What's their plain-dealing, trow ? 
 
 Daup. We lack Truewit to tell us that. 
 
 Cler. We lack him for somewhat else too ; his 
 knights reformadoes^ are wound up as high and 
 insolent as ever they were. 
 
 Daup. You jest. 
 
 Cler. No drunkards, either with wine or vanity, 
 ever confess'd such stories of themselves. I 
 would not give a fly's leg in balance against all 
 the women's reputations here, if they could be 
 but thought to speak tnith ; and for the bride, 
 they have made their affidavit against her di- 
 rectly — 
 
 Daup. What! that they have lain with her ? 
 
 Cler. Yes ; and tell times and circumstances, 
 with the cause why, and the place where. I had 
 almost brought them to affirm that they had done 
 it to-day. 
 
 Daup. Not both of them ? 
 
 Cler. Yes, faith ; with a sooth or two more I 
 had effected it. They would have set it down 
 under their hands. 
 
 Daup. Why, they will be our sport, I see, still, 
 •whether we will or no. 
 
 Enter Truewit. 
 True. Oh, are you here ? Come, Dauphine, go 
 call your uncle presently ; I have fitted my divine 
 and my canonist, dyed their beards and all. The 
 knaves do not know themselves, they are so ex- 
 alted and altered. Preferment changes any man. 
 Thou shalt keep one door and I another, and 
 then Clerimont in the midst, that he may have no 
 means of escape fi'om their cavilling when they 
 grow hot once again. And then the women, as 
 I have given the bride her instructions, to break 
 in upon him in the l'envoy.2 Oh, 'twill be full 
 and twanging ! Away ! fetch him. 
 
 [Exit Daup. 
 
 Enter Otter disguised as a divine, and Cutbeard 
 
 as a canon lawyer. 
 Come, master doctor, and master parson, look to 
 your parts now, and discharge them bravely ; 
 you are well set forth, perform it as well. If you 
 chance to be out, do not confess it with standing 
 still, or humming, or gaping one at another ; but 
 go on, and talk aloud and eagerly : use vehement 
 action, and only remember your terms, and you 
 are safe. Let the matter go where it will : you 
 have many will do so. But at first be very 
 solemn and grave, like your garments, though 
 
 1 refomiadoes—a, Spanish military term, signifying 
 an ofBcer who for some disgrace is depi ived of his com- 
 mand, but retains his rank and perhaps his pay.— Nares. 
 The term is applied here to Daw and La-Foole. 
 
 * Venvoy — conclusion. 
 
 you loose yourselves after, and skip out like a 
 brace of jugglers on a table. Here he comes: set 
 your faces, and look superciliously, while I pre- 
 sent you. 
 
 Re-enter DAuPHi>rE with Morose. 
 
 Mor. Are these the two learned men ? 
 
 True. Yes, sir ; please you salute them. 
 
 Mor. Salute them ! I had rather do anything, 
 than wear out time so unfruitfully, sir. I wonder 
 how these common forms, as God save you ! and 
 You are welcome ! are come to be a habit in our 
 lives ; or, / am glad to see you ! when I cannot 
 see what the profit can be of these words, so long 
 as it is no whit better with him whose affairs are 
 sad and grievous, that he hears this salutation. 
 
 True. 'Tis true, sir; we'll go to the matter then. 
 — Gentlemen, master doctor, and master parson, 
 I have acquainted you sufficiently with the busi- 
 ness for which you are come hither ; and you are 
 not now to inform yourselves in the state of the 
 question, I know. This is the gentleman who 
 expects your resolution, and therefore, when you 
 please, begin. 
 
 Ott. Please you, master doctor. 
 
 Cut. Please you, good master parson. 
 
 Ott. I would here the canon law speak first. 
 
 Cut. It must give place to positive divinity, sir. 
 
 Mor. Nay, good gentlemen, do not throw me 
 into circumstances. Let your comforts arrive 
 quickly at me, those that are. Be swift in afford- 
 ing me my peace, if so I shall hope any. I love 
 not your disputations or your court tumults. And 
 that it be not strange to you, I will tell you : My 
 father, in my education, was wont to advise me, 
 that I should always collect and contain my mind, 
 not suffering it to flow loosely ; that I should look 
 to what things were necessary to the carriage of 
 my life, and what not ; embracing the one, and 
 eschewing the other ; in short, that I shoud en- 
 dear myself to rest, and avoid turmoil; which 
 now is grown to be another nature to me. So 
 that I come not to your public pleadings, or your 
 places of noise : not that I neglect those things 
 that make for the dignity of the commonwealth ; 
 but for the mere avoiding of clamours and im- 
 pertinences of orators that know not how to be 
 silent. And for the cause of noise, am I now a 
 suitor to you. You do not know in what a 
 misery I have been exercised this day, what a 
 toiTent of evil ! my very house turns round with 
 the tumult ! I dwell in a windmill : the perpetual 
 motion is here, and not at Eltham.^ 
 
 True. Well, good master doctor, will you break 
 the ice ? Master parson will wade after. 
 
 Cut. Sir, though unworthy, and the weaker, I 
 will presume. 
 
 Ott. 'Tis no presumption, domine doctor. 
 
 Mor. Yet again! 
 
 Cut. Your question is. For how many causes a 
 man may have divoi'tium legitimum.,'^ a lawful 
 divorce? First you must understand the nature 
 of the word divorce, a diven-tendo 3 — 
 
 Mor. No excursions upon words, good doctor ; 
 to the question briefly. 
 
 Cut. I answer then, the canon law affords di- 
 vorce but in few cases ; and the principal is in 
 the common case, the adulterous case. But there 
 are duodecim impedimenta^ twelve impediments, as 
 we call them, all which do not dirimei'e contractum, 
 but irrifum reddere matrimonium, as we say in the 
 canon law, not take away the bond, but cause a 
 nullity therein. 
 
 1 Here was a puppet-show of great celebrity in oui 
 author's time. — Gifford. 
 
 2 ' A lawful divorce.' ' ' from turning asunder. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 207 
 
 Mor. I understood you before. Good sir, avoid 
 your impertinency of translation. 
 
 Ott. He cannot open this too much, sir, by your 
 favour. 
 
 Mor. Yet more ! 
 
 Ti^e. Oh, you must give the learned men leave, 
 sir. — To your impediments, master doctor. 
 
 Cut. The first is impedimentum en'oris.'^ 
 
 Ott. Of which there are several species. 
 
 Cut. Ay, Q,s error personx.'^ 
 
 Ott. If you contract yourself to one person, 
 thinking her another. 
 
 Cut. Then, error fortunx.^ 
 
 Ott. If she be a beggar, and you thought her 
 rich. 
 
 Cut. Then, error qtmlitatis.* 
 
 Ott. If she prove stubborn or headstrong, that 
 you thought obedient. 
 
 Mor. How ! is that, sir, a lawful impediment ? 
 One at once, I pray you, gentlem6n. 
 
 Ott. Ay, ante copulam, but not post copulam^^ 
 sir. 
 
 Cut. Master parson says right. Nee post nup- 
 tiarum benedictionem.^ It doth indeed but iii'ita 
 reddere sponsalia, annul the contract ; after mar- 
 riage it is of no obstancy. 
 
 True. Alas, sir, what a hope are we fallen from 
 by this time ! 
 
 [After poor Morose is badgered in this way for 
 some time] Epic<ene rushes in, followed by 
 Haughty, Centaure, Mavis, Mistress 
 Otter, Daw, and La-Foole. 
 
 Epi. I will not endure it any longer. Ladies, 
 I beseech you, help me. This is such a wrong 
 as never was offered to poor bride before : upon 
 her marriage-day to have her husband conspire 
 against her, and a couple of mercenary com- 
 panions to be brought in for form's sake, to per- 
 suade a separation ! If you had blood or virtue 
 in you, gentlemen, you would not suffer such 
 earwigs about a husband, or scorpions to creep 
 between man and wife. 
 
 Mor. Oh the variety and changes of my tor- 
 ment! 
 
 Hau. Let them be cudgell'd out of doors by 
 our grooms. 
 
 Cen. I'll lend you my footman. 
 
 Mav. We'll have our men blanket ^ them in the 
 hall. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. As there was one at our house, 
 madam, for peeping in at the door. 
 
 Daw. Content, i' faith. 
 
 True. Stay, ladies and gentlemen. You'll hear 
 before you proceed ? 
 
 Mav. I'd have the bridegroom blanketted too. 
 
 Cen. Begin with him fii'st. 
 
 Eau. Yes, by my troth. 
 
 Mor. Oh mankind^ generation! 
 
 Daup. Ladies, for my sake forbear. 
 
 Eau. Yes, for Sir Dauphine's sake. 
 
 Cen. He shall command us. 
 ' L'a-F. He is as fine a gentleman of his inches, 
 madam, as any is about the town, and wears as 
 good colours when he lists. 
 
 Time. Be brief, sir, and confess your infirmity. 
 
 ""^ be a-fire to be quit of you, if she but hear 
 
 Sh 
 
 that named once; you shall not entreat her to 
 
 * 'impediment from mistake.' 
 
 2 ' mistake of person.' 
 
 3 'mistake of fortune.' 
 
 * ' mistake of quality or character.* 
 ^ ' before mamage, but not after.' 
 
 « ' Nor after the nuptial benediction.' 
 " blanket them—toas them in a blanket, 
 s mankind — masculine, alwaj's a term of reproach 
 when applied to a female.— Giffobd. 
 
 stay. She'll fly you like one that had the marks » 
 upon him. 
 
 3for. Ladies, I must crave all your pardons — 
 
 T'l'ue. Silence, ladies. 
 
 Mor. For a wrong I have done to your whole 
 sex, in marrying this fair and virtuous gentle- 
 woman — 
 
 Cler. Hear him, good ladies. 
 
 Mor. Being guilty of an infirmity, which, 
 before I conferred with these learned men, I 
 thought I might have concealed — 
 
 True. But now being better informed in 
 his conscience by them, he is to declare it, and 
 give satisfaction by asking your public forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 Moi\ I am no man, ladies. 
 
 All. How! 
 
 Mor. Utterly unable in nature, by reason of 
 frigidity, to perform the duties, or any the least 
 office of a husband. 
 
 Epi. No, ladies, you shall not need; I'll take 
 him with all his faults. 
 
 M07: Worst of all ! 
 
 Cler. Why then, 'tis no divorce, doctor, if she 
 consent not.' 
 
 3for. Worse, worse than worst ! 
 
 True. Nay, sir, be not utterly disheartened; 
 we have yet a small relic of hope left, as near as 
 our comfort is blown out. Clerimont, produce 
 your brace of knights. 
 
 Daw. Pardon us, good Master Clerimont. 
 
 La-F. You will excuse us. Master Clerimont. 
 
 Cler. Nay, you must make it good now, 
 knights, there is no remedy; I'll eat no words 
 for you, nor no men: you know you spoke it to 
 me. 
 
 Daw. Is this gentleman-like, sir ? 
 
 True. Jack Daw, he's worse than Sir Amo- 
 rous ; fiei-cer a great deal. [^Aside to Daw.] — Sir 
 Amorous, beware, there be ten Daws in this 
 Clerimont. [Aside to La-Foole. 
 
 La-F. I'll confess it, sir. 
 
 Daw. Will you, Sir Amorous, will you wound 
 reputation ? 
 
 La-F. I am resolved. 
 
 Ti-ue. So should you be too. Jack Daw: what 
 should keep you off ? She's but a woman, and 
 in disgrace ; he'll be glad on't. 
 
 Daw. Will he ? I thought he would have been 
 angry. 
 
 Clei\ You will despatch, knights; it must be 
 done, i'faith. 
 
 True. Why, an it must, it shall, sir, they say : 
 they'll ne'er go back. — Do not tempt his patience. 
 
 [Aside to them. 
 
 Daw. Is it true indeed, sir ? 
 
 La-F. Yes, I assure you, sir. 
 
 Mor. What is true, gentlemen? what do you 
 assure me ? 
 
 Daw. That we have known your bride, sir — 
 
 La-F. In good fashion. 
 
 Epi. I am undone! I am undone! 
 
 Mor. Oh ! let me worship and adore you, 
 gentlemen ! 
 
 Epi. I am undone ! [ Weeps. 
 
 Mor. Yes, to my hand, I thank these knights. 
 Master parson, let me thank you otherwise. 
 
 [Gives him money. 
 
 Cen. And have they confess'd ? 
 
 Map. Now o'ut upon them, informers ! 
 
 True. You see what creatures you may bestow 
 your favours on, madams. 
 
 Hau. I would accept against them as beaten 
 knights, wench, and not good witnesses in law. 
 
 J marks — i.e. of the plague, or some contagious dis- 
 temper. — Whalley. 
 
208 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mrs. Ott. Poor gentlewoman, how she takes it! 
 
 Bau. Be comforted, Morose, I love you the 
 better for't. 
 
 Cen. So do I, I protest. 
 
 Cut. But, gentlemen, you have not known her 
 since matrimonium ? 
 
 Daw. Not to-day, master doctor. 
 
 Jm-F. No, sir, not to-dav. 
 
 Cut. Why, then I say, Jor any act before, the 
 matrimonium is good and perfect ; unless the wor- 
 shipful bridegroom did precisely, before witness, 
 demand if she were vit'go ante nuptias.^ 
 
 Epi. No, that he did not, I assure you, master 
 doctor. 
 
 Cut. If he cannot prove that, it is ratum con- 
 j'ugium,^ notwithstanding the premises ; and they 
 do no way impedire.^ And this is my sentence, 
 this I pronounce. 
 
 Ott. I am of master doctor's resolution too, sir ; 
 if you made not that demand ante nuptias. 
 
 Mor. Oh my heart ! wilt thou break ? wilt thou 
 break ? This is worst of all worst worsts that 
 hell could have devised ! Marry a whore, and so 
 much noise ! 
 
 Daup. Come, I see now plain confederacy in 
 this doctor and this parson, to abuse a gentleman. 
 You study his affliction. I pray begone, com- 
 panions. — And, gentlemen, I begin to suspect 
 you for having parts with them. — Sir, will it 
 please you hear me ? 
 
 Mor. Oh, do not talk to me ; take not from me 
 the pleasure of dying in silence, nephew. 
 
 Daup. Sir, I must speak to you. I have been 
 long your poor despised kinsman, and many a 
 hard thought has strengthened you against me : 
 but now it shall appear if either I love you or 
 your peace, and prefer them to all the world be- 
 side. I wiU not be long or grievous to you, sir. 
 If I free you of this unhappy match absolutely, 
 and instantly, after all this trouble, and almost 
 in your despair, now^ 
 
 Mor. It cannot be. 
 
 Daup. Sir, that you be never ti'oubled with a 
 mui-mur of it more, what shall I hope for, or de- 
 serve of you ? 
 
 Mor. Oh ! what thou wilt, nephew; thou shalt 
 deserve me, and have me. 
 
 Daup. Shall I have your favour perfect to me, 
 and love hereafter ? 
 
 Mor. That, and anything beside. Make thine 
 own conditions. My whole estate is thine; manage 
 it ; I will become thy ward. 
 
 Daup. Nay, sir, I will not be so unreasonable. 
 
 Epi. Will Sir Dauphine be mine enemy too ? 
 
 Daup. You know I have been long a suitor 
 to you, uncle, that out of your estate, which is 
 fifteen hundred a year, you would allow me but 
 five hundred during life, and assure the rest upon 
 me after ; to which I have often, by myself and 
 friends, tendered you a writing to sign, which 
 you would never consent or incline to. If you 
 please but to effect it now — 
 
 Mor. Thou shalt have it, nephew: I will do 
 it, and more. 
 
 Daup. If I quit you not presently, and for ever, 
 of this cumber,* you shall have power instantly, 
 afore all these, to revoke your act, and I will be- 
 come whose slave you will give me to for ever. 
 
 Mor. Where is the writing ? I will seal to it, 
 that, or to a blank, and -write thine own condi- 
 tions. 
 
 Epi. Oh me, most unfortunate, wretched gentle- 
 woman ! 
 
 Hau. Will Sir Dauphine do this ? 
 
 1 ' virgin before marriage.' 
 ' ' hinder.' 
 
 2 ' a proper man-iaRe.' 
 ♦ cumber — incumbrance. 
 
 Epi. Good sir, have some compassion on me. 
 
 Mor. Oh, my nephew knows you. belika. 
 Away crocodile ! 
 
 Cen. He does it not sure without good ground. 
 
 Daup. Here, sir. \_Gives him the parchments. 
 
 Mor. Come, nephew, give me the pen ; I will 
 subscribe to anything, and seal to what thou wilt, 
 for my deliverance. Thou art my restorer. Here, . 
 I deliver it thee as my deed. If there be a word 
 in it lacking, or writ with false orthography, I 
 protest before [heaven] I will not take the ad- 
 vantage. [Retwms the writings. 
 
 Daup. Then here is your release, sir. [takes 
 off Epiccexe's peruhe and other disguises.] — You 
 have married a boy, a gentleman's son, that I 
 have brought up this half year at my great 
 charges, and for this composition, which I have 
 now made with you. — What say you, master 
 doctor? This is justum impedimentum^^ I hope, 
 error personsef - 
 
 Ott. Yes, sir, in primo gradu.^ 
 
 Cut. In primo gradu. 
 
 Daup. I thank you, good Doctor Cutbeard, and 
 Parson Otter. \puUs their false heards and gowns 
 off.] — You ai'e beholden to them, sir, that have 
 taken this pains for you ; and my friend. Master 
 Truewit, who enabled them for the business. 
 Now you may go in and rest ; be as private as 
 you will, sir. [Exit Morose.] I'll not trouble 
 you, till you trouble me with your funeral, whicli 
 I care not how soon it come. — Cutbeard, I'll make 
 your lease good. Thank me not^ but with your leg^ 
 Cutbeard. — And, Tom Otter, your princess shall 
 be reconciled to you. — How, now, gentlemen, 
 do you look at me ? 
 
 Cler. A boy ! 
 
 Daup. Yes, Mistress Epicoene. 
 
 True. Well, Dauphine, you have lurch'd* your 
 friends of the better half of the garland, by con- 
 cealing this part of the plot : but much good do 
 it thee, thou deserv'st it, lad. — And, Clerimont, for 
 thy unexpected bringing these two to confession, 
 wear my part of it freely. — Nay, Sir Daw and Sir 
 La-Foole, you see the gentlewoman that has done 
 you the favours ! we are all thankful to you, and 
 so should the womankind here, specially for lying 
 on her, though not with her, — you meant so, I 
 am sure. But that we have stuck it upon you to- 
 day, in your own imagined persons, and so lately, 
 this Amazon, the champion of the sex, should 
 beat you now thriftily, for the common slanders 
 which ladies receive from such cuckoos as you 
 are. You are they that, when no merit or fortune 
 can make you hope to enjoy their bodies, will 
 yet lie with their reputations, and make their 
 fame suffer. Away, you common moths of these, 
 and all ladies' honours ! Go, travel to make legs 
 and faces, and come home with some new matter 
 to be laugh'd at ; you deserve to live in an air as 
 corrupted as that wherewith you feed rumour. 
 [Exeunt Daw and La-Foole.] — Madams, you are 
 mute upon this new metamorphosis ! But here 
 stands she that has vindicated your fames. Take 
 heed of such insectse hereafter. And let it not 
 trouble you, that you have discovered any mys- 
 teries to this young gentleman : he is almost of 
 years, and will make a good visitant within this 
 twelvemonth. In the meantime, we'll all under- 
 take for his secrecy, that can speak so well of his 
 silence. (^Coming forwai-d.) — Spectators, if you 
 like this comedy, lise cheerfully, and noio Moros6 
 is gone in, clap your hands. It may be, that noise 
 will cure him, at least please him. [Exeunt. 
 
 ' 'just impediment.' 2 
 
 3 ' in the first degree.' 
 
 * lut ch'd — defeated, disappointed. 
 
 eiTor of person. 
 
BEN JONS ON. 
 
 209 
 
 EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR. 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 ACTED IN THE YEAR 1598 BY THE THEN LORD CHAMBERLAIN HIS SERVANTS. 
 
 THE AUTHOR B. J. 
 
 London. 1616. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 TO THE MOST LEARNED, AND MY HONOURED FRIEND, 
 
 MASTER CAMDEN, 
 
 CLARENCIEUX. 
 
 Sm, — There are, no doubt, a supercilious race 
 in the world, who will esteem aU office, done you 
 in this kind, an injury ; so solemn a vice it is 
 with them to use the authority of their ignorance, 
 to the crying down of poetry, or the professors : 
 but my gratitude must not leave to correct their 
 error ; since I am none of those that can suffer 
 the benefits conferred upon my youth to perish 
 with my age. It is a frail memory that remem- 
 bers but present things : and, had the favour of 
 the times so conspired Avith my disposition, as it 
 
 could have brought forth other, or better, you 
 had had the same proportion, and number of 
 the fruits, the first. Now I pray you to accept 
 this ; such wherein neither the confession of 
 my manners shall make you blush ; nor of my 
 studies, repent you to have been the instructor : 
 and for the profession of my thankfulness, I am 
 sure it will, with good men, find either praise or 
 excuse. 
 
 Your true lover, 
 
 Bex Joxsojf. 
 
 gramatis gersoirat. 
 
 Knowell, an old Genilevian. 
 Edward Knowell, his Son. 
 Braixworm, the Father's Maji. 
 Gectrge Downright, a plain Squire. 
 Wellbred, his Half-Brother. 
 KiTELY, a Merchant. 
 Captaix BoBADiLL, a PauVs Man} 
 Master Stephen, a Country Gull. 
 
 1 a Paul's Man, i.e. a frequenter of the middle aisle of 
 St. Paul's Cathedral, the common resort of cast captains, 
 shai-pers, gulls, and gossipers of every description. — 
 
 GlfFOBD. 
 
 Master Mathew, the Tovm Gull. 
 
 Thomas Cash, Kitely's Cashier. 
 
 Oliver Cob, a Water-bearer. 
 
 Justice Clement, an old merry Mar/istrati. 
 
 EoGEK Formal, his Clerk. 
 
 Wellbred's Servant. 
 
 Dame Kitely, Kitely's Wife. 
 Mistress Bridget, his Sistej: 
 Tib, Cob's Wife. 
 
 Servants, <S;c. 
 
 Scene — London. 
 
 PROLOGUE.^ 
 
 Though need make many poets, and some such 
 As art and nature have not better'd much; 
 Yet ours for want hath not so loved the stage, 
 As he dare serve the ill customs of the age, 
 Or purchase your delight at such a rate, 
 As, for it, he himself must justly hate : 
 To make a child now swaddled, to proceed 
 Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed, 
 Past threescore years ; or, with three rusty swords, 
 And help of some few foot and half-foot words, 
 Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars, 
 And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars. 
 
 1 This prologue makes a manly appeal to the good 
 sense of the people, and touches with spirit as -w-ell ag 
 humour on the defects and absurdities of the old stage. 
 Lyly, Kyd, and above all, the ruder dramatizers of our 
 ancient chronicles, are evidently pointed at, 'Squibs,' 
 'battles,' 'flights over sea and land, in choruses,' 
 ' drums,' ' trumpets,' ' creaking thrones,' and all the 
 woful machinery of a poor stage, have been the merry 
 burden of many a prologue and epilogue, from the first 
 dawning of a good taste under Shakespeare.— Giffokd. 
 
 He rather prays you will be pleas'd to see 
 One such to-day, as other plays should be ; 
 Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas. 
 Nor creaking throne comes down the boys t» 
 
 please : 
 Nor nimble squib is seen to make afeard 
 The gentlewomen ; nor roll'd bullet heard 
 To say, it thunders ; nor tempestuous drum 
 Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come ; 
 But deeds, and language, such as men do use^ 
 And persons, such as comedy would choose, 
 When she would show an image of the times, 
 And sport with human follies, not with crimes. 
 Except we make them such, by loving still 
 Our popular errors, when we know they're ill. 
 I mean such errors as you'll all confess, 
 By laughing at them, they deserve no less : 
 Which when you heartily do, there's hope left 
 
 then. 
 You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men. 
 
210 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE I. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Knowell, at the door of Ms house. 
 
 Know. A goodly day toward, and a fresh morn- 
 ing. — Brain worm ! 
 
 Enter Brain worm. 
 
 Call up your young master : bid him rise, sir. 
 Tell him I have some business to employ him. 
 
 Brai. I will, sir, presently. 
 
 Know. But hear you, sin-ah, 
 If he be at his book, disturb him not. 
 
 Brai. Very good, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Know. How happy yet should I esteem myself, 
 Could I, by any practice, wean the boy 
 From one vain course of study he affects. 
 He is a scholar, if a man may trust 
 The liberal voice of fame in her report, 
 Of good account in both our Universities, 
 Either of which hath favoured him with graces : 
 But their indulgence must not spring in mo 
 A fond opinion that he cannot err. 
 Myself was once a student, and indeed, 
 Fed with the self-same humour he is now, 
 Dreaming on nought but idle poetry, 
 That fruitless and unprofitable art. 
 Good unto none, but least to the professors ; 
 "Which then I thought the mistress of all know- 
 
 But since, time and the truth have waked my 
 
 judgment, 
 And reason taught me better to distinguish 
 The vain from the useful learnings. 
 
 Enter Master Stephen. 
 
 Cousin Stephen, 
 What news with you, that you are here so early ? 
 
 Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you 
 do, uncle. 
 
 Know. That's kindly done ; you are welcome, 
 coz. 
 
 Step. Ay, I know that, sir ; I would not have 
 come else. How does my cousin Edward, uncle ? 
 
 Know. Oh, well, coz ; go in and see ; I doubt 
 he be scarce stirring yet. 
 
 Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an 
 he have e'er a book of the sciences of hawking 
 and hunting ? I would fain borrow it. 
 
 Know. Why, I hope you will not a-hawking 
 now, will you ? 
 
 Step. No, wusse ; but I'll practise against next 
 year, uncle.' I have bought me a hawk, and a 
 hood, and bells, and all ; I lack nothing but a 
 book to keep it by. 
 
 Know. Oh, most ridiculous ! 
 
 Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle. 
 "Why, you know an a man have not skill in the 
 hawking and hunting languages now-a-days, I'll 
 not give a rush for him : they are more studied 
 than the Greek or the Latin. He is for no gal- 
 lant's company without them ; and by gadslid I 
 scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every hum- 
 drum : hang them, scroyles ! ^ there's nothing in 
 them i' the world. What do you talk on it ? Be- 
 cause I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company 
 with none but the archers of Finsbury,^ or the 
 citizens that come a-ducking to Islington ponds ! 
 
 1 scroyles — scrofulous, scabby fellows. — Giffoed. Per- 
 haps from Fr. escrouelki, scrofula. 
 
 2 archers of Finsbury.—ln 1498, all the gardens about 
 and beyond the lordship of Finsbury were destroyed, 
 and of them were made a plain field to shoot in. People 
 of fashion probably mixed but little in these parties.— 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 A fine jest, i' faith ! 'Slid, a gentleman mun show 
 himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be 
 not angry ; I know what I have to do, I trow, I 
 am no novice. 
 Know. You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb, 
 
 go to ! 
 Nay, never look at me, 'tis I that speak ; 
 Take't as you will, sir, I'll not flatter you. 
 Have you not yet found means enow to waste 
 That which your friends have left you, but you 
 
 must 
 Go cast away your money on a buzzard, 
 And know not how to keep it, when you have 
 
 done } 
 Oh, it is comely! this will make you a gentleman ! 
 Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hope 
 Of all reclaim : — ay, so ; now you are told on't, 
 You look another way. 
 Step. What would you ha' me do ? 
 Know. "What would I have you do ? I'll tell 
 
 you, kinsman : 
 Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive ; 
 That would I have you do : and not to spend 
 Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, 
 Or every foolish brain that humours you. — 
 I would not have you to invade each place, 
 Nor thrust yourself on all societies. 
 Till men's affections, or your own desert, 
 Should worthily invite you to your rank. 
 He that is so respectless in his courses. 
 Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. 
 Nor would I, you should melt away yourself 
 In flashing bx-aveiy,i lest, while you afifect 
 To make a blaze of gentry to the world, 
 A little puff of scorn extinguish it ; 
 And you be left like an unsavoury snuff, 
 Whose property is only to offend. 
 I'd have you sober, and contain yourself, 
 Not that your sail be bigger than your boat; - 
 But moderate your expenses now, at first, 
 As you may keep the same proportion still : 
 Nor stand so much on your gentility, " 
 Which is an aiiy and mere borrow'd thing, 
 From dead men's dust and bones; and none of 
 
 yours, 
 Except you make, or hold it. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Who comes here ? 
 
 Serv. Save you, gentlemen ! 
 
 Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gen- 
 tility, friend; yet you are welcome: and I assure 
 you mine uncle here is a man of a thousand a 
 year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in all 
 the world ; I am his next heir, at the common 
 law, Master Stephen, as simple as I stand here, 
 if my cousin die, as there's hope he will : I have 
 a pretty living o' mine own too, beside, hard by 
 here. 
 
 Serv. In good time, sir. 
 
 Step. In good time, sir ! Why, and in very good 
 time, sir ! "Tou do not flout, friend, do you ? 
 
 Serv. Not I, sir. 
 
 Step. Not you, sir! You were best not, sir ; an 
 you should, here be them can perceive it, and that 
 quickly too ; go to : and they can give it again 
 soundly too, an need be. 
 
 Serv. Why, sir, let this satisfy you ; good faith, 
 I had no such intent. 
 
 Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk 
 with you, and that presently. 
 
 Se'rv. Good Master Stephen, so you may, sir, at 
 your pleasure. 
 
 1 flashing t/ai-Yry— extravagant gaiety of apparel.— 
 
 GiPFOKD. 
 
BEN JONS ON. 
 
 211 
 
 Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy com- 
 panion ! an you were out o' mine uncle's ground, 
 I can tell you ; though I do not stand upon my 
 gentility neither, in't. 
 
 Know. Cousin, cousin, will this ne'er be left ? 
 
 Step. Whoreson, base fellow! a mechanical 
 serving-man ! By this cudgel, an 'twere not for 
 shame, I would — 
 
 Know. What would you do, you peremptory 
 gull? 
 If you cannot be quiet, get you hence. 
 You see the honest man demeans himself 
 Modestly tow'rds you, giving no reply 
 To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion ; 
 And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage 
 As void of wit, as of humanity. 
 Go, get you in ; 'fore heaven, I am ashamed 
 Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. 
 
 {^Exit Master Stephen. 
 
 Serv. I pray, sir, is this Master Knowell's house.' 
 
 Know. Yes, marry is it, sir. 
 
 Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, 
 one Master Edward Knowell; do you know any 
 such, sir, I pray you ? 
 
 Know. I should forget myself else, sir. 
 
 Sen. Are you the gentleman ? Cry you mercy, 
 sir : I was required by a gentleman in the city, as 
 I rode out at this end o' the town, to deliver you 
 this letter, sir. 
 
 Know. Tome, sir! What do you mean .' Pray 
 you remember your court'sy. [^Reads.'] To his 
 most selected friend, Master Edward Knowell. 
 What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that 
 sent it ? Nay, pray you be covered. 
 
 Serv. One Master Wellbred, sir. 
 
 Know. Master Wellbred ! a young gentleman, 
 is he not ? 
 
 Serv. The same, sir ; Master Kitely married his 
 sister ; the rich merchant in the Old Jewry. 
 
 Know. You say very true. — Brain worm ! 
 
 Enter Bkainwoem. 
 Brai. Sir. 
 
 Know. Make this honest friend drink here: 
 pray you, go in. 
 
 [^Exeunt Brainworm and Servant. 
 This letter is directed to my son ; 
 Yet I am Edward Knowell too, and may, 
 With the safe conscience of good manners, use 
 The fellow's error to my satisfaction. 
 Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious), 
 Be it but for the style's sake and the phrase ; 
 To see if both do answer my son's praises, 
 Who is almost grown the idolater 
 Of this young Wellbred. What have we here ? 
 What's this? 
 
 [Reads.'] Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn 
 all thy friends in the Old Jewry? or dost thou think 
 us all Jews that inhabit there? yet if thou dost, come 
 over, and but see our frippery ;i change an old shirt for 
 a whole smock with us; do not conceive that antipathy 
 between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and 
 hogs-flesh. Leave thy vigilant father alone, to number 
 over his green apricots, evening and moming, on the 
 north-west wall. An I had been his son, I had saved him 
 the labour long since, if taking in all the young wenches 
 that pass by at the back-door, and codling every kernel 
 of the fniit for them, would have served. But, pr'ythee, 
 come over to me quickly, this morning; I have such a 
 present for thee ! — our Turkey company never sent the 
 like to the Grand Signior. One is a rhymer, sir, of your 
 own batch, your own leaven; but doth think him him- 
 self poet-major of the town, willing to be shown, and 
 worthy to be Feen. The other~I will not venture his 
 description with you, till you come, because I would 
 
 I frippery— n place where old clothes are exposed for 
 sale. — GiFFORD. Fr. /riperie, brocage, old clothes ; 
 fripier, a broker. 
 
 have you make hither with an appetite. If the worst of 
 'em be not worth your journey, draw your bill of charges, 
 as unconscionable as any Guildhall verdict will give it 
 you, and you shall be allowed your viaticum. 
 
 From the Windmill.* 
 
 From the Bordello ^ it might come as well. 
 
 The Spittle, or Pict-hatch, Is this the man 
 
 My son hath sung so for the happiest wit, 
 
 The choicest brain, the times have sent us forth! 
 
 I know not what he may be in the arts. 
 
 Nor what in schools ; but, surely, for his manners, 
 
 I judge him a profane and dissolute wretch ; 
 
 Worse by possession of such great good gifts, 
 
 Being the master of so loose a spirit. 
 
 Why, what unhallowed ruffian could have writ 
 
 In such a scurrilous manner to a friend ! 
 
 Why should he think I tell my apricots, 
 
 Or play the Hesperian di-agon with my finiit, 
 
 To watch it? Well, my son, I had thought you 
 
 Had had more judgment to have made election 
 
 Of your companions, than t' have ta'en on trust 
 
 Such petulant, jeering gamesters, that can spare 
 
 No argument or subject from their jest. 
 
 But I perceive affection makes a fool 
 
 Of any man too much the father. — Brainworm ! 
 
 Enter Braixworm. 
 
 Brai. Sir. 
 
 Know. Is the fellow gone that brought this 
 letter ? 
 
 Brai. Yes, sir, a pretty while since. 
 
 Know. And where is your young master ? 
 
 Brai. In his chamber, sir. 
 
 Know. He spake not with the fellow, did he ? 
 
 Brai. No, sir, he saw him not. 
 
 Know. Take you this letter, and deliver it my 
 son ; but with no notice that I have opened it, oa 
 your life. 
 
 Brai. O Lord, sir ! that were a jest indeed. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 Knoio. I am resolved I will not stop his journey, 
 Nor practise any violent means to stay 
 The unbridled course of youth in him ; for that 
 Eestrain'd, grows more impatient; and in kind 
 Like to the eager, but the generous greyhound, 
 Who ne'er so little from his game withheld, 
 Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat. 
 There is a way of winning more by love. 
 And urging of the modesty than fear : 
 Force works on servile natures, not the free. 
 He that's compelled to goodness, may be good. 
 But 'tis but for that fit ; where others, drawn 
 By softness and example, get a habit. 
 Then, if they stray, but warn them, and the same 
 They should for virtue have done, they'll do for 
 shame. [Exit. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Knowell's Bouse. 
 
 Enter E. Knowell, with a letter in his hand, 
 followed by Brainworm. 
 
 E. Know. Did he open it, say'st thou ? 
 Brai. Yes, o' my word, sir, and read the con- 
 tents. 
 E. Know. That scarce contents me. What 
 
 ^ Windmill. — Tliis house then stood at the corner of 
 the Old Jewry, toward Lothbury, and was remarkable 
 for the various changes it had undergone. In Stow's 
 time it was a tavern, and had for the sign a windmill. — 
 Whallet. 
 
 2 Bordello — the brothel or stews ; from the Fr. Spittle 
 — probably the Lock Hospital. Fict-hatch—see p. ISlj 
 note 1, col. 1. 
 
212 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 countenance, prithee, made he in the reading of 
 it ? Was he angry, or pleased ? 
 
 Brai. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open 
 it, I assure your worship. 
 
 E. Know. No ! how know'st thou then that he 
 did either ? 
 
 Brai. Marry, sir, because he charged me, on 
 my life, to tell nobody that he open'd it ; which, 
 unless he had done, he would never fear to have 
 it revealed. 
 
 E. Know. That's true : well, I thank thee, 
 Brainworm. 
 
 Enter Stephen. 
 
 Step. Oh, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow 
 here in what-sha-call-him doublet ? He brought 
 mine uncle a letter e'en now. 
 
 Brai. Yes, Master Stephen ; what of him ? 
 
 Step. Oh, I have such a mind to beat him — 
 where is he, canst thou tell ? 
 
 Brai. Faith, he is not of that mind : he is gone. 
 Master Stephen. 
 
 Step. Gone ! which way ? when went he ? how 
 long since ? 
 
 Brai. He is rid hence; he took horse at the 
 street-door. 
 
 Step. And I stayed in the fields! Whoreson, 
 scanderbag,' rogue ! Oh that I had but a horse 
 to fetch him back again ! 
 
 Brai. Why, you may have my master's gelding, 
 to save your longing, sir. 
 
 Step. But I have no boots, that's the spite on't. 
 
 Brai. Why, a fine wisp of hay, roli'd hard, 
 Master Stephen. 
 
 Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now. 
 Let him e'en go and hang. Prithee, help to truss 
 me a little. He does so vex me — 
 
 Brai. Tou'll be worse vexed when you are 
 trussed. Master Stephen. Best keep unbraced, 
 and walk yourself till you be cold ; your choler 
 may founder you else. 
 
 Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st 
 me on't. How dost thou like my leg, Brainworm ? 
 
 Brai. A very good leg. Master Stephen; but 
 the woollen stocking does not commend it so well. 
 
 Step., Foh ! the stockings be good enough, now 
 summer is coming on, for the dust. I'll have a pair 
 of silk against winter, that I go to dwell in the 
 town. I think my leg would show in a silk 
 hose — 
 
 Brai. Believe me. Master Stephen, rarely well. 
 
 Step. In sadness,^ I think it would. I have a 
 reasonable good leg. 
 
 Brai. You have an excellent good leg. Master 
 Stephen ; but I cannot stay to praise it longer 
 now, and I am very sorry for it. [^Exit. 
 
 Step. Another time will serve, Brainworm. 
 Gramercy for this. 
 
 E. Know. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Step. 'Slid, I hope he laughs not at me ; an he 
 do — 
 
 E. Know. Here was a letter indeed, to be inter- 
 cepted by a man's father, and do him good with 
 him ! He cannot but think most virtuously, both 
 of me and the sender, sure, that make the care- 
 ful costermonger of him in our familiar epistles. 
 Well, if he read this with patience, I'll be gelt, 
 and troll 3 ballads for Master John Trundle yon- 
 der the rest of my mortality. It is true, and 
 
 * scanderbag — properly Iskander-beg, 'the Prince 
 Alexander,' the name given by the Turks to George 
 Castriota, the brave patriot chief of Albania in the fif- 
 teenth century. 
 
 2 sadness — seriousness. 
 
 ' troll or trowl — means to push about the glass or 
 song ; here it probably means to write ballads, as 
 Trundle was a printer. 
 
 likely, my father may have as much patience as 
 another man, for he takes much physic ; and oft 
 taking physic makes a man very patient. But 
 Avould your packet. Master Wellbred, had arrived 
 at him in such a minute of his patience ! then wd 
 had known the end of it, which now is doubtful, 
 and threatens — [sees Master Stephen.] — What^ 
 my wise cousin ! nay, then I'll furnish our feast 
 with one gull more toward the mess. He writes 
 to me of a brace, and here's one — that's three : oh, 
 for a fourth. Fortune, if ever thou'lt use thin© 
 eyes, I entreat thee — 
 
 Step. Oh, now I see who he laughed at: he 
 laughed at somebody in that letter. By this 
 good light, an he had laughed at me — 
 
 E. Know. How noAv, Cousin Stephen, melan- 
 choly ? 
 
 - Step. Yes, a little. I thought you had laughed 
 at me, cousin. 
 
 E. Know. Why, what an I had, coz ? What 
 would you have done ? 
 
 Step. By this light, I would have told mine 
 uncle. 
 
 E. Know. Nay, if you would have told your 
 uncle, I did laugh at you, coz. 
 
 Step. Did you, indeed? 
 
 E. Know. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Step. Why then — 
 
 E. Know. What then ? 
 
 Step. I am satisfied ; it is sufficient. 
 
 E. Know. Why, be so, gentle coz ; and, I pray 
 you, let me entreat a courtesy of you. I am sent 
 for this morning by a friend in the Old Jewry, to 
 come to him ; it is but crossing over the fields to 
 Moorgate. Will you bear me company ? I pro- 
 test it is not to draw you into bond, or any plot 
 against the state, coz. 
 
 Step. Sir, that's all one an it were ; you shall 
 command me twice so far as Moorgate, to do you 
 good in such a matter. Do you think I would 
 leave you ? I protest — 
 
 E. Know. No, no, you shall not protest, coz. 
 
 Step. By my fackings, but I will, by your 
 leave : — I'll protest more to my friend, than I'll 
 speak of at this time. 
 
 E. Know. You speak very well, coz. 
 
 Step. Nay, not so, neither, you shall pardon 
 me : but I speak to serve my turn. 
 
 E. Know. Your turn, coz ! do you know what 
 you say ? A gentleman of your sort, parts, car- 
 riage, and estimation, to talk of your turn in this 
 company, and to me alone, like a tankard-bearer * 
 at a conduit! fie! A wight that, hitherto, his 
 every step hath left the stamp of a great foot 
 behind him, as every word the savour of a strong- 
 spirit, and he ! this man ! so graced, gilded, or, to 
 use a more fit metaphor, so tin-foiled by nature as 
 not ten housewives' pewter, again a good time,^ 
 shows more bright to the world than he ! And 
 he ! (as I said last, so I say again, and still shall 
 say it) this man ! to conceal such real ornaments 
 as these, and shadow their glory, as a milliner's 
 wife does her wrought stomacher with a smoky 
 lawn, or a black cyprus ! ^ Oh, coz ! it cannot be 
 answered ; go not about it. Drake's old ship 
 at Deptford may sooner circle the world again. 
 Come, wrong not the quality of your desert, with 
 looking downward, coz ; but hold up your head, 
 
 ^ tankard-learer. — Before the new river was brought 
 to London, the city was supplied with water from con- 
 duits, from which it was fetched by a particular class of 
 men, called tankard-bearers, of which Cob was one, and 
 sold to the citizens at so much a turn.— Gifford. 
 
 2 again a good time — against some festival, such as 
 Christmas. — Whallet. 
 
 3 Cyprus— & kind of thin, transparent crape, originally 
 manufactured at Cyprus. — Whallet. 
 
BEN JONS ON. 
 
 213 
 
 £o: and let the idea of what you are be pour- 
 trayed in your face, that men may read in your 
 physnomy, Here within this place is to be seen the 
 true, rare, and accomplished monster, or miracle of 
 nature, which is all one. What think you of this, 
 coz ? 
 
 Step. Why, I do think of it : and I will be 
 more proud, and melancholy, and gentlemanlike, 
 than I have been, I'll insure you. 
 
 E. Know. Why, that's resolute, Master Stephen ! 
 —Now, if I can but hold him up to his height, as 
 it is happily begun, it will do well for a suburb 
 humour : ^ we may hap have a match with the 
 city, and play him for forty pound. — Come, coz. 
 
 Step. I'll follow you. 
 
 E. Knoio. Follow me ! you must go before. 
 
 Step. Nay, an I must, I will. Pray you show 
 me, good cousin. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE TIL 
 
 The Lane before Cob's House. 
 
 Enter Master Mathew. 
 
 Mat. I think this be the house. What, ho ! 
 
 Enter Cob. 
 
 Cob. Who's there ? Oh, Master Mathew ! give 
 your worship good morrow. 
 
 Mat. What, Cob ! How dost thou, good Cob ? 
 Dost thou inhabit here, Cob ? 
 
 Cob. Ay, sir, I and my lineage have kept a 
 poor house here, in our days. 
 
 Mat. Thy lineage. Monsieur Cob! What line- 
 age, what lineage ? 
 
 Cob. Why, sir, an ancient lineage, and a 
 princely. Mine ance'try came from a king's 
 belly, no worse man ; and yet no man neither, 
 by your worship's leave, I did lie in that, but 
 herring, the king of fish (from his belly I pro- 
 ceed), one of the monarchs of the world, I assure 
 you. The first red herring that was broiled in 
 Adam and Eve's kitchen, do I fetch my pedigree 
 from, by the harrot's2 book. His cob^ was my 
 great, great, mighty great grandfather. 
 
 Mat. Why mighty, why mighty, I pray thee ? 
 
 Cob. Oh, it was a mighty while ago, sir, and a 
 mighty great cob. 
 
 Mat. How knowest thou that ? 
 
 Cob. How know I ! Why, I smell his ghost 
 ever and anon. 
 
 Mat. Smell a ghost! Oh, unsavoury jest ! and 
 the ghost of a herring cob ? 
 
 Cob. Ay, sir. With favour of your worship's 
 nose, Master Mathew, why not the ghost of a 
 herring cob, as well as the ghost of Kasher 
 Bacon ? 
 
 Mat. Koger Bacon, thou would'st say. 
 
 Cob. I say Kasher Bacon. They were both 
 ' broiled on the coals ; and a man may smell 
 broiled meat, I hope ! You are a scholar, upsolve 
 me that now. 
 
 Mat. Oh raw ignorance !— Cob, canst thou 
 show me of a gentleman, one Captain Bobadill, 
 where his lodging is? 
 
 Cob. Oh, my guest, sir, you mean. 
 
 Mat. Thy guest ! alas, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 1 a suburb humour — a low humour, not tinctured with 
 UThanity.— Whalley. 
 
 2 harrot's — herald's. 
 
 3 cob (Belg. kop)—di. head; our old writers used the 
 word as a distinctive mark of bulk. Probably connected 
 with Lat. caput. 
 
 Cob. Why do you laugh, sir ? Do you not mean 
 Captain Bobadill 1 
 
 Mat. Cob, pray thee advise thyself well : do 
 not wrong the gentleman, and thyself too. I 
 dare be sworn, he scorns thy house. He! he 
 lodge in such a base obscure place as thy house ! 
 Tut, I know his disposition so well, he would 
 not lie in thy bed if thou'dst give it him. 
 
 Cob. I will not give it him though, sir. Mass, 
 I thought somewhat was in it, we could not get 
 him to bed all night. Well, sir ; though he lie 
 not on my bed, he lies on my bench : an't please 
 you to go up, sir, you shall find him with two 
 cushions under his head, and his cloak wrapt 
 about him, as though he had neither won nor 
 lost, and yet, I warrant, he ne'er cast ^ better in 
 his life, than he has done to-night. 
 
 Mat. Why, was he dnink ? 
 
 Cob. Drunk, sir ! you hear not me say so : per- 
 haps he swallowed a tavern-token,- or some such 
 device, sir, I have nothing to do withal. I deal 
 with water and not with wine. — Give me my 
 tankard there, ho! — God be wi' you, sir. It's 
 six o'clock : I should have carried two turns by 
 this. What ho ! my stopple ; come. 
 
 Enter Tib with a water-tanhard. 
 
 Mat. Lie in a water-bearer's house ! a gentle- 
 man of his havings! 3 Well, I'll tell him my 
 mind. 
 
 Cob. What, Tib! show this gentleman up to 
 the captain. \_Exit Tib with Master Mathew.] 
 Oh, an my house were the Brazen-head now 1 
 faith it would e'en speak Moe fools yet. You 
 should have some now would take this Master 
 Mathew to be a gentleman, at the least. His 
 father's an honest man, a worshipful fishmonger, 
 and so forth ; and now does he creep and wriggle 
 into acquaintance with all the brave gallants 
 about the town, such as my guest is (oh, my 
 guest is a fine man!), and they flout him in- 
 vincibly. He useth every day to a merchant's 
 house where I serve water, one Master Kitely's in 
 the Old Jewry ; and here's the jest, he is in love 
 with my master's sister, Misti-ess Bridget, and 
 calls her mistress; and there he will sit you a 
 whole afternoon sometimes, reading of these same 
 abominable, vile (a pox on 'em ! I cannot abide 
 them) rascally verses, poetry, poetry, and speak- 
 ing of interludes : 'twill make a man burst to 
 hear him. And the wenches, they do so jeer, 
 and ti-he at him. — Well, should they do so much 
 to me, I'd forswear them all, by the foot of 
 Pharaoh ! There's an oath. How many water- 
 bearers shall you hear swear such an oath ? Oh, 
 I have a guest— he teaches me — he does swear 
 the legiblest of any man christened. By St. 
 George! the foot of Pharaoh! the body of me! 
 as I am a gentleman and a soldier ! such dainty 
 oaths ! and withal he does take this same filthy 
 roguish tobacco, the finest and cleanliest! It 
 would do a man good to see the fume come 
 forth at's tonnels. — Well, he owes me forty 
 shillings, my wife lent him out of her purse, by 
 sixpence at a time, besides his lodging : I would 
 I had it! I shall have it, he says, the next action. 
 Halter skelter, hang sorrow, care'll kill a cat, up- 
 tails all, and a louse for the hangman. [JExit. 
 
 1 cast—2i quibble between casting dice and vomiting. 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 2 swallowed a tavern-token— & cant term for getting 
 drunk. Tokens were promissory pieces of brass or 
 copper which tradesmen were sometimes permitted tu 
 coin for themselves. 
 
 3 Aafi«i/i— possessions. 
 
214 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IV. 
 A room in Cob's House. 
 BoBADiLL discovei'ed lying on a bench. 
 Bob. Hostess, hostess ! 
 
 Enter Tib. 
 
 Tib. What say you, sir ? 
 
 Bob. A cup of thy small beer, sweet hostess. 
 
 Tib. Sir, there's a gentleman below would speak 
 with you. 
 
 Bob. A gentleman ! 'odso, I am not within. 
 
 Tib. My husband told him you were, sir. 
 
 Bob. What a plague ! — what meant he ? 
 
 Mat. (below.) Captain Bobadill ! 
 
 Bob. Who's there? — Take away the bason, 
 good hostess. — Come up, sir. 
 
 Tib. He would desire you come up, sir. You 
 come into a cleanly house, here ! 
 
 Enter Mathew. 
 
 Mat. Save you, sir ; save you, captain ! 
 
 Bob. Gentle Master Mathew ! Is it you, sir ? 
 Please you to sit down. 
 
 Mat. Thank you, good captain ; you may see 
 I am somewhat audacious. 
 
 Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper 
 last night by a sort ^ of gallants, where you were 
 wished for, and drunk to, I assure you. 
 
 3fat. Vouchsafe me by whom, good captain ? 
 
 Bob. Marry, by young Wellbred, and others. — 
 Why, hostess, a stool here for this gentleman. 
 
 Mat. No haste, sir, 'tis very well. 
 
 Bob. Body o' me ! it was so late ere we parted 
 last night, I can scarce open my eyes yet ; I was 
 but new risen, as you came. How passes the day 
 abroad, sir ? you can tell. 
 
 Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven. Now, 
 trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging 
 here, very neat and private. 
 
 Bob. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master 
 Mathew, in any case possess 2 no gentleman of 
 our acquaintance with notice of my lodging. 
 
 Mat. Who? I, sir? no. 
 
 Bob. Not that I need to care who know it, for 
 the cabin is convenient ; but in regard I would 
 not be too popxilar, and generally visited, as some 
 are. 
 
 Mat. True, captain, I conceive you. 
 
 Bob. For, do you see, sir, by the heart of valour 
 in me, except it be to some peculiar and choice 
 spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily engaged, as 
 yourself, or so, I could not extend thus far. 
 
 Mat. Lord, sir ! I resolve ^ so. 
 
 Bob. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet pri- 
 vacy, above all the tumult and roar of fortune. 
 What new book have you there? What! Go by, 
 Hieronymo ? * 
 
 3Iat. Ay ; did you ever see it acted ? Is't not 
 well penned ? 
 
 Bob. Well penned! I would fain see all the 
 poets of these times pen such another play as 
 that was. They'll prate and swagger, and keep a 
 stir of art and devices, when, as I am a gentle- 
 man, read 'em, they are the most shallow, pitiful, 
 barren f eUows that live uj)on the face of the earth 
 again. 
 
 [While Master Mathew reads, Bobadill 
 makes himself ready. 
 
 Mat. Indeed, here are a numt)er of fine speeches 
 in this book. eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught 
 
 1 sor<— lot, company. ^ possess— inforca. 
 
 3 resolve — understand, believe. 
 
 ♦ The reference is to the drama, The Spanuh Tragedy. 
 
 with tears! there's a conceit ! — fountains fraught 
 with tears ! life, no life, but lively form of 
 death! another. world, no world, but mass of 
 public wrongs ! a third. Confuid and fill'd with 
 murder and misdeeds ! a foxirth. Oh, the muses I 
 Is't not excellent ? Is't not simply the best that 
 ever you heard, captain? Ha! how do you like 
 it? 
 
 Bob. 'Tis good. 
 
 Mat. To thee, the purest object to my sense, 
 The most refined essence heaven covers, 
 
 Send I these lines, wherein I do commence 
 The happy state of turtle-billing lovers. 
 
 If they prove rough, unpolished, harsh, and rude, 
 
 Haste made the waste: thus mildly I conclude. 
 
 Bob. Nay, proceed, proceed. Where's this ? 
 
 Mat. This, sir! a toy of mine own, in my 
 nonage ; the infancy of my muses. But when 
 will you come and see my study ? Good faith, I 
 can show you some very good things I have done 
 of late. — That boot becomes your leg passing well, 
 captain, methinks. 
 
 Bob. So, so; it's the fashion gentlemen now 
 use. 
 
 Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak of 
 the fashion. Master Wellbred's elder brother and 
 I are fallen out exceedingly. This other day, 
 I happened to enter into some discourse of a 
 hanger,! which I assure you, both for fashion 
 and workmanship, was most peremptory beau- 
 tiful and gentlemanlike : yet he condemned, and 
 cried it dowoi for the most pied and ridiculous 
 that ever he saw. 
 
 Bob. Squire Downright, the half-brother, was't 
 not? 
 
 3[at. A.J, sir, he. 
 
 Bob. Hang him, rook! He! why he has no 
 more judgment than a malt-horse. By St. George, 
 I wonder you'd lose a thought upon such an 
 animal ; the most peremptory absurd clown of 
 Christendom, this day, he is holden. I protest 
 to you, as I am a gentleman and a soldier, I ne'er 
 changed words with his like. By his discourse, 
 he should eat nothing but hay : he was born for 
 the manger, pannier, or pack-saddle. He has 
 not so much as a good phrase in his belly, but 
 all old iron, and rusty proverbs: a good com- 
 modity for some smith to make hobnails of. 
 
 Mat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with 
 his manhood still, where he comes. He brags he 
 will give me the bastinado, as I hear. 
 
 Bob. How ! he the bastinado ! How came he by 
 that word, trow ? 
 
 Mat. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me ; I termed 
 it so, for my more grace. 
 
 Bob. That may be ; for I was sure it was none 
 of his word. But when, when said he so ? 
 
 Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say; a young 
 gallant, a friend of mine, told me so. 
 
 Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an 'twere my 
 case now, I should send him a chartel - presently. 
 The bastinado ! a most proper and sufficient 
 dependence,^ waiTanted by the great Caranza. 
 Come hither, you shall chartel him. I'll show 
 you a trick or two you shall kill him with at 
 pleasure ; the first stoccata, if you will, by this 
 air. 
 
 Mat. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge in 
 the mystery, I have heard, sir. 
 
 Bob. Of whom, of whom, have you heard it, I 
 beseech you ? 
 
 Mat. Troth, I have heard it spoken of divers. 
 
 1 hanger — the part of a sword-belt to which the weapon 
 was suspended. 
 
 2 chartel — a paper containing a challenge. 
 
 3 dependence — the groimd or cause of quarrel. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 215 
 
 that you have very rare, and un-in-one-breath- 
 utterable skill, sir. 
 
 Bob. By heaven, no, not I; no skill in the 
 earth; some small rudiments in the science, as 
 to know my time, distance, or so. I have pro- 
 fessed it more for noblemen and gentlemen's use, 
 than mine own practice, I assure you. — Hostess, 
 accommodate us with another bed-staff here 
 quickly. Lend us another bed-staff — the woman 
 does not understand the words of action. — Look 
 you, sir: exalt not your point above the state, 
 at any hand, and let your poniard maintain your 
 defence, thus : — give it the gentleman, and leave 
 us. \Exit Tib.] So, sir. Come on. Oh, twine 
 your Dody more about, that you may fall to a 
 more sweet, comely, gentleman-like guard ; so ! 
 indifferent. Hollow your body more, sir, thus. 
 Now, stand fast o' your left leg, note your dis- 
 tance, keep your due propoi-tion of time — oh, you 
 disorder your point most irregularly ! 
 
 Mat. How is the bearing of it now, sir.'' 
 
 Bob. Oh, out of measure ill : a well- experienced 
 hand would pass upon you at pleasure. 
 
 Mat. How mean you, sir, pass upon me ? 
 
 Bob. Why, thus, sir, — make a thrust at me — 
 [Master Mathew pushes at Bobadill] come in 
 upon the answer, control your point, and make a 
 full career at the body. The best-practised gal- 
 lants of the time name it the passado; a most 
 desperate thrust, believe it. 
 
 Mat. Well, come, sir. 
 
 Bob. Why, you do not manage your weapon 
 "with any facility or grace to invite me. I have 
 no spirit to play with you ; your dearth of judg- 
 ment renders you tedious. 
 
 Mat. But one venue, sir. 
 
 Bob. Venue ! fie ; most gross denomination as 
 ever I heard. Oh, the stoccata, while you live, sir; 
 note that. — Come, put on your cloak, and we'll go 
 to some private place where you are acquainted — 
 some tavern, or so — and have a bit. I'll send for 
 one of these fencers, and he shall breathe you, by 
 my direction ; and then I will teach you your 
 trick : you shall kill him with it at the first, if 
 you please. Why, I will learn you, by the true 
 judgment of the eye, hand, and foot, to control 
 any enemy's point in the world. Should your 
 adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere 
 nothing, by this hand ! you should, by the same 
 rule, control his bullet, in a line, except it were 
 hail-shot, and spread. What money have you 
 about you, Master Mathew ? 
 
 Mat. Faith, I have not past a two shilling or 
 so. 
 
 Bob. 'Tis somewhat with the least : but come ; 
 we will have a bunch of radish and salt to taste 
 our wine, and a pipe of tobacco to close the orifice 
 of the stomach ; and then we'll call upon young 
 Wellbred: perhaps we shall meet the Corydon 
 his brother there, and put him to the qiiestion. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE L 
 
 The Old Jewry. A Hall in Kitely's House. 
 
 Enter Kitely, Cash, and Downright. 
 
 Kit. Thomas, come hither. 
 There lies a note within upon my desk ; 
 Here take my key ; it is no matter neither. — 
 Where is the boy ? 
 
 Cash. Within, sir, in the warehouse. 
 
 Kit. Let him tell over straight that Spanish 
 gold, 
 And weigh it, with the pieces of eight. Do you 
 
 See the delivery of those silver stuffs 
 
 To Master Lucar. Tell him, if he will. 
 
 He shall have the grograns at the rate I told him. 
 
 And I will meet him on the Exchange anon. 
 
 Cash. Good, sir. {Exit. 
 
 Kit. Do you see that fellow, brother Down- 
 right ? 
 
 Dow. Ay, what of him ? 
 
 Kit. He is a jewel, brother. 
 I took him of a child up at my door, 
 And christen'd him, gave him mine own name, 
 
 Thomas ; 
 Since bred him at the Hospital ;^ where proving 
 A toward imp, I call'd him home, and taught him 
 So much, as I have made him my cashier, 
 And giv'n him, who had none, a surname. Cash ; 
 And find him in his place so full of faith. 
 That I durst trust my life into his hands. 
 
 Dow. So would not I in any bastard's, brother. 
 As it is like he is, although I knew 
 Myself his father. But you said you had some- 
 what 
 To tell me, gentle brother; what is't, what is't ? 
 
 Kit. Faith, I am very loath to utter it, 
 As fearing it may hurt your patience ; 
 But that I know your judgment is of strength, 
 Against the nearness of affection — 
 
 Dow. What need this circumstance ? Pray you, 
 be direct. 
 
 Kit. I will not say how much I do ascribe 
 Unto your friendship, nor in what regard 
 I hold your love ; but let my past behaviour, 
 And usage of your sister, both confirm 
 How well I have been affected to your — 
 
 Dow. You are too tedious ; come to the matter, 
 the matter. 
 
 Kit. Then, without further cremony, thus. 
 My brother Wellbred, sir, I know not how, 
 Of late is much declined in what he was, 
 And greatly alter'd in his disposition. 
 When he came first to lodge here in my house, 
 Ne'er trust me if I were not proud of him. 
 Methought he bare himself in such a fashion, 
 So full of man, and sweetness in his carriage ; 
 And what was chief, it show'd not borrow'd in 
 
 him. 
 But all he did became him as his own, 
 And seem'd as perfect, proper, and possest, 
 As breath with life, or colour with the blood. 
 But now his course is so irregular. 
 So loose, affected, and deprived of grace, 
 And he himself withal so far fallen off 
 From that first place, as scarce no note remains. 
 To tell men's judgments where he lately stood. 
 He's grown a stranger to all due respect. 
 Forgetful of his friends ; and not content 
 To stale ^ himself in all societies. 
 He makes my house here common as a mart, 
 A theatre, a public receptacle 
 For giddy humour and diseased riot ; 
 And here, as in a tavern or a stews. 
 He and his wild associates spend their hours, 
 In repetition of lascivious jests ; 
 Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by 
 
 night, 
 Control my servants ; and, indeed, what not ? 
 
 Dow. 'Sdeins, I know not what I should say 
 to him in the whole world ! He values me at a 
 crack'd three-farthings,^ for aught I see. It will 
 never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone. I 
 
 ^ the Hospital— Christ's Hospital. 
 
 2 stale himself— msike himself cheap and common. — 
 
 GiFFOKD. 
 
 3 three-farthings. — ^The three-farthing pieces in Eliza- 
 beth's reign were made of silver, and consequently yery 
 thin, and easily crackeii 
 
2l6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 have told him enough, one would think, if that 
 would serve ; but counsel to him is as good as 
 a shoulder of mutton to a sick horse. Well, he 
 knows what to trust to, for George : let him 
 spend, and spend, and domineer till his heart 
 ache ! An he think to be relieved by me, when he 
 is got into one o' your city pounds, the counters, 
 he has the wrong sow by the ear, i' faith, and 
 claps his dish at the wrong man's door. I'll lay 
 my hand on my halfpenny, ere I part with it to 
 fetch him out, I'll assure you. 
 
 Kit. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you 
 thus. 
 
 Dow. 'Sdeath ! he mads me ; I could eat my 
 very spur-leathers for anger ! But why are you 
 so tame .' why do not you speak to him, and tell 
 him how he disquiets your house "i 
 
 Kit. Oh, there are divers reasons to dissuade me. 
 But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it 
 (Though but with plain and easy circumstance). 
 It would both come much better to his sense, 
 And savour less of stomach or of passion. 
 You are his elder brother, and that title 
 Both gives and warrants your authority. 
 Which, by your presence seconded, must breed 
 A kind of duty in him and regard : 
 Whereas, if I should intimate the least, 
 It would but add contempt to his neglect, 
 Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred, 
 That in the rearing would come tottering down. 
 And in the ruin bury all our love. 
 Nay, more than this, brother ; if I should speak. 
 He would be ready, from his heat of humour, 
 And overflowing of the vapour in him, 
 To blow the ears of his familiars, 
 With the false breath of telling what disgraces 
 And low disparagements I had put upon him : 
 Whilst they, sir, to relieve him in the fable. 
 Make their loose comments upon every word, 
 Gesture, or look I use ; mock me all over. 
 From my flat cap unto my shining shoes ; 
 And, out of their impetuous rioting phant'sies. 
 Beget some slander that shall dwell with me. 
 And what would that be, think you ? marry, this : 
 They would give out, because my wife is fair. 
 Myself but lately married, and my sister 
 Here sojourning a virgin in my house, 
 That I were jealous ! — nay, as sure as death, 
 That they would say ; and how that I had 
 
 quarrell'd 
 My brother purposely, thereby to find 
 An apt pretext to banish them my house. 
 
 Dow. Mass, perhaps so; they're like enough 
 to do it. 
 
 Kit, Brother, they would believe it ; so should I, 
 Like one of these penurious quack-salvers, 
 But set the bills up to mine own disgrace, 
 And try experiments upon myself ; 
 Lend scorn and envy opportunity 
 To stab my reputation and good name — 
 
 Enter Master Matiiew sti'uggling with 
 
 BOBADILL. 
 
 Mat. I will speak to him. 
 
 Boh. Speak to him! away! By the foot of 
 Pharaoh, you shall not; you shall not do him 
 that grace. — The time of day to you, gentleman 
 o' the house. Is Master Wellbred stirring ? 
 
 Dow. How then ? what should he do ? 
 
 Boh. Gentleman of the house, it is to you : is 
 he within, sir? 
 
 Kit. He came not to his lodging to-night, sir, 
 I assure you. 
 
 Doio. Why, do you hear ? you ! 
 
 Boh. The gentleman citizen hath satisfied me ; 
 I'll talk to no scavenger. [Exeunt Bob and Mat. 
 
 Doio. How! scavenger! Stay, sir, stay ! 
 
 Kit. Na5', brother Downright. 
 
 Dow. 'Heart ! stand you awaj% an you love me. 
 
 Kit. You shall not follow him now, I pray 
 you, brother ; good faith, you shall not ; I will 
 oveiTule you. 
 
 Dow. Ha ! scavenger ! Well, go to, I say little ; 
 but, by this good day (God forgive me I should 
 swear), if I put it up so, say I am the rankest 
 cow that ever pist. 'Sdeins, an I swallow this, 
 I'll ne'er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet- 
 street again while I live ; I'll sit in a barn with 
 madge-howlet, and catch mice first. Scavenger ! 
 heart! — and I'll go near to fill that huge tum- 
 brel-slop of yours with somewhat, an I have 
 good luck. Your Garagantua breech cannot carry 
 it away so. 
 
 Kit. Oh, do not fret yourself thus ; never 
 think on't. 
 
 Dow. These are my brother's consorts, these ! 
 these are his camerades, his walking mates ! he's 
 a gallant, a cavaliero too, right hangman cut ! 
 Let me not live, an' I could not find in my heart 
 to swinge the whole gang of 'em, one after an- 
 other, and begin with him first. I am grieved 
 it should be said he is my brother, and take these 
 courses. Well, as he brews, so shall he drink, 
 for George, again. Yet he shall hear on't, and 
 that tightly too, an I live, i' faith. 
 
 Kit. But, brother, let your reprehension, then, 
 Eun in an easy current, not o'er high. 
 Carried with rashness, or devouring choler; 
 But rather use the soft persuading way. 
 Whose powers will work more gently, and 
 
 compose 
 The imperfect thoughts you labour to reclaim ; 
 More winning, than enforcing the consent. 
 
 Dow. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Kit. How now ! [Bell rings.'] — Oh, the bell rings 
 to breakfast. Brother, I pray you go in, and 
 bear my wife company till I come ; I'll but give 
 order for some despatch of business to my ser- 
 vants. [Exit Downright. 
 
 Enter Cob, with his tanhard. 
 
 Kit. What, Cob ! our maids will have you by 
 the back, i' faith, for coming so late this morning. 
 
 Cob. Perhaps so, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Kit. Well ; yet my troubled spirit's somewhat 
 eased. 
 Though not reposed in that security 
 As I could wish ; but I must be content, 
 Howe'er I set a face on't to the world. 
 Would I had lost this finger at a venture. 
 So Wellbred had ne'er lodged within mj- house. 
 When mutual appetite doth meet to treat, 
 And spirits of one kind and quality 
 Come once to parley in the pride of blood, 
 It is no slow conspiracy that follows. 
 My presence shall be as an iron bar, 
 'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire ; 
 Yea, every look or glance mine eye ejects, 
 Shall check occasion, as one doth his slave, 
 When he forgets the limits of prescription. 
 
 Enter Dame Kitely and Bridget. 
 
 Dame K. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down 
 
 the rose-water above in the closet. 
 
 [Exit Bridget. 
 
 — Sweetheart, will you come in to breakfast ? 
 Kit. An she have overheard me now ! — 
 Dame K. I pray thee, good muss,^ we stay for 
 
 you. 
 
 1 muss — mouse, at this time a familiar term of en- 
 dearment between married people.— Whalley. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 217 
 
 Kit. By heaven, I would not for a thousand 
 angels. 
 
 Dame K. What ail you, sweetheart ? are you 
 not well ? Speak, good muss. 
 
 Kit. Troth, my head aches extremely on a 
 sudden. 
 
 Dame K. [putting her hand to his forehead.'] 
 Oh, the Lord ! 
 
 Kit. How now ! what 7 
 
 Dame K. Alas, how it burns ! Muss, keep you 
 warm ; good truth it is this new disease, there's 
 a number are troubled withal. For love's sake, 
 sweetheart, come in out of the air. 
 
 Kit. How simple and how subtle are her 
 answers ! 
 A new disease, and many troubled with it ? 
 Why, true ; she heard me, all the world to no- 
 thing. 
 
 Dame K. I pray thee, good sweetheart, come 
 in ; the air will do you harm, in troth. 
 
 Kit. The air ! She has me in the wind. — Sweet- 
 heart, I'll come to you presently ; 'twill away, I 
 hope. 
 
 Dame K. Pray heaven it do. \_Exit. 
 
 Kit. A new disease ! I know not, new or old, 
 But it may well be call'd poor mortal's plague ; 
 For, like a pestilence, it doth infect 
 The houses of the brain. First it begins 
 Solely to work upon the phantasy, 
 Filling her seat with such pestiferous air, 
 As soon corrupts the judgment ; and from thence 
 Sends like contagion to the memory : 
 Still each to other giving the infection. 
 Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself 
 Confusedly through every sensive part. 
 Till not a thought or motion in the mind 
 Be free from the black poison of suspect. 
 Ah ! but what misery is it to know this ? 
 Or, knowing it, to want the mind's erection 
 In such extremes ? Well, I will once more strive. 
 In spite of this black cloud, myself to be, 
 And shake the fever off that thus shakes me. 
 
 \jLxit. 
 
 ACT II.-SCENE II. 
 
 MOORFIELDS. 
 
 Enter Brain worm, disguised like a maimed 
 Soldier. 
 
 Brain. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see 
 myself translated thus, from a poor creature to a 
 creator ; for now must I create an intolerable sort 
 of lies, or my present profession loses the grace : 
 and yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is as ominous 
 a fruit as the fico.^ Oh sir, it holds for good 
 polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest esti- 
 mation, that inwardly is most dear to us : so much 
 for my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my 
 old master intends to follow my young master, 
 dry-foot,2 over Mooriields to London, this morn- 
 ing ; now, I knowing of this hunting-match, or 
 rather conspiracy, and to insinuate with my young 
 master (for so must we that are blue waiters, s and 
 men of hope and service do, or perhaps we may 
 wear motley at the year's end, and who wears 
 motley, yoii know), have got me -afore in this 
 disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscado, 
 >iud intex'cept him in the midway. If I can but 
 
 1 ^0— the poisoned fig of Spain and Italy, which was 
 ominous, or deadly. 
 
 2 dry-foot— Si term of the chase, meaning, by the scent 
 of the foot. 
 
 •'' blue waiters. Servants were so called, because 
 usually dressed in blua. 
 
 get his cloak, his purse, his hat, nay, anything to 
 cut him off, that is, to stay his journey, Veni, vidi, 
 vici, 1 may say with Captain C8esarj_ I am made 
 for ever, i' faith. Well, now must i practise to 
 get the true garb of one of these lance-knights,* 
 my arm here, and my — Odso ! my young master, 
 and his cousin, Master Stephen, as I am true 
 counterfeit man of war, and no soldier ! 
 
 Enter E. Knowell, aJid Stephen. 
 
 E. Know. So, sir ! and how then, coz ? 
 
 Step. 'Sfoot ! I have lost my purse, I think. 
 
 E. Know. How ! lost your purse ? Where ? 
 When had you it ? 
 
 Step. I cannot tell ; stay. 
 
 Brai. 'Slid, I am afeard they will know me: 
 would I could get by them ! 
 
 E. Know. What, have you it ? 
 
 Step. No ; I think I was bewitched, I — 
 
 [Cries. 
 
 E.Know. Nay, do not weep the loss; hang it, 
 let it go. 
 
 Step. Oh, it's here. No, an it had been lost, I 
 had not cared, but for a jet ring Mistress Mary 
 sent me, 
 
 E. Know. A jet ring ! Oh, the poesie, the 
 poesie ? 
 
 Step. Fine, 'i faith.— 
 
 Though Fancy sleep, 
 My love is deep. 
 
 Meaning, that though I did not fancy her, yet 
 she loved me dearly. 
 
 E. Know. Most excellent ! 
 
 Step. And then I sent her another, and my 
 poesie was — 
 
 The deeper the sweeter, 
 I'll be judg'd by St. Peter. 
 
 E. Know. How, by St. Peter ? I do not con- 
 ceive that. 
 
 Step. Marry, St. Peter to make up the metre. 
 
 E. Know. Well, there the saint was your good 
 patron, he help'd you at your need ; thank him, 
 thank him. 
 
 Brai. I cannot take leave on 'em so; I will 
 venture, come what will. [_Comes forward.'] — 
 Gentlemen, please you change a few crowns for 
 a very excellent good blade here ? I am a poor 
 gentleman, a soldier ; one that, in the better state 
 of my fortunes, scorned so mean a refuge ; but 
 now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. 
 You seem to be gentlemen well affected to martial 
 men, else I should rather die with silence, than 
 live with shame. However, vouchsafe to remem- 
 ber it is my want speaks, not myself ; this con- 
 dition agrees not with my spirit — 
 
 E. Know. Where hast thou served ? 
 
 Brai. May it please you, sir, in all the late wars 
 of Bohemia, Hungary, Dalmatia, Poland, where 
 not, sir ? I have been a poor servitor by sea and 
 land any time this fourteen years, and followed 
 the fortunes of the best commanders in Christen- 
 dom. I was twice shot at the taking of Aleppo, 
 once at the relief of Vienna ; I have been at 
 Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic gulf, a gentle- 
 man-slave in the galleys thrice, where I was 
 most dangerously shot in the head, through both 
 the thighs; and yet, being thus maimed, I am 
 void of maintenance, nothing left me but my 
 scars, the noted marks of my resolution. 
 
 Step. How will you sell this rapier, friend ? 
 
 Brai. Generous sir, I refer it to your owu 
 
 1 lance-knights— commoxx soldiers; a Flemish term.. 
 
 GiFFOKD. 
 
2l8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 judgment; you are a gentleman, give me what 
 you please. 
 
 Step. True, I am a gentleman, I know that, 
 friend 5 but what though ! I pray you say, what 
 would you ask ? 
 
 Brai. I assure you, the blade may become the 
 side or thigh of the best prince in Europe. 
 
 E. Know. Ay, with a velvet scabbard, I think. 
 
 Step. Nay, an't be mine, it shall have a velvet 
 scabbard, coz, that's flat ; I'd not wear it as it is, 
 an you would give me an angel. 
 
 Brai. At your worship's pleasure, sir : nay, 'tis 
 a most pure Toledo. 
 
 Step. I had rather it were a Spaniard. But tell 
 me, what shall I give you for it ? An it had a 
 silver hilt — 
 
 E. Know. Come, come, you shall not buy it. 
 Hold, there's a shilling, fellow; take thy rapier. 
 
 Step. Why, but I will buy it now, because you 
 say so ; and there's another shilling, fellow ; I 
 scorn to be outbidden. What, shall I walk with 
 a cudgel, like Higginbottom, and may have a 
 rapier for money ! 
 
 E. Know. You may buy one in the city. 
 
 Step. Tut! I'll buy this i' the field, so I will. 
 I have a mind to't, because 'tis a field rapier. 
 TeU me your lowest price. 
 
 E. Know. You shall not buy it, I say. 
 
 Step. By this money, but I will, though I give 
 more than 'tis worth. 
 
 E. Know. Come away, you are a fool. 
 
 Step. Friend, I am a fool, that's granted ; but 
 rU have it, for that word's sake. Follow me for 
 your money. 
 
 Bi'ai. At your service, sir. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE III. 
 
 Another part o/'Moorfields. 
 
 Enter Knowell. 
 
 Know. I cannot lose the thought yet of this 
 
 letter 
 Sent to my son ; nor leave t' admire the change 
 Of manners, and the breeding of our youth 
 Within the kingdom, since myself was one. — 
 When I was young, he lived not in the stews 
 Durst have conceived a scorn, and utter'd it 
 On a grey head ; age was authority 
 Against a buffoon, and a man had then 
 A certain reverence paid unto his years, 
 That had none due unto his life : so much 
 The sanctity of some prevail'd for others. 
 But now we all are fallen ; youth, from their fear, 
 And age, from that which bred it, good example. 
 Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even 
 
 parents, 
 That did destroy the hopes in our own children ; 
 Or they not learn'd our vices in their cradles. 
 And suck'd in our ill customs with their milk ; 
 Ere all their teeth be born, or they can speak. 
 We make their palates cunning ; the first words 
 We form their tongues with are licentious jests. 
 But this is in the infancy, the days 
 Of the long coat ; when it puts on the breeches, 
 It will put off all this. Ay, it is like. 
 When it is gone into the bone already ! 
 No, no ; this dye goes deeper than the coat, 
 Or shii-t, or skin ; it stains into the liver 
 And heart in some. 
 
 This is one path : but there are millions more, 
 In which we spoil our own, with leading them. 
 Well, I thank heaven I never yet was he 
 That travell'd with my son before sixteen, 
 To show him the Venetian courtezans, 
 Nor read the grammar of cheating I had made, 
 
 To my sharp boy at twelve; repeating still 
 The rule, Get money ; still, get money, boy; 
 No matter by what meaiis ; money will do 
 More, hoy, than my lord's letter. Neither have I 
 Brest snails or mushrooms curiously before him. 
 Perfumed my sauces, and taught him to make 
 
 them; 
 Preceding still, with my grey gluttony. 
 At all the ord'naries, and only fear'd 
 His palate should degenerate, not his manners. 
 These are the trade of fathers now; however, 
 My son, I hope, hath met within my threshold 
 None of these household precedents, which are 
 
 strong. 
 And swift to rape youth to their precipice. 
 But let the house at home be ne'er so clean' 
 Swept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and 
 
 cobwebs. 
 If he will live abroad with his companions. 
 In dung and laystalls,^ it is worth a fear ; 
 Nor is the danger of conversing less 
 Than all that I have mention'd of example. 
 
 Enter Brainwoem, disguised as lefore. 
 
 Brai. My master ! nay, faith, have at you ; I 
 am flesh'd now, I have sped so well, [aside.'] 
 Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the estate 
 of a poor soldier ; I am ashamed of this base 
 course of life — God's my comfort — but extremity 
 provokes me to't : what remedy ? 
 
 Know. I have not for you, now. 
 
 Brai. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentle- 
 man, it is no ordinary custom in me, but only to 
 preserve manhood. I protest to you, a man I 
 have been : a man I may be, by your sweet 
 bounty. 
 
 Knozo. Pray thee, good friend, be satisfied. 
 
 Brai. Good sir, by that hand, you may do the 
 part of a kind gentleman, in lending a poor 
 soldier the price of two cans of beer, a matter of 
 small value ; the King of heaven shall pay you, 
 and I shall rest thankful. Sweet worship — 
 
 Know. Nay, an you be so importunate — 
 
 Brai. Oh, tender sir ! need will have its course : 
 I was not made to this vile use. Well, the edge 
 of the enemy could not have abated me so much : 
 it's hard when a man hath served in his prince's 
 cause, and be thus [weeps]. Honoixrable worship, 
 let me derive a small piece of silver from you, it 
 shall not be given in the course of time.- By this 
 good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last 
 night for a poor supper ; I had suck'd the hilts 
 long before, I am a pagan else. Sweet honour — 
 
 Know. Believe me, I am taken with some 
 wonder. 
 To think a fellow of thy outward presence 
 Shoidd in the frame and fashion of his mind 
 Be so degenerate, and sordid-base. 
 Art thou a man ? and sham'st thou not to beg, 
 To practise such a servile kind of life .'' 
 Why, were thy education ne'er so mean. 
 Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses 
 Offer themselves to thy election. 
 Either the wars might still supply thy wants, 
 Or service of some virtuous gentleman. 
 Or honest labour ; nay, what can I name. 
 But would become thee better than to beg ? 
 But men of thy condition feed on sloth, 
 As doth the beetle on the dung she breeds in; 
 Not caring how the metal of your minds 
 Is eaten with the rust of idleness. 
 
 1 laystalls — dunghills, or receptacles for filth. 
 
 2 it shall vol be given, &c. The meaning is, that in tho 
 course of time he should receive some recompense or 
 other for his gift. — W'HAiLEy. 
 
BEN yONSON. 
 
 219 
 
 Now, afore me, whate'er he be, that should 
 Eelieve a person of thy quality. 
 While thou insist'st in this loose desperate course, 
 I would esteem the sin not thine, but his. 
 
 Brai. Faith, sir, I would gladly find some other 
 course, if so — 
 
 Know. Ay, 
 You'd gladly find it, but you will not seek it. 
 
 Brai. Alas, sir, where should a man seek ? In 
 the wars, there's no ascent by desert iu these 
 
 days ; but and for service, would it were as 
 
 soon purchased as wished for! The air's my 
 comfort. — \Sighs.'\ — I know what I would say. 
 
 Know. What's thy name ? 
 
 Brai. Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir. 
 
 Know. Fitz-Sword! 
 Say that a man should entertain thee now, 
 Wouldst thou be honest, humble, just, and true ? 
 
 Brai. Sir, by the place and honour of a sol- 
 dier — 
 
 Know. Nay, nay, I like not these affected oaths ; 
 Speak plainly, man, what think'st thou of my 
 words ? 
 
 Brai. Nothing, sir, but wish my fortunes were 
 as happy as my service should be honest. 
 
 Know. Well, follow me ; I'll prove thee, if thy 
 deeds 
 Will carry a proportion to thy words. [Exit. 
 
 Brai. Yes, sir, straight ; I'll but garter my hose. 
 Oh that my belly were hoop'd now, for I am ready 
 to burst with laughing ! never was bottle or bag- 
 pipe fuller. 'Slid, was there ever seen a fox in 
 years to betray himself thus! Now shall I be 
 possessed of all his counsels ; and, by that conduit, 
 my young master. Well, he is resolved to prove 
 my honesty ; faith, and I'm resolved to prove his 
 patience. Oh, I shall abuse him intolerably ! 
 This small piece of service will bring him clean 
 out of love with the soldier for ever. He will 
 never come within the sign of it, the sight of a 
 cassock or a musket-rest ^ again. He will hate 
 the musters at Mile-end for it to his dying day. 
 It's no matter; let the world think me a bad 
 counterfeit, 2 if I cannot give him the slip at an 
 instant. Why, this is better than to have stayed 
 his journey. Well, I'll follow him. Oh, how I 
 long to be employed ! [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Old Jewry. A Room in the Windmill 
 Tavei-n. 
 
 Enter Master Mathew, Wellbred, and 
 
 BOBADILL. 
 
 Mat. Yes, faith, sir, we were at your lodging 
 to seek you too. 
 
 Wei. Oh, I came not there to-night. 
 
 Bob. Your brother delivered us as much. 
 
 Wei. Who, my brother Downright ? 
 
 Boh. He. Mr. Wellbred, I know not in what 
 kind you hold me ; but let me say to you this : 
 as sure as honour, I esteem it so much out of the 
 sunshine of reputation to throw the least beam 
 of regard upon such a — 
 
 Wei. Sir, I must hear no ill words of my 
 brother. 
 
 Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be 
 
 1 a cassock or musket-rest. A cassock is a soldier's 
 loose outward coat. A rest was an article of ash or 
 other tough wood, made to fix in the ground, and used 
 to rest the heavy musket of those days on. 
 
 2 counterfeit and slip were synonymous, and both used 
 indifferently for a piece of false money.— GiFfOKD. 
 
 saved about me, I never saw any gentleman-like 
 part — 
 
 Wei. Good captain, faces about 1 to some other 
 discourse. 
 
 Bob. With your leave, sir, an there were no 
 more men living upon the face of the earth, I 
 should not fancy him, by St. George ! 
 
 Mat. Troth, nor I ; he is of a rustical cut, I 
 know not how : he doth not carry himself like 
 a gentleman of fashion. 
 
 Wei. Oh, Master Mathew, that's a grace pecu- 
 liar but to a few, quos gsquus amavlt Jupiter.- 
 
 Mat. I understand you, sir. 
 
 Wei. No question you do, — or you do not, sir. 
 
 Enter E. Knoweix and Master Stephen. 
 Ned Knowell ! by my soul, welcome ! How dost 
 thou, sweet spirit, my genius ? 'Slid, I shall love 
 Apollo and the mad Thespian girls the better, 
 while I live, for this, my dear Fury ; now I see 
 there's some love in thee. Sirrah, these be the 
 two I writ to thee of: nay, what a drowsy 
 humour is this now ! why dost thou not speak ? 
 
 E. Know. Oh, you are a fine gallant ; you sent 
 me a rare letter. 
 
 Wei. Why, was't not rare ? 
 
 E. Know. Yes, I'll be sworn, I was ne'er guilty 
 of reading the like ; match it in all Pliny, or 
 Symmachus's epistles, and I'll have my judgment 
 burn'd in the ear for a rogue : make much of thy 
 vein, for it is inimitable. But I marie ^ what 
 camel it was that had the carriage of it ; for, 
 doubtless, he was no ordinary beast that brought 
 it. 
 
 Wei. Why? 
 
 E. Know. Why, say'st thou 1 Why, dost thou 
 think that any reasonable creature, especially in 
 the morning, the sober time of the day too, could 
 have mistaken my father for me ? 
 
 Wei. 'Slid, you jest, I hope. 
 
 E. Know. Indeed, the best use we can turn it 
 to is to make a jest on't now; but I'll assure you 
 my father had the full view of your flourishing 
 style some hour before I saw it. 
 
 Wei. What a dull slave was this ! But, sirrah, 
 what said he to it, i' faith 7 
 
 E. Know. Nay, I know not what he said ; but 
 I have a shrewd guess what he thought. 
 
 Wei. What, what ? 
 
 E. Know. Marry, that thou art some strange, 
 dissolute young fellow, and I — a grain or two 
 better, for keeping thee company. 
 
 Wei. Tut! that thought is like the moon in 
 her last quarter; 'twill change shortly. But, 
 sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my two 
 hang-by's here ; thou wilt take exceeding plea- 
 sure in them if thou hear'st 'em once go; my 
 wind-instruments ; I'll wind them up — But 
 what strange piece of silence is this, the sign 
 of the Dumb Man ? 
 
 E, Know. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that 
 may make your music the fuller, an he please ; 
 he has his humour, sir. 
 
 Wei. Oh, what is't, what is't? 
 
 E. Know. Nay, I'll neither do your judgment 
 nor his folly that wrong, as to prepare your ap- 
 prehension. I'll leave him to the mercy of your 
 search ; if you can take him, so ! 
 
 Wei. Well, Captain Bobadill, Master Mathew, 
 pray you know this gentleman here ; he is a 
 friend of mine, and one that wiU deserve your 
 affection. — I know not your name, sir [to 
 
 '^ faces about — i.e. right about face. 
 2 ' whom impartial Jove loves.' 
 « marie — marvel. 
 
220 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Stephen], but I sliall be glad of any occasion 
 to render me more familiar to you. 
 
 Step. My name is Master Stephen, sir ; I am 
 this gentleman's own cousin, sir; his father is 
 mine uncle, sir. I am somewhat melancholy ; 
 but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever is 
 incident to a gentleman. 
 
 Bob. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general 
 man ; but for Master Wellbi'ed's sake (you may 
 embrace it at what height of favour you please) 
 I do communicate with you, and conceive you 
 to be a gentleman of some parts; I love few 
 words. 
 
 E. Know. And I fewer, sir; I have scarce 
 enough to thank you. 
 
 Mat. But are you indeed, sir, so given to it ? 
 
 Step. Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to 
 melancholy. 
 
 — 3Iat, Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir; your 
 true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. 
 I am melancholy myself divers times, sir, and 
 then do I no more but take pen and paper pre- 
 sently, and overflow you half a score or a dozen 
 of sonnets at a sitting. 
 
 £. K7WjO. Sm-e he titters them then by the 
 gross. \_Aside. 
 
 Step. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of 
 measure. 
 
 E. Know. T faith, better than in measure. 111 
 undertake. 
 
 Mat. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my 
 study ; it's at your service. 
 
 Step. I thank you, sir ; I shall be bold, I war- 
 rant you. Have you a stool there to be melan- 
 choly upon ? 
 
 Mat. That I have, sir ; and some papers there 
 of mine own doing, at idle hours, that you'll say 
 there's some sparks of wit in 'em when you see 
 them. 
 
 IVel. "Would the sparks would kindle once, 
 and become a fire amongst them ! I might see 
 self-love burnt for her heresy. [Aside. 
 
 Step. Cousin, is it well.? Am I melancholy 
 enough ? 
 
 E. Knoxo. Oh, ay ; excellent. 
 
 Wei. Captain Bobadill, why muse you so ? 
 
 E. Know. He is melancholy too. 
 
 Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most 
 honourable piece of service was performed to- 
 morrow, being St. Mark's day, shall be some ten 
 years now. 
 
 E. Know. In what place, captain ? 
 
 Bob. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonixim,^ 
 where, in less than two hours, seven hundred 
 resolute gentlemen, as any were in Europe, lost 
 their lives upon the breach. I'll tell you, gentle- 
 men, it was the first, but the best leaguer that 
 ever I beheld with these eyes, except the taking 
 in of 2 — what do you call it? last year, by the 
 Genowaj^s ; but that, of all other, was the most 
 fatal and dangerous exploit that ever I was ranged 
 ioi, since I first bore arms before the face of the 
 enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier ! 
 
 Step. So ! I had as lief as an angel I could 
 swear as well as that gentleman. 
 
 E. Know. Then you were a servitor at both, it 
 seems ; at Strigonium, and what do you call't ? 
 
 Bob. Lord, sir ! By St. George, I was the 
 first man that entered the breach ; and had I not 
 effected it with resolution, I had been slain if I 
 had had a million of lives. 
 
 1 Strigonium— Gr&sm, in Hungary, which was retaken 
 from the Turks in 1597, after having been in then- pos- 
 session nearly half a century.— Whaxlkt. 
 
 2 taking in of. To take in is to capture, subdue. — 
 
 GlFKOKD. 
 
 E. Know. 'Twas pity you had not ten ; a cat's 
 and your own, i'faith. But was it possible ? 
 
 Mat. Pray you mark this discourse, sir. 
 
 Step. So I do. 
 
 Bob. I assure you, upon my reputation, 'tia 
 true, and yourself shall confess. 
 
 E. Know. You must bring me to the rack first. 
 
 [^Aside. 
 
 Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir. They 
 had planted me three demi-culverins just in the 
 mouth of the breach ; now, sir, as we were to 
 give on, their master-gunner (a man of no mean 
 skill and mark, you must think) confronts me 
 with his linstock,^ ready to give fire; I, spying 
 his intendment, discharged my petronel in his 
 bosom, and, with these single arms, my poor 
 rapier ran violently upon the Moors that guarded 
 the ordnance, and put 'em pell-mell to the 
 sword. 
 
 Wei. To the sword ! To the rapier, captain. 
 
 E. Know. Oh, it was a good figure observed, 
 sir : but did you do all this, captain, without 
 hurting your blade ? 
 
 Bob. Without any impeach o' the earth : you 
 shall perceive, sir. [Shows his rajner.] It is the 
 most fortunate weapon that ever rid on poor 
 gentleman's thigh. Shall I tell j'ou, sir ? You 
 talk of Morglay, Excalibur, Durindana,^ or so ; 
 tut ! I lend no credit to that is fabled of 'em : 
 I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore 
 I dare the boldlier maintain it. 
 
 Step. I marie whether it be a Toledo or no. 
 
 Bob. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir. 
 
 Step. I have a countryman of his here. 
 
 Mat. Pray you, let's see, sir ; yes, faith, it is. 
 
 Bob. This a Toledo ! Pish ! 
 
 Step. Why do you pish, captain ? 
 
 Bob. A Fleming, by heaven ! I'll buy them 
 for a guilder apiece, an I would have a thousand 
 of them. 
 
 E. Know. How say you, cousin ? I told you 
 thus much. 
 
 Wei. Where bought you it, Master Stephen ? 
 
 Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier: a hundred of 
 lice go with him ! He swore it was a Toledo. 
 
 Bob. A poor provants rapier, no better. 
 - Mat. Mass, I think it be indeed, now I look 
 on't better. 
 
 E. Know. Nay, the longer you look on't, the 
 worse. Put it up, put it up. 
 
 Step. Well, I will put it up ; but by — I have 
 forgot the captain's oath ; I thought to have 
 sworn by it — an e'er I meet him — 
 
 Wei. Oh, it is past help now, sir; you must 
 have patience. 
 
 Step. Whoreson, coney-catching* rascal! I 
 could eat the very hilts for anger. 
 
 E. Know. A sign of good digestion ; you have 
 an ostrich stomach, cousin. 
 
 Step. A stomach ! Would I had him here, you 
 should see an I had a stomach. 
 
 Wei. It's better as it is. — Come, gentlemen, 
 shall we go ? 
 
 1 linstock, or lintstock, was a stock or handle to hold 
 the lint or match with which the gun was fired. 
 
 2 Morglay, <fec. These blades make a figure in ro- 
 mance: J/orgr^ay was the sword of Bevis of Southampton; 
 Durindann of Orlando; and Excalibur of the renowned 
 King Arthur. — Whalley. 
 
 3 jsrouani— means properly provender, ammunition. 
 As applied to a sword, it meant such as was supplied to 
 the common soldiers, and therefore of common quality. 
 
 * coney-catching— coney-catcher, a name given to de- 
 ceivers, by a metaphor taken from them that rob wanens 
 and coney grounds, using all means, sleights, and cun- 
 ning to deceive them.— Misshew. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 22 I 
 
 Enter Braixworm, disguised as he/ore. 
 
 E. Know. A miracle, cousin ; look here, look 
 here! 
 
 Step. Oh — od's lid! By your leave, do you 
 know me, sir ? 
 
 Brai. Ay, sir, I know you by sight. 
 
 Step. You sold me a rapier, did you not ? 
 
 Brai. Yes, marry did I, sir. 
 
 Step. You said it was a Toledo, ha ? 
 
 Brai. True, I did so. 
 
 Step. But it is none. 
 
 Brai. No, sir, I confess it ; it is none. 
 
 Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear 
 •witness, he has confessed it : — Od's will, an you 
 had not confessed it — 
 
 E. Know. Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear ! 
 
 Step. Nay, I have done, cousin. 
 
 Wei. Why, you have done like a gentleman. 
 He has confessed it : what would you more ? 
 
 Step. Yet, by his leave, he is a rascal, under 
 his favour, do you see. 
 
 E. Know. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under 
 favour : a pretty piece of civility ! Sirrah, how 
 dost thou like him ? 
 
 Wei. Oh, it's a most precious fool, make much 
 on him. I can compare him to nothing more 
 happily than a drum; for every one may play 
 upon him. 
 
 E. Know. No, no, a child's whistle were far 
 the fitter. 
 
 Brai. Sir, shall I entreat a word with you ? 
 
 E. Know. With me, sir.' You have not an- 
 other Toledo to sell, have you ? 
 
 Brai. You are conceited,^ sir. Tour name is 
 Master Knowell, as I take it ? 
 
 E. Know. You are in the right. You mean not 
 to proceed in the catechism, do you .'* 
 
 Brai. No, sir ; I am none of that coat. 
 
 E. Know. Of as bare a coat though. Well, 
 say, sir. 
 
 Brai. [talcing E. Know, aside.'] Faith, sir, I 
 am but servant to the drum extraordinary, and 
 indeed, this smoky varnish being washed off, and 
 three or four patches removed, I appear your 
 worship's in reversion, after the decease of your 
 good father, — Brain worm. 
 
 E. Knoto. Brain worm ! 'Slight, what breath of 
 a conjurer hath blown thee hither in this shape ? 
 
 Brai. The breath of your letter, sir, this morn- 
 ing ; the same that blew you to the Windmill, and 
 your father after you. 
 
 E. Know. My father ! 
 
 Brai. Nay, never start, 'tis true; he has fol- 
 loAved you over the fields by the foot, as you 
 would do a hare in the snow. 
 
 E. Know. Sirrah Wellbred, what shall we do, 
 sirrah ? My father is come over after me. 
 Wei. Thy father ! Where is he ? 
 
 Brai. At Justice Clement's house in Coleman- 
 street, where he but stays my return, and then — 
 Wei. Who's this ? Brain v/orm ? 
 
 Brai. The same, sir. 
 
 Wei. Why, how, in the name of wit, com'st 
 thou transmuted thus ? 
 
 Brai. Faith, a device, a device ; nay, for the 
 love of reason, gentlemen, and avoiding the dan- 
 ger, stand not here ; withdraw, and I'll tell you all. 
 Wei. But art thou sui-e he will stay thy return ? 
 
 Brai. Do I live, sir ? What a question is that ? 
 
 Wei. We'll prorogue his expectation, then, a 
 
 little : Brain worm, thou shalt go with us. — Come 
 
 on, gentlemen. — Nay, I pray thee, sweet Ned, 
 
 droop not ; 'heart, an our wite be so wretchedly 
 
 ' co«cet<e(i— disposed to u;e conceits or jests; witty. 
 
 dull, that one old plodding brain can outstrip us 
 all, would we were e'en pressed to make porters 
 of, and serve out the remnant of our days in 
 Thames-street, or at the Custom-house quay, iu 
 a civil war against the carmen ! 
 Brai. Amen, amen, amen, say I. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 
 The Old Jewry. Kitely's Warehouse. 
 
 Enter Kitely and Cash. 
 
 Kit. What says he, Thomas ? Did you speak 
 with him .' 
 
 Cash. He will expect you, sir, within this half 
 hour. 
 
 Kit. Has he the money ready, can you tell ? 
 
 Cash. Yes, sir, the money was brought in last 
 night. 
 
 Kit. Oh, that is well : fetch me my cloak, my 
 cloak! — [Exit Cash. 
 
 Stay, let me see, an hour to go and come ; 
 Ay, that will be the least ; and then 'twill be 
 An hour before I can despatch with him. 
 Or very near ; well, I will say two hours ! 
 Two hours ! ha ! things never dreamt of yet. 
 May be contrived, ay, and effected too. 
 In two hours' absence : well, I will not go. 
 Two hours! No, fleering Opportunity, 
 I will not give your subtlety that scope. 
 Who will not judge him worthy to be robb'd. 
 That sets his doors wide open to a thief. 
 And shows the felon where his treasure lies ? 
 Again, what earthy spirit but will attempt 
 To taste the fruit of beauty's golden tree, 
 W^hen leaden sleep seals up the dragon's eyes ? 
 I will not go. Business, go hy for once. 
 The dangers are too many : and then the dressing 
 Is a most main attractive ! Our great heads 
 Within the city never were in safety, ['era. 
 
 Since our wives wore these little caps :i I'll change 
 I'll change 'em straight in mine. 
 
 Re-enter Cash with a dodk. 
 Carry in my cloak again. Yet stay. Yet do, too : 
 I will defer going, on all occasions. 
 
 Cash. Sir, Snare, your scrivener, will be there 
 with the bonds. 
 
 Kit. That's true : fool on me ! I had clean for- 
 I must go. What's a clock 7 [got it ; 
 
 Cash. Exchange- time, sir.2 
 
 Kit. 'Heart, then will Wellbred presently be 
 here too. 
 With one or other of his loose consorts. 
 I am a knave, if I know what to say, 
 What course to take, or which way to resolve ! 
 My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, 
 Wherein my imaginations run like sands. 
 Filling up time ; but then are turn'd and turn'd. 
 So that I know not what to stay upon, 
 And less to put in act. — It shall be so. 
 Nay I dare build upon his secrecy, 
 He knows not to deceive me. — Thomas ! 
 
 Cash. Sir. 
 
 Kit. Yet now I have bethought me too, I will 
 Thomas, is Cob within ? [not. — 
 
 Cash. I think he be, sir. [him. 
 
 Kit. But he'll prate too, there is no speech of 
 No, there were no man on the earth to Thomas, 
 If I durst trust him; there is all the doubt. 
 
 1 little caps. Velvet caps of a diminutive size were 
 worn at this time by citizens' wives and daughters. — 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 2 The merchants then commenced business on 'Change 
 at ten o'clock. 
 
222 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 But should be have a chink in him, I were gone. 
 Lost in my fame for ever, talk for tli' Exchange ! 
 The manner he hath stood with, till this present. 
 Doth promise no such change: what should I 
 
 fear then ? 
 Well, come what will, I'll tempt my fortune once. 
 Thomas — you may deceive me, but I hope — 
 Your love to me is more — 
 
 Cash. Sir, if a servant's 
 Duty, with faith, may be call'd love, you are 
 More than in hope you are possess'd of it. 
 
 Kit. I thank you heartily, Thomas: give me 
 your hand: 
 "With all my heart, good Thomas. I have, Thomas, 
 A secret to impart unto you ; but, 
 When once you have it, I must seal your lips up : 
 So far, I tell you, Thomas. 
 
 Cash. Sir, for that — 
 
 Kit. Nay, hear me out. Think I esteem you, 
 Thomas, 
 When I will let you in thus to my private. 
 It is a thing sits neai-er to my crest 
 Than thou art 'ware of, Thomas ; if thou should'st 
 Eeveal it, but — 
 
 Cash. How, I reveal it ? 
 
 Kit. Nay, 
 I do not think thou would'st; but if thou should'st, 
 'Twere a great weakness. 
 
 Cash. A great treachery : 
 Give it no other name. 
 
 Kit. Thou wilt not do't then? 
 
 Cash. Sir, if I do, mankind disclaim me ever! 
 
 Kit. He will not swear, he has some reservation, 
 Some concealed purpose, and close meaning sure ; 
 Else, being ui-g'd so much, how should he choose, 
 But lend an oath to all this protestation ? 
 He's no precisian, that I'm certain of, 
 Nor rigid Roman Catholic : he'll play 
 At fayles and tick-tack ;i I have heard him swear. 
 What should I think of it .' urge him again. 
 And by some other way : I will do so. — 
 Well, Thomas, thou hast sworn not to disclose: — 
 Yes, you did swear ? 
 
 Cash. Not yet, sir, but I will, 
 Please you — 
 
 Kit. No, Thomas, I dare take thy word, 
 But, if thou wilt swear, do as thou think'st good ; 
 I am resolv'd^ without it : at thy pleasure. 
 
 Cash. By my soul's safety then, sir, I protest, 
 My tongue shall ne'er take knowledge of a word 
 Deliver'd me in nature of your trust. 
 
 Kit. It is too much; these ceremonies need not: 
 I know thy faith to be as firm as rock. 
 Thomas, come hither near; we cannot be 
 Too private in this business. So it is, 
 —Now he has sworn, I dare the saflier venture. 
 
 {Aside. 
 I have of late, by divers observations — 
 But whether his oath can bind him, yea or no, 
 Being not taken lawfully .' ha ! say you ? 
 I will ask counsel ere I do proceed : — \Adde^ 
 Thomas, it will be now too long to stay, 
 I'll spy some fitter time soon, or to-morrow. 
 
 Cash. Sir, at your pleasure. 
 
 Kit. I will think: — and, Thomas, 
 I pray you search the books 'gainst my return, 
 For the receipts 'twixt me and Traps. 
 
 Cash. I will, sir. 
 
 Kit. And hear you, if your mistress's brother, 
 Wellbred, 
 Chance to bring hither any gentleman 
 Ere I come back, let one straight bring me word. 
 
 J fayJes and tick-tack — were both complicated kinds of 
 1)ackgammon. 
 
 '^ reso/v'tf— convinced. 
 
 Cash. Very well, sir. 
 
 Kit. To the Exchange, do you hear ? 
 Or here in Coleman-street, to Justice Clement's. 
 Forget it not, nor be out of the way. 
 
 Cash. I will not, sir. 
 
 Kit. I pray you have a care on't. 
 Or, whether he come or no, if any other, 
 Stranger or else ; fail not to send me word. 
 
 Cash. I shall not, sir. 
 
 Kit. Be it your special business 
 Now to remember it. 
 
 Cash. Sir, I wan-ant you. 
 
 Kit. But, Thomas, this is not the secret, Thomas, 
 I told you of. 
 
 Cash. No, sir ; I do suppose it. 
 
 Kit. Believe me, it is not. 
 
 Cash. Sir, I do believe you. [Thomas, 
 
 Kit. By heaven, it is not, that's enough: but 
 I would not you should utter it, do you see, 
 To any creature living ; yet I care not. 
 WeU, I must hence. Thomas, conceive thus much, 
 It was a trial of you, when I meant 
 So deep a secret to you, I mean not this. 
 But that I have to tell you ; this is nothing, this. 
 But, Thomas, keep this from my wife, I charge 
 
 you, 
 Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here. — 
 No greater hell than to be slave to fear. {Exit. 
 
 Cash. Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here ! 
 Whence should this flood of passion, trow, take 
 
 head.' ha! 
 Best dream no longer of this running humour, -^ 
 For fear I sink ; the violence of the stream 
 Already hath transported me so far. 
 That I can feel no ground at all : but soft — 
 Oh, 'tis our water-bearer: somewhat has crest 
 him now. 
 
 Enter Cob hastily. 
 
 Cob. Fasting-days ! what tell you me of fasting- 
 days .' 'Slid, would they were all on a light fire 
 for me ! They say the whole world shall be con- 
 sumed with fire one day ; but would I had these 
 Ember-weeks and villanous Fridays bui-nt in the 
 meantime, and then — 
 
 Cash. Why, how now. Cob! What moves thee 
 to this choler, ha ? 
 
 Cob. Collar, Master Thomas! I scorn your 
 collar, I, sir : I am none o' your cart-horse, though 
 I carry and draw water. An you offer to ride me 
 with your collar or halter either, I mayhap show 
 you a jade's trick, sir. 
 
 Cash. Oh, you'll slip your head out of the 
 collar ? Why, goodman Cob, you mistake me. 
 
 Cob. Nay, I have my rheum, and I can be 
 angry as well as another, sir. 
 
 Cash. Thy rheum. Cob ! Thy humour, thy - 
 humour — thou mistak'st. 
 
 Cob. Humour ! mack, I think it be so indeed ! 
 What is that humour.'' some rare thing, I warrant. . 
 
 Cash. Mai-ry, I'll tell thee, Cob : it is a gentle- 
 man-like monster, bred in the special gallantly of 
 our time, by affectation, and fed by foUy. 
 
 Cob. How ! must it be fed 7 
 -,- Cash. Oh ay, humour is nothing if it be not 
 fed : didst thou never hear that ? It's a common 
 phrase, /eed my humour. 
 
 ■ Cob. I'll none on it. Humour, avaunt ! I know 
 you not ; begone ! Let who will make hungry 
 meals for your monstership, it shall not be I. 
 Feed you, quoth he ! 'slid, I have much ado to 
 feed myself ; especially on these lean rascally 
 
 * ftuwwMr.— Every oddity which a man aflFected was 
 called his humour, — a word that seems to have been first 
 used in this sense about the age of Jonson. — Whaixby. 
 
days too ; an't had beeu any othei- day but a 
 fasting-day — a plague on them all for me. By 
 this light, one might have done the common- 
 wealth good service and have drowned them 
 all in the flood, two or three hundred thousand 
 years ago. Oh, I do stomach them hugely. I 
 have a maw now, an 'twere for Sir Bevis his 
 horse, against them. 
 
 Cash. I pray thee, good Cob, what makes thee 
 so out of love with fasting-days ? 
 
 Cob. Marry, that which will make any man out 
 of love with 'em, I think ; their bad conditions, an 
 you will needs know. First, they are of a Flemish 
 breed, I am sure on't, for they raven up more 
 butter than all the days of the week beside ; next, 
 they stink of fish and leek-porridge miserably; 
 thirdly, they'll keep a man devoutly hungry all 
 day, and at night send him supperless to bed. 
 
 Cash. Indeed these are faults, Cob. 
 
 Cob. Nay, an this were all, 'twere something ; 
 but they are the only known enemies to my gene- 
 ration. A fasting-day no sooner comes, but my 
 lineage goes to wrack. Poor cobs ! they smoke for 
 it, they are made martyrs o' the gridiron, they 
 melt in passion : and your maids, too, know this, 
 and yet would have me turn Hannibal, and eat 
 my own flesh and blood. My princely coz \_pulls 
 out a red heiving], fear nothing; I have not the 
 heart to devour you, an I might be made as rich as 
 Eling Cophetua. Oh that I had room for my tears, 
 I could weep salt-water enough now to preserve 
 the lives of ten thousand thousand of my kin! 
 But I may curse none but these filthy almanacks ; 
 for an't were not for them, these days of persecu- 
 tion would never be known. I'll be hang'd an 
 some fishmonger's son do not make of 'em, and 
 puts in more fasting-days than he should do, be- 
 cause he would utter his father's dried stock-fish 
 and stinking conger. 
 
 Cash. 'Slight, peace ! thou'lt be beaten like a 
 stock-fish else. Here's Master Mathew. 
 
 Enter "Wellbred, E. Kxowell, Brainworm, 
 Mathew, Bobadill, and Stephen. 
 
 Now must I look out for a messenger to my 
 master. [^Exit with Cob. 
 
 Wei. Beshrew me, but it was an absolute good 
 jest, and exceedingly well canned ! 
 
 E. Know. Ay, and our ignorance maintained it 
 as well, did it not ? 
 
 Wei. Yes, faith ; but was it possible thou 
 should'st not know him ? I forgive Master 
 Stephen, for he is stupidity itself. 
 
 E. Know. 'Fore God, not I, an I might have 
 been join'd patten i with one of the seven wise 
 masters for knowing him. He had so writhen 
 himself into the habit of one of your poor infantry, 
 your decayed, ruinous, worm-eaten gentlemen of 
 the round; 2 such as have vowed to sit on the 
 skirts of the city, let your provost and his half- 
 dozen of halberdiers do what they can ; and have 
 translated begging out of the old hackney-pace 
 to a fine easy amble, and made it nin as smooth 
 off the tongue as a shove-groat shilling.' Into 
 the likeness of one of these reformados* had he 
 moulded himself so perfectly, observing every 
 trick of their action, as, varying the accent. 
 
 * pa«en— pat (?). 
 
 2 gentlemen of the round — were soldiers of inferior 
 rank, but above the common man; it was tiieir duty to 
 visit the sentinels, watches, and advanced guards, and 
 from this office they derived their name. — Whallfa'. 
 
 3 a shove-groat shilling. — Edward Sixth's shillings were 
 generally made use of in the play of shovel-board or 
 ehove-proat.— GiFFORD. 
 
 * i^e/ormados — broken or disbanded soldiers. 
 
 swearing with an emphasis, indeed, all with so 
 special and exquisite a grace, that, hadst thou 
 seen him, thou wouldst have sworn he might 
 have been serjeant-major, if not lieutenant-colonel 
 to the regiment. 
 
 Wei. Why, Brainworm, who would have 
 thought thou hadst been such an artificer ? 
 
 E. Know. An artificer! an architect. Except 
 a man had studied begging all his lifetime, and 
 beeu a weaver of language from his infancy for 
 the clothing of it, I never saw his rival. 
 
 Wei. Where got'st thou this coat, I marie ? 
 
 Brai. Of a Hounsditch man, sir, one of the 
 devil's near kinsmen, a broker. 
 
 Wei. That cannot be, if the proverb hold ; for 
 A crafty knave needs no broke?'. 
 
 Brai. True, sir ; but I did need a broke?', ergo — 
 
 Wei. Well put off : — no crafiy knave, you'll say. 
 
 E. Know. Tut, he has more of these shifts. 
 
 Brai. And yet, where I have one the broker 
 has ten, sir. 
 
 Re-enter Cash. 
 
 Cash. Francis ! Martin ! ne'er a one to bo 
 found now ? What a spite's this ! 
 
 Wei. How now, Thomas? Is my brother 
 Kitely within ? 
 
 Cash. No, sir, my master went forth e'en now; 
 but Master Downright is within. — Cob! what, 
 Cob ! Is he gone too ? 
 
 Wei. Whither went your master, Thomas; 
 canst thou tell ? 
 
 Cash. I know not: to Justice Clement's, I 
 think, sir. — Cob! {Exit. 
 
 E. Know. Justice Clement ! what's he ? 
 
 Wei. Why, dost thou not know him ? He is a 
 city-magistrate, a justice here, an excellent good 
 lawyer, and a great scholar ; but the only mad, 
 merry old fellow in Europe. I showed him you 
 the other day. 
 
 E. Know. Oh, is that he? I remember him 
 now. Good faith, and he is a very strange pre- 
 sence, methinks ; it shows as if he stood out of 
 the rank from other men : I have heard many of 
 his jests in the University. They say he wUl 
 commit a man for taking the wall of his horse. 
 
 Wei. Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, 
 or serving of God; anything, indeed, if it come 
 in the way of his humour. ^ 
 
 Re-enter Cash. 
 
 Cash. Gasper ! Martin ! Cob ! 'Heart, where 
 should they be, trow ? 
 
 Bob. Master Kitely's man, pray thee, vouchsafe 
 us the lighting of this match. 
 
 Cash. Fire on your match ! no time but now to 
 vouchsafe f — Francis ! Cob ! [^Exit. 
 
 Bob. Body o' me ! here's the remainder of seven 
 pound since yesterday was seven-night. 'Tis 
 your right Trinidado ; ^ did you never take any. 
 Master Stephen ? 
 
 - Step. No, truly, sir; but I'll learn to take it 
 now, since you commend it so. 
 
 Bob. Sir, believe me, upon my relation for 
 what I tell you, the world shall not i-eprove. I 
 have been in the Indies, where this herb grows, 
 where neither myself, nor a dozen gentlemen 
 more of my knowledge, have received the taste 
 of any other nutriment in the world, for the space 
 of one-and-tweuty weeks, but the fume of this 
 simple only : therefore, it cannot be, but 'tis most 
 divine. Further, take it in the nature, in the 
 true kind ; so, it makes an antidote, that, had 
 
 1 Trinidado. — ^Tobacco from Trinidad was at this tima 
 much in request. — Whallet. 
 
224 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 you taken the most deadly poisonous plant in all 
 Italy, it should expel it, and clarify you, with as 
 much ease as I speak. And for your green 
 wound, — your Balsamum and your St. John's 
 wort, are all mere gulleries and trash to it, 
 especially your Trinidado: your Nicotian'- is 
 good too. I could say what I know of the virtue 
 of it, for the expulsion of rheums, raw humours, 
 crudities, obstructions, with a thousand of this 
 kind ; but I profess myself no quacksalver. Only 
 thus much; by Hercules, I do hold it, and will 
 affirm it before any pi-ince in Europe, to be the 
 most sovereign and precious weed that ever the 
 earth tendered to the use of man. 
 
 E. Know. This speech would have done de- 
 cently in a tobacco-trader's mouth. 
 
 Re-enter Cash with Cob. 
 
 Cash. At Justice Clement's he is, in the middle 
 of Coleman-street. 
 
 Coh. Oh, oh! 
 
 Boh. Where's the match I gave thee, Master 
 Xitely's man ? 
 
 Cash. Would his match and he, and pipe and 
 all, were at Sancto Domingo ! I had forgot it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Coh. Ods me, I marie what pleasure or felicity 
 they have in taking this roguish tobacco. It's 
 good for nothing but to choke a man, and fill him 
 full of smoke and ember. There were four died 
 out of one house last week with taking of it, and 
 two more the bell went for yesternight ; one of 
 them, they say, will never scape it : he voided a 
 bushel of soot yesterday upward and downward. 
 By the stocks, an there were no wiser men than 
 I, I'd have it present whipping, man or woman, 
 that should but deal with a tobacco-pipe : why, it 
 will stifle them all in the end, as many as use it ; 
 it's little better than ratsbane or rosaker.^ 
 
 [BoBADiLL heats him. 
 
 All. Oh, good captaiu, hold, hold ! 
 
 Boh. You base cullion, you ! 
 
 Re-enter Cash. 
 
 Cash. Sir, here's your match. — Come, thou 
 must needs be talking too, thou'rt well enough 
 served. 
 
 Coh. Nay, he will not meddle with his match, 
 I warrant you. Well, it shall be a dear beating, 
 an I live. 
 
 Boh. Do you prate, do you murmur ? 
 
 E. Know. Nay, good captain, will you regard 
 the humour of a fool .'' Away, knave. 
 
 Wei. Thomas, get him away. 
 
 [Exit Cash with Cob. 
 
 Boh. A whoreson filthy slave, a dung-worm, 
 an excrement ! Body o' Caesar, but that I scorn 
 to let forth so mean a spirit, I'd have stabb'd him 
 to the earth. 
 
 Wei. Marry, the law forbid, sir ! 
 
 Boh. By Pharaoh's foot, I would have done it. 
 
 Step. Oh, he swears most admirably ! By 
 Pharaoh's foot ! Body o' Caesar !— I shall never 
 do it, sure. Upon mine honour, and by St. 
 George !— No, I have not the right grace. 
 
 Mat. Master Stephen, will you any ? By this 
 air, the most divine tobacco that ever I drunk. ^ 
 
 Step. None, I thank you, sir. Oh, this gentle- 
 
 » Nicotian. Some particular kind of tobacco is meant 
 by this term, which is now used as a general appellation 
 of the weed. 
 
 2 ratsbane and rosaker. These, I believe, are pretty 
 nearly the same things; preparations of coiTOsive sub- 
 limate.— Gikford. 
 
 3rfr«n*— then a common affected expression for 
 smoked. 
 
 man does it rarely too : but nothing like the other. 
 By this air ! [practises at the post.'] As I am a 
 gentleman ! ^ By— [Exeunt Bob. and Mat 
 
 Brai. [pointing to Master Stephen.] Master, 
 glance, glance ! Master Wellbred ! 
 
 Step. As I have somewhat to be saved, I pro- 
 test — - 
 
 Wei. You are a fool; it needs no affidavit. 
 
 E. Know. Cousin, will you any tobacco? 
 
 Step. I, sir ! Upon my reputation — 
 
 E. Know. How now, cousin ! 
 
 Step. I protest, as I am a gentleman, but no 
 soldier, indeed — 
 
 Wei. No, Master Stephen! As I remember, 
 your name is entered in the artillery-garden. 
 
 Step. Aj, sir, that's true. Cousin, may I 
 swear, as I am a soldier, by that ? 
 
 E. Know. Oh yes, that you may ; it is all you 
 have for your money. 
 
 Step. Then, as I am a gentleman, and a soldier, 
 it is ' divine tobacco ! ' 
 
 Wei. But soft, Where's Master Mathew ? Gone ? 
 
 Brai. No, sir ; they went in here. 
 
 Wei. Oh, let's follow them. Master Mathew is 
 gone to salute his mistress in verse ; we shall 
 have the happiness to hear some of his poetry 
 now; he never comes unfurnished. — Brain worm! 
 
 Step. Brainworm! Where? Is this Brain- 
 worm ? 
 
 E. Know. Ay, cousin; no words of it, upon 
 your gentility. 
 
 Step. Not I, body of me! By this air! St. 
 George ! and the foot of Pharaoh ! 
 
 Wei. Bare ! Your cousin's discourse is simply 
 drawn out with oaths. 
 
 E. Know. 'Tis larded with them; a kind of 
 French dressing, if you love it. [Exeunt^ 
 
 ACT III.-SCENE III. 
 
 Coleman- STREET. A Room in Justice 
 
 Clement's House. 
 
 Enter Kitely and Cob. 
 
 Kit. Ha ! how many are there, say'st thou ? 
 
 Coh. Marry, sir, your brother. Master Well- 
 bred — 
 
 Kit. Tut, beside him. What strangers are 
 there, man ? 
 
 Coh. Strangers? let me see: one, two; mass, I 
 known not well, there are so many. 
 
 Kit. How ! so many ? 
 
 Coh. Ay, there's some five or six of them at th© 
 most. 
 
 Kit. A swarm, a swarm ! 
 Spite of the devil, how they sting my head 
 With forked stings, thus wide and large ! — But, 
 
 . Cob, 
 How long hast thou been coming hither, Cob? 
 
 Coh. A little while, sir. 
 
 Kit. Didst thou come running ? 
 
 Coh. No, sir. 
 
 Kit. Nay, then I am familiar with thy hasten 
 Bane to my fortunes ! what meant I to marry ? 
 I, that before was rank'd in such content, 
 My mind at rest, too, in so soft a peace, 
 Being free master of mine own free thoughts, 
 And now become a slave ? What ! never sigh ; 
 Be of good cheer, man ; for thou art a cuckold : 
 'Tis done, 'tis done? Nay, when such flowing 
 
 store. 
 Plenty itself, falls into my wife's lap. 
 The cornucopise will be mine, I know. — 
 But, Cob, 
 
 What entertainment had they ? I am sure 
 My sister and my wife would bid them welcome , 
 ha? 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 225 
 
 Cob. Like enough, sir ; yet I heard not a word 
 
 Kit. No ; ^ [of it. 
 
 Their lips were seal'd with kisses, and the voice, 
 Drown'd in a flood of joy at their an-ival, 
 Had lost her motion, state, and faculty. — 
 Cob, 
 
 Which of them was it that first kissed my wife. 
 My sister, I should say ? — My wife, alas ! 
 I fear not her. Ha! who was it, say'st thou .' 
 
 Cob. By my troth, sir, will you have the truth 
 of it.? 
 
 Kit. Oh ay, good Cob, I pray thee heartily. 
 
 Coh. Then I am a vagabond, and fitter for 
 Bridewell than your worship's company, if I saw 
 anybody to be kiss'd, unless they would have 
 kiss'd the post in the middle of the warehouse ; 
 for there I left them all at their tobacco, with 
 a pox! 
 
 Kit. How! were they not gone in, then, ere 
 
 Cob. Oh no, sir. [thou cam'st ? 
 
 Kit. Spite of the devil ! What do I stay here 
 then.? 
 Cob, follow me. {Exit. 
 
 Cob. Nay, soft and fair; I have eggs on the 
 spit ;i I cannot go yet, sir. — Now am I, for some 
 five and fifty reasons, hammering, hammering, 
 revenge ; oh for three or four gallons of vinegar, 
 to sharpen my wits ! Revenge, vinegar revenge, 
 vinegar and mustard revenge ! Nay, an he had 
 not lien in my house, 'twould never have grieved 
 me ; but being my guest, one that, I'll be sworn, 
 my wife has lent him her smock off her back, 
 while his own shirt has been at washing ; pawn'd 
 her neckerchers for clean bands for him; sold 
 almost all my platters to buy him tobacco ; and 
 he to turn monster of ingratitude, and strike his 
 lawful host I Well, I hope to raise up a host of 
 fury for't. Here comes Justice Clement. 
 
 Enter Justice Clement, Knowell, and Formal. 
 
 Clem. What's Master Kitely gone, Roger .? 
 
 Form. Ay, sir. 
 
 Clem. 'Heart o' me ! what made him leave us 
 60 abruptly ? — How now, sirrah ! What make 
 you here 1 What would you have, ha ? 
 
 Cob. An't like your worship, I am come to 
 crave the peace of your worship. 
 
 Clem. Of me, knave ! peace of me, knave ! Did 
 I ever hurt thee, or threaten thee, or wrong 
 thee, ha ? 
 
 Cob. No, sir; but your worship's warrant for 
 one that has wrong'd me, sir. His arms are at 
 too much liberty ; I would fain have them bound 
 to a treaty of peace, an my credit could compass 
 it with your worship. A gentleman and a soldier, 
 he says he is, of the city here. 
 
 Clem. A soldier of the city ! What call you 
 him.? 
 
 Cob. Captain Bobadill. 
 
 Clem. Bobadill ! and why did he bob and beat 
 you, sirrah'? How began the quarrel betwixt 
 you, ha ? Speak truly, knave, I advise you. 
 
 Cob. Marry, indeed, an't please your worship, 
 only because I spake against their vagrant to- 
 bacco, as I came by them when they were taking 
 on't ; for nothing else. 
 
 Clem. Ha ! you speak against tobacco ? For- 
 mal, his name. 
 
 Form. What^ your name, sirrah ? 
 
 Cob. Oliver, sir ; Oliver Cob, sir. 
 
 Clem. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail. 
 Formal. 
 
 ^ I have eggs on the spit— a. proverbial expression, 
 meaning that he had affairs on hand which required 
 his constant attention. 
 
 Form. Oliver Cob, my master, Justice Clement, 
 says you shall go to the jail. 
 
 Clem. What! a threadbare rascal, a beggar, 
 a slave that never drunk out of better than piss- 
 pot metal in his life! and he to deprave and 
 abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received 
 in the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, 
 the bowers of sweet ladies, the cabins of soldiers! 
 Roger, away with him! Od's precious — I say, 
 goto. 
 
 Cob. Dear Master Justice, let me be beaten 
 again, I have deserved it; but not the prison, 
 I beseech you. 
 
 Know. Alas, poor Oliver ! 
 
 Clem. Roger, make him a warrant ! He shall 
 not go ; I but feari the knave. 
 
 Form. Do not stink, sweet Oliver, you shall not 
 go ; my master will give you a warrant. 
 
 Cob. Oh, the Lord maintain his worship, his 
 worthy worship. 
 
 Clem. Away, despatch him. {Exeunt Fokm. a7id 
 Cob.] — How now. Master Knowell ! in dumps, in 
 dumps ! Come, this becomes not. 
 
 Know. Sir, would I could not feel my cares. 
 
 Clem. Your cai-es are nothing : they are like 
 my cap, soon put on and as soon put off. What ! 
 your son is eld enough to govern himself ; let 
 him run his course ; it's the only way to make 
 him a staid man. If he were an unthrift, a ruf- 
 fian, a drunkard, or a licentious liver, then you 
 had reason, you had reason to take care ; but, 
 being none of these, mirth's my witness, an I 
 had twice so many cares as you have, I'd drown 
 them all in a cup of sack. Come, come, let's try 
 it : I muse your parcel of a soldier returns not all 
 this while. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE L 
 
 A Room, in Kitely's House. 
 
 Enter Downright and Da3Ie Kitely. 
 
 Down. Well, sister, I tell you true ; and you'll 
 find it so in the end. 
 
 Dame K. Alas, brother, what would you have 
 me to do ? I cannot help it ; you see my brother 
 brings them in here ; they are his friends. 
 
 Down. His friends! his fiends. 'Slud! they do 
 nothing but haunt him up and down like a sort 
 of unlucky spirits, and tempt him to all manner 
 of villany that can be thought of. Well, by this 
 light, a little thing would make me play the devil 
 with some of them. An 'twere not more for your 
 husband's sake than anj'thing else, I'd make the 
 house too hot for the best on 'em ; they should say, 
 and swear, hell were broken loose, ere they went 
 hence. But, by God's will, 'tis nobody's fault 
 but yours ; for an you had done as you might 
 have done, they should have been parboiled, and 
 baked too, every mother's son, ere they should 
 have come in, e'er a one of them. 
 
 Dam^ K. God's my life ! did you ever hear the 
 like ? What a strange man is this ! Could I keep 
 out all them, think you? I should put myself 
 against half a dozen men, should I ? Good faith, 
 you'd mad the patient'st body in the world, to 
 hear you talk so, without any sense or reason. 
 
 Enter Mistress Bridget, Master Mathew, and 
 Bobadill ; followed ai a distance by Well- 
 bred, E. Knowell, Stephen, and Brain- 
 worm. 
 Brid. Servant,^ in troth you are too prodigal 
 
 /ear— frighten. 
 
 2 Servant— loYer. 
 
226 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Of your wit's treasure thus to pour it forth 
 Upon so mean a subject as my worth. 
 
 Mat. You say well, mistress, and I mean as 
 well. 
 
 Down. Hoy-day, here is stuff ! 
 
 Wei. Oh, now stand close ; pray heaven she 
 can get him to read ! He should do it of his own 
 natural impudency. 
 
 Brid. Servant, what is this same, I pray you ? 
 
 Mat. Marry, an elegy, an elegy, an odd toy — 
 
 Down. To mock an ape withal ! Oh, I could 
 sew up his mouth, now. 
 
 Dairne K. Sister, I pray you let's hear it. 
 
 Doion. Are you rhyme-given too ? 
 
 Mat. Mistress, I'll read it, if you please. 
 
 Brid. Pray you do, servant. 
 
 Down. Oh, here's no foppery ! Death ! I can 
 endure the stocks better. [Exit. 
 
 E. Know. What ails thy brother ? Can he not 
 hold his water at reading of a ballad ? 
 
 Wei. Oh no ; a rhyme to him is worse than 
 cheese, or a bagpipe. But mark; you lose the 
 protestation. 
 
 Mat. Faith, I did it in a humour : I know not 
 how it is ; but please you come near, sir. This 
 gentleman has judgment, he knows how to censure 
 of a — Pray you, sir, you can judge ? 
 
 Step. Not I, sir ; upon my reputation, and by 
 the foot of Pharaoh ! 
 
 Wei. Oh, chide your cousin for swearing. 
 
 E. Know. Not I, so long as he does not for- 
 swear himself. 
 
 Buh. Master Mathew, yon abuse the expecta- 
 tion of your dear mistress, and her fair sister : 
 fie ! while you Hve avoid this prolixity. 
 
 Mat. I shall, sir ; well, incipere dulce.^ 
 
 E. Know. How ! insipere dulce ! a sweet thing 
 to be a fool, indeed ! 
 
 Wei. What, do you take incipere in that sense ? 
 
 E. Know. You do not, you ! This was your 
 villany, to gull him with a motte.2 
 
 Wei. Oh, the benchers'^ phrase: pauca verba, 
 pauca verba ! 
 
 Mat. Rare creature, let me speah without offence, 
 Would God my rude words had the influence 
 To rule thy thoughts, as thy fair looks do mine, 
 Then shoidd'st thou he his prisoner, who is thine. 
 
 E. Knoxo. This is in Hero and Leander. 
 
 Wei. Oh ay : peace, we shall have more of this. 
 
 Mat. Be not unkind and fair ; misshapen stuff 
 Is of behaviour boisterous and rough. 
 Wei. How like you that, sir ? 
 
 [Master Stephen shakes his head. 
 
 E. Know. 'Slight, he shakes his head like a 
 bottle, to feel an there be any brain in it. 
 
 Mat. But observe the catastrophe, now : 
 And I in duty will exceed all other. 
 As you in beauty do excel Love's mother. 
 
 E. Know. Well, I'll have him free of the wit- 
 brokers, for he utters nothing but stolen remnants. 
 Wei. Oh, forgive it him. 
 
 E. Know. A filching rogue, hang him ! — and 
 from the dead ! it's worse than sacrilege. 
 
 Wellbred, E. Knowell, and Master Stephen 
 comefoinDard. 
 
 Wei. Sister, what have you here — verses? Pray 
 you, let's see ; who made these verses ? They are 
 excellent good. 
 
 Mat. Oh, Master Wellbred, 'tis your disposition 
 
 1 ' it is sweet to begin.' 
 
 2 motte — motto. 
 
 3 benchers were sots who spent their time, sleeping 
 and waking, upon aleliouse benches. The phrase pauca 
 verba, ' few words,' is given to them in many of our old 
 plays. — GiFFOKD. 
 
 to say so, sir. They were good in the morning ; 
 I made them ex tempore this morning. 
 
 Wei. How ! ex tempore ? 
 
 Mat. A}-, would I might be hanged else ; ask 
 Captain Bobadill ; he saw me write them at the 
 — pox on it ! — the Star, yonder*. 
 
 Brai. Can he find in his heart to curse the 
 stars so? 
 
 E. Know. Faith, his are even with him ; they 
 have curst him enough already. 
 
 Step. Cousin, how do you like this gentleman's 
 verses ? 
 
 E. Know. Oh, admirable ! the best that ever I 
 heard, coz. 
 
 Step. Body o' Caesar, they are admirable ! the 
 best that I ever heard, as I am a soldier ! 
 
 Re-enter Downright. 
 
 Down. I am vext, I can hold ne'er a bone of 
 me still. Heart, I tlaink they mean to build and 
 breed here. 
 
 Wei. Sister, you have a simple servant here, 
 that crowns your beauty with such encomiums 
 and devices ; you may see what it is to be the 
 mistress of a wit, that can make your perfections 
 so transparent, that every blear eye may look 
 through them, and see him drowned over head 
 and ears in the deep well of desire. Sister Kitely, 
 I marvel you get you not a servant that can 
 rhyme, and do tricks too. 
 
 Down. Oh, monster ! impudence itself ! tricks ! 
 
 Dame K. Tricks, brother! what tricks! 
 
 Brid. Nay, speak, I pray you ; what tricks ? 
 
 Dame K. Ay, never spare anybody here ; but 
 say, what tricks. 
 
 Brid. Passion of my heart, do tricks ! 
 
 Wei. 'Slight, here's a trick vied and reviedji 
 Why, you monkeys, you, what a caterwauling 
 do you keep ! Has he not given you rhymes, and 
 verses, and tricks ? 
 
 Down. Oh, the fiend ! 
 
 Wei. Nay, you lamp of virginity, that take it 
 in snuff so, come, and cherish this tame poetical 
 fury in your servant ; you'll be begg'd else shortly 
 for a concealment.2 Go to, reward his muse._ You 
 cannot give him less than a shilling in conscience, 
 for the book he had it out of cost him a teston ' 
 at least. How now, gallants ! Master Mathew ! 
 Captain 1 what ! all sons of silence, no spmt ? 
 
 Down. Come, you might practise your ruffian 
 tricks somewhere else, and not here, I wuss;* 
 this is no tavern nor drinking-school, to vent 
 your exploits in. 
 
 Wei. How now ; whose cow has calved ? 
 
 Down. Marry, that has mine, sir. Nay, boy, 
 never look askance at me for the matter ; I'll tell 
 you of it, I, sir ; you and your companions mend 
 yourselves when I have done. 
 Wei. My companions ! 
 
 Down. Yes, sir, your companions, so I say ; I 
 am not afraid of you, nor them neither; your 
 hang-byes here. You must have your poets and 
 
 1 vied and retietZ— terms used at card-games. To vie 
 was to put down a certain sum upon a hand at cards ; 
 to revie was to cover it with a larger sum, by which the 
 challenged became the challenger, and was to be revied 
 in turn by a proportionate increase of stake.— Giffokd. 
 
 "i you'll be begg'd, &c.— alluding to the practice, in 
 Queen Elizabetli's time, of begging lands which had 
 formerly been appropriated to religious purposes, and 
 were privily retained by certain private persons, cor- 
 porations, or churches, and hence called concealments. 
 
 — GiFFORD. 
 
 3 teston, or tester (Fr. tete, head, so called from a head 
 on it), was a coin of about the value of a shilling or 
 eighteenpence. 
 
 4 WUSS—& vulgarism for wis — know. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 227 
 
 your potlings, your soldados and foolados to fol- 
 low you up and down the city ; and here they 
 must come to domineer and swagger. Sirrah, 
 you ballad-singer, and slops 1 your fellow there, 
 get you out, get you home, or, by this steel, I'll 
 cut off your ears, and that presently ! 
 
 Wei. 'Slight, stay, let's see what he dare do ; 
 cut off his ears I cut a whetstone. You are an 
 ass, do you see : touch any man here, and by 
 this hand I'll run my rapier to the hilts in you ! 
 
 Down. Yea, that would I fain see, boy. 
 
 [They all draw. 
 
 Dame K. Jesu ! murder ! Thomas ! Gasper ! 
 
 BHd. Help, help ! Thomas ! 
 
 Enter Cash and some of the house to part them. 
 
 E. Know. Gentlemen, forbear, I pray you. 
 
 Boh. Well, sirrah, you Holofernes ; by my 
 hand, I will pink your flesh full of holes with 
 my rapier for this ; I will, by this good heaven ! 
 Nay, let him come, let him come, gentlemen ; by 
 the body of St. George, I'll not kill him. 
 
 {Offer to fight again, and are parted. 
 
 Ca^h. Hold, hold, good gentlemen. 
 
 Down. You whoreson, bragging coystril ! * 
 
 Ent&r KiTELY. 
 
 Kit. Why, how now ! what's the matter, what's 
 the stir here ? 
 Whence springs the quarrel ? Thomas ! where 
 
 is he ? 
 Put up your weapons, and put off this rage : 
 My wife and sister, they are cause of this. 
 What, Thomas ! where is this knave ? 
 
 Cash. Here, sir. 
 
 Wei. Come, let's go : this is one of my brother's 
 ancient humours, this. - 
 
 Step. I am glad nobody was hurt by his an- 
 cient humour. 
 
 {Exeunt Wel., Step., E. Know., Bob, 
 and Brai. 
 
 Kit. Why, how now, brother, who enforced 
 this brawl ? 
 
 Down. A sort of lewd rake-hells, that care 
 neither for God nor the devil. And they must 
 come here to read ballads, and roguery, and 
 trash ! I'll mar the knot of 'em ere I sleep, per- 
 haps ; especially Bob there, he that's all manner 
 of shapes ; and songs and sonnets, his fellow. 
 
 Brid. Brother, indeed you are too violent. 
 Too sudden in yoiu- humour ; and you know 
 My brother Wellbred's temper will not bear 
 Any reproof, chiefly in such a presence. 
 Where every slight disgrace he should receive 
 Might wound him in opinion and respect. 
 
 Down. Kespect ! what, talk you of respect 
 among such as have no spark of manhood, nor 
 good manners? 'Sdeins, I am ashamed to hear 
 you !--respect ! {Exit. 
 
 Brid. Yes, there was one a civil gentleman, 
 Andvery worthily demean'd himself. 
 
 Kit. Oh, that was some love of yours, sister. 
 
 Brid. A love of mine ! I would it were no 
 worse, brother ; 
 You'd pay my portion sooner than you think for. 
 
 Dame K. Indeed he seem'd to be a gentleman 
 of an exceeding fair disposition, and of very ex- 
 cellent good parts. 
 
 {Exeunt Dame Kitely and Bridget. 
 
 1 slops— the large loose breeches fashionable during 
 Elizabeth's reign. 
 
 2 coystril— jiroh. from old Fr. coustillier, an esquire's 
 groom ; althougb Gifford tliinks it is tlie same as kestril, 
 a degenerate hawk, often used as a term of contempt ; 
 here it means a mean, dastardly trick. 
 
 Kit. Her love, by heaven ! my wife's minion. 
 Fair disposition ! excellent good parts ! 
 Death ! these phrases are intolerable. 
 Good parts ! how should she know his parts ? 
 His parts ! Well, well, well, well, well, well ; 
 It is too plain, too clear. — Thomas, come hither. 
 What ! are they gone ? 
 
 Cash. Ay, sir, they went in. 
 My mistress, and your sister — 
 
 Kit. Are any of the gallants within ? 
 
 Cash. No, sir, they are all gone- 
 
 Kit. Art thou sure of it ? 
 
 Cash. I can assure you, sir. 
 
 Kit. What gentleman was that they praised 
 so, Thomas? 
 
 Cash. One, they call him Master Knowell, a 
 handsome young gentleman, sir. 
 
 Kit. Ay, I thought so ; my mind gave me as 
 much. 
 I'll die, but they have hid him in the house 
 Somewhere ; I'll go and search ; go with me, 
 
 Thomas. 
 Be true to me, and thou shalt find me a master. 
 
 {Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 The Lane lefore Cob's House. 
 
 Enter Cob. 
 
 Coh. {JcnocTcs at the door.'\ What, Tib ! Tib, I 
 say ! 
 
 Tih. {within.] How now ! what cuckold is that 
 knocks so hard ? 
 
 Enter Tib. 
 
 Oh, husband ! is it you ? What's the news ? 
 
 Coh. When was Bobadill here, your captain ? 
 That rogue, that foist, ^ that fencing Burgullion ? 
 I'll tickle him, i'faith. 
 
 Tih. Why, what's the matter, trow ? 
 
 Coh. Oh, he has basted me rarely, sumptuously ! 
 but I have it here in black and white — {pulls out 
 the warrant'] — for his black and blue, shall pay 
 him. Oh, the justice, the honestest old brave 
 Trojan in London ; I do honour the very flea of 
 his dog. A plague on him, though, he put me 
 once in a villanous filthy fear. Marry, it va- 
 nished away like the smoke of tobacco ; but I 
 was smoked soundly first. I thank the devil, 
 and his good angel, my guest. Well, wife, or 
 Tib, which you will, get you in, and lock the 
 door. I charge you let nobody in to you, wife — 
 nobody in to you ; those are my words : not 
 Captain Bob himself, nor the fiend in his like- 
 ness. You are a woman, you have flesh and 
 blood enough in you to be tempted; therefoi'e 
 keep the door shut upon all comers. 
 
 Tib. I warrant you there shall nobody enter 
 here without my consent. 
 
 Coh. Nor with your consent, sweet Tib ; and 
 so I leave you. 
 
 Tih. It's more than you know, whether you 
 leave me so. 
 
 Coh. How? 
 
 Tih. Why, sweet. 
 
 Coh. Tut, sweet or sour, thou art a flower. 
 Keep close thy door, I ask no more. {Exeunt. 
 
 ^ /ois<— sharper. Burgullion is supposed to mean a 
 bully or braggadocio, and is conjectured to be a term 
 of contempt invented upon the overthrew of the Bastard 
 of Burgundy in a contest with Anthony Woodville, in 
 Smithfield, 1467.— Nabes. 
 
22S 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 A Room in the Windmill Tavern. 
 
 Enter E. Kxowell, "Wellered, Stephen, and 
 Brainworm disguised as before. 
 
 E. Knoio. Well, Brainworm, perform this busi- 
 ness happily, and thou makest a purchase of my 
 love for ever. 
 
 Wei. I'faith, now let thy spirits use their best 
 faculties ; but, at any hand, remember the mes- 
 sage to my brother, for there's no other means 
 to start him. 
 
 Brai. I warrant you, sir; fear nothing. I 
 have a nimble soul has waked all forces of my 
 phantasy by this time, and put them in true mo- 
 tion. What you have possessed * me withal, I'll 
 discharge it amply, sir ; make it no question. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Wei. Forth, and prosper, Brainworm. Faith, 
 Ked, how dost thou approve of my abilities in 
 this device ? 
 
 E. Know. Troth, well, howsoever ; but it will 
 come excellent if it take. 
 
 Wei. Take, man ! why, it cannot choose but 
 take, if the circumstances miscarry not. But, 
 tell me ingenuously, dost thou affect my sister 
 Bridget as thou pretend'st ? 
 
 E. Know. Friend, am I worth belief } 
 
 Wei. Come, do not protest. In faith, she is a 
 maid of good ornament, and much modesty ; 
 and, except I conceived very worthily of her, 
 thou should'st not have her. 
 
 E. Know. Nay, that, I am afraid, will be a 
 question yet, whether I shall have her or no. 
 
 Wei. 'Slid, thou shalt have her; by this light 
 thou shalt. 
 
 E. Knoio. Nay, do not swear. 
 
 Wei. By this hand thou shalt have her; I'll 
 go fetch her presently. 'Point but v/here to 
 meet, and, as I am an honest man, I'll bring her. 
 
 E. Know. Hold, hold, be temperate. 
 
 Wei. Why, by — , what shall I swear by ? thou 
 shalt have her, as I am — 
 
 E. Know. Prithee, be at peace, I am satisfied ; 
 and do believe thou wilt omit no offered occasion 
 to make my desires complete. 
 
 Wei. Thou shalt see and know I will not. 
 
 [_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 
 
 The Old Jewry. 
 
 Enter Formal and Kxowell. 
 
 Form. Was your man a soldier, sir ? 
 
 Know. Ay, a knave, 
 I took him begging o' the way, this morning. 
 As I came over Moorfields. 
 
 Enter Brainwor^i, disguised as before. 
 
 Oh, here he is ! — You've made fair speed, believe 
 
 me : 
 Where, in the name of sloth, could you be thus ? 
 
 Brai. Marry, peace be my comfort, where I 
 thought I should have had little comfort of your 
 worship's service. 
 
 Know. How so ? 
 
 Brai. Oh, sir, your coming to the city, your 
 entertainment of me, and your sending me to 
 watch, — indeed, all the circumstances either of 
 your charge, or my employment, are as open to 
 your son as to yourself. 
 
 possessed me— informed me of. 
 
 Know. How should that be, unless that villain 
 Brainworm 
 Have told him of the letter, and discovei-'d 
 All that I strictly charg'd him to conceal ? 
 'Tis so. 
 
 Brai. I am partly o' the faith 'tis so, indeed. 
 
 Know. But, how should he know thee to be 
 my man ? 
 
 Brai. Nay, sir, I cannot tell, unless it be by 
 the black art. Is not your son a scholar, sir ? 
 
 Know. Yes ; but I hope his soul is not allied 
 Unto such hellish practice. If it were, 
 I had just cause to weep my part in him, 
 And curse the time of his creation. 
 But where didst thou find thera, Fitz-Sword? 
 
 Brai. You should rather ask where they found 
 me, sir ; for, I'll be sworn, I was going along in 
 the street, thinking nothing, when, of a sudden, 
 a voice calls, Mr. KnoweWs man ! another cries. 
 Soldier ! and thus half a dozen of them, till they 
 had call'd me within a house, where I no sooner 
 came, but they seem'd men,^ and out flew all 
 their rapiers at my bosom, with some three or 
 four score oaths to accompany them ; and all to 
 tell me I was but a dead mau, if I did not con- 
 fess Avhere you were, and how I was employed, 
 and about what ; which, when they could not 
 get out of me (as, I protest, they must have dis- 
 sected and made an anatomy of me first, and so 
 I told them), they lock'd me up into a room in 
 the top of a high house, whence by great miracle 
 (having a light heart) I slid down by a bottom 
 of packthread into the street, and so 'scaped. 
 But, sir, thus much I can assure you, for I heard 
 it while I was lock'd up, there were a great many 
 rich merchants and brave citizens' wives with 
 them at a feast ; and your son. Master Edward, 
 withdrew with one of them, and has 'pointed to 
 meet her anon at one Cob's house, a water-bearer 
 that dwells by the Wall. Now, there your wor- 
 ship shall be sure to take him, for there he preys, 
 and fail he will not. 
 
 Know. Nor will I fail to break his match, I 
 doubt not. 
 Go thou along with Justice Clement's man, 
 And stay there for me. At one Cob's house, 
 say'st thou ? 
 
 Brai. Ay, sir, there you shall have him. {Exit ( 
 Know.] Yes — invisible ! Much wench or much 
 son ! 2 Slight, when he has stayed there three or 
 four hours, travailing with the expectation of 
 wonders, and at length be deliver'd of air ! Oh 
 the sport that I should then take to look on him, 
 if I durst ! But now I mean to appear no more 
 afore him in this shape : I have another trick to 
 act yet. Oh that I were so happy as to light on 
 a nupson' now of this justice's novice! — Sir, I 
 make you stay somewhat long. 
 
 Form. Not a whit, sir. Pray you what do you 
 mean, sir? 
 
 Brai. I was putting up some papers. 
 
 Form. You have been lately in the wars, sir, it 
 seems. 
 
 Brai. Marry have I, sir, to my loss, and expense 
 of all, almost. 
 
 * men seems here to be contrasted •with voice. — 
 Whalley. 
 
 2 Yes— invisible! &c.— J«fwt67e seems to be a humorous 
 addition to Brainworra's speech, after his master was 
 out of liearing — 'there you shall have him — yes, in- 
 visible ! ' i.e. not at all. Much ! is an ironical expression 
 for little or none, in which sense it occurs frequently in 
 our old dramatists.— GiFFORD. 
 
 3 to light on a nvpson—i.e. Oh that I might happily 
 find this justice's man to be a nupson! i.e. an oaf, a 
 simpleton. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 229 
 
 Form. Troth, sir, I would be glad to bestow 
 a pottle of wine on you, if it please you to accept 
 it— 
 
 Bral. Oh, sir — 
 
 Form. But to hear the manner of your services, 
 and your devices in the wars ; they say they be 
 very strange, and not like those a man reads in 
 the Roman histories, or sees at Mile-end. ^ 
 
 Brai. No, I assure you, sir ; why, at any time 
 when it please you, I shall be ready to discoux'se 
 to you all I know ; — and more too somewhat. 
 
 [^Aside. 
 
 Form. No better time than now, sir ; we'll go 
 to the "Windmill : there we shall have a cup of 
 neat grist,^ we call it. I pray you, sir, let me 
 request you to the Windmill. 
 
 Bvai. I'll follow you, sir ; — and make grist of 
 you, if I have good luck. [^Aside.~\ [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV— SCENE V. 
 
 MOORFIELDS. 
 
 Enter Matiiew, E. Knoweli^ Bobadill, and 
 Stephen. 
 
 Mat. Sir, did your eyes ever taste the like clown 
 of him where we were to-day, Mi-. Wellbred's 
 half-brother? I think the whole earth cannot 
 shew his parallel, by this daylight. 
 
 E. Know. We were now speaking of him : 
 Captain Bobadill tells me he is fallen foul of you 
 too. 
 
 Mat. Oh ay, sir, he threatened me with the 
 bastinado. 
 
 Bob. Ay, but I think I taught you prevention 
 this morning for that. You shall kill him beyond 
 question, if you be so generously minded. 
 
 Mat. Indeed, it is a most exce'llent trick. 
 
 [Fences. 
 
 Bob. Oh, you do not give spirit enough to your 
 motion, you are too tardy, too heavy ! Oh, it 
 must be done like lightning, hay ! ^ 
 
 [Practises at a post with his cudgel. 
 
 Mat. Rare, captain. 
 
 Bob. Tut ! 'tis nothing, an't be not done in a 
 — pun to. 
 
 E. Knoio. Captain, did you ever prove yourself 
 upon any of our masters of defence here ? 
 
 Mat. Oh, good sir ! yes, I hope he has. 
 
 Bob. I will tell you, sir. Upon my first coming 
 to the city, after my long travel for knowledge, 
 in that mystery only, there came three or four of 
 them to me, at a gentleman's house, where it was 
 my chance to be resident at that time, to intreat 
 my presence at their schools : and withal so much 
 importuned me, that I protest to you, as I am a 
 gentleman, I was ashamed of their rude de- 
 meanour out of all measure. Well, I told them 
 that to come to a public school, they should 
 pardon me, it was opposite, in diameter, to my 
 humour; but, if so be they would give their 
 attendance at my lodging, I protested to do them 
 what right or favour I could, as I was a gentle- 
 man, and so forth. 
 
 E. Know. So, sir! then you tried their skill ? 
 
 Bob. Alas, soon tried; you shall hear, sir. 
 Within two or three days after, they came ; and, 
 by honesty, fair sir, believe me, I graced them 
 exceedingly, showed them some two or three 
 tricks of prevention have purchased them since a 
 
 1 Mile-end was the usual training ground of the city. 
 
 2 grrw<— apparently some kind of drink ; grist in the 
 next sentence of course means meal. 
 
 * hay—i.e. a hit.— Gifford. 
 
 credit to admiration : they cannot deny this ; and 
 yet now they hate me, and why ? because I am 
 excellent; and for no other vile reason on the 
 earth. 
 
 E. Knojo. This is strange and barbarous as 
 ever I heard. 
 
 Bob. Nay, for a more instance of their pre- 
 posterous natures, but note, sir. They have 
 assaulted me some three, four, five, six of them 
 together, as I have walked alone in divers skirts 
 i' the town, as Turnbull, Whitechapel, Shore- 
 ditch, which were then my quarters ; and since, 
 upon the Exchange, at my lodging, and at my 
 ordinaiy: where I have driven them afore me 
 the whole length of a street, in the open view of 
 all our gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. 
 Yet all this lenity will not overcome their spleen ; 
 they will be doing with the pismire, raising a 
 hill a man may spurn abroad with his foot at 
 pleasure. By myself, I could have slain them 
 all, but I delight not in murder. I am loath to 
 bear any other than this bastinado for them : yet 
 I hold it good polity not to go disarmed, for 
 though I be skilful, I may be oppressed with 
 multitudes. 
 
 E. Know. Ay, believe me, may you, sir: and in 
 my conceit, our whole nation should sustain the 
 loss by it, if it were so. 
 
 Bob. Alas, no! What's a peculiar* man to a 
 nation ? — not seen. 
 
 E. Xnow. Oh, but your skill, sir. 
 
 Bob. Indeed, that might be some loss ; but who 
 respects it ? I will tell you, sir, by the way of 
 private, and under seal : I am a gentleman, and 
 live here obscure, and to myself ; but were I 
 known to her majesty and the lords — observe me 
 — I would undertake, upon this poor head and 
 life, for the public benefit of the state, not only 
 to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general, 
 but to save the one-half, nay, three-parts of her 
 yearly charge in holding war, and against what 
 enemy soever. And how would I do it, think 
 you? 
 
 E. Knoxo. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. 
 
 Bob. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen 
 more, to myself, throughout the land ; gentlemen 
 they should be of good spirit, strong and able 
 constitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, 
 a character that I have : and I would teach these 
 nineteen the special rules, as your punto, your 
 reverse, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your 
 passada, your montanto ; 2 till they could all play 
 very near, or altogether as well as myself. This 
 done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, 
 we twenty would come into the field the tenth of 
 March, or thereabouts ; and we would challenge 
 twenty of the enemy; they could not in their 
 honour refuse us. Well, we would kill them ; 
 challenge twenty more, kill them , twenty more, 
 kill them ; twenty more, kill them too ; and thus 
 would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's 
 twenty score ; twenty score, that's two hundred ; ' 
 two hundred a day, five days a thousand ; forty 
 thousand ; forty times five, five times forty, two 
 hundred days kills them all up by computation. 
 And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like 
 cai'case to perform, provided there be no treason 
 practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood ; 
 that is, civilly by the sword. 
 
 E. Know. Why, are you so sure of your hand, 
 captain, at all times ? 
 
 * peculiar — particular, single. 
 
 2 These are all fencing terms, which it is unnecessary 
 to explain here. 
 
 3 two hundred. — Gifford thinks this error is probably 
 intended. 
 
230 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Bob. Tut! never miss thrust, upon my repu- 
 tation with you. 
 
 E. Know. I would not stand in Downright's 
 state then, an you meet him, for the wealth of 
 any one street in London. 
 
 Boh. Why, sir, you mistake me: if he were 
 here now, by this welkin I would not draw my 
 weapon on him. Let this gentleman do his 
 mind: but I will bastinado him, by the bright 
 sun, wherever I meet him. 
 
 Mat. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him, at my 
 distance. 
 
 E. Know. Ods so, look where he is! yonder he 
 goes. [Downright crosses the stage. 
 
 Down. What peevish luck have I, I cannot 
 meet with these bragging rascals ? 
 
 Boh. It is not he, is it ? 
 
 E. Know. Yes, faith, it is he. 
 
 Mat. I'll be hang'd, then, if that were he. 
 
 E. Know. Sir, keep your hanging good for some 
 greater matter, for I assure you that were he. 
 
 Step. Upon my reputation it was he. 
 
 Boh. Had I thought it had been he, he must 
 not have gone so : but I can hardly be induced 
 to believe it was he yet. 
 
 E. Know. That I think, sir. 
 
 Re-enter Downright. 
 
 But see, he is come again. 
 
 Down. Oh, Pharaoh's foot, have I found you ? 
 Come, draw to your tools; draw, gipsy, or I'll 
 thrash you. 
 
 Boh. Gentleman of valour, I do believe in thee ; 
 hear me — 
 
 Down. Draw your weapon, then. 
 
 Boh. TalP man, I never thought on it till now 
 — Body of me, I had a warrant of the peace 
 served on me, even now as I came along, by a 
 water-bearer ; this gentleman saw it, Master 
 Mathew. 
 
 Down. 'S death! you will not draw, then? 
 [Disarms and beats him. Mathew runs away. 
 
 Bob. Hold, hold ! under thy favour forbear ! 
 
 Down. Prate again, as you like this, you whore- 
 son foist, you! You'll control the point,^ you! 
 Your consort is gone; had he stayed he had shared 
 with you, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Boh. Well, gentlemen, bear witness, 1 was 
 bound to the peace, by this good day. 
 
 E. Know. No, faith, it's an ill day, captain, 
 never reckon it other : but, say you were bound 
 to the peace, the law allows you to defend your- 
 self ; that will prove but a poor excuse. 
 
 Boh. I cannot tell,* sir; I desire good construc- 
 tion in fair sort. I never sustain'd the like dis- 
 grace, by heaven! Sure I was struck with a 
 planet thence, for I had no power to touch my 
 weapon. 
 
 E. Knoxo. Ay, like enough ; I have heard of 
 many that have been beaten under a planet : go, 
 get you to a surgeon. 'Slid ! an these be your 
 tricks, your passadoes, and your montantoes, I'll 
 none of them. [Exit Bobadill.] Oh, manners ! 
 that this age should bring forth such creatures ! 
 that nature should be at leisure to make them ! 
 Come, coz. 
 
 Step. Mass, I'll have this cloak. 
 
 E. Know. 'Od's will, 'tis Downright's. 
 
 Step. Nay, it's mine now, another might have 
 ta'en it up as well as I : I'll wear it, so 1 will. 
 
 1 Tall was frequently used by our old writers in the 
 sense of bold or courageous. 
 
 2 To control the point is to bear or beat it down.— 
 
 GiFFOKD. 
 
 3 / cannot tell— I know not what to say about it.— 
 
 GiFFOSD. 
 
 E. Know. How an he see it ? He'll challenge 
 it, assure yourself. 
 
 Step. Ay, but he shall not have it : I'll say I 
 bought it. 
 
 E. Know. Take heed you buy it not too dear, 
 coz. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE VL 
 A Room in Kitely's House. 
 
 Enter Kitely, Wellbred, Dame Kitely, and 
 Bridget. 
 
 Kit. Now, trust me, brother, you were much 
 to blame, 
 T 'incense his anger, and disturb the peace 
 Of my poor house, where there are sentinels. 
 That every minute watch to give alarms 
 Of civil war, without adjection^ 
 Of your assistance or occasion. 
 
 Wei. No harm done, brother, I warrant you. 
 Since there is no harm done, anger costs a man 
 nothing ; and a tall man is never his own man 
 till he be angry. To keep his valour in obscurity, 
 is to keep himself, as it were, in a cloak-bag. 
 What's a musician, unless he play? What's a 
 tall man, unless he fight ? For, indeed, aU this 
 my wise brother stands upon absolutely ; and 
 that made me fall in with him so resolutely. 
 
 Dame K. Ay, but what harm might have come 
 of it, brother ? 
 
 Wei. Might, sister ? So might the good warm 
 clothes your husband wears be poisoned, for any 
 thing he knows; or the wholesome wine he drank, 
 even now at the table. 
 
 Kit. Now, God forbid! Oh me! now I re- 
 member 
 My wife drank to me last, and changed the cup, 
 And bade lie wear this cursed suit to-day. ! 
 
 See, if Heaven suffer murder undiscover'd ! 
 I feel me ill ; give me some mithridate,^ 
 Some mithridate and oil, good sister, fetch me; 
 Oh, I am sick at heart ! I burn, I burn ! 
 If you will save my life, go fetch it me. 
 
 Wei. Oh strange humour! my very breath has 
 poison'd him. 
 
 Bi-id. Good brother, be content, what do you 
 mean ? 
 The strength of these extreme conceits will kiU. 
 you. 
 
 Dame K. Beshrew your heart-blood, brother 
 Wellbred, now. 
 For putting such a toy into his head ! 
 
 Wei. Is a fit simile a toy ? will he be poison'd 
 with a simile ? Brother Kitely, Avhat a strange 
 and idle imagination is this! For shame, be 
 wiser. 0' my soul there's no such matter. 
 
 Kit. Am I not sick? how am I then not 
 poison'd ? Am I not poison'd ? how am I then 
 so sick ? 
 
 ' Dame K. If you be sick, your own thoughts 
 'make you sick. 
 " Wei. His jealousy is the poison he has taken. 
 
 Enter Brainworm, disguised in Forinial's clothes. 
 
 Brai. Master Kitely, my master. Justice Cle- 
 ment, salutes you ; and desires to speak with you 
 with all possible speed. 
 
 Kit. No time but now, when I think I am sick, 
 vei-y sick ! Well, I will wait upon his worship. 
 — Thomas! Cob! I must seek them out, and 
 set them sentinels till I return. Thomas ! Cob ! 
 Thomas. ^ [Exit 
 
 1 acyec^ion— addition. 
 
 2 mithridate— &n antidote against poison, called alw 
 confection of Damocrates. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 231 
 
 Wei. This is perfectly rare, Brainworm {takes 
 him aside] ; but how got'st thou this apparel of 
 the justice's man ? 
 
 Brai. Marry, sir, my proper fine penman would 
 needs bestow the grist on me, at the Windmill, to 
 hear some martial discourse ; where I so mar- 
 shall'd him, that I made him drunk with admi- 
 ration : and, because too much heat was the cause 
 of his distemper, I stript him stark naked as he 
 lay long asleep, and borrowed his suit to deliver 
 this counterfeit message in, leaving a rusty 
 armour, and an old brown bill to watch him till 
 my return ; which shall be, when I have pawn'd 
 his apparel, and spent the better part o' the money, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Wet Well, thou art a successful, merry knave, 
 Brainworm : his absence will be a good subject 
 for more mirth. I pray thee return to thy young 
 master, and will him to meet me and my sister 
 Bridget at the Tower instantly ; for, here, tell 
 him, the house is so stored with jealousy, there 
 is no room for love to stand upright in. We 
 must get our fortunes committed to some larger 
 prison, say ; and than the Tower 1 I know no 
 better air, nor where the liberty of the house may 
 do us more present service. Away. 
 
 [Exit Brai. 
 
 Re-enter Kitely, talking aside to Cash. 
 
 Kit. Come hither, Thomas. Now my secret's 
 ripe. 
 And thou shalt have it : lay to both mine ears. 
 Hark what I say to thee. I must go forth, 
 
 Thomas ; 
 Be careful of thy promise, keep good watch, 
 Note every gallant, and observe him well, 
 That enters in my absence to thy mistress : 
 If she would show him rooms, the jest is stale, 
 Follow them, Thomas, or else hang on him, 
 And let him not go after ; mark their looks ; 
 Note if she offer but to see his band. 
 Or any other amorous toy about him ; 
 But praise his leg, or foot ; or if she say 
 The day is hot, and bid him feel her hand, 
 How hot it is ; oh, that's a" monstrous thing ! 
 Note me all this, good Thomas ; mark their sighs. 
 And if they do but whisper, break 'em off : 
 I'U bear thee out in it. Wilt thou do this ? 
 Wilt thou be true, my Thomas ? 
 
 Cash. As truth's self, sir. 
 
 Kit. Whv, I believe thee. Where is Cob, now? 
 Cob! ' [Exit. 
 
 Dame K. He's ever calling for Cob. I wonder 
 how he employs Cob so. 
 
 Wei. Indeed, sister, to ask how he employs 
 Cob, is a necessary question for you that are his 
 wife, and a thing not very easy for you to be 
 satisfied in ; but this I'll assure you. Cob's wife 
 is an excellent bawd, sister, and oftentimes your 
 husband haunts her house ; marry, to what end ? 
 I cannot altogether accuse him ; imagine you 
 what you think convenient : but I have known 
 fair hides have foul hearts ere now, sister. 
 
 Dame K. Never said you ti-uer than that, 
 brother, so much I can tell yoxi for your learn- 
 ing. Thomas, fetch your cloak and go with me. 
 [Eadt Cash.] I'll after him presently : I would 
 to fortune I could Take him there, i'faith, I'd re- 
 turn him his own, I warrant him ! [Exit. 
 
 Wei. So, let 'em go ; this may make sport 
 anon. Now, my fair sister-in-law, that you 
 knew but how happy a thing it were to be fair 
 and beautiful. 
 
 1 the Tower. As the Tower was extra-parochial, it 
 probably afforded some facility to private marriages. 
 
 — GiFFOED. 
 
 Brid. That touches not me, brother. 
 
 Wei. That's true ; that's even the fault of it ; 
 for, indeed, beauty stands a woman in no stead, 
 unless it procure her touching. — But, sister, 
 whether it touch yofi or no, it touches your 
 beauties; and I am sure they will abide the 
 touch ; an they do not, a plague of all ceruse,^ 
 says I ! and it touches me too in part, though 
 no't in the — Well, there's a dear and respected 
 friend of mine, sister, stands very strongly and 
 worthily affected toward you, and hath vowed 
 to inflame whole bonfires of zeal at his heart, in 
 honour of your perfections. I have already en- 
 gaged my promise to bring you where you shall 
 hear him confirm much more. Ned Knowell is 
 the man, sister : there's no exception against the 
 party. You are ripe for a husband; and a 
 minute's loss to such an occasion is a great tres- 
 pass in a wise beauty. What say you, sister? 
 On my soul he loves you ; wiU you give him the 
 meeting ? 
 
 Bi'id. Faith I had very little confidence in mine 
 own constancy, brother, if I durst not meet a 
 man : but this motion of yours savours of an old 
 knight adventurer's servant a little too much, 
 methinks. ' 
 
 Wei. What's that, sister ? 
 
 Bj'id. Marry, of the squire, 
 
 Wei. No matter if it did, I would be such an 
 one for my friend. But see, who is return'd to 
 hinder us! 
 
 Re-enter Kitkly. 
 
 Kit. What villany is this ? call'd out on a false 
 message ! 
 This was some plot; I was not sent for. — Bridget, 
 Where is yom- sister ? 
 Brid. I think she be gone forth, sir. 
 Kit. How ! is my wife gone forth ? Whither, 
 
 for God's sake ? 
 Brid. She's gone abroad with Thomas. 
 Kit. Abroad with Thomas! Oh, that villain 
 dors me : ^ 
 He hath discovered all unto my wife. 
 Beast that I was, to trust him ! — Whither, I pray 
 Went she ? [you, 
 
 Brid. I know not, sir, 
 Wei. I'll tell your brother, 
 Whither I suspect she's gone. 
 Kit. Whither, good brother ? 
 Wei. To Cob's house, I believe : but, keep my 
 
 counsel. 
 Kit. I will, I will. To Cob's house ! doth she 
 haunt Cob's ? [Exit. 
 
 Wei. Come, he is once more gone, 
 Sister, let's lose no time ; the afiair is worth it 
 
 [Exewni. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE VII. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Matheav and Bobadili- 
 
 Mat. I wonder, captain, what they will say of 
 my going away, ha ? 
 
 Bob. Why, what should they say, but as of a 
 discreet gentleman; quick, wary, respectful of 
 nature's fair lineaments ? and that's all. 
 
 Mat. Why so ! but what can they say of your 
 beating ? 
 
 Boh. A rude part, a touch with soft wood, a 
 
 ^ ceruse — a wash for the face and neck. 
 2 (Zors— befools. See note 1, p. 186, col. 2. Buzz and 
 hum were used in the same sense last century. 
 
232 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 kind of gross battery used, laid on strongly, 
 borne most patiently ; and that's all. 
 
 Mat. Ay, but -would any man have offered it 
 in Venice, as you say ? 
 
 Bob. Tut ! I ass^ire you, no. You shall have 
 there your nobilis, your gentilezza, come in 
 bravely upon your reverse, stand you close, 
 stand you firm, stand you fair, save your retri- 
 cato with his left leg, come to the asaulto with 
 the right, thrust mth brave steel, defy your base 
 wood! But wherefore do I awake this remem- 
 brance.'* I was fascinated, by Jupiter, — fasci- 
 nated; but I will be un witch' d, and revenged 
 by law. 
 
 Mat. Do you hear "i is it not best to get a war- 
 rant, and have him arrested and brought before 
 Justice Clement "i 
 
 Boh. It were not amiss ; would we had it ! 
 
 Enter Brainworm disguised as Forsial. 
 
 Mat. Why, here comes his man ; let's speak to 
 him. 
 
 Bob. Agreed, do you speak. 
 
 Mat. Save you, sir ! 
 
 Brai. With all my heart, sir. 
 
 Mat. Sir, there is one Downright hath abused 
 this gentleman and myself, and we determine to 
 make our amends by law. isTow, if you would do 
 us the favour to procure a warrant, to bring him 
 afore your master, you shall be well considered, 
 I assure you, sir. 
 
 Brai. Sir, you know my service is my living ; 
 such favours as these gotten of my master is his 
 only preferment, and therefore you must con- 
 sider me as I may make benefit of my place. 
 
 Mat. How is that, sir ? 
 
 Brai. Faith, sir, the thing is extraordinary, 
 and the gentleman may be of great account ; yet, 
 be he what he will, if you will lay me down a 
 brace of angels in my hand you shall have it, 
 otherwise not. 
 
 Mat. How shall we do, captain ? He asks a 
 brace of angels ; you have no money ? 
 
 Bob. Not a cross, 1 by fortune. 
 
 3fat. Nor I, as I am a gentleman, but twopence 
 left of my two shillings in the morning for wine 
 and radish : let's find him some pawn. 
 
 Bob. Pawn ! we have none to the value of his 
 demand. 
 
 Mat. Oh, yes; I'll pawn this jewel in my ear, 
 and you may pawn your silk stockings, and pull 
 up your boots, they will ne'er be missed : it must 
 be done now. 
 
 Bob. Well, an there be no remedy, I'll step 
 aside and pull them off. [ Withdraws. 
 
 Mat. Do you hear, sir? we have no store of 
 money at this time, but you shall have good 
 pawns ; look yoii, sir, this jewel, and that gentle- 
 man's silk stockings ; because we would have it 
 despatch'd ere we went to our chambers. 
 
 Brai. I am content, sir; I will get you the 
 warrant presently. What's his name, say you ? 
 Downright.'* 
 
 31at. Ay, ay, George Downright. 
 
 Brai. What manner of man is he ? 
 
 31at. A tall big man, sir; he goes in a cloak 
 most commonly of silk-russet, laid about with 
 russet lace. 
 
 Brai. 'Tis very good, sir. 
 
 3fat. Here, sir, here's my jewel. 
 
 Bob. [i-etwming.^ And here are my stockings. 
 
 * cross. The ancient penny, according to Stow, had 
 a crest stamped on it, so that it might easily be broken 
 in the midst, or in the four quarters. Hence it became 
 a common phrase when a person had no money about 
 him, to say he had not a single cross Gifford. 
 
 B7-ai. Well, gentlemen, I'll procure you this 
 warrant presently ; but who will you have to 
 serve it ? 
 
 Mat. That's true, captain ; that must be con- 
 sidered. 
 
 Bob. Body o' me, I know not ; 'tis service of 
 danger. 
 
 Brai. Whj^, you were best get one o' the varlets 
 of the city,' a serjeant. I'll appoint you one, if 
 you please. 
 
 3Iat. Will you, sir? why, we can wish no 
 better. 
 
 Bob. We'll leave it to you, sir. 
 
 \_Exeunt Bob. and !Mat. 
 
 Brai. This is rare ! Now wijl I go pawn this 
 cloak of the justice's man's at the broker's for a 
 varlet's suit, and be the varlet myself; and get 
 either more pawns, or more money of Downright 
 for the arrest. \_Exit. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE VIII. 
 
 The Lane before Cob's House. 
 
 Enter Kxowell. 
 
 Know. Oh, here it is ; I am glad I have found 
 it now. — 
 Ho ! who is within here ? 
 
 Tib. [within.^ I am within, sir ; what's your 
 pleasure ? 
 
 Know. To know who is within beside yourself. 
 
 Tib. Why, sir, you are no constable, I hope ? 
 
 Know. Oh, fear you the constable ? then I 
 doubt not 
 You have some guests within deserve that fear : 
 I'll fetch him straight. 
 
 Enter Tib. 
 
 Tib. 0' God's name, sir ! 
 
 Know. Go to. Come, tell me, is not young 
 
 Knowell here ? 
 Tib. Young Knowell ! I know none such, sir, 
 o' mine honesty. 
 Know. Your honesty, dame ! it flies too lightly 
 from you. 
 There is no way but fetch the constable. 
 
 Tib. The constable ! the man is mad, I think. 
 [Exit^ and claps to the door. 
 
 Enter Dame Kitely and Cash. 
 
 Cash. Ho ! who keeps house here ? 
 Know. Oh, this is the female copesmate= of my 
 son: 
 Now shall I meet him straight. 
 Dame K. Knock, Thomas, hard. 
 Cash. Ho, good wife ! 
 
 Re-enter Tib. 
 
 Tib. Why, what's the matter with you ? 
 Dame K. Why, woman, grieves it you to ope 
 
 your door ? 
 Belike you get something to keep it shut. 
 Tib. What mean these questions, pray ye ? 
 Dame K. So strange you make it ! is not my 
 
 husband here? 
 Know. Her husband ? 
 
 Dame K. My tried husband. Master Kitely ? 
 Tib. I hope he needs not to be tried here. 
 Dame K. No, dame, he does it not for need, 
 
 but pleasure. 
 
 ^ varlets of the c%— bailiffs or Serjeants at mace. — 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 2 copesmate — companion ; cope is the same as the cope 
 in copesman, the old word for chapman, and means to 
 exchange. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 233 
 
 Tib. Neither for need nor pleasure is he here. 
 Know. This is but a device to baulk me withal : 
 
 Enter Kitely, muffled in Ms cloah. 
 
 Soft^ who is this ? 'tis not my son disguised ? 
 
 Dame K. {^ies her husband^ and runs to him.'] 
 Oh, sir, have I forestall'd your honest market. 
 Found your close walks ? You stand amazed now, 
 
 do you ? 
 I'faith, I am glad I have smok'd you yet at last. 
 What is your jewel, trow ? In, come, let's see her ; 
 Fetch forth your housewife, dame ; if she be fairer, 
 In any honest judgment, than myself, 
 I'll be content with it : but she is change, . 
 She feeds you fat, she soothes your appetite. 
 And you are well ! Your wife, an honest woman, 
 Is meat tAvice sod to you, sir ! Oh, you treach- 
 our! ^ 
 
 Know. She cannot counterfeit thus palpably. 
 
 Kit. Out on thy more than strumpet impu- 
 dence ! 
 Steal'st thou thus to thy haunts? and have I 
 
 taken 
 Thy bawd and thee, and thy companion, 
 This hoary-headed lecher, this old goat. 
 Close at your villany, and would'st thou 'scuse it 
 With this stale harlot's jest, accusing me? 
 Oh, old incontinent [to Kmowell], dost thou 
 
 not shame, 
 When all thy powers in chastity are spent, 
 To have a mind so hot ? and to entice. 
 And feed the enticements of a lustful woman ? 
 
 Dame K. Out, I defy thee, I, dissembling 
 wretch ! 
 
 Kit. Defy me, strumpet ! Ask thy pander here, 
 Can he deny it ? or that wicked elder ? 
 
 Know. Why, hear you, sir. 
 
 Kit. Tut, tut, tut ; never speak : 
 Thy guilty conscience will discover thee. 
 
 Knoio. What lunacy is this, that haunts this 
 man? 
 
 Kit. Well, good wife bawd, Cob's wife, and 
 you. 
 That make your husband such a hoddy-doddy ; 
 And you, young apple-squire, 2 and old cuckold- 
 maker ; 
 I'll have you every one before a justice : 
 Nay, you shall answer it, I charge you go. 
 
 Knoio. Marry, with all my heart, sir, I go 
 willingly ; 
 Though I do taste this as a trick put on me. 
 To punish my impertinent search, and justly. 
 And half forgive my son for the device. 
 
 Kit. Come, will you go ? 
 
 Dame K. Go ! to thy shame believe it. 
 
 Enter Cob. 
 
 Cob. Why, what's the matter here, what's here 
 to do? 
 
 Kit. Oh, Cob, art thou come? I have been 
 abused, and in thy house ; was nev^r man so 
 wrong'd ! 
 
 Cob. 'Slid, in my house, my Master Kitely ! 
 Who wrongs you in my house? 
 
 Kit. Marry, young lust in old, and old in young 
 here: 
 Thy wife's their bawd, here have I taken them. 
 
 Cob. How, bawd ! is my house come to that ? 
 Am I preferr'd thither ? Did I not charge you 
 to keep your doors shut, Isbel? and — you let 
 them lie open for all comers ! [Beats his wife. 
 
 Know. Fi-iend, know some cause, before thou 
 beat'st thy wife. 
 This is madness in thee. 
 
 i freocAowr— traitor. 
 
 ' apple-squire — pimp. 
 
 Cob. Why, is there no cause ? 
 
 Kit. Yes, I'll show cause before the justice, 
 Cob. Come, let her go with me. 
 
 Cob. Nay, she shall go. 
 
 Tib. Nay, I will go. I'll see an you may be 
 allowed to make a bundle of hemp of your right 
 and lawful wife thus, at every cuckoldy knave's 
 pleasure. Why do you not go ? 
 
 Kit. A bitter quean ! Come, we will have you 
 tamed. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IX. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Brainworm, disguised as a City Serjeant. 
 
 Brai. Well, of all my disguises yet, now am I 
 most like myself, being in this Serjeant's gown. 
 A man of my present px-ofession never counter- 
 feits, till he lays hold upon a debtor, and says, 
 he rests him; for then he brings him to all 
 manner of unrest. A kind of little kings we are, 
 bearing the diminutive of a mace, made like a 
 young artichoke, that always carries pepper and 
 salt in itself. Well, I know not what danger I 
 undergo by this exploit; pray Heaven I come 
 well off ! 
 
 Enter Mathew and Bobadill. 
 
 Mat. See, I think, yonder is the varlet, by his 
 gown. 
 
 Bob. Let's go in quest of him. 
 
 Mat. 'Save you, friend! are not you here by 
 appointment of Justice Clement's man ? 
 
 Brai. Yes, an't please you, sir; he told me, 
 two gentlemen had will'd him to procure a war- 
 rant from his master, which I have about me, to 
 be served on one Downright. 
 
 Mat. It is honestly done of you both ; and see 
 where the party comes you must arrest ; serve 
 it upon him quickly, afore he be aware. 
 
 Bob. Bear back. Master Mathew. 
 
 Enter Stephen in Downright's cloalc. 
 
 Brai. Master Downright, I arrest you in the 
 queen's name, and must carry you afore a justice 
 by virtue of this warrant. 
 
 Step. Me, friend ! I am no Downright, I ; I am 
 Master Stephen. You do not well to arrest me, 
 I tell you truly ; I am in nobody's bonds nor 
 books, I would you should know it. A plague 
 on you heartily, for making me thus afraid afore 
 my time ! 
 
 Brai. Why, now you are deceived, gentlemen. 
 
 Bob. He wears such a cloak, and that deceived 
 us. But see, here acomes indeed; this is he, 
 officer. 
 
 Enter Downright. 
 
 Down. Why, how now, signior gull ! are you 
 tum'd filcher of late ? Come, deliver my cloak. 
 
 Step. Your cloak, sir! I bought it even now, 
 in open market. 
 
 Brai. Master Downright, I have a warrant I 
 must serve upon you, procured by these two 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Down. These gentlemen ? these rascals ! 
 
 [Offers to beat them. 
 
 Brai. Keep the peace, I charge you in her 
 majesty's name. 
 
 Down. I obey thee. What must I do, oflScer ? 
 
 Brai. Go before Master Justice Clement, to 
 answer that they can object against you, sir. I 
 will use you kindly, sir. 
 
234 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mat. Come, let's before, and make the justice,^ 
 captain. 
 
 Bob. The varlet's a tall man, afore heaven ! 
 
 {Exeunt Bob. and Mat. 
 
 Down. Gull, you'll give me my cloak. 
 
 Step. Sir, I bought it, and I'll keep it. 
 
 Down. You will ? 
 
 Step. Ay, that I will. 
 
 Down. Officer, there's thy fee, arrest him. 
 
 Brai. Master Stephen, I must arrest you. 
 
 Step. Arrest me ! I scorn it. There, take your 
 cloak, I'll none on't. 
 
 Down. Nay, that shall not serve your turn now, 
 sir. Officer, I'll go with thee to the justice's; 
 bring him along. 
 
 Step. Why, is not here your cloak 7 what would 
 you have ? 
 
 Down. I'll have you answer it, sir. 
 
 Brai. Sir, I'll take your word, and this gentle- 
 man's too, for his appearance. 
 
 Down. I'll have no words taken: bring him 
 along. 
 
 Brai. Sir, I may choose to do that, I may take 
 bail. 
 
 Down. 'Tis true, you may take bail, and choose 
 at another time ; but you shall not now, varlet : 
 bring him along, or I'll swinge you. 
 
 Brai. Sir, I pity the gentleman's case ; here's 
 your money again. 
 
 Down. 'Sdeins, tell not me of my money ; bring 
 him away, I say. 
 
 Brai. I warrant you he will go with you of 
 himself, sir. 
 
 Down. Yet more ado ? 
 
 Brai. I have made a fair mash on't. [Aside. 
 
 Step. Must I go .'* 
 
 Brai. I know no remedy. Master Stephen. 
 
 Down. Come along afore me here; I do not 
 love your hanging look behind. 
 
 Step. Why, sir, I hope you cannot hang me 
 for it : can he, fellow ? 
 
 Brai. I think not, sir; it is but a whipping 
 matter, sure. 
 
 Step. Why, then, let him do his worst, I am 
 resolute. [_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 CoLEaiAN-sTREET. A Hall in Justice 
 Clement's Rouse. 
 
 Enter Clhviext, Kxowell, Kitely, Dame 
 KiTELY, Tib, Cash, Cob, and Sei-vants. 
 
 Clem. Nay, but stay, stay, give me leave : my 
 chair, sirrah. You, Master Knowell, say you 
 went thither to meet your son ? 
 
 Know. Ay, sir. 
 
 Clem. But who directed you hither ? 
 
 Know. That did mine own man, sir. 
 
 Clem. Where is he ? 
 
 Know. Nay, I know not now ; I left him with 
 your clerk, and appointed him to stay here for 
 me. 
 
 Clem. My clerk ! about what time was this ? 
 
 Know. Marry, between one and two, as I take it. 
 
 Clem. And what time came my man with the 
 false message to you, Master Kitely ? 
 
 Kit. After two, sir. 
 
 Clem. Very good. But, Mistress Kitely, how 
 chance that you were at Cob's, ha ? 
 
 Dam^ K. An't please you, sir, I'll tell you : my 
 brother Wellbred told me that Cob's house was 
 a suspected place — 
 
 1 male the justice — i.e. acquaint him with our business. 
 
 -GlFFORD. 
 
 Clem. So it appears, me thinks ; but on. 
 
 Dame K. And that my husband used thither 
 daily. 
 
 Clem. No matter, so he used himself well, 
 mistress. 
 
 Dame K. True, sir ; but you know what grows 
 by such haunts oftentimes. 
 
 Clem. I see rank fruits of a jealous brain, 
 Mistress Kitely : but did you find your husband 
 there, in that case as you suspected ? 
 
 Kit. I found her there, sir. 
 
 Clem. Did you so ! that alters the case. Who 
 gave you knowledge of your wife's being there 7 
 
 Kit. MaiTy, that did my brother Wellbred. 
 
 Clem. How, Wellbred first tell her; then tell 
 you after ! Where is WeUbred ? 
 
 Kit. Gone with my sister, sir, I know not 
 whither. 
 
 Clem. Why, this is a mere trick, a device ; you 
 are gull'd in this most grossly aU. Alas, poor* 
 wench ! wert thou beaten for this ? 
 
 Tib. Yes, most pitifully, an't please you. 
 
 Cob. And worthily, I hope, if it shall prove so. 
 
 Clem. Ay, that's like, and a piece of a sen- 
 tence. — 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 How now, sir ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Serv. Sir, there's a gentleman in the court 
 without, desires to speak with your worship. 
 
 Clem. A gentleman ! what is he ? 
 
 Serv. A soldier, sir, he says. 
 
 Clem. A soldier ! Take down my armour, my 
 sword quickly. A soldier speak with me ! Why, 
 when,i knaves? Come on, come on [arms him- 
 self \. Hold my cap there, so ; give me my gorget, 
 my sword. Stand by, I will end your matters 
 anon. — Let the soldier enter. [Exit Servant 
 
 Enter Bobadell, followed hy Mathew. 
 
 Now, sir, what have you to say to me ? 
 
 Bob. By your woi'ship's favour — 
 
 Clem. Nay, keep out, su-; I know not your 
 pretence. You send me word, sir, you are a 
 soldier: why, sir, you shall be answer'd here: 
 here be them have been amongst soldiers. Sir, 
 your iDleasure. 
 
 Bob. Faith, sir, so it is, this gentleman and 
 myself have been most uncivilly wrong'd and 
 beaten by one Downright, a coarse fellow, about 
 the town here ; and for mine own part, I protest, 
 being a man in no sort given to this filthy humour 
 of quan-eUing, he hath assaulted me in the way of 
 my peace, despoiled me of mine honour, disarmed 
 me of my weapons, and rudely laid me along in 
 the open streets, when I not so much as once 
 offered to resist him. 
 
 Clem. Oh, God's precious! is this the soldier? 
 Here, take my armour off quickly, 'twill make 
 him swoon, I fear ; he is not fit to look on't, that 
 will put up a blow. 
 
 Mat. An't please your worship, he was bound 
 to the peace. 
 
 Clem. Why, an he were, sir, his hands were 
 not bound, were they ? 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. There's one of the varlets of the city, sir, 
 has brought two gentlemen here ; one upon your 
 worship's warrant. 
 
 Clem. My warrant ! 
 
 Sei-v. Yes, sir; the officer says, procured by 
 these two. 
 
 1 when— a. common exclamation of impatience in our 
 old dramatists. — Giffokd. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 235 
 
 Clem. Bid him come in. \_Exit Servant.] Set 
 by this picture. 
 
 Enter Downright, Stephex, and Brainwobm, 
 disguised as before. 
 
 What, Master Downright ! are you brought at 
 Master Fresh water's suit here ? 
 
 Down. I'faith, sir : and here's another brought 
 at my suit. 
 
 Clem. What are you, sir ? 
 
 Step. A gentleman, sii'. Oh, uncle ! 
 
 Clem. Uncle ! who, Master Knowell ? 
 
 Know. Ay, sir, this is a wise kinsman of mine. 
 
 Step, God's my witness, uncle, I am wrong'd 
 here monstrously ; he charges me with stealing 
 of his cloak, and would I might never stir, if I 
 did not find it in the street by chance. 
 
 JDovm. Oh, did you find it now ? You said 
 you bought it ere while. 
 
 Step. And you said I stole it: nay, now my 
 uncle is here, I'll do well enough with you. 
 
 Clem. Well, let this breathe awhile. You that 
 have cause to complain there, stand forth. Had 
 you my warrant for this gentleman's apprehen- 
 sion ? 
 
 Boh. Ay, an't please your worship. 
 
 Clem. Nay, do not speak in passion ^ so : where 
 had you it .? 
 
 Bob. Of your clerk, sir. 
 
 Clem. That's well! an my clerk can make 
 warrants, and my hand not at them ! Where is 
 the warrant — ofiicer, have you it ? 
 
 Brai. No, sir; your worship's man. Master 
 Formal, bid me do it for these gentlemen, and 
 he would be my discbarge. 
 
 Clem. Why, Master Do^v^nright, are you such a 
 novice, to be served and never see the warrant ? 
 
 Down. Sir, he did not serve it on me. 
 
 Clem. No ! how then ? 
 
 Down. Marry, sir, he came to me, and said he 
 must serve it, and he would use me kindly, and 
 so — 
 
 Clem. Oh, God's pity, was it so, sir? Be 
 must serve it! Give me my long sword there, 
 and help me off. So, come on, sir varlet, I must 
 cut off your legs, sirrah [Bkainwokm Tcneels] ; 
 nay, stand up, Fll use you kindly; I must cut off 
 your legs, I say. 
 
 [Flourishes over him with his long sword. 
 
 Brai. Oh, good sir, I beseech you; nay, good 
 Master Justice ! 
 
 Clem. I must do it, there is no remedy; 1 
 must cut off your legs, sirrah; I must cut off 
 your ears, you rascal, I must do it ; I must cut 
 off your nose, I must cut off your head, 
 
 Brai. Oh, good your worship ! 
 
 Clem. Well, rise; how dost thou do now.? dost 
 thou feel thyself well ? hast thou no harm ? 
 
 Brai. No, I thank your good worship, sir. 
 
 Clem. Why so ! I said 1 must cut oft' thy legs, 
 and I must cut off thy arms, and 1 must cut off 
 thy head ; but I did not do it : so you said you 
 must serve this gentleman with my warrant, but 
 you did not serve him. You knave, you slave, 
 you rogue, do you say you must, sirrah ! Away 
 with him to the jail ; I'll teach you a trick for 
 your must, sir. 
 
 Brai. Good sir, I beseech you, be good to me. 
 
 Clem. Tell him he shall to the jail; away with 
 him, I say. 
 
 Brai. Nay, sir, if you will commit me, it shall 
 be for committing more than this. I will not lose 
 by my travail any grain of my fame, certain. 
 
 [Throws off his serjeanfs gown. 
 
 1 in passion— ia so melancholy a tone, so pathetically. 
 
 — GiFiORD. 
 
 Clem. How is this ? 
 
 Know. My man Brainworm ! 
 
 Step. Oh yes, uncle ; Brainworm has been 
 with my cousin Edward and I all this day. 
 
 Clem. I told you all there was some device. 
 
 Bj-ai. Nay, excellent justice, since I have laid 
 myself thus open to you, now stand strong for 
 me ; both with your sword and j'our balance. 
 
 Clem. I Body o' me, a merry knave ! give me a 
 bowl of sack. If he belong to you, Master 
 Knowell, I bespeak your patience. 
 
 Brai. That is it I have most need of. Sir, if 
 you'll pardon me only, I'll glory in all the rest 
 of my exploits. 
 
 Know. Sir, you know I love not to have my 
 favours come hard from me. You have your 
 pardon, though I suspect you shrewdly for being 
 of counsel with my son against me. 
 
 Brai. Yes, faith, I have, sir, though you re- 
 tain'd me doubly this morning for yourself: first 
 as Brainworm; after as Fitz-Sword. I was your 
 reform'd soldier, sir. 'Twas I sent you to Cob's 
 upon the errand without end. 
 
 Know. Is it possible ? or that thou should'st 
 disguise thy language so as I should not know 
 thee ? 
 
 Brai. Oh, sir, this has been the day of my 
 metamorphosis. It is not that shape alone that 
 I have run through to-day. I brought this gen- 
 tleman. Master Kitely, a message too, in the form 
 of Master Justice's man here, to draw him out of 
 the way, as well as your worship, while Master 
 Wellbred might make a conveyance of Mistress 
 Bridget to my young master. 
 
 Kit. How ! my sister stolen away ? 
 
 Know. My son is not married, I hope ! 
 
 Brai. Faith, sir, they are both as sure as love, 
 a priest, and three thousand pound, which is her 
 portion, can make them; and by this time are 
 ready to bespeak their wedding-supper at the 
 Windmill, except some friend here prevent them, 
 and invite them home. 
 
 Clem. Marry, that will I ; I thank thee for put- 
 ting me in mind on't. — Sin-ah, go you and fetch 
 them hither upon my warrant. [Exit Servant.] 
 Neither friends have cause to be sorry, if I know 
 the young couple aright. Here, I drink to thee 
 for thy good news. But, I pray thee, what hast 
 thou done with my man, Formal ? 
 
 Brai. Faith, sir, after some ceremony past, as 
 making him drunk, first with story, and then 
 with wine (but all in kindness), and stripping 
 him to his shirt, I left him in that cool vein; 
 departed, sold your worship's warrant to these 
 two, pawn'd his livery for that varlet's gown, 
 to serve it in ; and thus have brought myself by 
 my activity to your worship's consideration. 
 
 Clem. And I will consider thee in another cup 
 of sack. Here's to thee, which, having drunk off, 
 this is my sentence. Pledge me. Thou hast 
 done, or assisted to nothing, in my judgment, 
 but deserves to be pardon'd for the wit of the 
 offence. If thy master, or any man here, be 
 angry with thee, I shall suspect his ingine,* 
 while I know him, for't. — How now I what noise 
 is that ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Sei'V. Sir, it is Eoger is come home, 
 Clem. Bring him in, bring him in. 
 
 Enter Formal i7i a suit of armour. 
 
 What! drunk.' in arms against me ? your reason, 
 your reason for this ? 
 
 ingine — from Lat. ingenium, wit, understanding. 
 
236 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Form. I beseech your worship to pardon me. 
 I happened into ill company by chance, that 
 cast me into a sleep, and stript me of all my 
 clothes. 
 
 Clem. Well, tell him I am Justice Clement, and 
 do pardon him : but what is this to your armour ? 
 what may that signify "i 
 
 Form. An't please you, sir, it hung up in the 
 room where I was stript : and I bon-ow'd it of 
 one of the drawers to come home in, because I 
 was loth to do penance through the street in my 
 shirt. 
 
 Clem. Well, stand by a while. 
 
 Enter E. Knowell, Wellbred, and BRrooET. 
 
 Who be these ? Oh, the young company ; wel- 
 come, welcome ! Give you joy. Nay, Mistress 
 Bridget, blush not ; you are not so fresh a bride, 
 but the news of it is come hither afore you. 
 Master Bridegroom, I have made your peace, 
 give me your hand : so will I for all the rest ere 
 you forsake my roof. 
 
 E. Know. We are the more bound to your 
 humanity, sir. 
 
 Clem. Only these two have so little of man in 
 them, they are no part of ray care. 
 
 Wei. Yes, sir, let me pray you for this gentle- 
 man, he belongs to my sister the bride. 
 
 Clem. In what place, sir ? 
 
 Wei. Of her delight, sir, below the stairs, and 
 in public : her poet, sir. 
 
 Clem. A poet ! I will challenge him myself 
 presently at extempore. 
 
 Mount up thy Phlegon, Muse^ and testify^ 
 How Saturn, sitting in an ebon cloud,, 
 
 Disrobed his podex, white as ivory, 
 
 And through the welkin thundered all alovd. 
 
 Wei. He is not for extempore, sir : he is all 
 for the pocket mvise ; please you command a sight 
 of it. 
 
 Clem. Yes, yes, search him for a taste of his 
 vein. IThey search Mathew's pockets. 
 
 Wei. You must not deny the queen's justice, 
 sir, under a writ of rebellion. 
 
 Clem. What ! all this verse ? Body o' me, he 
 carries a whole realm, a commonwealth of paper 
 in his hose : let us see some of his subjects. 
 
 [Reads. 
 Unto the boundless ocean of thy face, [eyes. 
 Runs this poor river, charged with streams of 
 How ! this is stolen. 
 
 E. Know. A parody ! a parody ! with a kind 
 of miraculous gift, to make it absurder than it 
 was. 
 
 Clem. Is all the rest of this batch ? bring me a 
 torch ; lay it together, and give fire. Cleanse the 
 air. [Sets the papers on fire.'] Here was enough 
 to have infected the whole city, if it had not been 
 taken in time. See, see, how our poet's gloiy 
 shines ! brighter and brighter ! still it increases ! 
 Oh, now it is at the highest ; and now it declines 
 as fast. You may see, sic transit gloria mundi I ' 
 
 Know. There's an emblem for you, son, and 
 your studies. 
 
 'eo vanishes the glory of the worliL' 
 
 Clem. Nay, no speech or act of mine be drawn 
 against such as profess it worthily. They are 
 not born every year, as an alderman. There 
 goes more to the making of a good poet, than a 
 sheriff. Master Kitely, you look upon me ! — 
 though I live in the city here amongst you, I 
 will do more reverence to him, when I meet him, 
 than I will to the mayor out of his year. But 
 these paper-pedlars ! these ink-dabblers ! they 
 cannot expect reprehension or reproach; they 
 have it with the fact. 
 
 E. Know. Sir, you have saved me the labour 
 of a defence. 
 
 Clem. It shall be discourse for supper between 
 your father and me, if he dai-e undertake me. 
 But to despatch away these, you sign o' the 
 soldier, and pictui-e of the poet (but both so 
 false, I will not have you hanged out at my 
 door till midnight), while we are at supper, you 
 two shall penitently fast it out in my court with- 
 out; and, if you will, you may pray there that 
 we may be so merry within as to forgive or 
 forget you when we come out. Here's a third, 
 because we tender your safety, shall watch you, 
 he is provided for the purpose. Look to your 
 charge, sir. 
 
 Step. And what shall I do ? 
 
 Clem. Oh ! I had lost a sheep an' he had not 
 bleated. Why, sir, you shall give Master Down- 
 right his cloak ; and I will entreat him to take 
 it. A trencher and a napkin you shall have in 
 the buttery, and keep Cob and his wife company 
 here ; whom I will entreat first to be reconciled ; 
 and you to endeavour with your wit to keep 
 them so. 
 
 Step. Ill do my best. 
 
 Cob. Why, now I see thou art honest, Tib, I 
 receive thee as my dear and mortal wife again. 
 
 Tib. And I you, as my loving and obedient 
 husband. 
 
 Clem. Good compliment ! It will be their bridal 
 night too. They are married anew. Come, I 
 conjure the rest to put off all discontent. You, 
 Master Downright, your anger ; you. Master 
 Knowell, your cares ; Master Kitely and his 
 wife, their jealousy. 
 
 For, I must tell you both, while that is fed, 
 Horns in the mind are worse than on the head. 
 
 Kit. Sir, thus they go from me ; kiss me, 
 sweetheart. 
 
 See what a drove of horns fly in the air. 
 Winged with my cleansed and my credulous breath! 
 Watch ^em susjncious eyes, watch where they fall. 
 See, see! on heads that think they have none at all! 
 Oh, what a plenteous world of this will come! 
 When air rains horns, all may be sure of some. 
 I have learn'd so much verso out of a jealous 
 man's part in a play. 
 
 Clem. 'Tis well, 'tis well! This night we'll 
 dedicate to fi-iendship, love, and laughter. Mas- 
 ter Bridegroom, take your bride and lead ; every 
 one a fellow. Here is my mistress, Brainwonn ! 
 to whom all my addresses of courtship shall 
 have their reference : whose adventures this day, 
 when our gi'andchildren shall hear to be made a 
 fable, I doubt not but it shall find both spec- 
 tators and applause. [Exeunt. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 [All who are acquainted with the history of the English drama know that it was a common 
 thing for two or more of the Elizabethan dramatists to join their wits in the manufacture of 
 a play : thus A Loohing-Glass for London and England was the joint production of Greene 
 and Lodge ; and Jonson, Chapman, and Marston were nearly losing their ears for being all 
 three concerned in the manufacture of Eastivard Hoe. No doubt they were frequently 
 urged to enter into these literary partnerships by a desire to get their ware ready for the 
 market as soon as possible, and thus speedily replenish their generally empty purses. 
 Poverty, however, can have had nothing to do with the illustrious literary union formed by 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, as both these dramatists were well connected, and apparently were 
 quite independent of the proceeds of their pens. 
 
 John Fletcher, the elder of the two, was born at Rye, in Sussex, 1576 (1579 according to 
 Dyce), his father being Dr. Richard Fletcher, afterwards Bishop of London, and a favourite 
 of Queen Elizabeth. Fletcher was educated at Bennet College, Cambridge, but appears never 
 to have taken his degree, although, it is said, he acquired much classical erudition ; he must, 
 at any rate, have had considerable acquaintance with French, Spanish, and Italian, as many 
 of his plots are taken from then untranslated dramas in these languages. At what time he 
 commenced writing for the stage is uncertain ; but it is probable that in 1606 or 1607, some- 
 what before his partnership with Beaumont, he produced the comedy of The Woman Hater 
 and the tragedy of Thierry and Theodoret. Little more is known of the details of his life, 
 except that he died in August 1625 of the plague, while being detained in London waiting 
 for a new suit of clothes. He appears to have been of a social, generous disposition, and 
 somewhat more correct in his conduct than the majority of his brother dramatists. John 
 Fletcher was cousin to Giles and Phineas Fletcher, two poets of considerable credit. 
 
 Francis Beaumont, like his literary partner, was well connected, belonging to an ancient 
 and honourable family, which had been seated at Grace-Dieu, in Liecestershire, for many 
 generations. He was the eldest son of Francis Beaumont, a judge of the Common Pleas, 
 and was born in 1586, perhaps earlier, and became a gentleman-commoner of Broadgate 
 Hall, now Pembroke College, in 1596. After leaving college, he attempted to study law in 
 the Inner Temple, but soon gave it up, his tastes lying in quite another direction. When 
 only sixteen he translated one of Ovid's fables into English rhyme, and must have become 
 intimate with Ben Jonson before he was nineteen, as at that age he addressed some verses to 
 the latter on his comedy of The Fox, produced in 1605, Jonson afterwards returning the 
 compliment by some laudatory lines, beginning — 
 
 * How do I love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse, 
 That unto me dost such religion prove ! ' 
 
 Beaumont, unlike his friend, did not die a bachelor, but married, in what year is not 
 known, Ursula, daughter and co-heir of Henry Isley of Sundridge, Kent, by whom he left two 
 daughters. One of these, Frances, was alive in 1700, enjoying a pension of one hundred 
 pounds from the Duke of Ormond, in whose family she had been a domestic. Beaumont 
 died ten years before his friend Fletcher, in March 1615-16, at the premature age of twenty- 
 nine, and was buried near the entrance of St. Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey, his 
 grave, like that of his friend's, being unmarked by slab or epitaph. It is not known that 
 
 237 
 
238 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Beaumont wrote any drama previous to his connection with Fletcher. To judge from their 
 portraits, both Beaumont and Fletcher seem to have been handsome and good-looking ; and 
 Beaumont, at least, was a member of the famous club which met at the Mermaid Tavern, he 
 having written a lively poetical description of the * wit-combats' which took place there. 
 
 * What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble and so full of subtle flame. 
 As if that every one from whom they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Ofhis dull life.' . . . 
 
 It has been conjectured that Beaumont and Fletcher commenced their literary partner- 
 ship about 1608, and it continued till the former's death in 1616. Their union seems to 
 have been one not of mere convenience, but of fast friendship ; and, according to Aubrey, 
 they lived together in one house * on the Bankside, ' and were on the most intimate and 
 familiar terms. What was their modus ope7'andi in the manufacture of their dramatic pro- 
 ductions, we have no means of ascertaining, although there is an amusing story told of the 
 two, which, if true, affords us a slight glimpse into their method of procedure. 'At a 
 tavern, as our poets choose each his share of some future dramatic task, a fierce ejaculation 
 is heard from their chamber : '* I'll undertake to kill the king ! " One who stood outside, 
 readier to catch up a treasonable than a poetic idea, gives information of this regicide plot ; 
 and the poor dramatist, till he can explain, has a prospect of the block, which better befitted 
 the blockhead than the betrayer. ' All the works together attributed to ' Beaumont and 
 Fletcher' amount to about fifty-two, of which, it has been conjectured, about seventeen 
 were the joint production of the two friends, the remainder being mostly written by Fletcher, 
 principally after the death of Beaumont. The first drama written by the two in conjunction 
 is probably Philaster, produced some time previous to 1611. The other chief joint produc- 
 tions are The Maid's Tragedy (written before 1611), King and 2!7'o King (1611), The Holiest 
 Man's Fortune (1613), The Coxcomb (1613), The Scornful Lady (printed 1616), The Little 
 French Lavnjer, The Laws of Candy, The Knight of Malta. Fletcher himself, before the 
 death of his friend, wrote The Faithful Shepherdess (before 1611), an exquisite but not very 
 pure pastoral, from which Milton is supposed to have borrowed the design of his Com,us. 
 His principal productions after Beaumont's death were The Loyal Subject (about 1618), The 
 Chances (before 1621), The Spanish Curate (1622), The Beggar's Bush (1622), Rule a Wife 
 and Have a Wife (1624), and The Fair Maid of the Inn (1625-6). Shakespeare is said to 
 have assisted Fletcher in the composition of The Two Noble Kinsmen. 
 
 We have no means now of apportioning to each of these authors his share in their joint 
 compositions, and to hazard a guess would be idle and profitless. The general opinion seems 
 to be that Beaumont was the graver of the two wits, the deeper scholar, and more acute 
 critic, while Fletcher had the more brilliant wit and loftier genius. Beaumont, according 
 to quaint Tom Fuller, brought * the ballast of judgment, and Fletcher the sail of phantasy, 
 both compounding a poet to admiration. ' * Beaumont, ' says Langbaine, ' was master of a 
 good wit and a better judgment ; he so admirably well understood the art of the stage that 
 even Jonson himself thought it no disparagement to submit his writings to his correction. 
 Mr. Fletcher's wit was equal to Mr. Beaumont's judgment, and was so luxurious that, like 
 superfluous branches, it was frequently pruned by his judicious partner. ' While this may 
 be true in the main, still, if we may judge from those dramas which are the undoubted com- 
 position of each singly, both could manifest on occasion an equal degree of good taste, sound 
 judgment, and brilliant fancy. Beaumont and Fletcher are generally allowed to have made 
 a nearer approach to Shakespeare than did any other di-amatist either before or after. This 
 may be true in the general. No doubt in the construction of their plays, the smoothness, 
 correctness, and general richness of their language, the reckless abundance of their fancy, 
 and the occasional depth of passion, they do often remind one of the unapproachable master ; 
 as they likewise do by the occasional cropping out of an everlasting thought divinely worded. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 239 
 
 Still, the intelligent reader must feel that their dramas are characterized by weakness, 
 crudeness, want of strength and point, and a certain effeminate softness often not unpleas- 
 ing. Nearly all their productions bear the marks of haste and carelessness ; they seem to 
 have revelled in composition, to have delighted in throwing off drama after drama, giving 
 themselves little trouble about perfection in details. So far as genuine comedy is concerned, 
 as well as perfection of dramatic construction, we are inclined to give the palm to Ben 
 Jonson ; and in respect to the power of depicting deep passion, and giving utterance to 
 genuine pathos, perhaps Marlowe and "Webster were their superiors. One of the greatest 
 blots on the writings of these dramatists is the disgusting abundance of obscene language ; 
 for although, as we have said, they seem to have led more correct lives than most of their 
 contemporaries, nearly every play is disfigured by ad nauseam language, having * all the 
 indecency and familiarity of a brothel. ' In this respect they excel most of their contem- 
 poraries, none of whom are noted for the exceptional purity of their language. 
 
 We conclude by quoting Hazlitt's estimate of these dramatic partners ; it seems to us to 
 be, on the whole, just and discriminating : — 
 
 * We find all the prodigality of youth, the confidence inspired by success, an enthusiasm 
 bordering on extravagance, richness running riot, beauty dissolving in its own sweetness. 
 
 * It cannot be denied that they are lyrical and descriptive poets of the highest order ; 
 every page of their writings is a florilegium : they are dramatic poets of the second class in 
 point of knowledge, variety, vivacity, and effect ; there is hardly a passion, character, or 
 situation, which they have not touched in their devious range, and whatever they touched 
 they adorned with some new grace or striking feature : they are masters of style and versifi- 
 cation in almost every variety of melting modulation or sounding pomp, of which they are 
 capable : in comic wit and spirit they are scarcely surpassed by any writers of any age. 
 There they are in their element, "like eagles newly baited ;" but I speak rather of their 
 serious poetry, and this, I apprehend, with all its richness, sweetness, loftiness, and grace, 
 wants something — stimulates more than it gratifies, and leaves the mind in a certain sense 
 exhausted and unsatisfied. Their fault is a too ostentatious and indiscriminate display of 
 power. Everything seems in a state of fermentation and effervescence, and not to have 
 settled and found its centre in their minds. The ornaments, through neglect or abundance, 
 do not always appear sufficiently appropriate : there is evidently a rich wardrobe of words 
 and images to set off any sentiments that occur, but not equal felicity in the choice of the 
 sentiments to be expressed ; the characters in general do not take a substantial form, or 
 excite a growing interest, or leave a permanent impression ; the passion does not accumu- 
 late by the force of time, of circumstances, and habit, but wastes itself in the first ebulli- 
 tions of surprise and novelty. 
 
 * Besides these more critical objections, there is a too frequent mixture of voluptuous 
 softness or effeminacy of character with horror in the subjects, a conscious weakness (I can 
 hardly think it wantonness) of moral constitution struggling with wilful and violent situa- 
 tions, like the tender wings of the moth, attracted to the flame that dazzles and consumes 
 it. In the hey-day of their youthful ardour, and the intoxication of their animal spirits, 
 they take a perverse delight in tearing up some rooted sentiment, to make a mawkish lamen- 
 tation over it ; and fondly and gratuitously cast the seeds of crimes into forbidden grounds, 
 to see how they will shoot up and vegetate into luxuriance, to catch the eye of fancy. They 
 are not safe teachers of morality : they tamper with it like an experiment tried in corpore 
 vili, and seem to regard the decomposition of the common affections, and the dissolution of 
 the strict bonds of society, as an agreeable study and a careless pastime. The tone of 
 Shakespeare's writings is manly and bracing ; theirs is at once insipid and meretricious in 
 the comparison. 'J 
 
240 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 PHILASTER; OR, LOYE LIES A-BLEEDING. 
 
 AS IT HATH BEE^ DIVERS TIMES ACTED AT THE GLOBE AND BLACK 
 FRIAKS BY HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 WEITTEN BY FRANCIS BEArMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER, GENT. 
 
 The, Second Impression, Corrected and Amended. London. 1622. 
 
 Jramatis ^zx^awst. 
 
 King. 
 
 Philastek, Heir to the Croion of Sicily. 
 Pharamoxd, Prince of Spain. 
 Diox, a Lord. 
 
 Thrasiline I ^^^^^ Gentlemen, his Associates. 
 
 An old Captain. 
 
 Five Citizens. 
 
 A Country Fellow. 
 
 Two Woodmen. 
 
 The King^s Giiard and Train. 
 
 Akethusa, the King's Daughter. 
 
 Galatea, awisemodest Lady, attending the Princess. 
 
 Megra, a Court Jjady. 
 
 Euphrasia, Daughter of Diox, hut disguised as a 
 
 Page, under the name o/'Bellario. 
 Two other Ladies. 
 
 Scene — Messina, and a Neighbouring Forest. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE L 
 
 Messina. The Presence-Chamber in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
 
 Cle. Here's nor lords nor ladies. 
 
 Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at it. 
 They received sti'ict charge from the king to 
 attend here. Besides, it was boldly published, 
 that no officer should foi"bid any gentlemen that 
 desire to attend and hear. 
 
 Cle. Can you guess the cause ? 
 
 Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish prince, 
 that's come to marry our kingdom's heir, and be 
 our sovereign. 
 
 Thra. Many, that will seem to know much, say 
 she looks not on him like a maid in love. 
 
 Dion. Oh, sir, the multitude (that seldom know 
 anything but their own opinions) speak that they 
 would have ; but the prince, before his own ap- 
 proach, received so many confident messages 
 from the state, that I think she's resolved to be 
 ruled. 
 
 Cle. Sir, it is thought, with her he shall enjoy 
 both these kingdoms of Sicily and Calabria. 
 
 Dion. Sir, it is, without controversy, so meant. 
 But 'twill be a troublesome labour for him to 
 enjoy both these kingdoms with safety, the 
 right heir to one of them living, and living so 
 virtuously; especially, the people admiring the 
 bravery of his mind, and lamenting his iniuries. 
 
 Cle. Who? Philaster? 
 
 Dion. Yes ; whose father, we all know, was, by 
 our late king of Calabria, unrighteously deposed 
 from his fruitful Sicily. Myself drew some blood 
 in those wars, which I would give my hand to be 
 wash'd from. 
 
 Cle. Sir, my ignorance in state policy will not 
 let me know why, Philaster being heir to one of 
 these kingdoms, the king should suffer him to 
 walk abroad with such free liberty. 
 
 Dion. Sir, it seems your nature is more con- 
 stant than to inquire after state news. But the 
 king, of late, made a hazard of both the king- 
 doms, of Sicily and his own, with offering but to 
 
 imprison Philaster. At which the city was in 
 arms, not to be charm'd down by any state order 
 or proclamation, till they saw Philaster ride 
 through the streets pleased, and without a guard ; 
 at which they threw their hats and their arms 
 from them ; some to make bonfires, some to drink, 
 all for his deliverance. Which, wise men say, 
 is the cause the king labours to bring in the 
 power of a foreign nation, to awe his own with. 
 
 Enter Galatea, a Lady, and Megra. 
 
 Thra. See, the ladies. What's the first 7 
 
 Dion. A wise and modest gentlewoman that 
 attends the princess. 
 
 Cle. The second? 
 
 Dion. She is one that may stand still discreetly 
 enough, and ill-fa vouredly dance her measure; 
 simper when she is courted by her friend, and 
 slight her husband. 
 
 Cle. The last ? 
 
 Dion. Marry, I think she is one whom the 
 state keeps for the agents of our confederate 
 princes. She'll cog ^ and lie with a whole army, 
 before the league shall break : her name is com- 
 mon through the kingdom, and the trophies of 
 her dishonour advanced beyond Hercules' Pillars. 
 She loves to try the several constitutions of men's 
 bodies ; and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of 
 her own body, by making experiment upon it, 
 for the good of the commonwealth. 
 
 Cle. She's a profitable member — 
 
 Meg. Peace, if you love me ! You shall see 
 these gentlemen stand their ground, and not 
 court us. 
 
 Gal. What if they should ? 
 
 Lady. What if they should ? 
 
 Meg. Nay, let her alone. What if they should ? 
 Why, if they should, I say they were never 
 abroad. What foreigner would do so ? It writes 
 them directly untravelled. 
 
 Gal. Why, what if they be ? 
 
 * cojr— flatter, cheat, cajole. 
 
BE AV MONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 241 
 
 Ladrj. What if they be ? 
 
 Meg. Good madam, let her go on. What if 
 they be ? Why, if they be, I will justify, they 
 cannot maintain discourse with a judicious lady, 
 nor make a leg,i nor say 'Excuse me.' 
 
 Gal. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Meg. Do you laugh, madam ? 
 
 Dion. Your desires upon yovi, ladies. 
 
 Meg. Then you must sit beside us. 
 
 Dion. I shall sit near you then, lady. 
 
 Meg. Near me ; perhaps. But there's a lady en- 
 dures no stranger ; and to me you appear a very 
 strange fellow. 
 
 Lady. Methinks he's not so strange ; he would 
 quickly be acquainted. 
 
 Thra. Peace, the king ! 
 
 Elder King, Pharamond, Arethusa, and Train. 
 
 King. ■ To give a stronger testimony of love 
 Than sickly promises (which commonly 
 In princes find both birth and burial 
 In one breath), we have drawn you, worthy sir, 
 To make your fair endearments to our daughter, 
 And worthy services known to our subjects, 
 Now loved and wonder'd at : next, our intent, 
 To plant you deeply, our immediate heir. 
 Both to our blood and kingdoms. For this lady 
 (The best part of your life, as you confirm me, 
 And I believe), though her few years and sex 
 Yet teach her nothing but her fears and blushes. 
 Desires without desire, discourse and knowledge 
 Only of what herself is to herself. 
 Make her feel moderate health; and when she 
 
 sleeps, 
 In making no ill day, knows no ill dreams. 
 Think not, dear sir, these undivided parts, 
 That must mould up a virgin, are put on 
 To show her so, as borrow'd ornaments, 
 To speak her perfect love to you, or add 
 An artificial shadow to her nature : 
 No, sir ; I boldly dare proclaim her, yet 
 No woman. But woo her still, and think her 
 
 modesty 
 A sweeter mistress than the offer'd language 
 Of any dame, were she a queen, whose eye 
 Speaks common loves and comforts to her ser- 
 
 vants.2 
 Last, noble son (for so I now must call you), 
 What I have done thus public, is not only 
 To add a comfort in particular 
 To you or me, but all ; and to confirm 
 The nobles, and the gentry of these kingdoms, 
 By oath to -your succession, which shall be 
 Within this month at most. 
 
 Thra. This will be hardly done. 
 
 Cle. It must be ill done, if it be done. 
 
 Dion. When 'tis best, 'twill be but half done, 
 whilst 
 So brave a gentleman's wrong'd and flung off. 
 
 Thra. I fear. 
 
 Cle. Who does not 7 
 
 Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I fear too. 
 Well, we shall see, we shall see. No more. 
 
 Pha. Kissing your white hand, mistress, I take 
 leave 
 To thank your royal father ; and thus far, 
 To be my own free trumpet. Understand, 
 Great king, and these your subjects, mine that 
 
 must be 
 (For so deserving you have spoke me, sir, 
 And so deserving I dare speak myself). 
 To what a person, of what eminence, 
 Ripe expectation, of what faculties. 
 
 leg~\)Ovr. 
 
 2 servants — lovers. 
 
 Manners and virtues, you would wed your king- 
 doms : 
 You in me have your wishes. Oh, this country ! 
 By more than all my hopes I hold it happy ; 
 Happy, in their dear memories that have been 
 Kings great and good ; happy in yours that is ; 
 And from you (as a chronicle to keep 
 Yovir noble name from eating age) do I 
 Opine myself most happy. Gentlemen, 
 Believe me, in a word, a prince's word, 
 There shall be nothing to make up a kingdom 
 Mighty, and flourishing, defenced, fear'd. 
 Equal to be commanded and obey'd. 
 But through the travels of my life I'll find it, 
 And tie it to this country. And I vow 
 My reign shall be so easy to the subject. 
 That every man shall be his prince himself, 
 And his own law (yet I his prince and law). 
 And, dearest lady, to your dearest self 
 (Dear, in the choice of hira. whose name and lustre 
 Must make you more and mightier) let me say. 
 You are the blessed'st living ; for, sweet princess 
 You shall enjoy a man of men, to be 
 Your servant; you shall make him yoiirs, for 
 
 whom 
 Great queens must die. 
 
 Thra. Miraculous! 
 
 Cle. This speech calls him Spaniard, being 
 nothing but a large inventory of his own com- 
 mendations. 
 
 Dion. I wonder what's his price ? For cer- 
 tainly 
 He'll sell himself, he has so praised his shape. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 But here comes one more worthy those largo 
 
 speeches, 
 Than the large speaker of them. 
 Let me be swallowed quick,^ if I can find. 
 In all the anatomy of yon man's virtues, 
 One sinew sound enough to promise for him, 
 He shall bo constable. By this sun, he'll ne'er 
 
 make king 
 Unless it be for trifles, in my poor judgment. 
 
 Phi. Right noble sir, as low as my obedience. 
 And with a heart as loyal as my knee, 
 I beg your favour. 
 
 King. Rise ; you have it, sir. 
 
 Dion. Mark but the king, how pale he looks 
 with fear ! 
 Oh ! this same whoreson conscience, how it jades 
 tis!2 
 
 King. Speak your intents, sir. 
 
 Phi. Shall I speak 'em freely ? 
 Be still, my royal sovereign. 
 
 King. As a subject, 
 We give you freedom. 
 
 Dion. Now it heats. 
 
 Phi. Then thus I turn 
 My language to you, prince ; you, foreign man I 
 Ne'er stare, nor put on wonder, for you must 
 Endure me, and you shall. This earth you tread 
 
 upon 
 (A dowry, as you hope, with this fair princess), 
 By my dead father (oh, I had a father, 
 Whose memory I bow to !) was not left 
 To your inheritance, and I up and living ; 
 Having myself about me, and my sword. 
 The souls of all my name, and memories, 
 These arms, and some few friends beside the gods; 
 To part so calmly with it, and sit still. 
 And say, ' I might have been.' I tell thee, Phara- 
 mond, 
 
 1 quick — alive. 
 
 2 This reminds us of Shakespeare's more forcible and 
 concise, ' 'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all.' 
 
242 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 "When thou art king, look I be dead and rotten, 
 And my name ashes : For, hear me, Pharamond ! 
 This very ground thou goest on, this fat earth, 
 My father's friends made fertile with their faiths. 
 Before that day of shame, shall gape and swallow 
 Thee and thy nation, like a hungry grave, 
 Into her hidden bowels. Prince, it shall ; 
 By Nemesis, it shall ! 
 
 Fha. He's mad ; beyond cure, mad. 
 
 Bion. Here is a fellow has some fire in 's veins : 
 The outlandish prince looks like a tooth-drawer. 
 
 Phi. Sir, prince of popinjays,^ Pll make it well 
 Appear to you I'm not mad. 
 
 King. You displease us : 
 You are too bold. 
 
 Phi. No, sir, I am too tame. 
 Too much a turtle, a thing born without passion, 
 A faint shadow, that every drunken cloud 
 Sails over and makes nothing. 
 
 King. I do not fancy this. 
 Call our physicians : sure he's somewhat tainted. 
 
 Thra. I do not think 'twill prove so. 
 
 Dion. He has given him a genei-al purge 
 already. 
 For all the right he has ; and now he means 
 To let him blood. Be constant, gentlemen : 
 By these hilts, I'U run his hazard, 
 Although I run my name out of the kingdom. 
 
 Cle. Peace, we are all one soul. 
 
 Pha. What have you seen in me, to stir offence, 
 I cannot find ; unless it be this lady, 
 Offer'd into mine arms, with the succession ; 
 Which I must keep, though it hath pleas'd your 
 
 fury 
 To mutiny within you ; without disputing 
 Your genealogies, or taking knowledge 
 Whose branch you are. The king will leave it 
 
 me; 
 And I dare make it mine. You have your answer. 
 
 Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him 
 That made the world his,^ and couldst see no sun 
 Shine upon anything but thine ; were Pharamond 
 As truly valiant as I feel him cold. 
 And ring'd among the choicest of his friends 
 (Such as would blush to talk such serious follies, 
 Or back such bellied commendations), 
 And from this presence, 'spite of all these bugs,^ 
 You should hear further from me. 
 
 King. Sir, you wrong the prince : I gave you 
 not this freedom 
 To brave our best friends. You deserve oui- 
 
 frown. 
 Go to ; be better temper'd. 
 
 Phi. It must be, sir, when I am nobler used. 
 
 Gal. Ladies, 
 This would have been a pattern of succession,* 
 Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my life, 
 He is the worthiest the true name of man 
 This day within my knowledge. 
 
 Meg. I cannot tell what you may call your 
 knowledge ; 
 But the other is the man set in my eye. 
 Oh, 'tis a prince of wax ! ^ 
 
 Gal. A dog it is.e 
 
 King. Philaster, tell me 
 The injuries you aim at in your riddles. 
 
 Phi. If you had my eyes, sir, and sujEferance, 
 My griefs upon you, and my broken fortunes, 
 
 1 popinjays — parrots. 
 
 2 him that made, &c. — Alexander. 
 ' 6m(7s— bugbears, terrors, 
 
 < pattern of succession,— i.e. a pattern to succeeding 
 kings.— Theobald. 
 
 5 of wax— well made, as if modelled in -wax. — Dtce. 
 
 *' This expression is obscure ; Jonson, in his Tale of a 
 Tub, speaks of a ' dog of wax,'— Dyce. 
 
 My wants great, and now nought but hopes and 
 
 fears, 
 My wrongs would make ill riddles to be laugh'd 
 
 at. 
 Dare you be still my king, and right me not ? 
 
 King. Give me your wrongs in private. 
 
 Phi. Take them, 
 And ease me of a load would bow strong Atlas. 
 [^They walk apart. 
 
 Cle. He dares not stand the shock. 
 
 Dion. I cannot blame him : there's danger in't. 
 Every man in this age has not a soul of crystal, 
 for all men to read their actions through. Men's 
 hearts and faces are so far asunder, that they hold 
 no intelligence. Do but view yon stranger well, 
 and you shall see a fever through all his bravery, 
 and feel him shake like a true recreant.^ If he 
 give not back his crown again, upon the report 
 of an elder-gun, I have no augury. 
 
 King. Go to ! 
 Be more yourself, as you respect our favour ; 
 You'll stir us else. Sir, I must have you know, 
 That you are, and shall be, at our pleasure. 
 What fashion we will put upon you. Smooth 
 Your brow, or by the gods — 
 
 Phi. I am dead, sir ; you're my fate. It was 
 not I 
 Said, I was wrong'd : I carry all about me 
 My weak stars lead me to, all my weak fortunes. 
 Who dares in all this presence, speak (that is 
 But man of flesh, and may be mortal), tell me, 
 I do not most entirely love this prince, 
 And honour his full virtues ! 
 
 King. Sure, he's possess'd. 
 
 Phi. Yes, with my father's spirit. It's here, 
 king! 
 A dangerous spirit. Now he tells me, king, 
 I was a king's heir, bids me be a king ; 
 And whispers to me, these are all my subjects. 
 'Tis strange he will not let me sleep, but dives 
 Into my fancy, and there gives me shapes 
 That kneel, and do me service, cry me ' king : ' 
 But I'll suppress him ; he's a factious spirit, 
 And will undo me. — Noble sir, your hand : 
 I am your servant. 
 
 King. Away, I do not like this : 
 I'll make you tamer, or I'll dispossess you 
 Both of life and spirit. For this time 
 I pardon your wild speech, without so much 
 As your imprisonment. 
 
 [^Exeunt King, Pharamond, and Arethusa. 
 
 Dion. I thank you, sir ; you dare not for the 
 people. 
 
 Gal. Ladies, what think you now of this brave 
 fellow ? 
 
 3feg. A pretty talking fellow; hot at hand. 
 But eye yon stranger. Is he not a fine complete 
 gentleman? Oh, these strangers, I do affect 
 them strangely. They do the rarest home 
 things, and please the fullest ! As I live, I could 
 love all the nation over and over for his sake. 
 
 Gal. Pi'ide comfort your poor headpiece, lady! 
 'Tis a weak one, and had need of a night-cap. 
 
 Dion. See, how his fancy labours ! Has he not 
 Spoke home, and bravely ? What a dangerous 
 
 train 
 Did he give fire to ! How he shook the king, 
 Made his soul melt within him, and his blood 
 Eun into whey ! It stood upon his brow, 
 Like a cold winter dew. 
 
 Phi. Gentlemen, 
 You have no suit to me ? I am no minion : 2 
 
 1 recreant— tenant is the reading of the old copies ; the 
 Rev. J. Mitford suggests tyrant. 
 
 2 no minion — i.e. no favourite of influence enough to 
 carry suits at court.— Theobald. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 243 
 
 You stand, methinks, like men that would be 
 
 courtiers, 
 If I could well be flatter'd at a price, 
 Not to undo your children. You're all honest : 
 Go, get you home again, and make your countiy 
 A vii-tuous court, to which your great ones may, 
 In their diseased age, retire, and live recluse. 
 
 Cle. How do you, worthy sir ? 
 
 Phi. Well, very well ; 
 And so well, that, if the king please, I find 
 I may live many years. 
 
 Dion. The king must please. 
 Whilst we know what you are, and who you are. 
 Your wrongs and injuries. Shrink not, worthy 
 
 sir, 
 But add your father to you. In whose name 
 We'll waken all the gods, and conjure up 
 The rods of vengeance, the abused people; . 
 Who, like to raging torrents, shall swell high, 
 And so begirt the dens of these nmle-dragons, 
 That, through the strongest safety, tbey shall 
 
 beg 
 For mercy at your sword's point. 
 
 Phi. Friends, no more ; 
 Our ears may be corrupted. 'Tis an age 
 We dare not trust our wills to. Do you love me ? 
 
 Thra. Do we love heaven and honour ? 
 
 Phi. My lord Dion, you had 
 A virtuous gentlewoman call'd you father : 
 Is she yet alive ? 
 
 Bion. Most honour'd sir, she is ; 
 And, for the penance but of an idle dream, 
 Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage. 
 
 Enter a Lady. 
 
 Phi. Is it to me, 
 Or any of these gentlemen, you come ? 
 Lady. To you, brave lord. The princess would 
 entreat 
 Your present company. 
 Phi. The princess send for me ! You are mis- 
 taken. 
 Ladi/. If you be call'd Philaster, 'tis to you. 
 Phi. Kiss her fair hand, and say I will attend 
 her. [Exit Lady. 
 
 Dlqn. Do you know what you do ? 
 Phi. Yes ; go to see a woman. 
 Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are in ? 
 Phi. Danger in a sweet face ! 
 By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman. 
 
 Thra. But are you sure it was the princess 
 sent? 
 It may be some foul train to catch your life. 
 
 Phi. I do not think it, gentlemen ; she's noble ; 
 Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true red 
 And white friends in her face may steal my soul 
 
 out: 
 There's all the danger in't. But, be what may, 
 Her single name hath armed me. 
 
 [Exit Philaster. 
 Dion. Go on : 
 And be as truly happy as thou'rt fearless. — 
 Come, gentlemen, let's make our friends ac- 
 quainted, 
 Lest the king prove false. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE II. 
 An Apartment in the same. 
 Enter Arethusa and a Lady. 
 Are. Comes he not? 
 
 Lady. Madam? 
 
 Are. Will Philaster come ? 
 
 Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit 
 me 
 At first. 
 
 A7'e. But didst thou tell me so ? 
 I am forgetful, and my woman's strength 
 Is so o'ercharged with dangers like to grow 
 About my marriage, that these under things 
 Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. 
 How look'd he, when he told thee he would 
 come? 
 
 Lady. Why, well. 
 
 Are. And not a little fearful? 
 
 Lady. Pear, madam ! sure, he knows not what 
 it is. 
 
 Are. You are all of his faction; the whole 
 court 
 Is bold in praise of him : whilst I 
 May five neglected, and do noble things, 
 As fools in strife throw gold into the sea, 
 Drown'd in the doing. But, I know he fears. 
 
 Lady. Pear? Madam, methought his looks 
 hid more 
 Of love than fear. 
 
 Are. Of love ? to whom ? to you ? — 
 Did you deliver those plain words I sent, 
 With such a winning gesture, and quick^ look, 
 That you have caught him ? 
 
 Lady. Madam, I mean to you. 
 
 Are. Of love to me ? alas ! thy ignorance 
 Lets thee not see the crosses of our births. 
 Nature, that loves not to be questioned 
 Why she did this, or that, but has her ends. 
 And knows she does well, never gave the world 
 Two things so opposite, so contrary, 
 As he and I am. If a bowl of blood, 
 Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison 
 
 thee, 
 A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to 
 me? 
 
 Lady. Madam, I think I hear him. 
 
 Are. Bring him in. — 
 Ye gods, that would not have your dooms with- 
 stood. 
 Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is, 
 To make the passion of a feeble maid 
 The way unto your justice, I obey. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Lady. Here is my lord Philaster. 
 
 Ai'e. Oh ! 'tis well. 
 Withdraw yourself. [Essit Lady. 
 
 Phi. Madam, your messenger 
 Made me believe you wish'd to speak with me. 
 
 Are. 'Tis true, Philaster; but the words are 
 such 
 I have to say, and do so ill beseem 
 The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, 
 And yet am loath to speak them. Have you 
 
 known 
 That I have aught detracted from your worth ? 
 Have I in person wrong'd you ? Or have set 
 My baser instruments to throw disgrace 
 Upon your virtues ? 
 
 Phi. Never, madam, you. 
 
 Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public 
 place, 
 Injure a princess, and a scandal lay 
 Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great ; 
 Calling a great part of my dowry in question ? 
 
 Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak, 
 will be 
 Foolish. But, for your fair and virtuous self, 
 I could afford myself to have no right 
 To anything you wish'd. 
 
 » j^icA;— lively. 
 
244 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Are. Philaster, know, 
 I must enjoy these kingdoms. 
 
 Phi. Madam! Both? 
 
 Are. Both, or I die. By fate, I die, Philaster, 
 If I not calmly may enjoy them both. 
 
 PM. I would do much to save that noble life ; 
 Yet would be loath to have posterity 
 Find in our stories, that Philaster gave 
 His right unto a sceptre and a crown, 
 To save a lady's longing. 
 
 Are. Nay then, hear ! 
 I must and will have them, and more — 
 
 Phi. What more 1 
 
 Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared, 
 To trouble this poor piece of earth withal. 
 
 Phi. Madam, what more 1 
 
 Are. Turn, then, away thy face. 
 
 Phi. No. 
 
 Are. Do. 
 
 Phi. I can endure it. Turn away my face ? 
 I never yet saw enemy that look'd 
 So dreadfully, but that I thought myself 
 As great a basilisk as he ; or spake 
 So horrible, but that I thought my tongue 
 Bore thunder underneath, as much as his ; 
 Nor beast that I could turn from : Shall I then 
 Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice, 
 Whom I do love : Say, you would have my life ; 
 Why, I will give it you ; for 'tis of me 
 A thing so loath'd, and unto you that ask 
 Of so poor use, that I shall make no price : 
 If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. 
 
 Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks. 
 
 Phi. I do. 
 
 Are. Then know, I must have them, and thee. 
 
 Phi. And me ? 
 
 Are. Thy love ; without which all the land 
 Discover'd yet, will serve me for no use. 
 But to be buried in. 
 
 Phi. Is't possible ? 
 
 Are. With it, it were too little to bestow 
 On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me 
 
 dead 
 (Which, know, it may), I have unript my breast. 
 
 Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts, 
 To lay a train for this contemned life. 
 Which you may have for asking. To suspect 
 Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you, 
 By all my hopes, I do, above my life : 
 But how this passion should proceed from you 
 So violently, would amaze a man 
 That would be jealous. 
 
 Are. Another soul, into my body shot, 
 Could not have filled me with more strength and 
 
 spirit. 
 Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time, 
 In seeking how I came thus : 'Tis the gods. 
 The gods, that make me so; and, sure, our love 
 Will be the nobler, and the better blest, 
 In that the secret justice of the gods 
 Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss ; 
 Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt 
 
 us, 
 And we should part without it. 
 
 Phi. 'Twill be ill 
 I should abide here long. 
 
 Are. 'Tis true ; and worse 
 You should come often. How shall we devise 
 To hold intelligence, that our true loves, 
 On any new occasion, may agree 
 What path is best to tread ? 
 
 Phi. I have a boy. 
 Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, 
 Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, 
 I found him sitting by a fountain's side. 
 Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, 
 And paid the nymph again as much in tears. 
 
 A garland lay him by, made by himself. 
 Of many several flowers, bred in the vale, 
 Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness 
 Delighted me. But ever when he turn'd 
 His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep, 
 As if he meant to make 'em grow again. 
 Seeing such pretty helpless innocence 
 Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story. 
 He told me that his parents gentle died. 
 Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, 
 Which gave him roots*; and of the crystal 
 
 springs, 
 Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun. 
 Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his 
 
 light. 
 Then took he up his garland, and did show 
 What every flower, as country people hold. 
 Did signify ; and how all, order'd thus, 
 Express'd his grief: And, to my thoughts, did 
 
 read 
 The prettiest lecture of his country art 
 That could be wish'd : so that, methought, I 
 
 could 
 Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him, 
 Who was glad to follow ; and have got 
 The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy 
 That ever master kept. Him will I send 
 To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. 
 
 Enter Lady. 
 
 Are. 'Tis well ; no more. 
 
 Lady. Madam, the prince is come to do his 
 service. 
 
 Are. What will you do, Philaster, with your- 
 self? 
 
 Phi. Why, that which all the gods have pointed 
 out for me. 
 
 Are. Dear, hide thyself. — 
 Bring in the prince. 
 
 Phi. Hide me from Pharamond ! 
 When thunder speaks, which is the voice of Jove, 
 Though I do reverence, yet I hide me not ; 
 And shall a stranger prince have leave to brag 
 Unto a foreign nation, that he made 
 Philaster hide himself ? 
 
 Are. He cannot know it. 
 
 Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to the 
 world. 
 It is a simple sin to hide myself, 
 Which will for ever on my conscience lie. 
 
 Are. Then, good Philaster, give him scope 
 and way 
 In what he says ; for he is apt to speak 
 What you are loath to hear. For my sake, do. 
 
 Phi. I will. 
 
 Erder Pharamoxd. 
 
 Pha. My princely mistress, as true lovers 
 ought, 
 I come to kiss these fair hands, and to show, 
 In outward ceremonies, the dear love 
 Writ in my heart. 
 
 Phi. If I shall have an answer no directlier, 
 I am gone. 
 
 Pha. To what would he have answer ? 
 
 Are. To his claim unto the kingdom. 
 
 Pha. Sirrah, I forbare you before the king. 
 
 Phi. Good sir, do so still: I would not talk 
 with you. 
 
 Pha. But now the time is fitter. Do but offer 
 To make mention of right to any kingdom, 
 Though it be scarce habitable — 
 
 Phi. Good sir, let me go. 
 
 Pha. And by my sword — 
 
 Phi. Peace, Pharamond ! If thou— 
 
 Are. Leave us, Philaster. 
 
 Phi. I have done. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 245 
 
 Fha. You are gone ? By heaven, I'll fetch you 
 back. 
 
 Phi. You shall not need. 
 
 Pha. What now ">. 
 
 Phi. Know, Pharamond, 
 I loath to brawl with such a blast as thou, 
 Who ai't nought but a valiant voice : But if 
 Thou shalt provoke me further, men shall say 
 ' Thou wert,' and not lament it. 
 
 Pha. Do you slight 
 My greatness so, and in the chamber of 
 The princess ? 
 
 Phi. It is a place to which, I must confess, 
 I owe a reverence : But were't the church, 
 Ay, at the altar, there's no place so safe. 
 Where thou dar'st injure me, but I dare kill thee. 
 And for your greatness, know, sir, I can grasp 
 You and your greatness thus, thus into nothing. 
 Give not a word, not a word back ! Farewell. 
 \_Exit Philastek. 
 
 Pha. 'Tis an odd fellow, madam. We must 
 stop his mouth with some office when we are 
 married. 
 
 Are. You were best make him your controller. 
 
 Pha. I think he would discharge it well. But, 
 madam, 
 I hope our hearts are knit ; and yet, so slow 
 The ceremonies of state are, that 'twill be long 
 Before our hands be so. If then you please, 
 Being agreed in heart, let us not wait 
 For dreaming form, but take a little stolen 
 Delights, and so prevent^ our joys to come. 
 
 Are. If you dare speak such thoughts, 
 I must withdraw in honour. [Exit. 
 
 Pha. The constitution of my body will never 
 hold out till the wedding. I must seek else- 
 where. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Philaster and Bellario. 
 
 Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy; 
 Full of regard unto thy tender youth. 
 For thine own modesty ; and for my sake, 
 Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, 
 Ay, or deserve. 
 
 Bel. Sir, you did take me up 
 When I was nothing; and only yet am some- 
 thing, 
 By being yours. You trusted me unknown ; 
 And that which you were apt to conster^ 
 A simple innocence in me, perhaps 
 Might have been craft — the cunning of a boy 
 Hardened in lies and theft : yet ventured you 
 To part my miseries and me ; for which 
 I never can expect to serve a lady 
 That bears more honour in her breast than you. 
 Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee. Thou art 
 young. 
 And bear'st a childish overflowing love 
 To them that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee 
 
 fair yet. 
 But when thy judgment comes to rule those pas- 
 sions. 
 Thou wilt remember best those careful friends 
 That placed thee in the noblest way of life. 
 She is a princess I prefer thee to. 
 Bel. In that small time that I have seen the 
 world, 
 I never knew a man hasty to part 
 With a servant he thought trusty : I remember, 
 
 1 ^reren^— anticipate. 
 
 2 cornier — construe. 
 
 My father would prefer the boys he kept 
 To greater men than he; but did it not 
 Till they were grown too saucy for himself. 
 
 Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all 
 In thy behaviour. 
 
 Bel. Sir, if I have made 
 A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth : 
 I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn ; 
 Age and experience will adorn my mind 
 With lai'ger knowledge : And if I have done 
 A wilful fault, think me not past all hope. 
 For once. What master holds so strict a hand 
 Over his boy, that he will part with him 
 Without one warning ? Let me be corrected, 
 To break my stubbornness, if it be so. 
 Bather than turn me off, and I shall mend. 
 
 Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay. 
 That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee. 
 Alas ! I do not turn thee off ; thou know'st 
 It is my business that doth call thee hence ; 
 And, when thou art with her, thou dwell'st with 
 
 me. 
 Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full. 
 That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust, 
 Laid on so weak a one, I will again 
 With joy receive thee : as I live, I will. 
 Nay, weep not, gentle boy ! 'Tis more than time 
 Thou did'st attend the princess. 
 
 Bel. I am gone. 
 But since I am to part with you, my lord. 
 And none knows whether I shall live to do 
 More service for you, take this little prayer : 
 Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your 
 
 May sick men, if they have yom- wish, be well ; 
 And heaven hate those you curse, though I be 
 
 one ! [Exit. 
 
 Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is 
 
 strange ; 
 I have read wonders of it : Yet this boy, 
 For my sake (if a man may judge by looks 
 And speech) would outdo story. I may see 
 A day to pay him for his loyalty. 
 
 [Exit Philastek. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IL 
 
 A Gallery in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Pharamond. 
 
 Pha. Why should these ladies stay so long? 
 They must come this way : I know the queen 
 employs 'em not ; for the reverend mother ^ sent 
 me word, they would all be for the garden. If 
 they should prove honest now, I were in a fair 
 taking. I was never so long without sport in 
 my life, and, in my conscience, 'tis not my fault. 
 Oh, for our country ladies ! — Here's one bolted ; 
 I'll hound at her. 
 
 Enter Galatea. 
 
 Madam ! 
 
 Gal. Your grace ! 
 
 Pha. Shall I not be a trouble ? 
 
 Gal. Not to me, sir. 
 
 Pha. Nay, nay; you are too quick. By thia 
 sweet hand — 
 
 Gal. You'll be forsworn, sir; 'tis but an old 
 glove. If you will talk at distance, I am for 
 you ; but, good prince, be not bawdy, nor do not 
 brag ; these two I bar : and then, I think, I shall 
 have sense enough to answer all the weighty 
 apophthegms your royal blood shall manage. 
 
 Pha. Dear lady, can you love ? 
 
 1 reverend mother — ».c. mother of the maids.— Dycb. 
 
246 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Gal. Dear prince! how dear? I ne'er cost 
 you a coach yet, nor put you to the dear repent- 
 ance of a banquet. Here's no scarlet, sir, to 
 blush the sin out it was given for. This wire 
 mine own hair covers ; and this face has been so 
 far from being dear to any, that it ne'er cost 
 penny painting : and for the rest of my poor 
 wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand 
 behind it to make the jealous mercer's wife curse 
 our good doings. 
 
 Pha. You mistake me, lady. 
 
 Gal. Lord, I do so. 'Would you or I could 
 help it! 
 
 Pha. You're very dangerous bitter, like a po- 
 tion. 
 
 Gal. No, sir, I do not mean to purge you, 
 though I mean to purge a little time on you. 
 
 Pha. Do ladies of this country use to give no 
 more respect to men of my full being ? 
 
 Gal. Full being ? I understand you not, imless 
 your grace means growing to fatness ; and then 
 your only remedy (upon my knowledge, prince) 
 is, in a morning, a cup of neat white wine, brewed 
 with carduus ; ^ then fast till supper : about eight 
 you may eat ; use exercise, and keep a sparrow- 
 hawk; you can shoot in a tiller t^ but, of all, 
 your grace must fly phlebotomy, fresh pork, 
 conger, and clarified whey : they are all dullers 
 of the vital spirits. 
 
 Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while. 
 
 Gal. 'Tis very true, sir, I talk of you. 
 
 Pha. This is a crafty wench; I like her wit 
 well ; 'twill be rare to stir up a leaden appetite. 
 She's a Danae, and must be courted in a shower 
 of gold. — Madam, look here : All these, and more 
 than — 
 
 Gal. What have you there, my lord ? Gold ! 
 Now, as I live, 'tis fair gold ! You would have 
 silver for it, to play with the pages. You could 
 not have taken me in a worse time ; but, if you 
 have present use, my lord, I'll send my man with 
 silver, and keep your gold for you. 
 
 Pha. Lady, lady ! 
 
 Gal. She's coming, sir, behind, will take white 
 
 money. Yet for all this I'll match you. [Apart. 
 
 [Exit behind the hangings. 
 
 Pha. If there be but two such more in this 
 kingdom, and near the court, we may even hang 
 up our harps. Ten such camphire constitutions ^ 
 as this would call the golden age again in ques- 
 tion, and teach the old way for every ill-faced 
 husband to get his own children ; and what a 
 mischief that would breed, let all consider ! 
 
 Enta- Megra. 
 
 Here's another: if she be of the same last, the 
 devil shall pluck her on. — Many fair mornings, 
 lady. 
 
 Meg. As many mornings bring as many days. 
 Fair, sweet, and hopeful to your grace. 
 
 Pha. She gives good words yet; sure, this 
 wench is free. — 
 If your more serious business do not call you, 
 Let me hold quarter with you ; we'll talk an hour 
 Out quickly. 
 
 Meg. What would your grace talk of ? 
 
 Pha. Of some such pretty subject as yourself. 
 I'll go no further than your eye, or lip ; 
 There's theme enough for one man for an age. 
 
 I carduus — Latin for thistle. 
 
 * tiller — of doubtful meaning. Probably a steel bow 
 or cross bow ; also explained as a stand, a small tree 
 left in a wood for growth, till it is fellable. 
 
 ' camphire constitutions. — Camphire was anciently 
 classed among those articles of the Materia Medica, 
 which were cold in an eminent degree. — Webkk. 
 
 Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are 
 yet even. 
 Smooth, young enough, ripe enough, and red 
 
 enough, 
 Or my glass wrongs me. 
 Pha. Oh ! they are two twinn'd cherries dyed 
 in blushes, 
 Which those fair suns above, with their bright 
 
 Eeflect upon and ripen. Sweetest beauty, 
 Bow down those branches, that the longing taste 
 Of the faint looker-on may meet those blessings, 
 And taste and live. 
 
 Meg. Oh ! delicate, sweet prince, 
 She that hath snow enough about her heart. 
 To take the wanton spring of ten such hues off. 
 May be a nun without probation. — Sir, 
 You have, in such neat poetry, gather'd a kiss. 
 That if I had but five lines of that humber, 
 Such pretty begging blanks,' I should commend 
 Your forehead, or your cheeks, and kiss 3'ou too. 
 
 Pha. Do it in prose ; you cannot miss it, madam. 
 
 Meg. 1 shall, I shall. 
 
 Pha. By my life, you shall not. [^Kisses her. 
 I'll prompt you first : can you do it now .' 
 
 Jleg. Methinks 'tis easy, now you ha' done't 
 before ; 
 But yet I should stick at it. 
 
 Pha. Stick till to-morrow ; 
 I'll never part you, sweetest. But we lose time. 
 Can you love me ? 
 
 3Ieg. Love you, my lord ? How would you 
 have me love you ? 
 
 Pha. I'll teach you in a short sentence, 'cause I 
 will not load your memory. This is all— love me. 
 
 Meg. 'Tis impossible. 
 
 Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will endea- 
 vour. If I do not teach you to do it easily, I'll 
 lose my royal blood for't. 
 
 Jfeg. ^V^hy, prince, you have a lady of youi 
 own, that yet wants teaching. * 
 
 Pha. I'll sooner teach a mare the old measures, 
 than teach her anj'thing belonging to the func- 
 tion. She's afi-aid to lie with herself, if she have 
 but any masculine imaginations about her. 
 
 2Ieg. By my honour,, that's a foul fault, in- 
 deed; but time, and your good help, will wear 
 it out, sii'. 
 
 Pha.' And for any other I see, excepting your 
 dear self, dearest lady, I had rather be Sir Tim 
 the schoolmaster, and love a dairymaid. 
 
 Meg. Has your grace seen the court -star, 
 Galatea ? 
 
 Pha. Out upon her ! She's as cold of her fa- 
 vour as an apoplex. She sail'd by but now. 
 
 3feg. And how do you hold her wit, sir ? 
 
 Pha. I hold her wit ? The strength of all the 
 guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it ; she 
 would blow 'em out of the kingdom. They talk 
 of Jupiter; he's but a squib-cracker to her. 
 Look well about you, and you may find a tongue- 
 bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be freely 
 welcome ? 
 
 Meg. I dare not, prince, I dare not. 
 
 Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse 
 shall seal 'em ; and what you dare imagine you 
 can want, I'll fm'nish you withal. Give two 
 hours to your thoughts every morning about it. 
 Come, I know you are bashful ; speak in my ear, 
 will you be mine ? Keep this, and with it me. 
 Soon I will visit you. \_Gives her a ring. 
 
 Meg. My lord, my chamber's most unsafe ; but 
 I'U find some means to slip into your lodging ; 
 till when — 
 
 1 blanks— \i\&n^ verses. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 247 
 
 Plia. Till when, this, and my heart, go with 
 thee ! {Exeunt several ways. 
 
 Enter GALATEA/rom behind the Hangings. 
 
 Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince ! are 
 these your virtues ? Well, if I do not lay a train 
 to blow your sport up, I am no woman. And, 
 Lady Towsabel,^ I'll fit you for't. {Exit. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE III. 
 
 Arethusa's Apartment in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Arethusa and a Lady. 
 
 Are. Where's the hoy ? 
 Lady. Within, madam. 
 
 Ai-e. Gave you him gold to buy him clothes ? 
 Lady. I did. 
 
 Are. And has he done't ? 
 Lady. Yes, madam. 
 
 Are. 'Tis a pretty sad>talking boy, is it not ? 
 Ask'd you his name ? 
 Lady. No, madam. 
 
 Enter Galatea. 
 
 Ai-e. Oh, you are welcome. What good news ? 
 
 Gal. As good as any one can tell your grace. 
 That says, she has done that you would have 
 wish'd. 
 
 Are. Hast thou discover'd ? 
 
 Gal. I have strain'd a point of modesty for 
 you. 
 
 Are. I pr'ythee, how ? 
 
 Gal. In list'ning after bawdry. I see, let a 
 lady live never so modestly, she shall be sure 
 to find a lawful time to hearken after bawdry. 
 Your prince, brave Pharamond, was so hot on't ! 
 
 Are. With whom .' 
 
 Gal. Why, with the lady I suspected : I can 
 tell the time and place. 
 
 Are. Oh ! when, and where ? 
 
 Gal. To-night, his lodging. 
 
 A7'e. Eun thyself into the presence ; mingle 
 there again 
 With other ladies ; leave the rest to me. 
 If Destiny (to whom we dare not say, 
 ' Why thou did'st this ? ') have not decreed it so, 
 In lasting leaves (whose smallest characters 
 Were never altered)', yet this match shall break. — 
 Where's the boy ? 
 
 Lady. Here, madam. 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service ; 
 
 is't not so ? 
 Bel. Madam, I have not changed ; I wait on 
 you. 
 To do him service. 
 
 Are. Thou disclaim'st in me.* 
 Tell me thy name. 
 Bel. Bellario. 
 
 Are. Thou canst sing, and play ? 
 Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. 
 Are. Alas ! what kind of grief can thy years 
 know? 
 Hadst thou a curst s master when thou went'st 
 
 to school ? 
 Thou art not capable of other grief ; 
 Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be, 
 When no breath troubles them. Believe me, boy. 
 
 ^ Towsabel — a jocular alteration of Dowsahel. 
 note 1, p. 161, col. 1. 
 2 disclaim'st in me — disclaimest me. — Drca. 
 ' cur$t — cross. 
 
 See 
 
 Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes, 
 And builds himself caves, to abide in them. 
 Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ? 
 
 Bel. Love, madam ? I know not what it is. 
 
 Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet 
 knew'st love ? 
 Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me, 
 As if he wish'd me well ? 
 
 Bel. If it be love. 
 To forget all respect of his own friends, 
 In thinking of your face ; if it be love. 
 To sit cross-arm'd, and sigh away the day, 
 Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud 
 And hastily as men i' the streets do fire ; 
 If it be love to weep himself away. 
 When he but hears of any lady dead, 
 Or kill'd, because it might have been your 
 
 chance ; 
 If, when he goes to rest (which will not be), 
 'Twist every prayer he says, to name you once, 
 As others drop a bead, — be to be in love. 
 Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. 
 
 Are. Oh, you're a cunning boy, and taught 
 to lie 
 For your lord's credit ; but thou know'st a lie, 
 That bears this sound, is welcomer to me 
 Than any truth that says he lov^es me not. 
 Lead the way, boy. — Do you attend me too. — 
 'Tis thy lord's business hastes me thus. Away ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Before Prince PhxVramond's Lodgings in the 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Dion, Cleremoxt, Thrasiline, Megra, 
 and Galatea. 
 
 Dion. Come, ladies, shall we talk a round.' 
 As men 
 Do walk a mile, women should talk an hour 
 After supper ; 'tis their exercise. 
 
 Gal. 'Tis late. 
 
 Meg. 'Tis all 
 My eyes will do to lead me to my bed. 
 
 Gcd. I fear, they are so heavy, you'll scarce 
 find 
 The way to your lodging with 'em to-night. 
 
 Enter Pharamond. 
 
 Thra. The prince ! 
 
 Pha. Not a-bed, ladies ? You're good sitters up. 
 What think you of a pleasant dream, to last 
 Till morning ? 
 
 Meg. I should choose, my lord, a pleasing 
 wake before it. 
 
 Enter Arethusa and Bellario. 
 Are. 'Tis well, my lord ; you're courting of 
 these ladies. — 
 Is't not late, gentlemen ? 
 Cle. Yes, madam. 
 
 Are. Wait you there. {Eatit. 
 
 Meg. She's jealous, as I live.— Look you, my 
 lord. 
 The princess has a Hylas, an Adonis. 
 Pha. His form is angel-like. 
 Meg. Why, this is he that must, when you are 
 wed. 
 Sit by your pillow, like young Apollo, with 
 His hand and voice, binding your thoughts in 
 
 The princess does provide him for you, and for 
 herself. 
 Pha. I find no music in these boys. 
 Meg. Nor I : 
 
248 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 They can do little, and tliat small they do, 
 They have not wit to hide. 
 Dion. Serves he the princess ? 
 Thra. Yes. 
 Dion. 'Tis a sweet boy ; how brave * she keeps 
 
 him! 
 Pha. Ladies all, good rest ; I mean to kill a 
 buck 
 To-morrow morning, ere you have done your 
 dreams. \Exit. 
 
 Meg. All happiness attend your grace! Gentle- 
 men, good rest. — 
 Come, shall we to bed ? 
 Gal. Yes ; all good night. 
 
 \Exeunt Galatea and Megra. 
 Dion. May your dreams be true to you! — 
 What shall we do, gallants ? 'tis late. The king 
 Is up still ; see, he comes ; a guard along 
 With him. 
 
 Enter KixG, Arethusa, and Guard. 
 
 King. Look your intelligence be true. 
 
 Are. Upon my life it is ; and I do hope 
 Your highness will not tie me to a man 
 That, in the heat of wooing, throws me off, 
 And takes another. 
 
 Dion. What should this mean ? 
 
 King. If it be true, 
 That lady had been better have embraced 
 Cureless diseases. Get you to your rest. 
 
 {Exeunt Arethusa and Bellario. 
 You shall be righted. — Gentlemen, draw near ; 
 We shall employ you. Is young Pharamond 
 Come to his lodging ? 
 
 Dion. I saw him enter there. 
 
 King. Haste, some of you, and cunningly 
 discover 
 If Megra be in her lodging. \Exit DiOK. 
 
 Cle. Sir, 
 She parted hence but now, with other ladies. 
 
 King. If she be there, we shall not need to 
 make 
 A vain discovery of our suspicion. — 
 Ye gods, I see, that who unrighteously \Aside. 
 Holds wealth, or state, from others, shall be curst 
 In that which meaner men are blest withal. 
 Ages to come shall know no male of him 
 Left to inherit ; and his name shall be 
 Blotted from earth. If he have any child. 
 It shall be crossly match'd ; the gods themselves 
 Shall sow wild strife betwixt her lord and her. 
 Yet, if it be your wills, forgive the sin 
 I have committed ; let it not fall 
 Upon this understanding child of mine ; 
 She has not broke your laws. But how can I 
 Look to be heard of gods, that must be just. 
 Praying upon the ground I hold by wrong "i 
 
 Enter Dion. 
 
 Dioru Sir, I have asked, and her women swear 
 she is within ; but they, I think, are bawds. I 
 told 'em, I must speak with her ; they laugh'd, 
 and said, their lady lay speechless. I said, my 
 business was important; they said, their lady 
 was about it. I grew hot, and cried, my business 
 was a matter that concerned life and death ; they 
 answer'd, so was sleeping, at which their lady 
 was. I urged again, she had scarce time to be 
 so since last I saw her ; they smiled again, and 
 seem'd to instruct me, that sleeping was nothing 
 but lying down and winking. Answers more 
 direct I could not get. In short, sir, I think she 
 is not there. 
 
 King. 'Tis then no time to dally. — You o' the 
 guard, 
 
 1 6rai!e— well-dressed ; Scotch, hraw. 
 
 Wait at the back-door of the prince's lodging. 
 And see that none pass thence, upon your lives. — 
 Knock, gentlemen ! Knock loud ! Louder yet ! 
 What, has their pleasure taken off their hearing ? 
 I'll break your meditations. Knock again I 
 Not yet .5* I do not think he sleeps, having this 
 Larumbyhim. Once more. — Pharamond! prince! 
 
 Pharamond ap-pears at a window. 
 
 Pha. What saucy groom knocks at this dead of 
 night ? 
 Where be our waiters ? By my vexed soul. 
 He meets his death, that meets me, for this 
 boldness. 
 King. Prince, prince, you wrong your thoughts ; 
 we are your friends. 
 Come down. 
 Pha. The king? 
 
 King. The same, sir ; come down. 
 We have cause of present counsel with you. 
 Pha. If your grace please to use me, I'll attend 
 you 
 To your chamber. 
 King. No, 'tis too late, prince; I'll make bold 
 
 with yours. 
 Pha. I have some private reasons to myself. 
 Make me unmannerly, and say, ' You cannot.' — 
 Nay, press not forward, gentlemen ; he must 
 Come through my life, that comes here. 
 
 Enter PhxVramond below. 
 
 King. Sir, be resolved,^ I must and will come. 
 
 \^Enter. 
 
 Pha. I'll not be dishonour'd. 
 He that enters, enters upon his death. 
 Sir, 'tis a sign you make no stranger of me, 
 To bring these renegadoes to my chamber, 
 At these unseason'd liours. 
 
 King. Why do you 
 Chafe yourself so ? You are not wrong'd, nor 
 
 shall be ; 
 Only I'll search your lodging, for some cause 
 To ourself known. — Enter, 1 say. 
 
 Pha. I say, no. [Megra appears above. 
 
 Meg. Let 'em enter, prince ; let 'em enter ; 
 I am up, and ready -^ I know their business : 
 'Tis the poor breaking of a lady's honour, 
 They hunt so hotly after ; let 'em enjoy it. — 
 You have your business, gentlemen ; I lay here. — 
 Oh, my lord the king, this is not noble in you 
 To make public the weakness of a woman. 
 
 King. Come down. 
 
 Meg. I dare, my lord. Your hootings and your 
 clamours, 
 Your private whispers, and your broad fleerings. 
 Can no more vex my soul, than this base carriage. 
 But I have vengeance j'et in store for some. 
 Shall, in the most contempt you can have of me, 
 Be joy and nourishment. 
 
 King. Will you come down 7 
 
 Meg. Yes, to laugh at your worst. But I shall 
 wring you. 
 If my skill fail me not. 
 
 King. Sir, I must dearly chide you for this 
 looseness. 
 You have wrong'd a worthy lady ; but, no more. — 
 Conduct him to my lodging, and to bed. 
 
 Cle. G et him another wench, and you bring him 
 to bed indeed. 
 
 Dion. 'Tis strange a man cannot ride a stage 
 or two, to breathe himself, without a warrant. 
 If this gear hold, that lodgings be search'd thus, 
 pray heaven we may lie with ovu' own wives in 
 safety, that they be not by souie trick of state 
 mistaken. 
 
 1 resoZted— assui-ed. 
 
 * ready — dressed. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 249 
 
 Enter Megra. 
 
 King. Now, lady of honour, where's your 
 honour now ? 
 No man can fit your palate, but the prince. 
 Thou most ill-shrouded rottenness ; thou piece 
 Made by a painter and a 'pothecary ; 
 Thou troubled sea of lust ; thou wilderness, 
 Inhabited by wild thoughts ; thou swoU'n cloud 
 Of infection ; thou ripe mine of all diseases ; 
 Thou all sin, all hell, and last, all devils, tell me 
 Had you none to pull on with your courtesies. 
 But he thatmust be mine, and wrong my daughter? 
 By all the gods ! all these, and all the pages, 
 And all the court, shall hoot thee through the 
 
 court ; 
 Fling rotten oranges, make ribald rhymes, 
 And sear thy name with candles upon walls. 
 Do you laugh, lady Venus "i 
 
 Meg. 'Faith, sir, you must pardon me ; 
 I cannot choose but laugh to see you merry. 
 If you do this, king ! nay, if you dare do it. 
 By all those gods you swore by, and as many 
 More of mine own, I will have fellows, and such 
 Fellows in it, as shall make noble mirth. 
 The princess, yom- dear daughter, shaL'. stand by 
 
 me 
 On walls, and sung in ballads, anything. 
 Urge me no more ; I know her and her haunts, 
 Her lays, leaps, and outlays, and will discover 
 
 all; 
 Nay, will dishonour her. I know the boy 
 She keeps ; a handsome boy, about eighteen ; 
 Know what she does with him, where, and when. 
 Come, sir, you put me to a woman's madness, 
 The glory of a fury ; and if I do not 
 Do't to the height — 
 
 King. What boy is this she raves at ? 
 
 Meg. Alas ! good-minded prince, you know not 
 these things ; 
 I am loath to reveal 'em. Keep this fault, 
 As you would keep your health, from the hot air 
 Of the corrupted people, or, by heaven, 
 I will not fall alone. What I have known, 
 Shall be as public as a print ; all tongues 
 Shall speak it, as they do the language they 
 Are born in, as free and commonly ; I'll set it. 
 Like a prodigious star, for all to gaze at ; 
 And so high and glowing, that other kingdoms, 
 
 far and foreign. 
 Shall read it there, nay, travel with't till they find 
 No tongue to make it more, nor no more people ; 
 And then behold the fall of your fair princess. 
 
 King. Has she a boy "i 
 
 Cle. So please your grace, I have seen a boy 
 wait 
 On her ; a fair boy. 
 
 King. Go, get you to your quarter : 
 For this time I will study to forget you. 
 
 Meg. Do you study to forget me, and I'll study 
 to forget you. 
 
 [Exetmt King, Megra, and Guard. 
 
 Cler. Why, here's a male spirit fit for Hercules. 
 If ever there be nine worthies of women, this 
 wench shall ride astride and be their captain. 
 
 Dion. Sui-e she has a garrison of devils in her 
 tongue, she uttered such balls of wild-fire. She 
 has so nettled the king, that all the doctors in the 
 country will scarce cure him. That boy was a 
 strange-found-out antidote to cure her infection. 
 That boy, that princess's boy, that brave, chaste, 
 vii-tuous lady's boy ; and a fair boy, a well-spokec 
 boy ! All these considered, can make nothing else 
 — But there I leave you, gentlemen. 
 
 Tkra. Nay, we'll go wander with you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Court of the Palace. 
 
 Enter Cleremont, Dion, and Thrasilixe. 
 
 Cle. Nay, doubtless, 'tis true. 
 
 Dion. Ay ; and 'tis the gods 
 That raised this punishment, to scourge the king 
 With his own issue. Is it not a shame 
 For us, that should write noble in the land. 
 For us, that should be freemen, to behold 
 A man, that is the bravery of his age, 
 Philaster, press'd down from his royal right, 
 By this regardless king ? and only'^look 
 And see the sceptre ready to be cast 
 Into the hands of that lascivious lady, 
 That lives in lust with a smooth boy, now to be 
 
 married 
 To yon strange prince, who, but that people please 
 To let him be a prince, is born a slave 
 In that which should be his most noble part, 
 His mind ! 
 
 Thra. That man, that would not stir with you 
 To aid Philaster, let the gods forget 
 That such a creature walks upon the earth. 
 
 Cle. Philaster is too backward in't himself. 
 The gentry do await it, and the people. 
 Against their nature,' are all bent for him, 
 And like a field of standing corn, that's moved 
 With a stiff gale, their heads bow all one way. 
 
 Dion. The only cause that drav/s Philaster 
 back 
 From this attempt, is the fair princess's love. 
 Which he admires, and we can now confute. 
 
 Thra. Perhaps, he'll not believe it. 
 
 Dion. Why, gentlemen, 
 'Tis without question so. 
 
 Cle. Ay, 'tis past speech. 
 She lives dishonestly. But how shall we. 
 If he be curious,2 work upon his faith ? 
 
 Thra. We all are satisfied within ourselves. 
 
 Dion. Since it is true, and tends to his own 
 good. 
 I'll make this new report to be my knowledge : 
 I'll say I know it ; nay, I'll swear I saw it. 
 
 Cle. It will be best. 
 
 Thra. 'Twill move him. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Dion. Here he comes. — 
 Good morrow to your honour ! We have spent 
 Some time in seeking you. 
 
 Phi. My worthy friends. 
 You that can keep your memories to know 
 Your friend in misei-ies, and cannot frown 
 On men disgraced for virtue, a good day 
 Attend you all ! What service may I do, 
 Worthy your acceptation ? 
 
 Dion. My good lord, 
 We come to urge that vii'tue, which we know 
 Lives in your breast, forth ! Rise, and make a 
 
 head. 
 The nobles and the people are all dull'd 
 With this usurping king ; and not a man, 
 That ever heard the word, or knew such a thing 
 As virtue, but will second your attempts. 
 
 Phi. How honourable is this love in you 
 To me, that have deserved none? Know, my 
 
 friends 
 (You, that were born to shame your poor Philaster 
 With too much courtesy), I could afford 
 To melt myself in thanks. But my designs 
 
 1 against their nature — i.e. contrary to the nature of 
 the discordant multitude. — Mason. 
 
 2 cMnow^— scrupulous. — Webeb. 
 
250 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Are not yet ripe ; suffice it, that ere long 
 I shall employ your loves ; but yet the time 
 Is short of what I would. 
 
 Dion. The time is fuller, sir, than you expect : 
 That which hereafter will not, perhaps, be reach'd 
 By violence, may now be caught. As for the 
 
 king, 
 Tou know the people have long hated him ; 
 But now the princess, whom they loved — 
 
 PU. Why, what of her .? 
 
 Lion. Is loath'd as much as he. 
 
 Phi. By what strange means ? 
 
 Dion. She's known a whore. 
 
 Phi. Thouliest. 
 
 Dion. My lord — 
 
 Phi. Thou liest, \Pffers to draw, and is held. 
 And thou shalt feel it. I had thought thy mind 
 Had been of honour. Thus to rob'a lady 
 Of her good name, is an infectious sin, 
 Not to be pardon'd. Be it false as hell, 
 'Twill never be redeem'd, if it be sown 
 Amongst the people, fruitful to increase 
 All evil they shall hear. Let me alone 
 That I may cut off falsehood, whilst it springs ! 
 Set hills on hills betwixt me and the man 
 That utters this, and I will scale them all, 
 And from the utmost top fall on his neck, 
 Like thunder from a cloud. 
 
 Dion. This is most strange : 
 Sure he does love her. 
 
 Phi. I do love fair truth : 
 She is my mistress, and who injures her, 
 Draws vengeance from me. Sirs, let go my arms. 
 
 Thra. Nay, good my lord, be patient. 
 
 Cle. Sir, remember this is your honour'd friend 
 That comes to do his service, and will show 
 You why he utter'd this. 
 
 Phi. I ask your pardon, sir ; 
 My zeal to truth made me unmannerly ; 
 Should I have heard dishonour spoke of you. 
 Behind your back, untruly, I had been 
 As much distemper'd and enraged as now. 
 
 Dion. But this, my lord, is truth. 
 
 Phi. Oh, say not so ! 
 Good sir, forbear to say so ! 'Tis then truth 
 That all womankind is false ! Urge it no more ; 
 It is impossible. "Why should you think 
 The princess light ? 
 
 Dion. Why, she was taken at it. 
 
 Phi. 'Tis false ! By Heaven, 'tis false ! it can- 
 not be ! 
 Can it? Speak, gentlemen; for love of truth, 
 
 speak! 
 Is't possible ? Can women aU be damn'd ? 
 
 Dion. Why, no, my lord. 
 
 Phi. Why, then, it cannot be. 
 
 Dion. And she was taken with her boy. 
 
 Phi. What boy.? 
 
 Dio7i. A page, a boy that serves her. 
 
 Phi. Oh, good gods ! 
 A little boy ? 
 
 Dion. Ay ; know you him, my lord ? 
 
 Phi. Hell and sin know him!— Sir, you are 
 deceived ; 
 I'll reason it a little coldly with you : 
 If she were lustful, would she take a boy. 
 That knows not yet desire ? She would have one 
 Should meet her thoughts, and know the sin he 
 
 acts. 
 Which is the great delight of wickedness. 
 You are abused, and so is she, and I. 
 
 Dion. How you, my lord ? 
 
 Phi. Why, all the world's abused 
 In an unjust report. 
 
 Dion. Oh, noble sir, your virtues 
 Cannot look into the subtle thoughts of woman. 
 In short, my lord, I took them ; I myself. 
 
 Phi. Now, all the devils, thou did'st! Fly 
 from my rage ! 
 Would thou hadst ta'en devils engendering 
 
 When thou didst take them! Hide thee from 
 
 my eyes ! 
 Would thou hadst taken thunder on thy breast, 
 When thou didst take themj or been strucken 
 
 dumb 
 For ever ; that this foul deed might have slept 
 In silence ! 
 
 Thra. Have you kno-pyn him so ill-temper'd ? 
 
 Cle. Never before. 
 
 Phi. The winds, that are let loose 
 From the four several corners of the earth. 
 And spread themselves all over sea and land. 
 Kiss not a chaste one. What friend bears a sword 
 To run me through ? 
 
 Dio7i. Why, my lord, are you so moved at this ? 
 
 Phi. When any fall from virtue, I am distract ; 
 I have an interest in't. 
 
 Dion. But, good my lord, recall yourself, and 
 think ■ 
 What's best to be done. 
 
 Phi. I thank you : I will do it. 
 Please you to leave me : I'll consider of it. 
 To-morrow I will find your lodging forth, 
 And give you answer. 
 
 Dion. All the gods direct you 
 The readiest way ! — 
 
 Thra. He was extreme impatient. 
 
 Cle. It was his virtue, and his noble mind. 
 [Exeunt Dion, Cleremont, aiid Thrasilint:. 
 
 Phi, I had forgot to ask him where he took 
 them. 
 I'll follow him. Oh that I had a sea 
 Within my breast, to quench the fire I feel ! 
 More circumstances will but fan this fire. 
 It more afflicts me now, to know by whom 
 This deed is done, than simply that 'tis done : 
 And he, that tells me this, is honourable, 
 As far from lies as she is far from truth. 
 Oh that, like beasts, we could not grieve our- 
 selves, 
 With that we see not ! Bulls and rams will fight 
 To keep their females, standing in their sight ; 
 But take 'em from them, and you take at once 
 Their spleens away ; and they will fall again 
 Unto their pastures, growing fresh and fat ; 
 And taste the water of the springs as sweet 
 As 'twas before, finding no start in sleep. 
 But miserable man — 
 
 Enter Bellario zoith a Letter. 
 
 See, see, you gods. 
 He walks still ; and the face, you let him wear 
 When he was innocent, is still the same, 
 Not blasted ! Is this justice ? Do you mean 
 To intrap mortality, that you allow 
 Treason so smooth a brow ? I cannot now 
 Think he is guilty. 
 
 Bel. Health to you, my lord ! 
 The princess doth commend her love, her life, 
 And this, unto you. 
 
 Phi. Oh, Bellario ! 
 Now I perceive she loves me ; she does show it 
 In loving thee, my boy : she has made thee brave. 
 
 Bel. My lord, she has attired me past my wish, 
 Past my desert ; moi-e fit for her attendant, 
 Though far unfit for me, who do attend. 
 
 Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. — Oh, let 
 all women. 
 That love black deeds, learn to dissemble here. 
 Here, by this paper ! She does write to me, 
 As if her heart were mines of adamant 
 To all the world besides ; but, unto me, 
 A maiden-snow that melted with my looks. — 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 251 
 
 Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee ? 
 For I shall gaiess her love to me by that. 
 
 Bel. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were 
 Something allied to her ; or had preserved 
 Her life three times by my fidelity. 
 As mothers fond do use their only sons ; 
 As I'd use one that's left unto my trust, 
 For whom my life should pay if he met harm, 
 So she does use me. 
 
 Phi. Why, this is wondrous well : 
 But what kind language does she feed thee with ? 
 
 Bd. Why, she does tell me she will trust my 
 youth 
 With all her loving secrets ; and does call me 
 Her pretty servant ; bids me weep no more 
 For leaving you ; she'll see my services 
 Kegarded ; and such words of that soft strain, 
 That I am nearer weeping when she ends 
 Than ere she spake. 
 
 Phi. This is much better still. 
 
 Bel. Are you not ill, my lord ? 
 
 Pkl 111 1 No, Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Methinks, your words 
 Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, 
 Nor is there in your looks that quietness 
 That I was wont to see. 
 
 Phi. Thou art deceived, boy : 
 And she strokes thy head "i 
 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks ? 
 
 Bd. She does, my lord. 
 
 Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy ? ha ! 
 
 Bel. How, my lord .^ 
 
 Phi. She kisses thee ? 
 
 Bel. Not so, my lord. 
 
 Phi. Come, come, I know she does. 
 
 Bel. No, by my life. 
 
 Phi. Why, then, she does not love me. Come, 
 she does. 
 I bade her do it ; I charged her, by all charms 
 Of love between us, by the hope of peace 
 We should enjoy, to yield thee all delights 
 Naked, as to her bed : I took her oath 
 Thou should'st enjoy her. Tell me, gentle boy. 
 Is she not parallelless .? Is not her breath 
 Sweet as Arabian winds, when fruits are ripe .-' 
 Are not her breasts two liquid ivory balls ? 
 Is she not all a lasting mine of joy ? 
 
 Bel. Ay, now I see why my disturbed thoughts 
 Were so perplex'd : when first I went to her. 
 My heart held augury. You are abused ; 
 Some villain has abused you ! I do see 
 Whereto you tend. Fall rocks upon his head 
 That put this to you ! 'Tis some subtle train. 
 To bring that noble frame of yours to nought. 
 
 Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. 
 Come, 
 Thou shalt knoAV all my drift : I hate her more 
 Than I love happiness, and placed thee there. 
 To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. 
 Hast thou discover'd ? Is she fall'n to lust. 
 As 1 would wish her "i Speak some comfort to me. 
 
 Bel. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent : 
 Had she the lust of sparrows, or of goats ; 
 Had she a sin that way, hid from the world, 
 Beyond the name of lust, I would not aid 
 Her base desires ; but what I came to know 
 As servant to her, I would not reveal. 
 To make my life last ages. 
 
 Phi. Oh, my heart ! 
 This is a salve worse than the main disease. 
 Tell me thy thoughts ; for I will know the least 
 
 {Draws. 
 That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart 
 To know it : I will see thy thoughts as plain 
 As I do now thy face. 
 
 Bd. Why, so you do. \Kneds. 
 
 She is (for aught I know), by all the gods, 
 As chaste as ice. But were she foul as hell, 
 And I did know it thus, the breath of kings, 
 The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass ^ 
 Should draw it from me. 
 
 Phi. Then it is no time 
 To daily with thee ; I will take thy life. 
 For I do hate thee : I could curse thee now. 
 
 Bel. If you do hate, you could not curse me 
 worse ; 
 The gods have not a punishment in store 
 Greater for me, than is your hate. 
 
 Phi. Fie, fie. 
 So young and so dissembling ! Tell me when 
 And where thou didst enjoy her, or let plagues 
 Fall on me, if I destroy thee not. 
 
 Bel. Heaven knows I never did ; and when I lie 
 To save my life, may I live long and loath'd. 
 Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think, 
 I'll love those pieces you have cut away 
 Better than those that grow ; and kiss those limbs 
 Because you made 'em so. 
 
 Phi. Fear'st thou not death ? 
 Can boys contemn that ? 
 
 Bel. Oh, what boy is he 
 Can be content to live to be a man, 
 That sees the best of men thus passionate. 
 Thus without reason 1 
 
 Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know 
 What 'tis to die. 
 
 Bel. Yes, I do know, my lord : 
 'Tis less than to be born ; a lasting sleep, 
 A quiet resting from all jealousy ; 
 A thing we all pursue. I know, besides, 
 It is but giving over of a game 
 That must be lost. 
 
 Phi. But there are pains, false boy. 
 For perjured souls ; think but on these, and then 
 Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. 
 
 Bel. May they fall all upon me whilst I live, 
 If I be perjured, or have ever thought 
 Of that you charge me with ! If I be false, 
 Send me to suffer in those punishments 
 You speak of ; kill me. 
 
 Phi. Oh, what should I do 7 
 Why, who can but believe him ? He does swear 
 So earnestly, that if it were not true. 
 The gods would not endure him. Else, Bellario ! 
 Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 
 Dost look so ti'uly, when thou utter'st them. 
 That though I know 'em false, as were my hopes, 
 I cannot urge thee further. But thou wert 
 To blame to injure me, for I must love 
 Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon 
 Thy tender youth : a love from me to thee 
 Is firm, whate'er thou dost. It troubles me 
 That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks. 
 That did so well become thee. But, good boy, 
 Let me not see thee more ; something is done 
 That will distract me, that will make me mad. 
 If I behold thee. If thou tender'st 2 me, 
 Let me not see thee. 
 
 Bel. I will fly as far 
 As there is morning, ere I give distaste 
 To that most honour'd mind. But through these. 
 
 tears 
 Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see 
 A world of treason practised upon you, 
 And her, and me. Farewell, for evermore ! 
 If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead. 
 And after find me loyal, let there be 
 
 1 hulls of brass— a,n allusion to the tyranny of Phalaris, 
 who enclosed the Avretches that had offended him in a 
 bull of brass, and burned them alive. 
 
 2 tender'st— lo\ est. 
 
252 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 A tear shed from you in my memory, 
 
 And I sliall rest at peace. {Exit. 
 
 Phi. Blessing be Avith thee, 
 Whatever thou deserv'st ! — Oh, where shall I 
 Go bathe this body ? Nature, too unkind, 
 That made no medicine for a troubled mind ! 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE II. 
 ApwETHusa's Apartment in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Arethusa. 
 Are. I marvel my boy comes not back again : 
 But that I know my love will question him 
 Over and over, how I slept, waked, talk'd ; 
 How I remember'd him when his dear name 
 Was last spoke, and how, when I sigh'd, wept, 
 
 sung. 
 And ten thousand such ; I should be angry at 
 his stay. 
 
 Enter King. 
 King. What, at your meditations? Who at- 
 tends you ? 
 Are. None but my single self . I need no guard ; 
 I do no wrong, nor fear none. 
 
 King. Tell me, have you not a boy ? 
 Are. Yes, sir. 
 King. What kind of boy ? 
 Are. A page, a waiting-boy. 
 King. A handsome boy 7 
 Are. I think he be not ugly : 
 Well qualified, and dutiful, I know him ; 
 I took him not for beauty. 
 King. He speaks, and sings, and plays ? 
 Are. Yes, sir. 
 King. About eighteen ? 
 Are. I never ask'd his age. 
 King. Is he full of service ? 
 Are. By your pardon, why do you ask ? 
 King. Put him away. 
 Are. Sir! 
 
 King. Put him away ! He has done you that 
 good service. 
 Shames me to speak of. 
 Are. Good sir, let me understand you. 
 King. If you fear me. 
 Show it in duty. Put away that boy. 
 
 Are. Let me have reason for it, sir, and then 
 Your will is my command. 
 King. Do not you blush to ask it ? Cast him 
 off. 
 Or I shall do the same to you. You're one 
 Shame with me, and so near unto myself. 
 That, by my life, I dare not tell myself, 
 What you, myself, have done. 
 
 Are. What have I done, my lord ? 
 King. 'Tis a new language, that all love to 
 learn : 
 The common people speak it well already ; 
 They need no grammar. Understand me well ; 
 There be foul whispers stirring. Cast him off. 
 And suddenly. Do it ! Farewell. [Exit King. 
 
 Are. Where may a maiden live securely free. 
 Keeping her honour fair ? Not with the living ; 
 They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams. 
 And make 'em truths ; they draw a nourishment 
 Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces ; 
 And, when they see a virtue fortified 
 Strongly above the battery of their tongues, 
 Oh, how they casti to sink it; and, defeated 
 (Soul-sick with poison), strike the monuments 
 Where noble names lie sleeping ; till they sweat, 
 And the cold marble melt. 
 
 * cast — contrive, plot. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, dearest \ 
 mistress. I 
 
 Are. Oh, my dearest servant,^ I have a war ; 
 within me. 1 
 
 Phi. He must be more than man, that makes 
 these crystals 
 Eun into rivers. Sweetest fair, the cause ? 
 And, as I am your slave, tied to your goodness. 
 Your creature, made again, from what I was. 
 And newly-spirited, I'll right your honour. 
 Are. Oh, my best love, that boy ! 
 Phi. What boy ? 
 
 Are. The pretty boy you gave me — 
 Phi. What of him? 
 Are. Must be no more mine. 
 Phi. Why? 
 
 Are. They are jealous of him. 
 Phi. Jealous! who? 
 Are. The king. 
 Phi. Oh, my misfortune ! 
 Then 'tis no idle jealousy, [Aside.']— Isei him go. 
 
 Are. Oh, cruel! 
 Are you hard-hearted too ? Who shall now tell 
 
 you 
 How much I loved you ? who shall swear it to 
 
 you? 
 And weep the tears I send ? who shall now bring 
 
 you 
 Letters, rings, bracelets ? lose his health in 
 
 service ? 
 Wake tedious nights in stories of your praise ? 
 Who shall now sing your crying elegies ? 
 And strike a sad soul into senseless pictures. 
 And make them mourn ? who shall take up his 
 
 lute, 
 And touch it, till he crown a silent sleep 
 Upon my eyelids, making me dream, and cry, 
 ' Oh, my dear, dear Philaster ! ' 
 
 Phi. Oh, my heart I 
 Would he had broken thee, that made thee know 
 This lady was not loyal, — Mistress, forget 
 The boy : I'll get thee a far better. 
 
 Are. Oh, never, never such a boy again 
 As my Bellario ! 
 Phi. 'Tis but your fond affection. 
 Are. With thee, my boy, farewell for ever 
 All secrecy in servants ! Farewell faith. 
 And all desire to do well for itself ! 
 Let all that shall succeed thee, for thy wrongs, 
 Sell and betray chaste love ! 
 Phi. And all this passion for a boy ? 
 Are. He was your boj'-, and you put him to me, 
 And the loss of such must have a mourning for. 
 Phi. Oh, thou forgetful woman ! 
 Are. HoAV, my lord ? 
 Phi. False Arethusa ! 
 Hast thou a medicine to restore my wits. 
 When I have lost 'em ? If not, leave to talk, 
 And do thus. 
 Are. Do what, sir ? Would you sleep ? 
 Phi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, ye gods. 
 Give me a worthy patience ! Have I stood 
 Naked, alone, the shock of many fortunes ? 
 Have I seen mischiefs numberless, and mighty. 
 Grow like a sea upon me ? Have I taken 
 Danger as stern as death into my bosom. 
 And laugh'd upon it, made it but a mirth. 
 And flung it by ? Do I live now like him. 
 Under this tyrant king, that languishing 
 Hears his sad bell, and see his mourners ? Do I 
 Bear all this bravely, and must sink at length 
 Under a woman's falsehood ? Oh, that boy, 
 
 1 servant — loTcr. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 253 
 
 That cursed boy ! None but a villain boy 
 To ease your lust ? 
 
 Are. Nay, then I am betray'd : 
 I feel the plot cast for my overthrow. 
 Oh, I am wretched ! 
 
 Phi. Now you may take that little right I have 
 To this poor kingdom. Give it to your joy ; 
 For I have no joy in it. Some far place, 
 Where never womankind durst set her foot, 
 For bursting 1 with her poisons, must I seek, 
 And live to curse you : 
 
 There dig a cave, and preach to birds and beasts 
 What woman is, and help to save them from you : 
 How heaven is in your eyes, but in your hearts, 
 More hell than hell has : "^how your tongues, like 
 
 scorpions, 
 Both heal and poison: how your thoughts are 
 
 woven 
 With thousand changes in one subtle web, 
 And worn so by you : how that foolish man 
 That reads the story of a woman's face, 
 And dies believing it, is lost for ever : 
 How all the good you have is but a shadow, 
 r th' morning with you, and at night behind you, 
 Past and forgotten. How your vows are frosts. 
 Fast for a night, and with the next sun gone : 
 How you are, being taken all together, 
 A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos. 
 That love cannot distinguish. These sad texts, 
 Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of you. 
 So, farewell all my woe, all my delight! 
 
 \Exit Philaster. 
 
 Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead! 
 
 What way have I deserved this ? Make my 
 
 breast 
 Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, 
 Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought 
 My heart holds. Where shall a woman turn her 
 
 eyes. 
 To find out constancy ? 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Save me, how black 
 And guiltily, methinks, that boy's looks now ! 
 Oh, thou dissembler, that, before thou spak'st, 
 Wert in thy cradle false, sent to make lies, 
 And betray innocents ! Thy lord and thou 
 May glory in the ashes of a maid 
 Fool'd by her passion ; but the conquest is 
 Nothing so great as wicked. Fly away ! 
 Let my command force thee to that, which shame 
 Would do without it. If thou understood'st 
 The loathed office thou hast undergone, 
 Why, thou wouldst hide thee under heaps of hills, 
 Lest men should dig and find thee. 
 
 Bel. Oh, what god. 
 Angry with men, hath sent this strange disease 
 Into the noblest minds ? Madam, this grief 
 You add unto me is no more than drops 
 To seas, for which they are not seen to swell : 
 My lord hath struck his anger through my heart, 
 And let out all the hope of futui-e joys. 
 You need not bid me fly ; I came to part^ 
 To take my latest^ leave. Farewell for ever ! 
 I durst not run away, in honesty. 
 From such a lady, like a boy that stole, 
 Or made some grievous fault. The power of gods 
 Assist you in your sufferings ! Hasty time 
 Keveal the truth to your abused lord 
 And mine, that he may know your worth; whilst I 
 Go seek out some forgotten place to die ! 
 
 {Exit Bellario. 
 
 1 For iursting— for fear of biirsting. It was vulgarly 
 supposed there were places where no venomous creatm-e 
 could live, Ireland being one. — Mason. 
 
 2 latest— l&st. 
 
 Are. Peace guide thee! Thou hast overthrown 
 me once ; 
 Yet, if I had another Troy to lose, 
 Thou, or another villain, with thy looks. 
 Might talk me out of it, and send me naked, 
 My hair dishevell'd, through the fiery streets. 
 
 Enter a Lady. 
 
 Lady. Madam, the king would hunt, and calls 
 for you 
 With earnestness. 
 
 Are. I am in tune to hunt ! 
 Diana, if thou canst rage with a maid 
 As with a man, let me discover thee 
 Bathing, and turn me to a fearful hind, 
 That I may die pursued by cruel hounds. 
 And have my story written in my wounds. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE L 
 
 A Forest. 
 
 Enter King, Pharajioxd, Arethusa, Galatea, 
 Diox, CLEREMO^T, Thrasilixe, and At- 
 tendants. 
 
 King. What, are the hounds before, and all the 
 woodmen ; 
 Our horses ready, and our bows bent ? 
 
 Dion. All, sir. 
 
 King. You are cloudy, sir. Come, we have 
 forgotten 
 Your venial trespass ; let not that sit heavy 
 Upon your spirit : here's none dare utter it. — 
 
 Dion. He looks like an old surfeited stallion 
 after his leaping, dull as a dormouse. See how 
 he sinks ! The wench has shot him between 
 wind and water, and, I hope, sprung a leak. 
 
 Thra. He needs no teaching, he strikes sure 
 enough ; his greatest fault is, he hunts too much 
 in the purlieus. Would he would leave off 
 poaching ! 
 
 Dion. And for his horn, he has left it at the 
 lodge where he lay late.i Oh, he's a precious 
 lime-hound ! ^ Turn him loose upon the pursuit 
 of a ladj'-, and if he lose her, hang him up i' th' 
 slip. When my fox-bitch Beauty grows proud, 
 I'll borrow him. — 
 
 King. Is your boy tum'd away ? 
 
 Are. You did command, sir, and I obey'd you. 
 
 King. 'Tis well done. Hark ye further. 
 
 [They talk apart. 
 
 Cle. Is't possible this fellow should repent ? 
 Methinks, that were not noble in him ; and yet 
 he looks like a mortified member, as if he had a 
 sick man's salve ^ in's mouth. If a worse man 
 had done this fault now, some physical justice or 
 other would presently (without the help of an 
 almanack) have opened the obstructions of his 
 liver, and let him blood with a dog- whip. 
 
 Dion. See, see, how modestly yon lady looks, 
 as if she came from churching with her neigh- 
 bour. Why, what a devil can a man see in her 
 face, but that she's honest ! 
 
 Thj-a. 'Troth no great matter to speak of; a 
 foolish twinkling with the eye, that spoils her 
 coat ; but he must be a cunning herald that finds 
 it. 
 
 Dion. See how they mtister one another ! Oh, 
 
 ^ late — lately. 
 
 2 lime-hound— a sporting dog, led by a kind of thing 
 called a lyam, or lyme ; Fr. limier. — Nakf.s. 
 
 3 SIC* man's salve — See note 2, p. 199, col. 2. 
 
254 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 there's a rank regiment where the devil carries 
 the colours, and his dam drum-major ! Now the 
 world and the flesh come behind with the car- 
 riage. ^ 
 
 Cle. Sure, this lady has a good turn done her 
 against her will. Before, she was common talk ; 
 now, none dare say cantharides can stir her. 
 Her face looks like a warrant, willing and com- 
 manding all tongues, as they will answer it, to be 
 tied up and bolted when this lady means to let 
 herself loose. As I live, she has got her a goodly 
 protection, and a gracious ; and may use her body 
 discreetly, for' her health's sake, once a week, 
 excepting Lent and Dog-days. Oh, if they were 
 to be got for money, what a great sum would 
 come out of the city for these licences ! 
 
 King. To horse, to horse ! We lose the morn- 
 ing, gentlemen. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 Another pai't of the Forest. 
 
 Enter two Woodmen. 
 
 1 Wood. What, have you lodged the deer ? 
 
 2 Wood. Yes, they are ready for the bow. 
 
 1 Wood. Who shoots 7 
 
 2 Wood. The princess. 
 
 1 Wood. No, she'll hunt. 
 
 2 Wood. She'll take a stand, I say. 
 
 1 Wood. Who else .'* 
 
 2 Wood. Why, the young stranger prince. 
 
 1 Wood. He shall shoot in a stone-bow^ for me. 
 I never loved his beyond-sea-ship, since he for- 
 sook the say,' for paying ten shillings. He was 
 there at the fall of a deer, and would needs (out 
 of his mightiness) give ten groats for the dow- 
 cets ; * marry, the steward would have had the 
 velvet-head into the bargain to tuft his hat withal. 
 I think he should love venery : he is an old Sir 
 Tristrem ; ^ for, if you be remember'd, he forsook 
 the stag once, to strike a rascal^ mitching? in a 
 meadow, and her he killed in the eye. Who 
 shoots else ? 
 
 2 Wood. The Lady Galatea. 
 
 1 Wood. That's a good wench, an she would 
 not chide us for tumbling of her women in the 
 brakes. She's liberal, and, by my bow, they say 
 she's honest ; and whether that be a fault, I have 
 nothing to do. There's aU ? 
 
 2 Wood. No, one more ; Megra. 
 
 1 Wood. That's a firker,^i' faith, boy; there's a 
 wench will ride her haunches as hard after a 
 kennel of hounds, as a hunting saddle ; and when 
 she comes home, get 'em clapt, and all is well 
 again. I have known her lose herself three times 
 in one afternoon (if the woods have been answer- 
 able), and it has been work enough for one man 
 
 1 carriag-e— baggage. 
 
 2 stone-bow— a. cross-bow, which shoots stones.— Dtce. 
 
 3 since he forsook the say {i.e. assay). When a deer is 
 hunted down, and to be cut up, it is a ceremony for the 
 keeper to otfer his knife to a man of the first distinction 
 in the field, that he may cut up the belly, and take an 
 assay of the plight and fatness of the game. But this 
 Pharamond declined, to save the customary fee of ten 
 shillings.— Theobald. 
 
 * dowcets or doulcets—the testes. 
 
 ^ Sir Tristrem. This hero in romance is reputed the 
 patron saint of the chase. 
 
 ^ rascal — a lean deer or doe. 
 
 ^ mitching or mjc/ifttgr — skulking, creeping, solitary. 
 The reading here is doubtftil : Dyce suggests walking. 
 
 8 firker. To firk is to quirk, tmck; here it is used in 
 a bad sense, — Webkb. 
 
 to find her ; and he has sweat for it. She rides 
 well, and she pays well. Hark ! let's go, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. Oh that I had been nourish'd in these 
 
 woods. 
 With milk of goats and acorns, and not known 
 The right of crowns, nor the dissembling trains* 
 Of women's looks ; but digg'd myself a cave, 
 Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed, 
 Might have been shut together in one shed ; 
 And then had taken me some mountain girl, 
 Beaten with winds, chaste as the harden'd rocks 
 Whereon she dwells; that might have strew'd 
 
 my bed 
 With leaves and reeds,and with the skins of beasts, 
 Our neighbours ; and have borne at her big breasts 
 My large coarse issue ! This had been a life 
 Free from vexation. 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Oh, wicked men! 
 An innocent may walk safe among beasts ; 
 Nothing assaults me here. See my griev'd lord 
 Sits as his soul were searching out a way 
 To leave his body. — Pardon me, that must 
 Break thy last commandment ; for I must speak. 
 You, that are grieved, can pity : hear, my lord. 
 
 Phi. Is there a creature yet so miserable, 
 That I can pity ? 
 
 Bel. Oh, my noble lord ! 
 View my strange fortune ; and bestow on me, 
 According to your bounty (if my service 
 Can merit nothing) so much as may serve 
 To keep that little piece I hold of hfe 
 From cold and hunger. 
 
 Phi. Is it thou ? Begone ! 
 Go sell those misbeseeming clothes thou wear'st, 
 And feed thyself with them. 
 
 Bel. Alas I my lord, I can get nothing for them ! 
 The silly country people think 'tis treason 
 To touch such gay things. 
 
 Phi. Now, by my life, this is 
 Unkindly done, to vex me with thy sight. 
 Thou'rt fallen again to thy dissembling trade : 
 How, should'st thou think to cozen me again ? 
 Kemains there yet a plague untried for me ; 
 Even so thou wept's^ and look'd'st, and spok'st, 
 I took thee up : [when first 
 
 Curse on the time ! If thy commanding tears 
 Can work on any other, use thy art, 
 I'll not betray it. Which way wilt thou take, 
 That I may shun thee ? for thine eyes are poison 
 To mine ; and I am loath to grow in rage. 
 This way, or that way ? 
 
 Bel. Any will serve. But I will choose to have 
 That path in chase that leads unto my grave. 
 [Exeunt Philaster and Bellario severally. 
 
 Enter Dion and the Woodmen. 
 
 Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance! 
 You woodmen ! 
 
 1 Wood. My lord Dion ! 
 
 Dion. Saw you a lady come this way, on a sable 
 horse, studded with stars of white ? 
 
 2 Wood. Was she not young and tall ? 
 
 Dion. Yes. Eode she to the wood or to the 
 plain ? , " 
 
 2 Wood. 'Faith, my lord, we saw none. 
 
 [Exeunt Woodmen. 
 
 Enter Cleremont. 
 
 Dion. Pox of your questions, then ! — What ! is 
 
 she found ? 
 
 <ram5— artifices. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 255 
 
 Cle. Nor will be, I think. 
 
 Dion. Let him seek his daughtei* himself. She 
 cannot stray about a nttle necessary natural busi- 
 ness, but the whole court must be in arms. When 
 she has done we shall have peace. 
 
 Cle. There's already a thousand fatherless tales 
 amongst us : some say, her horse ran away with 
 her ; some, a wolf pursued her ; others, it was a 
 plot to kill her, and that armed men were seen in 
 the wood : but, questionless, she rode away will- 
 ingly. 
 
 Enter King, Thrasilixe, and Attendants. 
 
 King. Where is she ? 
 
 Cle. Sir, I cannot tell. 
 
 King. How is that ? 
 Answer me so again ! 
 
 Cle. Sir, shall I lie ? 
 
 King. Yes, lie and damn, rather than tell me 
 that. 
 I say again, where is she ? Mutter not ! — 
 Sir, speak you ! Where is she ? 
 
 Dion. Sir, I do not know. 
 
 King. Speak that again so boldly, and by 
 Heaven, 
 It is thy last. — You fellows, answer me ; 
 Where is she .? Mark me all ; I am your king ; 
 I wish to see my daughter ; show her me : 
 I do command you all, as you are subjects, 
 To show her me ! What ! am I not your king ? 
 If ' ay,' then am I not to be obeyed ? 
 
 Dion. Yes, if you command things possible and 
 honest. 
 
 King. Things possible and honest! Hear me, 
 thou, 
 Thou traitor! that dar'st confine thy king to things 
 Possible and honest ; show her to me, 
 Or, let me perish if I cover not 
 All Sicny with blood! 
 
 Dion. Indeed I cannot, unless you tell me 
 where she is. 
 
 King. You have betrayed me ; you have let me 
 The jewel of my life : go bring her me, [lose 
 
 And set her here, before me : 'tis the king 
 Will have it so ; whose breath can still the winds, 
 Uncloud the sun, charm do-wn the swelling sea, 
 And stop the floods of heaven. Speak, can it not ? 
 
 Dion. No. 
 
 King. No ! cannot the breath of kings do this ? 
 
 Dion. No, nor smell sweet itself, if once the 
 lungs be but corrupted. 
 
 King. Is it so ? Take heed ! 
 
 Dion. Sir, take you heed, how you dare the 
 powers that must be just. 
 
 King. Alas ! what are we kings ? 
 Why do you, gods, place us above the rest, 
 To be served, flattered, and ador'd, till we 
 Believe we hold within our hands your thunder ; 
 And, when we come to try the power we have. 
 There's not a leaf. shakes at our threatenings .^ 
 I have sinn'd, 'tis true, and here stand to be 
 
 punished ; 
 Yet would not thus be punish'd. Let me choose 
 My way, and lay it on. 
 
 Dion. He articles with the gods. Would some- 
 body would draw bonds for the performance 
 of covenants betwixt them ! {Aside. 
 
 Enter Pharamond, Galatea, and Megra. 
 
 King. What, is she found ? 
 
 Pha. No ; we have ta'en her horse : 
 He gallop'd empty by. There is some treason. 
 You, Galatea, rode with her into the wood ; 
 Why left you her ? 
 
 Gal. She did command me. 
 
 King. Command ! You should not 
 
 Gal. 'Twould ill become my fortunes and my 
 To disobey the daughter of my king. [birtli 
 
 King. You're all cunning to obey us for our 
 But I will have her. [hurt ; 
 
 Pha. If I have her not, 
 By this hand there shall be no more Sicily. 
 
 Dion. What, will he carry it to Spain in's pocket? 
 
 Pha. I will not leave one man alive, but the 
 A cook, and a tailor. [king, 
 
 Dion. Yet you may do well to spare your lady 
 bedfellow ; and her you may keep for a spawner. 
 
 King. I see the injuries I have done must be 
 revenged. 
 
 Dion. Sir, this is not the way to find her out. 
 
 King. Eunall; disperse yourselves! The man 
 that finds her, 
 Or (if she be kill'd) the traitor, I'll make him great. 
 
 Dion. I know some would give five thousand 
 pounds to find her. 
 
 Pha. Come, let us seek. 
 
 King. Each man a several way ; 
 Here I myself. 
 
 Dion. Come, gentlemen, we here, 
 
 Cle. Lady, you must go search too. 
 
 Meg. I had rather be search'd myself. 
 
 \Exeunt severally. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IIL 
 Another part of the Forest. 
 Enter Arethusa. 
 
 Are. Where am I now .'' Feet, find me out a way 
 Without the counsel of my troubled head : 
 I'll follow you boldly about these woods. 
 O'er mountains, thorough brambles,pits,and floods. 
 Heaven, I hope, will ease me. I am sick. 
 
 [Sits dozen. 
 
 Enter Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Yonder's my lady ; Heaven knows I want 
 Because I do not wish to live ; yet I [nothing. 
 Will try her charity. — 
 Oh hear, you that have plenty : from that flowing 
 
 store. 
 Drop some on dry ground. — See, the lively red 
 Is gone to guard her heart ! I fear she faints. — 
 Madam, look up ! — She breathes not. Open once 
 
 more 
 Those rosy twins, and send unto my lord 
 Your latest farewell. Oh, she stirs ! — How is it, 
 Madam ? Speak comfort. 
 
 Are. 'Tis not gently done, 
 To put me in a miserable life. 
 And hold me there : I pr'ythee let me go ; 
 I shall do best without thee : I am well. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage : 
 I'll tell her coolly when and where I heard 
 This killing truth. I will be temperate 
 In speaking, and as just in hearing. — 
 Oh, monstrous! Tempt me not, ye gods! good 
 
 gods. 
 Tempt not a frail man ! What's he that has a heart, 
 But he must ease it here ! 
 
 Bel. My lord, help the princess. 
 
 Are. I am well : forbear. 
 
 Phi. Let me love lightning, let me be embraced 
 And kissed by scorpions, or adore the eyes 
 Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues 
 Of hell-bred women ! Some good god look down. 
 And shrink these veins up ; stick me here a stone 
 Lasting to ages, in the memory 
 Of this damn'd act : hear me, you wicked ones j 
 
256 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 You have put hills of fire into this breast, 
 
 Not to be quench'd with tears; for which may 
 
 guilt 
 Sit on your bosoms ! at your meals and beds 
 Despair await you ! What ! before my face ? 
 Poison of asps between your lips ! Diseases 
 Be your best issues I Nature make a curse, 
 And throw it on you ! 
 
 Are. Dear Philaster, leave 
 To be enraged, and hear me. 
 
 Phi. I have done : 
 Forgive my passion. Not the calmed sea, 
 When -ffiolus locks up his windy brood, 
 Is less disturb'd than I : I'll make you know it. 
 Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword, 
 And search how temperate a heart I have ; 
 Then you, and this your boy, may live and reign 
 In lust mthout control. Wilt thou, Bellario "i 
 I pr'ythee kill me : thou art poor, and may'st 
 Nourish ambitious thoughts when I am dead : 
 This way were freer. Am I raging now ? 
 If I were mad I should desire to live. 
 Sirs, feel my pulse : whether have you known 
 A man in a more equal tune to die ? 
 
 Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps madman's 
 So does your tongue. [time. 
 
 Phi. You will not kill me, then ? 
 
 Are. Kill you ? 
 
 Bel. Not for a world. 
 
 Phi. I blame not thee, 
 Bellario : thou hast done but that, which gods 
 Would have transformed themselves to do. Be- 
 Leave me without reply ; this is the last [gone ; 
 Of all our meeting. {Exit Bellario.] — Kill me 
 
 with this sword ; 
 Be wise, or worse will follow. We are two 
 Earth cannot bear at once. Resolve to do, 
 Or suffer. 
 
 Are. If my fortune be so good to let me fall 
 Upon thy hand, I shall have peace in death. 
 Yet tell me this, will there be no slanders. 
 No jealousy in the other world ; no ill there ? 
 
 Phi. No. 
 
 Are. Show me, then, the way. 
 
 Phi. Then guide my feeble hand, [Z>raw5. 
 
 You that have power to do it, for I must 
 Perform a piece of justice ! — If your youth 
 Have any way offended Heaven, let j)rayer3 
 Short and effectual reconcile you to it. 
 
 Are. I am prepared. 
 
 Enter a Country Fellow. 
 
 Court. I'll see the king, if he be in the forest. 
 I have hunted him these two hours ; if I should 
 come home and not see him, my sisters would 
 laugh at me. I can see nothing but people better 
 horsed than myself, that outride me ; I can hear 
 nothing but shouting. These kings had need of 
 good brains ; this whooping is able to put a mean 
 man out of his wits. There's a courtier with his 
 sword drawn ; by this hand, upon a woman, I 
 think. 
 
 Phi. Are you at peace ? 
 
 Are. With heaven and earth. 
 
 Phi. May they divide thy soul and body ! 
 
 [ Wounds her. 
 
 Coun. Hold, dastard, strike a woman ! Thou 
 art a craven, I warrant thee : Thou would'st be 
 loath to play half a dozen of venies at wasters ^ 
 with a good fellow for a broken head. 
 
 Phi. Leave us, good friend. 
 
 Are. What ill-bred man art thou, to intrude 
 thyself 
 Upon our private sports, our recreations ? 
 
 venies at washers— bouts at cudgels. 
 
 Coun. God uds 1 me, I understand you not ; 
 but 
 I know the rogue has hurt you. 
 
 Phi. Pursue thy own affairs : It will be ill 
 To multiply blood upon my head ; 
 Which thou wilt force me to. 
 
 Coun. I know not your rhetoric ; but I can lay 
 it on, if you touch the woman. [They fight. 
 
 Phi. Slave, take what thou deservest. 
 
 Are. Heavens guard my lord ! 
 
 Coun. Oh, do you breathe ? 
 
 Phi. I hear the tread of people. I am hurt : 
 The gods take part against me. Could this boor 
 Have held me thus else ? I must shift for life, 
 Though I do loathe it. I would find a course 
 To lose it rather by my will, than force. 
 
 [Exit Philaster. 
 
 Coun. I cannot follow the rogue. I pray thee, 
 wench, come and kiss me now. 
 
 Enter Pharamond, Dion, Cleremoxt, and 
 Woodmen. 
 
 Pha. What art thou? 
 
 Coun. Almost kill'd I am for a foolish woman ; 
 a knave has hurt her. 
 
 Pha. The princess, gentlemen ! Where's tho 
 wound, madam ? 
 Is it dangerous ? 
 
 Are. He has not hurt me. 
 
 Coun. V faith she lies ; he has hurt her in the 
 breast ; look else. 
 
 Pha. Oh, sacred spring of innocent blood ! 
 
 Dion. 'Tis above wonder ! Who should dare 
 this? 
 
 Are. I felt it not. 
 
 Pha. Speak, villain, who has hurt the princess ? 
 
 Coun. Is it the princess ? 
 
 Dion. Ay. 
 
 Coun. Then I have seen something yet. 
 
 Pha. But who has hurt her ? 
 
 Coun. I told you, a rogue ; I ne'er saw him be- 
 fore, I. 
 
 Pha. Madam, who did it ? 
 
 Are. Some dishonest wretch ; 
 Alas ! I know him not, and do forgive him. 
 
 Coun. He's hurt too ; he cannot go far. I 
 made my father's old fox ^ fly about his ears. 
 
 Pha. How, will you have me kill him ? 
 
 Are. Not at all ; 
 'Tis some distracted fellow. 
 
 Pha. By this hand, I'll leave ne'er a piece of 
 him bigger than a nut, and bring him all to you 
 in my hat. 
 
 Are. Nay, good sir, 
 If you do take him, bring him quick 3 to mo, 
 And I will study for a punishment 
 Great as his fault. 
 
 Pha. I will. 
 
 Are. But swear. 
 
 Pha. By all my love, I will, — Woodmen, con- 
 duct the princess to the king, and bear the 
 wounded fellow to dressing. — Come, gentlemen, 
 we'll follow the chase close. 
 
 [Eoceunt all but second Woodman and 
 Countryman. 
 
 Coun. I pray you, friend, let me see the king. 
 2 Wood. That you shall, and receive' thanks. 
 Coun. If I get clear with this, I'll go to see no 
 more gay sights. [Exeunt.. 
 
 ^ w*— judge. (?) 
 2 fox — broadsword. 
 • quick— aXivQ. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 257 
 
 ACT IV.-SCENE IV. 
 
 Another part of the same. 
 
 Enter Bexlario, and lies down. 
 
 Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my brow, 
 And I must sleep. Bear me, thou gentle bank, 
 For ever, if thou wilt. You sweet ones all, 
 Let me unworthy press you : I could wish, 
 I rather were a corse strew'd o'er with yoii, 
 Than quick above you. Dulness shuts mine eyes. 
 And I am giddy. Oh that I could take 
 So sound a sleep, that I might never wake ! 
 
 [Falls asleep. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 Phi. I have done ill ; my conscience calls me 
 false. 
 To strike at her, that would not strike at me. 
 When I did fight, methought I heard her pray 
 The gods to guard me. She may be abused. 
 And I a loathed villain. If she be, 
 She will conceal who hurt her. He has wounds, 
 And cannot follow ; neither knows he me. — 
 Who's this ? Bellario sleeping ? If thou be'st 
 Guilty, there is no justice that thy sleep 
 Should be so sound ; and mine, whom thou hast 
 wrong'd, [Cry within. 
 
 So broken. — Hark ! I am pursued. Ye gods, 
 I'll take this offer'd means of my escape : 
 They have no mark to know me, but my wounds. 
 If she be true ; if false, let mischief light 
 On all the world at once! Sword, print my 
 
 wounds 
 Upon this sleeping boy ! I have none, I think. 
 Are mortal, nor would I lay greater on thee. 
 
 ( Wounds Bellario. 
 Bel. Oh! death, I hope, is come. Blest be 
 that hand. 
 It meant me well. Again, for pity's sake ! 
 
 Phi. I have caught myself : [Falls. 
 
 The loss of blood hath stay'd my flight. Here, 
 
 here. 
 Is he that struck thee : take thy full revenge ; 
 Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than death : 
 I'll teach thee to revenge. This luckless hand 
 Wounded the princess ; tell my followers,^ 
 Thou didst receive these hurts in staying me, 
 And I will second thee : get a reward. 
 Bel. Fly, fly, my lord, and save yourself. 
 Phi. How's this ? 
 Wouldst thou I should be safe ? 
 
 Bel. Else were it vain 
 For me to live. These little wounds I have, 
 Have not bled much ; reach me that noble hand ; 
 I'll help to cover you. 
 Phi. Art thou true to me ? 
 Bel. Or let me perish loath'd ! Come, my good 
 lord, 
 Creep in amongst those bushes. Who does know 
 But that the gods may save your much-loved 
 breath ? 
 Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for this. 
 That I have wounded thee. What wilt thou do ? 
 Bel. Shift for myself well. Peace ! I hear 'em 
 come. [Philaster creeps into a bush. 
 
 Within. Follow, follow, follow ! that way they 
 
 went. 
 Bel. With my own wounds I'll bloody my own 
 sword. 
 I need not counterfeit to fall ; Heaven knows 
 That I can stand no longer. 
 
 ' /oZtotPcri— pursuera. 
 
 Enter Pharamond, Diox, Cleremont, and 
 Thrasiline. 
 
 Pha. To this place we have track'd him by 
 his blood. 
 
 Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away. 
 
 Dion. Stay, sir ! what are you ? 
 
 Bel. A wretched creature wounded in these 
 woods 
 By beasts. Eelieve me, if your names be men, 
 Or I shall perish. 
 
 Dion. This is he, my lord. 
 Upon my soul, that hurt her. 'Tis the boy, 
 That wicked boy, that served her. 
 
 Pha. Oh, thou damn'd in thy creation ! What 
 cause could'st thou shape to hurt the princess ? 
 
 Bel. Then I am betray'd. 
 
 Dion. Betrayed ! no, apprehended. 
 
 Bel. I confess. 
 Urge it no more, that, big with evil thoughts, 
 I set upon her, and did make my aim 
 Her death. For charity, let fall at once 
 The punishment you mean, and do not load 
 This weary flesh with tortures. 
 
 Pha. I will know 
 Who hired thee to this deed. 
 Bel. Mine own revenge. 
 
 Pha. Kevenge ! for what? 
 
 Bel. It pleased her to receive 
 Me as her page, and, when my fortunes ebb'd. 
 That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower 
 Her welcome graces on me, and did swell 
 My fortunes, till they overflow'd their banks, 
 Threat'ning the men that crost 'em; when as 
 
 swift 
 As storms arise at sea, she turn'd her eyes 
 To burning suns upon me, and did dry 
 The stream she had bestow'd; leaving me worse 
 And more contemn'd, than other little brooks, 
 Because I had been great. In short, I knew 
 I could not live, and therefore did desire 
 To die revenged. 
 
 Pha. If tortures can be found. 
 Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel 
 The utmost rigour. 
 
 [Philaster creeps out of a hush. 
 
 Cle. Help to lead him hence. 
 
 Phi. Turn back, you ravish ers of innocence ! 
 KnoAV ye the price of that you bear away 
 So rudely ? 
 
 Pha. Who's that ? 
 
 Dion. 'Tis the Lord Philaster. 
 
 Phi. 'Tis not the treasure of all kings in one, 
 The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of pearl 
 That pave the court of Neptune, can weigh down 
 That virtue ! It was I that hurt the princess. 
 Place me, some god, upon a pyramid. 
 Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice 
 Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence 
 I may discourse to all the under-world 
 The worth that dwells in him ! 
 
 Pha. How's this ? 
 
 Bel. My lord, some man 
 Weary of life, that would be glad to die. 
 
 Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bellario. 
 
 Bel. Alas, he's mad ! Come, will you lead me 
 on? 
 
 Phi. By all the oaths that men ought most to 
 keep. 
 And gods do punish most when men do break. 
 He touch'd her not. — Take heed, Bellario, 
 How thou dost drown the virtues thou hast 
 
 shown 
 With perjury. — By all that's good, 'twas I ! 
 You know, she stood betwixt me and my right 
 
 Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge. 
 
 Cle. It was Philaster. 
 
2^.8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Dion. Is't not a brave boy ? 
 Well, sirs, I fear me, we were all deceived. 
 
 Phi. Have I no friend here ? 
 
 Dion. Yes. 
 
 Phi. Then show it : 
 Some good body lend a hand to draw ns nearer, 
 Woxild you have tears shed for you when you 
 
 die? 
 Then lay me gently on his neck, that there 
 I may weep floods, and breathe forth my spirit. 
 'Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold 
 Lock'd in the heart of earth, can buy away 
 This armful from me. This had been a ransom 
 To have redeem'd the great Augustus Caesar, 
 Had he been taken. You hard-hearted men, 
 More stony than these mountains, can you see 
 Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut your 
 
 To stop his life ? To bind whose bitter wounds, 
 Queens ought to tear their hair, and with their 
 
 tears 
 Bathe 'em. — Forgive me, thou that art the wealth 
 Of poor Philaster ! 
 
 Ente)' King, Arethusa, and a Guard. 
 
 King. Is the villain ta'en ? 
 
 Pha. Su% here be two confess the deed ; but sure 
 It was Philaster. 
 
 Phi. Question it no more ; it was. 
 
 Ring. The fellow, that did fight with him, will 
 tell us that. 
 
 Are. Ah me ! I know he will. 
 
 King. Did not you know him? 
 
 Are. Sir, if it was he, 
 He was disguised. 
 
 Phi. I was so. — Oh, my stars ! 
 That I should live still. 
 
 King. Thou ambitious fool ! 
 Thou hast laid a train for thy own life ! — 
 Now I do mean to do, I'll leave to talk. 
 Bear them to prison. 
 
 Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence 
 This harmless life ; should it pass unrevenged, 
 I should to earth go weeping. Grant me, then 
 (By all the love a father bears his child), 
 Their custodies, and that I may appoint 
 Their tortures and their deaths. 
 
 Dion. Death? Soft! our law will not reach 
 that for this fault. 
 
 King. 'Tis granted; take 'em to you, with a 
 guard. — 
 Come, princely Pharamond, this business past, 
 We may with more security go on 
 To your intended match. 
 
 Cle. I pray that this action lose not Philaster 
 the hearts of the people. 
 
 Dion. Fear it not ; their over- wise heads will 
 think it but a trick. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 Messina. The Court of the Palace. 
 
 Enter Diox, Cleremont, and Thrasiline. 
 
 Thra. Has the king sent for him to death ? 
 
 Dion. Yes ; but the king must know 'tis not in 
 his power to war with Heaven. 
 
 Cle. We linger time ; the king sent for Philas- 
 ter and the headsman an hour ago. 
 
 Thra. Are all his wounds well ? 
 
 Dion. All; they were but scratches; but the 
 loss of blood made him faint. 
 
 Cle. "We dally, gentlemen. 
 
 Thra. Away! 
 
 Dion. "We'll scuffle hard, before he perish. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 
 The Prison. 
 
 Enter Philaster, Arethusa, and Bellario. 
 
 Are. Nay, dear Philaster, grieve not ; we are 
 well. 
 
 Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear ; we are won- 
 drous well. 
 
 Phi. Oh, Arethusa! oh, Bellario! 
 Leave to be kind : 
 
 I shall be shut from heaven, as now from earth, 
 If you continue so. I am a man, 
 False to a pair of the most trusty ones 
 That ever earth bore : can it bear us all ? 
 Forgive and leave me ! But the king hath sent 
 To call me to my death ; oh, show it me, 
 And then forget me ! And for thee, my boy, 
 I shall deliver words will mollify 
 The hearts of beasts, to spare thy innocence. 
 
 Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing 
 Worthy your noble thoughts. 'Tis not a life ; 
 'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away. 
 Should I outlive you, I should then outlive 
 Virtue and honour ; and, when that day comes, 
 If ever I shall close these eyes but once, 
 May I live spotted for my perjury, 
 And waste my limbs to nothing ! 
 
 Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever was, 
 Forced with my hands to bring my lord to death) 
 Do, by the honour of a virgin, swear 
 To tell no hours beyond it. 
 
 Phi. Make me not hated so. 
 
 Are. Come from this prison, all joyful to our 
 deaths. 
 
 Phi. People will tear me, when they find ye true 
 To such a wretch as I ; I shall die loath'd. 
 Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably, whilst I 
 For ever sleep forgotten with my fatdts ! 
 Every just servant, i every maid in love, 
 Will have a piece of me, if ye be true. 
 
 Are. My dear lord, say not so. 
 
 Bel. A piece of you ? 
 He was not bom of woman that can cut 
 It and look on. 
 
 Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you, for my 
 heart 
 Will break with shame and sorrow. 
 
 Are. Why, 'tis well. 
 
 Bel. Lament no more. 
 
 Phi. What would you have done 
 If you had wrong'd me basely, and had found 
 Your Life no price, compared to.mine ? For love, 
 
 sirs, 
 Deal with me truly. 
 
 Bel. 'Twas mistaken, sir. 
 
 Phi. Why, if it were ? 
 
 Bel. Then, sir, we would have ask'd you pardon. 
 
 Phi. And have hope to enjoy it ? 
 
 Are. Epjoy it? ay. 
 
 Phi. Would you, indeed ? Be plain. 
 
 BeL We would, my lord. 
 
 Phi. Forgive me, then. 
 
 Are. So, so. 
 
 Bel. 'Tis as it should be now. 
 
 Phi. Lead to my death. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IIL 
 
 A State-room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter King, Dion, Cleremont, and Thrasilink. 
 
 King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince ? 
 
 Cle. So please you, sir, he's gone to see the city, 
 
 1 servant— lo-ftv. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 259 
 
 And the new platform, with some gentlemen 
 Attending on him. 
 
 King. Is the princess ready- 
 To bring her prisoner out? 
 
 Thra. She waits your grace. 
 
 King. Tell her we stay. 
 
 Dion. King, you may be deceived yet : {Aside. 
 The head you aim at cost more setting on 
 Than to be lost so lightly. If it must off. 
 Like a wild overflow, that swoops before him 
 A golden stack, and with it shakes down bridges, 
 Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose cable roots 
 Held out a thousand storms, a thousand thunders, 
 And, so made mightier, takes whole villages 
 Upon his back, and, in that heat of pride, 
 Charges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces, 
 And lays them desolate ; so shall thy head, 
 Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands. 
 That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice, 
 In thy red ruins. 
 
 Enter Philastek, Akethusa, and Bellabio in a 
 robe and garland. 
 King. How now ! what a masque is this ." 
 Bel. Eight royal sir, I should 
 Sing you an epithalamium of these lovers. 
 But, having lost my best airs with my fortunes. 
 And wanting a celestial harp to strike 
 This blessed union on, thus in glad story 
 I give you all. These two fair cedar branches. 
 The noblest of the mountain, where they grew 
 Straightest and tallest, under whose still shades 
 The worthier beasts have made their lairs, and 
 
 slept 
 Free from the Sirian* star, and the fell thunder- 
 stroke, 
 Eree from the clouds, 
 
 When they were big with humour, and deliver'd, 
 In thousand spouts, their issues to the earth : 
 Oh, there was none but silent quiet there ! 
 Till never-pleased Fortune shot up shrubs. 
 Base under-brambles, to divorce these branches ; 
 And for a while they did so ; and did reign 
 Over the mountain, and choke up his beauty 
 With brakes, rude thorns, and thistles, till the sun 
 Scorch'd them, even to the roots, and dried them 
 
 there : 
 And now a gentle gale hath blown again, 
 That made these branches meet, and twine to- 
 gether, 
 Never to be divided. The god, that sings 
 His holy numbers over marriage-beds. 
 Hath knit their noble hearts, and here they stand 
 Your children, mighty king ; and I have done. 
 King. How, how? 
 
 Are. Sir, if you love it, in plain truth 
 ''or now there is no masking in't) this gentleman. 
 The prisoner that you gave me, is become 
 My keeper, and through all the bitter throes 
 Your jealousies and his ill fate have wrought him, 
 Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at length 
 Arrived here my dear husband. 
 
 King. Yom- dear husband ! 
 Call in the captain of the citadel ; 
 There you shall keep yom- wedding. I'll provide 
 A masque shall make your Hymen turn his saffron 
 Into a sullen coat, and sing sad requiems 
 To your departing souls. Blood shall put out 
 Your torches ; and, instead of gaudy flowers 
 About your wanton necks, an axe shall hang 
 Like a prodigious meteor, 
 
 Keady to crop your loves' sweets. Hear, ye gods ! 
 From this time do I shake all title off 
 Of father to this woman, this base woman ; 
 And what there is of vengeance, in a lion 
 
 * Sirian star— i.e. Sinus. 
 
 (Fc 
 
 Chaf'd among dogs, or robb'd of his dear young, 
 The same, enforced more terrible, more mighty, 
 Expect from me ! 
 
 Are. Sir, by that little life I have left to swear by, 
 There's nothing that can stir me from myself. 
 What I have done, I have done without repent- 
 ance; 
 For death can be no bugbear unto me. 
 So long as Pharamond is not my headsman. 
 
 Dion. Sweet peace upon thy soul, thou worthy 
 maid. 
 Whene'er thou diest ! For this time I'll excuse 
 
 thee, 
 Or be thy prologue. 
 
 Phi. Sir, let me speak next ; 
 And let my dying words be better with you 
 Than my dull living actions. If you aim 
 At the dear life of this sweet innocent. 
 You are a tyrant and a savage monster ; 
 Your memory shall be as foul behind you, 
 As you are, living ; all your better deeds 
 Shall be in water writ, but this in marble ; 
 No chronicle shall speak you, though your own. 
 But for the shame of men. No monument 
 (Though high and big as Pelion) shall be able 
 To cover this base murder. Make it rich 
 With brass, with purest gold, and shining jasper, 
 Like the pyramids ; lay on epitaphs. 
 Such as make great men gods ; my little marble 
 (That only clothes my ashes, not my faults) 
 Shall far outshine it. And, for after issues. 
 Think not so madly of the heavenly wisdoms. 
 That they will give you more for your mad rage 
 Tocut off, unless it be somesnake, or something like 
 Yourself, that in his birth shall strangle you. 
 Eemember my father, king ! There was a fault, 
 But I forgive it. Let that sin persuade you 
 To love this lady : if you have a soul. 
 Think, save her, and be saved. For myself, 
 I have so long expected this glad hour, 
 So languish'd under you, and daily wither'd, 
 That, Heaven knows, it is a joy to die ; 
 I find a recreation in't. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mes. Where is the king ? 
 
 King. Here. 
 
 Mes. Get you to your strength, 
 And rescue the prince Pharamond from danger : 
 He's taken prisoner by the citizens. 
 Fearing ^ the lord Philaster. 
 
 Dion. Oh, brave followers ! 
 Mutiny, my fine dear countrymen, mutiny ! 
 Now, my brave valiant foromen,^ show your 
 In honour of your mistresses. [weapons 
 
 Enter another Messenger. 
 
 Mes. Arm, arm, arm ! 
 
 King. A thousand devils take 'em ! 
 
 Dion. A thousand blessings on 'em! 
 
 Mes. Arm, king ! The city is in mutiny, 
 Led by an old grey rufiian, who comes on 
 In rescue of the lord Philaster. [Exit. 
 
 King. Away to th' citadel : I'll see them safe. 
 And then cope with these burghers. Let the guard 
 And all the gentlemen give strong attendance. 
 [Exit with Arethusa, Philastee, Bellario, 
 guarded. 
 
 Cle. The city up ! this was above our wishes. 
 
 Dion. A.J, and the marriage too. By my life, 
 This noble lady has deceived us all. 
 A plague upon myself, a thousand plagues, 
 For having such unworthy thoughts of her dear 
 honour ! 
 
 1 Fearing— YtSLrmg for. — ^Dyce. 
 2/oremen— see note 9, col. 1, next page. 
 
26o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Oh, I could beat myself ! or, do you beat me, 
 And I'll li>eat you ; for we had all one thought. 
 
 Cle. No, no, 'twill but lose time. 
 
 Dion. You say true. Are your swords sharp ? 
 Well, my dear countrymen, What-ye-lacks,^ if 
 you continue, and fall not back upon the first 
 broken skin, I'll have you chronicled and chro- 
 nicled, and cut and chronicled, and sung in all- 
 to-be-praised sonnets, and graved- in new brave 
 ballads, that all tongues shall troule^ you in 
 sxcula sseculorum,'^ my kind can-carriers. 
 
 Thru. What if a toy^ take 'em i' th' heels now, 
 and they run all away, and cry, ' The devil take 
 che hindmost?' 
 
 Dio7i. Then the same devil take the foremost 
 too, and souse him for his breakfast ! If they all 
 prove cowards, my curses fly amongst them, and 
 be speeding! May they have murrains rain to 
 keep the gentlemen at home, unbound in easy 
 frieze! May the moths branch « their velvets, 
 and their silks only be worn before sore eyes! 
 May their false lights undo 'em, and discover 
 presses, holes, stains, and oldness in their stuffs, 
 and make them shop-rid ! May they keep whores 
 and horses, and break ; and live mewed up with 
 necks of beef and turnips ! May they have many 
 children, and none like the father! May they 
 know no language but that gibberish they prattle 
 to their parcels; unless it be the goatish^ Latin 
 they write in their bonds ; and may they write 
 that false, and lose their debts ! 
 
 Enter the King. 
 
 King. Now the vengeance of all the gods con- 
 found them ; how they swarm together ! What a 
 hum they raise ! Devils choke your wild throats ! 
 If a man had need to use their valours, he must 
 pay a brokage for it, and then bring 'em on, and 
 they will fight like sheep. 'Tis Philaster, none 
 but Philaster, must allay this heat. They will not 
 hear me speak, but fling dirt at me, and call me 
 tyrant. Oh, r-un, dear friend, and bring the lord 
 Philaster. Speak him fair ; call him prince ; do 
 him all the courtesy you can ; commend me to 
 him ! Oh, my wits, my wits ! ^Exit Cleremont. 
 
 Dion. Oh, my brave countrymen ! as I live, I 
 will not buy a pin out of your walls for this. 
 Nay, you shall cozen me, and I'll thank you ; and 
 send you brawn and bacon, and soil ® you every 
 long vacation a brace of foremen, » that at Michael- 
 mas shall come up fat and kicking. 
 
 King. What they will do with this poor prince 
 the gods know, and I fear. 
 
 Dion. Why, sir, they'll flay him, and make 
 church-buckets on's skin, to quench rebellion ; 
 then clap a rivet in's sconce,^" and hang him up 
 for a sign. 
 
 Enter Cleremont with Philaster. 
 
 King. Oh, worthy sir, forgive me ! Do not make 
 Your miseries and my faults meet together, 
 To bring a greater danger. Be yourself 
 Still sound amongst diseases. I have wrong'd 
 you, 
 
 1 What-ye-lacks — i.e. shopkeepers, from the phrase 
 they used to passers-by. 
 
 2 graved — Dyce reads bawled. 
 
 3 troule or trowl — to push about the glass in drinking; 
 here to sing, or push about tlie song. 
 
 * ' To all eternity.' 
 
 * toy — whim.— Dyoe. 
 
 * branch — cut into branches or figures. 
 
 "^ goatish.— Gothic is another reading; goatish means 
 rank, barbarous. 
 
 * soil — fatten. 
 
 ^ foremen— DycQ thinks this a cant term for geese. 
 •• sconce— head. 
 
 And though I find it last, and beaten to it. 
 Let first your goodness know it. Calm the people. 
 And be what you were boi'n to. Take your love, 
 And with her my repentance, all my wishes, 
 And all my prayers. By the gods, my heart 
 
 speak this ; 
 And if the least fall from me not perform'd. 
 May I be struck with thunder ! 
 
 Phi. Mighty sir, 
 I will not do your greatness so much wrong, 
 As not to make your word truth. Free the 
 
 princess, 
 And the poor boy, and let me stand the shock 
 Of this mad sea-breach ; which I'll either turn, 
 Or perish with it. 
 
 King. Let your own word free them. 
 
 Phi. Then thus I take my leave, kissing your 
 hand, 
 And hanging on your royal word. Be kingly, 
 And be not moved, sir : I shall bring you peace, 
 Or never bring myself back. 
 
 King. All the gods go with thee ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter an old Captain and Citizens, with 
 Pharamond. 
 
 Cap. Come, my brave myrmidons, let us fall on ! 
 Let our caps swarm, my boys, and your nimble 
 
 tongues 
 Forget your mother gibberish, of * what do you 
 
 lack,' 
 And set your mouths up, children, till your palates 
 Fall frighted, half a fathom past the euro 
 Of bay-salt and gross pepper. And then cry 
 Philaster ! brave Philaster ! Let Philaster 
 Be deeper in request, my ding-dongs. 
 My pairs of dear indentures, kings of clubs,* 
 Than your cold water-camlets, or your paintings 
 Spitted ^ with copper. Let not your hasty silks, 
 Or your branch'd cloth of bodkin,^ or your tissues, 
 Dearly beloved of spiced cake and custard. 
 Your Eobinhoods, Scarlets and Johns,* tie your 
 
 affections 
 In darkness to your shops. No, dainty duckers,^ 
 Up with your three-piled ^ spirits, your wrought 
 
 valours ; 
 And let your uncut choler make the king feel 
 The measure of your mightiness. Philaster! 
 Cry, mv rose-nobles,^ cry! 
 All. Philaster! Philaster! 
 Cap. How do you like this, my lord prince ? 
 These are mad boys, I tell you : these are things 
 That will not strike their top-sails to a foist ; * 
 And let a man-of-war, an argosy, 
 Hull and cry cockles. 
 
 1 clubs — the favourite weapons of tlie apprentices. 
 
 2 Spitted — grossly stitched. — Cotgrave. 
 
 3 cloth of bodkin {ov bandkin)— the richest kind of stuflF, 
 the web being gold, and the woof silk, with embroidery. 
 — Nares, who derives it from Bagdad. 
 
 * Scarlet and John were two of Kobin Hood's favourite 
 dependents. 
 
 5 duckers— those who duck or bow, cringers. 
 
 * three-piled — applied originally to velvet, and used 
 metaphorically for anytliing of superior quality. 
 
 7 A rose-noble was a gold coin, originally struck in 
 Edward iii's reign, and stamped with a rose, worth 
 6s. 8d. ; in our author's time worth far more. — Webek. 
 
 ^ foist — a small vessel with sails and oars; fuste in 
 French. The text evidently alludes to the Lord Mayor's, 
 or any other barge gorgeously painted, in reference to 
 the gaudy apparel and effeminacy of Pharamond. To 
 cry cockles, according to Grose, is to be hanged. EuU 
 means to float. 
 
BE A UMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 26 r 
 
 Pha. Why, you rtide slave, do you know what 
 
 you do ? 
 
 Cap. My pretty prince of puppets, we do know ; 
 
 And give your greatness warning, that you talk 
 
 No more such bug-words,^ or that soldered crown 
 
 Shall be scratch'd with a musquet. Dear prince 
 
 Pippin, 
 Down with your noble blood ; or, as I live, _ 
 I'll have you coddled. — Let him loose, ray spirits ! 
 Make us a round ring with your bills,^ my Hectors, 
 And let us see what this trim man dares do. 
 Now, sir, have at you ! Here I lie, 
 And with this swashing blow (do you see, sweet 
 
 prince ?) 
 I could hock your grace, and hang you up cross- 
 
 legg'd. 
 Like a hare at a poulter's, and do this with this 
 
 wiper. 
 Pha. You will not see me murder'd, wicked 
 
 villains ? 
 
 1 Cit. Yes, indeed, will we, sir. We have not 
 seen one for a great while. . 
 
 Cap. He would have weapons, would he ? 
 Give him a broadside, my brave boys, with your 
 
 pikes ; 
 Branch me his skin in flowers like a sattin, 
 And between every flower a mortal cut. 
 Your royalty shall ravel ! Jag him, gentlemen : 
 I'll have him cut to the kell,3 then down the seams. 
 Oh, for a whip to make him galloon-laces ! 
 I'll have a coach- whip. 
 
 Pha. Oh, spare me, gentlemen! 
 
 Cap. Hold, hold; 
 The man begins to fear, and know himself; 
 He shall for this time only be seel'd * up. 
 With a feather through his nose, that he may only 
 See heaven, and think whither he's going. Nay, 
 My beyond-sea sir, we will proclaim you. You 
 
 would be king ! 
 Thou tender heir-apparent to a church-ale, s 
 Thou slight prince of single sarcenet; 
 Thou royal ring-tail," fit to fly at nothing 
 But poor men's poultry, and have every boy 
 Beat thee from that too with his bread and butter ! 
 
 Pha. Gods keep me from these hell-hounds ! 
 
 2 Cit. Shall's geld him, captain ? 
 
 Cap. No, you shall spare his dowcets, my dear 
 donsels.^ 
 As you respect the ladies, let them flourish : 
 The curses of a longing woman kill 
 As speedy as a plague, boys. 
 
 1 Cit. I'll have a leg, that's certain. 
 
 2 Cit. I'll have an arm. 
 
 3 Cit. I'll have his nose, and at mine own charge 
 build 
 
 A college, and clap it upon the gate. 
 
 4 Cit. I'll have his little gut to string a kit ^ with ; 
 For, certainly, a royal gut will sound like silver. 
 
 Pha. 'Would they were in thy belly, and I past 
 My pain once ! 
 
 5 Cit. Good captain, let me have his liver to feed 
 ferrets. 
 
 Cap. Who will have parcels else ? speak. 
 
 1 hug-words— ngij words, calculated to frighten and 
 disgust ; same as bug in bug-bear. 
 
 2 6i7?s— pikes or halberds. 
 
 3 kell—Q&vA. 
 
 4 seer d— a. term in falconry. When a hawk is first taken, 
 a thread is run through its eyelids, so that she may see 
 very little, to make her the better endure the hood.— 
 Theobald. 
 
 5 church-ale— a church festival. 
 
 « ring-tail— a, sort of kite with a whitish tail.— Theo- 
 bald. 
 
 ^ donsels— youths-, old Fr. damoisel, low Lat. domi- 
 cellus. 
 
 » i:H — a small violin. 
 
 Pha. Good gods, consider me ! I shall be tor- 
 tured. 
 
 1 Cit. Captain, I'll give you the trimmings of 
 your two-hand sword. 
 
 And let me have his skin to make false scabbards. 
 
 2 Cit. He has no horns, sir, has he ? 
 
 Cap. No, sir, he's a pollard. What wouldst 
 thou do 
 With horns ? 
 
 1 Cit. Oh, if he had, I would have made 
 Eare hafts and whistles of 'em ; but his shin-bones, 
 If they be sound, shall serve me. 
 
 Enter Philaster. 
 
 All. Long live Philaster, the brave prince Phi- 
 laster ! 
 
 Phi. I thank you, gentlemen. But why are these 
 Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach your 
 
 hands 
 Uncivil trades ? 
 
 Cap. My royal Rosiclear,i 
 We are thy myrmidons, thy guard, thy roarers ! 
 And when thy noble body is in durance, 
 Thus do we clap our musty murrions ^ on, 
 And trace the streets in terror. Is it peace, 
 Thou Mars of men ? is the king sociable, 
 And bids thee live ? art thou above thy foemen, 
 And free as Phoebus ? Speak. If not, this stand 
 Of royal blood shall be abroach, a-tilt, 
 And run even to the lees of honour. 
 
 Phi. Hold, and be satisfied ; I am myself ; 
 Free as my thoughts are. By the gods, I am. 
 
 Cap. Art thou the dainty darling of the king ? 
 Art thou the Hylas to our Hercules ? 
 Do the lords bow, and the regarded scarlets 
 Kiss their gumm'd golls,^ and cry, ' We are your 
 
 servants ? ' 
 Is the court navigable, and the presence stuck 
 With flags of friendship.' If not, we are thy 
 
 castle. 
 And this man sleeps. 
 
 Phi. I am what I do desire to be, your friend ; 
 I am what I was born to be, your prince. 
 
 Pha. Sir, there is some humanity in you ; 
 You have a noble soul ; forget my name. 
 And know my misery. Set me safe abroad 
 From these Avild cannibals, and, as I live, 
 I'll quit this land for ever. There is nothing, 
 Perpetual imprisonment, cold, hunger, sickness 
 Of all sorts, of all dangers, and all together, 
 The worst company of the worst men, madness, 
 
 age. 
 To be as many creatures as a woman, 
 And do as all they do ; nay, to despair ; 
 But I would rather make it a new nature, 
 And live with all those, than endure one hour 
 Amongst these wild dogs. 
 
 Phi. I do pity you. — Friends, discharge your 
 fears ; 
 Deliver me the prince : I'll warrant you, 
 I shall be old enough to find my safety. 
 
 3 Cit. Good sir, take heed he does not hurt you : 
 He is a fierce man, I can tell you, sir. 
 
 Cap. Prince, by your leave, I'll have a sur- 
 cingle,* 
 And mail you like a hawk. 
 
 * Rosidear was a knight of romance, brother to the 
 Knight of the Sun. 
 
 2 murrions or morions — steel caps or plain open 
 helmets. — Nares. 
 
 3 goiis — hands or paws, which they gummed with some 
 kind of perfume. 
 
 * surcingle generally means the cincture or girdle of 
 a cassock, but Weber thinks it here means the hood in 
 whicli the hawk was mailed or shrouded ; Dyce thinks 
 the Captain merely means to say he would pinion him. 
 
262 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Phi. Away, away ; there is no danger in him : 
 Alas, he had rather sleep to shake his fit off. 
 Look ye, friends, how gently he leads. Upon 
 
 my word, 
 He's tame enough, he needs no further watching. 
 Good my friends, go to your houses. 
 And by me have your pardons, and my love; 
 And know there shall be nothing in my power 
 You may deserve, but you shall have your wishes. 
 To give you more thanks, were to flatter you. 
 Continue still your love ; and, for an earnest, 
 Drink this. 
 All. Long may'st thou live, brave prince ! brave 
 
 prince ! brave prince ! 
 
 [Exeunt Philaster and Pharamond. 
 Cap. Go thy ways! Thou art the king of 
 
 courtesy ! — 
 Fall off again, my sweet youths. Come, 
 And every man trace to his house again, 
 And hang his pewter up ; then to the tavern, 
 And bring your wives in muffs. We will have 
 
 music ; 
 And the red grape shall make us dance, and rise, 
 
 boys. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE T. 
 The Palace. 
 
 Enter Kikg, Arethusa, Galatea, Megra, 
 Cleremont, Diox, Thrasiline, Bellario, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 King. Is it appeas'd ? 
 
 Dion. Sir, all is quiet as the dead of night, 
 As peaceable as sleep. My lord Philaster 
 Brings on the piince himself. 
 
 King. Kind gentlemen ! 
 I will not break the least word I have given 
 In promise to him : I have heap'd a world 
 Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope 
 To wash away. 
 
 Enter Philaster and Pharamoxd. 
 
 Cle. My lord is come. 
 
 King. My son ! 
 Blest be the time, that I have leave to call 
 Such virtue mine ! Now thou art in mine arms, 
 Methinks I have a salve unto my breast. 
 For all the stings that dwell there. Streams of 
 
 grief 
 That I have wrong'd thee, and as much of joy 
 That I repent it, issue from mine eyes : 
 Let them appease thee. Take thy right; take 
 
 her; 
 She is thy right too ; and forget to urge 
 My vexed soul with that I did before. 
 
 Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory, 
 Past and forgotten. — For you, prince of Spain, 
 Whom I have thus redeem'd, you have full leave 
 To make an honourable voyage home. 
 And if you would go furnish'd to your realm 
 With fair provision, I do see a lady, 
 Methinks, would gladly bear you company : 
 How hke you this piece ? 
 
 Meg. Sir, he likes it well ; 
 For he hath tried it, and found it worth 
 His princely liking. 
 
 I know your meaning. I am not the first 
 That Nature taught to seek a fellow forth : 
 Can shame remain perpetually in me. 
 And not in others 7 or, have princes salves 
 To cure ill names, that meaner people want.' 
 
 Phi. What mean you ? 
 
 Meg. You must get another ship. 
 To bear the princess and her boy together. 
 
 Dion. How now ! 
 
 Meg. Others took me, and I took her and him 
 At that all women may be ta'en some time. 
 Ship us all four, my lord ; we can endure 
 Weather and wind alike. 
 
 King. Clear thou thyself, or know not me for 
 father. 
 
 Are. This earth, how false it is ! What means 
 is left for me 
 To clear myself ? It lies in your belief. 
 My lords, believe me ; and let all things else 
 Struggle together to dishonour me. 
 
 Bel. Oh, stop your ears, great king, that I may 
 speak 
 As freedom would ; then I will call this lady 
 As base as are her actions ! Hear me, sir : 
 Believe your heated blood when it rebels 
 Against your reason, sooner than this lady. 
 
 Meg. By this good light, he bears it hand- 
 somely. 
 
 Phi. This lady ? I will sooner trust the wind 
 With feathers, or the troubled sea with pearl, 
 Than her with any thing. Believe her not! 
 Why, think you, if I did believe her words, 
 I would outlive 'em ? Honour cannot take 
 Kevenge on you ; then, what were to be known 
 But death ? 
 
 King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit 
 Between us. But I must request of you 
 One favour, and will sadly be denied.^ 
 
 Phi. Command, whate'er it be. 
 
 King. Swear to be true 
 To what you promise. 
 
 Phi. By the powers above, 
 Let it not be the death of her or him, 
 And it is granted. 
 
 King. Bear away that boy 
 To torture : I Avill have her clear'd or buried. 
 
 Phi. Oh, let me call my words back, worthy 
 sir! 
 Ask something else ! Bury my life and right 
 In one poor grave ; but do not take away 
 My life and fame at once. 
 
 King. Away with him I It stands iiTevocable. 
 
 Phi. Turn all your eyes on me ; Here stands 
 a man. 
 The falsest and the basest of this world. 
 Set swords against this breast, some honest man, 
 For I have lived till I am pitied ! 
 My former deeds were hateful, but this last 
 Is pitiful ; for I, unwillingly, 
 Have given the dear preserver of my life 
 Unto his torture ! Is it in the power 
 Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live ? 
 
 [Offers to hill himself. 
 
 Are. Dear sir, be patient yet ! Oh, stay that 
 hand. 
 
 King. Sirs, strip that boy. 
 
 Dion. Come, sir ; your tender flesh 
 Will try your constancy. 
 
 Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen I 
 
 Dion. No!— Help, sirs. 
 
 Bel. Will you torture me ? 
 
 King. Haste there ! 
 Why stay you ? 
 
 Bel. Then I shall not break my vow. 
 You know, just gods, though I discover all. 
 
 King. How's tliat ? Will he confess ? 
 
 Dion. Sir, so he says. 
 
 King. Speak then. 
 
 Bel. Great king, if you command 
 This lord to talk with me alone, my tongue, 
 Urged by my heart, shall utter all the thoughts 
 
 1 will sadly he denfed— shall be very sorry to be denied. 
 -Theobald. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 263 
 
 My youth hath known ; and stranger things than 
 
 these 
 You hear not often. 
 
 King. Walk aside with him. — 
 
 Dion. Why speak'st thou not ? 
 
 Bel. Know you this face, my lord ? 
 
 Dion. No. 
 
 Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like .? 
 
 Dion. Yes, I have seen the like, but readily 
 I know not where. 
 
 Bel. I have been often told 
 In court of one Euphrasia, a lady, 
 And daughter to you ; betwixt whom and me 
 They, that would flatter my bad face, would 
 
 swear 
 There was such strange resemblance, that we 
 
 two 
 Could not be known asunder, dress'd alike. 
 
 Dion. By heaven ! and so there is. 
 
 Bel. For her fair sake. 
 Who now doth spend the springtime of her life 
 In holy pilgrimage, move to the king 
 That I may 'scape this torture. 
 
 Dion. But thou speak'st 
 As like Euphrasia, as thou dost look. 
 How came it to thy knowledge that she lives 
 In pilgrimage 1 
 
 Bel. I know it not, my lord ; 
 But I have heard it ; and do scarce believe it. 
 
 Dion. Oh, my shame ! Is it possible .'' Draw 
 near. 
 That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she, 
 Or else her murderer ? Where wert thou born ? 
 
 Bel. In Siracusa. 
 
 Dion. What's thy name ? 
 
 Bel. Euphrasia. 
 
 Dion. Oh, 'tis just, 'tis she ! 
 Now I do know thee. Oh that thou hadst died, 
 And I had never seen thee nor my shame ! 
 How shall I own thee "i Shall this tongue of 
 
 mine 
 E'er call thee daughter more ? 
 
 Bel. 'Would I had died indeed ; I wish it too : 
 And so I must have done by vow, ere published 
 What I have told, but that there was no means 
 To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this, 
 The princess is all clear. 
 
 King. What have you done ? 
 
 Dion. All is discover'd. 
 
 Phi. Why then hold you me ? 
 
 {He offers to stab himself. 
 All is discover'd ! Pray you, let me go. 
 
 King. Stay him. 
 
 Are. What is discover'd ? 
 
 Dion. Why, my shame ! 
 It is a woman. Let her speak the rest. 
 
 Phi. How? That again! 
 
 Dion. It is a woman. 
 
 Phi. Bless'd be you powers that favour inno- 
 cence ! 
 
 King. Lay hold upon that lady. 
 
 [Megra is seized. 
 
 Phi. It is a woman, sir ! Hark, gentlemen ! 
 It is a woman ! Arethusa, take 
 My soul into thy breast, that would be gone 
 With joy. It is a woman ! Thou art fair, 
 And virtuous still to ages, in despite 
 Of malice. 
 
 King. Speak you, where lies his shame ? 
 
 Bel. I am his daughter. 
 
 Phi. The gods are just. 
 
 Dion. I dare accuse none ; but, before you two. 
 The virtue of our age, I bend my knee 
 Eor mercy. 
 
 Phi. Take it freely ; for, I know, 
 Though what thou didst were indiscreetly done, 
 'Twas meant weU. 
 
 Are. And for me, 
 I have a power to pardon sins, as oft 
 As any man has power to wrong me. 
 
 Cle. Noble and worthy ! 
 
 Phi. But, Bellario, 
 (For I must call thee still so) tell me why 
 Though didst conceal thy sex? It was a fault; 
 A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds 
 Of truth outweigh'd it. All these jealousies 
 Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover'd 
 What now we know. 
 
 Bel. My father oft would speak 
 Your worth and virtue ; and, as I did grow 
 More and more apprehensive,^ I did thirst 
 To see the man so praised ; but yet all this 
 Was but a maiden longing, to be lost 
 As soon as found ; till sitting in my window. 
 Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, 
 I thought (but it was you), enter our gates. 
 My blood flew out, and back again as fast, 
 As I had puff'd it forth, and suck'd it in 
 Like breath. Then was I call'd away in haste 
 To entertain you. Never was a man. 
 Heaved from a sheep-cote to a scoptre, raised 
 So high in thoughts as I. You left a kissj 
 Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep 
 From you for ever. I did hear you talk. 
 Far above singing ! After you were gone, 
 I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd 
 What stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love ; 
 Yet far from lust ; for could I but have lived 
 In presence of you, I had had my end. 
 For this I did delude my noble father 
 With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myseK 
 In habit of a boy ; and, for I knew 
 My birth no match for you, I was past hope 
 Of having you ; and understanding well, 
 That when I made discovery of my sex, 
 I could not stay with you, I made a vow, 
 By all the most religious things a maid 
 Could call together, never to be known. 
 Whilst there was hope to hide me from men*s 
 
 eyes. 
 For other than I seem'd, that I might ever 
 Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount. 
 Where first you took me up. 
 
 King. Search out a match 
 Within our kingdom, where and when thou wilt, 
 And I will pay thy dowry ; and thyself 
 Wilt well deserve him. 
 
 Bel. Never, sir, will I 
 Marry ; it is a thing within my vow. 
 But if I may have leave to seiwe the princess, 
 To see the virtues of her lord and her, 
 I shall have hope to live. 
 
 Are. I, Phil aster. 
 Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady 
 Dress'd like a page to serve you ; nor will I 
 Suspect her living here. — Come, live with me ; 
 Live free as I do. She that loves my lord, 
 Curst be the wife that hates her ! 
 
 Phi. I grieve such virtue should be laid in 
 earth 
 Without an heir. Hear me, my royal father : 
 Wrong not the freedom of our souls so much, 
 To think to take revenge of that base woman ; 
 Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free 
 As she was born, saving from shame and sin. 
 
 King. Set her at liberty ; but leave the court ; 
 This is no place for such ! You, Pharamond, 
 Shall have free passage, and a conduct home 
 Worthy so great a prince. — When you come 
 there. 
 
 1 apprehensive— qmc^ to apprehend or understaud.— i 
 
 WEBiiK. 
 
264 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Eemember, 'twas your faults that lost you her, 
 And not my purposed "will. 
 
 Pha. I do confess, 
 Renowned sir. 
 
 King. Last, join your hands in one. Enjoy, 
 Philaster, 
 This kingdom, which is yours, and after me 
 Whatever I call mine. My blessing on you ! 
 
 All happy hours be at your marriage-joys, 
 That you may grow yourselves over all lands, 
 And live to see your plenteous branches spring 
 Wherever there is sun ! Let princes learn 
 By this, to rule the passions of their blood. 
 For what Heaven wills can never be withstood. 
 
 {Exeunt omnes. 
 
 A KING AND NO KING. 
 
 ACTED AT THE GLOBE BY HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 WRITTEN BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. 
 
 At London, printed for Thomas Walkley. 1619. 
 
 ^ramntb ^jersonae. 
 
 Arbaces, King oflheria. 
 
 TiGRANES, King of Armenia. 
 
 GoBRiAs, Lord-Protector, and Father of Arbaces. 
 
 Bacurius, a Lord. 
 
 LygOnes, Father of Spaconia. 
 Three Gentlemen. 
 Two Swordmen. 
 Three Men. 
 Philip, a Servant. 
 
 A Messenger. 
 
 A Servant to Bacurius. 
 
 A Boy. 
 
 Arane, the Queen-Mother. 
 Panthea, her Daughter. 
 Spaconia, a Lady, Daughter of Lygones. 
 Mandane, a Waiting-woman; and other Attend- 
 ants. 
 Two Citizen's Wives, and another Woman. 
 
 Scene — During the First Act, on the Frontiers of Armenia; ofterzoards in the 
 Metropolis of Iberia. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE 1. 
 
 The Camp of Arbaces, on the Frontiers of 
 Armenia. 
 
 Enter Mardonius and Bessus.* 
 
 Mar. Bessus, the king has made a fair hand 
 on't ; he has ended the wars at a blow. 'Would 
 my sword had a close basket hilt, to hold wine, 
 and the blade would make knives ; for we shall 
 have nothing but eating and drinking. 
 
 Bes. We, that are commanders, shall do well 
 enough. 
 
 Mar. 'Faith, Bessus, such commanders as thou 
 may. I had as lieve set thee perdu ^ for a pudding 
 i' th' dark, as Alexander the Great. 
 
 Bes. 1 love these jests exceedingly. 
 
 Mar. 1 think thou lov'st 'em better than quar- 
 relling, Bessus ; I'll say so much in thy behalf. 
 And yet thou'rt valiant enough upon a retreat : I 
 think thou would'st kill any man that stopp'd 
 thee, an 3 thou couldst. 
 
 Bes. But was not this a brave combat, Mar- 
 donius ? 
 
 Mar. Why, didst thou see it ? 
 
 1 Bessus is by Theobald considered a fine copy of 
 Shakespeare's inimitable Falstaff. 
 
 2 perdu — from the French enfans perdus, ' forlorn 
 hope.' Here it means in ambustu 
 
 * an— if. 
 
 Bes. You stood with me. 
 
 3Iar. 1 did so ; but methought thou wink'd'st 
 eveiy blow they strake.^ 
 
 Bes. Well, I believe there are better soldiers 
 than I, that never saw two princes fight in lists. 
 
 Mar. By my troth, I think so too, Bessus; 
 many a thousand. But, certainly, all that are 
 worse than thou have seen as much. 
 
 Bes. 'Twas bravely done of our king. 
 
 3far. Yes, if he had not ended the wars. I'm 
 glad thou dar'st talk of such dangerous businesses. 
 
 Bes. To take a prince prisoner in the heart of 
 his own country, in single combat ! 
 
 Mar. See how thy blood cruddles ^ at this ! I 
 think thou couldst be contented to be beaten i' 
 this passion. 
 
 Bes. Shall I tell you truly? 
 
 Mar. Ay. 
 
 Bes. I could willingly ventiu'e for it. 
 
 Ma7'. Hum ! no venture neither, good Bessus. 
 
 Bes. Let me not live, if I do not think it is a 
 braver piece of service than that I'm so famed 
 for. 
 
 Mar. Why, art thou famed for any valour ? 
 
 Bes. I famed ? Ay, I warrant you. 
 
 Mar. I am very heartily glad on't. I have been 
 with thee ever since thou cam'st to the wars, and 
 this is the first word that ever I heard on't. Pr'y- 
 thee, who fames thee ? 
 
 * stroke — old past tense of strike. 
 2 cruddles — curdles. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 265 
 
 Bes. The Christian world. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis heathenishly done of 'em ; in my 
 conscience, thou deserv'st it not. 
 
 Bes. I ha' done good service. 
 
 Mar. I do not know how thou may'st wait 
 of ^ a man in's chamber, or thy agility in shifting 
 a trencher; but otherwise no service, good Bessus. 
 
 Bes. You saw me do the service yourself. 
 
 Mar. Not so hasty, sweet Bessus ! Where was 
 it ? is the place vanish'd ? 
 
 Bes. At Bessus' Desperate Redemption. 
 
 Mar. Bessus' Desperate Eedemption! where's 
 that? 
 
 Bes. There, where I redeem'd the day; the 
 place bears my name. 
 
 Mar. Pr'ythee, who christen'd it ? 
 
 Bes. The soldier.^ 
 
 Mar. If I were not a very merrily disposed 
 man, what would become of thee ? One that had 
 but a grain of choler in the whole composition of 
 his body, would send thee of an errand to the 
 worms, for putting thy name upon that field. 
 Did not I beat thee there, i' th' head o' th' troops, 
 with a truncheon, because thou wouldst needs 
 run away with thy company, when we should 
 charge the enemy ? 
 
 Bes. True ; but I did not run. 
 
 Mar. Right, Bessus : I beat thee out on't. 
 
 Bes. But came not I up when the day was gone, 
 and redeem'd all ? 
 
 Mar. Thou knowest, and so do I, thou meant'st 
 to fly, and thy fear making thee mistake, thou 
 ran'st upon the enemy ; and a hot charge thou 
 gavesfc ; as, I'll do thee right, thou art furious in 
 running away; and, I think, we owe thy fear for 
 our victory. If I were the king, and were sure 
 thou wouldst mistake always, and run away upon 
 the enemy, thou shouldst be general, by this light. 
 
 Bes. You'll never leave this till I fall foul. 
 
 Mar. No more such words, dear Bessus ; for 
 though I have ever known thee a coward, and 
 therefore durst never strike thee, yet if thou pro- 
 ceed'st, I will allow thee valiant, and beat thee. 
 
 Bes. Come, come, our king's a brave fellow. 
 
 Mar. He is so, Bessus; I wonder how thou 
 com'st to know it. But, if thou wert a man of 
 understanding, I would tell thee, he is vainglo- 
 rious and humble, and angry and patient, and 
 merry and dull, and joyful and sorrowful, in 
 extremities, in an hour. Do not think me thy 
 friend for this ; for if I cared who knew it, thou 
 shouldst not hear it, Bessus. Here he is, with 
 the prey in his foot. 
 
 Enter Arbaces, Tigranes, two Gentlemen, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 ArJ). Thy sadness, brave Tigranes, takes away 
 From my full victory. Am I become 
 Of so small fame, that any man should grieve 
 "When I o'ercome him "> They that placed me here, 
 Intended it an honour, lai'ge enough 
 For the most valiant living, but to dare 
 Oppose me single, though he lost the day. 
 What should afflict you 1 You are free as I. 
 To be my prisoner, is to be more free 
 Than you were formerly. And never think, 
 The man I held worthy to combat me 
 Shall be used servilely. Thy ransom is 
 To take my only sister to thy wife : 
 A heavy one, Tigranes ; for she is 
 A lady, that the neighbour princes send 
 Blanks ' to fetch home. I have been too unkind 
 
 * 0/— on. 
 
 " The soldier — i.e. soldiers or soldiery. 
 3 Blanks — i.e. blank bonds to fill up with whatever 
 conditions Arbaces may please to invent. — Wkbeb. 
 
 To her, Tigranes. She, but nine years old, 
 I left her, and ne'er saw her since. Your wars 
 Have held me long, and taught me, though a youth, 
 The way to victory. She was a pretty child ; 
 Then, I was little better; but now fame 
 Cries loudly on her, and my messengers 
 Make me believe she is a miracle. 
 She'll make you shrink, as I did, with a stroke 
 But of her eye, Tigranes. 
 
 Tigr. Is it the course of 
 Iberia to use their prisoners thus ? 
 Had fortune thrown my name above Arbaces', 
 I should not thus have talk'd ; for in Armenia, 
 We hold it base. You should have kept your 
 
 temper 
 Till you saw home again, where 'tis the fashion, 
 Perhaps, to brag, 
 
 A7'b. Be you my witness, earth, 
 Need I to brag ? Doth not this captive prince 
 Speak me sufficiently, and all the acts 
 That I have wrought upon his suffering land ? 
 Should I then boast.' Where lies that foot of 
 
 ground 
 Within his whole realm, that I have not past, 
 Fighting and conquering. Far then from me 
 Be ostentation. I could tell the world, 
 How I have laid his kingdom desolate. 
 By this sole arm, propp'd by divinity ; 
 Stript him out of his glories ; and have sent 
 The pride of all his youth to people graves ; 
 And made his virgins languish for their loves ; 
 If I would brag. Should I, that have the power 
 To teach the neighbour world humility, 
 Mix with vainglory ? 
 
 Mar. Indeed, this is none ! [^Aside. 
 
 Arb. Tigranes, no ; did I but take delight 
 To stretch my deeds as others do, on words, 
 I could amaze my hearers. 
 
 3Iar. So you do. [_Aside. 
 
 Arb. But he shall wrong his and my modesty, 
 That thinks me apt to boast. After an act 
 Fit for a god to do upon his foe, 
 A little glory in a soldier's mouth 
 Is well becoming ; be it far from vain. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis pity that valour should be thus 
 drunk. \_Aside. 
 
 Arb. I offer you my sister, and you answer, 
 I do insult. A lady that no suit, 
 Nor treasure, nor thy crown, could purchase thee, 
 But that thou fought'st with me. 
 
 Tigr. Though this be worse 
 Than that you spoke before, it strikes not me ; 
 But, that you think to over-grace me with 
 The marriage of your sister, troubles me, 
 I would give worlds for ransoms, were they mine. 
 Rather than have her. 
 
 Arb. See, if I insult 
 That am the conqueror, and for a ransom 
 Offer rich treasure to the conquered, 
 Which he refuses, and I bear his scorn ! 
 It cannot be self-flattery to say. 
 The daughters of your country, set by her. 
 Would see their shame, run home, and blush to 
 
 death 
 At their own foulness.^ Yet she is not fair, 
 Nor beautiful ; those words express her not : 
 They say, her looks have something excellent, 
 That wants a name. Yet were she odious, 
 Her birth deserves the empire of the world. 
 Sister to such a brother ; that hath ta'en 
 Victory prisoner, and throughout the earth 
 Carries her bound, and should he let her loose. 
 She durst not leave him. Nature did her wrong, 
 To print continual conquest on her cheeks, 
 
 1 /ouZness— ugliness.— Dyck. 
 
266 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And make no man -wortliy for her to take, 
 But me, that am too near her ; and as strangely 
 She did for me. But you will think I brag. 
 
 Mar. I do, I'll be sworn. Thy valour and thy 
 passions severed, would have made two excellent 
 fellows in their kinds. I know not, whether I 
 should be sorry thou art so valiant, or so passion- 
 ate. 'Would one of 'em were away ! \A^de. 
 
 Tigr. Do I refuse her, that I doubt her worth ? 
 Were she as vu'tuous as she would be thought ; 
 So perfect, that no one of her own sex 
 Could find a want ; had she to tempting fair,^ 
 That she could wish it off, for damning souls ; 
 I would pay any ransom, twenty lives, 
 Bather than meet her mari-ied in my l^d. 
 Perhaps, I have a love, whei-e I have fix'd 
 Mine eyes, not to be moved, and she on me ; 
 I am not fickle. 
 
 Arh. Is that all the cause ? 
 Think you, you can so knit yourself in love 
 To any other, that her searching sight 
 Cannot dissolve it ? So, before you tried, 
 You thought yourself a match for me in fight. 
 Trust me, Tigranes, she can do as much 
 In peace, as I in war ; she'll conquer too. 
 You shall see, if you have the power to stand 
 The force of her swift looks. If you dislike, 
 I'll send youjhome with love, and name your 
 
 ransom 
 Some other way ; but if she be your choice, 
 She frees you. To Iberia you must. 
 
 Tigr. Sir, I have learn'd a prisoner s sufferance, 
 And will obey. But give me leave to talk 
 In private with some friends before I go. 
 
 Arb. Some two await him forth, and see him 
 safe ; 
 But let him freely send for whom he please, 
 And none dare to disturb his conference ; 
 I will not have him know what bondage is, 
 Till he be free from me. 
 
 [Exit TiGEAXEs with Attendants. 
 
 This prince, Mardonius, 
 Is full of wisdom, valour, all the graces 
 Man can receive. 
 
 Mar. And yet you conquer'd him. 
 
 Arb. And yet I conquer'd him, and could have 
 done, 
 Hadst thou joined with him, though thy name in 
 
 arms 
 Be great. Must all men, that are virtuous, 
 Think suddenly to match themselves with me ? 
 I conquer'd him, and bravely ; did I not ? 
 
 Bes. An' please your majesty, I was afraid at 
 first — 
 
 Mar. When wert thou other ? 
 
 Arh. Of what.? 
 
 Bes. That you would not have spied your best 
 advantages; for your majesty, in my opinion, lay 
 too high; methinks, under favour, you should 
 have lain thus. 
 
 Mar. Like a tailor at a wake. 
 
 Bes. And then, if't please your majesty to re- 
 member, at ono time — by my troth, I wish'd 
 myself wi' you. 
 
 3Iar. By my troth, thou wouldst ha' stunk 
 'em both out o' th' lists. 
 
 Arb. What to do ? 
 
 Bes. To put your majesty in mind of an occa- 
 sion : you lay thus, and Tigraues falsified a blow 
 at your leg, which you, by doing thus, avoided ; 
 but, if you had whipped up your leg thus, and 
 reach'd him on the ear, you had made the blood- 
 royal run about his head. 
 
 1 /air— beauty. 
 
 Mar. What country fence-school didst thou 
 learn that at ? 
 
 Arb. Puff ! Did not I take him nobly ? 
 
 Mar. Why, you did, and you have talk'd 
 enough on't. 
 
 Arb. Talk enough ! 
 Will you confine my words ? By heav'n and 
 
 earth, 
 I were much better be a king of beasts 
 Than such a people ! If I had not patience 
 Above a god, I shoTild be call'd a tyrant 
 Throughout the world! They will offend to 
 
 death 
 Each minute. Let me hear thee speak again, 
 And thou art earth again. Why, this is like 
 Tigranes' speech, that needs would say I 
 
 bragg'd.— 
 Bessus, he said I bragg'd. 
 
 Bes. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Arb. Why dost thou laugh ? 
 By all the world, I'm grown ridiculous 
 To my own subjects. Tie me to a chair. 
 And jest at me ! But T shall make a start, 
 And punish some, that others may take heed 
 How they are haughty. Who will answer me .' 
 He said I boasted : speak, Mardonius, 
 Did I ? — He will not answer. Oh, my temper ! 
 I give you thanks above, that taught my heart 
 Patience ; I can endure his silence. What, will 
 
 none 
 Vouchsafe to give me answer ? Am I grown 
 To such a poor respect ? or do you mean 
 To break my wind ? Speak, speak, some one of 
 
 you. 
 Or else, by heaven — 
 
 1 Gent. So please your — 
 
 Arb. Monstrous ! 
 I cannot be heard out ; they cut me off, 
 As if I were too saucy. I will live 
 In woods, and talk to ti-ees ; they will allow me 
 To end what I begin. The meanest subject 
 Can find a freedom to discharge his soul, 
 And not I. Now it is a time to speak ; 
 I hearken. 
 
 1 Gent. May it please — 
 Arb. I mean not you ; 
 
 Did not I stop you once ? But I am grown 
 To talk but idly : let another speak. 
 
 2 Gent. I hope your majesty — 
 Arb. Thou drawl'st thy words, 
 
 That I must wait an hour, where other men 
 Can hear in instants. Throw your words away, 
 Quick, and to purpose ; I have told you this. 
 
 Bes. An't please your majesty — 
 
 Arb. Wilt thou devour me ? This is such a 
 rudeness 
 As yet you never show'd me. And I want 
 Power to command too ; else, Mardonius 
 Would speak at my request. Were you my king, 
 I would have answer'd at your word, Mardonius. 
 I pray you speak, and truly, did I boast ? 
 
 Mar. Truth will offend you. 
 
 Arb. You take all great care what will offend 
 me. 
 When you dare to utter such things as these. 
 
 Mar. You told Tigranes, you had won his 
 land 
 With that sole arm, propp'd by divinity : 
 Was not that bragging, and a wrong to us 
 That daily ventured lives ? 
 
 Arb. Oh that thy name 
 Were great as mine! 'would I had paid my 
 
 wealth 
 It were as great, as I might combat thee ! 
 I would, through all the regions habitable. 
 Search thee, and, having found thee, with my 
 sword 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 >6y 
 
 Drive thee about the world, 'till I had met 
 Some place that yet man's curiosity- 
 Hath iiiiss'd of. There, there would I strike thee 
 
 dead: 
 Forgotten of mankind, such funeral rites 
 As beasts would give thee, thou shouldst have. 
 Bes. The king rages extremely: shall we 
 
 slink away ? 
 He'll strike us. 
 2 Gent. Content. 
 Arh. There I would make you know, 'twas 
 
 this sole arm. 
 I grant, you were my instruments, and did 
 As I commanded you ; but 'twas this arm 
 Moved you like wheels; it moved you as it 
 
 pleased. — 
 Whither slip you now? What, are you too 
 
 good 
 To wait on me ? Puff ! I had need have temper. 
 That rule such people : I have nothing left 
 At my own choice ! I would I might be private : 
 Mean men enjoy themselves ; but 'tis our curse 
 To have a tumult, that, out of their loves, 
 Will wait on us, whether we will or no. 
 Go, get you gone ! Why, here they stand like 
 
 death : 
 My words move nothing. 
 1 Gent. Must we go ? 
 Bes. I know not. 
 . Arh. I pray you, leave me, sirs. I'm proud 
 
 of this. 
 That you will be entreated from my sight. 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Arbaces and Mardoxius. 
 
 Why, now they leave me all. Mardonius ! 
 
 Mar. Sir. 
 
 Arh. Will you leave me quit© alone? Me- 
 thinks 
 Civility should teach you more than this, 
 If I were but j'our friend. Stay here, and wait. 
 
 Mar. Sir, shall I speak ? 
 
 Arh. Why, you would now think much 
 To be denied ; but I can scarce entreat 
 What I would have. Do, speak. 
 
 Mar. But will you hear me out ? 
 
 Arh. With me you article, to talk thus. Well, 
 I will hear you out. 
 
 Mar. \Jcneels.'] Sir, that I have ever loved 
 you, my sword hath spoken for me ; that I do, if 
 it be doubted, I dare call an oath, a great one, to 
 my witness ; and were you not my king, from 
 amongst men I should have chose you out, to 
 love above the rest. Nor can this challenge 
 thanks ; for my own sake I should have done it, 
 because I would have loved the most deserving 
 man ; for so you are. 
 
 Arh. Alas, Mardonius, rise ! you shall not 
 kneel : 
 We all are soldiers, and all venture lives ; 
 And where there is no difference in men's 
 
 worths, 
 Titles are jests. Who can outvalue thee ? 
 Mardonius, thou hast loved me, and hast wrong ; 
 Thy love is not rewarded ; but, believe, 
 It shall be better. More than friend in arms, 
 My father, and my tutor, good Mardonius ! 
 
 Mar. Sir, you did promise you would hear me 
 out. 
 
 Arh. And so I will: speak freely, for from 
 thee 
 Nothing can come, but worthy things and true. 
 
 Mar. Though you have all this worth, you 
 hold some qualities that do eclipse your virtues. 
 
 Arh. Eclipse my virtues ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, your passions, which are so mani- 
 fold, that they appear even in this. When I 
 commend you, you hug me for that truth ; when 
 
 I speak your faults, you make a start, and fly the 
 hearing. But — 
 
 Arh. When you commend me ! Oh that X 
 should live 
 To need such commendations! If my deeds. 
 Blew not my praise themselves about the earth, 
 I were most wretched ! Spare your idle praise : 
 If thou didst mean to flatter, and shouldst utter 
 Words in my praise, that thou thought'st impu- 
 dence. 
 My deeds should make 'em modest. When you 
 
 praise, 
 I hug you I 'Tis so false, that, wert thou 
 
 worthy, 
 Thou shouldst receive a death, a glorious death 
 From me ! But thou shalt understand thy lies, 
 For shouldst thou praise me into heaven, and 
 
 there 
 Leave me enthroned, I would despise thee 
 
 though 
 As much as now, which is as much as dust. 
 Because I see thy envy. 
 
 Mar. However you will use me after, yet, for 
 your own promise sake, hear me the rest. 
 
 Arh. I will, and after call unto the winds ; 
 For they shall lend as large an ear as I 
 To what you utter. Speak ! 
 
 Mar. Would you but leave these hasty tem- 
 pers, which I do not say take from you all your 
 worth, but darken 'em, then you would shine 
 indeed. 
 
 Arh. Well. 
 
 3{ar. Yet I would have you keep some pas- 
 sions, lest men should take you for a god, your 
 virtues are such. 
 
 Arh. Why, now you flatter. 
 
 Mar. I never understood the word. Were 
 you no king, and free from these wild moods, 
 should I chuse a companion for wit and pleasure, 
 it should be you ; or for honesty to interchange 
 my bosom with, it should be you ; or wisdom to 
 give me counsel, I would pick out you ; or 
 valour to defend my reputation, still I would 
 find you out ; for you are fit to fight for all the 
 world, if it could come in question. Kow I have 
 spoke. Consider to yourself ; find out a use ; if 
 so, then what shall fall to me is not material. 
 
 Arh. Is not material! more than ten such 
 lives 
 As mine, Mardonius. It was nobly said ; 
 Thou hast spoke truth, and boldly such a truth 
 As might offend another. I have been 
 Too passionate and idle ; thou shalt see 
 A swift amendment. But I want those parts 
 You praise me for : I fight for all the world ! 
 Give thee a sword, and thou wilt go as far 
 Beyond me, as thou art beyond in years ; 
 I know thou dar'st and wilt. It troubles me 
 That I should use so rough a phrase to thee : 
 Impute it to my folly, what thou wilt. 
 So thou wilt pardon me. That thou and I 
 Should differ thus ! 
 
 Mar. Why, 'tis no matter, sir. 
 
 Arh. 'Faith, but it is. But thou dost ever 
 take 
 All things I do thus patiently ; for which 
 I never can requite thee, but with love ; 
 And that thou shalt be sure of. Thou and I 
 Have not been merry lately. Pr'ythee tell me, 
 Where hadst thou that same jewel in thine ear ? 
 
 Mar. Why, at the taking of a town. 
 
 Arh. A wench, upon my life, a wench, Mar- 
 donius, 
 Gave thee that jewel. 
 
 3Iar. Wench ! They respect not me ; I'm old 
 and rough, and every limb about me, but that 
 which should, grows stiffex-. I' those businesses, 
 
268 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I may swear I am truly honest ; for I pay justly 
 for what I take, and would be glad to be at a 
 certainty. 
 
 Arh. "Why, do the wenches encroach upon 
 thee ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, by this light, do they. 
 
 Arh. Didst thou sit at an old rent with 'em ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, 'faith. 
 
 Arh. And do they improve themselves "i 
 
 Mar. Ay, ten shillings to me, every new 
 young fellow they come acquainted with. 
 
 Ai'b. How canst live on't 1 
 
 Mar. Why, I think, I must petition to you. 
 
 Arh. Thou shalt take 'm up at my price. 
 
 Enter two Gentlemen and Bessus. 
 
 Mar. Your price ? 
 
 Arh. Ay, at the king's price. 
 
 3Iar. That may be more than I'm worth. 
 
 2 Gent. Is he not merry now ? 
 
 1 Gent. I think not. 
 
 Bes. He is, he is. "We'll show ourselves. 
 
 Arh. Bessus ! I thought you had been in Iberia 
 by this ; I bade you haste. Gobrias will want 
 entertainment for me. 
 
 Bes. An't please your majesty, I have a suit. 
 
 Arh. Is't not lousy, Bessus ? what is't ? 
 
 Bes. I am to carry a lady vnih. me. 
 
 Arh. Then thou hast two suits. 
 
 Bes. And if I can prefer her to the lady Pan- 
 thea, your majesty's sister, to learn fashions, as 
 her friends term it, it will be worth something 
 to me. 
 
 Arh. So many nights' lodgings as 'tis thither ; 
 wiirt not ? 
 
 Bes. I know not that, sir ; but gold I shall be 
 sure of. 
 
 Arh. Why, thou shalt bid her entertain her 
 from me, so thou wilt resolve me one thing. 
 
 Bes. If I can. 
 
 Arh. 'Faith, 'tis a very disputable question ; 
 ' and yet, I think, thou canst decide it. 
 1 Bes. Your majesty has a good opinion of my 
 understanding. 
 
 Arh. I have so good an opinion of it ; 'tis 
 whether thou be valiant. 
 
 Bes. Somebody' has traduced me to you. Do 
 you see this sword, sir ? [Draws. 
 
 Arh. Yes. 
 
 Bes. If I do not make my backbiters eat it to 
 a knife within this week, say I am not valiant. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mes. Health to your majesty ! 
 
 {Delivers a letter. 
 
 Arh. From Gobrias ? 
 
 Mes. Yes, sir. 
 
 Arh. How does he ? is he well ? 
 
 Mes. In perfect health. 
 
 Arh. Take that for thy good news. 
 
 [Gives money. 
 A trustier servant to his prince there lives not, 
 Than is good Gobrias. [Reads. 
 
 1 Gent. The king starts back. 
 Mar. His blood goes back as fast. 
 
 2 Gent. And now it comes again. 
 Mar. He alters strangely. 
 
 Arh. The hand of Heaven is on me. Be it far 
 From me to struggle ! If my secret sins 
 Have puU'd this curse upon me, lend me tears 
 Enow to wash me white, that I may feel 
 A child-like innocence within my breast ; 
 Which, once perf orm'd, oh ! give me leave to 
 
 stand 
 As fix'd as constancy herself ; my eyes 
 Set here unmoved, regardless of the world, 
 Though thousand miseries encompass me ! 
 
 3Iar. This is strange ! — Sir, how do you ? 
 
 Arh. Mardonius ! my mother — 
 
 Mar. Is she dead.' 
 
 Arh. Alas ! she's not so happy. Thou dost 
 know 
 How she hath labour'd, since my father died, 
 To take by treason hence this loathed life. 
 That would but be to serve her. I have pardon'd, 
 And pardon'd, and by that have made her fit 
 To practise new sins, not repent the old. 
 She now had hired a slave to come from thence, 
 And strike me here ; whom Gobrias, sifting out. 
 Took, and condemn'd, and executed there. 
 The careful'st servant ! Heaven, let me but live 
 To pay that man ! Nature is poor to me. 
 That will not let me have as many deaths 
 As are the times that he hath saved my life, 
 That I might die 'em over all for him. 
 
 Mar. Sir, let her bear her sins on her own 
 head; 
 Vex not yourself. 
 
 Arh. What will the world 
 Conceive of me ? with what unnatural sins 
 Will they suppose me laden, when my life 
 Is sought by her that gave it to the world ? 
 But yet he writes me comfort here. My sister. 
 He says, is grown in beauty and in grace ; 
 In all the innocent virtues that become 
 A tender, spotless maid. She stains her cheeks 
 With mourning tears, to purge her mother's ill ; 
 And 'mongst that sacred dew she mingles prayera 
 Her pure oblations, for my safe return. — 
 If I have lost the duty of a son ; 
 If any pomp or vanity of state 
 Made me forget my natural offices ; 
 Nay, fui'ther, if I have not every night 
 Expostulated with my wand'ring thoughts. 
 If aught unto my parent they have err'd. 
 And call'd 'em back ; do you i direct her arm 
 Unto this foul dissembling heart of mine. 
 But if I have been just to her, send out 
 Your power to compass me, and hold me safe 
 From searching treason ; I will use no means 
 But prayer. For, rather suffer me to see 
 From mine own veins issue a deadly flood, 
 Than wash my dangers off with mother's blood. 
 
 Mar. I ne'er saw such sudden extremities. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 
 Another paH of the same. 
 Enter Tigranes and Spaconia. 
 
 Tigr. Why, wilt thou have me fly, Spaconia ? 
 What should I do ? 
 
 Spa. Nay, let me stay alone ; 
 And when you see Armenia again. 
 You shall behold a tomb more worth than I. 
 Some friend, that either loves me or my cause, 
 Will build me something to distinguish me 
 From other women ; many a weeping verse 
 He will lay on, and much lament those maids 
 That place their loves unfortunately high. 
 As I have done, where they can never reach. 
 But why should you go to Iberia ? 
 
 Tigr. Alas, that thou wilt ask me ! Ask the 
 man 
 That rages in a fever, why he lies 
 Distemper'd there, when all the other youths 
 Are coursing o'er the meadows with their loves ? 
 Can I resist it ? am I not a slave 
 To him that conquer'd me ? 
 
 you— i.e. you gods. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 269 
 
 Spa. That conquer'd thee, 
 Tigranes ! He has won but half of thee, 
 Thy body ; but thy mind may be as free 
 As his. His will did never combat thine, 
 And take it prisoner. 
 
 Tigr. But if he by force 
 Convey my body hence, what helps it me, 
 Or thee, to be unwilling ? 
 
 Spa. Oh, Tigranes! 
 I know you are to see a lady there ; 
 To see and like, I fear. Perhaps the hope 
 Of her makes you forget me, ere we part. 
 Be happier than you know to wish ! farewell ! 
 
 Tigr. Spaconia, stay, and hear me what I say. 
 In short, destruction meet me, that I may 
 See it, and not avoid it, when I leave 
 To be thy faithful lover ! Part with me 
 Thou shalt not ; there are none that know our 
 
 love; 
 And I have given gold unto a captain. 
 That goes unto Iberia from the king. 
 That he would place a lady of our land 
 With the king's sister that is offered me. 
 Thither shall you, and, being once got in. 
 Persuade her, by what subtle means you can, 
 To be as backward in her love as I. 
 
 Spa. Can you imagine that a longing maid. 
 When she beholds you, can be pull'd away 
 With words from loving you ? 
 
 Tigr. Dispraise my health. 
 My honesty, and tell her I am jealous. 
 
 Spa. Why, I had rather lose you. Can my 
 heart 
 Consent to let my tongue throw out such words l 
 And I, that ever yet spoke what I thought, 
 Shall find it such a thing at first to lie ! 
 
 Tigr. Yet, do thy best. 
 
 Enter Bessus. 
 
 Bes. What, is your majesty ready ? 
 
 Tigr. There is the lady, captain. 
 
 Bes. Sweet lady, by your leave. I could wish 
 myself more full of courtship* for your fair sake. 
 
 Spa. Sir, I shall feel no want of that. 
 
 Bes. Lady, you must haste; I have received 
 new letters from the king, that require more 
 haste than I expected. He will follow me sud- 
 denly himself ; and begins to call for your majesty 
 already. 
 
 Tigr. He shall not do so long, 
 
 Bes. Sweet lady, shall I call you my charge 
 hereafter ? 
 
 Spa. I will not take upon me to govern your 
 tongue, sir ; you shall call me what you please. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE I. 
 
 The Capital of Iberia. An Apartment in the 
 Palace. 
 Enter Gobeias, Bacurius, Arane, Panthea, 
 and Mandane, Waiting-women and Attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Goh. My lord Bacurius, you must have regard 
 Unto the queen ; she is your prisoner ; 
 'Tis at your peril if she make escape. 
 
 Bac. My lord, I know't ; she is my prisoner, 
 From you committed. Yet she is a woman ; 
 And, so I keep her safe, you will not urge me 
 To keep her close. I shall not shame to say, 
 I sorrow for her. 
 
 ^ courtship — courtlY breeding, the behaviour of a 
 courtier.— Weber. 
 
 Goh. So do I, my lord. 
 I sorrow for her, that so little grace 
 Doth govern her, that she should stretch her arm 
 Against her king ; so little womanhood 
 And natural goodness, as to think* the death 
 Of her own son. 
 
 Ara. Thou know'st the reason why, 
 Dissembling as thou art, and wilt not speak. 
 
 Goh. There is a lady takes not after you ; 
 Her father is within her ; that good man. 
 Whose tears paid down his sins.^ Mark how she 
 
 weeps ; 
 How well it does become her ! And if you 
 Can find no disposition in yourself 
 To sorrow, yet, by gracefulness in her. 
 Find out the way, and by your reason weep. 
 All this she does for you, and more she needs, 
 When for yourself you will not lose a tear. 
 Think how this want of grief discredits you. 
 And you will weep, because you cannot weep. 
 
 Ara. You talk to me, as having got a time 
 Fit for your purpose ; but you know, I know 
 You speak not what you think. 
 
 Pan. I would my heart 
 Were stone, before my softness should be urged 
 Against my mother ! A more troubled thought 
 No virgin bears about her. Should I excuse 
 My mother's fault, I should set light a life, 
 In losing which a brother and a king 
 Were taken from me. If I seek to save 
 That life so loved, I lose another life. 
 That gave me being ; I should lose a mother ; 
 A word of such a sound in a child's eai'. 
 That it strikes reverence through it. May the 
 
 will 
 Of Heaven be done, and if one needs must fall. 
 Take a poor virgin's life to answer all ! 
 
 Ara. But, Gobrias, let us talk. You know 
 this fault 
 Is not in me as in another woman. 
 
 [They walk apart. 
 
 Goh. I know it is not. 
 
 A ra. Yet you make it so. 
 
 Gob. Why, is not all that's past beyond your 
 help ? 
 
 Ara. I know it is. 
 
 Gob. Nay, should you publish it 
 Before the world, think you 'twould be believed? 
 
 Ara. I know it would not. 
 
 Gob. Nay, should I join with you. 
 Should we not both be torn,^ and yet both die 
 Uncredited .' 
 
 Ara. I think we should. 
 
 Gob. Why, then. 
 Take you such violent courses ? As for me. 
 I do but right in saving of the king 
 From all your plots. 
 
 Ara. The king ! 
 
 Gob. I bade you rest 
 With patience, and a time would come for me 
 To reconcile all to your own content : 
 But, by this way, you take away my power. 
 And what was done, unknown, was not by me, 
 But you ; your urging. Being done, 
 I must preserve mine own ; * but time may bring 
 All this to light, and happily for all. 
 
 Ara. Accursed be this over-curious brain, 
 That gave that plot a birth ! Accurs'd this womb. 
 That after did conceive, to my disgrace ! 
 
 Bac. My lord-protector, they say there are 
 
 1 ;^mi— intend. 
 
 ^ paid down his sins — i.e. paid the forfeit of his sina, 
 were sufficient to balance them. — Webeb. 
 3 torn — i.e. torn to death, racked. 
 * mini own — i.e. Arbaces. 
 
2/0 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 divers letters come from Armenia, that Bessus 
 has done good service, and brought again a day 
 by his particular valour. Received you any to 
 that effect ? 
 
 Gob. Yes ; 'tis most certain. 
 
 Bac. I am sorry for't ; not that the day was 
 won, but that 'twas won by him. We held him 
 here a coward. He did me wrong once, at which 
 I laughed, and so did all the world ; for nor I, 
 nor any other, held him worth my sword. 
 
 Enter Bessus and Spaconia. 
 
 Bes. Health to my lord-protector ! From the 
 king these letters ; and to your grace, madam, 
 these. 
 
 Gob. How does his majesty ? 
 
 Bes. As well as conquest, by his own means 
 and his valiant commanders, can make him. 
 Your letters will tell you all. 
 
 Pan. I will not open mine, till I do know 
 My brother's health. Good captain, is he Avell 1 
 
 Bes. As the rest of us that fought are. 
 
 Pan. But how's that ? is he hurt ? 
 
 Bes. He's a strange soldier that gets not a 
 knock. 
 
 Pan. I do not ask how strange that soldier is 
 That gets no hurt, but whether he have one. 
 
 Bes. He had divers. 
 
 Pan. And is he well again ? 
 
 Bes. Well again, an't please your grace ? 
 Why, I was run twice through the body, and 
 shot i' th' head with a cross arrow, and yet am 
 well again. 
 
 Pan. I do not care how thou do'st : is he well ? 
 
 Bes. Not care how I do ? Let a man, out of 
 the mightiness of his spirit, fructify foreign 
 countries with his blood, for the good of his 
 own, and thus he shall be answered. Why, I 
 may live to relieve, with spear and shield, such 
 a lady as you distressed. 
 
 Pan. Why, I will care ; I'm glad that thou art 
 I pr'ythee is he so ? [well ; 
 
 Gob. The king is well, and will be here to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Pan. My prayer is heard. Now will I open 
 mine. ' [Reads. 
 
 Gob. Bacurius, I must ease you of your charge. — 
 Madam, the wonted mercy of the king, 
 That overtakes your faults, has met with this, 
 And struck it out ; he has forgiven you freely. 
 Your own will is your law ; be where you please. 
 
 Ara. I thank him. 
 
 Gob. You will be ready 
 To wait upon his majesty to-morrow ? 
 
 Ara. I will. 
 
 Bac. Madam, be wise hereafter. I am glad 
 I have lost this office, [Exit Arane. 
 
 Gob. Good Captain Bessus, tell us the discourse^ 
 Betwixt Tigranes and our king, and how 
 We got the victory. 
 
 Pan. I pr'ythee do ; 
 And if my brother were in any danger, 
 Let not thy tale make him abide there long. 
 Before thou bring him off ; for all that while 
 My heart will beat. 
 
 Bes. Madam, let what will beat, I must tell 
 truth, and thus it was: they fought single in 
 lists, but one to one. As for my own part, I was 
 dangerously hurt but three days before; else, 
 perhaps, we had been two to two ; I cannot tell, 
 some thought we had. And the occasion of my 
 hurt was this : the enemy had made trenches — 
 
 1 discourse was formerly used with great latitude. 
 Weber says it here means transaction ; but Dyce thinks 
 it is equal to story, full particulars of what took place. 
 
 Gob. Captain, without the manner of your hurt, 
 Be much material to this business, 
 We'll hear't some other time. 
 
 Pan. I pr'ythee, leave it, and go on with my 
 brother. 
 
 Bes. I will ; but 'twould be worth your hearing. 
 To the lists they came, and single sword and 
 gauntlet was their fight. 
 
 Pan. Alas ! 
 
 Bes. Without the lists there stood some dozen 
 captains of either side mingled, all which were 
 sworn, and one of those was I: and 'twas my 
 chance to stand next a captain of the enemies' 
 side, call'd Tiribasus ; valiant, they said, he was. 
 Whilst these two kings were stretching them- 
 selves, this Tiribasus cast something a scornful 
 look on me, and ask'd me, whom I thought would 
 overcome ? I smiled, and told him, if he would 
 fight with me, he should perceive by the event of 
 that whose king would win. Something he an- 
 swer'd, and a scuffle was like to grow, when one 
 Zipetus offered to help him : I — 
 
 Pan. All this is of thyself ; I pr'ythee, Bessus, 
 Tell something of my brother ; did he nothing ? 
 
 Bes. Why, yes ; I'll tell your grace. They were 
 not to fight till the word given ; which, for my 
 own part, by my troth, I confess, I was not to 
 give. 
 
 Pan. See, for his own part! 
 
 Bac. I fear, yet, this fellow's abused with a 
 good report. 
 
 Bes. Ay, but I — 
 
 Pan. Still of himself ! 
 
 Bes. Cried, 'Give the word;' when, as some 
 of them say, Tigranes was stooping : but the 
 word was not given then; yet one Cosroes, of 
 the enemies' part, held up his finger to me, which 
 is as much with us martialists, as, ' I will fight 
 with you.' I said not a word, nor made sign 
 during the combat ; but that once done — 
 
 Pan. He slips over all the fight. 
 
 Bes. I call'd him to me : ' Cosroes,' said I — 
 
 Pan. I will hear no more. 
 
 Bes. No, no, I lie. 
 
 Bac. I dare be sworn thou dost. 
 
 Bes. ' Captain,' said I ; so 'twas. 
 
 Pan. I tell thee, I will hear no further. 
 
 Bes. No ? Your grace will wish you had. 
 
 Pan. I will not wish it. What, is this the lady 
 My brother writes to me to take ? 
 
 Bes. An't please your grace, this is she. — 
 Charge, will you come nearer the princess ? 
 
 Pan. You are welcome from your country ; 
 and this land 
 Shall show unto you all the kindnesses 
 That I can make it. What's your name ? 
 
 Spa. Thalestris. 
 
 Pan. You're very welcome. You have got a 
 letter 
 To put you to me, that has power enough 
 To place mine enemy here ; then much more you, 
 That are so far from being so to me, 
 That you ne'er saw me. 
 
 Bes. Madam, I dare pass my word for her truth. 
 
 Spa. My truth? 
 
 Pan. Why, captain, do you think I am afraid 
 she'll steal. 
 
 Bes. I cannot tell ; servants are slippery ; but 
 I dare give my word for her, and for her honesty. 
 She came along with me, and many favours she 
 did me by the way; but, by this light, none but 
 what she might do with modesty, to a man of 
 my rank. 
 
 Pan. Why, captain, here's nobody thinks other- 
 wise. 
 
 Bes. Nay, if you should, your grace may think 
 your pleasure ; but I am sure I brought her from 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, 
 
 271 
 
 Armenia, and in all that way, if ever I touched 
 any bare of her above her knee, I pray God I 
 may sink where I stand. 
 
 8pa. Above my knee? 
 
 hes. No, you know I did not ; and if any man 
 will say I did, this sword shall answer. Nay, 
 I'll defend the reputation of my charge whilst I 
 live. Your grace shall understand I am secret 
 in these businesses, and know how to defend a 
 lady's honour. 
 
 Spa. I hope your grace knows him so well 
 already, I shall' not need to tell you he's vain 
 and foolish. 
 
 Bes. Ay, you may call me what you please, 
 but I'll defend your good name against the world. 
 And so I take my leave of your grace, and of 
 you, my lord-protector. — I am likewise glad to 
 see your lordship well. 
 
 Bac. Oh, Captain Bessus, I thank you. 1 
 would speak with you anon. 
 
 Bes. When you please, I will attend your 
 lordship. {Exit Bessus. 
 
 Bac. Madam, 111 take my leave too. 
 
 Pan. Good Bacurius. \Exit Bacurius. 
 
 Gob. Madam, what writes his majesty to you? 
 
 Pan. Oh, my lord, 
 The kindest words ! I'll keep 'em while I live 
 Here in my bosom ; there's no art in 'em ; 
 They lie disorder'd in this paper, just 
 As hearty nature speaks 'em. 
 
 Gob. And to me 
 He writes, what tears of joy he shed, to hear 
 How you were grown in every virtuous way ; 
 And yields all thanks to me for that dear care 
 Which I was bound to have in training you. 
 There is no princess living that enjoys 
 A brother of that worth. 
 
 Pan. My lord, no maid 
 Longs more for anything, and feels more heat 
 And cold within her breast than I do now 
 In hope to see him. 
 
 Gob. Yet I wonder much 
 At this : he writes, he brings along with him 
 A husband for you, that same captive prince ; 
 And if he love you, as he makes a show. 
 He will allow you freedom in your choice. 
 
 Pan. And so he will, my lord, I warrant you ; 
 He will but offer, and give me the power 
 To take or leave. 
 
 Gob. Trust me, were I a lady, 
 I could not like that man were bargain'd with, 
 Before I choose him. 
 
 Pan. But I am not built 
 On such wild humours ; if I find him worthy. 
 He is not less because he's offered. 
 
 S-pa. 'Tis true he is not; 'would he would 
 seem less ! {Apart. 
 
 Gob. I think there is no lady can affect 
 Another prince, your brother standing by ; 
 He doth eclipse men's virtues so with his. 
 
 8jpa. I know a lady may, and, more I fear, 
 Another lady will. {Apart. 
 
 Pan. 'Would I might see him ! 
 
 Gob. Why, so you shall. My businesses are 
 I will attend you when it is his pleasure [great: 
 To see yovi, madam. 
 
 Pan. I thank you, good my lord. 
 
 Gob. You will be ready, madam ? 
 
 Pan. Yes. {Exit Gobrias. 
 
 Spa. I do beseech you, madam, send away 
 Your other women, and receive from me 
 A few sad words, which, set against your joys, 
 May make 'em shine the more. 
 
 Pan. Sirs,i leave me all. {Exeunt Women. 
 
 I sirs — formerly used in addressing women as well as 
 men. 
 
 Spa. 1 kneel a stranger here, to beg a thing 
 Unfit for me to ask, and you to grant. {Kneels, 
 'Tis such another strange ill-laid request, 
 As if a beggar should entreat a king 
 To leave his sceptre and his throne to him, 
 And take his rags to wander o'er the world, 
 Hungry and cold. 
 
 Pan. That were a strange request. 
 
 Spa. As ill is mine. 
 
 Pan. Then do not utter it. 
 
 Spa. Alas, 'tis of that nature, that it must 
 Be utter'd, ay, and gi-anted, or I die ! 
 I am ashamed to speak it ; but where life 
 Lies at the stake, I cannot think her woman 
 That will not talk something unreasonably 
 To hazard saving of it. I shall seem 
 A strange petitioner, that wish all ill 
 To them I beg of ere they give me aught ; 
 Yet so I must : I would you were not fair, 
 Nor wise, for in your ill consists my good : 
 If you were foolish, you would hear my pi*ayer ; 
 If foul, you had not power to hinder me ; 
 He would not love you. 
 
 Pan. What's the meaning of it ? 
 
 Spa. Nay, my request is more without tha 
 bounds 
 Of reason yet : for 'tis not in the power 
 Of you to do what I would have you gi'ant. 
 
 Pan. Why, then, 'tis idle. Pr'y thee speak it out. 
 
 Spa. Your brother brings a prince into this 
 land, 
 Of such a noble shape, so sweet a grace, 
 So full of worth withal, that every maid 
 That looks upon him gives away herself 
 To him for ever; and for you to have 
 He brings him : and so mad is my demand, 
 That I desire you not to have this man, 
 This excellent man ; for whom you needs must die, 
 If you should miss him. I do now expect 
 You should laugh at me. 
 
 Pan. Trust me, I could weep 
 Kather ; for I have found in all thy words 
 A strange disjointed sorrow. 
 
 Spa. 'Tis by me 
 His own desire too, that you would not love him. 
 
 Ban. His own desire ! Why, credit me, Tha- 
 lestris, 
 I am no common wooer. If he shall woo me, 
 His worth may be such that I dare not swear 
 I will not love him ; but if he will stay 
 To have me woo him, I will promise thee 
 He may keep all his graces to himself, 
 And fear no ravishing from me. 
 
 Spa. 'Tis yet 
 His own desire : but when he sees your face, 
 I fear, it will not be ; therefore I charge you, 
 As you have pity, stop those tender ears 
 From his enchanting voice ; close up those eyes, 
 That you may neither catch a dart from him, 
 Nor he from you. I charge you, as you hope 
 To live in quiet ; for when I am dead, 
 For certain I shall walk to visit him, 
 If he break promise with me : for as fast 
 As oaths without a formal ceremony 
 Can make me, I am to him. 
 
 Pan. Then be fearless ; 
 For if he were a thing 'twixt God and man,, 
 I could gaze on him (if I knew it sin 
 To love him) without passion. Dry your eyes : 
 I swear you shall enjoy him still lox me ; 
 I will not hinder you. But I perceive 
 You are not what you seem : rise, rise, Thalestris, 
 If your right name be so. 
 
 Spa. Indeed it is not ; 
 Spaconia is my name ; but I desire 
 Not to be known to others. 
 
 Pan. Why, by me 
 
2/2 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 You shall not ; I will never do you wrong ; 
 
 What good I can I will. Think not my birth 
 
 Or education such that I should injure 
 
 A stranger virgin. You are welcome hither. 
 
 In company you wish to be commanded ; 
 
 But when we are alone, I shall be ready 
 
 To be your servant. ' \Exmnt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 
 
 An open Place be/ore the City. A great Crowd. 
 
 Enter three Men and a Woman. 
 
 1 Man. Come, come! run, run, run! 
 
 2 Man. We shall outgo her. 
 
 3 Man. One were better be hang'd than carry 
 women out fiddling to these shows. 
 
 Worn. Is the king hard by ? 
 
 1 Man. You heard he with the bottles said, he 
 thought we should come too late. What abund- 
 ance of people here is ! 
 
 Worn. But what had he in those bottles ? 
 3 Man. I know not. 
 
 2 Man. Why, ink, goodman fool. 
 
 3 Man. Ink ! What to do ? 
 
 1 Man. Why, the king, look you, will many 
 times call for those bottles, and break his mind 
 to his friends. 
 
 Worn. Let's take our places quickly; we shall 
 have no room else. 
 
 2 Man. The man told us he would walk o' foot 
 through the people. 
 
 3 Man. Aj, marry, did he. 
 
 1 3faji. Our shops are well look'd to now, 
 
 2 Man. 'Slife, yonder's my master, I think. 
 1 Man. No, 'tis not he. 
 
 Enter Philip with two Citizens' Wives. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Lord, how fine the fields be ! What 
 Bweet living 'tis in the country ! 
 
 2 Cit. W. Ay, poor souls, God help 'em, they 
 live as contentedly as one of us. 
 
 1 Cit. W. My husband's cousin would have had 
 me gone into the country last year. Wert thou 
 ever there ? 
 
 2 Cit. W. Ay, poor souls, I was amongst 'em 
 once. 
 
 1 Cit. W. And what kind of creatures are they, 
 for love of God ? 
 
 2 Cit. W. Very good people, God help 'em. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Wilt thou go with me down this 
 summer, when I am brought to bed .'* 
 
 2 Cit. W. Alas, 'tis no place for us ! 
 1 Cit. W. Why, pr'ythee.9 
 
 1 Cit. W. Why, you can have nothing there ; 
 there's nobody cries brooms. 
 
 1 Cit. W. No. 
 
 2 Cit. W. No, truly, nor milk. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Nor milk, how do they ? 
 
 2 Cit. W. They are fain to milk themselves i' 
 the country. 
 
 1 Cit W. Good Lord ! But the people there, I 
 think, will be verj^ dutiful to one of us. 
 
 2 Cit. W. Ay, God knows will they ; and yet 
 they do not greatly care for our husbands. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Bo they not.' Alas! i' good faith, I 
 cannot blame them, for we do not greatly care 
 for them ourselves. Philip, I pray, choose us a 
 place. 
 
 Phil. There's the best, forsooth. 
 
 1 Cit. W. By your leave, good people, a little. 
 
 1 Man. What's the matter ? 
 
 Phil. I pray you, my friend, do not thrust my 
 mistress so ; she's with child. 
 
 2 3Ia7i. Let her look to herself, then ; has 
 she not had thrusting enough yet ? If she stay 
 
 shouldering here, she may hap to go home with 
 a cake in her belly. 
 
 3 3fan. How now, goodman S quitter-breech ! 
 why do you lean on me ? 
 
 Phil. Because I will. 
 
 3 Man. Will you, Sir Sauce-box ? 
 
 [Strikes him. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Look, if one ha' not struck Philip ! — 
 Come hither, Philip ; why did he strike thee ? 
 
 Phil. For leaning on him. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Why didst thou lean on him ? 
 
 Phil. 1 did not think he would have struck me. 
 
 1 Cit. W. As God save me, la, thou art as wild 
 as a buck; there's no quarrel, but thou art at 
 one end or other on't. 
 
 3 3Ian. It's at the first end then, for he'll ne'er 
 stay the last. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Well, slip-string, I shall meet with 
 you. 
 
 3 3Tan. Wlien you will. 
 
 1 Cit. W. I'll give a crown to meet with you. 
 
 Flourish. Enter one imnning. 
 
 4 Man. The king, the king, the king, the king ! 
 Now, now, now, now ! 
 
 Flounsh. Enter Arbaces, Tigranes, Mardo- 
 Nius, and Soldiers. 
 
 All. God preserve your majesty ! 
 
 Arh. I thank you all. Now are my joys at 
 full. 
 When I behold you safe, my loving subjects. 
 By you I grow ; 'tis your united love 
 That lifts me to this height. 
 All the account that I can render you 
 For all the love you have bestow'd on me, 
 All your expenses to maintain my war. 
 Is but a little word. You will imagine 
 'Tis slender payment ; yet 'tis such a word 
 As is not to be bought without our bloods : 
 'Tis peace ! 
 
 All. God preserve your majesty ! 
 
 Arh. Now you may live securely in your towns. 
 Your children round about you ; you may sit 
 Under your vines, and make the miseries 
 Of other kingdoms a discourse for you, 
 And lend them soitows. For ourselves, you may 
 Safely forget there are such things as teai's; 
 And may you all, whose good thoughts I have 
 
 gain'd, 
 Hold me unworthy, when I think my life 
 A sacrifice too great to keep you thus 
 In such a calm estate ! 
 
 All. God bless your majesty ! 
 
 Arh. See, all good people, I have brought the 
 man, 
 Whose very name you fear'd, a captive home. 
 Behold him ; 'tis Tigi-anes ! In your hearts 
 Sing songs of gladness and deliverance. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Out upon him! 
 
 2 Cit. W. How he looks ! 
 
 3 Worn. Hang him, hang him ! 
 Mar. These are sweet people. 
 Tig. Sir, you do me wrong, 
 
 To render me a scorned spectacle 
 To common people. 
 
 Arh. It was far from me 
 To mean it so. If I have aught deserved, 
 My loving subjects, let me beg of you 
 Not to revile this prince, in whom there dwells 
 All worth, of which the nature of a man 
 Is capable; valour beyond compare: 
 The teiTor of his name has stretch'd itself 
 Wherever there is sun. And yet for you 
 I fought with him single, and won him too. 
 I made his valour stoop, and brought that name, 
 Soar'd to so unbelieved a height, to fall 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 273 
 
 Beneath mine. This, inspired with all your 
 
 loves, 
 I did perform ; and will, for your content, 
 Be ever ready for a greater work. 
 
 All. The Lord bless your majesty! 
 
 Tigr. So, he has made me 
 Amends now with a speech in commendation 
 Of himself ; I would not be so vainglorious. 
 
 Arh. If there be anything in which I may 
 Do good to any creature here, speak out, 
 For I must leave you. And it troubles me, 
 That my occasions, for the good of you, 
 Are such as call me from you : else, my joy 
 Would be to spend my days amongst you all. 
 You show your loves in these large multitudes 
 That come to meet me. I will pray for you. 
 Heaven prosper you, that you may know old 
 
 years, 
 And live to see your children's children 
 Sit at your boards with plenty ! "When there is 
 A want of anything, let it be known 
 To me, and I will be a father to you. 
 God keep you all ! 
 
 [Flourish. Exetmt Kings and their Train. 
 
 All. God bless your majesty ! God bless your 
 majesty ! 
 
 1 3Ian. Come, shall we go ? all's done. 
 Worn. Ay, for God's sake. I have not made a 
 
 fire yet. 
 
 2 Man. Away, away ! all's done. 
 
 3 Man. Content. Farewell, Philip. 
 
 1 Cit. W. Away, you halter-sack, ^ you! 
 
 2 Man. Philip will not fight ; he's afraid on's 
 face. 
 
 Phil. Ay, marry ; am I afraid of my face ? 
 
 3 Man. Thou would'st be, Philip, if thou saw'st 
 it in a glass ; it looks so like a visor. 
 
 [Exeunt the three Men and Woman. 
 
 1 Cit. W. You'll be hang'd, sirrah. Come, 
 Philip, walk before us homewards. Did not his 
 majesty say he had brought us home peas for all 
 our money ? 
 
 2 Cit. W. Yes, marry, did he. 
 
 1 Cit. W. They're the first I heard on this 
 year, by my troth. I long'd for some of 'em. 
 Did he not say we should have some ? 
 
 2 Cit. W. Yes, and so we shall anon, I wan-ant 
 you, have every one a peck brought home to our 
 houses. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 Iberia. A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Arbaces and Gobbias. 
 
 Arb. My sister take it ill ? 
 
 Gob. Not very ill. 
 Something unkindly she does take it, sir, 
 To have her husband chosen to her hands. 
 
 Arb. Why, Gobrias, let her. I must have her 
 know 
 My will, and not her own, must govern her. 
 What ! will she marry with some slave at home ? 
 
 Gob. Oh, she is far fi'om any stubbornness ; 
 You much mistake her ; and, no doubt, will like 
 Where you will have her. But, when you be- 
 hold her. 
 You will be loath to part with such a jewel. 
 
 Arb. To part with her? Why, Gobrias, art 
 thou mad ? 
 She is my sister. 
 
 Gob. Sir, I know she is : 
 
 * halkr-sack—eqmYalent to ' gallows-bird,'— Webbb. 
 
 But it were pity to make poor our land, 
 With such a beauty to enrich another. 
 
 Arb. Pish ! Will she have him ? 
 
 Gob. 1 do hope she will not. — [Aside. 
 
 I think she will, sir. 
 
 Arb. Wei'e she my father, and my mother too. 
 And all the names for which we think folks 
 
 friends, 
 She should be forced to have him, when I know 
 'Tis fit. I will not hear her say she's loath. 
 
 Gob. Heaven bring my purpose luckily to 
 pass ; [Aside. 
 
 You know 'tis just. — She will not need constraint, 
 She loves you so. 
 
 Ai'b. How does she love me ? Speak. 
 
 Gob. She loves you more than people love their 
 health. 
 That live by labour; more than I could love 
 A man that died for me, if he could live 
 Again. 
 
 Arb. She is not like her mother, then. 
 
 Gob. Oh, no ! When you were in Armenia, 
 I durst not let her know when you were hurt : 
 For at the first, on every little scratch, 
 She kept her chamber, wept, and could not eat, 
 Till you were well : and many times the news 
 Was so long coming, that, before we heard, 
 She was as near her death, as you your health. 
 
 A7'b. Alas, poor soul! But yet she must be 
 ruled. 
 I know not how I shall requite her well. 
 I long to see her. Have you sent for her, 
 To tell her I am ready ? 
 
 Gob. Sir, I have. 
 
 Eiiter one Gentleman and Tigranes. 
 
 1 Gent. Sir, here is the Armenian king. 
 
 Arb. He's welcome. 
 
 1 Gent. And the queen-mother and the prin- 
 cess wait 
 Without. 
 
 Arb. Good Gobrias, bring 'em in. — 
 
 [Exit Gobrias. 
 Tigranes, you will think you are arrived 
 In a strange land, where mothers cast ^ to poison 
 Their only sons. Think j'ou, you shall be safe .' 
 
 Tigr. Too safe I am, sir. 
 
 Enter Gobrias, Arane, Panthea, Spaconia, 
 Bacurius, Mardonius, Bessus, and two 
 Gentlemen. 
 
 Ara. [kneels.^ As low as this I bow to you ; 
 and would 
 As low as is my grave, to show a mind 
 Thankful for all your mercies. 
 
 Arb. Oh, stand up. 
 And let me kneel ! the light will be ashamed 
 To see observance done to me by you. 
 
 Ara. You are my king. 
 
 Ai'b. You are my mother. Else ! 
 As far be all your faults from your own soul, 
 As from my memory ; then you shall be 
 As white as Innocence herself. 
 
 Ara. I came 
 Only to show my duty and acknowledge 
 My sorrows for my sins. Longer to stay. 
 Were but to draw eyes more attentively 
 Upon my shame. That power that kept yon 
 
 safe 
 From me, preserve you still ! 
 
 Ai-b. Your own desires 
 ShaU be your guide. ^ [Exit An Ay &. 
 
 Pan. Now let me die ! 
 Since I have seen my lord the king return 
 
 » ccw^—contrive, plot. 
 
274 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 In safety, I have seen all good that life 
 Can show me. I have ne'ei* another wish 
 For Heaven to grant ; nor were it fit I should ; 
 For I am bound to spend my age to come, 
 In giving thanks that this was granted me. 
 
 Gob. Why does not your majesty speak ? 
 
 Arb. To whom ? 
 
 Gob. To the princess. 
 
 Pan. Alas, sir, I am fearful ! You do look 
 On me as if I "were some loathed thing, 
 That you wex-e finding out a way to shun. 
 
 Gob. Sir, you should speak to her. 
 
 Arb. Ha? 
 
 Pan. I know I am un"worthy, yet not ill : 
 Arm'd with which innocence, here I will kneel 
 Till I am one with earth, but I will gain 
 Some words and kindness from you. iKneels. 
 
 Tigr. Will you speak, sir ? 
 
 Arb. Speak ! am I what I was ? 
 What art thou, that dost creep into my breast, 
 And dar'st not see my face ? Show forth thyself. 
 I feel a pair of fiery wings display'd 
 Hither, from thence. You shall not tarry there ! 
 Up, and begone ; if you be'st love, begone ! 
 Or I will tear thee from my wounded breast, 
 Pull thy lov'd down away, and with a quill. 
 By this right arm drawn from thy wanton wing, 
 Write to thy laughing-mother^ in thy blood, 
 That you are powers belied, and all your darts 
 Are to be blown away, by men resolved. 
 Like dust. I know thou f ear'st my words ; away ! 
 
 Tigr. Oh, misery ! why should he be so slow ? 
 
 [Apart. 
 There can no falsehood come of loving her. 
 Though I have given my faith, she is a thing 
 Both to be loved and served beyond my faith. 
 1 would he would present me to her quickly. 
 
 Pan. Will you not speak at all ? Are you so far 
 From kind words ? Yet, to save my modesty, 
 That must talk till you answer, do not stand 
 As you were dumb ; say something, though it be 
 Poison'd with anger that may strike me dead. 
 
 Mar. Have you no life at all ? For manhood 
 sake. 
 Let her not kneel, and talk neglected thus. 
 A tree would find a tongue to answer her, 
 Did she but give it such a lov'd respect. 
 
 Arb. You mean this lady. Lift her from the 
 earth : 
 Why do you let her kneel so long ? — Alas ! 
 Madam, your beauty uses to command. 
 And not to beg. What is your suit to me ? 
 It shall be granted ; yet the time is short. 
 And my affairs are great. But where's my sister ? 
 I bade she should be brought. 
 
 Mar. What, is he mad ? 
 
 Arb. Gobrias, where is she ? 
 
 Gob. Sir! 
 
 Arb. Where is she, man ? 
 
 Gob. Who, sir? 
 
 Arb. Who? hast thou forgot ? my sister. 
 
 Gob. Your sister, sir ? 
 
 Arb. Your sister, sir ! Some one that hath a wit, 
 Answer, where is she ? 
 
 Gob. Do you not see her there ? 
 
 Arb. Where? 
 
 Gob. There. 
 
 Arb. There? where? 
 
 Mar. 'Slight^ there ! Are you blind ? 
 
 Arb. Which do you mean ? That little one ? 
 
 Gob. No, sir. 
 
 Arb. No, sir? Why, do you mock me? I 
 can see 
 No other here, but that petitioning lady. 
 
 laughing-mother — Venus. 
 
 Gob. That's she. 
 
 Arb. Away ! 
 
 Gob. Sir, it is she. 
 
 Arb. 'Tis false. 
 
 Gob. Is it? 
 
 Arb. As hell ! By heaven, as false as hell ! 
 My sister ! Is she dead ? If it be so, 
 Speak boldly to me ; for I am a man, 
 And dare not quarrel with divinity ; 
 And do not think to cozen me with this. 
 I see you are all mute and stand amazed, 
 Fearful to answer me. It is too true ; 
 A decreed instant cuts off every life, 
 For which to mourn is to repine. She died 
 A virgin though, more innocent than sleep. 
 As clear as her own eyes ; and blessedness 
 Eternal waits upon her where she is. 
 I know she could not make a wish to change 
 Her state for new ; and you shall see me bear 
 My crosses like a man. We all must die, 
 And she has taught us how. 
 
 Gob. Do not mistake. 
 And vex yourself for nothing ; for her death 
 Is a long life off yet, I hope. 'Tis she ; 
 And if my speech deserve not faith, lay death 
 Upon me, and my latest words shall force 
 A credit from you. 
 
 Arb. Which, good Gobrias ? 
 That lady, dost thou mean? 
 
 Gob. That lady, sir : 
 She is your sister ; and she is your sister 
 That loves you so ; 'tis she for whom I weep, 
 To see you use her thus. 
 
 Arb. It cannot be. 
 
 Tigr. Pish ! this is tedious : [Apart. 
 
 I cannot hold ; I must present myself. 
 And yet the sight of my Spaconia 
 Touches me, as a sudden thunder clap 
 Does one that is about to sin. 
 
 Arb. Away! 
 No more of this ! Here I pronounce him traitor, 
 The direct plotter of my death, that names 
 Or thinks her for my sister. 'Tis a lie. 
 The most malicious of the world, invented 
 To mad your king. He that will say so next, 
 Let him draw out his sword and sheathe it here ; 
 It is a sin fully as pardonable. 
 She is no kin to me, nor shall she be: 
 If she were ever, I create her none. 
 And which of you can question this ? My power 
 Is like the sea, that is to be obey'd. 
 And not disputed with. I have decreed her 
 As far from having part of blood with me. 
 As the naked Indians. Come and answer me, 
 He that is boldest now. Is that my sister? 
 
 3Iar. Oh, this is fine ! [majesty, 
 
 Bes. No, marry, she is not, an't please your 
 I never thought she was ; she's nothing like you. 
 
 Arb. No ; 'tis true, she is not. 
 
 Mar. Thou shouldst be hang'd. [To Bessus. 
 
 Pan. Sir, I will speak but once. By the same 
 power 
 You make my blood a stranger unto yours, 
 You may command me dead ; and so much love 
 A stranger may importune ; pray you, do. 
 If this request appear too much to grant, 
 Adopt me of some other family, 
 By your unquestion'd word ; else I shall live 
 Like sinful issues, that are left in streets 
 By their regardless mothers, and no name 
 Will be found for me. 
 
 Arb. I will hear no more. — 
 Why should there be such music in a voice. 
 And sin for me to hear it ? All the world 
 May take delight in this ; and ' 'tis damnation 
 
 and— and. yet. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, 
 
 275 
 
 For me to do so, — You are fair, and wise, 
 
 And virtuous, I think ; and he is blessed 
 
 That is so near you as your brother is ; 
 
 But you are nought to me but a disease ; 
 
 GDntinual torment without hope of ease. 
 
 Such an ungodly sickness I have got, 
 
 That he, that undertakes my cure, must first 
 
 O'erthrow divinity, all moral laws, 
 
 And leave mankind as unconfin'd as beasts ; 
 
 Allowing 'em to do all actions. 
 
 As freely as they drink when they desire. 
 
 Let me not hear you speak again ; yet so 
 
 I shall but languish for the want of that, 
 
 The having which would kill me. — No man here 
 
 Offer to speak for her ; for I consider 
 
 As much as you can say ; I will not toil 
 
 My body and my mind too ; rest thou there ; 
 
 Here's one within will labour for you both. 
 
 Pan. I would I were past speaking. 
 
 Gob. Fear not, madam ; 
 The king will alter. 'Tis some sudden rage, 
 And you shall see it end some other way. 
 
 Fan. Pray heaven it do ! 
 
 Tigr. {Aside.'\ Though she to whom I swore 
 be here, I cannot 
 Stifle my passion longer ; if my father 
 Should rise again, disquieted with this, 
 And charge me to forbear, yet it would out. — 
 
 \Comes forward. 
 
 Madam, a stranger, and a prisoner begs 
 To be bid welcome. 
 
 Pan. You are welcome, sir, 
 I think ; but if you be not, 'tis past me 
 To make you so ; for I am here a stranger 
 Greater than you. We know from whence you 
 
 come; 
 But I appear a lost thing, and by whom 
 Is yet uncertain ; found here i' the court, 
 And only suffer'd to walk up and down, 
 As one not worth the owning. 
 
 8pa. Oh, I fear 
 Tigranes will be caught ; he looks, methinks, 
 As he would change his eyes with her. Some 
 
 help 
 There is above for me, I hope ! 
 
 Tigr. Why do you turn away, and weep so fast. 
 And utter things that misbecome your looks ? 
 Can you want owning ? 
 
 Spa. Oh, 'tis certain so. 
 
 Tigr. Acknowledge yourself mine. 
 
 Arb. How now ? 
 
 Tigr. And then 
 See if you want an owner. 
 
 Arb. They are talking ! 
 
 Tigr. Nations shall own yon for their queen. 
 
 Arb. Tigranes ! art not thou my prisoner ? 
 
 Tigr. I am. 
 
 Arb. And who is this ? 
 
 Tigr. She is your sister. 
 
 Arb. She is so. 
 
 Mar. Is she so again ? That's well. 
 
 Arb. And how, then, dare you offer to change 
 words with her ? 
 
 Tigr. Dare do it? Why, you brought me 
 hither, sir, 
 To that intent. 
 
 Arb. Perhaps, I told you so : 
 If I had sworn it, had you so much folly 
 To credit it ? The least word that she speaks 
 Is worth a life. Eule your disorder'd ton cue. 
 Or I will temper it I 
 
 Spa. Blest be that breath ! 
 
 Tigr. Temper my tongue*! Such incivilities 
 As these no barbarous people ever knew ; 
 You break the laws of nature, and of nations ; 
 You talk to me as if I were a prisoner 
 
 For theft. My tongue t>e temper'd! I must 
 
 speak, 
 If thunder check me, and I will. 
 
 Arb. You will ? 
 
 Spa. Alas, my fortune ! 
 
 Tigr. Do not fear his frown. 
 Dear madam, hear me. 
 
 Arb. Fear not my frown ? But that 'twere 
 base in me 
 To fight with one I know I can o'ercome. 
 Again thou shouldst be conquered by me. 
 
 Mar. He has one ransom with him already; 
 methinks, 'twere good to fight double or quit 
 
 Arb. Away with him to prison ! — Now, sir, see 
 If my frown be regardless. — Why delay you ? 
 Seize him, Bacurius ! — You shall know my word 
 Sweeps like a wind ; and all it grapples with 
 Are like the chaff before it. 
 
 Tigr. Touch me not. 
 
 Arb. Help there! 
 
 Tigr. Away! 
 
 1 Gent. It is in vain to struggle. 
 
 2 Gent. You must be forced. 
 Bac. Sir, you must pardon us ; 
 
 We must obey. 
 
 Arb. Why do you dally there ? 
 Drag him away by anything. 
 
 Bac. Come, sir. 
 
 Tigr. Justice, thou ought'st to give me strength 
 enough 
 To shake all these off. — This is tyranny, 
 Arbaces, subtler than the burning bull's. 
 Or that famed tyrant's bed.^ Thou might'st as 
 
 well 
 Search i' the deep of winter through the snow 
 For half-starved people, to bring home with thee 
 To show 'em fire and send 'em back again, 
 As use me thus. 
 
 Arb. Let him be close, Bacurius. 
 
 {.Exit Tigranes, Ud 0/ by Bacurius amd 
 Gentlemen. 
 
 Spa. I ne'er rejoiced at any ill to him, 
 But this imprisonment. What shall become 
 Of me forsaken ? 
 
 Gob. You will not let your sister 
 Depart thus discontented from you, sir ? 
 
 Arb. By no means, Gobrias. I have done her 
 wrong. 
 And made myself believe much of myself. 
 That is not in me. — You did kneel to me, 
 Whilst I stood stubborn and regardless by. 
 And, like a god incensed, gave no ear 
 To all your prayers. [Kneds^ — Behold, I kneel 
 
 to you : 
 Show a contempt as large as was my own. 
 And I will suffer it ; yet, at the last. 
 Forgive me. 
 
 Pan. Oh, you wrong me more in this 
 Than in your rage you did. You mock me now. 
 
 Arb. Never forgive me, then ; which is the 
 worst 
 Can happen to me. 
 
 Pan. If you be in earnest, 
 Stand up, and give me but a gentle look, 
 And two kind words, and I shall be in heaven. 
 
 Arb. Eise you then, too. Here I acknowledge 
 thee. 
 My hope, the only jewel of my life. 
 The best of sisters, dearer than my breath, 
 A happiness as high as I could think ; 
 And when my actions call thee otherwise, 
 Perdition light upon me ! 
 
 1 The allusions are to the burning bull of Phalaris, 
 in which he roasted his victims alive, and to the bed 
 of Procrustes, wlio made all his prisoners fit it either by 
 stretching them on the rack, or lopping off their feet. 
 
276 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pan. This is better 
 Than if you had not frowned ; it comes to me 
 Like mercy at the block. And when I leave 
 To serve you with my life, your curse be with 
 me! 
 
 Arh. Then thus I do salute thee ; and again, 
 To make this knot the stronger. Paradise 
 Is there ! It may be, you are yet in doubt ; 
 This third kiss blots it out. — I wade in sin, 
 
 [^Aside. 
 And foolishly entice myself along ! — 
 Take her away ; see her a prisoner 
 In her own chamber, closely, Gobrias ! 
 
 Pan. Alas, sir, why ? 
 
 Arh. I must not stay the answer. Do it. 
 
 Gob. Good sir ! 
 
 Arh. No more ! Do it, I say! 
 
 Mar. This is better and better 
 
 Pan. Yet, hear me speak. 
 
 Arh. I will not hear you speak. — 
 Away with her ! Let no man think to speak 
 For such a creature ; for she is a witch, 
 A poisoner, and a traitor ! 
 
 Goh. Madam, this office grieves me. 
 
 Pan. Nay, 'tis well ; 
 The king is pleased with it. 
 
 Arh. Bessus, go you along too with her. I will 
 prove 
 All this that I have said, if I may live 
 So long. But I am desperately sick ; 
 For she has given me poison in a kiss : 
 She had it 'twixt her lips; and with her eyes 
 She witches people. Go, without a word ! 
 
 [Exeunt Gobrias, Panthea, Bessus, 
 and Spaconia. 
 Why should You,i that have made me stand in 
 
 war 
 Like Fate itself, cutting what threads I pleased, 
 Decree such an unworthy end of me. 
 And all my glories ? "What am I, alas. 
 That you oppose me ! If my secret thoughts 
 Have ever harboured swellings against you, 
 They could not hurt you ; and it is in you 
 To give me sorrow, that will render me 
 Apt to receive your mercy : rather so, 
 Let it be rather so, than punish me 
 With such unmanly sins. — 
 Where art, Mardonius ? 
 
 Mar. Here, sir. 
 
 Arh. I pray thee, bear me, if thou canst. 
 Ami not grown a strange weight ? 
 
 Mar. As you were. 
 
 Arh. No heavier? 
 
 Mar. No, sir. 
 
 Arh. Why, my legs 
 Kefuse to bear my body ! Oh, Mardonius, 
 Thou hast in field beheld me, when thou know'st 
 I could have gone, though I could never run. 
 
 Mar. And so I shall again. 
 
 Arh. Oh no, 'tis past. 
 
 Mar. Pray you, go rest yourself. 
 
 Arh. Wilt thou, hereafter, when they talk of me, 
 As thou shalt hear nothing but infamy, 
 Remember some of those things ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, I will. 
 
 Arh. I pray thee, do ; for thou shalt never -see 
 Me so again. 
 
 Mar. I warrant ye. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.-SCENE IL 
 A Room in the House 0/ Bessus. 
 Enter Bessus. 
 Beg. They talk of fame; I have gotten it in 
 
 1 FoM—the gods. 
 
 the wars, and will afford any man a reasonable 
 pennyworth. Some will say, they could be con- 
 tent to have it, but that it is to be achieved with 
 danger; but my opinion is otherwise: for if I 
 might stand still in cannon-proof, and have fame 
 fall upon me, I would refuse it. My reputation 
 came principally by thinking to run away, which 
 nobody knows but Mardonius ; and, I think, he 
 conceals it to anger me. Before I went to the 
 wars, I came to the town a young fellow, with- 
 out means or parts to deserve friends ; and my 
 empty guts persuaded me to lie, and abuse people 
 for my meat, which I did, and they. beat me. 
 Then would I fast two days, till my hunger cried 
 out on me, ' Rail still.' Then, methought, I had 
 a monstrous stomach to abuse 'em again, and did 
 it. In this state I continued, till they hung me 
 up by the heels, and beat me with hazel-sticks, 
 as if they would have baked me, and have 
 cozen'd somebody with me for venison. After 
 this I rail'd, and eat quietly. For the whole 
 kingdom took notice of me for a baffled ^ whipp'd 
 fellow, and what I said was remembered in 
 mirth, but never in anger, of which I was glad. 
 I would it were at that pass again ! After this. 
 Heaven call'd an aunt of mine, that left two 
 hundred pounds in a cousin's hand for me ; who, 
 taking me to be a gallant young spirit, raised a 
 company for me with the money, and seat me 
 into Armenia with 'em. Away I would have 
 run from them, but that I could get no com- 
 pany : and alone I durst not run. I was never 
 at battle but once, and there I was running, but 
 Mardonius cudgell'd me. Yet I got loose at last,, 
 but was so afraid that I saw no more than my 
 shoulders do ; but fled with my whole company 
 amongst my enemies, and overthrew 'em. Now 
 the report of my valour is come over before me, 
 and they say I was a raw young fellow, but now 
 I am improved. A plague on their eloquence! 
 'twill cost me many a beating ; and Mardonius 
 might help this too, if he would ; for now they 
 think to get honour on me, and all the men I 
 have abused call me freshly to account (worthily 
 as they call it) by the way of challenge. 
 
 Enter the third Gentleman. 
 
 3 Gent. Good-morrow, Captain Bessus. 
 
 Bes. Good-morrow, sir. 
 
 3 Gent. I come to speak with you — 
 
 Bes. You're very welcome. 
 
 3 Gent. From one that holds himself wrong'd 
 by you some three years since. Your worth, he 
 says, is famed, and he does nothing doubt but 
 you will do him right, as beseems a soldier. 
 
 Bes. A pox on 'em, so they cry all ! 
 
 3 Gent. And a slight note I have about me for 
 you, for the delivery of which you must excuse 
 me. It is an office that friendship calls upon me 
 to do, and no way offensive to you ; since I desire 
 but right on both sides. [Gives him a letter. 
 
 Bes. 'Tis a challenge, sir, is it not ? 
 
 3 Gent. 'Tis an inviting to the field. 
 
 Bes. An inviting.' Oh, cry you mercy! — What 
 a compliment he delivers it with ! he might, as 
 agreeably to my nature, present me poison with 
 such a speech. [Reads.^ Um, um, um — Reputa- 
 tion — um, um, um — call you to account — um, um, 
 -am— forced to this — urn, um, um — loith my sword 
 — um, um, um — like a gentleman — um, um, um — 
 dear to me — um, um, um — satisfaction. — 'Tis very 
 well, sir ; I do accept it ; but he must await an 
 answer this thirteen weeks. 
 
 3 Gent. Why, sir, he would be glad to wipe oS 
 his stain as soon as he could. 
 
 60'^ed— unknighted. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 277 
 
 Bes. Sir, upon my credit, I am already engaged 
 to two hundred and twelve; all which must have 
 their stains wiped off, if that be the word, before 
 him, 
 
 3 Gent. Sir, if you be truly engaged but to one, 
 he shall stay a competent time. 
 
 Bes. Upon my faith, sir, to two hundred and 
 twelve. And I have a spent body, too much 
 bruised in battle ; so that I cannot fight, I must 
 be plain, above three combats a-day. All the 
 kindness 1 can show him, is to set him resolvedly 
 in my roll, the two hundred and thirteenth man, 
 which is something ; for, I tell you, I think there 
 will be more after him than before him ; I think 
 60. Pray you commend me to him, and tell him 
 this. 
 
 3 Gent. I will, sir. Good-morrow to you. 
 
 {Exit Gentleman. 
 
 Bes. Good-morrow, good sir. — Certainly, my 
 safest way were to print myself a coward, with a 
 discovery how I came by my credit, and clap it 
 upon every post. I have received above thirty 
 challenges within this two hours. Marry, all but 
 the first I put off with engagement; and, by good 
 fortune, the first is no madder of fighting than I ; 
 so that that's referred. The place where it must 
 be ended is four days' journey off, and our arbitra- 
 tors are these ; he has chosen a gentleman in 
 travel, and I have a special friend with a quartain 
 ague, like to hold him this five years, for mine ; 
 and when his man comes home, we are to expect 
 my friend's health. If they would send me chal- 
 lenges thus thick, as long as I lived, I would have 
 no other living. I can make seven shillings a-day 
 o' th' paper to the grocers. Yet I learn nothing 
 by all these, but a little skill in comparing of 
 styles. I do find evidently, that there is some 
 one scrivener in this town, that has a great hand 
 in writing of challenges, for they are all of a cut, 
 and six of 'em in a hand ; and they all end, ' My 
 reputation is dear to me, and I must require 
 satisfaction.' — Who's there ? more paper, I hope. 
 Is^o ; 'tis my Lord Bacurius. I fear, all is not well 
 betwixt us. 
 
 Enter Bacurius. 
 
 Bac. Now, Captain Bessus! I come about a 
 frivolous matter, caused by as idle a report. You 
 know you were a coward. 
 
 Bes. Very right. 
 
 Bac, And wrong'd me. 
 
 Bes. True, my lord. 
 
 Bac. But now, people will call you valiant; 
 desertlessly, I think ; yet, for their satisfaction, 
 I will have you fight with me. 
 
 Bes. Oh, ray good lord, my deep engagements — 
 
 Bac. Tell not me of your engagements, Captain 
 Bessus ! It is not to be put off with an excuse. 
 For my own part, I am none of the multitude 
 that believe your conversion from coward. 
 
 Bes. My lord, I seek not quarrels, and this 
 belongs not to me ; I am not to maintain it. 
 
 Bac. Who then, pray .? 
 
 Bes. Bessus the coward wrong'd you. 
 
 Bac. Eight, 
 
 Bes. And shall Bessus the valiant maintain 
 what Bessus the coward did ? 
 
 Bac. I pr'ythee leave these cheating tricks ! 
 I swear thou shalt fight with me, or thou shalt 
 be beaten extremely, and kick'd. 
 
 Bes. Since you provoke me thus far, my lord, 
 I will fight with you ; and, by my sword, it shall 
 cost me twenty pounds, but I will have my leg 
 well a week sooner purposely. 
 
 Bac. Your leg ! why, what ails your leg ? I'll 
 do a cure on you. Stand up! 
 
 Bes. My lord, this is not noble in you. 
 
 Bac. What dost thou with such a phrase in thy 
 mouth ? I will kick thee out of all good words 
 before I leave thee. {Kichs him. 
 
 Bes. Mj lord, I take this as a punishment for 
 the offence I did when I was a coward. 
 
 Bac. When thou wert? confess thj^self a coward 
 still, or, by this light, I'll beat thee into sponge. 
 
 Bes. Why, I am one. 
 
 Bac. Are you so, sir ? and why do you wear a 
 sword then ? Come, unbuckle ! quick ! 
 
 Bes. My lord .' 
 
 Bac. Unbuckle, I say, and give it me ; or, as 
 I live, thy head will ache extremely. 
 
 Best. It is a pretty hilt ; and if your lordship 
 take an affection to it, with all my heart I present 
 it to you, for a new-year's gift. 
 {Gives him his sword^ with a knife in the scabbard. 
 
 Bac. 1 thank you very heartily, sweet captain ! 
 Farewell. 
 
 Bes. One word more : I beseech your lordship 
 to render me my knife again. 
 
 Bac. Marry, by all means, captain. {Gives him 
 
 back the knife.'] Cherish yourself with it, and eat 
 
 hard, good captain ! we cannot tell whether we 
 
 shall have any more such. Adieu, dear captain! 
 
 {Exit Bacukius. 
 
 Bes. I will make better use of this, than of my 
 sword. A base spirit has this 'vantage of a brave 
 one; it keeps always at a stay, nothing brings it 
 down, not beating. I remember I promised the 
 king, in a great audience, that I would make my 
 backbiters eat my sword to a knife. How to get 
 another sword I know not ; nor know any means 
 left for me to maintain my credit, but impu- 
 dence. Therefore I will outswear him and all 
 his followers, that this is all that's left uneaten 
 of my sword. {Exit Bessus. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in the Palace. 
 Enter Mardonius. 
 
 Mar. ni move the king ; he is most strangely 
 alter'd. I guess the cause, I fear, too right. 
 Heaven has some secret end in't, and 'tis a 
 scourge, no question, justly laid upon -him. He 
 has follow'd me through twenty rooms ; and 
 ever, when I stay to wait his command, he 
 blushes like a girl, and looks upon me as if 
 modesty kept in his business; so turns away 
 from me ; but, if I go on, he follows me again. 
 
 Enter Arbaces. 
 
 See, here he is. I do not use this, yet, I know 
 not how, I cannot choose but weep to see him : 
 his very enemies, I think, whose wounds have 
 bred his fame, if they should see him now, would 
 find tears i' their eyes. 
 
 Arb. I cannot utter it ! Why should I keep 
 A breast to harbour thoughts I dare not speak ? 
 Darkness is in my bosom ; and there lie 
 A thousand thoughts that cannot brook the light. 
 How wilt thou vex me, Avhen this deed is done, 
 Conscience, that art afraid to let me name it ! 
 
 Mar. How do you, sir ? 
 
 Arb. Why, very well, Mardonius. 
 How dost thou do ? 
 
 Mar. Better than you, I fear. 
 
 Arb. I hope thou art; for, to be plain with thee, 
 Thou art in hell else ! Secret scorching flames, 
 That far transcend earthly material fires, 
 Are crept into me, and there is no cure : 
 Is it not strange, Mardonius, there's no cure ? 
 
 Mar. Sir, either I mistake, or there is some- 
 thing hid, that you would utter to me. 
 
2^Z 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Arh. So there is : but yet I cannot do it. 
 
 Mar. Out with it, sir. If it be dangerous, I 
 will not shrink to do you service: I shall not 
 esteem my life a weightier matter than indeed it 
 is. I know 'tis subject to more chances than it 
 has hours ; and I were better lose it in my king's 
 cause, than with an ague, or a fall, or (sleeping) 
 to a thief ; as all these are probable enough. Let 
 me but know what I shall do for you. 
 
 Arh. It will not out ! Were you with Gobrias, 
 And bade him give my sister all content 
 The place affords, and give her leave to send 
 And speak to whom she please ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, sir, I was. 
 
 Arh. And did you to Bacurius say as much 
 About Tigranes ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. 
 
 Arh. That's all my business. 
 
 Mar. Oh, say not so ; you had an answer of all 
 this before. Besides, I think this business might 
 be utter'd more carelessly. 
 
 Arh. Come, thou shalt have it out. I do be- 
 seech thee, 
 By all the love thou hast profess'd to me, 
 To see my sister from me. 
 
 Mar. Well ; and what ? 
 
 Arh. That's all. 
 
 Mar. That's strange ! Shall I say nothing to 
 her.? 
 
 Arh. Not a word : 
 But, if thou lov'st me, find some subtle way 
 To make her understand by signs. 
 
 Mar. But what shall I make her understand 1 
 
 Arh. Oh, Mardonius, for that I must be par- 
 don'd. 
 
 Mar. You may ; but I can only see her then. 
 
 Arh. 'Tis true ! {Gives him a ring. 
 
 Bear her this ring, then ; and, on more advice, 
 Thou shalt speak to her. Tell her I do love 
 My kindred all ; wilt thou 7 
 
 Mar. Is there no more ? 
 
 Arh. Oh, yes ! And her the best; 
 Better than any brother loves his sister : 
 That is all. 
 
 Mar. Methinks, this need not have been de- 
 livered with such caution. I'll do it. 
 
 Arh. There is more yet. Wilt thou be faithful 
 to me .' 
 
 Mar. Sir, if I take upon me to deliver it, after 
 I hear it, I'll pass through fire to do it. 
 
 Arh. I love her better than a brother ought. 
 Dost thou conceive me ? 
 
 Mar. I hope I do not, sir. 
 
 Arh. No! thou art dull. Kneel down before 
 her, 
 And never rise again till she will love me. 
 
 Mar. Why, I think she does. 
 
 Arh. But, better than she does : anot"her way ; 
 As wives love husbands. 
 
 Mar. Why, I think there are few wives that 
 love their husbands better than she does you. 
 
 Arh. Thou wilt not understand me ! Is it fit 
 This should be utter'd plainly ? Take it, then, 
 Naked as 'tis ; I would desire her love 
 To do a sin that needs must damn us both, 
 And thee too. Dost thou understand me now ? 
 
 Mar. Yes; there's your ring again. What 
 have I done 
 Dishonestly, in my whole life, name it, 
 That you should put so base a business to me ? 
 
 Arh. Didst thou not tell me, thou wouldst do 
 it? 
 
 Mar. Yes, if I undertook it. But if all 
 My hairs were lives, I would not be engaged 
 In such a cause to save my last life. 
 
 Arh. Oh, guilt, how poor and weak a thing 
 art thou ! 
 
 This man, that is my servant, whom my breath 
 Might blow about the world, might beat me here 
 Having this cause ; whilst I, press'd down with 
 
 sin. 
 Could not resist him. — Dear Mardonius ! 
 It was a motion mis-beseeming man. 
 And I am sorry for it. 
 
 Mar. Heaven grant you may be so ! You 
 must understand, nothing that you can utter can 
 remove my love and service from my prince: 
 but, otherwise, I think, I shall not love you 
 more : for you are sinful, and, if you do this 
 crime, you ought to have no laws ; for, after this, 
 it will be great injustice in you to punish any 
 offender for any crime. For myself, I find my 
 heart too big; I feel I have not patience to 
 look on, whilst you run these forbidden courses. 
 Means I have none but your favour ; and I am 
 rather glad that I shall lose 'em both together, 
 than keep 'em with such conditions. I shall find 
 a dwelling amongst some people, where, though 
 our garments perhaps be coarser, we shall be 
 richer far within, and harbour no such vices in 
 'em. The gods preserve you, and mend you. 
 
 Arh. Mardonius ! Stay, Mardonius ! for though 
 My present state requires nothing but knaves 
 To be about me, such as are prepared 
 For every wicked act, yet who does know 
 But that my loathed fate may turn about, 
 And I have use for honest men again ? 
 I hope I may ; I pr'ythee leave me not. 
 
 Enter Bessus. 
 
 Bes. Where is the king ? 
 
 Mar. There. 
 
 Bes. An't please your majesty, there's the 
 knife. 
 
 Arh. What knife ? 
 
 Bes. The sword is eaten. 
 
 Mar. Away, you fool ! the king is serious, 
 And cannot now adnnit your vanities. 
 
 Bes. Vanities ! I'm no honest man, if my 
 enemies have not brought it to this. What, do 
 you think I lie ? 
 
 Arh. No, no ; 'tis well, Bessus ; 'tis very well. 
 I'm glad on't. 
 
 Mar. If your enemies brought it to this, youi 
 enemies are cutlers. Come, leave the king. 
 
 Bes. Why, may not valour approach him ? 
 
 Mar. Yes ; but he has affairs. Depart, o" I 
 shall be something unmannerly with you ! 
 
 Arh. No ; let him stay, Mardonius ; let him 
 stay; 
 I have occasions with him very weighty. 
 And I can spare you now. 
 
 Mar. Sir.? 
 
 Arh. Why, I can spare you now. 
 
 Bes. Mardonius, give way to the state affairs. 
 
 Mar. Indeed you are fitter for his present 
 purpose. [Exit Mardomus. 
 
 Arh. Bessus, I should employ thee. Wilt thou 
 do't? 
 
 Bes. Do't for you ? By this air, I will do any- 
 thing, without exception, be it good, bad, or in- 
 different thing. 
 
 Arh. Do not swear. 
 
 Bes. By this light, but I will ; anything what- 
 soever. 
 
 Arh. But I shall name a thing 
 Thy conscience will not suffer thee to do. 
 
 Bes. I would fain hear that thing. 
 
 Arh. Why, I would have thee get my sister for 
 me. — 
 Thou understand' st me, — in a wicked manner. 
 
 Bes. I'll do't, I'll do't, i'faith ! 
 
 Arh. Wilt thou? Dost thou make no more 
 on't? 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 279 
 
 Bes. More ? No. Why, is there anything else ? 
 If there be, tell me, it shall be done too. 
 
 Arl. Hast thou no greater sense of such a sin ? 
 Thou art too wicked for my company, 
 Though I have hell within me, and may'st yet 
 Corrupt me further ! Pr'ythee answer me, 
 How do I show to thee after this motion ? ^ 
 
 Bes. Why, your majesty looks as well, in my 
 opinion, as ever you did since you were born. 
 
 Arh. But thou appear'st to me, after thy grant, 
 The ugliest, loathed, detestable thing, 
 That I ha,ve ever met with. Thou hast eyes 
 Like flames of sulphur, which, methinks, do dart 
 Infection on me ; and thou hast a mouth 
 Enough to take me in, where there do stand 
 Four rows of iron teeth. 
 
 Bes. I feel no such thing. But 'tis no matter 
 how I look ; I'll do your business as well as they 
 that look better. 
 
 Arl. Heaven forgive me, to hear this ! 
 I am inspii-ed with horror. — Now I hate thee 
 Worse than my sin ; which, if I could come by. 
 Should suffer death eternal, ne'er to rise 
 In any breast again. Know, I will die 
 Languishing mad, as I resolve I shall. 
 Ere I will deal by such an instrument : 
 Thou art too sinful to employ in this. 
 Out of the world, away ! {Beats him. 
 
 Bes. What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Arb. Hung round with curses, take thy fear- 
 ful flight 
 Into the deserts, where, 'mongst all the monsters, 
 If thou find'st one so beastly as thyself, 
 Thou shalt be held as innocent! 
 
 Bes. Good sir — 
 
 Arb. If there were no such instruments as thou, 
 We kings could never act such wicked deeds ! 
 Seek out a man that mocks divinity, 
 That breaks each precept both of God and man, 
 And nature too, and does it without lust. 
 Merely because it is a law, and good. 
 And live with him ; for him thou canst not spoil. 
 Away, I say ! — [Exit Bessus. 
 
 I will not do this sin. 
 I'll press it here, till it do break my breast : 
 It heaves to get out ; but thou art a sin, 
 And, spite of torture, I will keep thee in. \_Exit. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Apartment of the Princess in the Palace.^ 
 
 Enter Gobrias, Panthea, and Spaconia. 
 
 Gob. Have you written, madam ? 
 Pan. Yes, good Gobrias. 
 
 Gob. And with a kindness and such winning 
 words 
 As may provoke him, at one instant, feel 
 His double fault, your wrong, and his own rash- 
 ness ? 
 Pan. I have sent words enough, if words may 
 win him. 
 From his displeasure ; and such words, I hope, 
 As shall gain much upon his goodness, Gobrias. 
 Yet fearing, since they are many, and a woman's, 
 A poor belief may follow, I have woven 
 As many truths within 'em to speak for me, 
 That if he be but gracious and receive 'em — 
 Gob. Good lady, be not fearful. Though he 
 should not 
 Give you your present end in this, believe it. 
 
 1 Dyce locates this scene ia A room in the house of 
 
 You shall feel, if your virtue can induce you 
 To labour out this tempest (which, I know, 
 Is but a poor proof 'gainst your patience), 
 All those contents your spirit will arrive at, 
 Newer and sweeter to you. Your royal brother, 
 When he shall once collect himself, and see 
 How far he has been asunder from himself, 
 What a mere stranger to his golden temper. 
 Must, from those roots of virtue, never dying. 
 Though somewhat stopt with humour, shoot 
 
 again 
 Into a thousand glories, bearing his fair branches 
 High as our hopes can look at, straight as justice, 
 Loaden with ripe contents. He loves you dearly, 
 I know it, and, I hope, I need not further 
 Win you to understand it. 
 
 Pan. I believe it ; 
 But, howsoever, I am sure I love him dearly ; 
 So dearly, that if anything I write 
 For my enlarging should beget his anger. 
 Heaven be a witness with me, and my faith, 
 I had rather live entombed here. 
 
 Gob. You shall not feel a worse stroke than 
 your grief ; 
 I am sorry 'tis so sharp, I kiss your hand, 
 And this night will deliver this true story 
 With this hand to your brother. 
 
 Pan. Peace go with you ! 
 You are a good man. — {Exit Gobrias. 
 
 My Spaconia, 
 Why are you ever sad thus ? 
 
 Spa. Oh, dear lady ! 
 
 Pan. Pr'ythee discover not a way to sadness. 
 Nearer than I have in me. Our two sorrows 
 Work, like two eager hawks, who shall get 
 
 highest. 
 How shall I lessen thine 7 for mine, I fear, 
 Is easier known than cured. 
 
 Spa. Heaven comfort both, 
 And give yours happy ends, however I 
 Fall in my stubborn fortunes. 
 
 Pan. This but teaches 
 How to be more familiar with our sorrows, 
 That are too much our masters. Good Spaconia, 
 How shall I do you service ? 
 
 Spa. Noblest lady, 
 You make me more a slave still to your goodness, 
 And only live to purchase thanks to pay you ; 
 For that is all the business of my life now. 
 I will be bold, since you will have it so, 
 To ask a noble favour of you. 
 
 Pan. Speak it; 'tis yours; for, from so sweet 
 a virtue. 
 No ill demand has issue. 
 
 Spa. Then, ever-virtuous, let me beg your will 
 In helping me to see the Prince Tigranes; 
 AVith whom I am equal prisoner, if not more. 
 
 Pan. Eeserve me to a greater end, Spaconia ; 
 Bacurius cannot want so much good manners 
 As to deny your gentle visitation, 
 Though you came only with your own command. 
 
 Spa. I know they will deny me, gracious 
 madam. 
 Being a stranger, and so little famed. 
 So utter empty of those excellencies 
 That tame authority.* But in you, sweet lady. 
 All these are natural ; beside, a power 
 Derived immediate from your royal brother, _ 
 Whose least word in you may command the king- 
 dom. 
 
 Pan. More than my word, Spaconia, you shall 
 carry, 
 For fear it fail you. 
 
 1 That tame authority— i.e. that can have any control 
 over people in office and power.— Theobald. 
 
iSo 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Spa. Dare you trust a token ? 
 Madam, I fear I am grown too bold a beggar. 
 
 Pan. You are a pretty one ; and, trust me, lady, 
 It joys me I shall do a good to you, 
 Though to myself I never shall be happy. 
 Here, take this ring, and from me as a token 
 Deliver it : I think they will not stay you. 
 So, all your own desires go with you, lady ! 
 
 8pa. And sweet peace to your grace ! 
 
 Fan. Pray Heaven I find it ! \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Prison. 
 
 TiGRANES is discovered. 
 
 Tigr. Fool that I am ! I have undone myself, 
 And with my own hand turn'd my fortune round, 
 That was a fair one. I have childishly 
 Play'd with my hope so long, till I have broke it, 
 And now too late I mourn for't. Oh, Spaconia ! 
 Thou hast found an even way to thy revenge 
 
 now. 
 Why didst thou follow me, like a faint shadow, 
 To wither my desires ? But, wretched fool, 
 Why did I plant thee 'twixt the sun and me. 
 To make me freeze thus ? why did I prefer her 
 To the fair princess ? Oh, thou fool, thou fool, 
 Thou family of fools, live like a slave still ! 
 And in thee bear thine own hell and thy torment ; 
 Thou hast deserved it. Couldst thou find no lady. 
 But she that has thy hopes, to put her to. 
 And hazard all thy peace ? none to abuse. 
 But she that loved thee ever, poor Spaconia ? 
 And so much loved thee, that, in honesty 
 And honour, thou art bound to meet her virtues ! 
 She, that forgot the greatness of her grief . 
 And miseries, that must follow such mad passions, 
 Endless and wild as woman's ! she, that for thee. 
 And with thee, left her liberty, her name, 
 And country ! You have paid me, equal heavens, 
 And sent my own rod to correct me with, 
 A woman ! For inconstancy I'll suffer ; 
 Lay it on, justice, till my soul melt in me, 
 For my unmanly, beastly, sudden doting 
 Upon a new face ; after all my oaths, 
 Many, and strange orues. 
 I feel my old fire flame again and burn 
 So strong and violent, that, should I see her 
 Again, the grief and that would kill me. 
 
 Enter Bacurius and Spaconia. 
 
 Bac. Lady, 
 Your token I acknowledge ; you may pass ; 
 There is the king. 
 Sjpa. I thank your lordship for it. 
 
 {^Exit Bacurius. 
 Tigr. She comes, she comes ! Shame hide me 
 ever from her ! 
 'Would I were buried, or so far removed 
 Light might not find me out ! I dare not see her. 
 Spa. Nay, never hide yourself! for, were you 
 hid 
 Where earth hides all her riches, near her centre. 
 My wrongs, without more day, would light me to 
 
 you: 
 I must speak ere I die. Were all your greatness 
 Doubled upon you, you're a perjured man, 
 And only mighty in the wickedness 
 Of wronging women! Thou art false, false, 
 
 prince : 
 I live to see it ; poor Spaconia lives 
 To tell thee thou art false ; and then no more ! 
 She lives to tell thee, thou art more inconstant 
 Than all ill women ever wei-e together ; 
 Thy faith as firm as raging overflows, 
 
 That no bank can command ; and as lasting 
 As boys' gay bubbles, blown i' th' air and broken. 
 The wind is fix'd to ^ thee ; and sooner shall 
 The beaten mariner, with his shrill whistle, 
 Calm the loud murmur of the troubled main. 
 And strike it smooth again, than thy soul fall 
 To have peace in love with any. Thou art all 
 That all good men must hate ; and if thy story 
 Shall tell succeeding ages what thou wert. 
 Oh, let it spare me in it, lest true lovers, 
 In pity of my wrongs, burn thy black legend, 
 And with their curses shake thy sleeping ashes ! 
 
 Tigr. Oh, oh! 
 
 Spa. The destinies, I hope, have pointed out 
 Our ends alike, that thou may'st die for love, 
 Though not for me ; for, this assure thyself. 
 The princess hates thee deadly, and will sooner 
 Be won to marry with a bull, and safer, 
 Than such a beast as thou art. — I have struck, 
 I fear, too deep ; beshrew me for it !— Sir, 
 This sorrow works me, like a cunning friendship. 
 Into the same piece with it. — He's ashamed ! 
 Alas, I have been too rugged. — Dear my lord, 
 I am sorry I have spoken anything, 
 Indeed I am, that may add more restraint 
 To that too much you have. Good sir, be pleased 
 To think it was a fault of love, not malice ; 
 And do as I will do, forgive it, prince. 
 I do and can forgive the greatest sins 
 To me you can repent of. Pray believe me. 
 
 Tigr. Oh, my Spaconia! Oh, thou virtuous 
 woman ! 
 
 Spa. No more ; the king, sir. 
 
 Enter Arbaces, Bacurius, and Mardonius. 
 
 Arh. Have you been careful of our noble pri- 
 soner. 
 That he want nothing fitting for his greatness ? 
 
 Bar. I hope his grace will quit me for my care, 
 sir. 
 
 Arh. 'Tis well.— Eoyal Tigranes, health ! 
 
 Tigr. More than the strictness of this place can 
 give, sir, 
 I offer back again to great Arbaces. 
 
 Arh. We thank you, worthy prince ; and pray 
 excuse us, 
 We have not seen you since your being here. 
 I hope your noble usage has been equal 
 With your own person. Your imprisonment, 
 If it be any, I dare say, is easy. 
 And shall not outlast two days. 
 
 Tigr. I thank you. 
 My usage here has been the same it was, 
 Worthy a royal conqueror. For my resti'aint. 
 It came unkindly, because much unlook'd for ; 
 But I must bear it. 
 
 Arh. What lady's that, Bacurius ? 
 
 Bac. One of the princess's women, sir. 
 
 A7'b. I fear'd it. 
 Why comes she hither ? 
 
 Bac. To speak with the Prince Tigranes. 
 
 Arh. From whom, Bacurius ? 
 
 Bac. From the princess, sir. 
 
 Arh. I knew I had seen her. 
 
 Mar. His fit begins to take him now again. 
 'Tis a strange fever, and 'twill shake us all anon, 
 I fear. 'Would he were well cured of this raging 
 folly. Give me the wars, where men are mad, and 
 may talk what they list, and held the bravest 
 fellows ; this pelting 2 prating peace is good for 
 nothing : drinking's a virtue to't. 
 
 Arh. I see there's truth in no man, nor obedi- 
 ence. 
 But for his own ends. Why did you let her in ? 
 
 1 to— i.e. compared to. — Dyce. 
 
 2 ^e/imy— despicable, paltry. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 281 
 
 Bac. It was your own command to bar none 
 from him : 
 Besides, the princess sent her ring, sir, for my 
 warrant. 
 
 Arh. A token to Tigranes, did she not? 
 Sir, tell truth. 
 
 Bac. I do not use to lie, sir. 
 'Tis no way I eat, or live by ; and I think 
 This is no token, sir. 
 
 Mar. This combat has undone him. If he had 
 been well beaten, he had been temperate, I shall 
 never see him handsome again, till he have a 
 horseman's staff poked through his shoulders, or 
 an arm broke with a bullet. 
 
 Arh. i am trifled with. 
 
 Bac. Sir? 
 
 Arh. I know it, as I know thee to be false. 
 
 Mar. Now the clap comes. 
 
 Bac. You never knew me so, sir, I dare speak it ; 
 And, durst a worse man tell mo, though my 
 better — 
 
 Mar. 'Tis well said, by my soul. 
 
 Arh. Sirrah, you answer as you had no life. 
 
 Bac. That I fear, sir, to lose nobly. 
 
 Arh. I say, sir, once again — 
 
 Bac. You may say what you please, sir — 
 
 Mar. 'Would I might do so. 
 
 Arh. I will, sir ; and say openly. 
 This woman cai-ries letters. By my life, 
 I know she carries letters ; this woman does it. 
 
 Mar. 'Would Bessus were here, to take her 
 aside and search her; he would quickly tell you 
 what she carried, sir. 
 
 Arh. I have found it out, this woman carries 
 letters. 
 
 il/or. If this hold, 'twill be an ill world for 
 bawds, chambermaids, and post-boys. I thank 
 Heaven I have none but his letters - patents, 
 things of his own inditing. 
 
 Arh. Prince, this cunning cannot do't. 
 
 Tigr. Do what, sir ? I reach you not, 
 
 Arh. It shall n©t serve your turn, prince. 
 
 Tigr. Serve my turn, sir ? 
 
 Arh. Ay, sir, it shall not serve your turn. 
 
 Tigr. Be plainer, good sir. 
 
 Arh. This woman shall carry no more lettei's 
 back to your love Panthea ; by Heaven she shall 
 not ! I say she shall not. 
 
 Mar. This would make a saint swear like a 
 soldier, and a soldier like Termagant,i 
 
 Tigr. This beats me more, king, than the blows 
 you gave me. 
 
 Arh. Take 'em away both, and together let 
 them be prisoners, strictly and closely kept; or, 
 sirrah, your life shall answer it ; and let nobody 
 speak with 'em hereafter, 
 
 Tigr. Well, I am subject to you, 
 And must endure these passions. 
 
 iSpa. This is th' imprisonment I have look'd 
 for always. 
 And the dear place I would choose. 
 
 [^Exeunt Tigraxes, Spacoxia, Bacurius. 
 
 Mar. Sir, have you done well now ? 
 Arh. Dare you reprove it ? 
 Mar. No. 
 
 Arh. You must be crossing me. 
 Mar. I have no letters, sir, to anger you, 
 But a dry sonnet of my corporal's, 
 
 * Termagant— or Tervagant, Ital. Trivigante—yf&s, sup- 
 posed by the Crusaders and romance writers to be a 
 Mohammedan deity, worshipped by the Saracens, and 
 was frequently represented in the old Moralities as of a 
 most violent character ; gradually it came to mean fiery 
 and violent, but is now applied only to a scolding 
 woman. 
 
 To an old sutler's wife ; and that I'll burn, sir. 
 'Tis like to prove a fine age for the ignorant. 
 
 Arh. How dar'st thou so often forfeit thy life ? 
 Thou know'st 'tis in my power to take it. 
 
 Mar. Yes, and I know you wo' not ; or, if you 
 do, you'll miss it quickly. 
 
 Arh. Why? 
 
 Mar. Who shall tell you of these childish fol- 
 lies, when I am dead ? who shall put-to his power 
 to draw those virtues out of a flood of humours, 
 when they are drown'd, and make 'em shine 
 again ? No, cut my head off : Then you may 
 talk, and be believed, and grow worse, and have 
 your too self-glorious temper rock'd into a dead 
 sleep, and the kingdom with you ; till foreign 
 swords be in your throats, and slaughter be 
 everywhere about you, like your flatterers. Do, 
 kill me ! 
 
 Arh. Pr'ythee, be tamer, good Mardonius. 
 Thou know'st I love thee ; nay, I honour thee ; 
 Believe it, good old soldier, I am thine : 
 But I am rack'd clean from myself ! Bear with 
 
 me, 
 Wo't thou bear with me, good Mardonius ? 
 
 Enter Gobrias. 
 
 Mar. There comes a good man ; love him too ; 
 he's temperate ; you may live to have need of 
 such a virtue. Eage is not still in fashion. 
 
 Arh. Welcome, good Gobrias. 
 
 Goh. My service, and this letter, to your grace. 
 
 Arh. From whom ? 
 
 Goh. From the rich mine of virtue and all 
 beauty. 
 Your moux-nful sister, 
 
 Arh. She is in prison, Gobrias, is she not ? 
 
 Goh. \Jcneels.'\ She is, sir, till your pleasure do 
 enlarge her. 
 Which on my knees I beg. Oh, 'tis not fit 
 That all the sweetness of the world in one, 
 The youth and virtue that would tame wild 
 
 tigers. 
 And wilder people, that have known no manners, 
 Should live thus cloister'd up ! For your love's 
 
 sake. 
 If there be any in that noble heart 
 To her, a wretched lady, and forlorn ; 
 Or for her love to you, which is as much 
 As Nature and Obedience ever gave, 
 Have pity on her beauties. 
 
 Arh. Pr'ythee, stand up. 'Tis true, she is too 
 fair, 
 And all these commendations but her own : 
 'Would thou hadst never so commended her, 
 Or I ne'er lived to have heard it, Gobrias ! 
 If thou but knew'st the wrong her beauty does 
 
 her. 
 Thou wouldst, in pity of her, be a liar. 
 Thy ignorance has drawn me, wretched man, 
 Whither myself, nor thou, canst well tell. Oh, 
 
 my fate ! 
 I think she loves me, but I fear another 
 Is deeper in her heart ! Hov/ think'st thou, Gob- 
 rias? 
 
 Goh. I do beseech your grace, believe it not ; 
 For, let me pei'ish, if it be not false ! 
 Good sir, read her letter. [Arbaces reads. 
 
 Mar. This love, or what a devil it is, I know 
 not, begets more mischief than a wake. I had 
 rather be well beaten, starved, or lousy, than live 
 within the air on't. He, that had seen this brave 
 fellow charge through a grove of pikes but t'other 
 day, and look upon him now, will ne'er believe his 
 eyes again. If he continue thus but two days 
 more, a tailor may beat him with one hand tied 
 behind him. 
 
 Arh. Alas, she would be at liberty! 
 
282 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And there be thousand reasons, Gobrias, 
 Thousands, that will deny it ; 
 Which, if she knew, she would contentedly 
 Be where she is, and bless her virtue for it. 
 And me, though she were closer. She would, 
 
 Gobrias ; 
 Good man, indeed, she would. 
 
 Gob. Then, good sir, for her satisfaction. 
 Send for her, and, with reason, make her know 
 Why she must live thus from you. 
 
 Arl). I wiD. Go bring her to me. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 A Room in the Hoiise o/Bessus. 
 
 Enter Bessus, two Swordmen,^ and a Boy. 
 
 Bes. You're very welcome, both ! Some stools 
 
 there, boy; 
 And reach a table. Gentlemen o' th' sword, 
 Pray sit, without more compliment. Begone, 
 
 child ! 
 I have been curious in the searching of you. 
 Because I understand you wise and valiant 
 
 persons. 
 
 1 iSw. We understand ourselves, sir. 
 
 Bes. Nay, gentlemen, and dear friends o' the 
 sword, 
 No compliment, I pray ; but to the cause 
 I hang upon, which, in few,^ is my honour. 
 
 2 Sw. You cannot hang too much, sir, for your 
 honour. 
 
 But to your cause : be wise, and speak truth. 
 Bes. My first doubt is, my beating by my 
 prince. 
 
 1 Sw. Stay there a little, sir : Do you doubt a 
 beating ? 
 
 Or, have you had a beating by your prince ? 
 JBes. Gentlemen o' th' sword, my prince has 
 beaten me. 
 
 2 Sw. Brother, what think you of this case ? 
 
 1 Sw. If he has beaten him, the case is clear. 
 
 2 Sw. If he have beaten him, I grant the case. 
 But how ? — we cannot be too subtle in this busi- 
 ness, — 
 
 I say, but how? 
 Bes. Even with his royal hand. 
 
 1 Sw. Was it a blow ol love, or indignation ? 
 Bes. 'Twas twenty blows of indignation, gen- 
 tlemen ; 
 
 Besides two blows o' th' face. 
 
 2 Sw. Those blows o' th' face have made a new 
 cause on't ; 
 
 The rest were but an honourable rudeness. 
 2 Sw. Two blows o' th' face, and given by a 
 
 worse man, 
 I must confess, as we swordmen say, had turn'd 
 The business. Mark me, brother, by a worse 
 
 man: 
 But, being by his prince, had they been ten, 
 And those ten drawn ten teeth, besides the 
 
 hazard 
 Of his nose for ever, all this had been but 
 
 favours. 
 This is my flat opinion, which 111 die in. 
 
 2 Sw. The king may do much, captain, believe 
 
 it; 
 For had he crack'd your skull through, like a 
 
 bottle, 
 Or broke a rib or two with tossing of you, 
 
 * Swordmenr— men whose profession it was to instruct 
 In arms, settle duels according to proper punctilio, assist 
 the timorous, &c. 
 
 2 in few — in few words, in brief. 
 
 Yet you had lost no honour. This is strange. 
 You may imagine, but this is truth now, captain. 
 
 Bes. 1 will be glad to embrace it, gentlemen. 
 But how far may he strike me? 
 
 1 Sw. There's another ; 
 
 A new cause rising from the time and distance, 
 In which I will deliver my opinion. 
 He may strike, beat, or cause to be beaten ; 
 For these are natm-al to man : 
 Your prince, I say, may beat you so far forth 
 As his dominion reacheth; that's for the dis- 
 tance ; 
 The time, ten miles a day, I take it. 
 
 2 Sw. Brother, you err, 'tis fifteen miles a day; 
 His stage is ten, his beatings are fifteen. 
 
 Bes. 'Tis of the longest, but we subjects must — 
 
 1 Sw. Be subject to it. You are wise and 
 virtuous. 
 
 Bes. Obedience ever makes that noble use on't. 
 To which I dedicate my beaten body. 
 I must trouble you a little further, gentlemen o' 
 th' sword. 
 
 2 Sw. No trouble at all to us, sir, if we may 
 Profit your understanding. We are bound, 
 By virtue of our calling, to utter our opinion 
 Shortly, and discreetly. 
 
 Bes. My sorest business is, I have been kick'd. 
 
 2 Sw. How far, sir ? 
 
 Bes. Not to flatter myself in it, all over : 
 My sword lost, but not forced ; for discreetly 
 I render'd it, to save that imputation. 
 
 1 Sw. It showed discretion, the best part of 
 valour. 
 
 2 Sw. Brother, this is a pretty cause; pray 
 ponder on't : 
 
 Our friend here has been kick'd. 
 
 1 Sw. He has so, brother. 
 
 2 Sw. Sorely, he says. Now, had he set down 
 here. 
 
 Upon the mere kick, 't had been cowardly. 
 
 1 Sw. I think it had been cowardly, indeed. 
 
 2 Sw. But our friend has redeem'd it in de- 
 livering 
 
 His sword without compulsion ; and that man 
 That took it of him, I pronounce a weak one, 
 And his kicks nullities. 
 
 He should have kick'd him after the delivery, 
 Which is the confirmation of a coward. 
 
 1 Sw. Brother, I take it you mistake the 
 question ; 
 
 For, say that I were kick'd. 
 
 2 Sw. I must not say so ; 
 
 Nor I must not hear it spoke by th' tongue of 
 
 man. 
 You kick'd, dear brother ! You are merry. 
 
 1 Sw. But put the case, I were kick'd. 
 
 2 Sw. Let them put it 
 
 That are things weary of their lives, and know 
 Not honour ! Put the case, you were kick'd ! 
 
 1 Sio. 1 do not say I was kick'd. 
 
 2 Sw. Nor no silly creature that wears his head 
 Without a case, his soul in a skin-coat. 
 
 You kick'd, dear brother ! 
 Bes. Nay, gentlemen, let us do what we shall 
 do, 
 Truly and honestly. Good sirs, to the question. 
 
 1 Sw. Why, then, I say, suppose yoiu: boy 
 kick'd, captain. 
 
 2 Sw. The boy may be supposed, he's liable. 
 But, kick my brother ! 
 
 1 Sw. A foolish forward zeal, sii', in my friend. 
 But to the boy. Suppose the boy were kick'd. 
 Bes. I do suppose it. 
 1 Sw. Has your boy a sword ? 
 Bes. Surely no ; I pray, suppose a sword too. 
 1 Sw. 1 do suppose it. You grant your boy 
 was kick'd then. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 283 
 
 2 Sw. By no means, captain ; let it be supposed 
 still ; 
 The word 'grant' makes not for us. 
 
 1 Sw. I say, this must be granted. 
 
 2 Sw. This must be granted, brother ? 
 1 Sw. Ay, this must be granted. 
 
 "1 Sw. Still, this mws^,^ 
 
 1 Sw. I say, this must be granted. 
 
 2 Sw. Give me the must again ! Brother, you 
 palter. 
 
 1 Sw. I will not hear you, wasp. 
 
 2 Sw. Brother, 
 
 I say you palter ; the must three times together ! 
 
 I wear as sharp steel as another man, 
 
 And my fox^ bites as deep. Musted, my dear 
 
 brother ! 
 But to the cause again. 
 
 Bes. Nay, look you, gentlemen ! 
 
 2 Sio. In a word, I ha' done. 
 
 1 Sw. A tall 2 man, but intemperate; 'tis great 
 pity. 
 
 Once more, suppose the boy kick'd. 
 
 2 Sw. Forward. 
 
 1 Sw. And, being thoroughly kick'd, laughs at 
 the kicker. 
 
 2 Sw. So much for us. Proceed. 
 
 1 Sw. And in this beaten scorn, as I may call 
 it. 
 
 Delivers up his weapon ; where lies the error ? 
 Bes. It lies i' the beating, sir: I found it four 
 days since. 
 
 2 Sio. The error, and a sore one, as I take it, 
 Lies in the thing kicking. 
 
 Bes. I understand that well ; 'tis sore, indeed, 
 sir. 
 
 1 Sw. That is according to the man that did it. 
 
 2 Sw. There springs a new branch. Whose 
 was the foot ? 
 
 Bes. A lord's. 
 
 1 Svj. The cause is mighty ; but, had it been 
 two lords, 
 
 And both had kick'd you, if you laugh' d, 'tis 
 clear. 
 Bes. I did laugh ; but how will that help me, 
 gentlemen ? 
 
 2 Sw. Yes, it shall help you, if you laugh'd 
 aloud. 
 
 .Bes. As loud as a kick'd man could laugh, I 
 laugh'd, sir. 
 
 1 Sw. My reason now. The valiant man is 
 known 
 
 By suffering and contemning ; you have 
 Enough of both, and you are valiant. 
 
 2 Sw. If he be sure he has been kick'd enough : 
 For that brave sufferance you speak of, brother. 
 Consists not in a beating and away, 
 
 But in a cudgell'd body, from eighteen 
 To eight and thirty ; in a head rebuked 
 With pots of all size, daggers, stools, and bed- 
 staves : 
 This shows a valiant man. 
 
 Bes. Then I am valiant, as valiant as the 
 proudest ; 
 For these are all familiar things to me ; 
 Familiar as my sleep, or want of money ; 
 All my whole body's but one bruise, with beating. 
 I think I have been cudgell'd with all nations, 
 And almost all religions. 
 
 2 Sw. Embrace him, brother I this man is 
 valiant ; 
 I know it by myself, he's valiant. 
 
 1 Sw. Captain, thou art a valiant gentleman, 
 Abide upon't, a very valiant man. 
 
 1 fox— a common term for the English broadsword. 
 See Philaster. 
 ' tall— bold, brave. 
 
 Bes. My equal friends o' th' sword, I must 
 request 
 Your hands to this. 
 
 2 Sw. 'Tis fit it should be. 
 
 Bes. Boy, 
 Get me some wine, and pen and ink, within. — 
 Am I clear, gentlemen ? 
 
 1 Sw. Sir, when the world has taken notice 
 what we have done. 
 
 Make much of your body ; for I'll pawn my steel. 
 Men will be coyer of their legs hereafter. 
 
 Bes. 1 must request you go along, and testify 
 To the Lord Bacurius, whose foot has struck me, 
 How you find my cause. 
 
 2 Sw. We will ; and tell that lord he must be 
 ruled ; 
 
 Or there be those abroad will rule his lordship. 
 
 [Bxeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 
 An Apartment in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Arbaces at one door, and Goerias with 
 Panthea at another. 
 
 Gob. Sir, here's the princess. 
 
 Arb. Leave us, then, alone ; 
 For the main cause of her imprisonment 
 Must not be heard by any but herself. — 
 
 [^Exit GOBRIAS. 
 
 You're welcome, sister ; and I would to Heaven 
 I could so bid you by another name. — 
 If you above love not such sins as these. 
 Circle my heart with thoughts as cold as snow, 
 To quench these rising flames that harbour here. 
 
 Pan. Sir, does it please you I shall speak? 
 
 Arb. Please me ? 
 Ay, more than all the art of music can. 
 Thy speech doth please me ; for it ever sounds 
 As thou brought'st joyful unexpected news : 
 And yet it is not fit thou shouldst be heard ; 
 I pray thee, think so. 
 
 Pan. Be it so ; I will. 
 Am I the first that ever had a wrong 
 So far from being fit to have redress, 
 That 'twas unfit to hear it ? I will back 
 To prison, rather than disquiet you, 
 And wait till it be fit. 
 
 Arb. No, do not go ; 
 For I will hear thee with a serious thought : 
 I have collected all that's man about me 
 Together strongly, and I am resolved 
 To hear thee largely. But I do beseech thee, 
 Do not come nearer to me ; for there is 
 Something in that, that will undo us both. 
 
 Pan. Alas, sir, am I venom ? 
 
 Arb. Yes, to me ; 
 Though, of thyself, I think thee to be in 
 As equal a degree of heat or cold, ' 
 As nature can make. Yet, as unsound men 
 Convert the sweetest and the nourishing st meats 
 Into diseases, so shall I, distemper'd. 
 Do thee. 1 pray thee, draw no nearer to me. 
 
 Pan. Sir, this is that I would : I am of late 
 Shut from the world, and why it should be thus 
 Is all I wish to know. 
 
 Arb. Why, credit me, 
 Panthea, credit me, that am thy brother, 
 Thy loving brother, that there is a cause 
 Sufficient, yet unfit for thee to know, 
 That might undo thee everlastingly 
 Only to hear. Wilt thou but credit this ? 
 By heaven, 'tis true ! believe it if thou canst. 
 
 Pan. Children and fools are ever credulous, 
 And I am both, I think, for I believe, 
 If you dissemble, be it on your head I 
 
284 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I'll back unto my prison. Yet, metliinks, 
 I might be kept in some place where you are ; 
 For in myself I find, I know not what 
 To call it, but it is a great desire 
 To see you often. 
 
 Arb. Fy, you come in a step; what do you 
 mean? 
 Dear sister, do not so ! Alas, Panthea, 
 "Where I am would you be ? AVhy, that's the cause 
 You are imprison'd, that you may not be 
 "Where I am. 
 
 Pan. Then I must endure it, sir. 
 Heaven keep you ! 
 
 Arh. Nay, you shall hear the cause in short, 
 Panthea ; 
 And, when thou hear'st, thou wilt blush for me. 
 And hang thy head down like a violet 
 Full of the morning's dew. There is a way 
 To gain thy freedom ; but 'tis such a one 
 As puts thee in worse bondage, and I know 
 Thou wouldst encounter fire, and make a proof 
 "Whether the gods have care of innocence, 
 Eather than follow it. Know I have lost, 
 The only difference betwixt man and beast, 
 My reason. 
 
 Pan. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Arh. Nay, it is gone ; 
 And I am left as far without a bound 
 As the wild ocean that obeys the winds ; 
 Each sudden passion throws me where it lists, 
 And overwhelms all that oppose my wUl. 
 I have beheld thee with a lustful eye ; 
 My heart is set on wickedness, to act 
 Such sins with thee, as I have been afraid 
 To think of. If thou dar'st consent to this, 
 "Which, I beseech thee, do not, thou may'st gain 
 Thy liberty, and yield me a content ; 
 If not, thy dwelling must be dark and close, 
 "Where I may never see thee : for Heaven knows. 
 That laid this punishment upon my pride, 
 Thy sight at some time will enforce my madness 
 To make a start e'en to thy ravishing. 
 Now spit upon me, and call all reproaches 
 Thou canst devise together, and at once 
 Hurl 'em against me ; for I am a sickness 
 As killing as the plague, ready to seize thee. 
 
 Pan. Far be it from me to revile the king ! 
 But it is true, that I shall rather choose 
 To search out death, that else would search out 
 
 me. 
 And in a grave sleep with my innocence, 
 Than welcome such a sin. It is my fate ; 
 To these cross accidents I was ordain'd, 
 And must have patience ; and, but that my eyes 
 Have more of woman in 'em than my heart, 
 I would not weep. Peace enter you again ! 
 
 Arh, Farewell; and, good Panthea, pray for me 
 (Thy prayers are pure), that I may find a death, 
 HoAvever soon, before my passions grow. 
 That they forget what I desire is sin ; 
 For thither they are tending. If that happen, 
 Then I shall force thee, though thou wert a virgin 
 By vow to Heaven, and shall pull a heap 
 Of strange, yet uninvented, sin upon me. 
 
 Pan. Sir, I wiU pray for you ! yet you shall 
 know 
 It is a sullen fate that governs us ; 
 For I could wish, as heartily as you, 
 I were no sister to you ; I should then 
 Embrace your lawful love, sooner than health. 
 
 Arh. Couldst thou affect me then ? 
 
 Pan. So perfectly. 
 That, as it is, I ne'er shall sway my heart 
 To like another. 
 
 Arh. Then I curse my birth ! 
 Must this be added to my miseries. 
 That thou art willing too .' Is there no stop 
 
 To our full happiness, but these mere sounds, 
 Brother and sister ? 
 
 Pan. There is nothing else ; 
 But these, alas ! will separate us more 
 Than twenty worlds betwixt us. 
 
 Arh. I have lived 
 To conquer men, and now am overthrown 
 Only by words, brother and sister. Where 
 Have those words dwelling ? I will find 'em out, 
 And utterly desti'oy 'em ; but they are 
 Not to be grasp'd. Let them be men or beasts. 
 And I will cut 'em from the earth ; or towns. 
 And I "will raze 'em, and then blow 'em up : 
 Let 'em be seas, and I wiU drink 'em off. 
 And yet have unquench'd fire left in my breast : 
 Let 'em be anything but merely voice. 
 
 Pan. But 'tis not in the power of any force. 
 Or policy, to conquer them. 
 
 Arh. Panthea, 
 "What shall we do ? Shall we stand firmly here. 
 And gaze our eyes out ? 
 
 Pan. 'Would I could do so ! 
 But I shall weep out mine. 
 
 Arh. Accursed man. 
 Thou bought'st thy reason at too dear a rate ; 
 For thou hast all thy actions bounded in 
 With curious ^ rules, when every beast is free : 
 "What is there that acknowledges a kindred, 
 But wretched man ? "Who ever saw the bull 
 Fearfully leave the heifer that he hked. 
 Because they had one dam ? 
 
 Pan. Sir, I disturb you 
 And myself too ; 'twere better I were gone. 
 
 Arh. I will not be so foolish as I was ; 
 Stay, we will love just as becomes our births, 
 No otherwise. Brothers and sisters may 
 Walk hand in hand together ; so shall we. 
 Come nearer : is there any hurt in this ? 
 
 Pan. I hope not. 
 
 Arh. 'Faith, there is none at all : 
 And tell me truly now, is there not one 
 You love above me ? 
 
 Pan. No, by Heaven. 
 
 Arh. "Wliy, yet 
 You sent unto Tigranes, sister. 
 
 Pan. True, 
 But for another. For the truth — 
 
 Arh. No more, 
 I'll credit thee ; I know thou canst not lie. 
 Thou art all truth. 
 
 Pan. But is there nothing else 
 That we may do, but only walk ? Methinks 
 Brothers and sistei-s lawfully may kiss. 
 
 Arh. And so they may, Panthea ; so will we. 
 \Extunt several ways. 
 
 ACT V.-SCENE L 
 
 Before the Palace. 
 Enter Makdonius and Lygoxes. 
 
 Mar. Sir, the king has seen your commission, 
 and believes it ; and freely by this warrant gives 
 you power to visit Prince Tigranes, your noble 
 master. 
 
 Lyg. I thank his grace, and kiss his hand. 
 
 Mar. But is the main of all your business ended 
 in this ? 
 
 Lyg. I have another, but a worse ; I am ashamed ! 
 It is a business — 
 
 Mar. You seem a worthy person ; and a stran- 
 ger I am sure you are. You may employ me, 
 
 * curiojw— scrupulous, strict. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 285 
 
 if you please, without your purse ; such offices 
 should ever be their own rewards. 
 
 Lyg. I am bound to your nobleness. 
 
 Mar. I may have need of you, and then this 
 courtesy, 
 If it be any, is not ill bestow'd. 
 But may I civilly desire the rest ? 
 I shall not be a hurter, if no helper. 
 
 Lyg. Sir, you shall know : I have lost a foolish 
 daughter, 
 And with her all my patience ; pilfer'd away 
 B}'' a mean captain of your king's. 
 
 Mar. Stay there, sir : 
 If he have reach'd the noble worth of captain, 
 He may well claim a worthy gentlewoman, 
 Though she were yours, and noble. 
 
 Lyg. I grant all that too; but this wretched 
 fellow 
 Eeaches no further than the empty name, 
 That serves to feed him. "Were he valiant, 
 Or had but in him any noble nature, 
 That might hereafter promise him a good man, 
 My cares were so much lighter, and my grave 
 A span yet from me. 
 
 Mar. I confess, such fellows 
 Be in all royal camps, and have and must be, 
 To make the sin of coward more detested 
 In the mean soldier, that with such a foil 
 Sets off much valour. By description, 
 I should now guess him to you ; it was Bessus, 
 I dare almost with confidence pronounce it. 
 
 Lyg. 'Tis such a scurvy name as Bessus ; 
 And, now I think, 'tis he. 
 
 Mar. Captain do you call him ? 
 Believe me, sir, you have a misery 
 Too mighty for your age. A pox upon him ! 
 For that must be the end of all his service. 
 Your daughter was not mad, sir "i 
 
 Lyg. No ; 'would she had been ! 
 The fault had had more credit. I would do 
 something. 
 
 Mar. I would fain counsel you ; but to what 
 I know not. 
 He's so below a beating, that the women 
 Find him not worthy of their distaves ; and 
 To hang him were to cast away a rope. 
 He's such an airy, thin, unbodied coward, 
 That no revenge can catch him. 
 I'll tell you, sir, and tell you truth : this rascal 
 Fears neither God nor man ; has been so beaten, 
 Sufferance has made him wainscot ; he has had, 
 Since he was first a slave, 
 At least three hundred daggers set in's head, 
 As little boys do new knives in hot meat. 
 There's not a rib in's body, o' my conscience, 
 That has not been thrice broken with di-y beating ; 
 And now his sides look like two wicker tai'gets, 
 Every way bended ; 
 
 Children will shortly take him for a wall, 
 And set their stone-bows ^ in his forehead. 
 He is of so base a sense, 
 I cannot in a week imagine what 
 Shall be done to him. 
 
 Lyg. Sure I have committed some great sin. 
 That this base fellow should be made my rod. 
 I would see him ; but I shall have no patience. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis no great matter if you have not. If 
 a laming of him, or such a toy,^ may do you plea- 
 sure, sir, he has it for you ; and I'll help you to 
 him. 'Tis no news to him to have a leg broken, 
 or a shoulder out, with being turn'd o' th' stones 
 like a tansy. Draw not your sword, if you love 
 it ; for, on my conscience, his head will break it : 
 we use him i' th' wars like a ram, to shake a wall 
 
 1 s^o«e-5oic5— cross-bows. 
 
 1 fo^/— tiifle. 
 
 withal. Here comes the very person of him ; do 
 as you shall find your temper ; I must leave you. 
 But if you do not break him like a biscuit, you're 
 much to blame, sir. \Exht Makdoxius. 
 
 Enter Bessus and the Swordmen. 
 
 Lyg. Is your name Bessus ? 
 
 Bes. Men call me Captain Bessus. 
 
 Lyg. Then, Captain Bessus, you are a rank 
 rascal, Avithout more exordiums ; a dirty, frozen 
 slave ; and, with the favour of your friends here, 
 I will beat you. 
 
 2 Sw. Pray use your pleasure, sir ; you seem 
 to be a gentleman. 
 
 Lyg. \Beats Am.] Thus, Captain Bessus, thus ! 
 Thus twinge your nose, thus kick, thus tread 
 upon you. 
 
 Bes. I do beseech you, yield your cause, sir, 
 quickly. 
 
 Jjgg. Indeed, I should have told you that first. 
 
 Bes. I take it so. 
 
 1 Sw. Captain, he should indeed; he is mistaken. 
 
 Lyg. Sir, you shall have it quickly, and more 
 beating : 
 You have stolen away a ladj', Captain Coward, 
 And such a one — \_Btats him. 
 
 Bes. Hold, I beseech you, hold, sir ; 
 I never yet stole any living thing 
 That had a tooth about it. 
 
 Lyg. 1 know you dare lie. 
 
 Bes. With none but summer whores, upon my 
 life, sir ; 
 My means and manners never could attempt 
 Above a hedge or haycock. 
 
 Lyg. Sirrah, that quits not me : where is this 
 lady ? 
 Do that you do not use to do, tell truth. 
 Or, by my hand, I'll beat your captain's brains out, 
 Wash 'em, and put 'em in again, that will I.^ 
 
 Bes. There was a lady, sir, I must confess. 
 Once in my charge : the Prince Tigranes gave her 
 To my guard, for her safety. How I used her 
 She may herself report ; she's with the prince now. 
 I did but wait upon her like a groom, 
 Which she will testify, I am sure ; if not. 
 My brains are at your service, when you please, 
 
 sir. 
 And glad I have 'em for you. 
 
 Lyg. This is most likely. Sir, I ask your pardon, 
 and am sorry I was so intemperate. 
 
 Bes. Well, I can ask no more. You would 
 think it strange now, to have me beat you at 
 first sight. 
 
 Lyg. Indeed, I would ; but, I know, your 
 goodness can forget twenty beatings. You 
 must forgive me. 
 
 Bes. Yes; thex'e's my hand. Go where you 
 will, I shall think you a valiant fellow for all 
 this. 
 
 Lyg. Yet I will see her ; [^Aside. 
 
 Discharge myself of being father to her. 
 And then back to my country, and there die. — 
 Farewell, captain. 
 
 Bes. Farewell, sir, farewell! Commend me to 
 the gentlewoman, I pray. lExit Bygones. 
 
 1 Sw. How now, captain ? bear up, man. 
 Bes. Gentlemen o' th' sword, your hands once 
 
 more. I have been kick'd again ; but the foolish 
 fellow is penitent, has ask'd me mercy, and my 
 honour's safe. 
 
 2 Sw. We knew that, or the foolish fellow had 
 better have kick'd his grandsire. 
 
 Bes. Confirm, confirm, I pray. 
 
 1 Sw. There be our hands again ! Now let 
 
 i Dyce reads, Wash 'em and put 'em in again that will 
 
286 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 him come, and say he was not sorry, and he 
 sleeps for it. 
 
 Bes. Alas ! good ignorant old man, let him go, 
 let him go ; these courses will undo him. 
 
 \Exeu.nt. 
 
 ACT V.—SCENE II. 
 
 The Prison. 
 
 Enter Lygoxes and Bacurius. 
 
 JBac. My lord, your authority is good, and I 
 am glad it is so ; for my consent would never 
 hinder you from seeing your own kiug, I am a 
 minister, but not a governor of this state. Yon- 
 der is your king ; I'll leave you. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Tigraues and Spacoxia. 
 
 Lyg. There he is, 
 Indeed, and with him my disloyal child. 
 
 Tigr. I do perceive my fault so much, that yet, 
 Methinks, thou shouldst not have forgiven me. 
 
 Lyg. Health to your majesty! 
 
 Tigr. What, good Lygones ! welcome ! 
 What business brought thee hither ? 
 
 Lyg. Several businesses ! [Gives a paper. 
 
 My public business will appear by this ; 
 I have a message to deliver, which, 
 If it please you so to authorize, is 
 An embassage from the Armenian state 
 Unto Arbaces for your liberty. 
 The offer's there set down ; please you to read it. 
 
 Tigr. There is no alteration happen'd since 
 I came thence ? 
 
 Lyg. None, sir ; all is as it was. 
 
 Tigr. And all our friends are well ? [Reads. 
 
 Lyg. All very well. 
 
 Spa. Though I have done nothing but what 
 was good, 
 I dare not see my father. It was fault 
 Enough not to acquaint him with that good. 
 
 Lyg. Madam, I should have seen you. 
 
 Spa. Oh, good sir, forgive me. 
 
 Lyg. Forgive you ! why, I am no kin to you, 
 am I? 
 
 Spa. Should it be measured by my mean 
 deserts, 
 Indeed you are not. 
 
 Lyg. Thou couldst prate, imhappily, 
 Ere thou couldst go ; 'would thou couldst do as 
 
 well. 
 And how does your custom hold out here ? 
 
 Spa. Sir? 
 
 Lyg. Are you in private still, or how ?. 
 
 Spa. What do you mean ? 
 
 Lyg. Do you take money 7 Are you come to 
 sell sin yet ? Perhaps I can help you to liberal 
 clients. Or has not the king cast you off yet? 
 Oh, thou vile creature, whose best commenda- 
 tion is, that thou art a young whore ! I would 
 thy mother had lived to see this ; or, rather, that 
 I had died ere I had seen it ! 
 
 Tigr. Lygones, I have read it, and I like it ; 
 You shall deliver it. 
 
 Lyg. Well, sir, I will : 
 But i have private business with vou. 
 
 Tigr. Speak; whatis't? 
 
 Lyg. How has my age deserved so ill of you ? 
 Methinks, my daughter 
 
 Might have been spared; there were enow be- 
 sides. 
 
 Tigr. May I not prosper, but she's innocent 
 As morning light, for me ; and, I dare swear, 
 Eor all the world. 
 
 Lyg. Why is she with you, then ? 
 Can she wait on you better than your man ? 
 
 Has she a gift in plucking off your stockings ? 
 Can she make caudles well, or cut your corns ? 
 Why do you keep her with you ? For a queen, 
 I know, j'ou do contemn her ; so should I ; 
 And every subject else think much at it. 
 
 Tigr. Let 'em think much ; but 'tis more firm 
 than earth. 
 Thou seest thy queen there. 
 
 Lyg. Then have I made a fair hand. If I 
 shall speak now as her father, I cannot choose 
 but greatly rejoice that she shall be a queen. 
 
 Tigr. Get you about your business to Arbaces ; 
 Now you talk idly. 
 
 Lyg. Yes, sir, I will go. 
 And shall she be a queen ? She had more wit 
 Than her old father, when she ran away. 
 Shall she be a queen? Now, by my troth, 'tis 
 
 fine! 
 I'll dance out of all measure at her wedding : 
 Shall I not, sir ? 
 
 Tigr. Yes, marry, shalt thou. 
 
 Lyg. I'll make these wither'd kexes i bear my 
 body 
 Two hours together above ground. 
 
 Tigr. Nay, go ; 
 My business requires haste. 
 
 Lyg. Good Heav'n preserve you ! 
 You are an excellent king. 
 
 Spa. Farewell, good father. 
 
 Lyg. Farewell, sweet virtuous daughter. 
 I never was so joyful in my life. 
 That I remember ! Shall she be a queen ? 
 Now I perceive a man may weep for joy ; 
 I had thought they had lied that said so. 
 
 [Exit Lygones. 
 
 Tigr. Come, my dear love. 
 
 Spa. But you may see another. 
 May alter that again. 
 
 Tigr. Urge it no moi-e : 
 I have made up a new strong constancy, 
 Not to be shook with eyes. I know I have 
 The passions of a man ; but if I meet 
 With any subject that should hold my eyes 
 More firmly than is fit, I'll think of thee. 
 And run away from it. Let that suffice. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IIL 
 The House 0/ Bacurius. 
 Enter Bacurius and a Servant. 
 Bac. Three gentlemen without, to speak with 
 
 me? 
 Serv. Yes, sir. 
 Bac. Let them come in. 
 
 Enter Bessus, with the two Swordmen. 
 
 Serv. They are enter'd, sir, already. 
 
 Bac. Now, fellows, your business ? Are these 
 the gentlemen? 
 
 Bes. My lord, I have made bold to bring these 
 gentlemen. 
 My friends o' th' sword, along with me. 
 
 Bac. I am 
 Afraid you'll fight, then. 
 
 Bes. My good lord, 1 will not ; 
 Your lordship is mistaken ; fear not., lord. 
 
 Bac. Sir, I am sorry for't. 
 
 Bes. 1 ask no more in honour. — Gentlemen, 
 You hear my lord is sorry. 
 
 Bac. Not that I have beaten you, 
 But beaten one that will be beaten ; 
 
 1 kexes— ivj stalks, generally of hemlock ; of course 
 Lygones means his legs. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 287 
 
 One -whose dull body will require a lamming,^ 
 As sui'feits do the diet, spring and fall. 
 Now, to your swordmen : 
 What come they for, good Captain Stockfish ? 
 Bes. It seems your lordship has forgot my 
 
 name. 
 Bac. No, nor your nature neither ; though they 
 are 
 Things fitter, I must confess, for anything 
 Than my remembrance, or any honest man's : 
 What shall these billete do ? be piled up in my 
 woodyard ? 
 Bes. Your lordship holds your mirth still ; 
 Heaven continue it ! 
 But, for these gentlemen, they come — 
 Bac. To swear you are a coward ? Spare your 
 book; 
 I do believe it. 
 
 Bts. Your lordship still draws wide ; 
 They come to vouch, under their valiant hands, 
 I am no coward. 
 Bac. That would be a show, indeed, worth 
 seeing. Sirrah, 
 Be wise and take money for this motion, 2 travel 
 
 with't ; 
 And where the name of Bessus has been known, 
 Or a good coward stirring, 'twiU yield more than 
 A tilting. This will prove more beneficial to 
 
 you, 
 
 If you be thrifty, than your captainship, 
 
 And more natural. Men of most valiant hands, 
 
 Is this true ? 
 
 2 Sw. It is so, most renowned. 
 
 Bac. 'Tis somewhat strange. 
 
 1 Sw. Lord, it is strange, yet true; 
 
 We have examined, from your lordship's foot 
 
 there 
 To this man's head, the nature of the beatings ; 
 And we do find his honour is come off 
 Clean and sufficient. This, as our swords shall 
 
 help us. 
 Bac. You are much botind to your bilbo-men ; ^ 
 I am glad you're straight again, captain. 'Twere 
 
 good 
 You would think on some way to gratify them ; 
 They have imdergone a labour for you, Bessus, 
 Would have puzzled Hercules with all his valour. 
 
 2 Sw. Your lordship must understand we are 
 no men 
 
 Of the law, that take pay for ovir opinions ; 
 It is sufficient we have cleared our friend. 
 Bac. Yet there is something due, which I, as 
 touch'd 
 In conscience, will discharge. — Captain, I'll pay 
 This rent for you. 
 
 Bes. Spare yourself, my good lord ; 
 My brave friends aim at nothing but the virtue. 
 Bac. That's but a cold discharge, sir, for their 
 
 pains. 
 2 Sw. Oh, lord ! my good lord ! 
 Bac. Be not so modest ; I will give you some- 
 thing. 
 Bes. They shall dine with your lordship ; that's 
 
 sufficient. 
 Bojc. Something in hand the while. You 
 rogues, you apple-squires,* 
 Do you come hither, with your bottled valour, 
 Your windy froth, to limit out my beatings 1 
 
 \Kicks them. 
 
 1 Sw. I do beseech your lordship. 
 
 2 Sw. Oh, good lord ! 
 
 1 Zammtn^— beating. 
 
 * wioiion— puppet-show. 
 ' bilbo-men — swordmen. 
 
 * apple-squires — pimps. 
 
 Bac. 'Sfoot, what a bevy of beaten slaves are 
 here ! — 
 Get me a cudgel, sirrah, and a tough one. 
 
 [^Exit Servant. 
 2 Sw. More of your foot, I do beseech your 
 
 lordship. 
 Bac. You shall, you shall, dog, and your fellow 
 
 1 Sw. 0' this side, good my lord. 
 
 Bac. Off with your swords ; 
 For if you hurt my foot, I'U have you flay'd, 
 You rascals. 
 
 1 Sw. Mine's off, my lord. 
 
 IThey tahe off their swords. 
 
 2 Sw. I beseech your lordship, stay a little ; 
 my strap's 
 
 Tied to my cod-piece point. Now, when you 
 please. 
 Bac. Captain, these are your valiant friends ; 
 You long for a little too.? 
 Bes. 1 am very well, I humbly thank your 
 
 lordship. 
 Bac. What's that in your pocket hui-ts my toe, 
 you mongrel ? 
 Thy buttocks cannot be so hard; out with't 
 quickly. 
 2 Sw. ^Takes out a pistol.'] Here 'tis, sir; a 
 small piece of artillery, 
 That a gentleman^, a dear friend of your lord- 
 ship's. 
 Sent me with, to get it mended, sir; for, if you 
 
 mark, 
 The nose is somewhat loose. 
 
 Bac. A friend of mine, you rascal ? 
 I was never wearier of doing nothing. 
 Than kicking these two foot-balls. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Sei-v. Here's a good cudgel, sir. 
 
 Bac. It comes too late ; I am weary ; pr'ythee, 
 Do thou beat them. 
 
 2 Sw. My lord, this is foul play, 
 I'faith, to put a fresh man upon us : 
 Men are but men, sir. 
 
 Bac. That jest shall save your bones. — Cap- 
 tain, rally up your rotten regiment, and begone. 
 — I had rather thrash than be bound to kick 
 these rascals, till they cried, 'Ho! ' Bessus, you 
 may put your hand to them now, and then you 
 are quit. — Farewell ! as you like this, pray visit 
 me again ; 'twill keep me in good breath. lExit. 
 
 2 Sw. He has a devilish hard foot ; I never 
 felt the like. 
 
 1 Sw. Nor I ; and yet, I am sure, I have felt 
 a hundred. 
 
 2 Sw. If he kick thus i' the dog-days, he will 
 be di-y-foundred. 
 
 What cure now, captain, besides oU of bays ? 
 Bes. Why, well enough, I warrant you; you 
 
 can go ? 
 2 Sw. Yes, Heaven be thank'd ! but I feel a 
 shrewd ache ; 
 Sure, he's sprang my huckle-bone. 
 
 1 Sw. I ha' lost a haunch. 
 
 Bes. A little butter, friend, a little butter; 
 Butter and parsley is a sovereign matter : 
 Prohatum est. 
 
 2 Sw. Captain, we must request 
 Your hand now to our honours. 
 
 Bes. Yes, marry, shall ye ; 
 And then let all the world come, we are valiant 
 To ourselves, and there's an end. 
 
 1 Sw. Nay, then, we must be valiant. Oh, my 
 ribs! 
 
 2 Sw. Oh, my small guts ! 
 
 A plague upon these sharp-toed shoes ; they are 
 murderers. [ExeuiU, 
 
288 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 
 
 A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Arbaces with his sword drawn. 
 
 Arh. It is resolved : I bore it whilst I could ; 
 I can no more. Hell, open all thj^ gates, 
 And I will thorough them : if they be shut, 
 I'll batter 'em, but I will find the place 
 Where the most damn'd have dwelling ! Ere I end, 
 Amongst them all they shall not have a sin, 
 But I may call it mine ; I must begin 
 With murder of my friend, and so go on 
 And end 
 
 My life and sins with a forbidden blow 
 Upon myself ! 
 
 Enter Mardonius. 
 
 Mar. What tragedy is near ? 
 That hand was never wont to draw a sword, 
 But it cried ' dead ' to something. 
 
 Arh. Mardonius, 
 Have you bid Gobrias come ? 
 
 Mar. How do you, sir ? 
 
 Arb. Well. Is he coming? 
 
 Mar. Why, sir, are you thus ? 
 Why does your hand proclaim a lawless war 
 Against yourself ? 
 
 Arh. Thou answer 'st me one question with 
 another : 
 Is Gobrias coming ? 
 
 Mar. Sir, he is. 
 
 Arh. 'Tis well : 
 I can forbear your questions then. Begone ! 
 
 Mar. Sir, I have mark'd — 
 
 Arh. Mark less ! it troubles you and me. 
 
 Mar. You are more variable than you Avere. 
 
 Arh. It may be so. 
 
 Mar. To-day no hermit could be humbler 
 Than you were to us all. 
 
 Arh. And what of this ? 
 
 Mar. And now you take new rage into your 
 eyes. 
 As you would look us all out of the land. 
 
 Arh. I do confess it ; will that satisfy ? 
 I pr'ythee, get thee gone. 
 
 Mar. Sir, I will speak. 
 
 Arh. Will ye ? 
 
 Mar. It is my duty. 
 I fear you'll kill yourself ; I am a subject, 
 And you shall do me wrong in't ; 'tis my cause, 
 And I may speak. 
 
 Arh. Thou art not train'd in sin, 
 It seems, Mardonius. Kill myself ! by Heaven, 
 I will not do it yet ; and, when I will, 
 I'll tell thee, then I shall be such a creature 
 That thou wilt give me leave without a word. 
 There is a method in man's wickedness ; 
 It grows up by degrees : I am not come 
 So high as killing of myself ; there are 
 A hundred thousand sins 'twixt me and it, 
 Which I must do. I shall come to't at last ; 
 But, take my oath, not now. Be satisfied, 
 And get thee hence. 
 
 Mar. I am sorry 'tis so ill. 
 
 Arh. Be sorry, then : 
 True sorrow is alone ; grieve by thyself. 
 
 Mar. I pray you let me see your sword put up 
 Before I go ; I'll leave you then. 
 
 Arh. [Puis up.'\ Why, so. 
 What folly is this in thee ? is it not 
 As apt to mischief as it was before ? 
 Can I not reach it, think'st thou ? These are toys 
 For children to be pleased with, and not men. 
 Now I am safe, you think : I would the book 
 Of Fate were here : my sword is not so sure 
 But I would got it out, and mangle that. 
 
 That all the destinies should quite forget 
 Their fix'd decrees, and haste to make us new, 
 For other fortunes ; mine could not be worse. 
 Wilt thou now leave me ? 
 
 Mar. Heaven put into your bosom temperate 
 thoughts ! 
 I'll leave you, though I fear. [Exit Mardonius. 
 
 Arh. Go ; thou art honest. 
 Why should the hasty errors of my youth 
 Be so unpardonable to draw a sin, 
 Helpless, upon me ? 
 
 Enter Gobrias. 
 
 Goh. There is the king ; 
 Now it is ripe. 
 
 Arh. Draw near, thou guilty man, 
 That art the author of the loathed'st crime 
 Five ages have brought forth, and hear me speak 
 Curses incurable, and all the evils 
 Man's body or his spirit can receive. 
 Be with thee ! 
 
 Goh. Why, sir, do you curse me thus ? 
 
 Arh. Why do I curse thee ? If there be a man 
 Subtle in curses, that exceeds the rest, 
 His worst Avieh on thee ! Thou hast broke my 
 heart. 
 
 Goh. How, sir ? Have I preserved you, from 
 a child, 
 From all the arrows malice or ambition 
 Could shoot at you, and have I this for pay ? 
 
 Arh. 'Tis true, thou didst preserve me, and ia 
 that 
 Wert crueller than hardened murderers 
 Of infants and their mothers ! Thou didst save me, 
 Only till thou hadst studied out a way 
 How to destroy me cunningly thyself : 
 This was a curious way of torturing. 
 
 Goh. What do you mean ? 
 
 Arh. Thou know'st the evils thou hast done 
 to me! 
 Dost thou remember all those witching letters 
 Thou sent'st unto me to Armenia, 
 Fill'd with the praise of my beloved sister, 
 Where thou extol'dst her beauty ? What had I 
 To do with that ? what could her beauty be 
 To me.' And thou didst write how well she 
 
 loved me ! 
 Dost thou remember this ? so that I doted 
 Something before I saw her. 
 
 Gob. This is true. 
 
 Arh. Is it.' and, when I was return' d, thou 
 know'st 
 Thou didst pursue it, till thou wound'st me in 
 To such a strange and unbelieved affection, 
 As good men cannot think on. 
 
 Goh. This I grant ; 
 I think I was the cause. 
 
 Arh. Wert thou ? Nay, more. 
 I think thou meant'st it. 
 
 Gob. Sir, I hate a lie. 
 As I love Heaven and honesty, I did ; 
 It was my meaning. 
 
 Arh. Be thine own sad judge ; 
 A further condemnation will not need : 
 Prepare thyself to die. 
 
 Goh. Why, sir, to die ? 
 
 Arb. Why shouldst thou live ? Was ever yet 
 offender 
 So impudeut, that had a thought of mercy, 
 After confession of a crime like this ? 
 Get out I cannot where thou hurl'st me in ; 
 But I can take revenge ; that's all the sweetness 
 Left for me. 
 
 Goh. Now is the time.— Hear me but speak. 
 
 Arb. No ! Yet I will be far more merciful 
 Than thou wert to me ; thou didst steal into me, 
 I And never gavest me warning. So much time 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 289 
 
 As I give thee now, had pi-evented me 
 For ever. Notwithstanding all thy sins, 
 If thou hast hope that there is yet a prayer 
 To save thee, turn and speak it to thyself. 
 
 Gob. Sir, you shall know your sins before you 
 do 'em : 
 If you kill m-e — 
 
 Arh. I will not stay then. 
 
 Gob. Know — 
 You kill your father. 
 
 Arb. My father ? Though I know it for a lie, 
 Made out of fear, to save thy stained life, 
 The very reverence of the word comes 'cross me, 
 And ties mine arm down. 
 
 Gob. I will tell you that 
 Shall heighten you again : I am thy father ; 
 I charge thee hear me. 
 
 Arb. If it should be so. 
 As 'tis most false, and that I should be found 
 A bastard issue, the despised fruit 
 Of lawless lust, I should no more admire 
 All my wild passions ! But another truth ^ 
 Shall be wrung from thee. If I could come by 
 The spirit of pain, it should be pour'd on thee, 
 'Till thou allow'st thyself more full of lies 
 Than he that teaches thee. 
 
 Enter Arane. 
 
 Ara. Turn thee about ; 
 I come to speak to thee, thou wicked man ! 
 Hear me, thou tyrant ! 
 
 Arb. I will turn to thee ; 
 Hear me, thou sti*umpet ! I have blotted out 
 The name of mother, as thou hast thy shame. 
 Ara. My shame ! Thou hast less shame than 
 anything ! 
 Why dost thou keep my daughter in a prison ? 
 "Why dost thou call her sister, and do this ? 
 Arb. Cease, thou strange impudence, and 
 answer quickly ! \praws. 
 
 If thou contemn'st me, this will ask an answer, 
 And have it. 
 Ara. Help me, gentle Gobrias. 
 Arb. Guilt dare not help guilt ! Though they 
 grow together 
 In doing ill, yet at the punishment 
 They sever, and each flies the noise of other. 
 Think not of help ; answer ! 
 Ara. I will ; to what "i 
 Arb. To such a thing, as, if it be a truth. 
 Think what a creature thou hast made thyself. 
 That didst not shame to do what I must blush 
 Only to ask thee. Tell me who I am, 
 Whose son I am, without all circumstance ; 
 Be thou as hasty as my sword will be, 
 If thou refusest. 
 Ai-a. Why, you are his son. 
 Arb. His son ? Swear, swear, thou worse than 
 
 woman damn'd ! 
 A7'a. By all that's good, you are. 
 Arb. Then art thou all 
 That ever was known bad ! Now is the cause 
 Of all my strange misfortunes come to light. 
 What reverence expect'st thou from a child, 
 To bring forth which thou hast offended Heaven, 
 Thy husband, and the land ? Adulterous witch ! 
 I know now why thou wouldst have poison'd me : 
 I was thy lust, which thou wouldst have forgot ! 
 Then, wicked mother of my sins, and me, 
 Show me the way to the inheritance 
 I have by thee, which is a spacious world 
 Of impious acts, that I may soon possess it. 
 Plagues rot thee, as thou liv'st, and such diseases 
 As use to pay lust, recompense thy deed ! 
 
 1 another truth— i.e. a truth of a dififerent nature. — 
 Mason. 
 
 Gob. You do not know why you curse thus. 
 
 Arb. Too well. 
 You are a pair of vipers ; and behold 
 The serpent you have got ! There is no beast, 
 But, if he knew it, has a pedigree 
 As iDrave as mine, for they have more descents ; 
 And I am every way as beastly got, 
 As far without the compass of a law, 
 As they. 
 
 A7-a. You spend your rage and words in vain, 
 And rail upon a guess ; hear us a little. 
 
 Arb. No, I will never hear, but talk away 
 My breath, and die. 
 
 Gob. Why, but you are no bastard. 
 
 A7'b. How's that ? 
 
 Ai-a. Nor child of mine. 
 
 Arb. Still you go on 
 In wonders to me. 
 
 Gob. Pray you, be more patient ; 
 I may bring comfort to you. 
 
 Arb. I will kneel, ^ [^Kneels. 
 
 And hear with the obedience of a child. 
 Good father, speak ! I do acknowledge you, 
 So you bring comfort. 
 
 Gob. First know, our last king, your supposed 
 father. 
 Was old and feeble when he married her. 
 And almost all the land, as she, past hope 
 Of issue from him. 
 
 Arb. Therefore she took leave 
 To play the whore, because the king was old : 
 Is this the comfort ? 
 
 Ara. What will you find out 
 To give me satisfaction, when you find 
 How you have injured me ? Let fire consume mo 
 If ever I were whore ! 
 
 Gob. Forbear these starts, 
 Or I will leave you wedded to despair, 
 As you are now. If you can find a temper, 
 My breath shall be a pleasant western wind, 
 That cools and blasts not. 
 
 Arb. Bring it out, good father. [Lies down. 
 I'll lie and listen here as reverently 
 As to an angel. If I bx'eathe too loud, 
 Tell me ; for I would be as still as night. 
 
 Gob. Our king, I say, was old, and this our 
 queen 
 Desired to bring an heir, but yet her husband. 
 She thought, was past it ; and to be dishonest, 
 I think she would not : if she would have been, 
 The truth is, she was watch'd so narrowly. 
 And had so slender opportunities. 
 She hardly could have been. But yet her cunning 
 Found out this way : she feign'd herself with child. 
 And posts were sent in haste throughout the land, 
 And God was humbly thank'd in every church. 
 That so had blessed the queen ; and prayers were 
 For her safe going and delivery. [made 
 
 She feign'd now to grow bigger; and perceived 
 This hope of issue made her fear'd, and brought 
 A far more large respect from evei-y man. 
 And saw her power increase, and was resolv'd. 
 Since she believed she could not have't indeed. 
 At least she would be thought to have a child. 
 
 Arb. Do I not hear it well ! Nay, I will make 
 No noise at all ; but, pray you, to the point. 
 Quick as you can ! 
 
 Gob. Now when the time was full 
 She should be brought to bed, I had a son 
 Born, which was you. This the queen hearing of, 
 Moved me to let her have you ; and such reasons 
 She showed me, as she knew well would tie 
 My secrecy. She swore you should be king j 
 And, to be short, I did deliver you 
 Unto her, and pretended you were dead, 
 And in mine own house kept a funeral. 
 And had an empty coffin put in earth. 
 
290 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 That night this queen feign'd hastily to labour, 
 
 And by a pair of -women of her own, 
 
 Which she had charm'd, she made the world 
 
 believe 
 She was delivered of yoti. You grew up, 
 As the king's son, till you were six years old ; 
 Then did the king die, and did leave to me 
 Protection of the realm ; and, contrary 
 To his own expectation, left this queen 
 Truly with child, indeed, of the fair princess 
 Panthea. Then she could have torn her hair, 
 And did alone to me, yet durst not speak 
 In public, for she knew she should be found 
 A traitor, and her tale would have been thought 
 Madness, or anything rather than truth. 
 This was the only cause why she did seek 
 To poison you, and I to keep you safe ; 
 An.d this the reason why I sought to kindle 
 Some sparks of love in you to fair Panthea, 
 That she might get part of her right again. 
 
 Arh. And have you made an end now ? Is this 
 If not, I will be still till I be aged, [all ? 
 
 Till all my hairs be silvei*. 
 
 Goh. This is all. 
 
 Arh. And is it true, say you too, madam ? 
 
 Ara. Yes, 
 Heaven knows, it is most true. 
 
 Arh. Panthea, then, is not my sister ? 
 
 Goh. No. 
 
 Arh. But can you prove this? 
 
 Goh. If you will give consent, 
 Else who dares go about it ? 
 
 Arh. Give consent ! 
 Why, I will have 'em all that know it rack'd 
 To get this from 'em. — All that wait without 
 Come in, whate'er you be, come in, and be 
 Partakers of my joy ! — Oh, you are welcome ! 
 
 EnUr Bessus, Gentlemen, Mardonius, and 
 
 other Attendants. 
 
 Mardonius, the best news ! Nay, draw no nearer; 
 They all shall hear it : I am found No King. 
 
 Mar. Is that so good news ? 
 
 Arh. Yes, the happiest news 
 That e'er was heard. 
 
 Mar. Indeed, 'twere well for you 
 If you might be a little less obey'd. 
 
 Arh. One call the queen. 
 
 Mar Why, she is there ! 
 
 Arh. The queen, 
 Mardonius ? Panthea is the queen, 
 And I am plain Arbaces. — Go some one. 
 She is in Gobrias' house. — {Exit a Gentleman. 
 
 Since 1 saw you. 
 There are a thousand things deliver'd to me, 
 You little dream of. 
 
 Mar. So it should seem. — My lord, 
 What fury's this ? 
 
 Goh. Believe me, 'tis no fury ; 
 All that he says is truth. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis very strange. 
 
 Arh. Why do you keep your hats off, gentlemen ? 
 Is it to me ? I swear it must not be ; 
 Nay, trust me, in good faith, it must not be. 
 I cannot now command you ; but I pray you, 
 For the respect you bare me when you took 
 Me for your king, each man clap on his hat 
 At my desire. 
 
 Mar. We will. But you are not found 
 So mean a man, but that you may be cover'd 
 As well as we ; may you not ? 
 
 Arh. Oh, not here ! 
 You may, but not I, for here is my father 
 In presence. 
 
 Mar. Where? 
 
 Arh. Why, there. Oh, the whole story 
 Would be a wilderness to lose thyself 
 
 For ever. — Oh, pardon me, dear father, 
 For all the idle and unreverend words 
 That I have spoke in idle moods to you! 
 I am Arbaces ; we all fellow-subjects ; 
 Nor is the queen Panthea now my sister. 
 
 Bes. Why, if you remember, fellow-subject 
 Arbaces, I told you once she was not your sister : 
 Ay, and she look'd nothing like you. 
 
 Arh. I think you did, good Captain Bessus. 
 
 Bes. Here will arise another question now 
 amongst the swordmen, whether I be to call 
 him to account for beating me, now he is proved 
 No King. 
 
 Enter Lygones. 
 
 Mar. Sir, here's Lygones, the agent for the 
 Armenian state. 
 
 Arh. Where is he? — I know your business, 
 good Lygones. 
 
 Lyg. We must have our king again, and will. 
 
 Arh. I knew that was your business. You 
 shall have 
 Your king again ; and have him so again, 
 As never king was had, — Go, one of you, 
 And bid Bacurius bring Tigranes hither ; 
 And bring the lady with him, that Panthea, 
 The queen Panthea, sent me word this morning 
 Was brave Tigranes' mistress. 
 
 {Exeunt two Gentlemen. 
 
 Lyg. 'Tis Spaconia. 
 
 Arh. Ay, ay, Spaconia. 
 
 Lyg. She is my daughter. 
 
 Arh. She is so. I could now tell anything 
 I never heard. Your king shall so go home 
 As never man went. 
 
 Mar. Shall he go on's head ? 
 
 Arh. He shall have chariots easier than air, 
 That I will have invented ; and ne'er think 
 He shall pay any ransom ! And thyself. 
 That art the messenger, shall ride before him 
 On a horse cut out of an entire diamond, 
 That shall be made to go with golden wheels, 
 I know not how yet. 
 
 Lyg, Why, I shall be made 
 For ever ! They belied this king with us, 
 And said he was unkind. 
 
 Arh. And then thy daughter ; 
 She shall have some strange thing : we'll have 
 
 the kingdom 
 Sold utterly and put into a toy. 
 Which she* shall wear about her carelessly. 
 Somewhere or other. — See the virtuous queen ! — 
 
 Enter Panthea and one Gentleman. 
 Behold the humblest subject that you have. 
 Kneel here before you. {Kneds. 
 
 Pan. Why kneel you to me. 
 That am your vassal ? 
 
 Arh. Grant me one request. 
 
 Pan. Alas, what can I grant you ? what I can 
 I will. 
 
 Arh. That you will please to marry me, 
 If 1 can prove it lawful. 
 
 Pan. Is that all ? 
 More willingly than I would draw this air. 
 
 Arh. I'll kiss this hand in earnest. 
 
 2 Gent. Sir, Tigranes 
 Is coming ; though he made it strange,^ at first, 
 To see the princess any more. 
 
 Enter Tigranes and Spaconia. 
 
 Arh. The queen. 
 Thou mean'st.— Oh, my Tigranes, pardon me ! 
 
 1 made it strange — m&^Q it a matter of nicetj, 
 scruple. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 291 
 
 Tread on my neck : I freely offer it ; 
 And, if thou be'st so given, take revenge, 
 For I have injured thee. 
 
 Ti(p\ No ; I forgive, 
 And rejoice more that you have found repentance 
 Than 1 my liberty. 
 
 Arh. May'st thou be happy 
 In thy fair choice, for thou art temperate ! 
 You owe no ransom to the state ! Know that 
 I have a thousand joys to tell you of, 
 Which yet I dare not utter, till I pay 
 
 My thanks to Heaven for 'em. Will you go 
 With me, and help me .? pray you, do. 
 
 Tigr. I will. 
 
 Arh. Take then your fair one with you. — And 
 you, queen 
 Of goodness and of us, oh, give me leave 
 To take your arm in mine ! Come, every one 
 That takes delight in goodness, help to sing 
 Loud thanks for me that I am proved No King ! 
 
 \Exe,uiU. 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE. 
 
 London. 1613.* 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 FROM THE SECOND EDITION (1635). 
 
 Where the bee can suck no honey, she leaves 
 her sting behind; and where the bear cannot 
 find origanum^ to heal his grief, he blasteth all 
 the other leaves with his breath. We fear it is 
 like to fare so with tis ; that, seeing you cannot 
 draw from our labours sweet content, you leave 
 behind you a sour mislike, and with open re- 
 proach blame our good meaning, because you 
 cannot reap the wonted mirth. Our intent was 
 at this time to move inward delight, not outward 
 lightness; and to breed (if it might be) soft 
 smiling, not loud laughing ; knowing it, to the 
 wise, to be a great pleasure to hear counsel 
 
 mixed with wit, as to the foolish to have sport 
 mingled with rudeness. They were banished 
 the theatre of Athens, and from Kome hissed, 
 that brought pai-asites on the stage, with apish 
 actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtezans 
 with immodest words. We have endeavoured 
 to be as far from unseemly speeches, to make 
 your ears glow, as we hope you will be free from 
 unkind reports, or mistaking the author's inten- 
 tion, who never aimed at any one particular, in 
 this play, to make our cheeks blush. And thus 
 I leave it, and thee to thine own censure, to like 
 or dislike. — Vale. 
 
 gramatis p^er^una. 
 
 Speaker op the Prologue. 
 
 Ealph, his Apprentice^ ) ""'=' F "^ "'^^ <>' 
 
 Venterwels, a rich Merchant, Father ofLvCE. 
 
 Jasper, his Apprentice. 
 
 Master Humphrey, a Friend to the Merchant. 
 
 Old Master Merrythought, Father q/" Jasper 
 and Michael. 
 
 Michael, Second Son of Mistress Merry- 
 thought. 
 
 Tim, acting as Squire > 
 
 George, acting as Dwarf j 
 
 Host. 
 
 Barber. 
 
 to Ealph. 
 
 Tapster. 
 
 Three supposed Knights. 
 
 A Captain. 
 
 William Hamerton. 
 
 George Greengoosb. 
 
 Sergeant. 
 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Boy, that danceth and singeth. 
 
 Luce, the Merchants Daughter^ beloved of and 
 
 loving Jasper. 
 Mistress Merrythought, Jasper's Mother. 
 Woman Captive. 
 PoMPioNA, Princess of Moldavia. 
 
 Scebte — London, and the neighbouring Country, excepting Act iv.. Scene il, where it is in Moldavia. 
 
 1 It is uncertain whether this excellent burlesque comedy was the joint production of both Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, or whether only one of them should get the credit of it. It is generally supposed that the idea of the 
 burlesque was suggested by Don Quixote. A. W. Schlegel calls it ' an incomparable and singular work of its 
 kind,' and that although 'the thought is borrowed from Don Quixote, the imitation is handled Mrith freedom, 
 and so particularly applied to Spencer's Fairy Queen, that it may pass for a second invention.' 
 
 2 origanum— yfM marjoram. 
 
2g: 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 INDUCTION. 
 
 Enter Speaker of the Prologue. The Citizen, his 
 Wife, and Ealph, sitting below the stage among 
 the Spectators. Several Geutlemen sitting upon 
 the Stage.^ 
 
 Prologue. From all that's near the court, from 
 all thafs great 
 Within the compass of the city walls., 
 We now have brought our scene — 
 
 Citizen leaps upon the Stage. 
 
 Cit. Hold your peace, goodman boy ! 
 
 Prol. What do you mean, sir ? 
 
 Cit. That you have no good meaning. This 
 seven years there hath been plays at this house, 
 I have* observed it, you have still girds- at citi- 
 zens ; and now you call your play The London 
 Merchant. Down with your title, boy, down 
 with your title ! 
 
 Prol. Are you a member of the noble city ? 
 
 Cit. I am. 
 
 Prol. And a freeman ? 
 
 Cit. Yea, and a grocer. 
 
 Prol. So, grocer ; then, by your sweet favoiu*, 
 •we intend no abuse to the city. 
 
 Cit. No, sir ? yes, sir ; if you were not re- 
 solved to play the Jacks,' what need you study 
 for new subjects, purposely to abuse your bet- 
 ters ? Why could not you be contented, as well 
 as others, with the legend of Whittington, or the 
 Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham, with 
 the building of the Koyal Exchange ? or the 
 story of Queen Eleanor, with the rearing of 
 London Bridge upon woolsacks ? * 
 
 Prol. You seem to be an understanding man ; 
 what would you have us do, sir ? 
 
 Cit. Why, present something notably in honour 
 of the commons of the city. 
 
 Prol. Why, what do you say to the Life and 
 Death of fat Drake, or the Repairing of Fleet 
 Privies ? * 
 
 Cit. I do not like that ; but I will have a 
 citizen, and he shall be of my own ti-ade. 
 
 Prol. Oh, you should have told us your mind 
 a month since ; our play is ready to begin now. 
 
 Cit. 'Tis all one for that ; I will have a grocer, 
 and he shall do admirable things. 
 
 Prol. What will you have him do ? 
 
 Cit. Marry, I will have him — 
 
 Wife. [Beloio.'] Husband, husband! 
 
 Ealph. XBeloic] Peace, mistress ! 
 
 Wife. Hold thy peace, Ealph ; I know what I 
 do, I warrant thee. Husband, husband ! 
 
 Cit. What say'st thou, cony ? 
 
 Wife. Let him kill a lion with a Pestle, hus- 
 band ! let him kill a lion with a Pestle ! 
 
 Cit. So he shall ; I'll have him kill a lion with 
 a Pestle. 
 
 Wife. Husband ! shall I come up, husband ? 
 
 Cit. Ay, cony. — Ealph, help your mistress 
 this way. — Pray, gentlemen, make her a little 
 room. I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to 
 help up my wife. I thank you, sir ; so ! 
 
 [Wife comes upon the Stage. 
 
 1 The practice of accommodating gallants with seats 
 on the stage, is often alluded to in old plays ; and they 
 commonly paid from a sixpence to a shilling for a stool, 
 according to the value of the seat.— "Weber. 
 
 2 girdi — gibes, sarcasms. See note 7, p. 49, col. 1. 
 
 3 play the Jacks. This seems to have been a prover- 
 bial expression at the time. 
 
 •* They were all probably names of contemporary 
 plays. 
 
 Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all ! I'm some- 
 thing troublesome. I'm a stranger here ; I was 
 ne'er at one of these plays, as they say, before ; 
 but I should have seen Jane Shore ^ once ; and 
 my husband hath promised me, any time this 
 twelvemonth, to carry me to the Bold Beau- 
 champs,^ but in truth' he did not. I pray you 
 bear with me. 
 
 Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of 
 stools, and then begin ; and let the grocer do 
 rare things. 
 
 [^Stools are brought, and they sit down. 
 
 Prol. But, sir, we have never a boy to play 
 him. Every one hath a part already. 
 
 Wife. Husband, husband, for God's sake, let 
 Ealph play him ! Beshrew me, if I do not think 
 he will go beyond them all. 
 
 Cit. W^ell remember'd, wife. — Come up, Ealph! 
 rU tell you, gentlemen ; let them but lend him 
 a suit of reparrel,3 and necessaries, and, by gad, 
 if any of them all blow wind in the tail on him, 
 I'll be hanged! [Ealph comes on the Stage. 
 
 Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit 
 of repai-rel. I'll be sworn, gentlemen, my hus- 
 band tells you true. He will act you sometimes 
 at our house, that all the neighbours cry out on 
 him ; he will fetch you up a couraging part so 
 in the gan-et, that we are all as feared, 1 warrant 
 you, that we quake again. We'll fear our chil- 
 dren with him ; if they be never so unruly, do 
 but cry, 'Ealph comes, Ealph comes!' to them, 
 and they'll be as quiet as lambs. — Hold up thy 
 head, Ealph ; show the gentleman what thou 
 canst do ; speak a huffing * part ; I warrant you 
 the gentlemen will accept of it. 
 
 Cit. Do, Ealph, do. 
 
 Palph. By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy 
 leap 
 To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon, 
 Or dive into the bottom of the sea, 
 Where never fathom-line touch'd any ground, 
 And pluck up drowned honour from the lake of 
 hell. 
 
 Cit. How say you, gentlemen? is it not as I 
 told you ? 
 
 Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played before, 
 my husband'says, Musidorus,^ before the wardens 
 of our company. I 
 
 Cit. Ay, and he should have played Jeronimo « j 
 with a shoemaker for a wager. 
 
 Prol. He shall have a suit of apparel, if he will 
 go in. 
 
 Cit. In, Ealph! in, Ealph! and set out the 
 gi'ocery in their kind, if thou lovest me. 
 
 Wije. I warrant our Ealph will look finely 
 when he's dress'd. 
 
 Prol. But what will you have it call'd ? 
 
 Cit. The Grocers Honour. 
 
 Prol. Methinks The Knight of the Burning 
 Pestle were better. 
 
 Wife. I'll be sworn, husband, that's as good a 
 name as can be. 
 
 Cit. Let it be so ; begin, begin ; my wife and 
 I will sit down. 
 
 Prol. I pray you, do. 
 
 1 There was more than one play referring to Jane 
 Shore ; this may refer to the one composed by Chettle 
 and Dav, acted in 1602. 
 
 2 the Bold Beauchamps. This was one of the ancient 
 heroic plays, probably now lost. — Weber. 
 
 3 reparrel— apparel. 
 
 * huffing— hQ&\mg or swelling with anger, swaggering. 
 
 5 Micsidorus—a, play printed in 1598. 
 
 6 Jei-onimo— the name of a play, said fo be by Thomas 
 Kyd, which was continually made a butt of by contem- 
 porary dxamatist*. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 293 
 
 Cit. What stately music have you ? you have 
 Bhaums ? ^ 
 
 Prol. Shaums? No. 
 
 Cit. No ? I'm a thief if my mind did not give 
 me so. Ealph plays a stately part, and he must 
 needs have shaums. I'll be at the charge of them 
 myself, rather than we'll be without them. 
 
 Prol. So you are like to be. 
 
 Cit. Why, and so I will be. There's two shil- 
 lings; lets have tho waits of Southwark! they 
 are as rare fellows as any are in England, and 
 that will fetch them o'er the water, with a ven- 
 geance, as if they were mad. 
 
 Prol. You shall have them. Will you sit down 
 then? 
 
 Cit. Ay. — Come, wife. 
 
 Wife. Sit you merry all, gentlemen ; I'm bold 
 to sit amongst you for my ease. 
 
 Prol. From all that^s near the court, from all 
 that's great 
 Within the compass of the city walls, 
 We now have brought our scene : Fly far from 
 
 hence 
 All private taxes,"^ [aW] immodest phrases, 
 Whatever may but show like vicious! 
 For wicked mirth never true pleasure brings, 
 But honest minds are pleased loith honest things. — 
 
 Thus much for what we do ; but, for Kalph's 
 part, you must answer for yourself. 
 
 Cit. Take you no care for Ealph; he'll dis- 
 charge himself, I warrant you. 
 
 Wife. V faith, gentlemen, I'll give my word 
 for Ealph. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in the House o/* Venterwels. 
 
 Enter Venterwels and Jasper. 
 
 Vent. Sirrah, I'll make you know you are my 
 
 prentice, 
 And whom my charitable love redeem'd 
 Even from the fall of fortune ; gave thee heat 
 And growth, to be what now thou art, new- cast 
 
 thee; 
 Adding the trust of all I have, at home, 
 In foreign staples, or upon the sea, 
 To thy direction ; tied the good opinions 
 Both of myself and friends to thy endeavours ; 
 So fair were thy beginnings. But with these, 
 As I remember, you had never charge 
 To love your master's daughter; and even then 
 When I had found a wealthy husband for her ; 
 I take it, sir, you had not. But, however, 
 I'll break the neck of that commission. 
 And make you know you're but a merchant's 
 
 factor. 
 Jasp. Sir, I do liberally confess I am yours, 
 Bound both by love and duty to your service, 
 In which my labour hath been all my profit ; 
 I have not lost in bargain, nor delighted 
 To wear your honest gains upon my back ; 
 Nor have I given a pension to my blood, 
 Or lavishly in play consumed your stock : 
 These, and the miseries that do attend them, 
 I dare with innocence proclaim are strangers 
 To all my temperate actions. For your daughter. 
 If there be any love to my deservings 
 Borne by her virtuous self, I cannot stop it ; 
 Nor am I able to refrain her wishes : 
 
 » shaums— see note 3, p. 64, col. 2. 
 2 All private taxes— i.e. ' all pi ivate taskings,' or re- 
 flections on individuals.— Webek. 
 
 She is private to herself, and best of knowledge 
 Whom she will make so happy as to sigh for. 
 Besides, I cannot think you mean to match her 
 Unto a fellow of so lame a presence. 
 One that hath little left of nature in him. 
 
 Vent. 'Tis very well, sir ; I can tell your wisdom 
 How all this shall be cured. 
 
 Jasp. Your care becomes you. 
 
 Vent. And thus it must be, sir: I here dis- 
 charge you 
 My house and service ; take your liberty ; 
 And when I want a son, I'll send for you. [^Exit. 
 
 Jasp. These be the fair rewards of them that 
 love. 
 Oh, you that live in freedom never prove 
 The travail of a mind led by desire ! 
 
 Enter Luce. 
 
 Luce. Why, how now, friend ? struck with my 
 father's thunder ? 
 
 Jasjp. Struck, and struck dead, unless tha 
 remedy 
 Be full of speed and virtue ; I am now. 
 What I expected long, no more your father's. 
 
 Luce, But mine ? 
 
 Jasp. But yours, and only yours, I am ; 
 That's all I have to keep me from the statute. 
 You dare be constant still ? 
 
 Luce. Oh, fear me not ! 
 In this I dare be better than a woman. 
 Nor shall his anger nor his offers move me, 
 Were they both equal to a prince's power. 
 
 Jasp. You know my rival ? 
 
 Luce. Yes, and love him dearly ; 
 Even as I love an ague, or foul weather : 
 I pr'y thee, Jasper, fear him not ! 
 
 Jasp. Oh, no ; 
 I do not mean to do him so much kindness. 
 But to our own desires : you know the plot 
 We both agreed on ? 
 
 Luce. Yes, and will perform 
 My part exactly. 
 
 Jasp. I desire no more. 
 Farewell, and keep my heart ; 'tis yours. 
 
 Luce. I take it ; 
 He must do miracles, makes me forsake it. 
 
 l_Exetmt. 
 
 ' (7^i.* Fy upon 'em, little infidels ! what a 
 matter's here now ? Well, I'll be hang'd for a 
 halfpenny, it there be not some abomination 
 knavery in this play. Well ; let 'em look to't ; 
 Ealph must come, and if there be any tricks a- 
 brewing — 
 
 ' Wife. Let 'em brew and bake too, husband, 
 a' God's name ; Ealph will find all out, I warrant 
 you, an they were older than they are. — I pray, 
 my pretty youth, is Ealph ready ? 
 
 ' Boy. He will be presently. 
 
 ' Wife. Now, I pray you, make my commenda- 
 tions unto him, and withal, carry him this stick 
 of liquorice ; tell him his mistress sent it him ; 
 and bid him bite a piece ; 'twill open his pipes 
 the better, say.' {_Exit Boy. 
 
 Enter Venterwels and Master Humphrey. 
 
 Vent. Come, sir, she's yours ; upon my faith, 
 
 she's yours ; 
 You have my hand : for other idle lets ^ 
 Between your hopes and her, thus with a wind 
 They are scattered, and no more. My wanton 
 
 prentice. 
 That like a bladder blew himself with love, 
 
 ^ To distinguish the speeches of the supposed specta- 
 tors from those of the real dramatis personte, the tonner 
 are included in inverted commas. 
 
 2 lets — hindrances. 
 
294 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I have let out, and sent him to discover 
 New masters yet unknown. 
 
 Hum. I thank you, sir, 
 Indeed I thank you, sir ; and, ere I stir, 
 It shall be known, however you do deem, 
 I am of gentle blood, and gentle seem. 
 
 Vent. Oh, sir, I know it certain. 
 
 Hum. Sir, my friend. 
 Although, as writers say, all things have end, 
 And that we call a pudding hath his two. 
 Oh, let it not seem strange, I pray to you, 
 If in this bloody simile I put 
 My love, more endless than frail things or gut. 
 
 ' Wife. Husband, I pr'ythee, sweet lamb, tell 
 me one thing; but tell me truly. — Stay, youths, 
 I beseech you, till I question my husband. 
 
 ' Cit. What is it, mouse ? 
 
 ' Wife. Sirrah, didst thou ever see a prettier 
 child "i How it behaves itself, I warrant ye ! and 
 speaks, and looks, and perts up the head ! I pray 
 you, brother, with your favour, were you never 
 none of Master Moncastei-'s ^ scholars ? 
 
 ' Cit. Chicken, I pr'ythee heartil}' contain thy- 
 self ; the childer 2 are pretty childer ; but when 
 Ealph comes, lamb — 
 
 '• Wife. Ay, when Ealph comes, cony ! — Well, 
 my youth, you may proceed,' 
 
 Vent. Well, sir; you know my love, and rest, 
 I hope, 
 Assured of my consent ; get but my daughtei-'s, 
 And wed her when you please. You must be 
 
 bold, 
 And clap in close unto her ; come, I know 
 You have language good enough to win a wench. 
 
 ' Wife. A whoresome tyrant! 'hath been an old 
 stringer ^ in his days, I warrant him ! ' 
 
 Hum. I take your gentle offer, and withal 
 Yield love again for love reciprocal. 
 
 Vent. What, Luce ! within there ! 
 
 Enter Luce. 
 
 . iMce. Call'd you, sir ? 
 
 Vent. I did ; 
 Give entertainment to this gentleman ; 
 And see you be not froward. — To her, sir ! 
 My presence will but be an eyesore to you. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Hum. Fair Mistress Luce, how do you "i are 
 you well .5* 
 Give me your hand, and then I pray you tell 
 How doth your little sister, and your brother ? 
 And whether you love me or any other .? 
 
 Luce. Sir, these are quickly answered. 
 
 Hum. So they are, 
 Where women are not cruel. But how far 
 Is it now distant from the place we are in, 
 Unto that blessed place, your father's warren ? 
 
 Jjuce. What makes you think of that, sir ? 
 
 Hum. Even that face ; 
 For stealing rabbits whilome in that place, 
 God Cupid, or the keeper, I know not whether, 
 Unto my cost and charges brought you thither, 
 And there began — 
 
 Luce. Your game, sir ? 
 
 Hum. Let no game. 
 Or anything that tendeth to the same, 
 Be ever more remember' d, thou fair killer. 
 For whom I sate me down and brake my tiller.* 
 
 1 MoncaHer, or rather Mulcaster, was appointed master 
 of Meiclianc Tailor's School at its original institution in 
 1561 —Weber. 
 
 2 childer — this old plural of child is still in use in 
 Scotland. 
 
 3 stringer— same as striker, i.e. libertine. 
 * tiller — a cross-bow. 
 
 ' Wife. There's a kind gentleman, I warrant 
 you; when will you do as much for me, George?' 
 Luce. Beshrew me, sir, I'm sorry for your 
 losses ; 
 But, as the proverb says, ' I cannot cry ; ' 
 I would you had not seen me ! 
 
 Hum. So would I, 
 Unless 3'ou had more maw to do me good. 
 Luce. Why, cannot this strange passion be 
 withstood ? 
 Send for a constable, and raise the town. 
 
 Hu7n. Oh, no, my valiant love will batter down 
 Millions of constables, and put to flight 
 Even that great watch of Midsummer-day at 
 night.^ 
 Luce. Beshrew me, sir, 'twere good I yielded 
 then; 
 Weak women cannot hope, where valiant men 
 Have no resistance. 
 
 Hum. Yield then ; I am full 
 Of pity, though I say it, and can pull 
 Out of my pocket thus a pair of gloves. 
 Look, Lucy, look ; the dog's tooth, nor the dove's, 
 Are not so white as these ; and sweet they be, 
 And whipt about with silk, as you may see. 
 If you desire the price, shoot from your eye 
 A beam to this place, and you shall espy 
 F S^ which is to say, my sweetest honey. 
 They cost me three and twopence or no money. 
 Luce. Well, sir, I take them kindly, and I 
 thank you : 
 What would you more ? 
 Hum. Nothing. 
 Luce. Why, then, farewell ! 
 Hum. Nor so, nor so ; for, lady, I must tell, 
 Before we part for what we met together ; 
 God grant me time, and patience, and fair 
 weather ! 
 Luce. Speak, and declare your mind in terms 
 
 so brief. 
 Hu7n. I shall ; then first and foremost, for relief 
 I call to you, if that you can afford it ; 
 I care not at what price, for on my word, it 
 Shall be repaid again, although it cost me 
 More than I'll speak of now ; for love hath toss'd 
 
 me 
 In furious blanket like a tennis-ball, 
 And now I rise aloft, and now I fall. 
 
 Luce. Alas, good gentleman, alas the day ! 
 Hum. I thank you heartily ; and, as I say, 
 Thus do I still continue without rest, 
 I' th' morning like a man, at night a beast, 
 Eoaring and bellowing mine own disquiet. 
 That much I fear, forsaking of my diet 
 Will bring me presently to that quandary, 
 I shall bid all adieu. 
 
 Luce. Now, by St. Mary, 
 That were great pity ! 
 
 Hum. So it wei-e, beshrew me ; 
 Then ease me, lusty Luce, and pity show me. 
 Luce. Why, sir, you know my will is nothing 
 worth 
 Without my father's grant ; get his consent, 
 And then you may with assurance try me. 
 
 Hum. The worshipful your sire will not deny me, 
 For I have ask'd him, and he hath replied, 
 'Sweet Master Humphrey, Luce shall be thy 
 bride.' 
 Luce. Sweet Master Humphrey, then I am con- 
 tent. 
 Hum. And so am I, in truth. 
 
 1 This probably alludes to a custom of celebrating 
 the vigil of St.' John the Baptist afrer sunset, wlien, 
 among other things, 2000 men perambulated the streets. 
 — Wkbeb. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 295 
 
 Imce. Yet take me with you ; 
 There is another clause must be annex'd, 
 And this it is : I swore, and will perform it, 
 No man shall ever 'joy me as his wife, 
 But he that stole me hence. If you dare venture, 
 I'm yours (you need not fear ; my father loves 
 
 you) ; 
 If not, farewell for ever ! 
 
 Hum. Stay, nymph, stay ! 
 I have a double gelding, colour'd bay, 
 Sprung by his father from Barbarian kind ; 
 Another for myself, though somewhat blind, 
 Yet true as trusty tree. 
 
 Luce. I am satisfied ; 
 And so I give my hand. Our course must lie 
 Through XValtham-Forest, where I have a friend 
 Will entertain us. So farewell. Sir Humphrey, 
 And think upon your business! \Exit Luce. 
 
 Hum. Though I die, 
 I am resolved to venture life and limb. 
 For one so young, so fair, so kind, so trim. 
 
 {Exit Humphrey. 
 
 ' Wife. By my faith and troth, George, and as 
 I am virtuous, it is e'en the kindest young man 
 that ever trod on shoe-leather. Well, go thy 
 ■waj'S ; if thou hast her not, 'tis not thy fault, faith. 
 
 ' Cit. I .pr'ythee, mouse, be patient ! a' ' shall 
 have her, or I'll make some of 'em smoke for't. 
 
 ' Wife,. That's my good lamb, George. Fy ! 
 This stinking tobacco kills men! 'Would there 
 were none in England ! Now I pray, gentlemen, 
 what good does this stinking tobacco 2 do you ? 
 nothing, I warrant you ; make chimneys a' your 
 faces!' 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Grocer's Shop. 
 
 Enter Rat^ph, lihe a Grocer., with ttco Apprentices, 
 reading Palmerin of England. 
 
 ' Wife. Oh, husband, husband, now, now ! 
 there's Ralph, there's Ralph.' 
 
 ' Cit. Peace, fool ! let Ralph alone. — Hark you, 
 Ralph; do not strain yourself too much at the 
 first. Peace! Begin, Ralph.' 
 
 Ralph. [Reads.'] Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatch- 
 ing their lances from their dwarfs, and clasping their 
 helmets, galloped amain after the giant; and Palmerin 
 having gotten a sight of him, came posting amain, 
 saying, 'Stay, traitorous thief! for thou mayst not so 
 carry away her, that is worth the greatest lord in the 
 world,' and, with these words, gave him a blow on the 
 shoulder, that he struck him besides his elephant. And 
 Trineus coming to the knight that had Agricola behind 
 him, set him soon besides his horse, with his neck broken 
 in the fall ; so that the princess getting out of the 
 throng, between joy and grief, said, ' All happy knight, 
 the miiTor of all such as follow aims, now may 1 be well 
 assured of the love thou bearest me.' 3 
 
 I wonder why the kings do not raise an army of 
 fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big 
 as the array that the Prince of Portigo brought 
 against Rosicler,* and destroy these giants; they 
 do much hurt to wandering damsels, that go in 
 quest of their knights. 
 
 * a' — he. 
 
 ^tobacco. At the time our authors wrote, tobacco, 
 wine, and beer, were the usual accommodations in the 
 theatre. — Reed. 
 
 3 This passage is taken, with some slight variations, 
 from Palmerin D'Oliva, the Mirror of Nobility, Map of 
 Honour, d'c, and most accomplished Kniqht in all Per- 
 fections (1588).— Reed. 
 
 ■» These were characters in the celebrated Espeio de 
 Caballenso, one of the romances condemned by the curate 
 In Don Quixote to the flames.— Wkbeb. 
 
 ' Wife. 'Faith, husband, and Ralph says true; 
 for they say the King of Portugal cannot sit at 
 his meat, but the giants and the ettins ^ wiU come 
 and snatch it from him. 
 
 ' Cit. Hold thy tongue. — On, Ralph ! ' 
 
 Ralph. And certainly those knights are much 
 to be commended, who, neglecting their posses- 
 sions, wander with a squire and a dwarf through 
 the deserts, to relieve poor ladies. 
 
 ' Wife. Ay, by my faith are they, Ralph ; let 
 'em say what they will, they are indeed. Our 
 knights neglect their possessions well enough, 
 but they do not the rest.' 
 
 Ralph. There are no such courteous and fair 
 well-spoken knights in this age. But what brave 
 spirit could be content to sit in his shop, with a 
 flappet of 'wood, and a blue apron before him, 
 selling Methridatam2 and dragon's water to visited 
 houses, that might pursue feats of arms, and, 
 through his noble achievements, procure such 
 a famous history to be written of his heroic 
 prowess 1 
 
 ' Cit. Well said, Ralph ; some more of those 
 words, Ralph ! 
 
 ' Wife. They go finely, by my troth.' 
 
 Ralph. Why should not I then pursue this 
 course, both for the credit of myself and our 
 company ? for amongst all the worthy books of 
 achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet 
 read of a Grocer -Errant ; I will be the said 
 Knight — Have you heard of any that hath wan- 
 dered unfurnished of his squire and dwarf ? My 
 elder prentice Tim shall be my trusty squire, and 
 little George my dwarf. Hence, my blue apron ! 
 Yet, in remembrance of my former trade, upon 
 my shield shall be portrayed a Burning Pestle, 
 and I will be called the Knight of the Burning 
 Pestle. 
 
 ' Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget 
 thy old trade ; thou wert ever meek.* 
 
 Ralph. Tim! 
 
 Tim. Anon. 
 
 Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my 
 dwarf, I charge you that from henceforth you 
 never call me by any other name but the Right 
 courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning 
 Pestle ; and that you never call any female by the 
 name of a woman or wench, but fair lady, if she 
 have her desires; if not, distressed damsel; that 
 you call all forests and heaths, desei-ts, and all 
 horses, palfries ! 
 
 ' Wife. This is very fine!— 'Faith, do the 
 gentlemen like Ralph, think you, husband ? 
 
 ' Cit. Ay, I warrant thee ; the players would 
 give all the shoes in their shop for him.' 
 
 Ralph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out. 
 Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight- 
 errant pricking,3 and I should bid you inquire of 
 his intents, what would you say ? 
 
 Tim. ' Sir, my master sent me to know whither 
 you are riding .? ' 
 
 Ralph. No! thus: 'Fair sir! the Right cour- 
 teous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle 
 commanded me to inquire upon what adventure 
 you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed 
 damsels, or otherwise.' 
 
 ' Cit. Whoreson blockhead, cannot remember ! 
 
 ' Wife. I'faith, and Ralph told him on't before ; 
 
 ^ettins — giants. Anglo-Saxon, eton, eoten; Scotch, 
 eyttyn; probably connected with Icelandic .;ote«. 
 
 2 selling MethiHdatam, &c. — i.e. to houses visited by 
 the plague. For methridate, see p. 230, col. 2, note 2. 
 Dragon's water is a ludicrous mistake for dragon's blood, 
 the gum of the dragon tree. 
 
 3 pricking— xi^iag. 
 
296 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 all the gentlemen heard him ; did he not, gentle- 
 men ? did not Ralph tell him on't ? ' 
 
 George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of 
 the Burning Pestle^ here is a distressed damsel, to 
 have a halfpenny-worth of pepper. 
 
 ' Wife. That's a good boy ! See, the little boy 
 can hit it. By my troth, it's a fine child.' 
 
 Ralph. Eelieve her with all courteous language. 
 Now shut up shop ; no more my 'prentice, but 
 My trusty squire and dwarf. I must bespeak 
 My shield, and arming Pestle. 
 
 ' Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph ! As I am a true 
 man, thou art the best on 'em all. 
 
 'TFi/e. Ralph, Ralph! 
 
 ' Ralph. What say you, mistress ? 
 
 ' Wtfe. I pr'ythee come again quickly, sweet 
 Ralph. 
 
 ' Ral;ph. By and by.' [Exit. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in Merrythought's House. 
 
 Enter Jasper and Mrs. Merrythought. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Give thee my blessing 7 No, I'll 
 ne'er give thee my blessing ; I'll see thee hang'd 
 first ; it shall ne'er be said I gave thee my bless- 
 ing. Thou art thy father's own son, of the right 
 blood of the Merrythoughts ; I may cui'se the time 
 that e'er I knew thy father ; he hath spent all his 
 own, and mine too ; and when I tell him of it, he 
 laughs, and dances, and sings, and cries, ' A merry 
 heart lives long-a.' And thou art a wastethrift, 
 and art run away from thy master, that loved 
 thee well, and art come to me ; and I have laid 
 up a little for my younger son Michael, and thou 
 think'st to 'bezzle that, but thou shalt never be 
 able to do it. 
 
 Enter Michael. 
 
 Come hither, Michael; come, Michael; down on 
 thy knees : thou shalt have my blessing. 
 
 Mich, [kneels.'] I pray you, mother, pray to 
 God to bless me ! 
 
 Mrs. Mer. God bless thee! but Jasper shall 
 never have my blessing ; he shall be hanged first, 
 shall he not, Michael ? How say'st thou .'* 
 
 Mich. Yes, forsooth, mother, and grace of God. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. That's a good boy ! 
 
 ' Wife. I'faith, it's a fine spoken child ! ' 
 
 Jasp. Mothei", though you forget a parent's love, 
 I must preserve the duty of a child. 
 I ran not from my master, nor return 
 To have your stock maintain my idleness. 
 
 ' Wife. Ungracious child, I warrant him ! hark, 
 how he chops logic with his mother. Thou hadst 
 best tell her she lies ; do, tell her she lies. 
 
 ' Cit. If he were my son, I would hang him up 
 by the heels, and flay him, and salt him, whoreson 
 halter-sack !'i 
 
 Jasp. My coming only is to beg your love, 
 Which I must ever, though I never gain it ; 
 And, howsoever you esteem of me. 
 There is no drop of blood hid in these veins, 
 But I remember well belongs to you. 
 That brought me forth, and would be glad for you 
 To rip them all again, and let it out. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. I'faith, I had sorrow enough for thee 
 (God knows), but I'll hamper thee well enough. — 
 Get thee in, thou vagabond, get thee in, and learn 
 of thy brother Michael. 
 
 Mer. [Singing within.'] Nose, nose, jolly red nose, 
 And who gave thee this jolly red nose? 
 
 * Aa?<er-saci'— gallows-bird. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Hark, my husband ! he's singing 
 and hoiting;^ and I'm fain to cark^ and care, 
 and all little enough. — Hiisband ! Charles ! 
 Charles Merrythought ! 
 
 Enier Old Merrythought. 
 
 Mer. [Singing."] Nutmegs and ginger, cinnamon and 
 cloves; 
 And they gave me this jolly red nose. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. If you would consider your state, 
 you would have little lust to sing, I wis. 
 
 Mer. It should never be considered, while it 
 were an estate, if I thought it would spoil my 
 singing. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles? 
 Thou art an old man, and thou canst not work, 
 and thou hast not forty shillings left, and thou 
 eatest good meat, and drinkest good drink, and 
 laughest. 
 
 Mer. And will do. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. But how wilt thou come by it, 
 Charles? 
 
 Mer. How ? Why, how have I done hitherto 
 these forty years ? I never came into my dining- 
 room, but, at eleven and six o'clock,3 I found 
 excellent meat and drink o' th' table ; my clothes 
 were never worn out, but next morning a tailor 
 brought me a new suit ; and without question it 
 will be so ever ! Use makes perf ectness ; if all 
 should fail, it is but a little straining myself extra- 
 ordinary, and laugh myself to death. 
 
 ' Wife. It's a foolish old man this ; is not ho, 
 George ? 
 
 ' Cit. Yes, cony — 
 
 ' Wife. Give me a penny i' th' purse while I 
 live, George. 
 
 ' Cit. Ay, by'r lady, cony, hold thee there ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Well, Charles, you promised to pro- 
 vide for Jasper, and I have laid up for Michael. 
 I pray you pay Jasper his portion; he's come 
 home, and he shall not consume Michael's stock. 
 He says his master turned him away, but I pro- 
 mise you truly I think he ran away. 
 
 ' Wife. No, indeed. Mistress Merrythought, 
 though he be a notable gallows, yet I'll assure 
 you his master did turn him away, even in this 
 place ; 'twas, i'faith, within this half- hour, about 
 his daughter ; my husband was by. 
 
 ' Cit. Hang him, rogue ! he served him well 
 enough. Love his master's daughter ? By my 
 troth, cony, if there were a thousand boys, thou 
 wouldst spoil them all, with taking their parts ; 
 let his mother alone with him. 
 
 ' Wife. Ay, George, but yet truth is truth.' 
 
 Mer. Where is Jasper ? he's welcome, however. 
 Call him in; he shall have his portion. Is he 
 merry ? 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Ay, foul chive * him, he is too merry. 
 Jasper! Michael! 
 
 Enter Jasper and Michael. 
 
 Mer. Welcome, Jasper ! though thou runn'st 
 away, welcome ! God bless thee ! 'Tis thy 
 mother's mind thou shouldst receive thy portion ; 
 thou hast been abroad, and I hope hast learn'd 
 experience enough to govern it ; thou art of suflS- 
 cient years ; hold thy hand : one, two, three, four, 
 
 1 hoiting. To hoit is to caper, to indulge in riotous 
 and noisy mirth. We still speak of a hoity-toity person. 
 — Nares. 
 
 2 carA— care. 
 
 3 These were the dinner and supper hours in our 
 author's time. 
 
 * chive. Weber thinks this may be a Somersetshire 
 contraction for shall have him. However, it may be 
 connected with chevan, to run away precipitately. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 297 
 
 five, six, seven, eight, nine, there is ten shillings 
 for thee ; thrust thyself into the world with that, 
 and take some settled course. If Fortune cross 
 thee, thou hast a retiring place ; come home to 
 tne ; I have twenty shillings left. Be a good 
 husband ; that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the 
 best meat, and drink the best drink ; be merry, 
 and give to the poor, and, believe me, thou hast 
 no end of thy goods. 
 
 Jasp. Long may you live free from all thought 
 of ill. 
 And long have cause to be thus merry still ! 
 But, father — 
 
 Mer. No more words, Jasper ; get thee gone ! 
 Thou hast my blessing ; thy father's spirit upon 
 thee! Farewell, Jasper! 
 
 But yet, or ere you part (oh, cruel !) 
 Kiss me, kiss me, sweeting, mine own dear jewel ! 
 
 So ; now begone ; no words I \Exit Jasper. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. So, Michael ; now get thee gone too. 
 
 Mich. Yes, forsooth, mother ; but I'll have my 
 father's blessing first. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. No, Michael ; 'tis no matter for his 
 blessing ; thou hast my blessing ; be gone. I'll 
 fetch my money and jewels, and follow thee. I'll 
 stay no longer with him, I warrant thee. — Truly, 
 Chaxies, I'll be gone too. 
 
 Mer. What ! you will not ? 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Yes, indeed will I. 
 
 Mer. [Sings.] Hey-ho, farewell, Nan ! 
 I'll never trust wench more again, if I can. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. You shall not think (when all your 
 own is gone) to spend that I have been scraping 
 up for Michael. 
 
 Mer. Farewell, good wife ! I expect it not ; all 
 I have to do in this Avorld, is to be merry ; which 
 I shall, if the ground be not taken from me ; and 
 if it be, [Sings. 
 
 When earth and seas from me are reft, 
 The skies aloft for me are left. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. I'll be sworn he's a merry old gentle- 
 man, for all that. Hark, hark, husband, hark I 
 fiddles, fiddles! [Music.^ Now surely they go 
 finely. They say 'tis present death for these 
 fiddlers to tune their rebecks^ before the great 
 Turk's grace; is't not, George! IBoy danceth.'] 
 But look, look! here's a youth dances! Now, 
 good youth, do a turn o' th' toe. Sweetheart, 
 i'faith I'll have Kalph come and do some of his 
 gambols; he'll ride the wild-mare, gentlemen, 
 'twould do your hearts good to see him. I thank 
 you, kind youth ; pray, bid Ralph come. 
 
 ' Cit. Peace, cony ! — Siri-ah, you scurvy boy, 
 bid the players send Ealph ; or, by God's wounds, 
 an they do not, I'll tear some of their periwigs 
 beside their heads ; this is all riff-raff.' 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in the House of Venterwels. 
 
 Enter Venterwels and Master Humphrey. 
 
 Vent. And how, i'faith, how goes it now, son 
 Humphrey ? 
 
 1 A reheck was an instrument of three strings some- 
 what like a modem fiddle. 
 
 IJiim. Right worshipful, and my beloved friend 
 And father dear, this matter's at an end. 
 
 Vent. 'Tis well ; it should be so : I'm glad the 
 girl 
 Is found so tractable. 
 
 Hum. Nay, she must whirl 
 From hence (and you must wink ; for so, I say, 
 The story tells) to-morrow before day. 
 
 ' Wife. George, dost thou think in thy con- 
 science now 'twill be a match ? tell me but what 
 thou think'st, sweet rogue. Thou seest the poor 
 gentleman (dear heart!) how it labours and throbs, 
 I warrant you, to be at rest. I'll go move the 
 father f or't. 
 
 ' Cit. No, no ; I pr'ythee sit still, honeysuckle ; 
 thou'lt spoil all. If he deny him, I'll bring half 
 a dozen good fellows myself, and in the shutting 
 of an evening knock it up, and there's an end. 
 
 ' Wife. I'll buss thee for that, i'faith, boy ! 
 Well, George, well, you have been a wag in your 
 days, I warrant you; but God forgive you, and 
 I do with all my heart.' 
 
 Vent. How was it, son ? you told me that to- 
 morrow 
 Before day-break, you must convey her hence. 
 
 Hum. I must, I must ; and thus it is agreed : 
 Your daughter rides upon a brown-bay steed, 
 I on a sorrel, which I bought of Brian, 
 The honest host of the red roaring Lion, 
 In Waltham situate. Then if you may, 
 Consent in seemly sort ; lest by delay, 
 The fatal sisters come, and do the office. 
 And then you'll sing another song. 
 
 Vent. Alas, 
 Why should you be thus full of grief to me, 
 That do as willing as yourself agree 
 To anything, so it be good and fair ? 
 Then steal her when you will, if such a pleasure 
 Content you both ; I'll sleep and never see it. 
 To make your joys more full. But tell me why 
 You may not here perform your marriage ? 
 
 ' Wife. God's blessing o' thy soul, old man ! 
 I'faith, thou art loath to part true hearts. I see 
 a' has her, George ; and I'm as glad on't ! — Well, 
 go thy ways, Humphrey, for a fair-spoken man ; 
 I believe thou hast not thy fellow within the 
 walls of London; an I should say the suburbs 
 too, I should not lie. Why dost not rejoice with 
 me, George ? 
 
 ' Cit. If I could but see Ralph again, I were as 
 merry as mine host, i'faith.' 
 
 Hum. The cause you seem to ask, I thus 
 declare : 
 (Help me, oh, muses nine!) Your daughter 
 
 sware 
 A foolish oath, the more it was the pity ; 
 Yet no one but myself within this city 
 Shall dare to say so, but a bold defiance 
 Shall meet him, were he of the noble science. 
 And yet she sware, and yet why did she swear? 
 Truly I cannot tell, unless it were 
 For her own ease ; for sure sometimes an oath, 
 Being sworn thereafter, is like cordial broth : 
 And this it was she swore, never to marry, 
 But such a one whose mighty arm could carry 
 (As meaning me, for I am such a one) 
 Her bodily away, through stick and stone, 
 Till both of us arrive at her request. 
 Some ten miles off, in the wild Waltham' Forest. 
 
 Vent. If this be all, you shall not need to fear 
 Any denial in your love : proceed ; 
 I'll neither follow, nor repent the deed. 
 
 Hum. Good night, twenty good nights, and 
 twenty more, 
 And twenty more good nights, that makes three- 
 score ! 
 
 \ExeunU 
 
2gS 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE II. 
 
 Night. Waltham Forest. 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought and Michael. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Come, Michael ; art thou not weary, 
 boy.» 
 
 Mich. No, forsooth, mother, not I. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Where be we now, child ? 
 
 Mich. Indeed, foi-sooth, mother, I cannot tell, 
 unless we be at Mile-End. Is not all the world 
 Mile-End, mother.^ 
 
 Mrs. Mer. No, Michael, not all the world, boy ; 
 but I can assure thee, Michael, Mile-End is a 
 goodly matter. There has been a pitchfield,' my 
 child, between the naughty Spaniels and the Eng- 
 lishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, 
 and the Englishmen followed. My neighbour 
 Coxstone was there, boy, and killed them all 
 with a birding-piece. 
 
 Mich. Mother, forsooth! 
 
 Mrs. Mer. What says my white ^ boy ? 
 
 Mich. Shall not my father go with us too ? 
 
 Mrs. Mer. No, Michael, let thy father go snick- 
 up,3 he shall never come between a pair of sheets 
 with me again, while he lives ; let him stay at 
 home and sing for his supper, boy. — Come, child, 
 sit down, and I'll show my boy fine knacks, in- 
 deed. [Takes out a casTcet.'] Look here, Michael; 
 here's a ring, and here's a brooch, and here's a 
 bracelet, and here's two rings more, and here's 
 money and gold, by th' eye, my boy ! 
 
 Mich. Shall I have all this, mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Mer, Ay, Michael, thou shalt have all, 
 Michael. 
 
 ' Cit. How lik'st thou this, wench ? 
 
 ' Wife. I cannot tell ; I would have Ealph, 
 George ; I'll see no more else, indeed-la ; and I 
 pray you let the youths understand so much by 
 word of mouth ; for I tell you truly, I'm afraid o' 
 iQy boy. Come, come, George, let's be merry and 
 wise ; the child's a fatherless child, and say they 
 should put him into a strait pair of gaskins,* 
 'twere worse than knot-grass;^ he would never 
 grow after it. 
 
 Enter Kalph, Tim, and George. 
 
 ' Cit. Here's Kalph, here's Ealph. 
 
 ' Wife. How do you, Ealph .^ you are welcome, 
 Ealph, as I may say. It's a good boy ! hold up 
 thy head, and be not afraid ; we are thy friends, 
 Ealph. The gentlemen will praise thee, Ealph, 
 if thou play'st thy part with audacity. Begin, 
 Ealph, a' God's name ! ' 
 
 Ralj)h. My trusty squire, unlace my helm ; give 
 me my hat. 
 Where are we, or what desert may this be ? 
 
 George. Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I take 
 it, the perilous Waltham Down, in whose bottom 
 stands the enchanted valley. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Oh, Michael, we are betrayed, we 
 are betrayed ! here be giants ! Fly, boy, fly, boy, 
 fly ! [Exit with Michael, leaving the casket. 
 
 1 There has been a pitchfield, &c. This must relate to 
 some mock fight which was fought at Mile-End, where 
 the train-bands of the city were often exercised. — 
 Weber. 
 
 2 white was then a common term of endearment. 
 
 3 snick-vp or sneck-up — hang himself. 
 
 * guskins, gascoynes, or galligaskins, generally denoted 
 wide hobe, but was also used generally for trousers ; the 
 article is supposed to have been introduced from Gas- 
 cony. 
 
 5 knot-grass was anciently supposed to prevent the 
 growth of a child. 
 
 Ealph. Lace on my helm again ! What noise is 
 this? 
 A gentle lady, flying the embrace 
 Of some uncourteous kinght ? I will relieve her. 
 Go, squire, and say, the knight that wears this 
 
 Pestle 
 In honour of all ladies, swears revenge 
 Upon that recreant coward that pursues her ; 
 Go, comfort her, and that same gentle squire 
 That bears her company. 
 
 Tim. I go, brave knight. 
 
 Ealph. My trusty dwarf and friend, reach me 
 my shield ; 
 And hold it while I swear : First, by my knight- 
 hood; 
 Then by the soul of Amadis do Gaul, 
 My famoxis ancestor ; then by my sword, 
 The beauteous Brionella girt about me ; 
 By this bright burning Pestle, of mine honour 
 The living trophy ; and by all respect 
 Due to distressed damsels, here I vow 
 Never to end the quest of this fair lady, 
 And that forsaiken squire, till by my valour 
 I gain their liberty ! [Exit. 
 
 Geo. Heaven bless the knight 
 That thus relieves poor errant gentlewomen ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. Ay marry, Ealph, this has some savour 
 in't; I would see the proudest of them all offer to 
 carry his books after him. But, George, I will 
 not have him go away so soon ; I shall be sick 
 if he go away, that I shall. Call Ealph again, 
 George, call Ealph again ; I pr'ythee, sweetheart, 
 let him come fight before me, and let's ha' some 
 drums, and some trumpets, and let him kill all 
 that comes near him, an thou lov'st me, George ! 
 
 ' Cit. Peace a little, bird ! He shall kill them 
 all, an they were twenty more on 'em than there 
 are.' 
 
 Enter Jasper. 
 
 Jasp. Now, Fortune (if thou be'st not only ill), 
 Show me thy better face, and bring about 
 Thy desperate wheel, that I may climb at length, 
 And stand ; this is our place of meeting. 
 If love have any constancy. age. 
 Where only wealthy men are counted happy ! 
 How shall I please thee, how deserve thy smiles, 
 When I am only rich in misery ? 
 My father's blessing, and this little coin, 
 Is my inheritance ; a strong revenue ! 
 From earth thou art, and to the earth I give thee : 
 There grow and multiply, whilst fresher air 
 Breeds me a fresher fortune. — How ! illusion ! 
 
 [/Spies the casket. 
 What ! hath the devil coin'd himself before me ? 
 'Tis metal good : it rings well ; I am waking. 
 And taking too, I hope. Now, God's dear blessing 
 Upon his heart that left it here ! 'tis mine ; 
 These pearls, I take it, were not left for swine. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. I do not like that this unthrifty youth 
 should embezzle away the money; the poor 
 gentlewoman his mother will have a heavy 
 heart for it, God knows. 
 
 ' Cit. And good reason, sweetheart. 
 
 ' Wife. But let him go. I'll tell Ealph a tale 
 in's ear, shall fetch him again with a wannion,^ I 
 warrant him, if he be above ground; and besides, 
 George, here are a number of sufficient gentlemen 
 can witness, and myself, and yourself, and the 
 
 1 tcith a wannion — a common proverbial expression, 
 the precise meaning of which has never been explained. 
 Nares thinks it is equivalent to with a vengeance, or with 
 a plague, and to be derived from Anglo-Saxon wanting, 
 detriment, or wanean, to bewail. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 299 
 
 musicians, if we be call'd in question. But here 
 comes Ralph; George, thou shalthear him speak 
 an' he were an emperal.' 
 
 Enter Ealph and George. 
 Ralph. Comes not Sir Squire again ? 
 Geo. Right courteous knight, 
 Your squire doth come, and with him comes the 
 lady. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought, Michael, and Tim. 
 
 Ralph. Fair ! and the Squire of Damsels as I 
 Madam, if any service or devoir [take it ! 
 
 Of a poor eiTant-knight may right your wrongs. 
 Command it ; I am prest^ to give you succour ; 
 For to that holy end I bear my armour. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Alas, sir, I am a poor gentlewoman, 
 and I have lost my money in this forest. 
 
 Ralph. Desert, you would say, lady; and not lost 
 Whilst I have sword and lance. Dry iip your tears, 
 Which ill befit the beauty of that face, 
 And tell the story, if I may request it, 
 Of your disastrous fortune. 
 
 J/rs. Mei'. Out, alas ! I left a thousand pound, 
 a thousand pound, e'en all the money I had laid 
 up for this youth, upon the sight of your master- 
 ship, you look'd so grim, and, as I may say it, 
 saving your presence, more like a giant than a 
 mortal man. 
 
 Ralph. I am as you are, lady ; so are they, 
 All mortal. But why weeps this gentle squire ? 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Has he not cause to weep, do you 
 think, when he hath lost his inheritance ? 
 
 Ralph. Young hope of valour, weep not ; I am 
 here 
 That will confound thy foe, and pay it dear 
 Upon his coward head, that dares deny 
 Distressed squires and ladies equity. 
 I have but one horse, upon which shall ride 
 This lady fair behind me, and before 
 This courteous squire. Fortune will give us more 
 Upon our next adventure. Fairly speed 
 Beside us, Squire and Dwarf, to do us need! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Cit. Did not I tell you, Nell, what your man 
 would do ? By the faith of my body, wench, for 
 clean action and good delivery, they may all cast 
 their caps at him. 
 
 ' Wife. And so they may, i'faith ; for I dare 
 speak it boldly, the twelve companies of London 
 cannot match him, timber for timbei'. Well, 
 George, an he be not inveigled by some of these 
 paltry players, I ha' much marvel ; but, George, 
 we ha' done our parts if the boy have any grace 
 to be thankful. 
 
 ' Cit. Yes, I warrant thee, duckling.' 
 
 Enter Master Humphrey and Luce. 
 
 Hum. Good Mistress Luce, however I in fault 
 am 
 For your lame horse, you're welcome unto 
 
 Waltham ; 
 But which way now to go, or what to say, 
 I know not truly, till it be broad day. 
 
 Luce. Oh, fear not, Master Humphrey; I am 
 For this place good enough. [guide 
 
 Hum. Then up and ride ; 
 Or, if it please you, walk for your re'pose ; 
 Or sit, or, if you will, go pluck a rose ; 
 Either of which shall be indifferent 
 To your good friend and Humphrey, whose 
 
 consent 
 Is so entangled ever to your will. 
 As the poor harmless horse is to the mill. 
 
 ' />rest— ready. 
 
 Luce. 'Faith, an' you say the word, we'll e'en 
 And take a nap. [sit down, 
 
 Hum. 'Tis better in the town. 
 Where we may nap together ; for, believe me. 
 To sleep without a snatch would mickle grieve me. 
 
 Luce. You're merry, Master Humphrey. 
 
 Bum. So I am, 
 And have been ever merry from my dam. 
 
 Luce. Your nurse had the less labour. 
 
 Hum. 'Faith; it may be. 
 Unless it were by chance I did bewray me. 
 
 E7iter Jasper. 
 
 Jasp. Luce ! dear friend Luce ! 
 
 Luce. Here, Jasper. 
 
 Jasp. You are mine. 
 
 Hum. If it be so, my friend, you use me fine ; 
 What do you think I am ? 
 
 Jasp. An arrant noddy. 
 
 Hum. A word of obloquy! Now, by God's body, 
 I'll tell thy master, for i know thee well. 
 
 Jasp. Nay, an' you be so forward for to tell, 
 Take that, and that ; and tell him, sir, I gave it ; 
 And say I paid you well. [Beats him. 
 
 Hum. Oh, sir, I have it. 
 And do confess the payment. Pray be quiet ! 
 
 Jasp. Go, get you to your nightcap, and the 
 To cure your beaten bones. [diet. 
 
 Luce. Alas, poor Humohrey ! 
 Get thee some wholesome broth, with sage and 
 A little oil of roses, and a feather [cumfry ; 
 
 To 'noint thy back withal. 
 
 Hum. When I came hither, 
 'Would I had gone to Paris with John Dory !'^ 
 
 Luce. Farewell, my pretty nump : ^ I'm very 
 I cannot bear thee company. [sorry 
 
 Hum. Farewell ! 
 The devil's dam was ne'er so banged in hell. 
 
 [^Exeunt Luce and Jasper. 
 
 ' Wife. This young Jasper will prove me an- 
 other things, a' my conscience, an' he may be 
 suffered. George ! dost not see, George, how a' 
 swaggers, and flies at the very heads a' folks, as 
 he were a dragon ? Well, if I do not do his 
 lesson for wronging this poor gentleman, I am 
 no true woman. His friends that brought him 
 up might have been better occupied, I Avis, than 
 have taught him these fegaries.^ He's e'en in the 
 highway to the gallows, God bless him ! 
 
 ' Cit. You're too bitter, cony; the young man 
 may do well enough for all this. 
 
 ' Wi/e. Come hither. Master Humphrey. Has 
 he hurt you ? Now beshrew his fingers for't ! 
 Here, sweetheart, here's some green ginger for 
 thee. Now, beshrew my heart, but a' has 
 pepper-nel* in's head, as big as a pullet's egg! 
 Alas, sweet lamb, how thy temples beat! Take 
 the peace on him, sweetheart, take the peace on 
 him. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 ' Cit. No, no ; you talk like a foolish woman ! 
 I'll ha' Ralph fight with him, and swinge him 
 up well-favouredly. — Sirrah, boy, come hither. 
 Let Ralph come in and fight with Jasper. 
 
 ' Wi/e. Ay, and beat him well ; he's an unhappys 
 boy. 
 
 ' Boi/.' Sir, you must pardon us ; the plot of 
 our play lies contrary; and 'twill hazard the 
 spoiling of our play. 
 
 ^ John Dory was a character in a popular song of the 
 time. 
 - nwrnp— blockhead, numskull. 
 
 3 fegaries — vagaries. 
 
 4 pep/»e/--neZ— apparently a lump or swelling. — ^NABEa 
 * unhappy — wicked. 
 
300 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ' Cit. Plot me no plots ! I'll ha' Ralph come 
 ont : I'll make your house too hot for you else. 
 
 ' Boy. Why, sir, he shall ; but if anything fall 
 out of order, the gentlemen must pardon us. 
 
 ' Cit. Go your ways, goodman boy ! I'll hold 
 him a penny, he shall have his bellyful of fight- 
 ing now. — Ho ! here comes Ralph ! no more ! ' 
 
 Enter Ralph, Mrs. Merrythought, Michael, 
 Tim, a7id Gkorge. 
 
 Ralph. "What knight is that, squire ? Ask him 
 if he keep 
 The passage, bound by love of lady fair, 
 Or else but prickant^ 
 
 Hum. Sir, I am no knight, 
 But a poor gentleman that this same night 
 Had stolen from me, upon yonder green, 
 My lovely wife, and suflfer'd (to be seen 
 Yet extant on my shoulders) such a greeting, 
 That whilst I live I shall think of that meeting. 
 
 ' Wife. Ay, Ralph, he beat him unmercifully, 
 Ralph; an' thou sparest him, Ralph, I would 
 thou wert hanged. 
 
 ' Cit. No more, wife, no more!' 
 
 Ralph. Where is the caitiff wretch hath done 
 this deed ? 
 Lady, your pardon ! that I may proceed 
 Upon the quest of this injurious knight. 
 And thou, fair squire, repute me not the worse, 
 In leaving the great venture of the purse, 
 And the rich casket, till some better leisure. 
 
 Enter Jaspeb and Luce. 
 
 Hum. Here comes the broker hath purloined 
 my treasure. 
 
 Ralph. Go, squire, and tell him I am here. 
 An errant knight-at-arms, to crave delivery 
 Of that fair lady to her own knight's arms. 
 If he deny, bid him take choice of ground, 
 And so defy him. 
 
 Tim. From the knight that bears 
 The Golden Pestle, I defy thee, knight ! 
 Unless thou make fair restitution 
 Of that bright lady. 
 
 Jasp. Tell the knight that sent thee 
 He is an ass ; and I will keep the wench, 
 And knock his headpiece. 
 
 Ralph. Knight, thou art but dead, 
 If thou recall not thy \incourteous terms. 
 
 ' Wife. Break his pate, Ralph, break his pate, 
 Ralph, soundly ! ' 
 
 Jasp. Come, knight, I'm ready for you. — Now 
 your Pestle [Snatches away his Pestle. 
 
 Shall try what temper, sir, your mortar's of. 
 With that he stood upright in his stirrups, and 
 gave the knight of the calves-skin such a knock, 
 that he forsook his horse, and down he fell ; and 
 then he leaped upon him, and plucking off his 
 helmet — [Knocl's him down. 
 
 Hum. Nay, an' my noble knight be down so 
 soon. 
 Though I can scarcely go, I needs must run. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. Run, Ralph, run, Ralph ; run for thy 
 life, boy ; Jasper comes, Jasper comes ! ' 
 
 [Exit Ralph, taking up the Pestle. 
 
 Jasp. Come, Luce, we must have other arms 
 for you ; 
 Humphrey and Golden Pestle, both adieu ! 
 
 [Exewit. 
 
 ' Wife. Sure the devil (God bless us !) is in 
 this springald ! * Why George, didst ever see such 
 
 _ » prickant— pricking or spurring along on a journey. 
 •-''Weber. 
 
 2 springald — youth. 
 
 a fire-drake ? I am afraid my boy's miscarried ; 
 if he be, though he were Master Merrythought's 
 son a thousand times, if there be any law in 
 England, I'll make some of them smart for't. 
 
 ' Cit. No, no ; I have found out the matter, 
 sweetheart ; Jasper is enchanted ; as sure as we 
 are here, he is enchanted : he could no more have 
 stood in Ralph's hands, than I can stand in my 
 lord-mayor's. I'll have a ring to discover all en- 
 chantments, and Ralph shall beat him yet. Be 
 no more vexed, for it shall be so.' 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE IIL 
 Before the Bell Inn at Waltham. 
 
 Enter Ralph, Tim, George, Mrs. Merry- 
 thought, and Michael. 
 
 ♦ Wife. Oh, husband, here's Ralph again ! 
 Stay, Ralph, let me speak with thee. How dost 
 thou, Ralph? Art thou not shrewdly hurt? 
 The foul great lungies* laid unmercifully on 
 thee ; there's some sugar-candy for thee. Pro- 
 ceed ; thou shalt have another bout with him. 
 
 ' Cit. If Ralph had him at the fencing-school, 
 if he did not make a puppy of him, and drive 
 him up and down the school, he should ne'er 
 come in my shop more.' 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Truly Master Knight of the Burn- 
 ing Pestle, I am weary. 
 
 Mich. Indeed-Ia, mother, and I am very 
 hungry. 
 
 Ralph. Take comfort, gentle dame, and you, 
 fair squire! 
 For in this desert there must needs be placed 
 Many strong castles, held by courteous knights ; 
 And till I bring you safe to one of those, 
 I swear by this my order ne'er to leave you. 
 
 ' Wife. Well said, Ralph ! George, Ralph was 
 ever comfortable, was he not ? 
 
 ' Cit. Yes, duck. 
 
 ' Wife. I shall ne'er forget him : when we had 
 lost our child (you know it was strayed almost, 
 alone, to Puddle Wharf, and the criers were 
 abroad for it, and there it had drowned itself, 
 but for a sculler), 'Ralph was the most comfort- 
 ablest to me! "Peace, mistress," says he, "let 
 it go! I'll get another as good." Did he not, 
 George, did he not say so ? 
 
 ' Cit. Yes, indeed did he, mouse.' 
 
 Geo. I would we had a mess of pottage, and 
 a pot of drink, squire, and were going to bed. 
 
 Tim. Why, we are at Waltham-town's end, and 
 that's the Bell Inn. 
 
 Geo. Take courage, valiant knight, damsel, 
 and squire ! 
 I have discovered, not a stone's cast off. 
 An ancient castle held by the old knight 
 Of the most holy order of the Bell, 
 Who gives to all knights-errant entertain : 
 There plenty is of food, and all prepared 
 By the white hands of his own lady dear. 
 He hath three squires that welcome all his guests : 
 The first, hight Chamberlino ; who will see 
 Our beds prepared, and bring us snowy sheets, 
 Where never footman stretch'd his butter'd hams.* 
 The second, hight Tapstero ; who will see 
 Our pots full filled, and no froth therein. 
 The third, a gentle squire, Ostlero hight, 
 
 > lungies — a long, awkward fellow. 
 
 2 Where never footman, etc. This alludes to the nm- 
 ninpr footmen, who, like the jockeys, were put upon a 
 particular diet; and, in order to prevent cramps, the 
 calves of their legs were greased, and to this the tex* 
 refers. — Weber. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 301 
 
 Who will our palfreys slick with wisps of straw, 
 And in the manger put them oats enough, 
 And never grease their teeth with candle-snuff.^ 
 
 ' Wife. That same dwarf's a pretty boy, but 
 the squire's a groutnole.'^ 
 
 Ralph. Knock at the gates, my squire, with 
 stately lance ! 
 
 Enter Tapster. 
 
 Tap. Who's there ?— You're welcome, gentle- 
 men f Will you see a room ? 
 
 Geo. Eight courteous and valiant Knight of 
 the Burning Pestle, this is the Squire Tapstero. 
 
 Ealph. Fair Squire Tapstero ! I, a wandering 
 knight, 
 Hight of the Burning Pestle, in the quest 
 Of this fair lady's casket and wrought purse. 
 Losing myself in this vast wilderness, 
 Am to this castle well by fortune brought. 
 Where, hearing of the goodly entertain 
 Your knight of holy order of the Bell 
 Gives to all damsels, and all errant-knights, 
 I thought to knock, and now am bold to enter. 
 
 Tap. An't please you see a chamber, you are 
 very welcome. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. George, I would have something done, 
 and I cannot tell what it is. 
 
 ' Cit. What is it, Nell ? 
 
 ' Wife. Why, George, shall Ealph beat nobody 
 again ? Pr'y thee, sweetheart, let him ! 
 
 ' Cit. So he shall, Nell ; and if I join with him, 
 we'll knock them all.' 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. 
 
 London. A Room in the House o/Venterwels. 
 
 Entei' Master Humphrey and Venterwels. 
 
 ' Wife. Oh, George, here's Master Humphrey 
 again now, that lost Mistress Luce ; and Mistress 
 Luce's father. Master Humphrey will do some- 
 body's errand, I warrant him.' 
 
 Bum. Father, it's true, in arms I ne'er shall 
 clasp her, 
 For she is stol'n away by your man Jasper. 
 
 ' Wife. 1 thought he would tell him.' 
 
 Vent. Unhappy that I am, to lose my child ! 
 Now I begin to think on Jasper's words. 
 Who oft hath urged to me thy foolishness : 
 Why didst thou let her go ? Thou lovest her not, 
 That wouldst bring home thy life, and not bring 
 her. 
 
 Hum. Father, forgive me ; shall I tell you true ? 
 Look on my shoulders, they are black and blue : 
 Whilst to and fro fair Luce and I were winding. 
 He came and basted me with a hedge-binding. 
 
 Vent. Get men and horses straight ! We will 
 be there 
 Within this hour. You know the place again ? 
 
 Hum. I know the place where he my loins did 
 swaddle ; 
 I'll get six horses, and to each a saddle. 
 
 Vent. Meantime, I will go talk with Jasper's 
 father. lExeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. George, what wilt thou lay with me 
 now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress 
 Luce yet ? Speak, George, what wilt thou lay 
 with me ? 
 
 ' Cit. No, Nell ; I warrant thee, Jasper is at 
 Puckeridge with her by this. 
 
 ' Wife. Nay, George, you must consider Mis- 
 
 1 And never grease, &c. Alluding to a common trick of 
 the ostlers at the time to prevent the horses from eating 
 Ihe hay. — Webee. 
 
 2 groutnole, or groutnold— thickhead, dunce. 
 
 tress Luce's feet are tender ; and, besides, 'tis 
 dark ; and I promise you truly, I do not see how 
 he should get out of Waltham Forest with her 
 yet. 
 
 ' Cit. Nay, cony ; what wilt thou lay with me 
 that Ealph has her not yet .'' 
 
 ' Wife. I will not lay against Ealph, honey, 
 because I have not spoken with him. But look, 
 George ; peace ! here comes the merry old gentle- 
 man again.' 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE V. 
 
 An Apartment in Merrythought's House. 
 
 Enter Old Merrythought. 
 
 Mer. [Sings.} When it was grown to dark midnight, 
 And all were fast asleep, 
 In came Margaret's grimly ghost, 
 And stood at William's feet.^ 
 
 I have money, and meat, and drink, beforehand, 
 till to-morrow at noon. Why should I be sad ? 
 Methinks I have half a dozen jovial spirits within 
 me. \_Sings.'] ' 1 am three merry men, and three 
 merry men!' — To what end should any man be 
 sad in this world .'' Give me a man that when 
 he goes to hanging cries, ' Troul"^ the black howl 
 to me!'' and a woman that will sing a catch in 
 her travail! I have seen a man come by my 
 door with a serious face, in a black cloak, with- 
 out a hat-band, carrying his head as if he look'd 
 for pins in the street. I have look'd out of my 
 window half a year after, and have spied that 
 man's head upon London Bridge. 'Tis vile; 
 never trust a tailor that does not sing at his 
 work ! his mind is on nothing but filching. 
 
 ' Wife. Mark this, George ; 'tis worth noting : 
 Godfrey, my tailor, you know, never sings ; and 
 he had fourteen yards to make this gown, and I'll 
 be sworn. Mistress Penistone, the draper's wife, 
 had one made with twelve.' 
 
 Mer. 'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, 
 More than wine, or sleep, or food ; 
 Let each man keep his heart at ease, 
 No man dies of tliat disease. 
 He that would his body keep 
 From diseases, must not weep; 
 But whoever laughs and sings, 
 Never he his body brings 
 Into fevers, gouts, or rheums, 
 Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes; 
 Or meets with aches ^ in the bone, 
 Or catarrhs, or griping stone: 
 But contented lives for aye ; 
 The more he laughs, the more he may. 
 
 ' Wife. Look, George ; how say'st thou by this, 
 George ? Is't not a fine old man ? Now, God's 
 blessing a'* thy sweet lips ! when wilt thou be so 
 merry, George ? 'Faith, thou art the frowning'st 
 little thing, when thou art angry, in a country. 
 
 ' Cit. Peace, cony ! Thou shalt see him took 
 down too, I warrant thee. 
 
 Enter Venterwels. 
 
 Here's Luce's father come now.' 
 
 Mer. \_Sings.'\ As you came from Walsingham, 
 From the Holy Land, 
 There met you not with my true love 
 By the way as you came ? 
 
 1 This stanza is from the ballad of Fair Margaret and 
 Sweet William, in Percy's Reliqws. 
 
 2 Troul— -pass about. 
 
 3 aches, pronounced aitches here, as was frequertly tha 
 case even down to last century. 
 
 * a'— on. 
 
302 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Vent. Oh, Master Merrythought, my daughter's 
 gone ! 
 This mirth becomes you not ; my daughter's 
 gone! 
 
 Mer. Why, an' if she be, what care I ? 
 Or let her come, or go, or tarry. 
 
 Vent. Mock not my misery ; it is your son 
 (Whom I have made my own, when all forsook 
 
 him) 
 Has stol'n my only joy, my child, away. 
 
 Mir. He set her on a milk-white steed, 
 And himself upon a grey; 
 He never turn'd his face again, 
 But he bore her quite away. 
 
 Vent. Unworthy of the kindness I have shown 
 To thee, and thine ; too late, I Avell perceive 
 Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss. 
 
 Mer. Your daughter ? What a stir's here wi' 
 your daughter? Let her go, think no more on 
 her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the 
 gallows, I would sing — 
 
 Down, down, down ; they fall 
 Down, and arise they never shall. 
 
 Vent. Oh, might I behold her once again, 
 And she once mox-e embrace her aged sire ! 
 
 Mer. Fie, how scurvily this goes ! 
 ' And she once more embrace her aged sire ? * 
 You'U'make a dog on her, will ye? She cares 
 much for her aged sire, I warrant you. 
 
 She cares not for her daddy, nor 
 She cares not for her mammy, for 
 
 She is, she is, she is, 
 She is my Lord of Lowgave's lassy. 
 
 Vent. For this thy scorn I will pursue that son 
 Of thine to death. 
 
 Mer. Do ; and when you ha' killed him, 
 
 Give him flowers enow. Palmer, give him flowers enow ! 
 Give him red and white, and blue, green, and yellow. 
 
 Vent. I'll fetch my daughter — 
 Mer. I'll hear no more o' your daughter ; it 
 spoils my mirth. 
 
 Vent. I say, I'll fetch mv daughter. 
 
 Mer. Was never man for lady's sake, 
 Down, down, 
 Tormented as I poor Sir Guy, 
 De derry down. 
 For Lucy's sake, that lady bright, 
 Down, down. 
 As ever men beheld with eye! 
 De derry down. 
 
 Vent. Ill be revenged, by Heaven ! \Exeunt. 
 
 END OF ACT II. \_Music. 
 
 ' Wife. How dost thou like this, George? 
 
 ' Cit. Why this is well, cony ; but if Ralph were 
 hot once, thou shouldst see more. 
 
 ' Wife. The fiddlers go again, husband. 
 
 ' Cit. Ay, Nell ; but this is scurvy music. I 
 gave the whoreson gallows-money, and I think 
 he has not got me the waits of Southwark. If I 
 hear 'em not anon, I'll twinge him by the ears.— 
 You musicians, play Baloo ! ^ 
 
 ' Wife. No, good George ; let's ha' Lachrymse ! 
 
 ' Cit. Why this is it, cony. 
 
 ' Wife. It's all the better, George. Now, sweet 
 lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth ? - 
 The confutation of St. Paul ? 
 
 ' Cit. No, lamb ; that's Ralph and Lucrece. 
 
 ' Wife. Ralph and Lucrece ? Which Ralph ? 
 
 our Ralph ? 
 
 ' Cit. No, mouse ; that was a Tartarian, i 
 
 ' Wife. A Tartarian ? Well, I would the 
 
 fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph 
 
 again!' 
 
 1 Baloo — probably alluding to Lady Anne BofhwdVs 
 Lament — ' Baloo, my babe, lie still and sleep,' &c. 
 
 2 the cloth— i.e. the diop-scene. 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE L 
 Waltham Forest. 
 
 Enter Jasper and Luce. 
 
 Jasp. Come, my dear deer ! though we have lost 
 our way. 
 We have not lost ourselves. Are you not weary 
 With this night's wand'ring, broken from your 
 
 rest? 
 And frighted with the terror that attends 
 The darkness of this wild, unpeopled place ? 
 
 Luce. No, my best friend ; I cannot either fear 
 Or entertain a weary thought, whilst you 
 (The end of all my full desires) stand by me : 
 Let them that lose their hopes, and live to languish 
 Amongst the number of forsaken lovers. 
 Tell the long weary steps, and number time, 
 Start at a shadow, and shrink up their blood. 
 Whilst I (possessed with all content and quiet) 
 Thus take my pretty love, and thus embrace him. 
 
 Jasp. You have caught me. Luce, so fast, that 
 whilst I live 
 I shall become your faithful prisoner. 
 And wear these chains for evei-. — Come, sit down, 
 And rest your body, too, too delicate 
 For these disturbances. — So ! will you sleep ? 
 Come, do not be more able than you are ; 
 I know you are not skilful in these watches, 
 For women are no soldiers. Be not nice, 
 But take it ; sleep, I say. 
 
 Luce. 1 cannot sleep ; 
 Indeed I cannot, friend. 
 
 Jasp. Why then we'll sing, 
 And try how that will work upon our senses. 
 
 Luce. I'll sing, or say, or anything but sleep. 
 
 Jasp. Come, little mermaid, rob me of my heart 
 With that enchanting voice. 
 
 Luce. You mock me, Jasper. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Jasp. Tell me, dearest, what is love ? 
 Luce. 'Tis a lightning from above; 
 
 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 
 
 'Tis a boy they call Desire. 
 'Tis a smile 
 Doth beguile 
 Jasp. The poor hearts of men that pi'ove. 
 
 Tell me more, are women true ? 
 Luce. Some love change, and so do you. 
 Jasp. Are they fair and never kind ? 
 Luce. Yes, when men turn with the wind. 
 Jasp. Are they froward ? 
 
 Luce. Ever toward 
 
 Those that love, to love anew. 
 
 Jasp. Dissemble it no more ; I see the god 
 Of heavy sleep lay on his heavy mace 
 Upon your eyelids. 
 
 Luce. I am very heavy. [Sleeps. 
 
 Jasp. Sleep, sleep, and quiet rest crown thy 
 sweet thoughts ! 
 Keep from her fair blood distempers, startings, 
 Horrors, and fearful shapes ! let all her dreams 
 Be joys, and chaste delights, embraces, wishes. 
 And such new pleasures as the ravish'd soul 
 Gives to the senses! — So; my charms have took. 
 
 Tartarian— a cant word for a thief.— Wbbeb. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 303 
 
 Keep her, ye powers divine, whilst I contem- 
 plate 
 Upon the wealth and beauty of her mind ! 
 She's only fair and constant, only kind. 
 And only to thee, Jasper. Oh, my joys! 
 "Whither will you transport me "i let not fulness 
 Of my poor buried hopes come up together. 
 And overcharge my spirits ; I am weak! 
 Some say (however ill) the sea and women 
 Are govern'd by the moon ; both ebb and flow, 
 Both full of changes ; yet to them that know, 
 And truly judge, these but opinions are, 
 And heresies, to bring on pleasing war 
 Between our tempers, that without these were 
 Both void of after-love, and present fear ; 
 Which are the best of Cupid. Oh, thou child 
 Bred from despair, I dare not entertain thee. 
 Having a love without the faults of women. 
 And greater in her perfect goods than men ; 
 Which to make good, and please myself the 
 
 stronger. 
 Though certainly I am certain of her love, 
 I'll try her, that the world and memory 
 May sing to after times her constancy. — 
 
 . {Draws. 
 Luce! Luce! awake! 
 
 iMce. Why do you fright me, friend. 
 With those distemper'd looks ? What makes your 
 
 sword 
 Drawn in your hand ? who hath offended you ? — 
 I pi-ythee, Jasper, sleep; thou'rt wild with 
 
 watching. 
 Jasp. Come, make your way to heaven, and 
 
 bid the world. 
 With all the villanies that stick upon it, 
 Farewell ; you're for another life. 
 
 Luce. Oh, Jasper, 
 How have my tender years committed evil, 
 Especially against the man I love. 
 Thus to be cropp'd untimely ? 
 
 JoLSj). Foolish girl. 
 Canst thou imagine I could love his daughter 
 That flung me from my fortune into nothing ? 
 Discharged me^his service, shut the doors 
 Upon my poverty, and scorn'd my prayers. 
 Sending me, like a boat without a mast, 
 To sink or swim? Come; by this hand, you 
 
 die! 
 I must have life and blood, to satisfy 
 Your father's wrongs. 
 
 ' Wife. Away, George, away ! raise the watch 
 at Ludgate, and bring a mittimus from the justice 
 for this desperate villain ! Now I charge you, 
 gentlemen, see the king's peace kept! Oh, my 
 heart, what a varlet's this, to offer manslaughter 
 upon the harmless gentlewoman! 
 
 ' Cit. I warrant thee, sweetheart, we'll have 
 him hampered.' 
 
 Jjuce. Oh, Jasper, be not cruel! 
 If thou wilt kill me, smile, and do it quickly, 
 And let not many deaths appear before me ! 
 I am a woman made of fear and love, 
 A weak, weak woman ; kill not with thy eyes ! 
 They shoot me through and through. Strike! 
 
 I am ready ; 
 And, dying, still I love thee. 
 
 Ent&r Venterwels, Master Humphrey, 
 aikd Men. 
 V&at. Whereabouts? 
 
 Jas-p. No more of this ; now to myself again. 
 Rum. There, there he stands, with sword, like 
 martial knight. 
 Drawn in his hand; therefore beware the fight. 
 You that be wise ; for, were I good Sir Bevis, 
 I would not stay his coming. By your leaves. 
 Yent. Sirrah, restore my daughter ! 
 
 Jasp. Sirrah, no. 
 
 Vent. Upon him then ! 
 
 [Luce is torn from Jasper. 
 
 ' Wife. So ; down with him, down with him, 
 down with him ! cut him i' th' leg, boys, cut 
 him i' th' leg ! ' 
 
 Vent. Come your ways, minion ! I'll provide 
 a cage 
 For you, you're grown so tame. Horse her 
 away! 
 
 Hum. Truly I am glad your forces have the 
 day. {Exeunt all but Jasper. 
 
 Jasp. They're gone, and I am hurt ; my love 
 is lost. 
 Never to get again. Oh, me unhappy ! 
 Bleed, bleed and die. — I cannot. Oh, my folly. 
 Thou hast betray 'd me ! Hope, where art thou 
 
 fled? 
 Tell me, if thou be'st anywhere remaining. 
 Shall I but see my love again ? Oh, no ! 
 She will not deign to look upon her butcher. 
 Nor is it fit she should ; yet I must venture. 
 Oh, Chance, or Fortune, or whate'er thou art, 
 That men adore for powerful, hear my cry. 
 And let me loving live, or losing die ! {Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. Is a' gone, George ? 
 
 ' Cit. Ay, Cony. 
 
 ' Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart ! 
 By the faith a' my body, a' has put me into such 
 a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as 'twere 
 an aspen leaf. Look a' my little finger, George, 
 how it shakes ! Now in truth every member of 
 my body is the worse for't. 
 
 ' Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse ; 
 he shall not fright thee any more. Alas, mine 
 own dear heart, how it quivers ! ' 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IL 
 A Room in the Bell Inn. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought, Ralph, Michael, 
 Tim, George, Host, and a Tapster. 
 
 '■Wife. Oh, Ralph! how dost thou, Ralph? 
 How hast thou slept to-night? has the knight 
 used thee well ? 
 
 ' Cit. Peace, Nell ; let Ralph alone ! ' 
 
 Tap. Master, the reckoning is not paid. 
 
 Ralph. Right courteous knight, who, for the 
 order's sake 
 Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell, 
 As I this flaming Pestle bear about. 
 We render thanks to your puissant self. 
 Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires. 
 For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs, 
 Stiffen'd with hard achievements in wild desert. 
 
 Tap. Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay. 
 
 Ralph. Thou merry Squire Tapstero, thanks 
 to thee 
 For comforting our souls with double jug ! 
 And if adventurous Fortune prick thee forth. 
 Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms. 
 Take heed thou tender every lady's cause, 
 Every true knight, and every damsel fair ! 
 But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens, 
 And false enchanters, that with magic spells 
 Have done to death full many a noble knight. 
 
 Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning 
 Pestle, give ear to me ; there is twelve shillings 
 to pay, and, as I am a true knight, I will not 
 bate a penny. 
 
 ' Wife. George, I pray thee tell me, must 
 Ralph pay twelve shillings now? 
 
 ' Cit. No, Nell, no ; nothing, but the old 
 knight is merry with Ralph. 
 
304 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 ' Wije. Oh, is't nothing else ? Ealph will be 
 as merry as he.' 
 
 Ralph. Sir Knight, this mirth of yours be- 
 comes you well ; 
 But, to requite this liberal courtesy, 
 If any of your squires will follow arms, 
 He shall receive from my heroic hand, 
 A knighthood, by the virtue of this Pestle. 
 
 Host. Fair knight, I thank you for your noble 
 offer ; therefore, gentle knight, twelve shillings 
 you must pay, or I must cap i you. 
 
 ' Wife. Look, George ! did not I tell thee as 
 much.' the Knight of the Bell is in earnest. 
 Ealph shall not be beholding to him. Give him 
 his money, George, and let him go snick up.^ 
 
 ' Cit. Cap Ealph ? No, hold your hand. Sir 
 Knight of the Bell ! There's your money; have 
 you anything to say to Ralph now ? Cap Ealph ? 
 
 ' Wife. I would you should know it, Ealph 
 has friends that will not suffer him to be capt 
 for ten times so much, and ten times to the end 
 of that. Now take thy course, Ealph!' 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Come, Michael ; thou and I will go 
 home to thy father ; he hath enough left to keep 
 us a day or two, and we'll set fellows abroad to 
 cry our purse and. our casket. Shall we, Michael ? 
 
 Mich. Ay, I pray, mother; in truth my feet 
 are full of chilblains with travelling. 
 
 ' WiJe. 'Faith, and those chilblains are a foul 
 trouble. Mistress Merrythought, when your 
 youth comes home, let him rub all the soles of 
 his feet, and his heels, and his ankles, with a 
 mouse-skin ; or, if none of your people can catch 
 a mouse, when he goes to bed, let him roll his 
 feet in the warm embers, and I warrant you he 
 shall be well; and you may make him put his 
 fingers between his toes, and smell to them ; it's 
 very sovereign for his head, if he be costive.' 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning 
 Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell. 
 I thank your worship heartily for your kind- 
 ness. 
 
 RaJph. Farewell, fair lady, and your tender 
 
 squire 
 
 If pricking through these deserts, I do hear 
 Of any traitorous knight, who through his guile 
 Hath lit upon your casket and your purse, 
 I will despoil him of them, and restore them. 
 Mrs. Mer. I thank your worship. 
 
 [^Exit with Michael. 
 Ralph. Dwarf, bear my shield ; squire, elevate 
 my lance ; 
 And now farewell, you Knight of holy Bell ! 
 ' Cit. Ay, ay, Ealph, all is paid.' 
 Ralph. But yet, before I go, speak, worthy 
 knight. 
 If aught you do of sad adventures know. 
 Where ei*rant-knight may through his prowess 
 
 win 
 Eternal fame, and free some gentle souls 
 From endless bonds of steel and lingering pain. 
 
 host. Sirrah, go to Nick the barber, and bid 
 him prepare himself, as I told you before, 
 quickly. 
 
 Tap. I am gone, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Host. Sir Knight, this wilderness affordeth 
 none 
 But the great venture, where full many a knight 
 Hath tried his prowess, and come off with shame ; 
 And where I would not have you lose your life, 
 Against no man, but furious fiend of hell. 
 
 Ralph. Speak on, Sir Knight ; tell what he is, 
 and where : 
 
 1 ca;j— arrest; abbreviated from capias, the technical 
 term for an arrest.— Nares. 
 
 2 snick-up.—^QQ note 3, p. 298. 
 
 For here I vow upon my blazing badge. 
 
 Never to blaze a day in quietness ; 
 
 But bread and water will I only eat, 
 
 And the green herb and rock shall be my couch, 
 
 Till I have quell'd that man, or beast, or fiend, 
 
 That works such damage to all errant-knights. 
 
 Host. Not far from hence, near to a craggy 
 cliff. 
 At the north end of this distressed town, 
 There doth stand a lowly house, 
 Euggedly builded, and in it a cave 
 In which an ugly giant now doth won,i 
 Ycleped Barbaroso ; in his hand 
 He shakes a naked lance of purest steel, 
 With sleeves tum'd up ; and him before he wears 
 A motley garment, to preserve his clothes 
 From blood of those knights which he massacres, 
 And ladies gent ; ^ without his door doth hang 
 A copper bason, on a prickant spear ; 
 At which no sooner gentle knights can knock. 
 But the shrill sound fierce Barbaroso hears. 
 And rushing forth brings in the errant-knight. 
 And sets him down in an enchanted chair : 
 Then with an engine, which he hath prepared. 
 With forty teeth, he claws his courtly crown. 
 Next makes him wink, and underneath his chin 
 He plants a brazen piece of mighty bord,' 
 And knocks his bullets round about his cheeks ; 
 Whilst with his fingers, and an instrument 
 With which he snaps his hair off, he doth fill 
 The -wretch's ears with a most hideous noise. 
 Thus every knight-adventurer he doth trim. 
 And now no creature dares encounter him. 
 
 Ralph. In God's name, I will fight with him ! 
 Kind sir. 
 Go but before me to this dismal cave 
 Where this huge giant Barbaroso dwells. 
 And, by that virtue that brave Eosicler 
 That damned brood of ugly giants slew, 
 And Palmerin Frannarco overthrew, 
 I doubt not but to curb this traitor foul, 
 And to the devil send his guilty soul. 
 
 Host. Brave-sprighted Icnight, thus far I will 
 perform 
 This your request ; I'll bring you within sight 
 Of this most loathsome place, inhabited 
 By a more loathsome man ; but dare not stay. 
 For this main force swoops all he sees away. 
 
 Ralph. Saint George ! Set on ; before march 
 squire and page ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. George, dost think Ealph will con- 
 found the giant? 
 
 ' Cit. I hold my cap to a farthing he does. 
 Why, Nell, I saw him wrestle with the great 
 Dutchman,* and hurl him. 
 
 ' Wife. 'Faith and that Dutchman was a goodly 
 man, if all things were answerable to his bigness. 
 And yet they say there was a Scotchman higher 
 than he, and that they two on a night met, and 
 saw one another for nothing. But of all the sights 
 that ever were in London, since I was married, 
 methinks the little child that was so fair grown 
 about the members was the prettiest ; that and 
 the hermaphrodite. 
 
 ' Cit. Nay, by your leave, Nell, Ninivie was 
 better. 
 
 ' Wife. Ninivie ? Oh, that was the story of 
 Joan and the wall,* was it not, George ? 
 
 ' Cit. Yes, lamb. 
 
 1 won — dwell; Anglo-Saxon, wunnian. 
 
 2 gent — gentle, noble. 
 
 3 bord — probably the barber's basin. 
 
 * the great Dutchman — probably some well-known 
 German fencer of the time. 
 
 5 Joan and the wo/Z— Jonah and the whale. — Theo- 
 bald. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 305 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 
 
 London. The Street before Merrythought's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought. 
 
 ' Wife. Look, George ; here comes Mistress 
 Merrythought again! and I would have Ealph 
 come and fight with the giant. I tell you true, 
 I long to see't. 
 
 ' Cit. Good Mistress Merrythought, be gone, I 
 pray you, for my sake ! I pray you forbear a 
 little ; you shall have audience presently ; I have 
 a little business. 
 
 ' Wife. Mistress Merrythought, if it please you 
 to refrain your passion a little, till Kalph have 
 despatched the giant out of the way, we shall 
 think ourselves much bound to thank you. I 
 thank you, good Misti-ess Merrythought. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Merrythought. 
 
 Enter a Boy. 
 
 ' Cit. Boy, come hither ; send away Ralph and 
 this whoreson giant quickly. 
 
 '•Boy. In good faith, sir, we cannot. You'll 
 utterly spoil our play, and make it to be hissed ; 
 and it cost money ; you will not suffer us to go 
 on with our plot. I pray, gentlemen, rule him ! 
 
 ' Cit. Let him come now and despatch this, 
 and I'll trouble you no more. 
 
 ' Boy. Will you give me your hand of that ? 
 
 ' Wife. Give him thy hand, George, do ; and 
 I'll kiss him. I warrant thee the youth means 
 plainly. 
 
 ' Boy. I'll send him to you presently. 
 
 [Exit Boy. 
 
 ' Wife. I thank you, little youth. Taith, the 
 child hath a sweet breath, George ; but I think it 
 be troubled with the worms ; Carduus Benedictus 
 and mare's milk were the only thing in the woi-ld 
 for't.— Oh, Ealph's here, George ! God send 
 thee good luck, Ralph !' 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE IV. 
 
 Before a Barber's Shop in Waltham. 
 
 Enter Ralph, Host, Tijvi, and George. 
 
 Bost. Puissant knight, yonder his mansion is. 
 Lo, where the spear and copper bason are ! 
 Behold that string on which hangs many a tooth, 
 Drawn from the gentle jaw of wandering knights! 
 I dare not stay to sound ; he will appear. [Exit. 
 
 Eaiph. Oh, faint not, heart I Susan, my lady 
 dear, 
 The cobbler's maid in Milk-street, for whose sake 
 I take these arms ; oh, let the thought of thee 
 Carry thy knight through all adventurous deeds ; 
 And in the honour of thy beauteous self, 
 May I destroy this monster Barbaroso !— 
 Knock, squii-e, upon the bason till it break 
 With the shrill strokes, or till the giant speak. 
 [Tim knocks upon the bason. 
 
 Enter Barber. 
 
 ' Wife. Oh, George, the giant, the giant ! Now, 
 Ralph, for thy life ! ' 
 
 Bar. What fond, unknowing wight is this that 
 dares 
 So rudely knock at Barbaroso's cell, 
 Where no man comes, but leaves his fleece behind? 
 
 Ralph. I, traitorous caitiff, who am sent by Fate 
 To punish all the sad enormities 
 Thou hast committed against ladies gent, 
 And errant-knights, traitor to God and men I 
 
 Prepare thyself : this is the dismal hour 
 Appointed for thee to give strict account 
 Of all thy beastly treacherous villanies. 
 
 Bar. Foolhardy knight, full soon thou shalt 
 aby ^ 
 This fond reproach. Thy body will I bang ; 
 
 [He takes doicn his pole. 
 And lo ! upon that string thy teeth shall hang. 
 Prepare thyself, for dead thou soon shalt be. 
 
 Ralph. Saint George for me ! [They fyht. 
 
 Bar. Gargantua for me ! 
 
 ' Wife. To him, Ralph, to him ! hold up the 
 giant ; set out thy leg before, Ralph ! 
 
 _ ' Cit. Falsify a blow, Ralph, falsify a blow ! The 
 giant lies open on the left side. 
 
 ' Wife. Bear't off, bear't off still. There, boy. 
 — Oh, Ralph's almost down, Ralph's almost 
 down ! ' 
 
 Ralph. Susan, inspire me ! Now have up again. 
 
 ' Wife. Up, up, up, up, up ! so, Ralph ! down 
 with him, down with him, Ralph ! 
 
 ' Cit. Fetch him o'er the hip, boy ! 
 
 [Ralph knocks doitm the Barber. 
 
 ' Wife. There, boy ! kill, kill, kUl, kill, kill, 
 Ralph ! 
 
 ' Cit. No, Ralph ; get all out of him first.' 
 
 Ralph. Presumptuous man! see to what des- 
 perate end 
 Thy treachery hath brought thee. The just gods, 
 Who never prosper those who do despise them. 
 For all the villanies which thou hast done 
 To knights and ladies, now have paid thee home, 
 By my stiff arm, a knight adventurous. 
 But say, vile wretch, before I send thy soul 
 To sad Avernus (whither it must go), 
 What captives holdst thou in thy sable cave ? 
 
 Bar. Go in, and free them all ; thou hast the 
 day. 
 
 Ralph. Go, squire and dwarf, search in this 
 dreadful cave, 
 And free the wretched prisoners from their bonds. 
 [Exeunt Tim and George. 
 
 Bar. I crave for mercy, as thou art a knight. 
 And scorn'st to spill the blood of those that beg. 
 
 Ralph. Thou shoAv'd'st no mercy, nor shalt 
 thou have any : 
 Prepare thyself, for thou shalt surely die. 
 
 Enter Tim leading one winking, with a bason under 
 his chin, as prejmred for shaving. 
 
 Tim, Behold, brave knight, here is one prisoner 
 Whom this vile man hath used as you see. 
 
 ' Wife. This is the first wise word I heard the 
 squire speak.' 
 
 Ralph. Speak what thou art, and how thou 
 hast been used, 
 That I may give him condign punishment. 
 
 1 Knight. I am a knight that took my journey 
 post 
 Northward from London ; and, in courteous wise. 
 This giant trained 2 me to his loathsome den. 
 Under pretence of killing of the itch ; 
 And all my body with a powder strewed, 
 That smarts and stiugs ; and cut away my beard 
 And curl'd locks, wherein were ribands tied ; 
 And with a water wash'd my tender eyes 
 (Whilst up and down about me still he skipt), 
 Whose virtue is that till my eyes be wiped 
 With a dry cloth, for this my foul disgrace, 
 I shall not dare to look a dog i' th' face. 
 
 ' Wife. Alas, poor knight ! Relieve him, Ralph; 
 relieve poor knights whilst you live.' 
 
 1 a6y— atone or pay for ; from Anglo-Saxon, ahicgan, 
 connected with Eng. buy. It is sometime? confouuded 
 with abide. 
 
 2 ^ramec?— drew, enticed. 
 
3o6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ralph. My trusty squire, convey him to the 
 town, 
 Where he may find relief. Adieu, fair knight ! 
 [Exeunt Knight and Tim. 
 
 Enter George leading one with a patch over his 
 nose. 
 
 Geo. Puissant knight o' th' Burning Pestle 
 hight, 
 See here another wretch, whom this foul beast 
 Hath scotch'd and scored in this inhuman wise. 
 
 Ralph. Speak me thy name, and eke thy place 
 of birth. 
 And what hath been thy usage in this cave. 
 
 2 Knight. I am a knight, Sir Pockhole is my 
 And by my birth I am a Londoner, [name, 
 
 Free by my copy, but my ancestors 
 "Were Frenchmen all ; and riding hard this way, 
 Upon a trotting horse, my bones did ache ; 
 And I, faint knight, to ease my weary limbs, 
 Lit at this cave ; when straight this furious fiend. 
 With sharpest instrument of purest steel, 
 Did cut the gristle of my nose away,^ 
 And in the place this velvet plaster stands : 
 Relieve me, gentle knight, out of his hands ! 
 
 ' Wijt. Good Kalph, relieve Sir Pockhole and 
 send him away ; for in truth his breath stinks.' 
 
 Ralph. Convey him straight after the other 
 Sir Pockhole, fare you well ! [knight. 
 
 2 Knight. Kind sir, good night ! 
 
 [Exit with George. 
 
 Man. [Within.'] Deliver us ! [Cries within. 
 
 Woman. [ Within.'] Deliver us ! 
 
 ' Wife. Hark, George, what a woful cry there 
 is ! I think some woman lies-in thei*e,' 
 
 Man. [Within.'] Deliver us! 
 
 Woman. [ Within.] Deliver us ! 
 
 Ralph.'Wha.t ghastly noise is this ? Speak, Bar- 
 baroso. 
 Or, by this blazing steel thy head goes off ! 
 
 Bar. Prisoners of mine, whom I in diet keep. 
 Send lower down into the cave. 
 And in a tub that's heated smoking hot, 2 
 There they may find them, and deliver them. 
 
 Ralph. Kun, squire and dwarf ; deliver them 
 with speed. [Exeunt Tim and George. 
 
 ' Wife. But will not Kalph kill this giant ? 
 Surely, I am afraid, if he let him go he will do 
 as much hurt as ever he did. 
 
 ' Cit. Not so, mouse, neither, if he could con- 
 vert him. 
 
 ' Wife. Ay, George, if he could convert him ; 
 but a giant is not so soon converted as one of us 
 ordinai-y people. There's a pretty tale of a witch, 
 that had the devil's mark about her (God bless 
 us !) that had a giant to her son, that was called 
 Lob-lie-by-the-fire ; didst never hear it, George ? 
 
 Enter Tim, hiding thii-d Knight, with a glass of 
 lotion in his hana^ and George leading a Woman, 
 with diet-bread and di-ink. 
 
 ' Cit. Peace, Nell, here comes the prisoners,' 
 Geo. Here be these pined wretches, manful 
 knight, 
 
 That for this six weeks have not seen a wight. 
 Ralph. Deliver what you are, and how you came 
 
 To this sad cave, and what your usage was ? 
 
 3 Knight. I am an errant-knight that followed 
 arms 
 
 With spear and shield ; and in my tender years 
 I stricken was with Cupid's fiery shaft, 
 And fell in love with this my lady dear, 
 
 * Barbers were also the surgeons of the tune. 
 ' These patients were probably aflSicted with the 
 Tenereal disease. 
 
 And stole her from her friends in Turnbull-street,* 
 And bore her up and down from town to town, 
 Where we did eat and drink, and music hear ; 
 Till at the length at this unhappy town 
 We did arrive, and coming to this cave. 
 This beast us caught, and put us in a tub. 
 Where we this two months sweat, and should 
 
 have done 
 Another month, if you had not relieved us. 
 
 Woman. This bread and water hath our diet 
 Together with a rib cut from a neck [been, 
 
 Of bvirned mutton ; hard hath been our fare ! 
 Release us from this ugly giant's snare ! 
 
 3 Knight. This hath been all the food we have 
 received ; 
 But only twice a-day, for novelty, 
 He gave a spoonful of this hearty broth 
 To each of us, through this same slender quilL 
 
 [Pulls out a syringe. 
 
 Ralph. From this infernal monster you shall go, 
 That useth knights and gentle ladies so. 
 Convey them hence. 
 
 [Exeunt third Kiiight and Woman. 
 
 ' Cit. Cony, 1 can tell thee the gentlemen like 
 Ralph. 
 
 ' Wife. A.J, George, I see it well enough. — 
 Gentlemen, thank you all heartily for gracing 
 my man Ralph ; and, I promise you, you shall 
 see him oftener.' 
 
 Bar. Mercy, great knight ! I do recant my ill, 
 And henceforth never gentle blood will spill. 
 
 Ralph. I give thee mercy ; but yet shalt thou 
 Upon my Burning Pestle, to perform [swear 
 
 Thy promise uttered. 
 
 Bar. I swear and kiss. [Kisses the Pestle. 
 
 Ralph. Depart then, and amend ! — 
 Come, squire and dwarf ; the sun grows towards 
 
 his set. 
 And we have many more adventures yet, 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Cit. Now Ralph is in this humour, I know he 
 would ha' beaten all the boys in the house, if they 
 had been set on him. 
 
 ' Wife. Ay, George, but it is well as it is. I 
 wan-ant you the gentlemen do consider what it is 
 to overthrow a giant. 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE V. 
 The Street before Merrythought's House. 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought and Michael. 
 
 ' But look, George, here comes Mistress Merry- 
 thought and her son Michael. — Now you are wel- 
 come. Mistress Merrythought; now Ralph has 
 done, you may go on.' 
 Mrs. Mer. Micke, my boy? 
 Mich. Ay, forsooth, mother! 
 Mrs. Mer. Be merry, Micke ; we are at home 
 now; where, I warrant you, you will find the 
 house flung out of the windows. [Singing above.] 
 Hark ! hey dogs, hey ! this is the old world i'faith 
 with my husband. [If] I get in among them, I'll 
 play them such a lesson, that they shall have 
 little list to come scraping hither again ! — Why, 
 Master Merry thought ! husband! Charles Merry- 
 thought ! 
 
 Mer. [Singing at the window above.] 
 If you will sing, and dance, and laugh, 
 
 And hollow, and laugh again ! 
 And then cry, ' There boys, there;' why then, 
 One, two, three, and four. 
 We shall be merry within this hour. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Why, Charles! do you not know 
 
 1 Tumbull-streel—a, street notorious for its brothels. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 307 
 
 your own natural wife ? I say, open the door, 
 and turn me out those mangy companions ; 'tis 
 more than time that they were fellow and fellow- 
 like with you. You are a gentleman, Charles, 
 and an old man, and father of two children ; and 
 I myself (though I say it), by my mother's side, 
 niece to a worshipful gentleman, and a conduc- 
 tor; he has been three times in his Majesty's 
 service at Chester ; and is now the fourth time, 
 God bless him and his charge, upon his journey. 
 
 Mer. [Singing.'] Go from ray window, love, go ; 
 Go from my window, my dear: 
 The wind and the rain 
 Will drive you back again, 
 l6u cannot be lodged here. 
 
 Hark you. Mistress Merrythought, you that walk 
 upon adventures, and forsake your husband, be- 
 cause he sings with never a penny in his purse ; 
 what, shall I think myself the worse ? 'Faith no, 
 I'll be merry. [Singing. 
 
 Ton come not here, here's none but lads of mettle, 
 
 Lives of a hundred years, and upwards, 
 
 Care never di-unk their bloods, nor want made them 
 
 warble 
 ' Hey-ho, my heart is heavy.' 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Why, Master Merrythought, what 
 am I, tliat you should laugh me to scorn thus 
 abruptly.? Am I not your fellow-feeler, as we 
 may say, in all our miseries 7 your comforter in 
 health and sickness 7 Have 1 not brought you 
 children 7 are they not like you, Charles ? Look 
 upon thine own image, hard-hearted man! and 
 yet for all this — 
 
 Mer. lSinging.1 Begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy. 
 Begone, my love, my dear I 
 
 The weather is warm, 
 
 'Twill do thee no harm ; 
 Thou canst not be lodged here. 
 
 Be merry, boys! some light music, and more 
 wine ! [Exit from above. 
 
 ' Wife. He's not in earnest, I nope, George ; is 
 he.' 
 
 * Cit. What if he be, sweetheart ? 
 
 ' Wife. Marry, if he be, George, I'll make bold 
 to tell him he's an ingrant^ old man, to use his 
 bedfellow so scurvily. 
 
 ' Cit. What ! how does he use her, honey ? 
 
 ' Wife. Marry come up. Sir Saucebox ! I think 
 you'll take his part, will you not ? Lord, how hot 
 you are grown ! You are a fine man, an' you had 
 a fine dog ; it becomes you sweetly ! 
 
 ' Cit. Nay, prythee, Nell, chide not ; for as I 
 am an honest man, and a true Christian grocer, 
 I do not like his doings. 
 
 ' Wife. I cry you mercy then, George ! You 
 know we are all frail, and full of infirmities. — 
 D'ye hear. Master Merrythought ? May I crave 
 a word with you ? ' 
 
 3fer. [At the window.'] Strike up, lively lads ! 
 
 ' Wife. I had not thought in truth. Master 
 Merrythought, that a man of your age and dis- 
 cretion, as I may say, being a gentleman, and 
 therefore known by your gentle conditions, could 
 have used so little respect to the weakness of his 
 wife. For your wife is your own flesh, the staff 
 of your age, your yokefellow, with whose help 
 you draw through the mire of this transitory 
 world ; nay, she's your own rib. And again — ' 
 
 Mer. [Singing."] I come not hither for thee to teach, 
 I have no pulpit for thee to preach, 
 I would thou hadst kiss'd me under the 
 breech. 
 As thou art a lady gay. 
 
 1 tnsrrawf— probably ungrateful. 
 
 ' Wife. Marry, with a vengeance, I am heartily 
 sorry for the poor gentlewoman ! but if I were 
 thy wife, i'faith, greybeard, i'faith — 
 
 ' Cit. I prythee, sweet honeysuckle, be content! 
 
 ' Wife. Give me such words, that am a gentle- 
 woman born ? Hang him, hoary rascal ! Get 
 me some drink, George ; I am almost molten with 
 fretting. Now beskrew his knave's heart for it.' 
 
 [Citizen exit. 
 
 Mer. Play me a light lavalto.^ Come, be frolic; 
 fill the good fellows wine ! 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Why, Master Merrythought, are you 
 disposed to make me wait here ? You'll open, I 
 hope ; I'll fetch them that shall open else. 
 
 Mer. Good woman, if you will sing, I'll give 
 you something ; if not — 
 
 You are no love for me, Marg'ret, 
 I am no love for you. 
 
 Come aloft, boys, aloft ! [Exit from the window. 
 Mrs. Mer. Now a churl's fart in your teeth, sir ! 
 Come, Micke, we'll not trouble him ; a' shall not 
 ding us i' th' teeth with his bread and his broth, 
 that he shall not. Come, boy ; I'll provide for 
 thee, I warrant thee. We'll go to Master Ven- 
 terwels, the merchant: I'll get his letter to mine 
 host of the Bell in Waltham ; there I'll place thee 
 with the tapster ; will not that do well for thee, 
 Micke .J* and let me alone for that old cuckoldly 
 knave your father ! I'll use him in his kind, I 
 warrant you ! [Exeunt. 
 
 END OF ACT in. 
 
 Re-enter Citizen vnth beer. 
 
 ' Wife. Come, George ; where's the beer 
 
 ' Cit. Here, love ! 
 
 ' Wife. This old fornicating fellow will not out 
 of my mind yet. Gentlemen, I'll begin to you 
 all ; and I desire more of your acquaintance with 
 all my heart. Fill the gentlemen some beer, 
 George. [Boy danceth.l Look, George, the little 
 boy's come again ! methinks he looks something 
 like the Prince of Orange in his long stocking, if 
 he had a little harness^ about his neck. George, 
 I will have him dance Fading ; 3 Fading is a tine 
 jig, I'll assure you, gentlemen. Begin, brother ; 
 now a' capers, sweetheart ! now a turn a' th' toe, 
 and then tumble ! Cannot you tumble, youth ? 
 
 ' Boy. No, indeed, forsooth. 
 
 ' Wife. Nor eat fire ? 
 
 '•Boy. Neither. 
 
 ' Wife. Why then, I thank you heartily; there's 
 twopence to buy you points* withal.' 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE L 
 
 A Street. 
 Enter Jasper and Boy. 
 
 Jasp. There, boy ; deliver this. But do it welL 
 Hast thou provided me four lusty fellows, 
 Able to carry me 7 and art thou perfect 
 In all thy business 7 
 
 Boy. Sir, you need not fear; 
 I have my lesson here, and cannot miss it. 
 The men are ready for you, and what else 
 Pertains to this employment. 
 
 1 lavalto. See note 1, p. 87, col. 1. 
 
 2 harness — armour. 
 
 ' Fading— ih& name of an Irish dance, and a common 
 burden for a song. — Nares. 
 
 * potwfe— tagged laces, used in tying any part of the 
 dress.— Makes. 
 
3o8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Jasp. There, my boy ; 
 Take it, but buy no land. 
 
 Boy. 'Faith, sir, 'twere rare 
 To see so young a purchaser. I fly, 
 And on my wings carry your destiny. {Exit. 
 
 Jasp. Go, and be happy ! Now my latest nope, 
 Forsake me not, but fling thy anchor out. 
 And let it hold ! Stand fix'd, thou rolling stone. 
 Till I enjoy my dearest ! Hear me, all 
 You powers, that rule in men, celestial ! \Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. Go thy ways : thou art as crooked a 
 sprig as ever grew in London ! I warrant him, 
 he'll come to some naughty end or other ; for his 
 looks say no less. Besides, his father (you know, 
 George) is none of the best ; you heard him take 
 me up like a flirt-gill,' and sing bawdy songs 
 upon me ; but i'faith, if I live, George — 
 
 ' Cit. Let me alone, sweetheart ! 1 have a trick 
 in my head shall lodge him in the Arches 2 for 
 one year, and make him sing peccavi, ere I leave 
 him ; and yet he shall never know who hurt him 
 neither. 
 
 ' Wife. Do, my good George, do ! 
 
 ' Cit. What shall we have Ealph do now, boy ? 
 
 * Boy. You shall have what you will, sir. 
 
 ' Cit. Why, so, sir ? go and fetch me him then, 
 and let the sophy of Persia come and christen him 
 a child. 
 
 ' Boy. Believe me, sir, that will not do so well ; 
 'tis stale ; it has been had before at the Red Bull.^ 
 
 ' Wife. George, let Ealph travel over great hills, 
 and let him be very weai'y, and come to the King 
 of Cracovia's house, covered with velvet, and there 
 let the king's daughter stand in her window all 
 in beaten gold, combing her golden locks with a 
 comb of ivory ; and let her spy Ealph, and fall in 
 love with him, and come down to him, and carry 
 him into her father's house, and then let Ealph 
 talk with her ! 
 
 * Git. Well said, Nell ; it shall be so. — Boy, let's 
 ha't done quickly. 
 
 ^Boy. Sir, if you will imagine all this to be 
 done already, you shall hear them talk together ; 
 but we cannot present a house covered with 
 velvet, and a lady in beaten gold. 
 
 ' Cit. Sir Boy, let's ha't as you can then. 
 
 ^ Boy. Besides, it will show ill-favouredly to 
 have a grocer's 'prentice to court a king's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 ' Cit. Will it so, sir .' You are well read in 
 histories ! I pray you, what was Sir Dagonet .'' 
 Was not he 'prentice to a grocer in London ? 
 Eead the play of The Four Prentices of Londoru,^ 
 where they toss their pikes so. I pray you fetch 
 him in, sir, fetch him in ! 
 
 '■Boy. It shall be done. — It is not our fault, 
 gentlemen. \_Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. Now we shall see fine doings, 1 war- 
 rant thee, George. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IL 
 
 A Hall in the King of Moldavia's Court. 
 
 Enter Ealph, Tim, George, and Pompiona. 
 
 ' Oh, here they come ! How prettily the King of 
 Cracovia's daughter is dressed ! 
 
 * flirt-gill, or gill-flirt. Gill was a current and familiar 
 term for female, as in the proverb, ' Every Jack must 
 liave his GUI,'' said to come from Gillian, i.e. Juliana. — 
 Nares. 
 
 2 the ^rcAes— probably a prison connected with the 
 Court of Arches. — Naees. 
 
 3 the Red Bull — one of the playhouses of the time. 
 
 * The Four Prentices of London — a play by Thomas 
 Heywood. 
 
 ' Cit. A.J, Nell, it is the fashion of that country, 
 I warrant thee.' 
 
 Pomp. Welcome, Sir Knight, unto my father's 
 court. 
 King of Moldavia ; unto me. Pompiona, 
 His daughter dear ! But sure you do not like 
 Your entertainment, that will stay with us 
 No longer but a night. 
 
 Ralph. Damsel right fair, 
 I am on many sad adventures bound, 
 That call me forth into the wilderness. 
 Besides, my horse's back is something gall'd, 
 Which will enforce me ride a sober pace. 
 But many thanks, fair lady, be to you. 
 For using errant-knight with courtesy ' 
 
 Pomp. But say, brave knight, what is yousr 
 name and birth ? 
 
 Ralph. My name is Ealph, I am an Englishman 
 (As true as steel, a hearty Englishman), 
 And 'prentice to a grocer in the Strand, 
 By deed indent, of which I have one part : 
 But Fortune calling me to follow arms. 
 On me this holy order I did take 
 Of Burning Pestle, which in all men's eyes 
 I bear, confounding ladies' enemies. 
 
 Pomp. Oft have I heard of your bi'ave country- 
 men. 
 And fertile soil, and store of wholesome food ; 
 My father oft will tell me of a drink 
 In England found, and Nipitato ' call'd, 
 Which driveth all the sorrow from your hearts. 
 
 Ralph. Lady, 'tis true ; you need not lay your 
 lips 
 To better Nipitato than there is. 
 
 Pomp. And of a wild fowl he will often speak, 
 Which powder'd beef and mustard called is : 
 For there have been great wars 'twixtus and you; 
 But truly, Ealph, it was not 'long of me. 
 Tell me then, Ralph, could you contented be 
 To wear a lady's favour in your shield ? 
 
 Ralph. I am a knight of a religious order, 
 And will not wear a favour of a lady 
 That trusts in Antichrist, and false traditions. 
 
 ' Cit. Well said, Ealph ! convert her, if thou 
 canst.' 
 
 Ralph. Besides, I have a lady of my own 
 In merry England, for whose virtuous sake 
 I took these arms, and Susan is her name, 
 A cobbler's maid in Milk-street ; whom I vow 
 Ne'er to forsake, whilst life and Pestle last. 
 
 Pomp. Happy that cobbling dame, whoe'er she 
 be. 
 That for her own, dear Ralph, hath gotten thee ! 
 Unhappy I, that ne'er shall see the day 
 To see thee more, that bear'st my heart away ! 
 
 Ralph. Lady, farewell ! I needs must take my 
 leave. 
 
 Pomp. Hard-hearted Ralph, that ladies dost 
 deceive ! 
 
 ' Cit. Hark thee, Ralph ! there's money for 
 thee. Give something in the King of Cracovia's 
 house ; be not beholding to him.' 
 
 Ralph. Lady, before I go, I must remember 
 Your father's ofiicers, who, truth to tell, 
 Have been about me very diligent. 
 Hold up thy snowy hand, thou princely maid ; 
 There's twelve-pence for your father's chambei-- 
 
 lain; 
 And there's another shilling for his cook, 
 For, by my troth, the goose was roasted well ; 
 And twelve-pence for your father's horsekeeper. 
 
 1 Nipitato— 3l sort of jocular title applied in commen- 
 dation chiefly to ale, but also to other strong liquors. 
 It seems always to imply that the liquor is peculiarly 
 Strong and good. Nares thinks it connected with nappy. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 309 
 
 For 'nointing my horse-back, and for Ws butter 
 
 Thei'e is another shilling ; to the maid 
 
 That wash'd my boot-hose, there's an English 
 
 groat ; 
 And twopence to the boy that wiped my boots ! 
 And, last, fair lady, there is for yourself 
 Threepence, to buy you pins at Bumbo-fair ! 
 
 Pomp. Full many thanks; and I will keep them 
 safe 
 Till all the heads be off, for thy sake, Ealph, 
 
 Ralph. Advance, my squire and dwarf ! I can- 
 not stay. 
 
 Pomp. Thou kill'st my he?irt in parting thus 
 away. Exeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. I commend Ealph yet, that he will not 
 stoop to a Cracovian ; there's properer women in 
 London than any are there, I wis. But here 
 comes Master Humphrey and his love again ; 
 now, George ! 
 
 ' Cit. Ay, cony, peace ! ' 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 The House o/Venterwels. 
 
 Enter Venterwels, Master Humphrey, Luce, 
 and Boy. 
 
 Vent. Go, get you up ! I will not be entreated ! 
 And, gossip mine,^ I'll keep you sure hereafter 
 From gadding out again, with boys and unthrifts : 
 Come, they are women's tears; I know your 
 
 fashion. — 
 Go, sirrah, lock her in, and keep the key 
 Safe as you love your life. 
 
 [Exeunt Luce and Boy. 
 Now, my son Humphrey, 
 You may both rest assured of my love 
 In this, and reap your own desire. 
 Hum. I see this love you speak of, through 
 your daughter, 
 Although the hole be little ; and hereafter 
 Will yield the like in all I may or can, 
 Fitting a Christian and a gentleman. 
 
 Vent. I do believe you, my good son, and thank 
 you; 
 For 'twere an impudence to think you flatter'd. 
 
 Hum. It were indeed ; but shall I tell you why.? 
 I have been beaten twice about the lie. 
 
 Vent. Well, son, no more of compliment. My 
 daughter 
 Is yours again ; appoint the time and take her : 
 We'll have no stealing for it ; I myself 
 And some few of our friends will see you 
 married. 
 Hum. I would you would, i'faith! for be it 
 known, 
 I ever was afraid to lie alone. 
 
 Vent. Some three days hence then — 
 Hum. Three days .'* let me see ! 
 'Tis somewhat of the most ; yet I agree, 
 Because I mean against the appointed day 
 To visit all my friends in new array. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Sir, there's a gentlewoman without would 
 
 speak with your worship. 
 Vent. What is she 7 
 Serv. Sir, I ask'd her not. 
 Vent. Bid her come in. 
 
 1 gossip mine— i.e. my daughter ; gossip, gossib, godsib, 
 Anglo-Saxon godsibbe, meant originally a sponsor in 
 baptism and also a godchild, and generally a relation; 
 tib is still used in Scotland in the sense of related. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought and Michael. 
 
 3fi-s. Mer. Peace be to your worship ! I come 
 as a poor suitor to you, sir, in the behalf of this 
 child. 
 
 Vent. Are you not wife to Merrythought ? 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Yes, truly. 'Would I had ne'er seen 
 his eyes ! he has undone me and himself, and his 
 children ; and there he lives at home, and sings 
 and hoits, and revels among his drunken com- 
 panions! but, I warrant you, where to get a 
 penny to put bread in his mouth he knows not. 
 And therefore, if it like your worship, I would 
 entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell 
 in Waltham, that I may place my child under 
 the protection of his tapster, in some settled 
 course of life. 
 
 Vent. I'm glad the heavens have heard my 
 prayers ! Thy husband, 
 When I was ripe in sorrows, laugh'd at me ; 
 Thy son, like an unthankful wretch, I having 
 Kedeem'd him from his fall, and made him mine, 
 To show his love again, first stole my daughter. 
 Then wrong'd this gentleman ; and, last of all. 
 Gave me that grief had almost brought me down 
 Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand 
 Relieved my sorrows. Go, and weep as I did, 
 And be unpitied ; for I here profess 
 An everlasting hate to all thy name. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Will you so, sir ? how say you by 
 that ? Come, Micke ; let him keep his wind to 
 cool his pottage ! We'll go to thy nurse's, Micke ; 
 she knits silk stockings, boy, and we'll knit too, 
 boy, and be beholding to none of them all. 
 
 [Exit with Michael. 
 
 Enter a Boy with a letter. 
 
 Boy. Sir, I take it you are the master of this 
 house. 
 
 Vent. How then, boy ? 
 
 Boy. Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter. 
 
 Vent. From whom, my pretty boy ? 
 
 Boy. From him that was your servant ; but no 
 more 
 Shall that name ever be, for he is dead ! 
 Grief of your purchased anger broke his heart : 
 I saw him die, and from his hand received 
 This paper, with a charge to bring it hither: 
 Bead it, and satisfy yom-self in all. 
 
 Vent. [Reading.'] Sir, that I have wrong'd your love I 
 must confess ; in which I have purchased to myself, be- 
 sides mine own undoing, the ill opinion of my friends. 
 Let not your anger, good sir, outlive me, but suffer me 
 to rest in peace with your forgiveness. Let my body (if 
 a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought 
 to your daughter, that she may truly know my hot flames 
 are now buried, and withal receive a testimony of the 
 zeal I bore her virtue. Farewell for ever, and be ever 
 happy I Jaspek. 
 
 God's hand is great in this ! I do forgive him ; 
 Yet I am glad he's quiet, where I hope 
 He will not bite again. Boy, bring the body, 
 And let him have his will, if that be all. 
 
 Boy. 'Tis here without, sir. 
 
 Vent. So, sir ; if you please, 
 You may conduct it in ; I do not fear it. 
 
 Hum. I'll be your usher, boy; for, though I 
 say it. 
 He owed me something once, and well did pay it. 
 
 [Exetmt, 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 
 Another room in the same House. 
 Enter Luce. 
 Luce. If there be any punishment inflicted 
 
3IO 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Upon the miserable, more than yet I feel, 
 
 Let it together seize me, and at once 
 
 Press down my soul ! I cannot bear the pain 
 
 Of these delaying tortures !— Thou that art 
 
 The end of all, and the sweet rest of all, 
 
 Come, come, Death ! bring me to thy peace, 
 
 And blot out all the memory I nourish 
 
 Both of my father and my cruel friend ! 
 
 Oh, wretched maid, still liviug to be wretched, 
 
 To be a say i to Fortune in her changes, 
 
 And grow to number times and woes together! 
 
 How happy had 1 been, if, being born, 
 
 My grave had been my cradle ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. By your leave, 
 Young mistress I Here's a boy hath brought a 
 
 coffin ; 
 What a' would say I know not ; but your father 
 Charged me to give you notice. Here they come ! 
 
 Enter two Men bearing a coffin, and the Boy. 
 Jasper laid out as a corpse within it, covered 
 with a cloth. 
 
 Luce. For me I hope 'tis come, and 'tis most 
 welcome. 
 
 Boy. Fair mistress, let me not add greater grief 
 To that great store you have already. Jasper 
 (That whilst he lived was yours, now dead, 
 And here inclosed) commanded me to bring 
 His body hither, and to crave a tear 
 From those fair eyes (though he deserved not 
 
 pity), 
 
 To deck his funeral, for so he bid me 
 Tell her for whom he died. 
 
 Luce. He shall have many. — 
 Good friends, depart a little, whilst I take 
 My leave of this dead man, that once I loved. 
 
 \_Exeunt Coffin-carriers and Boy. 
 Hold yet a little, life ! and then I give thee 
 To thy first heavenly being. Oh, my friend ! 
 Hast thou deceived me thus, and got before me ? 
 I shall not long be after. But, believe me, 
 Thou wert too cruel, Jasper, 'gainst thyself, 
 In punishing the fault I could have pardon'd. 
 With so untimely death. Thou didst not wrong 
 
 me, 
 But ever wert most kind, most true, most loving. 
 And I the most unkind, most false, most cruel! 
 Didst thou but ask a tear ? I'll give thee all. 
 Even all my eyes can pour down, all my sighs, 
 And all myself, before thou goest from me : 
 These are but sparing rites; but if thy soul 
 Be yet about this place, and can behold 
 And see what I prepare to deck thee with, 
 It shall go up, borne on the wings of peace. 
 And satisfied. First will I sing thy dirge. 
 Then kiss thy pale lips, and then die myself, 
 And fill one coffin and one grave together. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come, you whose loves are dead, 
 
 And whiles I sing, 
 
 Weep and wring 
 Every hand; and every head 
 Bind with cypress and sad yew ; 
 Ribbons black and candles blue, 
 For hina that was of men most true! 
 
 Come with heavy moaning, 
 
 And on his grave 
 
 Let him have 
 Sacrifice of sighs and groaning; 
 Let him have fair flowers enow, 
 White and purple, green and yellow. 
 For him that was of men most true I 
 
 1 say— assay, test, trial ; here it evidently means a 
 •abject for experiments. — NABsa 
 
 Thou sable cloth, sad cover of my joys, 
 I lift thee up, and thus I meet with death. 
 
 [She takes off the cloth, and he 
 rises out of the coffin. 
 
 Jasp. And thus you meet the living. 
 
 Luce. Save me, Heaven ! 
 
 Jasp. Nay, do not fly me, fair ; I am no spirit : 
 Look better on me ; do you know me yet ? 
 
 Luce. Oh, thou dear shadow of my friend ! 
 
 Jasp. Dear substance, 
 I swear I am no shadow ; feel my hand ! 
 It is the same it was ; I am your Jasper, 
 Your Jasper that's yet living, and yet loving! 
 Pardon my rash attempt, my foolish proof 
 I put in practice of your constancy : 
 For sooner should my sword have drunk my 
 
 blood. 
 And set my soul at liberty, than drawn 
 The least drop from that i)ody ; for which bold- 
 ness 
 Doom me to anything ! if death, I take it. 
 And willingly. 
 
 Luce, This death I'll give you for it ! 
 
 [Kisses him. 
 So ; now I'm satisfied, you are no spirit. 
 But my own truest, truest, truest friend ! 
 Why do you come thus to me ? 
 
 Jasp. First, to see you ; 
 Then to convey you hence. 
 
 Luce. It cannot be ; 
 For I am lock'd up here, and watch'd at all hours. 
 That 'tis impossible for me to 'scape. 
 
 Ja^p. Nothing more possible. Within this coffin 
 Do you convey yourself ; let me alone, 
 I have the wits of twenty men about me ; 
 Only I crave the shelter of your closet 
 A little, and then fear me not. Creep in, 
 That they may presently convey you hence. 
 Fear nothing, dearest love ! I'll be your second ; 
 Lie close ; so ! all goes well yet. — Boy ! 
 
 [She goes into the coffin, and he covers 
 her with the cloth. 
 
 Re-enter Boy and Men. 
 
 Boy. At hand, sir. 
 
 Jasp. Convey away the coffin, and be wary. 
 
 Boy. 'Tis done already. 
 
 [The Men carry out the coffin. 
 Jasp. Now must 1 go conjure. 
 
 [Exit into a closet. 
 
 Enter Venterwels. 
 
 Vent. Boy, boy ! 
 
 Boy. Your servant, sir. 
 
 Vent. Do me this kindness, boy (hold, here's 
 a crown). 
 Before thou bury the body of this fellow. 
 Carry it to his old merry father, and salute him 
 Fi'om me, and bid him sing ; he hath cause. 
 
 Boy. I will, sir. 
 
 Vent. And then bring me word what tune he 
 is in, 
 And have another crown ; but do it truly. 
 I have fitted him a bargain, now, will vex him. 
 
 Boy. God bless your worship's health, sir ! 
 
 Vent. Farewell, Boy ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE V. 
 A Room in Merrythought's House. 
 Enter Old Merrythought. 
 ' Wife. Ah, Old Merrythought, art thou there 
 again ? Let's hear some of thy songs.' 
 
 Mer. \_Singing.'] Who can sing a merrier note, 
 
 Than he that cannot change a groat? 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 II 
 
 Not a denier ^ left, and yet my heart leaps. I do 
 wonder yet, as old as I am, that any man will 
 follow a trade, or serve, that may sing and laugh, 
 and walk the streets. My wife and both my sons 
 are I know not where ; I have nothing left, nor 
 know I how to come by meat to supper ; yet am 
 I merry still ; for I know I shall find it upon the 
 table at six o'clock ; therefore, hang thought ! 
 
 {Sings. 
 
 I would not be a serving-man 
 
 To carry the cloak-bag still, 
 Nor would I be a falconer 
 
 The greedy hawks to fill ; 
 But I would be in a good house, 
 
 And have a good master too ; 
 But I would eat and drink of the best, 
 
 And no work would I do. 
 
 This it is that keeps life and soul together, nairth ! 
 This is the philosopher's stone that they wi'ite so 
 much on, that keeps a man ever young ! 
 
 Enter a Boy. 
 
 Boy. Sir, they say they know all your money 
 is gone, and they will trust you for no more drink. 
 
 Mer. Will they not "i let 'em chuse ! The best 
 is, I have mirth at home, and need not send 
 abroad for that ; let them keep their drink to 
 themselves. \Sings. 
 
 For Jillian of Berry she dwells on a hill. 
 And she hath good beer and ale to sell, 
 And of good fellows she thinks no ill, 
 And thither will we go now, now, now, 
 And thither will we go now. 
 
 And when you have made a little stay, 
 You need not ask what is to pay, 
 But kiss your hostess, and go your way. 
 And thither will we go now, now, now. 
 And thither will we go now. 
 
 Enter another Boy. 
 
 2 Boy. Sir, I can get no bread for supper. 
 
 Mer. Hang bread and supper' let's preserve 
 our mirth, and we shall never feel hunger, I'll 
 warrant you. Let's have a catch. Boy, follow 
 me ; come, sing this catch. ^ 
 
 \They sing the following catch. 
 
 Ho, ho, nobody at home. 
 Meat, nor drink, aor money ha' we none ? 
 Fill the pot, Eedy, 
 Never more need I. 
 
 Mer. So, boys; enough. Follow me. Let's 
 change our place, and we shall laugh afresh. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. Let him go, George ; a' shall not have 
 any countenance from us, nor a good word from 
 any i' th' company, if I may strike stroke in't. 
 
 ^Cit. No more a sha'not, love. But, Nell, I 
 will have Ralph do a very notable matter now, 
 to the eternal honour and glory of all grocers. — 
 Sirrah ; you there ! Boy ! Can none of you 
 hear? 
 
 ' Boy. Sir, your pleasure ? 
 
 ' Cit. Let Ralph come out on May-day in the 
 morning, and speak upon a conduit, with all his 
 scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his rings, 
 and his knacks. 
 
 * Boy. Why, sir, you do not think of our plot ; 
 what will become of thstt then ? 
 
 ' Cit. Why, sir, I care not what become on't ! 
 Ill have him come out, or I'll fetch him out my- 
 self ; I'll have something done in honour of the 
 city. Besides, he hath been long enough upon 
 adventures. Bring him out quickly; or, if I 
 come in amongst you — 
 
 la denier is a French farthing — half an EngUsh 
 farthing. 
 
 ' Boy. Well, sir, he shall come out ; but if our 
 play miscarrv, sir, you are like to pay for't. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 ' Cit. Bring him away then ! 
 
 ' Wife. This will be brave, i'faith ! George, 
 shall not he dance the morris too, for the credit 
 of the Strand.-* 
 
 ^Cit. No, sweetheart, it will be too much for 
 the boy. Oh, there he is, Nell! he's reasonable 
 well in reparrel ; but he has not rings enough ' 
 
 Enter Ralph, dressed as a May-lord. 
 
 Ralph. London, to thee I do present the merry 
 month of May ; 
 Let each true subject be content to hear me what 
 
 I say: 
 For from the top of Conduit-Head, as plainly 
 
 may appear, 
 I will both tell my name to you, and wherefore 
 
 I came here. 
 My name is Ralph, by due descent, though not 
 
 ignoble I, 
 Yet far inferior to the flock of gracious grocery : 
 And by the common counsel of my fellows in the 
 
 Strand, 
 With gilded staff, and crossed scarf, the May- 
 lord here I stand. 
 Rejoice, O English hearts, rejoice, rejoice, 
 
 lovers dear ; 
 Rejoice, city, town, and country, rejoice eke 
 
 every shere ! 
 For now the fragrant flowers do spring and 
 
 sprout in seemly sort, 
 The little birds do sit and sing, the lambs do 
 
 make fine sport; 
 And now the burchin-tree doth bud, that makes 
 
 the schoolboy cry. 
 The morris I'ings, while hobby-horse ' doth foot 
 
 it f eatuously ; 
 The lords and ladies now abroad, for their dis- 
 port and play, 
 Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and some- 
 times in the hay. 
 Now butter with a leaf of sage is good to purge 
 
 the blood, 
 Fly Venus and phlebotomy, for they are neither 
 
 good ! 
 Now little fish on tender stone begin to cast 
 
 their bellies. 
 And sluggish snails, that erst were mew'd, do 
 
 creep out of their shellies. 
 The rumbling rivers now do warm, for little 
 
 boys to paddle ; 
 The sturdy steed now goes to grass, and up they 
 
 hang bis saddle. 
 The heavy hart, the bellowing buck, the rascal, 
 
 and the pricket, "'' 
 Are now among the yeoman's pease, and leave 
 
 the fearful thicket. 
 And be like them, you, I say, of this same 
 
 noble town. 
 And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping off 
 
 your gown, 
 With bells on legs, and napkins clean, unto your 
 
 shoulders tied. 
 With scarfs and garters as you please, and ' Hey 
 
 for our lown ! ' cried. 
 March out and show your willing minds, by 
 
 twenty and by twenty, 
 To Hogsdon, or to Newington, where ale and 
 
 cakes are plenty ! 
 
 1 hobby-horse— o-ne of the dancers in the old morris- 
 dance, represented by the figure of a horse fastened 
 round the waist of a man, 
 
 '■* rascal, pricket — rascal is a lean deer, and pricket a, 
 buck in the second year. 
 
312 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And let it ne'ei- be said for shamo, that we the 
 
 youths of London, 
 Lay thrumming of our caps at home, and left 
 
 our custom undone. 
 Up then, I say, both young and old, both man 
 
 and maid a-Maying. 
 With drums and guns that bounce aloud, and 
 
 merry tabor playing ! 
 Which to prolong, God save our king, and send 
 
 his country peace, 
 And root out treason from the land ! and so, my 
 
 friends, I cease. \_Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE L 
 
 A Room in the House o/Venterwels. 
 
 Enter Venterwels. 
 
 Vent. I will have no great store of company at 
 the wedding : a couple of neighbours and their 
 wives; and we will have a capon in stewed 
 broth, with marrow, and a good piece of beef, 
 stuck with rosemary. 
 
 Enter Jasper, his face mealed. 
 
 Jasp. Forbear thy pains, fond man! it is too 
 
 Vent. Heaven bless me ! Jasper ? [late. 
 
 Jas2y. Ay, I am his ghost. 
 Whom thou hast injured for his constant love. 
 Fond worldly wretch ! who dost not understand 
 In death that true hearts cannot parted be. 
 First know, thy daughter is quite borne away 
 On wings of angels, through the liquid air, 
 Too far out of thy reach, and never more 
 Shalt thou behold her face. But she and I 
 Will in another world enjoy our loves ; 
 Where neither father's angei", poverty, 
 Nor any cross that troubles earthly men, 
 Shall make us sever our united hearts. 
 And never shalt thou sit, or be alone 
 In any place, but I will visit thee 
 With ghastly looks, and put into thy mind 
 The great offences which thou didst to me. 
 When thou art at thy table with thy friends, 
 Merry in heart, and filled with swelling wine, 
 I'll come in midst of all thy pride and mirth, 
 Invisible to all men but thyself. 
 And whisper such a sad tale in thine ear. 
 Shall make thee let the cup fall from thy hand, 
 And stand as mute and pale as death itself. 
 
 Vent. Forgive me, Jasper ! Oh, what might I 
 Tell me, to satisfy thy troubled ghost ? [do, 
 
 Jasp. There is no means ; too late thou think'st 
 of this. 
 
 Vent. But tell me what were best for me to do ? 
 
 Jasp. Kepent thy deed, and satisfy my father, 
 And beat fond Humphrey out of thy doors. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Enter Humphrey. 
 
 ' Wife. Look, George ; his very ghost would 
 have folks beaten.' 
 Hum. Father, my bride is gone, fair Mistress 
 Luce. ^ 
 
 My soul's the fount of vengeance, mischief's 
 sluice. 
 Vent. Hence, fool, out of my sight, with thy 
 fond passion ! 
 Thou hast undone me. {Beats him. 
 
 Hum. Hold, my father dear ! 
 For Luce, thy daughter's sake, that had no peer. 
 Vent. Thy father, fool? There's some blows 
 more ; be gone ! — {Beats him again. 
 
 Jasper, I hope thy ghost be well appeased 
 
 To see thy will performed. Now will I go 
 
 To satisfy thy father for thy wrongs. {Exit. 
 
 Hum. What shall I do ? I have been beaten 
 twice. 
 And Mistress Luce is gone ! Help me. Device ! 
 Since my true love is gone, I never more. 
 Whilst I do live, upon the sky will pore ; 
 But in the dark will wear out my shoe-soles 
 In passion, in Saint Faith's church under Paul's. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 ' Wife. George, call Ealph hither ; if you love 
 me, call Ealph hither ! I have the bravest thing 
 for him to do.— George! pr'ythee, call him quickly. 
 
 ' at. Ealph ! why, Ealph, boy ' 
 
 Enter Ealph. 
 
 '■Ralph. Here, sir. 
 
 ' Cit. Come hither, Ealph ; come to thy mis- 
 tress, boy. 
 
 ' Wife. Ealph, I would have thee call all the 
 youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and 
 guns, and flags, and march to Mile - end i in 
 pompous fashion, and there exhort your soldiers 
 to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards 
 from burning, Ealph; and then skirmish, and 
 let your flags fly, and cry, "Kill, kill, kill! " My 
 husband shall lend you his jerkin, Ealph, and 
 there's a scarf ; for the rest, the house shall fur- 
 nish you, and we'll pay for't. Do it bravely, 
 Ealph; and think before whom you perform, 
 and what person you represent. 
 
 ' Ralph. I warrant you, mistress ; if I do it not, 
 for the honour of the city, and the credit of my 
 master, let me never hope for freedom ! 
 
 ' Wife. 'Tis well spoken, i'faith ! Go thy ways; 
 thou art a spark indeed. 
 
 ' Cit. Ealph, Ealph, double your files bravely, 
 Ealph ! 
 
 ' Ralph. I warrant you, sir. {Exit. 
 
 ' Cit. Let him look narrowly to his service ; I 
 shall take him else. I was there myself a pike- 
 man once, in the hottest of the day, wench ; had 
 my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my 
 pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with 
 a scouring-stick, and yet, I thank God, I am here. 
 
 {Drums within. 
 
 ' Wife. Hark, George, the drums ! 
 
 ' Cit. Ean, tan, tan, tan, tan, tan ! Oh, wench, 
 an' thou hadst but seen little Ned of Aldgate, 
 drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid 
 on like a tyrant, and then struck softly till the 
 ward came up, and then thuudei'ed again, and 
 together we go! Sa, sa, sa, bounce, quoth tha 
 guns! "Courage, my hearts," quoth the captains! 
 "Saint George," quoth the pike-men! And 
 withal, here they lay, and there they lay ! And 
 yet for all this I am here, wench. 
 
 ' Wfe. Be thankful for it, George ; for indeed 
 'tis wondei-ful.' 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 Mile-end. 
 
 Enter Ealph, William Hamerton, George 
 Greengoose, and others of his Company, 
 with Dincms and Colours. 
 
 Ralph. March fair, my hearts ! lieutenant, beat 
 the rear up. Ancient,''' let your colours fly ; but 
 have a great care of the butchers' hooks at White- 
 chapel ; they have been the death of many a fair 
 ancient. Open your files, that I may take a view 
 
 1 Mile-end — then the citizens' training-ground. 
 
 2 ancient — ensign. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 13 
 
 both of your persons and munition. Sergeant, 
 call a muster. 
 
 Serg. A stand! — William Hamerton, pewterer ! 
 
 Ham. Here, captain. 
 
 Ralph. A corslet and a Spanish pike ! 'tis well. 
 Can you shake it with a terror 7 
 
 Ham. I hope so, captain. 
 
 Ralph. Charge upon me. — 'Tis with the weakest. 
 Put more strength, William Hamerton, more 
 strength. As you were again. Proceed, sergeant. 
 
 Serg. George Greengoose, poulterer ! 
 
 Green. Here ! 
 
 Ralph. Let me see your piece, neighbour Green- 
 goose ; when was she shot in ? 
 
 Green. An't like you, master captain, I made 
 a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly 
 for audacity.' 
 
 Ralph. It should seem so certainly, for her 
 breath is yet inflamed. Besides, there is a main 
 fault in the touch-hole, it runs and stinketh. 
 And I tell you, moreover, and believe it, ten 
 such touch-holes would breed the pox i' th' army. 
 Get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, 
 sweet oil, and paper, and your piece may do well 
 enough yet. Where's your powder 7 
 
 Green. Here. 
 
 Ralph. What, in a paper ? As I am a soldier 
 and a gentleman, it craves a martial-court ! You 
 ought to die f or't. Where's your horn ? Answer 
 me to that. 
 
 Green. An't like you, sir, I was oblivious. 
 
 Ralph. It like me not you should be so ; 'tis a 
 shame for you, and a scandal to all our neigh- 
 bours, being a man of worth and estimation, to 
 leave your horn behind you ; I am afraid 'twill 
 breed example. But let me tell you, no more 
 on't. Stand, till I view you all. What's become 
 o' th' nose of your flask ? 
 
 1 Sol. Indeed-la, captain, 'twas blown away 
 with powder. 
 
 Ralph. Put on a new one at the city's charge. 
 Where's the stone ^ of this piece ? 
 
 2 Sol. The drummer took it out to light 
 tobacco. 
 
 Ralpih. 'Tis a fault, my friend ; put it in again. 
 You want a nose, and you a stone ; sergeant, 
 take a note on't, for I mean to stop it in the pay. 
 Eemove and march! [They march.'] Soft and 
 fair, gentlemen, soft and fair ! Double your files ; 
 as you were ! faces about ! Now, you with the 
 sodden face, keep in there ! Look to your match, 
 sin-ah ; it will be in your fellow's flask anon. 
 So ; make a crescent now ; advance your pikes ; 
 stand and give ear! — Gentlemen, countrymen, 
 friends, and my fellow-soldiers, I have brought 
 you this day from the shops of security, and the 
 counters of content, to measure out in these 
 fiirious fields honour by the ell, and prowess by 
 the pound. Let it not, oh, let it not, I say, be 
 told hereafter, the noble issue of this city fainted ; 
 but bear yourselves in this fair action like men, 
 vahant men, and free men ! Pear not the face 
 of the enemy, nor the noise of the guns; for, 
 believe me, brethren, the rude rumbling of a 
 brewer's cart is far more terrible, of which you 
 have a daily experience; neither let the stink 
 of powder offend you, since a more valiant stink 
 is nightly with you. To a resolved mind, his 
 home is everywhere : 
 I speak not this to take away 
 The hope of your return ; for you shall see 
 (I do not doubt it), and that very shortly, 
 Your loving wives again, and your sweet children, 
 
 1 audacity — boldness, bravery. 
 * stone — i.e. flint. 
 
 Whose care doth bear you company in baskets 
 Eemember then whose cause you have in hand, 
 And, like a sort ' of true-born scavengers, 
 Scour me this famous realm of enemies. 
 I have no more to say but this : stand to your 
 tacklings, lads, and show to the world you can 
 as well brandish a sword as shake an apron. 
 Saint George, and on, my hearts ! 
 
 All. Saint George, Saint George ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Wife. 'Twas well done, Ralph! I'll send 
 thee a cold capon a-field. and a bottle of March 
 beer ; and, it may be, come myself to see thee. 
 
 ' Cit. Nell, the boy hath deceived me much ! 
 I did not think it had been in him. He has per- 
 formed such a matter, wench, that, if I live, next 
 year I'll have him captain of the gallifoist,^ or 
 I'll want my will.' 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IIL 
 
 A Room in Old Merrythought's House. 
 
 Enter Old Merrythought. 
 
 Mer. Yet, I thank God, I break not a wrinkle 
 more than I had. Not a stoop,^ boys ? Care, 
 live with cats : I defy thee ! My heart is as 
 sound as an oak; and though I want drink to 
 wet my whistle, I can sing, [Sings. 
 
 Come no more there, boys, come no more there ; 
 For we shall never whilst we live come any more there. 
 
 Enter a Boy, and two Men bringing in the coffin^ 
 with Luce in it. 
 
 Boy. God save you, sir ! 
 3Ier. It's a brave boy. Canst thou sing ? 
 Boy. Yes, sir, I can sing ; but 'tis not so neces- 
 sary at this time. 
 
 Mer. Sing we, and chaunt it, 
 Whilst love doth grant it. 
 
 Boy. Sir, sir, if you knew what I have brought 
 you, you would have little list to sing. 
 
 Mer. Oh the mimon round, 
 
 Full long I have thee sought, 
 And now I have thee found, 
 And what hast thou here brought ? 
 
 Boy. A coffin, sir, and your dead son Jasper 
 in it. 
 
 Mer. Dead ? Why, farewell he ! 
 
 Thou wast a bonny boy, 
 
 And I did love thee. 
 
 Enter Jasper. 
 Jasp. Then I pray you, sir, do so still. 
 
 Mer. Jasper's ghost ? 
 
 [Sings. 
 
 Thou art welcome from Stygian lake so soon ; 
 Declare to me what wondrous things in Pluto's court 
 are done. 
 
 Jasp. By my troth, sir, I ne'er came there ; 'tis 
 too hot for me, sir. 
 
 J/er. A merry ghost, a very merry ghost ! 
 
 [Sings. 
 
 And where is your true love ? Oh, where is yours ? 
 
 Jasp. Marry, look you, sir ! [ Opens the coffin. 
 Mer. Ah, ha ! art thou good at that, i'f aith ? 
 
 1 sort— lot, company. 
 
 2 gallifoist—xhQ Lord Mayor's barge. 
 ' stoop or stoup — a drinking vessel! 
 
314 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mrs. Merrythought and Michael within. 
 
 Mrs. 3fe?\ "What, Master Merrythought ! will 
 you not let's in ? What do you think shall be- 
 come of us ? 
 
 Mer. What voice is that that calleth at our 
 door? 
 
 M7's. Mer. You know me well enough ; I am 
 sure I have not been such a stranger to you. 
 
 Mer. isings.'] And some they whistled, and some they 
 sung, 
 
 Hey down, down I 
 And some did loudly say, 
 Ever as the Lord Baniet's horn hlew, 
 Away, Musgrave, away. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. You will not have us starve here, 
 will you, Master Merrythought ? 
 
 Jasp. Nay, good sir, be persuaded; she's my 
 mother : 
 If her offences have been great against you, 
 Let your own love remember she is yours, 
 And so forgive her. 
 
 Luce. Good Master Merrythought, 
 Let me entreat you ; I will not be denied. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Why, Master Meri'ythought, will 
 you be a vex'd thing still ? 
 
 Mer. Woman, I take you to my love again; 
 but you shall sing before you enter; therefore 
 despatch your soug, and so come in. 
 
 Mrs. Mer. Well, you must have your will, 
 when all's done. — Micke, what song canst thou 
 sing, boy ? 
 
 Mich. I can sing none forsooth, but ' A Lady's 
 Daughter of Paris,' properly. [Sings within. 
 
 It was a lady's daughter, &c. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Merrythought and Michael. 
 
 Mer. Come, you're welcome home again. 
 
 If such danger be in playing, 
 
 And jest must to earnest turn, 
 You shall go no more a-Maying— • 
 
 Vent. [Within.'\ Are you within, sir.' Master 
 Merrythought ! 
 
 Jasp. It is my master's voice; good sir, go 
 hold him 
 In talk, whilst we convey ourselves into 
 Some inward room. \_Exit with Luce. 
 
 Mer. What are you 7 are you merry ? 
 You must be very merry, if you entex'. 
 
 Vent. I am, sir. 
 
 Mer. Sing then. 
 
 Vent. Nay, good sir, open to me. 
 
 Mer. Sing, I say. 
 Or, by the merry heart, you come not in ! 
 
 Vent. Well, sir, I'll sing. {Sings. 
 
 Fortune my foe, &c. 
 Enter Venterwels. 
 
 Mer. You're welcome, sir ; you're welcome ! 
 You see your entertainment ; pray you be meiTy. 
 
 Vent. Oh, Master Meri-y thought, I'm come to 
 ask you 
 Forgiveness for the wrongs I offer'd you. 
 And your most virtuous son ; they are infinite, 
 Yet my contrition shall be more than they. 
 I do confess my hardness broke his heart, 
 For which just Heaven hath giv'n me punishment 
 More than my age can carry ; his wand'ring spirit. 
 Not yet at rest, pursues me everywhere. 
 Crying, ' I'll haunt thee for thy cruelty.' 
 My daughter she is gone, I know not how, 
 Taken invisible, and whether living, 
 Or in the grave, 'tis yet uncertain to me. 
 
 Oh, Master Merrythought, these are the weights 
 Will sink me to my grave ! Forgive me, sir. 
 
 Mer. Why, sir, I do forgive you; and be merry ! 
 And if the wag in's lifetime play'd the knavo, " 
 Can you forgive him too 7 
 
 Vent. With all my heart, sir, 
 
 Mer. Speak it again, and heartily. 
 
 Vent. I do, sir ; 
 Now, by my soul, I do. 
 
 Mer. [sings-l With that came out his paramour; 
 She was as white as the lily flower. 
 Hey troul, troly, loly ! 
 
 Enter Luce and Jasper. 
 
 "With that came out her o\vn dear knight. 
 He was as true as ever did fight, &c. 
 
 Sir, if you will forgive 'em, clap their hands 
 together ; there's no more to be said i' th' matter. 
 
 Vent. I do, I do. 
 
 ' Cit. I do not like this : peace, boys ! Hear 
 me, one of you ! everybody's part is come to an 
 end but Ralph's, and he's left out. 
 
 ''Boy. 'Tis long of yourself, sir; we have 
 nothing to do with his part. 
 
 ' Cit. Ralph, come away ! Make [an end] on 
 him, as you have done of the rest, boys ; come ! 
 
 ' Wife. Now, good husband, let him come out 
 and die. 
 
 ' Cit. He shall, Nell. — Ralph, come away 
 quickly, and die, boy. 
 
 ' Boy. 'Twill be very unfit he should die, sir, 
 upon no occasion ; and in a comedy too. 
 
 ' Cit. Take you no care of that, Sir Boy ; is 
 not his part at an end, think you, when he's dead ? 
 — Come away, Ralph ! ' 
 
 Enter Ralph, with a forked arrow through 
 his head. 
 
 Ralph. When I was mortal, this my costive 
 
 corps 
 Did lap up figs and raisins in the Strand ; 
 Where sitting, I espied a lovely dame, 
 Whose master wrought with lingelli and with 
 
 awl. 
 And underground he vamped many a boot : 
 Straight did her love prick forth me, tender sprig. 
 To follow feats of arms in warlike wise, 
 Through Waltham Desert, where I did perform 
 Many achievements, and did lay on ground 
 Huge Barbaroso, that insulting giant, 
 And all his captives soon set at liberty. 
 Then honour prick'd me from my native soil 
 Into Moldavia, where I gain'd the love 
 Of Pompiona, his beloved daughter ; 
 But yet proved constant to the black-thumb'd 
 
 maid, 
 Susan, and scorn'd Pompiona's love ; 
 Yet liberal I was, and gave her pins. 
 And money for her father's oflScers. 
 I then returned home, and thrust myself 
 In action, and by all men chosen was 
 Lord of the May ; where I did flourish it, 
 With scarfs and rings, and poesy in my hand. 
 After this action I preferred was. 
 And chosen city-captain at Mile-end, 
 With hat and feather, and with leading staff, 
 And train'd my men, and brought them all off 
 
 clear. 
 Save one man that bewrayed him with the noise. 
 But all these things I Ralph did undertake. 
 Only for my beloved Susan's sake. 
 Then coming home, and sitting in my shop 
 With apron blue, Death came into my stall 
 
 lingell — a shoemaker's thread. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 315 
 
 To cheapen aquavitx ; but ere I 
 Could take the bottle down, and fill a taste, 
 Death caught a pound of pepper in his hand, 
 And sprinkled all my face and body o'er, 
 And in an instant vanished away. 
 
 ' Cit. 'Tis a pretty fiction, i'faith !' 
 
 Ralph. Then took I up my bow and shaft in 
 hand. 
 And walked into Moorfields to cool myself ; 
 But there grim cruel Death met me again, 
 And shot this forked arrow through my head ; 
 And now I faint ; therefore be warn'd by me, 
 My fellows every one, of forked heads ! 
 Farewell, all you good boys in merry London ! 
 Ne'er shall we more upon Shrove-Tuesday meet, 
 And pluck down houses of iniquity; 
 (My pain increaseth) I shall never more 
 Hold open, whilst another pumps both legs, 
 Nor daub a satin gown with rotten eggs ; 
 Set up a stake, oh, never more I shall ! 
 I die ! fly, fly, my soul, to Grocers' Hall ! 
 Oh, oh, oh, &c. 
 
 ' Wife. Well said, Ealph ! Do your obeisance 
 to the gentlemen, and go your ways. Well said, 
 Ealph ! ' [Exit Ealph. 
 
 Mer. Methinks all we, thus kindly and unex- 
 pectedly reconciled, should not depart without 
 a song. 
 
 Vent. A good motion. 
 
 Mer. Strike up then ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Better music ne'er was known, 
 
 Than a quire of hearts in one. 
 
 Let each other, that hath been 
 
 Troubled with the gall or spleen, 
 
 Learn of us to keep his brow 
 
 Smooth and plain, as ours are now! 
 
 Sing, though before the hour of dying ; 
 
 He shall rise, and then be crying, 
 
 ' Heyho, 'tis nought but mirth 
 
 That keeps the body from the earth.' lExeunt. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 ' Cit. Come, Nell, shall we go ? the play's done. 
 
 ' Wife. Nay, by my faith, George, I have more 
 manners than so ; I'll speak to these gentlemen 
 first. — I thank you all, gentlemen, for your patience 
 and countenance to Ealph, a poor fatherless child ! 
 and if I might see you at my house, it should go 
 hard but I would have a pottle of wine and a 
 pipe of tobacco for you ; for ti'uly I hope you do 
 like the youth ; but I would be glad to know the 
 ti'uth : I refer it to your own discretions whether 
 you will applaud him or no ; for I will wink, 
 and, whilst, you shall do what you will. — I thank 
 you, with all my heart. God give you good 
 night!— Come, George.' {Exeunt. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER 
 
 [In the case of nearly every one of the dramatists already noticed, we have had to lament 
 the scantiness of biographical materials ; but in no instance is this scantiness more lament- 
 able than in the case of the ' noble-minded ' John Webster. Regarding this author, nearly 
 all that is known for certain is, that he was contemporary with most of the dramatists 
 already mentioned, and that he wrote certain dramas of a high order, some of which are still 
 extant. On the title-page of one of his works he is styled 'merchant-tailor,' and in the 
 dedication to the same work he describes himself as ' one born free of the Merchant-Tailors' 
 Company.' Gildon, who wrote about 1698, asserts that Webster was clerk of the parish of 
 St. Andrew's, Holborn ; but Dyce, after careful search of the registers and other documents 
 relating to that church, could not find the dramatist's name mentioned. The same 
 industrious editor found the names of three John Websters who had been made free of 
 Merchant-Tailors' Ck)mpany between 1571 and 1617, but none of these can be identified 
 with the dramatist. It has also been conjectured that, like many of his contemporaries, he 
 was an actor as well as a writer of plays. This exhausts nearly all that is known or has 
 been conjectured concerning this shadowy but highly -gifted dramatist, except the allusions 
 made to him in Henslowe's diary, the first of which occurrs in 1601 in connection with a 
 play entitled The Guise; but whether this was a work of Webster's own, or an old play 
 which he had * doctored ' for the stage, it is now impossible to say. To be as definite as we 
 dare, we may state that Professor Masson gives the dates of Webster's life and death 
 approximately as 1570-1640. 
 
 Webster wrote a number of dramas in conjunction with some of his contemporaries. In 
 1607 were printed The Famous History of Sir Thomas Wyatty Westivard Hoe, and NoriJi- 
 ward Hoe, the joint productions of Webster and Decker. The extant dramas undoubtedly 
 Webster's own are The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona (printed 1612) ; The Duchess of 
 Malfi (published 1623, but first produced about 1616) ; The Devil's Law Case (1623) ; 
 Appius and Virginia (first printed in 1654). All who have written on the subject agree in 
 placing Webster in the very highest rank of the second-rate dramatists, i.e. of all those 
 inferior to Shakespeare. His two tragedies, The White Devil and The Duchess of Malfi, are 
 by far his best ; and, according to Hazlitt, * upon the whole, perhaps, come the nearest to 
 Shakespeare of anything we have upon record. ' Webster's genius was of a weird, gloomy, 
 morbid cast, like Marlowe's raised to a higher power ; his works are full of rich but * terrible 
 graces. ' Comparing Webster with Decker, Hazlitt says : * Webster gives more scope to the 
 various combinations and changeable aspects [of the simple uncompounded elements of 
 nature and passion], brings them into dramatic play by contrast and comparisons, flings 
 them into a state of confusion by a kindled fancy, makes them describe a wider arc of 
 oscillation from the impulse of unbridled passion, and carries both terror and pity to a more 
 painful and sometimes unwarrantable excess. ' Webster delights * to suggest horrible imagin- 
 ings,' and to * adorn his sentiments with some image of tender and awful beauty.' We have 
 selected as a specimen of Webster's dramas. The Duchess of Malfi, in speaking of which 
 Charles Lamb says, the duchess *has lived among horrors till she has become "native and 
 endowed into that element. " She speaks the dialect of despair ; her tongue has a snatch of 
 Tartarus and the souls of hell. To move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to 
 lay upon fear as much as it can bear ; to wean and weary a life till it is ready to drop, and 
 then step in with mortal instruments to take its last forfeits ; this only a Webster can do.'] 
 
 316 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 317 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF THE DUCHESS OF HALF I. 
 
 AS IT WAS PRESENTED PEIVATELY AT THE BLACK FRIARS, AND PUBLICLY 
 AT THE GLOBE, BY THE KING'S MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 The 'perfect and exact copy, with diverse things printed that the length of the play 
 would not hear in the presentment, 
 
 WEITTEN BY JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 London. 1623. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE HARDING, 
 
 BAROX BERKELEY, OF BERKELEY CASTLE, AND KNIGHT OF THE ORDER OF THE BATH 
 TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE CHARLES. 
 
 My Noble Lord, — That I may present my ex- 
 cuse why, being a stranger to your lordship, I 
 offer this poem to your patronage, I plead this 
 ■warrant : — men who never saw the sea, yet desire 
 to behold that regiment of waters, choose some 
 eminent river to guide them thither, and make 
 that, as it were, their conduct or postilion: by 
 the like ingenious means has your fame arrived 
 at my knowledge, receiving it from some of 
 worth, who, both in contemplation and practice, 
 owe to your honour their clearest service. I do 
 not altogether look up at your title ; the ancientest 
 nobility being but a relic of time past, and the 
 truest honour indeed being for a man to confer 
 honour on himself, which your learning strives 
 to propagate, and shall make you arrive at the 
 dignity of a great example. I am confident this 
 work is not unworthy your honour's perusal; 
 for by such poems as this poets have kissed the 
 hands of great princes, and drawn their gentle 
 
 eyes to look down upon their sheets of paper, 
 when the poets themselves were bound up in 
 their winding-sheets. The like courtesy from 
 your lordship shall make you live in your grave, 
 and laurel spring out of it, when the ignorant 
 scorners of the Muses, that like worms in 
 libraries seem to live only to destroy learning, 
 shall wither neglected and forgotten. This work 
 and myself I humbly present to your approved 
 censure,^ it being the utmost of my wishes to 
 have your honourable self my weighty and per- 
 spicuous comment ; which grace so done me 
 shall ever be acknowledged 
 
 By your lordship's 
 
 in all duty and observance, 
 
 John Webster. 
 
 1 censMre— judgment, criticism; 
 think, judge. 
 
 from Lat, censeo. to 
 
 gramalis 
 
 ^ier$0naj. 
 
 Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria: 
 
 Lord Grisolan. 
 
 Cardinal, Ids Brother. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Antonio Bologna, Steward of the Household to 
 
 The Several Madmen. 
 
 the Duchess. 
 
 
 Delio, his Friend. 
 
 Duchess of Malfl 
 
 Daniel de Bosola, Gentleman of the Horse to 
 
 Cariola, her Woman. 
 
 the Duchess. 
 
 Julia, Castruccid's Wife, and the Cara 
 
 Castruccio, an old Lord. 
 
 Mistress. 
 
 Marquis of Pescara. 
 
 Old Lady. 
 
 Count Malatesti. 
 
 
 Lord Eoderigo. 
 
 Court Officers, Three Young Children, 
 
 Silvio. 
 
 Pilgrims, Ladies, &c. 
 
 SCENE- 
 
 -Itali/. 
 
THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 Enter Antonio and Delio. 
 
 Del. You are welcome to your country, dear 
 Antonio ; 
 You have been long in France, and you return 
 A very formal Frenchman in your habit : 
 How do you like the French court ? 
 
 Ant. I admire it : 
 In seeking to reduce both state and people 
 To a fix'd order, their judicious king 
 Begins at home ; quits ' first his royal palace 
 Of flattering sycophants, of dissolute 
 And infamous persons, — which he sweetly terms 
 His master's masterpiece, the work of heaven : 
 Considering duly that a prince's court 
 Is like a common fountain, whence should flow 
 Pure silver drops in general, but if't chance 
 Some curs'd example poison'd near the head, 
 Death and diseases through the whole land 
 
 And what is't makes this blessed government 
 
 But a most provident council, who dare freely 
 
 Inform him the corruption of the times ? 
 
 Though some o' the court hold it presumption 
 
 To instruct princes what they ought to do, 
 
 It is a noble duty to inform them 
 
 What they ought to foresee. — Here comes Bosola, 
 
 The only court-gall ; yet I observe his railing 
 
 Is not for simple love of piety : 
 
 Indeed, he rails at those things which he wants; 
 
 Would be as lecherous, covetous, or proud. 
 
 Bloody, or envious, as any man. 
 
 If he had means to be so. — Here's the cardinal. 
 
 Enter Cardinal and Bosola. 
 
 Bos. I do haunt you still. 
 
 Card. So. 
 
 Bos. I have done you better service than to 
 be slighted thus. Miserable age, where only the 
 reward of doing well is the doing of it ! 
 
 Card. You enforce your merit too much. 
 
 Bos. I fell into the galleys in your service ; 
 where, for two years together, I wore two towels 
 instead of a shirt, with a knot on the shoulder, 
 after the fashion of a Koman mantle. Slighted 
 thus ! I Avill thrive some way : blackbirds fatten 
 best in hard weather ; why not I in these dog- 
 days ? 
 
 Card. Would you could become honest ! 
 
 Bos. With all your divinity do but direct me 
 the way to it. I have known many travel far for 
 it, and yet return as arrant knaves as they went 
 forth, because they carried themselves always 
 along with them. {Exit Cardinal.] Are you 
 gone? Some fellows, they say, are possessed 
 with the devil, but this great fellow were able 
 to possess the greatest devil, and make him 
 worse. 
 
 Ant. He hath denied thee some suit ? 
 
 Bos. He and his brother are like plum-trees 
 that grow crooked over standing-pools ; they are 
 rich and o'erladen with fruit, but none but crows, 
 pies, and caterpillars feed on them. Could I be 
 one of their flattering panders, I would hang on 
 their ears like a horseleech, till I were full, and 
 then drop off. I pray, leave me. Who would 
 rely upon these miserable dependencies, in ex- 
 pectation to be advanced to-morrow? what crea- 
 ture ever fed worse than hoping Tantalus ? nor 
 ever died any man more fearfully than he that 
 hoped for a pardon. There are rewards for hawks 
 
 quits — clears. 
 
 and dogs when they have done us service ; ' but 
 for a soldier that hazards his limbs in a battle, 
 nothing but a kind of geometry is his last sup- 
 portation. 
 
 Del. Geometry! 
 
 Bos. Ay, to hang in a fair pair of slings, take 
 his latter swing in the world upon an honourable 
 pair of crutches, from hospital to hospital. Fare 
 ye well, sir : and yet do not you scorn us ; for 
 places in the court are but like beds in the 
 hospital, where this rnan's head lies at this man's 
 foot, and so lower and lower. \_Exit. 
 
 Del. I knew this fellow seven years in the 
 galleys 
 For a notorious murder ; and 'twas thought 
 The cardinal suborn'd it : he was releas'd 
 By the French general, Gaston de Foix^ 
 When he recover'd Naples. 
 
 Ant. 'Tis great pity 
 He should be thus neglected. I have heard 
 He's very valiant. This foul melancholy 
 Will poison all his goodness ; foi-, I'll tell you. 
 If too immoderate sleep be tnily said 
 To be an inward rust unto the soul, 
 It then doth follow want of action 
 Breeds all black malcontents; and their close 
 
 rearing, 
 Like moths in cloth, do hurt for want of wearing. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Antonio, Delio, Ferdinand, Castruccio, 
 Silvio, Koderigo, Grisolan, and Attendants. 
 
 Del. The presence 'gins to fill: you promis'd 
 me 
 To make me the partaker of the natures 
 Of some of your great courtiers. 
 
 Ant. The lord cardinal's. 
 And other strangers that are now in court ? 
 I shall. — Here comes the great Calabrian duke. 
 
 Ferd. Who took the ring oftenest ? ^ 
 
 Sil. Antonio Bologna, my lord, 
 
 Ferd. Our sister duchess' great-master of her 
 household? give him the jewel. — When shall 
 we leave this sportive action, and fall to action 
 indeed ? 
 
 Cast. Methinks, my lord, you should not desire 
 to go to war in person. 
 
 Ferd. Now for some gravity : — why, my lord ? 
 
 Cast. It is fitting a soldier arise to be a prince, 
 but not necessary a prince descend to be a 
 captain. 
 
 Ferd. No? 
 
 Cast. No, my lord ; he were far better do it by 
 a deputy. 
 
 Ferd. Why should he not as well sleep or eat 
 by a deputy ? this might take idle, offensive, and 
 base office from him, whereas the other deprives 
 him of honour. 
 
 Cast. Believe my experience, that realm is 
 never long in quiet where the ruler is a soldier. 
 
 Ferd. Thou toldest me thy wife could not 
 endure fighting. 
 
 Cast. True, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. And of a jest she broke of a captain she 
 met full of wounds. I have forgot it. 
 
 Cast. She told him, my lord, he was a pitiful 
 
 » dogs when they have done us service. The 4to of 1623, 
 'dogges, and when they haue done vs seruice,* 
 
 a word having dropt out, or having heen purposely- 
 omitted. 
 
 '^ Who took the ring oftenest f—i.e. in the sport callea 
 tilting or riuming at the ring. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 319 
 
 fellow to lie, like the children of Ismael, all in 
 tents.^ 
 
 Ferd. Why, there's a wit were able to undo all 
 the chirurgeons o'the city; for although gallants 
 should quarrel, and had drawn their weapons, 
 and were ready to go to it, yet her persuasions 
 would make them put up. 
 
 Cast. That she would, my lord. — How do you 
 like my Spanish gennet ? 
 
 Rod. He is all fire. 
 
 Ferd. I am of Pliny's opinion, I think he was 
 begot by the wind ; he runs as if he were 
 ballassed with quicksilver, 
 
 Sil. True, my lord, he reels from the tilt 
 often. 
 
 Rod. Gris. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ferd. Why do you laugh.? methinks you that 
 are courtiers should be my touch-wood, take fire 
 when I give fire; that is, not laugh but when 
 I laugh, were the subject never so witty. 
 
 Cast. True, my lord. I myself have heard a 
 very good jest, and have scorned to seem to 
 have so silly a wit as to understand it. 
 
 Fei'd. But I can laugh at your fool, my lord. 
 
 Cast. He cannot speak, you know, but he 
 makes faces : my lady cannot abide him. 
 
 Ferd. No.» 
 
 Cast. Nor endure to be in merry company; 
 for she says too much laughing and too much 
 company fills her too full of the wrinkle. 
 
 Ferd. I would, then, have a mathematical in- 
 strument made for her face, that she might not 
 laugh out of compass. — I shall shortly visit you at 
 Milan, Lord Silvio. 
 
 JSil. Your grace shall arrive most welcome. 
 
 Ferd. You are a good horseman, Antonio : you 
 have excellent riders in France : what do you 
 think of good horsemanship ? 
 
 Ant. Nobly, my lord : as out of the Grecian 
 horse issued many famous princes, so out of brave 
 horsemanship arise the first sparks of growing 
 resolution, that raise the mind to noble action. 
 
 Ferd. You have bespoke it worthily. 
 
 Sil. Your brother the lord cardinal, and sister 
 duchess. 
 
 Re-enter Cardinal, with Duchess, Cariola, and 
 Julia. 
 
 Card. Are the galleys come about ? 
 
 Gris. They are, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. Here's the Lord Silvio is come to take 
 his leave. 
 
 Del. Now, sir, your promise: what's that 
 cardinal ? 
 I mean his temper ? they say he's a brave fellow. 
 Will play his five thousand crowns at tennis, 
 
 dance. 
 Court ladies, and one that hath fought single 
 combats. 
 
 Ant. Some such flashes superficially hang on 
 him for form ; but observe his inward character : 
 he is a melancholy churchman ; the spring in his 
 face is nothing but the engendering of toads ; 
 where he is jealous of any man, he lays worse 
 plots for them than ever was imposed on Her- 
 cules, for he strews in his way flatterers, panders, 
 intelligencers, atheists, and a thousand such poli- 
 tical monsters. ^ He should have been Pope ; but 
 instead of coming to it by the primitive decency 
 of the church, he did bestow bribes so largely 
 and so impudently as if he would have carried 
 it away without Heaven's knowledge. Some good 
 he hath done — 
 
 1 tent is a roll of lint or other material used in search- 
 !n,5' or dilating a wound ; from Lat. tetido, to stretch. 
 
 Del. You have given too much of him. What's 
 his brother ? 
 
 Ant. The duke there? a most perverse and 
 turbulent nature: 
 What appears in him mirth is merely outside ; 
 If he laugh heartily, it is to laugh 
 All honesty out of fashion. 
 
 Del. Twins? 
 
 Ant. In quality. 
 He speaks with others' tongues, and hears men's 
 
 suits 
 With others' ears ; will seem to sleep o' the bench 
 Only to entrap offenders in their answers ; 
 Dooms men to death by information ; 
 Kewards by hearsay. 
 
 Del. Then the law to him 
 Is like a foul black cobweb to a spider, — 
 He makes it his dwelling, and a prison 
 To entangle those shall feed him. 
 
 Ant. Most true : 
 He never pays debts unless they be shrewd turns, 
 And those he will confess that he doth owe. 
 Last, for his brother there, the cardinal. 
 They that do flatter him most say oracles 
 Hang at his lips ; and verily I believe them, 
 For the devil speaks in them. 
 But for their sister, the right noble duchess. 
 You never fix'd your eye on three fair medals 
 Cast in one figure, of so different temper. 
 For her discourse, it is so full of rapture, 
 You only will begin then to be sorry 
 When she doth end her speech, and wish, in 
 
 wonder. 
 She held it less vainglory to talk much. 
 Than your penance to hear her : whilst she 
 
 She throws upon a man so sweet a look. 
 That it were able to i-aise one to a galliard* 
 That lay in a dead palsy, and to dote 
 On that sweet countenance ; but in that look 
 There speaketh so divine a continence 
 As cuts off all lascivious and vain hope. 
 Her days are practis'd in such noble virtue, 
 That sure her nights, nay, more, her very sleeps, 
 Are more in heaven than other ladies' shrifts. 
 Let all sweet ladies break their flattering glasses. 
 And dress themselves in her. 
 
 Del. Fie, Antonio, 
 You play the wire-drawer with her commenda- 
 tions. 
 
 Ant. I'll case the picture up : only thus much ; 
 All her particular worth grows to this sum, — 
 She stains the time past, lights the time to come. 
 
 Cari. You must attend my lady in the gallei'y, 
 Some half an hour hence. 
 
 Ant. I shall. {Exeunt Antoxio and Delio. 
 
 Ferd. Sister, I have a suit to you. 
 
 Duck. To me, sir ? 
 
 Ferd. A gentleman here, Daniel de Bosola, 
 One that was in the galleys — 
 
 Duch. Yes, I know him. 
 
 Ferd. A worthy fellow ho is: pray, let me 
 entreat for 
 The pro visor ship of your horse. 
 
 Duch. Your knowledge of him 
 Commends him and prefers him. 
 
 Ferd. Call him hither. [Exit Attendant. 
 
 We are now upon partingl Good Lord Silvio, 
 Do us commend to all our noble friends 
 At the leaguer. 
 
 Sil. Sir, I shall. 
 
 Ferd. You are for Milan ? 
 
 Sil. I am. 
 
 1 galliard — a lively, leaping, nimble French dance; 
 from gaUlard, gay. — Nakes. 
 
320 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Duch. Bring the caroches.^ — We'll bring you 
 
 down to the haven, 
 \Exeunt Duchess, Silvio, Castruccio, Rode- 
 EiGo, Grisolan, Cariola, Julia, and At- 
 tendants. 
 Card. Be sure you entertain that Bosola 
 For your intelligence : I would not be seen in't ; 
 And therefore many times I have slighted him 
 When he did court our furtherance, as this 
 morning. 
 Ferd. Antonio, the great-master of her house- 
 Had been far fitter. [hold. 
 
 Card. You are deceiv'd in him : 
 His nature is too honest for such business. — 
 He comes : I'll leave you. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. I was lur'd to you. 
 
 Ferd. My brother, here, the cardinal could 
 never 
 Abide you. 
 
 Bos. Never since he was in my debt. 
 
 Ferd. May be some oblique character in your 
 face 
 Made him suspect you. 
 
 Bos. Doth he study physiognomy ? 
 There's no more credit to be given to the face 
 Than to a sick man's urine, which some call 
 The physician's whore because she cozens him. 
 He did suspect me wrongfully. 
 
 Ferd. For that 
 You must give great men leave to take their 
 
 times. 
 Distrust doth cause us seldom be deceiv'd : 
 You see the oft shaking of the cedar tree 
 Fastens it more at root. 
 
 Bos. Yet, take heed ; 
 For to suspect a friend unworthily 
 Instructs him the next way to suspect you, 
 And prompts him to deceive you. 
 
 Ferd. There's gold. 
 
 Bos. So: 
 What follows? never rained such showers as 
 
 these 
 Without thunderbolts i' the tail of them. Whose 
 throat must I cut ? 
 
 Ferd. Your inclination to shed blood rides post 
 Before my occasion to use yoa. I give you that 
 To live i' the court here, and observe the duchess ; 
 To note all the particulars of her 'haviour, 
 What suitors do solicit her for marriage, 
 And whom she best affects. She's a young 
 
 widow : 
 I would not have her marry again. 
 
 Bos. No, sir ? 
 
 Ferd. Do not you ask the reason ; but be 
 satisfied 
 I say I would not. 
 
 Bos. It seems you would create me 
 One of your familiars. 
 
 Ferd. Familiar ! what's that ? 
 
 Bos. Why, a very quaint invisible devil in 
 flesh, — 
 An intelligencer. 
 
 Ferd. Such a kind of thriving thing 
 I would wish thee ; and ere long thou mayst 
 
 arrive 
 At a higher place by't. 
 
 Bos. Take your devils, 
 Which hell calls angels -.'^ these curs'd gifts would 
 
 make 
 You a corrupter, me an impudent traitor ; 
 And should I take these, they'd take me to hell. 
 
 * earaches — coaches, generally large ones. 
 2 Alluding to the money the duke gave him. An 
 angel was a gold coin worth about ten shillings. 
 
 Ferd. Sir, I'll take nothing from you that I 
 have given : 
 There is a place that I procur'd for you 
 This morning, the provisorship o' the horse 
 Have you heard on't .-* 
 
 Bos. No. 
 
 Ferd. 'Tis yours : is't not worth thanks ? 
 
 Bos. I would have you curse yourself now, that 
 your bounty 
 (Which makes men truly noble) e'er should make 
 
 me 
 A villain. Oh, that to avoid ingratitude 
 For the good deed you have done me, I must do 
 All the ill man can invent ! Thus the devil 
 Candies all sins o'er ; and what heaven terms vile, 
 That names he complemental. 
 
 Ferd. Be yourself ; 
 Keep your old garb of melancholy ; 'twill express 
 You envy those that stand above your reach, 
 Yet strive not to come near 'em : this will gain 
 Access to private lodgings, where yourself 
 May, like a politic dormouse — 
 
 Bos. As I have seen some 
 Feed in a lord's dish, half asleep, not seeming 
 To listen to any talk ; and yet these rogues 
 Have cut his throat in a dream. What's my 
 
 place 7 
 The provisorship o' the horse ? Say, then, my 
 
 corruption 
 Grew out of horse-dung : I am your creature. 
 
 Ferd. Away ! 
 
 Bos. Let good men, for good deeds, covet good 
 fame. 
 Since place and riches oft are bribes of shame : 
 Sometimes the devU doth preach. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Duchess, Cardinal, and Cariola. 
 
 Card. We are to part from you ; and your own 
 discretion 
 Must now be your director. 
 
 Ferd. You are a widow : 
 You know already what man is ; and therefore 
 Let not youth, high promotion, eloquence — 
 
 Card. No, 
 Nor anything without the addition, honour, 
 Sway your high blood. 
 
 Ferd. Marry ! they are most luxurious » 
 Will wed twice. 
 
 Card. Oh, fie ! 
 
 Ferd. Their livers are more spotted 
 Than Laban's sheep. 
 
 Duch. Diamonds are of most value, 
 They say, that have pass'd through most jewel- 
 lers' hands. 
 
 Ferd. Whores by that rule are precious. 
 
 Duch. Will you hear me ? 
 I'll never marry. 
 
 Card. So most widows say; 
 But commonly that motion lasts no longer 
 Than the turning of an hour-glass : the funeral 
 
 sermon 
 And it end both together. 
 
 Ferd. Now hear me : 
 You live in a rank pasture, here, i' the court ; 
 There is a kind of honey-dew that's deadly ; 
 'Twill poison your fame ; look to't : be not 
 
 cunning ; 
 For they whose faces do belie their hearts 
 Are witches ere they ai-rive at twenty years, 
 Ay, and give the devil suck. 
 
 Duch. This is terrible good counsel. 
 
 Ferd. Hypocrisy is woven of a fine small thread, 
 Subtler than Vulcan's engine -^ yet, believe't. 
 
 1 luxurious— v^axdon, lascivious. 
 
 2 Vulcan's engine — ie. the net in which he caught 
 Mars and Venus. — Dyce. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 321 
 
 Your darkest actions, nay, your privat'st thoughts, 
 Will come to light. 
 
 Card. You may flatter yourself, 
 And take your own choice ; privately be married 
 Under the eves of night — 
 
 Ferd. Thiuk't the best voyage 
 That e'er you made ; like the irregular crab. 
 Which, though't goes backward, thinks that it 
 
 goes right. 
 Because it goes its own way : but observe, 
 Such weddings may more propei-ly be said 
 To be executed than celebrated. 
 
 Card. The marriage night 
 Is the entrance into some prison. 
 
 Ferd. And those joys, 
 Those lustful pleasures, are like heavy sleeps 
 Which do forerun man's mischief. 
 
 Card. Fare you well. 
 Wisdom begins at the end : remember it. \Exlt. 
 
 Duch. I think this speech between you both 
 was studied, 
 It came so roundly off. 
 
 Ferd. You are my sister ; 
 This was ray father's poniard, do you see ? 
 I'd be loath to see't look rusty, 'cause 'twas his. 
 I would have you to give o'er these chargeable 
 
 revels : 
 A visor and a mask are whispering-rooms 
 That were never built for goodness ; — fare ye well ! 
 And beware that part, wlaich, like the lamprey. 
 Hath never a bone in't. 
 
 Duch. Fie, sir ! 
 
 Ferd. Nay, 
 I mean the tongue ; variety of courtship : 
 What cannot a neat knave with a smooth tale 
 Make a woman believe ? Farewell, lusty widow. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Duch. Shall this move me ? If all my royal 
 Lay in my way unto this marriage, [kindred 
 I'd make them my low footsteps : and even now, 
 Even in this hate, as men in some great battles, 
 By apprehending danger, have achiev'd 
 Almost impossible actions (I have heard soldiers 
 
 say so). 
 So I through frights and threatenings will assay 
 This dangerous venture. Let old wives report 
 I wink'd and chose a husband. — Cariola, 
 To thy known secrecy I have given up 
 More than my life, — my fame. 
 
 Cari. Both shall be safe ; 
 For I'll conceal this secret from the world 
 As warily as those that trade in poison 
 Keep poison fi'om their children. 
 
 Duch. Thy protestation 
 Is ingenious^ and hearty : I believe it. 
 Is Antonio come ? 
 
 Cari. He attends you. 
 
 Duch. Good dear soul, 
 Leave me ; but place thyself behind the an-as. 
 Where thou may'st overhear us. Wish me good 
 For I am going into a wilderness [speed ; 
 
 Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clew 
 To be my guide. {Exit Cariola. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 I sent for you : sit down ; 
 Take pen and ink, and write : are you ready ? 
 
 Ant. Yes. 
 
 Duch. What did I say ? 
 
 Ant. That I should write somewhat. 
 
 Duch. Oh, I remember. 
 After these triumphs and this large expense, 
 It's fit, like thrifty husbands, we inquire 
 What's laid up for to-morrow. 
 
 1 ingenious— for ingenuous. The terms were often 
 tratsposed by early -writers.-- Hallwell. 
 
 Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. 
 
 Duch. Beauteous! 
 Indeed, I thank you : I look young for your sake ; 
 You have ta'en my cares upon you. 
 
 Ant. I'll fetch your grace 
 The particulars of your revenue and expense. 
 
 Duch. Oh, you are 
 An upright treasurer : but you mistook ; 
 For when I said I meant to make inquiry 
 What's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean, 
 What's laid up yonder for me. 
 
 Ant. Where.? 
 
 Duch. In heaven. 
 I am making my will (as 'tis fit princes shoulA, 
 In perfect memory), and, I pray, sir, tell me, 
 Were not one better make it smiling, thus. 
 Than in deep groans and tei-rible ghastly looks, 
 As if the gifts we parted with procur'd 
 That violent distraction ? 
 
 Ant. Oh, much better. 
 
 Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were 
 quit; 
 But I intend to make you overseer. 
 What good deed shall we first remember ? say. 
 
 Ant. Begin with that first good deed began 
 i' the world 
 After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage : 
 I'd have you first provide for a good husband ; 
 Give him all. 
 
 Duch. All! 
 
 Ant. Yes, your excellent self. 
 
 Duch. In a winding-sheet ? 
 
 Ant. In a couple. 
 
 Duch. Saint Winifred, that were a strange will ! 
 
 Ant. 'T were stranger if there were no will in you 
 To marry again. 
 
 Duch. What do you think of marriage ? 
 
 Ant. I take't, as those that deny purgatory, 
 It loyally contains or heaven or hell ; 
 There's no third place in't. 
 
 Duch. How do you affect it ? 
 
 Ant. My banishment, feeding my melancholy, 
 Would often reason thus. 
 
 Duch. Pray let's hear it. 
 
 Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children. 
 What takes that from him ? Only the bare name 
 Of being a father, or the weak delight 
 To see the little wanton ride a-cock-horse 
 Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter 
 Like a taught starling. 
 
 Duch. Fie, fie, what's all this ? 
 One of your eyes is bloodshot ; use my ring to't. 
 They say 'tis very sovereign : 'twas my wedding- 
 ring. 
 And I did vow never to part with it 
 But to my second husband. 
 
 Ant. You have parted with it now. 
 
 Duch. Yes, to help your eyesight. 
 
 Ant. You have made me stark blind. 
 
 Duch. How? 
 
 Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil 
 Is dancing in this circle. 
 
 Duch. Kemove him. 
 
 Ant. How.? 
 
 Dtich. There needs small conjuration, when 
 your finger 
 May do it : thus ; is it fit ? {He kneels. 
 
 Ant. What said you ? 
 
 Duch. Sir, 
 This goodly roof of yours is too low bnilt ; 
 I cannot stand upright in't, nor discourse, 
 Without I raise it higher. Kaise yourself ; 
 Or, if you please, my hand to help you : so. 
 
 Ant. Ambition, madam, is a great man's mad- 
 ness. 
 That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms, 
 But in fair, lightsome lodgings, and is girt 
 
322 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 With the wild noise of prattling visitants, 
 Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure. 
 Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim 
 Whereto your favours tend ; but he's a fool 
 That, being a-coid, would thrust his hands i' the 
 
 fire 
 To warm them. 
 
 Duch. So, now the ground's broke, 
 You may discover what a wealthy mine 
 I make you lord of. 
 
 Ant. Oh, my unworthiness ! 
 
 Buck. You were ill to sell yourself. 
 This darkening of your worth is not like that 
 Which tradesmen use i' the city ; their false lights 
 Are to rid bad wares off. And I must tell you, 
 If you will know where breathes a cdmplete man 
 (I speak it without flattery), turn your eyes, 
 And progress through yourself. 
 
 Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, 
 I should be honest. I have long serv'd virtue, 
 And ne'er ta'en wages of her. 
 
 Duch. Now she pays it. 
 The misery of us that are bom great ! 
 We are forc'd to woo, because none dare woo us ; 
 And as a tyrant doubles with his words, 
 And fearfully equivocates, so we 
 Are forc'd to express our violent passions 
 In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path 
 Of simple virtue, which was never made 
 To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag 
 You have left me heartless ; mine is in your 
 
 bosom. 
 I hope 'twill mioltiply love there. You do 
 
 tremble : 
 Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh. 
 To fear more than to love me. Sir, be confident ; 
 What is't distracts you ? This is flesh and blood, 
 
 sir; 
 'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster 
 Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, 
 
 man! 
 I do here put oflf all vain ceremony, 
 And only do appear to you a young widow 
 That claims you for her husband; and, like a 
 
 widow, 
 I use but half a blush in't. 
 
 Ant. Truth speak for me ; 
 I will remain the constant sanctuary 
 Of your good name. 
 
 Duch. I thank you, gentle love ; 
 And 'cause you shall not come to me in debt. 
 Being now my steward, here upon your lips 
 I sign your Quietus est. This you should have 
 
 begg'd now : 
 I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus, 
 As fearful to devour them too soon. 
 
 Ant. But for your brothers ? 
 
 Duch. Do not think of them. 
 All discord without this circumference 
 Is only to be pitied, and not fear'd. 
 Yet, should they know it, time will easily 
 Scatter the tempest. 
 
 Ant. These words should be mine. 
 And aU the parts you have spoke, if some part 
 
 of it 
 Would not have savour'd flattery. 
 Duch. Kneel. 
 
 Ente7' Oariola. 
 
 Ant. Ha! 
 
 Duch. Be not amaz'd ; this woman's of my 
 counsel. 
 I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber 
 Per vei'ba presenti^ is absolute marriage. 
 
 ' By word of mouth in th^ presence of one- 
 
 Bless, Heaven, this sacred gordian, which let 
 
 violence 
 Never untwine ! 
 
 Ant. And may our sweet affections, like the 
 spheres. 
 Be still in motion ! 
 
 Duch. Quickening, and make 
 The like soft music ! 
 
 Ant. That we may imitate the loving palms, 
 Best emblem of a peaceful marriage. 
 That never bore fruit divided! 
 
 Duch. What can the church force more ? 
 
 Ant. That fortune may not know an accident, 
 Either of joy or sorrow, to divide 
 Our fixfed wishes ! 
 
 Duch. How can the church build faster ? 
 We now are man and wife, and 'tis the church 
 That must but echo this. — Maid, stand apart ; 
 I now am blind. 
 
 Ant. What's your conceit in this ? 
 
 Duch. I would have you lead your fortune by 
 the hand 
 Unto your marriage-bed : 
 (You speak in me this, for we now are one) : 
 We'll only lie, and talk together, and plot 
 To appease my humorous kindred ; and, if you 
 
 please. 
 Like the old tale in Alexander and Lodowick, 
 Lay a naked sword between us, keep us chaste. 
 Oh, let me shroud my blushes in your bosom, 
 Since 'tis the treasury of all my secrets ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Duchess and Antonio. 
 
 Cari. Whether the spirit of greatness or of 
 woman 
 Eeign most in her, I know not ; but it shows 
 A fearful madness. I owe her much of pitv. 
 
 '[Exit. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE L 
 Enter Bosola and Castruccio. 
 
 Bos. You say you would fain be taken for an 
 eminent courtier ? 
 
 Cast. 'Tis the very main of my ambition. 
 
 Bos. Let me see : you have a reasonable good 
 face for't already, and your night-cap expresses 
 your ears sufficient largely. I would have you 
 learn to twirl the strings of your band with a 
 good grace, and in a set speech, at the end of 
 every sentence, to hum three or four times, or 
 blow your nose till it smart again, to recover 
 your memory. When you come to be a president 
 in criminal causes, if you smile upon a prisoner, 
 hang him ; but if you frown upon him and 
 threaten him, let him be sure to scape the gal- 
 lows. 
 
 Cast. I would be a very merry president. 
 
 Bos. Do not sup o'nights ; 'twill beget you an 
 admirable wit. 
 
 Cast. Bather it would make me have a good 
 stomach to quarrel ; for they say your roaring 
 boysi eat meat seldom, and that makes them 
 so valiant. But how shall I know whether the 
 people take me for an eminent fe]low ? 
 
 Bos. I will teach a trick to know it- Give out 
 you lie a-dying, and if you hear the common 
 people curse you, be sure you are taken for one 
 of the prime night-caps.^ 
 
 Enter an Old Lady. 
 
 You come from painting now. 
 Old Lady. From what ? 
 
 1 roaring loys. See note 3, p. 183, col. 2. 
 * night-caps— fixe same as roaring boys. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER, 
 
 323 
 
 Bos. Why, fi-om your scurvy face-physic. To 
 behold thee not painted inclines somewhat near 
 a miracle. These in thy face here were deep 
 ruts and foul sloughs the last progress.^ There 
 was a lady in France that, having had the small- 
 pox, flayed the skin off her face to make it more 
 level ; and whereas before she looked like a 
 nutmeg-grater, after she resembled an abortive 
 hedge-hog. 
 
 Old Lady. Do you call this painting ? 
 
 Bos. No, no, but you call it careening of an 
 old morphewed2 lady, to make her disembogue 
 again : there's rough-cast phrase to your plastic. 
 
 Old Lady. It seems you are well acquainted 
 with my closet. 
 
 Bos. One would suspect it for a shop of witch- 
 craft, to find in it the fat of serpents, spawn of 
 snakes, Jews' spittle, and their young children's 
 ordure ; and all these for the face. I would sooner 
 eat a dead pigeon taken from the soles of the 
 feet of one sick of the plague, than kiss one of 
 you fasting. Here are two of you, whose sin of 
 your youth is the very patrimony of the phy- 
 sician ; makes him renew his foot-cloth^ with the 
 spring, and change his high-priced courtezan with 
 the fall of the leaf. I do wonder you do not loathe 
 yourselves. Observe my meditation now. 
 What thing is in this outward form of man 
 To be belov'd ? We account it ominous, 
 If nature do produce a colt, or lamb, 
 A fawn, or goat, in any limb resembling 
 A man, and fly from 't as a prodigy: 
 Man stands amaz'd to see his deformity 
 In any other creature but himself. 
 But in our own flesh though we bear diseases 
 Which have their true names only ta'en from 
 
 beasts, — 
 As the most ulcerous wolf * and swinish measle, — 
 Though we are eaten up of lice and worms, 
 And though continually we bear about us 
 A rotten and dead body, we delight 
 To hide it in rich tissue : all our fear, 
 Nay, all our terror, is, lest our physician 
 Should put us in the ground to be made sweet. — 
 Your wife's gone to Kome : you two couple, and 
 get you to the wells at Lucca to recover your 
 aches. I have other work on foot. 
 
 [Exeunt Oastruccio and Old Lady. 
 I observe our duchess 
 
 Is sick a-days, she pukes, her stomach seethes. 
 The fins of her eyelids look most teeming blue, 
 She wanes i'the cheek, and waxes fat i'the flank, 
 And, contrary to our Italian fashion. 
 Wears a loose-bodied gown: there's somewhat 
 
 in't. 
 I have a trick may chance discover it, 
 A pretty one; I have bought some apricocks,s 
 The first our spring yields. 
 
 Enter AsTOJino and Delio. 
 
 Del. And so long since married ! 
 You amaze me. 
 
 -, Ant. Let me seal your lips for ever : 
 For, did I think that anything but the air 
 Could carry these words from you, I should wish 
 You had no breath at all.— Now, sir, in your 
 
 contemplation ? 
 You are studying to become a great wise feUow. 
 
 1 progress— i.e. the progress of the sovereign through 
 the kingdom. 
 
 2 morphewed. Morphew was a leprous eniption. 
 
 ^ foot-cloth — housings of cloth hung over a horse. 
 ■» wolf— a. term applied to an eating ulcer. 
 * apricocks — the old form of apricots, from Lat. vraecox, I 
 Iv rlDe. " I 
 
 Bos. Oh, sir, the opinion of wisdom is a foul 
 tetter ^ that runs all over a man's body : if sim- 
 plicity direct us to have no evil, it directs us to 
 a happy being; for the subtlest folly proceeds 
 from the subtlest wisdom ; let me be simply 
 honest. 
 
 Ant. I do understand your inside. 
 
 Bos. Do you so ? 
 
 Ant. Because you would not seem to appear to 
 the world 
 Puff'd up with your preferment, you continue 
 This out- of-fashion melancholy: leave it, leave it. 
 
 Bos. Give me leave to be honest in any phrase, 
 in any compliment whatsoever. Shall I confess 
 myself to you ? I look no higher than I can 
 reach: they are the gods that must ride on 
 winged horses. A lawyer's mule of a slow pace 
 will both suit my disposition and business ; for, 
 mark me, when a man's mind rides faster than 
 his horse can gallop, they quickly both tire. 
 
 Ant. You would look up to heaven, but I 
 think 
 The devil, that rules i' the air, stands in your 
 light. 
 
 Bos. Oh, sir, you are lord of the ascendant, 
 chief man with the duchess ; a duke was your 
 cousin-german removed. Say you were lineally 
 descended from King Pepin, or he himself, what 
 of this ? search the heads of the gi-eatest rivers 
 in the world, you shall find them but bubbles of 
 water. Some would think the souls of princes 
 were brought forth by some more weighty cause 
 than those of meaner persons : they are deceived, 
 there's the same hand to them ; the like passions 
 sway them ; the same reason that makes a vicar 
 to go to law for a tithe-pig, and undo his neigh- 
 bours, makes them spoil a whole province, and 
 batter down goodly cities with the cannon. 
 
 Entej' Duchess and Ladies. 
 
 JDuch. Your arm, Antonio : do I not grow fat ? 
 I am exceeding short-winded. — Bosola, 
 I would have you, sir, provide for me a litter ; 
 Such a one as the Duchess of Florence rode in. 
 
 Bos. The duchess us'd one when she was great 
 with child. 
 
 Buck. I think she did. — Come hither, mend 
 my ruff : 
 Here, when ? 2 thou art such a tedious lady ; and 
 Thy breath smells of lemon-pills: would thou 
 
 hadst done ! 
 Shall I swoon under thy fingers ? I am 
 So troubled with the mother ! 3 
 
 Bos. [aside.^ I fear too much. 
 
 Buck. I have heard you say that the French 
 courtiers 
 Wear their hats on 'fore the king, 
 
 Ant. 1 have seen it. 
 
 Buck. In the presence ? 
 
 Ant. Yes. 
 
 Buck. Why should not we bring up that 
 fashion ? 
 'Tis ceremony more than duty that consists 
 In the removing of a piece of felt : 
 Be you the example to the rest o' the court ; 
 Put on your hat first. 
 
 Ant. You must pardon me : 
 I have seen, in colder countries than in France, 
 Nobles stand bare to the prince ; and the distinc- 
 tion 
 Methought show'd reverently. 
 
 Bos. I have a present for your grace. 
 
 early ripe. 
 
 1 tetter— skin disease. 
 
 2 tc^en— an exclamation of impatience. 
 
 3 the mother — hysterical passions. 
 
324 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Duck. For me, sir ? 
 
 Bos. Apricocks. madam. 
 
 Duch. Oh, sir, where are they ? 
 I have heard of none to-year. 
 
 Bos. \aside.'\ Good ; her colour rises. 
 
 Duch. Indeed, I thank you : they are -wondrous 
 fair ones. 
 "What an unskilful fellow is our gardener! 
 We shall have none this month. 
 
 Bos. Will not your grace pare them ? 
 
 Duch. No : they taste of musk, methinks ; in- 
 deed they do. 
 
 Bos. I know not : yet I wish your grace had 
 par'd 'em. 
 
 Duch. Why.? 
 
 Bos. I forgot to tell you, the knave gardener, 
 Only to raise his profit by them the sooner, 
 Dig ripen them in horse-dung. 
 
 Duch. Oh, you jest. — 
 You shall judge : pray, taste one. 
 
 Ant. Indeed, madam, 
 I do not love the fruit. 
 
 Duch. Sir, you are loath 
 To rob us of our dainties : 'tis a delicate fruit ; 
 They say they are restorative. 
 
 Bos. 'Tis a pretty art, 
 This grafting. 
 
 Duch. 'Tis so ; bettering of nature. 
 
 Bos. To make a pippin grow upon a crab, 
 A damson on a blackthorn. — [Aside.^ How 
 
 greedily she eats them ! 
 A whirlwind strike off these bawd farthingales ! 
 For, but for that and the loose-bodied gown, 
 I should have discover'd apparently 
 The young springali cutting a caper in her 
 belly. 
 
 Duch. I thank you, Bosola: they were right 
 good ones, 
 If they do not make me sick. 
 
 Ant. How noAV, madam ! 
 
 Duch. This green fruit and my stomach are 
 not friends : 
 How they swell me ! 
 
 Bos. [(iside.'] Nay, you are too much swell'd 
 already. 
 
 Duch. Oh, I am in an extreme cold sweat ! 
 
 Bos. I am very sorry, 
 
 Duch. Lights to my chamber! — Oh good An- 
 tonio, 
 I fear I am undone ! 
 
 Del. Lights there, lights ! 
 
 [Exeunt Duchess and Ladies. — Exit^ on the 
 other side, Bosola. 
 
 Ant. Oh my most trusty Delio, we are lost! 
 1 fear she's fall'n in labour ; and there's left 
 No time for her remove. 
 
 Del. Have you prepar'd 
 Those ladies to attend her ? and procur'd 
 That politic safe conveyance for the midwife 
 Your duchess plotted ? 
 
 Ant. I have. 
 
 Del. Make use, then, of this forc'd occasion : 
 Give out that Bosola hath poison'd her 
 With these apricocks ; that will give some colour 
 For her keeping close. 
 
 Ant. Fie, fie ! the physicians 
 Will then flock to her. 
 
 Del. For that you may pretend 
 She'll use some prepared antidote of her own. 
 Lest the physicians should re-poison her. 
 
 Ant. I am lost in amazement : I know not 
 what to think on't. lEzeunt. 
 
 I springal—la.i, youth ; old Fr.. ipringaller, to leap, 
 sport. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IL 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. So, so, there's no question but her tetchi- 
 ness and most vulturoi;s eating of the apricocks 
 are apparent signs of breeding. 
 
 Enter an Old Lady. 
 Now? 
 
 Old Lady. I am in haste, sir. 
 
 Bos. There was a young waiting-woman had 
 a monstrous desire to see the glasshouse — 
 
 Old Lady. Nay, pray let me go. 
 
 Bos. And it was only to know what strange 
 instrument it was should swell up a glass to the 
 fashion of a woman's belly. 
 
 Old Lady. I will hear no more of the glass- 
 house. You are still abusing women ! 
 
 Bos. Who, I ? no ; only, by the way now and 
 then, mention your frailties. The orange-tree 
 bears ripe and green fruit and blossoms all to- 
 gether ; and some of you give entertainment for 
 pure love, but more for more precious reward. 
 The lusty spring smells well ; but drooping 
 autumn tastes well. If we have the same golden 
 showers that rained in the time of Jupiter the 
 Thunderer, you have the same Danaes still, to 
 hold up their laps to receive them. Didst thou 
 never study the mathematics ? 
 
 Old Lady. What's that, sir? 
 
 Bos. Why. to know the trick how to make i 
 many lines meet in one centre. Go, go, give 
 your foster-daughters good counsel : tell them, 
 that the devil takes delight to hang at a woman's 
 girdle, like a false rusty watch, that she cannot 
 discern how the time passes. [^Exit Old Lady. 
 
 Enter Antonio, Eoderigo, and Grisolan. 
 
 Ant. Shut up the court-gates. 
 Bod. Why, sir ? what's the danger ? 
 Ant. Shut up the posterns presently, and call 
 All the officers o' the court. 
 
 Oris. I shall instantly. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. Who keeps the key o' the park gate ? 
 Rod. Forobosco. 
 Ant. Let him bring't presently. 
 
 Enter Grisolan and Servants. 
 
 1 Sei'v. Oh, gentlemen o' the court, the foulest 
 treason ! 
 
 Bos. [aside.'] If that these apricocks should 
 be poison'd now, 
 Without my knowledge : 
 
 1 Sero. There was taken even now a Switzer 
 in the duchess' bedchamber — 
 
 2 Serv. A Switzer: 
 
 1 Serv. With a pistol in his groat cod-piece. 
 Bos. Ha, ha, ha I 
 
 1 Sei'v. The cod-piece was the case for't. 
 
 2 Serv. There was a cunning traitor: who 
 would have searched his cod-piece ? 
 
 1 Serv. True, if he had kept out of the ladies' 
 chambers : and all the moulds of his buttons 
 were leaden bullets. 
 
 2 Serv. Oh, wicked cannibal! a fire-lock ins 
 cod-piece ! 
 
 1 Serv. 'Twas a French plot, upon my life. 
 
 2 jS'ery. To see what the devil can do ! 
 Ant. Are all the officers here ? 
 Servants. We are. 
 
 Ant. Gentlemen, 
 We have lost much plate you know ; and but 
 
 this evening 
 Jewels, to the value of four thousand ducats, 
 Are missing in the duchess' cabinet. 
 Are the gates shut ? 
 
JOHN WEBSTER, 
 
 325 
 
 Sew. Yes. 
 
 Ant. 'Tis the duchess' pleasure 
 Each officer be lock'd into his chamber 
 Till the sunrising ; and to send the keys 
 Of all their chests and of their outward doors 
 Into her bed-chamber. She is very sick. 
 
 Rod. At her pleasure. 
 
 Ant. She entreats you take't not ill: the 
 innocent 
 Shall be the more approved by it. 
 
 ^05. Gentlemen o' the woodyard, where's your 
 Switzer now? 
 
 1 Scrv. By this hand, 'twas credibly reported 
 by one o' the black guard.* 
 
 \Exeunt all except Antonio and Delio. 
 
 JDel. How fares it with the duchess ? 
 
 Ant. She's exposed 
 Unto the worst of tortures, — pain and fear. 
 
 Bel. Speak to her all happy comfort. 
 
 Ant. How I do play the fool with mine own 
 danger ! 
 You are this night, dear friend, to post to Rome : 
 My life lies in your sei'vice. 
 
 Del. Do not doubt me. 
 
 Ant. Oh, 'tis far from me ; and yet fear presents 
 Somewhat that looks like danger. [me 
 
 Del. Believe it, 
 'Tis but the shadow of your fear, no more : 
 How superstitiously we mind our evils ! 
 The throwing down salt, or crossing of a hare, 
 Bleeding at nose, the stumbling of a horse, 
 Or singing of a cricket, are of power 
 To daunt whole man in us. Sir, fare you well : 
 I wish you all the joys of a bless'd father ; 
 And, for my faith, lay this unto your bx-east, — 
 Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best. 
 
 lExU. 
 
 Enter Cariola. 
 
 Cari. Sir, you are the happy father of a son : 
 Your wife commends him to you. 
 
 A7it. Blessed comfort ! — 
 For Heaven's sake tend her well : I'll presently 
 Go set a figure for's nativity. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL- SCENE III. 
 Enter Bosola with a dark lantern. 
 
 Bos. Sure I did hear a woman shriek : list, ha ! 
 And the sound came, if I received it right, 
 From the duchess' lodgings. There's some 
 
 stratagem 
 In the confining all our courtiers 
 To their several wards : I must have part of it ; 
 My intelligence will freeze else. List, again ! 
 It may be 'twas the melancholy bird. 
 Best friend of silence and of solitariness. 
 The owl, that screamed so. — Ha ! Antonio ! 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Ant. I heard some noise. — Who's there ? what 
 art thou ? speak. 
 
 Bos. Antonio, put not your face nor body 
 To such a f orc'd expression of fear : 
 I am Bosola, your friend. 
 
 A7it. Bosola! — 
 
 [Aside.] This mole does undermine me.— Heard 
 you not 
 A noise even now ? 
 
 Bos. From whence ? 
 
 Ant. From the duchess' lodgings. 
 
 Bos. Not I; did you? 
 
 » black guard— the lowest menials or scullions. 
 
 Ant. I did, or else I dream'd. 
 
 Bos. Let's walk towards it. 
 
 Ant. No : it may be 'twas 
 But the rising of the wind. 
 
 Bos. Very likely. 
 Methinks 'tis very cold, and yet you sweat : 
 You look wildly. 
 
 Ant. I have been setting a figure 
 For the duchess' jewels. 
 
 Bos. Ah ! and how falls your question ? 
 Do you find it radical ? 
 
 Ant. What's that to you ? 
 'Tis rather to be question'd what design. 
 When all men were commanded to their lodgings, 
 Makes you a night-walker. 
 
 Bos. In sooth, I'll tell you : 
 Now all the court's asleep, I thought the devil 
 Had least to do here. I came to say my prayers ; 
 And if it do offend you I do so. 
 You are a fine courtier. 
 
 A7it. [aside.'] This fellow will undo me. — 
 You gave the duchess apricocks to-day: 
 Pray heaven they were not poison'd ! 
 
 Bos. Poison'd ! a Spanish fig 
 For the imputation. 
 
 Ant. Traitors are ever confident 
 Till they are discover'd. There wei'e jewels 
 
 stol'n too : 
 In my conceit, none are to be suspected 
 More than yourself. 
 
 Bos. You are a false steward. 
 
 Ant. Saucy slave, I'll pull thee up by the roots. 
 
 Bos. May be the ruin will crush you to pieces. 
 
 Ant. You are an impudent snake indeed, sir ! 
 Are you scarce warm, and do you show your 
 
 sting ? 
 You libel well, sir. 
 
 Bos. No, sir ; copy it out, 
 And I will set my hand to't. 
 
 Ant. [aside.] My nose bleeds. 
 One that were superstitious would count 
 This ominous, when it merely comes by chance : 
 Two letters that are wrote here for my name, 
 Are drown'd in blood ! 
 
 Mere accident ! — For you, sir, I'll take order 
 I' the morn you shall be safe : — [aside.] 'tis that 
 
 must colour 
 Her lying in : — sir, this door you pass not : 
 I do not hold it fit that you come near 
 The duchess' lodgings, till you have quit your- 
 self. — 
 [Aside.] The great are like the base, nay, they 
 
 are the same. 
 When they seek shameful ways to avoid shame. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Bos. Antonio hereabout did drop a paper : — 
 Some of your help, false friend :* — Oh, here it is. 
 What's here ? a child's nativity calculated ! 
 
 [Reads. 
 
 ' The duchess was delivered of a son, Hween the 
 hours twelve and one in the night, Anno Dom. 
 1504,' — that's this year — '■decimo nono Decem- 
 bris,^ — that's this night, — ' taken according to the 
 meridian of Malfi,' — that's our duchess: happy 
 discovery ! — ' The lord of the first house being 
 combust in the ascendant, signifies short life ; and 
 Mars being in a human sign, joined to the tail of 
 the Dragon, in the eighth house, doth threaten a 
 violent death. Cxtera non scrutantur.^ 
 Why, now 'tis most apparent : this precise fellow 
 Is the duchess' bawd : — I have it to my wish ! 
 This is a parcel of intelligeucy 
 Our courtiers were cas'd up for ; it needs must 
 follow 
 
 ^ false friend— i.e. his lantern. — W. Hazlitt. 
 
326 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 That I must be committed on pretence 
 
 Of poisoning her ; which I'll endure, and laugh at. 
 
 If one could find the father now! but that 
 
 Time will discover. Old Castruccio 
 
 r the morning posts to Eome ; by him I'll send 
 
 A letter that shall make her brothers' galls 
 
 O'erflow their livers. This was a thrifty way. 
 
 Though lust do mask in ne'er so strange disguise, 
 
 She's oft found witty, but is never wise. \Exit. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE IV. 
 Enter Cardinal and Julia. 
 
 Card. Sit ; thou art my best of wishes. Prithee, 
 tell me 
 What trick didst thou invent to come to Eome 
 Without thy husband ? 
 
 Julia. Why, my lord, I told him 
 I came to visit an old anchorite 
 Here for devotion. 
 
 Card. Thou art a witty false one, — 
 I mean, to him. 
 
 Julia. You have prevail'd with me 
 Beyond my strongest thoughts. I would not now 
 Find you inconstant. 
 
 Card. Do not put thyself 
 To such a voluntary torture, which proceeds 
 Out of your own guilt. 
 
 Julia. How, my lord ! 
 
 Card. You fear 
 My constancy, because you have approv'd 
 Those giddy and wild turnings in yourself. 
 
 Julia. Did you e'er find them ? 
 
 Card. Sooth, generally for women, 
 A man might strive to make glass malleable, 
 Ere he should make them fixfed. 
 
 Julia. So, my lord. 
 
 Card. We had need go borrow that fantastic 
 glass 
 Invented by Galileo the Florentine 
 To view another spacious world i' the moon, 
 And look to find a constant woman there. 
 
 Julia. This is very well, my lord. 
 
 Card. Why do you weep ? 
 Are tears your justification ? the self-same tears 
 Will fall into your husband's bosom, lady. 
 With a loud protestation that you love him 
 Above the world. Come, I'll love you wisely, 
 That's jealously ; since I am very certain 
 You cannot make me cuckold. 
 
 Julia. I'll go home 
 To my husband. 
 
 Card. You may thank me, lady, 
 I have taken you off your melancholy perch, 
 Bore you upon my fist, and show'd you game, 
 And let you fly at it. — I pray thee, kiss me. — 
 When thou wast with thy husband, thou wast 
 
 watch'd 
 Like a tame elephant, — still you are to thank 
 
 me: — 
 Thou hadstonly kisses from him and highfeeding ; 
 But what delight was that.? 'twas just like one 
 That hath a little fingering on the lute. 
 Yet cannot tune it : — still you are to thank me. 
 
 Julia. You told me of a piteous wound i' the 
 heart 
 And a sick liver, when you woo'd me first, 
 And spake like one in physic. 
 
 Card. Who's that?— 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Rest firm, for my affection to thee, 
 Lightning moves slow to't. 
 
 Serv. Madam, a gentleman. 
 That's tcme post from Malfi, desires to see you. 
 
 Card. Let him enter: I'll withdraw. [Exit. 
 
 Serv. He says 
 Your husband, old Castruccio, is come to Rome, 
 Most pitifully tir'd with riding post. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Delio. 
 
 Julia. Signior Delio ! 'tis one of my old suitors. 
 
 Del. I was bold to come and see you. 
 
 Julia. Sir, you are welcome. 
 
 Del. Do you lie here ? 
 
 Julia. Sure, your own experience 
 Will satisfy you no : our Roman prelates 
 Do not keep lodging for ladies. 
 
 Del. Very well. 
 I have brought you no commendations from your 
 
 husband. 
 For I know none by him. 
 
 Julia. I hear he's come to Rome. 
 
 Del. I never knew man and beast, of a horse 
 and a knight. 
 So weary of each other : if he had had a good 
 
 back, 
 He would have undertook to have borne his horse, 
 His breech was so pitifully sore. 
 
 Julia. Your laughter 
 Is my pity. 
 
 Del. Lady, I know not whether 
 You want money, but I have brought you some. 
 
 Julia. From my husband 7 
 
 Del. No, from mine own allowance. 
 
 Julia. I must hear the condition, ere I be bound 
 to take it. 
 
 Del. Look on't, 'tis gold; hath it not a fin© 
 colour ? 
 
 Julia. I have a bird more beautiful. 
 
 Del. Try the sound on't. 
 
 Julia. A lute-string far exceeds it : 
 It hath no smell, like cassia or civet ; 
 Nor is it physical,^ though some fond doctors 
 Persuade us seethe't in cullises.^ I'll tell you, 
 This is a ci'eature bred by — 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Your husband's come, 
 Hath deliver'd a letter to the Duke of Calabria 
 That, to my thinking, hath put him out of his wits. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Julia. Sir, you hear : 
 Pray, let me know your business and your suit 
 As briefly as can be. 
 
 Del. With good speed. I would wish you, 
 At such time as you are non-resident 
 With your husband, my mistress. 
 
 Julia. Sir, I'll go ask my husband if I shall, 
 And straight return your answer. [Exit. 
 
 Del. Very fine ! 
 Is this her wit, or honesty, that spenCks thus ? 
 I heard one say the duke was highly mov'd 
 With a letter sent from Malfi. I do fear 
 Antonio is betray'd ; how fearfully 
 Shows his ambition now! unfortunate fortune! 
 They pass through whirlpools, and deep woes do 
 
 shun. 
 Who the event weigh ere the action's done. [Exit. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE V. 
 
 Enter Cardinal, and Ferdinand with a letter. 
 
 Ferd. I have this night digg'd up a mandrake. 
 
 Card. Say you ? 
 
 Ferd. And I am grown mad with't. 
 
 Card. What's the prodigy ? 
 
 1 physical— o{ the nature of physic, medicinal. 
 
 2 cuUises See note 1, p. 52, col. 1. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 327 
 
 Ferd. Read there, — a sister damn'd; she's loose 
 i' the hilts ; 
 Grown a notorious strumpet. 
 
 Card. Speak lower. 
 
 Ferd. Lower! 
 Eogues do not whisper't now, but seek to publish't 
 (As servants do the bounty of their lords) 
 Aloud; and with a covetous searching eye, 
 To mark who note them. Oh, confusion seize her ! 
 She hath had most cunning bawds to serve her 
 
 turn, 
 And more secure conveyances for lust 
 Than towns of garrison for service. 
 
 Card. Is't possible ? 
 Can this be certain 1 
 
 Fred. Rhubarb, oh, for rhubarb 
 To purge this choler ! here's the cursed day 
 To prompt my memory; and here't shall stick 
 Till of her bleeding heart I make a sponge 
 To wipe it out. 
 
 Card. Why do you make yourself 
 So wild a tempest? 
 
 Ferd. Would I could be one. 
 That I might toss her palace 'bout her ears, 
 Root up her goodly forests, blast her meads, 
 And lay her general territory as waste 
 As she hath done her honours. 
 
 Card. Shall our blood, 
 The royal blood of Arragon and Castile, 
 Be thus attainted ? 
 
 Ferd. Apply desperate physic : 
 We must not now use balsamum, but fire, 
 The smarting cupping-glass, for that's the mean 
 To purge infected blood, such blood as hers. 
 There is a kind of pity in mine eye, — 
 I'll give it to my handkerchief: and now 'tis here, 
 I'll bequeath this to her bastard. 
 
 Card. What to do ? 
 
 Ferd. Why, to make soft lint for his mother's 
 wounds. 
 When I have hew'd her to pieces. 
 
 Card. Cux'sed creature ! 
 Unequal nature, to place women's hearts 
 So far upon the left side ! 
 
 Ferd. Foolish men, 
 That e'er will trust their honour in a bark 
 Made of so slight weak bulrush as is woman, 
 Apt every minute to sink it ! 
 
 Card. Thus 
 Ignorance, when it hath purchas'd honour, 
 It cannot wield it. 
 
 Ferd. Methinks I see her laughing, — 
 Excellent hyena! Talk to me somewhat quickly, 
 Or my imagination will carry me 
 To see her in the shameful act of sin. 
 
 Card. With whom ? 
 
 Ferd. Happily with some strong-thigh'd barge- 
 man, 
 Or one o' the woodyard that can quoit the sledge, 
 Or toss the bar, or else some lovely squire 
 That carries coals up to her privy lodgings. 
 
 Card. You fly beyond your reason. 
 
 Ferd. Go to, mistress ! 
 'Tis not your whore's milk that shall quench my 
 
 wild-fire, 
 But your whore's blood. 
 
 Card. How idly shows this rage, which carries 
 
 you, 
 
 As men convey'd by witches through the air, 
 On violent whirlwinds ! this intemperate noise 
 Fitly resembles deaf men's shrill discourse, 
 Who talk aloud, thinking all other men 
 To have their imperfection. 
 
 Ferd. Have not you 
 My palsy ? 
 
 Card. Yes ; I can be angry 
 Without this rupture : there is not in nature 
 
 A thing that makes man so deform'd, so beastly. 
 As doth intemperate anger. Chide yourself. 
 You have divers men who never yet express'd 
 Their strong desire of rest but by unrest, 
 By vexing of themselves. Come, put yourself 
 In tune. 
 
 Ferd. So I will only study to seem 
 The thing I am not. I could kill her now, 
 In you, or in myself ; for I do think 
 It is some sin in us heaven doth revenge 
 By her. 
 
 Card. Are you stark mad ? 
 Ferd. I would have their bodies 
 Burnt in a coal-pit with the ventage stopp'd, 
 That their curs'd smoke might not ascend to 
 
 heaven ; 
 Or dip the sheets they lie in in pitch or 
 
 sulphur. 
 Wrap them in't, and then light them like a match: 
 Or else to boil their bastard to a cuUis,' 
 And give't his lecherous father to renew 
 The sin of his back. 
 Card. I'll leave you. 
 Ferd. Nay, I have done. 
 I am confident^ had I been damn'd in hell, 
 And should have heard of this, it would have 
 
 put me 
 Into a cold sweat. In, in ; I'll go sleep. 
 Till I know who leaps my sister, I'll not stir: 
 That known, I'll find scorpions to string my 
 
 whips, 
 And fix her in a general eclipse. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 Enter Antonio and Delio. 
 
 Ant. Our noble friend, my most beloved Delio ! 
 Oh, you have been a stranger long at court : 
 Came you along with the Lord Ferdinand ? 
 
 Del. I did, sir: and how fares your noble 
 duchess ? 
 
 Ant. Right fortunately well : she's an excellent 
 Feeder of pedigrees ; since you last saw her. 
 She hath had two children more, a son and 
 daughter. 
 
 Del. Methinks 'twas yesterday: let me but 
 wink, 
 And not behold your face, which to mine eye 
 Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dream 
 It were within this half hour. 
 
 Ant. You have not been in law, friend Delio, 
 Nor in prison, nor a suitor at the court. 
 Nor begg'd the reversion of some great man's 
 
 place, 
 Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth make 
 Your time so insensibly hasten. 
 
 Del. Pray, sir, tell me. 
 Hath not this news arriv'd yet to the ear 
 Of the lord cardinal ? 
 
 Ant. I fear it hath : 
 The Lord Ferdinand, that's newly come to court^ 
 Doth bear himself right dangerously. 
 
 Del. Pray, why? 
 
 Ant. He is so quiet that he seems to sleep 
 The tempest out, as dormice do in winter : 
 Those houses that ai'o haunted are most still 
 Till the devil be up. 
 
 Del. What say the common people ? 
 
 Ant. The common rabble do directly say 
 She is a strumpet. 
 
 Del. And your graver heads 
 Which would be politic, what censure 2 they ? 
 
 1 cullis—S&Q note 1, p. 52, col. 1. » cgnsure— think. 
 
328 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ant. They do observe I grow to infinite 
 purchase, i 
 The left-hand way ; and all suppose the duchess 
 Would amend it, if she could ; for, say they, 
 Great princes, though they grudge their officers 
 Should have such large andunconfin^d means 
 To get wealth under them, will not complain, 
 Lest thereby they should make them odious 
 Unto the people : for other obligation 
 Of love or marriage between her and me 
 They never dream of. 
 
 Dd. The Lord Ferdinand 
 Is going to bed. 
 
 Enttr Duchess, Ferdixand, Bosola, and 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 Ferd. I'll instantly to bed, 
 For I am weary, — I am to bespeak 
 A husband for you. 
 
 Duch. For me, sir ! pray, who is't ? 
 
 Ferd. The great Count Malatesti. 
 
 Duch. Fie upon him ! 
 A count ! he's a mere stick of sugar-candy : 
 You may look quite through him. When I 
 choose a husband, I will marry for your honour. 
 
 Ferd. You shall do well in't. — How is't, worthy 
 Antonio ? 
 
 Duch. But, sir, I am to have private conference 
 with you 
 About a scandalous report is spread 
 Touching mine honour, 
 
 Ferd. Let me be ever deaf to't : 
 One of Pasquil's paper-bullets, ^ court-calumny, 
 A pestilent air, which princes' palaces 
 Are seldom purg'd of. Yet say that it were true, 
 I pour it in your bosom, my fix'd love 
 Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, deny 
 Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe 
 In your own innocency. 
 
 Duch. [aside.'] Oh bless'd comfort ! 
 This deadly air is purg'd. 
 
 [Exeunt Duchess, Antonio, Delio, 
 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Ferd. Her guilt treads on 
 Hot-burning coulters. — Now, Bosola, 
 How thrives our intelligence ? 
 
 Bos. Sir, uncertainly: 
 'Tis rumour'd she hath had three bastards, but 
 By whom we may go read i' the stars. 
 
 Ferd. Why, some 
 Hold opinion all things are written there. 
 
 Bos. Yes, if we could find spectacles to read 
 them. 
 I do suspect there hath been some sorcery 
 Us'd on the duchess. 
 
 Ferd. Sorcery ! to what purpose ? 
 
 Bos. To make her dote on some desertless 
 fellow 
 She shames to acknowledge. 
 
 Ferd. Can your faith give way 
 To think there's power in potions or in charms. 
 To make us love whether we will or no ? 
 
 Bos. Most certainly. 
 
 Ferd. Away! these are mere gulleries, horrid 
 things. 
 Invented by some cheating mountebanks 
 
 * purchase — gains, riches, generally acquired dis- 
 honestly. 
 
 2 i.e. a pasquinade, so named from Pasquino, a witty 
 and sarcastic Roman tailor of the 15th century. After 
 his death, a fragment of a statue was dug up opposite 
 his shop and placed at the end of the Brachi palace, 
 and named after him. On this fragment it became 
 customary to fix placards containing satires and jests on 
 the public and private affairs of the day. 
 
 To abuse us. Do you think that herbs or 
 
 charms 
 Can force the will ? Some trials have been made 
 In this foolish practice, but the ingredients 
 Were lenitive poisons, such as are of force 
 To make the /patient mad; and straight the 
 
 witch 
 Swears by equivocation they are in love. 
 The witchcraft lies in her rank blood. This 
 
 night 
 I will force confession from her. You told me 
 You had got, within these two days, a false key 
 Into her bedchamber. 
 
 Bos. I have. 
 
 Ferd. As I would wish. 
 
 Bos. What do you intend to do ? 
 
 Fe7-d. Can you guess ? 
 
 Bos. No. 
 
 Ferd. Do not ask, then : 
 He that can compass me, and know my drifts. 
 May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the world, 
 And sounded all her quicksands. 
 
 Bos. I do not 
 Think so. 
 
 Ferd. What do you think, then, pray .-' 
 
 Bos. That you are 
 Your own chronicle too much, and grossly 
 Flatter yourself. 
 
 Ferd. Give me thy hand ; I thank thee : 
 I never gave pension but to flatterers. 
 Till I entertained thee. Farewell. 
 That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, 
 Who rails into his belief all his defects. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IL 
 Enter Duchess, Antonio, a7id Cariola. 
 
 Duch. Bring me the casket hither, and the 
 glass, — 
 You get no lodging here to-night, my lord. 
 
 Ant. Indeed, I must persuade one. 
 
 Duch. Very good : 
 I hope in time 'twill grow into a custom. 
 That noblemen shall come with cap and knee 
 To purchase a night's lodging of their wives. 
 
 Ant. I must lie here. 
 
 Duch. Must ! you are a lord of misrule. 
 
 Ant. Indeed, my rule is only in the night, 
 
 Duch. To what use will you put me ? 
 
 Ant. We'll sleep together. 
 
 Duch. Alas, 
 What pleasure can two lovers find in sleep ! 
 
 Cari. My lord, I lie with her often ; and I know 
 She'll much disquiet you. 
 
 Ant. See, you are complain'd of. 
 
 Cari. For she's the sprawling'st bedfellow. 
 
 Ant. I shall like her the better for that. 
 
 Cari. Sir, shall I ask you a question ? 
 
 Ant. Ay, pray thee, Cariola, 
 
 Cari. Wherefore still, when you lie with my 
 lady. 
 Do you rise so early ? 
 
 Ant. Labouring men 
 Count the clock oftenest, Cariola, 
 Are glad when their task's ended. 
 
 Duch. I'll stop your mouth. [Kisses him. 
 
 Ant. Nay, that's but one ; Venus had two soft 
 doves 
 To draw her chariot ; I must have another. — 
 
 [She kisses him again 
 
 When wilt thou marry, Cariola? 
 Cari. Never, my lord. 
 Ant. Oh, fie upon this single life ! forego it. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 329 
 
 We read how Daphne, for her peevish^ flight, 
 Became a fruitless bay-tree ; Syrinx turn'd 
 To the pale empty reed ; Anaxarete 
 Was frozen into marble : whereas those. 
 Which married, or prov'd kind unto their friends, 
 Were by a gracious influence transhap'd 
 Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry, 
 Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars. 
 Cari. This is a vain poetry : but I pray you, 
 tell me, 
 If there were propos'd me, wisdom, riches, and 
 
 beauty. 
 In three several young men, which should I 
 choose. 
 Ant. 'Tis a hard question : this was Paris' case, 
 And he was blind in't, and there was great 
 
 cause ; 
 For how was't possible he could judge right. 
 Having three amorous goddesses in view, 
 And they stark naked ? 'twas a motion 
 Were able to benight the apprehension 
 Of the severest counsellor of Europe. 
 Now I look on both your faces so well form'd. 
 It puts me in mind of a question I would ask. 
 Can. Whatis't? 
 
 Ant. I do wonder why hard-favour'd ladies. 
 For the most part, keep worse-favour'd waiting- 
 women 
 To attend them, and cannot endure fair ones. 
 
 Duch. Oh, that's soon answered. 
 Did you ever in your life know an ill painter 
 Desire to have his dwelling next door to the shop 
 Of an excellent picture-maker "i 'twould disgrace 
 His face-making, and undo him. I pr'ythee. 
 When were we so merry ? — My hair tangles. 
 Ant. Pray thee, Cariola, let's steal forth the 
 room. 
 And let her talk to herself : I have divers times 
 Serv'd her the like, when she hath chaf'd ex- 
 tremely. 
 I love to see her angry. Softly, Cariola. 
 
 \Exeunt Antonio and Cariola. 
 Buck. Doth not the colour of my hair 'gin to 
 change ? 
 When I wax grey, I shall have all the court 
 Powder their hair with arras,* to be like me. 
 You have cause to love me ; I enter'd you into 
 
 my heart 
 Before you would vouchsafe to call for the keys. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand behind. 
 
 We shall one day have my brothers take you 
 
 ^ napping: 
 Methinks his presence, being now in court, 
 Should make you keep your own bed ; but you'll 
 
 say 
 Love mix'd with fear is sweetest. I'll assure you. 
 You shall get no more children till my brothers 
 Consent to be your gossips.^ Have you lost your 
 
 tongue ? 
 'Tis welcome : 
 
 For know, whether I am doom'd to live or die, 
 I can do both like a prince. 
 
 Ferd. Die, then, quickly ! 
 
 [Giving her a poniard. 
 Virtue, where art thou hid ? what hideous thing 
 Is it that doth eclipse thee ? 
 
 Duch. Pray, sir, hear me. 
 
 Ferd. Or is it true thou art but a bare name. 
 And no essential thing ? 
 
 Duch. Sir — 
 
 Ferd. Do not speak. 
 
 1 peevish — foolish. 
 
 2 arras— Dyce thinks this should be orris. 
 
 3 gossips or godsibs—i.e. godfathers, sponsors, 
 note 1, col. 1, p. 309. 
 
 See 
 
 Duch. No, sir : 
 I will plant my soul in mine ears, to hear you. 
 
 Ferd. O most imperfect light of human reason, 
 That mak'st us so unhappy to foresee 
 What we can least prevent ! Pursue thy wishes, 
 And glory in them : there's in shame no comfort 
 But to be past all bounds and sense of shame. 
 
 Duch. I pray, sir, hear me: I am man led. 
 
 Ferd. Sol 
 
 Duch. Happily,* not to your liking ; but for that, 
 Alas, your shears do come untimely now 
 To clip the bird's wings that's already flown ! 
 Will you see my husband ? 
 
 Ferd. Yes, if I could change 
 Eyes with a basilisk. 
 
 Duch. Sure, you came hither 
 By his confederacy. 
 
 Ferd. The howling of a wolf 
 Is music to thee, screech-owl : pr'ythee, peace.^ 
 Whate'er thou art that hast enjoy'd my sister, 
 For I am sure thou hear'st me, for thine own sake 
 Let me not know thee. I came hither pi*epar'd 
 To work thy discovery ; yet am now persuaded 
 It would beget such violent effects 
 As would damn us both. I would not for ten 
 
 millions 
 I had beheld thee : therefore use all means 
 I never may have knowledge of thy name ; 
 Enjoy thy lust still, and a wretched life. 
 On that condition. — And for thee, vile woman, 
 If thou do wish thy lecher may grow old 
 In thy embracements, I would have thee build 
 Such a room for him as our anchorites 
 To holier use inhabit. Let not the sun 
 Shine on him till he's dead; let dogs and monkeya 
 Only converse with him, and such dumb things 
 To whom nature denies use to sound his name ; 
 Do not keep a paraquito, lest she learn it ; 
 If thou do love him, cut out thine own tongue, 
 Lest it bewray him. 
 
 Duch. Why might not I marry ? 
 I have not gone about in this to create 
 Any new world or custom. 
 
 Ferd. Thou art undone ; 
 And thou hast ta'en that massy sheet of lead 
 That hid thy husband's bones, and folded it 
 About my heart. 
 
 Duch. Mine bleeds for't. 
 
 Ferd. Thine ! thy heart ! 
 What should I name't unless a hollow bullet 
 Fill'd with unquenchable wild-fire ? 
 
 Duch. You are in this 
 Too strict; and were you not my princely 
 
 brother, 
 I would say, too wilful : my reputation 
 Is safe. 
 
 Ferd. Dost thou know what reputation is ? 
 I'll tell thee, — to small pui-pose, since the instruc- 
 tion 
 Comes now too late. 
 
 Upon a time Eeputation, Love, and Death, 
 Would travel o'er the world ; and it was con- 
 cluded 
 That they should part, and take three several 
 
 ways. 
 Death told them, they should find him in great 
 
 battles. 
 Or cities plagu'd with plagues : Love gives them 
 
 counsel 
 To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shep- 
 herds. 
 Where dowries were not talk'd of, and some- 
 times 
 'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left 
 
 1 Happily— i.e. haply, perchance. 
 
330 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 By their dead parents : ' Stay,' quoth Eeputation, 
 
 ' Do not forsake me ; for it is my nature, 
 
 If once I part from any man I meet, 
 
 I am never found again.' And so for you : 
 
 You have shook hands with Reputation, 
 
 And made him invisible. So, fare you well! 
 
 I will never see you more. 
 
 Duch. Why should only I, 
 Of all the other princes of theworld, 
 Be cas'd up, like a holy relic ? I have youth 
 And a little beauty. 
 
 Ferd. So you have some vii'gins 
 That are witches. I will never see thee more. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Antonio with a pistol, and Oariola. 
 
 Duch. You saw this apparition ? 
 Ant. Yes : we are 
 Betray'd. How came he hither ? I should turn 
 This to thee, for that. 
 
 Cari. Pray, sir, do ; and when 
 That you have cleft my heart, you shall read 
 
 there 
 Mine innocence. 
 
 Duch. That gallery gave him entrance. 
 Ant. I would this terrible thing would come 
 again, 
 That, standing on my guard, I might relate 
 My warrantable love. — 
 
 [She shows the poniard. 
 Ha! what means this ? 
 Duch. He left this with me. 
 Ant. And it seems did wish 
 You would use it on yourself. 
 
 Duch. His action 
 Seem'd to intend so much. 
 
 A7it. This hath a handle to't, 
 As well as a point : turn it towards him, 
 And so fasten the keen edge in his rank gall. 
 
 [Knocki7ig within. 
 How now ! who knocks ? More earthquakes ? 
 
 Duch. I stand 
 As if a mine beneath my feet were ready 
 To be blown up. 
 Cari. 'Tis Bosola. 
 Duch. Away! 
 Oh misery ! methinks unjust actions 
 Should wear these masks and curtains, and not 
 
 we. 
 You must instantly part hence : I have fashion'd 
 it already. 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. The duke your brother is ta'en up in a 
 whirlwind ; 
 Hath took horse, and's rid post to Eome. 
 
 Duch. So late ? 
 
 Bos. He told me, as he mounted into the saddle, 
 You were undone. 
 
 Duch. Indeed, I am very near it. 
 
 Bos. What's the matter ? 
 
 Duch. Antonio, the master of our household, 
 Hath dealt so falsely with me in's accounts : 
 My brother stood engag'd with me for money , 
 Ta'en up of certain Neapolitan Jews, 
 And Antonio lets the bonds be forfeit. 
 
 Bos. Strange ! — lAside.'] This is cunning. 
 
 Duch. And hereupon 
 My brother's bills at Naples are protested 
 Against. — Call up our officers. 
 
 Bos. I shall. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Antonio. 
 
 Duch. The place that you must fly to is 
 Ancona : 
 Hire a house there; I'll send after you 
 
 My treasure and my jewels. Our weak safety 
 Euns upon enginous ^ wheels : short syllables 
 Must stand for periods. I must now accuse you 
 Of such a feigned crime as Tasso calls 
 Magnanima menzogna, a noble lie, 
 'Cause it must shield our honours. — Hark ! they 
 are coming. 
 
 Enter Bosola and Officers. 
 
 Ant. Will your grace hear me ? 
 
 Duch. I have got well by you; you have 
 yielded me 
 A million of loss : I am like to inherit 
 The people's curses for your stewardship. 
 You had the trick in audit-time to be sick. 
 Till I had sign'd your quietus ; and that cur'd 
 
 you 
 Without help of a doctor. — Gentlemen, 
 I would have this man be an example to you all ; 
 So shall you hold my favour ; I pray, let him ; 
 For h'as done that, alas, you would not think of, 
 And, because I intend to be rid of him, 
 I mean not to publish. — Use your fortune else- 
 where. 
 
 Ant. I am strongly arm'd to brook my over- 
 throw, 
 As commonly men bear with a hard year : 
 I will not blame the cause on't ; but do think 
 The necessity of my malevolent star 
 Procures this, not her humour. Oh the incon- 
 stant 
 And rotten ground of service ! you may see, 
 'Tis even like him, that in a winter night 
 Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire, 
 Aloath to part f rom't ; yet parts thence as cold 
 As when he first sat down. 
 
 Duch. We do confiscate. 
 Towards the satisfying of your accounts, 
 All that you have. 
 
 A7it. 1 am all yours ; and 'tis very fit 
 All mine should be so. 
 
 Duch. So, sir, you have your pass. 
 
 Ant. You may see, gentlemen, what 'tis to 
 serve 
 A prince with body and soul. [Exit. 
 
 Bos. Here's an example for extortion : what 
 moisture is drawn out of the sea, when foul 
 weather comes, pours down, and runs into the 
 sea again. 
 
 Duch. I would know what are your opinions 
 Of this Antonio. 
 
 2 Off. He could not abide to see a pig's head 
 gaping : I thought your grace would find him a 
 Jew. 
 
 3 Off. 1 would you had been his officer, for 
 your own sake. 
 
 4 Off You would have had more money. 
 
 1 Off. He stopped his ears with black wool, 
 and to those came to him for money said he was 
 thick of hearing. 
 
 2 Off. Some said he was an hermaphrodite, 
 for he could not abide a woman. 
 
 4 Off. How scurvy proud he would look when 
 the ti-easury was full ! Well, let him go. 
 
 1 Off. Yes, and the chippings of the buttery 
 fly after him, to scour his gold chain. 
 
 Duch. Leave us. — 
 
 [Exeunt Officers. 
 What do you think of these ? 
 
 Bos. That these are rogues that in's prosperity, 
 But to have waited on his fortune, could have 
 
 wish'd 
 His dirty stirrup riveted through their noses, 
 
 1 enginous — engine-like, mechanical, complicated; 
 perhaps ingenious. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 331 
 
 And folio w'd after's mule, like a bear in a I'ing; 
 Would have prostituted their daughters to his 
 
 lust ; 
 Made their first-born intelligencers;* thought 
 
 none happy 
 But such as were born under his blest planet, 
 And wore his livery : and do these lice drop off 
 
 now ? 
 Well, never look to have the like again : 
 He hath left a sort^ of flattering rogues behind 
 
 him; 
 Their doom must follow. Princes pay flattei-ers 
 In their own money. Flatterers dissemble their 
 
 vices, 
 And they dissemble their lies ; that's justice. 
 Alas, poor gentleman ! 
 
 Duch. Poor ! he hath amply fill'd his coffers. 
 Bos. Sure, he was too honest. Pluto, the god 
 
 of riches. 
 When he's sent by Jupiter to any man, 
 He goes limping, to signify that wealth 
 That comes on God's name comes slowly ; but 
 
 when he's sent 
 On the devil's errand, he rides post, and comes 
 
 in by scuttles. 
 Let me show you what a most unvalu'd jewel 
 You have in a wanton humour thrown away. 
 To bless the man shall find him. He was an 
 
 excellent 
 Courtier and most faithful ; a soldier that 
 
 thought it 
 As beastly to know his own value too little 
 As devilish to acknowledge it too much. 
 Both his virtue and form deserv'd a far better 
 
 fortune. 
 His discourse rather delighted to judge itself than 
 
 show itself. 
 His breast was fill'd with all perfection, 
 And yet it seem'd a private whispering- room, 
 It made so little noise oft. 
 Duch. But he was basely descended. 
 Bos. Will you make yourself a mercenary 
 
 herald, 
 Eather to examine men's pedigrees than virtues ? 
 You shall want him : 
 
 For know, an honest statesman to a pi'ince 
 Is like a eedar planted by a spi-ing ; 
 The spring bathes the tree's root, the grateful 
 
 tree 
 Eewards it with his shadow : you have not done 
 
 so. 
 I would sooner swim to the Bermoothes^ on 
 Two politicians' rotten bladders, tied 
 Together with an intelligencer's heart-string, 
 Than depend on so changeable a prince's favour. 
 Fare thee well, Antonio! since the malice of the 
 
 world 
 Would needs down with thee, it cannot be said 
 
 yet 
 Tliat any ill happen'd unto thee, considering thy 
 
 fall 
 Was accompanied with virtue. 
 
 Duch. Oh ! you render me excellent music. 
 
 Bos. Say you ? 
 
 Duch. This good one that you speak of is my 
 
 husband. 
 Bos. Do I not dream 7 can this ambitious age 
 Have so much goodness in't as to prefer 
 A man merely for worth, without these shadows 
 Of wealth and painted honours ? possible ? 
 Duch. I have had three children by him. 
 Bos. Fortunate lady ! 
 
 1 intelligencers— in{orm&v%. 
 
 2 sort— lot, set. 
 
 ' £ermoothes— the Bermudas. 
 
 For you have made your private nuptial bed 
 The humble and fair seminary of peace. 
 No question but many an unbenefic'd scholar 
 Shall pray for you for this deed, and rejoice 
 That some preferment in the world can yet 
 Arise from merit. The virgins of your land, 
 That have no dowries, shall hope your example 
 Will raise them to rich husbands. Should you 
 
 want 
 Soldiers, 'twould make the very Turks and Moors 
 Turn Christians, and serve you for this act. 
 Last, the neglected poets of your time. 
 In honour of this trophy of a man, 
 Eais'd by that curious engine, your W^J^ila Iiand, 
 Shall thank you, in your grave, for't ; and make 
 
 that 
 More reverend than all the cabinets 
 Of living princes. For Antonio, 
 His fame shall likewise flow fi'om many a pen, 
 When heralds shall want coats to sell to men. 
 
 Duch. As I taste comfort in this friendly speech, 
 So would I find concealment. 
 
 Bos. Oh, the secret of my prince. 
 Which I will wear on the inside of my heart ! 
 
 Duch. You shall take charge of all my coin 
 and jewels. 
 And follow him ; for he retires himself 
 To Ancona. 
 
 Bos. So. 
 
 Duch. Whither, within few days, 
 I mean to follow thee. 
 
 Bos. Let me think : 
 I would wish your grace to feign a pilgrimage 
 To our Lady of Loretto, scarce seven leagues 
 From fair Ancona ; so may you depart 
 Your country with more honour, and your flight 
 Will seem a princely progress, retaining 
 Your usual train about you. 
 
 Duch. Sir, your direction 
 Shall lead me by the hand. 
 
 Cart. In my opinion, 
 She were better progress to the baths at Lucca, 
 Or go visit the Spa 
 
 In Germany ; for, if you will believe me, 
 I do not like this jesting with religion. 
 This feignfed pilgrimage. 
 
 Duch. Thou art a superstitious fool : 
 Prepare us instantly for our departure. 
 Past sorrows, let us moderately lament them ; 
 For those to come, seek wisely to prevent them. 
 [Exeunt Duchess and Cariola. 
 
 Bos. A politician is the devil's quilted anvil ; 
 He fashions all sins on him, and the blows 
 Are never heard. He may work in a lady's 
 
 chamber, 
 As here for proof. What rests but I reveal 
 All to my lord ? Oh, this base quality 
 Of intelligencer ! why, every quality i' the world 
 Prefers but gain or commendation. 
 Now, for this act I am certain to be I'ais'd, 
 And men that paint weeds to the life are prais'd. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IIL 
 
 Entei' Cardinal, Ferdinand, Malatesti, 
 Pescara, Delio, a7id Silvio. 
 
 Card. Must we turn soldier, then ? 
 
 3Ial. The emperor. 
 Hearing your.worth that way, ere you attain'd 
 This reverend garment, joins you in commission 
 With the right fortunate soldier the Marquis of 
 
 Pescara, 
 And the famous Lannoy. 
 
 Card. He that had the honour 
 Of taking the French king prisoner ? 
 
332 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mai. The same. 
 Here's a plot* drawn for a new fortification 
 At Naples. 
 
 F&i'd. This great Count Malatesti, I perceive, 
 Hath got employment .-* 
 
 Del. No employment, my lord ; 
 A marginal note in the muster-book, that he is 
 A voluntary lord. 
 
 Ferd. He's no soldier. 
 
 Del. He has worn gunpowder in's hollow tooth 
 for the toothache. 
 
 Sil. He comes to the leaguer with a full intent 
 To eat fresh beef and garlic, means to stay 
 Till the scent be gone, and straight return to 
 court 
 
 Del. He hath read all the late service 
 As the City Chronicle relates it ; 
 And keeps two pewterers going, only to express 
 Battles in model.^ 
 
 Sil. Then he'll fight by the book. 
 
 Del. By the almanac, I think, 
 To choose good days and shun the critical ; 
 That's his mistress' scarf. 
 
 Sil. Yes, he protests 
 He would do much for that taffeta. 
 
 Del. I think he would run away from a battle, 
 To save it from taking prisoner. 
 
 Sil. He is horriblj' afraid 
 Gunpowder will spoil the perfume on't. 
 
 Del. I saw a Dutchman break his pate once 
 For calling him pot-gun ; he made his head 
 Have a bore iu't like a musket. 
 
 Sil. I would he had made a touch-hole to'L 
 He is indeed a guarded 3 sumpter-cloth, 
 Only for the remove of the court. 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Pes. Bosola arriv'd ! what should be the busi- 
 ness .5* 
 Some falling-out amongst the cardinals. 
 These factions amongst great men, they are like 
 Foxes, when their heads are divided, 
 They carry fire in their tails, and all the country 
 About them goes to wreck for't. 
 
 Sil. What's that Bosola ? 
 
 Del. I knew him in Padua, — a fantastical 
 scholar, like such who study to know how many 
 knots was in Hercules' club, of what colour 
 Achilles' beard was, or whether Hector were not 
 troubled with the toothache. He hath studied 
 himself half blear-eyed to know the true sym- 
 metry of Caesar's nose by a shoeing-horn ; and 
 this he did to gain the name of a speculative 
 man. 
 
 Pes. Mark Prince Ferdinand : 
 A very salamander lives in's eye, 
 To mock the eager violence of fire. 
 
 Sil. That cardinal hath made more bad faces 
 with his oppression than ever iVIichael Angelo 
 made good ones : he lifts up's nose, like a foul 
 porpoise before a storm. 
 
 Pes. The Lord Ferdinand laughs. 
 
 Delio. Like a deadly cannon 
 That lightens ere it smokes. 
 
 Pes. These are your true pangs of death, 
 The pangs of life, that struggle with great states- 
 men. 
 
 Del. In such a deformed silence witches whis- 
 per their charms. 
 
 Card. Doth she make religion her riding-hood 
 To keep her from the sun and tempest ? 
 
 ^^7o<— plan. 
 
 2 t.e. to make models of battles. Pewter was formerly 
 considered very costly. 
 ' S^iMtrcfecf— trimmed. 
 
 Ferd. That, 
 That damns her. Methinks her fault and beauty, 
 Blended together, show like leprosy, 
 The whiter, the fouler. I make it*^a question 
 Whether her beggarly brats were ever christen'd. 
 
 Card. I will instantly solicit the state of An- 
 cona 
 To have them banish'd. 
 
 Ferd. You are for Loretto : 
 I shall not be at your ceremony; fare you well. — 
 Write to the Duke of Malfi, my young nephew 
 She had by her first husband, and acquaint him 
 With's mother's honesty. 
 
 Bos. I will. 
 
 Ferd. Antonio ! 
 A slave that only smell'd of ink and counters, 
 And never in's life look'd like a gentleman, 
 But in the audit-time. — Go, go presently. 
 Draw me out an hundred and fifty of our horse. 
 And meet me at the fort-bridge. [^Exeuni. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Enter Two Pilgrims to the Shrine of our Lady 
 of Loretto. 
 
 1 Pil. I have not seen a goodlier shrine than 
 this ; 
 
 Yet I have visited many. 
 
 2 Pil. The Cardinal of Arragon 
 
 Is this day to resign his cardinal's hat : 
 His sister duchess likewise is arriv'd 
 To pay her vow of pilgrimage. I expect 
 A noble ceremony. 
 1 Pil. No question. — They come. 
 
 [Here the ceremony of the Cardinal's instal- 
 ment, in the habit of a soldier, performed 
 in delivering up his cross, hat, robes, and 
 ring, at the shrine, and investing him with 
 sword, helmet, shield, and spurs ; then An- 
 tonio, the Duchess, and their children, 
 having presented themselves at the shrine, 
 are, by a form of banishment in diimb-shoio 
 expressed towards them by the Cardinal 
 and the state of Ancona, banished: dui-ing all 
 which ceremony this ditty is sung, to very 
 solemn mtisic, by divers churchmen: and 
 then exeunt all except the Two Pilgrims.] 
 
 Arms and honours deck thy story,* 
 
 To thy fame's eternal glory ! 
 
 Adverse fortune ever fly thee; 
 
 No disastrous fate come nigh thee 1 
 
 I alone will sing thy praises, 
 
 ■\Miom to honour virtue raises ; 
 
 And thy study, that divine is, 
 
 Bent to martial discipline is. 
 
 Lay aside all those robes lis by thee ; 
 
 Crovn thy arts with arms, they'll beautify thee. 
 
 worthy of worthiest name, adorn'd in this manner, 
 
 Lead bravely thy forces on under war's warlike 
 banner ! 
 
 Oh mayst thou prove fortunate in all martial courses 1 
 
 Guide thou still by skill in arts and forces! 
 Victory attend thee nigh, whilst fame sings loud thy 
 
 powers ; 
 Triumphant conqnesfc cro-mi thy head, and blessings 
 
 pour down sh oarers ! 
 
 1 Pil. Here's a strange turn of state ! who 
 would have thought 
 
 So great a lady would have match'd herself 
 Unto so mean a person ? yet the cardinal 
 Bears himself much too cruel. 
 
 2 Pil. They are banish'd. 
 
 1 On this song, in the 4to of 1G23, is the following 
 marginal note : ' The author disclaimes this ditty to be 
 his.' — DxcK, 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 333 
 
 1 Pil. But I would ask what power hath this 
 state 
 
 Of Ancona to determine of a free prince ? 
 
 2 Pil. They are a free state, sir, and her brother 
 show'd 
 
 How that the Pope, forehearing of her looseness. 
 Hath seiz'd into the protection of the church 
 The dukedom which she held as dowager. 
 
 1 Pil. But by what justice ? 
 
 2 Pil. Sure, I think by none, 
 Only her brother's instigation. 
 
 1 PH. What was it with such violence he took 
 Off from her finger ? 
 
 2 PH. 'Twas her wedding-ring. 
 Which he vow'd shortly he would sacrifice 
 To his revenge. 
 
 1 Pil. Alas, Antonio ! 
 If that a man be thrust into a well. 
 No matter who sets hand to't, his own weight 
 Will bring him sooner to the bottom. Come, 
 
 let's hence. 
 Fortune makes this conclusion general, 
 All things do help the unhappy man to fall. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE V. 
 
 Enter Duchess, Antonio, Children, Cariola, 
 and Servants. 
 
 Duck. Banish'd Ancona ! 
 
 Ant. Yes, you see what power 
 Lightens in great men's breath. 
 
 Buck. Is all our train 
 Shrunk to this poor remainder ? 
 
 Ant. These poor men, 
 Which have got little in your service, vow _ 
 To take your fortune ; but your wiser buntings,* 
 Now they are fledg'd, are gone. 
 
 Duck. They have done wisely. 
 This puts me in mind of death : physicians thus, 
 With their hands full of money, use to give o'er 
 Their patients. 
 
 Ant. Eight the fashion of the world : 
 From decay'd fortunes every flatterer shrinks ; 
 Men cease to build where the foundation sinks. 
 
 Duch. 1 had a very strange dream to-night. 
 
 Ajit. What was't ? 
 
 Buck. Methought I wore my coronet of state. 
 And on a sudden all the diamonds 
 Were chang'd to pearls. 
 
 Ant. My interpretation 
 Is, you'll weep shortly ; for to me the pearls 
 Do signify your tears. 
 
 Buck. The birds that live i'the field, 
 On the wild benefit of nature, live 
 Happier than we ; for they may choose their mates. 
 And carol their sweet pleasures to the spring. 
 
 Entei' BosoLA with a letter. 
 
 Bos. Tou are happily o'erta'en. 
 
 Buck. From my brother ? 
 
 Bos. Yes, from the Lord Ferdinand, your 
 brother, 
 All love and safety. 
 
 Buck. Thou dost blanch mischief, 
 Wouldst make it white. See, see, like to calm 
 
 weather 
 At sea before a tempest, false hearts speak fair 
 To those they intend most mischief. \_Reads. 
 
 ' Send Antonio to me ; I want his head in a business,' 
 
 A politic equivocation ! 
 
 He doth not want your counsel, but your head ; 
 
 &wn<jnS'5— woodlarks.—HALLiWELi.. 
 
 That is, he cannot sleep till you be dead. 
 And here's another pitfall that's strew'd o'er 
 With roses ; mark it, 'tis a cunning one : [Reads. 
 
 ' I stand engaged for your husband for several debts 
 at Naples ; let not that trouble him ; I had rather have 
 his heart than his money :' — 
 
 And I believe so too. 
 
 Bos. What do you believe ? 
 
 Buck. That he so much distrusts my husband's 
 love, 
 He'will by no means believe his heart is with him 
 Until he see it : the devil is not cunning enough 
 To circumvent us in riddles. 
 
 Bos. Will you reject that noble and free league 
 Of amity and love which I present you ? 
 
 Buck. Their league is like that of some politic 
 kings, 
 Only to make themselves of strength and power 
 To be our after-ruin : tell them so. 
 
 ^05. And what from you ? 
 
 Ant. Thus tell him : I will not come. 
 
 Bos. And what of this ? 
 
 Ant. My brothers have dispers'd 
 Bloodhounds abroad ; which till I hear are 
 
 muzzled. 
 No truce, though hatch'd with ne'er such politic 
 
 skill, 
 Is safe, that hangs upon our enemies' will. 
 I'll not come at them. 
 
 Bos. This proclaims your breeding : 
 Every small thing draws a base mind to fear. 
 As the adamant* draws iron. Fare you well, sir : 
 You shall shortly hear from's. [Exit. 
 
 Buck. I suspect some ambush : 
 Therefore by all my love I do conjure you 
 To take your eldest son, and fly towards Milan. 
 Let us not venture all this poor remainder 
 In one unlucky bottom. 
 
 Ant. You counsel safely. 
 Best of my life, farewell, since we must part : 
 Heaven hath a hand in't ; but no otherwise 
 Than as some curious artist takes in sunder 
 A clock or watch when it is out of frame. 
 To bring't in better order. 
 
 Buck. I know not which is best, 
 To see you dead or part with you. — Farewell, boy: 
 Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding 
 To know thy misery ; for all our wit 
 And reading brings us to a truer sense 
 Of sorrow. — In the eternal church, sir, 
 I do hope we shall not part thus. 
 
 Ant. Oh, be of comfort ! 
 Make patience a noble fortitude, 
 And think not how unkindly we are used : 
 Man, like to cassia, is prov'd best, being bi'uis'd. 
 
 Buck. Must I, like to a slave-born Eussian, 
 Account it praise to suffer tyranny ? 
 And yet, Heaven, thy heavy hand is in't ! 
 I have seen my little boy oft scourge his top, 
 And compar'd myself to't : naught made me e'er 
 Go right but Heaven's scourge-stick. 
 
 Aiit. Do not weep : 
 Heaven f ashion'd us of nothing ; and we strive 
 To bring ourselves to nothing. — Farewell, Cariola, 
 And thy sweet armful. If 1 do never see thee more, 
 Be a good mother to your little ones. 
 And save them from the tiger. Fare you well ! 
 
 Buck. Let me look upon you once more, for 
 that speech 
 Came from a dying father : your kiss is colder 
 Than that I have seen an holy anchorite 
 Give to a dead man's skull. 
 
 1 adamant. This word was formerly applied to tha 
 maguet or loadstone. 
 
334 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ant. My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump of lead, 
 With which I sound my danger : fare you well. 
 \Exeunt Antonio and his son. 
 
 Duch. My laurel is all wither'd. 
 
 Can. Look, madam, what a troop of arm^d men 
 Make towards us! 
 
 Duch. Oh, they are very welcome : 
 When Fortune's wheel is overcharg'd with princes, 
 The weight makes it move swift : I would have 
 Be sudden. [my ruin 
 
 Re-enter Bosola visarded, with a guard. 
 
 I am your adventure, am I not ? 
 
 Bos. You are. You must see your husband no 
 more. 
 
 Duch. What devil art thou that counterfeit'st 
 heaven's thunder ? 
 
 Bos. Is that terrible ? I would have you tell 
 me whether 
 Is that note worse that frights the silly birds 
 Out of the corn, or that which doth allure them 
 To the nets ? you have hearken'd to the last too 
 much. 
 
 Duch. O misery! like to a rusty o'ercharg'd 
 cannon, 
 Shall I never fly in pieces? — Come, to what prison.' 
 
 Bos. To none. 
 
 Duch. Whither then? 
 
 Bos. To your palace. 
 
 Duch. 1 have heard 
 That Charon's boat serves to convey all o'er 
 The dismal lake, but brings none back again. 
 
 Bos. Your brothers mean you safety and pity. 
 
 Duch. Pity! 
 With such a pity men preserve alive 
 Pheasants and quails, when they are not fat enough 
 To be eaten. 
 
 Bos. These are your children ? 
 
 Duch. Yes. 
 
 Bos. Can they prattle ? 
 
 Duch. No: 
 But I intend, since they were born accurs'd, 
 Curses shall be their first language. 
 
 Bos. Fie, madam ! 
 Forget this base, low fellow — 
 
 Duch. Were I a man, 
 I'd beat that counterfeit face into thy other. 
 
 Bos. One of no birth. 
 
 Duch. Say that he was born mean, 
 Man IS most happy when's own actions 
 Be arguments and examples of his virtue. 
 
 Bos. A barren, beggarly virtue. 
 
 Duch. 1 pr'ythee, who is greatest ? can you tell ? 
 Sad tales befit my woe : I'll tell you one. 
 A salmon, as she swam unto the sea. 
 Met with a dog-fish, who encounters her 
 With this rough language : ' Why art thou so bold 
 To mix thyself with our high state of floods, 
 Being no eminent corn-tier, but one 
 That for the calmest and fresh time o' the year 
 Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thyself 
 With silly smelts and shrimps ? and darest thou 
 Pass by our dogsbip without reverence? ' 
 ' Oh,' quoth the salmon, 'sister, be at peace: 
 Thank Jupiter we both have pass'd the net! 
 Our value never can be truly known, 
 Till in the fisher's basket we be shown : 
 I' the market then my price may be the higher, 
 Even when I am nearest to the cook and fire.' 
 So to great men the moral may be stretch'd: 
 Men are oft valu'd high, when they're most 
 
 wi-etch'd. — 
 But come, whither you please. I am arm'd 'gainst 
 
 misery ; 
 Bent to all sways of the oppressor's will : 
 There's no deep valley but near some great hill. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 Enter Ferdinand and Bosola. 
 
 Ferd. How doth our sister duchess bear herself 
 In her imprisonment ? 
 
 Bos. Nobly ; I'll describe her. 
 She's sad as one long us'd to't, and she seems 
 Rather to welcome the end of misery 
 Than shun it ; a behaviour so noble 
 As gives a majesty to adversity : 
 You may discern the shape of loveliness 
 More perfect in her tears than in her smiles. 
 She will muse for hours together ; and her silence, 
 Methinks, expresseth more than if she spake. 
 
 Ferd. Her melancholy seems to be fortified 
 With a strange disdain. 
 
 Bos. 'Tis so ; and this restraint. 
 Like English mastives that grow fierce with tying, 
 Makes her too passionately apprehend 
 Those pleasures she's kept from. 
 
 Ferd. Curse upon her ! 
 I will no longer study in the book 
 Of another's heart. Inform her what I told you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Enter Duchess. 
 
 Bos. All comfort to your grace ! 
 
 Duch. I will have none. 
 Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poison'd pills 
 In gold and sugar ? 
 
 Bos. Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdinand, 
 Is come to visit you, and sends you word, 
 'Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow 
 Never to see you more, he comes i' the night ; 
 And prays you gently neither torch nor taper 
 Shine in your chamber : he will kiss your hand, 
 And reconcile himself; but for his vow 
 He dares not see you. 
 
 Duch. At his pleasure. — 
 Take hence the lights. — He's come. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Where are you ? 
 
 Duch. Here, sir. 
 
 Fe7'd. This darkness suits you well. 
 
 Duch. I would ask you pardon. 
 
 Ferd. You have it ; 
 For I count it the honourabl'st revenge. 
 Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs ? 
 
 Duch. Whom? 
 
 Ferd. Call them your children ; 
 For though our national law distinguish bastards 
 From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature 
 Makes them all equal. 
 
 Duch. Do you visit me for this ? 
 You violate a sacrament o' the church 
 Shall make you howl in hell for't. 
 
 Ferd. It had been well, 
 Could you have liv'd thus always ; for, indeed. 
 You were too much i' the light : — but no more ; 
 I come to seal my peace with you. Here's a hand 
 [Gives her a dead man^s hand. 
 To which you have vow'd much love ; the ring 
 You gave. [upon't 
 
 Duch. I affectionately kiss it. 
 
 Ferd. Pray, do, and bury the print of it in your 
 heart. 
 I will leave this ring with you for a love-token ; 
 And the hand as sure as the ring ; and do not 
 
 doubt 
 But you shall have the heart too: when you 
 
 need a friend. 
 Send it to him that ow'd^ it ; you shall see 
 Whether he can aid you. 
 
 oto'd— owned. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 335 
 
 Duch. You are very cold : 
 I fear you are not well after your travel. — 
 Ha! lights! -Oh, horrible! 
 
 Ferd. Let her have lights enough. \Exit, 
 
 Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that 
 he hath left 
 A dead man's hand here ? 
 
 [Here is discovered^ behind a traverse,^ the arti- 
 Jidal figures of Antonio and his children, 
 appearing as if they were dead. 
 
 Bos. Look you, here's the piece from which 
 'twas ta'en. 
 He doth present you this sad spectacle, 
 That, now you know directly they are dead. 
 Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve 
 For that which cannot be recovered. 
 
 Duch. There is not between heaven and earth 
 one wish 
 I stay for after this : it wastes me more 
 Than were't my picture, fashion'd out of wax, 
 Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried 
 In some foul dunghill ; 2 and yond's an excellent 
 
 property 
 For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. 
 
 Bos. What's that? 
 
 Duch. If they would bind me to that lifeless 
 trunk, 
 And let me freeze to death. 
 
 Bos. Come, you must live. 
 
 Duch. That's the greatest torture souls feel in 
 hell, 
 In hell, that they must live, and cannot die. 
 Portia, I'll new kindle thy coals again. 
 And revive the rare and almost dead example 
 Of a loving wife. 
 
 Bos. Oh, fie! despair? remember 
 You are a Christian. 
 
 Duch. The church enjoins fasting : 
 I'll starve myself to death. 
 
 Bos. Leave this vain sorrow. 
 Things being at the worst begin to mend : the 
 
 bee 
 When he hath shot his sting into your hand, 
 May then play with your eyelid. 
 
 Duch. Good comfortable fellow. 
 Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel 
 To have all his bones new set ; entreat him live 
 To be executed again. Who must despatch me ? 
 I account this world a tedious theatre, 
 For I do play a part in't 'gainst my will. 
 
 Bos. Come, be of comfort; I will save your 
 life. 
 
 Duch. Indeed,' I have not leisure to tend 
 So small a business. 
 
 Bos. Now, by my life, I pity you. 
 
 Duch. Thou art a fool, then. 
 To waste thy pity on a thing so wretched 
 As cannot pity itself. I am full of daggers. 
 Puff, let me blow these vipers from me. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 What are you ? 
 Serv. One that wishes you long life. 
 Duch. I would thou wert hang'd for the 
 horrible curse 
 Thou hast given me : I shall shortly grow one 
 Of the miracles of pity. I'll go pray ; — 
 No, I'll go curse. 
 Bos. Oh, fie ! 
 
 Duch. I could curs© the stars. 
 Bos. Oh, fearful ! 
 
 Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the 
 year 
 
 ^ traverse— & sliding door or moveable screen. 
 2 Alluding to the practice of witches in compassing 
 the death of any one. 
 
 Into a Kussian winter : nay, the world 
 To its first chaos. 
 
 Bos. Look you, the stars shine still. 
 
 Duch. Oh, but you must 
 Kemember, my curse hath a great way to go. — 
 Plagues, that make lanes thi-ough largest fami- 
 lies. 
 Consume them ! — 
 
 Bos. Fie, lady ! 
 
 Duch. Let them, like tjTants, 
 Never be remember'd but for the ill they have 
 
 done; 
 Let all the zealous prayers of mortified 
 Churchmen forget them ! — 
 
 Bos. Oh, uncharitable ! 
 
 Duch. Let Heaven a little while cease crowning 
 martyrs, 
 To punish them ! — 
 
 Go, howl them this, and say, I long to bleed : 
 It is some mercy when men kill with speed. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish ; she's 
 plagu'd in art : 
 These presentations are but fram'd in wax 
 By the curious master in that quality, 
 Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them 
 For true substantial bodies. 
 
 Bos. Why do you do this? 
 
 Ferd. To bring her to despair. 
 
 Bos. Faith, end here, 
 And go no farther in your cruelty : 
 Send her a penitential garment to put on 
 Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her 
 With beads and prayer-books. 
 
 Ferd. Damn her ! that body of hers, 
 While that my blood ran pure in't, was more 
 
 worth 
 Than that which thou wouldst comfort, call'd 
 
 a soul. 
 I will send her masks of common courtezans. 
 Have her meat serv'd up by bawds and ruffians. 
 And, 'cause she'll needs be mad, I am resolv'd 
 To remove forth the common hospital 
 All the mad folk, and place them near her 
 
 lodging ; 
 There let them practise together, sing and dance. 
 And act their gambols to the full o' the moon 
 If she can sleep the better for it, let her. 
 Your work is almost ended. 
 
 Bos. Must I see her again ? 
 
 Ferd. Yes. 
 
 Bos. Never. 
 
 Ferd. You must. 
 
 Bos. Never in mine own shape ; 
 That's forfeited by my intelligence ^ 
 And this last cruel lie : when you send me next, 
 The business shall be comfort. 
 
 Ferd. Very likely ; 
 Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee, Antonio 
 Lurks about Milan : thou shalt shortly thither. 
 To feed a fire as great as my revenge. 
 Which never will slack till it have spent his 
 
 fuel: 
 Intemperate agues make physicians cruel. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IL 
 Enter Duchess and Cariola. 
 Duch. What hideous noise was that ? 
 
 1 My having turned infoiiner.— W. Hazlitt. 
 
336 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis the wild consort » 
 Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother 
 Hath plac'd about your lodging : this tyranny, 
 I think, was never practis'd till this hour. 
 
 Duck. Indeed, I thank him : nothing but noise 
 and folly 
 Can keep me in my right wits ; whereas reason 
 And silence make me stark mad. Sit down; 
 Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. 
 
 Can. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy. 
 
 Duck. Thou art deceiv'd : 
 To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. 
 This is a pi-ison ? 
 
 Can. Yes, but you shall live 
 To shake this dui'ance off. 
 
 Duck. Thou art a fool : 
 The robin-redbreast and the nightingale 
 Never live long in cages. 
 
 Ca7'i. Pray, dry your eyes. 
 What think you of, madam ? 
 
 Duck. Of nothing; 
 When I muse thus, I sleep. 
 
 Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open ? 
 
 Duck. Dost thou think we shall know one 
 another 
 In the other world ? 
 
 Cari. Yes, out of question. 
 
 Duck. Oh that it were possible we might 
 But hold some two days' conference with the 
 
 dead! 
 From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure, 
 I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle ; 
 I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow: 
 The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten 
 
 brass, 
 The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad. 
 I am acquainted with sad misery 
 As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar ; 
 Necessity makes me suffer constantly, 
 And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like 
 now? 
 
 Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery, 
 A deal of life in show, but none in practice ; 
 Or rather like some reverend monument 
 Whose ruins are even pitied. 
 
 Duck. Very proper ; 
 And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight 
 To behold my tragedy. — How now ! 
 What noise is that ? 
 
 Enter Servant 
 
 So'V. I am come to tell you 
 Your brother hath intended you some sport. 
 A great physician, when the Pope was sick 
 Of a deep melancholy, presented him 
 With several sorts of madmen, which wild 
 
 object 
 Being full of change and sport, forc'd him to 
 
 laugh. 
 And so the imposthume broke : the self-same 
 
 cure 
 The duke intends on yon. 
 Duck. Let them come in. 
 Serv. There's a mad lawyer; and a secular 
 
 priest ; 
 A doctor that hath forfeited his wits 
 By jealousy; an astrologian 
 That in his works said such a day o' the month 
 Should be the day of doom, and, failing oft. 
 Run mad; an English tailor craz'd i' the brain 
 With the study of new fashions; a gentleman 
 
 usher 
 Quite beside himself with care to keep in mind 
 The number of his lady's salutations 
 
 * condor/— company, concert. 
 
 Or ' How do you ' she employ'd him in each 
 
 morning ; 
 A farmer, too, an excellent knave in grain, 
 Mad 'cause he was hinder'd transportation : * 
 And let one broker that's mad loose to these. 
 You'd think the devil were among them. 
 Duck. Sit, Cariola. — Let them loose when you 
 please, 
 For I am chain'd to endure all your tyranny. 
 
 Enter Madmen. 
 
 Here by a Madman this song is sung to a dismal 
 kind of music. 
 
 0, let us howl some heavy note, 
 
 Some deadly dogged howl, 
 Sounding as from the threatening throat 
 
 Of beast and fatal fowl ! 
 As ravens, screech-owls, hulls and bears, 
 
 We'll bell, and bawl our parts, 
 Till irksome noise have cloy'd your ears 
 
 And cdrrosiv'd '- your hearts. 
 At last, whenas our quire wants breath, 
 
 Our bodies being blest, 
 We'll sing, like swans, to welcome death, 
 
 And die in love and rest. 
 
 1 Madman. Doomsday not come yet ! I'l 
 draw it nearer by a perspective, or make a glass 
 that shall set all the world on fire upon an 
 instant. I cannot sleep ; my pillow is stuffed 
 with a litter of porcupines. 
 
 2 Madman. Hell is a mere glasshouse, where 
 the devils are continually blowing up women's 
 souls on hollow irons, and the fire never goes 
 out. 
 
 3 Madman. I will lie with every woman in 
 my parish the tenth night ; I will tithe them over 
 like haycocks. 
 
 4 Madman. Shall my 'pothecary outgo me 
 because I am a cuckold ? I have found out his 
 roguery ; he makes alum of his -svife's urine, and 
 sells it to Puritans that have sore throats with 
 over-straining. 
 
 1 Madman. I have skill in heraldry. 
 
 2 Madman. Hast ? 
 
 1 Madman. You do give for your crest a 
 woodcock's head with the brains picked out on't ; 
 you are a very ancient gentleman. 
 
 3 Madman. Greek is turned Turk : we are 
 only to be saved by the Helvetian translation.^ 
 
 1 Madman. Come on, sir, I will lay the law to 
 you. 
 
 2 Madman. Oh, rather lay a corrosive: the law 
 will eat to the bone. 
 
 3 Madman. He that drinks but to satisfy nature 
 is damned. 
 
 4 Madman. If I had my glass here, I would 
 show a sight should make all the women here 
 call me mad doctor. 
 
 1 3 f adman. What's he ? a rope-maker ? 
 
 2 Madman. No, no, no, a snuffling knave that, 
 while he shows the tombs, will have his hand in 
 a wench's placket.* 
 
 3 Madman. AVoe to the caroche that brought 
 home my wife from the mask at three o'clock in 
 the morning ! it had a largj feather-bed in it. 
 
 4 Madman. I have pared the devil's nails forty 
 times, roasted them in ravens' eggs, and ctu-ed 
 agues with them. 
 
 3 Madman. Get me three hundred milch-bats, 
 to 'make possets to procure sleep. 
 
 4 Madman. All the college may throw their 
 
 1 frarijrportofton— exportation of grain. 
 
 2 corrosiv'd — corroded. 
 
 3 i.e. presumably the translation of the New Testa 
 ment into English at Geneva, in 1557. — W. Hazlitt. 
 
 * See note 2, p. 79, col. 2. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER, 
 
 337 
 
 caps at me : I have made a soap-boiler costive ; 
 it was my masterpiece. 
 
 \Here the dance, consisting o/" Eight Madmen, 
 vxith music answerable^ thereunto; after 
 which BosoLA, like an old man, entei'S. 
 
 Duch. Is he mad too ? 
 
 Sei'V. Pray, question him. I'll leave you. 
 
 [^Exeunt Servant and Madmen. 
 
 Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. 
 
 JDuch. Ha ! my tomb ! 
 Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed, 
 Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick ? 
 
 Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously since thy 
 sickness is insensible. 
 
 Duch. Thou art not mad, sure : dost know me ? 
 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Who am I ? 
 
 Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but 
 a salvatory2 of green mummy.' What's this 
 flesh? a little crudded* milk, fantastical puff- 
 paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper- 
 prisons boys use to keep flies in ; more con- 
 temptible, since ours is to preserve earth-worms. 
 Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage ? Such is 
 the soul in the body: this world is like her 
 little turf of grass, and the heaven o'er our heads 
 like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable 
 knowledge of the small compass of our prison. 
 
 Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? 
 
 Bos., Thou art some great woman, sure, for 
 riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey 
 hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry 
 milkmaid's. Thou sleepest worse than if a 
 mouse should be forced to take up her lodging 
 in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its 
 teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if 
 thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. 
 
 Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. 
 
 Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : 
 Glories, like glowworms, afar off shine bright. 
 But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. 
 
 Duch. Thou art very plain. 
 
 Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the 
 living ; I am a tomb-maker. 
 
 Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? 
 
 Bos. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Let me be a little merry : — of what stuff 
 wilt thou make it ? 
 
 Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion ? 
 
 Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our 
 deathbed ? do we affect fashion in the grave ? 
 
 Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on 
 their tombs do not lie, as they were wont, seem- 
 ing to pray up to heaven ; but with their hands 
 under their cheeks, as if they died of the tooth- 
 ache : they are not carved with their eyes fixed 
 upon the stars ; but as their minds were wholly 
 bent upon the world, the selfsame way they seem 
 to turn their faces. 
 
 Duch. Let me know fully therefore the effect 
 Of this thy dismal preparation, v 
 
 This talk fit for a charnel. 
 
 Bos. Now I shall : — 
 
 iJTifer Executioners, with a coffin, cords, and a Ml. 
 Here is a present from your princely brothers ; 
 And may it arrive welcome, for it brings 
 Last benefit, last sorrow. 
 Duch. Let me see it : 
 
 1 answerable— saitsMe. 
 
 2 salyatory—s. place for preserving or keeping any- 
 tning in. 
 
 3 mummy— Egyptian mummy, or what passed for it, 
 was formerly a regular part of the Materia Medica.— 
 Nares. 
 
 * cr«(/<iec?— curdled. 
 
 I have so much obedience in my blood, 
 I wish it in their veins to do them good. 
 
 Bos. This is your last presence-chamber. 
 
 CaH. Oh, my sweet lady! 
 
 Duch. Peace ; it affrights not me. 
 
 Bos. I am the common bellman, 
 That usually is sent to condemn'd persons 
 The night before they suffer. 
 
 Duch. Even now thou said'st 
 Thou wast a tomb-maker. 
 
 Bos. 'Twas to bring you 
 By degrees to mortification. Listen. 
 
 Hark, now every thing is still. 
 
 The screech-owl and the whistler shrill 
 
 Call upon our dame aloud, 
 
 And bid her quickly don her shroud 
 
 Much you had of land and rent , 
 
 Your length in clay's now competent : 
 
 A.long war disturb'd your mind ; 
 
 Here your perfect peace is sign'd. 
 
 Of what is't fools make such vain keeping ? 
 
 Sin their conception, their birth weeping. 
 
 Their life a general -mist of error. 
 
 Their death a hideous storm of terror. 
 
 Strew your hair with powders sweet, 
 
 Don clean linen, bathe your feet, 
 
 And (the foul fiend more to check) 
 
 A crucifix let bless your neck : 
 
 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day ; 
 
 End your groan, and come away. 
 
 Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! alas! 
 What will you do with my lady ?— Call for help. 
 
 Duch. To whom? to our next neighbours? 
 they are mad-folks. 
 
 Bos. Eemove that noise. 
 
 Duch. Farewell, Cariola. 
 In my last will I have not much to give : 
 A many hungry guests have fed upon me ; 
 Thine will be a poor reversion. 
 
 Cari. I will die with her. 
 
 Drwh. I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy 
 Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl 
 Say her prayers ere she sleep. — 
 
 [Cariola is forced out ly the Executioners. 
 Now what you please : 
 What death ? 
 
 Bos. Strangling; here are your executioners. 
 
 Duch. I forgive them : 
 The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
 Would do as much as they do. 
 
 Bos. Doth not death fright you ? 
 
 Duch. Who would be afraid on't. 
 Knowing to meet such excellent company 
 In the other world ? 
 
 Bos. Yet, methinks, 
 The manner of your death should much afflict 
 
 you : 
 This cord should terrify you. 
 
 Duch. Not a whit. 
 What would it pleasure me to have my throat 
 
 cut 
 With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
 With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
 I know death hath ten thousand several doors 
 For men to take their exits ; and 'tis found 
 They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 
 You may open them both ways : any way, for 
 
 Heaven-sake, 
 So I were out of your whispering. Tell my 
 
 brothers 
 That I perceive death, now I am well awake 
 Best gift is they can give or I can take. 
 I would fain put off my last woman's fault, 
 I'd not be tedious to you. 
 
 1 Execut. We are ready. 
 
338 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Duch. Dispose my breath, how please you ; but 
 my body 
 Bestow upon my women, will you ? 
 1 Execut. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able 
 strength 
 Must pull down heaven upon me. — 
 Yet stay ; heaven-gates are not so highly arch'd 
 As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 
 Must go upon their knees [Kneels\. — Come, 
 
 violent death, 
 Serve for mandragora to make me sleep ! — 
 Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, 
 They then may feed in quiet. 
 
 [They strangle her. 
 Bos. Where's the waiting-woman ? 
 Fetch her. Some other strangle the children. 
 
 [Gariola and Children are brought in 
 by the Executioners, who presently 
 strangle the Children. 
 Look you, there sleeps your mistress. 
 
 Cari. Oh, you ai'e damn'd 
 Perpetually for this ! My turn is next ; 
 Is't not so order'd ? 
 
 Bos. Yes, and I am glad 
 You are so well prepar'd for't. 
 Cari. You are deceiv'd, sir ; 
 I am not prepar'd for't, I will not die ; 
 I will first come to my answer, and know 
 How I have offended. 
 
 Bos. Come, despatch her. — 
 You kept her counsel ; now you shall keep ours. 
 Cari. I will not die, I must not ; I am con- 
 tracted 
 To a young gentleman. 
 1 Execut. Here's your wedding-ring. 
 Cari. Let me but speak with the duke ; I'll 
 discover 
 Treason to his person. 
 Bos. Delays : — throttle her. 
 1 Execut. She bites and scratches. 
 CaH. If you kiU me now, 
 I am damn'd ; I have not been at confession 
 This two years. 
 Bos. [to Executioners]. When ? * 
 CaH. I am quick with child. 
 Bos. Why, then. 
 Your credit's saved. 
 
 [The Executioners strangle Cariola. 
 Bear her into the next room ; 
 Let this* He stiU. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Is she dead ? 
 
 Bos. She is what 
 You'd have her. But here begin your pity. 
 
 [Shows the Children strangled. 
 Alas ! how have these offended ? 
 
 Ferd. The death 
 Of young wolves is never to be pitied. 
 
 Bos. Fix your eye here. 
 
 Ferd. Constantly. 
 
 Bos. Do you not weep ? 
 Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. 
 The element of water moistens the earth, 
 But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens. 
 
 Ferd. Cover her face ; mine eyes dazzle : she 
 died young. 
 
 Bos. I think not so ; her infelicity 
 Seem'd to have years too many. 
 
 Ferd. She and I were twins ; 
 And should I die this instant, I had liv'd 
 Her time to a minute. 
 
 1 When ?— an exclamation of impatience. 
 » this— i.e. the duchess' body. 
 
 Bos. It seems she was born first. 
 You have bloodily approv'd the ancient truth, 
 That kindred commonly do worse agree 
 Than remote strangers. 
 
 Ferd. Let me see her face 
 Again. Why didst not thou pity her ? what 
 An excellent, honest man might'st thou have been, 
 If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary ! 
 Or, bold in a good cause, oppos'd thyself. 
 With thy advanced sword above thy head, 
 Between her innocence and my revenge ! 
 I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits. 
 Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done't. 
 For let me but examine well the cause : 
 What was the meanness of her match to me ? 
 Only I must confess I had a hope. 
 Had she continu'd widow, to have gain'd 
 An infinite mass of treasure by her death. 
 And what was the main cause ? her marriage, 
 That drew a stream of gall quite through my 
 
 heart. 
 For thee, as we observe in tragedies 
 That a good actor many times is curs'd 
 For playing a villain's part, I hate thee for't. 
 And, for my sake, say thou hast done much ill 
 well. 
 
 Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I per- 
 ceive 
 You are falling into ingratitude. I challenge 
 The reward due to my service. 
 
 Ferd. I'U tell thee 
 What I'll give thee. 
 
 Bos. Do. 
 
 Ferd. I'll give thee a pardon 
 For this murder. 
 
 Bos. Ha! 
 
 Ferd. Yes, and 'tis 
 The largest bounty I can study to do thee. 
 B}' what authority didst thou execute 
 This bloody sentence ? 
 
 Bos. By yours. 
 
 Ferd. Mine ! was I her judge ? 
 Did any ceremonial form of law 
 Doom her to not-being ? did a cdmpletd jury 
 Deliver her conviction up i' the court .'' 
 Where shalt thou find this judgment reiyister'd, 
 Unless in hell ? See, like a bloody fool, 
 Thou'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt die for't. 
 
 Bos. The ofiice of justice is perverted quite 
 When one thief hangs another. Who shall dare 
 To reveal this ? 
 
 Ferd. Oh, I'll tell thee. 
 The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up, 
 Not to devour the corpse, but to discover 
 The horrid murder. 
 
 Bos. You, not I, shall quake for't. 
 
 Ferd. Leave me. 
 
 Bos. I will fii-st receive my pension- 
 
 Ferd. You are a villain. 
 
 Bos. When your ingratitude 
 Is judge, I am so. 
 
 Ferd. horror. 
 That not the fear of him which binds the devils 
 Can prescribe man obedience ! — 
 Never look upon me more. 
 
 Bos. Why, fare thee well. 
 Your brother and yourself are worthy men : 
 You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves. 
 Rotten, and rotting others ; and your vengeance, 
 Like two chain'd bullets, still goes arm in arm : 
 You may be brothers ; for treason, like the plague, 
 Doth take much in a blood. I stand Uke one 
 That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream : 
 I am angry with myself, now that I wake. 
 
 Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' the 
 world. 
 That I may never see thee. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 339 
 
 Bos. Let me know 
 Wherefore I should be thus neglected. Sir, 
 I serv'd your tyranny, and rather strove 
 To satisfy yourself than all the world ; 
 And though I loath'd the evil, 3'et I lov'd 
 You that did counsel it ; and rather sought 
 To appear a true servant than an honest man. 
 
 Ftrd. I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light ; 
 'Tis a deed of darkness. {Exit. 
 
 Bos. He's much distracted. Off, my painted 
 honour ! 
 "While with vain hopes our faculties we tire, 
 We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in fire. 
 What would I do, were this to do again ? 
 I would not change my peace of conscience 
 For all the wealth of Europe.— She stirs ; here's 
 
 life:— 
 Eeturn, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine 
 Out of this sensible hell : — she's warm, she 
 
 breathes : — 
 Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart, 
 To store them with fresh colour. — Who's there ! 
 Some cordial drink ! — Alas ! I dare not call : 
 So pity would destroy pity. — Her eye opes, 
 And heaven in it^seems to ope, that late was shut, 
 To take me up to mercy. 
 
 Duch. Antonio!^ 
 
 Bos. Yes, madam, he is living ; 
 The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd statues : 
 He's reconcil'd to your brothers 5 the Pope hath 
 The atonement.^ [wrought 
 
 Duch. Mercy! \pies. 
 
 Bos. Oh, she's gone again ! there the cords of 
 life broke. 
 sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps 
 On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience 
 Is a black register, wherein is writ 
 All our good deeds and bad, a perspective 
 That shows us hell! That we cannot be suffer'd 
 To do good when we have a mind to it ! 
 This is manly soitow ; 
 These tears, I am very certain, never grew 
 In ray mother's milk : my estate is sunk 
 Below the degree of fear ; where were 
 These penitent fountains while she was living? 
 Oh, they were frozen up ! Here is a sight 
 As direful to my soul as is the sword 
 Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, 
 I'll bear thee hence. 
 
 And execute thy last will ; that's deliver 
 Thy body to the reverend dispose 
 Of some good women : that the cruel tyrant 
 Shall not deny me. Then I'll post to Milan, 
 Where somewhat I will speedily enact 
 Worth my dejection. [Exit. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 Enter Antonio and Delio. 
 
 Ant. What think you of my hope of reconcile- 
 To the Arragonian brethren ? [ment 
 
 Del. 1 misdoubt it ; 
 For though they have sent their letters of safe- 
 conduct 
 For your repair to Milan, they appear 
 But nets to entrap you. The Marquis of Pescara, 
 Under whom you hold certain land in cheat,' 
 
 1 The idea of making the Duchess speak after she has 
 been strangled, was doubtless taken from the death of 
 Desdemona in Shakespeare's Othello, Act v. last scene. 
 — Dyce. 
 
 2 atonement— i.e. at one-ment, reconciliation. 
 
 3 cheat — escheat. 
 
 Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been mov'd 
 
 To seize those lands ; and some of his dependents 
 
 Are at this instant making it their suit 
 
 To be invested in your revenues. 
 
 I cannot think they mean well to your life 
 
 That do deprive you of your means of life, 
 
 Your living. 
 
 Ant. You are still an heretic 
 To any safety I can shape myself. 
 
 Del. Here comes the Marquis; I will make 
 myself 
 Petitioner for some part of your land, 
 To know whither it is flying. 
 
 Ant. I pray, do. 
 
 Enfei' Pescara. 
 
 Del. Sir, I have a suit to you. 
 
 Pes. Tome.? 
 
 Del. An easy one ; 
 There is the Citadel of Saint Bennet, 
 With some demesnes, of late in the possession 
 Of Antonio Bologna, — please you bestow them on 
 me. 
 
 Pes. You are my friend ; but this is such' a suit. 
 Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take. 
 
 Del. No, sir? 
 
 Pes. 1 will give you ample reason for't 
 Soon in private : — here's the cardinal's mistress. 
 
 Enter Julia. 
 
 Julia. My lord, I am grown your poor peti- 
 tioner. 
 And should be an ill beggar, had I not 
 A great man's letter here, the cardinal's, 
 To court you in my favour. 
 
 Pes. He entreats for you 
 The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that belong'd 
 To the banish'd Bologna. 
 
 Julia. Yes. 
 
 Pes. I could not have thought of a friend I 
 could rather 
 Pleasure with it : 'tis yours. 
 
 Julia. Sir, I thank you ; 
 And he shall know how doubly I am engag'd 
 Both in your gift, and speediness of giving 
 Which makes your gi-ant the greater. [^Exit. 
 
 Ant. How they fortify 
 Themselves with my ruin ! 
 
 Del. Sir, I am 
 Little bound to you. 
 
 Pes. Why? 
 
 Del. Because you denied this suit to me, and 
 gave't 
 To such a creature. 
 
 Pes. Do you know what it was ? 
 It was Antonio's land ; not forfeited 
 By course of law, but ravish'd from his throat 
 By the cardinal's entreaty; it were not fit 
 I should bestow so main a piece of wrong 
 Upon my friend ; 'tis a gratification 
 Only due to a strumpet, for it is injustice. 
 Shall I spi-inkle the pure blood of innocents 
 To make those followers I call my friends 
 Look ruddier upon me ? I am glad 
 This land, ta'en from the owner by such wrong, 
 Returns again unto so foul an use 
 As salary for his lust. Learn, good DeUo, 
 To ask noble things of me, and you shall find 
 I'll be a noble giver. 
 
 Del. You instruct me well. 
 
 Ant. Why, here's a man now would fright im- 
 pudence 
 From sauciest beggars. 
 
 Pes. Prince Ferdinand's come to Milan, 
 Sick, as they give out, of an apoplexy ; 
 But some say 'tis a frenzy : I am going 
 To visit him. [Exit. 
 
340 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ant. 'Tis a noble old fellow. 
 
 Del. What course do you mean to take, 
 Antonio ? 
 
 Ant. This night I mean to venture all my 
 fortune, 
 Which is no more than a poor lingering life, 
 To the cardinal's worst of malice. I have got 
 Private access to his chamber ; and intend 
 To visit him about the mid of night, 
 As once his brother did our noble duchess. 
 It may be that the sudden apprehension 
 Of danger,— .for I'll go in mine own shape, — 
 When he shall see it fraight ^ with love and duty, 
 May draw the poison out of him, and work 
 A friendly reconcilement : if it fail. 
 Yet it shall rid me of this infamous calling ; 
 For better fall once than be ever falling. 
 
 Del. I'll second you in all danger ; and, how- 
 e'er. 
 My life keeps rank with yours. 
 
 Ant, You are still my lov'd and best friend. 
 
 \_Exeunl. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 Enter Pescara and Doctor. 
 
 Pes. Now, doctor, may I visit your patient ? 
 
 Doc. If't please your lordship: but he's in- 
 stantly 
 To take the air here in the gallery 
 By my direction. 
 
 Pes. Pray thee, what's his disease ? 
 
 Doc. A very pestilent disease, my lord, 
 They call lycanthropia. 
 
 Pes. What's that? 
 I need a dictionary to't. 
 
 Doc. I'll tell you. 
 In those that are possess'd with't there overflows 
 Such melancholy humour they imagine 
 Themselves to be tx-ansform^d into wolves ; 
 Steal forth to churchyards in the dead of night. 
 And dig dead bodies up : as, two nights since. 
 One met the duke 'bout midnight in a lane 
 Behind Saint Mark's church, with the leg of a man 
 Upon his shoulder ; and he how I'd fearfully ; 
 Said he was a wolf, only the difference 
 Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the outside. 
 His on the inside ; bade them take their swords, 
 Bip up his flesh, and try : straight I was sent for. 
 And, having minister'd to him, found his grace 
 Very well recover'd. 
 
 Pes. I am glad on't. 
 
 Doc. Yet not without some fear 
 Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again, 
 I'll go a nearer way to work with him 
 Than ever Paracelsus dream'd of ; if 
 They'll give me leave, I'll buffet his madness out 
 
 of him. 
 Stand aside ; he comes. 
 
 Enler Ferdinand, Cardinal, Malatesti, and 
 
 BOSOLA. 
 
 Ferd. Leave me. 
 
 Mai. Why doth your lordship love this soli- 
 tariness ? 
 
 Ferd. Eagles commonly fly alone: they are 
 crows, daws, and starlings that flock together. 
 Look, what's that follows me ? 
 
 Mai. Nothing, my lord. 
 
 Ferd. Yes. 
 
 Mai. 'Tis your shadow. 
 
 Ferd. Stay it ; let it not haunt me. 
 
 ' /ratgrft^— fraught. 
 
 Mai. Impossible, if you move and the suu 
 
 Ferd. I will throttle it. [shine. 
 
 [Throws himself down on his shadow. 
 
 Mai. Oh, my lord, you are angry with nothing. 
 
 Fei'd. You are a fool : how is't possible I 
 should catch my shadow, unless I fall upon't.5> 
 When I go to hell, I mean to carry a bribe ; for, 
 look you, good gifts evermore make way for the 
 worst persons. 
 
 Pes. Else, good my lord. 
 
 Ferd. I am studying the art of patience. 
 
 Pes. 'Tis a noble virtue. 
 
 Ferd. To drive six snails before me from this 
 town to Moscow ; neither use goad nor whip to 
 them, but let them take their own time ; — the 
 patient'st man i' the world match me for an ex- 
 periment;— and I'll crawl after like a sheep-biter. 
 
 Ca7'd. Force him up. 
 
 Fet'd. Use me well, you were best. What I 
 have done, I have done; I'll confess nothing. 
 
 Doc. Now let me come to him. — Are you mad, 
 my lord ? are you out of your princely wits ? 
 
 Ferd. What's he? 
 
 Pes. Your doctor. 
 
 Ferd. Let me have his beard sawed off, and 
 his eyebrows filed more civil. 
 
 Doc. 1 must do mad tricks with him, for that's 
 the only way on't. — I have brought your grace a 
 salamander's skin to keep you from sun-burning. 
 
 Ferd. I have cruel sore eyes. 
 
 Doc. The white of a cockatrix's egg is pi'esent 
 remedy. 
 
 Ferd. Let it be a new-laid one, you were best. 
 — Hide me from him : physicians are like kings, 
 they brook no contradiction. 
 
 Doc. Now he begins to fear me : now let ma 
 alone with him. 
 
 Card. How now! put off your gown ! ^ 
 
 Doc. Let me have some forty urinals filled 
 with rose-water : he and I'll go pelt one another 
 
 with them. — Now he begins to fear me Can 
 
 you fetch a frisk, sir ? — Let him go, let him go, 
 upon my peril : I find by his eye he stands iu 
 awe of me ; I'll make him as tame as a dormouse. 
 
 Fei-d. Can you fetch your frisks, sir !— I will 
 stamp him into a cullis,^ flay off his skin, to 
 cover one of the anatomies this rogue hath set 
 i' the cold yonder in Barber-Chirurgeon's hall. — 
 Hence, hence ! you are all of you like beasts for 
 sacrifice : there's nothing left of you but tongue 
 and belly, flattery and lechery. [Exit. 
 
 Pes. Doctor, he did not fear you throughly. 
 
 Doc. True ; I was somewhat too forward. 
 
 Bos. Mercy upon me, what a fatal judgment 
 Hath fall'n upon this Ferdinand ! 
 
 Pes. Knows your grace 
 What accident hath brought unto the prince 
 This strange distraction ? 
 
 Card, [aside.'] I must feign somewhat. — Thus 
 they say it grew : — 
 You have heard it rumour'd, for these many years 
 None of our family dies but there is seen 
 The shape of an old woman, which is given 
 By tradition to us to have been murder'd 
 By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure 
 One night, as the prince sat up late at's book, 
 Appear'd to him ; when crying out for help. 
 The gentlemen of's chamber found his grace 
 All on a cold sweat, alter'd much in face 
 And language : since which apparition. 
 He hath grown worse and worse, and I much fear 
 He cannot live. 
 
 * put off your gown. Puts off' his four cloaks 
 another — stage direction, edition of 1708. 
 2 a cuius— Sea note 1, p. 52, col. 1. 
 
 after 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 341 
 
 Bos. Sir, 1 would speak with you. 
 
 Pes. We'll leave your grace, 
 Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord, 
 All health of mind and body. 
 
 Card. You are most welcome. 
 
 \Exeunt Pescara, Malatesti, and Doctor. 
 Are you come ? so. — \Asid€,.'\ This fellow must 
 
 not know 
 By any means I had intelligence 
 In our duchess' death ; for, though I counsell'd it, 
 The full of all the engagement seem'd to grow 
 From Ferdinand. — Now, sir, how fares our sister "i 
 I do not think but sorrow makes her look 
 Like to an oft-dy'd garment : she shall now 
 Taste comfort from me. Why do you look so 
 
 wildly ? 
 Oh, the fortune of your master here the prince 
 Dejects you; but be you of happy comfort: 
 If you'll do one thing for me I'll entreat, 
 Though he had a cold tombstone o'er his bones, 
 I'd make you what you would be. 
 
 Bos. Anything; 
 Give it me in a breath, and let me fly to't : 
 They that think long small expedition win, 
 For musing much o' the end cannot begin. 
 
 Enler Julta. 
 
 Julia. Sir, will you come in to supper ? 
 
 Card. I am busy ; leave me. 
 
 Julia, [a^icfe.] What an excellent shape hath 
 that fellow ! \Exit. 
 
 Card. 'Tis thus. Antonio lurks here in Milan : 
 Inquire him out, and kill him. While he lives. 
 Our sister cannot marry ! and I have thought 
 Of an excellent match for her. Do this and style 
 Thy advancement. [me 
 
 Bos. By what means shall I find him out ? 
 
 Card. There is a gentleman call'd Delio 
 Here in the camp, that hath been long approv'd 
 His loyal friend. Set eye upon that fellow ; 
 Follow him to mass ; may be Antonio, 
 Although he do account religion 
 But a school-name, for fashion of the world 
 May accompany him ; or else go inquire out 
 Delio's confessor, and see if you can bribe 
 Him to reveal it. There are a thousand ways 
 A man might find to trace him ; as to know 
 What fellows hunt the Jews to take 
 Great sums of money, for sure he's in want ; 
 Or else to go to the picture-makers, and learn 
 Who bought her picture lately : some of these 
 Happily' may take. 
 
 Bos. Well, I'll not freeze i' the business : 
 I would see that wretched thing, Antonio, 
 Above all sights i' the world. 
 
 Card. Do, and be happy. \Exit. 
 
 Bos. This fellow doth breed basilisks in's eyes, 
 He's nothing else but murder ; yet he seems 
 Not to have notice of the duchess' death. 
 'Tis his cunning : I must follow his example ; 
 There cannot be a surer way to trace 
 Than that of an old fox. 
 
 Re-enter Julia. 
 
 Julia. So, sir, you are well met. 
 
 Bos. How now ! 
 
 Julia. Nay, the doors are fast enough : 
 Now, sir, I will make you confess your treachery. 
 
 Bos. Treachery! 
 
 Julia. Yes, confess to me 
 Which of my women 'twas you hir'd to put 
 Love-powder into my drink ? 
 
 Bos. Love-powder! 
 
 Julia. Yes, when I was at Malfi. 
 
 happily— \i&-^\j, perhaps. 
 
 Why should I fall in love with such a face else ? 
 I have already suffer'd for thee so much pain, 
 The only remedy to do me good 
 Is to kill my longing. 
 
 Bos. Sure your pistol holds 
 Nothing but perfumes or kissing-comfits.' 
 Excellent lady ! 
 
 You have a pretty way on't to discover 
 Your longing. Come, come, I'll disarm you, 
 And arm you thus : yet this is wondrous strange. 
 
 Julia. Compare thy form and my eyes together, 
 You'll find my love no such great miracle. 
 Now you'll say 
 
 I am wanton : this nice modesty in ladies 
 Is but a troublesome familiar 
 That haunts them. 
 
 Bos. Know you me, I am a blunt soldier. 
 
 Julia. The better: 
 Sure, there wants fire where there are no lively 
 
 sparks 
 Of roughness. 
 
 Bos. And I want compliment. 
 
 Julia. Why, ignorance 
 In courtship cannot make you do amiss, 
 If you have a heart to do well. 
 
 Bos. You are very fair. 
 
 Julia. Nay, if you lay beauty to my charge, 
 I must plead unguilty. 
 
 Bos. Your bright eyes 
 Carry a quiver of darts in them sharper 
 Than sunbeams. 
 
 Julia. You will mar me with commendation, 
 Put yourself to the charge of courting me, 
 Whereas now I woo you. 
 
 Bos. {^Aside.'] I have it, I will work upon this 
 creature. — 
 Let us grow most amorously familiar : 
 If the great cardinal now should see me thus, 
 Would he not count me a villain ? 
 
 Julia. No ; he might count me a wanton, 
 Not lay a scruple of offence on you; 
 For if I see and steal a diamond. 
 The fault is not i' the stone, but in me the thief 
 That purloins it. I am sudden with you : 
 We that are great women of pleasure use to cut 
 
 off 
 These uncertain wishes and unquiet longings. 
 And in an instant join the sweet delight 
 And the pretty excuse together. Had you been 
 
 i' the street, 
 Under my chamber window, even there 
 I should have courted you. 
 
 Bos. Oh, you are an excellent lady ! 
 
 Julia. Bid me do somewhat for you presently 
 To express I love you. 
 
 Bos. I will ; and if you love me. 
 Fail not to effect it. 
 
 The cardinal is grown wondrous melancholy ; 
 Demand the cause, let him not put you off 
 With feigu'd excuse ; discover the main ground 
 on't. 
 
 Julia. Why would you know this ? 
 
 Bos. I have depended on him, 
 And I hear that he is fall'n in some disgrace 
 With the emperor : if he be, like the mice 
 That forsake falling houses, I would shift 
 To other dependance. 
 
 Julia. You shall not need 
 Follow the wars : I'll be your maintenance. 
 
 Bos. And I your loyal servant : but I cannot 
 Leave my calling. 
 
 Julia. Not leave an ungrateful 
 General for the love of a sweet lady ! 
 
 1 *iMing'-com/?<5— perfumed sagar-plums, to sweeten 
 the breath.— DycK, 
 
342 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 You are like some cannot sleep in feather-beds, 
 But must have blocks for their pillows. 
 
 Bos. Will you do this ? 
 
 Julia. Cunningly. 
 
 Bos. To-morrow I'll expect the intelligence. 
 
 Julia. To-morrow ! get you into my cabinet ; 
 You shall have it with you. Do not delay me, 
 No more than I do you : I am like one 
 That is condemn'd ; I have my pardon promis'd, 
 But I would see it seal'd. Go, get you in : 
 You shall see me wLad my tongue about his 
 
 heart 
 Like a skein of silk. 
 
 \Exlt BOSOLA. 
 
 Erder Cardinal and Servants. 
 
 Card. Where are you ? 
 
 Ser'vants. Here. 
 
 Card. Let none, upon your lives, have confer- 
 ence 
 With the Prince Ferdinand, unless I know it. — 
 {Exeunt Servants. 
 In this distraction he may reveal 
 The murder. 
 
 Yond's my lingering consumption : 
 I am weary of her, and by any means 
 Would be quit of. 
 
 Julia. How now, my lord I What ails you ? 
 
 Card. Nothing. 
 
 Julia. Oh, you are much alter'd : 
 Come, I must be your secretary, and remove 
 This lead from off your bosom: what's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Card. I may not tell you. 
 
 Julia. Are you so far in love with sorrow 
 You cannot part with part of it ? or think you 
 I cannot love your grace when you are sad 
 As well as merry } or do you suspect 
 I, that have been a secret to your heart 
 These many winters, cannot be the same 
 Unto your tongue ? 
 
 Card. Satisfy thy longing, — 
 The only way to make thee keep my counsel 
 Is, not to tell thee. 
 
 Julia. Tell your echo this, 
 Or flatterers, that, like echoes, still report 
 What they hear though most imperfect, and not 
 
 me; 
 For if that you be true unto yourself, 
 I'll know. 
 
 Card. Will you rack me ? 
 
 Julia. No, judgment shall 
 Draw it from you : it is an equal fault, 
 To tell one's secrets unto all or none. 
 
 Card. The first argues folly. 
 
 Julia. But the last tyranny. 
 
 Card. Very well : why, imagine I have com- 
 mitted 
 Some secret deed which I desire the world 
 May never hear of. 
 
 Julia. Therefore may not I know it ? 
 You have conceal'd for me as great a sin 
 As adultery. Sir, never was occasion 
 For perfect trial of my constancy 
 Till now : sir, I beseech you — 
 
 Card. You'll repent it. 
 
 Julia. Never. 
 
 Card. It hurries thee to ruin : I'll not tell thee. 
 Be well advis'd, and think what danger 'tis 
 To receive a prince's secrets : they that do. 
 Had need have their breasts hoop'd with adamant 
 To contain them. I pray thee, yet be satisfied ; 
 Examine thine own frailty ; 'tis more easy 
 To tie knots than unloose them : 'tis a secret 
 That, like a lingering poison, may chance lie 
 Spread in thy veins, and kill thee seven year 
 hence. 
 
 Julia. Now you dally with me. 
 
 Card. No more ; thou shalt know it. 
 By my appointment the great Duchess of Malfi 
 And two of her young children, four nights since, 
 Were strangl'd. ' 
 
 Julia. Oh Heaven ! sir, what have you done .'* 
 
 Card. How now ? How settles this 7 Think 
 you your bosom 
 Will be a grave dark and obscure enough 
 For such a secret ? 
 
 Julia. You have undone yourself, sir. 
 
 Card. Why.' 
 
 Julia. It lies not in me to conceal it. 
 
 Card. No.? 
 Come, I will swear you to't upon this book. 
 
 Julia. Most religiously. 
 
 Card. Kiss it. 
 Now you shall never utter it ; thy curiosity 
 Hath undone thee : thou'rt poison'd with that 
 
 book; 
 Because I knew thou couldst not keep my 
 
 counsel, 
 I have bound thee to't by death. 
 
 Re-enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. For pity-sake, hold ! 
 
 Card. Ha, Bosola! 
 
 Julia. I forgive you 
 This equal piece of justice you have done ; 
 For I betray'd your counsel to that fellow : 
 He overheard it ; that was the cause I said 
 It lay not in me to conceal it 
 
 Bos. Oh foolish woman, 
 Couldst not thou have poison'd him ? 
 
 Julia. 'Tis weakness. 
 Too much to think what should have been done. 
 
 I know not whither. [Dies. 
 
 Card. Wherefore com'st thou hither ? 
 
 Bos. That I might find a great man like your- 
 self. 
 Not out of his wits as the Lord Ferdinand, 
 To remember my service. 
 
 Cai'd. I'll have thee hew'd in pieces. 
 
 Bos. Make not yourself such a promise of that 
 life 
 Which is not yours to dispose of. 
 
 Ca7'd. Who plac'd thee here ? 
 
 Bos. Her lust, as she intended. 
 
 Card. Very well : 
 Now you know me for your fellow-murderer. 
 
 Bos. And wherefore should you lay fair marble 
 colours' 
 Upon your rotten purposes to me ? 
 Unless you imitate some that do plot great 
 
 treasons, 
 And when they have done, go hide themselves 
 
 i' the graves 
 Of those were actors in't ? 
 
 Card. No more ; there is 
 A fortune attends thee. 
 
 ^05. Shall I go sue to Fortune any longer ? 
 'Tis the fool's pilgrimage. 
 
 Card. I have honours in store for thee. 
 
 Bos. There are a many ways that conduct to 
 seeming honour, 
 And some of them very dirty ones. 
 
 Card. Throw to the devil 
 Thy melancholy. The fire bums well ; 
 What need we keep a stirring oft, and make 
 A greater smother ? Thou wilt kill Antonio ? 
 
 Bos. Yes, 
 
 Card. Take up that body. 
 
 Bos. I think I shall 
 Shortly grow the common bier for churchyards. 
 
 Card. I will allow thee some dozen of attendants 
 To aid thee in the murder. 
 
JOHN WEBSTER, 
 
 343 
 
 Bos. Oh, by no means. Physicians that apply 
 horse-leeches to any rank swelling use to cut off 
 their tails, that the blood may run through them 
 the faster. Let me have no train when I go to 
 shed blood, lest it make me have a greater when 
 I ride to the gallows. 
 
 Card. Come to me after midnight, to help to 
 remove 
 That body to her own lodging. I'll give out 
 She died o' the plague ; 'twill breed the less in- 
 quiry 
 After her death. 
 
 Bos. Where's Castruccio, her husband ? 
 Card. He's rode to Naples, to take possession 
 Of Antonio's citadel. 
 Bos. Believe me, you have done a very happy 
 
 turn. 
 Card. Fail not to come. There is the master- 
 key 
 Of our lodgings ; and by that you may conceive 
 What trust I plant in you. 
 
 Bos. You shall find me ready. \Exlt Cardinal. 
 Oh, poor Antonio, though nothing be so needful 
 To thy estate as pity, yet I find 
 Nothing so dangerous ! I must look to my 
 
 footing. 
 In such slippery ice-pavements men had need 
 To be frost-nail'd well; they may break their 
 
 necks else ; 
 The precedent's here afore me. How this man 
 Bears up in blood ! seems fearless ! Why, 'tis 
 
 well. 
 Security some men call the suburbs of hell, 
 Only a dead wall between. Well, good Antonio, 
 111 seek thee out ; and all my care shall be 
 To put thee into safety from the reach 
 Of these most cruel biters that have got 
 Some of thy blood already. It may be, 
 I'll join with thee in a most just revenge. 
 The weakest arm is strong enough that strikes 
 With the sword of justice. Still methinks the 
 
 duchess 
 Haunts me. There, there ! — 'Tis nothing but my 
 
 melancholy. 
 O Penitence, let me truly taste thy cup, 
 That throws men down only to raise them up ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE III. 
 Enter Antonio and Delio. 
 
 Bd. Tond's the cardinal's window. This for- 
 tification 
 Grew from the ruins of an ancient abbey ; 
 And to yond side o' the river lies a wall. 
 Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion 
 Gives the best echo that you ever heard, 
 So hollow and so dismal, and withal 
 So plain in the distinction of our words, 
 That many have suppos'd it is a spirit 
 That answers. 
 
 Ant. I do love these ancient ruins. 
 We never tread upon them but we set 
 Our foot upon some reverend history. 
 And questionless, here, in this open court, 
 Which now lies naked to the injuries 
 Of stormy weather, some men lie interr'd 
 Lov'd the church so well, and gave so largely to't, 
 They thought it should have canopied their 
 
 bones 
 Till doomsday ; but all things have their end : 
 Churches and cities, which have diseases like to 
 
 men, 
 Must have like death that we have. 
 
 Echo. Like, death that we have. 
 
 Del. Now the echo hath caught you. 
 
 Ant- It groan'd, methought, and gave 
 A very deadly accent. 
 Echo. Deadly accent. 
 
 Del. I told you 'twas a pretty one. You may 
 make it 
 A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician. 
 Or a thing of sorrow. 
 Echo. A thing ofsorn'ow. 
 Ant. Ay, sure, that suits it best. 
 Echo. That suits it best. 
 Ant. 'Tis very like my wife's voice. 
 Echo. Ay, wife's voice. 
 Del. Come, let us walk further from't. 
 I would not have you go to the cardinal's to-night. 
 Do not. 
 Echo. Do not. 
 
 Del. Wisdom doth not more moderate wasting 
 sorrow 
 Than time: take time for't; be mindful of thy 
 safety. 
 Echo. Be mindful of thy safety. 
 Ant. Necessity compels me. 
 Make scrutiny throughout the passes 
 Of your own life, you'll find it impossible 
 To fly your fate. 
 Echo. Oh, fly your fate ! 
 
 Del. Hark ! the dead stones seem to have pity 
 on you. 
 And give you good counsel. 
 
 Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee, 
 For thou art a dead thing. 
 Echo. Thou art a dead thing. 
 Ant. My duchess is asleep now. 
 And her little ones, I hope sweetly. O Heaven, 
 Shall I never see her more ? 
 Echo. Never see her more. 
 Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the echo 
 But that ; and on the sudden a clear Hght 
 Presented me a face folded in sorrow. 
 Del. Your fancy merely. 
 Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague, 
 For to live thus is not indeed to live ; 
 It is a mockery and abuse of life. 
 I will not henceforth save myself by halves ; 
 Lose all, or nothing. 
 
 Del. Your own virtue save you ! 
 I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you. 
 It may be that the sight of his own blood, 
 Spread in so sweet a figure, may beget 
 The more compassion. However, fare you well. 
 Though in our miseries Fortune have a part, 
 Yet in our noble sufferings she hath none : 
 Contempt of pain, that we may call our own. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Enter Cardinal, Peso ara, Malatesti, Eoderigo, 
 and Grisolan. 
 
 Card. You shall not watch to-night by the 
 sick prince ; 
 His grace is very well recover'd. 
 
 Mai. Good my lord, suffer us. 
 
 Card. Oh, by no means ; 
 The noise, and change of object in his eye, 
 Doth more distract him. I pray, aU to bed ; 
 And though you hear him in his violent fit, 
 Do not rise, I entreat you. 
 
 Pes. So, sir ; we shall not. 
 
 Card. Nay, I must have you promise 
 Upon your honours, for I was enjoin'd to't 
 By himself; and he seem'd to urge it sensibly. 
 
 Pes. Let our honours bind this trifle. 
 
 Card. Nor any of your followers. 
 
 Mai. Neither. 
 
344 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Card. It may be, to make trial of your promise, 
 When he's asleep, myself will rise and feign 
 Some of his mad tricks, and cry out for help, 
 And feign myself in danger. 
 
 Mai. If your throat were cutting, 
 I'd not come at you, now I have protested 
 against it. 
 Card. Why, I thank you. 
 Gris. 'Twas a foul storm to-night. 
 Rod. The Lord Ferdinand's chamber shook 
 
 like an osier. 
 Mai. 'Twas nothing but pure kindness in the 
 devil, 
 To rock his own child. 
 
 {Exeunt all except the CARDiyAL. 
 Card. The reason why I would not suffer theae 
 About my brother, is, because at midnight 
 I may with better privacy convey 
 Julia's body to her own lodging. Oh, my con- 
 science ! 
 I would pray now; but the devil takes away 
 
 my heart 
 For having any confidenco in prayer. 
 About this hour I appointed Bosola 
 To fetch the body. When he hath serv'd my 
 
 turn, 
 He dies. [Exit- 
 
 Enter Bosola. 
 
 Bos. Ha! 'twas the cardinal's voice; I heard 
 him name 
 Bosola and my death. Listen ; I hear one's 
 footing. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. Strangling is a very quiet death. 
 
 Bos. [aside.~] Nay, then, I see I must stand 
 
 upon my guard. 
 Ferd. What say to that ? whisper softly ; do 
 you agree to't ? So ; it must be done i' the dark : 
 the cardinal would not for a thousand pounds the 
 doctor should see it. {Exit. 
 
 Bos. My death is plotted; here's the conse- 
 quence of murder. 
 We value not desert nor Christian breath, 
 When we know black deeds must be cur'd with 
 death. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Servant. 
 
 Serv. Here stay, sir, and be confident, I pray : 
 I'll fetch you a dark lantern. {Exit. 
 
 Ant. Could I take him at his prayers, 
 There were hope of pardon. 
 
 Bos. Fall right, my sword ! — {Stabs him.^ 
 
 I'U not give thee so much leisure as to pray. 
 
 Ant. Oh, I am gone ! Thou hast ended a long 
 suit 
 In a minute. 
 
 Bos. What art thou? 
 
 Ant. A most wretched thing. 
 That only have thy benefit in death, 
 To appear myself. 
 
 Re-enter Servant with a Lanteiti. 
 Serv. Where are you, sir ? 
 Ant. Very near my home — Bosola ! 
 Sei'v. misfortune ! 
 
 Bos. Smother thy pity ; thou art dead else. — 
 Antonio ! 
 The man I would have sav'd 'bove mine own life ! 
 We are merely the stars' tennis-balls, struck and 
 
 banded 
 Which way please them. — good Antonio, 
 I'U whisper one thing in thy dying ear 
 
 1 Under the belief that he is the cardinal. 
 
 Shall make thy heart break quickly! thy fair 
 
 duchess 
 And two sweet children — 
 
 Ant. Their very names 
 Kindle a little life in me. 
 
 Bos. Are murder'd. 
 
 Ant. Some men have wish'd to die 
 At the hearing of sad tidings ; I am glad 
 That I shall do't in sadness : ^ I would not now 
 Wish my wounds balm'd nor heal'd, for I have 
 
 no use 
 To put my life to. In all our quest of greatness, 
 Like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, 
 We follow after bubbles blown in the air. 
 Pleasure of life, what is't ? only the good hours 
 Of an ague ; merely a preparative to rest 
 To endux'e vexation. I do not ask 
 The process of my death ; only commend me 
 To Delio. 
 
 Bos. Break, heart ! 
 
 Ant. And let my son fly the courts of princes. 
 
 \_Dies. 
 
 Bos. Thou seem'st to have lov'd Antonio ? 
 
 Serv. I brought him hither. 
 To have reconcil'd him to the cardinal. 
 
 Bos. I do not ask thee that. 
 Take him up, if thou tender'-^ thine own life. 
 And bear him where the lady Julia 
 Was wont to lodge. — Oh, my fate moves swift ! 
 I have this cardinal in the forge already ; 
 Now I'll bring him to the hammer. direful 
 
 misprision ! 
 I will not imitate things glorious. 
 No more than base ; I'll be mine own example. — 
 On, on, and look thou represent, for silence. 
 The thing thou beai-'st. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE V. 
 Enter Cardinal with a Boole. 
 
 Card. I am puzzled in a question about hell : 
 He says, in hell there's one material fire, 
 And yet it shall not burn all men alike. 
 Lay him by. How tedious is a guilty conscience ! 
 When I look into the fish-ponds in my garden, 
 Methinks I see a thing arm'd with a rake, 
 That seems to strike at mo. 
 
 Enter Bosola, and Servant hearing Antonio's 
 body. 
 
 Now, art thou come ? 
 Thou look'st ghastly : 
 
 There sits in thy face some great determination 
 Mix'd with some fear. 
 
 Bos. Thus it lightens into action: 
 I am come to kill thee. 
 
 Card. Ha ! — Help ! our guard ! 
 
 Bos. Thou art deceiv'd ; 
 They are out of thy howling. 
 
 Card. Hold ; and I will faithfully divide 
 Revenues with thee. 
 
 Bos. Thy prayers and proffers 
 Are both unseasonable. 
 
 Card. Raise the watch ! we are betray'd ! 
 
 Bos. I have confin'd your flight : 
 I'll suffer your retreat to Julia's chamber, 
 But no further. 
 
 Card. Help ! we are betray'd ! 
 
 Enter ahove,^ Pbscara, Malatesti, Koderigo, 
 and Grisolan. 
 
 Mai. Listen. 
 
 1 sadfnesi— earnest. " tender — love. 
 
 3 above— i.e. on the upper stage, the raised platfoiin 
 towards the back of the stage.— Dyce, 
 
JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 345 
 
 Card. My dukedom for rescue ! 
 
 Rod. Fie upon his counterfeiting ! 
 
 Mai. Why, 'tis not the cardinal. 
 
 Rod. Yes, yes, 'tis he ; 
 But I'll see him hang'd ere I'll go down to him. 
 
 Card. Here's a plot upon me ; I am assaulted I 
 I am lost. 
 Unless some rescue I 
 
 GHs. He doth this pretty well ; 
 But it will not serve to laugh me out of mine 
 honour. 
 
 Card. The sword's at my throat ! 
 
 Rod. You would not bawl so loud then. 
 
 Mai. Come, come, let's go 
 To bed : he told us thus much aforehand. 
 
 Pes. He wish'd you should not come at him ; 
 but, believe't, 
 The accent of the voice sounds not in jest : 
 I'll down to him, howsoever, and with engines 
 Force ope the doors. \Exit above. 
 
 Rod. Let's follow him aloof. 
 And note how the cardinal will laugh at him. 
 
 {Exeunt above, Malatesti, Eoderigo, 
 and Grisolan. 
 
 Bos. There's for you first, 
 'Cause you shall not unbarricade the door 
 To let in rescue. {Kills the Servant. 
 
 Card. What cause hast thou to pursue my life .-' 
 
 Bos. Look there. 
 
 Card. Antonio ! 
 
 Bos. Slain by my hand unwittingly. 
 Pray, and be sudden: when thou kill'dst thy 
 
 sister. 
 Thou took'st from Justice her most equal balance, 
 And left her naught but her sword. 
 
 Card. mercy ! 
 
 Bos. Now it seems thy greatness was only out- 
 ward; 
 For thou fall'st faster of thyself than calamity 
 Can drive thee. I'll not waste longer time ; 
 there ! [Stabs him. 
 
 Card. Thou hast hurt me. 
 
 Bos. Again ! 
 
 Card. Shall I die like a leveret, 
 Without any resistance 7 — Help, help, help ! 
 I am slain ! 
 
 Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferd. The alarum ! give me a fresh horse ; 
 Eally the vauntguard, or the day is lost. 
 Yield, yield I I give you the honour of arms. 
 Shake my sword over you ; will you yield ? 
 
 Card. Help me ; I am your brother ! 
 
 Ferd. The devil ! 
 My brother fight upon the adverse party ! 
 
 \_He wounds the Cardinal, and, in the scuffle, 
 gives Bosola his death-wound. 
 
 There flies your ransom. 
 
 Card. O justice! 
 I suffer now for what hath former been : 
 Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin. 
 
 Ferd. Now you're brave fellows. Caesar's for- 
 tune was harder than Pompey's ; Caesar died in 
 the arras of prosperity, Pompey at the feet of 
 disgrace. You both died in the field. The pain's 
 nothing : pain many times is taken away with 
 the apprehension of greater, as the toothache 
 with the sight of a barber that comes to pull 
 it out : there's philosophy for you. 
 
 Bos. Now my revenge is perfect.— Sink, thou 
 main cause [Kills Ferdinand. 
 
 Of my undoing !— The last part of my life 
 Hath done me best service. 
 
 Ferd. Give me some wet hay ; I am broken- 
 winded. 
 
 I do account this world but a dog-kennel : 
 I will vault credit and affect high pleasures 
 Beyond death. 
 
 Bos. He seems to come to himself, 
 Now he's so near the bottom. 
 
 Ferd. My sister, my sister ! there's the cause 
 on't. 
 Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, 
 Like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust. 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Card. Thou hast thy payment too. 
 
 Bos. Yes, I hold my weary soul in my teeth ; 
 'Tis ready to part from me. I do glory 
 That thou, which stood'st like a huge pyramid 
 Begun upon a large and ample base, 
 Shalt end in a httle point, a kind of nothing. 
 
 Enter Pescara, Malatesti, Rodekigo, and 
 Grisolan. 
 
 Pes. How now, my lord ! 
 
 Mai. Oh sad disaster ! 
 
 Rod. How comes this ? 
 
 Bos. Revenge for the Duchess of Malfi murder'd 
 By the Arragonian brethren ; for Antonio 
 Slain by this hand ; for lustful Julia 
 Poison'd by this man ; and lastly for myself, 
 That was an actor in the main of all 
 Much 'gainst mine own good nature, yet i' the end 
 Neglected. 
 
 Pes. How now, my lord ! 
 
 Card. Look to my brother : 
 He gave us these large wounds, as we were 
 
 struggling 
 Here i' the rushes.^ And now, I pray, let me 
 Be laid by and never thought of. [Dies. 
 
 Pes. How fatally, it seems, he did withstand 
 His own rescue ! 
 
 Mai. Thou wretched thing of blood, 
 How came Antonio by his death ? 
 
 Bos. In a mist ; I know not how : 
 Such a mistake as I have often seen 
 In a play. Oh, I am gone ! 
 We are only like dead walls or vaulted graves. 
 That, ruin'd, yield no echo. Fare you well. 
 It may be pain, but no harm, to me to die 
 In so good a quarrel. Oh, this gloomy world ! 
 In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness, 
 Doth womanish and fearful mankind live ! 
 Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in distrust 
 To suffer death or shame for Avhat is just : 
 Mine is another voyage. [Dies. 
 
 Pes. The noble Delio, as I came to the palace. 
 Told me of Antonio's being here, and show'd me 
 A pretty gentleman, his son and heir. 
 
 Enter Delio, and Antonio's Son. 
 
 Mai. Oh, sir, you come too late ! 
 
 Del. I heard so, and 
 Was arm'd for't ere I came. Let us make noble 
 
 use 
 Of this great ruin ; and join all our force 
 To establish this young hopeful gentleman 
 In's mother's right. These wretched eminent 
 
 things 
 Leave no more fame behind 'em, than should one 
 Fall in a frost, and leave his print in snow ; 
 As soon as the sun shines, it ever melts. 
 Both form and matter. I have ever thought 
 Nature doth nothing so great for gi-eat men 
 As when she's pleas'd to make them lords of truth : 
 Integrity of life is fame's best friend, 
 Which nobly, beyond death, shall crown the end. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ^ tJie rushes — i.e. on the rushes that then covered the 
 floor in lieu of a carpet.— W. Hazlitt. 
 
JOHN MARSTON, 
 
 [If we may trust Oldys, this dramatist was sprung from a Shropshire family, hut the date 
 of his birth is unknown. According to Anthony-a-Wood, Marston was a student in Corpus 
 Christi College, Oxford, and was admitted Bachelor of Arts February 23d, 1592, Mr. 
 Halliwell, editor of Marston's works, thinks this a mistake, and conjectures that the 
 dramatist was another John Marston, mentioned by Wood, who was ' son of a father of both 
 names, of the city of Coventry, Esquire, ' who * became either a commoner or a gentleman- 
 commoner of Brasen-nose College in 1591, and in the beginning of February 1593 he was 
 admitted Bachelor of Arts, as the eldest son of an esquire, and soon after completing that 
 degree by determination, he went his way, and improved his learning in other faculties, ' — 
 alluding probably, says Mr. Halliwell, to his poetical and dramatic efforts. It is supposed 
 that it was Marston's father who was appointed Lecturer of the Middle Temple in 1592 ; 
 and according to Oldys, the dramatist married Mary, daughter of the Rev. William Wilkes, 
 chaplain to James i. , and rector of St. Martin's, Wiltshire. In Ben Jonson's conversations 
 with Drummond, it is stated that ' Marston wrote his father-in-law's preachings, and his 
 father-in-law his comedies, ' which Gifford thinks is a humorous allusion to the sombre air 
 of Marston's comedies, as contrasted with the cheerful tone of his father-in-law's discourses. 
 Marston died in June 1634, and was buried near his father in the Temple Church in London, 
 'under the stone which hath -wTitten on it, Oblivioni Sacrum.' For these meagre state- 
 ments concerning the life of Marston we are indebted to the painstaking researches of Mr. 
 J. 0. Halliwell, who has edited an excellent edition of the dramatist's works. Marston 
 appears to have been at one time an intimate friend and ardent admirer of Ben Jonson, but 
 having satirized Ben in two of his plays, a quarrel took place, Jonson replying with vigour 
 in his Poetaster. We learn from Drummond that Jonson ' had many quarrels with Marston, 
 beat him, and took his pistol from him, wrote his Poetaster on him ; the beginning of them 
 were, that Marston represented him in the stage, in his youth given to venerie. ' * Were 
 more known of the literary history of the period, ' says Mr. Halliwell, ' it would perhaps 
 be found that as there was probably more than one quarrel between these dramatists, so 
 also was there more than one reconciliation. ' 
 
 Marston, along with Jonson and Chapman, had a hand in Eastward Hoe. His principal 
 dramas are The Scourge of Villany (printed 1598) ; Antonio and Mellida (1602), the second 
 part of which, Antonio's Revenge, was published the same year; The Malcontent (1604) ; 
 The Dutch Courtezan (1605) ; Parasitaster (1606) ; Sophonisba (1606) ; What You Will 
 (1607) ; The Insatiate Countess (1613). Besides these, he wrote a number of poems, chiefly 
 of a satirical cast, nearly all of which, as well as many of his dramas, are characterized by 
 coarseness and impurity of language. Indeed his nature appears to have been essentially 
 coarse and bitter ; and in illustration of this Mr. Collier quotes from a contemporary diary 
 the following anecdote : — * Jo. Marston, the last Christmas, when he danced with Alderman 
 More's wife's daughter, a Spaniard born, fell into a strange commendation of her wit and 
 beauty.' When he had done, she thought to pay him home, and told him she thought he 
 was a poet. '"Tis true," said he, "for poets feign and lie; and so did I when I com- 
 mended your beauty, for you are exceeding foul. " * 
 
 Marston has undoubtedly vigour and originality, and one writer ranks him with 
 Fletcher, Ford, and Massinger ; he can be at times pathetic and quaintly humorous ; but 
 
 346 . 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 347 
 
 his works are characterized by great inequality. Hazlitt calls him * a writer of great merit, 
 who rose to tragedy from the ground of comedy, and whose forte was not sympathy either 
 with the stronger or softer emotions, hut an impatient scorn and bitter indignation against 
 the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic verse or lofty invective. 
 He was properly a satirist.' We have selected Antonio and Melllda, both on account of its 
 intrinsic merits, and as being on the whole the most appropriate of Marston's dramas for a 
 work like the present. It is printed as it stands in the original edition, except that the 
 spelling is modernized.] 
 
 ANTONIO AND MELLIDA: 
 
 A HISTORY. 
 ACTED BY THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S. 
 
 BY JOHN MAESTON. 
 
 London. 1602. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 gramntis ^erscit^. 
 
 PiERO Sforza, Duke of Venice. 
 
 Andrugio, Duke of Genoa. 
 
 Antonio, son of Andrugio, disguised as Flori- 
 
 ZELii, an Amazon. 
 Galeatzo, son of the Duke of Florence. 
 Matzagente, a braggadocio, Duke of MilarCs son. 
 FoROBOsco, a parasite. 
 Balurdo, a silly, ' mountebanking ' courtier. 
 Felice, a shrewd, contemplative cynic. 
 Alberto, a Venetian Gentleman. 
 
 Castilio Balthazar. 
 
 Catzo, his Servant. 
 
 DiLDO, Servant to Balurdo. 
 
 Lucio, Companion or Servant to Andrugio, 
 
 A Page. 
 
 Mellida, Piero''s Daughter. 
 EossALiNE, Niece to Piero. 
 Flavia, Maid to Rossaline. 
 
 Courtiers, etc. 
 
 Scene — In and around Venice. 
 
 INDUCTION, 
 
 Enter Galeatzo, Piero, Alberto, Antonio, 
 FoROBOsco, Balurdo, Matzagente, and 
 Felice, with parts in their hands, having 
 cloaks cast over their apparel. 
 
 Gal. Come, sirs, come ! the music will sound 
 straight for entrance. Are ye ready, are ye 
 perfect ? 
 
 Pie. Faith ! we can say our parts ; but we are 
 ignorant in what mould we must cast our actors. 
 
 Alb. Whom do you personate ? 
 
 Pie. Piero, Duke of Venice. 
 
 Alb. Oh ho ! then thus you frame your exterior 
 shape, 
 To haughty form of elate majesty; 
 As if you held the palsy shaking head 
 Of reeling chance, under your fortune's belt 
 In strictest vassalage : grow big in thought, 
 As swoln with glory of successful arms. 
 
 Pie. If that be all, fear not, I'll suit it right. 
 Who cannot be proud, stroke up the hair, and 
 strut ? 
 
 Alb. Truth; such rank custom is grown 
 popular; 
 And now the vulgar fashion strides as wide, 
 
 And stalks as proud upon the weakest stilts 
 Of the slight'st fortunes, as if Hercules 
 Or burly Atlas shouldered up their state. 
 
 Pie. Good ; but whom act you } 
 
 Alb. The necessity of the play forceth me to 
 act two parts : Andrugio, the distressed Duke of 
 Genoa, and Alberto, a Venetian gentleman, ena- 
 moured on the Lady Eossaline ; whose fortunes 
 being too weak to sustain the port of her, he 
 prov'd always disastrous in love; his worth 
 being underpoisedi by the uneven scale, that 
 currents 2 all things by the outward stamp of 
 opinion. 
 
 Gal. Well, and what dost thou play ? 
 
 Bal. The part of all the world. 
 
 Alb. The part of all the world ? What's that ? 
 
 Bal. The fool. Ay, in good deed law now, I 
 play Balurdo, a wealthy mountebanking burgo- 
 masco'ss heir of Venice. 
 
 1 underpoised — undervalued. 
 
 2 currents — makes pass current, values. 
 
 3 burgomasco's — equivalent, we suppose, to burgo- 
 master's. 
 
343 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Alb. Ha, ba! one whose foppish nature might 
 seem gi'eat, only for wise men's recreation ; and, 
 like a juiceless bark, to preserve the sap of more 
 strenuous spirits. A servile hound, that loves the 
 scent of forerunning fashion, like an empty hol- 
 low vault, still giving an echo to wit : greedily 
 champing what any other well-valued judgment 
 had beforehand chew'd. 
 
 Foro. Ha, ha, ha ! tolerably good ; good faith, 
 sweet wag. 
 
 Alb. Umh; why, tolerably good; good faith, 
 sweet wag ? Go, go ; you flatter me. 
 
 Foro. Eight ; I but dispose my speech to the 
 habit of my part. 
 
 Alb. Why, what plays he ? [To Felice. 
 
 Fell. The wolf that eats into the breasts of 
 princes ; that breeds the lethargy and falling 
 sickness in honour ; makes justice look asquint ; 
 and blinds the eye of merited reward from view- 
 ing desertful virtue. 
 
 Alb. What's all this periphrasis, ha? 
 
 Fell. The substance of a supple-chapped flat- 
 terer. 
 
 Alb. Oh, doth he play Forobosco the Parasite ? 
 Good, i'faith. — Sirrah, you must seem now as 
 glib and straight in outward semblance as a 
 lady's busk,! though inwardly as cross as a pair 
 of tailor's legs ; having a tongue as nimble as 
 his needle, with servile patches of glavering^ 
 flattery to stitch up the bracks' of (the) un- 
 worthily honoured. 
 
 Foro. I warrant you, I warrant you, you shall 
 see me prove the very periwig to cover the bald 
 pate of brainless gentility. Ho ! I will so tickle 
 the sense of bella gratiosa madonna with the 
 titiilation of hyperbolical praise, that I'll strike it 
 in the nick, in the very nick, chuck. 
 
 Feli. Thou promisest more than T hope any 
 spectator gives faith of performance ; but why 
 look you so dusky, ha 7 [To AxTOXio. 
 
 Ant. I was never worse fitted since the na- 
 tivity of my actorship ; I shall be hissed at, on 
 my life now. 
 
 Feli. Whj-, what must you play ? 
 
 Ant. Faith, I know not what : an hermaphro- 
 dite — two parts in one; my true person being 
 Antonio, son to the Duke of Genoa ; though for 
 the love of Mellida, Piero's daughter, 1 take this 
 feigned presence * of an Amazon, calling myself 
 Florizell, and I know not what. I a voice to 
 play a lady ! I shall ne'er do it. 
 
 Alb. Oh ! an Amazon should have such a voice, 
 virago-like. Not play two parts in one ? Away, 
 away, 'tis common fashion. Kay, if you cannot 
 bear two subtle fronts under one hood ; idiot, go 
 by, go by; off this world's stage! time's 
 impurity ! 
 
 Ant. Aye, but when use hath taught me action to 
 hit the right point of a lady's part, I shall grow 
 ignorant, when I must turn young prince again, 
 how but to truss my hose. 
 
 Feli. Tush, never put them off; for women 
 wear the breeches still. 
 
 Mat. By the bright honour of a Milanese, and 
 the resplendent fulgor* of this steel, I will defend 
 the feminine to death ; and ding^ his spirit to the 
 verge of hell, that dares divulge a lady's pre- 
 judice.^ [Exeunt Antonio and Alberto. 
 
 * ftuji— a piece of wood or whalebone worn down the 
 front of the stays to keep them straight.— Nares. 
 
 2 glavering — glaver means to flatter, to leer; Anglo- 
 Saxon, glivan. It is also Welsh, according to Nares. 
 
 3 bracks — breaks or cracks. 
 
 * presence — appearance, personation. 
 
 * /uZpor— brightness, sheen. ^ ding— hnrl. 
 ^ prejudice — weakness. 
 
 Fell. Eampum scrampum, mount tuftie Tam- 
 burlaine. What rattling thunderclap breaks from 
 his lips? 
 
 Alb. Oh, 'tis native to his part. For acting a 
 modem braggadocio under the person of Matza- 
 gente, the I)uke of Milan's son, it may seem to 
 suit with good fashion of coherence. 
 
 Pie. But methinks he speaks with a spruce 
 attic accent of adulterate Spanish. 
 
 Alb. So 'tis resolv'd. For Milan being half 
 Spanish, half High Dutch, and half Italian, the 
 blood of chiefest houses is corrupt and mongrel'd, 
 so that you shall see a fellow vainglorious for a 
 Spaniard, gluttonous for a Dutchman, proud for 
 an Italian, and a fantastic idiot for all. Such a 
 one conceit i this Matzagente. 
 
 Feli. But I have a part allotted me, which I 
 have neither able apprehension to conceit, nor 
 what I conceit gracious ability to utter. 
 
 Gal. Whoop, in the old cut ! ^ Good, show us a 
 draught of thy spirit. 
 
 Fell. 'Tis steady, and must seem so impregnably 
 fortressed with his own content that no envious 
 thought could ever invade his spirit ; never sur- 
 veying any man so unmeasuredly happy, whom 
 I thought not justly hateful for some true im- 
 poverishment ; never beholding any favour of 
 Madam Felicity gracing another, which his well- 
 bounded content persuaded not to hang in the 
 front of his own fortune; and therefore as far 
 from envying any man, as he valued all men 
 infinitely distant from accomplished beatitude. 
 These native adjuncts appropriate to me the 
 name of Felice. But last, good, thy humour. 
 
 [Exit Alberto. 
 
 Ant. 'Tis to be describ'd by signs and tokens. 
 For unless I were possess'd with a legion of 
 spirits, 'tis impossible to be made perspicuous by 
 any utterance : for sometimes he must take 
 austere state, as for the person of Galeatzo, the 
 son of the Duke of Florence, and possess his ex- 
 terior presence with a formal majesty ; keep 
 popularity in distance, and on the sudden fling 
 his honour so prodigally into a common ann, 
 that he may seem to give up his indiscretion to 
 the mercy of vulgar censure. ISow as solemn as 
 a traveller, and as grave as a Puritan's ruff ; with 
 the same breath as slight and scattered in his 
 fashion as a — a— anything. Now as sweet and 
 neat as a barber's casting-bottle ; ^ straight as 
 slovenly as the yeasty breast of an ale-knight ; 
 now lamenting, then chafing, straight laughing ; 
 then — 
 
 Fell What then? 
 
 Ant. Faith, I know not what: 't'ad been a 
 right part for Proteus or Gew.* Ho ! blind Gew 
 would ha' done't rarely, rarely. 
 
 Feli. I fear it is not possible to limn so many 
 persons in so small a tablet as the compass of our 
 plays afford. 
 
 Ant. Eight! therefore I have heard that those 
 persons, as he and you, Felice, that are but 
 slightly drawn in this Comedy, should receive 
 more exact accomplishment in a second part ; 
 which, if this obtains gracious acceptance, means 
 to try his fortune. 
 
 Feli. Peace, here comes the Prologue. Clear 
 the stage. [_Exeunt. 
 
 1 conceit— i&r\cy, conceive. 
 
 2 i.e. holla ! after the old fashion. — Dilke. 
 
 3 casting-bottle. — a bottle for casting or sprinkling 
 perfumes. 
 
 * Geto was probably the name of some actor who had 
 been a favourite, and left the stage from blindness. — 
 
 DlLKE. 
 
JOHN MARSTON, 
 
 349 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 The wrath of pleasure and delicious sweets, 
 Begirt the gentle front of this fair troop ; 
 Select and most respected auditors, 
 For wit's sake do not dream of miracles. 
 Alas ! we shall but falter, if you lay 
 The least sad weight of an unused hope 
 Upon our weakness ; only we give up 
 The worthless present of slight idleness 
 To your authentic censure.^ Oh that our Muse 
 Had those abstruse and sinewy faculties, 
 That, with a strain of fresh invention, 
 She might press out the rarity of Art ; 
 
 ^ ce?2SMre— judgment. 
 
 The pur'st elixed' juice of rich conceit^ 
 In your attentive cares ; that with the lip 
 Of gracious elocution we might drink 
 A sound carouse unto your health of wit. 
 But, oh ! the heathy dryness of her brain, 
 Foil to your fertile spirits, is asham'd 
 To breathe her blushing numbers to such ears ; 
 Yet (most ingenious) deign to vail^ our wants. 
 With sleek acceptance polish these rude scenes ; 
 And if our slightness your large hope beguiles, 
 Check not with bended brow, but dimpled smiles. 
 \Exit Prologue. 
 
 eh'xecZ— expressed, refined, 
 vail — veil, overlook. 
 
 2 concdi— fancy. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 The cornets sound a battle within. 
 
 Enter Antonio, disguised like an Amazon. 
 
 Ant. Heart, wilt not break ? and thou, abhorred 
 life, 
 "Wilt thou still breathe in my enraged blood ? 
 Veins, sinews, arteries, why ci-ack ye not ? 
 Burst and divul'st^ with anguish of my grief. 
 Can man by no means creep out of himself, 
 And leave the slough of viperous grief behind ? 
 Antonio, hast thou seen a fight at sea. 
 As horrid as the hideous day of doom, 
 Betwixt thy father, Duke of Genoa, 
 And proud Piero, the Venetian Prince ? 
 In which the sea hath swoln with Genoa's blood. 
 And made springtides with th' warm reeking gore. 
 That gushes from out our galleys' scupper holes ; 
 In which thy father, poor Andrugio, 
 Lies sunk, or leapt into the arms of chance, 
 Chok'd with the labouring ocean's brackish foam. 
 Who even, despite Pietro's cankered hate, 
 Would with an armed hand have seized thy love. 
 And linked thee to the beauteous Mellida. 
 Have I outlived the death of all these hopes ? 
 Have I felt anguish pour'd into my heart, 
 Burning like balsamum in tender wounds, 
 And yet dost live ? Could not the fretting sea 
 Have roll'd me up in wrinkles of his brow ? 
 Is death grown coy ? or grim confusion nice ? 
 That it will not accompany a wretch, 
 But I must needs be cast on Venice shore, 
 And try new fortunes with this sti'ange disguise ? 
 To purchase my adored Mellida. 
 
 [7%e coiiiets sound a flourish ; cease. 
 Hark how Piero's triumphs beat the air ! 
 O rugged mischief, how thou grat'st my heart ! 
 Take spirit, blood ; disguise, be confident ; 
 Make a firm stand ; here rests the hope of all, — 
 Lower than hell, there is no depth to fall. 
 
 The cornets sound a synnet.^ Enter Felice and 
 Alberto, Castilio and Fokobosco, a Page 
 carrying a shield ; Piero in ai'mour ; Catzo 
 and DiLDO and Balurdo. All these (saving 
 
 1 divuVst — rent asunder. 
 
 '^ stjnnei, sennei, cyne<— seems to indicate a particular 
 set of notes on tlie trumpet or comet, different from 
 a flomlsh.— Nares. 
 
 Piero) armed with petronels.^ Being entered^ 
 they make a stand in divided files. 
 
 Pie. Victorious fortune, with triumphant hand, 
 Hurleth my glory 'bout this ball of earth, 
 Whil'st the Venetian Duke is heaved up. 
 On wings of fair success, to overlook 
 The low cast ruins of his enemies. 
 To see myself ador'd and Genoa quake ; 
 My fate is firmer than mischance can shake. 
 
 Feli. Stand ; the ground trembleth. 
 
 Pie. Ha ! an earthquake ? 
 
 Bal. Oh ! I smell a sound. 
 
 Feli. Piero, stay, for I descry a fume 
 Creeping from out the bosom of the deep, 
 The breath of darkness, fatal when 'tis whist ^ 
 In greatness' stomach; this same smoke, call'd 
 
 pride. 
 Take heed ; she'll lift thee to improvidence, 
 And break thy neck from steep security ; 
 She'll make thee grudge to let Jehovah share 
 In thy successful battles. Oh, she's ominous ; 
 Enticeth princes to devour heaven. 
 Swallow omnipotence, outstare dread fate. 
 Subdue eternity in giant thought, — 
 Heaves up their hurt with swelling, puffed conceit, 
 Till their souls burst with venom'd arrogance. 
 Beware, Piero, Eome itself hath tried. 
 Confusion's train blows up this Babel pride. 
 
 Pie. Pish ! Dimitto superos, sunima votorum 
 attigi.^ 
 Alberto, hast thou yielded up our fixed decree 
 Unto the Genoan ambassador ? 
 Are they content, if that their duke return. 
 To send his and his son Antonio's head 
 As pledges steeped in blood to gain their peace ? 
 
 Alb. With most obsequious sleek-brow'd in- 
 tertain,* 
 They all embrace it as most gi-acious. 
 
 Pie. Are proclamations sent through Italy, 
 That whosoever brings Andrugio's head. 
 Or young Antonio's, shall be guerdoned 
 With twenty thousand double pistolets. 
 And be endeared to Piero's love ? 
 
 Foro. They are sent every way. Sound policy 
 sweet lord. 
 
 ipetronel—a carabine or light gun carried by a horse- 
 man. — Nares. 
 
 2 ichist — silent. 
 
 3 ' I renounce the gods ; I have reached the height 
 of my desires.' 
 
 * m^erfam— entertainment, treatment. 
 
350 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTi^. 
 
 Fell. Confusion to these limber sycophants. 
 No sooner mischief's born in regency, 
 But flattery christens it with policy.^ 
 
 Pie. Why, then, me Celitum excelsissimum ! ^ 
 The intestine malice and inveterate hate 
 I always bore to that Andrugio, 
 Glories in triumph o'er his misery ; 
 Nor shall that carpet-boy Antonio 
 Match with my daughter, sweet-cheeked Mellida. 
 No ; the public power makes my faction strong. 
 
 Fell. Ill, when public power strengtheneth 
 private wrong. 
 
 Pie. 'Tis horse-like not for a man to know his 
 force. 
 
 Feli. 'Tis god-like for a man to feel remorse. 
 
 Pie. Pish ! I prosecute my family's revenge. 
 Which I'll pursue with such a burning chase, 
 Till I have dried up all Andrugio's bl'jod ; 
 Weak rage that with slight pitj'- is withstood. 
 
 [The cornets sound a flourish. 
 What means that fresh triumphal flourish sound ? 
 
 Alb. The Prince of Milan, and young Florence 
 heir. 
 Approach to gratulate your victory. 
 
 Pie. We'll girt them with an ample waste of 
 love; 
 Conduct them to our presence royally. 
 Let volleys of the great artillery 
 From off our galleys' banks 3 play prodigal, 
 And sound loud welcome from their bellowing 
 mouths. [Exeunt all hut Piero. 
 
 The cornets sound a cynet. Enter above, Mel- 
 lida, KossALiNE, a?id Flavia. Enter below, 
 Galeatzo with Attendants ; Piero meeteth 
 him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound 
 a flourish; Piero and Galeatzo exeunt; 
 the rest stand still. 
 
 Mel. What prince was that passed through 
 
 my father's guard ? 
 Fla. 'Twas Galeatzo, the young Florentine. 
 Ros. Troth, one that will besiege thy maiden- 
 head; 
 Enter the walls, i'faith (sweet Mellida), 
 If that thy flankers * be not cannon-proof. 
 Mel. Oh, Mary Ambree!^ good, thy judgment, 
 wench ; 
 Thy bright election's clear : s what will he prove ? 
 
 Ros. Hath a short finger and a naked chin, 
 A skipping eye ; ^ dare lay my judgment (faith) 
 His love is glibbery ; « there's no hold on't, wench. 
 Give me a husband whose aspect is firm ; 
 A full cheeked gallant with a bouncing thigh ; 
 Oh, he is the paradizo dell madonne contento. 
 Mel. Even such a one was my Antonio. 
 
 [The cornets sound a cynet. 
 Ros. By my nine and thirtieth servant » (sweet) 
 Thou art* in love, but stand on tiptoed fair; 
 Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, 
 i'faith. 
 
 1 The meaning is, ' no sooner is any mischievous and 
 bloody measure conceived and proposed by the sovereign, 
 but their flatterers term it policy.' — Dilkb. 
 
 2 Tlie only way by which we can make sense of this 
 is to make Celitum «= Coelitum, and render it ' me, the 
 most exalted of the celestials ! ' 
 
 3 banks — sides. 
 
 * flankers — entrenchments to protect the flank. 
 
 * Mary Ambree — An English heroine, immortalized 
 by her valour at the siege of Ghent in 1584, and cele- 
 brated in the ballads of the time. Her name was pro- 
 verbially applied to women of strength and spirit. 
 
 <> i.e., as I conceive, ' thy judgment is good in cases of 
 this kind.'— DiLKE. 
 
 7 A skipping eye—& wild, a frolic eye. — DlLKE. 
 
 8 glibhery—sUp-pQi-y, from glib, smooth. 
 
 * servant — lover. 
 
 Enter Matzagexte; Piero meets him; embraceth; 
 
 at which the cornets sound a flourish : they two 
 
 stand, using seeming compliments^ whilst the 
 
 scene passeth above. 
 
 Mel. S. Mark, S. Mark! what kind of thing 
 
 appears ? 
 Ros. For fancy's passion, spit upon him ; figh 
 His face is varnished. In the name of love, 
 What country bred that creature ? 
 3{el. What is he, Flavia? 
 Fla. The heir of Milan, Seignior Matzagente. 
 Ros. Matzagente ! now, by my pleasure's hope, 
 He is made like a tilting staff ; and looks 
 For all the world like an o'er-roasted pig : 
 A great tobacco-taker too, that's flat ; 
 For his eyes look as if they had been hung 
 In the smoke of his nose. 
 Mel. What ^ husband will he prove, sweet 
 
 Eossaline ? 
 Ros. Avoid him ; for he hath a dwindled leg, 
 A low forehead, and a thin coal-black beard ; 
 And will be jealous too, believe it, sweet ; 
 For his chin sweats, and hath a gander neck, 
 A thin lip, and a little monkish eye ; 
 Precious, what a slender waist he hath ! 
 He looks like a may-pole, or notched stick ; 
 He'll snap in two at every little strain. 
 Give me a husband that will fill mine arms, 
 Of steady judgment, quick and nimble sense ; 
 Fools relish not a lady's excellence. 
 
 [Exeunt all on the lower stage ; at which the 
 cornets sound a flowish, and a peal of 
 shot is given. 
 Mel. The triumph's ended, but look, Eossaline, 
 What gloomy soul in strange accustx-ements 2 
 Walks on the pavement ? 
 Ros. Good sweet, let's to her ; pr'ythee, Mellida. 
 Mel. How covetous thou art of novelties ! 
 Ros. Pish! 'tis our nature to desire things 
 That are thought strangers to the common cut. 
 Mel. I am exceedingly willing, but — 
 Ros. But what ? pr'ythee go down ; let's see her 
 face: 
 God send that neither wit nor beauty' wants 
 Those tempting sweets, affection's adamants. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Ant. Come down, she comes like — oh, no simile 
 
 Is precious, choice, or elegant enough 
 
 To illustrate her descent; leap heart, she comes, — 
 
 She comes! smile heaven, and softest southern 
 
 wind 
 Kiss her cheek gently with perfumed breath. 
 She comes: creation's purity, admir'd, 
 Ador'd amazing rarity, — she comes! 
 Oh now, Antonio, press thy spirit forth 
 In following passion, knit thy senses close. 
 Heap up thy powers, double all thy man. 
 
 Enter Mellida, Eossaline, and Flavia. 
 She comes ! Oh, how her eyes dart wonder on 
 
 my heart ! 
 Mount blood, soul to my lips, taste Hebe's cup ; 
 Stand firm on deck, when beauty's close fight's ^ up. 
 
 Mel. Lady, your strange habit doth beget 
 Our pregnant thoughts, even great of much desire, 
 To be acquaint with your condition. 
 Ros. Good, sweet lady, without more cere- 
 monies. 
 What country claims your (birth ? and, sweet, 
 your name ? 
 
 1 What—vi'ha.t sort of. 
 
 2 acct«<rement5 — accoutrements; old Fr. accustre, to 
 accoutre. 
 
 3 close fights are things used to shelter the men from 
 the enemy in action. Antonio's meaning is, there- 
 fore, ' I must meet her resolutely, because by my cover- 
 ing or disguise my real person is hid from her.' — Dilkk. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 351 
 
 Ant. In hope your bounty will extend itself 
 In selfsame nature of fair courtesy, 
 I'll shun all niceness : my name's Florizell, 
 My country Scythia ; I am Amazon 
 Cast on this shore by fury of the sea. 
 P^os. Nay, faith, sweet creature, we'll not veil 
 our names. 
 It pleas'd the font to dip me Rossaline ; 
 That lady bears the name of Mellida, 
 The Duke of Venice' daughter. 
 
 Ant. Madam, I am oblig'd to kiss your hand, 
 By imposition of a now dead man. 
 
 \To Mellida, kissing her hand. 
 Ros. Now, by my troth, I long, beyond all 
 thought. 
 To know the man ; sweet beauty, deign his name. 
 Ant. Lady, the circumstance is tedious. 
 Ros. Troth, not a whit ; good fair, let's have 
 it all : 
 I love not, I, to have a jot left out, 
 If the tale come from a lov'd orator. 
 
 Ant. Vouchsafe me, then, your hush'd observ- 
 ances.^ 
 Vehement in pursuit of strange novelties, 
 After long travel through the Asian main, 
 I shipp'd my hopeful thoughts for Brittany ; 
 Longing to view great Nature's miracle, 
 The g\oYy of our sex, whose fame doth strike 
 Remotest ears with adoration. 
 Sailing some two months with inconstant winds. 
 We view'd the glistering Venetian forts, 
 To which we made: when lo! some three leagues 
 
 off. 
 We might descry a horrid spectacle ; 
 The issue of black fury strew'd the sea 
 With tattered carcases of splitting ships. 
 Half sinking, burning, floating, topsy-turvy. 
 Not far from these sad ruins of fell rage, 
 We might behold a creature press the waves ; 
 Senseless he sprawl'd, all notched with gaping 
 
 wounds ; 
 ^o him we made, and (short) we took him up ; 
 The first thing he spake was, — Mellida ! 
 And then he swooned. 
 Mel. Ay me ! 
 Ant. Why sigh you, fair ? 
 Mel. Nothing but little humours ; good sweet. 
 
 on. 
 Ant. His wounds being dress'd, and life re- 
 covered, 
 We 'gan discourse ; when lo ! the sea grew mad, 
 His bowels rumbling with wind passion , 
 Straight swarthy darkness popp'd out Phoebus' eye, 
 And blurr'd the jocund face of bright-cheeked 
 
 day; 
 Whilst crudl'd ' fogs masked even darkness' brow : 
 Heaven hade's good night, and the rocks groan'd 
 At the intestine uproar of the main. 
 Now gusty flaws ^ struck up the very heels 
 Of our mainmast, whilst the keen lightning shot 
 Through the black bowels of the quaking air ; 
 Straight chops a wave, and in his sliftred* paunch 
 Down falls our ship, and there he breaks his 
 
 neck: 
 Which in an instant up was belch'd again. 
 When thus this martyr'd soul began to sigh : 
 ' Give me your hand (quoth he), now do you grasp 
 Th' unequal mirror s of ragg'd misery: 
 Is't not a horrid storm ? Oh, well-shap'd sweet, 
 
 1 observances— Siitentions. 
 
 2 crwrf/d— curdled, thick. 
 
 3 gusty flaws— ^.u^idQiL blasts.— DiLKE. 
 ♦ slifired — cracked, opened. 
 
 5 The unequal mirror— i.e. the partial and unjust re- 
 presentative. — DiLKE. 
 
 Gould your quick eye strike through these gashed 
 
 wounds. 
 You should behold a heart, a heart, fair creature, 
 Raging more wild than is this frantic sea. 
 Wilt do me a favour, if thou chance survive ; 
 But visit Venice, kiss the precious white 
 Of my most — nay, all epithets are base 
 To attribute to gracious Mellida: 
 Tell her the spirit of Antonio 
 Wisheth his last gasp breath'd upon her breast.' 
 
 Ros. Why weeps soft-hearted Florizell ? 
 
 Ant. Alas, the flinty rocks groan'd at his plaints. 
 Tell her (quoth he) that her obdurate sire 
 Hath crack'd his bosom ; therewithal he wept, 
 And thus sigh'd on. The sea is merciful ; 
 Look how it gapes to bury all my grief : 
 Well, thou shalt have it, thou shalt be his 
 
 tomb: 
 My faith in my love live ; in thee, die woe, 
 Die unmatch'd anguish, die Antonio. 
 With that he totter'd from the reeling deck, 
 And down he sunk. 
 
 Ros. Pleasure's body, what makes my lady 
 weep ? 
 
 Mel. Nothing, sweet Rossaline, but the air's 
 sharp. 
 My father's palace, madam, will be proud 
 To entertain your presence, if you'll deign 
 To make repose within. Ay me ! 
 
 Ant, Lady, our fashion is not curious, i 
 
 Ros. Faith, all the nobler, 'tis more generous. 
 
 Mel. Shall I then know how fortune fell at 
 last, 
 What succour came, or what strange fate ensued ? 
 
 Ant. Most willingly: but this same court is 
 vast. 
 And public to the staring multitude. 
 
 Ros. Sweet lady, nay good sweet, now by my 
 troth 
 We'll be bedfellows : dirt on compliment froth. 
 [Exeunt ; Rossaline giving Antonio the way. 
 
 ACT XL 
 
 Enter Catzo {with a capon') eating^ Dildo 
 following him. 
 
 Dil. Ha, Catzo, your master wants a clean 
 trencher : do you hear ? 
 Balurdo calls for your diminutive attendance. 
 
 Cat. The belly hath no ears, Dildo. 
 
 Dil. Good pug,- give me some capon. 
 
 Cat. No capon, no, not a bite, ye smooth bully ; 
 capon's no meat for Dildo. Milk, milk, ye glib- 
 bery urchin, is food for infants. 
 
 Dil. Upon mine honour. 
 
 Cat. Your honour with a paugh? 'slid, now 
 every Jack-an-apes loads his back with the 
 golden coat of honour; every ass puts on the 
 lion's skin and roars his honour: upon your 
 honour! By my lady's panlal[>ie ^ J fear I shall 
 live to hear a vintner's boy cry "Tis rich neat 
 canary, upon my honour 
 
 Dil. My stomach's up. 
 
 Cat. I think thou art hungry. 
 
 Dil. The match of fury is lighted, fastened to 
 the linstock* of rage, and will presently set fire 
 
 * i.e. the manners and customs of our nation are not 
 ceremonious. — Dilke. 
 
 ^pug—&n occasional term of good fellowship or inti- 
 macy, as monkey is now. 
 
 ^ pantable — a sort of high shoe or slipper; perhaps 
 corrupted from pantofle. 
 
 * linstock. See note 1, p. 220, col. 1. 
 
352 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 to the touch-hole of intemperance, discharging 
 the double culverin of my incensement in the 
 face of thy opprobrious speech. 
 
 Cat. I'll stop the barrel thus ; good Dildo, set 
 not fire to the touch-hole. 
 
 Dil. My rage is stopt, and I will eat to the 
 health of the fool, thy master Castillo. 
 
 Cat. And I will suck the juice of the capon, 
 to the health of the idiot, thy master Balurdo. 
 
 DiL Faith, our masters are like a case of 
 rapiers sheathed in one scabbard of folly. 
 
 Cat. Bight Dutch blades. But was't not rare 
 sport at the sea-battle, whilst rounce robble hobble 
 roared from the ship sides, to view our masters 
 pluck their plumes and drop their feathers, for 
 fear of being men of mark ? 
 
 Dil. Slud (cried Siguier Balurdo); Oh for Don 
 Bessicler's armour, in the mirror of knighthood ! 
 What coil's * here ? Oh for an armour cannon- 
 proof ! Oh, more cable, more featherbeds, more 
 featherbeds, more cable, till he had as much as 
 my cable hatband ^ to fence him ! 
 
 Enter Flavia in haste, with a rebato.^ 
 
 Cat. Buxom Flavia, can you sing ? song, song, 
 
 Fla. My sweet Dildo, I am not for you at this 
 time. Madam Bossaline stays for a fresh ruff to 
 appear in the presence. Sweet, away. 
 
 Dil. 'Twill not be so put off, delicate, delicious, 
 spark-eyed, sleek-skinned, slender- waisted, clean- 
 legged, rarely shaped. 
 
 Fla. Who, I'll be at all your service another 
 season. My faith, there's reason in all things. 
 
 Dil. Would I were reason, then, that I might 
 be in all things. 
 
 Cat. The breefe* and the semiquaver is, we 
 must have the descant you made upon our names, 
 ere you depart. 
 
 Fla. Faith, the song will seem to come off 
 hardly. ^ 
 
 Cat. Troth, not a whit, if you seem to come 
 off quickly. 
 
 Fla. Pert Catzo, knock it lustily then. 
 
 [They sing. 
 
 Enter Forobosco, loith two torches; Castilio 
 singing fantastically ; Bossaline running a 
 caranto pace ; " and Balukdo (Felice fol- 
 lowing^ wondering at them all. 
 
 Foro. Make place, gentlemen ! Pages, hold 
 torches ; the prince approacheth the pi'esence. 
 
 Dil. What squeaking cart-wheel have we 
 here ? ha ! Make place, gentlemen ! Pages, hold 
 torches ; the prince approacheth the presence. 
 
 Ros. Faugh, what a strong scent's here ! some- 
 body useth to wear socks. 
 
 Bat. By this fair candle-light, 'tis not my feet ; 
 I never wore socks since I sucked pap. 
 
 Ros. Savourly put off. 
 
 Cast. Ha, her wit stings, blisters, galls off the 
 skin with the tart acrimony of her sharp quick- 
 ness. By sweetness, she is the very Pallas that 
 flew out of Jupiter's brainpan ! Delicious crea- 
 
 1 cot7— tumult, difficulty. 
 
 2 The hatband was a distinguishing feature of the 
 nobility and gentry of these times, on the adornment 
 of which comparatively large sums were expeuded.— 
 
 DiLKE. 
 
 3 rebato—fi falling collar or band for a ruff. 
 
 * The hreefe, or breve, was formerly the longest note 
 In music, twice the length of the semibreve. Perhaps 
 Catzo uses the phrase facetiously for ' the long and the 
 short.' 
 
 s hardly— sVif^j. 
 
 8 a caranto pace — a very swift pace ; the caranto was 
 some kind of swift dance, sometimes mentioned in con- 
 junction with the lavolta ; Lat. curro, to run. 
 
 ture, vouchsafe me * your service : by the purity 
 of bounty, I shall be proud of such bondage. 
 
 Ros. I vouchsafe it ; be my slave. Signior 
 Balurdo, wilt thou be my servant too ? 
 
 Bal. O God ! forsooth in very good earnest ; 
 la ! you would make me as a man should say, as 
 a man should say. 
 
 Feli. Slud, sweet beauty, will you deign him 
 your service ? 
 
 Ros. Oh, your fool is your only servant. But, 
 good Felice, why art thou so sad ? a penny for 
 thy thought, man. 
 
 Fell. I sell not my thought so cheap ; I value 
 my meditation at a higher rate. 
 
 Bal. In good sober sadness,^ sweet mistress, 
 you should have had my thought for a penny. 
 By this crimson satin, that cost eleven shillings, 
 thirteen pence, threepence halfpenny a yard, that 
 you should, la ! 
 
 Ros. What was thy thought, good servant ? 
 
 Bal. Marry forsooth, how many strike^ of 
 pease would feed a hog fat against Christide ? 
 
 Ros. Paugh! servant, rub out my rheum,< it 
 soils the presence. 
 
 Cast. By my wealthiest thought, you grace my 
 shoe with an unmeasured honour. I will pre- 
 serve the sole of it, as a most sacred relic, for 
 this service. 
 
 Ros. I'll spit in thy mouth, an' thou wilt, to 
 grace thee. 
 
 Feli. Oh that the stomach of this queasy age 
 Digests or brooks such raw, unseasoned gobs,^ 
 And vomits not them forth ! Oh, slavish sots ! 
 Servant, quoth you ? faugh ! if a dog should 
 
 crave 
 And beg her service, he should have it straight. 
 She'd give him favours, too ; to lick her feet, 
 Or fetch her fan, or some such drudgery : 
 A good dog's office, which these amorists 
 Triumph of. 'Tis rare ; well, give her more ass, 
 More sot, as long as dropping of her nose 
 Is sworn rich pearl by such low slaves as those. 
 
 Ros. Flavia, attend me to attire me. 
 
 [Exeunt Bossaline and Flavia. 
 
 Bal. In sad good earnest, sir, you have touched 
 the very bare of naked truth ; my silk stock- 
 ing hath a good gloss, and I thank my planets 
 my leg is not altogether unpropitiously shaped. 
 There's a word : unpropitiously ? I think I 
 shall speak unpropitiously as well as any cour- 
 tier in Italy. 
 
 Foro. So help me your sweet bounty, you have 
 the most graceful presence, applausive elecuty,*^ 
 amazing volubility, polished adornation," de- 
 licious affability — 
 
 Feli. Whop : fut, how he tickles yon trout 
 under the gills ! You shall see him take him by 
 and by with groping flattery. 
 
 Foro. That ever ravished the ear of wonder. 
 By your sweet self, than whom I know not a 
 more exquisite, illustrate, accomplished, pure, 
 respected, ador'd, observed, precious, real, mag- 
 nanimous, bounteous : if you have an idle rich 
 cast jerkin, or so, it shall not be cast away, if — 
 
 1 vouchsafe me, &c. — i.e. vouchsafe to have me as a 
 servant, follower, lover. 
 
 2 sadn&S5— earnestness. 
 
 3 strike — still used provincially for bushel. 
 
 * rheum here, we suppose, means saliva wklch she 
 had ejected on the floor in disgust at Balurdo's remark. 
 
 5 gro65— morsels, mouthf uls. Old Fr. gob, a morsel ; 
 Fr. gober, to gulp down, swallow. 
 
 6 applausive e^ecM^y— plausible elocution, or eloquence. 
 ^ adotmation means ornament; here it apparently re- 
 fers to Balurdo's bearing or manners. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 353 
 
 ha? here's a forehead, an eye, a head, a hair, 
 that would make a — or if you have any spare 
 pair of silver spurs, I'll do you as much right in 
 all kind offices — 
 
 Fell. Of a kind parasite. 
 
 Foro. As any of my mean fortunes shall be 
 able to. 
 
 Bal. As I am a true Christian now, thou hast 
 won the spurs. 
 
 Feli. For flattery. 
 Oh, how I hate that same Egyptian louse ; 
 A rotten maggot, that lives by stinking filth 
 Of tainted spirits ! Vengeance to such dogs, 
 That sprout by gnawing senseless carrion ! 
 
 Enter Alberto. 
 
 Alb. Gallants, saw you my mistress, the Lady 
 Eossaline "i 
 
 Foro. My mistress, the Lady Eossaline, left 
 the presence even now. 
 
 Cast. My mistress, the Lady Eossaline, with- 
 drew her gracious aspect even now. 
 
 Bal. My mistress, the Lady Eossaline, with- 
 drew her gracious aspect even now. 
 
 Fell. Well said, Echo. 
 
 Alb. My mistress, and his mistress, and your 
 mistress, and the dog's mistress : precious dear 
 heaven, that Alberto lives to have such rivals ! 
 Slid, I have been searching every private room. 
 Corner, and secret angle of the court ; 
 And yet, and yet, and yet she lives conceal'd. 
 Good, sweet Felice, tell me how to find 
 My bright-faced mistress out. 
 
 Fell. Why, man, cry out for lanthorn and 
 candle-light ; for 'tis your only way to find your 
 bright flaming wench with your light bui-ning 
 torch ; for most commonly these light creatures 
 live in darkness. 
 
 Alb.^ Away, you heretic, you'll be burnt for — 
 
 Feli. Go, you amorous hound, follow the scent 
 of your mistress' shoe ; away ! [Exit Alb. 
 
 Foro. Make a fair presence, boys ; advance 
 your lights ; the princess makes approach, 
 
 Bal. And please the gods, now in very good 
 deed, la, you shall see me tickle the measures 
 for the heavens. Do my hangers ' show ? 
 
 Enter Piero, Antonio, Mellida, Eossaline, 
 Galeatzo, Matzagente, Alberto, and 
 Flavia. As they enter^ Felice and Cas- 
 tilio maJce a rank for the Duke to j^ass 
 through. Fokobosco ushers the Duke to his 
 state ; then, whilst Piero speaketh his Jirst 
 speech, Mellida is taken by Galeatzo and 
 Matzagente to dance, they supporting her; 
 Eossaline, in like manner, by Alberto and 
 Balurdo ; Flavia by Felice and Castilio. 
 
 Pie. Beauteous Amazon, sit and seat your 
 
 thoughts 
 In the reposure of most soft content. 
 Sound music there. Nay, daughter, clear your 
 
 eyes 
 From these dull fogs of misty discontent : 
 Look sprightly, girl. What ? though Antonio's 
 
 drown'd, 
 That peevish dotard on thy excellence, 
 That hated issue of Andrugio : 
 Yet may'st thou triumph in my victories ; 
 Since, lo, the high-born bloods of Italy 
 Sue for thy seat of love. Let music sound. 
 Beauty and youth run descant 2 on love's ground. 
 
 1 hangers— ih^t part of a sword-belt in which the 
 weapon was suspended, usually fringed and ornamented 
 with various colours. — Nares. 
 
 - run descant. Descant was what is now called a varia- 
 t»on in music; the subject varied was called the ground. 
 
 Mat. Lady, erect your gracious symmetry ; 
 Shine in the sphei'e of sweet affection : 
 Your eye is heavy, as the heart of night. 
 
 Mel. My thoughts are as black as your beard ; 
 my fortunes as ill-proportioned as your legs ; and 
 all the powers of my mind as leaden as your wit, 
 and as dusty as your face is swarthy. 
 
 Gal. Faith, sweet, I'll lay thee on the lips for 
 
 that jest. 
 Mel. I pray thee intrude not on a dead man's 
 
 right. 
 Gal. No, but the living's just possession. 
 Thy lips, and love, are mine. 
 Mel. You ne'er took seizin ^ on them yet. 
 Forbear : 
 There's not a vacant corner of my heart, 
 But all is fiU'd with dead Antonio's loss. 
 Then urge no more ; oh leave ^ to love at all ; 
 'Tis less disgraceful not to mount, than fall. 
 Mat. Bright and refulgent lady, deign your 
 ear: 
 You see this blade, — had it a courtly lip. 
 It would divulge my valour, plead my love, 
 Jostle that skipping feeble amorist 
 Out of your love's seat ; I am Matzagente. 
 
 Gal. Hark thee, I pray thee taint not thy sweet 
 ear 
 With that sot's gabble ; by thy beauteous cheek, 
 He is the flagging'st bulrush that e'er droopt 
 With each slight mist of rain. But with pleas'd 
 
 eye 
 Smile on my courtship. 
 Mel. What said you, sir ? Alas ! my thought 
 was fix'd 
 Upon another object. Good, forbear : 
 I shall but weep. Ay me, what boots a tear ! 
 Come, come, let's dance. Oh music, thou distill'st 
 More sweetness in us than this jarring world : 
 Both time and measure from thy strains do 
 
 breathe. 
 Whilst from the channel of this dirt doth flow 
 Nothing but timeless grief, unmeasured woe. 
 Ant. Oh how impatience cramps my cracked 
 veins. 
 And cruddles thick my blood, with boiling rage ! 
 Oh eyes, why leap you not like thunderbolts. 
 Or cannon bullets in my rival's face ; 
 Oy me infeliche 7nisero, lamentevol fato ? * 
 Alb. What means the lady fall upon the ground? 
 Ros. Belike the falling sickness. 
 Ant. I cannot brook this sight, my thoughts 
 grow wild : 
 Here lies a wretch, on whom heaven never smiled. 
 Ros. What, servant, ne'er a word, and I here, 
 man? 
 I would shoot some speech forth, to strike the 
 
 time 
 With pleasing touch of amorous compliment. 
 Say sweet, what keeps thy mind, what think'st 
 thou on ? 
 Alb. Nothing. 
 Ros. What's that nothing ? 
 Alb. A woman's constancy. 
 Ros. Good, why, would'st thou have us sluts, 
 and never shift the vesture of our thoughts? 
 Away for shame. 
 Alb. Oh no, th'arfc too constant to afflict my 
 heart. 
 Too too firm fixed in unmoved scorn. 
 
 ^ seizin — possession. 
 
 2 ^eare— cease. 
 
 3 This and other passages of the play are 'most wan- 
 tonly disfigured by the sudden introduction of . . . 
 Italian rhymes, which gives the whole an air of bur- 
 lesque.' We must leave the reader to make his best of 
 them. 
 
354 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Eos. Pish, pish ; I fixed in unmoved scorn ? 
 Why, I'll love thee to-night. 
 
 Alb. But whom to-morrow? 
 
 Eos. Faith, as the toy ^ puts me in the head. 
 
 Bal. An pleased the marble heavens, now 
 would I might be the toy, to put you in the head, 
 kindly to conceit my my my : pray you give in 
 an epithet for love. 
 
 Fell. Eoaring, roaring. 
 
 Bal. Oh love, thou hast murdered me, made 
 me a shadow, an you hear not Balurdo, but 
 Balurdo's ghost. 
 
 Eos. Can a ghost speak ? 
 
 Bal. Scurvilj'^, as I do. 
 
 Eos. And walk.'' 
 
 Bal. After their fashion. 
 
 Eos. And eat apples ? 
 
 Bal. In a sort, in their garb. 
 
 Felt. Pr'ythee, Flavia, be my mistress. 
 
 Fla. Your reason, good Felice ? 
 
 Fell. Faith, I have nineteen mistresses already, 
 and I not much disdain that thou should'st make 
 up the full score. 
 
 Fla. Oh, I hear you make common places of 
 your mistresses, to perform the ofiice of memory 
 by. Pray you, in ancient times were not those 
 satin hose? In good faith, now they are new 
 dyed, pinked,^ and scoured, they show as well as 
 if they wei'e new. 
 What, mute, Balurdo ? 
 
 Fell. Ay, in faith, an 'twere not for printing 
 and painting, my breech and your face would be 
 out of reparation. 
 
 Bal. Ay, an faith, an 'twere not for printing 
 and painting, my breech and your face would be 
 out of reparation. 
 
 Fell. Good again. Echo. 
 
 Fla. Thou art, by nature, too foul to be 
 aflFected.3 
 
 Fell. And thou, by art, too fair to be beloved. 
 By wit's life, most spark spirits, but hard chance. 
 La ty dine. 
 
 Pie. Gallants, the night grows old, and downy 
 sleep 
 Courts us, to entertain his company : 
 Our tired limbs, bruis'd in the morning fight. 
 Entreat soft rest, and gentle hush'd repose. 
 Fill out Greek wines; prepare fresh cresset light:* 
 We'll have a banquet : Princes, then good night. 
 
 The cornets sowid a synnet^ and the Duke goes 
 out in state. As they are going out^ Aktonio 
 stays Mellida ; the rest exeunt. 
 
 Ant. Wliat means these scatter'd looks ? Why 
 
 tremble you ? 
 Why quake j'^our thoughts, in your distracted eyes? 
 Collect your spirits, madam ; what do you see ? 
 Dost not behold a ghost ? 
 Look, look where he stalks, wrapt up in clouds 
 
 of grief, 
 Darting his soul upon thy wond'ring eyes. 
 Look, he comes towards thee; see, he stretches 
 
 out 
 His wretched arms to girt thy loved waist, 
 With a most wish'd embrace : seest him not yet ? 
 Nor yet ? Ha, Mellida ; thou well may'st err : 
 For look ; he walks not like Antonio, — ■ 
 Like that Antonio that this morning shone 
 
 1 toy — whim. 
 
 2 pmArecJ— scalloped and otherwise ornamented. 
 
 3 affected — loved. 
 
 * cresset light — an open lamp, exhibited on a beacon, 
 carried upon a pole, or otherwise suspended. The ety- 
 mology is i)robably croiset, a cinicible or open pot, which 
 always contained the light. Colgrave describes it as 
 made of ropes -wreathed, pitched, and put into small 
 and open cages of iron.— Nakes. 
 
 In glistering habiliments of arms. 
 To seize his love, spite of her father's spite, — 
 But like himself, wretched and miserable, 
 Banish'd, forlorn, despairing, struck quite through, 
 With sinking grief, rolled up in sevenfold doubles 
 Of plagues, vanquishable : hark! he speaks to 
 thee. 
 
 Mel. Alas, I cannot hear, nor see him. 
 
 Ant. Why? all this night about the room he 
 stalk'd. 
 And groan'd, and howl'd with raging passion. 
 To view his love (life-blood of all his hopes. 
 Crown of his fortunes) dipt ^ by strangers' arms. 
 Look but behind thee. 
 
 Mel. Oh, Antonio ; my lord, my love, my — 
 
 Ant. Leave passion, sweet, for time, place, air, 
 and earth. 
 Are all our foes ; fear, and be jealous, fair. 
 Let's fly. 
 
 Mel. Dear heart ; ha, whither ? 
 
 Ant. Oh, 'tis no matter whither, but let's fly. 
 Ha ! now I think on't, I have ne'er a home : 
 No father, friend, no country to embrace 
 These wretched limbs : the world, the All that is, 
 Is all my foe : a prince not woi'th a doit ; 
 Only my head is hoised^ to high rate. 
 Worth twenty thousand double pistolets, 
 To him that can but strike it from these shoulders. 
 But come, sweet creature, thou shalt be my home ; 
 My father, country, riches, and my friend : 
 My all, my soul ; and thou and I will live : 
 (Let's think like what) and thou and I will 
 
 live 
 Like unmatch'd mirrors of calamity. 
 The jealous ear of night eave- drops our talk. 
 Hold thee, there's a jewel ; and look thee, there's 
 
 a note 
 That will direct thee when, where, how to fly ; 
 Bid me adieu. 
 
 Mel. Farewell, bleak misery ! 
 
 Ant. Stay, sweet, let's kiss before you go ! 
 
 Mel. Farewell, dear soul ! 
 
 Ant. Farewell, my life, my heart ! 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 Enter Andrugio in armour, Lucio with a shep- 
 herd's gown in his hand, and a Page. 
 
 And. Is not yon gleam, the shuddering mom 
 that flakes, 
 With silver tincture, the east verge of heaven ? 
 
 Lu. I think it is, so please your excellence. 
 
 And. Away, I have no excellence to please. 
 Pr'ythee observe the custom of the world. 
 That only flatters greatness, states exalts. 
 And please my excellence ! O Lucio, 
 Thou hast been ever held respected dear, 
 Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love. 
 Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou giv'st not faith 
 That I am wretched, oh read that, read that ! 
 
 PiERO Sforza to the Italian Peinces, fortune. 
 
 Excellent, the just overthrow Andrugio took in the 
 Venetian Gulf, hath so assured the Genoese of the jus- 
 tice of his cause, and the hatefulness of his person, 
 that they have banished him and all his family; and, 
 for confirmation of their peace with us, have vowed, 
 that if he or his son can be attached,^ to send us both 
 their heads. We therefore, by force of our united 
 league, forbid you to harbour him, or his blood ; but if 
 you apprehend his pei'son, we entreat you to send him, 
 or his head, to us. For we vow, by the honour of oi'" 
 
 ^ dipt — embraced. 
 3 attached—seized. 
 
 2 Aoisecf— hoisted, raised. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 355 
 
 blood, to recompense any man that bringeth his head 
 with twenty thousand double pistolets, and the endear- 
 ing to our choicest love. 
 
 From Venice : Piero Sfobza. 
 
 And. My thoughts are fix'd in contemplation 
 Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal, 
 Tha't eats her children, should not have eyes 
 
 and ears. 
 Philosophy maintains that Nature's wise, 
 And forms no useless or unperfect thing. 
 Did Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature ? 
 For eai-tbly dirt makes all things, makes the man, 
 Moulds me up honour; and like a cunning 
 
 Dutchman, 
 Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath, 
 And gives a sot appearance of a soul : 
 Go to, go to; thou liest, Philosophy. 
 Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain. 
 Why made she not the earth Avith eyes and ears ? 
 That she might see desert, and hear men's 
 
 plaints : 
 That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief, 
 He might fall thus, upon the breast of earth ; 
 And in her ear halloo his misery : 
 Exclaiming thus, thou all-bearing earth, 
 Which men do gape for, till thou cram'st their 
 
 mouths, 
 And chok'st their throats with dust : oh chaune ^ 
 
 thy breast, 
 And let me sink into thee. Look who knocks ; 
 Andrugio calls. But oh, she's deaf and blind. 
 A wretch but lean relief on earth can find. 
 
 Lu. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm. 
 Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea. 
 We are roll'd up upon the Venice marsh. 
 Let's clip 2 all fortune, lest more low'ring fate — 
 And. More low'ring fate? O Lucio, choke 
 
 that breath. 
 Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath 
 
 frown'd. 
 Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend : 
 Her venom's spit. Alas, what country rests, ^ 
 What son, what comfort that she can deprive 1 
 Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ? 
 Gapes not my native country for my blood "i 
 Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main ? 
 And yet more low'ring fate? There's nothing 
 
 left 
 Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio : 
 And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell 
 
 can take. 
 Fortune my fortunes, not my mind shall shake. 
 Lu. Speak like yourself ; but give me leave, 
 
 my lord. 
 To wish your safety. If you are but seen, 
 Your arms display you ; therefore put them off, 
 And take — 
 And. Would'st thou have me go unarm'd 
 
 among my foes? 
 Being besieg'd by passion, ent'ring lists, 
 To combat Avith despair and mighty grief: 
 My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength 
 Of sharp impatience? Ha, Lucio, go imarm'd? 
 Come, soul, resume the valour of thy birth ; 
 Myself, myself, will dare all opposites : 
 I'll muster forces, an unvanquish'd power : 
 Cornets* of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth; 
 This hollow wombed mass shall inly groan. 
 And murmur to sustain the weight of arms : 
 Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair. 
 Shall hurry on before, and usher us, 
 Whilst trumpets clamour, with a sound of death. 
 
 1 c/ia««e— gape, open; from Gr. chaund, to gape.— 
 Naees. _ 2 cZt>— embrace. 
 
 3 rests — remains. * Corners— companies. 
 
 Lu. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all 
 too light. 
 Alas, survey your fortunes, look what's left 
 Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes ? 
 A weak old man, a page, and your poor self. 
 
 And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of 
 arms, — 
 Why, that's an army all invincible ! 
 He who hath that, hath a battalion 
 Eoyal, armour of proof, huge troops of barbed 
 
 steeds, 
 Main squares of pikes, millions of harguebush.^ 
 Oh, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide. 
 Legions of angels fight upon her side. 
 
 Lu. Then, noble spirit, slide, in strange dis- 
 guise. 
 Unto some gracious prince, and sojourn there. 
 Till time and fortune give revenge firm means. 
 
 And. No, I'll not trust the honour of a man. 
 Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness 
 A common water in most pi'inces' courts : 
 He's in the chekle-roU: ^ I'll not trust my blood: 
 I know none breathing, but will cog a die' 
 For twenty thousand double pistolets. 
 How goes the time ? 
 
 Lu. I saw no sun to-day. 
 
 And. No sun will shine where poor Andrugio 
 breathes : 
 My soul grows heavy : boy, let's have a song : 
 We'll sing yet, faith, even despite of fate. 
 
 [They sing. 
 'Tis a good boy, and by my troth, well sung. 
 Oh, an thou felt'st my grief, I warrant thee. 
 Thou would'st have struck division* to the 
 
 height. 
 And made the life of music breathe : hold, boy ; 
 
 why so ? 
 For God's sake call me not Andrugio, 
 That I may soon forget what I have been. 
 For Heaven's name, name not Antonio, 
 That I may not remember he Avas mine. 
 Well, ere yon sun set, I'll show myself myself, 
 Worthy my blood. I was a duke; that's all. 
 No matter whither, but from Avhence we fall. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Felice walking^ unbraced. 
 Felt. Castillo ? Alberto ? Balurdo ? none up ? 
 Forobosco ? Flattery, nor thou up yet : 
 Then there's no courtier stirring: that's firm 
 
 truth ? 
 I cannot sleep : Felice seldom rests 
 In these court lodgings. I have Avalked all night, 
 To see if the nocturnal court delights 
 Could force me envy their felicity : 
 And by plain troth — I will confess plain troth — 
 I envy nothing, but the traverse ^ light. 
 Oh, had it eyes, and ears, and tongues, it might 
 See sport, hear speech of most strange surquedries.* 
 Oh, if that candle-light were made a poet, 
 He Avould prove a rare firking ^ satirist. 
 And draw the core forth of impostum'd sin. 
 Well, I thank Heaven yet, that my content 
 Can envy nothing but poor candle-light. 
 
 1 7jargrue6M57i— harquebusses. 
 
 2 chekle-roll—i.e. chequer-roll or check-roll, a list of 
 household servants. 
 
 3 cog a die— To cog is to lie or cheat; to cog the dice 
 is to load or tamper Avith them in some Avay. 
 
 4 division seems to have been the technical term for 
 the pauses or parts of a musical composition. — Stevkns. 
 
 5 traverse light — i.e. the lamp giving light to the diflfe- 
 rent passages. — Dilke. 
 
 6 iurguerfries— presumptions,' from the old Fr., in 
 Avhich cuider means to think, presume. 
 
 ''firking. Firk is used in so many senses it is difficult 
 to fix the meaning ; generally it is applied to any suddea 
 motion, here it may mean searching, keen. 
 
356 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 As for the otlier glistering copper spangs,' 
 That glisten in the tire of the court, 
 Praise God, I either hate or pity them. 
 "Well, here I'll sleep till that the scene of up * 
 Is past at com-t. calm hushed rich content, 
 Is there a being blessedness without thee ? 
 How soft thou down'st the coach where thou 
 
 dost rest, — 
 Kectar to life, thou sweet Ambrosian feast ! 
 
 Enter Castilio and Ms Page; Castilio witJi a 
 casting-hotile^ of sweet water in his hand^ 
 sprinkling himself. 
 Cast. Am not I a most sweet youth now? 
 Cat. Yes, when your throat's perfum'd; your 
 very words 
 Do smell of ambergris. Oh stay, sir, stay ; 
 Spi'inkle some sweet water to your shoes' heels. 
 That your mistress may swear you have a sweet 
 foot. 
 Ca^t. Good, very good, very passing passing 
 
 good. 
 Fell. Put, what treble minikin* squeaks there? 
 ha ? good, very good, very very good. 
 
 Cast. I wiU warble to the delicious concave of 
 my 
 Mistress' ear : and strike her thoughts with 
 The pleasing touch of my voice. \_Sings. 
 
 Cast. Felice, health, fortune, mirth, and wine. 
 Fell. To thee my love divine. 
 Cast. I drink to thee, sweeting. 
 Fell. Plague on thee for an ass ! 
 Cast. Now thou hast seen the court; by the 
 perfection of it, dost not envy it ? 
 
 Feli. I wonder it doth not envy me. 
 Why, man, I have been borne upon the spirit's 
 
 wings. 
 The soul's swift Pegasus, the fantasy : 
 And from the height of contemplation 
 Have view'd the feeble joints men totter on. 
 I envy none, but hate or pity all. 
 For when I view, with an intentive thought, 
 That creature fair, but proud: him rich, but 
 
 sot: 5 
 Th'other witty, but unmeasured arrogant : 
 Him great, yet boimdless in ambition : 
 Him high-boi*n, but of base life : t'other f eard ; '^ 
 Yet feared fears, and fears most, to be most 
 
 loved : 
 Him wise, but made a fool for public use : 
 Th'other learned, but self-opinionate : 
 When I discourse all these, and see myself 
 Nor fair, nor rich, nor witty, great, nor fear'd. 
 Yet amply suited with all full content. 
 Lord, how I clap my hands, and smooth my 
 
 brow, 
 Eubbing my quiet bosom, tossing up 
 A grateful spirit to Omnipotence ! 
 
 Cast. Ha, ha; but if thou knew'st my happi- 
 ness. 
 Thou woiildst even grate away thy soul to dust 
 In envy of my sweet beatitude : 
 I cannot sleep for kisses ; I cannot rest 
 For ladies' letters, that importune me 
 With such unused vehemence of love, 
 Straight to solicit them, that — 
 Feli. Confusion seize me, but I think thou 
 liest. 
 Why should I not be sought-to then as well ? 
 Fut, methinks I am as like a man. 
 
 1 tpangs — spangles. 
 
 2 scene of up— i.e. of getting up out of bed. 
 ' castiny-bottle.—See note 3, p. 348, col. 2. 
 
 * 7rHmkin—sma\l. delicate; seems to have meant also 
 treble in music— Nakbs. 
 
 * s»t — sottish. 6 /eard— afraid. 
 
 Troth, I have a good head of hair, a cheek 
 Not as yet wann'd ; a leg, faith, in the full. 
 I ha' not a red beard, take not tobacco much : 
 And 'slid, for other parts of manliness — 
 
 Cast. Pew waw, you ne'er accorted^ them in 
 pomp : 
 Put your good parts in presence, graciously. 
 Ha, an you had, why, they would ha' come off, 
 
 sprung 
 To your arms ; and sued, and pray'd, and vow'd ; 
 And opened all their sweetness to your love. 
 Feli. There are a number of such things, as 
 then 
 Have often urg'd me to such loose belief : 
 But 'slid, you all do lie, you all do lie. 
 I have put on good clothes, and smug'd^ my face, 
 Struck a fair wench with a smart speaking eye ; 
 Courted in all sorts, blunt, and passionate ; 
 Had opportunity put them to the ah ! 
 And, by this light, I find them wondrous chaste, 
 Impregnable ; perchance a kiss, or so : 
 But for the rest, most inexorable ! 
 
 Cast. Nay then, i'faith, pr'ythee look here. 
 
 [jShoivs him the superscrijption of a seeming 
 letter. 
 Fel. To her most esteemed., lov^d, and generous 
 servant., Sig. Castilio Balthazar. 
 Pr'ythee from whom comes this? faith, I must see. 
 From her that is devoted to thee, in most private 
 sioeets of love, — Rossaline. 
 Nay, God's my comfort, I must see the rest; 
 I must, sans ceremony ; faith, I must. 
 
 [Felice takes aioay the letter hy force. 
 Cast. Oh, you spoil my ruff, unset my hair ; 
 good, away. 
 
 Feli. Item, for strait canvas, thirteen pence 
 halfpenny. Item, for an ell and a half of taffeta 
 to cover your old canvas doublet, fourteen shil- 
 lings and threepence. S'light, this is a tailor's 
 bill. 
 
 Cast. In sooth, it is the outside of her letter, 
 on which I took the copy of a tailor's bill. 
 
 Dil. But 'tis not crossed, I am sure of that. 
 Lord have mercy on him, his credit hath given 
 up the last gasp. Faith, I'll leave him ; for he 
 looks as melancholy as a wench the fu'st night 
 she — {Exit. 
 
 Feli. Honest musk-cod,3 'twill not be so stitched 
 together. Take that, and that, and belie no lady's 
 love. Swear no more by Jesu, this madam, that 
 lady. Hence, go, forswear the presence, travel 
 three years to bury this bastinado : avoid, puff- 
 paste, avoid. 
 
 Cast. And tell not my lady mother. Well, as 
 I am a true gentleman, if she had not willed me 
 on her blessing not to' spoil my face, if I could 
 not find in my heart to fight, would I might 
 ne'er eat a potato pie more. 
 
 [_Enter Balurdo, hachioard; Dildo following 
 
 him with a looTcing-glass in one hand, and a 
 
 candle in the other hand. Flavia following 
 
 him bacJacard, with a looking-glass in one 
 
 hand, and a candle in the other; Kossaline 
 
 following her. Balurdo and Rossaline stand 
 
 setting qf faces : and so the scene begins. 
 
 Feli. More fool, more rare fools ! Oh for time 
 
 and place, long enough, and large enough, to 
 
 act these fools ! Here might be made a rare 
 
 scene of folly, if the plat ^ could bear it. 
 
 Bal. By the sugar-candy sky, hold up the 
 glass higher, that I may see to swear in fashion. 
 
 1 accorted—coMxiQ^, or, perhaps, should be accosted. 
 
 2 smug'd — made smug or trim. 
 
 3 7nusk-cod—n cod or bag for holding musk. 
 * plat— ■plot, plan (?). 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 357 
 
 Oh, one loof ^ more would ha' made them shine ; 
 they wonld have shone like my mistress' brow. 
 Even so the duke frowns for all this cursond^ 
 world: oh, that gerne^ kills, it kills. By my 
 golden — what's the richest thing about me ? 
 
 Dll. Your teeth. 
 
 Bed. By my golden teeth, hold up ; that I may 
 put in : hold up, I say, that I may see to put on 
 my gloves. 
 
 Dil. Oh, delicious, sweet - cheek'd master, if 
 you discharge but one glance from the level of 
 that set face, oh, you will strike a wench ; you'll 
 make any wench love you. 
 
 Bal. By Jesu, I think I am as elegant a 
 courtier, as — How lik'st thou my suit .' 
 
 Cat. All, beyond all, no peregal:* you are 
 wondered at for an ass. 
 
 Bal. Well, Dildo, no Christian creature shall 
 know hereafter, what I will do for thee hereto- 
 fore. 
 
 Ros. Here wants a little white, Flavia. 
 
 Dil. Aye, but master, you have one little fault ; 
 you sleep open-mouth'd. 
 
 Bal. Pewe, thou jestest. In good sadness,^ I'll 
 have a looking-glass nail'd to the teste of the 
 bed, that I may see when I sleep, whether 'tis 
 so, or not. Take heed you lie not : go to, take 
 heed you lie not. 
 
 Fla. By my troth, you look as like the princess 
 now — 
 
 Bas. Ay, but her lip is lip — is a little — redder, 
 a veiy little redder : but by the help of Art, or 
 Nature, ere I change my periwig, mine shall be 
 as red. 
 
 Fla. Oh, ay, that face, that eye, that smile, that 
 writhing of your body, that wanton dandling of 
 your fan, becomes prethily, so s.veethly, 'tis even 
 the goodest lady that breathes, the most ami- 
 able — Faith the fringe of your satin petticoat is 
 ripp'd. Good faith, madam, they say you are the 
 most bounteous lady to your women that ever — 
 
 most delicious beauty ! Good madam, let me 
 kith it. 
 
 Enter Piero. 
 
 Fell. Eare sport, rare sport ! A female fool, 
 and a female flatterer. 
 
 Bos. Body a me, the duke : away the glass. 
 
 Pie. Take up your paper, Eossaline. 
 
 Ros. Not mine, my loi'd. 
 
 Pie. Not yours, my lady ? I'll see what 'tis. 
 
 Bal. And how does my sweet mistress.' Oh 
 lady dear, even as 'tis an old say, 'Tis an old 
 horse can neither wighy,® nor wag his tail : 
 even so do i hold my set face still : even so, 'tis 
 a bad courtier that can neither discourse nor 
 blow his nose. 
 
 Pie. \_Rzads\ Meet me at Abraham's, the Jew's, where 
 
 1 bought my Amazon's disguise. A ship lies in the 
 port, ready bound for England. Make haste, come 
 private. Antonio. 
 
 Enter Castilio, Forobosco. 
 Forobosco, Alberto, Felice, Castilio, Balurdo ? 
 run, keep the palace, post to the ports, go to my 
 daughter's chamber: whither now? scud to the 
 Jew's, stay, run to the gates, stop the gundolets, 
 let none pass the marsh, do all at once. Antonio .' 
 his head, his head. Keep you the court, the 
 rest stand still, or run, or go, or shout, or search, 
 or scud, or call, or hang, or do do do, su-su-su- 
 
 1 Zoo/— luff, turn. 
 
 2 cwrsoracZ— christened. 3 grgrne— yawn. 
 
 * peregraZ— equal. 5 ^arfness— earnestness. 
 
 6 wighy, according to Halliwell, is an exclamation 
 to horses ; here it seems to mean neigh. 
 ' jfuwrfofei^— gondolas. 
 
 something : I know not who who who, what I 
 do do do, nor who who who, where I am. 
 trista traditriche^ rea, ribalda fortuna, 
 Negando mi vindetta mi causa f era morte. 
 
 Feli. Ha ha ha ! I could break my spleen at 
 his impatience. 
 
 Ant. Alma et gratiosa fortuna slate favorevole., 
 Et fortunoti siano vuoti del mia dtilce Mellida, 
 Mellida. 
 
 Mel. Alas, Antonio, I have' lost thy note ! 
 A number mount my stairs ; I'll straight return. 
 
 Fel. Antonio, 
 Be not affright, sweet prince ; appease thy fear, 
 Buckle thy spirits up, put all thy wits 
 In wimble ^ action, or thou art sui-pris'd. 
 
 Ant. I care not. 
 
 Fel. Art mad, or desperate? or — 
 
 Ant, Both, both, all, all : I pr'ythee let me He ; 
 Spite of you all, I can, and I will die. 
 
 [Here apparently Piero, Forobosco, Castilio, 
 and others rush out. 
 
 Fel. You are distraught ; Oh, this is madness' 
 breath ! 
 
 Ant. Each man take hence life, but no man 
 death : 
 He's a good fellow, and keeps open house : 
 A thousand thousand ways lead to his gate. 
 To his wide-mouth'd porch : when niggard life 
 Hath but one little, little wicket through. 
 We wring ourselves into this wretched world, 
 To pule, and weep, exclaim, to curse and rail, 
 To fret, and ban the fates, to strike the earth, 
 As I do now. Antonio, curse thy birth, 
 And die ! 
 
 Feli. Nay, Heaven's my comfort, now you are 
 perverse ; 
 You know I always lov'd you ; pr'ythee live. 
 Wilt thou strike dead thy friends, draw mourn- 
 ing tears ? 
 
 Ant. Alas, Felice, I ha' ne'er a friend; 
 No country, father, brother, kinsman left 
 To weep my fate, or sigh my funeral : 
 I roll but up and down, and fill a seat 
 In the dark cave of dusky misery. 
 
 Feli. 'Fore leaven, the duke comes : hold you, 
 take my key, 
 Slink to my chamber, look you ; that is it : 
 There shall you find a suit I wore at sea; 
 Take it, and slip away. Nay, precious. 
 If you'll be peevish, by this light, I'll swear, 
 Thou rail'dst upon thy love before thou diedst, 
 And call'd her strumpet. 
 
 Ant. She'll not credit thee. 
 
 Fel. Tut, that's all one : I'll defame thy love ; 
 And make thy dead trunk held in vile regard. 
 
 Ant. Wilt needs have it so? Why, then, 
 Antonio, 
 Vive esperanza^ in despetto dell fata. [Exit. 
 
 Entei" Piero, Galeatzo, Matzagente, Foro- 
 bosco, Balurdo, aiid Castilio, with weapons. 
 
 Pie. Oh, my sweet princes, was't not bravely 
 found ? 
 Even there I found the note, even there it lay. 
 I kiss the place for joy, that there it lay. 
 This way he went, here let us make a stand : 
 I'll keep this gate myself. gallant youth ! 
 I'll drink carouse unto your country's health, 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Even in Antonio's skull. 
 
 Bal. Lord bless us : his breath is more fearful 
 than a sergeant's voice, when he cries, 'I arrest.' 
 
 1 wimble — ^nimble. 
 
358 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 Ant. Stop Antonio, keep, keep Antonio. 
 
 Pie. Where, where man, where ? 
 
 Ant. Here, here : let me pursue him down the 
 marsh. 
 
 Pie. Hold, there's my signet, take a gundolet : 
 Bring me his head, his head, and, by mine 
 
 honour, 
 I'll make thee the wealthiest mariner that breathes. 
 
 A nt. I'll sweat my blood out till I have him safe. 
 
 Pie. Speak heartily i'faith, good marinei*. 
 Oh, we will mount in triumph : soon at night 
 I'll set his head up. Let's think where. 
 
 Bal. Upon his shoulders, that's the fittest place 
 for it. If it be not as fit as if it were made for 
 them, say, Balurdo, thou art a sot, an ass. 
 
 Enter Mellida in Page's attire^ dancing. 
 
 Pie. Sprightly, i'faith. In troth he's somewhat 
 like 
 My daughter Mellida : but alas, poor soul, 
 Her honour's heels, God knows, are half so light. 
 
 Mel. Escap'd I am, spite of my father's spite. 
 
 Pie. Ho, this will warm my bosom ere I sleep. 
 
 Enter Flavia, running. 
 
 Fla. my lord, your daughter. 
 Pie. Ay, ay, my daughter's safe enough, I 
 warrant thee. 
 This vengeance on the boy will lengthen out 
 My days unmeasuredly. 
 It shall be chronicled, time to come, 
 Piero Sforza slew Andrugio's son. 
 Fla. Ay, but my lord, your daughter. 
 Pie. Kj, ay, my good wench, she is safe 
 
 enough. 
 Fla. Oh, then, my lord, you know she's run 
 
 away. 
 Pie. Kun away, away, how run away ? 
 Fla. She's vanish'd in an instant, none knows 
 
 whither. 
 Pie. Pursue, pursue, fly, run, post, scud away! 
 [Felice sings^ And was not good Jcing Salomon. 
 Fly, call, run, row, ride, cry, shout, hurry, haste: 
 Haste, hui-ry, shout, cry, ride, row, run, call, fly 
 Backward and forward, every way about. 
 Maldetta fortuna chy condura sorta 
 Che faro, che diro, pur fugir tanto mall 
 [Exeunt all but Castilio and Felice. 
 Cast. 'Twas you that struck me even now: 
 
 was it not ? 
 Feli. It was I that stnick you even now. 
 Cast. You bastinadoed me, I take it. 
 Feli. I bastinadoed you, and you took it. 
 Cast. Faith, sir, I have the richest tobacco in 
 the court for you ; I would be glad to make you 
 satisfaction, if I have wronged you. I would 
 not the sun should set upon your anger; give 
 me your hand. 
 Feli. Content faith, so thou'lt breed no more 
 such lies. 
 I hate not man, but man's lewd qualities. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Filter Antoxio, in his sea-gown, running. 
 
 Ant. Stop, stop Antonio, stay, Antonio. 
 Vain bi'eath, vain breath, Antonio's lost ; 
 He cannot find himself, not seize himself. 
 Alas, this that you see is not Antonio, 
 His spirit hovers in Piero 's court, 
 Hurling about his agile faculties. 
 To apprehend the sight of Mellida : 
 But poor, poor soul, wanting apt instruments 
 To speak or see, stands dumb and blind, sad spirit, 
 
 Eoll'd up in gloomy clouds as black as air, 
 Through which the rusty coach of Night is 
 
 drawn. 
 'Tis so, I'll give you instance that 'tis so. , 
 Conceit you me, as having clasp'd a rose 
 Within my palm, the rose being ta'en away, 
 My hand retains a little breath of sweet : 
 So may man's trunk ; his spirit slipt away. 
 Holds still a faint perfume of his sweet ghost. 
 'Tis so ; for when discursive powers ^ fly out. 
 And roam in progress through the bounds of 
 
 heaven, 
 The soul itself gallops along with them, 
 As chieftain of this winged troop of thought, 
 Whilst the dull lodge of spirit standeth waste. 
 Until the soul return from — What v/as't I said ? 
 Oh, this is naught, but speckling melancholy. 
 I have been — 
 
 That Morpheus tender-skinn'd — Cousin-german 
 Bear with me good — 
 Mellida : clod upon clod thus fall.' 
 Hell is beneath ; yet heaven is over all. 
 
 Enter Andrugio and Lucio. 
 
 And. Come, Lucio, let's go eat : what hast 
 thou got? 
 Boots, roots ? alas, they are seeded, new cut up. 
 Oh, thou hast wrong'd Nature, Lucio : 
 But boots not much ; thou but pursu'st the world, 
 That cuts off virtue 'fore it comes to growth, 
 Lest it should seed, and so o'errun her son, 
 Dull purblind error. Give me water, boy. 
 There is no poison in't, 1 hope, they say 
 That lurks in massy plate : and yet the earth 
 Is so infected with a general plague, 
 That he's most wise, that thinks there's no man 
 
 fool: 
 Eight prudent, that esteems no creature just : 
 Great policy the least things to mistrust. 
 Give me assay — s How we mock greatness 
 now! 
 
 Im. a strong conceit is rich, so most men deem. 
 If not to be, 'tis comfort yet to seem. 
 
 And. Why, man, I never was a prince till now. 
 'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees. 
 Gilt tipstaves, Tyrian purple, chairs of state, 
 Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still 
 In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince : 
 'Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes, 
 Shouting and clapping, with confused din, 
 That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king, 
 A true right king, that dares do aught save 
 
 wrong, 
 Fears nothing mortal but to be unjust. 
 Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs 
 Of spongy sycophants: who stands unmov'd. 
 Despite the jostling of opinion : 
 Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng 
 That strive to press his quiet out of him: 
 Who sits upon Jove's footstool, as I do, 
 Adoring, not affecting majesty : 
 Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown 
 Of clear content : this, Lucio, is a king. 
 And of this empire, every man's possest. 
 That's worth his soul. 
 
 Lu. My lord, tlie Genoese had wont to say — 
 
 And. Name not the Genoese : that very word 
 Unkings me quite, makes me vile passion's slave. 
 
 ^ discursive powers — powers of discourse or thought. 
 
 2 Either tliere is something wanting in these verses, 
 or the author wishes to represent Antonio as utterly 
 bewildered. 
 
 3 6ioe me assay — to give the say or assay at court was 
 for the royal taster to declare the goodness of the wine 
 or dishes.— Nakks. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 359 
 
 Oh, you that made open the glibbery ^ ice 
 
 Of vulgar favour, view Andrugio. 
 
 Was never prince with more applause confinn'd, 
 
 "With louder shouts of triumph launched out 
 
 Into the surgy main of government : 
 
 Was never pi'ince with more despite cast out, 
 
 Left shipwreck'd, banish'd on more guiltless 
 
 ground. 
 O rotten props of the craz'd multitude, 
 How you still double, falter, under the lightest 
 
 chance 
 That strains your veins. Alas, one battle lost. 
 Your Avhorish love, your drunken healths, your 
 
 hoots and shouts. 
 Your smooth. God save's, and all your devil's 
 
 last. 
 That tempts our quiet, to your hell of throngs. 
 Spit on me, Lucio, for I am turned slave: 
 Observe how passion domineers o'er me. 
 
 Lu. No wonder, noble lord, having lost a son, 
 A countr}', crown, and — 
 
 And. Ay, Lucio, having lost a son, a son, 
 A country, house, crown, son. lares, misereri 
 
 lares.'^ 
 Which shall I first deplore ? My son, my son, 
 My dear sweet boy, my dear Antonio. 
 Ant. Antonio. 
 
 And. Ay, echo, ay ; I mean Antonio. 
 Ant. Antonio, who means Antonio ? 
 And. Where &xi? what art? know'st thou 
 
 Antonio 7 
 Ant. Yes. 
 And. Lives he ? 
 Ant. No. 
 
 And. Where lies he dead ? 
 Ant. Here. 
 And. Where? 
 Ant. Here. 
 
 And. Art thou Antonio ? 
 Ant. I think I am. 
 And. Dost thou but think? What, dost not 
 
 know thyself ? 
 Ant. He is a fool that thinks he knows himself. 
 And. Upon thy faith to heaven, give thy 
 
 name. 
 Ant. I were not worthy of Andrugio's blood, 
 If I denied my name's Antonio. 
 
 And. I were not worthy to be call'd thy father, 
 If I denied my name Andrugio. 
 And dost thou live? Oh, let me kiss thy cheek. 
 And dew thy brow with trickling drops of joy. 
 Now Heaven's will be done : for I have lived 
 To see my joy, my son Antonio. 
 Give me thy hand ; now Fortune do thy worst, 
 His blood, that lapp'd thy spirit in the womb. 
 Thus (in his love) will make his arms thy tomb. 
 Ant. Bless not the body with your twining 
 arms, 
 Which is accurs'd of Heaven. Oh, what black sin 
 Hath been committed by our ancient house, 
 Whose scalding vengeance lights upon our heads. 
 That thus the world, and Fortune casts us out. 
 As loathed objects, ruin's branded slaves? 
 
 And. Do not expostulate the heavens' will : 
 But, oh, remember to foi'get thyself: 
 Forget remembrance what thou once hast been. 
 Come, creep with me from out this open air. 
 Even trees have tongues, and will betray our life. 
 I am a raising of our house, my boy : 
 Which Fortune will not envy, 'tis so mean. 
 And like the world (all dirt) there shalt thou rip 
 The inwards of thy fortunes in mine ears. 
 Whilst I sit weeping, blind with passion's tears : 
 
 Then I'll begin, and we'll such order keep. 
 That one shall still tell griefs, the other weep. 
 [Exit Andrugio, leaving Antonio 
 and his Page. 
 Ant. I'll follow you. Boy, pr'ythee stay a little. 
 Thou hast had a good voice, if this cold marsh, 
 Wherein we lurk, have not corrupted it. 
 
 Enter Mellida, standing out of sight, in her 
 
 I's suit. 
 
 glibbery — slippery. 
 
 ' O household gods, pity me, household gods.' 
 
 I pr'ythee sing ; but, sirrah (mark you me), 
 
 Let each note breathe the heart of passion, 
 
 The sad extracture of extremest grief. 
 
 Make me a strain ; speak, groaning like a bell, 
 
 That tolls departing souls. 
 
 Breathe me a point that may enforce me weep, 
 
 To wring my hands, to break my cursed breast, 
 
 Eave, and exclaim, lie grovelling on the earth, 
 
 Straight start up frantic, crying, Mellida ! 
 
 Sing but, Antonio hath lost Mellida, 
 
 And thou shalt see me (like a man possess' d) 
 
 Howl out such passion, that even this brinish 
 
 marsh 
 Will squeeze out tears from out his spongy 
 
 cheeks : 
 The rocks even groan, and — 
 Pr'ythee, pr'ythee sing, 
 Or I shall ne'er ha' done when I am in, 
 'Tis harder for me end, than to begin. 
 
 [The hoy runs a note, Antonio hrealcs it.^ 
 For look thee, boy, my grief that hath no end, 
 I may begin to plain, but — pr'ythee sing. 
 
 [Boy sings, 
 Mel. Heaven keep you, sir! 
 Ant. Heaven keep you from me, sir ! 
 Mel. I must be acquainted with you, sir. 
 Ant. Wherefore? Art thou infected with 
 misery, 
 Sear'd with the anguish of calamity ? 
 Art thou true sorrow, hearty grief ? canst weep ? 
 I am not for thee if thou canst not rave, 
 
 [ANTONio/a^/s oil the ground. 
 Fall flat on the ground, and thus exclaim on 
 
 Heaven ; 
 trifling Nature, why inspiredst thou breath ? 
 Mel. Stay, sir, I think you named Mellida. 
 Ant. Know'st thou Mellida ? 
 Mel. Yes. 
 
 Ant. Hast thou seen Mellida ? 
 Mel. Yes. 
 
 Ant. Then hast thou seen the glory of her sex. 
 The music of nature, the unequall'd lustre 
 Of unmatched excellence, the united sweet 
 Of heaven's graces, the most adored beauty 
 That ever struck amazement in the world ! 
 Mel. You seem to love her. 
 Ant. With my very soul. 
 Mel. She'll not requite it : all her love is fix'd 
 Upon a gallant, on Antonio, 
 The Duke of Genoa's son. I was her page : 
 And often as I waited, she would sigh ; 
 Oh, dear Antonio ! and to strengthen thought. 
 Would clip- my neck, and kiss, and kiss me 
 
 thus. 
 Therefore leave loving her: faugh, faith, me- 
 
 thinks 
 Her beauty is not half so ravishing 
 As you discourse of ; she hath a freckled face, 
 A low forehead, and a lumpish eye. 
 Ant. heaven, that I should hear such blas- 
 phemy ! 
 
 1 i.e. the hoy begins to sing, and Antonio intemipta 
 him. — DiLKK. 
 
 2 clip — clasp. 
 
36o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Boy, rogue, thou liest ! and 
 
 Spavento dell mio core dolce Mellidcu, 
 
 Di grava morte restoro vero dolce Mellida, 
 
 Celesta salvatvice sovrana Mellida 
 
 Del mio sperar ; trofeo vero Mellida. 
 
 Mel. JDiletta e soave anima mia Antonio^ 
 Godevole belezza cortese Antonio. 
 Signior mio c virginal amore heW Antonio 
 Gusto delli mei se7isi, car' Antonio.^ 
 Ant. suamisce il cor in un soave baccio, 
 Mel. Murono i sensi nel desiato dessio : 
 Ant. Nel Cielo puo lesser helta pia chiara f 
 Mel. Nel mondo pol esser belta pia chiara ? 
 Ant. Dammi un baccio da quella bocca beata, 
 Bassiammi^ coglier Vaura odorata 
 Che in sua neggia in quello dolce Idbra. 
 
 Mel. Dammi pimjjero del tuo gradii amore 
 Che bea me, cosempiterno honore, 
 Cost, cosi mi convtrra morir. 
 Good sweet, scout o'er the marsh : for my heart 
 
 trembles 
 At every little breath that strikes my ear. 
 When thou returnest, then I'll discourse 
 How I deceived the court : then thou shalt tell 
 How thou escap'st the watch: we'll point our 
 
 speech 
 "With amorous kissing, kissing commas, and even 
 
 suck 
 The liquid breath from out each other's lips. 
 Ant. Dull clod, no man but such sweet favour 
 clips. 
 I go, and yet my panting blood persuades me 
 
 stay. 
 Turn coward in her sight ? away, awayj 
 
 [Exit. 
 Lu. I think confusion of Babel is fallen upon 
 those lovers, that they change their language ; 
 but, I fear me, my master having but feigned the 
 person of a woman, hath got their unfeigned 
 imperfection, and is grown double-tongu'd : as 
 for Mellida, she were no woman, if she could 
 not yield strange language. But, howsoever, if 
 I should sit in judgment, 'tis an error easier to 
 be pardoned by the auditors, than excused by 
 the authors ; and yet some private respect may 
 rebate '^ the edge of the keener censure. 
 
 Enter Piero, Castilio, Matzagente, Foro- 
 Bosco, Felice, Galeatzo, Balurdo, and 
 his Page, at another door. 
 
 Pie. This way she took: search, my sweet 
 gentlemen. How now, Balurdo, canst thou meet 
 with anybody.' 
 
 Bal. As I am a true gentleman, I made my 
 horse sweat, that he hath ne'er a dry thread on 
 him : and I can meet with no living creature, 
 but men and beasts. In good sadness, I would 
 have sworn I had seen Mellida even now : for 
 I saw a thing stir under a hedge, and I peep't, 
 and I spied a thing : and I peer'd, and I tweer'd 3 
 underneath : and truly a wise man might have 
 been deceived ; for it was — 
 
 Pie. What, in the name of Heaven ? 
 
 Bal. A dun cow. 
 
 Fell. Sh'ad ne'er a kettle on her head ?* 
 
 Pie. Boy, didst thou see a young lady pass this 
 way? 
 
 1 Mellida here discovers herself to Antonio. 
 
 2 rebate — blunt. 
 
 3 tweer'd — peeped. 
 
 * The Dun Cow is intimately connected with the his- 
 tory of the celebrated Guy Earl of Warwick, and I 
 believe his kettle is one of the pretended relics still 
 shown there. From the text I conjecture that the dun 
 cow with the kettle on her head was in the time of 
 Marston a Avell-known sign.— Dilke. 
 
 Gal. Why speak you not ? 
 
 Bal. God's neakes, proud elf, give the duke 
 reverence, stand bare with a — 
 Whogh ! heavens bless me : Mellida, Mellida ! 
 
 Pie. Where, man, where ? 
 
 Bal. Turn'd man, turn'd man: women wear 
 the breeches, lo here ! 
 
 Pie. Light and unduteous! kneel not, peevish elf, 
 Speak not, entreat not, shame unto my house, 
 Curse to my honour. Where's Antonio ? 
 Thou traitress to my hate, what, is he shipp'd 
 For England now? well, whimpering harlot, 
 hence! 
 
 Mel. Good father ! 
 
 Pie. Good me no goods, Seest thou that 
 sprightly youth ? ere thou canst term to-morrow 
 morning old, thou shalt call him thy husband, 
 lord, and love. 
 
 Mel. A.J me. 
 
 Pie. BHrt* on your Ay me's ; guard her safely 
 hence. 
 Drag her away, I'll be your guard to-night. 
 Young prince, mount up your spirits, and 
 
 prepare 
 To solemnize your nuptial's eve with pomp. 
 
 Gal. The time is scant: now nimble wits 
 appear : 
 Phoebus begins gleam, the welkin's clear. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Balurdo, his Page, and Dildo. 
 
 Bal. Now nimble wits appear : I'll myself 
 appear, 
 Balurdo's self, that in quick wit doth surpass, 
 Will show the substance of a complete — 
 
 Dil. Ass, ass. 
 
 Bal. I'll mount my courser, and most gallantly 
 prick — 
 
 Dil. Gallantly prick is too long, and stands 
 hardly in the verse, sir. 
 
 Bal. I'll speak pure rhyme, and will so bravely 
 prank it, that I'll toss love like a prank, prank 
 it : a rhyme for prank it ? 
 
 Dil. Blanket. 
 
 Bal. That'll toss love, like a dog in a blanket : 
 ha ha, indeed la! I think, ha ha; I think, ha 
 ha, I think I shall tickle the Muses. And I 
 strike it not dead, say, Balurdo, thou art an 
 an-ant sot. 
 
 Dil. Balurdo, thou art an arrant sot. 
 
 [Exeimt. 
 
 Enter Andrugio and Astq-sio ivreathed together,^ 
 Lucio. 
 
 And. Now come, united force of chap-fallen 
 death : 
 Come, power of fx-etting anguish, leave distress. 
 Oh, thus infolded, we have breasts of proof 
 'Gainst all the venom'd stings of misery. 
 
 Ant. Father, now I have an antidote 
 'Gainst all the poison that the world can breathe : 
 My Mellida, my Mellida doth bless 
 This bleak waste with her presence. How now, 
 
 boy, 
 Why dost thou weep ? alas ! where's Mellida ? 
 
 Lu. Ay me, my lord. 
 
 And. A sudden horror doth invade my blood, 
 My sinews tremble, and my panting heart 
 Scuds round about my bosom to go out, 
 Dreading the assailant, horrid passion. 
 Oh, be no tyrant, kill me with one blow. 
 Speak quickly, bi'iefly, boy. 
 
 Pa. Her father found and seiz'd her; she is gone. 
 
 And. Son, heat thy blood, be not froze up with 
 grief. 
 
 I BHrt or blurt was used as an exclamation of con- 
 tempt. 
 - i.e. folded in each other's arms.— Dilke. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 361 
 
 Courage, sweet boy, sink not beneath the weight 
 Of crushing mischief. Oh, where's thy dauntless 
 
 heart, 
 Thy father's spirit ! I renounce thy blood, 
 If thou forsake thy valour. 
 Lu. See how his grief speaks in his slow-pac'd 
 
 Alas, 'tis more than he can utter, let him go. 
 Dumb solitary path best suiteth woe. 
 
 And. Give me my arms, my armour, Lucio. 
 Lu. Dear lord, what means this rage; when 
 lacking use 
 Scarce saves your life, will you in armour rise .? 
 And. Fortune fears valour, pressetli cowardice. 
 Lm. Then valour gets applause, when it hath 
 place, 
 And pieans to blaze it. 
 And. Nunquam potest non esse.^ 
 Lu. Patience, my lord, may bring your ills 
 
 some end. 
 Ant. What patience, fi'iend, can ruin'd hopes 
 attend? 
 Come, let me die like old Andrugio : 
 Worthy my birth. Oh blood-true-honour'd graves 
 Are far more blessed than base life of slaves. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Enter Balurdo, a Painter with two Pictures, 
 and DiLDO. 
 
 Bal. And are you a painter ? sir, can you 
 draw, can you draw ? 
 
 Pa. Yes, sir. 
 
 Bal. Indeed, la ! now so can my father's fore- 
 horse. And are these the workmanship of your 
 hands 7 
 
 Pa. I did limn them. 
 
 Bal. Limn them ? a good word, limn them. 
 Whose picture is this ? Anno Domini 1599. Be- 
 lieve me, Master Anno Domini was of a good 
 settled age when you limn'd him. 1599 years 
 old ? Let's see the other. Etatis suss 24. By'r 
 Lady, he is somewhat younger. Belike Master 
 Etatis suae was Anno Domini's son. 
 
 Pa. Is not your master a — 
 
 Dil. He hath a little proclivity to him. 
 
 Pa. Proclivity, good youth ? I thank you for 
 your courtly proclivity. 
 
 Bal. Approach, good sir. I did send for you 
 to draw me a device, an Imprezza, by Sinecdoche 
 a Mott. By Phoebus' crimson taffeta mantle, I 
 think I speak as melodiously, — look you, sir, how 
 think you on't? I would have you paint me, 
 for my device, a good fat leg of ewe mutton, 
 swimming in stewed broth of plum (boy, keel^ 
 your mouth, it runs over), and the word^ shall 
 be. Hold my dish, whilst I spill my pottage. 
 Sure, in my conscience, 'twould be the most 
 sweet device, now. 
 
 Pa. 'Twould scent of kitchen stuff too much. 
 
 Bal. God's neakes, now I remember me, I ha' 
 the rarest device in my head that ever breathed. 
 Can you paint me a drivelling, reeling song, and 
 let the word be, Uh ? 
 
 Pa. A belch. 
 
 Bal. Oh, no, no. Uh, paint me uh, or nothing. 
 
 Pa. It cannot be done, sir, but by a seeming 
 kind of drunkenness. 
 
 Bal. No ? Well, let me have a good massy 
 
 * ' It is never possible not to be.' 
 
 2 keel — cool skim. 3 y;ord — motto. 
 
 ring, with your own poesie graven in it, that 
 must sing a small treble, word for word, thus : 
 
 And if you will my true lover be. 
 Come follow me to the green wood. 
 
 Pa. Lord, sir, I cannot make a picture sing. 
 Bal. Why.^ z'lid, I have seen painted things 
 sing as sweet ; 
 But I hav't will tickle it, for a conceit i'faith. 
 
 Enter Felice and Alberto. 
 
 Alh. Oh, dear Felice, give me thy device. 
 How shall I purchase love of Eossaline ? 
 
 Feli. S'will, flatter her soundly. 
 
 A lb. Her love is such, I cannot flatter her ; 
 But with my utmost vehemence of speech, 
 I have ador'd her beauties. 
 
 Feli. Hast writ good, moving, unaffected 
 rhymes to her? 
 
 Alb. yes, Felice; but she scorns my writ. 
 
 Fell. Hast thou presented her with sumptuous 
 gifts ? 
 
 Alh. Alas ! my fortunes are too weak to offer 
 them. 
 
 Feli. Oh, then I have it, I'll tell thee what to 
 do. 
 
 Alh._ What, good Felice ? 
 
 Fell. Go and hang thyself ; I say, go hang 
 thyself ; 
 If that thou canst not give, go hang thyself. 
 I'll time thee dead, or verse thee to the rope. 
 How think'st thou of a poet that sung thus : 
 Munera solapacant, sola addunt munera J'ormam : 
 Munere solicites Pallada, Cypris erit. 
 Munera, munera.^ 
 
 Alh. I'll go and breathe my woes unto the 
 rocks, 
 And spend my grief upon the deafest seas. 
 I'll weep my passion to the senseless trees, 
 And load most solitary air with plaints. 
 For woods, trees, sea, or rocky Appenine, 
 Is not so ruthless as my Kossaline. 
 Farewell, dear friend, expect no more of me ; 
 Here ends my part in this love's comedy.^ 
 
 [Exit Alberto. Exit Painter. 
 
 Feli, Now, Master Balurdo, whither are you 
 going, ha ? 
 
 Bal. Siguier Felice, how do you, faith, and 
 by my troth, how do you ? 
 
 Feli. Whither art thou going, bully ? 
 
 Bal. And as Heaven help me, how do you ? 
 How, do you i'faith he ? 
 
 Feli. Whither art going, man ? 
 
 Bal. God, to the court ! I'll be willing to 
 give you grace and good countenance, if I may 
 but see you in the presence. 
 
 Feli. Oh, to court ? farewell. 
 
 Bal. If you see one in a j^ellow taffeta doublet, 
 cut upon carnation velure,^ a green hat, a blue 
 pair of velvet hose, a gilt rapier, and an orange 
 tawny pair of worsted silk stockings, that's I, 
 that's I. 
 
 Feli. Very good ; farewell. 
 
 Bal. Ho, you shall know me as easily. I ha' 
 bought me a new green feather with a red sprig ; 
 you shall see my wrought shirt hang out at my 
 breeches ; you shall know me. 
 
 Feli. Very good, very good ; farewell. 
 
 Bal. Marry, in the mask 'twill be somewhat 
 hard. But if you hear anybody speak so wittily 
 
 1 ' Gifts alone appease ; gifts alone add beauty : 
 
 Should you solicit Pallas with a gift, she will be a 
 
 Venus : 
 Gifts, gifts.' 
 
 2 comedy often means a play generally. 
 2 velure — velvet. 
 
36: 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 that lie makes all the room laugh, that's I, that's 
 I. Fax-ewell, good Signior. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Forobosco, Castilio, a Boy carrying a 
 gilt harp ; Piero, Mellida in night apparel, 
 EossALiKE, Flavia, two Pages. 
 
 Pie. Advance the music's prize ; ^ now, cap'ring 
 wits, 
 Else to your highest mount ; let choice delight 
 Garland the brow of this triumphant night. 
 'Sfoot, a sits like Lucifer himself. 
 
 Ros. Good, sweet duke, first let their voices 
 strain for music's price. Give me the golden 
 harp. Faith, with your favour, I'll be ump'ress. 
 
 Pie. Sweet niece, content. Boys, clear your 
 voice and sing. [First Boy sings. 
 
 Ros. By this gold, I had rather have a servant 
 •with a short nose and a thin hair, than have 
 such a high stretch'd minikin ^ voice. 
 
 Pie. Fair niece, your reason ? 
 
 Ros. By the sweet of love, I should fear ex- 
 tremely that he were an eunuch. 
 
 Cas. Spark ^ spirit, how like you his voice 7 
 
 Ros. Spark spirit, how like you his voice ? 
 So help me, youth, thy voice squeaks like a dry 
 cork shoe. Come, come ; let's hear the next. 
 
 [Second Boy sings. 
 
 Pie. Trust me, a strong mean.* Well sung, 
 my boy. 
 
 Enter Balurdo. 
 
 Bal. Hold, hold, hold ! Are ye blind ? Could 
 ye not see my voice coming for the harp ? An 
 I knock not division on the head,^ take hence 
 the harp, make me a slip, and let me go but for 
 ninepence. Sir Mark, strike up for Master 
 Balurdo. [Balurdo sings. 
 
 Judgment, gentlemen, judgment. Was't not 
 
 above line ? 
 I appeal to your mouths that heard my song. 
 Do me right, and dub me knight, Balurdo. 
 
 Ros. Kneel down, and I'll dub thee knight of 
 the golden harp. 
 
 Bal. Indeed, la, do, and I'll make you lady of 
 the silver fiddlestick. 
 
 Ros. Come, kneel, kneel. 
 
 Enter a Page to Balurdo. 
 
 Bal. My troth, I thank you, it hath never a 
 whistle in't. 
 
 Ros. Nay, good sweet cuz, raise tip your 
 drooping eyes; and I were at the point of To 
 have and to hold, from this day forward, I would 
 be asham'd to look thus lumpish. Shall's dance ? 
 thou art so sad, hark in mine ear. I was about 
 to say, but I'll forbear. 
 
 Bal. I come, T come ; more then, most honey- 
 suckle sweet ladies, pine not for my presence; 
 I'll return in pomp. Well spoke. Sir Jeffrey 
 Balurdo. As I am a true knight, I feel honour- 
 able eloquence begin to grope me already. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Pie. Faith, mad niece, I wonder when thou 
 wilt marry ? 
 
 Ros. Faith, kind uncle, when men abandon 
 jealousy, forsake talcing of tobacco, and cease to 
 wear their beards so rudely long. Oh, to have 
 a husband with a mouth continually smoking, 
 with a bush of furs on the ridge of his chin, 
 ready still to flop into his foaming chaps ; ah ! 
 'tis more than most intolerable. 
 
 1 "Viz. a harp, as will be seen below. 
 
 * miKil-m— treble. ' spark— 'bnght, lively. 
 
 * i.e. a full-toned tenor voice. — Dilke. 
 
 * i.e., we suppose if he does not beat the others ' hol- 
 low ' in singing. 
 
 Pie. Nay, faith, sweet niece, I was mighty 
 strong in thought we should have shut up night 
 with an old comedy. The Prince of Milan shall 
 have Mellida, and thou shouldst have — 
 
 Ros. Nobody, good sweet uncle. I tell you, 
 sir, I have thirty-nine servants, and my monkey, 
 that makes the fortieth. Now, I love all of them 
 lightly for something, but affect none of them 
 seriously for anything. One's a passionate fool, 
 and he flatters me above belief ; the second's a 
 testy ape, and he rails at me beyond reason ; the 
 third's as grave as some censor, and he strokes 
 up his mustachoes three times, and makes six 
 plots ^ of set faces, before he speaks one wise 
 word ; the fourth's as dry as the burr of an ai'ti- 
 choke ; the fifth paints, and hath always a good 
 colour for what he speaks ; the sixth — 
 
 Pie. Stay, stay, sweet niece ; what makes you 
 thus suspect young gallants' worth ? 
 
 Ros. Oh, when I see one wear a periwig, I 
 dread his hair; another wallow in a great slop ,2 
 I mistrust the proportion of his thigh ; and wears 
 a ruffled boot, I fear the fashion of his leg. Thus, 
 something in each thing, one trick in everything 
 makes me mistrust imperfection in all parts ; and 
 there's the full point of my addiction.3 
 
 The cornets sound a cynet. 
 
 Enter Galeatzo, Matzagente, and Balurdo 
 in maskery.* 
 
 Pie. The room's too scant: boys, stand in 
 there, close. 
 
 Mel. In faith, fair sir, I am too sad to dance. 
 
 Pie. How's that, how's that ? Too sad ? By 
 Heaven, dance. 
 And grace him to, or go to, — I say no more. 
 
 Mel. A burning glass, the word splendente 
 Phcebo ? 
 'Tis too curious, I conceit it not. 
 
 Gal. Faith, I'll tell thee. I'll no longer burn, 
 than you'll shine and smile upon my love. For 
 look ye, fairest, by your pure sweets, 
 I do not dote upon your excellence. 
 And faith, unless you shed your brightest beams 
 Of sunny favour, and acceptive grace 
 Upon my tender love, I do not burn : 
 Marry but shine, and I'll reflect your beams. 
 With fervent ardour. Faith, I would be loath 
 to flatter thee, fair soul, because I love, not dote, 
 court like thy husband, which thy father swears, 
 to-morrow morn, I must be. This is all ; and 
 now from henceforth, trust me, Mellida, I'll not 
 speak one wise word to thee more. 
 
 Mel. 1 trust ye. 
 
 Gal. By my troth, I'll speak pure fool' to thee 
 now. 
 
 Mel. You will speak the liker j'ourself. 
 
 Gal. Good faith, I'll accept of the cockscomb, 
 so you will not refuse the bauble.^ 
 
 Mel. Nay, good sweet, keep them both ; I am 
 enamour'd of neither. 
 
 Gal. Go to, I must take you down for this. 
 Lend me your ear. 
 
 Ros. A glowworm? the word, — Splendescit 
 tanium tenehris.'' 
 
 Mat. Oh, lady, the glowworm figurates my 
 
 i^?o<5— plats, plans, sets. 
 
 2 slop. Slops were large loose breeches. 
 
 3 addiction — inclination, will. 
 
 * maskery — masquerade. This is necessary to be re- 
 membered in order to understand what follows. 
 
 5 pure fool— i.e. like a pure fool. 
 
 6 The cockscomb and bauble were both appurtenances 
 of a fool. 
 
 ^ Shines only in the dark.' 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 363 
 
 valour, which shineth brightest in most dark, 
 dismal, and horrid achievements. 
 
 B.OS. Or, rather, your glowworm represents 
 your wit, which only seems to have fire in it, 
 though indeed 'tis but an ignis fatuus, and shines 
 only in the dark dead night of fools' admiration. 
 
 Mat. Lady, my wit hath spurs, if it were dis- 
 posed to ride you. 
 
 ^05. Faith, sir, your wit's spurs have but walk- 
 ing rowels; dull, blunt, they will not draw blood: 
 the gentlemen ushers may admit them the pre- 
 sence, for any wrong they can do to ladies. 
 
 Bed. Truly, I have strained a note above Ela^ 
 for a device ; look you, 'tis a fair rul'd singing 
 book; the word, Perfect., if it were pricM."^ 
 
 Fla. Though you are mask'd, I can guess who 
 you are by your wit. You are not the exquisite 
 Balurdo, the most rarely shap'd Balurdo. 
 
 Bed. Who, 1? No, I am not Sir Jeffrey 
 Balurdo. I am not as well known by my wit 
 as an alehouse by a red lattice. I am not worthy 
 to love and be beloved of Flavia. 
 
 Fla. I will not scorn to favour such good parts 
 as are applauded in your rarest self. 
 
 Bal. Truly you speak wisely, and like a 
 gentlewoman of fourteen years of age. You 
 know the stone called lapis ; the nearer it comes 
 to the fire, the hotter it is : and the bird, which 
 the geometricians call avis, the farther it is from 
 the earth, the nearer it is to the heaven ; and 
 love, the nigher it is to the flame, the more re- 
 mote (there's a word, remote), the more remote 
 it is from the fi'ost. Your wit is quick ; a little 
 thiug pleaseth a young lady, and a small favour 
 contenteth an old courtier. 
 
 Enter Felice. 
 
 Pie. What might import this flourish ? Bring 
 us word. 
 
 Feli. Stand away : here's such a company of 
 fly-boats, hulling about this galeass of greatness, 
 that there's no boarding him. 
 Do you hear yon thing call'd duke ? 
 
 Pie. How now, blunt Felice; what's the 
 news? 
 
 Feli. Yonder's a knight hath brought An- 
 drugio's head, and craves admittance to your 
 chair of state. 
 
 Cornets sound a cynet. Enter Andrugio, in 
 armour. 
 
 Pie. Conduct him with attendance sumptuoiis; 
 Sound all the pleasing instruments of joy ; 
 Make triumph stand on tiptoe whilst Ave meet : 
 O sight most gracious, revenge most sweet! 
 
 And. \_reads^. We vow, hy the honour of our 
 hirth, to recompense any man that hringeth An- 
 drugio^s head, toith ticenty thousand double pisiolets, 
 and the endearing to our choicest love. 
 
 Pie. We still with most unmov'd resolv'd con- 
 firm 
 Our large munificence : and here breathe 
 A sad and solemn protestation : 
 When I recall this vow, oh, let our house 
 Be even commanded, stain'd, and trampled on, 
 As worthless rubbish of nobility. 
 
 Arid. Then here, Piero, is Andrugio's head, 
 Eoyally casked in a helm of steel : 
 Give me thy love, and take it. My dauntless 
 
 soul 
 Hath that unbounded vigour in his spirits 
 That it can bear more rank indignity, 
 With less impatience than thy cancred hate 
 
 ^ £la— the liighest note in the scale of music. 
 ' i.e. if the music were pricked or written on it. 
 
 Can sting and venom his untainted worth 
 
 With the most viperous sound of malice. Strike ; 
 
 Oh, let no glimpse of honour light thy thoughts ; 
 
 If there be any heat of royal breath 
 
 Creeping in thy veins, oh, stifle it. 
 
 Be still thyself, bloody and treacherous. 
 
 Fame not thy house with an admired act 
 
 Of princely pity. Piero, I am come 
 
 To soil thy house with an eternal blot 
 
 Of savage cruelty; strike, or bid me strike. 
 
 I pray my death ; that thy ne'er-dying shame 
 
 Might live immortal to posterity. 
 
 Come, be a princely hangman, stop my breath. 
 
 Oh dread thou shame no more than I dread death. 
 
 Pie. We are amaz'd, our royal spirits numb'd, 
 In stiff astonish'd wonder at thy prowess. 
 Most mighty, valiant, and high tow'ring heart. 
 We blush, and turn our hate upon ourselves, 
 For hating such an unpeer'd excellence. 
 I joy my state : him whom I loath'd before, 
 That now I honour, love, nay more, adore. 
 
 [_The still^ flutes sound a mournful 
 cynet. Enter a coffin. 
 But stay ; what tragic spectacle appears ! 
 Whose body bear you in that mournful hearse ? 
 
 Lu. The breathless trunk of young Antonio. 
 
 Mel. Antonio (ay me), my lord ! my love ! 
 my — 
 
 And. Sweet precious issue of most honour'd 
 blood, 
 Rich hope, ripe virtue, oh untimely loss ! 
 Come hither, friend. Pr'ythee, do not weep. 
 Why, I am glad he's dead ; he shall not see 
 His father's vanquish'd by his enemy, 
 Even in princely honour; nay, pr'ythee, speak! 
 How died the wretched boy ? 
 
 Im. My lord! 
 
 And. I hope he died yet like my son, i'faith. 
 
 Lu. Alas, my lord I 
 
 And. He died unforc'd,' I trust, and valiantly. 
 
 Lu. Poor gentleman, being — 
 
 And. Did his hand shake, or his eye look 
 dull. 
 His thoughts reel, fearful when he struck the 
 
 stroke 7 
 And if they did, I'll rend them out the hearse, 
 Rip up his cerecloth, mangle his bleak face. 
 That when he comes to heaven, the powers 
 
 divine 
 Shall ne'er take notice that he was my son. 
 I'll quite disclaim his birth. Nay, pr'ythee, 
 
 speak : 
 And 'twere not hoop'd with steel, my breast 
 would break. 
 
 Mel. Oh that my spirit in a sigh could mount 
 Into the sphere, where thy sweet soul doth rest ! 
 
 Pie. Oh that my tears, bedewing thy wan 
 cheek, 
 Could make new spirit sprout in thy cold blood ! 
 
 Bal. Verily, he looks as pitifully as a poor 
 John ; as I am true knight, I could weep like 
 a ston'd horse. 
 
 And. Villain, 'tis thou hast murdered my son! 
 Thy unrelenting spirit (thou black dog. 
 That took'st no passion ^ of his fatal love) 
 Hath forc'd him give his life untimely end. 
 
 Pie. Oh that my life, her love, my dearest 
 blood 
 Would but redeem one minute of his breath ! 
 
 Ant. I seize that breath. Stand not amaz'd, 
 great states : 
 I rise from death that never liv'd till now. 
 
 1 still— "i low-toned. 
 
 2 unforc'd — willingly. 
 
 3 passion — compassion, pity. 
 
3^4 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Piero, keep thy vow, and I enjoy 
 
 More unexpressed height of happiness 
 
 Than power of thought can reach; if not, lo 
 
 here 
 Thei-e stands my tomb, and here a pleasing 
 
 stage : 
 Most wish'd spectators of my tragedy, 
 To this end have I feign'd, that her fair eye, 
 For whom I liv'd, might bless me ere I die. 
 
 Mel. Can breath depaint ^ my unconceived 
 thoughts ? 
 Can words describe my infinite delight 
 Of seeing thee, my lord Antonio ? 
 Oh no ; conceit, breath, passion, words, be dumb, 
 Whilst I instil the dew of my sweet bliss, 
 In the soft pressure of a melting kiss ! 
 /S'ic, sicjuvat ire sub umbras.^ 
 
 Pie. Fair son (now I'll be proud to call thee 
 son). 
 Enjoy me thus : my very breast is thine ; 
 Possess me freely, I am wholly thine. 
 
 Ant. Dear father. 
 
 And. Sweet son, sweet son, I can speak no 
 more : 
 My joy's passion flows above the shore. 
 And chokes the current of my speech. 
 
 Fie. Young Florence prince, to you my lips 
 must beg 
 For a remittance of your interest. 
 
 Gal. In your fair daughter, with all my 
 thought. 
 So help me faith, the naked truth I'll unfold ; 
 He that was ne'er hot will soon be cold. 
 
 Pie. No man else makes claim unto her ? 
 
 Mat. The valiant speak ti-uth in brief : no — 
 
 £al. Truly, for Sir Jeffrey Balurdo, he dis- 
 claims to have had anything in her. 
 
 Pie. Then here I give her to Antonio. 
 Eoyal, valiant, most respected prince. 
 Let's clip 3 our hands ; I'll thus observe my 
 vow: 
 
 1 depaint — paint, depict. 
 
 « ' Thus, thus, I delight to go under his protection.' 
 
 ' cUj) — clasp. 
 
 I promised twenty thousand double pistolets. 
 
 With the indearing to my dearest love, 
 
 To him that bi'ought thy head; thine be the 
 
 gold. 
 To solemnize our houses' unity ; 
 My love be thine, the all I have be thine. 
 Fill us fresh wine, the form we'll take by this ; 
 We'll drink a health, while they two sip a kiss. 
 Now there remains no discord that can sound 
 Harsh accents to the ear of our accord : 
 So please you niece to match. 
 
 Eos. Troth, uncle, when my sweet-fac'd cuz 
 hath told me how she likes the thing called wed- 
 lock, may be I'll take a survey of the checkroll 
 of my servants ; and he that hath the best parts 
 of, I'll prick him down for my husband. 
 
 Bal. For passion of love now, remember me to 
 my mistress, lady Kossaline, when she is prick- 
 ing down the good parts of her servants. As I 
 am true knight, I grow stiff ; I shall carry it. 
 
 Pie. I will. 
 Sound Lydian wires, once make a pleasing 
 
 note. 
 On Nectar streams of your sweet airs, to float. 
 
 Ant. Here ends the comic crosses of true love; 
 Oh ! may the passage most successful prove ! 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Gentlemen, though I remain ananned Epilogue, 
 I stand not as a peremptory challenger of desert, 
 either for him that composed the comedy, or for 
 us that acted it ; but a most submissive suppliant 
 for both. What imperfection you have seen in 
 us, leave with us, and we'll amend it ; what 
 hath pleased you, take with you, and cherish it. 
 You shall not be more ready to embrace any- 
 thing commendable, than we will endeavour to 
 amend all things reprovable. What we are, is 
 by your favour. What we shall be, rests all iu 
 your applausive encouragements. [Exit. 
 
 ANTONIO'S EEYENGE. 
 
 THE SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. 
 
 — ♦-^ 
 
 In addition to those in the first part. 
 
 Gasper Strotzo, a Minion of Piero. 
 Pandulpho Felice, Felice's Father. 
 
 Maria, Andniglo's Wife. 
 NuTRicE, her Maid. 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps ^ 
 The fluent summer's vein ; and drizzling sleet 
 Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth, 
 Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves 
 From the nak'd shuddering branch; and peels 
 
 the skin 
 Fi'om off the soft and delicate aspects. 
 
 * ramps— ^ creeps up, seizes on. 
 
 Oh now, methiuks, a sullen tragic scene 
 Would suit the time, with pleasing congruence. 
 May we be happy in our weak devoir. 
 And all part pleased in most wish'd con- 
 tent; 
 But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget 
 So blest an issue. Therefore, we proclaim, 
 If any spirit breathes within this round, 
 Uncapable of weighty passion 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 365 
 
 (As from his birth, being hugged in the arms, 
 And nuzzled 1 'twixt the breasts of happiness), 
 Who winks, and shuts his apprehension up 
 From common sense of what men were, and are> 
 "Who would not know what men must be — let 
 
 such 
 Hurry amain from our black- visag'd shows : 
 We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast 
 Nail'd to the earth with grief, if any heart 
 Pierc'd through with anguish pant within this ring) 
 If there be any blood whose heat is chok'd 
 
 * nuzzled, misled, nursled—nm-sei. 
 
 And stifled with true sense of misery, 
 If ought of these strains fill this consort ^ up — 
 Th' arrive most welcome. Oh that our power 
 Could lackey or keep wing with our desires, 
 That with unused paize of style and sense, 
 We might weigh massy in judicious scale ! 
 Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes. 
 When our scenes falter, or invention halts, 
 Your favour will give crutches to our faults. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 1 consort — company. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 Enter Piero unbraced, his arms hare, smeared in 
 blood, a poniard in one hand bloody, and a 
 torch in the other; Stkotzo following him 
 with a cord. 
 
 Pie. Ho, Gasper Strotzo, bind Felice's trunk 
 Unto the panting side of Mellida. [Exit Str. 
 'Tis yet dead night, yet all the earth is clutch'd 
 In the dull leaden hand of snoring sleep. 
 Xo breath disturbs the quiet of the air, 
 No spirit moves upon the breast of earth. 
 Save howling dogs, night crows, and screeching 
 
 owls. 
 Save meagre ghosts, Piei:o, and black thoughts. 
 One, two. Lord, in two hours what a topless 
 
 mount 
 Of unpeer'd mischief have these hands cast up ! 
 
 Enter Strotzo. 
 I can scarce coop triumphing vengeance up 
 From bursting forth in braggart passion. 
 
 Str. My lord, 'tis firmly said that — 
 
 Pie. Andrugio sleeps in peace : this brain hath 
 chok'd 
 The organ of his breast. Felice hangs 
 But as a bait upon the line of death. 
 To 'tice on mischief. I am great in blood, 
 Unequall'd in revenge. You horrid scouts 
 That sentinel swart night, give loud applause 
 From your large palms. First know, my heart 
 
 was rais'd 
 Unto Andrugio's life upon this ground. 
 
 Str. Duke, 'tis reported — 
 
 Pie. We both were rivals in our May of blood, 
 Unto Maria, fair Ferrara's heir. 
 He won the lady to my honour's death, 
 And from her sweets ci-opp'd this Antonio ; 
 For which I burnt in inward swelt'ring hate, 
 And fester'd rankling malice in my bi'east, 
 Till I might belki revenge upon his eyes : 
 And now (0 blessed now !) 'tis done. Hell, night, 
 Give loud applause to my hypocrisy. 
 When his bright valour even dazzled sense, 
 In off' ring his own head, public reproach 
 Had blurr'd my name. Speak, Strotzo, had it 
 
 not.? 
 I had— If then— 
 
 Str. It had, so please — 
 
 Pie. What had so please ? Unseasoned syco- 
 phant, i, 
 Piero Sforza is no numbed lord. 
 Senseless of all true touch ; stroke not the head 
 Of infant speech, till it be duly born ; 
 Go to. 
 
 1 helk—\)Q\ch. 
 
 Sir. How now! Fut, 111 not smother your 
 speech. 
 
 Pie. Nay, right thine eyes: 'twas but a little 
 spleen. 
 (Huge plunge ! 
 
 Sin's grown a slave, and must observe slight evils; 
 Huge villains are inforc'd to claw all devils.) 
 Pish, sweet thy thoughts and give me — 
 
 Sti'. Stroke not the head of infant speech! Goto 
 
 Pie. Nay, calm this storm. I ever held thy 
 breast 
 More secret, and more firm in league of blood. 
 Than to be struck in heat with each slight puff. 
 Give me thy ears ; huge infamy 
 Press down my honour ; if even then, when 
 His fresh act of prowess bloom'd out full, 
 I had ta'en vengeance on his hated head — 
 
 Str. Why it had— 
 
 Pie. Could I avoid to give a seeming grant 
 Unto fruition of Antonio's love ? 
 
 Str. No. 
 
 Pie. And didst thou ever see a Judas kiss, 
 With a more covert touch of fleering hate ? 
 
 Str. No. 
 
 Pie. And having dipt them with pretence of 
 love, 
 Have I not crush'd them with a cruel wring ? 
 
 Str. Yes. 
 
 Pie. Say, faith, didst thou e'er hear, or read, or 
 see 
 Such happy vengeance, unsuspected death ? 
 That I should drop strong poison in the bowl, 
 Which I myself carous'd unto his health 
 And future fortune of our unity. 
 That it should work even in the hush of night, 
 And strangle him on sudden ; that fair show 
 Of death, for the excessive joy of his fate, 
 Might choke the murder ? Ha! Strotzo, is't not 
 
 rare? 
 Nay, but weigh it. Then Felice stabbed 
 (Whose sinking thought fright'ned my conscious 
 
 heart). 
 And laid by Mellida, to stop the match, 
 And hale on mischief. This all in one night! 
 Is't to be equall'd, think'st thou ? Oh, I could eat 
 Thy fumbling throat, for thy lagg'd censure. Fut, 
 Is't not rare ? 
 
 Str. Yes. 
 
 Pie. No? yes? nothing but no, and yes, dull 
 lump? 
 Canst thou not honey me with fluent speech, 
 And even adore my topless villauy ? 
 Will I not blast my own blood for revenge ? 
 Must not thou straight be perjur'S for revenge ? 
 And yet no creature di'eam 'tis ray revenge. 
 Will I not turn a glorious bridal morn 
 Unto a Stygian night? Yet naught but no, and 
 yes! 
 
366 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Str. I would have told you, if the incubus 
 That rides your bosom v'ould have patience. 
 It is reported that, in private state, 
 Maria, Genoa's duchess, makes to court, 
 Longing to see him, whom she ne'er shall see, 
 Her lord Andrugio. Belike she hath receiv'd 
 The news of reconciliation : 
 Eeconciliation with a death? 
 Poor lady, shall but find poor comfort in't. 
 
 Pie. Oh, let me swoon for joy. By heaven, I 
 think 
 I ha' said my prayers, within this month at least ; 
 I am so boundless happy. Doth she come ? 
 By this warm reeking gore, I'll marry her. 
 Look I not now like an inamorate ? 
 Poison the father, butcher the son, and marry the 
 
 mother, ha ! 
 Strotzo, to bed : snort in securest sleep ; 
 For see, the dapple grey coursers of the morn 
 Beat up the light with their bright silver hooves. 
 And chase it through the sky. To bed, to bed ! 
 This morn my vengeance shall be amply fed. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IL 
 Enter Lucio, Maria, and Nutrice. 
 
 Mar. Stay, gentle Lucio, and vouchsafe thy 
 hand. 
 
 Lu. Oh, madam — 
 
 3Ia7\ Nay, pr'ythee give me leave to say, 
 vouchsafe ; 
 Submiss * intreats beseem my humble fate. 
 Here let us sit. O Lucio, fortune's gilt 
 Is rubb'd quite off from my slight tin-foil'd state. 
 And poor Maria must appear ungrac'd 
 Of the bright fulgor of gloss'd majesty. 
 
 Lu. Cheer up your spirits, madam, fairer 
 chance 
 Than that which courts your presence instantly 
 Cannot be formed by the quick mould of thought. 
 
 31 ar. Art thou assur'd the dukes are reconcil'd ? 
 Shall my womb's honour wed fair Mellida ? 
 Will Heaven at length grant harbour to my head ? 
 Shall I once more clip my Andrugio, 
 And wreath my arms about Antonio's neck ? 
 Or is glib rumour grown a parasite, 
 Holding a false glass to my sorrow's eyes, 
 Making the wrinkl'd front of grief ^eem fair, 
 Though 'tis much rivel'd ^ with abortive care ? 
 
 Lu. Most virtuous princess, banish straggling 
 fear. 
 Keep league with comfort ; for these eyes beheld 
 The dukes united ; yon faint glimmering light 
 Ne'er peeped through the crannies of the east, 
 Since I beheld them drink a sound carouse 
 In sparkling Bacchus 
 Unto each other's health ; 
 Your son assur'd to beauteous Mellida, 
 And all clouds clear'd of threatening discontent. 
 
 3Ia7\ AVhat age is morning of ? 
 
 Lu. 1 think 'bout five. 
 
 J/ar. Nutrice, Nutrice ! 
 
 Nut. Beshrew your fingers ; marry, you have 
 disturb'd the pleasure of the finest dream. O 
 God I I was even coming to it, la. Jesu! 
 'twas coming of the sweetest. I'll tell you now : 
 methought I was married, and methought I 
 spent (0 Lord, why did you wake me ?), — and 
 methought I spent three spur-royals ^ on the 
 
 1 SHftrnzts— submissive. 
 
 2 rivel'd — wrinkled. 
 
 3 spur-royal was a gold coin worth about 15s. ; it had 
 star on the reverse, resembling the rowel of a spur. 
 
 fiddlers for striking up a fresh hornpipe. Saint 
 Ursula, I was even going to bed, and you, me- 
 thought, my husband, was even putting out the 
 tapers, when you. Lord — I shall never have such 
 a dream come upon me as long as — 
 
 Mar. Peace, idle creature, peace ! 
 When will the court rise ? 
 
 Lu. Madam, 'twere best you took some lodging 
 up, 
 And lay in private till the soil of grief 
 Were clear'd your cheek, and new burnish'd 
 
 lustre 
 Cloth'd your presence, 'fore you saw the dukes, 
 And enter'd 'mong the proud Venetian States. 
 
 3Iar. No, Lucio, my dear lord's wise, and 
 knows 
 That tinsel glitter, or rich purfled' robes. 
 Curled hairs hung full of sparkling carcanets,^ 
 Are not the true adornments of a wife. 
 So long as wives are faithful, modest, chaste. 
 Wise lords affect them. Virtue doth not waste, 
 With each slight flame of crackling vanity. 
 A modest eye forceth affection. 
 Whilst outward gaj'ness light looks but entice. 
 Fairer than nature's fair is foulest vice. 
 She that loves art to get her cheek moi'e lovers. 
 Much outward gauds slight inward grace dis- 
 covers. 
 I care not to seem fair but to my lord. 
 Those that strive most to please most strangers' 
 
 sight, 
 Folly may judge most fair, wisdom most light. 
 
 [Music sounds a short strain. 
 But hark, soft music gently moves the air : 
 I think the bridegroom's up. Lucio, stand close. 
 Oh now, Maria, challenge grief to stay 
 Thy joy's encounter. Look, Lucio, 'tis clear day. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IIL 
 
 Enter Antonio, Galeatzo, Matzagente, Ba- 
 LURDo, Pandulpho Feuce, Alberto, 
 FoROBOsco, Castilio, and a Page. 
 
 Ant. Darkness is fled : look, infant morn hath 
 drawn 
 Bright silver curtains 'bout the couch of night ; 
 And now Aurora's hoi'se trots azure rings, 
 Breathing fair light about the flrmament. 
 Stand ! what's that ? 
 
 Mat. And if a horned devil should bui'st forth, 
 I would pass on him with a mortal stroke. 
 
 Alb. Oh, a horned devil would prove ominous 
 Unto a bridegroom's eyes. 
 
 Mat. A horned devil ? Good. Ha, ha, ha ! — 
 very good ! 
 
 Alh. Good tann'd prince, laugh not. By the 
 joys of love, 
 When thou dost girn, thy rusty face doth look 
 Like the head of a roasted rabbit : fie upon't. 
 
 Bal. By my troth, methinks his nose is just 
 colour de roy.^ 
 
 Mat. I tell thee, fool, my nose will abide no 
 jest. 
 
 Bal. No, in truth, I do not jest ; I speak truth. 
 Truth is the touchstone of all things; and if 
 your nose will not abide the truth, your nose will 
 not abide the touch ; and if your nose will not 
 abide the touch, your nose is a copper nose, and 
 must be nail'd up for a slip. * 
 
 1 purfled — omamented with trimmings or embroidery. 
 
 2 carcanets properly means jewelled necklaces, or 
 chains ; here it may mean simply jewels. 
 
 3 colour de roy — ? red. 
 
 ■* slip—& piece of counterfeit copper money, washed 
 over with silver or gold. — Halliwei-l. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 \67 
 
 Mat. I scorn to retort the obtuse jest of a fool. 
 [Balurdo draws out his writing tables, and 
 writes. 
 
 Bat Eetort and obtuse ; good -words, very good 
 words. 
 
 Gal. Young prince, look sprightly ; fie, a bride- 
 groom sad ! 
 
 Bal. In truth, if he were retort, and obtuse, no 
 question he would be merry ; but and please my 
 genius, I will be most retort and obtuse ere night. 
 I'll tell you what I'll bear soon at night in my 
 shield for my device. 
 
 Gal. What, good Balurdo ? 
 
 Bal. Oh, do me right, Sir Gefferey Balurdo; 
 sir, sir, as long as ye live, sir. 
 
 Gal. What, good Sir Gefferey Balurdo ? 
 
 Bal. Marry, forsooth, I'll carry for my device 
 my grandfather's great stone horse, flinging up 
 his head, and jerking out his left leg. The word 
 ' Wighy Purt,' ^ as I am a true knight, will't not 
 be most retort and obtuse, ha ? 
 
 Ant. Blow hence these sapless jests. I tell 
 you, bloods ! 
 My spirit's heavy, and the juice of life 
 Creeps slowly through my stiffen'd arteries. 
 Last sleep, my sense was steep'd in horrid 
 
 dreams ; 
 Three parts of night were swallow'd in the gulf 
 Of ravenous time, when to my slumbering 
 
 powers, 
 Two meagre ghosts made apparition. 
 The one's breast seemed fresh punch'd with 
 
 bleeding wounds, 
 Whose bubbling gore sprang in frighted eyes ; 
 The other ghost assumed ray father's shape : 
 Both cried, ' Kevenge ! ' At which my trembling 
 
 joints 
 (Iced quite over with a froz'd cold sweat) 
 Leap'd forth the sheets. Three times I grasp'd 
 
 at shades ; 
 And thrice, deluded by erroneous sense, 
 I forc'd my thoughts make stand — when lo! 
 
 topp'd 
 A large bay window, through which the night 
 Struck terror to my soul. The vei-ge of heaven 
 Was ring'd with flames, and all the upper vault 
 Thick lac'd with flakes of fire, in midst whereof 
 A blazing comet shot his threat'ning train 
 Just on my face. "Viewing these prodigies, 
 I bow'd my naked knee, and pierc'd the star 
 With an outfacing eye ; pi'onouncing thus : 
 Deus imperat astris.^ At which my nose straight 
 
 bled ; 
 Then doubl'd I my word, so slunk to bed. 
 
 Bal. Verily, Sir Gefferey had a monstrous 
 strange dream the last night. For methought I 
 dreamt I was asleep, and methought the ground 
 yawn'd and belkt^ up the abhominable * ghost of 
 a misshapen simile, with two ugly pages ; the 
 one called master, even as going before ; and the 
 other mounser,* even so following after ; whilst 
 Siguier Simile stalked most prodigiously in the 
 midst. At which I bewrayed the fearlessness of 
 my nature, and being ready to forsake the fortress 
 of my wit, start up, called for a clean shirt, eat a 
 mess of broth, and with that I awaked. 
 
 1 Wighy Purt. Wighy was applied to the neighing of 
 a horse ; Purt is still used provincially as meaning to 
 purt, to be sulky, but we don't know that this is the 
 sense here. 
 
 2 ' God rules the stars.' 3 6e7/t^_belched. 
 
 * a6/jomma6fe— abominable ; a common spelling of 
 this word with our old writers, from a mistaken notion 
 that it was derived from Latin ab, from, and ?iomo, 
 hominis, man, abhorred by man; its real derivation is 
 ab and omen— i.e. to be turned from as ominous. 
 
 * mourner — (?) monsieur. 
 
 Ant. I pr'ythee, peace. I tell you, gentlemen, 
 The frightful shades of night yet shake my brain : 
 My jellied^ blood's not thaw'd: the sulphur 
 
 damps, 
 That flow in winged lightning 'bout my couch, 
 Yet stick within my sense, my soul is great 
 In expectation of dire prodigies. 
 
 Pan. Tut, my young prince, let not thy fortunes 
 see 
 Their lord a coward. He that's nobly bom 
 Abhors to fear. Base fear's the brand of slaves. 
 He that observes, pursues, slinks back for fright^ 
 Was never cast in mould of noble sprite. 
 
 Gal. Tush, there's a sun will straight exhale 
 these damps 
 Of chilling fear. Come, shall's salute the bride ? 
 
 Ant. Castillo, I pr'ythee mix thy breath with his: 
 Sing one of Signior Eenaldo's airs, 
 To rouse the shimbering bride from gluttoning 
 In surfeit of superfluous sleep. Good signior, 
 sing, ^ [They sing. 
 
 What means this silence and unmoved calm ! 
 Boy, wind thy cornet ; force the leaden gates 
 Of lazy sleep fly open, with thy breath. 
 My Mellida not up .' nor stirring yet ? umh ! 
 
 Mar. That voice should be my son Antonio's. 
 Antonio ! 
 
 Ant. Here, who calls ? here stands Antonio. 
 
 Mar. Sweet son. 
 
 Ant. Dear mother. 
 
 Mar. Fair honour of a chaste and loyal bed, 
 Thy father's beauty, thy sad mother's love, 
 Were I as powerful as the voice of fate, 
 Felicity complete should sweet thy state ; 
 But all the blessings that a poor banish'd wretch 
 Can pour upon thy head, take, gentle son : 
 Live, gracious youth, to close thy mother's eyes, 
 Lov'd of thy parents till their latest hour : 
 How cheers my lord, thy father ? sweet boy. 
 Part of him thus 1 clip, my dear, dear joy. 
 
 Ant. Madam, last night I kissed his princely 
 hand. 
 And took a treasur'd blessing from his lips : 
 Oh mother, you arrive in jubilee. 
 And firm atonement of all boist'rous rage ; 
 Pleasure, united love, protested faith, 
 Guard my lov'd father, as sworn pensioners. 
 The dukes are leagu'd in firmest bond of love. 
 And you arrive even in the solsticio 
 And highest point of sunshine happiness. 
 
 [One winds a cornet within. 
 Hark, madam, how yon cornet jerketh up 
 His strain'd shrill accents in the capering air, 
 As proud to summon up my bright-cheek'd love ! 
 Now, mother, ope wide expectation ; 
 Let loose your amplest sense, to entertain 
 Th' impression of an object of such worth, 
 That life's too poor to. 
 
 Gal. Nay, leave hyperboles. 
 
 Ant. I tell thee, prince, that presence straight 
 appears. 
 Of which thou canst not form hyperboles : 
 The trophy of triumphing excellence. 
 The heart of beauty, Mellida appears. 
 See ! look ! the curtain stirs, shine natui-e's pride, 
 Love's vital spirit, dear Antonio's bride. 
 
 \_The curtain^ s drawn, and the body of 
 Felice, stabbed thich with wounds, ap- 
 pears hung up. 
 What villain bloods the window of my love ? 
 What slave hath hung yon gory ensign up, 
 In flat defiance of humanity ? 
 Awake, thou fair, unspotted purity ! 
 Death's at thy window ; awake, bright Mellida, 
 Antonio calls ! 
 
 1 >e?/tcd— congealed. 
 
368 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IV. 
 Enter Piero as in Scene i., with Forobosco. 
 
 Pie. Who gives these ill-befitting attributes 
 Of chaste, unspotted, bright, to Mellida? 
 He lies as loud as thunder ; she's unchaste, 
 Tainted, impure, black as the soul of hell ! 
 
 [AxToxio draws his rapier, offers to I'un at 
 Piero, but Maria holds his aitn and 
 stays him. 
 
 Ant Dog ! 1 will make thee eat thy vomit up, 
 "Which thou hast belk't 'gainst taintless Mellida. 
 
 Pie. Eam't quickly down, that it may not rise 
 up 
 To imbraid my thoughts. Behold my stomach : 
 Strike me quite through with the relentless edge 
 Of raging fury. Boy, I'll kill thy love. 
 Pandulpho Felice, I have stabb'd thy son. 
 Look ! yet his lifeblood reeks upon this steel. 
 Albert, yon hangs thy friend. Have none of you 
 Courage of vengeance ? Forget I am your duke ; 
 Think Mellida is not Piero's blood. 
 Imagine, on slight ground, I'll blast his honour ! 
 Oh, numb my sense of anguish, cast my life 
 In a dead sleep, whilst law cuts off yon main, 
 Yon putrid ulcer of my royal blood. 
 
 For. Keep league Avith reason, gracious sove- 
 reign. 
 
 Pie. There glow no sparks of reason in the 
 world ; 
 All are rak'd up in ashy beastliness. 
 The bulk of man's as dark as Erebus ; 
 No branch of reason's light hangs in his trunk. 
 There lives no reason to keep league withal. 
 I ha' no reason to be reasonable. 
 Her wedding eve, link'd to the noble blood 
 Of my most iinnly reconciled friend, 
 And found even cling'd ' in sensuality ! 
 Heaven ! Heaven ! were she as near my 
 
 heart 
 As is my liver, I would rend her off. 
 
 Enter Strotzo. 
 
 Sir. Whither, oh whither shall I hurl vast 
 grief ? 
 
 Pie. Here, into my breast; 'tis a place built 
 wide 
 By fate, to give receipt to boundless woes. 
 
 Str. Oh no ; here throb those hearts, which I 
 must cleave 
 With my keen, piercing news. Andrugio's dead. 
 
 Pie. Dead.? 
 
 Mar. Oh me, most miserable ! 
 
 Pie. Dead ! alas ! how dead ? 
 
 [Give seeming passion? 
 Fut,' weep, act, feign. Dead ! alas ! how dead 7 
 
 Str. The vast delights of his large sudden joys 
 Open'd his powers so wide, that's native heat 
 So prodigally flow'd t'exterior parts, 
 That th' inner citadel was left unmann'd, 
 And so surpris'd on sudden by cold death. 
 
 Mar. fatal, disastrous, cursed, dismal ! 
 Choke breath and life. I breathe, I live too long. 
 Andrugio, my lord, I come, I come ! 
 
 Pie. Be cheerful, princess ; help, Castillo, 
 The lady's swooned ; help to bear her in. 
 Slow comfort to huge cares is swiftest sin. 
 
 Bal. Courage, courage, sweet lady, 'tis Sir 
 Gefferey Balurdo bids you courage. Truly I am 
 as nimble as an elephant about a lady. 
 
 Pan. Dead .-• 
 
 ^ cling'd — clasped, embraced. 
 
 2 J e. appears to be aflfected with grief. 
 
 • Fut—&xi exclamation of impatience. 
 
 Ant. Dead? 
 
 AW. Dead.? 
 
 Ant. Why, now the womb of mischief is de- 
 liver'd 
 Of the prodigious issue of the night. 
 
 Pan. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ant. My father dead ? my love attaint of lust : 
 That's a large lie, as vast as spacious hell ! 
 Poor, guiltless lady ! Oh, accursed lie ! 
 What, whom, whither, which shall I first lament ? 
 A dead father, a dishonour'd wife. Stand. 
 Methinks I feel the frame of nature shake. 
 Cracks not the joints of earth to bear my woes ? 
 
 Alb. Sweet prince, be patient. 
 
 Ant. 'Slid, sir, I will not in despite of thee. 
 Patience is slave to fools ; a chain that's fix'd 
 Only to posts, and senseless, log-like dolts. 
 
 Alb. 'Tis reason's glory to command affects.^ 
 
 Ant. Lies thy cold father dead, his glossed* 
 eyes 
 New closed up by thy sad mother's hands ? 
 Hast thou a love as spotless as the brow 
 Of clearest heaven, blurr'd with false defames ? 
 Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief 
 Of parching mischiefs ? Tell me, does thy heart 
 With punching anguish spur thy galled ribs ? 
 Then come, and let's sit and weep, and wreath 
 
 our arms ; 
 I'll hear thy counsel. 
 
 Alb. Take comfort. 
 
 Ant. Confusion to all comfort! I defy it. 
 Comfort's a parasite, a flattering Jack, 
 And melts resolv'd despair. Oh, boundless woe 
 If there be any black yet unknown grief, 
 If there be any hon-or yet unfelt, 
 Unthought-of mischief in thy liend-like power. 
 Dash it upon my miserable head ; 
 Make me more wretch, more cursed, if thou 
 
 canst ! 
 Oh, now my fate is more than I could fear ; 
 My woes more weighty than my soul can bear. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Pan. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Alb. Why laugh you, uncle ? That's my cuz, 
 your son. 
 Whose breast hangs cased in his cluttered ^ gore. 
 
 Pan. Ti'ue, man, true ; why, wherefore should 
 I weep ? 
 Come, sit, kind nephew ; come on ; thou and I 
 Will talk as chorus to this tragedy. 
 Entreat the music strain their instruments 
 With a slight touch, whilst we. — Say on, fair cuz. 
 
 Alb. He was the very hope of Italy, 
 
 [^Afmic sounds softly. 
 The blooming honour of your drooping age. 
 
 Pan. True, cuz, true. They say that men of 
 hope are crush'd ; 
 Good are supprest by base, desertless clods, 
 That stifle gasping virtue. Look, sweet youth, 
 How provident our quick Venetians are, 
 Lest hooves of jades should trample on my boy ! 
 Look how they lift him up to eminence. 
 Heave him 'bove reach of flesh. Ha., ha, ha ! 
 
 Alb. Uncle, this laughter ill becomes your 
 grief. 
 
 Pan. Would'st have me cry, run raving up 
 and down. 
 For my son's loss } Would'st have me turn rank 
 
 mad. 
 Or wring my face with mimic action ; 
 Stamp, curse, weep, rage, and then my bosom 
 strike ? 
 
 1 ajfec^i— affections, passions. 
 
 2 glossed— g\&zedi. 
 
 3 cluttered — clotted, curdled ; clutter was the name 
 given to a preparation of curdled cream. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 369 
 
 Away ! 'tis aspish action, player-like. 
 If he is guiltless, why should, tears be spent ? 
 Thrice blessed soul that dieth innocent. 
 If he is leper'd ^ with so foul a guilt, 
 "Why should a sigh be lent, a tear be spilt ? 
 The gripe of chance is weak to wring a tear 
 From him that knows what fortitude should bear. 
 Listen, young blood. 'Tis not true valoui-'s pride 
 To swagger, quarrel, swear, stamp, rave, and 
 
 chide. 
 To stab in fume of blood, to keep loud coil,^ 
 To bandy factions in domestic broils, 
 To dare the act of sins, whose filth excels 
 The blackest customs of blind infidels. 
 No, my lov'd youth : he may of valour vaunt 
 Whom fortune's loudest thunder cannot daunt ; 
 Whom fretful gales of chance, stei*n fortune's 
 
 siege, 
 Makes not his reason slink, the soul's fair liege, 
 Whose well-pac'd action ever rests upon. 
 Not giddy humours, biit discretion. 
 This heart in valour, even Jove outgoes ; 
 Jove is without, but this 'bove sense of woes : 
 And such a one, eternity : Behold — 
 Good morrow, son ; thou bid'st a fig for cold. 
 Sound louder music : let my breath exact. 
 You strike sad tones unto this dismal act. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 Tha cornets sound a cynet. 
 Enter two mourners with torches, two with 
 streamers; Castilio and Forobosco, with 
 torches ; a Herald bearing Andrugio's helm 
 and sioord ; the coffin ; Maria supported hy 
 Lucro and Alberto ; Axtonio by himself; 
 PiERo and Stkotzo talking ; Galeatzo and 
 Matzagente, Balurdo, and Pandulpho : 
 the coffin set doton ; helm, sword, and streamers 
 hung up, placed by the Herald ; whilst Antonio 
 and Maria wet their handkerchiefs toith tears, 
 hiss them, and lay them on the hearse, kneel- 
 ing ; all go out but Piero. Cornets cease^ and 
 he speaks. 
 Pie. Eot there, thou cerecloth that infolds the 
 flesh 
 Of my loath'd foe ; moulder to crumbling dust ; 
 Oblivion choke the passage of thy fame. 
 Trophies of honoui*'d birth drop quickly down : 
 Let naught of him, but what was vicious, live. 
 Though thou art dead, think not my hate is 
 
 dead: 
 I have but newly twone ' my arm in the curl'd 
 
 locks 
 Of snaky vengeance. Pale, beetle-brow'd hate 
 But newly bustles up. Sweet wrong, I clap thy 
 
 thoughts. 
 Oh let me hug my bosom, rub thy breast, 
 In hope of what may hap. Andrugio rots : 
 Antonio lives : umh ! how long ? Ha, ha ! how 
 
 long? 
 Antonio pack'd hence, I'll his mother wed 
 Then clear my daughter of supposed lust. 
 Wed her to Florence' heir. Oh excellent ! 
 Venice, Genoa, Florence at my beck, 
 At Piero's nod. — Balurdo, oh ho ! — 
 Oh, 'twill be rare, all unsuspected done. 
 I have been nurs'd in blood, and still have suck'd 
 The steam of reeking gore. — Balurdo, ho ! 
 Enter Balurdo with a beard half off half on. 
 Bal. When my beard is on, most noble prince, 
 when my beard is on. 
 
 * leper'd — affected as a ] 
 2 coi/— noise, tumult. 
 
 3 iirone— twined. 
 
 Pie. Why, what dost thou with a beard ? 
 
 Bal. In truth, one told me that my wit was 
 bald, and that a mermaid was half fish and 
 half flesh, and therefore to speak wisely like one 
 of your own counsel, as indeed it hath pleased 
 you to make me, not only being a fool, of your 
 counsel, but also to make me of your counsel, 
 being a fool. If my wit be bald, and a mermaid 
 be half fish and half conger, then I must be 
 forced to conclude, the tiring man hath not glued 
 on my beard half fast enough ; it will not stick 
 to fall off. 
 
 Pie. Dost thou know what thou hast spoken 
 all this while ? 
 
 Bal. lord duke, I would be sorry of that. 
 Many men can utter that which no man but 
 themselves can conceive : but I thank a good 
 wit, I have the gift to speak that which neither 
 any man else nor myself understands. 
 
 Pie. Thou art wise. He that speaks he knows 
 not what, shall never sin against his own con- 
 science. Go to, thou art wise. 
 
 Bal. Wise ? Oh no ; I have a little natui-al 
 discretion, or so ; but for wise, I am somewhat 
 prudent ; but for wise, lord ! 
 
 Pie. Hold, take those keys, open the castle 
 vault, and put in Mellida. 
 
 Bal. And put in Mellida? Well, let me alone. 
 
 Pie. Bid Forobosco and Castillo guard, 
 Endear thyself Piero's intimate. 
 
 Bal. Endear and intimate ; good, I assure you. 
 I will endear and intimate Mellida into the dun- 
 geon presently. 
 
 Pie. Will Pandulpho Felice wait on me ? 
 
 Bal. I will make him come, most retort and 
 obtuse, to you presently. I think Sir Jeffrey 
 talks like a councillor. Go to, I think I tickle it. 
 
 Pie. I'll seem to wind yon fool with kindest 
 arm. 
 He that's ambitions minded, and but man, 
 Must have his followers beasts, dubb'd slavish 
 
 sots. 
 Whose service is obedience, and whose wit 
 Reacheth no farther than to admire their lord. 
 And stare in adoration of his worth. 
 I love a slave rak'd out of common mud 
 Should seem to sit in counsel with my heart. 
 High honour'd blood's too squeamish to assent. 
 And lend a hand to an ignoble act. 
 Poison from roses who could e'er abstract? 
 
 Enter Pandulpho. 
 
 How now, Pandulpho, weeping for thy son ? 
 Pan. No, no, Piero, weeping for my sins. 
 Had I been a good father, he had been a gracious 
 
 son. 
 Pie. Pollution must be purg'd. 
 Pan. Why taint'st thou then the air with stench 
 
 of flesh. 
 And human putrefaction's noisome scent ? 
 I pray his body. AVho less boon can crave 
 Than to bestow upon the dead his grave ? 
 Pie. Grave ? Why, think'st thou he deserves 
 
 a grave, 
 That hath defiled the temple of — 
 . Pan. Peace, peace ! 
 
 Methinks I heard a humming murmur creep _ 
 From out his jellied wounds. Look on those lips, 
 Those now lawn pillows, 1 on whose tender 
 
 softness. 
 Chaste modest speech, stealing from out his 
 
 breast, 
 
 1 lawn pillows. This, we suppose, means that his lipa 
 were now as white as little lawn pillows. 
 
370 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Had •vvont to rest itself, as loth to post 
 
 From out so fair an inn : look, look, they seem 
 
 to stir, 
 And breathe defiance to black obloquy. 
 Pie. Think'st thou thy son could suffer wrong- 
 fully ? 
 Fan. A wise man wrongfully, but never wrong 
 Can take ; his breast's of such well-tempered 
 
 proof. 
 It may be rac'd,* not pierc'd by savage tooth 
 Of foaming malice : showers of darts may dark 
 Heaven's ample brow, but not strike out a spark. 
 Much less pierce the sun's cheek. Such songs 
 
 as these, 
 I often dittied till my boy did sleep : 
 But now I turn plain fool, (alas) I weep. 
 Pie. 'I'ore heaven, he makes mo shrug ; would 
 a' were dead ! 
 He is a virtuous man. What has om* court to do 
 With virtue, in the devil's name ? Pandulpho, 
 
 hark: 
 My lustful daughter dies ; start not, she dies. 
 I pursue justice ; I love sanctity. 
 And an undefiled temple of pure thoughts. 
 Shall I speak freely 1 Good Andrugio's dead : 
 And I do fear a fetch -^ but (umh) would I durst 
 
 speak. 
 I do mistrust; but (umh) death; is he all, all 
 
 man; 
 Hath he no part of mother in him, ha .' 
 No lickerish, womanish inquisitiveness? 
 Pan. Andrugio's dead ! 
 
 Pie. Ay ; and I fear his own unnatural blood, 
 To whom he gave life, hath given death for life. 
 How could he come on ? I see false suspect ' 
 Is vic'd ; wrung hardly in a virtuous heart. 
 Well, I could give you reason for my doubts. 
 You are of honour'd birth, my vex*y friend. 
 You know how god-like 'tis to root out sin. 
 Antonio is a villain. Will you join 
 In oath with me, against the traitor's life. 
 And swear you kuew he sought his father's 
 
 death .' 
 I lov'd him well, yet I loved justice more. 
 Our friends we should affect, justice adore. 
 
 Pan. My lord, the clapper of my mouth's not 
 glib'd 
 With court oil ; 'twill not strike on both sides yet. 
 Pie. 'Tis just that subjects act commands of 
 
 kings. 
 Pan. Command, then, just and honourable 
 
 things. 
 Pie. Even so, myself then will traduce* his 
 
 guilt. 
 Pan. Beware! take heed, lest guiltless blood 
 
 be spilt. 
 Pie. Where only honest deeds to kings are free. 
 It is no empire, but a beggary. 
 
 Pan. Where more than noble deeds to kings" 
 are free. 
 It is no empire, but a tyranny. 
 
 Pie. Tush, juiceless greybeard, 'tis immunity, 
 Proper to princes, that our state exacts. 
 Our subjects not alone to bear, but praise our 
 acts. 
 Pan. Oh, but that prince that worthful praise 
 aspires, 
 From hearts, and not from lips, applause desires. 
 Pie. Pish, true praise, the brow of common 
 men doth ring. 
 False only girds the temple of a king. 
 He that hath strength and's ignorant of power. 
 He was not made to rule, but to be rul'd. 
 
 1 rac'(i— erased. 
 3 suspect — suspicion. 
 
 2 /e^cA— stratagem, trick. 
 * traduce— propagate. 
 
 Pan. 'Tis praise to do, not what we can, but 
 should. 
 
 Pie. Hence, doting stoic : by my hope of bliss, 
 I'll make thee wretched. 
 
 Pan. Defiance to thy power, thou rifted jawne.* 
 Now, by the lov'd heaven, sooner thou shalt 
 Einse thy foul ribs from the black filth of sin 
 That soots thy heart, than make me wretched. 
 
 Pish! 
 Thou canst not coop me up. Hadst thou a jail 
 With treble walls, like antique Babylon, 
 Pandulpho can get out. I tell thee, duke, 
 I have old Fortuuatus' wishing cap, 
 And can be where I list, even in a trice. 
 I'll skip from earth into the arms of heaven : 
 And from triumphal arch of blessedness. 
 Spit on thy frothy breast. Thou canst not slave 
 Or banish me ; I will be free at home, 
 Maugi-e the beard of greatness. The port-holes 
 Of sheathed spirit are ne'er curb'd up ; 
 But still stand open ready to discharge 
 Their precious shot into the shrouds of heaven. 
 
 Pie. Oh torture! Slave, I banish thee the 
 town. 
 Thy native seat of birth. 
 
 Pan. How proud thou speak'st! I tell thee, 
 duke, the blasts 
 Of the swoln cheek'd winds, nor all the breath of 
 
 kings 
 Can puff me out my native seat of birth. 
 The earth's my body's, and the heaven's my soul's 
 Most native place of birth, which they will keep, 
 Despite the menace of mortality. 
 Why, duke. 
 
 That's not my native place, where I was rock'<d. 
 A wise man's home is wheresoe'er he is wise ; 
 Now that, from man, not from the place, doth rise. 
 
 Pie. Would I were deaf (oh, plague) ! Hence, 
 dotard wretch : 
 Tread not in court. All that thou hast, I seize. 
 His quiet's firmer than I can disease.^ 
 
 Pa?i. Go, boast unto thy flatt'ring sycophants ; 
 Pandulpho's slave, Piero hath o'erthrown. 
 Loose fortunes rags are lost ; my own's my own. 
 
 [Piero goi7ig out, looks back. Exeunt at several 
 doors. 
 'Tis true, Piero, thy vex'd heart shall see. 
 Thou hast but tript my slave, not conquered me. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Antonio with a book, Lucio, Alberto, 
 Antonio in black. 
 
 Alb. Nay, sweet, be comforted, take counsel 
 and — 
 
 ^1??^ Alberto, peace : that grief is wanton sick. 
 Whose stomach can digest and brook the diet 
 Of stale ill-relish'd counsel. Pigmy cares 
 Can shelter under patience' shield; but giant griefs 
 Will burst all covert. 
 
 Lu. My lord, 'tis supper time. 
 
 Ant. Drink deep, Alberto ; eat, good Lucio ; 
 But my pin'd heart shall eat on naught but woe. 
 
 Alb. My lord, we dare not leave you thus aloue. 
 
 Ant. You cannot leave Antonio alone. 
 The chamber of my breast is even throng'd 
 With firm attendance that forswears to flinch. 
 I have a thing sits here ; it is not grief, 
 'Tis not despaii', nor the most plague 
 That the most wretched are infected with ; 
 
 1 jawne, or chaune—dk crack or crevice; Gr. chauno, to 
 gape. 
 
 2 i.e. ' I cannot touch his quiet or calmness of mind.* 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 371 
 
 But tlie most grief ul, despairing, wretched, 
 Accursed, miserable. Oh, for Heaven's sake 
 Forsake me now ; you see how light I am, 
 And yet you force me to defame my patience. 
 
 Lu. Fair gentle prince — 
 
 Ant. Away, thy voice is hateful ; thou dost 
 buzz. 
 And beat my ears with intimations 
 That Mellida, that Mellida is light. 
 And atained with adulterous luxury !* 
 I cannot brook't. I tell thee, Lucio, 
 Sooner will I give faith, that virtue's scant 
 In princes' courts, will be adorn'd with wreath 
 Of choice respect, and endear'd intimate, 
 Sooner will I believe that friendship's rein 
 Will curb ambition from utility, 
 Than Mellida is light. Alas, poor soul, 
 Didst e'er See her (good heart), hast heard her 
 
 speak "i 
 Kind, kind soul. Incredulity itself 
 Would not be so brass-hearted, as suspect so modest 
 cheeks. 
 
 Lu. My lord — 
 
 Ant. Away, a self-one 2 guilt doth only hatch 
 distrust ; 
 But a chaste thought's as far from doubt as lust. 
 I entreat you, leave me. 
 
 Alb. Will you endeavour to forget your grief ? 
 
 Ant. Ay, faith I will, good friend, ay, faith I 
 will. 
 I'll come and eat with you. Alberto, see, 
 I am taking physic, here's philosophy. 
 Good honest, leave me, I'll drink wine anon. 
 
 Alh. Since you enforce us, fair prince, we are 
 gone. \Exmnt Alberto and Lucio. 
 
 Antonio reads. 
 
 A. Ferte fortiter : hoc est quo deum antecedatis. 
 llle enim extra patientiam malorum, vos supi'a. 
 Contemnite dolorem: aut soivetur, aut solvet. 
 Contemnite fortunas ; nullus teluvi, quoferiret 
 animum habet.^ 
 
 Pish, thy mother was not lately widowed, 
 Thy dear aflfied love lately defam'd 
 With blemish of foul lust, when thou wrot'st thus, 
 Thou wrapt in furs, beaking ■* thy limbs 'fore fires, 
 Forbidst the frozen zone to shudder. Ha, ha! 
 
 'tis naught 
 But foamy bubbling of a fleamy ^ brain, 
 Naught else but smoke. Oh what dank marrish " 
 
 spirit. 
 But would be fired with impatience. 
 At my — No more, no more \ he that was never 
 
 blest 
 With height of birth, fair expectation 
 Of mounted fortunes, knows not what it is 
 To be the pitied object of the world. 
 Oh, poor Antonio, thou may'st sigh ! 
 
 MeU Ay me ! 
 
 Ant. And curse. 
 
 Pan. Black powers. 
 
 Ant. And cry. 
 
 Mar. Oh Heaven ! 
 
 ^^ ZMT«ry— licentiousness, indulgence. 
 
 - self-one — single. 
 
 ' 'Bear yourselves with fortitude: by this means you 
 surpass the gods. For they are out of the reach of mis- 
 fortunes, you superior to them. Despise pain ; it will 
 either be destroyed, or it will destroy you. Be indifferent 
 to circumstances. No one has a weapon to strike the mind.' 
 
 * beaking— h&&km^. 
 
 _^Jleamy—(?) phlegmy: this word is still used provin- 
 cially as equivalent to bloody, clotted. 
 
 ' marnsA— marshy, 
 
 ' JHel. Mellida, as will be seen below, speaks through 
 the grating of her prison, near to which Antonio is sup- 
 posed to have come. 
 
 Ant. And close laments with — 
 
 A lb. Oh me, most miserable ! 
 
 Pan. Woe for my dear, dear son ! 
 
 Mar. Woe for my dear, dear husband ! 
 
 3fel. Woe for my dear, dear love ! 
 
 Ant. Woe for me all, close all your woes in me, 
 In me, Antonio, ha ? Where live these sounds ? 
 I can see nothing; grief's invisible. 
 And lurks in secret angles of the heart. 
 Come, sigh again, Antonio bears his part. 
 
 Mel. Oh here, here is a vent to pass my sighs. 
 I have surcharged the dungeon with my plaints. 
 Prison and heart will burst, if void of vent. 
 I, that is Phoebe, empress of the night. 
 That 'gins to mount : chastest deity, 
 If I be false to my Antonio, 
 If the least soil of lust smears my pure love. 
 Make me more wretched, make me more accurst 
 Then infamy, torture, death, hell, and heaven. 
 Can bound with amplest power of thought : if not. 
 Purge my poor heart with defamation's blot. 
 
 Ant. Purge my poor heart from defamation's 
 blot! 
 Poor heart, how like her virtuous self she speaks ! 
 Mellida, dear Mellida, it is Antonio : 
 Slink not away, 'tis thy Antonio. 
 
 Mel. How found you out, my lord (alas!), I 
 know 
 'Tis easy in this age to find out woe. 
 I have a suit to you. 
 
 Ant. What is't, dear soul ? 
 
 Mel. Kill me : i'faith I'll wink, not stir a jot. 
 For God sake kill me ; in sooth, lov'd youth, 
 I am much injur'd ; look, see how I creep. 
 I cannot wreak my wrong, but sigh and weep. 
 
 Ant. May I be cursed, but I credit thee. 
 
 Mel. To-morrow I must die. 
 
 Ant. Alas, for what.' 
 
 Mel. For loving thee. 'Tis true, my sweetest 
 breast, 
 I must die falsely: so must thou, dear heart. 
 Nets are a knitting to entrap thy life. 
 Thy father's death must make a Paradise 
 To my (I shame to call him) father. Tell me, 
 
 sweet, 
 Shall I die thine ? dost love me still, and still? 
 
 Ant. 1 do. 
 
 3fel. Then welcome Heaven's will. 
 
 Ant. Madam, I will not swell, like a ti'agedian. 
 In forced passion of affected strains. 
 
 If I had present power of ought but pitying 
 you, I would be as ready to redress your wrongs 
 as to pursue your love. Throngs of thoughts 
 crowd for their passage ; somewhat I will do. 
 Reach me thy hand ; think this is honour's bent, 
 To live unslav'd, to die innocent. 
 
 Mel. Let me entreat a favour, gracious love. 
 Be patient, see me die ; good, do not weep ; 
 Go sup, sweet chuck, drink, and securely sleep. 
 
 Ant. I'faith I cannot ; but I'll force my face 
 To palliate 1 my sickness. 
 
 3Iel. Give me thy hand. Peace on thy bosom 
 dwell. 
 That's all my woe can breathe: kiss. Thus 
 farewell. 
 
 Ant. Farewell : my heart is great of thoughts ; 
 Stay, dove: 
 
 And therefore I must speak ; but what ? Oh love ! 
 By this white hand : no more : read in these tears, 
 What crushing anguish thy Antonio bears. 
 
 [Antonio Jcisseth Mellida's hand; them 
 Mellida goes from the grate. 
 Mel. Good night, good heart. 
 
 ^j^alliate—iQ soften, to conceal. 
 
372 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ant. Thus heat from blood, thus souls from 
 bodies part. 
 
 Enter Piero and Strotzo. 
 
 Fie. He grieves; laugh, Strotzo, laugh. He 
 weeps. 
 Hath he tears l Oh pleasure ! hath he tears 'i 
 Now do I scourge Andrugio with steel whips 
 Of knotty vengeance. Strotzo, cause me straight 
 Some plaining ditty to augment despair. 
 Triumph, Piero ; hark, he groans. Oh rare ! 
 Ant. Behold a prostrate wretch laid on his 
 tomb. 
 His epitaph, thus: Nepliis ultra. Ho! 
 Let none out-woe me; mine's Herculean woe. 
 
 [Strotzo sings. 
 \^Exit Piero at the end of the song. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Ant. May I be more cursed than Heaven can 
 make me. 
 If I am not more wretched 
 Than man can conceive me. Sore forlorn 
 Orphan, what omnipotence can make thee happy ? 
 
 Mar. How now, sweet son ? Good youth, 
 What dost thou.? 
 
 Ant. Weep, weep. 
 
 Mar. Dost naught but weep, weep ? 
 
 Ant. Yes, mother, I do sigh, and wring my 
 hands, 
 Beat my poor breast, and wreath my tender arms. 
 Hark ye ; I'll tell you wondrous strange, strange 
 news. 
 
 Mar. What, my good boy, stark mad ? 
 
 Ant. I am not. 
 
 Mar. Alas ! is that strange news ? 
 
 Ant. Strange news? Why, mother, is't not 
 wondrous strange 
 I am not mad — I run not frantic, ha ? 
 Knowing my father's trunk scarce cold, your love 
 Is sought by him that doth pursue my life ! 
 Seeing the beauty of creation, 
 Antonio's Wide, pure heart, defam'd, and stow'd 
 Under the hatches of obscuring earth. ' 
 Eeu quo labor, quo vota cecidei^untmeal ^ 
 
 Enter Piero. 
 
 Pie. Good evening to the fair Antonio ; 
 Most happy fortune, sweet succeeding time, 
 Eich hope : think not thy face a bankrout 2 
 though. 
 Ant. Umh ! the devil in his good time and tide 
 forsake thee. 
 Pie. How now .' hark ye, prince. 
 Ant. God be with you. 
 
 Pie. Nay, noble blood, I hope ye not suspect — 
 
 Ant. Suspect ! I scorn't. Here's cap and leg,^ 
 
 good night : 
 
 Thou that wants power, with dissemblance fight. 
 
 \_Exit Antonio. 
 
 Pie. Madam, oh that you could remember to 
 
 forget — 
 Mar. I had a husband and a happy son. 
 Pie. Most powerful beauty, that enchanting 
 
 grace — 
 Mar. Talk not of beauty nor enchanting grace : 
 My husband's ^ead, my son's distraught, accurst ! 
 Come, I must vent my griefs, or heart will burst. 
 
 [_Exit Maria. 
 Pie. She's gone (and yet she's here) : she hath 
 left a print 
 
 * ' Alas, how has my labour been lost ! how have my 
 TOWS been destroyed ! ' 
 
 « 6aniT0M<— baiQkrupt. 
 
 • cap and leg. Antomo doffs his cap and bows. 
 
 Of her sweet graces fix'd within my heart, 
 
 As fresh as is her face. I'll marry her. 
 
 She's most fair, true, most chaste, most false; 
 
 because 
 Most fair, 'tis firm I'll marry her. 
 
 Enter Strotzo. 
 
 Str. My lord. 
 
 Pie. Ha, Strotzo, my other soul, my life ! 
 Dear, hast thou steel'd the point of thy resolve ? 
 Wilt not turn edge in execution ? 
 
 Str. No. 
 
 Pie. Do it with rare passion, and present thy 
 guilt 
 As if 'twere wrung out with thy conscience 
 
 gripe. 
 Swear that my daughter's innocent of lust. 
 And that Antonio brib'd thee too defame 
 Her maiden honour, on inveterate hate 
 Unto my blood ; and that thy hand was fed 
 By his large bounty for his father's death. 
 Swear plainly that thou chok'dst Andrugio, 
 By his son's only egging.i Push me in 
 Whilst Mellida prepares herself to die ; 
 Halter about thy neck, and with such sighs. 
 Laments, and applications liven it. 
 As if impulsive power of remorse — 
 
 Str. I'll weep. 
 
 Pie. Ay, ay, fall on thy face, and cry : ' Why 
 suffer you 
 So lewd a slave as Strotzo is to breathe ? ' 
 
 Str. I'll beg a strangling, grow importunate — 
 
 Pie. As if thy life were loathsome to thee: 
 then I 
 Catch straight the cord's end, and, as much in- 
 
 cens'd 
 With thy damn'd mischiefs, offer a rude hand 
 As ready to gird in thy pipe of breath ; 
 But on the sudden straight I'll stand amaz'd, 
 And fall in exclamations of thy virtues. 
 
 Str. Applaud my agonies and penitence. 
 
 Pie. Thy honest stomach, that could not digest 
 The crudities of murder, but, surcharg'd, 
 Vomited'st them up in Christian piety. 
 
 Str. Then clip me in your arms. 
 
 Pie. And call thee brother, mount thee straight 
 to state, 
 Make thee of counsel : Tut, tut, what not .' what 
 
 not.? 
 Think on't, be confident, pursue the plot. 
 
 Str. Look, hei-e's a trope : A true rogue's lips 
 are mute : 
 I do not use to speak, but execute. 
 
 [He lays his finger on his mouth, and draws 
 his dagger. 
 
 Pie. So, so ; run headlong to confusion ! 
 Thou slight-brain'd mischief, thou art made as 
 
 dirt. 
 To plaster up the bracks^ of my defects. 
 I'll wi'ing what may be squeez'd from out his use ; 
 And good night, Strotzo. Swell, plump, bold 
 
 heart ; 
 For now thy tide of vengeance rolleth in : 
 Oh now Tragcedia Cothurnata^ mounts, 
 Piero's thoughts are fix'd on dire exploits. 
 Pell mell — confusion and black murder guides 
 The organs of my spirit : shrink not, heart ; 
 Capienda rebus in malis prseceps via est.* 
 
 1 egging— Txr^ing, instigation.. 
 
 * bracks — breaks, cracks. 
 
 3 Tragcedia Cothurnata. The Cothurnus was the boot 
 anciently worn by tragic actors; the adj. means lofty, 
 elevated. 
 
 * 'The headlong way is to be taken in desperate 
 circumstances.' 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 A dumb show. The comets sounding for the Act. 
 
 Enter Castilio and Forobosco, Alberto and 
 Balurdo, with poleaxes. Stkotzo talking 
 with PiERO, who seemeth to send out Strotzo. 
 JExit Strotzo. Enter Strotzo, Maria, Nu- 
 TRICE, and Lucio. Piero passeth through 
 his guard^ and talks with her with seeming 
 amorousness; she seemeth to reject his suit, 
 Jlies to the tomb [of her husband], kneels and 
 kisseth it. Vikro bribes Nutrice andLvcio ; 
 they go to her, seeming to solicit his suit. She 
 riseth, offers to go out; Piero stayeth her, 
 tears open his breast, embraceth and kisseth 
 her, and so they go all out in state. 
 
 Enter two Pages, the one with tapers, the other 
 with a chafing dish; a perfume in it. An- 
 tonio, in his nightgown and a nightcap, un- 
 braced, following after. 
 
 Ant. The black jades of swart night trot foggy 
 rings 
 'Bout heaven's brow. 'Tis now stark dead night. 
 Is this Saint Mark's Church .'' 
 
 1 Pa. It is, my lord. 
 
 Ant. Where stands my father's hearse ? 
 
 2 Pa. Those streamers bear his arms. Ay, 
 that is it. 
 
 Ant. Set tapers to the tomb, and lamp the 
 
 church. 
 Give me the fire. Now depart and sleep. 
 
 \_Exeunt Pages. 
 I purify the air with odorous fume. 
 Graves, vault, and tombs, groan not to bear 
 
 my weight ; 
 Cold flesh, bleak trunks, wrapt in your half-rot 
 
 shrouds, 
 I press you softly with a tender foot. 
 Most honour'd sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch 
 Leave to weep o'er thee. Tombs, I'll not be long 
 Ei-e I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips 
 Kiss my cold father's cheek, I pr'ythee, grave, 
 Provide soft mould to wrap my carcass in. 
 Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, where'er thou 
 
 hover'st 
 (Airy intellect) I heave up tapers to thee (view 
 
 thy son) 
 In celebration of due obsequies. 
 Once every night I'll dew thy funeral hearse 
 With my religious tears. 
 Oh blessed father of a cursed son, 
 Thou died most happy, since thou livedst not 
 To see thy son most wretched, and thy wife 
 Pursu'd by him that seeks my guiltless blood ! 
 Oh, in what orb thy mighty spirit soai's. 
 Stoop and beat down this rising fog of shame. 
 That strives to blur thy blood, and gird defame 
 About my innocent and spotless brows. 
 Non est mori misej-um, sed misere mon.^ 
 
 And. Thy pangs of anguish rip my cerecloth 
 And lo the ghost of old Andrugio [up : 
 
 Forsakes his coiRn. Antonio, revenge ! 
 I was impoison'd by Piero 's hand : 
 Eevenge my blood ; take spirit, gentle boy ; 
 Eevenge my blood. Thy Mellida is chaste : 
 Only to frustrate thy pursuit in love, 
 Is blaz'd unchaste. Thy mother yields consent 
 To be his wife, and give his blood a son, 
 That made her husbandless, and doth complot 
 To make her sonless ; but before I touch 
 The banks of rest, my ghost shall visit her. 
 
 » ' It is not a wretched thing to die, but it is to die 
 wretchedly.' 
 
 Thou vigour of my youth, juice of my love. 
 Seize on revenge, grasp the stern bended front 
 Of frowning vengeance with unpaized ^ clutch. 
 Alarm Nemesis, rouse up thy blood ! 
 Invent some stratagem of vengeance, 
 Which, but to think on, may like lightning glide 
 With horror through thy breast. Kemember this. 
 Scelera non ulciscei'is, nisi vincisJ^ 
 
 [Exit AxDRUGio's Ghost. 
 Enter Maria, her hair about her ears ; Nutrice 
 and Lucio, loith Pages, and torches. 
 
 Mar. Where left you him? show me, good 
 boys, away. 
 
 Nut. God's me, your hair ! 
 
 Mar. Nurse, 'tis not yet proud day : 
 The neat gay mists of the light's not up, 
 Her cheeks not yet slurr'd over with the paint 
 Of borrowed ci'imson ; the un pranked^ world 
 Wears yet the night-clothes : let flare my loosed 
 
 hair. 
 I scorn the presence of the night. 
 Where's my boy? Kun: I'll range about the 
 
 church. 
 Like frantic bacchanal or Jason's wife, 
 Invoking all the spirits of the graves 
 To tell me where! Hah ? Oh my poor wretched 
 
 blood ! 
 What dost thou up at midnight, my kind boy ? 
 Dear soul, to bed ! Oh thou hast struck a fright 
 Unto thy mother's panting. 
 
 Ant. quisquis nova 
 Supplicia f metis dirus umbrarum arbiter 
 Disponis, quisquis exeso jaces 
 Pavidtis sub antra, quisquis venturi times 
 Montis ruinam, quisquis avidorum feres, 
 Rictus leonum, et dirafuriarum agmina 
 Imjjlicitus horres, Antonii vocem excipe 
 Properantis ad vos — Ulciscar.* 
 
 Mar. Alas ! my son's distraught. Sweet boy, 
 appease 
 Thy mutinous affections. 
 
 Ant. By the astonning ^ terror of swart night, 
 By the infectious damps of clammy graves, 
 And by the mould that presseth down 
 My dead father's skull, I'll be revenged ! 
 
 Mar. Wherefore ? on whom ? for what ? Go, 
 go to bed, 
 Good duteous son. Ho, but thy idle — 
 
 Ant. So I may sleep tomb'd in an honour'd 
 hearse. 
 So may my bones rest in that sepulchre — 
 
 Mai'. Forget not duty, son : to bed, to bed. 
 
 Ant. May I be cursed by my father's ghost, 
 And blasted with incensed breath of Heaven, 
 If my heart beat on ought but vengeance. 
 May I be numb'd with horror, and my veins 
 Pucker ® with singing torture, if my brain 
 Digest a thought but of dire vengeance ; 
 May I be fetter'd slave to coward Chance, 
 If blood, heart, brain, plot ought save vengeance. 
 
 Mar. Wilt thou to bed ? I wonder when thou 
 sleep'st ! 
 I'faith thou look'st sunk-ey'd ; go couch thy head. 
 NoAV, faith, 'tis idle : sweet, sweet son, to bed. 
 
 1 unpaized — unpoised, unmeasured, unhesitating. 
 
 2 ' You do not avenge crimes unless you conquer.* 
 
 * unpranked — unadorned. 
 
 * ' wliosoever thou art, the dread judge of the shadea 
 that dispensest new punishments to the dead, whosoever 
 thou art that liest in terror under the hollow cave, who- 
 soever thou art that fearest the downfall of the coming 
 mountain, whosoever thou art that shalt endure the 
 gaping jaws of greedy lions, and entangled shudderest 
 at the fearful bands of the furies, hear the voice of 
 Antonio hastening to you — I will take vengeance.' 
 
 * osionning^stvaadDg. * Fucker— yrrinkle, shrink. 
 
374 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ant. I have a prayer or two to offer up 
 For the good, good prince, my most dear, dear 
 
 lord, 
 The Duke Piero, and your virtuous self ; 
 And then, when those prayers have obtain'd 
 
 success. 
 In sooth I'll come (believe it now) and couch 
 My head in downy mould. But first I'll see 
 You safely laid : I'll bring ye all to bed. 
 Piero, Maria, Strotzo, Lucio, 
 I'll see you all laid : I'll bring you all to bed, 
 And then, i'faith, I'll come and couch my head, 
 And sleep in peace. 
 
 Mar. Look then, we go before. 
 
 {Exeunt all hut Antonio. 
 
 Ant. Ay, so you must, before we touch the 
 shore 
 Of wish'd revenge. Oh, you departed souls. 
 That lodge in cofiin'd trunks, which my feet 
 
 press 
 (If Pythagorean Axioms be true, 
 Of spirits' transmigration), fleet no more 
 To human bodies, rather live in swine, 
 Inhabit wolves' flesh, scorpions, dogs, and toads, 
 Eather than man. The curse of Heaven rains 
 In plagues unlimited through all his days. 
 His mature age grows only mature vice, 
 And ripens only to corrupt and rot 
 The budding hopes of infant modesty. 
 Still striving to be more than man, he proves 
 More than a devil, devilish suspect, devilish 
 
 cruelty : 
 All liell-straid ^ juice is poured to his veins, 
 Making him drunk with fuming surquedries,^ 
 Contempt of Heaven, untam'd arrogance, 
 Lust, state, pride, murder. 
 
 And. Murder. 1 
 
 Fel. Murder. >• From above and beneath. 
 
 Pan. Murder. ) 
 
 A7it. Ay, I will murder : graves and ghosts 
 Fright me no more, I'll suck red vengeance 
 Out of Piero's wounds. Piero's wounds. 
 
 Enter two Boys, with Piero in his nightgown and 
 nightcap. 
 
 Pie. Maria, love, Maria ! She took this aisle. 
 Left you her here ? On, lights, away ! 
 I think we shall not warm our beds to-day. 
 
 Enter Julio, Forobosco, and Castilio. 
 
 Jul. Ho, father ! father ! 
 Pie. How now, Julio, my little pretty son ? 
 Why suffer you the child to walk so late ? 
 
 For. He will not sleep, but calls to follow you. 
 Crying that bugbears and spirits haunted him. 
 
 [Antonio offers to come near and stab; 
 Piero presently withdraws. 
 Ant. No, not so. 
 This shall be sought for ; I'll force him feed on 
 
 life 
 Till he shall loathe it. This shall be the close 
 Of vengeance' strain. 
 Pie. Away there, pages, lead on fast with 
 light; 
 The church is full of damps ; 'tis yet dead night. 
 \_Exit all, saving Julio. 
 Jul. Brother Antonio, are you here, i'faith ? 
 Why do you frown ? Indeed my sister said 
 That I should call you brother, that she did, 
 When you were married to her. Buss me : good 
 Truth, I love you better than my father, 'deed. 
 Ant. Thy father? Gracious, O bounteous 
 Heaven ! 
 
 * hell-straid — (?) hell-strewed. 
 2 surquedries — presumptions. 
 
 I do adore thy justice : Venit in nostras manus 
 Tandem vindicta, venit et tota quidem.^ 
 Jid. Truth, since my mother died, I lov'd you 
 
 best. 
 Something hath anger'd you; pray you, look 
 
 men-ily. 
 Ant. I will laugh, and dimple my thin cheek 
 With cap'ring joy ; chuck, my heart doth leap 
 To grasp thy bosom. Time, place, and blood, 
 How fit you close together ! Heaven's tones 
 Strike not such music to immortal souls 
 As 3'-our accordance sweets my breast withal. 
 Methinks I pace upon the front of Jove, 
 And kick corruption with a scornful heel. 
 Griping this flesh, disdain mortality. 
 Oh that I knew which joint, which side, which 
 
 limb, 
 Were father all, and had no mother in't, 
 That I might rip it vein by vein, and carve 
 
 revenge 
 In bleeding races ! but since 'tis mixt together, 
 Have at adventure, pell mell, no reverse. 
 Come hither, boy. This is Andrugio's hearse. 
 Jul. God, you'll hurt me. For my sister's 
 
 sake, 
 Pray you do not hurt me. An you kill me, 
 
 'deed, 
 I'll tell my father. 
 Ant. Oh, for thy sister's sake, I flag revenge. 
 And. Eevenge ! 
 Ant. Stay, stay, dear father, fright mine eyes 
 
 no more. 
 Pievenge as swift as lightning bursteth forth, 
 And clears his heart. Come, pretty tender child, 
 It is not thee I hate, not thee I kill. 
 Thy father's blood that flows within thy veins 
 Is it I loathe; is that, revenge must suck. 
 I love thy soul : and were thy heart lapt up 
 In any flesh but in Piero's blood, 
 I would thus kiss it ; but being his, thus, thus. 
 And thus I'll punch it. Abandon fears. 
 Whilst thy wounds bleed, my brows shall gush 
 
 out tears. 
 Jul. So you will love me, do even what you 
 
 will. 
 Ant. Now barks the wolf against the full- 
 
 cheek'd moon ; 
 Now lions half-clam'd 2 entrails roar for food ; 
 Now croaks the toad, and night crows screech 
 
 aloud. 
 Fluttering 'bout casements of departed souls ; 
 Now gapes the graves, and through their yawns 
 
 let loose 
 Imprison'd spirits to revisit earth ; 
 And now swart night, to swell thy hour out, 
 Behold I spurt warm blood in thy black eyes. 
 
 \From under the stage a groan. 
 Howl not^ thou pury mould; groan not, ye 
 
 graves. 
 Be dumb, all breath. Here stands Andrugio's 
 
 son. 
 Worthy his father. So : I feel no breath. 
 His jaws are fall'n, his dislodg'd soul is fled: 
 And now there's nothing but Piero left. 
 He is all Piero, father all. This blood. 
 This breast, this heart, Piero all : 
 Whom thus I mangle. Spii-it of Julio, 
 Forget this was thy trunk. I live thy friend. 
 May'st thou be twined with the soft'st embrace 
 Of clear eternity : but thy father's blood 
 I thus make incense of, to vengeance. 
 Ghost of my poisoned sire, suck this fume : 
 
 1 ' At length has vengeance come into my power, and 
 that to the full.' 
 
 2 half-clam'd — half -starved. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 375 
 
 To sweet revenge perfume thy circling air, 
 With smoke of blood, I sprinkle round his gore, 
 And dew thy hearse with these fresh reeking 
 
 drops. 
 Lo thus I heave my blood-dyed hands to heaven, 
 Even like insatiate hell, still crying, More. 
 My heart hath thirsting dropsies after gore. 
 Sound peace and rest to church, night ghosts, 
 
 and graves. 
 Blood cries for blood ; and murder, murder 
 
 craves. \_Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 
 Entei" two Pages with torches ; Maria, her hair 
 loose, and Nutrice. 
 
 Nut. Fie, fie; to-morrow your wedding-day, 
 and weep ! God's my comfort ! Andrugio could 
 do well : Piero may do better. I have had four 
 husbands myself. The first I called sweet duck ; 
 the second, dear heart ; the third, pretty pug ; but 
 the fourth, most sweet, dear, pretty, all in all : he 
 was the very cockeall ^ of a husband. What, 
 lady? your skin is smooth, your blood warm, 
 your cheek fresh, your eye quick : change of 
 pasture makes fat calves ; choice of linen, clean 
 bodies, and (no question) variety of husbands, 
 perfect wives. I would you should know it : as 
 few teeth as I have in my head, I have read 
 Aristotle's Prohlems, which saith, that woman re- 
 ceiveth perfection by the man. What then be 
 the men ? Go to, to bed, lie on your back, dream 
 not on Piero; I say no more. To-morrow is 
 your wedding : go dream not of Piero. 
 
 Enter Balurdo with a base viol. 
 
 Mar. What an idle prate thou keep'st, good 
 nxirse ; go sleep. 
 I have a mighty task of tears to weep. 
 
 Bal. Lady, with a most retort and obtuse leg, 
 I kiss the curled locks of your loose hair. The 
 duke hath sent you the most musical Sir Gefferey, 
 with his not base, but most ennobled viol, to 
 rock your baby thoughts in the cradle of sleep. 
 
 liar. I give the noble duke respective- thanks. 
 
 Bal. Kespective; truly a very pretty word. 
 Indeed, madam, I have the most respective 
 fiddle ; did you ever smell a more sweet sound ? 
 My ditty must go thus ; very witty, I assure you : 
 I myself in an humorous passion made it, to the 
 tune of my mistress Nutrice's beauty. Indeed, 
 very pretty, very retort and obtuse : I'll assure 
 you 'tis thus : — 
 
 My mistress' eye doth oil my joints, 
 
 And makes my fingers nimble : 
 love, come on, untruss yom- points, 
 
 My fiddlestick wants rosin. 
 My lady's dugs are all so smooth. 
 
 That no flesh must them handle : 
 Her eyes do shine, for to say sooth, 
 
 Like a new snuffed candle. 
 
 Mar. Truly, very pathetical and unvulgar. 
 
 Bal. Pathetical and unvulgar; words of worth, 
 excellent words. In sooth, madam, I have taken 
 a murr, ^ which makes my nose run most pathe- 
 tically, and un vulgarly. Have you any tobacco ? 
 
 Mar. Good signior, your song. 
 
 Bal. Instantly, most unvulgarly, at your ser- 
 vice. 
 Truly, here's the most pathetical rosin. Umh. 
 
 [_Sings. 
 
 1 cockeall. Tliis may be for cock-ale, a very superior 
 ale well known in Marston's time. Here Nutrice evi- 
 dently means to say that her fourth husband was super- 
 latively excellent. 
 
 2 respective — respectful ^ jnurr — violent cold. 
 
 Mar. In sooth, most knightly sung, and like 
 Sir Gefferey. 
 
 Bal. Why, look you, lady, I was made a knight 
 only for my voice ; and a counsellor, only for my 
 wit. 
 Mar. I believe it. Good night, gentle sir, 
 
 good night. 
 Bal. You will give me leave to take my leave 
 of my mistress, and I will do it most famously 
 in rhyme. 
 
 Farewell, adieu! salth thy love true, 
 
 As to part loath. 
 Time bids us part, mine own sweet heai-t, 
 God bless us both. 
 
 [^Exit Balurdo. 
 Mar. Good night, Nutrice. Pages, leave the 
 room. The lifej.of night grows short, 'tis al- 
 most dead. [_Exeu7it Pages and Nutrice. 
 thou cold widow bed, sometime thrice blest, 
 By the warm pressure of my sleeping lord : 
 Open thy leaves, and whilst on thee I tread, 
 Groan out, Alas, my dear Andrugio's dead ! 
 
 [Maria draweth the curtain : and the 
 ghost o/" Andrugio is displayed, sitting 
 on the bed. 
 Amazing terroi-, what portent is this ? 
 And. Disloyal to our hymeneal rites, 
 What raging heat reigns in thy strumpet blood ? 
 Hast thou so soon forgot Andrugio ? 
 Are our love-bands so quickly cancelled ? 
 Where lives thy plighted faith unto this breast ? 
 
 weak Maria ! Go to, calm thy fears. 
 
 1 pardon thee, poor soul ! oh shed no tears ; 
 Thy sex is weak. That black incarnate fiend 
 May trip thy faith that hath o'erthrown my life : 
 I was impoison'd by Piero's hand. 
 
 Join with my son to bend up strain'd revenge. 
 Maintain a seeming favour to his suit, 
 Till time may form our vengeance absolute. 
 Enter Antonio, his arms bloody; a torch and a 
 poniard. 
 
 Ant. See, unamazed, I will behold thy face ; 
 Outstare the terror of thy grim aspect, 
 Daring the horrid'st object of the night. 
 Look how I smoke in blood, reeking the steam 
 Of foaming vengeance ! Oh my soul's enthron'd 
 In the triumphant chariot of revenge ! 
 Methinks I am all air, and feel no weight 
 Of human dirt clog. This is Julio's blood. 
 Eich music, father; this is Julio's blood. 
 Why lives that mother ? 
 
 And. Pardon ignorance. Fly, dear Antonio : 
 Once more assume disguise, and dog the court 
 In feigned habit, till Piero's blood 
 May even o'erflow the brim of full revenge. 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 Peace, and all blessed fortunes to you both. 
 Fly thou from court, be peerless in revenge : 
 Sleep thou in rest, lo here I close thy couch. 
 
 [Exit Maria to her bed, Andrugio draw- 
 ing the curtains. 
 And now ye sooty coursers of the night. 
 Hurry your chariot into hell's black womb. 
 Darkness, make flight; graves, eat your dead 
 
 again : 
 Let's repossess our shrouds. Why lags delay ? 
 Mount sparkling brightness, give the world his 
 day. [Exit Andrugio. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE L 
 
 Enter Antonio in afooTs habit, with a little toy 
 of a walnut shell and soap, to make bubbles ; , 
 Maria and Alberto. 
 
 Mai: Away with this disguise in any hand. 
 
37^ 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Alb. Fie, 'tis unsuiting to your elate spirit: 
 Kather put on some transhap'd i cavalier, 
 Some habit of a spitting critic, whose mouth 
 Voids nothing but genteel and unvulgar 
 Eheum of censure : rather assume — 
 
 Ant. Why, then, should I put on the very 
 flesh 
 Of solid folly ? No, this cockscomb is a crown 
 Which I affect, even with unbounded zeal. 
 
 Alb. 'Twill thwart your plot, disgrace your 
 high resolve. 
 
 Ant. By wisdom's heart there is no essence 
 mortal, 
 That I can envy, but a plump-cheek'd fool : 
 Oh, he hath a patent of immunities 
 Confirm'd by custom, seal'd by policy, 
 As large as spacious thought. 
 
 Alb. You cannot press among the courtiers, 
 And have access to — 
 
 Ant. What ? not a fool ? Why, friend, a 
 golden ass, 
 A baubl'd fool are sole canonical, 
 Whil'st pale-cheek'd wisdom and lean-ribb'd art 
 Are kept in distance at the halbert's point : 
 All held Apocrypha, 2 not worth survey. 
 Why, by the genius of that Florentine, 
 Deep, deep observing, sound-brain'd Machiavel, 
 He is not wise that strives not to seem fool. 
 When will the duke hold fee'd intelligence, 
 Keep wary observation in large pay. 
 To dog a fool's act ? 
 
 3far. Ay, but feigning known 3 disgraceth 
 much. 
 
 Ant. Pish ! Most things that morally adhere to 
 souls. 
 Wholly exist in drunk opinion : 
 Whose reeling censure, if I value not, 
 It values naught. 
 
 Mcn\ You are transported with too slight a 
 thought. 
 If you but meditate of what is past, 
 And what you plot to pass. 
 
 Ant. Even in that, note a fool's beatitude : 
 He is not capable of passion ; 
 Wanting the power of distinction, 
 He bears an unturned sail with every wind: 
 Blow east, blow west, he steers his course alike. 
 I never saw a fool lean : the chub-fac'd fop 
 Shines sleek with full-cramm'd fat of happiness. 
 Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice 
 From wizard's cheeks: who making curious 
 
 search 
 For nature's secrets, the first innating * cause 
 Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy ^ apes 
 When they will zany men. Had Heaven been 
 
 kind. 
 Creating me an honest senseless dolt, 
 A good poor fool, I should want sense to feel 
 The stings of anguish shoot through every vein ; 
 I should not know what 'twere to lose a father ; 
 I should be dead of sense, to view defame 
 Blur my bright love ; I could not run mad. 
 As one confounded in a maze of mischief, 
 Stagger'd, stark fell'd with bruising stroke of 
 
 chance. 
 I should not shoot mine eyes into the earth, 
 Poring for mischief, that might counterpoise 
 
 Ente7' Lucio. 
 mischief, murder and — How now, Lucio ? 
 
 Lu. My lord the duke, with the Venetian states, 
 Approach the great hall to judge Mellida. 
 
 * ^raTW^ap'rf— transfonned. 
 
 * Apocrypha — uncanonical, profane. 
 ^feigning known— feigning when found out. 
 
 * innating — innate, natural. 
 
 * 6iMy— have intercourse with. 
 
 Ant. Ask'd he for Julio yet ? 
 
 Lu. No motion of him: dare you trust this 
 
 habit ? 
 Ant. Alberto, see you straight rumour me dead. 
 Leave me, good mother ; leave me, Lucio : 
 Forsake me, all. Now patience hoop my sides 
 
 \^Exeu7it omnes^ saving Antoxio. 
 With steeled ribs, lest I do burst my breast 
 With struggling passions. Now disguise, stand 
 
 bold, 
 Poor scorned habits, oft choice souls infold. 
 
 [The cornets sound a cynet. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IL 
 
 Enter to Antonio, Castilio, Forobosco, 
 Balukdo, and Alberto, ^oitll poleaxes ; 
 Lucio bare. Piero a7id Maria talking to- 
 gether; two Senators, Galeatzo, Matza- 
 
 GENTE, NuTRICE. 
 
 Pie. Entreat me not : there's not a beauty lives 
 Hath that imperial predominance 
 O'er my affects, i as your enchanting graces : 
 Yet give me leave to be myself. 
 
 Ant. Ah, villain. 
 
 Pie. Just. 
 
 Ant. Most just. 
 
 Pie. Most just and upright in our judgment- 
 seat. 
 Were Mellida mine eye, with such a blemish 
 Of most loath'd looseness, I would scratch it out. 
 Produce the strumpet in her bridal robes, 
 That she may blush t'appear so white in show. 
 And black in inward substance. Bring her in. 
 
 [Exeunt Forobosco and Castilio. 
 I hold Antonio, for his father's sake. 
 So very deai'ly, so entirely choice. 
 That knew I but a thought of prejudice 
 Imagin'd 'gainst his high ennobled blood, 
 I would maintain a mortal feud, undying hate, 
 'Gainst the conceiver's life. And shall justice 
 
 sleep 
 In fleshly lethargy, for mine own blood's favour, 
 When the sweet prince hath so apparent scorn 
 By my (I will not call her) daughter ? Go, 
 Conduct in the loved youth Antonio : 
 
 [Exit Alberto to fetch Antonio. 
 He shall behold me spurn my private good ; 
 Piero loves his honour more than's blood. 
 
 Ant. The devil he does more than both. 
 
 Bal. Stand back there, fool ; I do hate a fool 
 most most pathetically. Oh, these that have no 
 sap of retort and obtuse wit in them : faugh ! 
 
 Ant. Puff, hold world; puff, hold bubble ; 
 puff, hold world ; puff, break not behind ; puff, 
 thou art full of wind ; puff, keep up by wind ; 
 puff, 'tis broke ! and now I laugh like a good 
 fool at the breath of mine own lips ; he, he, he, 
 he, he ! 
 
 Bal. You fool! 
 
 Ant. You fool, puff ! 
 
 Bal. I cannot disgest thee, the unvulgar fool. 
 Go, fool. 
 
 Pie. Forbear, Balurdo ; let the fool alone, 
 Come hither. Is he your fool ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, my lov'd lord. 
 
 Pie. Would all the states in Venice were like 
 thee! 
 Oh then I were secur'd. 
 He that's a villain, or but meanly soul'd, 
 Must still converse, and cling to routs of fools, 
 That cannot searcli the leaks of his defects. 
 Oh, your unsalted fresh fool is your only man : 
 
 ' o^ecis— affections. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 377 
 
 These vinegar tart spirits are too piercing, 
 
 Too searching in the unglued joints of shaken 
 
 wits. 
 Find they a chink, they'll wriggle in and in, 
 And eat like salt in his siddow^ ribs, 
 Till they have opened all his rotten parts 
 Unto the vaunting surge of base contempt, 
 And sunk the tossed galleass in depth 
 Of whirlpool scorn. Give me an honest fop. 
 Dud a dud a ! Why, lo, sir, this takes he 
 As grateful now as a monopoly. 
 
 The still flutes sound softly. 
 
 Enter Forobosco and Castilio; Mellida 
 
 supported hy two Waiting-women. 
 Mel. All honour to this royal confluence.^ 
 Pie. Forbear (impure) to blot bright honour's 
 name 
 With thy defiled lips. The flux of sin 
 Flows from thy tainted body : thou so foul, 
 So all-dishonour'd, canst no honour give, 
 No wish of good that can have good effect 
 To this grave senate, and illustrate bloods. 
 Why stays the doom of death ? 
 
 1 Sen. Who riseth up to manifest her guilt ? 
 
 2 Sen. You must produce apparent proof, my 
 lord. 
 
 Pie. Why, where is Strotzo ? — he that swore 
 he saw 
 The vei-y act 7 and vow'd that Felice fled 
 Upon his sight ? on which I brake the breast 
 Of the adulterous lecher with five stabs. 
 Go fetch in Strotzo. Now, thou impudent, 
 If thou hast any drop of modest blood 
 Shrouded within thy cheeks, blush, blush for 
 
 shame. 
 That rumour yet may say thou felt'st defame. 
 
 Mel. Produce the devil ; let your Strotzo come ; 
 I can defeat his strongest argument, 
 With— 
 
 Pie. With what? 
 
 Mel. With tears, with blushes, sighs, and 
 clasped hands. 
 With innocent upreared arms to heaven : 
 With my unnook'd^ simplicity. These, these 
 Must, will, can only quit my heart of guilt. 
 Heaven permits not taintless blood be spilt, 
 If no remorse live in your savage breast. 
 
 Pie. Then thou must die. 
 
 Mel. Yet dying, I'll be blest. 
 
 Pie. Accurs'd by me. 
 
 Mel. Yet blest, in that I strove 
 To live and die 
 
 Pie. My hate. 
 
 Mel. Antonio's love. 
 
 Ant. Antonio's love ! 
 
 Enter Strotzo, a cord about his neck. 
 Str. Oh what vast ocean of repentant tears 
 Can cleanse my breast from the polluting filth 
 Of ulcerous sin ! Supreme Efficient, 
 Why cleav'st thou not my breast with thunder- 
 Of ^ying'd revenge 7 [bolts 
 
 Pie. What means this passion ? 
 Ant. What villany are they decocting* now ? 
 
 Umh! [ 
 
 Str. In me convei'tite fei^urn^ proceres ! 
 Nihil iste, nee ista.^ 
 Pie. Lay hold on him. What strange portent 
 is this .'* 
 
 1 siddow. In Gloucestershire, peas which become 
 pulpy soft by boiling are then said to be siddow. 
 
 2 confluence — meeting, company. 
 
 • wrawooAr'd— without nooks, guileless. 
 
 * decocting — concocting. 
 
 5 ' Turn the sword on me, nobles I Neither he nor 
 •he has done anything.' 
 
 Str. I will not flinch. Death, hell more grimly 
 stare 
 Within my heart than in your threatening brows. 
 Eecord, thou threefold guard of dreadest power, 
 What I here speak is forced from my lips 
 By the pulsive ^ strain of conscience. 
 I have a mount of mischief clogs my soul. 
 As weighty as the high-noll'd- Appenine, 
 Which I must straight disgorge, or breast will 
 
 burst. 
 I have defam'd this lady wrongfully, 
 By instigation of Antonio, 
 
 Whose reeling love, toss'd on each fancy's surge. 
 Began to loathe before it fully joy'd. 
 Pie. Go, seize Antonio ; guard him strongly in. 
 {Exit Forobosco. 
 Str. By his ambition, being only brib'd, 
 Fee'd by his impious hand, I poisoned 
 His aged father, that his thirsty hope 
 Might quench their dropsy of aspiring drought 
 With full unbounded quaff. 
 Pie. Seize me Antonio. 
 
 Str. Oh, why permit you now such scum of 
 filth 
 As Strotzo is to live, and taint the air 
 With his infectious breath ! 
 Pie. Myself will be thy strangler, unmatch'd 
 slave. 
 
 [Piero comes from his chair, snatcheth the 
 cord's end, and Castilio aideth him; 
 both strangle Strotzo. 
 Str. Now change your — 
 
 Pie. Ay, pluck Castilio — I change my humour : 
 • pluck Castilio. 
 Die, with thy death's intreats ' even in thy jaws. 
 Now, now, now, now, now, my plot begins to 
 
 work! 
 Why, thus should statesmen do 
 That cleave through knots of craggy policies, 
 Use men like wedges, one strike out another. 
 Till by degrees the tough and knurly* trunk 
 Be riv'd in sunder. — Where's Antonio ? 
 
 Enter Alberto, ininning. 
 Alb. Oh, black accursed fate ! Antonio's 
 
 drowned. 
 Pie. Speak, on thy faith, on thy allegiance, 
 
 speak. 
 Alb. As I do love Piero, he is drown'd. 
 Ant. In an inundation of amazement. 
 Mel. Ay, is this the close of all my strains in 
 love ? 
 Oh me most wretched maid ! 
 Pie. Antonio drown'd! How? how? Antonio 
 
 drown'd ! 
 Alb. Distraught and raving, from a turret's top 
 He threw his body in the swoll'n sea, 
 And as he headlong topsy turvy ding'd down, 
 He still cried ' Mellida ! ' 
 Ant. My love's bright crown. 
 Mel. He still ci'ied ' Mellida ! ' 
 Pie. Daughter, methinks your eyes should 
 sparkle joy. 
 Your bosom rise on tiptoe at this news. 
 Mel. Ay me ! 
 
 Pie. How now ! Ay me ! Why, art not 
 great of thanks 
 To gracious Heaven, for the just revenge 
 Upon the author of thy obloquies ! 
 
 Mar. Sweet beauty, I could sigh as fast as you, 
 But that I know that, which I weep to know, 
 His fortunes should be such he dare not show 
 His open presence. 
 
 1 pulsive — impulsive. 
 
 2 high-nolVd — high-peak'd. 
 ' intreats — entreaties. 
 
 ♦ Jcnurly—'kaoiij 
 
37S 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mel. I know he lov'd me dearly, dearly ; ay, 
 And since I cannot live with, him I die. 
 
 Pie. 'Fore Heaven, her speech falters; look, 
 she swoons. 
 Convey her up into her private bed. 
 
 [Maria, Nutrice, and the Ladies hear out 
 Mellida, as being swooned. 
 I hope she'll live. If not — 
 
 Ant. Antonio's dead! The fool will follow 
 too ; he, he, he ! 
 Now works the scene ; quick observation scud 
 To coat the plot, or else the path is lost : 
 My very self am gone, my way is fled : 
 Ay, all is lost, if Mellida is dead. 
 
 \^Exit Antonio. 
 
 Pie. Alberto, I am kind ; Alberto, kind. 
 I am sorry for thy cuz, i'faith I am. 
 Go take him down, and bear him to his father. 
 Let him be buried : look ye, I'll pay the priest. 
 
 Alb. Please you to admit his father to the 
 court ? 
 
 Pie. No. 
 
 Alb. Please you to restore his lands and goods 
 again ? 
 
 Pie. No. 
 
 Alb. Please you vouchsafe him lodging in the 
 city 7 
 
 Pie. God's foot, no, thou odd uncivil fellow. 
 I think you do forget, sir, where you are. 
 
 Alb. I know you do forget, sir, where you must 
 be. 
 
 Foro. You are too malapert, i'faith you are. 
 Your honour might do well to — 
 
 Alb. Peace, parasite ; thou burr, that only sticks 
 Unto the nap of greatness. 
 
 Pie. Away with that same yelping cur — away. 
 
 Alb. Ay — I am gone ; but mark, Piero, this. 
 There is a thing call'd scourging Nemesis. 
 
 {Exit Alberto. 
 
 Bal. God's neaks, he has wrong, that he has : 
 and s'fut, and I were as he, I would bear no 
 coles. La, I, I begin to swell — puff. 
 
 Pie. How now, fool, fop, fool ? 
 
 Bal. Fool, fop, fool ! Marry muff. I pray you, 
 how many fools have you seen go in a suit of 
 satin ? I hope yet I do not look a fool i'faith ! 
 a fool! God's bores, I scorn't with my heel. 
 S'neaks, and I were worth but three hundred 
 pound a year more, I could swear richly ; nay, 
 but as poor as I am, I will swear the fellow hath 
 wrong. 
 
 Pie. 1 Young Galeatzo ! ay, a pi'oper man ; 
 Florence, a goodly city : it shall be so. 
 I'll marry her to him instantly. 
 Then Genoa mine, by my Maria's match, 
 Which I'll solemnize ere next setting sun. 
 Thus Venice, Florence, Genoa, strongly leagu'd. 
 Excellent, excellent ! I'll conquer Rome, 
 Pop out the light of bright religion ; 
 And then, helter-skelter, all cock sure. 
 
 Bal. Go to, 'tis just, the man hath wrong: 
 goto. 
 
 Pie. Go to, thou shalt have right. Go to, 
 Castillo, 
 Clap him into the palace dungeon ; 
 Lap him in rags, and let him feed on slime 
 That smears the dungeon cheek. Away with 
 him. 
 
 Bal. In very good truth, now, I'll ne'er do so 
 more ; this one time and — 
 
 Pie. Away with him — observe it strictly — go ! 
 
 Bal. Why then, wight! alas, poor knight! 
 Oh, well-a-day. Sir Geffery. Let poets roar. 
 And all deplore ; for now I bid you good night. 
 [Exit Balurdo with Castilio. 
 
 • Fiero apparently speaks aside. 
 
 Mar. Oh piteous end of love ! Oh too, too rude 
 hand 
 Of unrespective death ! Alas, sweet maid ! 
 
 Pie. Forbear^ me. Heaven. What intend ^ 
 these plaints.^ 
 
 Mar. The beauty of admir'd creation. 
 The life of modest unmix'd purity, 
 Our sex's glory, Mellida is — 
 
 Pie. What, Heaven, what! 
 
 Mar. Dead! 
 
 Pie. May it not sad your thoughts, how ? 
 
 Mar. Being laid upon her bed, she grasp'd my 
 hand. 
 And kissing it, spake thus : Thou very poor, 
 Why dost not weep ? The jewel of thy brow, 
 The rich adornment that inchas'd thy breast, 
 Is lost. Thy son, my love, is lost, is dead. 
 And do I live to say Antonio's dead ? 
 And have I liv'd to see his virtues blurr'd 
 With guiltless blots? world, thou art too 
 
 subtile 
 For honest natures to converse withal. 
 Therefore I'll leave thee ; farewell, mart of wo, 
 I fly to clip my love, Antonio';! 
 With that her head sank down upon her breast ; 
 Her cheek chang'd earth, her senses slept in rest. 
 Until my fool, that press'd unto the bed, 
 Screech'd out so loud that he brought back her 
 
 soul, 
 Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope. 
 And star'd upon him. He, audacious fool,. 
 Dar'd kiss her hand, wish'd her soft rest, lov'd 
 
 bride ; 
 She fumbled out, thanks good, and so she died. 
 
 Pie. And so she died ! I do not use to weep ; 
 But by thy love (out of whose fertile sweet 
 I hope for as fair fruit) I am deep sad. 
 I will not stay my marriage for aU this. 
 Castilio, Forobosco, all. 
 Strain all your Avits, wind up invention 
 [Into his highest bent ; to sweet this night. 
 Make us drink Lethe by your quaint conceits ; 
 That for two days oblivion smother grief. 
 But when my daughter's exequies approach, 
 Let's all turn sighers. Come, despite of fate, 
 Sound loudest music, lets pace out in state. 
 
 [The cornets sound. Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IIL 
 
 Enter Antonio alone, in fools habit. 
 
 Ant. Ay, Heaven, thou may'st, thou may'st 
 omnipotence. 
 What vermin breed of putrefacted slime 
 Shall dare to expostulate with thy decrees ! 
 
 Heaven, thou may'st indeed : she was all thine, 
 All heavenly : I did but humbly beg 
 
 To borrow her of thee a little time. 
 
 Thou gav'st her me, as some weak-breasted dame 
 
 Giveth her infant, puts it out to nurse ; 
 
 And when it once goes high-lone, ^ takes it back. 
 
 She was my vital blood, and yet, and yet, 
 
 I'll not blaspheme. Look here! behold! 
 
 [Antonio jmfs off his dtp, and lieihjust upon 
 his back. 
 
 1 turn my prostrate breast upon thy face, 
 And vent a heaving sigh. Oh hear but this ! 
 
 I am a poor, poor orphan — a weak, weak child. 
 The wrack of splitted fortune, the very ouze. 
 The quicksand that devours all misery. 
 Behold the valiant'st creature that doth breathe. 
 
 * Forbear— sj)aTe. 
 
 2 intend— mean. 
 
 3 high-lone— qnitQ alone. — Halliwell. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 379 
 
 For all this I dare live, and I will live, 
 Only to numb some other cursed blood 
 With the dead palsy of like misery. 
 Then death, like to a stifling incubus, 
 Lie on my bosom. Lo, sir, I am sped. 
 My breast is Golgotha, grave for the dead. 
 
 Enter Pandulpho, Alberto, and a Page, 
 carrying Felice's trwik in a winding-sheet., 
 and lay it athwart Antonio's breast. 
 
 Pan. Antonio, kiss my foot : I honour thee, 
 In laying 'thwart my blood upon thy bi-east. 
 I tell thee, boy, he was Pandulpho's son ; 
 And I do grace thee with supporting him, 
 Young man. 
 
 The domineering monarch of the earth, 
 He who hath naught that fortune's gripe can seize. 
 He who is all impregnably his own, 
 He whose great heart Heaven cannot force with 
 
 force. 
 Vouchsafes his love. 
 
 Ant. I ha' lost a good wife. 
 
 Pan. Didst find her good, or didst thou make 
 her good .? 
 If found, thou may'st refind, because thou hadst 
 
 her. 
 If made, the work is lost ; but thou that mad'st her 
 Liv'st 3'et as cunning. Hast lost a good wife 7 
 Thrice blessed man that lost her whilst she was 
 
 good, 
 Fair, young, unblemish'd, constant, loving, chaste. 
 I tell thee, youth, age knows, young loves seem 
 
 grac'd, 
 Which with grey cares, rude jars, are oft defac'd. 
 
 Ant. But she was full of hope. 
 
 Pan. May be, may be; but that which may 
 be, stood, 
 Stands now without all may. She died good, 
 And dost thou grieve.? 
 
 Alb. I ha' lost a true friend. 
 
 Pan. I live encompass'd with two blessed souls. 
 Thou lost a good wife, thou lost a true friend, ha ! 
 Two of the rarest lendings of the heavens. 
 But lendings, which at the fixed day of pay 
 Set down by fate, thou must restore again. 
 
 what unconscionable souls are here ! 
 
 Are you all like the spoke-shaves of the church 7 
 
 Have you no maw to restitution ? 
 
 Hast lost a true friend, cuz ? then thou hadst one. 
 
 1 tell thee, youth, 'tis all as difficult 
 To find true friend in this apostate age 
 (That balks all right affiance 'twixt two hearts) 
 As 'tis to find a fixed modest heart. 
 
 Under a painted breast. Lost a true friend ! 
 
 happy soul that lost hitn whilst he was true ! 
 Believe it, cuz, I to my tears have found. 
 
 Oft dirt's respect makes firmer friends unsound. 
 
 Alb. You have lost a good son. 
 
 Pan. Why, there's the comfort on't, that he 
 was good. 
 Alas, poor innocent ! 
 
 Alb. Why weeps mine uncle ? 
 
 Pan. Ha, dost ask me why? ha, ha! 
 Good cuz, look here ! 
 
 [He shows him his son's breast. 
 Man will break out, despite philosophy. 
 Why, all this while I ha' but play'd a part, 
 Like to some boy that acts a tragedy. 
 Speaks burly words, and raves out passion ; 
 But when he thinks upon his infant weakness, 
 He droops his eye. I spake more than a god. 
 Yet am less than a man. 
 
 1 am the miserablest soul that breathes. 
 
 [Antonio starts up. 
 Ant. S'lid, sir, ye lie! by the heart of grief, 
 thou liest ! 
 I scom'd that any wretched should survive, 
 
 Outmounting me in that superlative. 
 Most miserable, most unmatch'd in woe. 
 Who dai-e assume that, but Antonio ? 
 
 Pan. Wilt still be so, and shall yon blood- 
 hound live ? 
 
 Ant. Have I an arm, a heart, a sword, a soul ? 
 
 Alb. Were you but private unto what we know. 
 
 Pan. I'll know it all; first let's inter the dead : 
 Let's dig his grave, with that shall dig the heart, 
 Liver, and entrails of the murderer. 
 
 [They strike the stage toith their daggers, 
 and the grave openeth. 
 
 Ant. Wilt sing a dirge, boy 7 
 
 Pan. No, no song ; 'twill be vile out of tune. 
 
 Alb. Indeed, he's hoarse ; the poor boy's voice 
 is crack'd. 
 
 Pan. Why, cuz ! why should it not be hoarse 
 and crack'd. 
 When all the strings of nature's symphony 
 Are crack'd and jar? Why should his voice 
 
 keep tune. 
 When there's no music in the breast of man ? 
 I'll say an honest antic rhyme I have 
 (Help me, good son-ow-mates, to give him grave). 
 [They all help to carry Felice to his grave. 
 Death, exile, plaints, and woe, 
 Are but man's lackeys, not his foe. 
 No mortal 'scapes from fortune's war 
 Without a wound, at least a scai'. 
 Many have led these to the grave ; 
 But all shall follow, none shall save. 
 Blood of my youth, rot and consume ; 
 Virtue, in dirt, doth life assume. 
 With this old saw, close up this dust ; 
 Thrice blessed man that dieth just. 
 
 Ant. The gloomy wing of night begins to 
 stretch 
 His lazy pinion over all the air. 
 We must be stiff and steady in resolve ; 
 Let's thus our hands, our hearts, our arms 
 involve. [They wreath their arms. 
 
 Pan. Now swear we by this Gordian knot of love, 
 By the fresh turned up mould that wraps my son ; 
 By the dead brow of triple Hecate ; 
 Ere night shall close the lids of yon bright stars. 
 We'll sit as heavy on Piero's heart. 
 As ^tna doth on groaning Pelorus. 
 
 Ant. Thanks, good old man ! 
 We'll cast at royal chance. 
 Let's think a plot — then pell mell vengeance ! 
 
 [Exeunt, their arms xoreathcd. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE L 
 
 The cornets sound for the Act. 
 
 The dumb show. 
 
 Enter at one door Castilio and Forobosco, 
 with halberts; four Pages with torches; Lucio 
 hare ; Piero, Maria, and Alberto, talking. 
 Alberto draws out his dagger, Maria her 
 knife, aiming to menace the Duke. Then 
 Galeatzo, betwixt two Senators, reading a 
 paper to them, at which they all make sem- 
 blance of loathing Piero, and knit their fists 
 at him; two Ladies and Nutrice. All these 
 go softly over the Stage, whilst at the other 
 door enters the Ghost of Andrugio, who 
 passeth by them, tossing his torch about his 
 head in triumph. All forsake the Stage, sav- 
 ing Andrugio, who, speaking, begins the Act. 
 
 And. Venit dies, tempusque, quo reddat suis 
 Animam squalentem sceleribus.^ 
 
 1 ' The time has come when he shall render back his 
 filthy soul to its crimes.' 
 
38o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 The fist of strenuous vengeance is clutch'd, 
 And stern Vindicta^ tow'retli up aloft, 
 That she may fall with a more weighty paise, ^ 
 And crush life's sap from out Piero's veins. 
 Now 'gins the lep'rous cores of ulcered sins 
 Wheel to a head ; now is his fate grown 
 
 mellow, 
 Instant to fall into the rotten jaws 
 Of chap-fall'n death. Now down looks Provi- 
 dence, 
 T' attend the last act of my son's revenge. 
 Be gracious, observation, to our scene. 
 For now the plot unites his scatter'd limbs 
 Close in contracted bands. The Florence prince 
 (Drawn by firm notice of the duke's black deeds) 
 Is made a partner in conspiracy. 
 The states of Venice are so swoll'n in hate 
 Against the duke for his accursed deeds 
 (Of which they are confirm'd by some odd letters 
 Found in dead Strotzo's study, which had pass'd 
 Betwixt Piero and the murd'ring slave). 
 That they can scarce retain from bursting forth 
 In plain revolt. Oh, now triumphs my ghost, 
 Exclaiming, Heaven's just, for I shall see 
 The scourge of murder and impiety ! [Exit. 
 
 ACT V._SCENE II. 
 
 Bal,vrv>o /I'om under the Stage. 
 
 Bal. Ho ! who's above there, ho ? A murrain 
 on all proverbs. They say hunger breaks through 
 stone walls; but I am as gaunt as lean-ribb'd 
 famine, yet I can burst through no stone walls. 
 Oh now, Sir Gefferey, show thy valour, break 
 prison and be hang'd. Nor shall the darkest 
 nook of hell contain the discontented Sir Ba- 
 lurdo's ghost. Well, I am out well ; I have put 
 off the prison to put on the rope. Oh poor 
 shotten herring, what a pickle art thou in ! Oh 
 hunger, how thou domineer'st in my guts ! Oh 
 for a fat leg of ewe mutton in stew'd broth, or 
 drunken song to feed on ! I could belch rarely, 
 for I am all wind. Oh cold, cold, cold, cold, 
 cold ! Oh poor knight ! Oh, poor Sir Gefferey, 
 sing like an unicorn before thou dost dip thy 
 horn in the water of death. Oh cold ! Oh sing ! 
 Oh cold ! Oh, poor Sir Gefferey, sing, sing ! 
 
 [Sings. 
 
 Enter Antoxio and Alberto at several doors^ 
 their rapiers drawn^ in their masking attire. 
 
 Ant. Vindicta ! 
 
 Alb. Mellida! 
 
 Ant. Alberto ! 
 
 Alb. Antonio ! 
 
 Ant. Hath the duke supp'd ? 
 
 Alb. Yes ; and triumphant revels mount aloft. 
 The duke drinks deep to overflow his grief. 
 The court is rack'd to pleasure ; each man 
 
 strains 
 To feign a jocund eye. The Florentine — 
 
 Ant. Young Galeatzo ! 
 
 Alb. Even he is mighty on our part. The 
 states of Venice — 
 
 Enter Pandulpho, running, in masking attire. 
 
 Pan. Like high-swoll'n floods drive down the 
 muddy dams 
 Of pent allegiance. Oh, my lusty bloods, 
 Heaven sits clapping ' of our enterprise; 
 I have been labouring general favour firm, 
 
 * Fincfjcto— Vengeance. 
 
 • clapping — applauding. 
 
 2 ^awe— poise, weight. 
 
 And I do find the citizens grown sick 
 With swallowing the bloody crudities 
 Of black Piero's acts ; they'fain Avould cast 
 And vomit him from off their government. 
 Now is the plot of mischief ript wide ope ; 
 Letters are found 'twixt Strotzo and the duke 
 So clear apparent, yet more firmly strong 
 By suiting circumstance, that as I walked 
 Muffled, to eavesdrop speech, I might observe 
 The graver statesmen whispering fearfully. 
 Here one gives nods, and hums what he would 
 
 speak. 
 The rumour's got 'mong troop of citizens, 
 Making loud murmur with confused din. 
 One shakes his head and sighs. Oh ill-us'd power ! 
 Another frets and sets his grinding teeth 
 Foaming with rage, and swears this must not be. 
 Here one complots,^ and on a sudden starts, 
 And cries, Oh monstrous, Oh deep villany ! 
 All knit their nerves, and from beneath swoll'n 
 
 brows 
 Appears a gloating eye of much mislike ; 
 Whilst swart Piero's lips reek steam of wine. 
 Swallows lust thoughts, devours all pleasing 
 
 hopes, 
 With strong imagination of, what not ? 
 Oh now Vindicta, that's the word we have, 
 A royal vengeance, or a royal gi-ave ! 
 
 Ant. Vindicta ! 
 
 Bal. I am acold. 
 
 Pan. Who's there ? Sir Gefferey ? 
 
 Bal. A poor knight, God wot. The nose of 
 thy knighthood is bitten off with cold. Oh poor 
 Sir Gefferey, cold, cold ! 
 
 Pan. What chance of fortune hath tript up his 
 heels. 
 And laid him in the kennel, ha ? 
 
 Alb. I will discourse it all. Poor honest soul, 
 Hadst thou a bever'-^ to clasp up thy face, 
 Thou shouldst associate ^ us in masquery,* 
 And see revenge. 
 
 Bal. Nay, and you talk of revenge, my 
 stomach's up, for I am most tyrannically hungry. 
 A bever ! I have a headpiece, a skull, a brain of 
 proof, I warrant ye. 
 
 Alb. Slink to my chamber, then, and tiro thee. 
 
 Bal. Is there a fii'e ? 
 
 Alb. Yes. 
 
 Bal. Is there a fat leg of ewe mutton ? 
 
 Alb. Yes. 
 
 Bal. And a clean shirt ? 
 
 Alb. Yes. 
 
 Bal. Then am I for you, most pathetically, 
 and unvulgarly, la ! \_Exit. 
 
 Ant. Eesolved hearts, time curtails night, op- 
 portunity shakes us his foretop. Steel your 
 thoughts, sharp your resolve, embolden your 
 spirit, grasp your swords; alarm mischief, and 
 with an undaunted brow, outscout the grim 
 opposition 
 
 Of most menacing peril. 
 Hark here, proud pomp shoots mounting triumph 
 
 up. 
 Borne in loud accents to the front of Jove. 
 
 Pan. Oh now, he that wants soul to kill a 
 slave, 
 Let him die slave, and rot in peasant's grave. 
 
 Ant. Give me thy hand, and thine, most noble 
 heart ; 
 Thus will we live, and, but thus, never part. 
 
 [Exeunt., twined together. 
 Cornets sound a cynet. 
 
 1 complots — conspires. 
 
 2 bever — tlie face-part of a helmet. 
 
 3 associate — associate with. 
 * masquery — masking. 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE III. 
 
 Btder Castilio and Foroeosco ; two Pages, with 
 torches; Lucio, bare; Piero and Maria, 
 Galeatzo, two Senators, and Nutrice. 
 
 PiERo to Maria. 
 
 Pie, Sit close unto my bi-east, heart of my love, 
 Advance thy drooping eyes. 
 Thy son is drown'd. 
 
 Rich happiness that such a son is drown'd. 
 Thy husband's dead, Hfe of my joy's most blest, 
 In that the sapless log that press'd thy bed 
 With an unpleasing weight, being lifted hence, 
 Even I, Piero, live to warm his place. 
 I tell you, lady, had you view'd us both 
 With an unpartial eye, when first we woo'd 
 Your maiden beauties, I had borne the prize, 
 'Tis firm ^ I had ; for, fair, I ha' done that — 
 
 Mar. Murder! 
 
 Pie. Which he would quake to have adventur'd ; 
 Thou know'st I have — 
 
 Mar. Murder'd my husband. 
 
 Pie. Borne out the shock of war, and done, 
 what not. 
 That valour durst. Dost love me, fairest ? Say. 
 
 Mar. As I do hate my son, I love thy soul. 
 
 Pie. Why then lo to Hymen, mount a lofty 
 note. 
 Full red-cheek'd Bacchus, let Lyeus ^ float 
 In burnish'd goblets. Force the plump-lipp'd 
 
 god. 
 Skip light lavoltas ^ in your f ull-sapp'd veins. 
 'Tis well brim full. Even I have glut of blood. 
 Let quaff carouse. I drink this Bordeaux wine 
 Unto the health of dead Andrugio, 
 Felice, Strotzo, and Antonio's ghosts. 
 Would I had some poison to infuse it with ; 
 That having done this honour to the dead, 
 I might send one to give them notice on't. 
 I would endear my favour to the full. 
 Boy, sing aloud ; make heaven's vault to ring 
 With thy breath's strength. I drink. Now 
 loudly sing. [Boy sings. 
 
 The song ended., the cornets sound a cynet. 
 
 Enter Antonio, Pandulpho, and Alberto, in 
 mashery ; Balurdo, and a Torchbearei'. 
 Pie. Call Julio hither. Where's the little soul ? 
 I saw him not to-day. Here's sport alone "* 
 For him, i'faith ; for babes and fools, I know, 
 Eelish not substance, but applaud the show. 
 
 [To the Conspirators, as they stand in ranh 
 for the measure. 
 Gal. All blessed fortune crown your brave 
 attempt. [To Antonio. 
 
 I have a troop to second your attempt. 
 
 [To Pandulpho. 
 The Venice states join hearts unto your hands. 
 
 [To Alberto. 
 By the delights in contemplation 
 Of coming joys, 'tis magnificent. 
 You grace my marriage eve with sumptuous 
 
 pomp. 
 Sound still, loud music. Oh, your breath gives 
 
 grace 
 To curious feet, that in proud measure pace. 
 Ant. Mother, is Julio's body — 
 Mar. Speak not, doubt not; all is above all 
 hope. 
 
 1 ^rm— certain. 
 
 2 Lyeus, from the Greek ( =- the unhender), was a 
 surname of Bacchus, and is here used generally for wine. 
 
 3 lavolta. See note 1, p. 87, col. 1. 
 ♦ sport alone — excellent sport. 
 
 Ant. Then will I dance and whirl about the 
 air. 
 Methinks I am all soul, all heart, all spirit. 
 Now murder shall receive his ample merit. 
 
 The measure. 
 
 Wliile the measure is dancing^ Andrugio's ghost 
 is placed betwixt the music houses. 
 
 Pie. Bring hither suckets,i candied delicates. 
 We'll taste some sweetmeats, gallants, ei-e we 
 sleep. 
 Ant. We'll cook your sweetmeats, gallants, with 
 tart sour sauce. 
 
 And. Here will I sit, spectator of revenge, 
 And glad my ghost in anguish of my foe. 
 
 [The Maskers tvhisjjer with Piero. 
 Pie. Marry and shall ; i'faith I were too rude, 
 If I gainsaid so civil fashion. 
 The maskers pray jou to forbear the roora 
 Till they have banqueted. Let it be so : 
 No man presume to visit them on death. 
 
 [The Maskers whisper again. 
 Only myself? Oh, why, with all my heart: 
 I'll fill your consort.2 Here Piero sits ; 
 Come on, unmask, let's fall to. 
 
 [The Conspirators bind Piero, phich out 
 his tongue^ and triumph over him. 
 Ant. Murder and torture I no prayers, no en- 
 treats ! 
 Pan. We'll spoil your oratory. Out with his 
 
 tongue. 
 Ant. I have't, Pandulpho ; the veins panting 
 bleed, 
 Trickling fresh gore about my fist. Bind fast — 
 so, so ! 
 And. Blest be thy hand ! I taste the joys of 
 heaven. 
 Viewing my son triumph in his black blood. 
 
 BaL Down to the dungeon with him ; I'll 
 dungeon with him ! I'll fool you ; Sir Gefferey 
 will be Sir Gefferey. I'll tickle you. 
 Ant. Behold, black dog ! 
 Pan. Grinn'st thou, thou snarling cur ? 
 Alb. Eat thy black liver. 
 Ant. To thine anguish see 
 A fool triumphant in thy misery. 
 Vex him, Balurdo. 
 
 Pan. He weeps ; now do I glorify my hands ; 
 I had no vengeance, if I had no tears. 
 Ant. Fall to, good duke. Oh these are worth- 
 less cates,' 
 You have no stomach to them ; look, look here : 
 Here lies a dish to feast thy father's gorge. 
 Here's flesh and blood, which I am sure thou 
 lov'st. [Piero seems to condole his son. 
 
 Pan. Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest 
 
 son.? 
 Ant. So was Andrugio my dearest father. 
 Pan. So was Felice my dearest son. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Mar. So was Andrugio my dearest husband. 
 
 Ant. My father found no pity in thy blood. 
 
 Pan. Remorse was banish'd when thou slew'st 
 my son. 
 
 Mar. When thou impoisonedst my loving lord, 
 Exil'd was piety. 
 
 Ant. Now therefore, pity, piety, remorse, 
 Be aliens to our thoughts ; grim fire-ey'd rage 
 Possess us wholly. 
 
 ^ sMc^efc— dried sweetmeats, or sugar-plums for suck- 
 ing. 
 2 consort — company. ^ cates — delicaciei. 
 
382 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Pan. Thy son ? true ; and wliicli is my most joy, 
 I hope no bastard, but thy very blood, 
 Thy true begotten, most legitimate 
 And loved issue — there's the comfort on't. 
 Ant. Scum of the mud of hell ! 
 Alb. Slime of all filth ! 
 Mar. Thou most detested toad ! 
 Bal. Thou most retort and obtuse rascal ! 
 Ant. Thus charge we death at thee ; remem- 
 ber hell, 
 And let the howling murmurs of black spirits, 
 The horrid torments of the damned ghosts. 
 Affright thy soul as it descendeth down 
 Into the entrail of the ugly deep. 
 Pan. Sa, sa ; no, let Mm die, and die, and still 
 be dying. 
 
 \_They offer to i-un all at Piero, and on a 
 sudden stop. 
 And yet not die till he hath died and died 
 Ten thousand deaths in agony of heart. 
 Ant. Now pell mell ; thus the hand of Heaven 
 chokes 
 The throat of murder. This for my father's 
 blood. [He stabs Piero. 
 
 Pan. This for mv son. 
 Alb. This for them all. 
 And this, and this, sink to the heart of hell ! 
 
 IThey run all at Piero with their rapiers. 
 Pan. Murder for murder, blood for blood, doth 
 
 yell! 
 And. 'Tis done, and now my soul shall sleep 
 in rest. 
 Sons that revenge their fathers' blood are blest. 
 [The curtains being drawn., exit Andrugio. 
 
 Enter Galeatzo, two Senators, Lucio, IForo- 
 Bosco, Oastilio, and Ladies. 
 
 1 Sen. Whose hand presents this gory spec- 
 tacle ? 
 
 Ant. Mine. 
 
 Pan. No, mine. 
 
 Alb. No, mine. 
 
 Ant. I will not lose the glory of the deed. 
 Were all the tortures of the deepest hell 
 Pixt to my limbs. I pierc'd the monster's heart 
 With an undaunted hand. 
 
 Pan. By yon bright spangled front of heaven 
 'twas I ; 
 'Twas I sluic'd out his life-blood. 
 
 Alb. Tush, to say truth, 'twas all. 
 
 2 Sen. Blest be you all, and may your honours 
 live 
 
 Religiously held sacred, even for ever and ever. 
 Gal. (to Antokio). Thou art another Hercules 
 to us. 
 In ridding huge pollution from our state. 
 
 1 Sen. Antonio, belief is fortified 
 With most invincible approvements i of much 
 
 wrong. 
 By this Piero to thee. We have found 
 Be a drolls of mischief, plots of villany. 
 
 I approvements— ]^vooi&. 
 
 Laid 'twixt the duke and Strotzo, which we 
 
 found 
 Too firmly acted. 
 2 Sen. Alas, poor orphan ! 
 Ant. Poor, standing triumphant over Beelzebub! 
 Having large interest for blood, and yet deem'd 
 poor ? 
 
 1 Sen. What satisfaction outward pomp can 
 yield, 
 
 Or ciiiefest fortunes of the Venice state. 
 Claim freely. You are well-season'd props. 
 And will not warp, or lean to either part ; 
 Calamity gives man a steady heart. 
 
 Ant. We are amaz'd at your benignity ; 
 But other vows constrain another course. 
 
 Pan. We know the world, and did we know 
 no more, 
 We would not live to know ; but since constraint 
 Of holy bands forceth us keep this lodge 
 Of dirt's corruption, till dread power calls 
 Our souls' appearance, we will live enclos'd 
 In holy verge of some religious order. 
 Most constant votaries. 
 
 [The curtains are drawn, Piero departeth.^ 
 
 Ant. First let's cleanse our hands, 
 Purge hearts of hatred, and entomb my love, 
 Over whose hearse I'll weep away my brain 
 In true affection's tears. 
 For her sake, here I vow a virgin bed. 
 She lives in me ; with her my love is dead. 
 
 2 Sen. We will attend her mournful exequies ; 
 Conduct you to your calm sequester'd life. 
 And then — 
 
 liar. Leave us to meditate on misery. 
 To sad our thought with contemplation 
 Of past calamities. If any ask 
 Where lives the widow of the poisoned lord ? 
 Where lies the orphan of a murder'd father ? 
 Where lies the father of a butcher'd son ? 
 Where lives all woe ? — conduct him to us there. 
 The downcast ruins of calamity. 
 
 And. Sound doleful times, a solemn hymn ad- 
 vance, 
 To close the last act of mj vengeance ; 
 And when the subject of your passion's spent. 
 Sing Mellida is dead, all hearts will relent. 
 In sad condolement at that heavy sound. 
 Never more woe in lesser plot was found. 
 And, oh, if ever time cx-eate a muse. 
 That to th' immortal fame of virgin faith 
 Dares once engage his pen to write her death, 
 Presenting it in some black tragedy. 
 May it prove gracious ; may his style be deck'd 
 With freshest blooms of purest elegance ; 
 May it have gentle presence, and the scenes 
 
 suck'd up 
 By calm attention of choice audience ; 
 And when the closing Epilogue appears. 
 Instead of claps, may it obtain but tears. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 I departeth — i.e. we suppose, his body is earned out. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 [Philip Massinger, the son of Arthur Massinger, a gentleman attached in some capacity 
 to the family of Henry, second Earl of Pembroke, was born at Wilton, the seat of the 
 Wiltons, in the year 1584. Massinger, in all likelihood, received the rudiments of his 
 education at the place of his birth, although little is known of his early years, and nearly as 
 little of the rest of his life. When the dramatist was sixteen years of age, the patron of 
 himself and his father died ; but William, the third earl, continued the latter in his service 
 probably till his death. Massinger became a student of St. Alban's Hall, Oxford, in 1602, 
 in the eighteenth year of his age, where he was maintained apparently at the expense of 
 his father. While at college, Anthony-a-Wood tells us ' that he gave his mind more to 
 poetry and romance, for about four years or more, than to logic and philosophy, which he 
 ought to have done. ' Gifford, however, thinks he must have applied himself to study with 
 uncommon energy, for his literary acquisitions at this early period appear to be multifarious 
 and extensive. He left college abruptly and without taking his degree, for which various 
 reasons are alleged, the most likely being the death of his father, whieh left him entirely 
 without the means of support, the Earl of Pembroke treating him with entire neglect. 
 Another reason urged to account both for his abruptly leaving college and for the Earl of 
 Pembroke's neglect is, that he had become a convert to Koman Catholicism ; this, however, 
 is a mere conjecture of Mr. Gifford's, founded on certain expressions in some of his dramas, 
 and is in every way improbable. In all likelihood Massinger went straight to London on 
 quitting college, and there betook himself to almost the only means then available to 
 a friendless, penniless genius for earning a livelihood — ^mending and writing plays. He 
 became connected with some of the most celebrated of his contemporaries, in conjunction 
 with several of whom he appears to have concocted several dramas, — a practice, we have seen, 
 then very common. We have evidence of this, as well as of Massinger's necessitous condition, 
 in a letter written about 1612 by him, in conjunction with some others, to the well-known 
 manager and play -broker, Henslow. It is as follows : — 
 
 * To our most loving friend, Mr. Philip Hinchlow, esquire. These, 
 
 *Mr. Hinchlow, 
 
 * You understand our unfortunate extremitie, and I doe not thincke you so 
 void of cristianitie but that you would throw so much money into the Thames as wee 
 request now of you, rather than endanger so many innocent lives. You know there is xL 
 more at least to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to lend us rl. of that ; 
 which shall be allowed to you, without which we cannot be bayled, nor 1 plai/ any more till 
 this be dispatch'd. It will lose you xxZ. ere the end of the next weeke, besides the hin- 
 derance of the next new play. Pray, sir, consider our cases with humanity, and now give 
 us cause to acknowledge you our true friend in time of need. Wee have entreated Mr. 
 Davison to deliver this note, as well to witness your love as our promises, and alwayes 
 acknowledgement to be ever, 
 
 * Your most thanckfull and loving friend, 
 
 Nat. Field.* 
 
 * The money shaU be abated out of the money remayns for the play of Mr. Fletcher 
 and ours. Eob. Daboene.* 
 
 383 
 
384 ^^^ ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 * I have ever found you a true loving friend to mee, and in soe small a suite, it beeingo 
 honest, I hope you will not fail us. Philip Massinger.' 
 
 Indorsed — 
 
 * Received by mee Robert Davison of Mr. Hinchlow for the use of Mr. Daboerne, Mr, 
 Feeld, Mr. Messenger, the sum of v^. Rob. Davison.' 
 
 Massinger left college about 1606, and the earliest known play of his still extant is The 
 Virgin Martyr, which did not appear in print till 1622 ; but it is certain that previous to 
 this he must have written or helped to write many others, which have been either lost or 
 cannot now be identified. A Mr. Warburton, Somerset Herald of last century, formed an 
 extensive collection of the writings of our old dramatists, which fell into the hands of his 
 cook ; and when "Warburton ' after a lapse of years condescends to revisit his hoards, he finds 
 they have been burnt, from an economical wish to save him the charges of more valuable 
 brown paper,' In this sacrilegious way, it has been conjectured, were consumed about 
 twelve of Massinger's plays, besides forty other manuscript plays of various authors. Of 
 these lost twelve, no doubt a number must have been written previous to 1622. After this 
 he continued industriously writing plays till his death, eighteen altogether being still 
 extant. Although neglected by the Earl of Pembroke, he found other patrons, who appear 
 to have added a little to the very slender income he derived from the sale of his plays ; but 
 withal, and notwithstanding that he seems to have led a more correct life than was the case 
 ■svith most of his contemporaries, it appears to have been one of poverty, misfortune, 
 and sadness. He probably never married, and to all appearance, after his father's death, he 
 had no relation of any kind alive. His death, like his life, was mysterious and lonely ; it 
 took place on the 17th of March 1640. He went to bed, says Langbaine, in good health, and 
 was found dead in the morning in his own house on the Bankside. ' Such is the received 
 account, ' says Hartley Coleridge ; * but he seems to have had none to care for him, none to 
 mark his symptoms, or to detect the slow decay which he might conceal, in despair of 
 sympathy. ' He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians paid the 
 last sad duty to his name, by attending him to the grave. No stone or inscription of any 
 kind marked his resting-place ; but, on the authority of Sir Aston Cockayne, one of Mas- 
 singer's most intimate acquaintance and his warm admirer, he was buried in the grave of 
 his brother dramatist Fletcher. His death is thus entered in the parish register : — ' March 
 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, a stranger.' This entry has been pathetically com- 
 mented on by Giff"ord and others ; but Mr. Collier has shown that the word * stranger ' vv-as 
 applied to every person who was buried in a parish to which he did not belong. 
 
 Massinger's best known plays are The Virgin Martyr (printed 1622) ; The Duke of Milan 
 (1623) ; The Bondman (acted 1622, printed 1624) ; The Fatal Dowry (1632) ; The City 
 Madam (acted 1632) ; A New Way to Pay Old Debts (1633). 
 
 The chief merits of Massinger's plays are their unusual earnestness and religiousness of 
 tone, the power of deep reflection, and of depicting with a master hand the tenderer human 
 emotions which they display, and the richness, beauty, music, and often stateliness of their 
 language. His dramas display far more care and elaboration than those of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, on at least an equal level with whom we are inclined to place him. As we esteem 
 [Massiager one of the greaftest and most worthy of our dramatists, we shall take the liberty 
 of appending a somewhat minute list of the qualities displayed in his works, taken from the 
 volume of the Cabinet Cyclopcedla on the British Dramatists : — * 1. His style is natural, yet 
 elegant ; it is easy, clear, flowing, and unaff'ected. Its great beautj'-, indeed, is perspicuity • 
 he does not rise into bombast ; but he does sometimes descend lower than he ought. 2.' If 
 his plots are sometimes intricate, they are always connected ; circumstances apparently of 
 trifling import, are made the hinges of important events. 3. And he observes the unities 
 more than the writers of his age, Ben Jonson and one or two more excepted. Of these, 
 unity of action is always essential. He has rarely under-plots ; and when he has, they are 
 80 skiKuUy allied with the pervading one, as not to affect the simplicity and clearness of the 
 action. Sometimes, indeed, he has too much incident ; and this hurries the piece so much 
 that we have not leisure enough to dwell on the delineation of character. 4. Of his learning. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 385 
 
 ;i 
 
 we can only say that it was respectable. He has many classical allusions, but these he 
 sometimes applies with little judgment. They are proper enough in the mouth of Dorothea, 
 the Yirgin-Martyr, when she wishes to convict her pagan antagonists of folly in their 
 monstrous creed ; but they are sadly misplaced in the mouths of women and servants. He 
 seems to have read the early fathers, or at least so much of ecclesiastical history as to be 
 conversant with their spirit. Nor was he ignorant of general history. But he was far more 
 conversant with the traditionary lore of the middle ages. He had read the romances of 
 France and Italy with great attention. His plots are often founded on them. 5. Of his 
 morals we say, as we have already said, that though he has many indecent expressions, 
 many allusions still more so, he is generally ready to visit guilt with retribution. This is 
 one of his distinguishing characteristics. Let us not, however, forget to condemn him for 
 the obscenity of some among his dialogues. He had, indeed, no liking to it ; he writes as 
 if he were undergoing a painful necessity ; as if he felt that, if he would have his dramas 
 popular, he must sacrifice to the mob. For this reason, there is, we are glad to perceive, 
 something very lifeless in such descriptions : they have no charm, they can have none, for 
 the most prurient mind. He has not laboured to render vice attractive, and therefore he 
 has not succeeded. In this, he is unlike most of his contemporaries. Beaumont, the son of 
 a judge, Fletcher, the son of a bishop, were far more licentious. 6. His characters are 
 delineated, not, indeed, with the master hand of Jonson, but with considerable felicity. 
 They are, however, more true to nature than those of his celebrated contemporary. He 
 drew more from history or from real life ; and he has, consequently, exhibited portraits, less 
 striking indeed, but far more just. 7. In poetic fancy he is not equal to Beaumont, or 
 Fletcher, or Ford ; but he is superior to Ben Jonson. He writes with too much ease to be 
 studious about words ; and he seldom allows a metaphor to carry him beyond the bounds of 
 sobriety. 8. Of suhUmity he has little. He did not, however, aim at it. 9. ISfor can we say 
 that he has great power over the passions. He inspires pity, indeed, but seldom terror ; and 
 he does not draw tears. Still he rivets the attention, both by the striking nature of his 
 incidents, and by the animation of his dialogue. 10. Of wit he has absolutely none. Hence 
 he was unfitted for comedy. On the whole, we may say of him, with Dr. Ireland, that *' he 
 does not soar to the heights of fancy : he dwells among men, and describes their business 
 and their passions with judgment, feeling, and discrimination. He has a justness of 
 principle which is admirably fitted to the best interests of human life. " ' 
 
 We have selected, as giving a fair idea of Massinger's powers, The Virgin-Martyr, The 
 Duke of Milan, and A New Way to Pay Old Debts, the last being, even at the present day, 
 sometimes seen upon the stage.] 
 
 2b 
 
3S6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 THE YIRGIN-MARTYH. 
 
 BY PHILIP M A SSINGER. 
 
 London. 1622. 
 
 gramatis "^tx^an^. 
 
 DlOCLESIAN,> -p .-n 
 
 Maximinus, I E^P^rors of Rome. 
 
 King of Poxtus. 
 
 King of Epire. 
 
 King of Macedon. 
 
 Sapritius, Goveimor of Cxsarea. 
 
 Theophilus, a zealous Persecutor of the 
 
 Christians. 
 SE3IPRONIUS, Captain of Sapritius' Guards. 
 Antonlnus, Son to Sapritius. 
 Macrinus, Friend to Antoninus. 
 Harpax, an evil Spirit folloioing Theophilus 
 
 in the shape oj a Secretary. 
 Angelo, a good Spirit, serving Dorothea in 
 
 the habit of a Page. 
 
 HiRCius, a Whore7naster,\ Servants of Boi 
 Spuxgius, a Drunkard, j thea. 
 
 Geta ' I '^^^'^^^^^ ^f Theophilus. 
 Priest of Jupiter. 
 British Slave. 
 
 Artemia, Laughter to Dioclesian. 
 
 Chr?steta,| ^'^'^9^^^^'^ ^0 Theophilus. 
 Dorothea, the Virgin-Marttr. 
 
 Officers and Executioners. 
 
 Scene — Cxsarea. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Governor's Palace. 
 
 Enter Theophilus ajid Harpax. 
 
 Theoph. Come to Csesarea to-night ! 
 
 Eaip. Most true, sir. 
 
 Theoph. The emperor in person ! 
 
 Haip. Do I live ? 
 
 Theoph. 'Tis wondrous strange ! The marches 
 of great princes, 
 Like to the motions of prodigious meteors, 
 Are step by step observ'd; and loud-tongued 
 
 Fam& 
 The harbinger to prepare their entertainment: 
 And, -were it possible so great an army, 
 Though cover'd with the night, could be so near, 
 The governor cannot be so unfriended 
 Among the many that attend his person, 
 But, by some secret means, he should have notice 
 Of Caesar's purpose ; — in this, then, excuse me, 
 If I appear incredulous. 
 
 Eaip. At your pleasure. 
 
 Theoph. Yet, when I call to mind you never 
 fail'd me 
 In things more difficult, but have discover'd 
 Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant 
 
 from me. 
 When neither woods, nor caves, nor secret vaults, 
 No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these 
 
 Christians 
 Or from my reach or punishment, but thy magic 
 Still laid them open ; I begin again 
 To be as confident as heretofore. 
 It is not possible thy powerful art 
 Should meet a check, or fail. 
 
 Enter the Priest of Jupiter, hearing an Image, and 
 followed by Calista and Christeta. 
 
 Harp. Look on the Vestals, 
 The holy pledges that the gods have given you, 
 Your chaste, fair daughters. Were't not to up- 
 braid 
 
 A service to a master not unthankful, 
 
 I could say these, in spite of your prevention, 
 
 Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason, 
 
 (Which is the strength of nature), quite forsaking 
 
 The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves 
 
 To this new-found religion. This I cross'd, 
 
 Discover'd their intents, taught you to use. 
 
 With gentle words and mild persuasions, 
 
 The power and the authority of a father, 
 
 Set off with cruel threats ; and so reclaim'd 
 
 them: 
 And, whereas they with torment should have 
 
 died, 
 (Hell's furies to me, had they undergone it !) 
 
 [Aside. 
 They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple. 
 And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar 
 With all the mysteries, nay, the most abstruse 
 
 ones, 
 Belonging to his deity. 
 
 Theoph. 'Twas a benefit. 
 For which I ever owe you. — Hail, Jove's flamen ! 
 Have these my daughters reconciled themselves, 
 Abandoning for ever the Christian way. 
 To your opinion ? 
 
 PHest. And are constant in it. 
 They teach their teachers with their depth of 
 
 judgment, 
 And are with arguments able to convert 
 The enemies to our gods, and answer all 
 They can object against us. 
 Theoph. My dear daughters ! 
 Cal. We dare dispute against this new-sprung 
 sect. 
 In private or in public. 
 Haip. My best lady, 
 Persever in it. 
 
 Chris. And what we maintain, 
 We will seal with our bloods. 
 
 Harp. Brave resolution ! 
 I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper. 
 Theoph. I young again. To your devotions. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 387 
 
 Haiy. Do — 
 
 My prayers be present with you. 
 
 \_Exeunt Priest, Cal. and Chris. 
 
 Theoph. my Harpax ! 
 Thou engine of my wishes, thou that steel'st 
 My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st 
 My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft compas- 
 sion, 
 Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on 
 Babes torn by violence from their mothei's' breasts 
 To feed the fire, and with them make one flame ; 
 Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by dogs ; 
 Virgins and matrons tire the executioners ; 
 Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy — 
 
 Haiy. And in that, just, not cruel. 
 
 Theoph. Were all sceptres 
 That grace the hands of kings, made into one, 
 And offer'd me, all crowns laid at my feet, 
 I would contenin them all, — thus spit at them ; 
 So I to all posterities might be call'd 
 The sti-ongest champion of the Pagan gods, 
 And rooter out of Christians. 
 
 Haip. Oh, mine own. 
 Mine own dear lord ! to further this great work, 
 I ever hve thy slave. 
 
 Enter Sapritius and Sejipronius. 
 
 Theoph. No more. — The governor. 
 
 Sap. Keep the ports close, and let the guards 
 be doubled ; 
 Disarm the Christians ; call it death in any 
 To wear a sword, or in his house to have one. 
 
 Semp. I shall be careful, sir. 
 
 Sap. 'Twill well become you. 
 Such as refuse to offer sacrifice 
 To any of our gods, put to the torture. 
 Grub up this growing mischief by the roots ; 
 And know, when we are merciful to them, 
 We to ourselves are cruel. 
 
 Semp. You pour oil 
 On fire that burns already at the height : 
 I know the emperor's edict, and my charge, 
 And they shall find no favour. 
 
 Theoph. My good lord, 
 This care is timely for the entertainment 
 Of our great master, who this night in person 
 Comes here to thank you. 
 
 Sap. Who ! the emperor ? 
 
 Eaip. To clear your doubts, he doth return in 
 triumph, 
 Kings lackeying ^ by his triumphant chariot ; 
 And in this glorious victory, my lord. 
 You have an ample share : for know, your son, 
 The ne'er enough commended Antoninus, 
 So well hath flesh'd his maiden sword, and dyed 
 His snowy plumes so deep in enemies' blood, 
 That, besides public grace beyond bis hopes, 
 There are rewards propounded. 
 
 Sap. I would know 
 No mean in thine, could this be true. 
 
 Haip. My head 
 Answer the forfeit. 
 
 Sap. Of his victory 
 There was some rumour : but it was assured, 
 The army pass'd a full day's journey higher, 
 Into the countiy. 
 
 Harp. It was so determined ; 
 But, for the further honour of your son, 
 And to observe the government of the city. 
 And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence, 
 The Christians are pursued, he makes his stay 
 here : [Trumpets. 
 
 For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival. 
 
 1 Lackeying— rosmins by the side of it like lackeys.- 
 
 GlFFORD. 
 
 Sap. Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our 
 guards. 
 And with all ceremonious pomp receive 
 The conquering army. Let our garrison speak 
 Their welcome in loud shouts, the city show 
 Her state and wealth. 
 
 Semp. I'm gone. [Exit. 
 
 Sap. Oh, I am ravish'd 
 With this great honour! cherish, good Theophilus, 
 This knowing scholar. Send [for] your fair 
 
 daughters ; 
 I will present them to the emperor. 
 And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror, 
 Express your zeal and duty. 
 
 Theoph. Fetch them, good Harpax. 
 
 [Exit Harpax. 
 
 Enter Sejipronius, at the head of the guard, 
 soldiers leading three Kings hound ; Antoninus 
 and Macrinus hearing the Emperor's eagles; 
 DiocLESiAN with a gilt laurel on his head., lead- 
 ing in Artejiia; Sapritius hisses the Empe- 
 ror's hand^ then embraces his Son ; Harpax 
 brings in C alista and Christeta. Loudsh outs. 
 
 Diode. So : at all parts I find Caesarea 
 Completely govern'd : the licentious soldier 
 Confined in modest limits, and the people 
 Taught to obey, and not compell'd with rigour : 
 The ancient Roman discipline revived, 
 Which raised Kome to lier greatness, and pro- 
 
 claim'd her 
 The glorious mistress of the conquer'd world ; 
 But, above all, the service of the gods 
 So zealously observed, that, good Sapritius, 
 In words to thank you for your care and duty. 
 Were much unworthy Dioclesian's honour. 
 Or his magnificence to his loyal servants. — 
 But I shall find a time with noble titles 
 To recompense your merits. 
 
 Sap. Mightiest Caesar, 
 Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal 
 To Jove's in heaven ; whose victorious triumphs 
 On proud rebellious kings that stir against it, 
 Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies 
 Won in the Giants' war ; whose conquering 
 
 sword, 
 Guided by his strong arm, as deadly kills 
 As did his thunder ! all that I have done, 
 Or, if my strength were centupled, could do. 
 Comes short of what my loyalty must challenge. 
 But if in anything I have deserved 
 Great Caesar's smile, 'tis in my humble care 
 StiU to preserve the honour of those gods. 
 That make him what he is : my zeal to them 
 I ever have express'd in my fell hate 
 Against the Christian sect, that with one blow 
 (Ascribing all things to an unknown Power) 
 Would strike down all their temples, and allows 
 
 them 
 Nor sacrifice nor altars. 
 
 Diocle. Thou, in this, 
 Walk'st hand in hand with me: my will and 
 
 power 
 Shall not alone confirm, but honour all 
 That are in this most forward. 
 
 Sap. Sacred Caesar, 
 If your imperial majesty stand pleased 
 To shower your favours upon such as are 
 The boldest champions of our rehgion ; 
 Look on this reverend man [points to Theophi- 
 lus], to whom the power 
 Of searching out, and punishing such delinquents, 
 Was by your choice committed : and, for proof, 
 He hath deserv'd the grace imposed upon him, 
 And with a fair and even hand proceeded, 
 Partial to none, not to himself, or those 
 
388 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Of equal nearness to himself; behold 
 This pair of virgins. 
 
 Diode. What are these ? 
 
 Sap. His daughters. 
 
 Artem. Now by your sacred fortuce, they are 
 fair ones, 
 Exceeding fair ones : would 'twere in my power 
 To make them mine ! 
 
 Theoph. They are the gods', great lady, 
 They were most happy in your service else : 
 On these, when they fell from their father's faith, 
 I used a judge's power, entreaties failing 
 (They being seduced) to win them to adore 
 The holy Powers we worship; I put on 
 The scai-let robe of bold authority. 
 And, as they had been strangers to my blood, 
 Presented them in the most horrid form. 
 All kind of tortures ; part of which they suffer'd 
 With Roman constancy. 
 
 Artem. And could you endure. 
 Being a father, to behold their limbs 
 Extended on the rack ? 
 
 Theoph. I did ; but must 
 Confess there was a strange contention in me, 
 Between the impartial office of a judge, 
 And pity of a father ; to help justice, 
 Religion stept in, under which odds 
 Compassion fell : — yet still I was a father. 
 Eor e'en then, when the flinty hangman's whips 
 Were worn with stripes spent on their tender 
 
 limbs, 
 I kneel' d, and wept, and begg'd them, though 
 
 they would 
 Be cruel to themselves, they would take pity 
 On my grey hairs ; now note a sudden change, 
 Which I with joy remember ; those whom tor- 
 ture 
 Nor fear of death could terrify, were o'ercome 
 By seeing of my sufferings ; and so won, 
 Eeturning to the faith that they were born in, 
 I gave them to the gods. And be assured, 
 I that used justice with a rigorous hand 
 Upon such beauteous virgins, and mine own. 
 Will use no favour, where the cause commands 
 
 me, 
 To any other ; but, as rocks, be deaf 
 To all entreaties. 
 
 Diode. Thou deserv'st thy place ; 
 Still hold it, and with honour. Things thus 
 
 order'd 
 Touching the gods, 'tis laAvful to descend 
 To human cares, and exercise that power 
 Heaven has conferr'd upon me ; — which that 
 
 you. 
 Rebels and traitors to the power of Rome, 
 Should not with all extremities undergo, 
 What can you urge to qualify your crimes, 
 Or mitigate my anger ? 
 
 K. of Epire. We are now 
 Slaves to thy power, that yesterday were kings. 
 And had command o'er others ; we confess 
 Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left us, 
 As their forefathers had, desire of freedom. 
 And, if you Romans hold it glorious honour 
 Not only to defend what is your own. 
 But to enlarge your empire (though our fortune 
 Denies that happiness), who can accuse 
 The famish'd mouth, if it attempt to feed ? 
 Or such, whose fetters eat into their freedoms, 
 If they desire to shake them off ? 
 
 K. of Pontus. We stand 
 The last examples, to prove how uncertain 
 All human happiness is ; and are prepared 
 To eudure the worst. 
 
 K. of Macedon. That spoke, which now is 
 highest 
 In Fortune's wheel, must, when she turns it next, 
 
 Decline as low as we are. This consider'd, 
 Taught the Egyptian Hercules, Sesostris, ' 
 That had his chariot drawn by captive kings. 
 To free them from that slavery ; — but to hope 
 Such mercy from a Roman, were mere madness: 
 We are familiar with what cruelty 
 Rome, since her infant greatness, ever used 
 Such as she triumph'd over ; age nor sex 
 Exempted from her tyranny ; sceptred princes 
 Kept in her common dungeons, and their children, 
 In scorn train'd up in base mechanic arts, 
 For public bondmen. In the catalogue 
 Of those unfortunate men, we expect to have 
 Our names remember'd. 
 
 Diode. In all growing empires 
 Even cruelty is useful : some must suffer. 
 And be set up examples to strike terror 
 In others, though far off ; but, when a state 
 Is raised to her perfection, and her bases 
 Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy, 
 And do't with safety: but to whom.^ not cowards, 
 Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror. 
 And robs him of his victory, as weak Perseus 
 Did great JEmilius. Know, therefore, kings 
 Of Epire, Pontus, and of Macedon, 
 That I with courtesy can use my prisoners, 
 As well as make them mine by force, provided 
 That they are noble enemies : such I found you. 
 Before I made you mine ; and, since you were 
 
 so, 
 You have not lost the courages of princes, 
 Although the fortune. Had you borne your- 
 selves 
 Dejectedly, and base, no slavery 
 Had been too easy for you ; but such is 
 The power of noble valour, that we love it 
 Even in our enemies, and taken with it, 
 Desire to make them friends, as I will you. 
 
 K. of Epire. Mock us not, Csesar. 
 
 Diode. By the gods, I do not. 
 Unloose their bonds : — I now as friends embrace 
 
 you. 
 Give them their crowns again. 
 
 K. of Pontus. We are twice o'ercome : 
 By courage, and by courtesy. 
 
 K. of Macedon. But this latter 
 Shall teach us to live ever faithful vassals 
 To Dioclesian, and the power of Rome. 
 
 K. of Epire. All kingdoms fall before her! 
 
 K. of Pontus. And all kings 
 Contend to honour Cffisar ! 
 
 Diode. I believe 
 Your tongues are the true trumpets of your 
 
 hearts, 
 And in it I most happy. Queen of fate, 
 Imperious Fortune ! mix some light disaster 
 With my so many joys, to season them. 
 And give them sweeter relish : I'm girt round 
 With true felicity ; faithful subjects here. 
 Here bold commanders, here with new-made 
 
 friends : 
 But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia, 
 My only child, whose love to me and duty, 
 Strive to exceed each other ! 
 
 Artem. I make payment 
 But of a debt, which I stand bound to tender 
 As a daughter and a subject. 
 
 Diode. Which requires yet 
 A retribution from me, Artemia, 
 Tied by a father's care, how to bestow 
 A jewel, of all things to me most precious : 
 Nor will I therefore longer keep thee from 
 The chief joys of creation, man-iage rites ; 
 Which that thou may'st with greater pleasures 
 
 taste of. 
 Thou shalt not like with mine eyes, but thine 
 own. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 389 
 
 Among these kings, forgetting they were cap- 
 tives ; 
 Or those, remembering not they are my subjects, 
 Make choice of any. By Jove's dreadful thunder, 
 My will shall rank with thine. 
 
 Artem. It is a bounty 
 The daughters of great princes seldom meet 
 
 with ; 
 For they, to make up breaches in the state, 
 Or for some other public ends, are forced 
 To match where they affect not. May my life 
 Deserve this favour ! 
 
 Diode. Speak ; I long to know 
 The man thou wilt make happy. 
 
 Artem. If that titles 
 Or the adored name of Queen could take me. 
 Here would I fix mine eyes, and look no further; 
 But these are baits to take a mean-born lady, 
 Not her, that boldly may call Cassar father : 
 In that I can bring honour unto any, 
 But from no king that lives receive addition : 
 To raise desert and virtue by my fortune. 
 Though in a low estate, were greater glory. 
 Than to mix greatness with a prince that owes 
 No worth but that name only. 
 
 Diode. I commend thee ; 
 'Tis like myself. 
 
 Artem. If, then, of men beneath me, 
 My choice is to be made, where shall I seek, 
 But among those that best deserve from you ? 
 That have served you most faithfully; that in 
 
 dangers 
 Have stood next to you ; that have interposed 
 Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the 
 
 swords 
 Aim'd at your bosom ; that have spent their 
 
 blood 
 To crown your brows with laurel ? 
 
 Macr. Cytherea, 
 Great Queen of Love, be now propitious to me ! 
 Harp, [to Sap."] Now mark what I foretold. 
 Anton. Her eye's on me. 
 Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart, 
 And, that she may hate me, transfix her with it ; 
 Or, if thou needs wilt use a golden one, 
 Shoot it in the behalf of any other: 
 Thou kuow'st I am thy votary elsewhere. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Artem. [advances to Anton.] Sir. 
 Theoph. How he blushes ! 
 Sap. Welcome, fool, thy fortune. 
 Stand like a block when such an angel courts 
 thee ! 
 Artem. I am no object to divert your eye 
 From the beholding. 
 
 Anton. Bather a bright sun, 
 Too glorious for him to gaze upon. 
 That took not first flight from the eagle's aerie. 
 As I look on the temples, or the gods, 
 And with that reverence, lady, I behold you, 
 And shall do ever. 
 
 Artem. And it will become you, 
 "While thus we stand at distance ; but if love. 
 Love born out of the assurance of your virtues, 
 Teach me to stoop so low — 
 
 Anton. Oh, rather take 
 A higher flight. 
 
 Artem. Why, fear you to be raised ? 
 Say I put off the dreadful awe that waits 
 On majesty, or with you share my beams. 
 Nay, make you to outshine me ; change the 
 
 name 
 Of Subject into Lord, rob you of service 
 That's due from you to me ; and in me make it 
 Duty to honour you ; woiild you refuse me ? 
 Ant07i. Refuse you, madam! such a worm as I 
 am, 
 
 Eefuse what kings upon their knees would sue 
 
 for! 
 Call it, great lady, by another name ; 
 An humble modesty, that would not match 
 A molehill with Olympus. 
 Artem. He that's famous 
 For honourable actions in the war, 
 As you are, Antoninus, a proved soldier, 
 Is fellow to a king. 
 
 Anton. If you love valour. 
 As 'tis a kingly virtue, seek it out, ' 
 And cherish it in a king; there it slaines brightest, 
 And yields the bravest lustre. Look on Epire, 
 A prince in whom it is incorporate : 
 And let it not disgrace him that he was 
 O'ercome by Csesar ; it was victory. 
 To stand so long against him: had you seen 
 
 him. 
 How in one bloody scene he did discharge 
 The parts of a commander and a soldier. 
 Wise in direction, bold in execution ; 
 You would have said, Great Caesar's self ex- 
 cepted, 
 The Avorld yields not his equal. 
 
 Artem. Yet I have heard. 
 Encountering him alone in the head of his troop, 
 You took him pi'isoner. 
 
 K. of Epire. 'Tis a truth, great princess; 
 I'll not detract from valour. 
 
 Anton. 'Twas mere fortune ; 
 Courage had no hand in it. 
 
 Theoph. Did ever man 
 Strive so against his own good ? 
 
 Sap. Spiritless villain ! 
 How I am tortured ! By the immortal goda, 
 I now could kill him. 
 
 Diode. Hold, Sapritius, hold. 
 On our displeasure hold ! 
 
 Harp. Why, this would make 
 A father mad ; 'tis not to be endured ; 
 Your honour's tainted in't. 
 
 Sap. By heaven, it is : 
 I shall think of it. 
 
 Harp. 'Tis not to be forgotten. 
 
 Artem. Nay, kneel not, sir, I am no ravisher, 
 Nor so far gone in fond affection to you. 
 But that I can retire, my honour safe : — 
 Yet say, hereafter, that thou hast neglected 
 What, but seen in possession of another, 
 Will make thee mad with envy. 
 
 Anton. In her looks 
 Revenge is written. 
 
 Mac. As you love your life, 
 Study to appease her. 
 
 Anton. Gracious madam, hear me. 
 
 Artem. And be again refused ? 
 
 Anton. The tender of 
 My life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it, 
 My love, my heart, my all ; and pardon me, 
 Pardon, dread princess, that I made some scruple 
 To leave a valley of security, 
 To mount up to the hill of majesty, 
 On which, the nearer Jove, the nearer lightning. 
 What knew I, but your grace made trial of me ? 
 Durst I presume to embrace, where but to touch 
 With an unmanner'd hand, was death ? The fox, 
 When he saw first the forest's king, the lion. 
 Was almost dead with fear ; the second view 
 Only a little daunted him ; the third, 
 He durst salute him boldly : pray you apply this \ 
 And you shall find a little time will teach me 
 To look with more familiar eyes upon you, 
 Than duty yet allows me. 
 
 Sap. Well excused. 
 
 Artem. You may redeem all j^et. 
 
 Diode. And that he may 
 Have means and opportunity to do so, 
 
390 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Artemia, I leave you my substitute 
 In fair Cossai'ea. 
 
 Sap. And here, as yourself, 
 Wo will obey and serve her. 
 
 Diode. Antoninus, 
 So you prove hers, I wish no other heir ; 
 Think on't: — be cai'eful of your charge, Theo- 
 
 philus ; 
 Sapritius, be you my daughter's guardian. 
 Your company I wish, confederate princes, 
 In our Dalmatian wars ; which finished 
 With victory, I hope, and Maximinus, 
 Our brother and copartner in the empire, 
 At my request won to confirm as much, 
 The kingdoms I took from yon we'll restore, 
 And make you greater than you were before. 
 
 [^Exeunt all hut Antoninus and Macrinus. 
 
 Anton. Oh, I am lost for ever ! lost, Macrinus ! 
 The anchor of the wretched, hope, forsakes me. 
 And with one blast of Fortune all my light 
 Of happiness is put out. 
 
 Mac. You are like to those 
 That are ill only 'cause they are too well ; 
 That, surfeiting in the excess of blessings, 
 Call their abundance want. What could you 
 
 wish, 
 That is not fall'n upon you ? honour, greatness, 
 Eespect, wealth, favour, the whole world for a 
 
 dower ; 
 And with a princess, whose excelling form 
 Exceeds her fortune. 
 
 Anton. Yet poison still is poison. 
 Though drunk in gold ; and all these flattering 
 
 glories 
 To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet 
 And no essential food. When I am scorch'd 
 With fire, can flames in any other quench me ? 
 What is her love to me, greatness or empire. 
 That am slave to another, who alone 
 Can give me ease or freedom ? 
 
 Mac. Sir, you point at 
 Your dotage on ^ the scornful Dorothea : 
 Is she, though fair, the same day to be named 
 With best Artemia ? In all their courses, 
 Wise men propose their ends : with sweet 
 
 Artemia, 
 There comes along pleasure, security, 
 Usher'd by all that in this life is precious : 
 With Dorothea (though her birth be noble. 
 The daughter to a senator of Eome, 
 By him left rich, yet with a private wealth, 
 And far inferior to yours) arrives 
 The emperor's frown, which, like a mortal plague, 
 Speaks death is near ; the princess' heavy scorn, 
 Under which you will shrink ; your father's fury, 
 Which to resist even piety forbids : — 
 And but remember that she stands suspected 
 A favourer of the Christian sect ; she brings 
 Not danger, but assured destruction with her. 
 This truly weigh'd, one smile of great Artemia 
 Is to be cherish'd, and preferr'd before 
 All joys in Dorothea : therefore leave her. 
 
 Anton. In what thou think'st thou art most 
 wise, thou art 
 Grossly abused, Macrinus, and most foolish. 
 For any man to match above his rank. 
 Is but to sell his liberty. With Artemia 
 I still must live a servant ; but enjoying 
 Divinest Dorothea, I shall rule, 
 Eule as becomes a husband : for the danger., 
 Or call it if you will assured destruction., 
 I slight it thus — If then thou art my friend, 
 As I dare swear thou art, and wilt not take 
 A governor's place upon thee, be my helper. 
 
 dotage on — excessive fondness for. 
 
 Mac. You know I dare and will do anything; 
 Put me unto the test. 
 
 Anton. Go then, Macrinus, 
 To Dorothea ; tell her I have worn, 
 In all the battles I have fought, her figure. 
 Her figure in my heart, which like a deity 
 Hath still protected me. Thou canst speak well; 
 And of thy choicest language spare a little. 
 To make her understand how much I love her, 
 And how I languish for her. Bear these jewels. 
 Sent in the way of sacrifice, not service. 
 As to my goddess : all lets ^ thrown behind me, 
 Or fears that may deter me, say, this morning 
 I mean to visit her by the name of friendship :— 
 No words to contradict this. 
 
 Mac. I am yours : 
 And, if my travail this way be ill spent. 
 Judge not my readier will by the event. 
 
 [_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 A Room in Dorothea's House. 
 Enter Spungius and Hircius. 
 
 Spun. Turn Christian ! Would he that first 
 tempted me to have my shoes walk upon Chris- 
 tian soles, had turn'd me into a capon ; for I am 
 sure now, the stones of all my pleasure, in this 
 fleshly life, are cut off. 
 
 Eir. So then, if any coxcomb has a galloping 
 desire to ride, here's a gelding, if he can but sit 
 him. 
 
 Spun. I kick, for all that, like a horse ; — look 
 else. 
 
 Hir. But that is a kickish jade, fellow Spun- 
 gius. Have not I as much cause to complain as 
 thou hast ? When I was a pagan, there was an 
 infidel punk of mine, would have let me come 
 upon trust for my curvetting. A pox on your 
 Christian cockatrices ! they cry, like poulterers' 
 wives. No money, no coney. 
 
 Sjmn. Bacchus, the god of brew'd wine and 
 sugar, grand patron of rob-pots, upsy-freesy^ tip- 
 plers, and super-naculum* takers ; this Bacchus, 
 who is head warden of Vintners' Hall, ale-con- 
 nei', * mayor of all victualling-houses, the solo 
 liquid benefactor to bawdy-houses ; lanceprezade* 
 to red noses, and invincible adelantado ^ over the 
 armado of pimpled, deep-scarleted, rubified, and 
 carbuncled faces — 
 
 Hir. What of all this? 
 
 Spun. This boon Bacchanalian skinker, did I 
 make legs to. 
 
 Hir. Scurvy ones, when thou wert drunk. 
 
 Spun. There is no danger of losing a man's 
 ears by making these indentures ; he that will 
 not now and then be Calabingo, is worse than a 
 Calamoothe. When I was a pagan, and kneeled 
 to this Bacchus, I durst out-drink a lord ; but 
 your Christian lords out-bowl me. I was in hope 
 to lead a sober life when I was converted ; but 
 now, amongst the Christians, I can no sooner 
 stagger out of one ale-house, but I reel into an- 
 
 1 lets — hindrances. 
 
 2 upsy-freesy, or vpsce Freeze. See note 1, p. 170, 
 col. 2. 
 
 ^ super-naculnm—a. kind of mock-Latin term, in- 
 tended to mean upon the nail. — Nakes. 
 
 * ale-conner — an official fonnerly appointed by the 
 London courts to look to the assize and goodness of 
 bread, ale, and beer. — Nakes. 
 
 ' lanceprezade — the lowest officer of foot. 
 
 8 adelantado — commander. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 391 
 
 other; they have whole streets of nothing but 
 drinking-rooms and drabbing-chambers jumbled 
 together. 
 
 Rir. Since I left Priapus to follow a scurvy- 
 lady, what with her praying and our fasting, if 
 now I come to a wench, she presently handles me 
 as if I were a clove, and cleaves me with disdain, 
 as if I were a calf's head. 
 
 Spun. I see no remedy, fellow Hircius, but 
 that thou and I must be half pagans and half 
 Christians ; for we know very fools that are 
 Christians. 
 
 Hir. Eight ; the quarters of Christians are good 
 for nothing but to feed crows. 
 
 St^uu. True. Christian brokers, thou know'st, 
 are made up of the quarters of Christians ; par- 
 boil one of these rogues, and he is not meat for 
 a dog. No, no ; I am resolved to have an in- 
 fidel's heart, though in show I carry a Christian's 
 face. 
 
 Hir. Thy last shall sei've my foot : so will I. 
 
 Spun. Our whimpering lady and mistress sent 
 me with two great baskets full of beef, mutton, 
 veal, and goose, fellow Hircius — 
 
 Hir. And woodcock, fellow Spungius. 
 
 Spun. Upon the poor lean ass-fellow, on which 
 I ride, to all the almswomen : what think'st thou 
 I have done with all this good cheer ? 
 
 Hir. Eat it ; or be choked else. 
 
 Spun. Would my ass, basket and all, were in 
 thy maw, if I did ! No, as I am a demi-pagan, 
 I sold the victuals, and coined the money into 
 pottle pots of wine. 
 
 Hir. Therein thou showed'st thyself a perfect 
 demi-Christian too, to let the poor beg, starve, 
 and hang, or die of the pip. Our puling, snotty- 
 nose lady sent me out likewise with a purse of 
 money, to relieve and release prisoners. Did I 
 so, think you ? 
 
 Spun. Would thy ribs were turned into grates 
 of iron then. 
 
 Hir. As I am a total pagan, I swore they 
 should be hanged first: for, sirrah Spungius, I 
 cried, a pox on your twopenny-wards ! and so I 
 took scurvy common flesh for the money. 
 
 Spun. And wisely done ; for our lady, sending 
 it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy 
 knaves. 
 
 Hir. All my fear is of that pink-an-eye jack- 
 an-apes boy, her page. 
 
 Spun. As I am a pagan from my cod-piece 
 downward, that white-faced monkey frights me 
 too. I stole but a dirty pudding, last day, out of 
 an almsbasket, to give my dog when he was 
 hungry, and the peaking chitty-face page hit me 
 in the teeth Avith it. 
 
 Hir. With the dirty pudding ! so he did me 
 once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would 
 have crumb'd into one's porridge, who was half 
 a pagan too. The smug dandiprat smells us out 
 whatsoever we are doing. 
 
 Spun. Does he.' let him take heed I prove not 
 his back-friend. I'll make him curse his smelling 
 what I do. 
 
 Hir. 'Tis my lady spoils the boy; for he is 
 ever at her tail, and she is never well but in his 
 company. 
 
 Enter Angelo with a hooh, and a taper lighted; 
 seeing him, they counterfeit devotion. 
 
 Ang. Oh! now your hearts make ladders of 
 
 your eyes, 
 In show to climb to heaven, when your devotion 
 Walks upon crutches. Where did you waste 
 
 your time, 
 When the religious man was on his knees, 
 Speaking the heavenly language ? 
 
 Spun. Whj fellow Angelo, we were speaking 
 in pedlar's French, I hope. 
 
 Hir. We have not been idle, take it upon my 
 word. 
 
 Ang. Have you the baskets emptied, which 
 your lady 
 Sent, from her charitable hands, to women 
 That dwell upon her pity ? 
 
 Spun. Emptied them ? yes. I'd be loth to have 
 my belly so empty : yet, I am sure, I munched 
 not one bit of them neither. 
 
 Ang. And went your money to the prisoners ? 
 
 Hir. Went ? no. I carried it, and with these 
 fingers paid it away. 
 
 Ang. What way ? the devil's way ; the way of 
 sin; 
 The way of hot damnation ; way of lust ? 
 And you, to wash away the poor man's bread, 
 In bowls of drunkenness ? 
 
 Spun. Drunkenness! Yes, yes, I use to be 
 drunk. Our next neighbour's man, called Chris- 
 topher, hath often seen me drunk, hath he not ? 
 
 Hir. Or me given so to the flesh. My cheeks 
 speak my doings. 
 
 Ang. Avaunt, ye thieves and hollow hypocrites! 
 Tour hearts to me lie open, like black books, 
 And there I read your doings. 
 
 Spun. And what do you read in my heart ? 
 
 Hir. Or in mine 7 Come, amiable Angelo, beat 
 the flint of your brains. 
 
 Spun. And let's see what sparks of wit fly out 
 to kindle your cerebrum. 
 
 Ang. Your names even brand you ; you are 
 Spungius call'd. 
 And, like a spunge, you suck up lickerish wines, 
 Till your soul reels to hell. 
 
 Spun. To hell! Can any drunkard's legs carry 
 him so far 7 
 
 Ang. For blood of grapes you sold the widows' 
 food. 
 And, starving them, 'tis murder ; what's this but 
 
 hell 7— 
 Hircius ^ your name, and goatish is your nature ; 
 You snatch the meat out of the prisoner's mouth. 
 To fatten harlots : is not this hell too ? 
 No angel, but the devil, waits on you. 
 
 Spun. Shall I cut his throat ? 
 
 Hir. No ; better burn him, for I think he is a 
 witch : but soothe, soothe him. 
 
 Spun. Fellow Angelo, true it is that falling 
 into the company of wicked he-Christians, for my 
 part — 
 
 Hir. And she-ones, for mine, — we have them 
 swim in shoals hard by — 
 
 Spun. We must confess, I took too tauch out 
 of the pot ; and he of t'other hollow commodity. 
 
 Hir. Yes, indeed, we laid Jill on both of us; 
 we cozen'd the poor ; but 'tis a common thing : 
 many a one, that counts himself a better Chris- 
 tian than we two, has done it, by this light ! 
 
 Spun. But pray, sweet Angelo, play not the 
 tell-tale to my lady ; and, if you take us creeping 
 into any of these mouse-holes of sin any more, 
 let cats flay off our skins. 
 
 Hir. And put nothing but the poison'd tails of 
 rats into those skins. 
 
 Ang. Will you dishonour her sweet charity. 
 Who saved you from the tree of death and shame ? 
 
 Hir. Would I were hang'd, rather than thus be 
 told of my faults ! 
 
 Spun. She took us, 'tis true, from the gallows ; 
 yet I hope she will not bar yeoman sprats to have 
 their swing. 
 
 1 Hircius in Latin means a he-goat. 
 
392 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATIST::^. 
 
 Ang. She comes, — beware, and mend. 
 
 Eir. Let's break his neck, and bid him mend. 
 
 Enter Dorothea. 
 
 Dor. Have you my messages sent to the poor, 
 Deliver'd with good hands, not robbing them 
 Of any jot was theirs ? 
 
 Spun. Eob them, lady ! I hope neither my fel- 
 low nor I am thieves. 
 
 Hir. Delivered with good hands, madam ! else 
 let me never lick my fingers more when I eat 
 butter'd fish. 
 
 Dor. Who cheat the poor, and from them pluck 
 their alms, 
 Pilfer from heaven ; and there are thunderbolts, 
 From thence to beat them ever. Do not lie ; 
 Were you both faithful, true distributors ? 
 
 Spun. Lie, madam I what grief is it to see you 
 turn swaggei'er, and give your poor-minded ras- 
 cally servants the lie ! 
 
 Dor. I'm glad you do not ; if those wretched 
 people 
 Tell you they pine for want of anything, 
 Whisper but to mine ear, and you shall furnish 
 them. 
 
 Eir. Whisper ! nay, lady, for my part I'll cry 
 whoop. 
 
 Ang. Play no more, villains, with so good a 
 For, if you do — [lady ; 
 
 Spun. Are we Christians ? 
 
 Eir. The foul fiend snap all pagans for me ! 
 
 Ang. Away, and, once more, mend. 
 
 Spun. 'Takes us for botchers. 
 
 Eir, A patch, a patch ! i 
 
 [Exeunt Spun, and Hir. 
 
 Dor. My book and taper. 
 
 A7ig. Here, most holy mistress. 
 
 Dor. Thy voice sends foi'th such music, that 
 I never 
 Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. 
 Were every servant in the world like thee. 
 So fuU of goodness, angels would come down 
 To dwell with us : thy name is Angelo, 
 And like that name thou art ; get thee to rest, 
 Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. 
 
 Ang. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars, 
 And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes. 
 By my late watching, but to wait on you. 
 When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, 
 Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, 
 So blest I hold me in your company : 
 Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid 
 Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence, 
 For then you break his heart. 
 
 Dor. Be nigh me still, then : 
 In golden letters down I'll set that day, 
 Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope 
 To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, 
 This little, pretty body ;' when I, coming 
 Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy. 
 My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms 
 Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand! — 
 And, when I took thee home, my most chaste 
 
 bosom, 
 Methought, was fill'd with no hot wanton fire. 
 But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, 
 On wings of cherubims, than it did before. 
 
 Ang. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye 
 So likes so poor a servant. 
 
 Dor. I have offer'd 
 Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. 
 I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some. 
 To dwell with thy good father ; for, the sou 
 Bewitching me so deeply with his presence. 
 
 » a patch— & fool. 
 
 He that begot him must do't ten times more. 
 I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents; 
 Be not ashamed. 
 
 Ang. I am not : I did never 
 Know who my mother was ; but, by yon palace, 
 Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare 
 
 assure you. 
 And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, 
 My father is in heaven : and, pretty mistress. 
 If your illustrious hourglass spend his sand. 
 No worse than yet it does ; upon my life, 
 You and I both shall meet my father there, 
 And he shall bid you welcome. 
 
 Dor. A blessed day ! 
 We all long to be there, but lose the way. 
 
 [Exewit. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Street near Dorothea's Eotise. 
 
 Enter Macrinus, met by Theophilus a7id 
 Harpax. 
 
 Theoph. The Sun, god of the day, guide thee, 
 Macrinus ! 
 
 Mac And thee, Theophilus ! 
 
 Theoph. Glad'st thou in such scorn ? i 
 I call my wish back. 
 
 Mac. I'm in haste. 
 
 Theoph. One word, 
 Take the least hand of time up : — stay. 
 
 Mac. Be brief. 
 
 Theoph. As thought I pr'ythee tell me, good 
 Macrinus, 
 How health and our fair princess lay together 
 This night, for you can tell ; courtiers have flies, * 
 That buzz all news iinto them. 
 
 J/ac. She slept but ill. 
 
 Theoph. Double thy courtesy; how does An- 
 toninus ? 
 
 Mac. Ill, well, straight, crooked,— I know not 
 
 Theoph. Once more ; [how. 
 
 — Thy head is full of windmills : — when doth the 
 
 princess 
 Fill a bed full of beauty, and bestow it 
 On Antoninus, on the wedding-night? 
 
 Mac. 1 know not. 
 
 Theoph. No ! thou art the manuscript 
 Where Antoninus writes down all his secrets : 
 Honest Macrinus, tell me. 
 
 Mac. Fare you well, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Earp, Honesty is some fiend, and frights him 
 A many courtiers love it not. [hence ; 
 
 Theoph. What piece 
 Of this state-wheel, which winds up Antoninus. 
 Is broke, it runs so jarringly ? the man 
 Is from himself divided : thou, the eye, 
 By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax, 
 What gad-fly tickles this Macrinus so. 
 That, flinging up the tail, he bx-eaks thus from 
 me. 
 
 Eaip. Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes, 
 Whose stings shoot through his eyeballs, whose 
 
 poisonous spawn 
 Ingenders such a fry of speckled villanies. 
 That, unless charms more strong than adamant 
 Be used, the Koman angel's 3 wings shall melt. 
 
 1 Glad'st thoti, &c. — Theophilus, who is represented as 
 a furious zealot for paganism, is mortified at the indif- 
 ference with which Macrinus returns tlie happiness he 
 had wished him by his god. — Gifford. 
 
 ^ flies — familiars. 
 
 3 angel, according to Gifford, was frequently used as 
 meaning bird by old authors ; here, he says, it no doubt 
 means eagle. 
 
PHILIP MAS SINGER. 
 
 393 
 
 And Osesar's diadem be from his head 
 
 Spurn'd by base feet ; the laurel which he wears, 
 
 Eeturning victor, be enforced to kiss 
 
 That which it hates, the fire. And can this 
 
 ram, 
 This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready- 
 To so much mischief, keep a steady motion ? — 
 His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults. 
 Theoph. I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy lan- 
 guage, 
 Which printed is in such crabb'd characters, 
 It puzzles all my reading : what, in the name 
 Of Pluto, now is hatching ? 
 
 Harp. This Macrinus, 
 The line J is, upon which love-errands run 
 'Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women, 
 The bloodless Dorothea ; who in prayer 
 And meditation, mocking all your gods, 
 Drinks up her ruby colour : yet Antoninus 
 Plays the Endymion to this pale-faced Moon, 
 Courts, seeks to catch her eyes — 
 Theoph. And what of this ? 
 Harp. These are but creeping billows, 
 Not got to shore yet ; but if Dorothea 
 Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love 
 (Your coldest women do so), — had you iuk 
 Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that black- 
 ness 
 Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours, 
 Disgraces, buffetings, and most base affronts 
 Upon the bright Artemia, star o' the court, 
 Great Caesar's daughter. 
 
 Theoph. I now conster "^ thee. 
 Harp. Nay, more ; a firmament of clouds, being 
 fill'd 
 With Jove's artillery, shot down at once. 
 To pash' your gods in pieces, cannot give, 
 With all those thunderbolts, so deep a blow 
 To the religion thei'e, and pagan lore, 
 As this ; for Dorothea hates your gods, 
 And, if she once blast Antoninus' soul, 
 Making it foul like hers, oh ! the example — 
 Theoph. Eats through Cfflsarea's heart like 
 liquid poison. 
 Have I invented tortures to tear Christians, 
 To see but which, could all that feel hell's tor- 
 ments 
 Have leave to stand aloof here on earth's 
 
 stage. 
 They would be mad till they again descended. 
 Holding the pains most horrid of such souls, 
 May-games to those of mine ; has this my hand 
 Set down a Christian's execution 
 In such dire postures, that the very hangman 
 Fell at my foot dead, hearing but their figures ; 
 And shall Macrinus and his fellow-masquer 
 Strangle me in a dance .'* 
 
 Harp. No : — on ; I hug thee. 
 For drilling thy quick brains in this rich plot 
 Of tortures 'gainst these Christians : on ; I hug 
 thee ! 
 Theoph. Both hug and holy me : to this Doro- 
 thea 
 Fly thou and I in thunder. 
 Haip. Not for kingdoms 
 Piled upon kingdoms ; there's a villain page 
 Waits on her, whom I would not for the world 
 Hold traffic with ; I do so hate his sight. 
 That, should I look on him, I must sink down. 
 
 1 line. The allusion here is, according to GifFord, to 
 the rude fireworks of our ancestors, which seem to have 
 been made to run in lines. 
 
 ^ conster — construe, understand. 
 
 3 push — strike violently. Bash is still vulgarly used in 
 the same sense. 
 
 Theoph. I will not lose thee then, her to con- 
 found: 
 None but this head with glories shall be crown'd. 
 Harp. Oh ! mine own as I would wish thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in Dorothea's House. 
 
 Enter Dorothea, Macrinus, and Angelo. 
 
 Dor. My trusty Angelo, with that curious eye 
 Of thine, which ever waits upon my business, 
 I pr'y thee watch those my still-negligent servants, 
 That they perform my will, in what's enjoin'd 
 
 them 
 To the good of others ; else will you find them 
 
 flies. 
 Not lying still, yet in them no good lies : 
 Be careful, dear boy. 
 
 Ang. Yes, my sweetest mistress. [Exit. 
 
 Dor. Now, sir, you may go on. 
 3Iac. I then must study 
 A new arithmetic, to sum up the virtues 
 Which Antoninus gracefully become. 
 There is in him so much man, so much goodness, 
 So much of honour, and of all things else. 
 Which make our being excellent, that from his 
 
 store 
 He can enough lend others : yet, much ta'en 
 
 from him, 
 The want shall be as little, as when seas 
 Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness 
 Of needy rivers. 
 
 Dor. Sir, he is more indebted 
 To you for praise, than you to him that owes it. 
 Mac. If queens, viewing his presents paid to 
 the whiteness 
 Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious 
 But to be parted ^ in their numerous shai'es ; 
 This he counts nothing: could you see main 
 
 armies 
 Make battles in the quarrel of his valour. 
 That 'tis the best, the truest ; this were nothing : 
 The greatness of his state, his lather's voice 
 And arm, awing Csesarea, he ne'er boasts of ; 
 The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon 
 
 him. 
 Shine there but as in water, and gild him 
 Not with one spot of pride : no, dearest beauty, 
 All these, heap'd up together in one scale, 
 Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you 
 Being put into the other. 
 
 Dor. Could gold buy you 
 To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy 
 Of more than I will number ; and this your lan- 
 guage 
 Hath power to win upon another woman, 
 'Top of whose heart the feathers of this world 
 Are gaily stuck : but all which first you named, 
 And now this last, his love, to me are nothing. 
 Mac. You make me a sad messenger; — but 
 himself 
 
 Enter Antoninus. 
 Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from yoTi 
 Music more pleasing. 
 
 Anton. Has your ear, Macrinus, 
 Heard none, then ? 
 Mac. None I like. 
 Anton. But can there be 
 In such a noble casket, wherein lie 
 Beauty and chastity in their full perfections, 
 A rocky heart, killing with cruelty 
 A life that's prostrated beneath your feet ? 
 
 ' varied— favoured or endowed with a part.— Giffobd. 
 
394 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Dor. I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew, 
 Thus to hold parley with you ; — pray, sir, pai-don. 
 
 [^Going. 
 
 Anton. Good sweetness, you now have it, and 
 shall go : 
 Be but so merciful, before your wounding me 
 With such a mortal weapon as Fai-ewell, 
 To let me murmur to your virgin ear, 
 What I was loath to lay on any tongue 
 But this mine own. 
 
 Dor. If one immodest accent 
 Fly out, I hate you everlastingly. 
 
 Anton. My true love dares not do it. 
 
 Mac. Hermes inspire thee ! 
 
 Enter above, Artemia, Sapritius, Theophilus, 
 Spungius, and Hircius. 
 
 Spun. So, now, do you see? — Our work is 
 done; the fish you angle for is nibbling at the 
 hook, and thei'efore untruss the cod-piece-point 
 of ^ our reward, no matter if the breeches of con- 
 science fall about our heels. 
 
 Theoph. The gold you earn is here; dam up 
 And no words of it. [your mouths, 
 
 Hir. IN'o ; nor no words from you of too much 
 damning neither. I know women sell themselves 
 daily, and are hackneyed out for silver ; why may 
 not we, then, betray a scurvy mistress for gold ? 
 
 Spun. She saved us from the gallows, and, 
 only to keep one proverb from breaking his neck, 
 we'll hang her. 
 
 Theoph. 'Tis well done ; go, go, you're my fine 
 white 1 boys. 
 
 Spun. If your red boys, 'tis well known more 
 ill-favoured faces than ours are painted. 
 
 Sap. Those fellows trouble us. 
 
 Theoph. Away, away ! 
 
 Hir. I to my sweet placket. ^ 
 
 Spun. And I to my full pot. 
 
 {^Exeunt Hircius and Spungius. 
 
 Anton. Come, let me tune you : — glaze not thus 
 your eyes 
 With self-love of a vow'd virginity, 
 Make every man your glass ; jow see our sex 
 Do never murder propagation ; 
 We all desire your sweet society, 
 But if you bar me from it, you do kill me, 
 And of my blood are guilty. 
 
 Artem. Oh base villain ! 
 
 Sap. Bridle your rage, sweet princess. 
 
 Anton. Could not my fortunes, 
 Eear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you, 
 Methinks my dear affection makes you mine. 
 
 Dor. Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines 
 of gold. 
 He that I love is richer ; and for worth, 
 You are to him lower than any slave 
 Is to a monarch. 
 
 Sap. So insolent, base Christian! 
 
 Dor. Can I, with wearing out my knees before 
 him, 
 Get you but be his servant, you shall boast 
 You're equal to a king. 
 
 Sap. Confusion on thee. 
 For playing thus the lying sorceress. 
 
 Anton. Your mocks are great ones ; none be- 
 neath the sun 
 Will I be servant to. — On my knees I beg it. 
 Pity me, wondrous maid. 
 
 Sap. I curse thy baseness. 
 
 Theoph. Listen to more. 
 
 Dor. Oh kneel not, sir, to me. 
 
 1 white— then a term of endearment. 
 ^placket. See note 2, p. 79, col. 1; here it evidently 
 means woman. 
 
 Anton. This knee is emblem of an humbled 
 heart : 
 That heart which tortured is with your disdain, 
 Justly for scorning others, even this heart, 
 To which for pity such a princess sues, 
 As in her hand offers me all the world, 
 Great Caesar's daughter. 
 
 Artem. Slave, thouliest. 
 
 Antoji. Yet this 
 Is adamant to her, that melts to you 
 In drops of blood. 
 
 Theoph. A very dog ! 
 
 Anton. Perhaps 
 'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow ; 
 Yet be you mine, and ever be your own : 
 I ne'er will screw your conscience from that 
 On which you Christians lean. [Power 
 
 Sap. I can no longer 
 Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain. 
 Sirrah ! [Aloud. 
 
 Would, when I got thee, the high Thunderer's 
 Had struck thee in the womb ! [hand 
 
 Mac. We are betray' d. 
 
 Artem. Is that the idol, traitor, which thou 
 Trampling upon my beauty ? [kneel'st to, 
 
 Theoph. Sirrah, bandog! ^ 
 Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter 
 For her ? our Mars for her ? our Sol for her ? — 
 A whore ! a hell-hound ! In this globe of brains, 
 Where a whole world of furies for such tortures 
 Have fought, as in a chaos, which should exceed, 
 These nails shall grubbing lie from skull to skull, 
 To find one horrider than all, for, you, 
 You three ! 
 
 Artem. Threaten not, but strike: quick ven- 
 geance flies 
 Into my bosom ; caitiff ! here all love dies. 
 
 [Exeunt above. 
 
 Anton. Oh! I am thunderstruck! We are both 
 o'erwhelm'd — 
 
 Mac. With one high-raging billow. 
 
 Dor. You a soldier, 
 And sink beneath the violence of a woman ! 
 
 Anton. A woman ! a wi'ong'd princess. From 
 such a star. 
 Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for 
 But tragical events ? My life is now 
 The suibject of her tyranny. 
 
 Dor. That fear is base, 
 Of death, when that death doth but life displace 
 Out of her house of earth ; you only dread 
 The stroke, and not what follows when you're 
 
 dead; 
 There's the great fear, indeed: come, let your 
 
 eyes 
 Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies. 
 
 Re-enter below, Artemia, Sapritius, Theo- 
 philus, a guard; Axgelo comes and stands 
 close by Dorothea. 
 
 Artem. My father's nerves put vigour in mine 
 
 arm. 
 And I his strength must use. Because I once 
 Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion, 
 Play'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my 
 
 heart, 
 I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey, 
 By lingering out thy terrors ; but, with one frown, 
 Kill thee. Hence with them all to execution. 
 Seize him; but let even death itself be Aveary 
 In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to 
 
 shrieks ; 
 
 1 bandog— i.e. band or bound-^og, a dog so fierce as to 
 require to be tied up. It was used for baiting bears, 
 and Gifford thinks was a kind of mastiff, but Nares, a 
 bull-dog. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 395 
 
 Give the fool what she's proud of — martyrdom : 
 In pieces rack that bawd too. 
 
 \Pcnnts to Mack. 
 
 Sap. Albeit the reverence 
 I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom. 
 Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd 
 From saving this young man ; yet, when I see 
 What face death gives him, and that a thing 
 
 within me 
 Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man. 
 And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg. 
 
 Artem. And I deny. 
 
 Anton. Sir, you dishonour me, 
 To sue for that which I disclaim to have. 
 I shall more glory in my sufferings gain, 
 Than you in giving judgment, since I offer 
 My blood up to your anger ; nor do I kneel 
 To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin ; 
 Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is. 
 And Csesar never went in greater triumph. 
 Than I shall to the scaffold. 
 
 Artem. Are you so brave, sir ? 
 Set forward to his triumph, and let those two 
 Go cursing along with him. 
 
 Dor. No, but pitying. 
 For my part, I, that you lose ten times more 
 By torturing me, than I that dai'e jowv tortures : 
 Through all the army of my sins, I have even 
 Labour'd to break, and cope with death to th' face. 
 The visage of a hangman frights not me ; 
 The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires. 
 Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up 
 To an eternal habitation. 
 
 Theoph. Caesar's imperial daughter! hear me 
 speak. 
 Let not this Christian thing, in this her page- 
 antry 
 Of proud deriding both our gods and Csesar, 
 Build to herself a kingdom in her death, 
 Going laughing from us : no ; her bitterest tor- 
 ment 
 Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down ! 
 The bravery of her resolution lie 
 Batter'd, by argument, into such pieces. 
 That she again shall, on her belly, creep 
 To kiss the pavements of our paynim gods. 
 
 Artem. How to be done ? 
 
 Theoph. I'll send my daughters to her, 
 And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax ; 
 Else spit at me, let me be made your slave, 
 And meet no Koman's but a villain's grave. 
 
 Artem. Thy prisoner let her be, then ; and, 
 Sapritius, , 
 
 Tour son and that i be youi'S : death shall be sent 
 To him that suffers them, by voice or letters. 
 To greet each other. Kifle her estate ; 
 Christians to beggarj' brought, grow desperate. 
 
 Dor. Still on the bread of poverty let me feed. 
 
 Ang. Oh! my admired mistress, quench not out 
 The holy fires within you, though temptations 
 Shower down upon you. Clasp thine armour on. 
 Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars. 
 Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch 
 stars. [^Exeunt all hut Angelo. 
 
 Enter Hircius and Spungius. 
 
 Hir. How now, Angelo ; how is it, how is it ? 
 What thread spins that whore Fortune upon her 
 wheel now ? 
 
 Spun. ConC esta, com' esta, poor knave ? 
 
 Hir. Comment portez-voiis, comment portez- 
 vous^ mon petit garqon ? 
 
 Spun. My pretty wee comrade, my half-inch of 
 
 * that — Macrinus. 
 
 man's flesh, how run the dice of this cheating 
 world, ha? 
 
 A7ig. Too well on your sides ; you are hid in 
 gold o'er head and ears. 
 
 Hir. We thank our fates, the sign of the gingle- 
 boys hangs at the doors of our pockets. 
 
 Spun. Who Avould think that we, coming forth 
 of the a — , as it were, or fag-end of the world, 
 should yet see the golden age, when so little 
 silver is stirring ? 
 
 Hir. Nay, who can say any citizen is an ass, 
 for loading his own back with money till his soul 
 cracks again, only to leave his son like a gilded 
 coxcomb behind him ? Will not any fool take 
 me for a wise man now, seeing me draw out of 
 the pit of my treasury this little god with his 
 belly full of gold ? 
 
 Spun. And this, full of the same meat, out of 
 my ambry ? 
 
 Ang. That gold will melt to poison. 
 
 Spun. Poison I would it would! whole pints 
 for healths should down my throat. 
 
 Hir. Gold poison! There is never a she- 
 thrasher in Csesarea, that lives on the flail of 
 money, will call it so. 
 
 Ang. Like slaves you sold your souls for golden 
 dross, 
 Bewraying her to death, who stept between 
 You and the gallows. 
 
 Spun. It was an easy matter to save us, she 
 being so v,^ell back'd. 
 
 Hir. The gallows and we fell out: so she did 
 but part us. 
 
 Ang. The misery of that mistress is mine own ; 
 She beggar' d, I left wretched. 
 
 Hir. 1 can but let my nose drop in sorrow, 
 with wet eyes for her. 
 
 Spun. The petticoat of her estate is unlaced, I 
 confess. 
 
 Hir. Yes, and the smock of her charity is now 
 all to pieces. 
 
 Ang. For love you bear to her, for some good 
 turns 
 Done you by me, give me one piece of silver. 
 
 Hir. How ! a piece of silver ! If thou wert an 
 angel of gold, I would not put thee into white 
 money unless I weighed thee ; and I weigh thee 
 not a rush. 
 
 Spun. A piece of silver ! I never had but two 
 calves in my life, and those my mother left me ; 
 I will rather part from the fat of them, than from 
 a mustard-token's worth of argent. 
 
 Hir. And so, sweet nit, we crawl from thee. 
 
 Spun. Adieu, demi-dandiprat,^ adieu ! 
 
 Ang. Stay, — one word yet ; you now are full 
 of gold. 
 
 Hir. I would be sorry my dog were so full of 
 the pox. 
 
 Spun. Or any sow of mine of the measles either. 
 
 Ang. Go, go ! you're beggars both ; you are 
 not worth 
 That leather on your feet. 
 
 Hir. Away, away, boy ! 
 
 Spun. Page, you do nothing but set patches on 
 the soles of your jests. 
 
 Ang. I am glad I tried your love, which, seo 1 
 I want not. 
 So long as this is full. 
 
 Both. And so long as this, so long as this. 
 
 Hir. Spungius, you are a pickpocket. 
 
 Spun. Hircius, thou hast nimm'd : ^ — So long 
 as! — not so much money is left as will buy a 
 louse. 
 
 1 demi-dandiprat—haM dwarfc 
 
 2 nimm'd— stolen. 
 
39^ 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Hir. Thou art a thief, and thou liest in that 
 gut through which thy wine runs, if thou de- 
 niest it. 
 
 Spun. Thou liest deeper than the bottom of 
 mine enraged pocket, if thou affrontest it. 
 
 Aug. No blows, no bitter language ;— all your 
 gold done ! 
 
 Spun. Can the devil creep into one's breeches? 
 
 Hir. Yes, if his horns once get into the cod- 
 piece. 
 
 Ang. Come, sigh not ; I so little am in love 
 With that whose loss kills you, that, see! 'tis 
 
 yours, 
 All yours : divide the heap in equal share, 
 So you will go along with me to prison, 
 And in our mistress' sorrows bear a part ; 
 Say, will you ? 
 
 Both. Will we ! 
 
 Spun. If she were going to hanging, no gallows 
 should part us. 
 
 Hir. Let us both be turn'd into a rope of onions, 
 if we do not. 
 
 Ang. Follow me, then ; repair your bad deeds 
 past; 
 Happy are men, when their best days are last ! 
 
 Spun. True, Master Angelo-, pray, sir, lead 
 the way. [Exit Angelo. 
 
 Hir. Let him lead that way, but follow thou 
 me this way. 
 
 Spun. I live in a gaol ! 
 
 Hir. Away, and shift for ourselves : — She'll do 
 well enough there ; for prisoners are more hungry 
 after mutton, than catchpoles after prisoners. 
 
 Spun. Let her starve, then, if a whole gaol will 
 not fill her belly. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE L 
 
 A Room in Dorothea's House. 
 
 Enter Sapritius, Theophilus, Priest, Calista, 
 and Christeta. 
 
 Sap. Sick to the death, I fear. 
 
 Theoph. I meet your sorrow. 
 With my true feeling of it. 
 
 Sap. She's a witch, 
 A sorceress, Theophilus ; my son 
 Is charm'd by her enchanting eyes, and, like 
 An image made of wax, her beams of beauty 
 Melt him to nothing : all my hopes in him. 
 And all his gotten honours, find their grave 
 In his strange dotage on her. Would, when 
 
 first 
 He saw and loved her, that the earth had open'd. 
 And swallow'd both alive ! 
 
 Theoph. There's hope left yet. 
 
 Sap. Not any : though the princess were ap- 
 peased, 
 All title in her love surrender'd up ; 
 Yet this coy Christian is so transported 
 With her religion, that unless my son 
 (But let him perish first !) drink the same potion. 
 And be of her belief, she'll not vouchsafe 
 To be his lawful wife. 
 
 PHest. But, once removed 
 From her opinion, as I rest assured 
 The reasons of these holy maids will win her. 
 You'll find her tractable to anything, 
 For your content or his. 
 
 Theoph. If she refuse it, 
 The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs. 
 The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing eye. 
 The dreadful lightning that does crush the bones. 
 And never singe the skin, shall not appear 
 Less fatal to her, than my zeal made hot 
 
 With love unto my gods. I have deferr'd it, 
 In hopes to draw back this apostata. 
 Which will be greater honour than her death, 
 Unto her father's faith ; and, to that end, 
 Have brought my daughters hither. 
 
 Cal. And, we doubt not, 
 To do what you desire. 
 
 Sap. Let her be sent for. 
 Prosper in your good work ; and were I not 
 To attend the princess, I would see and hear 
 How you succeed. 
 
 Theoph. I am commanded too, 
 I'll bear you company. 
 
 Sap. Give them your ring, 
 To lead her as in triumph, if they win her, 
 Before her highness. [Exit. 
 
 Theoph. Spare no promises. 
 Persuasions, or threats, I do conjure you : 
 If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work 
 You ever undertook. 
 
 Enter Dorothea and Angelo. 
 
 Priest. She comes. 
 
 Theoph. We leave you ; 
 Be constant, and be careful. 
 
 [Exeunt Theoph. and Priest, 
 
 Cal. We are sorry 
 To meet you under guard. 
 
 Dor. But I more grieved 
 You are at liberty. So well I love yoa. 
 That I could wish, for such a cause as mine, 
 You were my fellow-prisoners. Pr'ythee, Angelo, 
 Keach us some chairs. Please you sit — 
 
 Cal. We thank you : 
 Our visit is for love, love to your safety. 
 
 Christ. Our conference must be private ; pray 
 you, therefore. 
 Command your boy to leave us. 
 
 Dor. You may trust him 
 With any seci-et that concerns my life. 
 Falsehood and he ai'e strangers. Had you, ladies, 
 Been bless'd with such a servant, you had never 
 Forsook that way, your journey even half ended. 
 That leads to joys eternal. In the place 
 Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd 
 
 you 
 To holy meditations ; and so far 
 He is from flattery, that he would have told you, 
 Your pride being at the height, how miserable 
 And wretched things yon were, that, for an hour 
 Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale 
 Of all your right in happiness hereafter. 
 He must not leave me ; without him I fall : 
 In this life he's my servant, in the other 
 A wish'd companion. 
 
 Ang. 'Tis not in the devil. 
 Nor all his wicked arts, to shake such goodness. 
 
 Dor. But you were speaking, lady. 
 
 Cal. As a friend 
 And lover of your safety, and I pray you 
 So to receive it ; and, if you remember 
 How near in love our parents were, that we, 
 Even from the cradle, were brought up together, 
 Our amity increasing with our years. 
 We cannot stand suspected. 
 
 Dor. To the purpose. 
 
 Cal. We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea, 
 To make you happy ; and the means so easy. 
 That, be not you an enemy to yourself. 
 Already you enjoy it. 
 
 Christ. Look on us, 
 Kuin'd as you are, once, and brought unto it, 
 By your persuasion. * 
 
 Cal. But what followed, lady ? 
 Leaving those blessings which our gods gave 
 
 freely. 
 And shower'd upon us with a prodigal hand, 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 397 
 
 As to be noble born, youth, beauty, wealth, 
 And the free use of these without control, 
 Check, curb, or stop, such is our law's indul- 
 gence ! 
 All happiness forsook us ; bonds and fetters, 
 For amorous twines; the rack and hangman's 
 
 whips. 
 In place of choice delights ? our parents' curses 
 Instead of blessings ; scorn, neglect, contempt, 
 Fell thick upon us. 
 
 Christ. This consider'd wisely, 
 We made a fair retreat ; and reconciled 
 To our forsaken gods, we live again 
 In all prosperity. 
 
 Col. By our example, 
 Bequeathing misery to such as love it, 
 Learn to be happy. The Christian's yoke's too 
 
 heavy 
 For such a dainty neck ; it was framed rather 
 To be the shrine of Venus, or a pillar, 
 More precious than crystal, to support 
 Our Cupid's image : our religion, lady, 
 Is but a varied pleasure ; yours a toil 
 Slaves would shrink under. 
 
 Dor. Have you not cloven feet ? are you not 
 devils ? 
 Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it 
 Without a virtuous and religious anger ? 
 Now to put on a virgin modesty. 
 Or maiden silence, when his power is question'd 
 That is omnipotent, were a greater crime, 
 Than in a bad cause to be impudent. 
 Your gods ! your temples ! brothel-houses rather, 
 Or wicked actions of the worst of men, 
 Pursued and practised. Your religious rites ! 
 Oh ! call them rather juggling mysteries, 
 The baits and nets of hell : your souls the prey 
 For which the devil angles ; your false pleasures 
 A steep descent, by which you headlong fall 
 Into eternal torments. 
 
 Cal. Do not tempt 
 Our powerful gods. 
 
 Dor. Which of your powerful gods ? 
 Your gold, your silver, brass, or wooden ones. 
 That can nor do me hurt, nor protect you ? 
 Most pitied women ! will you sacrifice 
 To such, — or call them gods or goddesses, 
 Your parents would disdain to be the same. 
 Or you yourselves ? Oh blinded ignorance ! 
 Tell me, Calista, by the truth, I charge you, 
 Or anything you hold more dear, would you, 
 To have him deified to posterity. 
 Desire your father an adulterer, 
 A I'avisher, almost a parricide, 
 A vile incestuous wretch ? 
 
 Cal. That, piety 
 And duty answer for me. 
 
 Dor. Or you, Christeta, 
 To be hereafter register'd a goddess, 
 Give your chaste body up to the embraces 
 Of goatish lust 1 have it writ on your forehead, 
 ' This is the common whore, the prostitute. 
 The mistress in the art of wantonness, 
 Knows every trick, and labyrinth of desires 
 That are immodest ? ' 
 
 Chnst. You judge better of me. 
 Or my affection is ill placed on you ; 
 Shall I turn strumpet ? 
 
 Doj\ No, I think you would not. 
 Yet Venus, whom you worship, was a whore ; 
 Flora, the foundress of the public stews. 
 And has, for that, her sacrifice ; your great god. 
 Your Jupiter, a loose adulterer, 
 Incestuous with his sister : read but those 
 That have canonized them, you'll find them worse 
 Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to 
 you. 
 
 Are they immortal then, that did partake 
 Of human weakness, and had ample share 
 In men's most base affections ; subject to 
 Unchaste loves, anger, bondage, wounds, as men 
 
 are? 
 Here, Jupiter, to serve his lust, tum'd bull. 
 The shape, indeed, in which he stole Europa ; 
 Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy 
 As a day-labourer ; Apollo keeps 
 Admetus' sheep for bread ; the Lemnian smith 
 Sweats at the forge for hire; Prometheus here. 
 With his still-growing liver, feeds the vulture ; 
 Saturn bound fast in hell with adamant chains : 
 And thousands more, on whom abused error 
 Bestows a deity. Will you then, dear sisters, 
 For I would have you such, pay your devotions 
 To things of less power than youi'selves? 
 
 Cal. We worship 
 Their good deeds in their images. 
 
 Dot By whom fashion'd ? 
 By sinful men. I'll tell you a short tale, 
 Nor can you but confess it is a true one : 
 A king of Egypt, being to erect 
 The image of Osiris, whom they honour. 
 Took from the matrons' neck the richest jewels. 
 And purest gold, as the matei'ials, 
 To finish up his work ; which perfected, 
 With all solemnity he set it up. 
 To be adored, and served himself his idol; 
 Desiring it to give him victory 
 Against his enemies : but, being overthrown, 
 Enraged against his god (these are fine gods. 
 Subject to human fury !), he took down 
 The senseless thing, and melting it again, 
 He made a bason, in which eunuchs wash'd 
 His concubine's feet ; and for this sordid use, 
 Some months it served : his mistress proving false, 
 As most indeed do so, and gi-ace concluded 
 Between him and the priests, of the same bason 
 He made his god again ! — Think, think of this. 
 And then consider if all worldly honours. 
 Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind 
 
 them. 
 Have power to win such as have reasonable souls 
 To put their trust in dross. 
 
 Cal. Oh that I had been born 
 Without a father ! 
 
 Christ. Piety to him 
 Hath ruin'd us for ever. 
 
 Dor. Think not so ; 
 You may repair all yet : the attribute 
 That speaks his Godhead most, is merciful ; 
 Revenge is proper to the fiends you worship. 
 Yet cannot strike without his leave. — You 
 
 weep, — 
 Oh, 'tis a heavenly shower ! celestial balm 
 To cure your wounded conscience ! let it fall. 
 Fall thick upon it ; and, when that is spent, 
 I'll help it with another of my tears : 
 And may your true repentance prove the child 
 Of my true sorrow, never mother had 
 A birth so happy ! 
 
 Cal. We are caught ourselves, 
 That came to take you ; and assured of conquest. 
 We are jovcr captives. 
 
 Dor. And in that you triumph : 
 Your victory had been eternal loss. 
 And this your loss immortal gain. — Fix here. 
 And you shall feel yourselves inwardly arm'd 
 'Gainst tortures, death, and hell : — but, take 
 
 heed, sisters. 
 That, or through weakness, threats, or mild 
 
 persuasions. 
 Though of a father, you fall not into 
 A second and a worse apostasy. 
 
 Cal. Never, oh never ! steel'd by your example, 
 We dare the worst of tyi'anny 
 
393 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ChHsi. Here's our warrant, 
 You shall along and witness it. 
 
 Dor. Be confirm'd then ; 
 And rest assured the more you suffer here, 
 The more your glory, you to heaven more dear. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 77^6 Governor''s Palace. 
 
 Enter Artemia, Sapkitius, Theophilus, and 
 Harpax. 
 
 Artem. Sapritius, though your son deserve no 
 
 pity, 
 We grieve his sickness : his contempt of us 
 We cast behind us, and look back upon 
 His service done to Caesar, that weighs down 
 Our just displeasure. If his malady 
 Have growth from his restraint, or that you 
 
 think 
 His liberty can cure him, let him have it ; 
 Say, we forgive him freely. 
 
 Sap. Your grace binds us, 
 Ever your humblest vassals. 
 
 Artem. Use all means 
 For his recovery ; though yet I love him, 
 I will not force affection. If the Christian, 
 Whose beauty hath out-rivall'd me, be won 
 To be of our belief, let him enjoy her : 
 That all may know, when the cause wills, I can 
 Command my own desires. 
 
 Theoph, Be happy then, 
 My lord Sapritius : I am confident. 
 Such eloquence and sweet persuasion dwell 
 Upon my daughters' tongues, that they will 
 
 work her 
 To anything they please. 
 
 Sap. I wish they may ! 
 Yet 'tis no easy task to undertake. 
 To alter a perverse and obstinate woman. 
 
 [-4 shout within : loud music. 
 
 Artem. What means this shout ? 
 
 Sap. 'Tis seconded with music, 
 Triumphant music. — Ha ! 
 
 Enter Sempronius. 
 
 Semp. My lord, your daughters. 
 The pillars of our faith, have converted, 
 Eor so report gives out, the Christian lady ; 
 The image of great Jupiter borne before them, 
 Sue for access. 
 
 Theoph. My soul divined as much. 
 Blest be the time when first they saw this light ! 
 Their mother, when she bore them to support 
 My feeble age, filled not my longing heart 
 With so much joy as they in this good work 
 Have thrown upon me. 
 
 Enter Priest with the image ofJupUer, incense 
 and censers ; followed by Calista and Chris- 
 TETA, leading/ Dorothea. 
 
 Welcome, oh, thrice welcome. 
 
 Daughters both of my body and my mind ! 
 
 Let me embrace in you my bliss, my comfort ; 
 
 And, Dorothea, now more welcome too, 
 
 Than if you never had fallen off ! I am ravish'd 
 
 With the excess of joy. — Speak, happy daughters. 
 
 The blest event. 
 
 Cal. We never gain'd so muck 
 By any undertaking. 
 
 Theoph. Oh, my dear girl, 
 Our gods reward thee. 
 
 Dor. Nor was ever time 
 On my part better spent. 
 
 Christ. We are all now 
 Of one opinion. 
 
 Theoph. My best Christeta ! 
 Madam, if ever you did grace to worth, 
 Vouchsafe your princely hands. 
 
 Artem. Most willingly — 
 Do you refuse it 7 
 
 Cal. Let us first deserve it. 
 
 Theoph. My own child still! Here set oiiJ 
 god ; prepare 
 The incense quickly : come, fair Dorothea, 
 I will myself support you : now kneel down, 
 And pay your vows to Jupiter. 
 
 Dor. I shall do it 
 Better by their example. 
 
 Theoph. They shall guide you; 
 They are familiar with the sacrifice. 
 Forward, my twins of comfort, and, to teach her. 
 Make a joint offering 
 
 Christ. Thus — [They both spit at the image. 
 
 Cal. And thus — \Throw it down^ and spurn it. 
 
 Harp. Profane, 
 And impious ! stand you now like a statue ? 
 Are you the champion of the gods? where is 
 Your holy zeal, your anger ? 
 
 Theoph. I am blasted ; 
 And, as my feet were rooted here, I find 
 I have no motion : I would I had no sight too 
 Or if my eyes can serve to any use, 
 Give me, thou injured Power, a sea of tears 
 To expiate this madness in my daughters ; 
 For, being themselves, they would have trembled 
 
 at 
 So blasphemous a deed in any other. 
 For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thunder, 
 And give me patience to demand a reason 
 For this accursed act. 
 
 Dor. 'Twas bravely done. 
 
 Theoph. Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace ! I 
 should look on you 
 With eyes made red with fury, and my hand, 
 That shakes with rage, should much outstrip my 
 
 tongue, 
 And seal my vengeance on your hearts; — but 
 
 nature. 
 To you that have fallen once, bids me again 
 To be a father. Oh ! how durst you tempt 
 The anger of great Jove ? 
 
 Dor. Alack, poor Jove ! 
 He is no swaggerer ; how smug ho stands ! 
 He'll take a kick or anything. 
 
 Sap. Stop her mouth. 
 
 Dor. It is the patient'st godling 1 do not f eai- 
 him; 
 He would not hurt the thief that stole away 
 Two of his golden locks ; indeed he could not : 
 And still 'tis the same quiet thing. 
 
 Theoph. Blasphemer ! 
 Ingenious cruelty shall punish this : 
 Thou art past hope; but for you yet, dear 
 
 daughters, 
 Again bewitch'd, the dew of mild forgiveness 
 May gently fall, provided you deserve it. 
 With true contrition : be yourselves again ; 
 Sue to the offended deity. 
 
 Christ. Not to be 
 The mistress of the earth. 
 
 Cal. I will not offer ^ 
 A grain of incense to it, much less kneel. 
 Nor look on it but with contempt and scorn. 
 To have a thousand years conferred upon me 
 Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves 
 To be, like Dorothea, Christians ; 
 And owe her for that happiness. 
 
 Theoph. My ears 
 Eeceive, in hearing this, all deadly charms 
 Powerful to make man wretched. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 399 
 
 Artem. Are these they 
 You bragg'd could convert others? 
 
 Sap. That want strength 
 To stand themselves ! 
 
 Harp. Your honour is engaged, 
 The credit of your cause depends upon it ; 
 Something you must do suddenly. 
 
 Theoph. And I will. 
 
 Harp. They merit death ; but, falling by your 
 hand, 
 'Twill be I'ecorded for a just revenge, 
 And holy fury in you. 
 
 Theoph. Do not blow 
 The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already ; 
 ^tna is my breast, wild fire burns here. 
 Which only blood must quench. Incensed 
 
 Power ! 
 Which from my infancy I have adoi'ed, 
 Look down with favourable beams upon 
 The sacrifice, though not allow'd thy priest. 
 Which I will offer to thee ; and be pleased. 
 My fiery zeal inciting me to act, 
 To call that justice others may style murder. 
 Come, you accurs'd, thus by the hair I drag you 
 Before this holy altar ; thus look on you, 
 Less pitiful than tigers to their prey : 
 And thus, with mine own hand, I take that life 
 Which I gave to you. [Kills them. 
 
 Dor. most cruel butcher ! 
 
 Theoph. My anger ends not here. Hell's 
 dreadful porter, 
 Eeceive into thy ever-open gates 
 Their damned souls, and let the Furies' whips 
 On them alone be wasted ; and, when death 
 Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me 
 To hear their shrieks and bowlings. Make me, 
 
 Pluto, 
 Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls 
 Of that accursed sect ; nor let me fall 
 Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all. 
 [Exit^ with Harpax. 
 
 Artem. 'Tis a brave zeal. 
 
 Enter Angelo, smiling. 
 
 Dor. Oh, call him back again. 
 Call back your hangman ! here's one prisoner left 
 To be the subject of his knife. 
 
 Artem. Not so ; 
 We are not so near reconciled unto thee ; 
 Thou shalt not perish such an easy way. 
 Be she your charge, Sapritius, now ; and suffer 
 None to come near her, till we have found out 
 Some torments worthy of her. 
 
 Ang. Courage, mistress : 
 These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate ; 
 You shall exceed them, and not imitate. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IIL 
 
 A Room in Dorothea's House. 
 
 Enter Spungius and Hircius, ragged, at opposite 
 doors. 
 
 Hir. Spungius! 
 
 Spun. My fine rogue, how is it? How goes 
 this tattered world ? 
 
 Hii'. Hast any money ? 
 
 Spun. Money? no. The tavern-ivy^ clings 
 about my money, and kills it. Hast thou any 
 money ? 
 
 » tavern-ivy. See note 5, p. 47, coL 1. 
 
 Hii: No. My money is a mad bull ; and find- 
 ing any gap opened, away it runs. 
 
 Spun. I see then a tavern and a bawdy-house 
 have faces much alike ; to neither can you cry, 
 Drawer, you rogue ! or, Keep door ! without a 
 silver whistle. We are justly plagued, therefore, 
 for running from our mistress. 
 
 Hi?'. Thou didst; I did not. Yet I had run 
 too, but that one gave me turpentine pills, and 
 that stay'd my running. 
 
 Spun. Well! the thread of my life is drawn 
 through the needle of necessity, whose eye, look- 
 ing upon my lousy breeches, cries out it cannot 
 mend them ; which so pricks the linings of my 
 body (and those are, heart, lights, lungs, guts, 
 and midriff), that I beg, on my knees, to have 
 Atropos, the tailor to the Destinies, to take her 
 sheers, and cut my thread in two ; or to heat 
 the iron goose of mortality, and so press me to 
 death. 
 
 Hii'. Sure thy father was some botcher, and 
 thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of com- 
 plaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty ^ 
 eloquence. 
 
 Spun. And what was thy father ? 
 
 Hir. A low-minded cobbler, a cobbler whose zeal 
 set many a woman upright ; the remembrance of 
 whose awl (I now having nothing) thrusts such 
 scurvy stitches into my soul, that the heel of my 
 happiness is gone awry. 
 
 Spun. Pity that e'er thou trod'st thy shoe awry. 
 
 Hir. Long I cannot last ; for all souterly wax 
 of comfort melting away, and misery taking the 
 length of my foot, it boots not me to sue for life, 
 when all my hopes are seam-rent, and go wet- 
 shod. 
 
 Spun. This shows thou art a cobbler's son, by 
 going through stitch. Hircius, would thou and 
 I were so happy to be cobblers ! 
 
 Hir. So would I ; for both of us being weary 
 of our lives, should then be sure of shoemakers' 
 ends. 
 
 Spun. I see the beginning of my end, for I am 
 almost starved. 
 
 Hi7\ So am not I; but I am more than 
 famished. 
 
 Spun. All the members in my body are in a 
 rebellion one against another. 
 
 Hir. So are mine ; and nothing but a cook, 
 being a constable, can appease them, presenting 
 to my nose, instead of his painted staff, a spit 
 full of roast meat. 
 
 Spun. But in this rebellion, what uproars do 
 they make! my belly cries to my mouth, Why 
 dost not gape and feed me ? 
 
 Hir. And my mouth sets out a throat to my 
 hand, Why dost not thou lift up meat, and cram 
 my chops with it ? 
 
 Spun. Then my hand hath a fling at mine 
 eyes, because they look not out, and shark for 
 victuals. 
 
 Hir. Which mine eyes seeing, full of tears, 
 cry aloud, and curse my feet, for not ambling up 
 and down to feed colon : since if good meat be 
 in any place, 'tis known my feet can smell. 
 
 Spun. But then my feet, like lazy rogues, lie 
 still, and had rather do nothing, than run to and 
 fro to purchase anything. 
 
 Hir. Why, among so many millions of people, 
 should thou and I only be miserable tatterdemal- 
 lions, ragamuffins, and lousy desperates ? 
 
 Spun. Thou art a mere I-am-an-o, I-am-an-as: 
 consider the whole world, and 'tis as we are. 
 
 Hir. Lousy, beggarly! thou whoreson assa- 
 foetida ? 
 
 ^ nitty— lousy. 
 
400 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 Spun. Worse; all tottering, all out of frame, 
 thou fooliamini! 
 
 Hir, As how, arsenic ? come, make the world 
 smart. 
 
 Spun. Old honour goes on crutches, beggary 
 rides caroched ; ^ honest men make feasts, knaves 
 sit at tables, cowards are lapp'd in velvet, soldiers 
 (as we) in rags ; why, ixien, when all the world 
 stumbles, should thou and I walk upright ? 
 
 Hir. Stop, look ! who's yonder i 
 
 Enter Axgelo. 
 
 Spun. Fellow Angelo! hew does my little man? 
 weU? 
 
 Ang. Yes ; 
 And would you did so tooi Where are your 
 clothes ? 
 
 Eir. Clothes! You see every woman almost 
 go in her loose gown, and why should not we 
 have our clothes loose "* 
 
 Spun. Would they were loose ! 
 
 Ang. Why, where are they ? 
 
 Spun. Where many a velvet cloak, I warrant, 
 at this hour, keeps them company ; they are 
 pawned to a bi'oker. 
 
 Ang. Why pawn'd ? where's all the gold I left 
 with you ? 
 
 Eir. The gold! we put that into a scrivener's 
 hands, and he hath cozen'd us. 
 
 Spun. And therefore, I pr'ythee, Angelo, if 
 thou hast another purse, let it be confiscate, and 
 brought to devastation. 
 
 Ang. Are you made aU of lies ? I know which 
 way 
 Your guilt-wing'd pieces flew. I will no more 
 Be mock'd by you : be sorry for your riots. 
 Tame your wild flesh by labour ; eat the bread 
 Got with hard hands ; let sorrow be your whip. 
 To draw drops of repentance from your heart : 
 When I read this amendment in your eyes, 
 You shall not want ; tiU then, my pity dies. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Spun, Is it not a shame, that this scurvy pueiilis 
 should give us lessons ? 
 
 Eir. I have dwelt, thou know'st, a long time 
 in the suburbs of conscience, and they are ever 
 bawdy; but now my heart shall take a house 
 •within the walls of honesty.. 
 
 Enter Hakpax behind. 
 
 Spun. Oh you di-awers of wine, draw me no more 
 to the bar of beggary ; the sound of Score a pottle 
 of sack is worse than the noise of a scolding 
 oyster wench, or two cats incorporating. 
 
 Earp. This must not be — I do not like when 
 
 conscience 
 Thaws ; keep her frozen still. [Comes Jbitoard.^ 
 
 How now, my masters ! 
 Dejected? drooping? drown'd in tears? clothes 
 
 torn ? 
 Lean, and ill colour'd? sighing? where's the 
 
 whirlwind 
 Which raises all these mischiefs? I have seen 
 
 you 
 Drawn better on't. Oh, but a spirit told me 
 You both would come to this, when in you thrust 
 Yourselves into the service of that lady. 
 Who shortly now must die. Where's now her 
 
 praying ? 
 What good got you by wearing out your feet. 
 To run on scurvy errands to the poor. 
 And to bear money to a sort ^ of rogues, 
 And lousy prisoners ? 
 
 * caroched— in a caroche or coach. 
 = sort— lot, company. 
 
 Eii: Pox on them ! I never prospered since I 
 did it. 
 
 Spun. Had I been a pagan still, I should not 
 have spit white for want of drink ; but come to 
 any vintner now, and bid him trust me, because 
 I turned Christian, and he cries, Poh ! 
 Eaip. You're rightly served ; before that 
 peevish i lady 
 Had to do with you, women, wine, and money 
 Flow'd in abundance with you, did it not ? 
 Eir. Oh, those days ! those days ! 
 Eaip. Beat not your breasts, tear not your hair 
 in madness; 
 Those days shall come again, be ruled by me ; 
 And better, mark me, better. 
 
 Spun. I have seen you, sir, as I take it, an at- 
 tendant on the lord Theophilus. 
 Earp. Yes, yes; in show his servant: but — 
 hark, hither ! — 
 Take heed nobody listens. 
 Spun. Not a mouse stirs. 
 Earp. I am a prince disguised. 
 Eir. Disguised ! how ? drunk ? 
 Earj). Yes, my fine boy ! I'll drink too, and be 
 drunk ; 
 I am a prince, and any man by me, 
 Let him but keep my rules, shall soon grow rich, 
 Exceeding rich, most infinitely rich : 
 He that shall serve me, is not starved from plea- 
 sures 
 As other poor knaves are ; no, take their fill. 
 Spun. But that, sir, we're so ragged — 
 Eaip. You'll say, you'd serve me ? 
 Eir. Before any master under the zodiac. 
 Earp. For clothes no matter; I've a mind to 
 both. 
 And one thing I like in you ; now that you see 
 The boufire of your lady's state burnt out, 
 You give it over, do you not ? 
 Eir. Let her be hang'd ! 
 Spun. And pox'd ! 
 Earp. Why, now you're mine ; 
 Come, let my bosom touch you. 
 Spun. We have bugs, sir. 
 Earp. There's money, fetch your clothes home ; 
 
 there's for you. 
 Eir. Avoid, vermin! give over our mistress; 
 a man cannot prosper worse if he serve the devil. 
 Earp. How ! the devil ? I'll tell you what now 
 of the devil, 
 He's no such horrid creature ; cloven-footed. 
 Black, saucer-eyed, his nostrils breathing fire, 
 As these lying Christians make him. 
 Both. No! 
 
 Earp. He's more loving _ 
 To man. than man to man is. 
 
 Eir. Is he so? Would we two might come 
 acquainted with him ! 
 
 Earp. You shall: he's a wondrous good fellow, 
 loves a cup of wine, a whore, anything ; if you 
 have money, it's ten to one but I'U bring him to 
 some tavern to you or other. 
 
 Spun. I'll bespeak the best room in the house 
 for him. 
 
 Earp. Some people he cannot endure 
 Eir. We'll give him no such cause. 
 Earp. He hates a civil lawyer, as a soldier 
 does peace. 
 Spun. How a commoner ? 2 
 Eaip. Loves him from the teeth outward. 
 Spun. Pray, my lord and prince, let me en- 
 counter you Avith one foolish question : does the 
 devil eat any mace in his broth ? 
 
 1 peevish— foolish. 
 
 2 commoner — a common lawyer. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 401 
 
 Harp. Exceeding much, when his burning fever 
 takes him; and then he has the knuckles of a 
 baihff boiled to his breakfast. 
 
 Hir, Then, my lord, he loves a catchpole,* does 
 he not ? 
 
 Hai'p. As a bearward^ doth a dog. A catch- 
 pole ! he hath sworn, if ever he dies, to make a 
 Serjeant his heir, and a yeoman his overseer. 
 
 tSpun. How if he come to any great man's gate, 
 will the porter let him come in, sir ? 
 
 Harp. Oh! he loves porters of great men's 
 gates, because they are ever so near the wicket. 
 
 Hir. Do not they whom he makes much on, 
 for all his stroking their cheeks, lead hellish 
 lives under him ? 
 
 Harp. No, no, no, no ; he will be damn'd be- 
 fore he hurts any man : do but you (when you 
 are throughly acquainted with him) ask for any- 
 thing, see if it does not come. 
 
 Spun. Anything ! 
 
 Hir. Oh! my elbow itches. Will the devil 
 keep the door ? 
 
 Harp. Be drunk as a beggar, he helps you home. 
 
 Spun. Oh my fine devil! some watchman, I 
 warrant ; I wonder who is his constable. 
 
 Hai-p. Will you swear, roar, swagger? he 
 claps you — 
 
 Hir. How ? on the chaps ? 
 
 Haip. No, on the shoulder ; and cries. Oh, my 
 brave boys ! Will any of you kill a man ? 
 
 Spun. Yes, yes ; I, I. 
 
 Harp. "What is his word? Hang! hang! 'tis 
 nothing.— Or stab a woman? 
 
 Hir. Yes, yes ; I, I. 
 
 Hatp. Here is the worst word he gives you : 
 A pox on't, go on ! 
 
 Hir. Oh inveigling rascal ! —I am ravish'd. 
 
 Haip. Go, get your clothes; turn up your glass 
 of youth. 
 And let the sands run merrily : nor do I care 
 From what a lavish hand your money flies, 
 So you give none away to beggars — 
 
 Hir. Hang them ! 
 
 Haip. And to the scrubbing poor. 
 
 Hir. I'll see them hang'd first. 
 
 Harp. One service you must do me. 
 
 Both. Anything. 
 
 Harp. Your misti-ess, Dorothea, ere she suffers, 
 Is to be put to tortures : have you hearts 
 To tear her into shrieks, to fetch her soul 
 Up in the pangs of death, yet not to die ? 
 
 Hir. Suppose this she, and that I had no hands, 
 here's my teeth. 
 
 Spun. Suppose this she, and that I had no teeth, 
 here's my nails. 
 
 Hir. But will not you be there, sir ? 
 
 Haip. No, not for hills of diamonds ; the grand 
 master, 
 Who schools her in the Christian discipline. 
 Abhors my company : should I be thei-e, 
 You'd think all hell broke loose, we should so 
 
 quarrel. 
 Ply you this business ; he her flesh who spares, 
 Is lost, and in my love never more shares. [Exit. 
 
 Spun. Here's a master, you rogue ! 
 
 Hir. Sure he cannot choose but have a horrible 
 number of servants. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Governor's Palace. 
 
 AsTONrNUS on a couc\ asleep^ loith Doctors about 
 
 him; Sapritius ancZ Mackinus. 
 
 Sap. Oh you, that are half gods, lengthen that life 
 
 1 caichpole—a, bailiff's assistant. 
 
 2 bearward—Yfaxd or keeper of a bear for baiting. 
 
 Their deities lend us ; turn o'er all the volumes 
 Of your mysterious iEsculapian science, 
 T'increase the number of this young man's days: 
 And, for each minute of his time prolong'd. 
 Your fee shall be a piece of Koman gold 
 With Caesar's stamp, such as he sends his cap- 
 tains 
 When in the wars they earn well : do but save 
 
 him, 
 And, as he's half himself, be you all mine. 
 
 1 1)oct. What art can do, we promise ; physic's 
 hand 
 As apt is to destroy as to preserve. 
 If heaven make not the med'cine : all this while, 
 Our skill hath combat held with his disease ; 
 But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy, 
 To be such in part with death, we are in fear 
 The grave must mock our labours. 
 
 Mac. 1 have been 
 His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes 
 As I have seen my mother watch o'er me ; 
 And, from that observation, sure I find 
 It is a midwife must deliver him. 
 
 Sap. Is he with child ? A midwife ! 
 
 3Iac. Yes, with child ; 
 And will, I fear, lose life, if by a woman 
 He is not brought to bed. Stand by his pillow 
 Some little while, and, in his broken slumbers, 
 Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea ; 
 And, when his anns fly open to catch her, 
 Closing together, he falls fast asleep. 
 Pleased with embracings of her airy form. 
 Physicians but torment him, his disease 
 Laughs at their gibberish language ; let hira 
 
 hear 
 The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name, 
 He starts up with high colour in his face : 
 She, or none, cures him ; and how that can be, 
 The princess' strict command barring that happi- 
 ness, 
 To me impossible seems. 
 
 Sap. To me it shall not ; 
 I'll be no subject to the greatest Cassar' 
 Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease 
 To be a father. [Exit. 
 
 Hoc. Silence, sir, he wakes. 
 
 Anton. Thou kill'st me, Dorothea; oh, Doro- 
 thea! 
 
 3Iac. She's here : — enjoy her. 
 
 Anton. Where ? Why do you mock me ? 
 Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet, 
 Yet I'm an old man, a fond doting fool 
 Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty 
 (In truth I am bewitch'd), offer my life. 
 And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers : 
 Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out 
 A hand of pity. 
 
 1 Doct. Let him have some music. 
 
 Anton. Hell on your fiddling ! 
 
 [Starting from his couch. 
 
 1 Doct. Take again your bed, sir ; 
 Sleep is a sovereign physic. 
 
 Anton. Take an ass's head, sir : 
 Confusion on your fooleries, your charms ! — 
 Thou stinking clyster-pipe, where's the god of 
 
 rest, 
 Thy pills and base apothecary drugs 
 Threaten'd to bring unto me? Out, you im- 
 postors ! 
 Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks ! your skill 
 Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill. 
 
 Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend. 
 
 Anton. Myself, Maci-inus ! 
 How can I be myself, when I am mangled 
 Into a thousand pieces ? Here moves my head, 
 But where's my heart? Wherever — that lies 
 dead. 
 
 2C 
 
402 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Re-enter Sapbitius, dragging in Dorothea hy 
 the Jiair, Angelo following. 
 
 Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress ! Call 
 up thy spirits, 
 And, if they can, now let them from my hand 
 Untwine these witching hairs. 
 
 Anton. I am that spirit : 
 Or, if I be not, were you not my father. 
 One made of iron should hew that hand in 
 
 pieces, 
 That so defaces this sweet monument 
 Of my love's beauty. 
 
 Sap. Art thou sick ? 
 
 Anton. To death. 
 
 Sap. Wouldst thou recover ? 
 
 Anton. Would I live in bliss ! 
 
 Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that 
 man 
 That brings thee health? 
 
 Anton. It is not in the world. 
 
 Sap. It's here. 
 
 Anton. To treasure, by enchantment lock'd 
 In caves as deep as hell, am I as near. 
 
 Sap. Break that enchanted cave : enter, and 
 rifle 
 The spoils thy lust hunts after ; I descend 
 To a base office, and become thy pander. 
 In bringing thee this proud thing : make her thy 
 
 whore. 
 Thy health lies here ; if she deny to give it, 
 JPorce it : imagine thou assault'st a town's 
 Weak wall; to't, 'tis thine own, but beat this 
 
 down. 
 Come, and, unseen, be witness to this battery. 
 How the coy strumpet yields. 
 
 1 Doct. Shall the boy stay, sir ? 
 
 Sap. No matter for the boy : — pages are used 
 To these odd bawdy shufflings ; and, indeed, are 
 Those little young snakes in a Fury's hea'iS," 
 Will sting worse than the great ones. — 
 Let the pimp stay. 
 
 [Exeunt Sap., Mac, and Doct. 
 
 Dor. Oh, guard me, angels ! 
 What tragedy must begin now ? 
 
 Anton. When a tiger 
 Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws, 
 Being hunger-starv'd, what tragedy then begins ? 
 
 Dor. Death ; I am happy so ; you, hitherto. 
 Have still had goodness sphered within your 
 
 eyes, 
 Let not that orb be broken. 
 
 Ang. Fear not, mistress ; 
 If he dare offer violence, we two 
 Are strong enough for such a sickly man. 
 
 Dor. What is your horrid purpose, sir ? Your 
 eye 
 Bears danger in it. 
 
 Anton. I must — 
 
 Dor. What? 
 
 Sap. \_within.'\ Speak it out. 
 
 Anton. Climb that sweet virgin tree. 
 
 Sap. \within.'\ Plague o' your trees ! 
 
 Anton. And pluck that fruit which none, I 
 think, e'er tasted. 
 
 Sap. [within.'] A soldier, and stand fumbling 
 so! 
 
 Dor. Oh, kill me, [Kneels. 
 
 And Heaven will take it as a sacrifice ; 
 But, if you play the ravisher, there is 
 A hell to swallow you. 
 
 Sap. [within.'] Let her swallow thee ! 
 
 Anton. Bise: — ^for the Eoman empire, Doro- 
 thea, 
 I would not wound thine honour. Pleasures 
 forced. 
 
 Are unripe apples, sour, not worth the pluck- 
 ing: 
 Yet, let me tell you, 'tis my father's will, 
 That I should seize upon you as my prey ; 
 Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin 
 The villany of man did ever act. 
 
 [Sapritius breaks in with Macrinus. 
 Dor. Die happy for this language ! 
 Sap. Die a slave, 
 A blockish idiot ! 
 
 Mac. Dear sir, vex him not. 
 Sap. Yes, and vex thee too ; both, I think, are 
 geldings; 
 Cold, phlegmatic bastard, thou'rt no brat of 
 
 mine; 
 One spark of me, when I had heat like thine. 
 By this had made a bonfire : a tempting whore, 
 For whom thou'rt mad, thrust e'en into thine 
 
 arms, 
 And stand'st thou puling ! Had a tailor seen her 
 At this advantage, he, with his cross capers, 
 Had ruffled her by this : but thou shalt curse 
 Thy dalliance, and here, before her eyes, 
 Tear thy own flesh in pieces, when a slave 
 In hot lust bathes himself, and gluts those plea- 
 sures 
 Thy niceness durst not touch. Call out a slave ; 
 You, captain, of our guard, fetch a slave hither. 
 Anton. What will you do, dear sir ? 
 Sap. Teach her a trade, which many a one 
 would learn 
 In less than half an hour, — to play the whore. 
 
 Enter Soldiers with a Slave. 
 
 Mac. A slave is come ; what now ? 
 
 Sap. Thou hast bones and flesh 
 Enough to ply thy labour ; from what country 
 Wert thou ta'en prisoner, here to be our slave ? 
 
 Slave. From Britain. 
 
 Sap. In the West Ocean ? 
 
 Slave. Yes. 
 
 Sap. An island ? 
 
 Slave. Yes. 
 
 Sap. I'm fitted.i — Sirrah fellow. 
 What wouldst thou do to gain thy liberty ? 
 
 Slave. Do ! liberty ! fight naked with a lion, 
 Venture to pluck a standard from the heart 
 Of an arm'd legion. Liberty ! I'd thus 
 Bestride a rampire, and defiance spit 
 I' the face of death, then, when the battering-ram 
 Was fetching his career backward, to pash 
 Me with his horns in pieces. To shake my 
 
 chains off. 
 And that I could not do't but by thy death, 
 Stoodst thou on this dry shore, I on a rock 
 Ten pyramids high, down would I leap to kill 
 
 thee. 
 Or die myself : what is for man to do, 
 I'll venture on, to be no more a slave. 
 
 Sap. Thou shalt, then, be no slave, for I will 
 set thee 
 Upon a piece of work is fit for man ; 
 Brave for a Briton :— drag that thing aside. 
 And ravish her. 
 
 Slave. And ravish her! is this your manly 
 service ? 
 A devil scorns to do it ; 'tis for a beast, 
 A villain, not a man : I am, as yet, 
 But half a slave ; but, when that work is past, 
 A damned whole one, a black ugly slave, 
 The slave of all base slaves:— do't thyseli^ 
 
 Roman, 
 'Tis drudgery fit for thee. 
 
 ^j^Wect— suited. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER 
 
 403 
 
 *" Sap. He's bewitch'd too : 
 Bind him, and Avith a bastinado give him, 
 Upon his naked belly, two hundred blows. 
 Slave. Thou art more slave than I. 
 
 \IIg is carried in. 
 Dor. That Power supernal, on whom waits 
 my soul, 
 Is captain o'er my chastity. 
 
 Anto7i. Good sir, give o'er : 
 The more you wrong her, yourself's vex'd the 
 more. 
 Sap. Plagues light on her and thee ! — thus 
 down I throw. 
 Thy harlot, thus by the hair nail her to earth. 
 Call in ten slaves, let every one discover 
 What lust desires, and surfeit here his fill. 
 Call in ten slaves. 
 
 Enter Slaves, 
 
 Mac. They are come, sir, at your call. 
 
 Sap. Oh, oh ! ^Falls down. 
 
 Enter Theophilus. 
 
 Theoph. Where is the governor ? 
 Ant07i. There's my wretched father. 
 Theoph. My lord Sapritius — he's not dead! — 
 my lord ! 
 That witch there — 
 
 Anton. 'Tis no Eoman gods can strike 
 These fearful terrors. Oh, thou happy maid, 
 Forgive this wicked purpose of my father. 
 Dor. I do. 
 
 Theoph. Gone, gone ; he's pepper'd. It is thou 
 Hast done this act infernal. 
 
 Dor. Heaven pardon you ! 
 And if my wrongs from thence pull vengeance 
 
 down 
 (I can no miracles work), yet, from my soul. 
 Pray to those Powers I serve, he may recover. 
 Theoph. He stirs, — help, raise him up,— my 
 
 lord! 
 Sap. Where am I ? 
 Theoph. One cheek is blasted. 
 Sap. Blasted! where's the lamia 1 
 That tears my entrails? I'm bewitch'd! seize 
 on her. 
 Dor. I'm here ; do what you please. 
 Theoph. Spurn her to the bar. 
 Dor. Come, boy, being there, more near to 
 
 heaven we are. 
 Sap. Kick harder ; go out, witch ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 Anton. Oh bloody hangmen ! Thine own gods 
 give thee breath ! 
 Each of thy tortures is my several death. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Public Square. 
 Enter Harpax, Hircius, and Spungius. 
 
 Harp. Do you like my service now ? Say, am 
 not I 
 A master worth attendance ? 
 
 Spun. Attendance ! I had rather lick clean the 
 soles of your dirty boots, than wear the richest 
 suit of any infected lord, whose rotten life hangs 
 between the two poles. 
 
 Hir. A lord's suit! I would not give up the 
 cloak of your service, to meet the splayfoot estate 
 
 1 Zamia— Greek for sorceress, hag. 
 
 of any left-eyed knight above the antipodes ; be- 
 cause they are unlucky to meet. 
 
 Harp. This day I'll try your loves to me ; 'tis 
 only 
 But well to use the agility of your arms. 
 
 Spun. Or legs, I am lusty at them. 
 
 Hir. Or any other member that has no legs. 
 
 Spun. Thou'lt run into some hole. 
 
 Hir. If I meet one that's more than my match, 
 and that I cannot stand in their hands, I must 
 and will creep on my knees. 
 
 Harp. Hear me, my little team of villains, 
 hear me ; 
 I cannot teach you fencing with these cudgels. 
 Yet you must use them; lay them on but 
 
 soundly ; 
 That's all. 
 
 Hir. Nay, if we come to maiiling once, pah ! 
 
 Spun. But what walnut tree is it we must 
 beat? 
 
 Harp. Your mistress. 
 
 Hir. How! my mistress? I begin to have a 
 Christian's heart made of sweet butter, I melt ; I 
 cannot strike a woman. 
 
 Spun. Nor I, unless she scratch; bum my 
 mistress ! 
 
 Harp. You're coxcombs, silly animals. 
 
 Hir. What's that ? 
 
 Harp. Drones, asses, blinded moles, that dare 
 not thrust 
 Your arms out to catch fortune : say, you fall off. 
 It must be done. You are converted rascals. 
 And, that once spread abroad, why every slave 
 Will kick you, call jow. motley Christians, 
 And half-faced Christians. 
 
 Spun. The guts of my conscience begin to be 
 of whitleather.^ 
 
 Hir. I doubt me, I shall have no sweet butter 
 in me. 
 
 Harp. Deny this, and each pagan whom you 
 meet, 
 Shall forked fingers thrust into your eyes — 
 
 Hir. If we be cuckolds. 
 
 Haip. Do this, and every god the Gentiles 
 bow to. 
 Shall add a fathom to your line of years. 
 
 Spun. A hundred fathom, I desire no more. 
 
 Hir. I desire but one inch longer. 
 
 Harp. The senators will, as you pass along, 
 Clap you upon your shoulders with this hand. 
 And with this give you gold. When you are 
 
 dead, 
 Happy that man shall be can get a nail, 
 The paring, nay, the dirt under the nail, 
 Of any of you both, to say, this dirt 
 Belonged to Spungius or Hircius. 
 
 Spun. They shall not want dirt under my 
 nails, I will keep them long of purpose, for now 
 my fingers itch to be at her. 
 
 Hir. The first thing I do, I'll take her over 
 the lips. 
 
 Spun. And I the hips, — we may strike any- 
 where ? 
 
 Harp. Yes, anywhere. 
 
 Hir. Then I know where 111 hit her. 
 
 Harp. Prosper, and be mine own ; stand by, I 
 must not 
 To see this done, great business calls me hence : 
 He's made can make her curse his violence. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Spun. Fear it not, sir ; her ribs shall be basted. 
 
 Hir. I'll come upon her with rounce, robble- 
 hobble, and thwick-thwack-thirlery bouncing. 
 
 1 wAiWeatter— leather made rery rough by peculiar 
 dressing. 
 
404 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ^Vi^er Dorothea, ledprisoner ; Sapritius, Theo- 
 PHiLUS, Angelo, and a Hangman, who sets 
 up a Pillar. Sapritius and Theophilus 
 sit; ANGEhO stands by Dorothea, yl Guard 
 attending. 
 
 Sap. According to our Roman customs, bind 
 
 That Christian to a pillar. 
 Theoph. Infernal Furies, 
 Could they into my hand thrust all their whips 
 To tear thy flesh, thy soul, 'tis not a torture 
 Fit to the vengeance I should heap on thee. 
 For -wrongs done me ; me ! for flagitious facts, 
 By thee done to our gods : yet, so it stand 
 To great Caesarea's governor's high pleasure, 
 Bow but thy knee to Jupitei-, and offer 
 Any slight sacrifice ; or do but swear 
 By Csesar's fortune, and — be free. 
 Sap. Thou shalt. 
 
 Dor. Not for all Caesar's fortune, were it 
 chain'd 
 To more worlds than are kingdoms in the world, 
 And all those worlds drawn after him. I defy 
 Your hangmen; you now show me whither to 
 fly. 
 Sap. Are her tormentors ready ? 
 Ang. Shrink not, dear mistress. 
 Spun, and Hir, My lord, we are ready for the 
 business. 
 Dor. You two ! whom I like foster'd children 
 fed. 
 And lengthen'd out your starved life with bread. 
 You be my hangmen ! whom, when up the 
 
 ladder 
 Death haled you to be strangled, I fetch'd down. 
 Clothed you, and warm'd you, you two my tor- 
 mentors ! 
 Both. Yes, we. 
 
 Dor. Divine Powers pardon you ! 
 Sap. Strike. 
 
 [They strike at her: Axgelo, 
 hneeling^ holds her fast. 
 Theoph. Beat out her brains. 
 Dor. Receive me, you bright angels ! 
 Sap. Faster, slaves. 
 
 Spun. Faster ! I am out of breath, I am sure ; 
 if I were to beat a buck, ^ I can strike no harder. 
 Hir. Oh mine arms ! I cannot lift them to my 
 head. 
 Dor. Joy above joys! are my tormentors 
 weaiy 
 In torturing me, and, in my sufferings, 
 I fainting in no limb ! tj^rants, strike home,l 
 And feast your fury full. 
 
 Theoph. These dogs are curs, 
 
 [Comes from his seat. 
 Which snarl, yet bite not. See, my lord, her 
 
 face 
 Has more bewitching beauty than before : 
 Proud whore, it smiles ! cannot an eye start out, 
 With these ? 
 
 Hir. No, sir, nor the bridge of her nose fall ; 
 'tis fiall of ironwork. 
 6ap. Let's view the cudgels, are they not 
 
 counterfeit ? 
 Ang. There fix thine eye still; — thy glorious 
 crown must come 
 Not from soft pleasure, but by martyrdom. 
 There fix thine eye stiM; — when we next do 
 
 meet. 
 Not thorns, but roses, shall bear up thy feet : 
 There fix thine eye still. [Exit. 
 
 Doi'. Ever, ever, ever! 
 
 » heat a buck. To buck is to wash clothes by laying 
 them on a smooth plank or stone, and beating them 
 with a pole flattened at the sides. 
 
 Enter Harpax, sneaking. 
 
 Theoph. We're mock'd ; these bats have power 
 to fell down giants, 
 Yet her skin is not scarr'd. 
 
 Sap. What rogues are these ? 
 
 Theoph. Cannot these force a shriek ? 
 
 [Beats Spuxgius. 
 
 Spun. Oh ! a woman has one of my ribs, and 
 now five more are broken. 
 
 Theoph. Cannot this make her roar ? 
 
 [Beats Hircius ; he roars. 
 
 Sap. Who hired these slaves ? what are they ? 
 
 Spun. We serve that noble gentleman there ; 
 he enticed us to this dry beating. Oh for one 
 half pot ! 
 
 Haip. My servants! two base rogues, and 
 sometime servants 
 To her, and for that cause forbear to hurt her. 
 
 Sap. Unbind her ; hang up these. 
 
 Theoph. Hang the two hounds on the next 
 tree. 
 
 Hir. Hang us ! Master Harpax, what a devil, 
 shall we be thus used ? 
 
 Harp. What bandogs but you two would worry 
 a woman ? 
 Your mistress ? I but clapt you, you flew on. 
 Say I should get your lives, each i-ascal beggar 
 WotQd, when he met you, cry out, Hell-hounds ! 
 
 traitors ! 
 Spit at you, fling dirt at you ; and no woman 
 Ever endure your sight : 'tis your best course 
 Now, had you secret knives, to stab your- 
 selves ; — 
 But, since jou have not, go and be hang'd. 
 
 Hir. I thank you. 
 
 Haip. 'Tis your best course. 
 
 Theoph. Why stay they trifling here ? 
 To the gallows drag them by the heels ; — away ! 
 
 Spun. By the heels ! no, sir, we have legs to 
 do us that service. 
 
 Hir. Ay, ay, if no woman can endure my sight, 
 away with me. 
 
 Haip. Despatch them. 
 
 Spun. The devil despatch thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt Guard with Spungius and Hircius. 
 
 Sap. Death this day rides in triumph, Theo- 
 philus. 
 See this witch made away too. 
 
 Theoph. My soul thirsts for it ; 
 Come, I myself the hangman's part could play. 
 
 Dor. Oh haste me to my coronation day ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 The Place of Execution. A Scaffold, BlocJc, <^'c 
 
 Enter Antoninus, supported hy Macrinus, and 
 Servants. 
 
 Anton. Is this the place, where virtue is to 
 suffer. 
 And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth. 
 To make a glad return from whence it came ? 
 Is it, Macrinus.^ 
 
 Mac. By this preparation, 
 You well may rest assured that Dorothea 
 This hour is to die here. 
 
 Anton. Then with her dies 
 The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman I 
 Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand 
 Of death close up mine eyes, they may at one© 
 Take my last leave both of this light and her : 
 For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself 
 To me's Cimmerian darkness. 
 
 Mac. Strange affection ! 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 405 
 
 Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with 
 
 Death, 
 And kills, instead of giving life. 
 
 Anton. Nay, weep not ; 
 Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm, 
 On me they're cast away. It is decreed 
 That I must die with her ; our clue of life 
 Was spun together. 
 
 Mac. Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder, 
 That you, who, hearing only what she suffers, 
 Partake of all her tortures, yet will be, 
 To add to your calamity, an eye-witness 
 Of her last tragic scene, which must pierce 
 
 deeper. 
 And make the wound more desperate. 
 
 Anton. Oh, Macrinus! 
 'Twould linger out my torments else,:not kill me, 
 Which is the end I aim at : being to die too. 
 What instrument more glorious can I wish for, 
 Than what is made sharp by my constant love 
 And tx-ue affection "i It may be, the duty 
 And loyal service, with which I pursued her. 
 And seal'd it with my death, will be remember d 
 Among her blessed actions : and what honour 
 Can I desire beyond it ? 
 
 Enter a Guard bringing in Dorothea, a Heads- 
 man before her; followed by Theophilus, 
 Sapritius, and Harpax. 
 
 See, she comes ; 
 How sweet her innocence appears ! more like 
 To heaven itself, than any sacrifice 
 That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes 
 Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful 
 In my belief ; nor can I think our gods 
 Are good, or to be served, that take delight 
 In offerings of this kind : that, to maintain 
 Their power, deface the masterpiece of nature. 
 Which they themselves come short of. She 
 
 ascends. 
 And every step raises her nearer heaven. 
 What god soe'er thou art, that must enjoy her, 
 Keceive in her a boundless happiness ! 
 
 Sap. You are to blame 
 To let him come abroad. 
 Mac. It was his will ; 
 And we were left to serve him, not command 
 
 him. 
 Anton. Good sir, be not offended ; nor deny 
 My last of pleasures in this happy object, 
 That I shah, e'er be blest with. 
 
 Theoph. Now, proud contemner 
 Of us, and of our gods, tremble to think 
 It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee. 
 Not all the riches of the sea, increased 
 By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines 
 (Mammon's unknown exchequer) shall redeem 
 
 thee: 
 And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd 
 What 'tis to die, and to die young; to part with 
 All pleasures and delights ; lastly to go 
 Where all antipathies to comfort dwell, 
 Furies behind, about thee, and before thee ; 
 And, to add to affliction, the remembrance 
 Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted, 
 Hadst thou turu'd apostata to those gods 
 That so reward their servants ; let despair 
 Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this 
 
 scaffold 
 Make thy first entrance into hell. 
 
 Anton. She smiles, 
 Unmoved, by Mars ! as if she were assured 
 Death, looking on her constancy, would forget 
 The use of his inevitable hand. 
 
 Theoph. Derided too ! despatch, I say. 
 Dor. Thou fool! 
 That gloriest in having power to ravish 
 
 A trifle from me I am weary of. 
 What is this life to me ? not worth a thought ; 
 Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it 
 To win a better : even thy malice serves 
 To me but as a ladder to mount up 
 To such a height of happiness, where I shall 
 Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world ; 
 Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above 
 The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory 
 To think at what an easy price I bought it. 
 There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth : 
 No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat. 
 Famine, nor age, have any being there. 
 Forget, for shame, your Tempe ; bury in 
 Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards : — 
 The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon, 
 Which did require a Hercules to get it. 
 Compared with what grows in all plenty there, 
 Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve, 
 Laughs at your happy Araby, or the 
 Elysian shades ; for he hath made his bowers 
 Better indeed than you can fancy yours. 
 
 Anton. Oh, take me thither with you ! 
 
 Dor. Trace my steps. 
 And be assured you shall. 
 
 JSap. With my own hands 
 I'll rather stop that little breath is left thee, 
 And rob thy killing fever. 
 
 Theoph. By no means ; 
 Let him go with her : do, seduced young man, 
 And wait upon thy saint in death ; do, do : 
 And, when you come to that imagined place, — 
 That place of all delights, — pray you, observe me, 
 And meet those cursed things I once call'd 
 
 Daughters, 
 Whom I have sent as harbingers before you ; 
 If there be any truth in your religion. 
 In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten 
 Your journey thither, pray you send me some 
 Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of. 
 
 Anton. Grant that I may go with her, and I 
 will. 
 
 Sap. Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thy- 
 self.? 
 
 Theoph. The gates to hell are open. 
 
 Do7'. Know, thou tyrant. 
 Thou agent for the devil, thy great master. 
 Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it^ 
 I can, .and will. 
 
 Enter Angelo, in the Angers habit. 1 
 
 Harp. Oh! mountains fall upon me. 
 Or hid me in the bottom of the deep. 
 Where light may never find me ! 
 Theop)h. What's the matter ? 
 Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her 
 
 witchcraft. ' 
 
 Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak ! 
 Haip. I dare not stay : 
 Should I but hear her once more, I were lost. 
 Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed 
 
 place. 
 To which compared (and with what now I 
 
 suffer). 
 Hell's torments are but sweet slumbers ! 
 
 [_Exit. 
 Sap. Follow him. 
 
 Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose 
 him. 
 Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch, 
 Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die. 
 Till my return. 
 
 [Exeunt Sap. and Theoph. 
 
 ^ It appears that Angelo was not meant to be seen or 
 heard by any of the people present but Dorothea.— 
 
 GiFFOBD. 
 
4o6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Anton. She minds him not : what object 
 Is her eye fix'd on ? 
 
 Mac. I see nothing. 
 
 Anton. Mark her. 
 
 Bor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I 
 serve ! 
 (For thou art more than mortal), is't for me, 
 Poor sinner, thou ai"t pleased awhile to leave 
 Thy heavenly habitation, and voucbsafest, 
 Though glorified, to take my servant's habit ? — 
 For, put off thy divinity, so look'd 
 My lovely Angelo. 
 
 Ang. Know 1 am the same; 
 And still the servant to your piety. 
 Your zealoTis prayers, and pious deeds first won 
 
 me 
 (But 'twas by his command to whom you sent 
 
 them). 
 To guide your steps. I tried your charity, 
 When in a beggar's shape you took me up. 
 And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed. 
 As you believed, my famish'd mouth. Learn all, 
 By your example, to look on the poor 
 With gentle eyes ; for in such habits, often 
 Angels desire an alms. I never left you, 
 Nor will I now ; for I am sent to carry 
 Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal, 
 Your mai-tyrdom once suffei-'d ; and before it, 
 Ask anj'thing from me, and rest assured. 
 You shall obtain it. 
 
 Dor. I am largely paid 
 For all my torments. Since I find such grace, 
 Grant that the love of this young man to me, 
 In which he languisheth to death, may bo 
 Changed to the love of heaven. 
 
 Ang. I will perform it ; 
 And in that instant when the sword sets free 
 Your happy soul, his shall have liberty. 
 Is there aught else ? 
 
 Dor. For proof that I forgive 
 My persecutor, who in scorn desired 
 To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to ; 
 After my death, as sent from me, be pleased 
 To give him of it. 
 
 Ang. Willingly, dear mistress. 
 
 Mac. I am amazed. 
 
 Anton. I feel a holy fire. 
 That yields a comfortable heat within me ; 
 I am quite alter'd from the thing I was. 
 See ! I can stand, and go alone ; thus kneel 
 To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand 
 With a religious kiss. \Kneds. 
 
 Re-enter Sapeitius and Thkophilus. 
 
 Sap. He is well now. 
 But wiU not be drawn back. 
 
 Theoph. It matters not, 
 We can discliarge this work without his help. 
 But see your son. 
 
 Sap. Villain! 
 
 Anton. Sir, I beseech you. 
 Being so near our ends, divorce us not. 
 
 Theoph. I'll quickly make a separation of 
 them: 
 Hast thou aught else to say ? 
 
 Dor. Nothing, but to blame 
 Thy tardiness in sending me to rest ; 
 My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul 
 Begins to take her flight. Strike, oh! strike 
 
 quickly ; 
 And, though you are unmoved to see my death. 
 Hereafter, when my story shall be read, 
 As they were present now, the hearers shall 
 Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes, 
 ' She lived a virgin, and a vii'gin dies.' 
 
 [Iler head is sti'uch off. 
 
 Anton. Oh, take my soul along, to wait on 
 
 thine ! 
 Mac. Your son sinks too. 
 
 [Antoninus falls. 
 Sap. Already dead ! 
 Theoph. Die all 
 That are, or favour this accursed sect: 
 I triumph in their ends, and will raise up 
 A hill of their dead carcases, to o'erlook 
 The Pyrenean hills, but I'll root out 
 These superstitious fools, and leave the world 
 No name of Christian. 
 
 [Loud music. Exit Angelo, having first 
 laidhis\hand upon the mouths q/*ANXON. 
 and Dor. 
 Sap. Ha ! heavenly music ! 
 Mac. 'Tis in the air. 
 Theoph. Illusions of the devil, 
 Wrought by some witch of her religion. 
 That fain would make her death a miracle ; 
 It frights not me. Because he is your son. 
 Let him have burial ; but let her body 
 Be cast forth with contempt in some highway, 
 And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE L 
 
 Theophilus discovered sitting in his Study : 
 books about him. 
 
 Theoph. Is't holiday, Csesar, that thy ser- 
 vant. 
 Thy provost, to see execution done 
 On these base Christians in Caesarea, 
 Should now want work ? Sleep these idolaters, 
 That none are stirriug?— As a curious painter. 
 When he has made some honourable piece, 
 Stands off, and with a seai'chiug eye examines 
 Each colour, how 'tis sweeten'd ; and then hugs 
 Himself for his rare workmanship — so here 
 Will I my drolleries, and bloody landscapes. 
 Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry 
 With shadows, now I want the substances, 
 My muster-book of hellhoxmds. Were the Chris- 
 tians, 
 Whose names stand here, alive and arm'd, not 
 
 Borne 
 Could move upon her hinges. What I've done. 
 Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate 
 To poor tormented wretches ; no, I'm carried 
 With violence of zeal, and streams of service 
 I owe our Koman gods. Great Bntain, '—what ? 
 
 [Beads. 
 A thousand wives, with brats sucJcing their breasts, 
 Had hot irons pinch them off, and thrown to swine ; 
 And then their fleshy back-parts, hew'd with 
 
 hatchets, 
 Were minced, and baked in pies, to feed starved 
 
 Christians. 
 Ha! ha! 
 
 Again, again, — East Angles, — oh. East Angles: 
 Bandogs, kept three days hungry, worried 
 A thousand British rascals, stied up fat 
 Of purpose, stripped naked and disarmed. 
 I could outstare a year of suns and moons, 
 To sit at these sweet bull-baitings, so I 
 Could thereby but one Christian win to fall 
 In adoration to my Jupiter. — Twelve hundred 
 Eyes bored with augers out — Oh ! Eleven thousand 
 
 1 Great Britain is a curious anaclironism, but tliis our 
 old dramatic writers were little solicitous to avoid.— 
 
 GlFFOBD. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 407 
 
 Torn hy wild leasts : two hundred rammid in the 
 
 earth 
 To the armpits^ and full platters round about thern^ 
 But far enough for reaching. Eat, dogs, ha! ha! 
 
 iia ! \Ee rises. 
 
 Tush, all these tortures are but fillipings, 
 rieabitings ; I, before the Destinies 
 
 Ent^ Angelo with a basket filed with fruit 
 andflowers. 
 My bottom did wind up, would flesh myself 
 Once more upon some one remarkable 
 Above all these. This Christian slut was well, 
 A pretty one ; but let such horror follow 
 The next I feed with torments, that when Rome 
 Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound 
 May feel an earthquake. How now ? 
 
 [Music. 
 Ang. Are you amazed, sir.'' 
 So great a Eoman spirit — and doth it tremble ! 
 Theoph. How cam'st thou in.' to whom thy 
 
 business ? 
 Ang. To you : 
 I had a mistress, late sent hence by you 
 Upon a bloody errand j you entreated 
 That, when she came into that blessed garden 
 Whither she knew she went, and where, now 
 
 happy. 
 She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you 
 Some of that garden fruit and flowers; which 
 
 here. 
 To have her promise saved, are brought by me. 
 Theoph. Cannot I see this garden ? 
 Ang. Yes, if the master 
 Will give you entrance. {He vanishes. 
 
 Theoph. 'Tis a tempting fruit. 
 And the most bright-cheek'd child I ever view'd ; 
 Sweet-smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are 
 
 these ! 
 In Dioclesian's gardens, the most beauteous. 
 Compared with these, are weeds: is it not 
 
 February, 
 The second day she died 7 frost, ice, and snow 
 Hang on the beard of winter : where's the sun 
 That gilds this summer ? Pretty, sweet boy, say, 
 In what country shall a man find this garden 7 — 
 My delicate boy— gone ! vanish'd ! Within there, 
 Julianus! Geta! — 
 
 Enter Julianus and Geta. 
 
 Both. My lord. 
 
 Theoph. Are my gates shut ? 
 
 Geta. And guarded. 
 
 Theoph. Saw you not 
 A boy? 
 
 Jul. Where? 
 
 Theoph. Here he enter'd ; a young lad ; 
 A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes ; 
 A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this 
 basket. 
 
 Geta. No, sir! 
 
 Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice 
 calls you. [Exeunt Jul. and Geta. 
 
 No ! — vanish'd and not seen ! — Be thou a spirit, 
 Sent from that witch to mock me, I am sure 
 This is essential, ^ and howe'er it grows. 
 Will taste it. ^ [Eats of the fndt. 
 
 Harp. \withinr\ Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Theoph. So good ! I'll have some more, sure. 
 
 Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! great liquorish fool ! 
 
 Theoph. What art thou? 
 
 Haip. A fisherman. 
 
 Theoph. What dost thou catch ? 
 
 essential— ^ure, exquisite. 
 
 Harp. Souls, souls ; a fish cail'd souls. 
 Theoph. Geta! 
 
 Re-enter Geta. 
 Geta. My lord. 
 
 Harp. [Within.'] Ha, ha, ha, ha! 
 Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares 
 laugh at me ? 
 Or what is't the dog grins at so ? 
 
 Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor 
 whom ; for there is none without, but my fellow 
 Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter. 
 
 Theoph. Jupiter ! all within me is not well ; 
 And yet not sick. 
 Haip. \within.'\ Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 Theoph. What's thy name, slave ? 
 Harp, [at one end of the room.'] Go look. 
 Geta. 'Tis Harpax' voice. 
 Theoph. Harpax! go, drag the caitiff to my 
 foot. 
 That I may stamp upon him. 
 Harp, [at the other end.] Fool, thou liest ! 
 Geta. He's yonder, now, my lord. 
 Theoph. Watch thou that end, 
 Whilst I make good this. 
 Harp, [in the middle.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
 Theoph. He is at barley-break, ^ and the last 
 couple 
 Are now in hell. 
 Search for him. [Exit Geta.] All this ground, 
 
 methinks, is bloody, 
 And paved with thousands of those Christians' 
 
 eyes 
 Whom I have tortured ; and they stare upon me. 
 What was this apparition ? sure it had 
 A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled. 
 And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore 
 A pair of glorious wings ; yes, they were wings ; 
 And hence he flew : — 'tis vanish'd ! Jupiter, 
 For all my sacrifices done to him, 
 Never once gave me smile. — How can stone 
 
 smile ? 
 Or wooden image laugh? [Music] Ha! I re- 
 member. 
 Such music gave a welcome to mine ear. 
 When the fair youth came to me : — 'tis in the air. 
 Or from some better place ; a Power divine. 
 Through my dark ignorance, on my soul does 
 
 shine. 
 And makes me see a conscience all stain'd o'er. 
 Nay, drown'd, and damn'd for ever in Christian 
 gore. 
 Haip. [within.] Ha, ha, ha ! 
 Theoph. Again ! — What dainty relish on my 
 tongue 
 This fruit hath left ! some angel hath me fed ; 
 If so toothful,^ I will be banqueted. 
 
 [Eats again. 
 
 Enter Harpax in a fearful shape, fire flashing out 
 of the Study. 
 Harp. Hold! 
 Theoph. Not for Csesar. 
 Harp. But for me thou shalt. 
 
 ^ barley-irealc was a game played by six people, three 
 of each sex, coupled by lot. A piece of ground was then 
 chosen, and divided into three compartments, of which 
 the middle one was called hell. It was the object of the 
 couple condemned to this division, to catch the others, 
 who advance from the two extremities ; in which case 
 a change of situation took place, aud hell was filled by 
 the couple who were excluded by pre-occupation, from 
 the other place . . . When all had been taken in turn, 
 the last couple was said to be in hell, and the game 
 ended.— GiFFORD. | 
 
 2 toothful. Probably this should be toothsome— ie. | 
 palatable. 
 
408 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last was 
 here. 
 Ye powers, whom my soul bids me reverence, 
 
 guard me ! 
 What art thou ? 
 Hai-p. I am thy master. 
 Theoph. Mine! 
 
 Hmy. And thou my everlasting slave : that 
 Harpax, 
 Who hand in hand hath led thee to thy hell, 
 Ami. 
 
 Theoph. Avaunt! 
 Harp. I will not ; cast thou down 
 That basket with the things in't, and fetch up 
 What thou hast swallow'd, and then take a drink, 
 Which I shall give thee, and I'm gone. 
 
 Theoph. My fruit ! 
 Does this offend thee ? see ! [Eats again. 
 
 Eaip. Spit it to the earth, 
 And tread upon it, or I'll piecemeal tear thee. 
 Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted! See, 
 here's more. [Pulls out a handful of flowers. 
 Eaip. Fling them away, I'll take thee else, 
 and hang thee 
 In a contorted chain of icicles. 
 In the frigid zone : down with them ! 
 
 Theoph. At the bottom 
 One thing I found not yet. See ! 
 
 \_Holds up a cross of flowers. 
 Haip. Oh ! I am tortured. 
 Theoph. Can this do't ? Hence, thou fiend in- 
 fernal, hence ! 
 Harp. Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with 
 
 that. 
 Theoph. At thee I'll fling that Jupiter; for, 
 methinks, 
 I serve a better master : he now checks me 
 For murdering my two daughters, put on^ by 
 
 thee. — 
 By thy damn'd rhetoric did I hunt the life 
 Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr. 
 She is not angry with the axe, nor me. 
 But sends these presents to me ; and I'll travel 
 O'er worlds to find her, and from her white hand 
 Beg a forgiveness. 
 Harp. No ; I'll bind thee here. 
 Theoph. I serve a strength above thine ; this 
 small weapon, 
 Methinks, is armour hard enough. 
 
 Harp. Keep from me. \_Sin'ks a little. 
 
 Theoph. Art posting to thy centre ? down, 
 hellhound ! down ! 
 Me thou hast lost. That arm, which hurls thee 
 hence, [Harpax disappears. 
 
 Save me, and set me up, the strong defence, 
 In the fair Christian's quarrel ! 
 
 Enter Angelo. 
 
 Ang. Fix thy foot there. 
 Nor be thou shaken with a Caesar's voice. 
 Though thousand deaths were in it ; and I then 
 Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash 
 Thy bloody hands clean and more white than 
 
 snow; 
 And to that garden where these blest things grow. 
 And to that martyr'd virgin, who hath sent 
 That heavenly token to thee : spread this brave 
 
 wing. 
 And serve, than Caesar, a far greater king. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Theoph. It is, it is, some angel. Vanish'd 
 
 again ! 
 Oh, come back, ravishing boy! bright messenger ! 
 Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty. 
 
 ^ put on — urged, instigated. 
 
 Illumined all my soul. Now look I back 
 On my black tyrannies, which, as they did 
 Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that 
 
 lead'st me. 
 Teach me what I must to do, and to do well. 
 That my last act the best may pai'allel. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 ACT V.-SCENE II. 
 
 Dioclesian's Palace. 
 
 Enter Dioclesiax, Maximinus, the kings of 
 Epire, Pontus, and Macedon, meeting Akte- 
 mia; Attendants. 
 
 Artem. Glory and conquest still attend upon 
 Triumphant Csesar ! 
 
 Diode. Let thy wish, fair daughter, 
 Be equally divided ; and hereafter 
 Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus, 
 Whose power, with mine united, makes one 
 Caesar. 
 
 Max. But that I fear 'twould be held flattery, 
 The bonds consider'd in which we stand tied, 
 As love and empire, I should say, till now 
 I ne'er had seen a lady I thought worthy 
 To be my mistress. 
 
 Artem. Sir, you show yourself 
 Both courtier and soldier ; but take heed. 
 Take heed, my lord, though my dull -pointed 
 
 beauty, 
 Stain'd by a harsh refusal in my servant. 
 Cannot dart forth such beams as may inflame 
 
 you. 
 You may encounter such a powerful one. 
 That with a pleasing heat will thaw your heart, 
 Though bound in ribs of ice. Love still is Love ; 
 His bow and arrows are the same : Great Julius, 
 That to his successors left the name of Caesar, 
 Whom war could never tame, that with dry eyes 
 Beheld the large plains of Pharsalia cover'd 
 With the dead carcases of senators, 
 And citizens of Rome ; when the world knew 
 No other lord but him, sti-uck deep in yeai*s too 
 (And men grey-hair'd forget the lusts of youth). 
 After all this, meeting fair Cleopatra, 
 A suppliant too, the magic of her eye, 
 Even in his pride of conquest, took him captive : 
 Nor are you more secure. 
 
 Max. Were you deform'd 
 (But, by the gods, you are most excellent). 
 Your gravity and discretion would o'ercome me ; 
 And I should be more proud in being prisoner 
 To your fair virtues, than of all the honours. 
 Wealth, title, empire, that my sWord hath pur- 
 chased. 
 
 Diode. This meets my wishes. Welcome it, 
 Artemia, 
 With outstretch'd ai-ms, and study to forget 
 That Antoninus ever was : thy fate 
 Reserved thee for this better choice ; embrace it. 
 
 Max. This happy match brings new nerves to 
 give strength 
 To our continued league. 
 
 Diode. Hymen himself 
 Will bless this marriage, which we'll solemnize 
 In the presence of these kings. 
 
 K. of Pontus. Who rest most happy, 
 To be eye-witnesses of a match that brings 
 Peace to the empire. 
 
 Diode. We much thank your loves. — 
 But Where's Sapritius, our governor, 
 And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus? 
 If ever prince were blest in a true servant. 
 Or could the gods be debtors to a man, 
 Both they and we stand far engaged to cherish 
 His piety and service. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 409 
 
 Artem. Sir, the governor 
 Brooks sadly his son's loss, although he turn'd 
 Apostate in death; but bold Theophilus, 
 Who, for the same cause, in my presence seal'd 
 His holy anger on his daughters' hearts ; 
 Having with tortures first tried to convert her, 
 Dragg'd the bewitching Christian to the scaffold, 
 And saw her lose her head. 
 
 Diode. He is all worthy : 
 And from his own mouth I would gladly hear 
 The manner how she suffer'd. 
 
 Artem. 'Twill be deliver'd 
 With such contempt and scorn (I know his 
 
 nature), 
 That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter, 
 Than the least pity. 
 
 Diode. To that end I would hear it. 
 
 Enter Theophilus, Sapritius, aud Macrinus. 
 
 Artem. He comes ; with him the governor. 
 
 Diode. Oh, Sapritius, 
 I am to chide you for your tenderness ; 
 But yet remembering that you are a father, 
 I will forget it. Good Theophilus, 
 I'll speak with you anon. — Nearer, your ear. 
 
 [To Sapritius. 
 
 Theoph. [aside to Macrinus.] By Antoninus' 
 soul, I do conjure you, 
 And though not for religion, for his friendship. 
 Without demanding what's the cause that moves 
 
 me, 
 Keceive my signet : — By the power of this, 
 Go to my prisons, and release all Christians, 
 That are in fetters there by ray command. 
 
 Mac. But what shall follow 7 
 
 Theoph. Haste then to the port ; 
 You there shall find two tall ' ships ready rigg'd, 
 In which embark the poor distressed souls, 
 And bear them from the reach of tyranny. 
 Enquire not whither you are bound : the Deity 
 That they adore will give you prosperous winds, 
 And make your voyage such, and largely pay for 
 Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here ; 
 There is a scene that I must act alone : 
 Haste, good Macrinus ; and the great God guide 
 you! 
 
 Mac. I'll undertake't ; there's something 
 prompts me to it ; 
 'Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act 
 And to be merciful has never been 
 By mortal men themselves esteem'd a sin. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Diode. You know your charge ? 
 
 Sap. And will with care observe it. 
 
 Diode. For I profess he is not Caesar's friend, 
 That sheds a tear for any torture that 
 A Christian suffers. — Welcome, my best servant, 
 My careful, zealous provost ! thou hast toil'd 
 To satisfy my will, though in extremes : 
 I love thee f or't ; thou art firm rock, no change- 
 ling. 
 Pr'ythee deliver, and for my sake do it, 
 Without excess of bitterness or scoffs. 
 Before my brother and these kings, how took 
 The Christian her death? 
 
 Theoph. And such a presence 
 Though every private head in this large room 
 Were circled round with an imperial crown, 
 Her story will deserve, it is so full 
 Of excellence and wonder. 
 
 Diode. Ha ! how is this ? 
 
 Theoph. Oh, mark it, therefore, and with that 
 attention. 
 As you would hear an embassy from heaven 
 
 1 tall— stout. 
 
 By a wing'd legate ; for the truth deliver'd. 
 Both how, and what, this blessed vii'gin suffer'd, 
 And Dorothea but hereafter named, 
 You will rise up with reverence, and no more, 
 As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember 
 What the canonized Spartan ladies were. 
 Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own 
 
 matrons, 
 Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep 
 As holy relics, in her history 
 Will find a second urn ; Gracchus' Cornelia, 
 Paulina, that in death desired to follow 
 Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus' Portia, 
 That swallow'd burning coals to overtake him, 
 Though all their several worths were given to 
 
 one. 
 With this is to be mention'd. 
 
 Max. Is he mad 7 
 
 Diode. Why, they did die, Theophilus, and 
 _ boldly ; 
 This did no more. 
 
 Theoph. They, out of desperation, 
 Or for vainglory of an after name. 
 Parted with life : this had not mutinous sons, 
 As the rash Gracchi were ; nor was this saint 
 A doting mother, as Cornelia was. 
 This lost no husband, in whose overthrow 
 Her wealth and honour sunk ; no fear of want 
 Did make her being tedious ; but, aiming 
 At an immoi'tal crown, and in his cause 
 Who only can bestow it ; who sent down 
 Legions of ministering angels to bear up 
 Her spotless soul to heaven, who entertain'd it 
 With choice celestial music, equal to 
 The motion of the spheres ; she, uncompell'd. 
 Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius, 
 You were present at her death : did you e'er hear 
 Such ravishing sounds ? 
 
 Sap. Yet you said then 'twas witchcraft. 
 And devilish illusions. 
 
 Theoph. I then heard it 
 With sinful ears, and belch'd out blasphemous 
 
 words 
 Against his Deity, which then I knew not, 
 Nor did believe in him. 
 
 Diode. Why, dost thou now ? 
 Or dar'st thou, in our hearing — 
 
 Theoph. Were my voice 
 As loud as his thunder, to be heard 
 Through all the world, all potentates on earth 
 Ready to burst with rage, should they but 
 
 hear it ; 
 Though hell, to aid their malice, lent her furies. 
 Yet I would speak, and speak again, and boldly, 
 I am a Christian, and the Powers you worship, 
 But dreams of fools and madmen. 
 
 Max. Lay hands on him. 
 
 Diode. Thou twice a child ! for doting age so 
 makes thee, 
 Thou couldst not else, thy pilgrimage of life 
 Being almost passed through, in this last moment 
 Destroy whate'er thou hast done good or great — 
 Thy youth did promise much ; and, grown a 
 
 man. 
 Thou mad'st it good, and, with increase of years, 
 Thy actions still better'd : as the sun. 
 Thou didst rise gloriously, kept'st a constant 
 
 course 
 In all thy journey ; and now, in the evening. 
 When thou shouldst pass with honour to thy 
 
 rest, 
 Wilt thou fall like a meteor ? 
 
 Sap. Yet confess 
 That thou art mad, and that thy tongue and heart 
 Had no agreement. 
 
 Max. Do ; no way is left, else, 
 To save thy life, Theophilus. 
 
410 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Diode. But, refuse it, 
 Destruction as horrid, and as sudden. 
 Shall fall upon thee, as if hell stood open, 
 And thou wert sinking thither. 
 
 Theoph. Hear me, yet ; 
 Hear, for my service past. 
 
 Artem. What will he say ? 
 
 Theoph. As ever I deserved your favour, hear 
 me. 
 And grant one boon : 'tis not for life I sue for ; 
 Nor is it fit that I, that ne'er knew pity 
 To any Christian, being one myself. 
 Should look for any ; no, I rather beg 
 The utmost of your cruelty. I stand 
 Accountable for thousand Christians' deaths ; 
 And, were it possible that I could die 
 A day for every one, then live again 
 To be again tormented, 'twere to me 
 An easy penance, and I should pass through 
 A gentle cleansing fire : but, that denied me. 
 It being beyond the strength of feeble nature, 
 My suit is you would have no pity on me. 
 In mine own house there are a thousand engines 
 Of studied cruelty, which I did pi-epare 
 For miserable Christians ; let me feel 
 As the Sicilian did his brazen bull, 
 The horrid'st you can find ; and I "wiU say, 
 In death, that you are merciful. 
 
 Diode. Despair not ; 
 In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither : 
 [^Exeunt some of the Guard. 
 Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once. 
 And so appear before thee ; racks, and whips ! — 
 Thy flesh, with burning pincers toi'n, shall feed 
 The fire that heats them ; and what's wanting 
 To the torture of thy body, I'll supply 
 In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians 
 That are in hold ; and here, before his face, 
 Cut them in pieces. 
 
 Theoph. 'Tis not in thy power: 
 It was the first good deed I ever did. 
 They are removed out of thy reach ; howe'er, 
 I was determined for my sins to die, 
 I first took order for their liberty ; 
 And still I dare thy worst. 
 
 Re-enter Guard with racks and other instruments 
 of torture. 
 
 Diode. Bind him, I say ; 
 Make every artery and sinew crack : 
 The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek. 
 Shall have ten thousand drachmas. Wretch ! I'll 
 
 force thee 
 To curse the Power thou worship'st. 
 
 Theoph. Never, never : 
 No breath of mine shall e'er be spent on him, 
 
 [ They torment him. 
 
 But what shall speak his majesty or mercy. 
 I'm honour'din my sufferings. Weak toi-mentors. 
 More tortures, more, — alas! you are unskilful — 
 For Heaven's sake more ; my breast is yet untorn : 
 Here purchase the reward that was propounded. 
 The irons cool, — here are arms yet, and thighs ; 
 Spare no part of me. 
 
 Max. He endures beyond 
 The sufferance of a man. 
 
 Sap. No sigh nor groan. 
 To witness he hath feeling. 
 
 Diode. Harder, villains ! 
 
 Enter Harpax. 
 
 Harp. Unless that he blaspheme, he's lost for 
 ever. 
 If torments ever could bring forth despair, 
 Let these compel him to it : — Oh me ! 
 My ancient enemies again ! {_Falh down. 
 
 Enter Dorothea in a white robe^ a croion tqoon 
 her head, led in ly Angelo; Antoninus, 
 Calista, and Christeta following, all in 
 white, hut less glorious ; Angelo holds out a 
 crown to Theophilus. 
 
 Theoph. Most glorious vision ! — 
 Did e'er so hard a bed yield man a dream 
 So heavenly as this ? I am confirm'd, 
 Confirm'd, you blessed spirits, and make haste 
 To take that crown of immortality 
 You offer to me. Death ! till this blest minute, 
 I never thought thee slow-paced ; nor would I 
 Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer. 
 But that thou keep'st me from a glorious wreath. 
 Which through this stormy way I would creep to. 
 And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it. 
 Oh ! now I feel thee : — blessed spirits ! I come ; 
 And, witness for me all these wounds and scars, 
 I die a soldier in the Christian wars. \^Dies. 
 
 Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er 
 yet 
 A constancy like this. 
 
 Harp. I am twice damn'd. 
 
 Ang. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed 
 fiend! 
 
 [H^VKPAX sinks with thunder and lightning. 
 
 In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey ; 
 'Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day. 
 
 \_Exit with Dor. &c. 
 
 Diode. I think the centre of the earth be 
 crack' d — 
 Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on. 
 The persecution that is here begun. 
 Through all the world with violence shall run. 
 [Flourish. Exeunt 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 411 
 
 THE DUKE OF MILAN. 
 
 BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 London. 1623. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, AND MUCH ESTEEMED FOR HER HIGH BIRTH, BUT MORE 
 ADMIRED FOR HER VIRTUE, 
 
 THE LADY KATHERINE STANHOPE, 
 
 WIFE TO PHILIP LORD STANHOPE, BARON OF SHELFORD. 
 
 Madam, — If I were not most assured that -works 
 of this nature Lave found both patronage and 
 protection amongst the greatest princesses of 
 Italy, and are at this day cherished by persons 
 most eminent in oiir kingdom, I should not 
 presume to offer these my weak and imperfect 
 labours at the altar of your favour. Let the 
 example of others, more knowing, and more ex- 
 perienced in this kindness (if my boldness offend), 
 plead my pardon, and the rather, since there is 
 
 no other means left me (my misfortunes having 
 cast me on this course) to publish to the world 
 (if it hold the least good opinion of me) that I 
 am ever your ladyship's creature. Vouchsafe, 
 therefore, with the never-failing clemency of 
 your noble disposition, not to contemn the tender 
 of his duty, who, while he is, ever will be 
 An humble servant 
 
 to your Ladyship, and yours, 
 
 Philip Massinger. 
 
 g'ramHtxs ^jersonaf. 
 
 LuDovico Sforza, supposed Duke of Milan. 
 Francisco, Ms especial Favourite. 
 
 SxEmSo,}^^'-^^^/^^'^^^^'«<^^'^- 
 Graccho, a creature q/" Mariana. 
 
 Chakles, the Emperor. 
 
 Pescara, an Imperialist^ hut a Friend to 
 
 Sforza. 
 Hernando, "i 
 
 Medina, > Captains to the Emperor. 
 Alphonso, 3 
 Three Gentlemen. 
 
 Fiddlers. 
 An Officer. 
 Two Doctors. 
 Two Couriers. 
 
 Marcelia, the Duchess, Wife to Sforza. 
 
 Isabella, Mother to Sforza. 
 
 Mariana, Wife to Francisco, and Sister 
 
 Sforza. 
 Eugenia, Sister to Francisco. . 
 A Gentlewoman. 
 
 Guards, Servants, Attendants. 
 
 Scene. — For the First and Second Acts, in Milan ; during part of the Third, in the 
 Imperial Camp near Pavia ; the rest of the play, in Milan 
 and its Neighbourhood. 
 
 I 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE L 
 Milan. An oider Room in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni, with 
 Flagons. 
 
 Grac. Take every man his flagon: give the 
 oath 
 To all you meet ; I am this day the state-drunkard, 
 I am sure against my will ; and if you find 
 A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor, 
 And, in my name, arrest him. 
 
 Jul. Very good, sir : 
 But, say he be a sexton ? 
 
 Grac. If the bells 
 Eing out of tune, as if the street were burning, 
 And he cry, ^Tis rare music! bid him sleep : 
 'Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor ; and if you 
 An officer preaching of sobriety. [meet 
 
 Unless he read it in Geneva print,* 
 Lay him by the heels. 
 
 Jul. But think you 'tis a fault 
 To be found sober ? 
 
 G7'ac. It is capital treason : 
 Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay 
 Forty crowns to the poor : but give a pension 
 To all the magistrates you find singing catches, 
 Or their wives dancing ; for the courtiers reeling, 
 And the duke himself, I dare not say distemper'd,' 
 But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing, 
 They do the country service. If you meet 
 One that eats bread, a child of ignorance, 
 And bred up in the darkness of no drinking. 
 
 1 Geneva print— alluding to the spu*ituous_ liquor so 
 called.— Mason. 
 
 2 distemper' d—dTunk — Giffokd. 
 
412 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Against his will you may initiate liim 
 In the true posture ; though he die in the taking 
 His drench, it skills * not ; what's a private man, 
 For the public honour ! We've nought else to 
 
 think on. 
 And so, dear friends, copartners in my ti'avails, 
 Drink hard ; and let the health run through the 
 Until it reel again, and with me cry, [city, 
 
 Long live the duchess ! 
 
 Enter Tiberio and Stepi/AKO. 
 Jul. Here are two lords ;— what think you ? 
 Shall we give the oath to them ? 
 Grac. Fie ! no : I know them, 
 You need not swear them; your lord, by his 
 
 patent, 
 Stands bound to take his rouse.^ Long live the 
 
 duchess! [Exeunt Grac. Jul. and Gio. 
 
 Steph. The cause of this? but yesterday the 
 
 court 
 "Wore the sad livery of distrust and fear ; 
 No smile, not in a buffoon to be seen. 
 Or common jester : the Great Duke himself 
 Had sorrow in his face ! which, waited on 
 By his mother, sister, and his fairest duchess. 
 Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan ; 
 As if some great blow had been given the state, 
 Or were at least expected. 
 
 Tib. Stephano, 
 I know as you are noble, you are honest, 
 And capable of secrets of more Aveight 
 Than now I shall deliver. If that Sforza, 
 The present duke (though his whole life hath 
 
 been 
 But one continued pilgrimage through dangers, 
 Affrights, and horrors, which his fortune, guided 
 By his strong judgment, still hath overcome), 
 Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder : 
 All that his youth hath labour'd for, the harvest 
 Sown by his industry ready to be reap'd too. 
 Being now at stake ; and all his hopes confirm'd, 
 Or lost for ever. 
 
 Steph. I know no such hazard : 
 His guards are strong and sure, his coffers full ; 
 The people well affected ; and so wisely 
 His provident care hath wrought, that though 
 
 war rages 
 In most parts of our western world, there is 
 Ko enemy near us. 
 
 Tib. Dangers, that we see 
 To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented ; 
 But those strike deadly, that come unexpected : 
 The lightning is far off, yet, soon as seen, 
 We may behold the terrible effects 
 That it produceth. But I'll help your knowledge, 
 And make his cause of fear familiar to you. 
 The wars so long continued between 
 The emperor Charles, and Francis the French 
 
 king, 
 Have interess'd,' in cither's cause, the most 
 Of the Italian princes ; among which, Sforza, 
 As one of greatest power, was sought by both ; 
 But with assurance, having one his friend, 
 The other lived his enemy. 
 
 Steph. 'Tis true : 
 And twas a doubtful choice. 
 Tib. But he, well knowing. 
 And hating too, it seems, the Spanish pride, 
 Lent his assistance to the king of France : 
 Which hath so far incensed the emperor. 
 That all his hopes and honours are embark'd 
 With his great patron's fortune. 
 
 Steph. Which stands fair. 
 For aught I yet can hear. 
 
 I 1 5itW«— signifies, matters. 
 
 2 rouse — carouse. 
 
 3 interess'd — implicated, involved.— Gifford. 
 
 Tib. But should it change. 
 The duke's undone. They have drawn to the 
 
 field 
 Two royal armies, full of fiery youth ; 
 Of equal spirit to dare, and power to do : 
 So near intrench'd, that 'tis beyond all hope 
 Of human counsel they can e'er be severed, 
 Until it be determined by the sword 
 Who hath the better cause : for the success. 
 Concludes the victor innocent, and the vanquished 
 Most miserably guilty. How uncertain 
 The fortune of the war is, children know ; 
 And, it being in suspense on whose fair tent 
 Wiug'd Victory will make her glorious stand, 
 You cannot blame the duke, though he appear 
 Perplex'd and troubled. 
 
 Steph. But why, then. 
 In such a time, when every knee should bend 
 For the success and safety of his person. 
 Are these loud triumphs ! in my weak opinion, 
 They are unseasonable. 
 
 Tib. I judge so too ; 
 But only in the cause to be excused. 
 It is the duchess' birthday, once a year 
 Solemnized with all pomp and ceremony ; 
 In which the duke is not his own, but hei's : 
 Kay, eveiy day, indeed, he is her creature, 
 For never man so doted ; — but to tell 
 The tenth part of his fondness to a stranger, 
 Would argue me of fiction. 
 
 Steph. She's indeed 
 A lady of most exquisite form. 
 
 Tib. She knows it. 
 And how to prize it. 
 
 Steph. 1 ne'er heard her tainted 
 In any point of honour. 
 
 Tib. On my life. 
 She's constant to his bed, and well deserves 
 His largest favoui's. But when beauty is 
 Stamp'd on great women, great in birth and 
 
 fortune. 
 And blown by flatterers greater than it is, 
 'Tis seldom unaccompanied with pride; 
 Nor is she that way free : presuming on 
 The duke's affection, and her own desert, 
 She bears herself with such a majesty. 
 Looking with scorn on all as things beneath her, 
 That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part 
 Of what was once her own, nor his fair sister, 
 A lady too acquainted with her worth, 
 Will brook it well ; and howsoe'er their hate 
 Is smother'd for a time, 'tis more than fear'd 
 It will at length break out. 
 
 Steph. He in whose power it is, 
 Turn all to the best ! 
 
 Tib. Come, let us to the court ; 
 We there shall see all bravery and cost, 
 That art can boast of. 
 
 Steph. I'll bear you company. {ExeutU. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE IL 
 
 Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Francisco, Isabella, and Mariana. 
 
 Man. I will not go ; I scorn to be a spot ^ 
 In her proud train. 
 
 Isab. Shall I, that am his mother, 
 Be so indulgent, as to wait on her 
 That owes me duty? 
 
 Fran. 'Tis done to the duke, 
 And not to her : and, my sweet wife, remember, 
 
 1 Mariana alludes to the spots in the peacock's tail.— 
 
 GiFFOED. 
 
And, madam, if you please receive my counsel, 
 As Sforza is your son, you may command him ; 
 And, as a sister, you may challenge from him 
 A brother s love and favour : but, this granted, 
 Consider he's the prince, and you his subjects, 
 And not to question or contend with her 
 Whom he is pleased to honour. Private men 
 Prefer their wives ; and shall he, being a prince, 
 And blest with one that is the paradise 
 Of sweetness, and of beauty, to whose charge 
 The stock of women's goodness is given up, 
 Not use her like herself ? 
 
 Isab. You are ever forward 
 To sing her praises. 
 
 MaH. Others are as fair ; 
 I am sure, as noble. 
 
 Fran. I detract from none. 
 In giving her what's due. Were she deform'd, 
 Yet being the duchess, I stand bound to serve 
 
 her; 
 But, as she is, to admire her. Never wife 
 Met with a purer heat her husband's fervour ; 
 A happy pair, one in the other blest ! 
 She confident in herself he's wholly hers. 
 And cannot seek for change; and he secure. 
 That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt her. 
 And therefore to contest with her, that is 
 The stronger and the better part of him, 
 Is more than folly : you know him of a nature 
 Not to be played with ; and, should you forget 
 To obey him as your prince, he'll not remember 
 The duty that he owes you. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis but truth : 
 Come, clear our brows, and let us to the banquet ; 
 But not to serve his idol. 
 
 Mari. I shall do 
 What may become the sister of a prince ; 
 But will not stoop beneath it. 
 
 Fran. Yet, be wise ; 
 Soar not too high, to fall ; but stoop to rise. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE III. 
 
 A State Room in the same. 
 Enter three Gentlemen, setting forth a banquet. 
 
 1 Gent. Quick, quick, for love's sake! let the 
 court put on 
 
 Her choicest outside : cost and bravery '• 
 Be only thought of. 
 
 2 Gent. All that may be had 
 
 To please the eye, the ear, taste, touch, or smell, 
 Are carefully provided. 
 
 3 Gent. There's a masque : 
 
 Have you heard what's the invention ? 
 
 1 Gent. No matter : 
 It is intended for the duchess' honour ; 
 And if it give her glorious attributes. 
 As the most fair, most virtuous, and the rest, 
 'Twill please the duke. \Loud music.^ They come. 
 
 3 Gent. All is in order. 
 
 Flourish. Enter Tiberio, Stephano, Fran- 
 cisco, Sforza, Marcelia, Isabella, Mari- 
 ana, and Attendants. 
 
 Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast — sit 
 here, 
 Oh my soul's comfort! and when Sforza bows 
 Thus low to do you honour, let none think 
 The meanest service they can pay my love, 
 But as a fair addition to those titles 
 They stand possessed of. Let me glory in 
 My happiness, and mighty kings look pale 
 
 1 tracery— show, decoration. 
 
 With envy, while I triumph in mine own. 
 Oh mother, look on her; sister, admire her! 
 And, since this present age yields not a woman 
 Worthy to be her second, borrow of 
 Times past, and let imagination help, 
 Of those canonized ladies Sparta boasts of. 
 And, in her greatness, Rome was proud to owe, 
 To fashion one ; yet still you must confess, 
 The phoenix of perfection ne'er was seen, 
 But in my fair Marcelia. 
 
 Fran. She's indeed 
 The wonder of all times. 
 
 Tib. Your excellence, 
 Though I confess you give her but her own, 
 Forces her modesty to the defence 
 Of a sweet blush. 
 
 Sfor. It need not, my Marcelia ; 
 When most I strive to praise thee, I appear 
 A poor detractor : for thou art indeed 
 So absolute 1 in body and in mind, 
 That, but to speak the least part to the height. 
 Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then end 
 In silent admiration ! 
 
 Isab. You still court her, 
 As if she Avere a mistress, not your wife. 
 
 Sfor. A mistress, mother ! she is more to me, 
 And every day deserves more to be sued to. 
 Such as are cloy'd with those they have em- 
 braced. 
 May think their wooing done : no night to me 
 But is a bridal one, where Hymen lights 
 His torches fresh and new ; and those delights, 
 Which are not to be clothed in airy sounds, 
 Enjoy'd, beget desires as full of heat. 
 And jovial fervour, as when first I tasted 
 Her virgin fruit. — Blest night! and be it num- 
 
 ber'd 
 Amongst those happy ones, in which a blessing 
 Was, by the full consent of all the stars, 
 Conferr'd upon mankind. 
 
 Marc. My worthiest lord ! 
 The only object I behold with pleasure, — 
 ]My pride, my glory, in a word, my all ! 
 Bear witness, heaven, that I esteem myself 
 In nothing worthy of the meanest praise 
 You can bestow, unless it be in this. 
 That in my heart I love and honour you. 
 And, but that it would smell of arrogance. 
 To speak my strong desire and zeal to serve you, 
 I then could say, these eyes yet never saw 
 The rising sun, but that my vows and prayers 
 Were sent to heaven for the prosperity 
 And safety of my lord : nor have I ever 
 Had other study, but how to appear 
 Worthy your favour ; and that my embraces 
 Might yield a fruitful harvest of content 
 For all your noble travail, in the purchase 
 Of her that's still your servant. By these lips, 
 Which, pardon me, that I presume to kiss — 
 
 Sfor. Oh swear, for ever swear ! 
 
 Marc. I ne'er will seek 
 Delight but in your pleasure : and desire. 
 When you are sated with all earthly glories, 
 And age and honours make you fit for heaven, 
 That one grave may receive us. 
 
 Sfor. 'Tis believed, 
 Believed, my blest one. 
 
 Man. How she winds herself 
 Into his soul ! 
 
 Sfor. Sit all. — Let others feed 
 On those gross cates,^ while Sforza banquets 
 
 with 
 Immortal viands ta'en in at his eyes. 
 
 ' absolute— T^erfect 
 
 2 ca^ei— provisions, dainties. 
 
414 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I could live ever thus. — Command the eunuch 
 To sing the ditty that I last composed, 
 
 Enter a Courier. 
 
 In praise of my Marcelia. — From whence ? 
 
 Cour. From Pavia, my dread lord. 
 
 Sfor. Speak, is all lost.'' 
 
 Cour. [Delivers a letter.'\ The letter will inform 
 you. [^Exit. 
 
 Fran. How his hand shakes, 
 As he receives it ! 
 
 Mari. This is some allay 
 To his hot passion. 
 
 Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it: 
 
 Maj' it please your excellence to understand, that the 
 very hour I wrote this, I heard a bold defiance delivered 
 by a herald from the emperor, which was cheerfully 
 received by the king of France. The battailes i being 
 ready to join, and the vanguard committed to my 
 charge, enforces me to end abruptly. 
 
 Your Highness' humble servant, 
 
 Gaspero. 
 
 Ready to join! — By this, then, I am nothing, 
 Or my estate secure. ^Aside. 
 
 Marc. My lord. 
 
 Sfor. To doubt, 
 Is worse than to have lost ; and to despair, 
 Is but to antedate those miseries 
 That must fall on us ; all my hopes depending 
 Upon this battle's fortune. In my soul, 
 Methinks, there should be that imperious power 
 By supernatural, not usual means, 
 T'iuform me what I am. The cause consider'd, 
 Why should I fear ? The French are bold and 
 
 strong. 
 Their numbers full, and in their counsels wise; 
 But then, the haughty Spaniard is all fire, 
 Hot in his executions ; fortunate 
 In his attempts; married to victory: — 
 Ay, there it is that shakes me. [Aside. 
 
 Fran. Excellent lady. 
 This day was dedicated to your honour ; 
 One gale of your sweet breath will easily 
 Disperse these clouds ; and, but yourself, there's 
 
 none 
 That dares speak to him. 
 
 Marc. I will run the hazard. — 
 My lord ! 
 
 Sfor. Ha! — pardon me, Marcelia, I am 
 troubled ; 
 And stand uncertain, whether I am master 
 Of aught that's worth the owning. 
 
 Marc. I am yours, sir ; 
 And I have heard you swear, I being safe. 
 There was no loss could move you. This day, sir. 
 Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke 
 A grant made to Marcelia ? your Marcelia ? — 
 For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir, 
 All deep designs, and state affairs deferr'd. 
 Be, as you purposed, merry. 
 
 Sfor. Out of my sight! 
 
 [Throws away the Letter. 
 
 And all thoughts that may strangle mirth forsake 
 
 me. 
 Fall what can fall, I dare the worst of fate : 
 Though the foundation of the earth should 
 
 shrink, 
 The glorious eye of heaven lose its splendour. 
 Supported thus, I'll stand upon the ruins, 
 And seek for new life here. Why are you sad ? 
 No other sports ! by heaven, he's not my friend. 
 That wears one furrow in his face. I was told 
 There was a masque. 
 
 battailes — battalions. 
 
 Fran. They wait your highness' pleasure. 
 And when you please to have it. 
 
 Sfor. Bid them enter : 
 Come, make me happy once again. I am rapt— 
 'Tis not to-day, to-morrow, or the next. 
 But all my days and years shall be employ'd 
 To do thee honour. 
 
 Marc. And my life to serve you. 
 
 [A horn without. 
 
 Sfor. Another post ! Go hang him, hang him, 
 I say ; 
 I will not interrupt my present pleasures. 
 Although his message should import my head : 
 Hang him, I say. 
 
 Marc. Nay, good sii', I am pleased 
 To grant a little intermission to you ; 
 Who knows but he brings news we wish to hear, 
 To heighten our delights ? 
 
 Sfor. As wise as fair ! 
 
 Enter another Courier. ' 
 
 From Gaspero .'' 
 
 Cour. That was, my lord. 
 
 Sfo7'. How! dead? 
 
 Cour. [Delivers a letter.'] With the delivery of 
 this, and prayers 
 To guard your excellency from certain dangers, 
 He ceased to be a man. 
 
 Sfor. All that my fears 
 Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish, 
 Is fallen upon me. — Silence that harsh music ; 
 'Tis now unseasonable : a tolling bell. 
 As a sad harbinger to tell me, that 
 This pamper'd lump of flesh must feast the 
 
 worms, 
 Is fitter for me : I am sick. 
 
 Marc. My lord ! 
 
 Sfor. Sick to the death, Marcelia. Eemove 
 These signs of mirth ; they were ominous, and 
 
 but usher'd 
 Sorrow and ruin. 
 
 Marc Bless us, heaven ! 
 
 Isdb. My son. 
 
 Marc. What sudden change is this ? 
 
 Sfor. All leave the room ; 
 I'll bear alone the burden of my grief. 
 And must admit no partner. I am yet 
 Your prince, where's your obedience? — Stay, 
 
 Marcelia ; 
 I cannot be so greedy of a sorrow, 
 In which you must not share. 
 
 [Exeunt Tibekio, Stephano, Francisco, 
 Isabella, Mariana, and Attendants. 
 
 Marc. And cheerfully 
 I will sustain my part. Why look you pale ? 
 Where is that wonted constancy and courage 
 That dared the worst of fortune ? where is Sforza, 
 To whom all dangers that fright common men, 
 Appear'd but panic terrors ? why do you eye me 
 With such fix'd looks ? Love, counsel,^duty, ser- 
 vice. 
 May flow from me, not danger. 
 
 Sfor. Oh Marcelia ! 
 It is for thee I fear ; for thee, thy Sforza 
 Shakes like a coward : for myself, unmoved, 
 I could have heard my troops were cut in pieces, 
 My general slain, and he, on whom my hopes 
 Of rule, of state, of life, had their dependence, 
 The king of France, my greatest friend, mada 
 
 prisoner 
 To so proud enemies. 
 
 Marc. Then you have just cause 
 To show you are a man. 
 
 Sfor. All this were nothing. 
 Though I add to it, that I am assured, 
 For giving aid to this unfortunate king. 
 The emperor, incens'd, lays his command 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 415 
 
 On his victorious army, flesh'd with spoil, 
 And bold of conquest, to march up against me, 
 And seize on my estates ; suppose that done too, 
 The city ta'en, the kennels running blood, 
 The ransack'd temples falling on their saints ; 
 My mother, in my sight, toss'd on their pikes, 
 And sister ravish'd, and myself bound fast 
 In chains, to grace their triumph, or what else 
 An enemy's insolence could load me with, 
 I would be Sforza still. But, when I think 
 That my Marcelia, to whom all these 
 Are but as atoms to the greatest hill. 
 Must suffer in my cause, and for me suffer ! 
 All earthly torments, nay, even those the damn'd 
 Howl for in hell, are gentle strokes, compared 
 To what I feel, Marcelia. 
 
 Marc. Good sir, have patience : 
 I can as well partake your adverse fortune, 
 As I thus long have had an ample share 
 In your prosperity. 'Tis not in the power 
 Of fate to alter me ; for while I am, 
 In spite of it, I'm yours. 
 
 Sfor. But should that will 
 To be so . . . forced,! Marcelia : and I live 
 To see those eyes I prize above my own. 
 Dart favours, though compell'd, upon another ; 
 Or those sweet lips yielding immortal nectar, 
 Be gently touch'd by any but myself ; 
 Think, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing 
 I were, beyond expression ! 
 
 Marc. Do not feed 
 Those jealous thoughts ; the only blessing that 
 Heaven hath bestow'd on us, more than on beasts, 
 Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die. 
 Besides, were I now in another's power, 
 There are so many ways to let out life, 
 I would not live, for one short minute, his ; 
 I was born only yours, and I will die so. 
 
 Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this 
 woman ! 
 
 Enter Francisco. 
 
 All I can pay is nothing. — Why, uncall'd for ? 
 Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me thus 
 press 
 Upon your privacies. Your constant friend. 
 The Marquis of Pescara, tired with haste, 
 Hath business that concerns your life and for- 
 tunes, 
 And with speed to impart. 
 Sfor. Wait on him hither. 
 
 {Exit Francisco. 
 And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers 
 Assist my councils. 
 
 Macr. To spare imprecations 
 Against myself, without you I am nothing. 
 
 \JExit. 
 Sfor. The Marquis of Pescara! a great soldier; 
 And, though he serv'd upon the adverse party, 
 Ever my constant friend. 
 
 Re-enter Francisco with Pescara. 
 
 Fran. Yonder he walks, 
 Full of sad thoughts. 
 
 Pesc. Blame him not, good Francisco, 
 He hath much cause to grieve ; would I might 
 And not add this, — to fear ! [end so, 
 
 Sfor. My dear Pescara ; 
 A miracle in these times ! a friend, and happy, 
 Cleaves to a falling fortune 1 
 
 Pesc. If it were 
 As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it, 
 As 'tis to bear a part of sorrow with you. 
 You then should have just cause to say, Pescara 
 
 » There is evidently some omission here. 
 
 Look'd not upon your state, but on your virtues, 
 When he made suit to be writ in the list 
 Of those you favoured. — But my haste forbids 
 All compliment: thus, then, sir, to the purpose: 
 The cause that, unattended, brought me hither 
 Was not to tell you of your loss, or danger ; 
 For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings, 
 And I presume you've heard it ; but to give yon 
 Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may make 
 Your sad disaster less. 
 
 Sfor. You are all goodness ; 
 And I give up myself to be disposed of, 
 As in your wisdom you think fit. 
 
 Pesc. Thus, then, sir: 
 To hope you can hold out against the emperor, 
 Were flattery in yourself, to your undoing : 
 Therefore, the safest course that you can take, 
 Is to give up yourself to his discretion. 
 Before you be compell'd ; for, rest assured, 
 A voluntary yielding may find grace. 
 And will admit defence, at least, excuse : 
 But, should you linger doubtful, till his powers 
 Have seized your person and estates perforce, 
 You must expect extremes. 
 
 Sfor. I understand you ; 
 And I will put your counsel into act, 
 And speedily. I only will take order 
 For some domestical affairs, that do 
 Concern me nearly, and with the next sun 
 Eide with you : in the meantime, my best friend, 
 Pray take your rest. 
 
 Pesc. Indeed, I have travell'd hard ; 
 And will embrace your counsel. {Exit, 
 
 Sfor. With all care. 
 Attend my noble friend. Stay you, Francisco. 
 You see how things stand with me ? 
 
 Fran. To my grief : 
 And if the loss of my poor life could be 
 A sacrifice to restore them as they were, 
 I willingly would lay it down. 
 
 Sfor. I think so ; 
 For I have ever found you true and thankful. 
 Which makes me love the building I have raised 
 In your advancement : and repent no grace 
 I have conferr'd upon you. And, believe me. 
 Though now I should repeat my favours to you, 
 The titles I have given you, and the means 
 Suitable to your honours ; that I thought you 
 Worthy my sister and my family. 
 And in my dukedom made you next myself ; 
 It is not to upbraid you ; but to tell you 
 I find you are worthy of them, in your love 
 And service to me. 
 
 Fran. Sir, I am your creature ; 
 And any shape that you would have me wear, 
 I gladly will put on. 
 
 Sfor. Thus, then, Francisco : 
 I now am to deliver to your trust 
 A weighty secret, of so strange a nature. 
 And 'twill, I know, appear so monstrous to you. 
 That you will tremble in the execution, 
 As much as I am tortured to command it : 
 For 'tis a deed so horrid, that, but to hear it. 
 Would strike into a rufiian flesh'd in murders. 
 Or an obdurate hangman, soft compassion ; 
 And yet, Francisco, of all men the dearest, 
 And from me most deserving, such my state 
 And strange condition is, that thou alone 
 Must know the fatal service, and perform it. 
 
 Fran. These preparations, sir, to work a 
 stranger. 
 Or to one unacquainted with your bounties, 
 Might appear useful ; but to me they are 
 Needless impertinences : for I dare do 
 Whate'er you dare command. 
 
 Sfor. But you must swear it ; 
 And put into the oath all joys or torments 
 
4i6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 That fright the wicked or confirm the good; 
 Not to conceal it only, that is nothing, 
 But, whensoe'er my will shall speak, Strike now! 
 To fall upon't like thunder. 
 
 Fran. Minister 
 The oath in any way or form you please, 
 I stand resolved to take it. 
 
 Sfor. Thou must do, then, 
 What no malevolent star will dare to look on, 
 It is so wicked : for which men will curse thee 
 For being the instrument ; and the blest angels 
 Forsake me at my need, for being the author : 
 For, 'tis a deed of night, of night, Francisco ! 
 In which the memory of all good actions 
 We can pretend to, shall be buried quick : 
 Or, if we be remember'd, it shall be 
 To fright posterity by our example. 
 That have outgone all precedents of villains 
 That were before us ; and such as succeed, 
 Though taught in hell's black school, shall ne'er 
 
 come near us. — 
 Art thou not shaken yet ? 
 
 Fran. I grant you move me : 
 But to a man confirm'd — 
 
 Sfor, I'll try your temper : 
 What think you of my wife ? 
 
 Fran. As a thing sacred ; 
 To whose fair name and memory I pay gladly 
 These signs of duty. 
 
 Sfor. Is she not the abstract 
 Of all that's rare, or to be wish'd in woman ? 
 
 Fran. It were a kind of blasphemy to dispute 
 it: 
 But to the pui-pose, sir. 
 
 Sfor. Add too, her goodness, 
 Her tenderness of me, her care to please me, 
 Her unsuspected chastity, ne'er equall'd ; 
 Her innocence, her honour : oh, I am lost 
 In the ocean of her virtues and her graces, 
 When I think of them ! 
 
 Fran. Now I find the end 
 Of all your conjurations : there's some service 
 To be done for this sweet lady. If she have 
 
 enemies, 
 That she would have removed — 
 
 Sfor. Alas ! Francisco, 
 Her greatest enemy is her greatest lover ; 
 Yet in that hatred her idolater. 
 One smile of hers would make a savage tame ; 
 One accent of that tongue would calm the seas. 
 Though all the winds at once strove there for 
 
 empire. 
 Yet I, for whom she thinks all this too little, 
 Should I miscarry in this present journey, 
 From whence it is all number to a cipher, 
 I ne'er return with honour, by thy hand 
 Must have her murder' d. 
 
 Fran. Murder'd ! — She that loves so, 
 And so deserves to be belov'd again ! 
 And I, who sometimes you wex*e pleased to favour, 
 Pick'd out the instrument ! 
 
 Sfor. Do not fly off : 
 What is deci-eed can never be recall'd ; 
 'Tis more than love to her, that marks her out 
 A wish'd companion to me in both fortunes ; 
 A strong assurance of thy zealous faith, 
 That gives up to thy trust a secret, that 
 Backs should not have forced from me. Oh, 
 
 Francisco ! 
 There is no heaven without her, nor a hell 
 Where she resides. I ask from her but justice, 
 And what I would have paid to her, had sickness. 
 Or any other accident, divorced 
 Her purer soul from her unspotted body. 
 The slavish Indian princes, when they die, 
 Are cheerfully attended to the fire 
 By the wife and slave that living they loved best, 
 
 To do them sei'vice in another world; 
 Nor will I be less honour'd, that love more. 
 And therefore trifle not, but, in thy looks. 
 Express a ready purpose to perform 
 What I command ; or by Marcelia's soul. 
 This is thy latest minute. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis not fear 
 Of death, but love to you, makes me embrace it : 
 But for mine own securitj', when 'tis done. 
 What warrant have I ? If you please to sign one, 
 I shall, though with unwillingness and horror. 
 Perform jovlv dreadful charge. 
 
 Sfor. I will, Francisco : 
 But still remember that a prince's secrets 
 Are balm conceal'd, but poison, if discover'd. 
 I may come back ; then this is but a trial 
 To purchase thee, if it were possible, 
 A nearer place in my affection : — but 
 I know thee honest. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis a character 
 I will not part with. 
 
 Sfor. I may live to reward it. {Exeunt, 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 The same. An open space before the Castle, 
 
 Enter Tiberio and Stephano. 
 
 Sfeph. How ! left the court ? 
 
 Tib. Without guard or retinue 
 Fitting a prince. 
 
 Steph. No enemy near to force him 
 To leave his own strengths, yet deliver up 
 Himself, as 'twere, in bonds, to the discretion 
 Of him that hates him ! 'tis beyond example. 
 You never heard the motives that induced him 
 To this strange course ? 
 
 Tib. No ; those are cabinet councils. 
 And not to be communicated, but 
 To such as are his own, and sui-e. Alas, 
 We fill up empty places, and in public 
 Are taught to give our suffrages to that 
 Which was before determined ; and are safe so. 
 Signior Francisco (upon whom alone 
 His absolute power is, with all strength, conferr d 
 During his absence) can with ease resolve you : 
 To me they are riddles. 
 
 Steph. Well, he shall not be 
 My (Edipus ; I'll rather dwell in darkness. 
 But, my good lord Tiberio, this Francisco 
 Is, on the sudden, strangely raised. 
 
 Tib. Oh, sir. 
 He took the thriving course : he had a sister, 
 A fair one too, with whom, as it is rumour'd, 
 The duke was too familiar; but she, cast off 
 (What promises soever passed between them), 
 Upon the sight of this,^ forsook the court, 
 And since was never seen. To smother this, 
 As honours never fail to purehase silence, 
 Francisco first was graced, and, step by step. 
 Is raised up to this height. 
 
 Steph. But how is 
 His absence borne ? 
 
 Tib. Sadly, it seems, by the duchess ; 
 For since he left the court, 
 For the most part she hath kept her private 
 
 chamber. 
 No visitants admitted. In the church. 
 She hath been seen to pay her pure devotions, 
 Season'd with tears ; and sure her sorrow's true, 
 Or deeply counterfeited ; pomp, and state, 
 And bravery cast off : and she, that lately 
 Rivall'd Poppsea in her varied shapes. 
 
 * ihis—i.e. the duchess. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 417 
 
 Or the Egyptian queen, now, widow-like, 
 In sable colours, as her husband's dangers 
 Strangled in her the use of any pleasure, 
 Mourns for his absence. 
 
 Steph. It becomes her virtue, 
 And does confirm what was reported of her. 
 
 Tib. You take it right : but, on the other side, 
 The darling of his mother, Mariana, 
 As there were an antipathy between 
 Her and the duchess' passions ; and as 
 She'd no dependence on her brother's fortune, 
 She ne'er appeared so fuU of mirth. 
 
 StcpTi. 'Tis strange. 
 
 Enter Graccho with. Fiddlers. 
 
 But see ! her favourite, and accompanied, 
 To your report. 
 
 Grac. You shall scrape, and I will sing 
 A scurvy ditty to a scurvy tune, 
 Kepine who dares. 
 
 1 Fid. But if we should offend. 
 The duchess having silenced us , — and these 
 
 lords, 
 Stand by to hear us. — 
 
 Grac. They in name are lords. 
 But I am one in power : and, for the duchess, 
 But yesterday we were merry for her pleasure. 
 We uow'll be for my lady's. 
 
 Tib. Signior Graccho. 
 
 Grac. A poor man, sir, a servant to the 
 princess ; 
 But you, great lords and councillors of state. 
 Whom I stand bound to reverence. 
 
 Tib. Come ; we know 
 You are a man in grace. 1 
 
 Grac. Fie ! no : I grant, 
 I bear my fortunes patiently; serve the princess, 
 And have access at all times to her closet, 
 Such is my impudence ! when your grave lord- 
 ships 
 Are masters of the modesty to attend 
 Three hours, nay sometimes four ; and then bid 
 
 wait 
 Upon her the next morning. 
 
 Ste'ph. He derides us. 
 
 Tib. Pray you, what news is stirring ? you 
 know all. 
 
 Grac. Who, I ? alas ! I've no intelligence 
 At home nor abroad ; I only sometimes guess 
 The change of the times : I should ask of your 
 
 lordships. 
 Who are to keep their honours, who to lose them ; 
 Who the duchess smiled on last, or on whom 
 
 frown'd. 
 You only can resolve me ; we poor waiters 
 Deal, as you see, in mirth, and foolish fiddles : 
 It is our element ; and — could you tell me 
 What point of state 'tis that I am commanded 
 To muster up this music, on mine honesty, 
 You should much befriend me. 
 
 Steph. Sin-ah, you grow saucy. 
 
 Tib. And would be laid by the heels. 
 
 Grac. Not by your lordships. 
 Without a special warrant; look to your own 
 
 stakes ; 
 Were I committed, here come those would bail 
 
 me: 
 Pei-haps, we might change places too. 
 
 Enter Isabella and Mariana ; Graccho 
 whispers the latter. 
 
 Tib. The princess ! 
 We must be patient. 
 Steph. There is no contending. 
 
 yrace— favour. 
 
 Tib. See, the informing rogue \ 
 
 Steph. That we should stoop 
 To such a mushroom ! 
 
 Mari. Thou dost mistake ; they durst not 
 Use the least word of scorn, although provoked. 
 To anything of mine. — Go, get you home. 
 And to your servants, friends, and flatterers, 
 
 number 
 How many descents you're noble; — look to 
 
 your wives too ; 
 The smooth-chinn'd courtiers are abroad. 
 
 Tib. No way to be a freeman ! 
 
 ^Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano. 
 
 Grac. Your Excellence hath the best gift 
 to despatch 
 These arras pictures of nobility, 
 I ever read of. 
 
 Mari. I can speak sometimes. 
 
 Grac. And cover so your bitter pills with 
 sweetness 
 Of princely language to forbid reply, 
 They are greedily swaUow'd. 
 
 Isab. But the purpose, daughter. 
 That brings us hither } Is it to bestow 
 A visit on this woman, that, because 
 She only would be thought truly to grieve 
 The absence and the dangers of my son. 
 Proclaims a general sadness ? 
 
 Mari. If to vex her 
 May be interpreted to do her honour, 
 She shall have many of them. I'll make use 
 Of my short reign : my lord now governs all ; 
 And she shall know that her idolater. 
 My brother, being not by now to protect her, 
 I am her equal. 
 
 Grac. Of a little thing, 
 It is so full of gall ! A devil of this size, 
 Should they run for a wager to be spiteful. 
 Gets not a horse-head of her. [Aside. 
 
 Mari. On her birthday 
 We were forced to be merry, and now she's musty, 
 We must be sad, on pain of her displeasure : 
 We will, we will ! this is her private chamber. 
 Where, like an hypocrite, not a true turtle. 
 She seems to mourn her absent mate ; her servants 
 Attending her like mutes : but I'll speak to her, 
 And in a high key too. — Play anything 
 That's light and loud enough but to torment her, 
 And we will have rare sport. 
 
 [^JMusic and a song. 
 
 Marcelia appears at a Window above, in black. 
 
 Isab. She frowns as if 
 Her looks could fright us. 
 
 Mari. May it please j^our greatness. 
 We heard that your late physic hath not work'd ; 
 And that breeds melancholy, as your doctor 
 
 tells us : 
 To purge which, we, that are born your high- 
 ness' vassals. 
 And are to play the fool to do you service. 
 Present you with a fit of mirth. What think you 
 Of a new antic ? 
 
 Isab. 'Twould show rare in ladies. 
 
 Mari. Being intended for so sweet a creature, 
 Were she but pleased to grace it. 
 
 Isab. Fie ! she will. 
 Be it ne'er so mean ; she's made of courtesy. 
 
 3Iari. The mistress of all hearts. One smile, I 
 pray you. 
 On your poor sei-vants, or a fiddler's fee ; 
 Coming from those fair hands, though but a 
 
 ducat. 
 We will enshrine it as a holy relic. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis wormwood, and it works. 
 
 2d 
 
4i8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Marc. If I lay by 
 My fears and griefs, in wMcli you should be 
 
 sharers, 
 If dotiDg age could let you but remember 
 You have a son ; or frontless impudence. 
 You are a sister; and, in making answer 
 To what was most unfit for you to speak, 
 Or me to hear, borrow of my jiist anger — 
 
 Isah. A set speech, on my life. 
 
 Mart. Penn'd by her chaplain. 
 
 Marc. Yes, it can speak, without instruction 
 
 And tell your want of manners, that you are rude. 
 And saucily rude, too. 
 
 Grac. Now the game begins. 
 
 Marc. You durst not, else, on any hire or hope, 
 Remembering what I am, and whose I am, 
 Put on the desperate boldness to disturb 
 The least of my retirements. 
 
 ■Main. Note her, now. 
 
 Marc. For both shall understand, though the 
 one presume 
 Upon the privilege due to a mother. 
 The duke stands now on his own legs, and needs 
 No nurse to lead him. 
 
 Isab. How, a nurse ! 
 
 Marc. A dry one. 
 And useless too : — but I am merciful, 
 And dotage signs your pardon. 
 
 Isab. I defy thee ; 
 Thee, and thy pardons, proud one ! 
 
 Marc. Tor you, puppet — 
 
 Mari. What of me, pine-tree ? 
 
 Marc. Little you are, I grant, 
 And have as little worth, but much less wit ; 
 You durst not else, the duke being wholly mine, 
 His power and honour mine, and the allegiance 
 You owe him, as a subject, due to me — 
 
 MaH. To you ? 
 
 Marc. To me : and therefore, as a vassal. 
 From this hour learn to serve me, or you'll feel 
 I must make use of my authority, 
 And, as a princess, punish it. 
 
 Isab. A princess ! 
 
 Mari. I had rather be a slave unto a Moor, 
 Than know thee for my equal. 
 
 Isab. Scornful thing ! 
 Proud of a white face. 
 
 Mari. Let her but remember 
 The issue in her leg. 
 
 Isab. The charge she puts 
 The state to, for perfumes. 
 
 Mari. And howsoe'er 
 She seems when she's made up, as she's herself. 
 She stinks above the ground. Oh that I could 
 
 reach you ! 
 The little one you scorn so, with her nails 
 Would tear your painted face, and scratch those 
 Do but come down. [eyes out. 
 
 Marc. Were there no other way. 
 But leaping on thy neck, to break mine own, 
 Eather than be outbraved thus. [She retires. 
 
 Grac. Forty ducats 
 Upon the little hen ; she's of the kind, 
 And will not leave the pit. [Aside. 
 
 Mari. That it were lawful 
 To meet her with a poniard and a pistol ! 
 But these weak hands shall show my spleen — 
 
 Re-enter Marcelia below. 
 
 Marc. Where are you, 
 You modicum, you dwarf ! 
 Mari. Here, giantess, here. 
 
 Enter Francisco, Tiberio, Stephano, and 
 Guards. 
 
 Fran. A tumult in the court ! 
 
 Mari. Let her come on. 
 
 Fran. What wind hath raised this tempest ? 
 Sever them, I command you. What's the cause ? 
 Speak, Mariana. 
 
 Mari. I am out of breath ; 
 But we shall meet, we shall. — And, do you hear, 
 
 sir! 
 Or right me on this monster (she's three feet 
 Too high for a woman), or ne'er look to have 
 A quiet hour with me. 
 
 Isab. If my son were here, 
 And would endui'e this, may a mother's curse 
 Pursue and overtake him ! 
 
 Fran. Oh forbear ; 
 In me he's present, both in power and will ; 
 And, madam, I much grieve that in his absence, 
 There should arise the least distaste to move you; 
 It being his principal, nay, only charge. 
 To have you, in his absence, served and honour'd, 
 As when himself perform'd the willing office. 
 
 Mari. This is fine, i'faith. 
 
 Grac. I would I were well off ! 
 
 Fran. And therefore, I beseech you, madam, 
 frown not, 
 Till most unwittingly he hath deserved it. 
 On your poor servant ; to your excellence 
 I ever was and will be such ; and lay 
 The duke's authority, trusted to me, 
 With willingness at your feet. 
 
 3Iari. Oh base ! 
 
 Isab. We are like 
 To have an equal judge ! 
 
 Fran. But, should I find 
 That you are touch'd in any point of honour, 
 Or that the least neglect is fall'n upon you, 
 I then stand up a pi'ince. 
 
 1 Fid. Without reward, 
 Pray you dismiss us. 
 
 Ch'ac. Would I were five leagues hence ! 
 
 Fran. I will be partial 
 To none, not to myself ; 
 Be you but pleased to show me my offence, 
 Or if you hold me in your good opinion, 
 Name those that have offended you. 
 
 Isab. I am one. 
 And I will justify it. 
 
 Mari. Thou art a base fellow. 
 To take her part. 
 
 Fran. Eemember, she's the duchess. 
 
 Marc. But used with more contempt, than if I 
 were 
 A peasant's daughter ; baited, and hooted at. 
 Like to a common strumpet ; with loud noises 
 Forced from my prayers 5 and my private cham- 
 ber. 
 Which with all willingness I would make my 
 
 prison 
 During the absence of my lord, denied me: 
 But if he e'er return — 
 
 Fran. Were you an actor , 
 In this lewd comedy ? 
 
 Mari. Ay, marry was I ; 
 And will be one again. 
 
 Isab. I'll join with her. 
 Though you repine at it. 
 
 Fran. Think not, then, I speak, 
 For I stand bound to lionour, and to serve you ; 
 But that the duke, that lives in this great lady, 
 For the contempt of him in her, commands you 
 To be close prisoners. 
 
 Isab. Mari. Prisoners! 
 
 Fran. Bear them hence: 
 This is your charge, my lord TiberiO| 
 And, Stephano, this is yours. 
 
 Marc. I am not cruel. 
 But pleased they may have liberty, 
 
 Isab, Pleased, with a mischief 1 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 419 
 
 Mari. I'll rather live in any loathsome dun- 
 geon, 
 Than in a paradise at her entreaty ; 
 And, for you, upstart — 
 
 Steph. There is no contending. 
 
 Tib. "What shall become of these ? 
 
 Fran. See them well whipp'd, 
 As you will answer it. 
 
 Tib. Now, Signior Graccho, 
 What think you of your greatness ? 
 
 Grac. I preach patience. 
 And must endure my fortune. 
 
 1 Fid. I was never yet 
 At such a hunt's-up,^ nor was so rewarded. 
 
 [^Exeunt all but Francisco and Marcelia. 
 
 Fran. Let them first know themselves, and 
 how you are 
 To be served and honour'd ; which, when they 
 
 confess, 
 You may again receive them to your favour : 
 And then it will show nobly. 
 
 Marc. With my thanks 
 The duke shall pay you his, if he return 
 To bless us with his presence. 
 
 Fran. There is nothing 
 That can be added to your fair acceptance ; 
 That is the prize, indeed ; all else are blanks, 
 And of no value. As, in virtuous actions, 
 The undertaker finds a full reward, 
 Although conf err'd upon unthankful men ; 
 So, any service done to so much sweetness, 
 However dangerous, and subject to 
 An Ul construction, in your favour finds 
 A wish'd and glorious end. 
 
 Marc. From you. I take this 
 As loyal duty ; but, in any other, 
 It would appear gross flattery. 
 
 Fran. Flattery, madam ! 
 You are so rare and excellent in all things, 
 And raised so high upon a rock of goodness, 
 As that vice cannot reach you : who but looks on 
 This temple, Duilt by nature to perfection, 
 But must bow to it ; and out of that zeal. 
 Not only learn to adore it, but to love it ? 
 
 Marc. Whither will this fellow? [Aside. 
 
 Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam, 
 If an excess in me of humble duty^ 
 Teach me to hope, and though it be not in 
 The power of man to merit such a blessing, 
 My piety, for it is more than love, 
 May find reward. 
 
 Marc. You have it in my thanks ; 
 And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall 
 
 take 
 A full possession of it : but, take heed 
 That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it ; 
 If you do, it will prove fatal. 
 
 Fran. Be it death. 
 And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out, 
 Yet I must say, I love you. 
 
 Marc. As a subject ; 
 And 'twill become you. 
 
 Fran. Farewell, circumstance! 
 And since you are not pleased to understand me, 
 But by a plain and useful form of speech : 
 All superstitious reverence laid by, 
 I love you as a man, and, as a man, 
 I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly 
 
 me? 
 I am no monster, and you but a woman, 
 
 ^The hunfs-up was a lesson on the horn, played 
 under the windows of sportsmen, to call them up in the 
 morning. It was, probably, sufficiently obstreperous, for 
 it is frequently applied by our old writers, as in this 
 place, to any noise or clamour of aa awakening or 
 Blaiming nature.— Giffokd. 
 
 A woman made to yield, and by example 
 Told it is lawful : favours of this natui-e, 
 Are, in our age, no miracles in the greatest ; 
 And therefore, lady — 
 
 Marc. Keep off ! — O you Powers ! — 
 Libidinous beast ! and, add to that, unthankful ! 
 A crime which creatures wanting reason fly 
 
 from. 
 Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours. 
 Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom, 
 Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd upon thee, 
 In three days' absence buried? Hath he made 
 
 thee, 
 A thing obscure, almost without a name. 
 The envy of great fortunes? Have I graced 
 
 thee. 
 Beyond thy rank, and entertain'd thee, as 
 A friend, and not a servant ? and is this. 
 This impudent attempt to taint mine honour, 
 The fair return of both our ventured favours ! 
 
 Fran. Hear my excuse. 
 
 Marc. The devil may plead mercy. 
 And with as much assurance, as thou yield one. 
 Burns lust so hot in thee ? or is thy pride 
 Grown up to such a height, that but a princess, 
 No women can content "thee ; and, add to it. 
 His wife and princess, to whom thou art tied 
 In all the bonds of duty ? — Kead my life, 
 And find one act of mine so loosely carried. 
 That could invite a most self-loving fool. 
 Set off with all that fortune could throw on him. 
 To the least hope to find way to my favour ; 
 And, what's the worst mine enemies could wish 
 I'll be thy strumpet. [me, 
 
 Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam, 
 That your whole course of life hath been a pattern 
 For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty. 
 Which I first saAV, and loved, as a fair crystal, 
 I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; 
 And while the duke did prize you to your value, 
 Could it have been in man to pay that duty, 
 I well might envy him, but durst not hope 
 To stop you in your full career of goodness: 
 But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune, 
 And, howsoever he would appear doting, 
 Grown cold in his affection ; I presume, 
 From his most barbarous neglect of you, 
 To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound, 
 To look back on the courtesies of him, 
 That, of all living men, is most unthankful. 
 
 Marc. Unheard-of impudence ! 
 
 Fran. You'll say I am modest. 
 When I have told the story. Can he tax me. 
 That have received some worldly trifles from 
 
 him. 
 For being ungrateful, when he, that first tasted, 
 And had so long enjoy'd, your sweet embraces. 
 In which all blessings that our frail condition 
 Is capable of, are wholly comprehended, 
 As cloy'd with happiness, contemns the giver 
 Of his felicity ; and, as he reach'd not 
 The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at, 
 Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to, 
 With fell and deadly hate ! You think he loves 
 
 you 
 With unexampled fervour ; nay, dotes on you, 
 As there were something in you more than 
 
 woman : 
 When, on my knowledge, he long since hath 
 
 wishd 
 You were among the dead : — and I, you scorn so, 
 Perhaps, am your preserver. 
 
 Marc. Bless me, good angels, 
 Or I am blasted ! Lies so false and wicked. 
 And fashiou'd to so damnable a purpose, 
 Cannot be spoken by a human tongue. 
 My husband hate me ! give thyself the lie, 
 
420 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 False and accurs'd ! Thy soul, if thou hast any, 
 
 Can witness, never lady stood so bound 
 
 To the unfeign'd affection of her lord, 
 
 As I do to my Sforza. If thou wouldst work 
 
 Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather, 
 
 That the earth moves ; the sun and stars stand 
 
 stiU; 
 The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs ; or that 
 There's peace between the lion and the lamb ; 
 Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove 
 Keep in one aerie, and bring up their young ; 
 Or anything that is averse to nature ; 
 And 1 will sooner credit it, than that 
 My lord can think of me, but as a jewel 
 He loves more than himself, and all the world. 
 
 Fran. Oh innocence abused ! simplicity cozen'd ! 
 It were a sin, for which we have no name, 
 To keep you longer in this wDful error. 
 Eead his affection here — [C/yes her a paper. '\ — 
 
 and then observe 
 How dear he holds you ! 'Tis his character, 
 ' Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. 
 
 Marc. 'Tis his hand, I'm resolved^ of it. I'll 
 try 
 What the inscription is. 
 
 Fran. Pi'ay you do so.' 
 
 Marc. [Reads.] You know my pleasure, and the hour 
 of Marcelia's death, which fail not to execute, as you 
 will answer the contrary, not with your head alone, but 
 with the ruin of your whole family. And this, written 
 with mme own hand, and signed with my privy signet, 
 shaU be your suflBcient warrant. 
 
 LoDovico Sforza. 
 I do obey it ! every word's a poniard, 
 And reaches to my heai-t. [^Swoons. 
 
 Fran. What have I done 7 
 Madam! for Heaven's sake, madam! — Oh my fate! 
 I'll bend her body : this is yet some pleasure : 
 I'll kiss her into a new life.* Dear lady ! — 
 She stirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's 
 sake — 
 
 Marc. Sforza's! stand off; though dead, I will 
 be his, 
 And even my ashes shall abhor the touch 
 Of any othei*. — Oh unkind, and cruel ! 
 Learn, women, learn to trust in one another ! 
 There is no faith in man : Sforza is false. 
 False to Marcelia ! 
 
 Fran. But I am true. 
 And live to make you happy. All the pomp, 
 State, and observance you had, being his, 
 Compared to what you shall enjoy when mine, 
 Shall be no more remember'd. Lose his memory, 
 And look with cheerful beams on your new 
 
 creature; 
 And know what he hath plotted for your good, 
 Fate cannot alter. If the emperor 
 Take not his life, at his return he dies. 
 And by my hand ; my wife, that is his heir, 
 Shall quickly follow : — then we reign alone ! 
 For with this arm I'll swim through seas of blood. 
 Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men. 
 But 1 will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, 
 Dearest, and best of women ! 
 
 Marc. Thou art a villain ! 
 All attributes of arch-villains made into one, 
 Cannot express thee. I prefer the hate 
 Of Sforza, though it mark me for the grave, 
 Before thy base affection. I am yet 
 Pm-e and unspotted in my true love to him ; 
 Nor shall it be corrupted, though he's tainted : 
 Kor will I part with innocence, because 
 He is found guilty. For thyself, thou art 
 A thing that, equal with the devil himself, 
 I do detest and scorn. 
 
 * rejo?retJ— convinced. 
 
 Fran. Thou, then, art nothing : 
 Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman ! 
 Think on't, and tremble. 
 
 Marc. No, though thou wert now 
 To play thy hangman's part. — Thou well may'st 
 
 be 
 My executioner, and art only fit 
 For such employment ; but ne'er hope to have 
 The least grace from me. I will never see thee, 
 But as the shame of men : so, with my curses 
 Of horror to thy conscience in this life, 
 And pains in hell hereafter, I spit at thee ; 
 And, making haste to make my peace with 
 
 Heaven, 
 Expect thee as my hangman. [Exit. 
 
 Fran. I am lost 
 In the discovery of this fatal secret. 
 Curs'd hope that flatter'd me, that wrongs could 
 
 make her 
 A stranger to her goodness ! all my plots 
 Turn back upon myself ; but I am in. 
 And must go on : and, since I have put off 
 From the shore of innocence, guilt be now my 
 
 pilot ! 
 Revenge first wrought me ; murder's his twin- 
 brother : 
 One deadly sin, then, help to cure another ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE L 
 
 The Imperial Camp, before Pavia. 
 
 Enter Medina, Hernando, and Alphonso. 
 
 Med. The spoil, the spoil ! 'tis that the soldier 
 fights for. 
 Our victory, as yet, affords us nothing 
 But wounds and empty honour. We have pass'd 
 The hazard of a dreadful day, and forced 
 A passage with our swords through all the dan- 
 gers 
 That, page-like, wait on the success of war ; 
 And now expect reward. 
 
 Hei'n. Hell put it in 
 The enemy's mind to be desperate, and hold out! 
 Yieldings and compositions will undo us ; 
 And what is that way given, for the most part. 
 Comes to the emperor's coffers, to defray 
 The charge of the great action, as 'tis rumom-'d: 
 When usually, something in grace, that ne'er 
 
 heard 
 The cannon's roaring tongue, but at a triumph, 
 Puts in, and for his intercession shares 
 All that we fought for ; the poor soldier left 
 To starve, or fill up hospitals. 
 
 Alph. But, when 
 We enter towns by force, and carve ourselves. 
 Pleasure with pillage, and the richest wines 
 Open our shrunk-up veins, and pour into them 
 New blood and fervour — 
 
 Med, I long to be at it ; 
 To see these chuffs, * that every day may spend 
 A soldier's entertainment for a year. 
 Yet make a third meal of a bunch of raisins : 
 These sponges, that suck up a kingdom's fat, 
 Battening like scarabs in the dung of peace. 
 To be squeezed out by the rough hand of war ; 
 And all that their whole lives have heap'd to- 
 gether. 
 By cozenage, perjury, or sordid thrift, 
 With one gripe to be ravish'd. 
 
 HeiTi. I would be tousing 
 
 ^ chuff was a term of reproach usually applied to 
 avaricious old citizens. — Nabes. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 421 
 
 Their fair madonas, that in little dogs, 
 Monkeys, and paraquittos, consume thousands ; 
 Yet, for the advancement of a noble action, 
 Repine to part with a poor piece of eight : 
 War's plagues upon them ! I have seen them stop 
 Their scornful noses first, then seem to swoon, 
 At sight of a buff jerkin, if it were not 
 Perfumed, and hid with gold : yet these nice 
 
 wantons, 
 Spurr'd on by lust, cover'd in some disguise. 
 To meet some rough court-stallion, and be leap'd, 
 Durst enter into any common brothel. 
 Though all varieties of stink contend there; 
 Yet praise the entertainment. 
 
 Med. I may live 
 To see the tatter'd'st rascals of my troop 
 Drag them out of their closets, with a vengeance ! 
 When neither threat'ning, flattering, kneeling, 
 
 howling. 
 Can ransom one poor jewel, or redeem 
 Themselves from their blunt wooing. 
 
 Hern. My main hope is, 
 To begin the sport at Milan : there's enough. 
 And of all kinds of pleasure we can wish for, 
 To satisfy the most covetous. 
 
 Alph. Every day, 
 We look for a remove. 
 
 Med. For Lodowick Sforza, 
 The Duke of Milan, I, on mine own knowledge. 
 Can say thus much : he is too much a soldier 
 Too confident of his own worth, too rich too, 
 And understands too well the emperor hates him, 
 To hope for composition. 
 
 Alph. On my life, 
 We need not fear his coming in.^ 
 
 Hern. On mine, 
 I do not wish it : I had rather that, 
 To show his valour, he'd put us to the trouble 
 To fetch him in by the ears. 
 Med. The emperor ! 
 Flourish. Enter Charles, Pescara, and 
 Attendants. 
 Charl. You make me wonder: — nay, it is no 
 counsel,^ 
 You may partake it, gentlemen : who'd have 
 
 thought 
 That he, that scorn'd otir proffer'd amity 
 When he was sued to, should, ere he be sum- 
 
 mon'd 
 (Whether persuaded to it by base fear. 
 Or flatter'd by false hope, which, 'tis uncertain), 
 First kneel for mercy .'' 
 
 Med. When your majesty 
 Shall please to instruct us who it is, we may 
 Admire it with you. 
 
 Charl. Who, but the Duke of Milan, 
 The right hand of the French ! Of all that stand 
 In our displeasure, whom necessity 
 Compels to seek our favour, I would have sworn 
 Sforza had been the last. 
 
 Hern. And should be writ so, 
 In the list of those you pardon. Would his city 
 Had rather held us out a siege, like Troy, 
 Than, by a feign'd submission, he should cheat 
 
 you 
 Of a just revenge ; or us, of those fair glories 
 We have sweat blood to purchase ! 
 
 Med. With your honour 
 You cannot hear him. 
 
 Alph. The sack alone of Milan 
 Will pay the army. 
 
 Charl. I am not so weak 
 To be wrought on, as you fear ; nor ignorant 
 That money is the sinew of the war : 
 
 coming in — surrender. 
 ' coMTwe^secret. — Giffobd. 
 
 And on what terms soever he seek peace, 
 'Tis in our power to grant it, or deny it : 
 Yet, for our glory, and to show him that 
 We've brought him on his knees, it is resolved 
 To hear him as a suppliant. Bring him in ; 
 But let him see the effects of our just anger, 
 In the guard that you make for him. 
 
 [Exit Pescaka. 
 Hern. I am now 
 Familiar with the issue : all plagues on it ! 
 He will appear in some dejected habit. 
 His countenance suitable, and for his order, 
 A rope about his neck : then kneel, and tell 
 Old stories, what a worthy thing it is 
 To have power, and not to use it; then add to 
 
 that 
 A tale of King Tigranes, and great Pompey, 
 Who said, forsooth, and wisely, 'twas more 
 
 honour 
 To make a king, than kill one : which, applied 
 To the emperor, and himself, a pardon's granted 
 To him an enemy ; and we, his servants, 
 Condemn'd to beggary. [_Aside to Med. 
 
 Med. Yonder he comes ; 
 But not as you expected. 
 
 Re-enter Pescara with Sforza, strongly guarded. 
 
 Alph. He looks as if 
 He would outface his dangers. 
 
 Heiii. I am cozen'd : 
 A suitor, in the devil's name ! 
 
 Med. Hear him speak. 
 
 Sfor. I come not, emperor, to invade thy 
 mercy, 
 By fawning on thy fortune ; nor bring with me 
 Excuses or denials. I profess. 
 And with a good man's confidence, even this 
 
 instant 
 That I am in thy power; I was thine enemy. 
 Thy deadly and vow'd enemy : one that wish'd 
 Confusion to thy person and estates ; 
 And with my utmost powers, and deepest counsels, 
 Had they been truly follow'd, further'd it. 
 Nor will I now, although my neck were i;nder 
 The hangman's axe, with one poor syllable 
 Confess, but that I honour'd the French king 
 More than thyself, and all men. 
 
 Med. By Saint Jaques, 
 This is no flattery. 
 
 Hern. There is fire and spirit in't ; 
 But not long-lived, I hope. 
 
 Sfor. Now give me leave, 
 My hate against thyself, and love to him 
 Freely acknowledged, to give up the reasons 
 That made me so affected : In my wants 
 I ever found him faithful ; had supplies 
 Of men and monies from him ; and my hopes, 
 Quite sunk, were, by his grace, buoy'd up again ; 
 He was, indeed, to me, as my good angel 
 To guard me fi'om all dangers. I dare speak. 
 Nay, must and will, his praise now, in as high 
 And loud a key, as when he was thy equal. — 
 The benefits he sow'd in me, met not 
 Unthankful groiiud, but yielded him his own 
 With fair increase, and I still glory in it. 
 And, though my fortunes, poor, compared to his, 
 And Milan, weigh'd with France, appear as 
 
 nothing. 
 Are in thy fury burnt, let it be mention 'd. 
 They served but as small tapers to attend 
 The solemn flame at this great funeral : 
 And with them I will gladly waste myself, 
 Rather than undergo the imputation 
 Of being base, or unthankful. 
 
 Alph. Nobly spoken ! 
 
 Hern. I do begin, I know not why, to hato 
 Less than I did. [him 
 
422 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Sfor, If that, then, to be grateful 
 For courtesies received, or not to leave 
 A friend in his necessities, be a crime 
 Amongst you Spaniards, which other nations 
 That, like you, aim'd at empire, lov'd, and 
 
 cherish'd 
 "Whsre'er they found it, Sforza brings his head 
 To pay the forfeit. Nor come I as a slave, 
 Pinion'd and fetter'd, in a squalid weed. 
 Falling before thy feet, kneeling and howling, 
 For a forestall'd remission : that were poor, 
 And would but shame thy victory; for conquest 
 Over base foes is a captivity, 
 And not a triumph. 1 ne'er fear'd to die, 
 More than I wish'd to live. When I had reach'd 
 My ends in being a duke, I wore these robes, 
 This crown upon my head, and to my side 
 This sword was girt; and witness truth, that, 
 
 now 
 'Tis in another's power, when I shall part 
 With them and life together, I'm the same : 
 My veins then did not swell with pride ; nor now 
 Shrink they for fear. Know, sir, that Sforza 
 
 stands 
 Prepared for either fortune. 
 
 Hern. As I live, 
 I do begin strangely to love this fellow. 
 And could part with three quarters of my share 
 
 in 
 The promised spoil, to save him. 
 
 Sfor. But if example 
 Of ray fidelity to the French, whose honours, 
 Titles, and glories ai-e now mix'd with yours, — 
 As brooks, devour'd by rivers, lose their names, — 
 Has power to invite you to make him a friend. 
 That hath given evident proof, he knows to love. 
 And to be thankful : this my crown, now yours. 
 You may restore me, and in me iustruct 
 These brave commanders, should your fortune 
 
 change. 
 Which now I wish not, what they may expect 
 From noble enemies for beiug faithful. 
 The charges of the war I will defray. 
 And, what you may, not Avithout hazard, force, 
 Bring freely to you : I'll prevent the cries 
 Of murder'd infants, and of ravish'd maids. 
 Which, in a city sack'd, call on Heaven's justice. 
 And stop the course of glorious victories : 
 And, when I know the captains and the soldiers. 
 That have in the late battle done best service, 
 And are to be rewarded, I myself, 
 According to their quality and merits, 
 Will see them largely recompensed. — I have said, 
 And now expect my sentence. 
 
 Aljph. By this light, 
 'Tis a brave gentleman. 
 
 Med. How like a block 
 The emperor sits ! 
 
 Hern. He hath deliver'd reasons, 
 Especially in his purpose to enrich 
 Such as fought bravely (I myself am one, 
 I care not who knows it), as I wonder that 
 He can be so stupid. ISow he begins to stir : 
 Mercy, an't be thy will ! 
 
 Charl. Thou hast so far 
 Outgone my expectation, noble Sforza, 
 For such I hold thee ; — and true constancy, 
 Eaised on a brave foundation, bears such palm 
 And privilege with it, that where we behold it , 
 Though in an enemy, it does command us 
 To love and honour it. By my future hopes, 
 I am glad, for thy sake, that, in seeking favour. 
 Thou didst not borrow of vice her indirect. 
 Crooked, and abject means ; and for mine own. 
 That, since my purposes must now be changed. 
 Touching thy life and fortunes, the world cannot 
 Tax me of levity in my settled counsels; 
 
 I being neither wrought by tempting bribes, 
 Nor servile flattery ; but forced into it 
 By a fair war of virtue. 
 
 Uern. This sounds well. 
 
 Charl. All f oimer passages of hate be buried : 
 For thus with open arms I meet thy love, 
 And as a friend embrace it ; and so far 
 I am from robbing thee of the least honour. 
 That with my hands, to make it sit the faster, 
 I set thy crown once more upon thy head ; 
 And do not only style thee Duke of Milan, 
 But vow to keep thee so. Yet, not to take 
 From others to give only to myself, 
 I will not hinder your magnificence 
 To my commanders, neither will I urge it ; 
 But, in that as in all things else, I leave you 
 To be your own disposer. 
 
 [Flourish. Exit with Attendants. 
 
 Sfor. May I live 
 To seal my loyalty, though with loss of life. 
 In some brave service worthy Caesar s favour. 
 And I shall die most happy ! Gentlemen, 
 Receive me to your loves ; and if henceforth 
 There can arise a difference between us. 
 It shall be in a noble emulation 
 Who hath the fairest sword, or dare go farthest, 
 To fight for Charles the emperor. 
 
 Hern. We embrace you, 
 As one well read in all the points of honour : 
 And there we are your scholars. 
 
 Sfor. True ; but such 
 As far outstrip the master. We'll contend 
 In love hereafter ; in the meantime, pray you. 
 Let me discharge my debt, and, as an earnest 
 Of what's to come, divide this cabinet ; 
 In the small body of it there are jewels 
 Will yield a hundred thousand pistolets. 
 Which honour me to receive. 
 
 Med. You bind us to you. 
 
 Sfor. And when great Charles commands me 
 to his presence. 
 If you will please to excuse my abrupt departure. 
 Designs that most concern me, next this mercy, 
 Calling me home, I shall hereafter meet you, 
 And gratify the favour. 
 
 Hern. In this, and all things, 
 We are your servants. 
 
 Sfor. A name I ever owe you. 
 
 [Exeunt Medina, Hernando, and 
 Alphonso. 
 
 Peso. So, sir ; this tempest is well overblown, 
 And all things fall out to our wishes ; but, 
 In my opinion, this quick return, 
 Before you've made a party in the coui-t 
 Among the great ones (for these needy captains 
 Have little power in peace), may beget danger. 
 At least suspicion. 
 
 Sfor. Where true honour lives. 
 Doubt hath no being ; I desire no pawn 
 Beyond an emperor's word for my assurance. 
 Besides, Pescara, to thyself of all men, 
 I will confess my weakness : — though my state 
 And crown's restoi-ed me, though I am in grace, 
 And that a little stay might be a step 
 To greater honours, I must hence. Alas ! 
 I live not here ; my wife, my wife, Pescara, 
 Being absent, I am dead. Pr'ythee, excuse, 
 And do not chide, for friendship's sake, my fond- 
 ness. 
 But ride along with me : I'll give you reasons. 
 And strong ones, to plead for me. 
 
 Peso. Use your own pleasure ; 
 I'll bear you company. 
 
 Sfor. Farewell grief ! I am stored with 
 Two blessings most desired in human life, — 
 A constant friend, an unsuspected wife. 
 
 [ExeuiiL 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 423 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE 11. 
 Milan. A Room in the Castle. 
 Enter an Officer with Graccho. 
 
 Offic. What I did 1 had warrant for: you 
 have tasted 
 My office gently, and for those strokes, 
 Flea-bitings to the jerks I could have lent you, 
 There does belong a feeling. 
 
 Grac. Must I pay 
 For being tormented, and dishonour'd ? 
 
 Offic. Fie! no; 
 Your honour's not impaired in't. What's the 
 
 letting out 
 Of a little corrupt blood, and the next way too ? 
 There is no surgeon like me, to take off 
 A courtier's itch that's rampant at great ladies, 
 Or turns knave for preferment, or grows proud 
 Of his rich cloaks and suits, though got by 
 And so forgets his betters. [brokage, 
 
 Grac. Very good, sir ; 
 But am I the first man of quality 
 That e'er came under your fingers ? 
 
 Offic. Not by a thousand ; 
 And they have said I have a lucky hand too : 
 Both men and women of all sorts have bow'd 
 Under this sceptre. I have had a fellow 
 That could indite, forsooth, and make fine metres 
 To tinkle in the ears of ignorant madams. 
 That, for defaming of great men, was sent me 
 Threadbare and lousy, and in three days' after. 
 Discharged by another that set him on, I have 
 
 seen him 
 Oap-a-pid gallant, and his stripes wash'd off 
 With oil of angels. 1 
 
 Grac. 'Twas a sovereign cure. 
 
 OJic. There was a sectary, too, that would 
 not be 
 Conformable to the orders of the church, 
 Nor yield to any argument of reason, 
 But still rail at authority, brought to me, 
 When I had worm'd his tongue and truss'd his 
 
 haunches. 
 Grew a fine pulpitman, and was beneficed. 
 Had he not cause to thank me ? 
 
 Grac. There was physic 
 Was to the purpose. 
 
 Offic. Now for women, sir. 
 For your more consolation, I could tell you 
 Twenty fine stories, but I'll end in one. 
 And 'tis the last that's memorable. 
 
 Grac. Pr'ythee, do; 
 For I grow weary of thee. 
 
 Offic. There was lately 
 A fine she-waiter in the court that doted 
 Extremely of a gentleman that had 
 His main dependence on a signior's favour 
 I will not name, but could not compass him 
 On any terms. This wanton, at dead midnight, 
 Was found at the exercise behind the arras. 
 With the 'foresaid signior : he got clear off. 
 But she was seized on, and, to save his honour, 
 Endured the lash ; and, though I made her often 
 Curvet and caper, she would never tell 
 Who play'd at push-pin with her. 
 
 Grac. But what folio w'd? 
 Pr'ythee be brief. 
 
 Offic. Why this, sir : she deliver'd. 
 Had store of crowns assign'd her by her patron, 
 Who forced the gentleman, to save her credit. 
 To marry her and say he was the party 
 Found in Lob's pound : '^ so she, that before gladly 
 
 1 ansre?s— alluding to the coin so called. 
 
 * Lob's pound — a cant name for the jail, and also for 
 any confined place, a» 'behind the aiTas' above. — 
 Nakes. 
 
 Would have been his whore, reigns o'er him as 
 
 wife; 
 Nor dares he grumble at it. Speak but truth, 
 
 then, 
 Is not my office lucky ? 
 
 Grac. Go, there's for thee ; 
 But what will be my fortune ? 
 
 Offic. If you thrive not 
 After that soft correction, come again. 
 
 Grac. I thank you, knave. 
 
 Offic. And then, knave, I will fit you. {^Exit. 
 
 Grac. Whipt like a rogue ! no lighter punish- 
 ment serve 
 To balance with a little mirth ! 'Tis well ; 
 My credit sunk for ever, I am now 
 Fit company only for pages and for footboys, 
 That have perused the porter's lodge.^ 
 
 Enter Julio and Giovanni. 
 
 Giov. See, Julio, 
 Yonder the proud slave is. How he looks now, 
 After his castigation ! 
 
 Jul. As he came 
 From a close fight at sea under the hatches, 
 With a she-Dunkirk, that was shot before 
 Between wind and water; and he hath sprung 
 
 a leak too. 
 Or I am cozen 'd. 
 
 Giov. Let's be merry with him. 
 
 Grac. How they stare at me ! Am I turn'd to 
 an owl ? — 
 The wonder, gentlemen ? 
 
 Jul. I read, this morning. 
 Strange stories of the passive fortitude 
 Of men in former ages, which I thought 
 Impossible, and not to be believed : 
 But now I look on you, my wonder ceases. 
 
 Grac. The reason, sir ? 
 
 Jul. Why, sir, you have been whipt, 
 Whipt, Signior Graccho ; and the whip, I take it, 
 Is, to a gentleman, the greatest trial 
 That may be of his patience. 
 
 Grac. Sir, I'll call you 
 To a strict account for this. 
 
 Giov. I'll not deal with you, 
 Unless I have a beadle for my second : 
 And then I'll answer you. 
 
 Jul. Farewell, poor Graccho. 
 
 {^Exeunt J(jlio and Giovanni. 
 
 Grac. Better and better still. If ever wrongs 
 Could teach a wretch to find the way to ven- 
 geance, 
 
 Enter Francisco and a Servant. 
 Hell now inspire me. How, the lord protector ! 
 My judge ; I thank him ! Whither thus in 
 
 private 7 
 I will not see him. [Stands aside. 
 
 Fran. If I am sought for, 
 Say I am indisposed, and will not hear 
 Or suits or suitors. 
 
 Serv. But, sir, if the princess 
 Enquire, what shall I answer ? 
 
 Fran. Say I am rid 
 Abroad to take the air ; but by no means 
 Let her know I'm in court, 
 
 Serv. So I shall tell her. [ExiL 
 
 Fran. Within there, ladies ! 
 
 Enter a Gentlewoman. 
 
 Gentlew. My good lord, your pleasure ? 
 
 1 the porter's lodge, in our author's days, when the 
 great claimed, and indeed frequently exercised, the 
 right of chastising their seiTauts, was the usual place 
 of punishment. — Gifford. 
 
424 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Fran. Pr'ythee, let me beg thy favour for access 
 To the duchess. 
 
 Genilew. In good sooth, my lord, I dare not ; 
 She's very private. 
 
 Fran. Come, there's gold to buy thee 
 A new gown, and a rich one. 
 Where is thy lady ? 
 
 Gentlew. If you venture on her, 
 She's walking in the gallery ; perhaps 
 Tou will find her less tractable. 
 
 Fran. Bring me to her, 
 
 Gentlew. I fear you'll have cold entertainment, 
 when 
 You are at your journey's end ; and 'twere 
 
 discretion 
 To take a snatch by the way. 
 
 Fran. Pr'ythee, leave fooling : 
 My page waits in the lobby ; gi v6 him sweetmeats ; 
 He is train'd up for his master's ease, 
 And he will cool thee. 
 
 \Exeunt Fran, and Gentlew. 
 
 Grac. A brave discovery beyond my hope, 
 A plot even offer'd to my hand to work on ! 
 If I am dull now, may I live and die 
 The scorn of worms and slaves ! — Let me con- 
 sider ; 
 My lady and her mother first committed. 
 In the favour of the duchess, and I whipt ! 
 That with an ii'on pen is writ in brass 
 On my tough heart, now grown a harder metal. — 
 And all his bribed approaches to the duchess 
 To be conceal'd ! Good, good. This to my lady 
 Deliver'd as I'll order it, runs her mad. — 
 But this may prove but' courtship ! ^ let it be, 
 I care not, so it feed her jealousy. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 
 
 Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Marcelia and Francisco. 
 
 Marc. Believe thy tears or oaths! can it be 
 hoped, 
 After a practice so abhorr'd and horrid, 
 Repentance e'er can find thee ? 
 
 Fran. Dearest lady, 
 Great in your fortune, greater in your goodness, 
 Make a superlative of excellence. 
 In being greatest in your saving mercy. 
 I do confess, humbly confess my fault, 
 To be beyond all pity ; my attempt. 
 So barbarously rude, that it would turn 
 A saint-like patience into savage fury. 
 But you, that are all innocence and virtue. 
 No spleen or anger in you of a woman. 
 But when a holy zeal to piety fires you, 
 May, if you please, impute the fault to love, 
 Or call it beastly lust, for 'tis no better ; 
 A sin, a monstrous sin ! yet with it many 
 That did prove good men after, have been 
 
 tempted ; 
 And, though I'm crooked now, 'tis in your power 
 To make me straight again. 
 
 Marc. Is't possible 
 This can be cunning ! [Aside. 
 
 Fran. But, if no submission, 
 Nor prayers can appease you, that you may 
 
 know 
 'Tis not the fear of death that makes me sue thus, 
 But a loath'd detestation of my madness, 
 
 ^ But this may prove, &c.- 
 to her as duchess. — Mason. 
 
 . merely paying his coui-t 
 
 Which makes me wish to live to have your 
 
 pardon ; 
 I will not wait the sentence of the duke, 
 Since his return is doubtful, but I myself 
 Will do a fearful justice on myself. 
 No witness by but you, there being no more, 
 When I offended. Yet, before I do it. 
 For I perceive in you no signs of mercy, 
 I will disclose a secret, which, dying with me, 
 May prove your ruin. 
 
 Mar. Speak it ; it will take from 
 The burthen of thy conscience. 
 
 Fran. Thus, then, madam : 
 The warrant by my lord sign'd for your death. 
 Was but conditional ; but you must swear, 
 By your unspotted truth, not to reveal it, 
 Or I end here abruptly. 
 
 Marc. By my hopes 
 Of joys hereafter. On. 
 
 Fran. Nor was it hate 
 That forced him to it, but excess of love. 
 And if I ne^erretuim (so said great Sforza), 
 No living man desei'ving to enjoy 
 My best Marcelia, with the first news 
 That I am dead (for no man after me 
 Must e'er enjoy Jier), fail not to kill her — 
 But till certain proof 
 
 Assure thee I am lost (these were his words), 
 Obseu've and honour her, as if the soul 
 Of woman! s goodness only dwelt in hers. 
 This trust I have abused, and basely wrong'd; 
 And if the excelling pity of your mind 
 Cannot forgive it, as I dare not hope it, 
 Rather than look on my offended lord, 
 I stand resolved to punish it. [Draws his sword. 
 
 Marc. Hold ! 'tis forgiven. 
 And by me freely pardon'd. In thy fair life 
 Hereafter, study to deserve this bounty. 
 Which thy true penitence, such I believe it. 
 Against my resolution hath forced from me. — 
 But that my lord, my Sforza, should esteem 
 My life fit only as a page, to wait on 
 The various course of his uncertain foi'tunes ; 
 Or cherish in himself that sensual hope. 
 In death to know me as a wife, afflicts me ; 
 Nor does his envy less deserve mine anger. 
 Which though, such is my love, I would no 
 
 nourish. 
 Will slack the ardour that I had tc see him 
 Return in safety. 
 
 Fran. But if your entertainment 
 Should give the least ground to his jealousy, 
 To raise up an opinion I am false. 
 You then destroy your mercy. Therefore, 
 
 madam 
 (Though I shall ever look on you as on 
 My life's preserver, and the miracle 
 Of human pity), would you but vouchsafe, 
 In company, to do me those fair graces, 
 And favours, which your innocence and honour 
 May safely warrant, it would to the duke, 
 I being to your best self alone known guilty, 
 Make me appear most innocent. 
 
 Marc. Have your wishes ; 
 And something I may do to try his temper, 
 At least, to make him know a constant wife 
 Is not so slaved to her husband's doting 
 
 humours, 
 But that she may deserve to live a widow. 
 Her fate appointing it. 
 
 Fran. It is enough ; 
 Nay, all I could desire, and will make way 
 To my revenge, which shall disperse itself 
 On him, on her, and all. 
 
 [Aside and exit. — Shout and flourish. 
 Marc. What shout is that ? 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 425 
 
 Enter Tibekio and Stephano. 
 Tih. All liappiaess to the duchess, that may- 
 flow 
 From tbe duke's new and wish'd return ! 
 Marc. He's welcome. 
 Steph. How coldly she receives it ! 
 Tib. Observe the encounter. 
 
 J^ourish. Enter Sforza, Pescara, Isabella, 
 Mariana, Graccho, and Attendants. 
 
 Mai'i. What you have told me, Graccho, is 
 believed, 
 And I'll find time to stir in't. 
 
 Grac. As you see cause ; 
 I will not do ill offices. 
 
 Sfor. I have stood 
 Silent thus long, Marcelia, expecting 
 When, with more than a gi'eedy haste, thou 
 
 wouldst 
 Have flown into my arms, and on my lips 
 Have printed a deep welcome. My desires 
 To glass myself in these fair eyes, have borne 
 
 me 
 "With more than human speed : nor durst I stay 
 In any temple, or to any saint 
 To pay my vows and thanks for my return, 
 Till I had seen thee. 
 
 Marc. Sir, I am most happy 
 To look upon you safe, and would express 
 My love and duty in a modest fashion, 
 Such as might suit with the behaviour 
 Of one that knows herself a wife, and how 
 To temper her desires, not like a wanton 
 Fired with hot appetite ; nor can it wrong me 
 To love discreetly. 
 
 Sfor. Hew ! why, can there be 
 A mean in your affections to Sforza 7 
 Or any act, though ne'er so loose, that may 
 Invite or heighten appetite, appear 
 Immodest or uncomely ? Do not move me ; 
 My passions to you are in extremes, 
 And know no bounds : — come ; kiss me. 
 
 Marc. I obey you. 
 
 Sfor. By all the joys of love, she does salute 
 me 
 As if I were her grandfather ! What witch, 
 With cursed spells, hath quenched the amorous 
 
 heat 
 That lived upon these lips ? Tell me, Marcelia, 
 And truly tell me, is't a fault of mine 
 That hath begot this coldness ? or neglect 
 Of others, in my absence ? 
 
 Marc. Neither, sir; 
 I stand indebted to your substitute. 
 Noble and good Francisco, for his care 
 And fair observance of me : there was nothing 
 With which you, being present, could supply 
 
 me. 
 That I dare say I wanted. 
 
 Sfor. How! 
 
 Marc. The pleasures. 
 That sacred Hymen warrants us, excepted, 
 Of which, in troth, you are too great a doter ; 
 And there is more of beast in't than man. 
 Let us love temperately ; things violent last not ; 
 And too much dotage rather argues folly 
 Than true affection. 
 
 Ch'ac. Observe but this. 
 And how she praised my lord's care and observ- 
 ance; 
 And then judge, madam, if my intelligence 
 Have any ground of truth. 
 
 Mari. No more ; I mark it. 
 
 Steph. How the duke stands ! 
 
 Tib. As he were rooted there, 
 And had no motion. 
 
 Pesc. My lord, from whence 
 Grows this amazement .' 
 
 Sfor. It is more, dear my friend ; 
 For I am doubtful whether I've a being, 
 But certain that my life's a burden to me. 
 Take me back, good Pescara, show me to Caesar 
 In all his rage and fury ; I disclaim 
 His mercy : to live now, which is bis gift, 
 Is worse than death, and with all studied tor- 
 ments. 
 Marcelia is unkind, nay, worse, grown cold 
 In her affection ; my excess of fervour, 
 Which yet was never equall'd, grown distasteful. — 
 But have thy wishes, woman ; thou shalt know 
 That I can be myself, and thus shake off 
 The fetters of fond dotage. From my sight, 
 Without reply ; for I am apt to do 
 Something I may repent. — \^Exit Marc] — Oh! 
 
 who would place 
 His happiness in most accursed woman, 
 In whom obsequiousness engenders pride. 
 And harshness deadly hatred ! From this hour 
 I'll labour to forget there are such creatures ; 
 True friends be now my mistresses. Clear your 
 
 brows, 
 And, though my heart-strings crack for't, I 
 
 will be 
 To all a free example of delight. 
 We will have sports of all kinds, and propound 
 Rewards to such as can produce us new ; 
 Unsatisfied, though we surfeit in their store : 
 And never think of curs'd Marcelia more. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.-SCENE I. 
 The same. A Room in the Castle. 
 Enter Francisco and Graccho. 
 
 Fran. And is it possible thou shouldst forget 
 A wrong of such a nature, and then study 
 My safety and content ? 
 
 Grac. Sir, but allow me 
 Only to have read the elements of courtship,* 
 Not the abstruse and hidden arts to thrive there ; 
 And you may please to grant me so much 
 
 knowledge, 
 That injuries from one in grace, like you, 
 Are noble favours. Is it not grown common, 
 In every sect, for those that want, to suffer 
 From such as have to give ? Your capiain cast, 
 If poor, though not thought daring, but ap- 
 proved so. 
 To raise a coward into name, that's rich, 
 Suffers disgraces publicly ; but receives 
 Eewards for them in private. 
 
 Fran. Well observed. 
 Put on ;2 we'll be familiar, and discourse 
 A little of this argument. That day, 
 In which it was first rumour'd, then coofirm'd, 
 Great Sforza thought me worthy of his favour, 
 I found myself to be another thing ; 
 Not what I was before. I passed then 
 For a pretty fellow, and of pretty parts too, 
 And was perhaps received so ; but, once raised, 
 The liberal courtier made me master of 
 Those virtues which I ne'er knew in myself : 
 If I pretended to a jest, 'twas made one 
 By their interpretation ; if I offer'd 
 To reason of philosophy, though absurdly, 
 They had helps to save me, and without a blush 
 
 * courtship— cowct policy.— Mason. 
 2 Put on — i.e. be covered. 
 
426 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Would swear that I, by nature, had more 
 
 knowledge 
 Than others could acquire by any labour : 
 Nay, all I did, indeed, which in another 
 Was not remarkable, in me show'd rarely. 
 Grac. But then they tasted of your bounty. 
 Fran. True: 
 They gave me those good parts I was not born to, 
 And, by my intercession, they got that 
 Which, had I cross'd them, they durst not have 
 
 hoped for. 
 Grac. All this is oracle : and shall I, then, 
 For a foolish whipping, leave to honour him. 
 That holds the wheel of fortune? No; that 
 
 savours 
 Too much of the ancient freedom. Since great 
 
 men 
 Receive disgraces and give thanks, poor knaves 
 Must have nor spleen nor anger. Though I love 
 My limbs as well as any man, if you had now 
 A humour to kick me lame into an office, 
 Where I might sit in state and undo others. 
 Stood I not bound to kiss the foot that did it? 
 Though it seem strange, there have been such 
 
 things seen 
 In the memory of man. 
 
 Fran. But to the purpose, 
 And then, that service done, make thino own 
 
 fortunes. 
 My wife, thou say'st, is jealous I am too 
 Familiar with the duchess. 
 
 G^'ac. And incensed 
 For her commitment in her brother's absence ; 
 And by her mother's anger is spurr'd on 
 To make discovery of it. This her purpose 
 Was trusted to my charge, which I declined 
 As much as in me lay ; but, finding her 
 Determinately bent to undertake it, 
 Though breaking my faith to her may destroy 
 My credit with your lordship, I yet thought. 
 Though at my peril, I stood laound to reveal it. 
 Fran. I thank thy care, and will deserve this 
 
 secret. 
 In making thee acquainted with a greater. 
 And of more moment. Come into my bosom. 
 And take it from me. Canst thou think, dull 
 
 Graccho, 
 My power and honours were conferred upon me. 
 And, add to them, this form, to have my 
 
 pleasures 
 Confined and limited ? I delight in change, 
 And sweet variety ; that's my heaven on earth, 
 For which I love life only. I confess, 
 My wife pleased me a day, the duchess two 
 (And yet I must not say I have enjoy'd her). 
 But now I care for neither: therefore, Graccho, 
 So far I am from stopping Mariana 
 In making her complaint, that I desire thee 
 To urge her to it. 
 
 Grac. That may prove your ruin : 
 The duke already being, as 'tis reported, 
 Doubtful she hath play'd false. 
 
 i^ran. There thou art cozen'd; 
 His dotage, like an ague, keeps his course. 
 And now 'tis strongly on him. But I lose time. 
 And therefore know, whether thou wilt or no. 
 Thou art to be my instrument; and, in spite 
 Of the old saw, that says, It is not safe 
 On any terms to trust a man that's wrong'd, 
 I dare thee to be false. 
 
 Grac. This is a language, 
 My lord, I understand not. 
 
 Fran. You thought, sirrah, 
 To put a trick on me for the relation 
 Of what I knew before, and, having won 
 Some weighty secret from me, in revenge 
 To play the traitor. Know, thou wretched thing, 
 
 By my command thou wert whipt ; and every day 
 I'll have thee freshly tortured, if thou miss 
 In the least charge that I impose upon thee. 
 Though what I speak, for the most part, is true ; 
 Nay, grant thou hadst a thousand witnesses 
 To be deposed they heard it, 'tis in me 
 With one word, such is Sforza's confidence 
 Of my fidelity not to be shaken, 
 To make all void, and ruin my accusers. 
 Therefore look to't ; bring my wife hotly on 
 To accuse me to the duke — I have an end in't. 
 Or think what 'tis makes man most miserable. 
 And that shall fall upon thee. Thou wert a fool 
 To hope, by being acquainted with my courses, 
 To curb and awe me ; or that I should live 
 Thy slave, as thou didst saucily divine : 
 For prying in my counsels, stiU live mine. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Gi'ac. I am caught on both sides. This 'tis for 
 
 a puisne 
 In policy's Protean school, to try conclusions ^ 
 With one that hath commenced, and gone out 
 
 doctor. 
 If I discover what but now he bragg'd of, 
 I shall not be believed : if I' fall off 
 From him, his threats and actions go together, 
 And there's no hope of safety. Till I get 
 A plummet that may sound his deepest counsels, 
 I' must obey and serve him. Want of skill 
 Now makes me play the rogue against my will. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Makcelta, Tiberio, Stephaxo, a^id 
 Gentlewoman. 
 
 Marc. Command me from his sight, and with 
 such scorn 
 As he would rate his slave ! 
 
 Tib. 'Twas in his fury. 
 
 Steph. And he repents it, madam. 
 
 Marc. Was 1 born 
 To observe his humours? or, because he dotes. 
 Must I run mad ? 
 
 Tib. If that your Excellence 
 Would please but to receive a feeling knowledge 
 Of what he suffers, and how deep the least 
 Unkindness wounds from you, you would excuse 
 His hasty language. 
 
 Steph. He hath paid the forfeit 
 Of his offence, I'm sure, with such a sorrow. 
 As, if it had been greater, would deserve 
 A full remission. 
 
 Marc. Why, perhaps, he hath it ; 
 And I stand more afflicted for his absence, 
 Than he can be for mine: — so, pray you, tell him. 
 But, till I have digested some sad thoughts, 
 And reconciled passions that are at war 
 Within myself, I purpose to be private : 
 And have you care, unless it be Francisco, 
 That no man be admitted. 
 
 \JExit Gentlewoman. 
 
 Tib. How ! Francisco ? 
 
 Steph. He, that at every stage keeps livery 
 mistresses ; 
 The stallion of the state ! 
 
 Tib. They are things above us, 
 And so no way concern us. 
 
 Steph. If I were 
 The duke (I freely must confess my weakness). 
 
 1 to try conclusions — to try experiments; commenced, 
 and gone out, which occiu" in the next line, ai-e university 
 terms. — Giffobd. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 427 
 
 Enter Francisco. 
 I should "wear yellow breeches.* Here he comes. 
 Tih. Nay, spare your labour, lady ; we know 
 our duty, 
 And quit the room. 
 
 Staph. Is this her privacy ! 
 Though with the hazai'd of a check, perhaps. 
 This may go to the duke. 
 
 [Exeunt Tiberio ajid Stephano. 
 Ifarc. Tour face is full 
 Of fears and doubts: the reason? 
 
 Fran. Oh, best madam, 
 They are not counterfeit. I, your poor convert, 
 That only wish to live in sad repentance. 
 To mourn my desperate attempt of you, 
 That have no ends nor aims, but that your good- 
 ness 
 Might be a witness of my penitence, 
 Which seen, would teach you how to love your 
 
 niGrcv 
 Am robb'd of that last hope. The duke, the 
 
 duke, 
 I more than fear, hath found that I am guilty. 
 
 Marc. By my unspotted honour, not from me ; 
 Nor have I with him changed one syllable, 
 Since his return, but what you heard. 
 
 Fran. Yet malice 
 Is eagle-eyed, and would see that which is not ; 
 And jealousy's too apt to build upon 
 Unsure foundations. 
 Marc. Jealousy! 
 Fran. \Aside.~\ It takes. 
 Marc. Who dares but only think I can be 
 tainted ? 
 But for him, though almost on certain proof, 
 To give it hearing, not belief, deserves 
 My hate for ever. 
 
 Fran. Whether grounded on 
 Your noble, yet chaste favours shown unto me ; 
 Or her imprisonment, for her contempt 
 To you, by my command, my frantic wife 
 Hath put it in his head. 
 
 Marc. Have I then lived 
 So long, now to be doubted ? Are my favours 
 The themes of her discourse ? or what I do. 
 That never trod in a suspected path. 
 Subject to base construction ? Be undaunted ; 
 Por now, as of a creature that is mine, 
 I rise up your protectress : all the grace 
 I hitherto have done you, was bestow'd 
 With a shut hand ; it shall be now more free, 
 Open, and liberal. But let it not, 
 Though counterfeited to the life, teach you 
 To nourish saucy hopes. 
 
 Fran. May I be blasted, 
 When I prove such a monster ! 
 
 Marc. I will stand then 
 Between you and all danger. He shall know, 
 Suspicion overturns what confidence builds ; 
 And he that dares but doubt when there's no 
 
 ground. 
 Is neither to himself nor others sound. {Exit. 
 Fran. So, let it work! Her goodness, that 
 denied 
 My service, branded with the name of lust. 
 Shall now destroy itself ; and she shall find. 
 When he's a suitor, that brings cunning arm'd 
 With power to be his advocates, the denial 
 Is a disease as killing as the plague, 
 And chastity a clue that leads to death. 
 Hold but thy nature, duke, and be but rash 
 And violent enough, and then at leisure 
 Bepent ; I care not. 
 
 wear yellow breeches — i.e. be jealous. — Giffokd. 
 
 And let my plots produce this long'd-for birth. 
 In my revenge I have my heaven on earth. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 
 Another Room in the same. 
 
 Enter Sforza, Pescara, and three Gentlemen. 
 
 Pesc. You promised to be merry. 
 
 1 Gent. There are pleasures. 
 
 And of all kinds, to entertain the time. 
 
 2 Ge7it. Your Excellence vouchsafing to make 
 choice 
 
 Of that which best affects you. 
 
 Sfor. Hold your prating. 
 Learn manners too ; you are ruds. 
 
 3 Gent. 1 have my answer, 
 
 Before I ask the question. [Aside. 
 
 Pesc. I must borrow 
 The privilege of a friend, and will ; or else 
 I am like these, a servant, or, what's worse, 
 A parasite to the sorrow Sforza worships 
 In spite of reason. 
 
 Sfor. Pray you, use your freedom ; 
 And so far, if you please, allow me mine, 
 To hear you only ; not to be compelled 
 To take yoiir moral potions. I am a man. 
 And, though philosophy, your mistress, rage for't, 
 Now I have cause to grieve, I must be sad ; 
 And I dare show it. 
 
 Pesc. Would it were bestow'd 
 Upon a worthier subject ! 
 
 Sfo7\ Take heed, friend. 
 You rub a sore, whose pain will make me mad ; 
 And I shall then forget myself and you. 
 Lance it no further. 
 
 Pesc. Have you stood the shock 
 Of thousand enemies, and outfaced the anger 
 Of a great emperor, that vow'd your ruin. 
 Though by a despei-ate, a glorious way, 
 That had no precedent? are you return'd with 
 
 honour. 
 Loved by your subjects? does your fortune 
 
 court you. 
 Or rather say, your courage does command it ? 
 Have you given proof, to this hour of your life. 
 Prosperity, that searches the best temper, 
 Could never puff you up, nor adverse fate 
 Deject your valour ? Shall, I say, these virtues. 
 So many and so various trials of 
 Your constant mind, be buried in the frown 
 (To please you, I will say so) of a fair woman? 
 — Yet I have seen her equals. 
 
 Sfor. Good Pescara, 
 This language in another were profane ; 
 In you it is unmannerly. — Her equal ! 
 I tell you as a friend, and tell you plainly 
 (To all men else my sword should make reply), 
 Her goodness does disdain comparison, 
 And, but herself, admits no parallel. 
 But you will say she's ci'oss : 'tis fit she should be, 
 AVhen I am foolish ; for she's wise, Pescara, 
 And knows how far she may dispose her bounties, 
 Her honour safe ; or, if she were averse, 
 'Twas a prevention of a greater sin 
 Beady to fall upon me ; for she's not ignorant, 
 But truly understands how much I love her. 
 And that her rare parts do deserve all honour. 
 Her excellence increasing with her years too, 
 I might have fallen into idolatry, 
 And from the admiration of her worth, 
 Been taught to think there is no power above her; 
 And yet I do believe, had angels sexes. 
 The most would be such women, and assume 
 No other shape, when they were to appear 
 ' In their full glory. 
 
428 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Peso. Well, sir, I'll not cross you, 
 Nor labour to diminish your esteem, 
 Hereafter, of her. Since your happiness, 
 As you will have it, has alone dependence 
 Upon her favour, from my soul 1 wish you 
 A fair atonement.* 
 
 Sfor. Time, and my submission, 
 
 Enter Tiberio and Stephano. 
 
 May work her to it. — Oh ! you are well retum'd; 
 Say, am I blest? hath she vouchsafed to hear 
 
 you? 
 Is there hope left that she may be appeased ? 
 Let her propound, and gladly I'll subscribe 
 To her conditions. 
 
 Tib. She, sir, yet is fro ward 
 And desires respite, and some privacy. 
 
 Steph. She was harsh at first; but, ere we 
 parted, seem'd not 
 Implacable. 
 
 Sfor. There's comfort yet : I'll ply her 
 Each hour with new ambassadors of more 
 
 honours. 
 Titles, and eminence : my second self, 
 Francisco, shall solicit her. 
 
 Steph. That a wise man, 
 And what is more, a prince that may command. 
 Should sue thus poorly, and treat with his wife. 
 As she were a victorious enemy, 
 At whose proud feet, himself, his state, and 
 
 country. 
 Basely begg'd mercy ! 
 
 Sfor. What is that you mutter ? 
 I'll have thy thoughts. 
 
 Steph. You shall. You are too fond. 
 And feed a pride that's swollen too big already. 
 And surfeits with observance. 
 
 Sfor. Oh my patience ! 
 My vassal speak thus ? 
 
 Steph. Let my head answer it. 
 If I offend. She, that you think a saint, 
 I fear, may play the devil. 
 
 Peso. Well said, old fellow. [Aside. 
 
 Steph. And he that hath so long engrossed 
 your favours. 
 Though to be named with reverence, Lord Fran- 
 cisco, 
 Who, as you purpose, shall solicit for you, 
 I think's too near her. 
 
 [Sforza lays his hand on his sword. 
 
 Peso. Hold, sir ! this is madness. 
 
 Steph. It may be they confer of joining lord- 
 ships; 
 I'm sure he's private with her. 
 
 Sfor. Let me go, 
 I scorn to touch him ; he deserves my pity. 
 And not my anger. Dotard ! and to be one 
 Is thy protection, else thou durst not think 
 That love to my Marcelia hath left room 
 In my full heart for any jealous thought : — 
 That idle passion dwell with thick - skinn'd 
 
 tradesmen, 
 The undeserving lord, or the unable ! 
 Lock up thy own wife, fool, that must take 
 
 physic 
 From her young doctor, physic upon her back, 
 Because thou hast the palsy in that part 
 That makes her active. I could smile to think 
 What wretched things they are that dare be 
 
 jealous : 
 Were I matched to another Messaline, 
 While I found merit in myself to please her, 
 I should believe her chaste, and would not seek 
 To find out my own torment ; but, alas ! 
 
 1 atonement — reconciliation, a making at one. 
 
 Enjoying one that but to me's a Dian, 
 I am too secure. 
 
 Tib. This is a confidence 
 Beyond example. 
 
 Enter Graccho, Isabella, and Mariana. 
 
 Gi'ac. There he is ; now speak. 
 Or be for ever silent. 
 
 SJoj'. If you come 
 To bring me comfort, say that you have made 
 My peace with my Marcelia. 
 
 Isab. 1 had rather 
 Wait on you to your funeral. 
 
 SJbr. You are my mother ; 
 Or, by her life, you were dead else. 
 
 Mari. Would you were. 
 To your dishonour ! and, since dotage makes you 
 Wilfully blind, borrow of me my eyes, 
 Or some part of my spirit. Are you all flesh ? 
 A lump of patience only ? no fire in you ? 
 But do your pleasure : — hei-e your mother was 
 Committed by your servant (for I scorn 
 To call him husband), and myself, your sister. 
 If that you dare remember such a name, 
 Mew'd up, to make the way open and free 
 For the adultress, I am unwilling 
 To say, a part of Sforza. 
 
 Sfor. Take her head off ! 
 She hath blasphemed, and by our law must die. 
 
 Isah. Blasphemed! for calling of a whore, a 
 whore ? 
 
 Sfor. Oh hell, what do I suffer ! 
 
 Mari. Or is it treason 
 For me, that am a subject, to endeavour 
 To save the honour of the duke, and that 
 He should not be a wittol on record ? 
 For by postei'ity 'twill be believed. 
 As certainly as now it can be proved, 
 Francisco, the great minion, that sways all. 
 To meet the chaste embraces of the duchess, 
 Hath leap'd into her bed. 
 
 Sfor. Some proof, vile creature, 
 Or thou hast spoke thy last ! 
 
 Mari. The public fame. 
 Their hourly private meetings ; and e'en now, 
 When, under a pretence of grief or anger, 
 You are denied the joys due to a husband, 
 And made a stranger to her, at all times 
 The door standi open to him. To a Dutchman, 
 This were enough ; but to a right Italian, 
 A hundred thousand witnesses. 
 
 Isab. Would you have us 
 To be her bawds ? 
 
 Sfor. Oh the malice 
 And envy of base women, that with horror. 
 Knowing their own defects and inward guilf, 
 Dare lie, and swear, and damn, for what's most 
 
 false. 
 To cast aspersions upon one untainted ! 
 Ye are in your natures devils, and your ends, 
 Knowing your reputation sunk for ever, 
 And not to be recover'd, to have all 
 Wear your black livery. Wretches ! you have 
 
 raised 
 A monumental trophy to her pureness. 
 In this your studied purpose to deprave her : 
 And all the shot made by your foul detraction. 
 Falling upon her sure-arm'd innocence, 
 Keturns upon yourselves ; and, if my love 
 Could suffer an addition, I'm so far 
 From giving credit to you, this would teach me 
 More to admire and serve her. You are not 
 
 worthy 
 To fall as sacrifices to appease her ; 
 And therefore live till your own envy burst you. 
 
 Isab. All is in vain ; he is not to be moved. 
 
 Mari. She has bewitch'd him. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 429 
 
 Peso. 'Tis so past belief, 
 To me it shows a fable. 
 
 Enter Fkancisco, speaking to a Servant within. 
 
 Fran. On thy life, 
 Provide my horses, and without the port 
 With care attend me. 
 
 Serv. [loithinJ] I shall, my lord. 
 
 Grac. He's come. 
 What gimcrack have we next ? 
 
 Fran. Great sir. 
 
 Sfor. Francisco, 
 Though all the joys in woman are fled from me, 
 In thee I do embrace the full delight 
 That I can hope from man. 
 
 Fran. I would impart. 
 Please you to lend your ear, a weighty secret, 
 I am in labour to deliver to you. 
 
 Sfor. All leave the room. 
 
 [Exeunt Isabella, Mariaxa, and Graccho. 
 Excuse me, good Pescara, 
 Ere long I will wait on you. 
 
 Pesc. You speak, sir, 
 The language I should use. [Exit. 
 
 Sfor. Be within call. 
 Perhaps we may have use of you. 
 
 Tib. We shall, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt Tiberio and Stephano. 
 
 Sfor. Say on, my comfort. 
 
 Fran. Comfort ! no,, your torment, 
 For so my fate appoints me. I could curse 
 The hour that gave me being. 
 
 Sfor. What new monsters 
 Of misery stand ready to devour me ? 
 Let them at once despatch me. 
 
 Fran. Draw your sword, then. 
 And, as you wish your own peace, quickly kill 
 
 me; 
 Consider not, but do it. 
 
 A^/br. Art thou mad? 
 
 Fran. Or, if to take my life be too much 
 mercy, 
 As death, indeed, concludes all human sorrows, 
 Cut off my nose and ears ; pull out an eye, 
 The other only left to lend me light 
 To see my own deformities. Why was I born 
 Without some mulct imposed on me by nature ? 
 Would from my youth a loathsome leprosy 
 Had run upon this face, or that my breath 
 Had been infectious, and so made me shunn'd 
 Of all societies ! Curs'd be he that taught me 
 Discourse or manners, or lent any grace 
 That makes the owner pleasing in the eye 
 Of wanton women ! since those parts, which 
 
 others 
 Value as blessings, are to me afflictions. 
 Such my condition is. 
 
 Sfor. I am on the rack : 
 Dissolve 1 this doubtful riddle. 
 
 Fran. That I alone. 
 Of all mankind, that stand most bound to love 
 
 And study your content, should be appointed, 
 Not by my will, but forced by cruel fate, 
 To be your greatest enemy ! — not to hold you 
 In this amazement longer, in a word, 
 Your duchess loves me. 
 
 Sfor. Loves thee ! 
 
 Fran. Is mad for me, 
 Pursues me hourly. 
 
 » Dissolve. Our old writers used dissolve and solve 
 indiscriminately; or, if they made any difference, it 
 was in Cavour of the former. — Giffokd. 
 
 Sfor. Oh! 
 
 Fi'an. And from hence grew 
 Her late neglect of j'ou, 
 
 S/or. Oh women ! women ! 
 
 Fra7i. I labour'd to divert her by persuasion, 
 Then urged your much love to her, and the 
 
 danger : 
 Denied her, and with scorn. 
 
 Sfor. 'Twas like thyself. 
 
 Fj-an. But when I saw her smile, then heard 
 her say, 
 Your love and extreme dotage, as a cloak. 
 Should cover our embraces, and your power 
 Fright others from suspicion ; and all favours 
 That should preserve her in her innocence, 
 By lust inverted to be used as bawds ; 
 I could not but in duty (though I know 
 That the relation kills in you all hope 
 Of peace hereafter, and in me 'twill show 
 Both base and poor to rise up her accuser) 
 Freely discover it. 
 
 Sfo7: Eternal plagues 
 Pursue and overtake her ! for her sake, 
 To all posterity may he prove a cuckold. 
 And, like to me, a thing so miserable 
 As woi-ds may not express him, that gives trust 
 To all-deceiving Avomen ! Or, since it is 
 The will of Heaven to preserve mankind, 
 That we must know and couple with these ser- 
 pents, 
 No wise man ever, taught by my example. 
 Hereafter use his wife with more respect 
 Than he would do his horse that does him ser- 
 vice; 
 Base woman being in her creation made 
 A slave to man. But, like a village nurse. 
 Stand I now cursing and considering, when 
 The tamest fool would do ! — Within there ! 
 
 Stephano, 
 Tiberio, and the rest ! — I will be sudden. 
 And she shall know and feel, love in extremes 
 Abused, knows no degree in hate. 
 
 Enter Tiberio and Stephaxo. 
 
 Tib. My lord. 
 
 Sfor. Go to the chamber of that wicked wo- 
 man — 
 
 Stepk. What wicked woman, sir ? 
 
 Sfor. The devil, my wife. 
 Force a rude entry, and, if she refuse 
 To follow you, drag her hither by the hair, 
 And know no pity ; any gentle usage 
 To her will call on cruelty from me. 
 To such as show it. — Stand you stai-ing ! Go, 
 And put my will in act. 
 
 Steph. There's no disputing. 
 
 Tib. But 'tis a tempest, on the sudden raised, 
 Who durst have dream'd of ? 
 
 [Exeunt Tiberio and Stephaxo. 
 
 Sfor. Nay, since she dares damnation, 
 I'll be a fury to her. 
 
 Fran. Yet, great sir, 
 Exceed not in your fury ; she's yet guilty 
 Only in her intent. 
 
 Sfor. Intent, Francisco ! 
 It does : 
 
 include all fact ; and I might sooner 
 Be won to pardon treason to my crown. 
 Or one that kill'd my father. 
 
 Fran. You are wise. 
 And know what's best to do : yet, if you please, 
 To prove her temper to the height, say only 
 That I am dead, and then observe how far 
 She'll be transported. I'll remove a little, 
 But be within your call. — Now to the upshot ! 
 Howe'er, I'U shift for one. [Aside and exit. 
 
430 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ee-enter Tiberio, Stepiiano, and Guard, with 
 Marcelia. 
 
 Marc. "Where is this monster, 
 This walking tree of jealousy, this dreamer. 
 This horned beast that would be ? Oh ! are 
 
 you here, sir ? 
 Is it by your commandment or allowance 
 I am thus basely used ? Which of my virtues, 
 My labours, services, and cares to please you 
 (For, to a man suspicious and unthankful, 
 Without a blush I may be mine own trumpet). 
 Invites this barbarous course ? dare you look on 
 
 me 
 Without a seal of shame ? 
 
 Sfor. Impudence, 
 How ugly thou appear'st- now ! Thy intent 
 To be a whore, leaves thee not blood enough 
 To make an honest blush: what had the act 
 done? 
 
 Marc. Eeturn'd thee the dishonour thou de- 
 serv'st ; 
 Though willingly I had given up myself 
 To every common lecher. 
 
 Sfor. Your chief minion. 
 Your chosen favourite, your woo'd Francisco, 
 Has dearly paid for't; for, wretch! know he's 
 
 dead, 
 And by my hand. 
 
 Marc. The bloodier villain thou ! 
 But 'tis not to be wondered at, thy love 
 Does know no other object. Thou hast kill'd, 
 
 then, 
 A man I do profess I loved ; a man 
 For whom a thousand queens might well be 
 
 rivals. 
 But he, I speak it to thy teeth, that dares be 
 A jealous fool, dares be a murderer, 
 And knows no end in mischief. 
 
 Sfor. I begin now 
 In this my justice. [Stabs her. 
 
 Marc. Oh ! I have fool'd myself 
 Into my grave, and only grieve for that 
 Which, when you know you've slain an innocent, 
 You needs must suffer. 
 
 Sfor. An innocent ! Let one 
 Call in Francisco ; — ^for he lives, vile creature, 
 
 [Exit Stephano. 
 To justify thy falsehood, and how often, 
 With whorish flatteries, thou hast tempted him ; 
 I being only fit to live a stale, 
 A bawd and property to your wantonness. 
 
 Re-enter Stephaxo. 
 
 Steph. Siguier Francisco, sir, but even now 
 Took horse without the ports. 
 
 Marc. We are both abused, 
 And both by him undone. Stay, death, a little, 
 Till I have clear'd me to my lord, and then 
 I willingly obey thee. — Oh my Sforza ! 
 Francisco was not tempted, but the tempter ; 
 And, as he thought to win me, show'd the war- 
 rant 
 That you sign'd for my death. 
 
 Sfor. Then I believe thee ; 
 Believe thee innocent too. 
 
 Marc. But, being contemn'd. 
 Upon his knees with tears he did beseech me 
 Not to reveal it ; I, soft-hearted fool, 
 Judging his penitence true, was won unto it. 
 Indeed, the unkindness to be sentenced by you, 
 Before that I was guilty in a thought, 
 Made me put on a seeming anger towards you, 
 And now — behold the issue ! As I do, 
 May Heaven forgive you ! [Dies. 
 
 7'ib. Her sweet soul has left 
 Her beauteous prison. 
 
 Sfeph. Look to the duke ; he stands 
 As if he wanted motion. 
 
 Tib. Grief hath stopp'd 
 The organ of his speech. 
 
 Steph. Take up Ibis body, 
 And call for his pl)ysicians. 
 
 Sfor. Oh my heart-strings ! [Exeunt 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE L 
 
 The Milanese. A Room in Eugenia's House. 
 Enter Francisco, and Eugenia in male attire. 
 
 Fran. Why, couldst thou think, Eugenia, that 
 rewards, 
 Graces, or favours, though strew'd thick upon me, 
 Could ever bribe me to forget mine honour ? 
 Or that I tamely would sit down, before 
 I had dried these eyes, still wet with showers of 
 
 tears. 
 By the fire of my revenge ? Look up, my dearest ; 
 For that proud fair, that, thief -like, stepp'd be- 
 tween 
 Thy promised hopes, and robb'd thee of a fortune 
 Almost in thy possession, hath found. 
 With horrid proof, his love, she thought her 
 
 glory. 
 And an assurance of all happiness, 
 But hastened her sad ruin. 
 
 Eug. Do not flatter ' 
 A gi'ief that is beneath it ; for, however 
 The credulous duke to me proved false and cruel, 
 It is impossible he could be wrought 
 To look on her, but with the eyes of dotage, 
 And so to serve her. 
 
 Fran. Such, indeed, I grant. 
 The stream of his affection was, and ran 
 A constant course, till I, Avith cunning malice — 
 And yet I wrong my act, for it was justice — 
 Made it turn backward; and hate, in extremes 
 (Love banish'd from his heart), to fill the room : 
 In a word, know the fair Marcelia's dead. 
 
 Eug. Dead! 
 
 Fran. And by Sforza's hand. Does it not move 
 you? 
 How coldly you receive it ! I expected 
 The mere relation of so great a blessing, 
 Boi'ne proudly on the wings of sweet revenge, 
 Would have call'd on a sacrifice of thanks. 
 And joy not to be bounded or conceal'd. 
 You entertain it with a look, as if 
 You wish'd it were undone. 
 
 Eug. Indeed I do : 
 For, if my sorrows could receive addition, 
 Her sad fate would increase, not lessen them. 
 She never injured me, but entertain'd 
 A fortune humbly offer'd to her hand. 
 Which a wise lady gladly would have kneel'd for. 
 Unless you would impute it as a crime. 
 She was more fair than I, and had discretion 
 Not to deliver up her virgin fort. 
 Though strait besieged with flatteries, vows, and 
 
 tears. 
 Until the church had made it safe and lawful. 
 And had I been the mistress of her judgment 
 And constant temper, skilful in the knowledge 
 Of man's malicious falsehood, I had never, 
 Upon his hell-deep oaths to marry me. 
 Given up my fair name and my maiden honour 
 To his foul lust; nor lived now, being branded 
 In his forehead for his whore, the scorn and 
 
 shame 
 Of all good women. 
 
 Fran. Have you then no gall. 
 Anger, or spleen, familiar to your sex ? 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 431 
 
 Or is it possible that you could see 
 Another to possess what was your due, 
 And not grow pale with envy ? 
 
 Eug. Yes, of him 
 That did deceive me. There's no passion, that 
 A maid so injured ever could partake of, 
 But 1 have dearly suffer'd. These three years, 
 In my desire and labour of revenge, 
 Tnisted to you, I have endured the throes 
 Of teeming women ; and will hazard all 
 Fate can inflict on me, but I will reach 
 Thy heart, false Sforza ! You have trifled with 
 
 me. 
 And not proceeded with that fiery zeal 
 I look'd for from a brother of your spirit. 
 Sorrow forsake me, and all signs of grief 
 Farewell forever! Vengeance, arm'd with fury. 
 Possess me wholly now ! 
 
 Fran. The reason, sister. 
 Of this strange metamorphosis ? 
 
 Eug. Ask thy fears : 
 Thy base, unmanly fears, thy poor delays, 
 Thy dull forgetfulness equal with death ; 
 My wrong, else, and the scandal which can never 
 Be wash'd off from our house, but in his blood, 
 Would have stin-'d up a coward to a deed 
 In which, though he had fallen, the brave intent 
 Had crown'd itself with a fair monument 
 Of noble resolution. In this shape 
 I hope to get access ; and then, with shame, 
 Hearing my sudden execution, judge 
 What honour thou hast lost, in being transcended 
 By a weak woman. 
 
 Fran. Still mine own, and dearer ! 
 And yet in this you but pour oil on fire, 
 And offer your assistance where it needs not. 
 And, that you may perceive I lay not fallow, 
 But had your wrongs stamp'd deeply on my heart 
 By the iron pen of vengeance, I attempted. 
 By whoring her, to cuckold him : that failing, 
 I did begin his tragedy in her death. 
 To which it served as prologue, and will make 
 A memorable story of your fortunes 
 In my assured revenge. Only, best sister, 
 Let us not lose ourselves in the performance, 
 By your rash undertaking ; we will be 
 As sudden as you could wish. 
 
 Eug. Upon those terms 
 I yield myself and cause to be disposed of 
 As you think fit. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Fran. Thy purpose ? 
 
 Serv. There's one Graccho, 
 That foUow'd you, it seems, upon the track, 
 Since you left Milan, that's importunate 
 To have access, and will not be denied : 
 His haste, he says, concei'ns you. 
 
 Fran. Bring him to me. \^Exit Servant. 
 
 Though he hath laid an ambush for my life. 
 Or apprehension, yet I will prevent him. 
 And work mine own ends out. 
 
 Enter Graccho. 
 
 Gi'ac. Now for my whipping ! 
 And if I now outstrip him not, and catch him. 
 And by a new and strange way too, hereafter 
 I'll swear there are worms in my brains. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Fran, Now, my good Graccho I 
 We meet as 'twere by miracle. 
 
 Gi-ac. Love, and duty, 
 And vigilance in me for my lord's safety. 
 First taught me to imagine you were here, 
 And then to follow you. All's come forth, my 
 lord, 
 
 That you could wish conceal'd. The duchess' 
 
 wound, 
 In the duke's rage put home, yet gave her leave 
 To acquaint him with your practices, which your 
 
 flight 
 Did easily confirm. 
 
 Fran. This I expected ; 
 But sure you come provided of good counsel, 
 To help in my extremes. 
 
 G7-ac. I would not hurt you, 
 
 Fi-an. How! hurt me? such another word's 
 thy death ; 
 Why dar'st thou think'it can fall in thy will. 
 To outlive what I determine ? 
 
 Gi'ac. How he awes me ! [^Aside. 
 
 Fi-an. Be brief ; what brought thee hither ? 
 
 Gi'ac. Care to inform you 
 You are a condemn'd man, pursued and sought 
 
 for. 
 And your head rated at ten thousand ducats 
 To him that brings it. 
 
 Fran. Very good. 
 
 Gi'ac. All passages 
 Are intercepted, and choice troops of horse 
 Scour o'er the neighbour plains; your picture 
 
 sent 
 To every state confederate with Milan : 
 That, though I grieve to speak it, in my judg- 
 ment, 
 So thick your dangers meet, and run upon you. 
 It is impossible you should escape 
 Their curious search. 
 
 Eiig. Why, let us then turn Eomans, 
 And, falling by our own hands, mock their 
 
 threats. 
 And dreadful preparations. 
 
 Fran. 'T would show nobly; 
 But that the honour of our full revenge 
 Were lost in the rash action. No, Eugenia, 
 Graccho is wise, my friend too, not my servant. 
 And I dare trust him with my latest secret. 
 We would, and thou must help us to perform it. 
 First kill the duke — then, fall what can upon us ! 
 For injuries are writ in brass, kind Graccho, 
 And not to be forgotten. 
 
 Grac. He instructs me 
 What I should do. [Aside. 
 
 Fran. What's that? 
 
 Grac. I labour with 
 A strong desire to assist you with my service ; 
 And now I am deliver'd oft. 
 
 Frail. I told you.— 
 Speak, my oraculous Graccho. 
 
 Grac. I have heard, sir, 
 Of men in debt that, lay'd for by their creditors. 
 In all such places where it could be thought 
 They would take shelter, chose, for sanctuary. 
 Their lodgings \mderneath their creditors' 
 
 Or near that prison to which they were design' d. 
 If apprehended ; confident that there 
 They never should be sought for. 
 
 Eug. 'Tis a strange one ! 
 
 Fran. But what infer you from it ? 
 
 Grac. This, my lord ; 
 That, since all ways of your escape are stopp'd. 
 In Milan only, or, what's more, in the court, 
 Whither it is presumed you dare not come, 
 Conceal'd in some disguise, you may live safe. 
 
 Fran. And not to be discover'd? 
 
 Grac. But by myself. 
 
 Fran. By thee! Alas! I know thee honest, 
 Graccho, 
 And I will put thy counsel into act. 
 And suddenly. Yet, not to be ungrateful 
 For all thy loving travail to preserve me. 
 What bloody end soe'er my stars appoinl^ 
 
43: 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Thou shalt be safe, good Graccho. — Who's with- 
 in there ? 
 Grac. In the devil's name, what means he ! 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Fran. Take my friend 
 Into your custody, and bind him fast : 
 I would not part with him. 
 
 Grac. My good lord. 
 
 Fran. Despatch: 
 'Tis for your good, to keep you honest, Graccho : 
 I would not have ten thousand ducats tempt yon, 
 Being of a soft and wax-like disposition, 
 To play the traitor ; nor a foolish itch 
 To be revenged for your late excellent whipping. 
 Give you the opportunity to offer 
 My head for satisfaction. Why, thou fool ! 
 I can look through and through thee ! Thy intents 
 Appear to me as written in thy forehead, 
 In plain and easy characters : and but that 
 I scorn a slave's base blood should rust that 
 
 sword 
 That from a prince expects a scarlet dye, 
 Thou now wert dead ; but live, only to pray 
 For good success to crown my undertakings ; 
 And then, at my return, perhaps, I'll free thee, 
 To make me further sport. Away with him I 
 I will not hear a syllable. 
 
 [^Ex'eunt Servants with Graccho. 
 We must trust 
 Ourselves, Eugenia; and though we make use of 
 The counsel of our servants, that oil spent, 
 Like snuffs that do offend, we tread them out. — 
 But now to our last scene, which we'll so carry, 
 That few shall understand how 'twas begun, 
 Till all, with half an eye, may see 'tis done. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE 11. 
 
 Milan. A Room in tJie Castle. 
 Enter Pescara, Tiberio, and Stephano. 
 
 Pesc. The like was never read of. 
 
 Steph. In my judgment, 
 To aU that shall but hear it, 'twill appear 
 A most impossible fable. 
 
 Tib. For Francisco 
 My wonder is the less, because there are 
 Too many precedents of unthankful men 
 Kaised up to greatness, which have after studied 
 The ruin of their makers. 
 
 Steph. But that melancholy, 
 Though ending in distraction, should work 
 So far upon a man^ as to compel hitn 
 To court a thing that has nor sense nor being. 
 Is unto me a miracle. 
 
 Pesc. 'Troth, I'll tell you, 
 And briefly as I can, by what degrees 
 He fell into this madness. When, by the care 
 Of his physicians, he was brought to life, 
 As he had only pass'd a fearful dream, 
 And had not acted what I grieve to think on, 
 He call'd for fair Marcelia, and being told 
 That she was dead, he broke forth in extremes 
 (I would not say blasphemed), and cried that 
 
 Heaven, 
 For all the offences that mankind could do, 
 Would never be so cruel as to rob it 
 Of so much sweetness, and of so much goodness ; 
 That not alone was sacred in herself. 
 But did preserve all others innocent, 
 That had but converse with her. Then it came 
 Into his fancy that she was accused 
 By his mother and his sister; thrice he curs'd 
 
 them, 
 And thrice his desperate hand was on his sword, 
 
 T'have killed them both ; but he restrain'd, and 
 
 they 
 Shunning his fury, spite of all prevention 
 He would have turn'd his rage upon himself ; 
 When wisely his physicians, looking on 
 The duchess' wound, to stay his ready hand, 
 Cried out it was not mortaL 
 
 Tib. 'Twas well thought on. 
 
 Pesc. He easily believing what he wish'd, 
 More than a perpetuity of pleasure 
 In any object else ! flatter 'd by hope, 
 Forgetting his own greatness, he fell prostrate 
 At the doctors' feet, implored their aid, and swore, 
 Provided they recover'd her, he would live 
 A private man, and they should share his 
 
 dukedom. 
 They seem'd to promise fair, and every hour 
 Vary their judgments, as they find he's fit 
 To suffer intermission or extremes ; 
 For his behaviour since — 
 
 Sfor. [icithin.'\ As you have pity, 
 Support her gently. 
 
 Pesc. Now be your own witnesses ; 
 I am prevented. 
 
 Enter Sforza, Isabella, Mariaxa, Doctors, 
 and Servants with the body o/" Marcelia. 
 
 Sfor. Carefully, I beseech you ; 
 The gentlest touch torments her ; and then think 
 What I shall suffer. Oh you earthly gods, 
 You second natures that from your great master, 
 Who join'd the limbs of torn Hippolitus, 
 And drew upon himself the Thunderer's envy, 
 Are taught those hidden secrets that restore 
 To life death-wounded men ! you have a patient, 
 On whom to express the excellence of art. 
 Will bind even Heaven your debtor, though it 
 
 pleases 
 To make your hands the organs of a work 
 The saints will smile to look on, and good angels 
 Clap their celestial wings to give it plaudits. 
 How pale and wan she looks ! Oh pardon me, 
 That I presume (dy'd o'er with bloody guilt, 
 Which makes me, I confess, far, far unworthy) 
 To touch this snow-white hand. How cold it is I 
 This once was Cupid's firebrand, and still 
 'Tis so to me. How slow her pulses beat too ! 
 Yet in this temper she is all perfection, 
 And mistress of a heat so full of sweetness, 
 The blood of virgins, in their pride of youth, 
 Are balls of snow or ice compared unto her. 
 
 Mari. Is not this strange ? 
 
 Isab. Oh ! cross him not, dear daughter ; 
 Our conscience tells us we have been abused, 
 Wrought to accuse the innocent, and with him 
 Are guilty of a fact — 
 
 Enter a Servant, and whispers Pescara. 
 
 3fari. 'Tis now past help. 
 
 Pesc. With me ? What is he ? 
 
 Sell'. He has a strange aspect ; 
 A Jew by birth, and a physician 
 By his profession, as he says, who, hearing 
 Of the duke's frenzy, on the forfeit of 
 His life, will undertake to render him 
 Perfect in every part : — provided that 
 Your lordship's favour gain him free access, 
 And your power with the duke a safe protection, 
 Till the great work be ended. 
 
 Pesc. Bring me to him. 
 As I find cause I'll do. [Exeunt Pesc. and Serv. 
 
 Sfor. How sound she sleeps ! 
 Heaven keep her from a lethargy ! — How long 
 (But answer me with comfort, 1 beseech you) 
 Does your sure judgment tell you that these lids, 
 That cover richer jewels than themselves, 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 433 
 
 I 
 
 Like envious night, will bar these glorious suns 
 From shining on me? 
 
 1 Doct. We have given her, sir, 
 A sleepy potion, that will hold her long. 
 That she may be less sensible of the torment 
 The seai'ching of her wound will put her to. 
 
 2 Doct. She now feels little ; but if we should 
 wake her, 
 To hear her speak would fright both us and you, 
 And therefore dare not hasten it. 
 
 Sfor. I am patient. 
 You see I do not rage, but wait your pleasure. 
 "What do you think she dreams of now 1 for sure, 
 Although her body's organs are bound fast, 
 Her fancy cannot slumber. 
 
 1 Doct. That, sir, looks on 
 Your sorrow for your late rash act, with pity 
 Of what you suffer for it, and prepares 
 To meet the free confession of your guilt 
 With a glad pardon. 
 
 Sfor. She was ever kind ; 
 And her displeasure, though call'd on, short-lived 
 Upon the least submission. Oh you Powers, 
 That can convey.our thoughts to one another 
 Without the aid of eyes or eai-s, assist me ! 
 Let her behold me in a pleasing dream \Kmels. 
 Thus on my knees before her (yet that duty 
 In me is not sufficient) ; let her see me 
 Compel my mother, from whom I took life, 
 And this my sistei-, partner of my being. 
 To bow thus low unto her ; let her hear us 
 In my acknowledgment freely confess 
 That we in a degree as high are guilty 
 As she is innocent. Bite your tongues, vile 
 
 creatures. 
 And let your inward horror fright your souls. 
 For having belied that pureness, to come near 
 
 which, 
 All women that posterity can bring forth 
 Must be, though striving to be good, poor rivals. 
 And for that dog Francisco, that seduced me, 
 In wounding hei', to rase a temple built 
 To chastity and sweetness, let her know 
 I'll follow him to hell, but I will find him. 
 And there live a fourth Fury to torment him. 
 Then, for this cursed hand and arm that guided 
 The wicked steel, I'll have them, joint by joint. 
 With burning irons sear'd off, which I will eat, 
 I being a vulture fit to taste such carrion ; 
 Lastly — 
 
 1 Doct. You are too loud, sir ; you disturb 
 Her sweet repose. 
 
 Sfor. I am hush'd. Yet give us leave, 
 Thus prostrate at her feet, our eyes bent down- 
 wards. 
 Unworthy, and ashamed, to look upon her, 
 To expect her gracious sentence. 
 
 2 Doct. He's past hope. 
 
 1 Doct. The body too will putrefy, and then 
 We can no longer cover the imposture. 
 
 Tib. Which, in his death, will quickly be dis- 
 cover'd. 
 I can but weep his fortune. 
 
 Steph. Yet be careful 
 You lose no minute to preserve him ; time 
 May lessen his distraction. 
 
 Re-enter Pescara, with Francisco cls a Jew 
 doctor, and Eugenia disguised as befwe. 
 Fran. I am no god, sir, 
 To give a new life to her ; yet 111 hazard 
 My head, I'll work the senseless trunk t'appear 
 To him as it had got a second being. 
 Or that the soul that's fled from't, were call'd back 
 To govern it again. I will preserve it 
 In the first sweetness, and by a strange vapour, 
 Which I'll infuse into her mouth, create 
 
 A seeming breath ; I'll make her veins run high 
 
 too. 
 As if they had true motion. 
 
 Peso. Do but this, 
 Till we use means to win upon his passions 
 T'endure to hear she's dead with some small 
 
 patience. 
 And make thy own reward. 
 
 Fran. The art I use 
 Admits no looker-on : I only ask 
 The fourth part of an hour, to perfect that 
 I boldly undertake. 
 
 Pesc. i, will procure it. 
 
 2 Doct. What stranger's this ? 
 
 Pesc. Sooth mo in all I say ; 
 There's a main end in it. 
 
 Fran. Beware ! 
 
 Fug. I am warn'd. 
 
 Pesc. Look up, sir, cheerfully ; comfort in me 
 Flows strongly to you. 
 
 Sfo7'. From whence came that sound ? 
 Was it from my Marcelia ? If it were, [^Rises. 
 I rise, and joy will give me wings to meet it. 
 
 Pesc. "Nov shall your expectation be deferr'd 
 But a few minutes. Your physicians are 
 Mere voice, and no performance ; I have found 
 A man that can do wonders. Do not hinder 
 The duchess' wished recovery, to enquire 
 Or what he is, or to give thanks, but leave him 
 To work this miracle. 
 
 Sfor. Sure, 'tis my good angel. 
 I do obey in all things : be it death 
 For any to disturb him, or come near. 
 Till he be pleased to call us. Oh, be prosperous, 
 And make a duke thy bondman ! 
 
 \_Exeunt all but Francisco and Eugenia. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis my purpose ; 
 If that to fall a long-wish'd sacrifice 
 To my revenge can be a benefit. 
 I'll first make fast the doors ; — so ! 
 
 Eiig. You amaze me : 
 What follows now ? 
 
 Fran. A full conclusion 
 Of all thy wishes. Look on this, Eugenia, 
 Even such a thing, the proudest fair on earth 
 (For whose delight the elements are ransack'd. 
 And art with nature studied to preserve her) 
 Must be, when she is summon'd to appear 
 In the court of Death. But I lose time. 
 
 Fug. What mean you ? 
 
 Fran. Disturb me not. — ^Your ladyship looks 
 pale; 
 But I, your doctor, have a ceruse ' for you. — 
 See, my Eugenia, how many faces. 
 That are adored in court, borrow these helps, 
 
 [^Paints the chesJcs. 
 And pass for excellence, when the better part 
 Of them are like to this. — Your mouth smells 
 
 sour too, 
 But here is that shall take away the scent ; 
 A precious antidote old ladies use. 
 When they would kiss, knowing their gums are 
 rotten. [Paints the lips. 
 
 These hands too, that disdain'd to take a touch 
 From any lip, whose owner writ not lord. 
 Are now but as the coarsest earth ; but I 
 Am at the charge, my bill not to be paid too. 
 To give them seeming beauty. [Paints the hands.'] 
 
 — So! 'tis done. 
 How do you like my workmanship ? 
 
 Fug. I tremble : 
 And thus to tyrannize upon the dead 
 Is most inhuman. 
 
 Fran. Come we for revenge. 
 
 1 ceruse — a cosmetic. 
 
 2e 
 
434 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And can we think on pity ! Now to the upshot, 
 And, as it proves, applaud it. — Mj' lord the duke ! 
 Enter with joy, and see the sudden change 
 Your servant's hand hath wrought. 
 
 Re-enter Sforza and the rest. 
 
 Sfor. I live again 
 In my full confidence that Marcelia may 
 Pronounce my pardon. Can she speak yet ? 
 
 Fran. No : 
 You must not look for all your joys at once ; 
 That will ask longer time. 
 
 Pesc. 'Tis wondrous strange ! 
 
 Sfor. By all the dues of love I have had from 
 her. 
 This hand seems as it was when first I kiss'd it. 
 These lips invite too. I could ever feed 
 Upon these roses, they still keep their colour 
 And native sweetness : only the nectar's wanting, 
 That, like the morning dew in flowery May, 
 Preserved them in their beauty. 
 
 Enter Graccho hastily. 
 
 Grac. Treason, treason ! 
 
 Tib. Call up the guard. 
 
 Fran. Graccho ! then we are lost. [Aside. 
 
 Enter Guard. 
 
 Grac. I am got off, Sir Jew ; a bribe hath 
 done it. 
 For all your serious charge ; there's no disguise 
 Can keep you from my knowledge. 
 
 Sfor. Speak. 
 
 Grac. I am out of breath, 
 But this is — 
 
 Fran. Spare thy labour, fool, — Francisco. 
 
 All. Monster of men ! 
 
 Fran. Give me all attributes 
 Of all you can imagine, yet I glory 
 To be the thing I was born. I am Francisco ; 
 Francisco, that was raised by you and made 
 The minion of the time ; the same Francisco 
 That would have whored this trunk when it 
 
 had life. 
 And after breathed a jealousy upon thee, 
 As killing as those damps that belch out plagues 
 When the foundation of the earth is shaken : 
 I made thee do a deed Heaven will not pardon, 
 Which was to kill an innocent. 
 
 SJor. Call forth the tortures 
 For all that flesh can feel. 
 
 Fran. I dare the worst 
 
 Only, to yield some reason to the world 
 Why I pursued this course, look on this face, 
 Made old by thy base falsehood : 'tis Eugenia. 
 
 Sfor. Eugenia ! 
 
 Fran. Does it start you, sir ? my sister. 
 Seduced and fool'd by thee : but thou must pay 
 The forfeit of thy falsehood. Does it not work 
 
 yet!— 
 Whate'er becomes of me, which I esteem not, 
 Thou art mark'd for the grave. I've given thee 
 
 poison 
 In this cup,i now observe me, which thy lust 
 Carousing deeply of, made thee forget 
 Thy vow'd faith to Eugenia. 
 
 Pesc. Oh damn'd villain ! 
 
 Isah. How do you, sir ? 
 
 Sfor. Like one 
 That learns to know in death what punishment 
 Waits on the breaoh of faith. Oh ! now I feel 
 An ^tna in my entrails. — I have lived 
 A prince, and my last breath shall be command. 
 — I burn, I burn ! yet ere life be consumed, 
 Let me pronounce upon this wretch all torture 
 That witty'^ cruelty can invent. 
 
 Pesc. Away with him ! 
 
 lib. In all things we wiU serve you. 
 
 Fran. Farewell, sister ! 
 Now I have kept my word, torments I scorn : 
 I leave the world with glory. They are men, 
 And leave behind them name and memory, 
 That, wrong'd, do right themselves before they 
 die. [Exeunt Guard with Francisco. 
 
 Steph. A despei'ute wretch ! 
 
 Sfor. I come : Death ! I obey thee. 
 Yet I will not die raging ; for, alas ! 
 My whole life was a frenzy. Good Eugenia, 
 In death forgive me. — As you love me, bear her 
 To some religious house, there let her spend 
 The remnant of her life: when I am ashes, 
 Perhaps she'll be appeased, and spare a prayer 
 For my poor soul. Bury me with Mai'celia, 
 And let our epitaph be — [Dies. 
 
 Tib. His speech is stopp'd. 
 
 Steph. Already dead ! 
 
 Pesc. It is in vain to labour 
 To call him back. We'll give him funeral. 
 And then determine of the state affairs : 
 And learn from this example, There's no trust 
 In a foundation that is built on lust. [Exeunt 
 
 1 In this cup — i.e. in the lips of Marcelia. 
 * w'//^^— knowing, ingenioua. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 435 
 
 A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. 
 
 BY PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 London. 1633. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 TO THE EIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 ROBERT EARL OF CARNARVON, 
 
 MASTER -FALCONER OF ENGLAND. 
 
 My good Lord, — Pardon, I beseech you, my 
 boldness, in presuming to shelter this Comedy 
 under the wings of your lordship's favour and 
 protection. I am not ignorant (having never yet 
 deserved you in my service) that it cannot but 
 meet with a severe construction, if, in the cle- 
 mency of your noble disposition, you fashion not 
 a better defence for me, than I can fancy for 
 myself. All I can allege is, that divers Italian 
 princes, and lords of eminent rank in England, 
 have not disdained to receive and read poems of 
 this nature ; nor am I wholly lost in my hopes, 
 but that your honour (who have ever expressed 
 yourself a favourer, and friend to the Muses) 
 may vouchsafe, in your gracious acceptance of 
 this trifle, to give me encouragement to present 
 
 you with some laboured work, and of a higher 
 strain, hereafter. I was born a devoted servant 
 to the thrice noble family of your incomparable 
 lady,^ and am most ambitious, but with a be- 
 coming distance, to be known to your lordship, 
 which, if you please to admit, I shall embrace it 
 as a bounty, that while I live shall oblige me to 
 acknowledge you for my noble patron, and pro- 
 fess myself to be, 
 
 Your honour's true servant, 
 Philip Massinger. 
 
 1 Anna Sophia, daughter of Philip Earl of Pembroke 
 and Montgomery. — Malone. 
 
 JtHmaih g^tS0iT». 
 
 Lord Lovell,. 
 
 Sir Giles Overreach, a cruel Extortioner. 
 
 Fkank Wellborn, a Prodigal. 
 
 Tom All worth, a young Gentleman, Page to 
 
 Lord Lovell. 
 Greedy, a hungry Justice of Peace. 
 Marrall, a Term-Driver ; a creature o/SiR 
 
 Giles Overreach. 
 Order, Steward 
 
 Amble, Usher y ^^ ^ady Allworth. 
 
 Furnace, Coolc 
 Waxchall, Porter 
 
 WiLLDO, a Parson. 
 Tapwell, an Alehouse-Keeper. 
 
 Creditors, Servants, etc. 
 
 Lady Allworth, a rich Widow. 
 Margaret, Overreach's Daughter. 
 Froth, Tapwell's Wife. 
 
 Chambermaid. 
 Waiting Woman. 
 
 Scene— TAe Country near Nottingham,. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE L 
 
 Before Tapwell's House. 
 
 Enter Wellborn in tattered apparel, Tapwell, 
 and Froth. 
 
 Well. No bouse ? ' nor no tobacco ? 
 
 Tap. Not a suck, sir ; 
 Nor the remainder of a single can 
 Left by a drunken porter, all night pall'd too. 
 
 ' 6oi«e— drink. 
 
 Froth. Not the dropping of the tap for yonr 
 morning's draught, sir : 
 'Tis verity, I assure you. 
 
 Well. Verity, you brac'ne ! * 
 The devil turn'd precisian ; ^ Kogue, what am I ? 
 
 Tap. Troth, durst I trust you with a looking- 
 
 To let you see your trim shape, you would quit 
 
 me, 
 And take the name yourself. 
 
 1 brache. — See note 4, p. 145, col. 2. 
 ' precisian — Puritan. 
 
43^ 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Well. How, dog ! 
 
 Tap. Even so, sir. 
 And I must tell you, if you but advance 
 Your Plymouth cloak,^ you shall bo soon in- 
 structed 
 There dwells, and within call, if it please your 
 
 worship, 
 A potent monarch, call'd the constable. 
 That does command a citadel call'd the stocks ; 
 Whose guards are certain files of rusty billmen, 
 8uch as with great dexterity will hale 
 Your tatter'd, lousy — 
 
 Well. Rascal! slave! 
 
 Froth. No rage, sir. 
 
 Tap. At his own peril. Do not put yourself 
 In to"o much heat, there being no water near 
 To quench your thirst; and, sure, for other liquor, 
 As mighty ale, or beer, they are things, I take it. 
 You must no more remember — not in a dream, sir. 
 
 Well. Why, thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou 
 talk thus ! 
 Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift ? 
 
 Tap. I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tap- 
 Does keep no other register. [well 
 
 Well. Am not I he 
 Whose riots fed and clothed thee ? 
 Wert thou not born on my father's land, and 
 
 proud to be 
 A drudge in his house ? 
 
 Tap. What I was, sir, it skills 2 not : 
 What you are, is apparent : now, for a fareAvell, 
 Since you talk of father, in my hope it will tor- 
 ment you, 
 I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father. 
 My qi;ondam master, was a man of worship. 
 Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace and 
 
 quorum. 
 And stood fair to be custos rotulorum ; 
 Bore the whole sway of the shire, kept a great 
 
 house. 
 Relieved the poor, and so forth ; but he dying. 
 And the twelve hundred a year coming to you. 
 Late Master Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn — 
 
 Well. Slave, stop I or I shall lose myself. 
 
 Froth. Very hardly ; 
 You cannot out of your way. 
 
 Tap. But to my story: 
 You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant, 
 And I your under butler ; note the change now : 
 You had a merry time oft ; hawks and hounds, 
 With choice of running horses : mistresses 
 Of all sorts and all sizes, yet so hot, 
 As their embraces made your lordships melt ; 
 Which your uncle. Sir Giles Overreach, observing 
 (Resolving not to lose a drop of them). 
 On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds. 
 For a while supplied your looseness, and then left 
 you. 
 
 Well. Some curate hath penn'd this invective, 
 mongrel, 
 And you have studied it. 
 
 Tap. I have not done yet : 
 Your land gone, and your credit not worth a 
 
 token,* 
 You grew the common borrower; no man 'scaped 
 Your paper-pellets, from the gentleman 
 To the beggars on highways, that sold you 
 
 switches 
 In your gallantry. 
 
 Well. 1 shall switch your brains out. 
 
 1 Plymouth cloak—a. whimsical phrase for a stick or 
 cudgel. — Nares. 
 
 2 skills — signifies, matters. 
 
 ' token— a small coin, struck by private individuals, to 
 psiss for a farthing. — ^Nakes. 
 
 Tap. Where poor Tim Tapwell, with a little 
 stock. 
 Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage ; 
 Humbled myself to marriage with my Froth here, 
 Gave entertainment — 
 
 Well. Yes, to whores and canters, • 
 Clubbers by night. 
 
 Tap. True, but they brought in profit, 
 And had a gift to pay for what they called for ; 
 And stuck not like your mastership. The poor 
 
 income 
 I glean'd from them hath made me in my parish 
 Thought worthy to be scavenger, and in time 
 May rise to be overseer of the poor ; 
 Which if I do, on your petition. Wellborn, 
 I may allow you thirteen pence a quarter. 
 And you shall thank my worship. 
 
 Well. Thus, you dog-bolt,2 
 And thus — [Beats and licks him. 
 
 Tap. [Tb his wife.'] Cry out for help ! 
 
 Well. Stir, and thou diest : 
 Your potent prince, the constable, shall not save 
 
 you. 
 Hear me, ungrateful hellhound! did not I 
 Make purses for you ? then you lick'd my boots, 
 And thought your holiday cloak too coarse to 
 
 clean them. 
 'Twas I that, when I heard thee swear if ever 
 Thou couldst arrive at forty pounds, thou wouldst 
 Live like an emperor, 'twas I that gave it 
 In ready gold. Deny this, wretch! 
 
 Tap. I must, sir: 
 For, from the tavern to the taphouse, all. 
 On forfeiture of their licences, stand bound 
 Ne'er to remember who their best guests were, 
 If they grew poor like you. 
 
 Well. They are well rewarded 
 That beggar themselves to make such cuckolds 
 
 rich. 
 Thou viper, thankless viper ! impudent bawd ! — 
 But since you are grown forgetful, I will help 
 Your memor}'^, and tread you into mortar ; 
 Not leave one bone unbroken. 
 
 [^Beats him again, 
 
 Tap. Oh! 
 
 Froth. Ask mercy. 
 
 Enter Allworth.^**^ 
 
 Well. 'Twill not be granted. 
 
 All. Hold, for my sake hold. 
 Deny me, Frank ! they are not worth your anger. 
 
 Well. For once thou hast redeem'd them from 
 this sceptre ; 
 But let them vanish, creeping on their knees, 
 And, if they grumble, I revoke my pardon. 
 
 Froth. This comes of your prating, husband ; 
 you presumed 
 On your ambling wit, and must use your glib 
 
 tongue. 
 Though you are beaten lame for't. 
 
 Tap. Patience, Froth ; 
 There's law to cure our bruises. 
 
 [They crawl off on their hands and knees- 
 Well. Sent to your mother ? 
 
 All. My lady, Frank, my patroness, my all ! 
 She's such a mourner for my father's death, 
 And, in her love to him, so favours me, 
 That I cannot pay too much observance to her; 
 There are few such stepdames. 
 
 Well. 'Tis a noble widow. 
 And keeps her reputation pure, and clear 
 From the least taint of infamy : her life, 
 
 1 canters— those who use cant ; a rogue, a sturdy 
 beggar. 
 
 2 dog-bolt— See note 5, p. 44, coL 1. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 437 
 
 With the splendour of her actions, leaves no 
 
 tongue 
 To envy or detraction. Pr'ythee tell me, 
 Has she no suitors ? 
 
 All. Even the best of the shire, Frank, 
 My lord, excepted ; such as sue, and send, 
 And send, and sue again, but to no pui'pose ; 
 Their frequent visits have not gain'dher presence. 
 Yet she's so far from sullenness and pride. 
 That I dare undertake you shall meet from her 
 A liberal entertainment : I can give you 
 A catalogue of her suitors' names. 
 
 Well. Forbear it, 
 While I give you good counsel : I am bound to it; 
 Thy father was my friend ; and that affection 
 1 bore to him, in right descends to thee ; 
 Thou art a handsome and a hopeful youth, 
 !Nor will I have the least affront stick on thee, 
 If I with any danger can prevent it. 
 
 All. I thank your noble care ; but, pray you, 
 in what 
 Do I run the hazard "i 
 
 Well. Art thou not in love ? 
 Put it not off with wonder. 
 
 All. In love, at my years! 
 
 Well. You think you walk in clouds, but are 
 transparent. 
 I have heard all, and the choice that you have 
 
 made; 
 And, with my finger, can point out the north star 
 By which the loadstone of your folly's guided ; 
 And, to confirm this true, what think you of 
 Fair Margaret, the only child and heir 
 Of Cormorant Overreach .-* Does it blush and 
 
 start, 
 To hear her only named ? blush at your want 
 Of wit and reason. 
 
 All. You are too bitter, sir. 
 
 Well. Wounds of this nature are not to be cured 
 With balms, but corrosives. I must be plain : 
 Art thou scarce manumised from the porter's 
 
 lodge,! 
 And yet sworn servant to the pantofle,^ 
 And dar'st thou dream of marriage ? I fear! 
 'Twill be concluded for impossible. 
 That there is now, or e'er shall be hereafter, 
 A handsome page, or player's boy of fourteen. 
 But either loves a wench, or drabs love him ; 
 Court-waiters not exempted. 
 
 All. This is madness. 
 Howe'er you have discover'd my intents. 
 You know my aims are lawful ; and if ever 
 The queen of flowers, the glory of the spring, 
 The sweetest comfort to our smell, the rose. 
 Sprang from an envious briar, I may infer 
 There's such disparity in their conditions. 
 Between the goodness of my soul, the daughter, 
 And the base churl her father. 
 
 Well. Grant this true. 
 As I believe it, canst thou ever hope 
 To enjoy a quiet bed with her, whose father 
 Ruin'd thy state "i 
 
 All. And yours too. 
 
 Well. I confess it. 
 True ; I must tell you as a friend, and freely, 
 That, where impossibilities are apparent, 
 'Tis indiscretion to nourish hopes. 
 Canst thou imagine (let not self-love blind thee) 
 That Sir Giles Overreach, that, to make her great 
 In swelling titles, without touch of conscience, 
 
 » the. porter's lodge— fh^ first degree of seiTitude.— 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 ^ pantofle — slipper. One page was considered as 
 attached to the pantofies, it being his duty to bring 
 them. 
 
 Will cat his neighbour's throat, — and I hope his 
 
 own too, — 
 WiU e'er consent to make her thine ? Give o'er, 
 Ana think of some course suitable to thy rank, 
 And prosper in it. ■ 
 
 All. You have well advised me. 
 But, in the meantime, you, that are so studious 
 Of my affairs, wholly neglect your own : 
 Eemember yourself, and in what plight you are. 
 
 Well. No matter, no matter. 
 
 All. Yes, 'tis much material : 
 You know my fortune, and my means ; yet some- 
 thing 
 I can spare from myself, to help your wants. 
 
 Well. How's this .> ^> 
 
 All. Nay, be not angry ; there's eight pieces, 
 To put you in better fashion. 
 
 Well. Money from thee ! 
 From a boy ! a stipendiary ! one that lives 
 At the devotion of a stepmother, 
 And the uncertain favour of a lord ! 
 I'll eat my arms first. Howsoe'er blind Fortune 
 Hath spent the utmost of her malice on me ; 
 Though I am vomited out of an alehouse. 
 And thus accoutred ; knoTv- not where to eat, 
 Or drink, or sleep, but underneath this canopy ; 
 Although I thank thee, I despise thy offer : 
 And as I, in my madness, broke my state, 
 Without the assistance of another's brain, 
 In my right wits I'll piece it ; at the worst, 
 Die thus, and be forgotten. 
 
 All. A strange humour ! \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Lady All worth's House. 
 
 Enter Order, Amble, Furnace, and Watchaia^ 
 
 Ord. Set all things right, or, as my name is 
 Order, 
 And by this staff of office, that commands you, 
 This chain and double ruff, symbols of power. 
 Whoever misses in his function. 
 For one whole week makes forfeiture of his 
 
 breakfast. 
 And privilege in the wine-cellar. 
 
 Amb. You are merry. 
 Good master steward. 
 
 Furn. Let him ; I'll be angry. 
 
 Amb. Why, fellow Furnace, 'tis not twelve 
 o'clock yet. 
 Nor dinner taking up ; then, 'tis allow'd, 
 Cooks, by their places, may be choleric. 
 
 Furn. You think you have spoke wisely, good- 
 man Amble, 
 My lady's go-before ! 
 
 07-d. Nay, nay, no wrangling. 
 
 Fw')i. Twit me with the authority of the 
 kitchen ! 
 At all hours, and all places, I'll be angry ; 
 And thus provoked, when I am at my prayers 
 I will be angry. 
 
 Amb. There was no hurt meant. 
 
 Furn. I am friends with thee ; and yet I will 
 be angry. 
 
 Ord. With whom.' 
 
 Furn. No matter whom : yet, now I think on it, 
 I am angry with my lady. 
 
 Watch. Heaven forbid, man ! 
 
 Ord. What cause has she given thee ? 
 
 Furn. Cause enough, master steward. 
 I was entertained by her to please her palate, 
 And, till she forswore eating, I perform'd it. 
 Now, since our master, noble AUworth, died, 
 Though I crack my brains to find out tempting 
 
 b 
 
438 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And raise fortifications in the pastry, i 
 
 Such as might serve for models in the Low 
 
 Countries, 
 Which, if they had been practised at Breda, 
 Spinola might have thrown his cap at it, and 
 ne'er took it — 
 Amb. But you had wanted matter there to 
 
 work on. 
 Fwn. Matter! with six eggs, and a strike of 
 rye meal, 
 I had kept the town till doomsday, perhaps 
 longer. 
 Ord. But what's this to your pet against my 
 
 lady? 
 Furn. What's this? marry this; when I am 
 three-parts roasted, 
 And the fourth part parboil'd, to prepare her 
 
 viands, 
 She keeps her chamber, dines with a panada,2 
 Or water-gruel, my sweat never thought on. 
 Ord. But your art is seen in the dining-room. 
 Furn. By whom ? 
 By such as pretend love to her, but come 
 To feed upon her. Yet, of all the harpies 
 That do devour her, I am out of charity 
 With none so much as the thin-gutted squire. 
 That's stolen into commission. 
 Ord. Justice Greedy ? 
 
 Furn. The same, the same : meat's cast away 
 upon him, 
 It never thrives ; he holds this paradox, 
 Who eats not well, can ne'er do justice well. 
 His stomach's as insatiate as the grave, 
 Or strumpets' ravenous appetites. 
 
 [Knocking within. 
 Watch. One knocks. \Exit. 
 
 Ord. Our late young master ! 
 
 Re-enter Watch all with All worth. 
 
 Amb. Welcome, sir. 
 
 Furn. Your hand ; 
 If you have a stomach, a cold bake-meat's ready. 
 
 Ord. His father's picture in little. 
 
 Furn. We are all your servants. 
 
 Amb. In you he lives. 
 
 All. At once, my thanks to all ; 
 This is yet some comfort. Is^ my lady stirring ? 
 
 Enter Lady All worth, Waiting-woman, and 
 Chambermaid. 
 
 Ord. Her presence answers for us. 
 
 L. All. Sort those silks well. 
 I'll take the air alone. 
 
 [Exeunt Waiting-woman and Chambermaid. 
 
 Furn. You air and air ; 
 But will you never taste but spoonmeat more ? 
 To what use serve I ? 
 
 L. All. Pr'ythee be not angry; 
 I shall ere long : i' the meantime, there is gold 
 To buy thee aprons and a summer suit. 
 
 Fuiii. I am appeased, and Furnace now grows 
 cool. 
 
 L. All. And, as I gave directions, if this 
 morning 
 I am visited by any, entertain them 
 As heretofore ; but say, in my excuse, 
 I am indisposed. 
 
 Ord. I shall, madam. 
 
 • fortifications in the pastry— i\\Qn a common mode of 
 ornamenting pastry. The siege of Breda was one of 
 the most celebrated of the time. Spinola sat down 
 before the town, August 26, 1624, and it did not sur- 
 render until the 1st of July following. — Gifford. 
 
 ^panada— a, bread pottage.— Nakks. 
 
 L. All. Do, and leave me. 
 Nay, stay you, Allworth. 
 
 [Exeunt Order, Amble, Furnace, and 
 Watchall. 
 
 All. I shall gladly grow here, 
 To wait on your commands. 
 
 L. All. So soon turn'd courtier ! 
 
 All. Style not that courtship, madam, which 
 is duty 
 Purchased on your part. 
 
 L. All. Well, you shall o ercome ; 
 I'll not contend in words. How is it with 
 Your noble master ? 
 
 All. Ever like himself ; 
 No scruple lessen'd in the full weight of honour : 
 He did command me, pardon my presumption. 
 As his unworthy deputy, to kiss 
 Your ladyship's fair hands. 
 
 L. All. I am honour'd in 
 His favour to me. Does he hold his purpose 
 For the Low Countries ? 
 
 All. Constantly, good madam; 
 But he will in person first present his service. 
 
 L. All. And how approve you of his course ? 
 you are yet 
 Like virgin parchment, capable of any 
 Inscription, vicious or honourable. 
 I will not force your will, but leave you free 
 To your own election. 
 
 All. Anj form you please 
 I will put on ; but, might I make my choice, 
 With humble emulation I would follow 
 The path my lord mai-ks to me. 
 
 L. All. 'Tis well answer'd, 
 And I commend your spirit : you had a father, 
 Bless'd be his memory ! that some few hours 
 Before the will of Heaven took him from me, 
 Who did commend you, by the dearest ties 
 Of perfect love between us, to my charge : 
 And, therefore, what I speak you are bound to 
 
 hear. 
 With such respect as if he lived in me. 
 He was my husband, and howe'er you are not 
 Son of my womb, you may be of my love, 
 Provided you deserve it. 
 
 All. I have found you. 
 Most honour'd madam, the best mother to me ; 
 And, with my utmost strengths of care and 
 
 service, 
 Will labour that you never may repent 
 Your bounties shower'd upon me. 
 
 L. All. I much hope it. 
 These were your father's words: If e'er my son 
 Follow the war, tell him it is a school, 
 Where all the principles tending to honour 
 Are taught, if truly follow'' d: but for such 
 As repair thither as a place in which 
 They do presume they may ivith licence practise 
 Their kists and riots, they shall never merit 
 The noble name of soldiers. To dare boldly 
 In a fair cause, and for their country's safety^ 
 To run upon the cannon's mouth undaunted ; 
 To obey their leaders and shun mutinie's ; 
 To hear with patience the winter's cold, 
 And summer's scorching htat, and not to faintf 
 When plenty of provision fails, with hunger^ 
 Are the essential parts make up a soldier^ 
 Not swearing, dice, or drinking. 
 
 All. There is no syllable 
 You speak, but is to me an oracle, 
 Which but to doubt were impious. 
 
 L. All. To conclude: 
 Beware ill company, for often men 
 Are like to those with whom they do converse ; 
 And, from one man I warn you, and that's 
 
 Wellborn ; 
 Not 'cause he's poor, that rather claims your pity. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 439 
 
 But that he's in his manners so debauch 'd, 
 And hath to vicious courses sold himself. 
 'Tis true your father loved him, while he was 
 Worthy the loving ; but if he had lived 
 To have seen him as he is, ho had cast him off, 
 As you must do. 
 
 All. I shall obey in all things. 
 
 L. All. Follow me to my chamber, you shall 
 have gold 
 To furnish you like my son, and still supplied. 
 As I hear from you. 
 
 All. I am still your creature, \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE III. 
 
 A Hall in the same. 
 
 Enter Overreach, Greedy, Order, Amble, 
 Furnace, Watchall, and Marrall. 
 
 Greedy. Not to be seen ! 
 
 Over. Still cloister'd up ! Her reason, 
 I hope, assures her, though she make herself 
 Close prisoner ever for her husband's loss, 
 'Twill not recover him. 
 
 Ord. Sir, it is her will. 
 Which we, that are her servants, ought to serve. 
 And not dispute. Howe'er, you are nobly wel- 
 come ; 
 And, if you please to stay, that you may think so, 
 There came not six days since, from Hull, a pipe 
 Of rich Canary, which shall spend itself 
 For my lady's honour. 
 
 Greedy. Is it of the right race ? 
 
 Ord. Yes, Master Greedy. 
 
 Amh. How his mouth runs o'er ! 
 
 Furn. I'll make it run, and run. Save your 
 good worship. 
 
 Greedy. Honest master cook, thy hand ; again ; 
 how I love thee ! 
 Are the good dishes still in being ? speak, boy. 
 
 Furn. If you have a mind to feed, there is a 
 Of beef, well season'd. [chine 
 
 Greedy. Good ! 
 
 Furn. A pheasant, larded. 
 
 Greedy. That I might now give thanks for't ! 
 
 Furn. Other kickshaws. 
 Besides, there came last night, from the forest 
 
 of Sherwood, 
 The fattest stag I ever cook'd. 
 
 Greedy. A stag, man ! 
 
 Furn. A stag, sir; part of it prepared for 
 dinner. 
 And baked in puff-paste. 
 
 Greedy. Puff-paste too ! Sir Giles, 
 A ponderous chine of beef ! a pheasant larded ! 
 And red-deer too, Sir Giles, and baked in puff- 
 paste ! 
 All business set aside, let us give thanks here. 
 
 Furn. How the lean skeleton's rapt ! 
 
 Over. You know we cannot. 
 
 Mar. Your worships are to sit on a commission. 
 And if you fail to come, you lose the cause. 
 
 Greedy. Cause me no causes, I'll prove't, for 
 such a dinner. 
 We rnay put off a commission : you shall find it 
 Henrici decimo quarto. 
 
 Over. Fie, Master Greedy ! 
 Will you lose me a thousand pounds for a 
 
 dinner ? 
 No more, for shame ! we must forget the belly, 
 When we think of profit. 
 
 Greedy. Well, you shall o'errule me ; 
 I could e'en cry now.— Do you hear, master cook, 
 Send but a corner of that immortal pasty. 
 And I, in thankfulness, will, by your boy, 
 Send you — a brace of threepen(.-es. 
 
 Fum. Will you be so prodigal ? 
 
 Enter Wellborn. 
 
 Over. Eemember me to your lady. Who have 
 
 we here ? 
 Well. You know me. 
 Over. I did once, but now I will not ; 
 Thou art no blood ^of mine. Avaunt, thou 
 
 beggar ! 
 If ever thou presume to own me more, 
 I'll have thee caged and whipp'd. 
 
 Greedy. I'll grant the warrant. — 
 Think of pie-corner. Furnace ! 
 
 [Exeunt Overreach, Greedy, and 
 Marrall. 
 Watch. Will you out, sir ? 
 I wonder how you durst creep in. 
 
 Ord. This is rudeness. 
 And saucy impudence. 
 
 Amh. Cannot you stay 
 To be serv'd, among your fellows, from the 
 
 But you must press into the hall ? 
 
 Furn. Pr'ythee, vanish 
 Into some outhouse, though it be the pigsty ; 
 My scullion shall come to thee. 
 
 Enter Allworth. 
 
 Well. This is rare. 
 Oh, here's Tom Allworth. Tom ! 
 
 All. We must be strangers ; 
 Nor would I have you seen here for a million. 
 
 \_Exlt. 
 
 Well. Better and better. He contemns me too I 
 
 Enter Waiting- woman and Chambermaid. 
 
 Woman. Fob, what a smell's here I What 
 
 thing's this ? 
 Cham. A creature 
 Made out of the privy ; let us hence, for love's 
 
 sake. 
 Or I shall swoon. 
 
 Woman. I begin to faint already. 
 
 [Exeunt Waiting- woman and Chambermaid. 
 Watch. Will you know your way ? 
 Amb. Or shall we teach it you, 
 By the head and shoulders ? 
 Well. No ; I will not stir ; 
 Do you mark, I will not : let me see the wretch 
 That dares attempt to force me. Why, you 
 
 slaves, 
 Created only to make legs,2 and cringe ; 
 To carry in a dish, and shift a trencher ; 
 That have not souls only to hope a blessing 
 Beyond black jacks or flagons; you, that were 
 
 born 
 Only to consume meat and drink, and batten 
 Upon reversions ! — who advances ? who 
 Shows me the way ? 
 Ord. My lady ! 
 
 Enter Lady Allworth, Waiting- woman, and 
 Chambermaid. 
 
 Cham. Here's the monster. 
 
 Woman. Sweet madam, keep your glove to 
 your nose. 
 
 Cham. Or let me 
 Fetch some perfumes may be predominant ; 
 You wrong yourself else. 
 
 Well. Madam, my designs 
 Bear me to you, 
 
 L. All. Tomel 
 
 Well, And though I have met with 
 
 ^ from the basket — i.e. from the broken bread and 
 meat, which, in great houses, were distributed to the 
 poor and other necessitous iiersons. 
 
 2 make legs — bows. 
 
440 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 But ragged entertainmont from your grooms here, 
 I hope from you to receive that noble usage 
 As may become the true friend of your husband, 
 And then I shall forget these. 
 
 L. All. I am amazed 
 To see and hear this rudeness. Barest thou think, 
 Though sworn, that it can ever find belief, 
 That I, who to the best men of this countiy 
 Denied my presence, since my husband's death, 
 Can fall so low as to change words with thee .' 
 Thou son of infamy ! forbear my house, 
 And know and keep the distance that's be- 
 tween us ; 
 Or, though it be against my gentle temper, 
 I shall take order you no more shall be 
 An eyesore to me. 
 
 Wdl. Scorn me not, good lady ; 
 But, as in form you are angelical. 
 Imitate the heavenly natures, and vouchsafe 
 At the least awhile to hear me. You will grant 
 The blood that runs in this arm is as noble 
 As that which fills your veins ; those costly 
 
 jewels. 
 And those rich clothes you wear, your men's 
 
 observance. 
 And women's flattei-y, are in you no virtues ; 
 Nor these rags, with my poverty, in me vices. 
 You have a fair fame, and, I know, deserve it ; 
 Yet lady, I must say, in nothing more 
 Than in the pious sorrow you have shown 
 For your late noble husband. 
 Ord. How she starts ! 
 
 Furn. And hardly can keep finger from the eye, 
 To hear him named. 
 L. All. Have you aught else to say ? 
 Well. That husband, madam, was once in his 
 fortune 
 Almost as low as I ; want, debts, and quarrels 
 Lay heavy on him : let it not be thought 
 A boast in me, though I say, I I'elieved him. 
 'Twas I that gave him fashion ; mine the sword. 
 That did on all occasions second his : 
 I brought him on and off with honour, lady ; 
 And when in all men's judgments he was sunk. 
 And, in his own hopes, not to be buoy'd up, 
 I stepp'd unto him, took him by the hand, 
 And set him upright. 
 
 Furn. Are not we base rogues, 
 That could forget this ? 
 
 Well. I confess, you made him 
 Master of yovir estate ; nor could your friends. 
 Though he brought no wealth with him, blame 
 
 you for it ; 
 For he had a shape, and to that shape a mind 
 Made up of all parts, either great or noble ; 
 So winning a behaviour, not to be 
 Resisted, madam. 
 
 L. All. 'Tis most true, he had. 
 Well. For his sake, then, in that I was his 
 friend. 
 Do not contemn me. 
 
 L. All. For what's past excuse me, 
 I will redeem it. Order, give the gentleman 
 A hundred pounds. 
 
 Well. No, madam, on no terms : 
 I will nor beg nor borrow sixpence of you. 
 But be supplied elsewhere, or want thus ever. 
 Only one suit I make, which you deny not 
 To strangers ; and 'tis this. 
 
 [ Whispers to her. 
 L. All. Fie ! nothing else ? 
 Well. Nothing, unless you please to charge 
 your servants. 
 To throw away a little respect upon me. 
 L. All. "What you demand is yours. 
 Well. I thank you, lady. 
 Now what can be wrought out of such a suit 
 
 Is yet in supposition — \_Aside.\ — I have said all ; 
 When you please, you may retire. \_Exit Lady 
 All WORTH.]— Nay, aU's forgotten ; 
 
 [To the Servants. 
 And, for a lucky omen to my project. 
 Shake hands, and end all quarrels in the cellar. 
 Ord. Agreed, agreed. 
 Furn. Still merry Master Wellborn. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 '-7 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE L 
 
 A Room in Overreach's House. 
 
 Enter Overreach and Marrall. 
 
 Over. He's gone, I warrant thee ; this commis- 
 sion crush'd him. 
 Mar. Your worships have the way on't, and 
 ne'er miss 
 To squeeze these unthrifts into air : and yet. 
 The chapfall'n justice did his part, returning. 
 For your advantage, the certificate. 
 Against his conscience, — and his knowledge too. 
 With your good favour, — to the utter ruin 
 Of the poor farmer. 
 
 Over. 'Twas for these good ends 
 I made him a justice : he that bribes his belly. 
 Is certain to command his soul. 
 
 Mar. I wonder. 
 Still with your licence, why, your worship having 
 The power to put this thin-gut in commission. 
 You are not in't yourself ? 
 Over. Thou art a fool ; 
 In being out of ofiice, I am out of danger ; 
 Where, if I were a justice, besides the trouble, 
 I might or out of wilfulness, or error. 
 Run myself finely into a premunire. 
 And so become a prey to the informer. 
 No, I'll have none oft ; 'tis enough I keep 
 Greedy at my devotion : so he serve 
 My purposes, let him hang, or damn, I care not ; 
 Friendship is but a word. 
 Mar. You are all wisdom. 
 Over. I would be worldly wise ; for the other 
 wisdom. 
 That does prescribe us a well-govern'd life, 
 And to do right to others as ourselves, 
 I value not an atom. 
 
 Mar. AVhat coui-se take you, 
 With your good patience, to hedge in the manor 
 Of your neighbour, Master Frugal ? as 'tis said 
 He will nor sell, nor borrow, nor exchange ; 
 And his land, lying in the midst of your many 
 Is a foul blemish. [lordships. 
 
 Over. I have thought on't, Marrall, 
 And it shall take. I must have all men sellers, 
 And I the only purchaser. 
 Mar. 'Tis most fit, sir. 
 
 Over. I'll therefore buy some cottage near his 
 manor. 
 Which done, I'll make my men break ope his 
 
 fences. 
 Ride o'er his standing corn, and in the night 
 Set fire on his barns, or break his cattle's legs : 
 These trespasses draw on suits, and suits ex- 
 penses. 
 Which I can spare, but will soon beggar him. 
 When I have harried him thus two or three year, 
 Though he sue in Jo rma pauperis, in spite 
 Of all his thrift and care, he'll grow behind hand. 
 Mai'. The best I ever heard! I could adore you. 
 Over. Then, with the favour of my man of law, 
 I will pretend some title : want will force him 
 To put it to arbitrement ; then, if he sel! 
 For half the value, he shall have ready money, 
 And I possess his land. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 441 
 
 Mar. 'Tis above wonder ! 
 ■Wellborn was apt to sell, and needed not 
 These fine arts, sir, to hook him in. 
 
 Over. Well thought on. 
 This varlet, Marrall, lives too long, to upbraid me 
 With my close cheat put upon him. Will nor 
 Nor hunger kill him "i [cold 
 
 Mar. I know not what to think on't. 
 I have used all means; and the last night I caused 
 His host, the tapster, to turn him out of doors ; 
 And have' been since with all your friends and 
 
 tenants, 
 And on the forfeit of your favour, charged them. 
 Though a crust of mouldy bread would keep him 
 
 from starving. 
 Yet they should not relieve him. This is done, 
 sir. 
 
 Over. That was something, Marrall ; but thou 
 must go further. 
 And suddenly, Marrall. 
 
 Mar, Where, and when you please, sir. 
 
 Over. I would have thee seek him out, and, if 
 thou canst, 
 Persuade him that 'tis better steal than beg ; 
 Then, if I prove he has but robb'd a henroost. 
 Not all the world shall save him from the gallows. 
 Do' anything to work him to despair ; 
 And 'tis thy masterpiece. 
 
 Mar. I will do my best, sir. 
 . Over. I am now on my main work with the 
 Lord Lovell, 
 The gallant-minded, popular Lord Lovell, 
 The minion of the people's love. I hear 
 He's come into the country, and my aims are 
 To insinuate myself into his knowledge, 
 And then invite him to my house. 
 
 Mar. I have you : 
 This points at my young mistress. 
 
 Over. She must part with 
 That humble title, and write honourable, 
 Eight honourable, Marrall, my right honourable 
 
 daughter ; 
 If all I have, or e'er shall get, will do it. 
 I'll have her well attended ; there are ladies 
 Of errant knights decay' d, and brought so low, 
 That for cast clothes and meat will gladly serve 
 
 her. 
 And 'tis my glory, though I come from the city. 
 To have their issue whom I have undone 
 To kneel to mine as bondslaves. 
 
 ^Lar. 'Tis fit state, sir. 
 
 Over. And therefore, I'll not have a chamber- 
 maid 
 That ties her shoes, or any meaner office, 
 But such whose fathers were right worshipful. 
 'Tis a rich man's pride ! there having ever been 
 More than a feud, a strange antipathy, 
 Between us and true gentry. 
 
 Enter Wellborx. 
 
 Mar. See, who's here, sir. 
 
 Over. Hence, monster ! prodigy ! 
 
 Well. Sir, your wife's nephew ; 
 She and my father tumbled in one belly. 
 
 Over. Avoid my sight ! thy breath's infectious, 
 rogue ! 
 I shun thee as a leprosy, or the plague. — 
 Come hither, Marrall — this is the time to work 
 him. \_Aside^ and Exit. 
 
 Mar. I warrant you, sir. 
 
 Well. By this light, I think he's mad. 
 
 3Iar. Mad ! had you ta'en compassion on your- 
 You long since had been mad. [self, 
 
 Well. You have ta'en a course 
 Between you and my venerable uncle, 
 To make me so. 
 
 Mar. The more pale-spirited you, 
 That would not be instructed. I swear deeply — 
 
 Well. By what ? 
 
 Mar. By my religion. 
 
 Well. Thy religion! 
 The devil's creed: — but what would you have 
 done ? 
 
 Mar. Had there been but one tree in all tho 
 shire. 
 Nor any hope to compass a penny halter, 
 Before, Hke you, I had outlived iny fortunes, 
 A withe had served my turn to hang myself. 
 1 am zealous in your cause ; pray you hang yoiir- 
 And presently, as you love your credit. [self, 
 
 Well. I thank you. 
 
 Mar. Will you stay till you die in a ditch, or 
 lice devour you ? — 
 Or, if you dare not do the feat yourself. 
 But that you'll put the state to chai-ge and trouble. 
 Is there no purse to be cut, house to be broken, 
 Or market-woman with eggs, that you may 
 And so despatch the business ? [murder, 
 
 Well. Here's variety, 
 I must confess ; but I'll accept of none 
 Of all your gentle offers, I assure you. 
 
 3£ar. Why, have you hope ever to eat again, 
 Or drink ? or be the master of three farthings ? 
 If you like not hanging, drown yourself ; take 
 For your reputation. [some course 
 
 Well. 'Twill not do, dear tempter. 
 With all the rhetoric the fiend hath taught you. 
 I am as far as thou art from despair ; 
 Nay, I have confidence, which is more than hope. 
 To live, and suddenly, better than ever. 
 
 3Iar. Ha ! ha ! these castles you build in the 
 Will not persuade me or to give, or lend, [air, 
 A token to you. 
 
 Well. I'll be moi*e kind to thee : 
 Come, thou shalt dine with me. 
 
 Ma7'. With you ! 
 
 Well. Nay more, dine gratis. 
 
 Mar. Under what hedge, I pray you ? or at 
 whose cost ? 
 Are they padders or abram-men 1 that are your 
 consorts .'' 
 
 Well. Thou art incredulous: but thou shalt 
 dine, 
 Not alone at her house, but with a gallant lady ; 
 With me, and with a lady. 
 
 3Iar. Lady ! what lady ? 
 With the lady of the lake,''' or queen of fairies ? 
 For I know it must be an enchanted dinner. 
 
 Well. With the Lady Allworth, knave. 
 
 Mar. Nay, now there's hope 
 Thy brain is crack'd. 
 
 Well. Mark there, with what respect 
 I am entertain'd. 
 
 Mar. With choice, no doubt, of dog-whips. 
 Why, dost thou ever hope to pass her porter ? 
 
 Well. 'Tis not far off, go with me ; trust thine 
 own eyes. 
 
 Mar. Troth, in my hope, or my assurance 
 rather, 
 To see thee curvet, and mount like a dog in a 
 
 blanket. 
 If ever thou presume to pass her threshold, 
 I will endure thy company. 
 
 Well. Oome along then. [Exeunt. 
 
 * padders or abram-men. Padders are lurkers about 
 the highways, foot-pads ; abram-men were impudent 
 imposters, who, under the garb and appearance of lu- 
 natics, wandered about the country, and compelled the 
 servants of small families to give them, through fear, 
 whatever they demanded. — Gifford. 
 
 ^lady of the lake—& prominent character in Mortt 
 ^Arthur, and other old romances. 
 
442 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Lady Allworth's House. 
 
 Enter Allworth, Waiting-woman, Chamber- 
 maid, Order, Amble, Furnace, anc? "Watch all. 
 
 Woman. Could you not command your leisure 
 
 one hour longer ? 
 Cham. Or half an hour ? 
 All. I have told you what my haste is : 
 Besides, being now another's, not mine own, 
 Howe'er I much desire to enjoy you longer, 
 My duty suffers, if, to please myself, 
 I should neglect my lord. 
 
 Woman. Pray you do me the favour 
 To put these few quince-cakes into your pocket ; 
 They are of mine own preserving. 
 
 Cham. And this marmalade ; 
 'Tis comfortable for your stomach. 
 
 Woman. And, at parting, 
 Excuse me if I beg a farewell from you. 
 
 Cham. You are still before me. I move the 
 same suit, sir. 
 
 [Allworth hisses them severally. 
 Furn. How greedy these chamberex'S are of a 
 beardless chin ! 
 I think the tits wilt ravish him. 
 
 All. My service 
 To both. 
 
 Woman. Ours waits on you. 
 Cham. And shall do ever. 
 Ord. You are my lady's charge, be therefore 
 That you sustain your parts. [careful 
 
 Woman. We can bear, I warrant you. 
 
 \_Exeunt Waiting-woman and Chambermaid. 
 Furn. Here, drink it off; the ingredients are 
 cordial, 
 And this the true elixir ; it hath boil'd 
 Since midnight for you. 'Tis the quintessence 
 Of five cocks of the game, ten dozen of sparrows, 
 Knuckles of veal, potato-roots, and marrow. 
 Coral and ambergris : were you two years older, 
 And I had a wife, or gamesome mistress, 
 I durst trust you with neither : you need not bait 
 After this, I warrant you, though your journey's 
 
 long; 
 You may ride on the strength of this till to- 
 moiTOW morning. 
 All. Your courtesies overwhelm me: I much 
 grieve 
 To part from such true friends; and yet find 
 
 comfort. 
 My attendance on my honourable lord, 
 Whose resolution holds to visit my lady. 
 Will speedily bring me back. 
 
 {^Knocking within. Exit Watchall. 
 Mar. [within.] Dar'st thou venture further? 
 Well, [within.'] Yes, yes, and knock again. 
 Ord. 'Tis he; disperse! 
 Amb. Perform it bravely. 
 Furn. I know my cue, ne'er doubt me. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Allworth. 
 
 Re-enter Watchall, certmbnioushj introducing 
 Wellborn and Maurall. 
 
 Watch. Beast that I was, to make you stay ! 
 most welcome ; 
 You were long since expected. 
 
 Well. Say so much 
 To my friend, I pray you. 
 
 Watch. For your sake, I will, sir. 
 
 Mar. For his sake ! 
 
 Well. Mum ; this is nothing. 
 
 Mar. More than ever 
 I would have believed, though I had found it in 
 my primer. 
 
 All. When I have given you reasons for my 
 late harshness. 
 You'll pardon and excuse me ; for, believe me. 
 Though now I part abruptly, in my service 
 I will deserve it. 
 
 Mar. Service ! with a vengeance ! 
 Well. I am satisfied : farewell, Tom. 
 All. All joy stay with you ! \Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Ahible. 
 
 Amb. You are happily encounter'd ; I yet never 
 Presented one so welcome as, I know, 
 You will be to my lady. 
 
 Mar. This is some vision ; 
 Or, sure, these men are mad, to worship a dung- 
 It cannot be a truth. [hill ; 
 
 Well. Be still a pagan. 
 An unbelieving infidel ; be so, miscreant, 
 And meditate on blanhets, and on dog-whips! 
 
 Re-enter Furnace. 
 
 Furn. I am glad you are come ; until I know 
 your pleasure, 
 I knew not how to serve up my lady's dinner. 
 Mar. His pleasure ! is it possible ? 
 Well. What's thy will ? 
 
 Furn. Marry, sir, I have some grouse, and 
 turkey chicken. 
 Some rails and quails, and my lady will'd me ask 
 
 you 
 What kind of sauces best affect your palate. 
 That I may use my utmost skill to please it. 
 Mar. The devil's enter'd this cook : sauce for 
 his palate ! 
 That, on my knowledge, for almost this twelve- 
 month. 
 Durst wish but cheeseparings and brown bread 
 on Sundays. [Aside. 
 
 Well. That way I like them best. 
 Furn. It shall be done, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Well. AVhat think you of the hedge ice shall dine 
 Shall we feed gratis ? [under f 
 
 Mar. I know not what to think ; 
 Pray you make me not mad. 
 
 Re-enter Order. 
 
 Ord. This place becomes you not; 
 Pray you walk, sir, to the dining-room. 
 
 Well. I am well here. 
 Till her ladyship quits her chamber. 
 
 Mar. Well hei-e, say you? 
 'Tis a rare change ! but yesterday you thought 
 Yourself well in a barn, wrapp'd up in pease- 
 straw. 
 
 Re-enter Waiting-woman and Chambermaid. 
 
 Woman. Oh ! sir, you are wish'd for. 
 
 Cham. My lady dreamt, sir, of you. 
 
 Woman. And the first command she gave, 
 after she rose. 
 
 Was (her devotions done) to give her notice 
 When you approach'd here. 
 
 Cham. Which is done, on my virtue. 
 
 Mar. I shall be converted ; I begin to grow 
 Into a new belief, which saints, nor angels, 
 Could have won me to have faith in. 
 
 Woman. Sir, my lady ! 
 
 Enter Lady Allworth. 
 
 L. All. I come to meet you, and languish'd till 
 I saw you. 
 This first kiss is for form ; I allow a second 
 To such a friend. [Kisses Wellborn. 
 
 Mar. To such a friend ! Heaven bless me ! 
 Well. I am wholly yours: yet, madam, if you 
 please 
 To grace this gentleman with a salute — 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 443 
 
 Mar. Salute me at his bidding ! 
 Well. I shall receive it 
 As a most high favour. 
 L. All. Sir, you may command me. 
 
 \jAdvancts to salute Marrall, who retires. 
 Well. Kun backward from a lady ! and such a 
 
 lady! 
 3Iar. To kiss her foot is, to poor me, a favour 
 I am unworthy of. 
 
 {Offers to kiss her foot. 
 L. All. Nay, pray you rise ; 
 And since you are so humble, I'll exalt you : 
 You shall dine with me to-day, at mine own 
 table. 
 Mar. Your ladyship's table! I am not good 
 enough 
 To sit at your steward's board. 
 L. All. You are too modest: 
 I will not be denied. 
 
 Re-enter Furnace. 
 
 Furn. Will you still be babbling 
 Till your meat freeze on the table ? the old trick 
 
 still: 
 My art ne'er thought on ! 
 
 L. All. Your arm, Master Wellborn : — 
 Nay, keep us company. [To Marrall. 
 
 Mar. I was ne'er so graced. 
 
 \Exeunt Wellborn, Lady Allworth, 
 Amble, Marrall, Waiting-woman, 
 and Chambermaid. 
 Ord. So! we have play'd our parts, and are 
 come off well ; 
 But if I know the mystery, why my lady 
 Consented to it, or why Master Wellborn 
 Desired it, may I perish ! 
 
 Furn. Would I had 
 The roasting of his heart that cheated him, 
 And forces the poor gentleman to these shifts ! 
 By fire ! for cooks are Persians, and swear by it. 
 Of all the griping and extorting tyrants 
 I ever heard or read of, I ne'er met 
 A match to Sir Giles Overreach. 
 
 Watch. What will you take 
 To tell him so, fellow Fvu-nace ? 
 
 Fur. Just as much 
 As my throat is worth, for that would be the 
 
 price on't. 
 To have a usurer that starves himself, 
 And wears a cloak of one and twenty years 
 On a suit of fourteen groats, bought of the hang- 
 man, 
 To grow rich, and then purchase, is too common : 
 But this Sir Giles feeds high, keeps many ser- 
 vants. 
 Who must at his command do any outrage ; 
 Eich in his habit, vast in his expenses ; 
 Yet he to admiration still increases 
 In wealth, and lordships, 
 
 Ord. He frights men out of their estates, 
 And breaks through aU law-nets, made to curb 
 
 ill men. 
 As they were cobwebs. No man dares reprove 
 
 him. 
 Such a spirit to dare, and power to do, were 
 
 never 
 Lodged so unluckily. 
 
 Re-enter Amble laughing. 
 
 Amb. Ha ! ha ! I shall burst. 
 
 Ord. Contain thyself, man. 
 
 Fw-n. Or make us partakers 
 Of your sudden mirth. 
 
 Amb. Ha ! ha ! my lady has got 
 Such a guest at her table ! — this term-driver, 
 
 Marrall, 
 This snip of an attorney — 
 
 Fwm. What of him, man ? 
 
 Amb. The knave thinks still he's at the cook's 
 shop in Earn Alley, 
 Where the clerks divide, and the elder is to 
 
 choose ; 
 And feeds so slovenly ! 
 
 Furn. Is this all ? 
 
 Amb. My lady 
 Drank to him for fashion sake, or to please 
 
 Master Wellborn : 
 As I live, he rises, and takes up a dish 
 In which there were some remnants of a boil'd 
 
 capon, 
 And pledges her in white broth ! 
 
 Furn. Nay, 'tis like 
 The rest of his tribe. 
 
 Amb. And when I brought him wine, 
 He leaves his stool, and, after a leg or two, 
 Most humbly thanks m}'^ worship. 
 
 Ord. Eisen already ! 
 
 Amb. I shall be chid. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Allworth, Wellborn, and 
 Marrall. 
 
 Fwn. My lady frowns. 
 
 L. All. You wait well! [Jb Amble. 
 
 Let me have no more of this ; I observed your 
 
 jeering: 
 Sirrah, I'll have you know, whom I think worthy 
 To sit at my table, be he ne'er so mean. 
 When I am present, is not your companion. 
 
 Ord. Nay, she'll preserve what's due to her. 
 
 Furn. This refreshing 
 Follows your flux of laughter. 
 
 L. All. [To Wellborn.] You are master 
 Of your own will. I know so much of manners. 
 As not to enquire your purposes ; in a word. 
 To me you are ever welcome, as to a house 
 That is your own. 
 
 Well. Mark that. [Aside to Marrall, 
 
 Mar. With reverence, sir. 
 An it like your worship. 
 
 Well. Trouble yourself no further, 
 Dear madam ; my heart's full of zeal and service. 
 However in my language I am sparing. 
 Come, Master Marrall. 
 
 Mar. I attend your worship. 
 
 [Exeunt Wellborn and Marrall. 
 
 L. All. I see in your looks you are sorry, and 
 you know me 
 An easy mistress : be merry ; I have forgot all. 
 Order and Furnace, come with me ; I must give 
 
 you 
 Further directions. 
 
 Ord. What you please. 
 
 Fuiii. We are ready. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE IIL 
 
 The Country near Lady All worth's House. 
 
 Enter Wellborn, and Marrall bareheaded. 
 
 Well. I think I am in a good way. 
 
 Mar. Good ! sir ; the best way. 
 The certain best way. 
 
 Well. There are casualties 
 That men are subject to. 
 
 Mar. You are above them ; 
 And as you are already worshipful, 
 I hope ere long you will increase in worship, 
 And be right worshipful. 
 
 Well. Pr'ythee do not flout me : 
 What I shall be, I shall be. Is't for your easQ 
 You keep your hat off ? 
 
 3{ar. Ease ! an it like your worship ! 
 I hope Jack Marrall shall not live so long, 
 
444 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 To prove himself such an unmannerly beast, 
 Though it hail hazel-nuts, as to be cover'd 
 "When your worship's present. 
 
 Well. Is not this a true rogue, 
 That, out of mere hope of a future cozenage, 
 Can turn thus suddenly ? 'tis rank already. 
 
 \A.^de. 
 Mar. I know your ■worship's "wise, and needs 
 no counsel : 
 Yet if, in my desire to do you service, 
 I humbly offer my advice (but still 
 Under correction), I hope I shall not 
 Incur your high displeasure. 
 Well. No ; speak freely. 
 
 Mar. Then, in my judgment, sir, my simple 
 judgment 
 (Still with your worship's favour), I could wish 
 
 you 
 A better habit, for this cannot be 
 But much distasteful to the noble lady 
 (I say no more) that loves you : for, this morning, 
 To me, and I am but a swine to her. 
 Before the assurance of her wealth perfumed you. 
 You savour'd not of amber. 
 Well. I do now then ! 
 
 Mar. This your batoon hath got a touch of 
 it.— 
 
 [^Kisses the end of his cudgel. 
 Yet, if you please, for change, I have twenty 
 
 pounds here, 
 "Which, out of my true love, I'll presently 
 Lay down at yom- worship's feet ; 'twill serve to 
 
 buy you 
 A riding-suit. 
 
 Well. But Where's the horse ? 
 Mar. My gelding 
 Is at your service : nay, you shall ride me, 
 Before your worship shall be put to the trouble 
 To walk afoot. Alas ! when you are lord 
 Of this lady's manor, as I know you will be, 
 You may with the lease of glebe land, call'd 
 
 Knave's-acre, 
 A place I would manure, requite your vassal. 
 Well. I thank thy love, but must make no use 
 of it; 
 "What's twenty pounds ? 
 
 Mar. 'Tis all that I can make, sir. 
 Well. Dost thou think, though 1 want clothes, 
 I could not have them. 
 For one word to my lady ? 
 Mar. As I know not that ! 
 Well. Come, I will tell thee a secret, and so 
 leave thee. 
 I'll not give her the advantage, though she be 
 A gallant-minded lady, after we are mai*ried 
 (There being no woman, but is sometimes 
 
 froward). 
 To hit me in the teeth, and say, she was forced 
 To buy my wedding-clothes, and took me on, 
 "With a plain riding-suit, and an ambling nag. 
 No, I'll be furnish'd something like myself. 
 And so farewell : for thy suit touching Knave's- 
 acre, 
 "When it is mine, 'tis thine. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. I thank your worship. 
 How was I cozen'd in the calculation 
 Of this man's fortune ! my master cozen'd too. 
 Whose pupil I am in the art of undoing men ; 
 For that is our profession! "Well, well. Master 
 
 Wellborn, 
 You are of a sweet nature, and fit again to be 
 
 cheated ; 
 Which, if the Fates please, when you are pos- 
 
 sess'd 
 Of the laud and lady, you, sans question, shall be, 
 I'll presently think of the means. 
 
 [ Walks by, musing. 
 
 Enter Overreach, speaking to a Servant within. 
 
 Over. Sii-rah, take my horse. 
 I'll walk to get me an appetite ; 'tis but a mile, 
 And exercise will keep me from being pursey. 
 Ha! Marrall! is he conjm-ing .' Perhaps 
 The knave has wrought the prodigal to do 
 Some outrage on "himself, and now he feels 
 Compunction in his conscience fort : no matter, 
 So it be done. Marrall ! 
 Mar. Sir. 
 
 Ovei'. How succeed we 
 
 In our plot on Wellborn ? 
 
 Mai'. Never better, sir. 
 
 Over. Has he hang'd or drown'd himself ? 
 
 3far. No, sir, he lives : 
 
 Lives once more to be made a prey to you, 
 
 A greater prey than ever. 
 
 Ovei: Art thou in thy wits ? 
 If thou art, reveal this miracle, and briefly, 
 il/ar. A lady, sir, is fall'n in love with him. 
 Ove?'. With him ! what ladj^ ? 
 Mar. The rich Lady Allworth. 
 Ove7\ Thou dolt ! how darst thou speak this ? 
 Mar. I speak truth. 
 And I do so but once a year, unless 
 It be to you, sir : we dined with her ladyship, 
 I thank his worship. 
 Over. His worship ! 
 3Iar. As I live, sir, 
 I dined with him, at the great lady's table, 
 Simple as I stand here ; and saw when she kiss'd 
 
 him, 
 And would, at his request, have kiss'd me too ; 
 But I was not so audacious as some youths are, 
 That dare do anything, be it ne'er so absurd. 
 And sad after performance. 
 Over. Why, thou rascal ! 
 To tell me these impossibilities. 
 Dine at her table ! and kiss him ! or thee ! — 
 Impudent varlet, have not I myself, 
 To whom great countesses' doors have oft flew 
 
 open, 
 Ten times attempted, since her husband's death. 
 In vain to see her, though I came — a suitor ? 
 And yet your good solicitoi'ship, and rogue 
 
 "Wellborn, 
 Were brought into her presence, feasted with 
 
 her!— 
 But that I know thee a dog that cannot blush. 
 This most incredible lie would call up one 
 On thy buttermilk cheeks. 
 
 Mar. Shall I not trust my eyes, sir. 
 Or taste ? I feel her good cheer in my belly. 
 Ove7: You shall feel me, if you give not over, 
 sirrah: 
 Recover your brains again, and be no moi-o 
 
 gull'd 
 With a beggar's plot, assisted by the aids 
 Of serving-men and chambermaids, — for beyond 
 
 these 
 Thou never saw'st a woman, — or I'll quit you 
 From my employnjents. 
 
 Mar. Will you credit this yet ? 
 On my confidence of their marriage, I offer'd 
 
 Wellborn— 
 I would' give a crown now I durst say his 
 worship — [Aside. 
 
 My nag, and twenty pounds. 
 Over. Did you so, idiot ! 
 
 \_Sirikes him down. 
 Was this the way to work him to despair. 
 Or rather to cross me .' 
 3fa7'. Will your worship kill me ? 
 Over. No, no; but drive the lying spirit out 
 
 of you. 
 Mar. He's gone. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 445 
 
 Ove.r. I have done then : now, forgetting 
 Your late imaginary feast and lady, 
 Know my Lord Lovell dines with me to-morrow. 
 Be careful nought be wanting to receive him ; 
 And bid my daughter's women trim her up, 
 Though they paint her, so she catch the lord, 
 
 I'll thank them : 
 There's a piece for my late blows. 
 
 Mar. I must yet suffer : 
 But there may be a time — \Ande. 
 
 Over. Do you grumble ? 
 
 Mar. No, sir. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Country near Overreach's House. 
 Eater Lord Lovell, Allworth, and Servants. 
 
 Lov. Walk the horses down the hill : some- 
 thing in private 
 I must impart to Allworth. 
 
 [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 All. Oh, my lord, 
 What sacrifice of reverence, duty, watching, 
 Although I could put off the use of sleep. 
 And ever wait on your commands to serve them ; 
 What dangers, though in ne'er so horrid shapes, 
 Nay, death itself, though I should run to meet it, 
 Can I, and v/ith a thankful willingness, suffer; 
 But still the retribution will fall short 
 Of your bounties shower'd upon me ? 
 
 Lov. Loving youth ; 
 Till what I purpose be put into act, 
 Do not o'erprize it ; since you have trusted me 
 With your soul's nearest, nay, her dearest secret, 
 Eest confident 'tis in a cabinet lock'd 
 Treachery shall never open. I have found you 
 (For so much to your face I must profess, 
 Howe'er you guard your modesty with a blush 
 
 for't) 
 More zealous in your love and service to me. 
 Than I have been in my rewards. 
 
 All. Still great ones, 
 Above my merit. 
 
 Lov. Such your gratitude calls them: 
 Nor am I of that harsh and rugged temper 
 As some great men are taxed with, who imagine 
 They part from the respect due to their honours. 
 If they use not all such as follow them, ' 
 Without distinction of their births, like slaves. 
 I am not so condition'd : I can make 
 A fitting difference between my footboy, 
 And a gentleman by want compell'd to sei've me. 
 
 All. 'Tis thankfully acknowledged ; you have 
 been 
 More like a father to me than a master: 
 Pray you, pardon the comparison. 
 
 Lov. I allow it ; 
 And to give you assurance I am pleased in'l, 
 My carriage and demeanour to your mistress, 
 Fair Margaret, shall truly witness for me 
 I can command my passions. 
 
 All. 'Tis a conquest 
 Few lords can boast of when they are tempted 
 — oh! 
 
 Lov. Why do you sigh .' can you be doubtful 
 of me ? 
 By that fair name I in the wars have purchased. 
 And all my actions, hitherto untainted, 
 I will not be more true to mine own honour. 
 Than to my Allworth ! 
 
 All. As you are the brave Lord Lovell, 
 Tour bare word only given is an assurance 
 
 Of more validity and weight to me. 
 
 Than all the oaths, bound up with imprecations, 
 
 Which, when they would deceive, most courtiers 
 
 practise : 
 Yet being a man (for, sure, to style you more 
 Would relish of gross flattery), I am forced. 
 Against my confidence of your worth and virtues. 
 To doubt, nay more, to fear. 
 
 Lov- So young, and jealous! 
 
 All. Were you to encounter with a single foe, 
 The victory wei-e certain ; but to stand 
 The charge of two such potent enemies, 
 At once assaulting you, as wealth and beauty, 
 And those two seconded with power, is odds 
 Too great for Hercules. 
 
 Lov. Speak your doubts and fears. 
 Since you will nourish them, in plainer language, 
 That I may understand them. 
 
 All. What's your will. 
 Though I lend arms against myself (provided 
 They may advantage you), must be obey'd. 
 My much-loved lord, were Margaret only fair. 
 The cannon of her more than earthly form. 
 Though mounted high, commanding all beneath 
 
 it, 
 And ramm'd with bullets of her sparkling eyes. 
 Of all the bulwarks that defend your senses 
 Could batter none, but that which guards your 
 
 sight. 
 But when the well-tuned accents of her tongue 
 Make music to you, and with numerous sounds 
 Assault your hearing (such as Ulysses, if [he] 
 Now lived again, howe'er he stood the Syi'ens, 
 Could not resist), the combat must grow doubtful 
 Between your reason and rebellious passions. 
 Add this too: when you feel her touch, and 
 
 breath 
 Like a soft western wind, when it glides o'er 
 Arabia, creating gum and spices ; 
 And in the van, the nectar of her lips. 
 Which you must taste, bring the battalia on, 
 Well arm'd, and strongly lined with her dis- 
 course. 
 And knowing manners, to give entertainment; — 
 Hippolytus himself would leave Diana, 
 To follow such a Venus. 
 
 Lov. Love hath made you 
 Poetical, Allworth. 
 
 All. Grant all these beat off. 
 Which if it be in man to do, you'll do it, 
 Mammon, in Sir Giles Overreach, steps in 
 With heaps of ill-got gold, and so much land, 
 To make her more remarkable, as would tire 
 A falcon's wings in one day to fly over. 
 Oh my good lord! these powerful aids, which 
 
 would 
 Make a misshapen negro beautiful 
 (Yet are but ornaments to give her lustre, 
 That in herself is all perfection), must 
 Prevail for her. I here release your trust ; 
 'Tis happiness enough for me to serve you, 
 And sometimes, with chaste eyes, to look upon 
 her. 
 
 Lov. Why, shall I swear ? 
 
 All. Oh, by no means, my lord; 
 And wrong not so your judgment to the world, 
 As fi-om your fond indulgence to a boy, 
 Your page, your servant, to refuse a blessing 
 Divers great men are rivals for. 
 
 Lov. Suspend 
 Your judgment till the trial. How far is it 
 To Overreach's house ? 
 
 All. At the most, some half-hour's riding ; 
 You'll soon be there. 
 
 Lov. And you the sooner freed 
 From your jealous fears. 
 
 All. Oh that I durst but hope it ! [Exeunt^ 
 
446 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Overreach's House. 
 
 Enter Overreach, Greedy, and Marrall. 
 
 Over. Spare for no cost ; let my dressers crack 
 ■with the weight 
 Of curious viands. 
 
 Greedy. Store indeed^s no sore, sir. 
 Over. That proverb fits your stomach, Master 
 Greedy. 
 And let no plate be seen but what's pure gold, 
 Or such whose workmanship exceeds the matter 
 That it is made of ; let my choicest linen 
 Perfume the room, and, when we wash, the 
 
 water, 
 "With precious powders mix'd, so please my lord. 
 That he may with envy wish to bathe so ever. 
 Mar. 'Twill be very chargeable. 
 Over. Avaunt, you drudge ! 
 Now all my labour'd ends are at the stake, 
 Is't a time to think of thrift? Call in my 
 daughter. 
 
 [^Exit Marrall. 
 And, Master Justice, since you love choice dishes, 
 And plenty of them — 
 
 Greedy. As I do, indeed, sir, 
 Almost as much as to give thanks for them. 
 Over. I do confer that providence,^ with my 
 power 
 Of absolute command to have abundance, 
 To your best care. 
 
 Greedy. I'll punctually discharge it. 
 And give the best directions. Now am I, 
 In mine own conceit, a monarch ; at the least, 
 Arch-president of the boil'd, the roast, the 
 
 baked, 
 For wliich I will eat often ; and give thanks 
 When my belly's braced up like a drum, and 
 that's pure justice. [Exit. 
 
 Over. It must be so : — should the foolish girl 
 prove modest, 
 She may spoil all : she had it not from me. 
 But from her mother ; I was ever forward, 
 As she must be, and therefore I'll prepare her. 
 
 Enter Margaret. 
 
 Alone — and let your women wait without. 
 Marg. Your pleasure, sir ? 
 
 Over. Ha ! this is a neat dressing ! 
 These orient pearls and diamonds well-placed 
 
 too! 
 The gown affects me not, it should have been 
 Embroider'd o'er and o'er with flowers of gold ; 
 But these rich jewels and quaint fashion help it. 
 And how below ? since oft the wanton eye. 
 The face observed, descends unto the foot, 
 "Which being well-proportion'd, as yours is, 
 Invites as much as perfect white and red, 
 Though without art. How like you your new 
 
 woman, 
 The Lady Downfallen ? 
 
 Marg. Well, for a companion ; 
 Not as a servant. 
 
 Over. Is she humble, Meg, 
 And careful too, her ladyship forgotten ? 
 
 Marg. I pity her fortune. 
 
 Over. Pity her ! trample on her. 
 I took her up in an old tamin ^ gown 
 (Even starv'd for want of twopenny chops), to 
 serve thee ; 
 
 1 providence — province. 
 
 2 tamin— & sort of coarse linsey-woolsey stuff, prob- 
 ably the same as is now called taminy, or tammy.— 
 
 GifFOBD. 
 
 And if I understand she but repines 
 
 To do thee any duty, though ne'er so servile, 
 
 I'll pack her to her knight, where I have lodged 
 him, 
 
 Into the counter, and there let them howl to- 
 gether. 
 Marg. You know your own ways ; but for me 
 I blush 
 
 "When I command her, that was once attended 
 
 "With persons not inferior to myself 
 
 In birth. 
 
 Over. In birth ! why, art thou not my daugh- 
 ter, 
 
 The blest child of my industry and wealth ? 
 
 "Why, foolish girl, was't not to make thee great, ' 
 
 That I have run, and still pursue, those ways 
 
 That hale down curses on me, which I mind not! 
 
 Part with these humble thoughts, and apt thyself 
 
 To the noble state I labour to advance thee ; 
 
 Or, by my hopes to see thee honourable, 
 
 I will adopt a stranger to my heir, 
 
 And throw thee from my care : do not provoke 
 me. 
 Marg. I will not, sir; mould me which way 
 you please. 
 
 Re-enter Greedy. 
 
 Over. How ! interrupted 1 
 
 Greedy. 'Tis matter of importance. 
 The cook, sir, is self-will'd, and will not learn _ 
 From my experience : there's a fawn brought in, 
 
 sir, 
 And, for my life, I cannot make him roast it 
 "With a Norfolk dumpling in the belly of it ; 
 And, sir, we wise men know, without the dump- 
 ling 
 'Tis not worth three pence. 
 
 Over. "Would it were whole in thy belly, 
 To stuff it out 1 cook it any way ; pr'ythee, leave 
 me. 
 
 Greedy. "Without order for the dumpling ? 
 
 Over. Let it be dumpled 
 "Which way thou wilt ; or, tell him, I will scald 
 
 him 
 In his own caldron. 
 
 Greedy. I had lost my stomach 
 Had I lost my mistress dumpling ; I'll give thanks 
 for't. \_Exit. 
 
 Over. But to our business, Meg; you have 
 heard who dines here ? 
 
 Marg. I have, sir. 
 
 Over. 'Tis an honourable man ; 
 A lord, Meg, and commands a regiment 
 Of soldiers, and, what's rare, is one himself 
 A bold and understanding one : and to be 
 A lord, and a good leader, in one volume, 
 Is granted unto few out such as rise up 
 The kingdom's glory. 
 
 Re-enter Greedy. , 
 
 Greedy. I'll resign my office, 
 If I be not better obey'd. 
 
 Over. 'Slight, art thou frantic ? 
 
 Greedy. Frantic ! 'twould make me frantic, and 
 stark mad. 
 Were I not a justice of peace and quorum too, 
 Which this rebellious cook cares not a straw for. 
 There are a dozen of woodcocks — 
 
 Over. Make thyself 
 Thirteen, the baker's dozen. 
 
 Greedy. I am contented. 
 So they may be dress'd to my mind; he has 
 
 found out 
 A new device for sauce, and will not dish them 
 With toasts and butter ; my father was a tailor. 
 And my name, though a justice, Greedy Wood- 
 cock; 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 447 
 
 And, ere I'll see my lineage so abused, 
 I'll give up my commission. 
 
 Ooer. \aloud.'\ Cook ! — Rogue, obey him ! 
 I have given the word, pray you now remove 
 
 yourself 
 To a collar of brawn, and trouble me no further. 
 Greedy. 1 will, and meditate what to eat at 
 dinner. \_Exit. 
 
 Over. And as I said, Meg, when this gull dis- 
 turb'd us. 
 This honourable lord, this colonel, 
 I would have thy husband. 
 
 Marg. There's too much disparity 
 Between his quality and mine, to hope it. 
 
 Over. I more than hope, and doubt not to 
 effect it. 
 Be thou no enemy to thyself ; my wealth 
 Shall weigh his titles down, and make you 
 
 equals. 
 Now lor the means to assure him thine, ob- 
 serve me : 
 Kemember he's a courtier, and a soldier, 
 And not to be trifled with ; and, therefore, when 
 He comes to woo you, see you do not coy it : 
 This mincing modesty has spoil'd many a match 
 By a first refusal, in vain after hoped for. 
 Marg. You'll have me, sir^ preserve the dis- 
 tance that 
 Confines a virgin ? 
 
 Over. Virgin me no virgins ! 
 I must have you lose that name, or you lose me. 
 I will have you private — start not — 1 say, private: 
 If thou art my true daughter, not a bastard, 
 Thou wilt venture alone with one man, though 
 
 he came 
 Like Jupiter to Semele, and come off too ; 
 And therefore, when he kisses you, kiss close. 
 Marg. I have heard this is the strumpet's 
 fashion, sir. 
 Which I must never learn. 
 
 Over. Learn anything, 
 And from any creature that may make thee 
 
 great ; 
 From the devil himself. 
 Marg. This is but devilish doctrine ! 
 
 \_Aside. 
 Over. Or, if his blood grow hot, suppose he 
 offer 
 Beyond this, do not you stay till it cool, 
 But meet his ardour. 
 
 Marg. In your house, 
 Your own house, sir ! for Heaven's sake, what 
 
 are you, then ? 
 Or what shall I be, sir ? 
 
 Over. Stand not on form ; 
 Words are no substances. 
 
 Marg. Though you could dispense 
 With your own honour, cast aside religion, 
 The hopes of heaven, or fear of hell ; excuse me, 
 In worldly policy, this is not the way 
 To make me his wife ; his whore, I grant it may 
 
 do. 
 My maiden honour so soon yielded up, 
 Nay, prostituted, cannot but assure him 
 I, that am light to him, will not hold weight 
 Whene'er tempted by others : so, in judgment, 
 When to his lust I have given up my honour. 
 He must and will forsake me. 
 Over. How ! forsake thee ! 
 Do I wear a sword for fashion, or is this arm 
 Shrunk up, or withered ? does there live a man 
 Of that large list I have encounter'd with, 
 Can truly say I e'er gave inch of ground ' 
 Not purchased with his blood that did oppose 
 
 me? 
 Forsake thee when the thing is done ! he dares 
 not. 
 
 Give me but proof he has enjoyed thy person. 
 Though all his captains, echoes to his will. 
 Stood arm'd by his side to justify the wrong. 
 And he himself in the head of his bold troop, 
 Spite of his lordship, and his colonelship, 
 Or the judge's favour, I will make him render 
 A bloody and a strict accompt, and force him, 
 By marrying thee, to cure thy wounded honour! 
 I have said it. 
 
 Re-enter Marrall. 
 
 Mar. Sir, the man of honour's come, 
 Newly alighted. 
 
 Over. In, without reply ; 
 And do as I command, or thou art lost. 
 
 {^Exit Margaret. 
 Is the loud music I gave order for 
 Ready to receive him ? 
 
 Mar. 'Tis, sir. 
 
 Over. Let them sound 
 A princely welcome. \_Exit Marrall.] Rough- 
 ness awhile leave me : 
 For fawning now, a stranger to my nature, 
 Must make way for me. 
 
 Loud music. Enter Lord Lovell,, Greedy, 
 All WORTH, and Marrall. 
 
 Lov. Sir, you meet your trouble. 
 Over. What you are pleased to style so, is an 
 honour 
 Above my worth and fortunes. 
 
 All. Strange! so humble. [Aside. 
 
 Over. A justice of peace, my lord. 
 
 [Presents Greedy to him. 
 Lov. Your hand, good sir. 
 Greedy. This is a lord, and some think this a 
 favour ; 
 But 1 had rather have my hand in my dumpling. 
 
 {Aside. 
 Over. Room for my lord. 
 Lov. I miss, sir, your fair daughter 
 To crown my welcome. 
 
 Over. May it please my lord' 
 To taste a glass of Greek wine first, and suddenly 
 She shall attend my lord. 
 Lov. You'll be obeyed, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Overreach. 
 Over. 'Tis to my wish : as soon as come, ask 
 
 for her ! 
 Why, Meg! Meg Overreach.— 
 
 Re-enter Margaret. 
 
 How ! tears in your eyes ] 
 Hah! dry them quickly, or I'll dig them out. 
 Is this a time to whimper ? meet that greatness 
 That flies into thy bosom, think what 'tis 
 For me to say, My honourable daughter ; 
 And thou, when I stand bare, to say. Put on ; » 
 Or, Father, you forget yourself. No more. 
 But be instructed, or expect — He comes. 
 
 Re-enter Lord Lovell, Greedy, All worth, and 
 Marrall. 
 
 A black-brow'd girl, my lord. 
 
 [Lord Lovell salutes Margaret. 
 
 Lov. As I live, a rare one. 
 
 A II. He's ta'en already : I am lost. [Aside. 
 
 Over. That kiss 
 Came twanging off, I like it ; quit the room. 
 
 {Exeunt all hut Over. Lov. and Marg. 
 A little bashful, my good lord, but you, 
 I hope, will teach her boldness. 
 
 Lov. I am happy 
 In such a scholar : but — 
 
 » Put on— i.e. be covered.— Gifford. 
 
448 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Over. I am pcast learning, 
 And therefore leave you to yourselves. — Ee- 
 member. [^Aside to Margaret, and exit. 
 
 Lov. You see, fair lady, your father is solicitous 
 To have you ch^-nge the barren name of virgin 
 Into a hopeful wife. 
 
 Marg. His haste, my lord, 
 Holds no power o'er my will. 
 
 Lov. But o'er your duty. 
 
 Marg. Which, forced too much, may break. 
 
 Lov. Bend rather, sweetest : 
 Think of your years. 
 
 Marg. Too few to match with yours ; 
 And choicest fruits too soon plucked, rot and 
 wither. 
 
 Lov. Do you think I am old "i 
 
 Marg. I am sure I am too young. 
 
 Lov. I can advance you. 
 
 Marg. To a hill of sorrow ; »' 
 
 Where every hour I may expect to fall, 
 But never hope firm footing. You are noble, 
 I of a low defccent, however rich ; 
 And tissues match'd with scarlet suit but ill. 
 Oh, my good lord, I could say more, but that 
 I dare not trust these walls. 
 
 Lov. Pray you, trust my ear then. 
 
 Re-enter Overreach behind, listening. 
 
 Over. Close at it! whispering! this is excellent! 
 And, by their postures, a consent on both parts. 
 
 Re-enter Greedy behind. 
 
 Greedy, Sir Giles, Sir Giles I 
 Over. The great fiend stop that clapper ! 
 Greedy. It must ring out, sir, when my belly 
 rings noon, 
 The baked-meats are run out, the roast turn'd 
 powder. 
 Over. I shall powder you. 
 Greedy. Beat me to dust, I care not ; 
 In such a cause as this, I'll die a martyr. 
 
 Over. Marry, and shall, you barathrum of the 
 shambles! ^ [^Strikes him. 
 
 Greedy. How! strike a justice of peace! 'tis 
 petty treason, 
 Edioardi quinti: but that you are my friend, 
 I would commit you without bail or mainprize. 
 Over. Leave your bawling, sir, or I shall com- 
 mit you 
 Where you shall not dine to-day: disturb my 
 
 lord, 
 When he is in discourse ! 
 
 Greedy. Is't a time to talk 
 When we should be munching ? 
 Lov. Hah! I heard some noise. 
 Oven-. Mum, villain, vanish ! shall we break a 
 bargain 
 Almost made up ? [Thrtists Greedy off. 
 
 Lov. Lady, I understand you, 
 And rest most happy in your choice, believe it ; 
 I'll be a careful pilot to direct 
 Your yet uncertain bark to a port of safety. 
 Marg. So shall your honour save two lives, 
 and bind us 
 Your slaves for ever. 
 
 Lov. I am in the act rewarded, 
 Since it is good ; howe'er, you must put on 
 An amorous carriage towards me, to delude 
 Your subtle father. 
 
 Marg. I am prone to that. 
 
 1 barathrum of the shajnbks. Literally from Horace. 
 Barathrum is frequently used by our old poets in the 
 cassical sense of an abyss or devouring gulf— Giffobd. 
 
 Lov. Now break we off our conference.— Sir 
 Giles ! 
 Where is Sir Giles? 
 
 [Overreach comes forward. 
 
 Re-enter Allworth, Marrali^ and Greedy. 
 
 Over. My noble lord ; and how 
 Does your lordship find her ? 
 
 Lov. Apt, Sir Giles, and coming ; 
 And I like her the better. 
 
 Over. So do I too. 
 
 Lov. Yet should we take forts at the first assault, 
 'Twere poor in the defendant; I must confirm her 
 With a love-letter or two, which I must have 
 Deliver'd by my page, and you give way to't. 
 
 Over. With all my soul : — a towardly gentle- 
 man! 
 Your hand, good Master Allworth; know my 
 
 house 
 Is ever open to you. 
 
 All. 'Twas shut till now. . \_Aside. 
 
 Over. Well done, well done, my honourable 
 daughter ! 
 Thou'rt so already: know this gentle youtli. 
 And cherish him, my honourable daughter. 
 
 Marg. I shall, with my best care. 
 
 [Noise within, as of a coach. 
 
 Over. A coach ! 
 
 Greedy. More stops 
 Before we go to dinner ! Oh my guts ! 
 
 Enter Lady Allworth and Wellborn. 
 
 L. All. If I find welcome, 
 You share in it ; if not, I'll back again, 
 Now I know your ends ; for I come arm'd for all 
 Can be objected. 
 
 Lov. How ! the Lady Allworth ! 
 
 Over. And thus attended ! 
 
 [LovELL salutes Lady Allworth, Lady 
 Allworth salutes Margaret. 
 
 Mar. No, I am a dolt ! 
 The spirit of lies hath enter d me! 
 
 Over. Peace, Patch ; ^ 
 'Tis more than wonder ! an astonishment 
 That does possess me wholly ! 
 
 Lov. Noble lady. 
 This is a favour, to prrvent^ my visit, 
 The service of my life can never equal. 
 
 L. All. My lord, I laid wait for you, and much 
 hoped 
 You would have made my poor house your first 
 
 inn: 
 And therefore doubting that you might forget me. 
 Or too long dwell here, having such ample cause. 
 In this unequall'd beauty, for your stay ; 
 And fearing to trust any but myself 
 With the relation of my service to you, 
 I borrow'd so much from my long restraint, 
 And took the air in person to invite you. 
 
 Lov. Your bounties are so great, they rob me, 
 madam. 
 Of words, to give you thanks. 
 
 L. All. Good Sir Giles Overreach. 
 
 [Salutes him. 
 — How dost thou, Marrall .' Liked you my meat 
 
 so ill. 
 You'll dine no more with me ? 
 
 Greedy. I will, when you please, 
 An it like your ladyship. 
 
 L. All. When you please. Master Gi'eedy ; 
 
 1 Patch was the cant name of a fool kept by Cardinal 
 Wolsey; but Nares thinks the name may be derived 
 from fools wearing a patched or parti-coloured gajs 
 ment. 
 
 2 ^recen^— anticipate. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 449 
 
 If meat can do it, you shall be satisfied. — 
 
 And now, my lord, pray take into your knowledge 
 
 This gentleman, howe'er his outside's coarse, 
 
 {Presents Wellborn. 
 His inward linings are as fine and fair 
 As any man's ; wonder not I speak at large : 
 And howsoe'er his humour carries him 
 To be thus accoutred, or what taint soever, 
 For his wild life, hath stuck upon his fame. 
 He may, ere long, with boldness, rank himself 
 With some that have contemn'd him. Sir Giles 
 
 Overreach, 
 If I am welcome, bid him so. 
 
 Over. My nephew ! 
 He has been too long a stranger : faith you have ! 
 Fray let it be mended. 
 
 [LovELL confers aside with Wellborn. 
 
 Mar. Why, sir, what do you mean .' 
 This is 7'ogice Wellboim, monster.^ prodigy.^ 
 That should hang or drown himself; no man of 
 
 worship. 
 Much less your nephew. 
 
 Over. Well, sirrah, we shall reckon 
 For this hereafter. 
 
 Mar. I'll not lose my jeer. 
 Though I be beaten dead for't. 
 
 Well. Let my silence plead 
 In my excuse, my lord, till better leisure 
 Offer itself to hear a full relation 
 Of my poor fortunes. 
 Lov. I would hear, and help them. 
 Over. Your dinner waits you. 
 Lov. Pi-ay you lead, we follow. 
 L. All. Nay, you are my guest ; come, dear 
 Master Wellborn. 
 
 [Exeunt all hut Greedy. 
 
 Greedy. Dear Master Wellborn/ So she said: 
 
 heaven ! heaven ! 
 
 If my belly would give me leave, I could ruminate 
 
 All day on this : 1 have granted twenty warrants 
 
 To have him committed, from all prisons in the 
 
 shire, N 
 To Nottingham gaol; and now, Dear Master 
 
 Wellborn ! 
 And, My good nephew ! — but I play the fool 
 To stand here prating, and forget my dinner. 
 
 Re-enter Marrall. 
 
 Are they set, Marrall ? 
 
 Mar. Long since ; pray you a word, sir. 
 
 Greedy. No wording now. 
 
 Mar. In troth, I must ; my master, 
 Knowing you are his good friend, makes bold 
 
 ■with you. 
 And does entreat you, more guests being come in 
 Than he expected, especially his nephew, 
 The table being full too, you would excuse him, 
 And sup with him on the cold meat. 
 
 Greedy. How ! no dinner, 
 After all my care ? 
 
 Mar. 'Tis but a penance for 
 A meal ; besides, you broke your fast. 
 
 Greedy. That was 
 But a bit to stay my stomach : a man in commis- 
 sion 
 Give place to a tatterdemalion ! 
 
 Mar. No bug i words, sir ; 
 Should his worship hear you — 
 
 Greedy. Lose my dumpling too, 
 And butter'd toasts, and woodcocks! 
 
 Mar. Come, have patience. 
 If you will dispense a little with your worship. 
 
 1 6i^— frightful, ugly; hug formerly was used for 
 bugbear. 
 
 And sit with the waiting- wo men, you'll have 
 
 dumpling. 
 Woodcock, and butter'd toasts too. 
 
 Greedy. This revives me : 
 I will gorge there sufficiently. • 
 
 Mar. This is the way, sir. [Exeunt, 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE in. 
 
 Another Room in Overreach's House. 
 Enter Overreach, as from dinner. 
 
 Over. She's caught ! Oh women I — she neglects 
 
 my lord, 
 And all her compliments applied to Wellborn ! 
 The garments of her widowhood laid by. 
 She now appears as glorious as the spring. 
 Her eyes fix'd on him, in the wine she drinks. 
 He being her pledge, she sends him burning 
 
 kisses. 
 And sits on thorns, till she be private with him. 
 She leaves my meat, to feed upon his looks ; 
 And if in our discourse he be but named. 
 From her a deep sigh follows. But why grieve I 
 At this ? it makes for me ; if she prove his. 
 All that is hers is mine, as I will work him. 
 
 Enter Marrall. 
 
 Mar. Sir, the whole board is troubled at your 
 
 rising. 
 Over. No matter, I'll excuse it : pi-'ythee, Mar- 
 rall, 
 Watch an occasion to invite my nephew 
 To speak with me in private. 
 
 Mar. Who ! the rogue 
 
 The lady scorn' d to look on ? 
 
 Over. You are a wag. 
 
 Enter Lady Allworth and Wellborn. 
 
 Mar. See, sir, she's come, and cannot be with- 
 out him. 
 L. All. With your favour, sir, after a plenteous 
 dinner, 
 I shall make bold to walk a turn or two, 
 In your rare garden. 
 
 Over. There's an arboitr too, 
 If your ladyship please to use it. 
 L. All. Come, Master Wellborn. 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Allworth and Wellborn. 
 Over. Grosser and grosser ! now I believe the 
 poet 
 Feign'd not, but was historical, when he wi'ote 
 Pasiphae was euamour'd of a bull : 
 This lady's lust's most monstrous. — My good lord, 
 
 Enter Lord Lovell, Margaret, and the rest. 
 
 Excuse my manners. 
 
 Lov. There needs none, Sir Giles ; 
 I may ere long say Father, when it pleases 
 My dearest mistress to give warrant to it. 
 
 Over. She shall seal to it, my lord, and make 
 me happy. 
 
 Re-enter Wellborn and Lady Allworth. 
 
 Marg. My lady is return'd. 
 
 L. All. Provide my coach, 
 I'll instantly away ; my thanks, Sir Giles, 
 For my entertainment. 
 
 Over. 'Tis your nobleness 
 To think it such. 
 
 L. All. I must do you a further wrong, 
 In taking away your honourable guest. 
 
 Lov. I wait on you, madam ; farewell, good 
 Sir Giles. 
 
 2F 
 
450 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 L. All. Good Mistress Margaret! Nay, come, 
 
 Master Wellborn, 
 
 I must not leave you behind ; in sooth, I must 
 
 not. 
 
 Over. Kob me not, madam, of all joys at once ; 
 
 Let my nephe-w stay behind : he shall have my 
 
 coach, 
 And, after some small conference between us, 
 Soon overtake your ladyship. 
 i. All. Stay not long, sir. 
 Lov. This parting kiss: — [ivisses Margaret. J 
 — you shall every day hear from me. 
 By my faithful page. 
 
 All. 'Tis a service I am proud of. 
 
 [Exeunt Lord Lovell, Lady Allworth, 
 Allworth, and Marrall. 
 Over. Daughter, to your chamber. 
 
 {Exit Margaret. 
 You may •wonder, nephew, 
 After so long an enmity between U3, 
 I should desire your friendship. 
 
 Well. So I do, sir ; 
 'Tis strange to me. 
 
 Over. But I'll make it no wonder ; 
 And what is more, unfold my nature to you. 
 We worldly men, when we see friends and kins- 
 men, 
 Past hope sunk in their fortunes, lend no hand 
 To lift them up, but rather set our feet 
 Upon their heads, to press them to the bottom ; 
 As, I must yield, with you I practised it : 
 But now I see you in a way to rise, 
 I can and will assist you ; this rich lady 
 (And I am glad oft) is enamour'd of you; 
 'Tis too apparent, nephew. 
 
 Well. No such thing ; 
 Compassion rather, sir. 
 
 Over. Well, in a word, 
 Because your stay is short, Fll have you seen 
 No more in this base shape ; nor shall she say, 
 She married you Uke a beggar, or in debt. 
 
 Well. He'll run into the noose, and save my 
 
 labour. \Aside. 
 
 Over. You have a trunk of rich clothes, not far 
 
 hence. 
 
 In pawn; I will redeem them; and that no 
 
 clamour 
 May taint your credit for your petty debts, 
 You shall have a thousand pounds to cut them off, 
 And go a free man to the wealthy lady. 
 
 Well. This done, sir, out of love, and no end 
 Over. As it is, nephew. [else — 
 
 Well. Binds me still your servant. 
 Over. No compliments ; you are stayed for : ere 
 you have supp'd 
 You shall hear from me. My coach, knaves, for 
 
 my nephew ! 
 To-morrow I will visit you. 
 
 Well. Here's an uncle 
 In a man's extremes ! how much they do belie you 
 That say you are hard-hearted ! 
 
 Ovei\ My deeds, nephew, 
 Shall speak my love ; what men report I weigh 
 not. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 A Room in Lady Allworth's Ilouse. 
 Enter Lord Loveix and Allworth. 
 
 Lov. 'Tis well: give me my cloak. I now 
 discharge you 
 From further service ; mind your own affairs ; 
 I hope they will prove successfuL 
 
 All. What is blest 
 With your good wish, my lord, cannot but prosper. 
 
 Let aftertimes report, and to your honour, 
 How much I stand engaged, for I want language 
 To speak my debt ; yet if a tear or two 
 Of joy, for your much goodness, can supply 
 My tongue's defects, I could — 
 
 Lov. Nay, do not melt ; 
 This ceremonial thanks to me's superfluous. 
 
 Over, [within.'] Is my lord stirring .? 
 
 Lov. 'Tis he! Oh, here's your letter: let 
 him in. 
 
 Enter Overreach, Greedy, and Marrall. 
 
 Over. A good day to my lord ! 
 
 Lov. You are an early riser. 
 Sir Giles. 
 
 Over. And reason, to attend your lordship. 
 
 Lov. And you too, Master Greedy, up so soon ? 
 
 Greedy. In troth, my lord, after the sun is up, 
 I cannot sleep, for I have a foolish stomach 
 That croaks for brealcfast. With your lordship's 
 I have a serious question to demand [favour, 
 Of my worthy friend Sir Giles. 
 
 Lov. Pray you, use your pleasure. 
 
 Greedy. How far, Sir Giles, and pray you 
 answer me 
 Upon your credit, hold you it to be 
 From your manor-hou^e, to this of my Lady 
 Allworth's ? 
 
 Over. Why, some four mile. 
 
 Gi'eedy. How ! four mile, good Sir Giles — 
 Upon your reputation, think better ; 
 For if you do abate but one half quarter 
 Of five, you do yourself the greatest wrong 
 That can be in the world ; for four miles' riding 
 Could not have raised so huge an appetite 
 As I feel gnawing on me. 
 
 Mar. Whether you ride, 
 Or go afoot, you are that way still provided. 
 An it please your worship. 
 
 Over. How now, sirrah ? prating 
 Before my lord ! no difference ! Go to my nephew, 
 See all his debts discharged, and help his worship 
 To fit on his rich suit. 
 
 Mar. I may fit you too. 
 Toss'd like a dog still ! [Aside^ and exit. 
 
 Lov. I have writ this morning 
 A few lines to my mistress, your fair daughter. 
 
 Over. 'Twill fire her, for she's wholly yours 
 already. — 
 Sweet Master Allworth, take my ring; 'twill 
 
 carry you 
 To her presence, I dare warrant you ; and there 
 
 plead 
 For my good lord, if you shall find occasion. 
 That done, pray ride to Nottingham, get a licence, 
 Still by this token. I'll have it despatch'd. 
 And suddenly, my lord, that I may say, 
 My honourable, nay, right honourable daughter. 
 
 Greedy. Take my advice, young gentleman, 
 get your breakfast ; 
 'Tis unwholesome to ride fasting. I'll eat with you, 
 And eat to purpose. 
 
 Over. Some Fury's in that gut : 
 Hungry again ! Did you not devour, this morning, 
 A shield of brawn, and a barrel of Colchester 
 oysters ? 
 
 Greedy. Why, that was, sir, only to scour my 
 stomach, 
 A kind of a preparative. Come, geutlemen, 
 I will not have you feed, like the hangman of 
 
 Flushing, 
 Alone, while I am here. 
 
 Lov. Haste your return. 
 
 All. I will not fail, my lord. 
 
 Greedy. Nor I to line 
 My Christmas coffer. 
 
 [Exeunt Greedy and Allworth. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER 
 
 451 
 
 Over, To my wish ; we are private. 
 I come not to make offer with my daughter 
 A certain portion— that were poor and trivial. 
 In one word, I pronounce all that is mine, 
 In lands or leases, ready coin or goods, 
 With her, my lord, comes to you ; nor shall you 
 
 have 
 One motive to induce you to believe 
 I live too long, since every year I'll add 
 Something unto the heap, which shall be yours 
 too, 
 
 Lov. You are a right kind father. . 
 
 Over. You shall have reason 
 To think me such. How do you like this seat ? 
 It is well wooded and well watered, the acres 
 Fertile and rich ; would it not serve for change, 
 To entertain your friends in a summer progress ? 
 What thinks my noble lord? 
 
 Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air, 
 And well-built pile ; and she that's mistress of it, 
 Worthy the large revenue. 
 
 Over. She the mistress! 
 It may be so for a time ; but let my lord 
 Say only that he likes it and would have it, 
 I say, ere long 'tis his. 
 
 Lov. Impossible ! 
 
 Over. You do conclude too fast, not knowing 
 me, 
 Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone 
 The Lady Allworth's lands, for those once Well- 
 born 's 
 (As by her dotage on him I know they will be), 
 Shall soon be mine ; but point out any man's 
 In all the shire, and say they lie convenient 
 And useful for your lordship, and once more 
 I say aloud, they are yours. 
 
 Lov. I dare not own 
 What's by unjust and cruel means extorted. 
 My fame and credit are more dear to me. 
 Than so to expose them to be censured by 
 The public voice. 
 
 Over. You run, my lord, no hazard. 
 Your reputation shall stand as fair, 
 In all good men's opinions, as now: 
 Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill, 
 Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. 
 For, though I do contemn report myself. 
 As a mere sound, I still will be so tender 
 Of what concerns you, in all points of honour, 
 That the immaculate whiteness of your fame, 
 Nor your unquestioned integrity. 
 Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot 
 That may take from your innocence and candour. 
 All my ambition is to have my daughter 
 Eight honourable, which my lord can make her. 
 And might I live to dance upon my knee 
 A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you, 
 I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes. 
 As for possessions and annual rents. 
 Equivalent to maintain you in the port 
 Your noble birth and present state requires, 
 I do remove that burden from your shoulders. 
 And take it on mine own : for, though I ruin 
 The country to supply your riotous waste. 
 The scourge of prodigals, want, shall never 
 find you. 
 
 Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations 
 And curses of whole families made wretched 
 By your sinister practices ? 
 
 Over. Yes, as rocks are 
 When foamy billows split themselves against 
 Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is moved, 
 When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her 
 
 brightness. 
 I am of a solid temper, and, like these, 
 Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword, 
 If call'd into the field, I cai^ make that right, 
 
 Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wrong. 
 Now for these other piddling complaints 
 Breath'd out in bitterness ; as when they call me 
 Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder 
 On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser 
 Of what was common, to my private use ; 
 Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries, 
 And undone orphans wash with tears my 
 
 threshold, 
 I only think what 'tis to have my daughter 
 Eight honourable ; and 'tis a powerful charm 
 Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity, 
 Or the least sting of conscience. 
 
 Lov. I admire 
 The toughness of your nature. 
 
 Over. 'Tis for you. 
 My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. 
 Nay moi-e ; if you will have my character 
 In little, I enjoy more true delight 
 In my arrival to my wealth these dark 
 And crooked ways, than you shall e'er take 
 
 pleasure 
 In spending what my industry hath compass'd. 
 My haste commands me hence ; in a word, 
 Is it a match ? [therefore, 
 
 Lov. I hope that is past doubt now. 
 Over. Then rest secure, not the hate of all 
 mankind here. 
 Nor fear of what can fall on me hereafter. 
 Shall make me study aught but your advance- 
 ment 
 One story higher : an earl ! if gold can do it. 
 Dispute not my religion nor my faith ; 
 Though I am borne thus headlong by my will. 
 You may make choice of what belief you please ; 
 To me they are equal ; so, my lord, good 
 morrow. [^Exit. 
 
 Lov. He's gone. — I wonder how the earth can 
 bear 
 Such a portent ! I that have lived a soldier, 
 And stood the enemy's violent charge undaunted. 
 To hear this blasphemous beast am bath'd all over 
 In a cold sweat ; yet, like a mountain, he 
 (Confirm'd in atheistical assertions) 
 Is no more shaken than Olympus is 
 When angry Boreas loads his double head 
 With sudden drifts of snow. 
 
 Enter Lady Allworth, Waiting-woman, and 
 Aaible. 
 
 L. All. Save you, my lord ! 
 Disturb I not your privacy ? 
 
 Lov. No, good madam ; 
 For your own sake I am glad you came no sooner. 
 Since this bold bad man. Sir Giles Overreach, 
 Made such a plain discovery of himself, 
 And read this morning such a devilish matins, 
 That I should think it a sin next to his 
 But to repeat it. 
 
 L. All. I ne'er press'd, my lord. 
 On other's privacies ; yet against my will. 
 Walking, for health's sake, in the gallery 
 Adjoining to your lodgings, I was made 
 (So vehement and loud he was) partaker 
 Of his tempting offers. 
 
 Lov. Please you to command 
 Your servants hence, and I shall gladly hear 
 Your wiser counsel. 
 
 L. All. 'Tis, my lord, a woman's, 
 But true and hearty. — Wait in the next room, 
 But be within call ; yet not so near to force me 
 To whisper my intents. 
 
 Amh. We are taught better 
 By you, good madam. 
 
 Woman. And well know our distance. 
 
 L. All. Do so, and talk not ; 'twill become 
 your breeding. [Exeunt Amble and Woman. 
 
 I ^-- 
 
452 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Now, my good lord, if I may use my freedom, 
 As to an honoured friend — 
 
 Lov. You lessen else 
 Your favour to me. 
 
 L. All. I dare then say thus: 
 As you are noble (howe'er common men 
 Make sordid wealth the object and sole end 
 Of their industrious aims), 'twill not agree 
 With those of eminent blood, who are engaged 
 More to prefer their honours, than to increase 
 The state left to them by their ancestors, 
 To study large additions to their fortunes, 
 And quite neglect their births : — though I must 
 
 grant, 
 Kiches, well got, to be a useful servant, 
 But a bad master. 
 
 Lov. Madam, 'tis confess'd ; 
 But what infer you from it ? 
 
 L. All. This, my lord ; 
 That as all wrongs, though thrust into one scale. 
 Slide of themselves off, when right fills the other. 
 And cannot bide the trial ; so all wealth, 
 I mean if ill acquii-ed, cemented to honour 
 By virtuous ways achieved, and bravely pur- 
 chased. 
 Is but as rubbish pour'd into a river 
 (Howe'er intended to make good the bank), 
 Rendering the water, that was pure before, 
 Polluted and unwholesome. I allow 
 The heir of Sir Giles Overreach, Margaret, 
 A maid well qualified, and the richest match 
 Our north part can make boast of; yet she cannot, 
 With all that she brings with her, till their mouths 
 That never will forget who was her father ; 
 Or that my husband Allworth's lands, and Well- 
 bom's 
 (How wrung from both needs now no repetition). 
 Were real motives that more work'd your lord- 
 ship 
 To join your families, than her form and virtues : 
 You may conceive the rest. 
 
 Lov. I do, sweet madam. 
 And long since have considered it. I know. 
 The sum of all that makes a just man happy 
 Consists in the well choosing of his wife : 
 And there, well to discharge it, does require 
 Equality of years, of birth, of fortune ; 
 For beauty being poor, and not cried up 
 By birth or wealth, can truly mix with neither. 
 And wealth, where there's such difference in 
 
 years. 
 And fair descent, must make the yoke uneasy : — 
 But I come nearer. 
 
 L. All. Pray you do, my lord. 
 
 Lov. Were Overreach' states thrice centupled, 
 his daughter 
 Millions of degrees much fairer than she is, 
 Howe'er I might urge precedents to excuse me, 
 I would not so adulterate my blood 
 By marrying Margaret, and so leave my issue 
 Made up of several pieces, one part scarlet. 
 And the other London blue. In my own tomb 
 I will inter my name first. 
 
 L. All. I am glad to hear this. — [Aside. 
 
 Why then, my lord, pretend your marriage to 
 
 her? 
 Dissimulation but ties false knots 
 On that straight line, by which you, hitherto. 
 Have measured all your actions. 
 
 Lov. I make answer. 
 And aptly, with a question. Wherefore have 
 
 you, 
 That, since your husband's death, have lived a 
 
 strict 
 And chaste nun's life, on the sudden given your- 
 self 
 To visits and entertainments? Think you, madam, 
 
 'Tis not grown public conference ? or the favours 
 Which you too prodigally have thrown ou 
 
 Wellborn, 
 Being too reserved before, incur not censure ? 
 
 L. All. I am innocent here ; and, on my life, 
 I swear 
 My ends are good, 
 
 Lov. On my soul, so are mine 
 To Margaret; but leave both to the event : 
 And since this friendly privacy does serve 
 But as an offer'd means unto ourselves, 
 To search each other further, you having shown 
 Your care of me, I, my respect to you ; 
 Deny me not, but still in chaste words, madam, 
 An afternoon's discourse. 
 
 L. All. So I shall hear you. lExeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 Before Tapwell's House. 
 
 Enter Tapwell and Fkoth. 
 
 Tap. Undone, undone ! this was your counsel, 
 Froth. 
 
 Froth. Mine ! I defy thee : did not Master 
 Marrall 
 (He has marr'd all, I am sure) strictly command 
 
 us, 
 On pain of Sir Giles Overreach' displeasure. 
 To turn the gentleman out of doors ? 
 
 Tap. 'Tis true ; 
 But now he's his uncle's darling, and has got 
 Master Justice Greedy, since he fill'd his belly. 
 At his commandment to do anything ; 
 Woe, woe to us ! 
 
 Froth. He may prove merciful. 
 
 Tap. Troth, we do not deserve it at his hands. 
 Though he knew all the passages of our house, 
 As the receiving of stolen goods, and bawdry, 
 When he was rogue Wellborn no man would be- 
 lieve him. 
 And then his information could not hurt us ; 
 But now he is right worshipful again. 
 Who dares but doubt his testimony ? Methinks 
 I see thee. Froth, already in a cart. 
 For a close bawd, thine eyes even pelted out 
 With dirt and rotten eggs ; and my hand hisaiug. 
 If I 'scape the halter, with the letter E i 
 Printed upon it. 
 
 Froth. Would that were the worst ! 
 That were but nine days' wonder : as for credit, 
 We have none to lose, but we shall lose the 
 
 money 
 He owes us, and his custom ; there's the hell on't. 
 
 Tap. He has summon'd all his creditors by the 
 drum. 
 And they swarm about him like so many soldiers 
 On the pay day ; and has found out such a new 
 
 WAY 
 
 To PAY HIS OLD DEBTS, as 'tis Very likely 
 He shall be chronicled for it ! 
 
 Froth. He deserves it 
 More than ten pageants. But ai-e you sure hia 
 
 worship 
 Comes this way, to my lady's ? 
 
 [A cry within : Brave Master WeUbom. 
 
 Top. Yes; — I hear him. 
 
 Froth. Be ready Avith your petition, and pre- 
 sent it 
 To his good grace. 
 
 * ^—for Rogue. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 453 
 
 Enter Wellborx in a rich habit, followed hy 
 Makrall, Gkeedy, Order, Furnace, and 
 Creditors ; Tapwell, krieelinff, delivers his 
 petition. 
 
 Well. How's this ! petition'd too ? — 
 But note what miracles the payment of 
 A little trash, and a rich suit of clothes, 
 Can work upon these rascals ! I shall be, 
 I think, Prince Wellborn. 
 
 Mar. When your worship's married. 
 You may be : — I know what I hope to see you. 
 Well. Then look thou for advancement. 
 Mar. To be known 
 Your worship's bailiff, is the mark I shoot at. 
 Well. And thou shalt hit it. 
 Mar. Pray you, sir, despatch 
 These needy followers, and for my admittance, 
 Provided you'll defend me fi-om Sir Giles, 
 Whose service I am weary of, I'll say something 
 You shall give thanks for. 
 Well. Fear me not Sir Giles. 
 Greedy. Who, Tapwell ? I remember thy wife 
 brought me. 
 Last new-year's tide, a couple of fat turkeys. 
 Tap. And shall do every Christmas, let your 
 worship 
 But stand my friend now. 
 
 Greedy. How ! with Master Wellborn ? 
 I can do anything with him on such terms. — 
 See you this honest couple, they are good souls 
 As ever drew out fosse t ; have they not 
 A pair of honest faces ? 
 
 Well. I o'erheard you. 
 And the bribe he promised. You are cozen'd in 
 
 them; 
 For, of all the scum that grew rich by my riots, 
 This, for a most unthankful knave, and this. 
 For a base bawd and whore, have worst deserv'd 
 
 me. 
 And therefoi-e speak not for them : by your place 
 You are i-ather to do me justice ; lend me your 
 
 ear : — 
 Forget his turkeys, and call in his licence, 
 And, at the next fair, I'll give you a yoke of 
 
 oxen 
 Worth all his poultry. 
 
 Greedy. I am changed on the sudden 
 In my opinion ! — Come near ; nearer, rascal. 
 And, now I vicAV him better, did you e'er see 
 One look so like an archknave .'* his very counte- 
 nance, 
 Should an understanding judge but look upon 
 
 him. 
 Would hang him, though he were innocent. 
 1 Tap. Froth. Worshipful sir. 
 f Greedy. No, though the great Turk came, in- 
 stead of turkeys. 
 To beg my favour, I am inexorable. 
 Thou hast an ill name : besides thy musty ale, 
 That hath destroyed many of the king's liege 
 
 people, 
 Thou never hadst in thy house, to stay men's 
 
 stomachs, 
 A piece of Suffolk cheese, or gammon of bacon, 
 Or any esculent, as the learned call it. 
 For their emolument, but sheer drink only. 
 For which gross fault I here do damn thy licence, 
 Forbidding thee ever to tap or draw ; 
 For instantly I will, in mine own person. 
 Command the constable to pull down thy sign, 
 And do it before I eat. 
 Froth. No mercy ? 
 Greedy. Vanish ! 
 If I show any, may my promised oxen gore me ! 
 Tap. Unthankful knaves are ever so rewarded. 
 \_Exeunt Gkeedy, Tapwell, and Froth. 
 
 Well. Speak ; what ai-e you ? 
 1 Cred. A decay'd vintner, sir. 
 That might have thrived, but that your worship 
 
 broke me 
 With trusting you with muskadine and eggs. 
 And five pound suppers, with your after drink- 
 
 ings. 
 When you lodged upon the Bankside.' 
 Well. I remember. 
 
 1 Cred. I have not been hasty, nor e'er laid to 
 arrest you ; 
 
 And therefore, sir — 
 
 Well. Thou art an honest fellow, 
 I'll set thee up again ; see his bill paid. — 
 What are you ? 
 
 2 Cred. A tailor once, but now mere botcher. 
 I gave you credit for a suit of clothes, 
 
 Which was all my stock ; but you failing in pay- 
 ment, 
 I was removed from the shopboard, and confined 
 Under a stall. 
 
 Well. See him paid ; and botch no more. 
 
 2 Cred. I ask no interest, six-. 
 Well. Such tailors need not ; 
 
 If their bills are paid in one and twenty year, 
 They are seldom losers. — Oh, I know thy face: 
 
 fro 3 Creditor. 
 Thou wert my surgeon ; you must tell no tales ; 
 Those days are done. I will pay you in private. 
 
 Ord. A royal gentleman ! 
 
 Furn. Royal as an emperor ! 
 He'll prove a brave master ; my good lady knevr 
 To choose a man. 
 
 Well. See all men else discharg'd ; 
 And since old debts are clear'd by a new way, 
 A little bounty will not misbecome me ; 
 There's something, honest cook, for thy good 
 
 breakfasts ; 
 And this, for thy respect — [To Order."]— take' t, 
 
 'tis good gold. 
 And I able to spare it. 
 
 Ord. You are too munificent. 
 
 Furn. He was ever so. 
 
 Well. Pray you, on before. 
 
 3 Cred. Heaven bless you ! 
 
 Mar. At four o'clock the rest know where to 
 meet me. 
 
 \_Exeunt Order, Furnace, and Creditors. 
 Well. Now, Master Mai-rall, what's the weighty 
 secret 
 You promised to impart ? 
 
 Mar. Sir, time nor place 
 Allow me to relate each circumstance, 
 This only, in a word; I know Sir Giles 
 Will come upon you for security 
 For his thousand pounds, which you must not 
 
 consent to. 
 As he grows in heat, so I am sure he will. 
 Be you but rough, and say he's in your debt 
 Ten times the sum, upon sale of your land ; 
 I had a hand in't (I speak it to my shame) 
 When you were defeated of it. 
 Well. That's forgiven. 
 
 Mar. I shall deserve it: then urge him to 
 produce 
 The deed in which you pass'd it over to him, 
 Which I know he'll have about him, to deliver 
 To the Lord Lovell, with many other writings. 
 And present moneys. I'll instruct you further. 
 As I wait on your worship: if 1 play not my 
 
 prize 
 To your full content, and your uncle's much 
 
 vexation, 
 Hang up Jack Marrall. 
 
 Well. I rely upon thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 the Banks ide.—SQe note 6, col. 1, p. 86. 
 
454 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in Overreach's House. 
 
 Enter Allworth and Margaret. 
 
 All. Whether to yield the first praise to my 
 lord's 
 Unequall'd temperance, or your constant sweet- 
 ness, 
 That I yet live, my weak hands fasten 'd on 
 Hope's anchor, spite of all storms of despair, 
 I yet rest doubtful. 
 
 Marg. Give it to Lord Lovell ; 
 For what in him was bounty, in me's duty. 
 I make but payment of a debt to which 
 My vows, in that high office register'd, 
 Are faithful witnesses. 
 
 All. 'T is true, my dearest: 
 Yet, when I call to mind how many fair ones 
 Make wilful shipwreck of their faiths, and oaths 
 To God and man, to fill the arms of greatness ; 
 And you rise up no less than a glorious star. 
 To the amazement of the world, — that hold out 
 Against the stern authority of a father. 
 And spurn at honour, when it comes to court you ; 
 I am so tender of your good, that faintly. 
 With your wrong, I can wish myself that right 
 You yet are pleased to do me. 
 
 Marg. Yet, aad ever. 
 To me what's title, when content is wanting ? 
 Or wealth, raked up together with much care. 
 And to be kept with more, when the heart 
 
 pines. 
 In being dispossess'd of what it longs for, 
 Beyond the Indian mines? or the smooth brow 
 Of a pleased sire, that slaves me to his will ; 
 And so his ravenous humour may be feasted 
 By my obedience, and he see me great. 
 Leaves to my soul nor faculties nor power 
 To make her own election.^ 
 
 AIL But the dangers 
 That follow the repulse — 
 
 Marg. To me they are nothing: 
 Let Allworth love, 1 cannot be unhappy. 
 Suppose the worst, that, in his rage, he kill me; 
 A tear or two, by you dropt on my hearse, 
 In sorrow for my fate, will call back life 
 So far as but to say, that I die yours ; 
 I then shall rest in peace: or should he prove 
 So cruel, as one death would not suffice 
 His thirst of vengeance, but with lingering tor- 
 ments. 
 In mind and body, I must waste to air. 
 In poverty join'd with banishment; so you share 
 In my afflictions, which I dare not wish you, 
 So high I pi-ize you, I could undergo them 
 With such a patience as should look down 
 With scorn on his worst malice. 
 
 All. Heaven avei-t 
 Such trials of your true affection to me ! 
 Nor will it unto you, that are all mercy. 
 Show so much rigour: but since we must run 
 Such desperate hazards, let us do our best 
 To steer between them. 
 
 Marg. Your lord's ours, and sure ; 
 And though but a young actor, second me 
 In doing to the life what he has plotted. 
 
 Enter Overreach behind. 
 
 The end may yet prove happy. Now, my All- 
 worth. [Seeing her father. 
 All. To your letter, and put on a seeming 
 
 anger. 
 Marg. I'll pay my lord all debts due to his 
 title ; 
 And when with terms, not taking from his 
 honour. 
 
 He does solicit me, I shall gladly hear him. 
 But in this peremptory, nay, commanding way, 
 T 'appoint a meeting, and, without my know- 
 
 A priest to tie the knot can ne'er be undone 
 Till death unloose it, is a confidence 
 In his lordship will deceive him. 
 
 All. I hope better. 
 Good lady. 
 
 Marg. Hope, sir, what you please : for me 
 I must take a safe and secure course ; I have 
 A father, and without his full consent, 
 Though all lords of the land kneel'd for my 
 
 favour, 
 I can grant nothing. 
 
 Over. I like this obedience : [Comes foitoard. 
 But whatsoe'er my lord writes, must and shall be 
 Accepted and embraced. Sweet Master Allworth, 
 You show yourself a true and faithful servant 
 To your good lord ; he has a jewel of you. 
 How! frowning, Meg.^ are these looks to receive 
 A messenger from my lord ? What's this ? give 
 me it. 
 
 Marg. A piece of arrogant paper, like the in- 
 scriptions. 
 
 Over. [Reads] Fair mistress, from your sei'vant 
 learn, all joys 
 That we can hope for, if deferr'd, prove toys: 
 Therefore, this instant, and in private, meet 
 A husband, that will gladly at your feet 
 Lay down his honours, tendering them to you 
 With all content, the church being p)aid her due. 
 — Is this the arrogant piece of paper ? fool ! 
 Will you still be one ? in the name of madness, 
 
 what 
 Could his good honour write more to content 
 
 you? 
 Is there aught else to be wish'd after these two. 
 That are already offer'd; marriage first. 
 And lawful pleasure after: what would you 
 more ? 
 
 Marg. Why, sir, I would be married like yc-iir 
 daughter ; 
 Not hurried away i' the night I know not whithei; 
 Without all ceremony ; no friends invited 
 To honour the solemnity. 
 
 All. An't please your honour, 
 For so before to-morrow I must style you, 
 My lord desires this privacy, in respect 
 His honourable kinsmen are far off. 
 And his desires to have it done, brook not 
 So loug delay as to expect their coming: 
 And yet he stands resolv'd, with all due pomp. 
 As running at the ring, plays, masks, and tilting, 
 To have his marriage at court celebrated, 
 When he has brought your honour up to London. 
 
 Over. He tells you true; 'tis the fashion, on 
 my knowledge : 
 Yet the good lord, to please your peevishness, 
 Must put it off, forsooth! and lose a night. 
 Tempt me no further ; if you do, this goad 
 
 IPoinis to his swoi-d. 
 Shall prick you to him. 
 
 Marg. I could be contented. 
 Were you but by, to do a father's part, 
 And give me in the church. 
 
 Ovei'. So my lord liave you. 
 What do I care who gives you ? since my lord 
 Does purpose to be private, I'll not cross him. 
 I know not. Master Allworth, how my lord 
 May be provided, and therefore there s a purse 
 Of gold, 'twill serve this night's expense; to- 
 morrow 
 I'll furnish him with any sums : in the meantime. 
 Use my ring to my chaplain ; he is beneficed 
 At my manor of Got'em, and call'd Pardon Wildo : 
 'Tisno matter for a licence, I'll bear him out in't. 
 
PHILIP MAS SINGER, 
 
 455 
 
 Marg. With your favour, sir, what warrant is 
 your ring? 
 He may suppose I got that twenty ways, 
 Without your knowledge; and then to be re- 
 fused, 
 Were such a stain upon me ! — if you pleased, sir. 
 Your presence would do better. 
 
 Over. Still perverse ! 
 I say again, I will not cross my lord ; 
 Yet I'll prevent youi too. — Paper and ink, there! 
 , All. 1 can furnish you. 
 Over. I thank you, I can write then. {Writes. 
 All. You may, if you please, put out the name 
 of my lord, 
 In respect he comes disguised, and only write. 
 Marry her to this gentleman. 
 
 Over. Well advised. 
 'Tis done; away !—[ Margaret Tcneels.l My 
 
 blessing, girl? thou hast it. 
 Nay, no reply, begone. — Good Master Allworth, 
 This shall be the best night's work you ever 
 made. 
 All. I hope so, sir. 
 
 {Exeunt Allworth and Margaret. 
 Over. Farewell ! — Now all's cocksure : 
 Methinks I hear already knights and ladies 
 Say, Sir Giles Overreach, how is it with 
 Your honourable daughter ? has her honour 
 Slept well to-night ? or, will her honour please 
 To accept this monkey, dog, or paroqueto 
 (This is state in ladies), or my eldest son 
 To be her page, and wait upon her trencher ? 
 My ends, my ends are compass'd — then for 
 
 Wellborn 
 And the lands ; were he once married to the 
 
 widow — 
 I have him here — I can scarce contain myself, 
 I am so full of joy, nay, joy all over. [Exit. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Lady All worth's House. 
 
 Enter Lord Lovell, Lady Allworth, and 
 Amble. 
 
 L. All. By this you know how strong the 
 motives were 
 That did, my lord, induce me to dispense 
 A little with my gravity, to advance. 
 In personating some few favours to him. 
 The plots and projects of the downtrod Well- 
 born. 
 Nor shall I e'er repent, although I suffer 
 In some few men's opinions for't, the action ; 
 For he that ventured all for my dear husband, 
 Might justly claim an obligation from me, 
 To pay him such a courtesy ; which had I 
 Coyly, or over-curiously denied. 
 It might have argued me of little love 
 To the deceased. 
 
 Lov. What you intended, madam, 
 For the poor gentleman, hath found good success ; 
 For, as I understand, his debts are paid, 
 And he once more fumish'd for fair employment: 
 But all the arts that I have used to raise 
 The fortunes of your joy and mine, young All- 
 worth, 
 Stand yet in supposition, though I hope well: 
 For the young lovers are in wit more pregnant 
 Than their years can promise ; and for their 
 
 desires. 
 On my knowledge, they are equal. 
 
 I prevent you — anticipate your objections. — Giitokd. 
 
 L. All. As my wishes 
 Are with yours, my lord; yet give me leave to 
 
 fear 
 The building though well-grounded : to deceive 
 Sir Giles, that's both a lion and a fox 
 In his proceedings, were a work beyond 
 The strcijgest undertakers; not the trial 
 Of two weak innocents. 
 
 Lov. Despftir not, madam : 
 Hard things are compass'd oft by easy means ; 
 And judgment, being a gift derived from heaven, 
 Though sometimes lodged in the hearts of 
 
 worldly men. 
 That ne'er consider from whom they receive it, 
 Forsakes such as abuse the giver of it ; 
 Which is the reason that the politic 
 And cunning statesman, that believes he fathoms 
 The counsels of all kingdoms on the earth, 
 Is by simplicity oft overreach'd. 
 
 L. All. May he be so ! yet, in his name to 
 express it. 
 Is a good omen. 
 
 Lov. May it to myself 
 Prove so, good lady, in my suit to you! 
 What think you of the motion ? 
 
 L. All. Troth, my lord. 
 My own un worthiness may answer for me ; 
 For had j'ou, when that I was in my prime. 
 My virgin flower uncropp'd, presented me 
 With this great favour ; looking on my lowness, 
 Not in a glass of self-love, but of truth, 
 I could not but have thought it as a blessing 
 Far, far beyond my merit. 
 
 Lov. You are too modest. 
 And undervalue that which is above 
 My title, or whatever I call mine. 
 I grant, were I a Spaniard, to marry 
 A widow might disparage me ; but being 
 A true-born Englishman, I cannot find 
 How it can taint my honour : nay, what's mof^ 
 That which you think a blemish, is to me 
 The fairest lustre. You already, madam. 
 Have given sure proofs how dearly you can 
 
 cherish 
 A husband that deserves you; which confirms 
 
 me, 
 That, if I am not wanting in my care 
 To do you service, you'll be still the same 
 That you were to your Allworth : in a word. 
 Our years, our states, our births are not unequal, 
 You being descended nobly, and allied so ; 
 If then you may be won to make me happy, 
 But join your lips to mine, and that shall be 
 A solemn contract. 
 
 L. All. I were blind to my own good, 
 Should I refuse it — {Kisses him] ; — yet, my lord, 
 
 receive me 
 As such a one, the study of whose whole life 
 Shall know no other object but to please you. 
 
 Lov. If I return not, with all tenderness. 
 Equal respect to you, may I die wretched ! 
 
 L. All. There needs no protestation, my lord. 
 To her that cannot doubt. — 
 
 Enter Wellborn, handsomely apparelled. 
 
 You are welcome, sir. 
 Now you look like yourself. 
 
 Well. And will continue 
 Such in my free acknowledgment, that I am 
 Your creature, madam, and will never hold 
 My life mine own, when you please to command 
 it. 
 
 Lov. It is a thankfulness that well becomes 
 you : 
 You could not make choice of a better*shape 
 To dress your mind in. 
 
 L. All. For me, I am happy 
 
45<3 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 That my endeavours prosper'd. Saw you of late 
 Sir Giles, your uncle ? 
 
 Well. I heard of him, madam, 
 By his minister, Marrall. He's grown into strange 
 
 passions 
 About his daughter. This last night he look'd for 
 Your lordship at his house, but missing you, 
 And she not appearing, his wise head 
 Is much perplex'd and troubled. 
 
 Lov. It may be. 
 Sweetheart, my project took. 
 
 L. All. I strongly hope. 
 
 Over. \within.\ Ha! find her, booby, thou 
 huge lump of nothing, 
 I'll bore thine eyes out else. 
 
 Well. May it please your lordship, 
 For some ends of mine o^vll, but to withdraw 
 A little out of sight, though not of hearing. 
 You may, perhaps, have sport. 
 
 Lov. You shall direct me. \Steps aside. 
 
 Enter 0^'ERREACH, with distracted looks, driving 
 in Marrall before him, with a box. 
 
 Over. I shall sol fa you, rogue ! 
 Mar. Sir, for what cause 
 Do you use me thus ? 
 
 Over. Cause, slave ! why, I am angry. 
 And thou a subject only lit for beating. 
 And so to cool my choler. Look to the writing ; 
 Let but the seal be broke upon the box, 
 That has slept in my cabinet these three years, 
 I'll rack thy soul for't. 
 
 Mar. I may yet cry quittance, 
 Though now I suffer, and dare not resist. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 Over. Lady, by your leave, did you see my 
 daughter, lady.? 
 And the lord, her husband? are they in your 
 
 house ? 
 If they are, discover, that I may bid them joy ; 
 And, as an entrance to her place of honour, 
 See your ladyship on her left hand, and make 
 
 curtseys 
 "When she nods on you ; which you must receive 
 As a special favour. 
 
 L. All. When I know. Sir Giles, 
 Her state requires such ceremony, I shall pay it'; 
 But, in the meantime, as I am myself, 
 I give you to imderstand, I neither know 
 Nor cai'e where her honour is. 
 
 Over. When you once see her 
 Supported, and led by the lord her husband, 
 You'll be better taught. — Nephew ! 
 Well. Sir. 
 Ove7'. No more ! 
 Well. 'Tis all I owe you. 
 Over. Have your redeem'd rags 
 Made you thus insolent .'* 
 Well. Insolent to you ! 
 Why, what are you, sir, unless in your years, 
 At the best, more than myself ? 
 
 Over. His fortune swells him : 
 'Tis rank, he's married. [Aside. 
 
 L. All. This is excellent ! 
 Over. Sir, in calm language, though I seldom 
 use it, 
 I am familiar with the cause that makes you 
 Bear up thus bravely ; there's a certain buz 
 Of a stolen marriage, do you hear ? of a stolen 
 
 marriage. 
 In which, 'tis said, there's somebody hath been 
 
 cozen'd ; 
 I name no parties. 
 
 Well. Well, sir, and what follows ? 
 Over. Marry, this ; since you are peremptory. 
 Remember, 
 Upon mere hope of your great match, I lent you 
 
 A thousand pounds : put me in good security, 
 And suddenly, by mortgage or by statute. 
 Of some of your new possessions, or I'll have you 
 Dragg'd in your lavender robes' to the gaol: 
 
 you know me, 
 And therefore do not trifle. 
 
 WelL Can you be 
 So cruel to your nephew, now he's in 
 The way to rise.' Was this the courtesy 
 You did me in pure love, and no ends else ? 
 
 Ova'. End me no ends! engage the whole 
 estate. 
 And force your spouse to sign jt, you shall have 
 Three or four thousand more, to roar and 
 
 swagger, 
 And revel in bawdy taverns. 
 
 Well. And beg after ; 
 Mean you not so ? 
 
 Over. My thoughts are mine, and free. 
 Shall I have security 7 
 
 Well. No, indeed you shall not. 
 Nor bond, nor bill, nor bare acknowledgment ; 
 Your great looks fright not me. 
 
 Over. But my deeds shall. 
 Outbraved ! \Boih drato. 
 
 L. All. Help, murder ! murder ! 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Well. Let him come on, 
 With all his wrongs and injuries about him, 
 Arm'd with his cutthroat practices to guard him; 
 The right that I bring with me will defend me, 
 And punish his extortion. 
 
 Over. That I had thee 
 But single in the field ! 
 
 L. All. You may; but make not 
 My house your quarrelling scene. 
 
 Over. Were't in a church. 
 By heaven and hell, I'll do't. 
 
 Mar. Now put him to 
 The showing of the deed. 
 
 [^Aside to Wellborn. 
 
 Well. This rage is vain, sir ; 
 For fighting, fear not, you shall have your hands 
 
 full, 
 Upon the least incitement ; and whereas 
 You charge me with a debt of a thousand pounds, 
 If there be law (howe'er you have no conscience), 
 Either restore my land, or I'll recover 
 A debt, that's truly due to me from you, 
 In value ten times more than what you challenge. 
 
 Over. I in thy debt ! Oh impudence I did I not 
 purchase 
 The land left by thy father, that rich land, 
 That had continued in Wellborn's name 
 Twenty descent^ ; which, like a riotous fool, 
 Thou didst make sale of ? Is not here, enclosed, 
 The deed that does confirm it mine ? 
 
 Mar. Now, now! 
 
 Well. I do acknowledge none ; I ne'er pass'd 
 over 
 Any such land : I grant, for a year or two 
 You had it in trust ; which if you do discharge, 
 Surrendering the possession, you shall ease 
 Yourself and me of chargeable suits in law, 
 Which, if you prove not honest, as I doubt it, 
 Must of necessity follow. 
 
 L. All. In my judgment, 
 He does advise you well. 
 
 Over. Good! good! conspire 
 With your new husband, lady ; second him 
 In his dishonest practices ; but when 
 
 1 lavender robes — i.e. your clothes which have jnst 
 been redeemed out of pawn. To lay a thing in lavender 
 was a common phrase for pawning it. — GiFroKD. 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER, 
 
 457 
 
 This manor is extended i to my use, 
 You'll speak in aa humbler key, and sue for 
 favour. 
 
 L. All. ITever : do not hope it. 
 
 Well. Let despair first seize me. 
 
 Over. Yet, to shut up thy mouth, and make 
 thee give 
 Thyself the lie, the loud lie, I draw out 
 The precious evidence; if thou canst forswear 
 Thy hand and seal, and make a forfeit of 
 
 \Opens the box, and displays the bond. 
 Thy ears to the pillory, see ! here's that will make 
 My interest clear— ;ha ! 
 
 L. All. A fair skin of parchment. 
 
 Well. Indented, I confess, and labels too ; 
 But neither wax nor words. How! thunder- 
 struck 7 
 Not a syllable to insult with ? My wise uncle. 
 Is" this your precious evidence, this that makes 
 Your interest clear ? 
 
 Over. I am o'erwhelmed with wonder! 
 "What prodigy is this 7 what subtle devil 
 Hath razed out the inscription 7 the wax 
 Turn'd into dust! — the rest of my deeds whole. 
 As when they were deliver'd, and this only 
 ^[ade nothing ! Do you deal with witches, rascal 7 
 There is a statute for you, which will bring 
 Your neck in an hempen circle ; yes, there is ; 
 And now 'tis better thought for, cheater, know 
 This juggling shall not save you. 
 
 Well. To save thee, 
 "Would beggar the stock of mercy. 
 
 Over. Marrall! 
 
 Mar. Sir. 
 
 Over. Though the witnesses are dead, your 
 testimony 
 Help with an oath or two : and for thy master, 
 Thy liberal master, my good honest servant, 
 I know thou wilt swear anything, to dash 
 This cunning sleight: besides, I know thou art 
 A public notaiy, and such stand in law 
 For a dozen witnesses : the deed being drawn too 
 By thee, my careful Marrall, and deliver'd 
 "\Vhen thou wert present, will make good my 
 
 title. 
 "Wilt thou not swear this ? 
 
 \jUide to Marrall. 
 
 Mar. I ! no, I assure you : 
 I have a conscience not sear'd up like yours ; 
 I know no deeds. 
 
 Over. Wilt thou betray me ? 
 
 Mar. Keep him 
 From using of his hands, I'll use my tongue, 
 To his no little torment. 
 
 Over. Mine own varlet 
 Kebel against me ! 
 
 Mar. Yes, and uncase you too. 
 The idiot, the Patch, the slave, the booby, 
 TY^e property fit only to be beaten 
 For your morning exercise, your football, or 
 The unprofitable lump offl^sh, your drudge, 
 Can now anatomize you, and lay open 
 All your black plots, and level with the earth 
 Your hill of pride: and, with these gabions 
 
 guarded, 
 Unload my great artillery, and shake, 
 Kay pulverize, the walls you think defend you. 
 
 L. All. How he foams at the mouth with rage ! 
 
 Well. To him again. 
 
 Over. Oh that I had thee in my gripe, I would 
 tear thee 
 Joint after joint ! 
 
 Mar. I know you are a tearer. 
 But I'll have first your fangs pared off, and then 
 
 * exfencfedf— seized.— GiFFOED. 
 
 Come nearer to you ; when I have discover' d, 
 And made it good before the judge, what ways. 
 And devilish practices, you used to cozen with 
 An army of whole families, who yet alive, 
 And but enroll'd for soldiers, were able 
 To take in Dunkirk. 
 
 Well. All will come out. 
 
 L. All. The better. 
 
 Over. But that I will live, rogue, to torture 
 thee. 
 And make thee wish, and kneel in vain, to die. 
 These swords, that keep thee from me, should 
 
 fix here. 
 Although they made my body but one wound. 
 But I would reach thee. 
 
 Lov. Heaven's hand is in this ; 
 One bandog worry the other ! \Aside. 
 
 Over. I play the fool. 
 And make my anger but ridiculous : 
 There will be a time and place, there will be, 
 
 cowards, 
 "When you shall feel what I dare do. 
 
 Well. I think so: 
 You dare do any ill, yet want true valour 
 To be honest, and repent. 
 
 Over. They are words I know not. 
 Nor e'er will learn. Patience, the beggar's virtue, 
 
 Enter Greedy and Parsox "Willdo. 
 
 Shall find no harbour here :— after these storms 
 At length a calm appears. "Welcome, most wel- 
 come ! 
 There's comfort in thy looks ; is the deed done? 
 Is my daughter married? say but so, my 
 
 chaplain. 
 And I am tame. 
 
 Willdo. Married ! yes, I assure you. 
 Over. Then vanish all sad thoughts! there's 
 more gold for thee. 
 My doubts and fears are in the titles drown'd 
 Of my honourable, my right honourable daughter. 
 Greedy. Here will be feasting! at least for a 
 month, 
 I am provided. Empty guts, croak no more, 
 You shall be stufE'd like bagpipes, not with wind, 
 But bearing ^ dishes. 
 
 Over. Instantly be here ? 
 
 [ Whisjjering to Willdo. 
 To my wish ! to my wish ! Now you that plot 
 
 against me. 
 And hope to trip my heels up, that contemn'd me, 
 Think on't and tremble: — [Loud musici — they 
 
 come ! I hear the music. 
 A lane there for my lord ! 
 Well. This sudden heat 
 May yet be cool'd, sir. 
 
 Over. Make way there for my lord ! 
 
 Enter Allworth and Margaret. 
 
 Marg. Sir, first your pardon, then your bless- 
 ing, with 
 Your full allowance of the choice I have made. 
 As ever you could make use of your reason, 
 
 [Kneeling. 
 Grow not in passion ; since you may as well 
 Call back the day that's past, as untie the knot 
 Which is too strongly fasten'd : not to dwell 
 Too long on words, this is my husband. 
 
 Over. How! 
 
 All. So I assure you ; all the rights of marriage, 
 With every circumstance, are past. Alas ! sir. 
 Although I am no lord, but a lord's page. 
 Your daughter and my loved wife mourns not 
 for it ; 
 
 dearingr— portly, solid, substantial.— Giffokd. 
 
458 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 And, for right honourable son-in-law, you may 
 
 say, 
 Your dutiful daughter. 
 
 Over. Devil ! are they married ? 
 
 Willdo. Do a father's part, and say. Heaven 
 give them joy ! 
 
 Over. Confusion and ruin! speak, and speak 
 quickly. 
 Or thou art dead. 
 
 Willdo. They are married. 
 
 Over. Thou hadst better 
 Have made a contract with the king of fiends, 
 Than these: — my brain turns! 
 
 Willdo. Why this rage to me ? 
 Is not this your letter, sir, and these the words ? 
 Marry her to this gentleman. 
 
 Over. It cannot — 
 Nor will I e'er believe it, 'sdeath ! I will not ; 
 That I, that, in all passages I touch'd 
 At worldly profit, have not left a print 
 Where I have trod, for the most curious search 
 To trace my footsteps, should be gull'd by chil- 
 dren, 
 Baffled and fool'd, and all my hopes and labours 
 Defeated, and made void. 
 
 Well. As it appears. 
 You are so, my grave uncle. 
 
 Over. Village nurses 
 Eevenge their wrongs with curses ; I'll not waste 
 A syllable, but thus I take the life 
 Which, wretched, I gave to thee. 
 
 \_Attempts to hill Margaret. 
 
 Lov. [coming forward.'] Hold, for your own 
 sake! 
 Though charity to your daughter hath quite left 
 
 Will you do an act, though in your hopes lost 
 
 here. 
 Can leave no hope for peace or rest hereafter ? 
 Consider ; at the best you are but a man. 
 And cannot so create your aims, but that 
 They may be cross'd. 
 
 Over. Lord! thus I spit at thee, 
 And at thy counsel ; and again desire thee, 
 And as thou art a soldier, if thy valour 
 Dares show itself, where multitude and example 
 Lead not the way, let's quit the house, and change 
 Six words in private. 
 
 Lov. I am ready. 
 
 L. All. Stay, sir. 
 Contest with one distracted ! 
 
 Well. You'll grow like him, 
 Should you answer his vain challenge. 
 
 Over. Are you pale ? 
 Borrow his help, though Hercules call it odds, 
 I'll stand against both as I am, hemm'd in thus. — 
 Since, like a Libyan lion in the toil. 
 My fury cannot reach the coward hunters, 
 And only spends itself, I'll quit the place : 
 Alone I can do nothing ; but I have servants, 
 And friends to second me ; and if I make not 
 This house a heap of ashes (by my wrongs, 
 What I have spoke I will make good !) or leave 
 One throat uncut, — if it bo possible. 
 Hell, add to my afflictions ! [Exit. 
 
 Mar. Is't not brave sport .' 
 
 Gi'eedy. Brave sport! I am sure it has ta'en 
 away my stomach ; 
 I do not like the sauce. 
 
 All. Nay, weep not, dearest. 
 Though it express your pity ; what's decreed 
 Above, we cannot alter. 
 
 L. All. His threats move me 
 No scruple, madam. 
 
 Mar. Was it not a rare trick, 
 An it please your worship, to make the deed 
 nothing ? 
 
 I can do twenty nefiter, if you please 
 To purchase and grow rich; for I will be 
 Such a solicitor and steward for you. 
 As never worshipful had. 
 
 Well. I do believe thee ; 
 But first discover the quaint means you used 
 To raze out the conveyance ? 
 
 3{ar. They are mysteries 
 Not to be spoke in public : certain minerals 
 Incorporated in the ink and wax. — 
 Besides, he gavf me nothing, but still fed me 
 With hopes and blows ; and that was the induce- 
 ment 
 To this conundrum. If it please your worship 
 To call to memory, this mad beast once caused me 
 To urge you, or to drown or hang yourself; 
 I'll do the like to him if you command me. 
 
 Well. You are a rascal ! he that dares be false 
 To a mastei", though unjust, will ne'er be true 
 To any other. Look not for reward 
 Or favour from me ; I will shun thy sight 
 As I would do a basilisk's; thank my pity. 
 If thou keep thy ears ; howe'er, I will take order 
 Your practice will be silenced. 
 
 Greedy. I'll commit him, 
 If you will have me, sir. 
 
 Well. That were to little purpose ; 
 His conscience be his prison. — Not a word, 
 But instantly be gone. 
 
 Ord. Take this kick with you. 
 
 Amb. And this. 
 
 Furn. If that I had my cleaver here, 
 I would divide your knave's head. 
 
 Mar. This is the haven 
 False servants still arrive at. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Overreach. 
 
 L. All. Come again! 
 Lov. Fear not, I am your guard. 
 Well. His looks ai-e ghastly. 
 Willdo. Some little time I have spent, under 
 your favours. 
 In physical studies, and if my judgment err not, 
 He's mad beyond recovery ; but observe him, 
 And look to yourselves. 
 
 Over. Why, is not the whole world 
 Included in myself ? to what use then 
 Are friends and servants? Say there were a 
 
 squadron 
 Of pikes, lined through with shot, when I am 
 
 mounted 
 Upon my injuries, shall I fear to charge them ? 
 No : I'll through the battalia, and that routed, 
 
 [Flourishing his sword sheathed. 
 I'll fall to execution. — Ha ! I am feeble : 
 Some undone widow sits upon mine arm. 
 And takes away the use oft; and my sword. 
 Glued to my scabbard with wi'ong'd orphans' tears, 
 AVill not be drawn. Ha ! what are these ? sure, 
 
 hangmen, 
 That come to l3ind my hands, and then to drag me 
 Before the judgment-seat : now they are new 
 
 shapes. 
 And do appear like Furies, with steel whips 
 To scourge my ulcerous soul. Shall I then fall 
 In gloriously, and yield ? no ; spite of Fate, 
 I will be forced to hell like to myself. 
 Though you were legions of accursed spirits. 
 Thus would I fly among you, 
 
 [Rushes forward, and fings himself on the 
 ground. 
 Well. There's no help ; 
 Disarm him first, then bind him. 
 
 Greedy. Take a mittimus. 
 And carry him to Bedlam. 
 Lov. How he foams! 
 Well And bites the earth ! 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 459 
 
 Willdo. Carry liim to some dark room, 
 There tiy what art can do for his recovery. 
 
 Marg. Oh my dear father ! 
 
 {They force Overreach off. 
 
 All. You must be patient, mistress. 
 
 Lov. Here is a precedent to teach wicked men, 
 That when they leave religion, and turn atheists, 
 Their own abilities leave them. Pray you take 
 
 comfort, 
 I will endeavour you shall be his guardians 
 In hJs distractions; and for your land, Master 
 
 V/ellborn, 
 Be it good or ill in law, I'll be an umpire 
 Between you, and this, the undoubted heir 
 Of Sir Giles Overreach; for me, here's the anchor 
 That I must fix on. 
 
 All. What you shall determine, 
 My lord, I will allow of. 
 
 Well. 'Tis the language 
 That I speak too; but there is something else 
 Beside the repossession of my land. 
 And payment ot my debts, that I must practise. 
 I had a reputation, but 'twas lost 
 
 In my loose course ; and until I redeem it 
 Some noble way, I am but half made up. 
 It is a time of action ; if your lordship 
 Will please to confer a company upon me, , 
 In your command, I doubt not, in my service 
 To my king and country, but I shall do something 
 That may make me right again. 
 
 Lov. Your suit is granted, 
 And you loved for the motion. 
 
 Well, [coming forward.'] Nothing wants then 
 But your alloioance ^ — and in that our all 
 Is comprehended ; it being knozon, nor we, 
 Nor he that wrote the comedy, can he free. 
 Without your manumission ; which if you 
 Grant willingly, as a fair favour due 
 To the pott's, and our labours (as you may). 
 For toe desjxiir not, gentlemen, of the play : 
 We jointly shall profess your grace hath might 
 To teach us action, and him hoio to write. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 allowance — approvaL 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 [This dramatist belonged to a good Devonshire family, being the second son of Tbomas 
 Ford of Ilsington, where he was born in April 1586. It is not known how he passed 
 his early years till his appearance as a student of the Middle Temple, which he entered 
 in Ifovember 1602. Here he seems diligently to have prosecuted his professional studies, 
 and apparently was so successful in his career as a lawyer, as to be quite independent of 
 literature as a source of income. Both in his student days and afterwards he appears to 
 have led a sober, respectable, and somewhat retired life, exhibiting a marked contrast 
 in this respect to most of his brother dramatists. He made his first appearance as an 
 author in 1606, in the eighteenth year of his age, when he published an occasional 
 poem, entitled Fame's Memorial, a tribute to the memory of Charles Blunt, Earl of 
 Devonshire. His first essays in connection with the drama were made in conjunction 
 with "Webster, Dekker, and others. As Ford was quite independent of the stage for a 
 livelihood, he wrote at his leisure, and more for love than reward. His first inde- 
 pendent dramatic composition was Tlie Lover s Melancholy, acted in 1628 and published 
 in 1629, although possibly 'Tis Pity She's a Whore had possession of the stage previous 
 to the former. This latter, along with The Broken Heart and Love's Sacrifice, made 
 its appearance in print in 1633. Next year appeared 'a compact consecutive repre- 
 sentation of a portion of English history,' under the title of Perkin Warbeck. This was 
 followed in 1638 by a comedy. The Fancies Cliaste and Noble, and in 1639 by his tragi- 
 comedy, The Lady's Trial. Besides these, Ford wrote a number of other dramas, now irre- 
 coverably lost. It has been supposed that this dramatist died shortly after the publication 
 of his last play (1639) ; although 'inquiries, too late to arrive at certainty, have scented 
 a faint tradition that he withdrew to his native place, married, became a father, lived 
 respected, and died at a good old age. ' From the tenor of his works it has been inferred 
 that Ford was of a somewhat irritable and melancholy temperament ; and this opinion gets 
 some countenance from a contemporary distich which photographs him thus : — 
 
 * Deep in a dump John Ford was alone got, 
 "With folded arms and melancholy hat. ' 
 
 Various estimates have been formed of Ford as a dramatist, although nearly aU critics 
 agree that he is inferior to Massinger, Jonson, and Fletcher ; "Weber, however, thinking 
 that he excels them aU in point of pathetic effect. Hazlitt does not admire him, and 
 says truly, that the general characteristic of his style is an artificial elaborateness, 
 and, of course, along with all others, reprobates his morbid love of repulsive plots, low 
 characters, and filthy language. IMr. Hartley Coleridge speaks of him thus : — * He disowned 
 all courtship of the vulgar taste ; we might therefore suppose that the horrible stories which 
 he has embraced in 'Tis Pity She's a Whore, The Broken Heart, and Love's Sacrifice, were 
 his o-\\Ti choice, and his own taste. But it would be unfair from hence to conclude that he 
 delighted in the contemplation of vice and misery, as vice and misery. He delighted in the 
 sensation of intellectual power, he found himself strong in the imagination of crime and of 
 agony ; his moral sense was gratified by indignation at the dark possibilities of sin, by 
 compassion for rare extremes of suffering. He abhorred vice — he admired virtue ; but 
 
 460 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 461 
 
 ordinary vice or modern virtue were, to him, as light wine to a dram-drinker. His genius 
 was a telescope, ill-adapted for neighbouring objects, but powerful to bring within the sphere 
 of vision, what nature has wisely placed at an unsociable distance. Passion must be 
 incestuous or adulterous, grief must be something more than martyrdom, before he could 
 make them big enough to be seen. Unquestionably he displayed great 'power in these 
 horrors, which was all he desired ; but had he been " of the first order of poets," he would 
 have found and displayed superior power in "familiar matter of to-day," in failings to which 
 all are liable, virtues which all may practise, and sorrows for which all may be the better. ' 
 
 After much consideration we have deemed The, Lady's Trial most suitable for insertion 
 in these pages.] 
 
 THE LADY'S TEIAL: 
 
 ACTED BY BOTH THEIR MAJESTIES' SERVANTS AT THE PRIVATE HOUSE 
 
 IN DRURY LANE. 
 
 FIDE HONOR. I 
 
 London. 1639. 
 
 TO MY DESERVINGLY HONOURED 
 
 JOHN V^YRLEY, ESQUIRE, 
 
 AND TO THE VIRTUOUS AND RIGHT WORTHY GENTLEWOMAN 
 
 MRS. MARY WYRLEY, HIS WIFE, 
 
 THIS SERVICE. 
 
 The inequality of retribution turns to a pity, 
 when there is not ability suflScient for acknow- 
 ledgment. Your equal respects may yet admit 
 the readiness of endeavour, though the very 
 hazard in it betray my defect. I have enjoyed 
 freely acquaintance with the sweetness of your 
 dispositions, and can justly account, from the 
 nobleness of them, an evident distinction be- 
 twixt friendship and friends. The latter (ac- 
 coi'ding to the practice of compliment) are usually 
 met with, and often without search ; the other, 
 many have searched for, I have found. For 
 which, though I partake a benefit of the fortune. 
 
 yet to you, most equal pair, must remain the 
 honour of that bounty. In presenting this issue 
 of some less serious hours to your tuition, I 
 appeal from the severity of censure to the mercy 
 of your judgments ; and shall rate it at a higher 
 value than when it was mine own, if you only 
 allow it the favour of adoption. Thus, as your 
 happiness in the fruition of each other's love 
 proceeds to a constancy ; so the truth of mine 
 shall appear less unshaken, as you shall please to 
 continue in your good opinions. 
 
 John Ford. 
 
 gramalis ^trsonae. 
 
 AuRiA, a nolle Genoese. 
 Adurni, a young Lord. 
 AuRELio, Friend to Auria. 
 Malfato, a discontented Lover. 
 
 siRxixr}^*"'''^^"^^^^^'^^"- 
 
 ^ERo, ( Dependents on Adurni. 
 
 FUTELLI, 
 
 Guzman, a hraggadocio.Sjmniard. 
 FULGOSO, an upstart Gallant. 
 Bknatzi, Hiishand to Levidolche. 
 
 Spinella, Wife to Ajtria. 
 Cast ANN A, her Sister. 
 Amoretta, a fantastic Maid. 
 Levidolche, a Wanton. 
 
 ScE^E— Genoa. 
 
 Fide Honor. An anagram on Ford's name, sometimes spelled Forde. 
 
462 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 liAXGUAGE and matter, "with a fit of mirth, 
 That sharply savours more of ah* than earth, 
 Like mid wives, bring a play to timely birth. 
 
 But Where's now such a one, in which these three 
 Are handsomely contriv'd ? or, if they be, 
 Are understood by all who hear to see ? 
 
 Wit, wit's the word in fashion, that alone 
 Cries up the poet, which, though neatly shown. 
 Is rather censured, oftentimes, than known. 
 
 He who will venture on a jest, that can 
 Rail on another's pain, or idly scan 
 Affairs of state, oh ! he's the only man ! 
 
 A goodly approbation, which must bring 
 Fame with contempt, by such a deadly sting! 
 The Muses chatter, who were wont to sing. 
 
 Your favours in what we present to-day ; 
 Our fearless author boldly bids me say. 
 He tenders you no satire, but a play ; 
 
 In which, if so he have not hit all right. 
 
 For wit, words, mirth, and matter, as he might, 
 
 He wishes yet he had, for your delight. 
 
 Master Bird.* 
 
 1 Theoplnlus Bird was a celebrated actor, who edited 
 the plays of various dramatists. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in the House o/'Auria. 
 
 Enter Piero and Futelli at opposite doors. 
 
 Piero. Accomplished man of fashion ! 
 
 Ftd. The times' wonder ! 
 Gallant of gallants, Genoa's Piero ! 
 
 Piero. Italy's darling, Europe's joy, and so 
 forth ! 
 The newest news unvamp'd.* 
 
 Fut. I am no foot-post. 
 No pedlar of Avisos, no monopolist 
 Of forged Corantos, monger of gazettes. 
 
 Piero. Monger of courtezans, tine Futelli ; 
 In certain kind a merchant of the staple 
 For wares of use and trade ; a taker-up, 
 Rather indeed a knocker-down ; the word 
 Will carry either sense. But in pure earnest, 
 How trowls^ the common noise ? 
 
 Fid. Auria, who lately 
 Wedded and bedded to the fair Spinella, 
 Tired with the enjoyments of delights, is hasting 
 To cuff the Turkish pirates in the service 
 Of the great Duke of Florence. 
 
 Piero. Does not carry 
 His pretty thing along. 
 
 Fut. Leaves her to buffet 
 Land-pirates here at home. 
 
 Piero. That's thou and I ; 
 Futelli, sin-ah, and Piero. — Blockhead ! 
 To run from such an armful of pleasures, 
 For gaining — what ? — a bloody nose of honour. 
 Most sottish and abominable! 
 
 Fut. Wicked, 
 Shameful and cowardly, I will maintain. 
 
 Piero. Is all my signor's hospitality. 
 Huge banquetings, deep revels, costly trappings. 
 Shrunk to a cabin, and a single welcome 
 To beverage and biscuit ? 
 
 Fut. Hold thy peace, man ; 
 It makes for us. He comes ; let's part demurely. 
 [They take different sides. 
 
 ^ unvamp'd. I have not met with this singular word. 
 To vamp, is to cover an old thing with a new part, and 
 the word in the text, therefore, signifies uncovered, 
 disclosed.. Perhaps we should read unvamp'i—i.e. dis- 
 close it. — Weber. 
 
 ' trowls — passes or goes round. The meaning is, 
 ' What is the common talk ? ' 
 
 Enter Adurxi and Auria. 
 
 Adur. We vrish thee, honour'd Auria, life and 
 safety ; 
 Return crown'd with a victory, whose wreath 
 Of triumph may advance thy country's glory, 
 Worthy your name and ancestors ! 
 
 Aur. My lord, 
 I shall not live to thrive in any action 
 Deserving memory, when I forget 
 Adurni's love and favour. 
 
 Piero. I present you 
 My service for a farewell ; let few words 
 Excuse all arts of compliment. 
 
 Fut. For my own part. 
 Kill or be kill'd (for there's the short and long 
 Call me your shadow's hench-boy. [oii't), 
 
 Aur. Gentlemen, 
 My business urging on a present haste, 
 Enf orceth short reply. 
 
 Adur. We dare not hinder 
 Tour resolution wing'd with thoughts so constant. 
 All happiness ! 
 
 Piero and Fut. Contents ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adurni, Piero, anof Futelli. 
 
 Aur. So leave the winter'd people of the north, 
 The minutes of their summer, when the sun 
 Departing leaves them in cold robes of ice, 
 As I leave Genoa. — 
 
 Enter Trelcatio, Spinella, and Castanna. 
 
 Now appears the object 
 Of my apprenticed heart. Thoubring'st, Spinella, 
 A welcome in a farewell — souls and bodies 
 Are sever'd for a time, a span of time. 
 To join again, without all separation. 
 In a confirmed unity for ever : 
 Such will our next embraces be, for life ; 
 And then to take the wreck of our divisions. 
 Will sweeten the remembrance of past dangers, 
 Will fasten love in perpetuity. 
 Will force our sleeps to steal upon our stories. 
 These days must come, and shall, without a cloud, 
 Or night of fear or envy. To your charge, 
 Trelcatio, our good uncle, and the comfort 
 Of my Spinella's sister, fair Castanna, 
 I do entrust this treasiu:e. 
 
 Trel. I dare promise 
 My husbanding that trust with truth and care. 
 
 Cast. My sister shall to me stand an example, 
 Of pouring free devotions for your safety. 
 
 Aur. Gentle Castanna, thou'rt a branch of 
 goodness, 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 463 
 
 Grown on tlie selfsame stock with my Spinella. — 
 But why, my dear, hast thou lock'd up thy speech 
 
 [ro Spin. 
 In so mucli silent sadness ? Oh ! at parting, 
 Belike one private whisper must be sigh'd. — 
 Uncle, the best of peace enrich your family ! 
 I take my leave. 
 
 Trd. Blessings and health preserve you ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Aur. Nay, nay, Castanna, you may hear our 
 counsels : 
 A while you are design'd your sister's hus- 
 band. 
 Give me thy hand, Spinella : you did promise 
 To send me from you with more cheex'ful looks, 
 Without a grudge or tear ; 'deed, love, you did. 
 
 Spi. What friend have I left in your absence ? 
 
 Aur. Many: 
 Thy virtues are such friends, they cannot fail 
 
 thee; 
 Faith, purity of thoughts, and such a meekness 
 As would force scandal to a blush. 
 
 Spi. Admit, sir. 
 The patent of your life should be call'd in ; 
 How am I then left to account with griefs. 
 More slav'd to pity than a broken heart ? 
 Auria, soul of my comforts, I let fall 
 No eye on breach of fortune ; I contemn 
 No entertainment to divided hopes, 
 I urge no pressures by the scorn of change ; 
 And yet, my Auria, when I but conceive 
 How easy 'tis (without impossibility) 
 Never to see thee more, forgive me then, 
 If I conclude I may be miserable. 
 Most miserable. 
 
 Cast. And such conclusion, sister. 
 Argues effects of a distrust more voluntary, 
 Than cause by likelihood. 
 
 Aur. 'Tis true, Castanna. 
 
 /Spi. I grant it truth ; yet, Auria, I'm a woman, 
 And therefore apt to fear : to show my duty, 
 And not to take heart from you, I'll walk from 
 
 you, 
 
 At your command, and not as much as trouble 
 Your thought with one poor looking back. 
 
 Aw\ I thank thee, 
 My worthy wife ! Before we kiss, receive 
 This caution from thine Auria : first— Castanna, 
 Let us bid farewell. 
 
 [Cast, walks aside. 
 Spi. Speak, good, speak. 
 Aur. The steps 
 Young ladies tread, left to their own discretion, 
 However wisely printed, are observed, 
 And construed as the lookers-on presume : 
 Point out thy ways, then, in such even paths, 
 As thine own jealousies from others' tongues 
 May not intrude a guilt, though undeserv'd. 
 Admit of visits as of physic forced. 
 Not to procure health, but for safe prevention 
 Against a growing sickness ; in thy use 
 Of time and of discourse be found so thrifty, 
 As no remembrance may impeach thy rest. 
 Appear not in a fashion that can prompt 
 The gazer's eye, or holla, to report 
 Some widowed neglect of handsome value : 
 In recreations be both wise and free ; 
 Live still at home, home to thyself, howe'er 
 Enrich'd with noble company : remember, 
 A woman's virtue, in her lifetime, writes 
 The epitaph all covet on their tombs : 
 In short, I know thou never wilt forget 
 Whose wife thou art, or how upon thy lips 
 Thy husband at his parting seal'd this kiss.— 
 No more. [Kisses her. 
 
 Spi. Dear heaven ! go, sister, go. 
 
 [Exeunt Spinella and Castanna. 
 
 Au7'. Done bravely. 
 And like the choice of glory, to know mine- 
 One of earth's best I have foregone — 
 
 Enter Aurelio. 
 
 See, see! 
 Yet in another I am rich, a friend, 
 A perfect oue, Aurelio. 
 
 Aui'el. Had I been 
 No stranger to your bosom, sir, ere now. 
 You might have sorted ^ me in your resolves, 
 Companion of your fortunes. 
 
 Aur. So the wrongs 
 I should have ventured on against thy fate 
 Must have denied all pardon. Not to hold 
 Dispute with reputations, why, before 
 This present instant, I conceal'd the stealth 
 Of my adventures from thy counsels, — know, 
 My wants do drive me hence. 
 Aurel. Wants ! so you said. 
 And 'twas not friendly spoken. 
 Aur. Hear me further. 
 
 Aurel. Auria, take heed the covert of a folly 
 Willing to range, be not, without excuse, 
 Discover'd in the coinage of untruths ; 
 I use no harder language. Thou art near 
 Already on a shipwreck, in forsaking 
 The holy land of friendship [and forbearing] 
 To talk your wants. — Fie ! 
 
 Aur. By that sacred thing 
 Last issued fx'om the temple where it dwelt, 
 I mean our friendship, I am sunk so low 
 In my estate, that, bid me live in Genoa 
 But six months longer, I survive the remnant 
 Of all my store. 
 Aurel. Umph ! 
 Aur. In my country, friend, 
 Where I have sided 2 my superior, friend, 
 Sway'd opposition, friend ; friend, here to fall 
 Subject to scorn, or rarely-found compassion, 
 Were more than man that hath a soul could bear, 
 A soul not stoop'd to servitude. 
 
 Aurel. You show 
 Nor certainty nor weak assurance yet, 
 Of reparation in this course, in case 
 Command be proffer' d. 
 
 Aur. He who cannot merit 
 Preferment by employments, let him bare 
 His throat unto the Turkish cruelty. 
 Or die, or live a slave without redemption ! 
 Aui-el. For that, so! but you have a wife, a 
 young, 
 A fair wife ; she, though she could never claim 
 Eight in prosperity, was never tempted 
 By trial of extremes ; to youth and beauty 
 Baits for dishonour, and a perish'd fame. 
 Aur. Show me the man that lives, and to my 
 face 
 Dare speak, scarce think, such tyranny against 
 Spinella's constancy, except Aurelio — 
 He is my friend. 
 
 Aurel. There lives not then a friend 
 Dares love you like Aurelio : that Aurelio 
 Who, late and early, often said, and truly. 
 Your marriage with Spinella would entangle 
 As much the opinion due to your discretion, 
 As your estate ; it hath done so to both. 
 Aur. I find it hath. 
 Aurel. He who prescribes no law, 
 No limits of condition to the objects 
 Of his affection, but will merely wed 
 A face, because 'tis round, or limn'd by nature 
 In purest red and white ; or, at the best. 
 
 1 sorted — chosen, allotted. 
 
 2 sided — equalled, matched. — Webeb. 
 
464 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 For that his mistress owes an excellence 
 Of qualities, knows when and how to speak, 
 Where to keep silence, with fit reasons why ; 
 "Whose virtues are her only dower else 1 
 
 In either kind, ought of himself to master 
 Such foi-tunes as add fuel to their loves ; 
 For otherwise — but herein I am idle,^ 
 Have fool'd to little purpose. 
 
 Aur. She's my wife. 
 
 Aurel. And being so, it is not manly dono 
 To leave her to the trial of her wits, 
 Her modesty, her innocence, her vows : 
 This is the way that points her out an art 
 Of wanton life. 
 
 Aur. Sir, said ye ? 
 
 Aurel. You form reasons, 
 Just ones, for your abandoning the storms 
 Which threaten your own ruin ; but propose 
 No shelter for her honour : what my tongue 
 Hath utter'd, Auria, is but honest doubt, 
 And you are wise enough in the consti'uction. 
 
 Aur. Necessity must arm my confidence, 
 Which, if I live to triumph over friend, 
 And e'er come back in plenty, I pronounce 
 Aurelio heir of what I can bequeath ; 
 Some fit deduction for a worthy widow 
 AUow'd, with caution she be like to prove so. 
 
 Anrel. Who.' I your heir I your wife being 
 yet so young, 
 In every probability so forward 
 To make you a father ? — leave such thoughts. 
 
 Aur. Believe it, 
 Without replies, Aurelio : keep this note, 
 A warrant for receiving from Martino 
 Two hundred ducats; as you find occasion 
 Dispose them in my absence to Spinella : 
 I would not trust her uncle, — he, good man, 
 Is at an ebb himself ; another hundred 
 I left with her, a fourth I carry with me. 
 Am I not poor, Aurelio, now ? Exchange 
 Of more debates between us, would undo 
 My resolution ; walk a little, pr'ythee, 
 Friends we are, and will embrace ; but let's not 
 
 speak 
 Another word. 
 
 Aurel. I'll follow you to your horse. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT L— SCENE II. 
 A Room in the House o/'Adurni. 
 
 Enter Adurni, and Futelu with a letter^ 
 which he presents to Adurni. 
 
 Adur. With her own hand .' 
 
 Fut. She never used, my lord, 
 A second means, but kiss'd the letter first, 
 O'erlook'd the superscription ; then let fall 
 Some amorous drops, kiss'd it again, talk'd to it 
 Twenty times over, set it to her mouth, 
 Then gave it me, then snatch 'd it back again. 
 Then cry'd, 'Oh, my poor heart!' and, in an 
 
 instant, 
 * Commend my truth and secrecy.' Such medley 
 Of passion yet I never saw in woman. 
 
 Adur. In woman ? thou'rt deceived ; but that 
 we both 
 Had mothers, I could say how women are, 
 In their own natures, mo'dels of mere change ; 
 Of change of what is naught to what is worse. — 
 She fee'd you liberally? 
 
 Fut. Twenty ducats 
 
 * ehe, &c. There is apparently some defect here. 
 2 i(«e— foolish, wealt.— Webeb. 
 
 She forced on me ; vow'd, by the precious love 
 She bore the best of men (I use, my lord, 
 Her very words), the miracle of men, 
 Malfato,— then she sighed,— this mite of gold 
 Was only entrance to a farther bounty : 
 'Tis meant, my lord, belike, press-money. 
 
 Adur. Devil ! 
 How durst she tempt thee, Futelli, knowing 
 Thy love to me .' 
 
 Fut. There lies, my lord, her cunning. 
 Rather her craft ; first she began, what pity 
 It was that men should differ in estates 
 Without proportion ; some so strangely rich. 
 Others so miserable poor ; 'and yet,' 
 Quoth she, ' since 'tis [in] very deed unfit 
 All should be equals, so I must confess. 
 It were good justice that the properest men 
 Should be preferr'd to fortune, such as nature 
 Had mark'd with fair abilities ; of which 
 Genoa, for aught I know, had wond'rous few, 
 Not two to boast of.' 
 
 Adur. Here began her itch. 
 
 Fut. I answer'd she was happy then, whose 
 choice 
 In you, my lord, was singular. 
 
 Adur. Well urg'd. 
 
 Fut. She smiled, and said, it might be so ; and 
 yet — 
 There stopp'd: then I closed with her, and con- 
 cluded 
 The title of a lord was not enough 
 For absolute perfection ; I had seen 
 Persons of meaner quality, much more 
 Exact in fair endowments — but your lordship 
 Will pardon me, I hope. 
 
 Adur. And love thee for it. 
 
 Fut. 'Phew, let that pass,' quoth she; 'and 
 now we prattle 
 Of handsome gentlemen, in my opinion, 
 Malfato is a very pretty fellow ; 
 Is he not, pray, sir ? ' I had then the truth 
 Of what I roved * at, and with more than praise 
 Approv'd her judgment in so high a strain. 
 Without comparison, my honour'd lord, 
 That soon we both concluded of the man, 
 The match and business. 
 
 Adur. For delivering 
 A letter to Malfato ? 
 
 Fut. Whereto I 
 No sooner had consented, with protests — 
 (I did protest, my lord) — of secrecy 
 And service, but she kiss'd me, as I live, 
 Of her own free accord — I trust your lordship 
 Conceives not me amiss — pray rip the seal, 
 My lord, you'll find sweet stuff, I dare believe. 
 
 Adur. \j'eads.'\ Present to the most accomplished 
 of men, Malfata, with this love a service. 
 Kind superscription ! pr'ythee, find him out, 
 Deliver it with compliment ; observe 
 How ceremoniously he does receive it. 
 
 Fut. Will not your lordship peruse the con- 
 tents ? 
 
 Adur. Enough, I know too much ; be just and 
 cunning ; 
 A wanton mistress is a common sewer. — 
 Much newer project labours in my brain. 
 
 E7iter PiERO. 
 
 Your friend ! here's now the Gemini of wit i 
 What odd conceit is next on foot ? some cast 
 Of neat invention, ha, sirs? 
 
 Piero. Very fine, 
 I do protest, my lord. 
 
 1 roced— aimed, a terra in arcliery. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 Fut. Your lordship's ear 
 Shall share i' th' plot. 
 
 Adur. As how ? 
 
 Piero. You know, my lord, 
 Young Amoretta, old Trelcatio's daughter ; 
 An honest man, but poor. 
 
 Fut. And, my good lord, 
 He that is honest must be poor, my lord ; 
 It is a common rule. 
 
 Adur. Well, — Amoretta. — 
 Pray, one at once — my knowledge is not much 
 Of her, instruct me. 
 
 Piero. Speak, Futelli. 
 
 Fut. Spare me. 
 Piero has the tongue more pregnant, » 
 
 Piero. Fie ! 
 Play on your creature ? 
 
 Fut. Shall be yours. 
 
 Piero. Nay, good. 
 
 Adur. Well, keep your mirth, my dainty honeys; 
 
 Some two days hence, till when — 
 
 Piero. By any means, 
 Partake the sport, my lord; this thing of youth — 
 
 Fut. Handsome enough, good face, quick eye, 
 well bred. 
 
 Piero. Is yet possest so strangely — 
 
 Fut. With an humour 
 Of thinking she deserves — 
 
 Piero. A duke, a count, 
 At least a viscount, for her husband, that — 
 
 Fut. She scorns all mention of a match beneath 
 One of the foresaid nobles ; will not ride 
 In a caroch without eight horses. 
 
 Piero. Six 
 She may be drawn to ; four — 
 
 Fut. Are for the poor : 
 But for two horses in a coach — 
 
 Piero. She says. 
 They're not for creatures of Heaven's making ; 
 fitter— 
 
 Fut. Fitter for litters to convey hounds in. 
 Than people Christian : yet herself — 
 
 Piero. Herself 
 Walks evermore a-foot, and knows not whether 
 A coach doth trot or amble — 
 
 Fut. But by hearsay. 
 
 Adur. Stop, gentlemen, you run a gallop both; 
 Are out of breath, sure: 'tis a kind of compliment 
 Scarce enter'd to the times ; but certainly 
 You coin a humour ; let me understand 
 Deliberately your fancy. 
 
 Piero. In plain troth, 
 My lord, the she whom we describe is such, 
 And lives here, here in Genoa, this city, 
 This very city, now, the very now. 
 
 Adur. Trelcatio's daughter.^ 
 
 Fut. Has refused suitors 
 Of worthy rank, substantial and free parts, 
 Only for that they are not dukes, or counts ; 
 Yet she herself, with all her father's store, 
 Can hardly weigh above four hundred ducats. 
 
 Adur. Now, your design for sport .-* 
 
 Piero. Without prevention : 
 Guzman, the Spaniard late cashier'd, most 
 
 gravely 
 Observes the full punctilios of his nation ; 
 And him have we beleaguer'd to accost 
 This she-piece, under a pretence of being 
 Grandee of Spain, and cousin to twelve princes. 
 
 Fut. For rival unto whom we have enraged 
 Fulgoso, the rich coxcomb lately started 
 A gentleman, out of a sutler's hut. 
 In the late Flemish wars; we have resolv'd ^ bim 
 
 1 pregnant — able, ready. — Webeb. 
 * resolv'd — satisfied, convinced. 
 
 He is descended from Pantagruel, 
 
 Of famous memory, by the fathei*'s side. 
 
 And by the mother from dame Fusti-Bunga, 
 
 Who, troubled long time with a strangury. 
 
 Vented at last salt-water so abundantly, 
 
 As drown 'd the land 'twixt Zirick-see and Vere, 
 
 Where steeples' tops are only seen. He casts 
 
 Beyond the moon, and will be greater yet, 
 
 In spite of Don. 
 
 Adur. You must abuse the maid, 
 Beyond amends. 
 
 Fut. But countenance the course, 
 My lord, and it may chance, beside the mirth, 
 To work a reformation on the maiden : 
 Her father's leave is granted, and thanks pro- 
 mised ; 
 Our ends are harmless trials. 
 
 Adur. I betray 
 No secrets of such use. 
 
 Piero and Fut. Your lordship's humblest. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT I.-SCENE III. 
 A Room in Malfato's House. 
 Enter Aurelio and Malfato. 
 
 Aurel. A melancholy, grounded, and resolv'd, 
 Received into a habit, argues love. 
 Or deep impression of strong discontents. 
 In cases of these rarities a friend, 
 Upon whose faith and confidence we may 
 Vent with security our grief, becomes 
 Oft-times the best physician ; for, admit 
 We find no remedy, we cannot miss 
 Advice instead of comfort ; and believe, 
 It is an ease, Malfato, to disburthen 
 Our souls of secret clogs, where they may find 
 A rest in pity, though not in redress. 
 
 Mai. Let all this sense be yielded to. 
 
 Aurel. Perhaps 
 You measure what I say, the common nature 
 Of an officious curiosity. 
 
 Mai. Not I, sir. 
 
 Aurel. Or that other private ends 
 Sift your retirements.— 
 
 Mai. Neither. 
 
 Enter Futelli. 
 
 Fut. Under favour. 
 Signer Malfato, I am sent to crave 
 Your leisure, for a word or two in private. 
 
 Mai. Tome! Your mind. 
 
 Fut. This letter will inform ye. 
 
 [^Gives Mm the letter. 
 
 Mai. Letter ? how's this ? what's here ? 
 
 Fut. Speak you to me, sir ? 
 
 Mai. Brave riddle ! I'll endeavour to unfold it. 
 
 Aurel. How fares the Lord Adurni ? 
 
 Ftit. Sure in health, sir. 
 
 Aurel. He is a noble gentleman, withal 
 Happy in his endeavours : the general voice 
 Sounds him for courtesy, behaviour, language, 
 And every fair demeanour, an example ; 
 Titles of honour add not to his worth, 
 Who is himself an honour to his titles. 
 
 Mai. You know from whence this comes ? 
 
 Fut. I do. 
 
 31al. D'ye laugh ! 
 But that I must consider such as spaniels 
 To those who feed and clothe them, I would 
 
 print 
 Thy pandarism upon thy forehead :--there ! 
 
 [Throws him the Utter. 
 Bear back that paper to the hell from whence 
 It gave thee thy directions ! tell this lord. 
 
 2G 
 
^ee 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 He ventui'ed on a foolish policy, 
 
 In aiming at the scandal of my blood ; 
 
 The trick is childish, base, — say base. 
 
 Fut. You wrong him. 
 
 Aurel. Be wise, Malfato. 
 
 Mai. Say, I know this whore. 
 She who sent this temptation, was wife 
 To his abused servant; and divorced 
 From poor Benatzi, senseless of the wrongs. 
 That Madam Levidolche and Adurni 
 Might revel in their sports without control. 
 Secure, uncheck'd. 
 
 Aurd. You range too wildly now, 
 Are too much inconsiderate. 
 
 Mai. 1 am 
 A gentleman free-born ; I never wore 
 The rags of any great man's looks, nor fed 
 Upon their after-meals ; I never crouch'd 
 Unto the offal of an office promised 
 (Reward for long attendance), and then miss'd. 
 I read no difference between this huge, 
 This monstrous big word lord, and gentleman, 
 More than the title sounds ; for aught I learn. 
 The latter is as noble as the first, 
 I am sure more ancient. 
 
 Aurel. Let me tell you then, 
 You are too bitter, talk you know not what. 
 Make all men equals, and confound all course 
 Of order, and of nature ! this is madness, 
 
 Mai. 'Tis so ; and I have reason to be mad. 
 Reason, Aurelio, by my truth and hopes. 
 This wit Futelli brings a suit of love 
 From Levidolche, one, however mask'd 
 In colourable privacy, is famed 
 The Lord Adurni's pensioner, at least. 
 Am I a husband pick'd out for a strumpet "i 
 For a cast suit of bawdry ? Aurelio, 
 You are as I am, you could ill digest 
 The trial of a patience so unfit. — 
 Begone, Futelli, do not mince one syllable 
 Of what you hear ; another fetch like this 
 May tempt a peace to rage : so say ; begone ! 
 
 Fut. I shall report your answei\ {Exit. 
 
 Mai. What have I 
 Deserv'd to be so used ! In colder blood, 
 I do confess nobility requires 
 Duty and love ; it is a badge of virtue. 
 By action first acquired, and next in rank 
 Unto anointed royalty. — Wherein 
 Have I neglected distance, or forgot 
 Observance to superiors ? sure, my name 
 Was in the note mistook. 
 
 Aurel. We will consider 
 The meaning of this mystery. 
 
 Mai. Not so ; 
 Let them fear bondage who are slaves to fear. 
 The sweetest freedom is an honest heart. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE L 
 
 A Street. 
 Enter Futelli and Guz:\l\x. 
 
 Fut. Dexterity and sufferance, brave Don, 
 Are engines the pure politic must work with. 
 
 Guz. We undei'stand. 
 
 Fut. In subtleties of war,l 
 I talk t'ye now in your own occupation, 
 Your trade, or what you please — unto a soldier, 
 Surprisal of an enemy by stratagem, 
 Or downright cutting throats, is aU one thing. 
 
 Guz. Most certain : on, proceed. 
 
 Fut. By way of parallel ; 
 You drill or exercise your company 
 (No matter which, for terms), before you draw 
 
 Into the field ; so in the feats of courtship, 
 First, choice is made of thoughts, behaviour, 
 
 words. 
 The set of looks, the posture of the beard, 
 Beso las manos,^ cringes of the knee. 
 The very hums and ha's, thumps, and ah me's 1 
 
 Guz. We understand all these : advance. 
 
 Fut. Then next, 
 Your enemy in face, — your mistress, mark it ! 
 Now you consult either to skirmish slightly, 
 That's careless amours, — or to enter battle ; 
 Then fall to open treaty, or to work 
 By secret spies or gold : here you corrupt 
 The chambei'maid, a fatal engine, or 
 Place there an ambuscado, — that's contract 
 With some of her near friends, for half her poi*- 
 
 tion; 
 Or offer truce, and in the interim. 
 Run upon slaughter, 'tis a noble treachery. 
 That's swear and lie ; steal her away, and to her 
 Cast caps, and cry victona ! the field's 
 Thine own, my Don, she's thine. 
 
 Guz. We do vouchsafe her. 
 
 Fut. Hold her then fast. 
 
 Guz. As fast as can the arms 
 Of strong imagination hold her. 
 
 Fut. No, 
 She has skipt your hold ; my imagination's eyes 
 Perceive, she not endures the touch or scent 
 Of your war over- worn habiliments, 
 Which I forgot in my instructions 
 To warn you of : therefore, my warlike Don, 
 Apparel speedily your imaginations 
 With a more courtly outside. 
 
 Guz. 'Tis soon done. 
 
 Fut. As soon as said ; in all the clothes thou 
 hast, 
 More than that walking wardrobe on thy back. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Guz. Imagine first our rich mockado ^ doublet, 
 With our cut cloth -of -gold sleeves, and our 
 
 quellio,^ 
 Our diamond-button'd callamanco hose, 
 Our plume of ostrich, with the embroider'd scarf, 
 The Duchess Infantasgo roU'd our arm in. 
 
 Fut. Ay, this is brave < indeed ! 
 
 Guz. Our cloak, whose cape is 
 Larded with pearls, which the Indian cacique 
 Presented to our countryman De Cortez, 
 For ransom of his life ; rated in value 
 At thirteen thousand pistolets ; the guerdon 
 Of our achievement, when we rescued 
 The infanta from the boar, in single duel, 
 Near to the Austrian forest, with this rapier, 
 This only, very, naked, single rapier. > 
 
 Fut. Top and top-gallant brave ! 
 
 Guz. We will appear 
 Before our Amoretta, like the issue 
 Of our progenitors. 
 
 Fut. Imagine so. 
 And that this rich suit of imagination 
 Is on already now (which is most probable) 
 As that apparel :— here stands your Amoretta, 
 Make your approach and court her. 
 
 Guz. Lustre of beauty. 
 Not to affright your tender soul with horroi. 
 We may descend to tales of peace and love. 
 Soft whispers fitting ladies' closets ; for 
 Thunder of cannon, roaring smoke and fire, 
 As if hell's maw had vomited confusion, 
 
 1 ' Kissing hands.' 
 
 2 mockado— a. stuff made in imitation of velvet, and 
 sometimes of silk. — Nares. 
 
 3 quellio—a corruption of the Spanish cuello, a collar. 
 — Wkber. 
 
 * brave— Scotch, hraw ; gallant, gorgeous. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 467 
 
 The clash of sfeel, the neighs of barbed steeds, 
 Wounds spouting blood, towns capering in the 
 
 air. 
 Castles push'd down, and cities plough'd with 
 
 swords, 
 Become great Guzman's oratory best. 
 Who, though victorious (and during life 
 Must be), yet now grants parley to thy smiles. 
 Fut. S'foot, Don, you talk too big, you make 
 her tremble ; 
 Do you not see't imaginarily ? 
 I do, as plainly as you saw the death 
 Of the Austrian boar : she rather hears 
 Of feasting than of fighting ; take her that way. 
 Guz. Yes, we will feast; my queen, my em- 
 press, saint, 
 Shalt taste no delicates but what are drest 
 With costlier spices than the Arabian bird 
 Sweetens her funeral bed with ; we will riot 
 With eveiy change of meats, which may renew 
 Our blood unto a spring, so pure, so high. 
 That from our pleasures shall proceed a race 
 Of sceptre-bearing princes, who at once 
 Must reign in every quarter of the globe. 
 Fut. Can more be said by one that feeds on 
 herring 
 And garlic constantly 7 [^Aside. 
 
 Guz. Yes, we will feast — 
 Fut. Enough! she's taken, and will love you 
 now. 
 As well in buff, as your imagined bravery. 
 Your dainty ten-times drest buff, with this lan- 
 guage. 
 Bold man of anng, shall win upon her, doubt not. 
 Beyond all silken puppetry. Think no more 
 Of yoiu' ' mockadoes, callamancoes, quellios. 
 Pearl - larded capes, and diamond - button'd 
 
 breeches ; ' 
 Leave such poor outside helps to puling lovers. 
 Such as Fulgoso, your weak rival, is. 
 That starveling-brain'd companion ; appear you. 
 At first at least, in your own warlike fashion : 
 I pray be ruled, and change not a thread about 
 you. 
 Guz. The humour takes ; for I, sir, am a man 
 Affects not shifts : I will adventure thus. 
 
 Fzit. AVhy, so! you carry her from all the world. 
 I'm proud my stars design'd me out an instru- 
 ment 
 In such an high employment. 
 
 Guz. Gravely spoken ; 
 You may be proud on't. — 
 
 Enier, on the opposite side, Fulgoso and Piero. 
 
 Ful. What is lost is lost. 
 Money is trash, and ladies are et cseteras, 
 Play's play, luck's luck, fortune's an — I know 
 
 what ; 
 You see the worst of me, and what's all this now 7 
 
 Piero. A very spark, I vow ; you will be styled 
 Fulgoso the invincible. But did 
 The fair Spinella lose an equal part ? 
 How much in all, d'you say ? 
 
 Ful. Bare threescore ducats, 
 Thirty apiece, we need not care who know it. 
 She play'd; I went her half, walk'd by, and 
 
 whistled — 
 After my usual manner thus — unmoved, 
 
 [ Whistles. 
 As no such thing had ever been, as it were. 
 Although I saw the winners share my money : 
 His lordship and an honest gentleman 
 Purs'd it, but not so merrily as I 
 Whistled it off. 
 
 Piero. A noble confidence. 
 
 Ful. D'you note your rival ? 
 
 Guz. With contempt I do. 
 
 Ful. I can forego things nearer than my gold, 
 Allied to my affections, and my blood ; 
 Yea, honour, as it were, with the same kind 
 Of careless confidence, and come oS fairly 
 Too, as it were. 
 
 Piero. But not your love, Fulgoso. 
 
 Ful. No, she's inherent, and mine own past 
 losing, 
 
 Piero. It tickles me to think with how much 
 state, 
 You, as it were, did run at tilt in love, 
 Before your Amoretta. 
 
 Ful. Broke my lance. 
 
 Piero. Of wit ! of wit ! 
 
 Ful. I mean so, as it were, 
 And laid, flat on her back, both horse and woman. 
 
 Piero. Eight, as it were. 
 
 Ful. What else, man, as it were ? 
 
 Guz. {crossing ovei' to Ful.] Did you do this 
 to her ? dare you to vaunt 
 Your triumph, we being present ? um, Jia, um. 
 
 [Fulgoso whistles the Spanish Pavin.^ 
 
 Fut. What think you, Don, of this brave man? 
 
 Guz. A man ! 
 It is some truss of reeds, or empty cask, 
 In which the wind with whistling sports itself. 
 
 Fut. Bear up, sir, he's your rival, budge not 
 from him 
 An inch ; your grounds are honour. 
 
 Piero. Stoutly ventured, 
 Don, hold him to't. 
 
 Ful. 'Protest, a fine conceit, 
 A very fine conceit ; and thus I told her, 
 That for mine own part, if she lik'd me, so! 
 If not, not ; for ' my duck, or doe,' said I, 
 ' It is no fault of mine that I am noble: 
 Grant it ; another may be noble, too. 
 And then we're both one noble ;' 2 better still ! — 
 Hab-nab's 3 good ; wink and choose ; if one must 
 
 have her. 
 The other goes without her, — best of all ! — 
 My spirit is too high to fight for woman, 
 I am too full of mercy to be angry ; 
 A foolish generous quality, from which 
 No might of man can beat me, I'm resolv'd. 
 
 Guz. Hast thou a spirit then, ha ? speaks thy 
 weapon 
 Toledo language, Bilboa, or dull Pisa ? * 
 If an Italian blade, or Spanish metal, 
 Be brief, we challenge answer. 
 
 Fut. Famous Don, 
 
 Ful. What does he talk? my weapon speaks 
 no language, 
 'Tis a Dutch iron truncheon. 
 
 Guz. Dutch! 
 
 Fut. And, if need be, 
 'Twill maul one's hide, in spite of who says nay. 
 
 Guz. Dutch to a Spaniard I hold me. 
 
 Ful. Hold me too, 
 Sirrah, if thou'rt my friend, for I love no 
 
 fighting ; 
 Yet hold me, lest in pity I fly off : 
 If I must fight, I must ; in a scurvy quarrel 
 I defy he's and she's : twit me with Dutch ! 
 Hang Dutch and French, hang Spanish and 
 
 Italians, 
 Christians and Turks. Pe w-waw, all's one to me ! 
 
 1 Pavin—a, grave and majestic dance, from Lat. pavo, 
 a peacock. 
 
 ■^ one noble — a quibble upon the coin iso named. — 
 Weber. 
 
 3 /^a6-na6— generally spelled hob-nob, signifies, ' let it 
 happen or not, it is all one.' — Weber, 
 
 * Toledo and Bilboa were famous for their excellent 
 sword- blades ; only a very common and coarse kind 
 were produced at Pisa.— We bee. 
 
468 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I know what's what, I know upon which side 
 My bread is butter' d. 
 
 Guz. Butter'd ? Dutch again : 
 You come not with intention to affront us ? 
 
 Ful. Front me no fronts ; if thou be'st angry, 
 squabble — 
 Here's my defence, and thy destruction. 
 
 [ Whistles a charge. 
 If friends, shake hands, and go with me to dinner. 
 
 Guz. "We will embrace the motion, it doth relish 
 The cavaliero treats on terms of honour ; 
 Peace is not to be baulk'd on fair conditions. 
 
 Fut. Still Don is Don the great. 
 
 Piero. He shows the greatness 
 Of his vast stomach in the quick embracement 
 Of th' other's dinner. 
 
 Fut. 'Twas the ready means 
 To catch his friendship. 
 
 Piero. You're a pair of worthies. 
 That make the Nine no wonder. 
 
 Fut. Now, since fate 
 Ordains that one of two must be the man, 
 The man of men which must enjoy alone 
 Love's darling, Amoretta ; both take liberty 
 To show himself before her, without cross 
 Of interruption, one of th' other : he 
 Whose sacred mystery of earthly blessings 
 Crowns the pursuit, be happy. 
 
 Piero. And, till then. 
 Live brothers in society. 
 
 Guz. We are fast. 
 
 Ful. I vow a match ; I'll feast the Don to-day. 
 And fast with him to-morrow. 
 
 Guz. Fair conditions. 
 
 Adurni, Spinella, Amoretta, and Castanna 
 pass over the Stage. 
 
 Adur. Futelli and Piero, follow speedily. 
 
 Piero. My lord, we wait you. 
 
 Fut. We shall soon return. 
 
 [^Exeunt all hut Ful. and Guz. 
 
 Ful. What's that I saw 7 — a sound. — 
 
 Guz. A voice for certain. 
 
 Ful. It named a lord, 
 
 Guz. Here are lords too, we take it ; 
 We carry blood about us, rich and haughty 
 As any o' the twelve Ctesars. 
 
 Ful. Gulls or Moguls, 
 Tag, rag, or other, hogen-mogen, vanden, 
 Ship-jacks, or chouses.^ Whoo! the brace are 
 
 flincb'd. 
 The pair of shavers are sneak'd from us, Don : 
 Why, what are we ! 
 
 Guz. The valiant will stand to't. 
 
 Ful. So say I; we will eat and drink, and 
 squander. 
 Till all do split again. 
 
 Guz. March on with greediness. [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IL— SCENE IL 
 
 A Room in the House o/'Martino. 
 
 Enter Martino and Levidolche. 
 
 Mart. You cannot answer what a general 
 tongue 
 Objects against your folly ; I may curse 
 The interest you lay claim to in my blood. 
 Your mother, my dear niece, did die, I thought, 
 
 * chotues. See note 2, col. 1, p. 147. Hogen-mogen 
 and vanden (properly van-der) were commonly used for 
 ludicrously denoting a Dutchman. — Weber. Skip- 
 jacks were youths who rode horses up and down for the 
 sight of purchasers.— Nakes. 
 
 Too soon, but she is happy : had she lived 
 Till now, and known the vanities your life 
 Hath dealt in, she had wish'd herself a grave 
 Before a timely hour. 
 
 Lev. Sir, consider 
 My sex; were I mankind, my sword should quit* 
 A wounded honour, and reprieve a name 
 From injury, by printing on their bosoms 
 Some deadly character, whose drunken surfeits 
 Vomit such base aspersions : as I am. 
 Scorn and contempt is virtue ; my desert 
 Stands far above their malice. 
 
 Mart. Levidolche, 
 Hypocrisy puts on a holy robe, 
 Yet never changeth nature ; call to mind 
 How, in your girl's days, you fell, forsooth. 
 In love, and married, — married (hark ye!) whom? 
 A trencher- waiter ; shrewd preferment ! but 
 Your childhood then excused that fault ; for so 
 Footmen have run away with lusty heirs, 
 And stable-grooms reach'd to some fair one's 
 chambers. 
 
 Lev. Pray let me not be bandied, sir, and bafHed, 
 By your intelligence. 
 
 Mart. So touch'd to the quick ! 
 Fine mistress, I will then rip up at length 
 The progress of your infamy : in colour 
 Of disagreement, you must be divorced ; 
 Were so, and I must countenance the reasons : 
 On better hopes I did, nay, took you home, 
 Provided you my care, nay, justified 
 Your alteration ; joy'd to entertain 
 Such visitants of worth and rank as tender'd 
 Civil respects : but then, even then — 
 
 Lev. What then? 
 Sweet uncle, do not spare me. 
 
 Mart. I more shame 
 To fear my hospitality was bawd. 
 And name it so, to your unchaste desires, 
 Than you to hear and know it. 
 
 Lev. Whose whore am I .'* 
 For that's your plainest meaning. 
 
 Mart. Were you modest. 
 The word you utter'd last would force a blush. 
 Adurui is a bounteous lord, 'tis said. 
 He parts with gold and jewels like a free 
 And liberal purchaser ! he wriggles in 
 To ladies' pleasures by a right of pension ; 
 But you know none of this! you are grown a 
 
 tavern- talk. 
 Matters for fiddlers' songs. I toil to build 
 The credit of my famil}'^, and you 
 To pluck up the foundation : even this morning, 
 Before the common-council, young Malfato — 
 (Convented ^ for some lands he held, supposed 
 Belong'd to certain orphans), as I question"d 
 His tenure in particulars, he answer'd, 
 My worship needed not to flaw his right ; 
 For if the humour held him, he could make 
 A jointure to my over-loving niece. 
 Without oppression ; bade me tell her too, 
 She was a kind young soul, and might in time 
 Be sued to by a loving man : no doubt, 
 Here was a jolly breakfast ! 
 
 Lev. Uncles are privileged 
 More than our parents ; some wise man in stata 
 Hath rectified, no doubt, your knowledge, sir. 
 Whilst all the policy for public business 
 Was spent, — for want of matter, I by chance 
 Fell into grave discourse ; but. by your leave, 
 I from a stranger's table rather wish 
 To earn my bread, than from a friend's by gift 
 Be daily subject to unfit reproofs. 
 
 1 quit — requite. 
 
 ' Convented seems here to mean summoned. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 469 
 
 Mart. Come, come, to the point. 
 
 Lev. All the curses 
 Due to a ravisher of sober truth, 
 Dam up their graceless mouths ! 
 
 Mart, l^ow you turn rampant, 
 Just in the wenches' trim and garb; these prayers 
 Speak your devotions piuely. 
 
 Lev. Sir, alas! \Weeps. 
 
 What would you have me do? I have no orators, 
 More than my tears, to plead my innocence. 
 Since you forsake me, and are pleas'd to lend 
 An open ear against my honest fame. 
 Would all their spite could harry ^ my contents 
 Unto a desperate ruin ! Oh, dear goodness ! 
 There is a right for wi-ongs. 
 
 Mart. There is ; but first 
 Sit in commission on your own defects, 
 Accuse yourself ; be your own jury, judge, 
 And executioner ; I make no sport 
 Of my vexation. 
 
 Lev. All the short remains 
 Of undesired life shall only speak 
 The extremity of penance ; your opinion 
 Enjoins it too. 
 
 Mart. Enough ; thy tears prevail 
 Against credulity. 
 
 Lev. My miseries. 
 As in a glass, present me the rent face 
 Of an imguided youth. 
 
 Mart. No more. 
 
 Enter Trelcatio with an open letter. 
 
 Trelcatio ! 
 Some business speeds you hither. 
 
 Trel. Happy news — 
 Signor Martino, pray your ear : my nephew, 
 Auria, hath done brave service ; and I hear — 
 Let's be exceeding private — is return'd 
 High in the Duke of Florence's respects ; 
 'Tis said — but make no words — that he has firk'd - 
 And mumbled the rogue Turks. 
 
 Mart. Why would you have 
 His merits so unknown ? 
 
 Trel. I am not yet 
 Confirm'd at full :— withdraw, and you shall read 
 All what this paper talks. 
 
 Mart. So ! — Levidolche, 
 You know our mind, be cheerful. — Come, Trel- 
 catio, — 
 Causes of joy or grief do seldom happen 
 Without companions near; thy resolutions 
 Have given another birth to my contents. 
 
 [_Exeunt Mart, and Trel. 
 
 Lev. Even so, wise uncle ! much good do ye. — 
 Discover'd ! 
 I could fly out, mix vengeance with my love — 
 Unworthy man, Malfato ! — my good lord, 
 My hot in blood, rare lord, grows cold too ! well, 
 Hise dotage into rage, and sleep no longer ; 
 Affection turn'd to hatred threatens mischief. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE III. 
 
 An Apartment in Adurni's House. 
 
 Enter Piero, Amoretta, Futelli, and Cas- 
 
 TANNA. 
 
 Piero. In the next gallery you may behold 
 Such living pictures, lady, such rich pieces. 
 Of kings, and queens, and princes, that you'd 
 
 think 
 They breathe and smile upon you. 
 
 1 Aarry— harass, vex, torment— Nabes. 
 ^firk'd — beaten. 
 
 Amor. Ha' they crownths, 
 Great crownths oth gold upon their headths ? 
 
 Piero. Pure gold ; 
 Drawn all in state. 
 
 Amor. How many horthes, pray, 
 Are ith their chariots ? 
 
 Piero. Sixteen, some twenty. 
 
 Cast. My sister ! wherefore left we her alone ? 
 Where stays she, gentlemen .' 
 
 Fut. Viewing the rooms ; 
 'Tis like you'll meet her in the gallery : 
 This house is full of curiosities, 
 Most fit for ladies' sights. 
 
 Amor. Yeth, yeth, the thight 
 Of printhethes ith a fine thight. 
 
 Cast. Good, let ns find her. 
 
 Piero. Sweet ladies, this way; see the doors 
 sure. \_Aside to Fut. 
 
 Fut. Doubt not. [[Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. 
 
 Another Room in the same. — A Banquet set out. 
 
 Enter Adurni and Spinella. — A Song within. 
 
 Pleasures, beauty, youth attend ye, 
 
 Whilst the spring of nature lasteth ; 
 Love and melting thoughts attend ye, 
 Use the time, ere winter hasteth. 
 Active blood, and free delight, 
 Place and privacy invite. 
 Do, do! be kind as fair. 
 Lose not opportunity for air.* 
 
 She is cruel that denies it, 
 
 Bounty best appears in granting, 
 Stealth of sport as soon supplies it. 
 Whilst the dues of love are wanting. 
 Here's the sweet exchange of bliss 
 When each whisper proves a kiss. 
 In the game are felt no pains, 
 For in all the loser gains. 
 
 Adur. Plead not, fair creature, without sense 
 of pity. 
 So incompassionately 'gainst a service. 
 In nothing faulty more than pure obedience : 
 My honours and my fortunes are led captives 
 In triumph, by your all-commanding beauty ; 
 And if you ever felt the power of love, 
 The rigour of an uncontrolled passion, 
 The tyranny of thoughts, consider mine, 
 In some proportion, by the strength of yours ; 
 Thus may you yield and conquei'. 
 
 Spin. Do not study, 
 My lord, to apparel folly in the weed 
 Of costly colours ; henceforth cast off far, 
 Far from your noblest nature, the contempt 
 Of goodness, and be gentler to your fame. 
 By purchase of a life to grace your story. 
 
 Adur. Dear, how sweetly 
 Eeproof drops from that balmy spring your 
 
 breath ! 
 Now could I read a lecture of my griefs, 
 Unearth a mine of jewels at your foot, 
 Command a golden shower to rain down, 
 Impoverish every kingdom of the east, 
 Which traffics richest clothes, and silks, would 
 
 you 
 Vouchsafe one unspleen'd chiding to my riot, 
 Else such a sacrifice can but beget 
 Suspicion of returns to my devotion. 
 In mercenary blessings ; for that saint 
 To whom I vow myself, must never want 
 Fit offerings to her altar. 
 
 1 air must here mean haughty affectation of virtue. 
 — Wjebeb. 
 
470 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Spin. Auria, Auria, 
 Fight not for name abroad; but come, my hus- 
 band, 
 Figbt for thy wife at home ! 
 
 Adur. Oh, never rank. 
 Dear cruelty, one that is sworn your creature. 
 Amongst your country's enemies ; I use 
 No force, but humble words, deliver'd from 
 A tongue that's secretary to my heart. 
 
 Spin. How poorly some, tame to their wild 
 desires, 
 Fawn on abuse of virtue ! Pray, my lord, 
 Make not your house my prison. 
 
 Adur. Grant a freedom 
 To him who is the bondman to your beauty. — 
 [J. noise within, and the door is forced. 
 
 Enter Av^e,l,io, followed by Castanna, Amo- 
 
 KETTA, FUTELLT, and PlERO. 
 
 Aurel. Keep back, ye close contrivers of false 
 pleasures. 
 Or I shall force ye back. — Can it be possible ? 
 Lock'd up, and singly too ! chaste hospitality ! 
 A banquet in a bed-chamber ! Adurni, 
 Dishonourable man ! 
 
 Adur. What sees this rudeness. 
 That can broach scandal here ? 
 
 Aurel. For you, hereafter. — 
 Oh, woman, lost to every brave report. 
 Thy wrong'd Auria is come home with glory ! 
 Prepare a welcome to uncrown the greatness 
 Of his prevailing fates. 
 
 Spin. Whiles you, belike. 
 Are furnish'd with some news for entertainment. 
 Which must become your friendship, to be knit 
 More fast betwixt your souls, by my removal 
 Both from his heart and memory ! 
 
 Adur. Rich conquest. 
 To triumph on a lady's injured fame, 
 Without a proof or warrant ! 
 
 Fut. Have I life, sir? 
 Faith? Christianity? 
 
 Piero. Put me on the rack, 
 The wheel, or the galleys, if — 
 
 Aurel. Peace, factors 
 In merchandise of scorn! your sounds are deadly. 
 Castanna, I could pity your consent 
 To such ignoble practice ; but I find 
 Coarse fortunes easily seduced, and herein 
 All claim to goodness ceases. 
 
 Cast. Use your tyranny. 
 
 Spin. What rests behind for me ? out with it ! 
 
 Aurel. Horror, 
 Becoming such a forfeit of obedience ; 
 Hope not that any falsity in friendship 
 Can palliate a broken faith, it dares not. 
 Leave, in thy prayers, fair, vow-breaking wanton. 
 To dress thy soul anew, whose pur-er whiteness 
 Is sullied by thy change from truth to folly. 
 A fearful storm is hovering, it will fall ; 
 No shelter can avoid it : let the guilty 
 Sink under their own ruin. [Exit. 
 
 Spin. How unmanly 
 His anger threatens mischief ! 
 
 Amor. Whom, I pr'ythee. 
 Doth the man speak to ? 
 
 Adur. Lady, be not mov'd ; 
 I will stand champion for your honour, hazard 
 All what is dearest to me. 
 
 Spin. Mercy, heaven ! 
 Champion for me, and Auria living ! Auria ! 
 He lives ; and, for my guard, my innocence, 
 As free as are my husband's clearest thoughts. 
 Shall keep off vain constructions. I must beg 
 Your charities ; sweet sister, yours, to leave me ; 
 I need no followers now : let me appear, 
 Or mine own lawyer, or, in open court, 
 
 (Like some forsaken client), in my suit 
 
 Be cast for want of honest plea — oh, misery ! 
 
 l^Exit. 
 Adur. Her resolution's violent; — quickly follow. 
 Cast. By no means, sir: you've followed her 
 already, 
 I fear, with too much ill success, in trial 
 Of unbecoming courtesies, your welcome 
 Ends in so sad a farewell. 
 
 Adur. I will stand 
 The roughness of th' encounter, like a gentleman. 
 And wait ye to your homes, whate'er befall me. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE L 
 
 The Street lefore Martixo's Rouse. 
 Enter Fulgoso and Guz:yiA]sr. 
 
 Ful. I say, Don, brother mine, win her and 
 wear her. 
 And so will I ; if't be my luck to lose her, 
 I lose a pretty wench, and there's the worst on't. 
 Guz. Wench, said ye ? most mechanically, 
 faugh ! 
 Wench is your trull, your blowze,i your dowdie ; 
 
 but, 
 Sir brother, he who names my queen of love 
 Without his bonnet veil'd, or saying grace. 
 As at some paranymphal feast, is rude. 
 Nor vers'd in literature. Dame Amoretta, 
 Lo, I am sworn thy champion ! 
 
 Ful. So am I too, — 
 Can as occasion serves, if she turns scurvy, 
 Unswear mj^self again, and ne'er change coloui's. 
 Pish, man ! the best, though call 'em ladies, 
 
 madams, 
 Fairs, fines, and honeys, are but flesh and blood. 
 And now and then too, when the fit's come on 
 
 'em. 
 Will prove themselves but flirts, and tirliry- 
 pufkins. 
 Guz. Our choler must advance. 
 Ful. Dost long for a beating ? 
 Shall's try a slash ? here's that shall do't ; I'll tap 
 
 [Draws. 
 A gallon of thy brains, and fill thy hogshead 
 With two of wine for't. 
 
 Guz. Not in friendship, brother. 
 Ful. Or whistle thee into an ague : hang it, 
 Be sociable ; drink till we roar and scratch ; 
 Then drink ourselves asleep again : — the fashion ! 
 Thou dost not know the fashion. 
 
 Guz. Her fair eyes. 
 Like to a pair of pointed beams drawn from 
 The sun's most glorious orb, do dazzle sight, 
 Audacious to gaze there ; then over those 
 A several bow of jet securely twines 
 In semicircles ; under them two banks 
 Of roses red and white, divided by 
 An arch of polish'd ivory, surveying 
 A temple from whence oracles proceed, 
 More gracious than Apollo's, more desired 
 Than amorous songs of poets, softly tuned. 
 Ful. Heyday ! what's this ? 
 Guz. Oh ! but those other parts, 
 All— 
 
 Ful. All ?— hold there, I bar play under board, 
 My part yet lies therein ; you never saw 
 The things you wire-draw thus. 
 
 1 hlowze — a vulvar term for a ruddy country girL 
 Tirliry-pu/kins, which occurs lower down, was probably 
 a cant word for strumpet at the time. — Webeb. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 471 
 
 Giiz. I have dreamt 
 Of every part about her, can lay open 
 Her several inches, as exactly — mark it — 
 As if I had took measure with a compass, 
 A rule, or yard, from head to foot. 
 
 Ful. Oh, rare ! 
 And all this in a dream ! 
 
 Guz. A very dream, 
 
 Ful. My waking brother soldier is turn'd 
 Into a sleeping carpenter, or tailor, 
 ^Vhich goes for half a man. — What's he ? {seeing 
 Benatzi) bear up ! 
 
 Enter Benatzi, as an outlaio, Levidolche at a 
 window above. 
 
 Ben. Death of reputation, the wheel, strappado, 
 galleys, rack, are ridiculous fopperies ; goblins 
 to fright babies. Poor lean-soul'd rogues I they 
 will swoon at the scar of a pin ; one tear dropp'd 
 from their harlot's eyes breeds earthquakes in 
 their bones. 
 
 Ful. Bless us ! a monster, patch'd of dagger- 
 bombast. 
 His eyes like copper-basons ; he has changed 
 Hair with a shag-dog. 
 
 Guz. Let us then avoid him, 
 Or stand upon our guard ; the foe approaches. 
 
 Ben. Cutthroats by the score abroad, come 
 home, and rot in fripperies.* Brave man-at-^rms, 
 go turn pander, do; stalk for a mess of warm 
 broth — damnable ! honourable cuts are but 
 badges for a fool to vaunt ; the raw - ribb'd 
 apothecary poisons cum privilegio, and is paid. 
 Oh, the commonwealth of beasts is most politicly 
 ordered ! 
 
 Guz. Brother, we'll keep aloof, there is no 
 valour 
 In tugging with a man-fiend. 
 
 Ful. I defy him. 
 It gabbles like I know not what : — believe it. 
 The fellow's a shrewd fellow at a pink. 
 
 Ben. Look else : the lion roars, and the spaniel 
 fawns ; down, cur ; the badger bribes the unicorn, 
 that a jury may not pass upon his pillage : here 
 the bear fees the wolf, for he will not howl gratis ; 
 — beasts call pleading howling — So then ! there 
 the horse complains of the ape's rank riding ; the 
 jockey makes mouths, but is fined for it ; the stag 
 is not jeer'd by the monkey for his horns ; the 
 ass by the hare for his burthen ; the ox by the 
 leopard for his yoke; nor the goat by the ram 
 for his beard : only the fox wraps himself warm 
 in beaver, bids the cat mouse, the elephant toil, 
 the boar gather acorns ; while he grins, feeds 
 fat, tells tales, laughs at all, and sleeps safe at 
 the lion's feet. — Save ye, people, 
 
 Ful. Why, save thee too, if thou be'st of Hea- 
 ven's making : 
 What art ? — fear nothing, Don, we have our 
 
 blades. 
 Are metal men ourselves, try us who dare. 
 
 Guz. Our brother speaks our mind, think what 
 you please on't, 
 
 Ben. A match; observe well this switch ; with 
 this only switch have I pash'd^ out the brains of 
 thirteen Turks to the dozen, for a breakfast. 
 
 Ful. What, man, thirteen! is't possible thou 
 liest not ? 
 
 Ben. I was once a scholar, then I begg'd with- 
 out pity ; from thence I practised law, there a 
 scruple of conscience popp'd me over the bar : a 
 soldier I turn'd a while, but could not procure 
 the letter of preferment. Merchant I would be. 
 
 1 fripperies — old clothes shops. — Wkbeb. 
 
 2 pas/i'd—b&sli'd, knocked. 
 
 and a glut of land-rats gnaw'd me to the bones ; 
 would have bought an office, but the places with 
 reversions were catch'd up ; offered to pass into 
 the court, and wanted trust for clothes ; was 
 lastly, for my good parts, press'd into the galleys, 
 took prisoner, redeemed amongst other slaves by 
 your gay great man, they call him Auria ; and 
 am now I know not who, where, or what. How 
 d'ye like me ? — say. 
 
 Ful. A shaver of all trades ! What course of 
 life 
 Dost mean to follow next? ha! speak thy mind, 
 
 Guz. Nor be thou daunted, fellow; we our- 
 selves 
 Have felt the frowns of fortune in our days. 
 
 Ben. I want extremely, exceedingly, hideously. 
 
 Lev. [^Above.! Take that, enjoy it freely, wisely 
 use it, [to] 
 Th' advantage of thy fate, and know the giver. 
 
 [Th7'0ws him a purse, and draws back. 
 
 Ful. Heyday ! a purse in troth, who dropp'd ? 
 — stay, stay: 
 Umph, have we gipsies here ? oh, mine is safe ; 
 Is't your purse, brother Don ? 
 
 Guz. Not mine ; I seldom 
 Wear such unfashionable trash about me. 
 
 Ful. Has it any money in it, honest blade ? 
 A bots ' on empty purses ! 
 
 Guz. We defy them. 
 
 Ben. Stand from about me, as you are mortal ! 
 You are dull clod-pated lumps of mire and gar- 
 bish. This is the land of fairies. — Imperial 
 queen of elves, I do crouch to thee, vow my 
 services, my blood, my sinews to thee, sweet 
 sovereign of largess, and liberality. — A French 
 tailor — neat ! — Persian cook — dainty ! — Greek 
 wines — rich ! — Flanders mares — stately ! — Span- 
 ish salads — poignant I — Venetian wanton — ra- 
 vishing ! — English bawd — unmatchable ! — Sirs, 
 I am fitted. 
 
 Ful. All these thy followers? miserable pig- 
 mies! 
 Prate sense and don't be mad ; I like thy humour, 
 'Tis pretty, odd, and so — as one might say, 
 I care not greatly if I entertain thee : 
 Dost want a master? if thou dost, I am for thee ; 
 Else choose, and sneck up!^ pish, I scorn to 
 flinch, man. 
 
 Guz. Forsake not fair advancement; money, 
 certes, 
 Will flit and drop off, like a cozening friend; 
 Who holds it, holds a slippery eel by th' tail, 
 Unless he gripe it fast : be ruled by counsel. 
 
 Ben. Excellent ! what place shall I be admitted 
 to ? chamber, wardrobe, cellar, or stable ? 
 
 Ful. Why, one and all ; thou'rt welcome, let's 
 shake hands on't. 
 Thy name? 
 
 Ben. Parado, sir. 
 
 Ful. The great affairs 
 I shall employ thee most in, will be news, 
 And telling what's a clock, for aught I know yet. 
 
 Ben. It is, sir, to speak punctually, some hour 
 and half, eight three thirds of two seconds of 
 one minute over at most, sir. 
 
 Ful. I do not ask thee now, or if I did, 
 We are not much the wiser: and for news — 
 
 Ben. Auria, the fortunate, is this day to be re- 
 ceived with great solemnity at the city council- 
 house ; the streets are already throng'd with 
 lookers-on. 
 
 ■1 bots are a kind of worms that feed on horses.— j 
 Weber. Sometimes used for ^ax. 
 2 sneck up — be hanged. 
 
472 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ful. That's well remember'd ; brother Don, 
 let's tx-udge, 
 Or we shall come too late. 
 GiAZ. By no means, brother. 
 Ful. Wait close, my ragged new-come. 
 Ben. As your shadows. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.-SCENE II. 
 
 A Hall in the House of Kvkix. 
 
 Entei' AuRiA, Adurni, Martino, Trelcatio, 
 AuRELio, PiERO, and Futelli. 
 
 Aur. Your favours, with these honours, speak 
 your bounties ; 
 And though the low deserts of success 
 Appear, in your constructions, fair and goodly. 
 Yet I attribute to a noble cause, 
 Kot my abilities, the thanks due to them. 
 The Duke of Florence had too highly prized 
 My duty in my service, by example, 
 Eather to cherish and encourage virtue. 
 In spirits of action, than to crown the issue 
 Of feeble undertakings. Whilst my life 
 Can stand in use, I shall no longer rate it 
 In value, than it stirs to pay that debt 
 I owe my country for my birth and fortunes. 
 
 Mart. Which to make good, our state of Genoa, 
 Not willing that a native of her own. 
 So able for her safety, should take pension 
 From any other prince, hath cast upon you 
 The government of Corsica. 
 
 Trel. Adds thereto. 
 Besides th' allowance yearly due, for ever, 
 To you and to your heirs, the full revenue 
 Belonging to Savona, with the office 
 Of admiral of Genoa. 
 
 Adur. Presenting 
 By my hands, from their public treasury, 
 A thousand ducats. 
 
 Mart. But they limit only 
 One month of stay for your despatch ; no more. 
 
 Fut. In all your great attempts, may you gi-ow 
 thrifty, 
 Secure and prosperous ! 
 
 Piero. If you please to rank, 
 Amongst the humblest, one that shall attend 
 Instructions under your command, I am 
 Ready to wait the charge. 
 
 Aur. Oh, still the state 
 Engageth me her creature, with the burthen 
 Unequal for my weakness : to you, gentlemen, 
 I will prove friendly honest ; of all mindful. 
 
 Adur. In memory, my lord (such is your 
 style now), 
 Of your late fortunate exploits, the council. 
 Amongst their general acts, have register'd 
 The great duke's letters, witness of your merit, 
 To stand in characters upon record. 
 
 Aur. Load upon load I let not my want of 
 modesty 
 Trespass against good manners ; I must study 
 Eetirement to compose this weighty business, 
 And moderately digest so large a plenty, 
 For fear it swell into a surfeit. 
 
 Adur. May I 
 Be bold to press a visit ? 
 
 Aur. At your pleasure : 
 Good time of day, and peace ! 
 
 All. Health to your lordship ! 
 
 \_Exeunt all hut Adurni and Futelli. 
 
 Adur. What of Spinella yet ? 
 
 Fut. Quite lost ; no prints. 
 Or any tongue of tracing her. However 
 Matters are huddled up, I doubt, my lord. 
 Her husband carries little peace about him. 
 
 Adur. Fall danger what fall can, she is a good- 
 ness 
 Above temptation ; more to be adored 
 Than sifted; I'm to blame, sure. 
 
 Fut. Levidolche, 
 For her part too, laugh'd at Malfato's frenzy 
 (Just so she term'd it); but for you, my lord. 
 She said she thank'd your charity, which lent 
 Her crooked soul, before it left her body, 
 Some respite, wherein it might learn again 
 The means of growing straight. 
 
 Adur. She has found mercy ; 
 Which I will seek and sue for. 
 
 Fut. You are happy. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 
 Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Auria and Aurelio. 
 
 Aur. Count of Savona! Genoa's admiral! 
 Lord governor of Corsica ! enroll'd 
 A worthy of my country ! sought and sued to. 
 Praised, courted, flatter'd! sure this bulk^ of 
 
 mine 
 Tails in the size a tympany of greatness. 
 Puffs up too monstrously my narrow chest. 
 How surely dost thou malice 2 these extremes, 
 Uncomfortable man ! When I was needy, 
 Cast naked on the flats of barren pity, 
 Abated to an ebb so low, that boys 
 A cock-horse frisk'd about me without plunge, 
 You could chat gravely then, in formal tones, 
 Reason most paradoxically ; now. 
 Contempt and wilful grudge at my uprising 
 Becalms your learned noise. 
 
 Aurel. Such flourish, Auria, 
 Flies with so swift a gale, as it will waft 
 Thy sudden joys into a faithless harbour. 
 
 Aur. Canst mutter mischief ? I observ'd your 
 dulness, 
 Whilst the whole ging' crow'd to me. Hark! 
 
 my triumphs 
 Are echo'd under every roof ; the air 
 Is straiten'd with the sound, there is not room 
 Enough to brace them in ; but not a thought 
 Doth pierce into the gi-ief that cabins here : 
 Here, through a creek, a little inlet, crawls 
 A flake, no bigger than a spider's thread, 
 Which sets the region of my heart a-fire. 
 I had a kingdom once, but am deposed 
 From all that royalty of blest content, 
 By a confederacy 'twixt love and frailty. 
 
 Aurel. Glories in public view but add to misery. 
 Which travails in unrest at home. 
 
 Aur. At home I 
 That home Aurelio speaks of I have lost, 
 And, which is worst, when I have roll'd about^ 
 Toil'd like a pilgrim round this globe of earth, 
 Wearied with care, and overworn with age. 
 Lodged in the grave, I am not yet at home ; 
 There rots but half of me, the other part 
 Sleeps, Heaven knows where : would she and I— 
 
 my wife 
 I mean, — but what, alas ! talk I of wife ? — 
 The woman — would we had together fed 
 On any outcast pai'ings, coarse and mouldy, 
 Not lived divided thus ! I could have begg'd 
 For both ; for't had been pity she should ever 
 Have felt so much extremity. 
 
 1 hulk — body. 
 
 2 fnaZice— regard with ill-will. Extremes refers to 
 Aiu-ia's extreme honours.— Wkbke. 
 
 3 ging—gaag, crew. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 All 
 
 Aurel. This is not 
 Patience required in wrongs of such vile nature : 
 You pity her ; think rather on revenge. 
 
 Aur. Revenge ! for what? uncharitable friend, 
 On whom? let's speak a little, pray, with reason. 
 You found Spinella in Adurni's house : 
 'Tis like he gave her welcome — very likely: 
 Her sister and another with her ; so ! 
 Invited, nobly done ; but he with her 
 Privately chamber'd : — he deserves no wife 
 Of worthy quality, who dares not trust 
 Her virtue in the proofs of any danger. 
 
 Aurel. But I broke ope the doors upon them. 
 
 Aur. Marry, 
 It was a slovenly presumption, 
 And punishable by a sharp rebuke. 
 I tell you, sir, I, in my younger growth, 
 Have by the stealth of privacy eujoy'd 
 A lady's closet, where to have profaned 
 That shrine of chastity and innocence 
 With one unhallow'd word, would have exiled 
 The freedom of such favour into scorn. 
 Had any he alive then ventured there, 
 AVith foul construction, I had stamp'd the justice 
 Of my unguilty truth upon his heart. 
 
 Aurel. Adurni might have done the like ; but 
 that 
 The conscience of his fault, in coward blood, 
 JBlush'd at the quick surprisal. 
 
 Aur. Oh fie, fie ! 
 How ill some argiie, in their sour reproof, 
 Against a party liable to law ! 
 For had that lord offended with that creature. 
 Her presence would have doubled every strength 
 Of man in him, and justified the forfeit 
 Of noble shame; else 'twas enough in both 
 "With a smile only to correct your rudeness. 
 
 Aurel. 'Tis well you make such use of neigh- 
 bours' courtesy : 
 Some kind of beasts are tame, and hug their 
 Such way leads to a fame too ! [injuries ; 
 
 Aur. Not uncivilly. 
 Though violently, friend. 
 
 Aurel. Wherefore, then, think you, 
 Can she absent herself, if she be blameless ? 
 You grant, of course, your triumphs are pro- 
 
 claim'd ; 
 And 1 in person told her your return: 
 Where lies she hid the while ? 
 
 Aur. That rests for answer 
 In you ; now I come to you : we have exchanged 
 Bosoms, Aurelio, from our years of childhood ; 
 Let me acknowledge with what pride I own 
 A man so faithful, honest, fast, my fi-iend ; 
 He whom, if I speak fully, never fail'd, 
 By teaching trust to me, to learn of mine : 
 I wish'd myself thine equal ; if I aim'd 
 Awrong, 'twas in an envy of thy goodness ; 
 So dearly (witness with me my integrity) 
 I laid thee up to heart, that, from ray love, 
 My wife was but distinguish'd in her sex : 
 Give back that holy signature of friendship, 
 Cancell'd, defaced, pluck'd off, or I shall urge 
 Accounts, scored on the tally of my vengeance. 
 Without all former compliments. 
 
 Aurel. D'you imagine 
 I faAvn upon your fortunes, or intrude 
 Upon the hope of bettering my estate. 
 That you cashier me at a minute's warning? 
 Ko, Auria, I dare vie with your respects ; 
 Put both into the balance, and the poise 
 Shall make a settled stand : perhaps the proffer. 
 So frankly vow'd at your departure first, 
 Of settling me a partner in your purchase. 
 Leads you into opinion of some ends 
 Of mercenary falsehood; yet such wrong 
 Least suits a noble soul. 
 
 Aur. By all my sorrows. 
 The mention is too coarse. 
 
 Aurel. Since then the occasion 
 Presents our discontinuance, use your liberty } 
 For my part, I am resolute to die 
 The same my life profess'd me. 
 
 Aur. Pish I your faith 
 Was never in suspicion ; but consider, 
 Neither the lord, nor lady, nor the bawd. 
 Which shuffled them together. Opportunity, 
 Have fasten'd stain on my unquestion'd name ; 
 My friend's rash indiscretion was the bellows 
 Which blew the coal (now kindled to a flame), 
 Will light his slander to all wandering eyes. 
 Some men in giddy zeal o'erdo that office 
 They catch at, of whose number is Aurelio : 
 For I am certain, certain, it had been 
 Impossible, had you stood wisely silent, 
 But my Spinella, trembling on her knee. 
 Would have accus'd her breach of truth, and 
 
 begg'd 
 A speedy execution on her trespass ; 
 Then Avith a justice, lawful as the magistrate's, 
 Might I have drawn my sword against Adurni, 
 Which now is sheath'd and rusted in the 
 
 scabbard. 
 Good thanks to your cheap providence ! — Once 
 
 more 
 I make demand — my wife ! — you — sir — 
 
 [^Draws his sword. 
 Aurel. Roar louder. 
 The noise affrights not me; threaten your 
 
 enemies, 
 And prove a valiant tongue-man; — now must 
 
 follow. 
 By way of method, the exact condition 
 Of rage which runs to mutiny in friendship. 
 Auria, come on, this weapon looks not pale 
 
 \_Draws. 
 At sight of that. Again hear, and believe it, 
 AVhat I have done, was well done and well 
 
 meant ; 
 Twenty times over, were it new to do, 
 I'd do't and do't, and boast the pains religious* 
 Yet since you shake me off, I slightly value 
 Other severity. 
 
 Aur. Honour and duty 
 Stand my compurgators : never did passion 
 Purpose ungentle usage of my sword 
 Against Aurelio ; let me rather want 
 My hands, nay, friend, a heart, than ever suffer 
 Such dotage enter here. If I must lose 
 Spinella, let me not proceed to misery. 
 By losing my Aurelio : we, thr-ough madness, 
 Frame strange conceits in our discoursing^ 
 
 brains, 
 And prate of things as we pretend they were. 
 Join help to mine, good man, and let us listen 
 After this straying soul, and, till we find her. 
 Bear our discomfort quietly. 
 
 Aurel. So, doubtless, 
 She may be soon discover'd. 
 
 Aur. That's spoke cheerfully. 
 Why, there's a friend now ! — Auria and Aurelio 
 At odds! oh! it cannot be, must not, and shall 
 
 not. — 
 
 Enter Castanna. 
 
 But look, Castanna's here ! — Welcome, fair figure 
 Of choice jewel, lock'd up in a cabinet, 
 More precious than the public view should sully. 
 Cast. Sir, how you are informed, or on what 
 terms 
 Of prejudice against my course or custom, 
 
 ^discoursing — thinking, reasoning; an old sense ol 
 the word. — Wjcbeb. 
 
474 
 
 777^ ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Opinion sways your confidence, I know not. 
 Much anger, if my fears persuade not falsely. 
 Sits on this gentleman's stern brow ; yet, sir. 
 If an unbappy maid's word may find credit, 
 As I wish harm to nobody on earth, 
 So would all good folks may wish none to me ! 
 
 Aur. None does, sweet sister. 
 
 Cast. If they do, dear Heaven 
 Forgive them, is my prayer ; but, perhaps, 
 You might conceive (and yet methinks you 
 
 should not) 
 How I am faulty in my sister's absence : 
 Indeed, 'tis nothing so, nor was I knowing 
 Of any private speech my lord intended, 
 Save civil entertainment : pray, what hurt 
 Can fall out in discourse, if it be modest ? 
 Sure noblemen will show that they are such 
 With those of their own rank ;— and that was all 
 My sister can be charged with. 
 
 Au)\ Is't not, friend, 
 An excellent maid ? 
 
 Aurel. Deserves the best of fortunes ; 
 I ever spoke her virtuous. 
 
 Cast. With your leave. 
 You used most ciniel language to my sister, 
 Enough to fright her wits: not very kind 
 To me myself ; she sigh'd when you were gone, 
 Desired no creature else should follow her ; 
 And, in good truth, I was so full of weeping, 
 I mark'd not well which way she went. 
 
 Aur. Stay'd she not 
 Within the house, then ? 
 
 Cast. 'Las, not she ! — Aurelio 
 Was passing rough. 
 
 Aur. Strange ! nowhere to be found ? 
 
 Cast. Not yet ; but, on my life, ere many hours, 
 I shall hear from her. 
 
 Au7\ Shalt thou ? Worthy maid, 
 Thou hast brought to my sick heart a cordial. — 
 
 Friend, 
 Good news ! — most sweet Castanna ! 
 
 Aurel. May it prove so. lExeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IV. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Benatzi. 
 
 Ben. The paper in the purse for my directions 
 appointed this the place, the time now : here 
 dance I attendance ; she is come already. 
 
 Enter Levidolche. 
 
 Lev. Parado ! so I overheard you named. 
 
 Ben. A mushroom, sprung up in a minute by 
 the sunshine of your benevolent grace. Libe- 
 rality, and hospitable compassion, most magnifi- 
 cent beauty, have long since lain bedrid in the 
 ashes of the old world, till now your illustrious 
 charity hath raked up the dead embers, by giving 
 life to a worm inevitably devoted yours, as you 
 shall please to new-shape me. 
 
 Lev. A grateful man, it seems. Where gratitude 
 Has harbour, other furniture, becoming 
 Accomplish'd qualities, must needs inhabit. 
 
 [Aside. 
 What country claims your birth ? 
 
 Ben. None ; I was born at sea, as my mother 
 was in passage from Cape Ludugory to Cape 
 Cagliari, toward Afric, in Sardinia ; was bred up 
 in Aquilastro, and, at years, put myself in ser- 
 vice under the Spanish viceroy, till I was taken 
 prisoner by the Turks. I have tasted in my 
 days handsome store of good and bad, and am 
 thankful for both. 
 
 Lev. You seem the issue, then, of honest pa- 
 rents. 
 
 Ben. Eeputed no less : many children often- 
 times inherit their lands who peradventure never 
 begot them. My mother's husband was a very 
 old man at my birth ; but no man is too old to 
 father his wife's child. Your servant, I am sure, 
 I will ever prove entirely. 
 
 Lev. Dare you be secret ? 
 
 Ben. Yes. 
 
 Lev. And sudden ? 
 
 Ben. Yes. 
 
 Lev. But, withal, sure of hand and spirit ? 
 
 Ben. Yes, yes, yes. 
 
 Lev. 1 use not many words, the time prevents 
 A man of quality has robb'd mine honoiir. ['em : 
 
 Ben. Name him. 
 
 Lev. Adurni. 
 
 Ben. He shall bleed. 
 
 Lev. Malfato 
 Contemn'd my proffer'd love. 
 
 Ben. Yoke them in death. — 
 AVhat's my reward ? 
 
 Lev. Propose it, and enjoy it. 
 
 Ben. You for my wife. 
 
 Lev. Ha! 
 
 Ben. Nothing else : deny me. 
 And I'll betray your counsels to your ruin ; 
 Else, do the feat courageously. — Consider. 
 
 Lev. I do : despatch the task I have enjoin'd, 
 Then claim my promise. 
 
 Ben. No such matter, pretty one — 
 We'll marry first — or — farewell. {Going. 
 
 Lev. Stay: examine 
 From my confession what a plague thou draw'st 
 Into thy bosom ; though I blush to say it. 
 Know, I have, without sense of shame or honour. 
 Forsook a lawful mai-riage-bed, to dally 
 Between Adurni'.s arms. 
 
 Ben. This lord's? 
 
 Lev. The same. 
 More ; not content with him, I courted 
 A newer pleasure, but was there refused 
 By him I named so late. 
 
 Ben. Malfato ? 
 
 Lev. Eight: 
 Am henceforth resolutely bent to print 
 My follies on their hearts ; then change my life 
 For some rare penance. Canst thou love me 
 
 Ben. Better; [now? 
 
 I do believe 'tis possible you may mend : 
 All this breaks off no bargain. 
 
 Lev. Accept my hand ; with this a faith as 
 constant 
 As vows can urge ; nor shall my haste prevent 
 This contract, which death only must divorce. 
 
 Be7i. Settle the time. 
 
 Lev. Meet here to-morrow night ; 
 We will determine further, as behoves us. 
 
 Ben. How is my new love call'd ? 
 
 Lev. Levidolche. 
 Be confident. 1 bring a worthy portion. — 
 But you'll fly off. 
 
 Ben. Not I, by all that's noble ! 
 A kiss — farewell, dear fate ! {Exit. 
 
 Lev. Love is sharp-sighted, 
 And can pierce through the cunning of disguises. 
 False pleasures I cashier ye : fair truth welcome 1 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ACT IV.-SCENE L 
 
 A Room in the House o/'Malfatd. 
 
 Enter Malfato and Spinella. 
 
 Mai. Here you are safe, sad cousin; if you 
 please, 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 475 
 
 May over-say the circumstance of what 
 
 You late discours'd : mine ears are gladly open, 
 
 For I myself am in such hearty league 
 
 "With solitary thoughts, that pensive language 
 
 Chai*ms my attention. 
 
 Spin. But my husband's honours, 
 By how much more in him they sparkle clearly, 
 By so much more they tempt belief to credit 
 The wreck and ruin of my injured name. 
 
 Mai. Why, cousin, should the earth cleave to 
 the roots, 
 The seas and heavens be mingled in disorder, 
 Your purity with unaffrighted eyes 
 Might wait the uproar ; 'tis the guilty trembles 
 At horrors, not the innocent ! you are cruel 
 In censuring a liberty allow'd. 
 Speak freely, gentle cousin, was Adurni 
 Importunately wanton "i 
 
 Spin. In excess 
 Of entertainment, else not. 
 
 Hal. Not the boldness 
 Of an uncivil courtship ? 
 
 Spill. What that meant 
 I never understood. I have at once 
 Set bars between my best of earthly joys, 
 And best of men ; so excellent a man 
 As lives without comparison ; his love 
 To me was matchless. 
 
 31al. Yet put case, sweet cousin. 
 That I could name a creature, whose affection 
 Followed your Auria in the height ; affection 
 To you, even to Spinella, true and settled 
 A.S ever Auria's was, can, is, or will be ; 
 You may not chide the story. 
 
 Spin. Fortune's minions 
 Are flatter'd, not the miserable. 
 
 3Ial. Listen 
 To a strange tale, which thus the author sigh'd. 
 A kinsman of Spinella (so it runs), 
 Her father's sister's son, some time before 
 Auria, the fortunate, possessed her beauties. 
 Became enamour'd of such rare perfections 
 As she Avas stored with ; fed his idle hopes 
 With possibilities of lawful conquest ; 
 Proposed each difficulty in pursuit 
 Of what his vain supposal styled his own ; 
 Found in the argument one only flaw 
 Of conscience, by the nearness of their bloods — 
 Unhappy scruple, easily dispens'd with. 
 Had any fi-iend's advice resolv'd the doubt. 
 Still on he loved, and loved, and wish'd, and 
 
 wish'd ; 
 Eftsoon began to speak, yet soon broke off. 
 And still the fondling durst not — 'cause he durst 
 not. 
 
 Spin. 'Twas wonderful. 
 
 Mai. Exceeding wonderful. 
 Beyond all wonder ; yet 'tis known for truth. 
 After her marriage, when remain'd not ought 
 Of expectation to such fruitless dotage. 
 His reason then, now — then — could not reduce 
 The violence of passion, though he vow'd 
 Ne'er to unlock that secret, scarce to her, 
 Herself, Spinella ; and withal resolv'd 
 Not to come near her presence, but to avoid 
 All opportunities, however proffer'd. 
 
 Spin. An understanding duU'd by the infe- 
 licity 
 Of constant sorrow, is not apprehensive 
 In pregnant novelty ; my ears receive 
 The words you utter, cousin, but my thoughts 
 Are fasten'd on another subject. 
 
 Mai. Can you 
 Embrace, so like a darling, your own woes, 
 And play the tyrant with a partner in them ? 
 Then I am thankful for th' advantage ; urg'd 
 By fatal and enjoin'd necessity, 
 
 To stand up in defence of injur'd virtue ; 
 Will, against any, I except no quality, 
 Maintain all supposition misapplied, 
 Unhonest, false, and villanous. 
 
 Spin. Dear cousin, 
 As you're a gentleman — 
 
 Mai. I'll bless that hand, 
 Whose honourable pity seals the passport 
 For my incessant turmoils to their rest. 
 If I prevail (which Heaven forbid I), these ages 
 Which shall inherit ours, may tell posterity 
 Spinella had Malfato for a kinsman, 
 By noble love made jealous of her fame. 
 
 Spin. No more ; I dare not hear it. 
 
 Mai. All is said : 
 Henceforth shall never syllable proceed^ 
 From my unpleasant voice, of amorous folly. 
 
 Enter Castanxa. 
 
 Cast. Your summons Avarn'd me hither ; I am 
 come. 
 Sister ! my sister, 'twas an unkind part 
 Not to take me along wi' you. 
 
 Mai. Chide her for it ; 
 Castanna, this house is as freely yours 
 As ever was your father's. 
 
 Cast. AVe conceive so. 
 Though your late strangeness hath bred marvel 
 
 in us. 
 But wherefore, sister, keeps your silence distance ? 
 Am I not welcome to you ? 
 
 Spin. Lives Auria safe ? 
 Oh, pr'ythee do not hear me call him husband, 
 Before thou canst resolve what kind of wife 
 His fury terms the runaway ; speak quickly, 
 Yet do not, — stay, Castanna, — I am lost ! 
 His friend hath set before him a bad woman, 
 And he, good man, believes it. 
 
 Cast. Now, in truth — 
 
 Spin. Hold ! my heart trembles ; I perceive 
 thy tongue 
 Is great with ills, and hastes to be deliver'd ; 
 I should not use Castanna so. First tell me, 
 Shortly and truly tell me, how he does. 
 
 Cast. In perfect health. 
 
 Spin. For that, my thanks to Heaven. 
 
 3Ial. The world hath not another wife like 
 this. — 
 Cousin, you will not hear your sister speak^ 
 So much your passion rules. 
 
 Spin. Even what she pleases : 
 Go on, Castanna. 
 
 Cast. Your most noble husband 
 Is deaf to all reports, and only grieves 
 At his soul's love, Spinella's, causeless absence. 
 
 Mai. Why look ye, cousin, now ! 
 
 Spin. Indeed! 
 
 Cast. Will value 
 No counsel, takes no pleasure in his greatness, 
 Neither admits of likelihood at all 
 That you are living; if you were, he's certain 
 It were impossible you could conceal 
 Your welcomes to him, being all one with him ; 
 But as for jealousy of your dishonour, 
 He both laughs at and scorns it. 
 
 Spin. Does he ? 
 
 Mai. Therein 
 He shows himself desertful of his happiness. 
 
 Cast. Methinks the news should cause son:© 
 motion, sister — 
 You are not well. 
 
 Mai. Not well! 
 
 Spi7i. 1 am unworthy — 
 
 3Ial. Of whom ? what ? why ? 
 
 Spin. Go, cousin; — come, Castanna. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
47^ 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 
 
 An Apartment in the House p/*Tkelcatio. 
 Enter Trelcatio, Piero, and Futelli. 
 
 Ti-el. The state in council is already set, 
 My coming -will be late ; now, therefore, gentle- 
 men, 
 This house is free ; as your intents are sober, 
 Your pains shall be accepted. 
 
 Fut. Mirth sometimes 
 Falls into earnest, siguior. 
 
 Piero. We, for our parts, 
 Aim at the best. 
 
 Trel. You wrong yourselves and me else : 
 Good success to you ! \_Exit. 
 
 Piero. Futelli, 'tis our wisest course to follow 
 Our pastime with discretion, by which means 
 We may ingratiate, as our business hits, 
 Our undertakings to great Auria's favour. 
 
 Fut. I grow quite weary of this lazy custom, 
 Attending on the fruitless hopes of service, 
 For meat and rags : a wit ? a shrewd pi-ef erment 
 Study some scurril jests, grow old, and beg ! 
 No, let them be admired that love foul linen ; 
 I'll run a new course. 
 
 Piero. Get the coin we spend, 
 And knock them o'er the pate who jeer our earn- 
 ings.— 
 
 Fut. Hush, man ; one suitor comes. 
 
 Piero. The t'other follows. 
 
 Fut. Be not so loud — [J^Iusic below. 
 
 Here comes Madonna Sweet-lips ; 
 Mithtreth, in thooth, forthooth, will lithpe it to 
 uth. 
 
 Enter Amoretta. 
 
 Amor. Dentlemen, then ye ! Ith thith muthicke 
 yourth, or can ye tell what great manth's fidleth 
 made it ? tith vedee petty noy th, but who thold 
 then d it.? 
 
 Piero. Does not yourself know, lady ? 
 
 Amor. I do not uthe 
 To thpend lip-labour upon quethtionths, 
 That I mythelfe can anthwer. 
 
 Fut. No, sweet madam, 
 Your lips are destined to a better use. 
 Or else the proverb fails of lisping maids. 
 
 Amor. Kithing you mean; pay come behind 
 with your mockths then. 
 My lipthes will therve the one to kith the other. — 
 How now, whath neckth ? 
 
 SONG below. 
 
 What, ho ! we come to be merry, 
 Open the doors, a jovial crew, 
 Lusty boys and free, and very, 
 I Very, very lusty boys are we ; 
 
 We can drink till all look blue, 
 Dance, sing, and roar, 
 Never give o'er, 
 As long as we have e'er an ej^e to sec. 
 
 Pithee, pithee, leth's come In, 
 Oue thall all oua favous win, 
 Dently, dently, we thall passe ; 
 None kitheth like the lithpihg lasse. 
 
 Piero. What call ye this ? a song ? 
 
 Amor. Yeth, a delithious thing, and wondroth 
 prety. 
 
 Fut. A very country-catch ! (Aside.') — Doubt- 
 less, some prince 
 Belike, hath sent it to congratulate 
 Your night's repose. 
 
 Amor. Thinke ye tho, thignior? 
 It muth be then thome unkno wne obthcure printh, 
 That thuns the light. 
 
 Piero. Perhaps the prince of darkness. 
 
 Amor. Of darkneth ! what ith he ? 
 
 Fut. A courtier matchless ; 
 He woos and wins more beauties to his love 
 Than all the kings on earth. 
 
 Amor. Whea thandth hiih court, pey ? 
 
 Fut. This gentleman approaching, I presume, 
 Has more relation to his court than I, 
 And comes in time t'inf orm ye. 
 
 Enter FuLGOSO. 
 
 Amor. Think ye tho ? 
 I'm thure you know him. 
 
 Piero. Lady, you'll perceive it. 
 
 Ful. She seems in my first entrance to admire 
 me ; 
 Pi-otest she eyes me round; Fulg. she's thine 
 own ! [Aside. 
 
 Piero. Noble Fulgoso. 
 
 Ful. Did you hear the music' 
 'Twas I that brought it ; was't not tickling ? ha, 
 ha! 
 
 Amor. Pay, what pinth thent it ? 
 
 Ful. Prince ! no prince, but we ; 
 We set the ditty, and composed the song ; 
 There's not a note or foot in't but our own, 
 And the pure trodden mortar of this brain ; 
 We can do things and things. 
 
 Amor. Dood ! thing't youa thelfe then. 
 
 Ful. Nay, nay, I could never sing 
 More than a gib-cat, or a very howlet; 
 But you shall here me whistle it. [Whistles. 
 
 Amor. Thith thingth thome jethter ; 
 Thure he belongth unto the pinth of darkneth. 
 
 Piero. Yes, and I tell you what his office is ; 
 His prince delights himself exceedingly 
 In birds of divers kinds; this gentleman 
 Is keeper and instructor of his black-birds; 
 He took his skill first from his father's carter. 
 
 Amor. Tith wonderful to thee by what thrange 
 meanes 
 Thome men are raised to plathes. 
 
 Ful. I do hear you, 
 And thank you heartily for your good wills. 
 In setting forth my parts ; but what I live on, 
 Is simple trade of money from my lands : 
 Hang sharks ! I am no shifter. 
 
 Amor. Ith pothible ? 
 
 ; Enter Guzjian. 
 
 Bleth uth, whoth thith ? 
 
 Fut. Oh, 'tis the man of might. 
 
 Guz. May my address to beauty lay no scandal 
 Upon my martial honour, since even Mars — 
 Whom, as in war, in love I imitate — 
 Could not resist the shafts of Cupid ; therefore, 
 As, %vith the god of war, I deign to stoop, 
 Lady, vouchsafe, Love's goddess-like, to yield 
 Your fairer hand unto these lips, the portals 
 Of valiant breath that hath o'ertui-n'd an army. 
 
 Amor. Faya "weather keep me ! whatathorme 
 ith thith ? 
 
 Fut. Oh, Don, keep off at farther distance ; yet 
 A little farther ; do you not observe 
 How your strong breath hath terrified the lady ? 
 
 Guz. I'll stop the breath of war, and breathe as 
 gently 
 As a perfumed pair of sucking bellows 
 In some sweet lady's chamber ; for I can 
 Speak lion-like, or sheep-like, when I please. 
 
 Fut. Stand by, then, without noise, a while, 
 brave Don, 
 And let her only view your parts ; they'll take 
 her. 
 
 Guz. I'll publish them in silence. 
 
 Piero. Stand you there, 
 Fulgoso the magnificent. 
 
JOHN FORD, 
 
 A77 
 
 Ful. Here? 
 
 Piero. Just there ; 
 Let her survey you both ; you'll be her choice, 
 Ne'er doubt it, man. 
 
 Ful, I cannot doubt it, man. 
 
 Pisro. But speak not till I bid yoti. 
 
 Ful. I may whistle ? 
 
 Piei'O. A little to yourself, to spend the time. 
 
 Amor. Both foolth, you thay? 
 
 Fut. But hear them for your sport. 
 
 Piero. Don shall begin. — Begin, Don ; she has 
 survey'd 
 Your outwards and your inwards, through the 
 
 rents 
 And wounds of your apparel. 
 
 Guz. She is politic ; 
 My outside, lady, shrouds a prince obscui-ed. 
 
 Amoj'. I thank ye for your muthicke, printh. 
 
 Guz. My wox-ds 
 Are music to her. [Aside. 
 
 Amor. The muthicke and the thong 
 You thent me by thith whithling thing, your 
 man. 
 
 Guz. She took him for my man! love, thou 
 wert just. [Aside. 
 
 Ful. I will not hold ;— his man ! 'tis time to 
 speak 
 Before my time ; oh scurvy, I his man. 
 That has no means for meat, or rags and seam- 
 rents ! 
 
 Guz. Have I with this one rapier — 
 
 Piero. He has no other. 
 
 Guz. Pass'd through a field of pikes, whose 
 heads I lopt 
 As easily as the bloody-minded youth 
 Lopt off the poppy-heads ? 
 
 Ful. The puppet-heads. 
 
 Guz. Have I — have I — have I ? 
 
 Ful. Thou liest, thou hast not, 
 And I'll maintain't. 
 
 Guz. Have I — but let that pass ; 
 For though my famous acts were damn'd to 
 
 silence. 
 Yet my descent shall crown me thy superior. 
 
 Amor. That I would lithen to. 
 
 Guz. List and wonder. 
 My great-great-grandsire was an ancient duke, 
 Styled Desver di Gonzado. 
 
 Fut. That's, in Spanish, 
 An incorrigible rogue, without a fellow, 
 An unmatch'd rogue ; he thinks we understand 
 not. 
 
 Guz. So was my grandfather, hight Argozile.^ 
 
 Fut. An arrant, arrant thief-leader; pray mark it. 
 
 Guz. My grandsire by the mother's side a conde, 
 Conde Scrivano. 
 
 Fut. A crop-ear'd scrivener. 
 
 Guz. Whose son, my mother's father, was a 
 marquis, 
 Hijo di puto. 
 
 Piero. That's the son of a whore. 
 
 Guz. And my renowned sire, Don Picaro, — 
 
 Fut. In proper sense, a rascal — Oh, brave Don ! 
 Guz. Hijo di una pravada — 
 
 Piero. He goes on. 
 Son of a branded bitch — high-spirited Don ! 
 
 Guz. Had honours both by sea and land, to wit — 
 
 Fut. The galleys and Bridewell. 
 
 Ful. I'll not endure it. 
 To hear a canting mongrel. — Hear me, lady! 
 Guz. 'Tis no fair play. 
 
 Ful. I care not, fair or foul, — 
 I from a king derive my pedigree, 
 
 ' Argozile—a. corruption of alguazil, a beadle or catch- 
 pole. — Webek. 
 
 King Oberon by name, from whom my father, 
 The mighty and courageous Mountibanco, 
 Was lineally descended ; and my mother 
 (In right of whose blood I must ever honour 
 The lower Germany) was a Harlequin. 
 
 Fut. He'll blow up 
 The Spaniard presently by his mother's side. 
 
 Ful. Her father was Grave ' Hans Van Heme, 
 the son 
 Of Hogen Mogen, dat de droates did sneighen 
 Of veirteen hundred Spaniards in one neict. 
 
 Guz. Oh, diabolo! 
 
 Ful. Ten thousand devils, nor diabolos. 
 Shall fright me from my pedigree. — My uncle, 
 Yacob Van Flagon-drought, with Abraham Snor- 
 
 ten-fert. 
 And yongster Brogen-foh, with fourscore hargu- 
 
 bush,2 
 Managed by well-lined butter-boxes, took 
 A thousand Spanish jobbernowls ^ by surprise, 
 And beat a sconce about their ears. 
 
 Guz. My fury 
 Is now but justice on thy forfeit life. [Draws. 
 
 Amor. 'Lath, they thall not fight. 
 
 Fui. Fear not, sweet lady. 
 
 Piei'o. Be advised, great spirits. 
 
 Ful. My fortunes bid me to be wise in duels ; 
 Else hang't, who cares ! 
 
 Guz. Mine honour is my tutor, 
 Already tried and known. 
 
 Fut. Why, there's the point. 
 Mine honour is my tutor too. Noble men 
 Fight in their persons ! scorn 't! 'tis out of fashion ; 
 There's none but harebrain'd youths of mettle 
 use it. 
 
 Piero. Yet put not up your swords ; it is the 
 pleasure 
 Of the fair lady that you quit the field, 
 With brandish'd blades in hand. 
 
 Fut. And more, to show 
 Your suffering valour, as her equal favours, 
 You both should take a competence of kicks. 
 
 Both. How.? 
 
 Fut. and Piero. Thus and thus! [hiching them.'] 
 — away, you brace of stinkards ! 
 
 Ful. Pheugh! as it were. — [Whistles. 
 
 Guz. Why, since it is her pleasure, 
 I dare and will endure it. 
 
 Ful. Pheugh! 
 
 Piero., Away, 
 But stay below. 
 
 Fut. Budge not, I charge ye, 
 Till you have further leave. 
 
 Guz. Mine honour claims 
 The last foot in the field. 
 
 Ful. I'll lead the van then. 
 
 Fut. Yet more ? begone ! 
 
 [Exeunt FuLG. and Guz. 
 Are not these precious suitors — 
 
 Re-enter Trelcatio. 
 
 Trel. What tumults fright the house .'* 
 
 Fut. A brace of castrels,' 
 That flutter'd, six-, about this lovely game, 
 Your daughter; but they durst not give the souse, 
 And so took hedge. 
 
 Piero. Mere haggards, buzzards, kites. 
 
 Amor. I thkorne thuch trumpery; and will 
 thape my luffe, 
 Henthforth, ath thall my father betht direct me. 
 
 ^ grave — graflF, count. 2 hargubush—h&vqjxQbussQ&. 
 
 3 >o66erwow/s— thickheads. 
 
 ■* castrel—t\iQ liovering hawk, a wild sort, not fit for 
 training. Haggard, a wild untrained hawk. A hawk 
 is said to give the souse when he descends rapidly upon 
 his prey. 
 
478 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Trel. Why, now thou sing'st in tune, my Amo- 
 retta ; 
 And, my good friends, you have, like wise phy- 
 sicians, 
 Prescribed a healthful diet : I shall think on 
 A bounty for your pains, and will present ye 
 To noble Auria, such as your descents 
 Commend ; but for the present we must quit 
 This room to privacy : they come — 
 
 Amor. Nay, predee, 
 Leave me not, dentlemen.. 
 
 Fui. We are your servants. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Auria, Adukst, and Aurelio. 
 
 Aur. You are welcome, be assured you are; 
 for proof, 
 Eetrieve the boldness (as you please to term it) 
 Of visit to commands : if this man's presence 
 Be not of use, dismiss him. 
 
 Adur. 'Tis, with favour. 
 Of consequence, my lord, your friend may witness 
 How far my reputation stands engaged 
 To noble reconcilement. 
 
 Aur. I observe 
 Ko party here amongst us, who can challenge 
 A motion of such honour. 
 
 Adur. Could your looks 
 Borrow more clear serenity and calmness, 
 Than can the peace of a composed soul ; 
 Yet, I presume, report of my attempt, 
 Train'd by a curiosity in youth 
 For scattering clouds before 'em, hath rais'd 
 
 tempests 
 Which will at last break out. 
 
 Aur. Hid now, most Hkely, 
 I' the darkness of your speech. 
 
 Aurel. You may be plainer. 
 
 Adur. I shall, my lord; that I intended wrong ! 
 
 Aur. Ha! wrong! to whom? 
 
 Adur. To Auria ; and as far 
 As language could prevail, did — 
 
 Aur. Take advice, 
 Young lord, before your tongue betray a secret 
 Conceal'd yet from the world; hear and consider: 
 In all my flight of vanity and giddiness, 
 When scarce the wings of my excess were fledg'd, 
 When a distemperature of youthful heat 
 Might have excus'd disorder and ambition, 
 Even then, and so from thence till now the down 
 Of softness is exchanged for plumes of age, 
 Confirm'd and harden' d, never durst I pitch 
 On any, howsoever likely, rest. 
 Where the presumption might be construed 
 
 wrong ; 
 The word is hateful, and the sense wants pardon. 
 For, as I durst not wrong the meanest, so 
 He who but only aim'd, by any boldness, 
 A wrong to me, should find I must not bear it ; 
 The one is as unmanly as the other. — 
 Now, without interruption. 
 
 Adur. Stand, Aurelio, 
 And justify thine accusation boldly ; 
 Spare me the needless use of my confession ; 
 And, having told no more, than what thy jealousy 
 Possess'd thee with, again before my face. 
 Urge to thy friend the breach of hospitality 
 Adumi trespass'd in, and thou conceiv'st, 
 Against Spinella ; [when thy] proofs grow faint. 
 If barely not suppos'd, I'll answer guilty. 
 
 Aurel. You come not here to brave u^ ? 
 
 Adur. No, Aurelio; 
 But to reply upon that brittle evidence, 
 To which thy cunning never shall rejoin. 
 I make my judge my jury; be accountant 
 Whether, with all the eagerness of spleen 
 Of a suspicious rage can plead, thou hast 
 Enforced the likelihood of scandaL 
 
 Aurel. Doubt not 
 But that I have deliver'd honest truth. 
 As much as I believe, and justly witness. 
 ,. Adur. Loose grounds to raise a bulwark of 
 
 reproach on ! 
 And thus for that — My errand hither is not 
 In whining, truant-like submission, 
 To cr)-, 'I have offended, pray, forgive me; 
 I will do so no more : ' but to proclaim 
 The power of virtue, whose commanding sove- 
 reignty 
 Sets bounds to rebel-bloods; and checks, re- 
 strains, 
 Custom of folly ; by example teaches 
 A rule to reformation ; by rewards. 
 Crowns worthy actions, and invites to honour. 
 
 Aurel. Honour and worthy actions best beseem 
 Their lips who practise both, and not discourse 
 'em. 
 
 .4m?*. Peace, peace, man ; I am silent. 
 
 Adur. Some there are. 
 And they not few in number, who resolve 
 No beautj^ can be chaste, unless attempted ; 
 And, for because the liberty of courtship 
 Flies from the wanton, on the her comes next, 
 Meeting oft-times too many soon seduced. 
 Conclude, all may be won by gifts, by service. 
 Or compliments of vows : and with this file 
 I stood in rank ; conquest secured my confidence. 
 Spinella — storm not, Auria — was an object 
 Of study for fruition ; here I angled, 
 Not doubting the deceit could find resistance. 
 
 Aui'el. After confession, follows — 
 
 Aw. Noise! observe him. 
 
 Adur. Oh, strange ! b}^ all the comf oi'ts of my 
 hopes, 
 I found a woman good ; — a woman good ! 
 Yet, as I wish belief, or do desire 
 A memorable mention, so much majesty 
 Of humbleness, and scorn, appear'd at once 
 In fair, in chaste, in wise Spinella's eyes. 
 That I grew dull in utterance, and one frown 
 From her cool'd every flame of sensual appetite. 
 
 Au7'. On, sir, and do not stop. 
 
 Adur. Without protests, 
 I pleaded merely love, used not a syllable. 
 But what a vii-gin might, without a blush. 
 Have listen'd to, and, not well arm'd, have pitied ; 
 But she neglecting, cried, ' Come, Auria, come. 
 Fight for thy wife at home ! ' then in rush'd you, 
 
 sir, 
 Talk'd in much fury, parted ; when as soon 
 The lady vanish'd, after her the rest 
 
 Aur. Whatfollow'd.? 
 
 Adu7\ My commission on mine error ; 
 In execution whereof I have proved 
 So punctually severe, that I renounce 
 All memory, not to this one fault alone. 
 But to my other greater, and more irksome. 
 Now he, whoever owns a name, that construes 
 This repetition the report of fear. 
 Of falsehood, or imposture, let him tell me 
 I give myself the lie, and I will clear 
 The injuiy, and man to man ; — or, if 
 Such justice may prove doubtful, two to two, 
 Or three to three, or any way reprieve 
 . The opinion of my forfeit, without blemish. 
 
 Au7'. Who can you think I am ? did you 
 expect 
 So great a tameness as you find, Adumi, 
 That you cast loud defiance ? ^ay — 
 
 Adur. I have robb'd you 
 Of rigour, Auria, by my strict self-penance, 
 For the presumption. 
 
 Au7\ Sure, Italians hardly 
 Admit dispute in questions of this nature; 
 The trick is new. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 479 
 
 Adur. I find my absolution, 
 By vows of change from all ignoble practice. 
 
 Aur. Why look ye, friend, I told you this be- 
 fore; 
 You would not be persuaded : — ^let me think — 
 
 [ Walks apart. 
 
 Aur el. You do not yet deny that you solicited 
 The lady to ill purpose. 
 
 A dur. I have answered ; 
 But it retum'd much quiet to my mind, 
 Perplex'd with rare commotions. 
 
 Aur. That's the way ; 
 It smooths all rubs. 
 
 Aurel. My lord .' 
 
 Aur. Foh ! I am thinking — 
 You may talk forward. — If it take, 'tis clear ; 
 And then — and then, — and so — and so — 
 
 Adur. You labour 
 With curious engines, i sure. 
 
 Aur. Fine ones ! I take you 
 To be a man of credit ; else — 
 
 Adur. Suspicion 
 Is needless, know me better. 
 
 Aur. Yet you must not 
 Part from me, sir. 
 
 Adur. For that, your pleasure. 
 
 Aur. ' Come, 
 Fight for thy -wife at home, my Auria ! ' — Yes, 
 We can fight, my Spinella, when thine honour 
 Eelies upon a champion. — 
 
 Re-enter Trelcatio. 
 
 Now? 
 
 Trel. My lord, 
 Castanna, with her sister, and Malfato 
 Are newly enter'd. 
 
 Aur. Be not loud ; convey them 
 Into the gallery. — Aurelio, friend, 
 Adurni, lord, we three will sit in council, 
 And piece a hearty league, or scuffle shrewdly. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in the House of Martixo. 
 
 Enter Martixo, Bexatzi, and Levidolche. 
 
 Mart. Eufiian, out of my doors! thou com'st 
 to rob me. — 
 An ofiicer ! what, ho ! — my house is haunted 
 By a lewd pack of thieves, of harlots, murderers, 
 Kogues, vagabonds ! I foster a decoy here ; 
 And she trowls on her ragged customei',^ 
 To cut my throat for pillage. 
 
 Lev. Good sir, hear me. 
 
 Ben. Hear or not hear, — ^let him rave his lungs 
 out, — whilst this woman hath abode under this 
 roof, I will justify myself her bedfellow iu de- 
 spite of denial ; in despite— those are my words. 
 
 Mart. Monstrous! 
 Why, sirrah, do I keep a bawdy-house, 
 An hospital for panders ? Oh, thou monster. 
 Thou she-confusion ! are you grown so rampant, 
 That from a private wanton, thou proclaim'st 
 
 thyself 
 A baggage for all gamesters, lords or gentlemen. 
 Strangers, or home -spun yeomen, foot -posts, 
 
 pages, 
 Koarers,' or hangmen? bey-day! set up shop. 
 And then cry ' a market open; to't, and welcome! , 
 
 ^ ewfifines— contrivances. 
 
 2 trowls on her ragged customer—a. metaphor taken 
 from angling. — Weber. 
 
 3 roarers— tYve. same as the roaring hoys so often re- 
 ferred to before. 
 
 Lev. This is my husband. 
 
 Mart. Husband ! 
 
 Ben. Husband natural, I have married her; 
 and — what's your verdict on the match, signior ? 
 
 Mart. Husband, and married her ! 
 
 Lev. Indeed, 'tis truth. 
 
 Mart. A proper joining! give ye joy, great 
 mistress ; 
 Your fortunes are advanced, marry are they. 
 What jointure is assured, pray ? some three thou- 
 sand 
 A year in oaths and vermin ? fair preferment ! 
 Was ever such a tatter'd rag of man's flesh 
 Patch'd up for copesmate J to my niece's daughter! 
 
 Lev. Sir, for my mother's name, forbear this 
 anger : 
 If I have yoked myself beneath your wishes, 
 Yet is my choice a lawful one: and I 
 Will live as truly chaste unto his bosom, 
 As e'er my faith hath bound me. 
 
 Mart. A sweet couple ! 
 
 Ben. We are so : for mine own part, however 
 my outside appear ungay, I have wrestled with 
 death, Signior Martino, to preserve your sleeps, 
 and such as you are, untroubled. A soldier is in 
 peace a mockery, a very town-bull - for laughter; 
 unthrifts and landed babies are prey curmud- 
 geons lay their baits for. Let the wars rattle 
 about your ears once, and the security of a soldier 
 is right honourable amongst ye then ; that day 
 may shine again. So to my business. 
 
 Mart. A soldier! thou a soldier! I do believe 
 ' Thou'rt lousy ; that's a pretty sign I grant : — 
 A villanous poor banditti rather ; one 
 Can man a quean, and cant, and pick a pocket, 
 Pad 2 for a cloak, or hat, and, in the dark, 
 Pistol a straggler for a quarter-ducat. 
 A soldier! yes, — he looks as if he had not 
 The spirit of a herring, or a tumbler. 
 
 Ben. Let age and dotage rage together! Levi- 
 dolche, thou art mine ; on what conditions the 
 world shall soon witness: yet since our hands 
 join'd, I have not interessed* my possession of 
 thy bed; nor till I have accounted to thy in- 
 junction, do I mean : kiss me quick and resolute, 
 so ! — adieu, signior ! 
 
 Lev. Dear, for love's sake, stay. 
 
 Ben. Forbear entreaties. \_Exit. 
 
 Mart. Ah, thou — but what ? I know not how 
 to call thee: 
 Fain would I smother grief, [but] out it must; 
 My heart is broke : thou hast for many a day 
 Been at a loss, and now art lost for ever ; 
 Lost, lost, without recovery. 
 
 Lev. With pardon. 
 Let me restrain your sorrows. 
 
 Mart. 'Tis impossible ; 
 Despair of rising up to honest fame 
 Turns all the courses wild, and this last action 
 Will roar thy infamy. — Then you are certainly 
 Married, forsooth, unto this new-come ? 
 
 Lev. Yes, 
 And herein every hope is brought to life, 
 Which long hath lain in darkness ; I have once 
 
 more 
 Wedded Benatzi, my divorced husband. 
 
 Mart. Benatzi ! this the man ? 
 
 Lev. No odd disguise 
 Could guard him from discovery ; 'tis he. 
 The choice of my ambition: Heaven preserve me 
 
 1 copeiwia/e— companion ; here husband. See note 2, 
 col. 2, p. 232. 
 
 2 town-bull— reierrmg to the bull kept for bull-baiting. 
 ' Pad—a, cant expression for robbing on foot.— 
 
 Weber. We have now the word foot-pad. 
 * inieressed— claimed my interest in.— Webeb. 
 
48o 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Thankful for such a bounty ! yet he dreams not 
 Of this deceit; but let me die in speaking, 
 If I repute not my success more happy 
 Than any earthly blessing. Oh! sweet uncle, 
 Rejoice with me ; 1 am a faithful convert, 
 And will redeem the stains of a foul name 
 By love and true obedience. 
 
 Mart. Force of passion 
 Shows me a child again. Do, Levidolche, 
 Perform thy resolutions ; those perf orm'd, 
 I have been only steward for your welfare, 
 You shall have all between ye. 
 
 Lev. Join with me, sir ; 
 Our plot requires much speed; we must be 
 
 earnest. 
 Ill tell you what conditions threaten danger, 
 Unless you intermediate ; let us hasten, 
 For fear we come too late. 
 
 Mart. As thou intendest 
 A virtuous honesty, I am thy second 
 To any office, Levidolche witty,^ 
 My niece, my witty niece. 
 
 Lev. Let's slack no time, sir. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. 
 
 An Apartment in Trelcatio's House. 
 
 Enter Trelcatio, Malfato, Spinella, and 
 Castanna. 
 
 Trel. Kinsman and ladies, have a little pa- 
 tience. 
 All will be as you wish : I'll be your warrant, 
 Fear nothing ; Auria is a noble fellow. 
 I leave ye ; but, be sure, I am in hearing : 
 Take courage. {Exit. 
 
 Mai. Courage ! they who have no hearts. 
 Find none to lose ; ours is as great as his, 
 Who defies danger most. — Sure, state and cere- 
 mony 
 Inhabit here. Like strangers we shall wait 
 Formality of entertainment. Cousin, 
 Let us return ; 'tis paltry. 
 
 Spin. Gentle sir, 
 Confine your passion ; my attendance only 
 Commends a duty. 
 
 Cast. Now, for Heaven's sake, sister ! — 
 He comes, your husband comes ; take comfort, 
 sister. 
 
 Enter Auria and Aurelio. 
 
 Anr. Malfato! 
 
 Mai. Auria ! 
 
 Aur. Cousin, would mine arms, 
 In their embraces, might at once deliver 
 Affectionately what interest your merit 
 Holds in my estimation ! I may chide 
 The coyness of this intercourse betwixt us, 
 Which a retired privacy on your pai-t 
 Hath pleas'd to show: if ought of my endeavours 
 Can purchase kind opinion, I shall honour 
 The means and practice. 
 
 Mai. 'Tis your charity. 
 
 Aurel. Worthy Malfato ! 
 
 Mai. Provident Aurelio I 
 
 Aur. Castanna, virtuous maid ! 
 
 Cast. Your servant, brother. 
 
 Aur. But who's that other ? such a face mine 
 eyes 
 Have been acquainted with ; the sight resembles 
 Something which is not quite lost to remem- 
 brance. [Spinella kneels. 
 Why does the lady kneel ? to whom ? pray rise ; 
 
 1 frt«y— knowing, wise. Anglo-Saxon, mian — to 
 know. 
 
 I shall forget civility of manners, 
 
 Imagining you tender a false tribute. 
 
 Or him to whom you tender it, a counterfeit. 
 
 [She rises. 
 
 Mai. My lord, you use a borrow'd braveiy,! 
 Not suiting fair constructions: may your for- 
 tunes 
 Mount higher than can apprehension reach 'em! 
 Yet this waste kind of antic sovereignty 
 Unto a wife who equals every best 
 Of your deserts, achievements, or prosperity. 
 Bewrays a barrenness of noble nature : 
 Let upstarts exercise uncomely roughness. 
 Clear spirits to the humble will be humble. — 
 You know your wife, no doubt. 
 
 Aur. 'Cry ye mercy, gentlemen ! 
 Belike you come to tutor a good carriage,*" 
 Are expert in the nick on't : we shall study 
 Instructions quaintly — ' wife,' you said — agreed. 
 Keep fair, and stand the trial. 
 
 Spin. Those words raise 
 A lively soul in her, who almost yielded 
 To faintness and stupidity ; I thank ye : 
 Though prove what judge you will, till I can 
 
 purge 
 Objections which require belief and conscience, 
 I have no kindred, sister, husband, friend, 
 Or pity for my plea. 
 
 Mai. Call ye this welcome ? 
 We are mistook, Castanna. 
 
 Cast. Oh! my lord, 
 Other respects were promised. 
 
 Aur. Said ye, lady, 
 'No kindred, sister, husband, friend.' ' 
 
 Spin. Nor name ; 
 With this addition — I disclaim all beneSt 
 Of mercy from a charitable thought ; 
 If one or all the subtleties of malice. 
 If any engineer of faithless discord, 
 If supposition for pretence in folly. 
 Can point out, without injury to goodness, 
 A likelihood of guilt in my behaviour. 
 Which may declare neglect in every duty, 
 Required, fit, or exacted. 
 
 Aur. High and peremptoiy ! 
 The confidence is masculine. 
 
 Mel. Why not? 
 An honourable cause gives life to truth. 
 Without control. 
 
 Spin. I can proceed ; that tongue, 
 Whose venom, by traducing spotless honour. 
 Hath spread th' infection, is not more mine 
 
 enemy. 
 Than theirs, or his weak and besotted brains 
 
 are. 
 On whom the poison of its canker'd falsehood 
 Hath wrought for credit to so foul a mischief. 
 Speak, sir, the churlish voice of this combustion, 
 Aurelio, speak ; nor, gentle sir, forbear 
 Ought what you know, but roundly use your 
 
 eloquence 
 Against a mean defendant. 
 
 Mai. He's put to't ; 
 It seems the challenge gravels him. 
 
 Aurel. My intelligence 
 Was issue of my doubts, not of my knowledge. 
 A self-confession may crave assistance ; 
 Let the lady's justice impose the penance. 
 So, in the rules of friendship, as of love. 
 Suspicion is not seldom an improper 
 Advantage for the knitting faster joints 
 Of faithfullest affection, by the fevers 
 
 ^borrow'd bravery— feigned travado or brusquentsa 
 of manner. 
 
 2 carriage— conduct, bearing. 
 
JOHN FORD. 
 
 481 
 
 Of casualty unloos'd, where lastly error 
 Hath run into the toil. 
 
 Spin. Woful satisfaction 
 For a divorce of hearts ! 
 
 Aur. So resolute ? 
 I shall touch nearer home : behold these hairs, 
 Great masters of a spirit, yet they are not 
 By winter of old age quite hid in snow ; 
 Some messengers of time, I must acknowledge, 
 Amongst them took up lodging; when we first 
 Exchang'd our faiths in wedlock, I was proud 
 I did prevail with one whose youth and beauty 
 Deserv'd a choice more suitable in both. 
 Advancement to a fortune could not court 
 Ambition, either on my side, or hers ; 
 Love drove the bargain, and the truth of love 
 Confii-m'd it, I conceiv'd. But disproportion 
 In years, amongst the married, is a reason 
 For change of pleasures : whereto I reply, 
 Our union was not forced, 'twas by consent ; 
 So then the breach in such a case appears 
 Unpardonable : — say your thoughts. 
 
 Spin. My thoughts 
 In that respect are as resolute as yours. 
 The same ; yet herein evidence of frailty 
 Deserv'd not more a separation, 
 Than doth charge of disloyalty objected 
 Without or ground or witness: woinen's faults 
 Subject to punishments, and men's applauded. 
 Prescribe no laws in force. 
 
 Aur el. Are you so nimble ? 
 
 Mai. A soul sublimed from dross by com- 
 petition, 
 Such as is mighty Auria's famed, descends 
 From its own sphere, when injuries, profound 
 
 ones, 
 Yield to the combat of a scolding mastery, 
 Skirmish of words. Hath your wife lewdly 
 
 ranged. 
 Adulterating the honour of your bed ? 
 Hold [not ^] dispute, but execute your vengeance 
 With unresisted rage ; we shall look on. 
 Allow the fact, and spurn her from our bloods : 
 Else, not detected, you have wrong'd her inno- 
 cence 
 Unworthily and childishly, for which 
 I challenge satisfaction. 
 
 Cast. 'Tis a tyranny 
 Over an humble and obedient sweetness, 
 Ungently to insult. 
 
 Enter Adukni. 
 
 Adur. That I make good, 
 And must without exception find admittance, 
 Fitting the party who hath herein interest. 
 Put case I was in faulty that fault stretch'd 
 
 merely 
 To a misguided thought ; and who in presence. 
 Except the pair of sisters, fair and matchless, 
 Can quit an imputation of like folly ? 
 Here I ask pardon, excellent Spinella, 
 Of only you ; that granted, he amongst you. 
 Who calls an even reckoning, shall meet 
 An even accountant. 
 
 Aur. Baited by confederacy ! 
 I must have right. 
 
 Spin. And I, my lord, my lord — 
 What stir and coil is here ! you can suspect ? 
 So reconciliation then is needless : — 
 Conclude the difference by revenge, or part, 
 And never more see one another. Sister, 
 Lend me thine arm ; I have assumed a courage 
 
 * not. This word is accidentally omitted in the quarto. 
 The context is so obscure, that 1 strongly suspect the 
 omission of a line in this speech. — Webeb. 
 
 Above my force, and can hold out no longer : 
 Auria, unkind, unkind ! 
 
 Cast. She faints. 
 
 Aur. Spinella ! 
 Eegent of my affections, thou hast conquer'd : 
 I find thy virtues as I left them, perfect, 
 Pure and unflaw'd ; for instance, let me claim 
 Castanna's promise. 
 
 Cast. Mine .? 
 
 Aur. Yours, to whose faith 
 I am a guardian, not by imposition, 
 But by you chosen. Look you, I have fitted 
 A husband for you, noble and deserving ; 
 No shrinking back. — Adurni, I present her, 
 A wife of worth. 
 
 Mai. How's that? 
 
 Adur. So great a blessing 
 Crowns all desires of life. — The motion, lady. 
 To me, I can assure you, is not sudden, 
 But welcomed and forethought ; would you could 
 
 please 
 To say the like ! 
 
 Aur. Castanna, do. — Speak, dearest, 
 It rectifies all crooked, vain surmises ; 
 I pr'ythee speak. 
 
 Spin. The courtship's somewhat quick. 
 The match it seems agreed on ; do not, sister, 
 Reject the use of fate. 
 
 Cast. I dare not question 
 The will of Heaven. 
 
 Mai. Unthought of and unlook'd for ! 
 
 Spin. My ever honoured lord. 
 
 Aur el. This marriage frees 
 Each circumstance of jealousy, 
 
 Aur. Make no scruple, 
 Castanna, of the choice ; 'tis firm and real : 
 Why else have I so long with tameness nourish'd 
 Report of wrongs, but that I fix'd on issue 
 Of my desires ? Italians use not dalliance. 
 But execution : herein I degenerated 
 From custom of our nation ; for the virtues 
 Of my Spinella rooted in my soul. 
 
 Yet common form of matrimonial compliments, 
 Short-liv'd as are their pleasures. Yet in sooth. 
 My dearest, I might blame your causeless absence, 
 To whom my love and nature were no strangers : 
 But being iia your kinsman's house, I honour 
 His hospitable friendship, and must thank it. 
 Now lasting truce on all hands. » 
 
 Aurel. You will pardon 
 A rash and over-busy curiosity. 
 
 Spin. It was to blame ; but the success remits 
 it. 
 
 Adur. Sir, what presumptions formerly have 
 grounded 
 Opinion of unfitting carriage to you, 
 On my part I shall faithfully acquit 
 At easy summons. 
 
 Mai. You prevent the nicety ; 
 Use your own pleasure. 
 
 Bbnatzi rushes in with his sioord drawn^ followed 
 by Levidolche and Martino. 
 
 Aurel. What's the matter ? 
 
 Aur. Matter.' 
 
 Ben. Adurni and Malfato found together ! 
 Now for a glorious vengeance. 
 
 Lev. Hold, oh, hold him ! 
 
 Aurel. This is no place for murder ; yield thy 
 sword. 
 
 Aur. Yield it, or force it ; [Ben. ia disarmed.^ 
 set you up your shambles 
 Of slaughter in my presence ? 
 
 Adur. Let him come. 
 
 Mai. What can the ruffian mean ? 
 
 £e». I am prevented ; 
 
 2h 
 
482 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 The temple or the chamber of the duke, 
 Had else not proved a sanctuary. Lord, 
 Thou hast dishonourably wrong'd my wife. 
 
 Adur. Thy wife ! I know not her nor thee. 
 
 Aur, Fear nothing. 
 
 Lev. Yes, me you know. Heaven has a gentle 
 mercy 
 For penitent offenders : blessed ladies, 
 Repute me not a castaway, though once 
 I fell into some lapses, which our sex 
 Are oft entangled by ; yet what I have been 
 Concerns me now no more, who am resolv'd 
 On a new life. This gentleman, Benatzi, 
 Disguised as you see, I have re-married. — 
 I knew you at first sight, and tender constantly 
 Submission for all errors. 
 
 Mart. Nay, 'tis true, sir. 
 
 Ben. I joy in the discovery, am thankful 
 Unto the change. 
 
 Aur. Let wonder henceforth cease. 
 For I am partner with Benatzi's counsels, 
 And in them was director : I have seen 
 The man do service in the wars late past, 
 Worthy an ample mention ; but of that 
 At large hereafter, repetitions now 
 Of good or bad would straiten time, presented 
 For other use. 
 
 Mart. Welcome, and welcome ever. 
 
 Lev. Mine eyes, sir, never shall without a 
 blush 
 Receive a look from yours ; please to forget 
 All passages of rashness; such attempt 
 Was mine, and only mine. 
 
 Mai. You have found a way 
 To happiness ; I honour the conversion. 
 
 Adur. Then I am freed. 
 
 Mai. May style your friend your servant. 
 
 Mart. Now all that's mine is theirs. 
 
 Adur. But let me add 
 An offering to the altar of this peace. 
 
 \Gives Tier vioney. 
 
 Aur. How likes Spinella this ? o\ir holiday 
 Deserves the kalendar. 
 
 Spin. This gentlewoman 
 Eeform'd, must in my thoughts live tair and 
 
 worthy. — 
 Indeed you shall. {Offering her money. 
 
 Cast. And mine ; the novelty 
 Fiequires a friendly love. 
 
 Lev. You are kind and bountiful. 
 
 Enter Trelcatio, Futelli, Amoretta, Piero, 
 driving in Fulgoso and Guzman. 
 
 Trel. By your leaves, lords and ladies! to 
 your jollities, 
 I bring increase with mine too; here's a youngster 
 Whom I call son-in-law, for so my daughter 
 Will have it. [Presenting Fux. 
 
 Anwr. Yeth, in sooth thee wilL 
 
 Trel. FutelU 
 Hath wean'd her from this pair. 
 
 Piero. Stand forth, stout lovers. 
 
 Trel.^ Top and top-gallant pair — and for his 
 pains. 
 She will have him or none. He's not the richest 
 I' th' parish ; but a wit. I say Amen, 
 Because I cannot help it. 
 
 Amor. Tith no matter. 
 
 Aur. We'll remedy the penury of fortune ; 
 They shall with us to Corsica. Our cousin 
 Must not despair of means, since 'tis believed 
 Futelli can deserve a place of trust. 
 
 Fut. You are in all unfellow'd. 
 
 Amor. Withly thpoken. 
 
 Piero. Think on Piero, sir. 
 
 Aur. Piero, yes ; 
 But what of these two pretty ones ? 
 
 Ful. I'll follow 
 The ladies, play at cards, make sport, and whistle, 
 My purse shall bear me out : a lazy life 
 Is scurvy and debosh'd ; ^ fight you abroad, 
 And we'll be gaming, whilst you fight, at home. 
 Run high, run low, here is a brain can do't ; 
 But for my martial brother Don, pray ye make him 
 A — what d'ye call't — a setting dog, — a sentinel ; 
 I'll mend his weekly pay. 
 
 Guz. He shkll deserve it. 
 Vouchsafe employment, honom-able — 
 
 Ful. Marry, 
 The Don's a generous Don. 
 
 Aur. Unfit to lose him. 
 Command doth limit us short time for revels; 
 We must be thrifty in them. None, I trust, 
 Repines at these delights, they are free and 
 
 harmless : 
 After distress at sea, the dangers o'er, 
 Safety and welcomes better taste ashore. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 The court's on rising ; 'tis too lato 
 To wish the lady in her fate 
 Of trial now more fortunate. 
 
 A verdict in the jury's breast, 
 Will be giv'n up anon at least ; 
 Till then 'tis fit we hope the best. 
 
 Else, if there can be any stay. 
 Next sitting without more delay, 
 We will expect a gentle day. 
 
 «ie&osZt'd— debauched. 
 
THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 [Of this, the most voluminous dramatic writer in the English, and probably in any language, 
 almost nothing is known for certain, but that he had, as he himself informs us, * an entire 
 hand, or at least a main finger, ' in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote, besides, 
 several prose works, all the while attending to his duties as an actor. From two of his 
 works we learn that he was a native of Lincolnshire ; and Cartwright, in his dedication to 
 The Actor's Vindication — a posthumous edition of Heywood's Apology for Actors — states 
 that the author was a Fellow of Peter House, Cambridge. 
 
 From Henslowe's papers it is ascertained that Heywood wrote for the stage as early as 
 1596 ; and Heywood himself, writing in 1615, and speaking of his first published drama. 
 The Death of Robert Earl of Huntingdon, which appeared in 1601, says that it was written 
 'many years since in my infancy of judgment, in this kind of poetry, and my first practice.' 
 He continued writing for the stage down to, at least, 1640. In the notice of Heywood in 
 the last edition of Dodsley's Old Plays, the following testimony to his industry is quoted 
 from Kirkman, the author of a catalogue of plays: he says that Heywood 'was very 
 laborious ; for he not only acted almost every day, but also obliged himself to write a sheet 
 every day for several years together; but many of his plays being composed loosely in 
 taverns, occasions them to be mean. ... I could say somewhat more of him, and of all the 
 old poets, having taken pleasure to converse with those that were acquainted with them. ' 
 As the editor of Dodsley well remarks, * It is much to be lamented that Kirkman did not 
 communicate to the world that information which he boasts of being able to give concerning 
 the old poets, whose memory, for want of such intelligence, is now almost wholly lost to 
 the world.' Of the multitude of plays written by this dramatist, only twenty-three are 
 extant ; of these the principal are, The Fair Maid of the Exchange (published 1607) ; 
 A Woman Killed with Kindness (1607, acted previous to 1604) ; The Rape of Lucrece 
 (1630) ; The Fair Maid of the West (1631) ; The English Traveller (1633) ; The Lancashire 
 Witches (1634) ; Love's Mistress (1636) ; The Royal King and the Loyal Subject (1637). 
 
 The quantity of Heywood's writings was too great to allow of their quality being pre- 
 eminent ; there is nothing very marked or vigorous in his style, the chief characteristics of 
 his dramas being softness, smoothness, repose, combined with a pleasant poetical fancy ; his 
 characters generally are not drawn with any great distinctness. Although some of the 
 scenes in his plays are sufficiently immoral, and some of his characters of the lowest type, 
 still he never descends to the use of the disgustingly filthy language which characterizes the 
 works of many of his contemporaries. The following is Hazlitt's estimate of Heywood : — 
 * As Marlowe's imagination glows like a furnace, Heywood's is a gentle, lambent flame, that 
 purifies without consuming. His manner is simplicity itself. There is nothing super- 
 natural, nothing startling, or terrific. He makes use of the commonest circumstances of 
 every-day life, and of the easiest tempers, to show the workings, or rather the inefficacy of 
 the passions, the vis inertice of tragedy. His incidents strike from their very familiarity, 
 and the distresses he paints invite our sympathy from the calmness and resignation with 
 which they are borne. The pathos might be deemed purer, from its having no mixture of 
 turbulence or vindictiveness in it ; and in proportion as the sufi"erers are made to deserve a 
 better fate. In the midst of the most untoward reverses and cutting injuries, good-nature 
 
 and good sense keep their accustomed sway. He describes men's errors with tenderness, 
 
 483 
 
484 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 and tlieir duties only with, zeal, and the heigh tenings of a poetic fancy. His style is equally 
 natural, simple, and unconstrained. The dialogue (bating the verse) is such as might be 
 uttered in ordinary conversation. It is beautiful prose put into heroic measure. It is not 
 so much that he uses the common English idiom for everything (for that I think the most 
 poetical and impassioned of our elder dramatists do equally), but the simplicity of the 
 characters and the equable flow of the sentiments do not require or suffer it to be warped 
 from the tone of level speaking, by figurative expressions, or hyperbolical allusions. ' 
 
 We have selected as a specimen of this writer, A Woman Killed with Kindness, of some 
 passages in which Hazlitt speaks with admiration.] 
 
 A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS. 
 
 WRITTEN BY THO. HEYWOOD. 
 
 London. 1607. 
 
 gramatis ^zx$a\v3t^ 
 
 Sib Francis Acton. 
 
 Sir Charles Mountford. 
 
 Mr. Frankford. 
 
 Malby. 
 
 Wendoll. 
 
 Cranwell. 
 
 Old Mountford. 
 
 Shafton. 
 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Jenkin. 
 
 KoGER Brickbat. 
 
 Jack Slime. 
 
 Tidy, Sandy^, and Eoder. 
 
 Spiggot. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Sheriff and Officers. 
 
 Huntsmen, Falconex-s, Coachman, Carters, 
 Musicians, Keeper, Servants, etc. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Frankford, 
 Susan Mountford. 
 Sisly. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 I come but as a harbinger, being sent 
 To tell you what these preparations mean. 
 Look for no glorious state : our Muse is bent 
 Upon a barren subject, a bare scene. 
 We could afford this twig a timber tree, 
 Whose strength might boldly on your favours 
 
 build ; 
 Our russet, tissue ; drone, a honey-bee ; 
 Our barren plot, a large and spacious field ; 
 
 Our coarse fare, banquets ; our thin water, wine ■ 
 Our brook, a sea ; our bat's eyes, eagle's sight ; 
 Our poet's dull and earthy muse, divine ; 
 Our ravens, doves ; our crow's black feathers, 
 
 white : 
 But gentle thoughts, when they may give the 
 
 foil. 
 Save them that yield, and spare where they may 
 
 spoil. 
 
 Enter Mr. John Frankford, Mistress Anne, 
 Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mount- 
 ford, Master Malby, Master Wendoll, and 
 Mr. Cranwell. 
 Sir F. Some music, there ! None lead the 
 bride a dance ? 
 
 Sir C. Yes, would she dance the shaking of the 
 sheets ; ' 
 But that's the dance her husband means to lead her. 
 Wen. That's not the dance that every man 
 must dance. 
 According to the ballad. 
 
 * the shaking of the sheet*. This was the name of a 
 dance and & -rery popular tune, frequently mentioned 
 in ancient pUya. 
 
 Sir F. Music, ho ! — 
 By your leave, sister ; by your husband's leave ^ 
 I should have said.— The hand that but this 
 
 day 
 Was given you in the church I'll borrow. — 
 
 Sound ! 
 This man-iage music hoists me from the ground. 
 Frank. Ay, you may caper, you are light and 
 free : 
 Marriage hath yok'd my heels ; pray, pardon 
 me. 
 Sir F. I'll have you dance too, brother. 
 Sir C. Master Frankford, 
 You are a happy man, sir ; and much joy 
 Succeed your marriage mirth : you have a wife 
 So qualified, and with such ornaments 
 
THOMAS HEY WOOD, 
 
 485 
 
 Both of the mind and body. First, her birth 
 Is noble, and her education such 
 As might become the daughter of a prince : 
 Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and her own 
 
 hand 
 Can teach all strings to speak in their best grace, 
 From the shrill'st treble to the hoarsest base. 
 To end her many praises in a word, 
 She's Beauty and Perfection's eldest daughter, 
 Only found by yours, though many a heart hath 
 sought her. 
 
 Frank. But that I know your virtues and 
 chaste thoughts, 
 I should be jealous of your praise. Sir Charles. 
 
 Cran. He speaks no more than you approve. 
 
 Mai. Nor flatters he that gives to her her due. 
 
 Mrs. Anne. I would your praise could find a 
 fitter theme 
 Than my imperfect beauties to speak on : 
 Such as they be, if they my husband please, 
 They suffice me now I am married. 
 This sweet content is like a flatt'ring glass, 
 To make my face seem fairer to mine eye ; 
 But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow 
 Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow. 
 
 Sir F. A perfect wife already, meek and patient. 
 How strangely the word husband fits your mouth, 
 Not married three hours since ! Sister, 'tis good ; 
 You that begin betimes thus must needs prove 
 Pliant and duteous in your husband's love. — 
 Gramercies, brother ! wrought her to't already ? 
 Sweet husband, and a curtsey, the first day ? 
 Mark this, mark this, you that are bachelors, 
 And never took the grace of honest man; 
 Mark this, against you marry, this one phrase : 
 In a good time that man both wins and woos 
 That takes his wife down in her wedding shoes. 
 
 Frank. Your sister takes not after you, Sir 
 Francis ; 
 All his wild blood your father spent on you. 
 He got her in his age, when he gi'ew civil : 
 All his mad tricks were to his land entail'd, 
 And you are heir to all : your sister, she 
 Hath to her dower her mother's modesty. 
 
 Sir C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state live 
 you! 
 This morning, which to many seems a burden too 
 Heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure. 
 This lady is no clog, as* many are : 
 She doth become you like a well-made suit, 
 In which the tailor hath us'd all his art ; 
 Not like a thick coat of unseason'd frieze, 
 Forc'd on your back in summer. She's no chain 
 To tie your neck, and curb ye to the yoke ; 
 But she's a chain of gold to adorn your neck. 
 You both adorn each other, and your hands, 
 Methinks, are matches : there's equality 
 In this fair combination ; you are both 
 Scholars, both young, both' being descended 
 
 nobly. 
 There's music in this sympathy ; it carries 
 Consort, and expectation of much joy, 
 \\'hich God bestow on you from this first day, 
 Until your dissolution ; that's for aye. 
 
 Sir F. We keep you hei'e too long, good 
 brother Frankford. 
 Into the hall. Away ! Go cheer your guests. 
 What! bride and bridegroom both withdrawn 
 
 at once ? 
 If you be miss'd, the guests will doubt their 
 
 welcome. 
 And charge you with unkindness. 
 
 Frank. To prevent it, 
 I'll leave you here, to see the dance within. 
 
 Mrs. A. Aiid so will I. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Sir F. To part you it were sin. — 
 Now, gallants, while the town musicians 
 
 Finger their frets within, and the mad lads, 
 And country lasses, every mother's child, 
 With nosegays and bride-laces in their hats. 
 Dance all their country measures, rounds, and 
 
 jigs, 
 What shall we do ? Hark ! they're all on the 
 
 hoigh ; » 
 They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round, 
 Marry, not on the toe. Ay, and they caper. 
 But not without cutting : you shall see to-morrow 
 The hall floor peck'd and dinted.like a mill-stone, 
 Made with their high shoes. Though their skill 
 
 be small, 
 Yet they tread heavy where their hobnails fall. 
 
 Sir C. Well, leave them to their sports. — Sir 
 Francis Acton, 
 I'll make a match with you : meet to-morrow 
 At Chevy Chase, I'll fly my hawk with yours. 
 
 Sir F. For what ? for what ? 
 
 Sir C. Why, for a hundred pound. 
 
 Sir F. Pawn me some gold of that. 
 
 Sir C. Here are ten angels ; 
 I'll make them good a hundred pound to-morrow 
 Upon my hawk's wing. 
 
 Sir F. 'Tis a match : 'tis done. 
 Another hundred pound upon your dogs : 
 Dare ye, Sir Charles ? 
 
 Sir C. I dare : were I sure to lose, 
 I durst do more than that : here is my hand ; 
 The first course for a hundred pound. 
 
 Sir F. A match. 
 
 Wen. Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton's hawk ; 
 As much upon his dogs. 
 
 Cran. I am for SirCharlesMountford; I have 
 seen 
 His hawk and dog both tried. What ! clap ye 
 
 hands. 
 Or is't no bargain ? 
 
 Wen. Yes, and stake them down. 
 Were they five hundred, they were all my own. 
 
 Sir F. Be stii-ring early with the lark to- 
 morrow ; 
 I'll rise into my saddle ere the sun 
 Rise from his bed. 
 
 Sir C. If there you miss me, say 
 I am no gentleman. I'll hold my day. 
 
 Sir F. It holds on all sides — Come, to-night 
 let's dance ; 
 Early to-morrow let's prepare to ride : 
 We had need be three hours up before the bride. 
 
 [J^xeunU 
 
 Enter Nicholas and Jenkin, Jack Slime, 
 Roger Brickbat, with Country Wenches 
 and two or three Musicians. 
 
 Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, to 
 trace withal; Jack Slime, traverse you with 
 Sisly Milkpail; I will take Jane Trubkin, and 
 Roger Brickbat shall have Isabel Motley. And 
 now that they are busy in the parlour, come, 
 strike up ; we'll have a crash ^ here in the yard. 
 
 Nich. My humour is not compendious : danc- 
 ing I possess not, though I can foot it ; yet, since 
 I am fallen into the hands of Sisly Milkpail, I 
 consent. 
 
 J. Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never 
 brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have 
 been brought up with serving creatures ; ay, and 
 God's ci-eatures, too ; for we have been brought 
 up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, hogs, and such 
 like ; and, though we be but country fellows, it 
 
 ' on the hoigh — eager, riotous. — Narbs. 
 '^ crash — entertainmeat. — Nakes. Merry bout. — 
 Hanmeb. 
 
486 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 may be in the way of dancing we can do the 
 horse trick as well as the serving-men. 
 
 R. Brick. Ay, and the cross-point too. 
 
 Jen. Oh, Slime! oh, Brickbat! do not you 
 know that comparisons are odious ? Now we 
 are odious ourselves, too, therefore there ai-e no 
 comparisons to be made betwixt us. 
 
 Nich. I am sudden, and not superfluous ; 
 I am quarrelsome, and not seditious ; 
 I am peaceable, and not contentious ; 
 I am brief, and not compendious. 
 
 J. Slime. Foot it quickly. If the music over- 
 come not my melancholy, 1 shall quarrel ; and if 
 they suddenly do not strike up, I shall presently 
 strike thee down. 
 
 Jen. No quarrelling, for God's sake! Truly, if 
 you do, I shall set a knave between ye. 
 
 J. Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel. 
 Come, what shall it be ? Eogero ?^ 
 
 Jen. Eogero ! no ; we will dance the beginning 
 of the world. 
 
 Sisli/. I love no dance so well as, John, come 
 kiss me now. 
 
 J^lch. I that have ere now deserv'd a cushion, 
 call for the Cushion-dance, 
 
 JR. Brick. For my part, I like nothing so well 
 as Tom Tyler. 
 
 Jen. No ; we'll have the Hunting of the Fox. 
 
 J. Slime. The hay ! the hay ! there's nothing 
 like the hay. 
 
 Nich. I have said, do say, and will say again — 
 
 Jen. Every man agree to have it as Nick says. 
 
 All. Content. 
 
 Nich. It hath been, it now is, and it shall be — 
 
 Sislt/. What, Master Nicliolas ? Avhat ? 
 
 Nich. Put on your smock o' Monday. 
 
 Jen. So the dance will come cleanly off. 
 Come, for God's sake, agree of something : if you 
 like not that, put it to the musicians ; or let me 
 speak for all, and we'll have Sellenger's Bound. 
 
 All. That, that, that ! 
 
 Nich. No ; I am resolv'd thus it shall be : 
 First take hands, then take ye to your heels. 
 
 Jen. Why, would you have us run away ? 
 
 Nich. No ; but I would have you shake your 
 heels. — 
 Music, strike up ! 
 
 [They dance; "Nick dancinff, speaks stately 
 and scurvily ; the rest dance after the 
 country fash ion. 
 
 Jen. Hey ! lively, my lasses ! here's a turn for 
 thee ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Wind hoi-ns. Enter Sir Charles Mountford, 
 Sir Francis Acton, Malby, Cranwell, 
 AVkndoll, Falconer, aiid Huntsmen. 
 
 Sir C. So ; well cast off. Aloft, aloft I Well 
 flown! 
 Oh ! now she takes her at the souse, 2 and strikes 
 
 her 
 Down to th' earth, like a swift thunder-clap. 
 Wen. She hath struck ten angels out of my 
 
 way. 
 Sir F. A hundred pound for me. 
 Sir C. What, falconer! 
 Falc. At hand, sir. 
 
 1 Rogero — the name of a ballad tune ; so also, The 
 ' heginning of the viorld; John, come kiss me now; Tom 
 
 Tyler, etc., mentioned aftei-wards. 
 
 2 The phrases here, and in the following part of this 
 scene, are wholly taken from falconry : — at the souse, 
 with sudden descent; plume, pluck off the feathers; 
 rebeck, (?) beck or call back ; gets (7), jesses, two leathern 
 straps attached to each leg below the bells, which are 
 two small hollow globes of thin metal; at the quarre, 
 as the fowl rises ; at the mount, aloft ; at the ferre, at 
 the far side of a river or pit. 
 
 Sir C. Now she hath seiz'd the fowl, and 'gins 
 to plume her, 
 Eebeck her not : rather stand still and check her. 
 So, seize her gets, her jesses, and her bells. 
 Away ! 
 
 Sir F. My hawk kill'd too. 
 Sir C. A.J., but 'twas at the quarre. 
 Not at the mount, like mine. 
 Sir F. Judgment, my masters. 
 Cran. Yours missed her at the ferre. 
 Wen. Ay, but our merlin first hath plum'd the 
 fowl. 
 And twice renew'd her from the river too : 
 Her bells. Sir Francis, had not both one weight, 
 Nor was one semitone above the other. 
 Methinks these Milain bells do sound too full, 
 And spoil the mounting of your hawk 
 Sir C. 'Tis lost. 
 
 Sir F. I grant it not. Mine likewise seiz'd a 
 fowl 
 Within her talons : and you saw her paws 
 Full of the feathers: both her petty siugles^ 
 And her long singles grip'd her more than other ; 
 The terrials of her legs were stain'd with blood : 
 Not of the fowl only she did discomfit,^ 
 Some of her feathers; but she brake away. 
 Come, come ; your hawk is but a rifler. 
 Sir C. How ! 
 Sir F. Ay, and your dogs are trindle-tails ' 
 
 and curs. 
 Sir C. You stir my blood. 
 You keep not one good hound in all your kennel, 
 Nor one good hawk upon your perch. 
 Sir F. How, knight! 
 
 Sir C. So, knight. You will not swagger, sir ? 
 Sir F. Why, say I did ? 
 Sir C. Why, sir, 
 I say you would gain as much by swaggering 
 As you have got by wagers on your dogs : 
 You will come short in all things. 
 
 Sir F. Not in this : now I'll strike home. 
 
 Sir C. Thou shalt to thy long home, or I will 
 
 want my will. 
 Sir F. All they that love Sir Francis follow me. 
 Sir C. All that affect Sir Charles draw on my 
 
 part. 
 Cran. On this side heaves my hand. 
 Wen. Here goes my heart. 
 
 [They divide themselves. Sir Charles 
 Mountford, Ckanwell, Falcone?', and 
 Huntsman, Jight against Sir Francis 
 Acton, Wendoll, his Falconer and 
 Huntsman; and Sir Charles hath the 
 better, and heats them away, killing both 
 o/Sir Francis's Huntsmen. 
 Sir C. I^fy God! What have I done ? What 
 have I done ? 
 My rage hath plung'd into a sea of blood, 
 In which my soul lies drown'd. Poor innocents. 
 For whom we are to answer ! Well, 'tis done, 
 And I remain the victor. A great conquest. 
 When I would give this right hand, nay, this 
 
 head. 
 To breathe in them new life whom I have 
 
 slain ! — 
 Forgive me, God ! 'T was in the heat of blood ; 
 And anger quite removes me from myself. 
 It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder ; 
 Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it. 
 Sir Francis Acton he is fled the field ; 
 With him all those that did partake his quarrel ; 
 
 1 petty singles — toes. 
 
 2 discomfit, etc.— Pluck off the feathers without taking 
 the bird ; if in the habit of doing so, it is called ri^r. 
 
 3 trindle-tail or trundle-tail — curly tail; a cur. 
 
THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 487 
 
 And I am left alone -with sorrow dumb, 
 And in my height of conquest overcome. 
 
 Erder Susan. 
 
 Susan. God ! My brother wounded, 'mong 
 the dead .' 
 Unhappy jest, that in such earnest ends! 
 The rumour of this fear stretch'd to my ears. 
 And I am come to know if you be wounded. 
 
 Sir C. Oh, sister! sister! wounded at the 
 heart. 
 
 Susan. My God forbid! 
 
 Sir C. In doing that which He forbade, 
 I am wounded, sister. 
 
 Susan. I hope not at the heart. 
 
 Sir C. Yes ; at the heart. 
 
 Susan. God ! A surgeon, there ! 
 
 Sir C. Call me a sui-geon, sister, for my soul. 
 The sin of murder it hath pierc'd my heart. 
 And made a wide wound there; but for these 
 
 scratches, 
 They are nothing, nothing. 
 
 Susan. Charles, what have you done ? 
 Sir Francis hath great friends, and will pursue 
 
 you 
 Unto the utmost danger of the law. 
 
 Sir C. My conscience hath become mine enemy. 
 And will pursue me more than Acton can. 
 
 Susan. Oh ! fly, sweet brother. 
 
 Sir C. Shall 1 fly from thee ? 
 AVhy, Sue, art weary of my company? 
 
 Susan. Fly from your foe. 
 
 Sir C. You, sister, are my friend ; 
 And flying you, I shall pursue my end. 
 
 Susan. Your company is as my eyeball dear ; 
 Being far from you, no comfort can be near. 
 Yet fly to save your life : what would I care 
 To spend my future age in black despair. 
 So you were safe ? And yet to live one week 
 Without my brother Charles, through every cheek 
 My streaming tears would downwards run so 
 
 rank. 
 Till they could set on either side a bank. 
 And in the midst a channel ; so my face 
 For two salt water brooks shall still find place. 
 
 Sir C. Thou shalt not weep so much; for I 
 will stay. 
 In spite of danger's teeth. I'll live with thee, 
 Or I'll not live at all. I will not sell 
 My country and my father's patrimony, 
 Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of life. 
 
 Enter Sheriff, with OflScers. 
 
 Sher. Sir Charles, I am made the unwilling 
 instrument 
 Of your attach! and apprehension : 
 I'm sorry that the blood of innocent men 
 Should be of you exacted. It was told me 
 That you were guarded with a troop of friends. 
 And therefore came thus arm'd. 
 
 Sir C. Oh, Master Sheriff! 
 I came into the field with many friends, 
 But see, they all have left me : only one 
 Clings to my sad disaster, my dear sister. 
 I know you for an honest gentleman ; 
 I yield my weapons, and submit to you. 
 Convey me where you please. 
 
 She7\ To prison, then. 
 To answer for the lives of these dead men. 
 
 Susan. O God! God! 
 
 Sir C. Sweet sister, every strain 
 Of sorrow from your heart augments my pain ; 
 Your grief abounds, and hits against my breast. 
 
 * a«ac^— attachment, aiTest. 
 
 Sher. Sir, will you go ? 
 
 Sir C. Even where it likes you best. 
 
 \Exeunt, 
 
 Enter Mr. Frankford in a study. 
 
 Franh. How happy am I amongst other men, 
 That in my mean estate embrace content ! 
 I am a gentleman, and by my birth 
 Companion with a king ; a king's no more. 
 I am possess'd of many fair revenues, 
 Sufficient to maintain a gentleman. 
 Touching my mind, I am studied in all arts ; 
 The riches of my thoughts, and of my time. 
 Have been a good proficient ; but the chief 
 Of all the sweet felicities on earth, 
 I have a fair, a chaste, and loving wife j 
 Perfection all, all truth, all ornament. 
 If man on earth may truly happy be. 
 Of these at once possess'd, sure, 1 am he. 
 
 Enter Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. Sir, there's a gentleman attends without 
 to speak with you. 
 
 Frank. On horseback ? 
 
 Nich. Yes, on horseback. 
 
 Franh. Entreat him to alight, and I'll attend 
 him. 
 Know'st thou him, Nick? 
 
 Nich. Know him ? Yes ; his name is WendoU. 
 It seems he comes in haste : his horse is booted 
 Up to the flank in mire, himself all spotted 
 And stain'd with plashing. Sure, he rid in fear, 
 Or for a wager : horse and man both sweat ; 
 I ne'er saw two in such a smoking heat. 
 
 Franh. Entreat him in : about it instantly. 
 
 [Exit Nicholas. 
 This Wendoll I have noted, and his carriage 
 Hath pleas'd me much : by observation 
 I have noted many good deserts in him. 
 He's affable, and seen 1 in many things, 
 Discourses well, a good companion ; 
 And though of small means, yet a gentleman 
 Of a good house, somewhat press'd by want. 
 I have preferr'd him to a second place 
 In my opinion, and my best regard. 
 
 Enter Wendolt^ Mrs. Frankford, and 
 Nicholas. 
 
 Mrs. Anne. Oh, Mr. Frankford ! Mr. Wendoll, 
 here. 
 Brings you the strangest news that e'er you heard. 
 
 Frank. What news, sweet wife 7 — What news, 
 good Mr. Wendoll ? 
 
 Wen. You knew the match made 'twixt Sir 
 Francis Acton 
 And Sir Charles Mountford 7 
 
 Franh. True ; with their hounds and hawks. 
 
 Wen. The matches were both played. 
 
 Franh. Ha ! and which won ? 
 
 Wen. Sir Francis, your wife's brother, had the 
 worst. 
 And lost the wager. 
 
 Franh. Why, the worse his chance : 
 Perhaps the fortune of some other day 
 Will change his luck. 
 
 Mrs. A, Oh ! but you hear not all. 
 Sir Francis lost, and yet was loath to yield : 
 At length the two knights grew to difference. 
 From words to blows, and so to banding sides ; 
 Where valorous Sir Charles slew, in his spleen. 
 Two of your brother's men, his falconer. 
 And his good huntsman, whom he lov'd so well. 
 More men were wounded, no more slain outright. 
 
 seen — instructed. — Dodslet. 
 
488 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Frank. Now, tx-ust me, I am sorry for the 
 kniglit ; 
 But is my brother safe ? 
 
 Wen. All whole and sound, 
 His body not being blemish'd with one wound : 
 But poor Sir Charles is to the prison led, 
 To answer at th' assize for them that's dead. 
 Frank. I thank your pains, sir : had the news 
 been better, 
 Your will was to have brought it, Mr. Wendoll. 
 Sir Charles will find hard fx-iends: his case is 
 
 heinous. 
 And will be most severely censur'd on : ' 
 I'm sox-ry for him. Sir, a word with you. 
 I know you, sir, to be a gentleman 
 In all things ; your possibilities but mean : 
 Please you to use my table and my purse ; 
 They are yours. 
 
 Wen. Lord, sir ! I shall never deserve it. 
 Frank. Oh, six-, disparage not your worth too 
 much : 
 You are full of quality and fair desert. 
 Choose of my men which shall attend you, sir, 
 And he is youx-s. I will allow you, sir. 
 Your man, your gelding, and your table. 
 All at my own charge ; be my companion. 
 
 Wen. Mr. Frankford, I have oft been bound 
 to you 
 By many favours ; this exceeds them all. 
 That I shall never merit your least favour ; 
 But when your last remembrance I forget, 
 Heaven at my soul exact that weighty debt. 
 Frank. There needs no protestation ; for I 
 know you 
 Virtuous, and thei-efore grateful. — Pr'ythee, Nan, 
 Use him with all thy loving'st courtesy. 
 
 Mrs. A. As far as modesty may well extend, 
 It is my duty to receive your friend. 
 Frank. To dinner ! Come, sir, from this pre- 
 sent day, 
 Welcome to me for ever : come, away. 
 
 [Exeunt Frankford, Mrs. Frankford, 
 and Wexdoll. 
 Nich. I do not like this fellow by no means ; 
 I never see him but my heart still yearns. 
 Zounds ! I could fight with him, yet know not 
 
 why : 
 The devil and he ai-e all one in my eye. 
 
 Enter Jenkin. 
 
 Jen. Oh, Nick ! what gentleman is that, that 
 comes to lie at our house ? My master allows 
 him one to wait on him, and I believe it will fall 
 to thy lot. 
 
 Nick. I love my master, by these hilts ^ I do ; 
 But rather than I'll ever come to serve him, 
 I'll turn away my master. 
 
 Enter Sisly. 
 
 Sis. Nicholas! where are you, Nicholas? You 
 must come in, Nich'las, and help the young 
 gentleman off with his boots. 
 
 Nich. If I pluck off his boots, I'll eat the spurs. 
 And they shall stick fast in my throat like burrs. 
 
 Sis. Then, Jenkin, come you. 
 
 Jen. Nay, 'tis no boot for me to deny it. My 
 master hath given me a coat here, but he takes 
 pains himself to brush it once or twice a day 
 with a holly-wand. 
 
 Sis. Come, come, make haste, that you may 
 wash your hands again, and help to serve in 
 dinner. 
 
 Jen. You may see, my masters, though it be 
 
 * censured ora— judged of, or passed sentence on. 
 
 * *i«s— cudgels.— Nakes. 
 
 afternoon with you, 'tis yet but early days with 
 us, for we have not din'd yet. Stay a little ; I'll 
 but go in and help to bear up the first coux-se, 
 and come to you again presently. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Malby and Cranweix. 
 
 Mai. This is the sessions day ; pray, can you 
 tell me 
 How young Sir Charles hath sped ? Is he acquit, 
 Or must he try the laws' strict penalty ? 
 
 Cran. He's clear'd of all, spite of his enemies, 
 Whose earnest labour was to take his life : 
 But in this suit of pardon he hath spent 
 All the revenues that his father left him ; 
 And he is now turn'd a plain country xnan, 
 Reform'd in all things. See, sir, hex-e he comes. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles and his Keeper. 
 
 Keep. Discharge your fees, and you are then 
 at fx-eedom. 
 
 Sir C. Here, Mr. Keeper, take the poor re- 
 mainder 
 Of all the wealth I have : my heavy foes 
 Have made my purse light ; but, alas ! to me 
 'Tis wealth enough that you have set me free. 
 
 Mai. God give you joy of your delivery. 
 I am glad to see you abroad, Sir Charles. 
 
 Sir C. The poorest knight in England, Mr. 
 Malby : 
 My life hath cost me all my patx-imony 
 My father left his son. Well, God foi-give them 
 That ax-e the authors of my penux-y ! 
 
 Enter Shaftox. 
 
 Shajl. Sir Charles ! A hand, a hand ! At 
 liberty ? 
 Now, by the faith I owe, I am glad to see it. 
 What want you ? Whei-ein may I pleasux-e you ? 
 
 Sir C. me ! Oh, most unhappy gentlexnan ! 
 I am not wox-thy to have fx-iends stirr'd up, 
 Whose hands may help me in this plunge of 
 
 want. 
 I would I were in heaven, to inherit there 
 Th' immortal birthright which my Saviour keeps, 
 And by no unthrift can be bought and sold ; 
 For here on earth what pleasures should we 
 trust ? 
 
 Shaft. To rid you from these contemplations. 
 Three hundx-ed pounds you shaH receive of xxie ; 
 Nay, five for fail. Come, sir, the sight of gold 
 Is the most sweet receipt for melancholy. 
 And will revive your spirits. You shall hold 
 
 law 
 With your px'oud adversaries. Tush ! let Frank 
 
 Acton 
 Wage his knighthood-like expense with me. 
 And a' will sink, he will. — Nay, good Sir Charles, 
 Applaud your fortune, and your fair escape 
 From all these pexils. 
 
 Sir C. Oh, sir ! they have undone me. 
 Two thousand and five hundred pound a year 
 My father, at his death, possess'd xne of ; 
 All which the envious Acton made me speixd : 
 And, notwithstanding all this large expense, 
 I had much ado to gain my liberty ; 
 And I have only now a house of pleasure 
 With some five hundred pounds x-eserv'd. 
 Both to maintain me and my loving sister. 
 
 Shaft, (aside.) That must I have, it lies cou- 
 venient for me : 
 If I can fasten but one finger on him. 
 With my full hand I'll gripe him to the heart. 
 'Tis not for love I proffer'd him this coin. 
 But for my gain and pleasux-e. — Come, Sir Chai-leg, 
 I know you have need of money ; take mj' offer. 
 
 Sir C. Sir, I accept it, and remain indebted 
 
THOMAS HEY WOOD. 
 
 489 
 
 Even to the best of my unable power. 
 Come, gentlemen, and see it tender'd down. 
 
 Enter Wendoll, melancholy. 
 
 Wen. I am a villain, if I apprehend 
 But such a thought : then, to attempt the deed. 
 Slave, thou art damn'd without redemption. 
 I'll di-ive away this passion with a song. 
 A song ! ha ! ha ! a song ! as if, fond man. 
 Thy eyes could swim in laughter, when thy soul 
 Lies drench'd and drowned in red tears of blood. 
 I'll pray, and see if God within my heart 
 Plant better thoughts. Why, prayers are medi- 
 tations ; 
 And when I meditate (oh, God forgive me !), 
 It is on her divine perfections. 
 I will forget her ; I will arm myself 
 Not t' entertain a thought of love to her ; 
 And when I come by chance into her presence, 
 I'll hale these balls until my eye-strings crack. 
 From being pull'd and drawn to look that way, 
 
 Enter^ over the stage, Fraxkford, his Wife, 
 and Nicholas, 
 
 O God ! O God ! with what a violence 
 
 I'm hurried to mine own destruction ! 
 
 There goest thou, the most perfect'st man 
 
 That ever England bred a gentleman ; 
 
 And shall I wrong his bed? — Thou God of 
 
 thunder ! 
 Stay, in thy thoughts of vengeance and of wrath, 
 Thy great, almighty, and all-judging hand, 
 From speedy execution on a villain : 
 A villain, and a traitor to his friend. 
 
 Enter Jexkin. 
 
 Jen. Did your worship call ? 
 
 Wen. He doth maintain me ; he allows me 
 largely 
 Money to spend. 
 
 Jen. By my faith, so do not you me : I cannot 
 get a cross of you 
 
 Wen. My gelding, and my man, 
 
 Jen. That's Sorrel and I. 
 
 Wen. This kindness grows of no alliance 
 'twixt us. 
 
 Jen. Nor is my service of any great acquaint- 
 aT?ce. 
 
 Wen. I never bound him to me by desert : 
 Of a mere stranger, a poor gentleman, 
 A man by whom in no kind he could gain, 
 And he hath plac'd me in his highest thoughts. 
 Made me companion with the best and chiefest 
 In Yorkshire. He cannot eat without me. 
 Nor laugh without me. I am to his body 
 As necessary as his digestion. 
 And equally do make him whole or sick. 
 And shall I wrong this man ? Base man ! In- 
 
 grate ! 
 Hast thou the power, straight with thy gory 
 
 hands. 
 To rip thy image from his bleeding heart ; 
 To scratch thy name from out the holy book 
 Of his remembrance ; and to wound his name 
 That holds thy name so dear ? or rend his heart 
 To whom thy heart was knit and join'd together ? 
 And yet I must : then, Wendell, be content. 
 Thus villains, when they would, cannot repent. 
 
 Jen. AVhat a strange humour is my new master 
 in ! Pray God he be not mad : if he should be 
 so, I should never have any mind to serve him 
 in Bedlam. It may be he's mad for missing of 
 me. 
 
 Wen. What, Jenkin ! where's your mistress .' 
 
 Je7i. Is your worship married ? 
 
 Wen. Why dost thou ask ? 
 
 Jen. Because you are my master: and if I 
 have a mistress, I would be glad, like a good 
 servant, to do my duty to her. 
 
 Wen. I mean Mistress Frankford. 
 
 Jen. Marry, sir, her husband is riding out of 
 town, and she went very lovingly to bring him 
 on his way to horse. Do you see, sir ? here she 
 comes, and here I go. 
 
 Wen. Vanish. [_Exit Jenkin. 
 
 Eater Mrs. Anjie. 
 
 Mrs. Anne. Y'are well met, sir; now, in troth, 
 my husband. 
 Before he took horse, had a great desire 
 To speak with you : we sought about the house, 
 Hallo'd into the fields, sent every way. 
 But could not meet you. Therefore he enjoin'd 
 
 me 
 To do unto you his most kind commends : 
 Nay, more, he wills you, as you prize his love, 
 Or hold in estimation his kind friendship. 
 To make bold in his absence, and command 
 Even as himself were present in the house ; 
 For you must keep his table, use his servants, 
 And be a present Frankford in his absence. 
 
 Wen. I thank him for his love. — 
 {Aside.") Give me a name, you, whose infectious 
 
 tongues 
 Are tipp'd with gall and poison : as you would 
 Think on a man that had your father slain, 
 Murder'd your childx'en, made your wives base 
 
 strumpets, 
 So call me, call me so: print in my face 
 The most stigmatic title of a villain. 
 For hatching treason to so true a fi-iend, 
 
 Mrs. A. Sir, you are much beholding to my 
 husband ; 
 You are a man most dear in his regard. 
 
 Wen. I am bound unto your husband, and 
 you too, — 
 (Aside.) I will not speak to wrong a gentleman 
 Of that good estimation, my kind friend : 
 I will not ; zounds ! I will not. I may choose, 
 And I will choose. Shall I be so misled, 
 Or shall I purchase to my father's crest 
 The motto of a villain ? If I say 
 I will not do it, what thing can enforce me? 
 What can compel me ? What sad destiny 
 Hath such command upon my yielding thoughts ? 
 I will not — ha! Some fury pricks me on. 
 The swift Fates drag me at their chariot wheel. 
 And huri-y me to mischief. Speak I must : 
 Injure myself, wrong her, deceive his trust I 
 
 Mrs. A. Are you not well, sir, that you seem 
 thus troubled ? 
 There is sedition in your countenance. 
 
 Wen. And in my heart, fair angel, chaste and 
 wise, 
 I love you : stai't not, speak not, answer not ; 
 I love you : nay, let me speak the rest ; 
 Bid me to swear, and I will call to record 
 The host of heaven. 
 
 Mrs. A. The host of heaven forbid 
 Wendoll should hatch such a disloyal thought. 
 
 Wen. Such is my fate : to this suit was I born. 
 To wear rich pleasure's crown, or fortune's scorn 
 
 Mi's. A. My husband loves you. 
 
 Wen. I know it. 
 
 Mi's. A. He esteems you, 
 Even as his brain, his eyeball, or his heart. 
 
 Wen. 1 have tried it. 
 
 3Irs. A. His piu'se is your exchequer, and his 
 table 
 Doth freely serve you. 
 
 Wen. So I have found it. 
 
 Mrs. A. Oh! with what face of brass, what 
 brow of steel, 
 
490 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Can you, unblushing, speak this to the face . 
 Of the espous'd wife of so dear a fi'iend? 
 It is my husband that maintains your state ; 
 Will you dishonour him ? I am his wife, 
 That in your power hath left his whole affairs. 
 It is to me you speak. 
 
 Wen. Oh ! speak no more ; 
 For more than this I know, and have recorded 
 Within the red-leav'd table of my heart. 
 Fair, and of all belov'd, I was not fearful 
 Bluntly to give my life into your hand, 
 And at one hazard all my earthly means. 
 Go, tell 3'our husband ; he will turn me off, 
 And I am then undone. I care not, I, 
 'Twas for your sake. Perchance, in rage he'll 
 
 kill me : 
 I care not ; 'twas for you. Say I incur 
 The general name of villain through the world, 
 Of traitor to my fx'iend ; I care not, I. 
 Beggary, shame, death, scandal, and reproach, 
 For you I'll hazard all : why, what care I "i 
 For you I'll love, and in your love I'll die. 
 
 Mrs. A. You move me, sir, to passion and to 
 pity. 
 The love I bear my husband is as precious 
 As my soul's health. 
 
 Wen. I love your husband too. 
 And for his love I will engage my life. 
 Mistake me not ; the augmentation 
 Of my sincere affection borne to you 
 Doth no whit lessen my regard of him. 
 I will be secret, lady, close as night ; 
 And not the light of one small glorious star 
 Shall shine here, in my forehead, to bewray 
 That act of night. 
 
 Mrs. A. What shall I say ? 
 My soul is wandering, and hath lost her way. 
 Oh, Master Wendoll! Oh I 
 
 Wen. Sigh not, sweet saint ; 
 For every sigh you breathe draws from my 
 
 heart 
 A drop of blood. 
 
 Mrs. A. I ne'er offended yet : 
 My fault, I fear, will in my brow be writ. 
 Women that fall, not quite bei'eft of grace. 
 Have their offences noted in their face : 
 I blush, and am asham'd. Oh, Master Wendoll, 
 Pi-ay God I be not born to curse your tongue, 
 That hath enchanted me ! This maze I am in 
 I fear will prove the labyrinth of sin. 
 
 Enter Nicholas, 'behind. 
 
 Wen. The path of pleasure, and the gate to 
 bliss, 
 Which on your lips I knock at with a kiss. 
 Nich. I'll kill the rogue. 
 
 Wen. Your husband is from home, your bed's 
 no blab. 
 Nay, look not down and blush. 
 
 \Exeunt Wendoll and Mrs. Anne. 
 
 Nich. Zounds ! I'll stab. 
 
 Ay, N ick, was it thy chance to come just in the 
 nick? 
 
 I love my master, and I hate that slave : 
 
 I love my mistress ; but these tricks I like not. 
 
 My master shall not pocket up this wrong ; 
 
 I'll eat my fingers first. What say'st thou, 
 metal .? 
 
 Does not that rascal Wendoll go on legs 
 
 That thou must cut off.? Hath he not ham- 
 strings 
 
 That thou must hough ? Nay, metal, thou shalt 
 stand 
 
 To all I say. I'll henceforth turn a spy. 
 
 And watch them in their close conveyances. 
 
 I never look'd for better of that rascal, 
 
 Since he came michingi first into our house : 
 It is that Satan hath corrupted her ; 
 For she was fair and chaste. I'll have an eye 
 In all their gestures. Thus I think of them 
 (If they proceed as they have done before), 
 Wendoll's a knave, my mistress is a — {Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Mountford and Susan. 
 
 Sir G. Sister, you see we are driven to hard 
 shift, 
 To keep this poor house we have left unsold : 
 I am now enforc'd to follow husbandry. 
 And you to milk ; and do we not live well ? 
 Well, I thank God. 
 
 Sicsan. Oh ! brother ! here's a change 
 Since old Sir Charles died in our father's house. 
 
 /Sir C. All things on earth thus change, some 
 up, some down. 
 Content's a kingdom, and I wear that crown. 
 
 Enter Shafton, with a Sergeant. 
 
 Shaft. Good morrow, morrow. Sir Charles : 
 what ! with your sister, 
 Plying your husbandry? — Sergeant, stand off. — 
 You have a pretty house here, and a garden, 
 And goodly ground about it. Since it Hes 
 So near a lordship that I lately bought, 
 I would fain buy it of you. I will give you — 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! pardon me • this house successively 
 Hath 'long'd to me and my progenitors 
 Three hundred year. My great-great-grand- 
 father, 
 He in whom first our gentle style began, 
 Dwelt here; and in this ground, increas'd this 
 
 mole-hill 
 Unto that mountain which my father left me. 
 Where he the first of all our house began, 
 I now the last will end, and keep this house : 
 This virgin title, never yet deflowered 
 By any unthrift of the Mountfords' Une. 
 In brief, I will not sell it for more gold 
 Than you could hide or pave the ground withal. 
 
 Shaft. Ha, ha ! a proud mind and a beggar's 
 purse I 
 Where's my three hundred pounds, beside the 
 
 use? 2 
 I have brought it to an execution 
 By course of law. What ! is my money ready ? 
 
 Sir C. An execution, sir, and never tell me 
 You put my bond in suit ? You deal extremely. 
 
 Shaft. Sell me the land, and I'll acquit you 
 straight. 
 
 Sir C. Alas, alas ! 'tis all trouble hath left me, 
 To cherish me and my poor sister's life. 
 If this were sold, our means should then be quite 
 Eaz'd from the bead-roll of gentility. 
 You see what hard shift we have made to keep it 
 Allied still to our own name. This palm you see. 
 Labour hath glow'd within : her silver brow, 
 That never tasted a rough winter's blast 
 Without a mask or fan, doth with a grace 
 Defy cold winter, and his storms outface. 
 
 Susan. Sir, we feed sparing, and we labour 
 hard; 
 We lie uneasy, to reserve to us 
 And our succession this small spot of ground. 
 
 Sir C. I have so bent my thoughts to hus- 
 bandry 
 That I protest I scarcely can remember 
 What a new fashion is ; how silk or satin 
 Feels in my baud. Why, pride is grown to us 
 A mere, mere stranger. I have quite forgot 
 The names of all that ever waited on me. 
 
 1 miching — skulking, sneaking. 
 
 2 ttse— usury, interest. 
 
THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 491 
 
 £ cannot name ye any of my hounds, 
 
 Once from whose echoing mouths I heard all the 
 
 music 
 That e'er my heart desired. What should I say ? 
 To keep this place, I have chang'd myself away. 
 Shaft. Arrest him at my suit. — Actions and 
 actions 
 Shall keep thee in perpetual bondage fast : 
 Nay, more, I'll sue thee by a late appeal, 
 And call thy former life in question. 
 The keeper is my friend: thou shalt have irons. 
 And usage such as I'll deny to dogs. — Away with 
 him! 
 Sir C. Ye are too timorous. But trouble is my 
 master. 
 And I will serve him truly. — My kind sister, 
 Thy tears are of no force to mollify 
 The flinty man. Go to my father's brother. 
 My kinsmen, and allies ; entreat them for me, 
 To ransom me from this injurious man, 
 That seeks my ruin. , 
 
 Shaft. Come, irons, irons ! away : 
 I'll see thee lodged far from the sight of day. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Susan. My heart's so harden'd with the frost of 
 grief, 
 Death cannot piei'ce it through. — Tyrant too fell ! 
 So lead the fiends condemned souls to hell. 
 
 Uiiter Sir Francis Acton and Malby. 
 
 Sir F. Again to prison! Malby, hast thou 
 seen 
 A poor slave better tortm-'d ? Shall we hear 
 The music of his voice cry from the grate, 
 Meat, for the Lord's sake? No, no; yet I am 
 
 not 
 Thoroughly reveng'd. They say he hath a 
 
 pretty wench 
 Unto his sister ; shall I, in mercy-sake 
 To him and to his kindred, bribe the fool 
 To shame herself by leAvd, dishonest lust ? 
 I'll proffer largely ; but the deed being done, 
 I'll smile to see her base confusion. 
 3Ial. Methinks, Sir Francis, you are full 
 reveng'd 
 For greater wrongs than he can proffer you. 
 See where the poor sad gentlewoman stands. 
 
 Sir F. Ha, ha ! now will I flout her poverty, 
 Deride her fortunes, scoff her base estate; 
 My very soul the name of Mountford hates. 
 But stay, my heart ! Oh, what a look did fly 
 To strike my soul through with thy piercing 
 
 eye! 
 I am enchanted ; all my spirits are fled. 
 And with one glance my envious spleen struck 
 dead. 
 Susan. A.cion.\ That seeks our blood. 
 
 [Runs away. 
 Sir F. Oh, chaste and fair ! 
 Mai. Sir Francis! why, Sir Francis! Zounds! 
 in a trance ? 
 Sir Francis! what cheer, man? Come, come, 
 how is't? 
 Sir F. Was she not fair ? Or else this judging 
 eye 
 Cannot distinguish beauty. 
 Mai. She was fair. 
 
 Sir Fy She was an angel in a mortal's shape, 
 And ne'er descended from old Mountford's line. 
 But soft, soft, let me call my wits together. 
 A poor, poor wench to my great adversary 
 Sister, whose very souls denounce stern war 
 One against other. How now, Frank, turn'd 
 
 fool 
 Or madman, whether ? But no ! master of 
 My perfect senses and directest wits. 
 Then why should I be in this violent humour 
 
 Of passion and of love ? And with a person 
 So different every way, and so opposed 
 In all contractions, and still- warring actions? 
 Fie, fie ! how I dispute against my soul ! 
 Come, come, I'll gain her ! or in her fair quest 
 Purchase my soul free and immortal rest. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Enter three or four serving-men, one with a voider I 
 and a wooden knife, to take away; another 
 the salt and bread ; another the tablecloth and 
 napkins ; another the carpet : Jenkin with two 
 lights after them. 
 
 Jen. So ; march in order, and retire in battle 
 array. My master and the guests have supp'd 
 already, all's taken away : here, now spread for 
 the serving-men in the hall. — Butler, it belongs 
 to your office. 
 
 But. I know it, Jenkin. 
 What do you call the gentleman that supp'd 
 there to-night ? 
 
 Jen. Who, my master ? 
 
 But. No, no; Master Wendoll, he's a daily 
 guest : I mean the gentleman that came but this 
 afternoon. 
 
 Jen. His name's Mr, Cranwell. God's light! 
 hark, within there, my master calls to lay more 
 billets upon the fire. Come, come : Lord ! how 
 we that are in office here are troubled ! Oue 
 spx-ead the carpet in the parlour, and stand ready 
 to snuff the lights : the rest be ready to prepare 
 their stomachs. More lights in the hall there! 
 Come, Nicholas. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. I cannot eat; but had I Wendoll's heart, 
 I would eat that : the rogue grows impudent. 
 Oh ! I have seen such vile, notorious tricks. 
 Ready to make my eyes dart from my head. 
 ['11 tell my master ; by this air, I will : 
 Fall what may fall, I'll tell him. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter Master Feankford, as it loere brushing the 
 crumbs from his clothes with a napkin, as newly 
 risen from supper. 
 
 Frank. Nicholas, what make you here ? Why 
 are not you 
 At supper in the hall, among your fellows ? 
 Nich. Master, I stay'd your rising from the 
 board. 
 To speak with you. 
 
 Frank. Be brief then, gentle Nicholas ; 
 My wife and guests attend me in the parlour. 
 Why dost thou pause? Now, Nicholas, you 
 
 want money. 
 And, unthrift-like, would eat into your wages 
 Ere you had earn'd it : here, sir's, half-a-crown ; 
 Play the good husband, and away to supper. 
 
 Nich. By this hand; an honourable gentle- 
 man ! I will not see him wrong'd. — Sir, I have 
 serv'd you long ; you entertained me seven years 
 before your beard. 
 
 You knew me, sir, before you knew my mistress. 
 Frank. What of this, good Nicholas ? 
 Nich. I never was a make-bate, ^ or a knave ; 
 I have no fault but one — I'm given to quarrel. 
 But not with women. I will tell you, master. 
 That which will make your heart leap from your 
 
 breast. 
 Your hair to startle from your head, your ears to 
 tingle. 
 Frank. What preparation's this to dismal 
 news? 
 
 ^voider— & basket or tray for carrying out the relics 
 of a dinner, etc.. the wooclen knife being used to sweep 
 them into it. 
 
 2 make-bate — a promoter of quarrels. — Dodslet. 
 
492 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Nich. 'Sblood! sir, I love you better than 
 I'll make it good. [your wife. 
 
 Frank. You are a knave, and I have much ado 
 "With wonted patience to contain my rage, 
 And not to break thy pate. Thou art a knave : 
 I'll turn you, with your base comparisons, 
 Out of my doors. 
 ^ Nich. Do, do. 
 
 There is not room for WendoU and me too, 
 Both in one house. Oh, master, master, 
 That Wendoll is a villain ! 
 
 Frank. Ay, saucy ! 
 
 Nich. Strike, strike, do strike : yet hear me ! I 
 am no fool ; 
 I know a villain, when I see him act 
 Deeds of a villain. Master, master, that base slave 
 Enjoys my mistress, and dishonours you. 
 
 Frank. Thou hast kill'd me with a weapon, 
 whose sharp point 
 Hath prick'd quite through and through my 
 
 shivering heart. 
 Drops of cold sweat sit dangling on my hairs. 
 Like morning's dew upon the golden flowers ; 
 And I am plung'd into strange agonies. 
 What didst thou say ? If any word that touch'd 
 His credit, or her reputation. 
 It is as hard to enter my belief, 
 As Dives into heaven. 
 
 Nich. I can gain nothing : they are two 
 That never wrong'd me. I knew before 
 'Twas but a thankless ofSce, and perhaps 
 As much as is my service, or my life is worth. 
 All this I know, but this, and more, 
 More by a thousand dangers, could not hire me 
 To smother such a heinous wrong from you. 
 I saw, and I have said. 
 
 Frank. 'Tis probable, though blunt ; yet he is 
 honest. 
 Though I durst pawn my life, and on their faith 
 Hazard the dear salvation of my soul. 
 Yet in my trust I may be too secure. 
 May this be true 7 Oh ! may it ? Can it be ? 
 Is it by any wonder possible ? 
 Man, woman, what thing mortal can we trust, 
 "When friends and bosom wives prove so unjust? 
 "What instance hast thou of this strange report ? 
 
 Nich. Ej'^es, master, eyes. 
 
 Frank. Thy eyes may be deceiv'd, I tell thee ; 
 For should an angel from the heavens drop down, 
 And preach this to me that thyself hast told, 
 He should have much ado to win belief ; 
 In both their loves I am so confident. 
 
 Nich. Shall I discourse the same by circum- 
 stance ? 
 
 Frank. No more! To supper, and command 
 your fellows 
 To attend us and the strangers. Not a word, 
 I charge thee, on thy life : be secret, then. 
 For I know nothing. 
 
 Nich. I am dumb. Now that I have eas'd my 
 stomach, 
 I will go fill my stomach. \_Exit. 
 
 Frank. Away! begone! 
 She is well born, descended nobly ; 
 Virtuous her education ; her repute 
 Is in the general voice of all the country 
 Honest and fair ; her carriage, her demeanour, 
 In all the actions that concern the love 
 To me, her husband, modest, chaste, and godly. 
 Is all this seeming gold plain copper ? 
 But he, that Judas that hath borne my purse. 
 Hath sold me for a sin. God ! God ! 
 Shall I put up these wrongs ? No. Shall I trust 
 The bare report of this suspicious groom. 
 Before the double gilt, the well-hatch ore 
 Of their two hearts .5* No, I will lose these 
 thoughts : 
 
 Distraction I will banish from my brow, 
 And from my looks exile sad discontent ; 
 Their wonted favours in my tongue shall flow : 
 Till I know all, I'll nothing seem to know. 
 Lights and a table there ! — Wife, Mr. Wendoll, 
 and gentle Master Cranwell. 
 
 Enter Mistress Fkaxkford, Master Wendoll, 
 Master Cranwell, Nicholas, and Jenkin 
 with cards, caiyets, stools, and other neces- 
 saries. 
 
 Frank. Oh! Master Cranwell, you are a stranger 
 here. 
 And often baulk my house ; faith y'are a churl. — 
 Now we have supp'd, a table, and to cards. 
 
 Jen. A pair ^ of cards, Nicholas, and a carpet ' 
 to cover the table. Where's Sisly, with her 
 counters and her box? Candles and candle- 
 sticks, there! Fie! we have such a household 
 of serving creatures. Unless it be Nick and I, 
 there's not one amongst them all that can say bo 
 to a goose. — Well said, Nick. 
 
 I'Thei/ spread a carpet ; set down 
 lights and cards. 
 
 Mrs. A. Come, Mr. Frankford, who shall take 
 my part ? 
 
 Frank. That will I, sweet wife. 
 
 Wen. No, by my faith, when you are together, 
 I sit out : it must be Mrs. Frankford and I, oi 
 else it is no match. 
 
 Frank. I do not like that match. 
 
 Nich. You have no reason, niarrj-, knowing all. 
 
 Frank. 'Tis no great matter, neither. — Come, 
 Master Cranwell, shall you and I take them up ? 
 
 Cran. At your pleasure, sir. 
 
 Frank. I must look to you. Master Wendoll, for 
 you'll be playing false; nay, so will my wife, too. 
 
 Nich. 1 will be sworn she will. 
 
 Mrs. A. Let them that are taken false, forfeit 
 the set. 
 
 Frank. Content : it shall go hard but I'll take 
 you. 
 
 Cran. Gentlemen, what shall our game be ? 
 
 Wen. Master Frankford, you play best at 
 noddy.' 
 
 Frank. You shall not find it so; indeed, you 
 shall not. 
 
 Mrs. A. I can play at nothing so well as 
 double-ruff.* 
 
 Frank. If Master Wendoll and my wife be 
 together, there's no playing against them at 
 double hand. 
 
 Nich. I can tell you, sir, the game that Master 
 Wendoll is best at. 
 
 Wen. What game is that, Nick? 
 
 Nich. Marry, sir, knave out of doors. 
 
 Wen. She and I will take you at lodam.s 
 
 Mrs. A. Husband, shall we play at saint ? " 
 
 Frank. My saint's turned devil. — No, we'll 
 none of saint : • 
 
 You are best at new-cut, wife, you'll play at that. 
 
 Wen. If you play at new-cut, I'm soonest 
 hitter of any here, for a wager. 
 
 Frank. 'Tis me they play on. — Well, you may 
 draw out ; 
 
 ' pair — pack, foiinerly a common use of the word, 
 
 2 carpets were at first used for this purpose. 
 
 3 noddy— a game probably resembling either vingt-un 
 or cribbage. 
 
 * double-ruff. It appears not to be very well known 
 what this was. There were also French-ruff, English^ 
 ruff and honorius, and vide-ruff, mentioned below, pro- 
 bably all resembling whist. 
 
 * lodam. A game, says Reed in Dodsley, not quite 
 disused; but he does not explain it. 
 
 * saint — properly cent, supposed to be like piquet.— 
 Nakks. 
 
THOMAS HEY WOOD. 
 
 493 
 
 For all your cunning, 'twill be to your shame, 
 I'll teach you, at yovir new-cut, a new game. 
 Gome, come. 
 
 Cran. If you cannot agree upon the game, to 
 post and pair.* 
 
 Wen. We shall be soonest pairs ; and my good 
 host, 
 "When he comes late home, he must kiss the post. 
 
 Frank. Whoever wins, it shall be to thy cost. 
 
 Cran. Faith, let it be vide-ruff, and let's make 
 honours. 
 
 Frank. If you make honours, one thing let me 
 crave, 
 Honour the king and queen; except the knave. 
 
 Wen. Well, as you please for that — Lift, who 
 
 Mrs. A. The least in sight. What are you, 
 
 Master Wen doll? 
 Wen. I am a knave. 
 Nich. I'll swear it. 
 Mrs. A. I am queen. 
 
 Frank. A quean, thou shouldst say.— Well, the 
 cards are mine : 
 They are the grossest pair that e'er I felt. 
 Mrs. A. Shuffle, I'll cut : would I had never 
 
 dealt. 
 Frank. I have lost my dealing. 
 Wen. Sir, the fault's in me ; 
 This queen I have more than mine own, you see. 
 Give me the stock. 
 
 Frank. My mind's not on my game. 
 Many a deal I've lost ; the more s your shame. 
 You have serv'd me a bad trick, Master Wendoll. 
 Wen. Sir, you must take your lot. To end 
 this strife, 
 I know I have dealt better with your wife. 
 Frank. Thou hast dealt falsely, then. 
 Mrs. A. What's trumps ? 
 Wen. Hearts. Partner, I rub. 
 Frank. Thou robb'st me of my soul, of her 
 chaste love ; 
 In thy false dealing thou hast robb'd my heart. 
 Booty- you play, I like a loser stand. 
 Having no heart, or here, or in my hand. 
 I will give o'er the set, I am not weU. 
 Come, who will hold my cards ? 
 
 Mrs. A. Not well, sweet Mr. Fi-ankford ? 
 Alas ! what ails you ? 'Tis some sudden qualm. 
 Wen. How long have you been so, Master 
 
 Franlcf ord ? 
 Frank. Sir, I was lusty, and I had my health, 
 But I grew ill when you began to deal. — 
 Take hence this table. — Gentle Master Cranwell, 
 Y'are welcome : see your chamber at your plea- 
 sure. 
 I am sorry that this meagrim takes me so, 
 I cannot sit and bear your company. — 
 Jenkin, some lights, and show him to his chamber. 
 Mrs. A. A nightgown for my husband ; quickly, 
 there ! 
 It is some rheum or cold. 
 
 Wen. Now, in good faith, this illness you have 
 got 
 By sitting late without your gown. 
 
 Frank. I know it, Master Wendoll. 
 Go, go to bed, lest you complain like me. — 
 Wife, pr'ythee, wife, into my bed-chamber 5 
 The night is raw and cold, and rheumatic. 
 Leave me my gown and light, I'll walk away my 
 fit. 
 Wen. Sweet sir, good night. 
 
 » post and pair. See note 1, p. 145, col. 1. 
 
 2 Booty. To play booty appears to have meant to give 
 people an advantage at first, in order to draw them on 
 to their loss.— Narbs. 
 
 Frank. Myself, good night. [Exit Wendoll. 
 
 Mrs. A. Shall 1 attend you, husband ? 
 
 Frank. No, gentle wife, thou'lt catch cold in 
 thy head. 
 Pr'ythee be gone, sweet ; I'll make haste to bed. 
 
 Mrs. A. No sleep will fasten on mine eyes, you 
 know, 
 Until you come. [Exit. 
 
 Frank. Sweet Nan, I pr'ythee go. — 
 I have bethought me : get me by degrees 
 The keys of all my doors, which I will mould 
 In wax, and take their fair impression, 
 To have by them new keys ; this being com- 
 
 pass'd, 
 At a set hour a letter shall be brought me. 
 And when they think they may securely play, 
 They nearest are to danger. — Nick, I must rely 
 Upon thy trust and faithful secrecy. 
 
 Nick. Build on my faith. 
 
 Frank. To bed, then, not to rest. 
 Care lodges in my brain, grief in my breast. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles's Sister, Old Mountford, 
 Saxdy, Boder, and Tidy. 
 
 Old Mount. You say my nephew is in great 
 distress ; 
 Who brought it to him, but his own lewd life ? 
 I cannot spare a cross. I must confess 
 He was my brother's son ; why, niece, what then ? 
 This is no world in which to pity men. 
 Susan. I was not born a beggar, though hia 
 extremes 
 Enforce this language from me. I protest 
 No fortune of mine own could lead my tongue 
 To this base key. I do beseech you, uncle, 
 For the name's 'sake, for Christianity, 
 Nay, for God's sake, to pity his distress. 
 He is denied the freedom of the prison, 
 And in the hole is laid with men condemn'd ; 
 Plenty he hath of nothing but of irons, 
 And it remains in you to free him thence. 
 
 Old Mount. Money I cannot spare ; men should 
 take heed. 
 He lost my kindred when he fell to need. [Exit. 
 Susan. Gold is but earth ; thou earth enough 
 shalt have. 
 When thou hast once took measure of thy grave. 
 You know me. Master Sandy, and my suit. 
 Sandy. 1 knew you, lady, when the old maa 
 liv^d ; 
 I knew you ere your brother sold his land. 
 Then you were Mistress Sue, trick'd up in jewels ; 
 Then you sang well, play'd sweetly on the lute; 
 But now I neither know you nor your suit. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Susan. You, Master Boder, was my brother's 
 tenant ; 
 Kent-free he plac'd you in that wealthy farm, 
 Of which you are possess'd. 
 
 Boder. True, he did ; 
 And have I not there dwelt still for his sake ? 
 i I have some business now ; but without doubt, 
 They that have hmi'd him in, will help him out. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Susan. Cold comfort still. What say you, 
 
 cousin Tidy ? 
 Tidy. I say this comes of roysting, swaggering 
 Call me not cousin ; each man for himself. 
 Some men are born to mirth, and some to sorrow ; 
 I am no cousin unto them that borrow. [Exit. 
 Susan. Oh, charity! Why art thou fled to 
 heaven, 
 And left all things upon this earth uneven ? 
 Their scoffing answers I will ne'er return. 
 But to myself his grief in silence mourn. 
 
494 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Enter Sir Fbaxcis and Malbt. 
 
 Sir F. She is poor, I'll therefore tempt her with 
 this gold. 
 Go, Mai by, in my name deliver it, 
 And I will stay thy answer. 
 
 Mai. Fair mistress, as I understand your grief 
 Doth grow from want, so I have here in store 
 A means to furnish you, a bag of gold. 
 Which to your hands I freely tender you. 
 
 Susan. I thank you, Heavens! I thank you, 
 gentle sir ; 
 God make me able to requite this favour. 
 
 Mai. This gold Sir Francis Acton sends by me. 
 And prays you — 
 
 Susan. Acton } God ! That name I'm born 
 to curse : 
 Hence, bawd! hence, broker! see, I spurn his 
 
 gold. 
 My honour never shall for gain be sold. 
 
 ^Sir F. Stay, lady, stay. 
 
 Sttsan. From you I'll posting hie, 
 Even as the doves from feather'd eagles fly. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir F. She hates my name, my face, how should 
 I woo? 
 I am disgrac'd in everything I do. 
 The more she hates me, and disdains my love, 
 The more I am rapt in admiration 
 Of her divine and chaste perfections. 
 Woo her with gifts I cannot, for all gifts 
 Sent in my name she spurns; with looks I can- 
 not, 
 For she abhors my sight ; nor vet with letters, 
 For none she will receive. How then? how 
 
 then? 
 Well, I will fasten such a kindness on her, 
 As shall o'ercome her hate and conquer it. 
 Sir Charles, her brother, lies in execution 
 For a great sum of money, and besides. 
 The appeal is sued still for my huntsmen's death, 
 Which only I have power to reverse ; 
 In her I'll bury all my hate of him. — 
 Go seek the keeper, Malby, bring him to me. 
 To save his body, I his debts will pay ; 
 To save his life, I his appeal will stay. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Mouxtford in prison^ with 
 irons, his feet bare, his garments all ragged 
 and torn. 
 
 Sir C. Of all on the earth's face most miserable 
 Breathe in this hellish dungeon thy laments. 
 Thus like a slave ragg'd, like a felon gyv'd. 
 That hurls thee headlong to this base estate. 
 Oh, unkind uncle! Oh, my friends ingrate! 
 Unthankful kinsmen, Mountford's all too base, 
 To let thy name be fetter'd in disgrace. 
 A thousand deaths here in this grave I die ; 
 Fear, hunger, sorrow, cold, all threat my death, 
 And join together to deprive my breath ; 
 But that which most torments me, my dear sister 
 Hath left to visit me, and from my friends 
 Hath brought no hopeful answer ; therefore, I 
 Divine they will not help my misery. 
 If it be so, shame, scandal, and contempt 
 Attend their covetous thoughts ; need make their 
 
 graves : 
 Usurers they live, and may they die like slaves. 
 
 Enter Keeper. 
 
 Keep. Knight, be of comfort, for I bring thee 
 freedom 
 From all thy troubles. 
 
 Sir C. Then, I am doom'd to die : 
 Death is the end of all calamity. 
 
 Keep. Live : your appeal is stay'd, the execu- 
 tion 
 
 Of all your debts discharg'd ; your creditors 
 Even to the utmost penny satisfied. 
 In sign whereof your shackles I knock off. 
 You are not left so much indebted to us 
 As for your fees ; all is discharg'd ; all paid. 
 Go freely to your house, or where you please ; 
 After long miseries, embx-ace your ease. 
 Sir C. Thou grumblest out* the sweetest music 
 to me 
 That ever organ play'd. — Is this a dream ? 
 Or do my waking- senses apprehend 
 The pleasing taste of all these applausive news? 
 Slave that I was, to wrong such honest friends. 
 My loving kinsman, and my near allies. 
 Tongue, I will bite thee for the scandal breath 
 Against such faithful kinsmen : they are all 
 Compos'd of pity and compassion. 
 Of melting charity and of moving ruth. 
 That which I spoke before was in my rage ; 
 They are my friends, the mirrors of this age ; 
 Bounteous and free. The noble Mountford's race 
 Ne'er bred a covetous thought, or humour base. 
 
 Enter Susan. 
 
 Susan. I cannot longer stay from visiting 
 My wof ul brother ; while I could, I kept 
 My hapless tidings from his hopeful ear. 
 
 Sir C. Sister, how much am I indebted to thee 
 And to thy travail ! i 
 
 Susan. What ! at liberty ? 
 
 Sir C. Thou seest I am; thanks to thy industry. 
 Oh! unto which of all my courteous friends 
 Am I thus bound ? My uncle Mountford, he 
 Even from an infant lov'd me ; was it he ? 
 So did my cousin Tidy ; was it he ? 
 So Master Eoder, Master Sandy, too. 
 Which of all these did this high kindness do ? 
 
 Susan. Charles, can you mock me in your 
 poverty, 
 Knowing your fi-iends deride your misery ? 
 Now, I protest I stand so much amaz'd, 
 To see your bonds free, and your irons knock'd 
 
 off. 
 That I am rapt into a maze of wonder; 
 The rather for I know not by what means 
 This happiness hath chanc'd. 
 
 Sir C. Why, by my uncle, 
 My cousins and my friends ; who else, I pray, 
 Would take upon them all my debts to pay ? 
 
 Susan. Oh, brother ! they are men all of flint. 
 Pictures of marble, and as void of pity 
 As chased bears. I begg'd, I sued, I kneel'd, 
 Laid open all your gi-iefs and miseries. 
 Which they derided. More than that, denied us 
 A part in their alliance ; but, in pride, 
 Said that our kindred with our plenty died. 
 
 Sir C. Drudges! too much! what did they? 
 Oh, known evil ! 
 Rich fly the poor, as good men shun the devil : 
 Whence should my freedom come ? Of whom 
 
 alive, 
 Saving of those, have I deserved so well? 
 Guess, sister, call to mind, remember me : 
 These have I rais'd, they follow the world's guise, 
 Whom rich in honour, they in woe despise. 
 
 Susan. My wits have lost themselves ; let's ask 
 the keeper. 
 
 Sir C. Jailor! 
 
 Keep. At hand, sir. 
 
 Sir C. Of courtesy resolve me one demand. 
 What was he took the burthen of my debts 
 From off my back, stay'd my appeal to death, 
 Discharg'd my fees, and brought me liberty ? 
 
 Keep. A courteous knight, and call'd Sir Fran- 
 cis Acton. 
 
 Susan. Acton! 
 
THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 495 
 
 Sir C. Ha! Acton! Oh, me, more distress'd 
 in this 
 Than all ray troubles. Hale me back, 
 Double my irons, and my sparing meals 
 Put into halves, and lodge me in a dungeon 
 More deep, more dark, more cold, more comfort- 
 less. 
 By Acton freed ! Not all thy manacles 
 Could fetter so my heels, as this one word 
 Hath thrall'd my heart; and it must now lie 
 
 bound 
 In more strict prison than thy stony jail. 
 I am not free, I go but under tail. 
 Keep. My charge is done, sir, now I have my 
 fees: 
 As we get little, we wUl nothing leese. {Exit. 
 Sir C. By Acton freed ! My dangerous oppo- 
 site ! 1 
 Why, to what end ? or what occasion ? Ha ! 
 Let me forget the name of enemy, 
 And with indifference balance this high favour : 
 ha! 
 Susan. His love to me : upon my soul, 'tis so. 
 That is the root from whence these strange things 
 grow. [Aside. 
 
 Sir C. Had this proceeded from my father, he 
 That by the law of nature is most bound 
 In offices of love, it had deserv'd 
 My best employment to requite that grace. 
 Had it* proceeded from my friends, or him, 
 From them this action had deserv'd my life. 
 And from a stranger more, because from such 
 There is less execution of good deeds. 
 But he, nor father, nor ally, nor friend, 
 More than a stranger, both remote in blood, 
 And in his heart oppos'd my enemy, 
 That this high bounty should proceed from him. 
 Oh ! there I lose myself. What should I say, 
 What think, what do, his bounty to repay .' 
 Susan. You wonder, I am sure, whence this 
 strange kindness 
 Proceeds in Acton : I will tell you, brother. 
 He dotes on me, and oft hath sent me gifts, 
 Letters, and tokens ; I refus'd them all. 
 Sir C. I have enough, though poor : my heart 
 is set, 
 In one rich gift to pay back all my debt. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Frankford and Nicholas, with keys and 
 a letter in his hand. 
 
 Franh. This is the night that I must play the 
 touch 
 To try two seeming angels. Where's my keys? 
 Nich. They are made according to your mould 
 in wax : 
 I bade the smith be secret, gave him money, 
 And here they are. The letter, sir. 
 Frank. True, take it, there it is ; 
 And when thou seest me in my pleasant'st vein, 
 Keady to sit to supper, bring it me. 
 Nich. I'll do't; make no more question, but 
 I'll do it. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Frankford, Craitsvell, Wendoll, 
 and Jenkin. 
 
 Mrs. A. Sirrah, 'tis six o'clock already struck ; 
 Go bid them spread the cloth, and serve in supper. 
 
 Jen. It shall be done, forsooth. Mistress, 
 Where's Spiggot, the butler, to give us our salt 
 and trenchers ? 
 
 Wen. We that have been a hunting all the day, 
 
 opposite — enemy. — Collieb. 
 
 Come with prepared stomachs. — Master Frank- 
 ford, 
 We wish'd you at our sport. 
 Frank. My heart was with you, and my mind 
 was on you. — 
 Fie ! Master Cranwell, yovi are still thus sad. — 
 A stool, a stool! Where's Jenkin, and where's 
 
 Nick .9 
 'Tis supper time at least an hour ago. 
 What's the best news abroad ? 
 Wen. I know none good. 
 Frank. But I know too much bad. 
 
 Enter Butler and Jexkin, with a tablecloth., bread, 
 trenchers, and salt ; then exeunt. 
 
 Cran. Methinks, sir, you might have that in- 
 terest 
 In your wife's brother, to be more remiss 
 In his hard dealing against poor Sir Charles, 
 Who, as I hear, lies in York Castle, needy. 
 And in great want. 
 
 Frank. Did not more weighty business of mine 
 own 
 Hold me away, I would have labour'd peace 
 Betwixt them, with all care, indeed I would, sir. 
 
 Mrs. A. I'll write unto my brother earnestly 
 In that behalf. 
 
 Wen. A charitable deed ; 
 And wiU beget the good opinion 
 Of all your friends that love you, Mrs. Frankford. 
 
 Frank. That's you, for one : I know you love 
 Sir Charles, 
 And my wife too well. 
 
 Wen. He deserves the love. 
 Of all true gentlemen ; be yourselves judge. 
 
 Frank. But supper, ho ! — Now, as thou lov'st 
 me, Wendell, 
 Which I am sure thou dost, be merry, pleasant, 
 And frolic it to-night. — Sweet Mr. Cranwell, 
 Do you the like. — Wife, I protest my heart 
 Was ne'er more bent on sweet alacrity. 
 Where be those lazy knaves to serve in supper ? 
 
 Enter Nicholas. 
 
 Nich. Here's a letter, sir. 
 
 Frank. Whence comes it, and who brought it ? 
 
 Nich. A stripling that below attends your 
 answer. 
 And, as he tells me, it is sent from York. 
 
 Frank. Have him into the cellar, let him taste 
 A cup of our March beer : go, make him drink. 
 
 Nich. I'll make him drunk, if he be a Trojan. 
 
 Frank. My boots and spurs ! where's Jenkin ? 
 God forgive me. 
 How I neglect my business. — Wife, look here ; 
 I have a matter to be tried to-morrow 
 By eight o'clock, and my attorney writes me, 
 I must be there betimes with evidence, 
 Or it will go against me. Where's my boots ? 
 
 Enter Jenkin, with boots and spurs. 
 
 Mrs. A. I hope your business craves no such 
 despatch, 
 That you must ride to-night. 
 
 Wen. I hope it doth. 
 
 Frank. God's me ! No such despatch ? 
 Jenkin, my boots! where's Nick.'* Saddle my 
 
 roan, 
 And the grey dapple for himself. — Content ye, 
 It much concerns me. — Gentle Master Cranwell, 
 And Master Wendell, in my absence use 
 The very ripest pleasures of my house. 
 
 Wen. Lord ! Master Frankford, wiU you ride 
 to-night? 
 The ways are dangerous. 
 
 Frank. Therefore will I ride, 
 Appointed well ; and so shall Nick, my man. 
 
496 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Mrs. A. I'll call you up by five o'clock to- 
 morrow. 
 Frank. No, by my faith, wife, I'll not trust to 
 that: 
 'Tis not such easy rising in a morning 
 From one I love so dearly. No, by my faith, 
 I shall not leave so sweet a bedfellow, 
 But with much pain. You have made me a 
 
 sluggard 
 Since I first knew you. 
 
 Mrs. A. Then, if you needs will go, 
 This dangerous evening, Master Wendoll, 
 .Let me entreat you bear him company. 
 
 Wen. With all my heart, sweet mistress. — My 
 
 boots there ! 
 Frank. Fie, fie ! that for my private business 
 I should disease ' my friend, and be a trouble 
 To the whole house. — Nick ! 
 Nich. Anon, sir. 
 
 Frank. Bring forth my gelding. — As you love 
 me, sir, 
 Use no more words : a hand, good Master Cran- 
 well. 
 Cran. Sir, God be your speed. 
 Frank. Good night, sweet Nan; nay, nay, a 
 kiss, and part. 
 Dissembling lips, you suit not with my heart. 
 
 [^Aside and exit. 
 Wen. How business, time, and hours, all 
 gracious prove. 
 And are the furtherers of my new-born love ! 
 I am husband now in Master Frankford's place, 
 And must command the house — My pleasure is 
 We will not sup abroad so publicly. 
 But in your private chamber. Mistress Frank- 
 ford. 
 Mrs. A. Oh, sir ! you are too public in your 
 love, 
 And Master Frankford's wife. 
 Cran. Might I crave favour, 
 I would entreat you I might see my chambex'. 
 I am on the sudden grown exceeding ill, 
 And would be spar'd from supper. 
 
 Wen. Light there, ho ! — 
 See you want nothing, sir, for if you do. 
 You injure that good man, and wrong me too. 
 Cran. I will make bold : good night. [_Exit. 
 Wen. How all conspire 
 To make our bosom sweet, and full entire ! 
 Come, Nan, I pr'ythee let us sup within, 
 
 Mrs. ^. Oh ! what a clog unto the soul is sin ! 
 We pale offenders are still full of fear ; 
 Every suspicious eye brings danger near. 
 When they, whose clear hearts from offence are 
 
 free. 
 Despite report, base scandals do outface. 
 And stand at mere defiance with disgi-ace. 
 Wen. Fie, fie! you talk too like a puritan. 
 Mrs. A. You have tempted me to mischief, 
 Master Wendoll : 
 I have done I know not what. Well, you plead 
 
 custom ; 
 That which for want of wit I granted erst, 
 I now must yield through fear. Come, come, 
 
 let's in ; 
 Once over shoes, we are straight o'erhead in 
 sin. 
 
 ' ^ ' "■ measure, 
 
 reasure. 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Wen. My jocund soul is joyful beyond : 
 I'll be profuse in Frankford's richest tre: 
 
 Enter Sisly, Jenkin, and Butler. 
 
 Jen. My mistress, and Master Wendoll, my 
 master, sup in her chamber to-night. Sisly, 
 
 ' dwecwc— make uneasy, put about. 
 
 you are preferred from being the cook, to be 
 chambermaid : of all the loves betwixt thee and 
 me, tell me what thou think'st of this ? 
 
 Sis. Mum : there's an old proverb. When the 
 cat's away, the mouse may play. 
 
 Jen. Now you talk of a cat, Sisly, I smell a 
 rat. 
 
 Sis. Good words, Jenkin, lest you be called to 
 answer them. 
 
 Jen. Why, God make my mistress an honest 
 woman ! are not these good words ? Pray God 
 my new master play not the knave with my old 
 master! is there any hurt in this? God send 
 no villany intended; and if they do sup together, 
 pray God they do not lie together. God make 
 my mistress chaste, and make us all his ser- 
 vants : what harm is there in all this ? Nay, 
 more ; here is my hand, thou shalt never have 
 my heart, unless thou say. Amen. 
 
 'sis. Amen, I pray God, I say. 
 
 Enter Serving-men. 
 
 Serving-man. My mistress sends that you 
 should make less noise; so lock up the doors, 
 and see the household all got to bed. You, 
 Jenkin, for this night are made the porter, to 
 see the gates shut in. 
 
 Jen. Thus, by little and little, I creep into 
 ofiice. Come, to kennel, my masters, to kennel : 
 'tis eleven o'clock already. 
 
 Sei'ving-man. When you have locked the gates 
 in, you must send up the keys to my mistress. 
 
 Sis. Quickly, for God's sake, Jenkin, for I 
 must cai-ry them. I am neither pillow nor 
 bolster, but I know more than both. 
 
 Jen. To bed, good Spiggot : to bed, good 
 honest serving creatures; and let us sleep as 
 snug as pigs in peas-straw. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Frankfokd and Nicholas. 
 
 Frank. Soft, soft ! we have tied our geldings 
 to a tree, two flight shot off, lest by their thunder- 
 ing hoofs they blab our coming Hear'st thou 
 no noise? 
 
 Nich. I hear nothing but the owl and you. 
 
 Frank. So ; now my watch's hand points upon 
 twelve, 
 And it is just midnight. Where are my keys ? 
 
 Nich. Here, sir. 
 
 Frank. This is the key that opes my outward 
 gate, 
 This is the hall-door, this the withdrawing 
 
 chamber ; 
 But this, that door that's bawd unto my shame. 
 Fountain and spring of all my bleeding thoughts, 
 Where the most hallow'd order and true knot 
 Of nuptial sanctity hath been profan'd : 
 It leads to my polluted bed-chamber. 
 Once my terrestrial heaven, now my earth's hell ; 
 The place where sins in all their ripeness dwell. 
 But 1 forget myself: now to my gate. 
 
 Nich. It must ope with far less noise than 
 Cripplegate, 
 Or your plot's dash'd. 
 
 Frank. So, reach me my dark lantern to the 
 rest. 
 Tread softly, softly. 
 
 Nich. I will walk on eggs, this pace. 
 
 Frank. A general silence hath surprised the 
 house. 
 And this is the last door. Astonishment, 
 Fear, and amazement, play against my heart. 
 Even as a madman beats upon a drum. 
 Oh ! keep my eyes, you heavens, before I enter 
 From any sight that may transfix my soul : 
 Or, if there be so black a spectacle, 
 Oh ! strike mine eyes stark blind ; or if not so, 
 
THOMAS HEY WOOD. 
 
 497 
 
 Lend me such patience to digest my grief, 
 That I may keep this white and virgin hand 
 From any violent outrage, or red murder ; 
 And with that prayer I enter. \_Exit. 
 
 Nick. Here's a circumstance ! a man may be 
 made a cuckold in the time he's about it. And 
 the case were mine. 
 As 'tis my master's Csblood ! that he makes me 
 
 swear), 
 I would have placed his action, enter'd there ; 
 I would, I would. 
 
 Re-enter Frankfobd. 
 
 Frank. Oh! oh! 
 
 Nich. Master, 'sblood! Master, master 
 
 Frank. Oh, me unhappy! 
 But that I would not damn two pi'ecious souls, 
 Bought with my Saviour's blood, and send them, 
 
 laden 
 With all their scarlet sins upon their backs, 
 Unto a fearful judgment, their two lives 
 Had met upon my rapier. 
 
 Nich. 'Sblood! Master, what, have ye left 
 them sleeping still ? 
 Let me go wake 'em. 
 
 Frank. Stay, let me pause awhile. — 
 
 God ! God ! that it were possible 
 
 To undo things done ; to call back yesterday ; 
 That Time could turn up his swift sandy glass. 
 To untell the days, and to redeem these hours ; 
 Or that the sun 
 Could, rising from the west, draw his couch 
 
 backward ; 
 Take from th' account of time so many minutes. 
 Till he had all these seasons call'd again, 
 Those minutes, and those actions done in them, 
 Even from her first offence ; that I might take 
 
 her 
 As spotless as an angel in my arms ! 
 But, oh ! I talk of things impossible, 
 And cast beyond the moon.i God give me 
 
 patience, 
 For I will in, and wake them. [Exit. 
 
 Nich. Here's patience, perforce : 
 He needs must trot afoot that tires his horse. 
 
 Enter Wendoll,, running over the stage in a 
 night-gown, Frankford after him with a 
 sword drawn : the maid in her smock stays his 
 hand^ and clasps hold on him. He pauses for 
 aioh'ile. 
 
 Frank. I thank thee, maid; thou, like the 
 
 angel's hand, 
 Hath stay'd me from a bloody sacrifice. — 
 Go, villain ; and my wrongs sit on thy soul 
 As heavy as this grief doth upon mine. 
 When thou record'st my many courtesies, 
 And shalt compare them with thy treacherous 
 
 heart, 
 Lay them together, weigh them equally, 
 'Twill be revenge enough. Go, to thy friend 
 A Judas : pray, pray, lest I live to see 
 Thee, Judas-like, hang'd on an elder-tree. 
 
 Enter Mistress Frankford in her smock, night- 
 gown, and night attire. 
 
 Mrs. A. Oh, by what word, what title, or 
 what name. 
 Shall I entreat your pardon ? Pardon ! Oh ! 
 
 1 am as far from hoping such sweet grace. 
 
 As Lucifer from heaven. To call you husband ! 
 (Oh, me, most wretched !) I have lost that name— 
 I am no more your wife. 
 
 ^cast beyond the moon — a proverbial phrase for at- 
 tempting impossibilities.— Nares. 
 
 Nich. 'Sblood ! sir, she swoons. 
 
 Frank. Spare thou thy tears, for I will weep 
 for thee ; 
 And keep thy countenance, for I'll blush for 
 
 thee. 
 Now, I protest, I think 'tis I am tainted, 
 For I am most asham'd ; and 'tis more hard 
 For me to look upon thy guilty face 
 Than on the sun's clear brow. What wouldst 
 thou speak ? 
 
 Mrs. A. I would I had no tongue, no ears, no 
 eyes. 
 No apprehension, no capacity. 
 When do you spurn me like a dog? When 
 
 tread me 
 Under feet ? When drag me by the hair ? 
 Though I deserve a thousand, thousand fold. 
 More than you can inflict — yet, once my husband, 
 For womanhood, to which I am a shame. 
 Though once an ornament — even for his sake, 
 That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not my face, 
 Nor hack me with your sword ; but let me go 
 Perfect and undeforraed to my tomb. 
 I am not worthy that I should prevail 
 In the least suit ; no, not to speak to you. 
 Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence, 
 Yet, as an abject, this one suit I crave — 
 This granted, I am ready for my grave. 
 
 Frank. My God, with patience arm me ! — Rise, 
 nay, rise. 
 And I'll debate with thee. Was it for want 
 Thou play'dst the strumpet? Wast thou not 
 
 supplied 
 With every pleasure, fashion, and new toy ; 
 Nay, even beyond my calling ? 
 
 Mrs. A. I was. 
 
 Frank. Was it, then, disability in me ; 
 Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer man ? 
 
 Mrs. A. Oh ! no. 
 
 Frank. Did I not lodge thee in my bosom ? 
 Wear thee in my heart ? 
 
 Mrs. A. You did. 
 
 Frank. 1 did, indeed ; witness my tears, I did. 
 Go, bring my infants hither. — 
 
 Enter two Children. 
 
 Oh, Nan! oh. Nan! 
 
 If neither fear of shame, regard of honour, 
 The blemish of my house, nor my dear love, 
 Could have withheld thee from so lewd a fact. 
 Yet for these infants, these young, harmless 
 
 souls. 
 On whose white brows thy shame is character'd. 
 And grows in greatness as they wax in years ; 
 Look but on them, and melt away in tears. 
 Away with them ! lest, as her spotted body 
 Hath stain'd their names with stripe of bastardy, 
 So her adulterous breath may blast their spirits 
 With her infectious thoughts. Away with them. 
 [Exeunt Children. 
 Mrs. A. In this one life, I die ten thousand 
 
 deaths. [Kneels. 
 
 Frank. Stand up, stand up. I will do nothing 
 
 rashly. 
 I will retire awhile into my study. 
 And thou shalt hear thy sentence presently. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Mrs. A. 'Tis welcome, be it death. Oh, me, 
 
 base strumpet ! 
 That, having such a husband, such sweet children, 
 Must enjoy neither! Oh! to redeem mine 
 
 honour, 
 I would have this hand cut off, these my breasts 
 
 sear'd ; 
 Be rack'd, strappadoed, put to any torment : 
 Nay, to wipe but this scandal out, I would 
 
 hazard 
 
 21 
 
498 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 The rich and dear redemption of my soul. 
 
 He cannot be so base as to forgive me, 
 
 Nor I so shameless to accept his pardon. 
 
 Oh, women, women ! you that yet have kept 
 
 Your holy matrimonial vow unstain'd, 
 
 Make me your instance : when you tread awry, 
 
 Your sins, like mine, will on your conscience lie. 
 
 Enter Sisly, Spiggot, all the serving-men, and 
 Jenkin, as nezoly come out of bed. 
 
 All. Oh, mistress, mistress! what have you 
 done, mistress? 
 
 Nich. What a caterwauling keep you here? 
 
 Jen. Oh, Lord! mistress, how comes this to 
 pass ? My master has run away in his shirt, and 
 never so much as called me to bring his clothes 
 after him. 
 
 Mrs. A. See what guilt is ! Here stand I in 
 this place, 
 Asham'd to look my servants in the face. 
 
 Enter Mr. Feankford and Cranwell; whom 
 
 seeing, Mrs. Fraxkford falls on her knees. 
 
 Frank. My words are registered in heaven 
 already: 
 With patience hear me. I'll not martyr thee, 
 Nor mark thee for a strumpet ; but with usage 
 Of more humility torment thy soul, 
 And kill thee even with kindness. 
 
 Cran. Master Frankford — 
 
 Frank. Good Mr. Oranwell. — Woman, hear thy 
 judgment. 
 Go make thee ready in thy best attire ; 
 Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy apparel ; 
 Leave nothing that did ever call thee mistress, 
 Or by whose sight, being left here in the house, 
 I may remember such a woman by. 
 Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy chamber; 
 Take with thee everything which hath thy mark. 
 And get thee to my manor, seven mile off. 
 Where live— 'tis thine ; I freely give it thee. 
 My tenants by shall furnish thee with wains 
 To carry all thy stuff within two hours : 
 No longer will I limit thee my sight. 
 Choose which of all my servants thou lik'st best. 
 And they are thine to attend thee. 
 
 M7'S. A. A mild sentence. 
 
 Frank. But, as thou hop'st for heaven, as thou 
 belie v'st 
 Thy name's recorded in the book of life, 
 I charge thee never, after this sad day, 
 To see me, or to meet me, or to send. 
 By word or writing, gift or otherwise, 
 To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends, 
 Nor challenge any part in my two children. 
 So farewell. Nan; for we will henceforth be 
 As we had ne'er seen, ne'er more shall see. 
 
 Mrs. A. How full my heart is, in mine eyes 
 appears ; 
 What wants in words, I will supply in tears. 
 
 Frank. Come, take your coach, your stuff ; all 
 must along ; 
 Servants and all make ready, all be gone. 
 It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles Mountford, gentleman-like, 
 and his Sister, gentlewoman-like. 
 
 Susan. Brother, why have you trick'd me like 
 a bride. 
 Bought me this gay attire, these ornaments ? 
 Forget you our estate, our poverty ? 
 
 Sir C. Call me not brother, but imagine me 
 Some barbarous outlaw, or uncivil kern ; 
 For if thou shut'st thine eye, and only hear'st 
 The words that I shall utter, thou shalt judge me 
 
 Some staring ruffian, not thy brother Charles. 
 Oh, sister! — 
 Susan. Oh, brother! what doth this strange 
 
 language mean ? 
 Sir C. Dost love me, sister? Wouldst thou 
 see me live 
 A bankrupt beggar in the world's disgrace. 
 And die indebted to mine enemies ? 
 Wouldst thou behold me stand like a huge beam 
 In the world's eye, a by-word and a scorn ? 
 It lies in thee of these to acquit me free, 
 And all my debt I may outstrip by thee. 
 Stisan. By me? Why, I have nothing, nothing 
 left; 
 I owe even for the clothes upon my back : 
 I am not worth — 
 
 Sir C. Oh, sister ! say not so : 
 It lies in you my downcast state to raise ; 
 To make me stand on even points with the world. 
 Come, sister, you are rich ; indeed you are : 
 And in your power you have, without delay, 
 Acton's five hundred pounds back to repay. 
 Susan. Till now I had thought y' had lov'd me. 
 By my honour 
 (Which I have kept as spotless as the moon), 
 I ne'er was mistress of that single doit 
 Which I reserv'd not to supply your wants ; 
 And do ye think that I would hoard from you ? 
 Now, by my hopes in heaven, knew I the means 
 To buy you from the slavery of your debts 
 (Especially from Acton, whom 1 hate), 
 I would redeem it with my life or blood. 
 
 Sir C- I challenge it ; and, kindred set apart. 
 Thus, ruffian-like, I lay siege to thy heart. 
 What do I owe to Acton ? 
 Susan. Why, some five hundred pounds; 
 towards which, I swear. 
 In all the world I have not one denier.^ 
 Sir C. It will not prove so. Sister, now re- 
 solve me : 
 What do you think (and speak your conscience) 
 Would Acton give, might he enjoy j^our bed ? 
 Susan. He would not shrink to spend a thou- 
 sand pound. 
 To give the Mountfords' name so deep a wound. 
 Sir C. A thousand pound ! I but five hundred 
 owe: 
 Grant him your bed, he's paid with interest so. 
 Susan. Oh, brother! 
 Sir C. Oh, sister ! only this one way, 
 With that rich jewel you my debts may pay. 
 In speaking this, my cold heart shakes with 
 
 shame ; 
 Nor do I woo you in a brother's name. 
 But in a stranger's. Shall I die in debt 
 To Acton, my grand foe, and you still wear 
 The precious jewel that he holds so dear ? 
 Susa7i. My honour I esteem as dear and pre- 
 cious 
 As my redemption. 
 
 Sir C. I esteem you, sister. 
 As dear, for so dear prizing it. 
 
 Susan. Will Charles 
 Have me cut off my hands, and send them Acton? 
 Rip up my breast, and Avith my bleeding heart 
 Present him as a token ? 
 Sir C. Neither, sister: 
 But hear me in my strange assertion. 
 Thy honour and my soul are equal in my regard; 
 Nor will thy brother Charles survive thy shame. 
 His kindness, like a burthen, hath surcharg'd me. 
 And under his good deeds I stooping go. 
 Not with an upright soul. Had I remain'd 
 In prison still, there doubtless I had died : 
 
 * denier— the twelfth of a sou. 
 
THOMAS HEY WOOD. 
 
 499 
 
 Then, unto him that freed me from that prison, 
 Still do I owe this life. What mov'd my foe 
 To enfranchise me? 'Twas, sister, for your love: 
 With full five hundred pounds he bought your 
 
 love. 
 And shall he not enjoy it ? Shall the weight 
 Of all this heavy burden lean on me, 
 And will not you bear part ? You did partake 
 The joy of my release ; will you not stand 
 In joint-bond bound to satisfy the debt? 
 Shall I be only charg'd ? 
 
 Susan. But that I know 
 These arguments come from an honoirr'd mind, 
 As in your most extremity of need 
 Scorning to stand in debt to one you hate. 
 Nay, rather would engage your unstain'd honour. 
 Than to be held ingrate, 1 should condemn you. 
 I see your resolution, and assent ; 
 So Charles will have me, and I am content. 
 
 Sir C. For this I trick'd you up. 
 
 Susan. But here's a knife, 
 To save mine honour, shall slice out my life. 
 
 Sir C. I know thou pleasest me a thousand 
 times 
 More in thy resolution than thy grant. — 
 Observe her love ; to sooth it to my suit, 
 Her honour she will hazard (though not lose) 
 To bring me out of debt, her rigorous hand 
 Will pierce her heart. Oh, wonder ! That will 
 
 choose, 
 Eather than stain her blood, her life to lose. 
 Come, you sad sister to a woful brother, 
 This is the gate. I'll bear him such a pi'esent. 
 Such an acquittance for the knight to seal, 
 As will amaze his senses, and surprise 
 With admiration all his fantasies. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Acton and Malbt. 
 
 Susan. Before his unchaste thoughts shall 
 seize on me, 
 Tis here shall my imprison'd soul set free. 
 
 Sir F. How ! Mountford with his sister, hand 
 in hand ! 
 What miracle's afoot ? 
 
 Mai. It is a sight 
 Begets in me much admiration. 
 
 Sir C. Stand not amaz'd to see me thus at- 
 tended. 
 Acton, I owe thee money ; and, being unable 
 To bring thee the full sum in ready coin, 
 Lo! for thy more assurance, here's a pawn: 
 My sister, my dear sister, whose chaste honour 
 I prize above a million. Here : nay, take her ; 
 She's worth your money, man : do not forsake 
 her. 
 
 Sir F. I would he were in earnest. 
 
 Susan. Impute it not to my immodesty. 
 My brother, being rich in nothing else 
 But in his interest that he hath in me. 
 According to his poverty hath brought you 
 Me, all his store ; whom, howsoe'er you prize, 
 As forfeit to your hand, he values highly, 
 And would not sell, but to acquit your debt, 
 For any emperor's ransom. 
 
 Sir F. Stem heart, relent, 
 Thy former cnielty at length repent. 
 Was ever known, in any former age. 
 Such honourable, wrested courtesy ? 
 Lands, honours, life, and all the world forego, 
 Bather than stand engag'd to such a foe. 
 
 Sir C. Acton, she is too poor to be thy bride, 
 And L too much oppos'd to be thy brother. 
 There, take her to thee ; if thou hast the heart 
 To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey ; 
 To blur our house, that never yet was stain'd ; 
 To murder her that never meant thee harm ; 
 
 To kill me now, whom once thou sav'dst from 
 
 death ; 
 Do them at once on her : all these rely 
 And perish with her spotless chastity. 
 
 Sir F. You overcome me in your love, Sir 
 Charles. 
 I cannot be so cruel to a lady 
 I love so dearly. Since you have not spar'd 
 To engage your repiitation to the world, 
 Your sister's honour, which you prize so dear. 
 Nay, all the comfort which you hold on earth. 
 To grow out of my debt, being your foe. 
 Your honour'd thoughts, lo ! thus I recompense. 
 Your metamorphosed foe receives your gift 
 In satisfaction of all former wrongs. 
 This jewel I will wear here in my heart: 
 And where before I thought her, for her wants, 
 Too base to be my bride, to end all strife, 
 I seal you my dear brother, her my wife. 
 
 Susan. You still exceed us. I will yield to 
 fate. 
 And learn to love, where I till now did hate. 
 
 Sir C With that enchantment you have 
 charm'd my soul, 
 And made me rich even in those very words : 
 I pay no debt, but am indebted more. 
 Eich in your love, I never can be poor. 
 
 Sir F. All's mine is yours; we are alike in 
 state ; 
 Let's knit in love what was oppos'd in hate. 
 Come, for our nuptials we will straight provide, 
 Blest only in our brother and fair bride. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Cranwell, Frankford, and Nicholas. 
 
 Cran. Why do you search each room about 
 your house. 
 Now that you have despatch'd your wife away ? 
 Sir F. Oh, sir ! to see that nothing may be left 
 That ever was my wife's. I lov'd her dearly ; 
 And when I do but think of her unkindness, 
 My thoughts are all in hell : to avoid which 
 
 torment, 
 I would not have a bodkin or a cuff, 
 A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire,^ 
 Nor anything that ever was call'd hers. 
 Left me, by which I might remember her. — 
 Seek round about. 
 
 Nich. 'Sblood ! master, here's her lute flung in 
 a corner. 
 
 Frank. Her lute ! God ! Upon this instru- 
 ment 
 Her fingers have run quick di vision, ^ 
 Sweeter than that which now divides our hearts. 
 These frets have made me pleasant, that have 
 
 now 
 Frets of my heart-strings made. Oh, Master 
 
 Cranwell, 
 Oft hath she made this melancholy wood 
 (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) 
 Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain 
 To her own ravishing voice ; which being well 
 
 strung, 
 What pleasant strange airs have they jointly 
 
 rung! — 
 Post with it after her. — Now nothing's left : 
 Of her and hers I am at once bereft. 
 Nich. I'll ride and overtake her ; do my mes- 
 sage. 
 And come back again. \_Exit, 
 
 Cran. Meantime, sir, if you please. 
 
 ' rebato wire— a. wire to stiffen or set a rebato, which 
 was the name for a species of ruflf worn round the neck. 
 — Collier. 
 
 2 division^ In music, means just time. 
 
500 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 I'll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him 
 Of what hath pass'd 'twixt you and his sister. 
 
 Frank. Do as you please. — How ill am I bested, 
 To be a widower ere my wife be dead ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Eater Mi's. Frankford, with Jexkin, her maid 
 SiSLY, her Coachman^ and three Carters. 
 
 Mrs. A. Bid my coach stay. Why should I 
 ride in state, 
 Being hurl'd so low down by the hand of fate ? 
 A seat like to my fortunes let me have ; 
 Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave. 
 
 Jen. Comfort, good mistress : you have watered 
 your coach with tears already. You have but 
 two miles now to go to your manor. A man 
 cannot say by my old Master Frankford, as he 
 may say by me, that he wants manors ; for he 
 hath three or four, of which this is one that we 
 are going to now. 
 
 Sisly. Good mistress, be of good cheer. Sor- 
 row,* you see, hurts you, but helps you not; we 
 all mourn to see you so sad. 
 
 Carter. Mistress, 1 see some of my landlord's 
 men 
 Come riding post : 'tis like he brings some news. 
 
 Mrs. A. Comes he from Mr. Frankford, he is 
 welcome : 
 So is his news, because they come from him. 
 
 Enter Nicholas [with the Intel. 
 
 Nich. There. 
 
 Mrs A. I know the lute. Oft have I sung to 
 thee: 
 We are both out of tune, both out of time. 
 
 Nich. Would that had been the worst instru- 
 ment that e'er you played on ! My master com- 
 mends him to ye; there's all he can find that 
 ever was yours. He hath nothing left that ever 
 you could lay claim to but his own heart, and 
 he could afford you that. All that I have to 
 deliver you is this : he prays you to forget him ; 
 and so he bids you farewell. 
 
 Mrs. A. I thank him: he is kind, and ever 
 was. 
 All you that have true feeling of my grief. 
 That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, 
 Gird me about, and help me with your tears 
 To wash my spotted sins. My lute shall groan ; 
 It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. 
 
 [She plays. 
 Enter Wexdoll behind. 
 
 Wen. Pursu'd with horror of a guilty soul, 
 And with the sharp scourge of repentance lash'd, 
 I fly from mine own shadow. Oh, my stars ! 
 What have my parents in their lives deserv'd. 
 That you should lay this penance on their son ? 
 When I but think of Master Frankford's love, 
 And lay it to my treason, or compare 
 My murdering him for his relieving me, 
 It strikes a terror like a lightning's flash. 
 To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl, 
 Asham'd of day, live in these shadowy woods, 
 Afraid of every leaf, or murm'ring blast. 
 Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge 
 How he hath dealt with her. Oh, my sad fate ! 
 Here, and so far from home, and thus attended! 
 O God ! I have divorc'd the truest turtles 
 That ever liv'd together ; and, being divided, 
 In several places make their several moan ; 
 She in the fields laments, and he at home. 
 So poets write that Orpheus made the trees 
 And stones to dance to his melodious harp. 
 Meaning the rustic and the barbarous hinds. 
 That had no understanding part in them : 
 So she from these rude carters tears extracts, 
 
 Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise, 
 And draw [down] rivers from their rocky eyes. 
 Mrs. A. If you return unto your master, say 
 (Though not from me, for I am all unworthy 
 To blast his name with a strumpet's tongue) 
 That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead : 
 Nay, you may say, too (for my vow is past). 
 Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. 
 1'his to 3'our master you may say and swear ; 
 For it is writ in heaven, and decreed here. 
 
 Nich. I'll say you wept : I'll swear you made 
 me sad. 
 Why, how now, eyes? What now? What's 
 
 here to do ? 
 I am gone, or I shall straight turn baby too. 
 
 Wen. 1 cannot weep, my heart is all on fire. 
 Curs'd be the fruits of my unchaste desire ! 
 Mrs. A. Go, break this lute upon my coach's 
 wheel, 
 As the last music that I e'er shall make ; 
 Not as my husband's gift, but my farewell 
 To all earth's joy ; and so yovoc master tell. 
 Nich. If I can for crying. 
 Wen. Grief, have done. 
 Or, like a madman, I shall frantic run. 
 Mrs. A. You have beheld the wofull'st wretch 
 on earth — 
 A woman made of tears : would you had words 
 To express but what you see ! My inward grief 
 No tongue can utter ; yet unto your power 
 You may describe my sorrow, and discloso 
 To thy sad master my abundant woes. 
 Nich. I'll do your commendations. 
 Mrs. A. Oh ! no : 
 I dare not so presume ; nor to my children : 
 I am disclaim'd in both ; alas ! I am. 
 Oh ! never teach them, when they come to spealc. 
 To name the name of mother: chide their tongue. 
 If they by chance light on that hated word ; 
 Tell them 'tis naught : for when that word they 
 
 name 
 (Poor, pretty souls !) they harp on their own 
 shame. 
 Wen. To recompense their wrongs, what canst 
 thou do ? 
 Thou hast made her husbandless, and childless 
 too. 
 3frs. A. 1 have no more to say. — Speak not 
 for me ; 
 Yet you may tell your master what you see. 
 Ntch. I'll do't. [Exit. 
 
 Wen. I'll speak to her, and comfort her iu 
 grief. 
 Oh ! but her wound cannot be cur'd with words. 
 No matter, though ; I'll do my best good will 
 To work a cure on her whom I did kill. 
 Mrs. A. So, now unto my coach, theu to my 
 home. 
 So to my death-bed ; for from this sad hour, 
 I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste 
 Of any cates that may preserve my life. 
 I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest ; 
 But when my tears have wash'd my black soul 
 
 white. 
 Sweet Saviour, to thy hands I yield my sprite. 
 Wen. (coming forward). Oh, Mrs. Frankford! 
 Mrs. A. Oh, for God's sake, fly! 
 The devil doth come to tempt me ere I die. 
 My coach ! — This sin, that with an angel's face 
 Conjur'd mine honour, till he sought my wrack, 
 In my repentant eye seems ugly, black. 
 
 lExeunt all except Wendoll and Jexkin : 
 the Carters whistling. 
 
 Jen. What! my young master, that fled in his 
 shirt ? How come you by your clothes again ? 
 You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha' 
 
THOMAS HEY WOOD. 
 
 501 
 
 ye not, think you? What! shall I serve you 
 still, or cleave to the old house ? 
 
 Wen. Hence, slave ! away, with thy unseason'd 
 
 mirth. 
 Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, and howl, 
 Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on fate, 
 Thou ai-t not for my turn. 
 
 Jen. Marry, and you will not, another will: 
 farewell, and be hang'd. Would you had never 
 come to have kept this coil within our doors. 
 We shall ha' you run away like a sprite again. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Wen. She's gone to death ; I live to want and 
 
 woe : 
 Her life, her sins, and all upon my head. 
 And I must now go wander, like a Cain, 
 In foreign countries and remoted climes, 
 Where the report of my ingratitude 
 Cannot be heard. I'll over first to France, 
 And so to Germany and Italy ; 
 Where, when I have recover'd, and by travel 
 Gotten those perfect tongues, and that these 
 
 rumours 
 May in their height abate, I will return : 
 And I divine (however now dejected), 
 My worth and parts being by some great man 
 
 prais'd, 
 At my return I may in court be rais'd. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mount- 
 ford, Cranwell, Malby, and Susan. 
 
 Sir F. Brother, and now my wife, I think 
 these troubles 
 Fall on my head by justice of the heavens. 
 For being so strict to you in your extremities ; 
 But we are now aton'd.* I would my sister 
 Could with like happiness o'ei^come her griefs 
 As we have ours. 
 Susan. You tell us, Mr. Cranwell, wondrous 
 things 
 Touching the patience of that gentleman ; 
 With what strange virtue he demeans his grief. 
 
 Cran. I told you what I was a witness of ; 
 It was my fortune to lodge there that night. 
 Sir F. Oh, that same villain, Wendoll! 'twas 
 his tongue 
 That did corrupt her : she was of herself 
 Chaste, and devoted well. Is this the house ? 
 Cran. Yes, sir. I take it, here your sister 
 
 lies. 
 Sir F. My brother Frankford show'd too mild 
 a spirit 
 In the revenge of such a loathed crime. 
 Less than he did, no man of spirit could do. 
 I am so far from blaming his revenge, 
 That I commend it. Had it been my case. 
 Their souls at once had from their breasts been 
 
 freed : 
 Death to such deeds of shame is the due meed. 
 
 Enter Jen kin and Sisly. 
 
 Jen. Oh, my mistress, mistress ! my poor 
 mistress ! 
 
 Slsly. Alas ! that ever I was born ; what shall 
 I do for my poor mistress ? 
 
 Sir C. Why, what of her ? 
 
 Jen. Lord, sir! she no sooner heard that 
 her brother and her fi-iends were come to see 
 how she did, but she, for very shame of her 
 guilty conscience, fell into such a swoon, that 
 we had much ado to get life in her. 
 
 Susan. Alas! that she should bear so hard a 
 fate. 
 Pity it is repentance comes too late. 
 
 aton'd — made at one, reconciled. 
 
 Sir F. Is she so weak in body ? 
 
 Jen. Oh, sir ! I can assure you there's no hope 
 of life in her ; for she will take no sustenance : 
 she hath plainly starv'd herself, and now she's 
 as lean as a lath. She ever looks for the good 
 hour. Many gentlemen and gentlewomen of the 
 country are come to comfort her. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Frankford, in her hed.^ 
 
 Mai. How fare you, Mistress Frankford ? 
 Mrs. A. Sick, sick! oh, sick! give me some 
 air, I pray, 
 Tell me, oh! tell me, where is Master Frank- 
 ford? 
 Will he not deign to see me ere I die ? 
 Mai. Yes, Mistress Frankford: divers gentle- 
 men. 
 Your loving neighbours, with that just request 
 Have mov'd, and told him of your weak estate : 
 Who, though with much ado to get belief, 
 Examining of the general circumstance. 
 Seeing your sorrow and your penitence, 
 And hearing therewithal the great desire 
 You have to see him ere you left the world. 
 He gave to us his faith to follow us, 
 And sure he will be here immediately. 
 Mrs. A. You have half reviv'd me with the 
 pleasing news, 
 Eaise me a little higher in my bed. — 
 Blush I not, brother Acton? Blush I not. Sir 
 
 Charles ? 
 Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek ? 
 Is not my crime there ? Tell me, gentlemen. 
 Sir C. Alas ! good mistress, sickness hath not 
 left you 
 Blood in your face enough to make you blush, 
 Mrs. A. Then, sickness, like a friend, my fault 
 would hide, — 
 Is my husband come ? My soul but tarries 
 His arrive, then I am fit for heaven. 
 Sir F. I came to chide you, but my words of 
 hate 
 Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief. 
 I came to rate you ; but my brawls, you see. 
 Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee. — 
 Here's Master Frankford now. 
 
 Enter Frankford, 
 
 Frank. Good morrow, brother; morrow, gentle- 
 men. 
 God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, 
 Might (had He pleas'd) have made our cause of 
 
 meeting 
 On a more fair and more contented ground ; 
 But He that made us, made us to this woe. 
 Mrs. A. And is he come? Methinks that 
 
 voice I know. 
 Frank. How do you, woman ? 
 Mrs. A. Well, Master Frankford, well; but 
 shall be better, 
 I hope, within this hour. Will you vouchsafe 
 (Out of your grace and your humanity) 
 To take a spotted strumpet by the hand ? 
 Frank. This hand once held my heart in faster 
 bonds 
 Than now 'tis grip'd by me, God pardon them 
 That made us first break hold. 
 
 Mrs. A. Amen, amen. 
 Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now 
 bound, 
 
 1 In the simplicity and poverty of our ancient stage, 
 it often happened that a bed was thrust upon the scene, 
 in order that it might represent a sleeping-room instead 
 of a sitting-room. In this instance, Mrs. Frankford was 
 in the bed, when it was brought before the audience.— ^ 
 
 COLLIEB. 
 
502 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 I was so impudent to wish you here ; 
 And mce more beg your pardon. Oh, good man, 
 And lather to my children, pardon me. 
 Pardon, oh ! pardon me : my fault so heinous is, 
 That if you in this world forgive it not, 
 Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. 
 Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees, 
 That kneel I cannot; but in my heart's knees 
 My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet. 
 To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, oh, 
 pardon me ! 
 
 Frank. As freely, from the low depth of my 
 soul. 
 As my Kedeemer hath forgiven his death, 
 I pardon thee. I will shed tears for thee ; 
 Pray with thee ; and, in mere pity of thy weak 
 
 estate, 
 I'll wish to die with thee. 
 
 All. So do we all. 
 
 Nich. So will not I ; 
 I'll sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not die. 
 
 Sir F. Oh, Master Frankford, all the near 
 alliance 
 I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee : 
 You are my brother by the nearest way ; 
 Her kindred hath fall'n off, but yours doth stay. 
 
 Frank. Even as I hope for pardon, at that day 
 When the Great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits. 
 So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash offence 
 Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears 
 Unite our souls. 
 
 Sir C. Then comfort. Mistress Frankford. 
 You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ; 
 Then, rouse your spirits and cheer your fainting 
 soul. 
 
 Susan. How is it with you ? 
 
 Sir F. How d'ye feel yourself? 
 
 Mrs. A. Not of this world. 
 
 Frank. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. 
 My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ! 
 Both those lost names I do restore thee back. 
 And with this kiss I wed thee once again. 
 Though thou art wounded in thy honour'd name. 
 And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest, 
 Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest. 
 
 Mrs. A. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in 
 heaven art free : 
 Once more thy wife dies thus embracing thee. 
 
 [_Dies. 
 
 Frank. New married, and new widow'd. — Oh ! 
 she's dead, 
 And a cold grave must be her nuptial bed. 
 
 Sir C. Sir, be of good comfort, and your heavy 
 sorrow 
 
 Part equally amongst us : storms divided 
 Abate their force, and with less rage are guided. 
 Cran. Do, Master Frankford: he that hath 
 
 least part, 
 Will find enough to drown one troubled heart. 
 Sir F. Peace with thee. Nan. —Brothers and 
 
 gentlemen 
 (All we that can plead interest in her grief). 
 Bestow upon her body funeral tears. 
 Brother, had you with threats and usage bad 
 Punish'd her sin, the grief of her offence 
 Had not with such tx'ue sorrow touch'd her heart. 
 Frank. I see it had not: therefore, on her 
 
 grave 
 Will I bestow this funeral epitaph, 
 Which on her marble tomb shall be engrav'd. 
 In golden letters shall these words be fiU'd : 
 Here lies she whom her husband's kindness kilVd. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 An honest crew, disposed to be merry. 
 
 Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine : 
 The drawer brought it (smiling like a cherry). 
 And told them it was pleasant, neat and fine. 
 ' Taste it,' quoth one : he did so ; ' Fie ! ' (quoth 
 
 he) 
 ' This wine was good ; now't runs too near the 
 lee.' 
 
 Another sipp'd to give the wine his due. 
 
 And said unto the rest it drank too flat : 
 The third said, it was old ; the fourth, too new ; 
 ' Nay,' quoth the fifth, ' the sharpness likes me 
 not.' 
 Thus, gentlemen, you see how, in one hour. 
 The wine was new, old, flat, sharp, sweet, and 
 sour. 
 
 Unto this wine we do allude ^ our play. 
 Which some will judge too trivial, some too 
 grave : 
 
 You, as our guests we entertain this day, 
 And bid you welcome to the best we have. 
 
 Excuse us, then : good wine may be disgraced, 
 
 When every several mouth hath sundry taste. 
 
 ^ (diude—QomyaxQ. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 [James Shirley, the last of the * great race ' of what are called the Elizabethan dramatists, 
 was descended from the Shirleys of either Sussex or "Warwickshire, and was born in Sep- 
 tember 1596, in or near the parish of St. Mary Woolchurch, London. In October 1608, 
 when twelve years old, he was admitted into Merchant-Taylors' School, where he remained 
 till June 1612, giving diligent attention to his studies. On leaving school he is said to have 
 proceeded to St. John's College, Oxford ; the only authority for this assertion being Anthony 
 Wood, who makes the following statement regarding Shirley: — 'At the same time,' says 
 Wood, * Dr. William Laud presiding that house, he had a very great affection for him, especially 
 for the pregnant parts that were visible in him ; but then having a broad or large mole upon 
 his left cheek, which some esteemed a deformity, that worthy doctor would often tell him 
 that he was an unfit person to take the sacred function upon him, and should never have 
 his consent so to do. ' If Shirley ever was at Oxford, he quitted it without taking his degree, 
 and became a student at Catherine Hall, Cambridge, where he graduated Bachelor of Arts, 
 and afterwards took his M.A. Notwithstanding the objections of Laud, Shirley, on having 
 completed his coui-se at college, took holy orders, and was appointed to a living at or near 
 St. Alban's, Hertfordshire. Here, however, he remained but a very short time, as soon 
 after, apparently from conscientious and disinterested motives, he became a convert to the 
 Eoman Catholic Church. Abandoning the clerical profession, he obtained the appointment 
 of Master in the Grammar School of St. Alban's, which he held during the years 1623, 
 1624, 'which emplojonent also,' says Wood, 'he finding uneasy to him, he retired to the 
 metropolis, lived in Gray's Inn, and set up for a play-maker. ' There is reason to believe 
 that while still teaching at St. Alban's, his comedy of Love's Tricks was performed in 
 London. Shirley appears to have led a steady life, and, according to Wood, gained not 
 only a considerable livelihood from his dramas, but also attracted the attention of ' persons 
 of quality,' especially of Queen Henrietta Maria, 'who made him her servant.' He appears, 
 however, to have been too independent to take proper advantage of these opportunities of 
 advancement. *I never,' he says in the dedication to The Maid's Revenge, 'affected the 
 ways of flattery ; some say, I have lost my preferment by not practising that court sin. ' 
 Kegarding his domestic circumstances, it is only known that he was twice married, and had 
 several children. From the time that he gave up teaching, Shirley continued industriously 
 writing for the stage, his extant works fiUing six octavo volumes ; besides which, a considerable 
 number have been lost. About 1637 he visited Ireland, under the patronage of the Earl of 
 Kildare, and while there brought out on the Dublin stage his drama. Royal Master. In 1642 
 Parliament ordered the suppression of stage-plays, thus cutting off the occupation of Shirley and 
 other dramatists, as well as of the actors. As might be expected, both dramatists and actors, 
 almost to a man, took the side of the king in the important struggle which followed, many 
 of them attaining to a respectable rank in the royal army. * When the rebellion broke out, ' 
 says Wood, * and Shirley thereupon forced to leave London, and so consequently his wife 
 and children (who afterwards were put to their shifts), he was invited by his most noble 
 patron, WiUiam, Earl (afterwards Marquis and Duke) of Newcastle, to take his fortune with 
 him in the wars ; for that Count had engaged him so much by his generous liberality 
 towards him, that he thought he could not do a worthier act than to serve him, and so 
 consequently his prince. ' Alter the king's cause had declined, Shirley returned to London, 
 
 503 
 
504 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 where he lived in comparative obscurity, resuming his old occupation of teaching, by means 
 of which, and by the publication of some early poems and a few of his dramas, as well as of 
 a grammar and other works, he managed to earn a scanty livelihood. The restoration of 
 Charles ii. does not appear to have bettered in any respect the condition of Shirley. ' On 
 the opening of the theatres, which were eagerly attended by the people, several of his pieces 
 were revived with success ; but his declared resolution of never again attempting dramatic 
 poetry was not to be shaken. He continued to earn a livelihood by teaching his school ; 
 while a degenerate race of playwrights arose, to delight with bombast and obscenity a 
 tasteless and licentious age.' 
 
 * At length, ' "Wood tells us, * after Mr. Shirley had lived in various conditions, and had 
 seen much of the world, he, with his second wife, Frances, were driven by the dismal con- 
 flagration that happened in London, an. 1666, from their habitation near to Fleet Street, 
 into the parish of St. Giles's-in-the-Fields, in Middlesex, where being in a manner overcome 
 with afFrightments, disconsolations, and other miseries, occasioned by that fire and their 
 losses, they both died within the compass of a natural day ; whereupon their bodies were 
 both buried in one grave in the yard belonging to the said church of St. Giles's, on the 29th 
 of October 1666.' At his death Shirley had just entered on his seventy-first year. As Ave 
 have already said, Shirley seems to have led a comparatively blameless life ; * gentle, 
 modest, and full of sensibility, he seems to have conciliated the affection of all his associates. ' 
 
 Thirty -three regular dramas written by Shirley are still extant : of these the principal 
 are — The Brothers (licensed 1626) ; The Wedding (printed 1629) ; The Grateful Servant 
 (licensed 1629) ; 21ie Traitor (licensed 1631) ; The Changes, or Love in a Maze (licensed 
 1632) ; Hyde Park (licensed 1632) ; The Luke's Mistress (licensed 1636) ; The Humorous 
 Courtier (published 1640) ; The Cardinal (licensed 1641) ; The Sisters (licensed 1642) ; 
 Honoria and Mammon, and The Contention of A j ax and Ulysses for the Shield of Achilles 
 (published 1659). 
 
 Notwithstanding Dryden's unscrupulous sneer in his MacFlecknoe at this dramatist, 
 Shirley undoubtedly deserves to rank honourably among his great contemporaries and pre- 
 decessors. He is certainly superior to Heywood, and in several respects puts one in mind of 
 the grace and ease of Beaumont and Fletcher, as well as of their power of depicting the man- 
 ners of good society. He also, we are sorry to say, resembles these dramatists in another 
 less commendable point, viz., the obscenity with which their plays are disfigured, although 
 his language is seldom so gross and coarse, and, as compared with many of his immediate 
 successors, is purity itself. * Though he occasionally, ' says Dy ce, * fails in giving vigour 
 and individuality to his characters, the dramatis personce of his best productions are strongly 
 drawn and clearly discriminated. In the extrication of the fable he sometimes betrays care- 
 lessness and haste ; but his plots are generally conducted with admirable art and judgment. 
 He abounds in brilliant thoughts, in noble and majestic sentiments, yet exliibits little of 
 profound reflection. His imagination seldom takes a lofty flight ; he loves to crowd his 
 dramas with events of romantic beauty ; but he shows no fondness for the ideal world, its 
 ghosts and magic wonders. His fancy was exuberant. His scenes are rich in delicate 
 imagery and picturesque similes ; and even in those plays where character is somewhat 
 faintly delineated, his eloquent and softly-coloured dialogue bestows a charm. ' Though he 
 was the last of this * great race ' of Titanic dramatists, he is by no means the least. 
 
 "We have selected, as being two of his best productions, The Traitor and The Brothers. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 505 
 
 THE TRAITOR: 
 
 A TKAGEDY. 
 ACTED BY HER MAJESTY'S SERVANTS. 
 
 WEITTEN BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 TO THE EIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 WILLIAM CAVENDISH, 
 
 EARL OF NEWCASTLE, VISCOUNT MANSFIELD, LORD BOLSOVER AND OGLE. 
 
 My Lord, — The honour of your name, and clear- 
 ness of soul, which want no living monuments 
 in the heart of princes, have already made the 
 title of this poem innocent, though not the 
 author; who confesseth his guilt of a long 
 ambition, by some service to be known to you, 
 and his boldness at last, by this rude attempt 
 to kiss your Lordship's hands. 
 
 Fame with one breath hath possessed the 
 world with your Lordship's general knowledge, 
 and excellent nature, both an ornament to your 
 blood, and in both you stand the rare and 
 
 justified example to our age. To the last these 
 cold papers address themselves, which if (with 
 truce to your richer contemplations) you vouch- 
 safe to read and smile upon, not only they shall 
 receive 'a life, beyond what the scene exactly 
 gave them in the presentment, rewarded with 
 frequent applause, but your Lordship shall in- 
 finitely honour him, whose glory is to be men- 
 tioned 
 
 The humblest of your Lordship's servants, 
 
 James Shirley. 
 
 gramalis ^ersonae. 
 
 Alexander, BuTce of Florence. 
 
 Lorenzo, his kinsman andfavouinte. 
 
 SciARRHA, brother to Amidea. 
 
 PiSANO, lover to Ouiana. 
 
 Cosmo, his friend. 
 
 Florio, Sciarrha's hr other. 
 
 Depazzi, a creature 0/ Lorenzo's 
 
 Petruchio, Pisano's servant. 
 EoGERO, page to Depazzi. 
 
 Gentlemen. 
 Servants. 
 
 Amidea, Sciarrha's sister. 
 
 Oriana, beloved of Pisano (Cosmo's Mis^ 
 
 MoRosA, her mother. [tress). 
 
 Youth. 
 
 Lust. 
 
 Pleasure. 
 
 Death. 
 
 Furies. 
 
 Scene ^Florence. 
 
 ACT L-SCENE L 
 
 A Room in PisAno's House. 
 Enter Pisano and Petruchio. 
 
 Pis. Didst bid hira come? 
 
 Pet. I did. 
 
 Pis. Go back again, 
 And tell him I am gone abroad. 
 
 Pet. He's here 
 Already, sir. 
 
 Enter Cosmo. 
 
 Pis. Oh, Cosmo ! 
 Cos. Dear Pisano, 
 
 That I could let thee nearer into me ! 
 
 My heart counts this embrace a distance, yet; 
 
 Let us incorporate. 
 
 Pis. I was wooing, Cosmo, 
 My man, to tell thee I was gone abroad, 
 Before thou cam'st. 
 
 Cos. How's this ? your words and looks 
 Are strange, and teach me to infer I am 
 Not welcome ; that, on riper counsel, you 
 Do wish my absence. 
 
 Pis. What, for telling truth ? 
 He thus should have but made thee fit to see 
 Thy friend ; thou com'st with expectation 
 To hear me talk sense, dost not ? 
 
 Cos. Yes. 
 
5c6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pis. La, now! 
 And to discourse as I was wont, of state, 
 Our friendship, or of women ? no such matter. 
 
 Cos. This is more wild than usual; your 
 language 
 Is not so clear as it was wont ; it carries 
 Not the same even thread ; although some words 
 May knit, the sense is scatter'd. 
 
 Pis. Bight, right, Cosmo : 
 The reason is, I have straggled. 
 And lost myself, I know not where, in what 
 Part of the world: — and would not this have 
 
 shown 
 As well in him {points to Pet.l to have pi-epar'd 
 thee now ? 
 
 Cos. What humour's this, Pisano ? I am yet 
 To understand. 
 
 Pis. To understand? why, Cosmo, 
 Had I not changed my dialect and method, 
 What need this tedious apology ? 
 That's it, I would have had thee know before. 
 Thou canst not understand me, yet thou hast 
 A name in Florence, for a ripe young man, 
 Of nimble apprehension, of a wise 
 And spreading observation ; of whom, 
 Already our old men do prophesy 
 Good and great things, worthy thy fair dimen- 
 sions ! 
 
 Cos. This is an argument above the rest, 
 Pisano is not well ; for, being temperate, 
 He was not wont to flatter and abuse 
 His friend. 
 
 Pis. Beside, there is another reason, 
 Thou shouldst discover me at heart, through all 
 These mists: thou art in love, too, and who 
 
 cannot. 
 That feels himself the heat, but shrewdly guess 
 At every symptom of that wanton fever ? — 
 Oh, Cosmo! 
 
 Cos. What misfortune can approach 
 Your happy love in fairest Amidea ? 
 You have been long contracted, and have pass'd 
 The tedious hope ; Hymen doth only wait 
 An opportunity to light his torch, 
 Which will burn glorious at your nuptials : 
 Let jealous lovers fear, and feel what 'tis 
 To languish, talk away their blood, and strength. 
 Question their unkind stars ; you have your game 
 Before you, sir. 
 
 Pis. Before me ? where ? why dost 
 Thou mock me, Cosmo ? she's not here. 
 
 Cos. It is 
 No pilgrimage to travel to her lip. 
 
 Pis. 'Tis not for you. 
 
 Cos. How, sir ; for me ? you've no 
 Suspicion I can be guilty of 
 A treason to our friendship. Be so just. 
 If malice have been busy with my fame, 
 To let me know — 
 
 Pis. You hastily interpret. 
 Thy pardon, I have only err'd, but not 
 With the least scruple of thy faith and honour 
 To me. Thou hast a noble soul, and lov'st me 
 Bather too well ; I would thou wert my enemy, 
 That we had been born in distant climes, and 
 
 never 
 Took cement from our sympathies in nature. 
 Would we had never seen, or known each other! 
 This may seem strange from him that loves thee, 
 
 Cosmo, 
 More precious than his life. 
 
 Cos. Love me, and wish 
 This separation ? 
 
 Pis. I will give thee proof ; 
 So well I love thee, nothing in the world 
 Thy soul doth heartily affect, but I 
 Do love it too : does it not trouble thy 
 
 Belief ? I wear not my own heart about me, 
 But thine exchang'd ; thy eyes let in my objects ; 
 Thou hear'st for me, talk'st, kissest, and enjoy'st 
 All my felicities. 
 
 Cos. What means this language ? 
 
 Pis. But what's all this to thee ? Go to Oriana, 
 And bathe thy lips in rosy dew of kisses ; 
 Benew thy eye, that looks as Saturn hung 
 Upon the lid; take in some golden beam. 
 She'll dart a thousand at one glance ; and if, 
 At thy return, thou find'st I have a being 
 In this vain world, I'll tell thee more. 
 
 [_Exit, 
 
 Cos. But, sir, you must not part so. 
 
 Pet. Not with my good will ; 
 I have no great ambition to be mad. 
 
 Cos. Petruchio, let me conjure thee, tell 
 What weight hangs on thy master's heart ? why 
 
 does he 
 Appear so full of trouble ? 
 
 Pet. Do you not guess ? 
 
 Cos. Point at the cause ; I cannot. 
 
 Pet. Why, he loves — 
 
 Cos. The beauteous Amidea : I know that. 
 
 Pet. Some such thing, was; but you ai'e his 
 friend, my lord : 
 His soul is now devoted to Oriana, 
 And he will die for her, if this ague hold him. 
 
 Cos. Ha! 
 
 Pet. Your doublet pinch you, sir; I cannot 
 tell; 
 But ne'er a woman in the world should make 
 Me hang myself. It may be, for his honour. 
 He'll choose another death, he is about one ; 
 For 'tis not possible, without some cure. 
 He should live long : he has forgot to sleep ; 
 And for his diet, he has not eaten this se'nnight 
 As much as would choke a sparrow ; a fly is 
 An epicure to him. Good sir, do you counsel 
 him. — lExit Cosmo. 
 
 So, so, it works ; 
 
 This was my Lord Lorenzo's plot, and I 
 Have been his engine in the work, to batter 
 His love to Amidea, by praising 
 Oriana to him. He is here. My lord — 
 
 Enter Lorenzo attended. 
 
 Lor. Petruchio, where's your lord ? how moves 
 the work ? 
 
 Pet. To your own wish, my lord; he has 
 thrown off 
 The thought of Amidea, and is mad 
 For Cosmo's mistress, whom, by your instructions, 
 I have commended so. 
 
 Lo7'. My witty villain 1 
 
 Pet. Cosmo is with him, to whom cunningly 
 I have discovered his disease, and I 
 Beseech you interrupt them not. 
 
 Lor. This may 
 Have tragical effects, Petruchio : 
 For Cosmo, we shall prune his fortune thus. 
 Oriana's wealth would swell him in the state; 
 He grows too fast already. Be still ours. 
 
 Pet. My lord, you bought my life, when you 
 procured 
 My pardon from the Duke. \_Exit Lorenzo, 
 
 Re-enter Pisano and CosJio. 
 Pis. Oh, friend, thou canst not be so merciful, 
 To give away such happiness: my love 
 Is, for some sin I have committed, thus 
 Transplanted. I look'd rather thou shouldst 
 
 kill me, 
 Than give away this comfort ; 'tis a charity 
 Will make thee poor, and 'twere a great deal 
 
 better 
 That I should languish still, and die. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 507 
 
 Cos. While I have art to help thee? Oriana 
 And I were but in treaty ; howsoever, 
 I were not worthy to be call'd his friend, 
 Whom I preferred not to a mistress. If 
 You can find dispensation to quit 
 With Amidea, your first love, be confident 
 Oriana may be won ; and it were necessary 
 You did prepare the mother ; be not modest. 
 
 Pis. Each syllable is a blessing — Hark, Pe- 
 truchio. [ Whispers him. 
 
 Cos. There is an engine levell'd at my fate, 
 And I must arm. [Aside. 
 
 Pis. Away ! lExit Petruchio. 
 
 Cos. This for thy comfort : 
 Although some compliments have pass'd between 
 Me and Oriana, I am not warm 
 Yet in the mother's fancy, whose power may 
 Assist you much ; but lose no time : let's follow. 
 
 Pis. Thou miracle of friendship ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke, Frederico, Florio, and Alonzo. 
 
 Duke. Letters to us ? from whom ? 
 
 Alon. Castruchio. 
 
 Puke. The exile? whence? 
 
 Alon. Sienna, my good lord; 
 It came enclos'd within my letter, wbich 
 Impos'd my care and duty in the swift 
 Delivery. 
 
 [lie delivers letters, which the Duke reads. 
 
 Fred. The duke is pale o' the sudden. 
 
 Duke. A palsy does possess me ; ha ! Lorenzo ? 
 Our cousin the enemy of our life and state ! 
 My bosom kinsman ? — Not too loud; the traitor 
 May hear, and by escape prevent our justice. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Flo. What traitor? 
 
 Duke. Signior Alonzo, come you hither ; 
 What correspondence maintain you with this 
 Castruchio ? 
 
 Alon. None, my lord ; but I am happy 
 In his election, to bring the first 
 Voice to your safety. 
 
 Duke. Most ingrateful man ! 
 Turn rebel ! I have worn him in my blood. 
 
 Alon. 'Tis time to purge the humour. 
 
 Duke. I will do it. — 
 Our guard! — Were he more precious, had he 
 
 shared 
 Our soul, as he but borrows of our flesh. 
 This action makes him nothing ; had I been 
 In heaven, I could have lent him my eternity. 
 He turn conspii-ator ? Oh the fate of princes! 
 But stay, this paper speaks of no particular ; 
 He does not mention what design, what plot. 
 
 Alon. More providence is necessary. 
 
 Duke. Eight, 
 Eight, good Alonzo ; thou'rt an honest man, 
 And lov'st us well. What's to be done? 
 
 Alon. 'Tis best 
 To make his person sure ; by this you may 
 Discover soonest who are of his faction. 
 
 Duke. And at our leisure study of his punish- 
 ment, 
 Which must exceed death; every common trespass 
 Is so rewarded : first, apply all tortui-es 
 To enforce confession, who are his confederates, 
 And how they meant to murder us ; then some 
 
 rare 
 Invention to execute the traitor. 
 So as he may be half a year in dying, 
 Will make us famed for justice. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo and Depazzi. 
 
 Alon. He is here, 
 Shall we apprehend him ? 
 
 Lor. Happy morning to 
 My gracious sovereign ! 
 
 Duke. Good morrow, coz. — 
 Can treason couch itself within that frame ? — 
 
 [Aside^ 
 We have letters for you. 
 
 [Gives Lorenzo the letters. 
 
 Lor. Letters ! these, dread sir. 
 Have no direction to me, your highness 
 Is only named. 
 
 Duke. They will concern your reading. — 
 Alonzo, now observe and watch him. — Florio, 
 Depazzi, come you hither ; does Lorenzo 
 Look like a traitor ? 
 
 Dep. How, sir ? a traitor ? 
 
 Duke. Ay, sir. 
 
 Dep. I, sir ? by my honour, not I, sir ; I defy 
 him that speaks it. I am in a fine pickle. .''.. 
 
 [AsidCi. 
 
 Lor. I have read. 
 
 Duke. Not blush ? not tremble ? read again. 
 
 Lor. The substance is, that you maintain 
 A vigilant eye over Lorenzo, who 
 Hath threaten'd, with your death, his country's 
 
 liberty ; 
 And other things, touching reducing of 
 A commonwealth.' 
 
 Duke. I like not that. [_Aside. 
 
 Dep. All's out ! 
 A pox upon him for a traitor, he 
 Has hedged me in ; but I'll confess. [Aside. 
 
 Duke. What answer 
 Make you to this, Lorenzo ? 
 
 Lor. This, o' the sudden, 
 Sir ; I must owe the title of a Traitor 
 To your high favours ; envy first conspir'd. 
 And malice now accuses : but what story 
 Mention'd his name, that had his prince's bosom, 
 Without the people's hate ? 'tis sin enough, 
 In some men, to be great ; the throng of stars, 
 The rout and common people of the sky, 
 Move still another way than the sun does. 
 That gilds the creature : take your honours 
 
 back. 
 And, if you can, that purple of my veins, 
 Which flows in yours, and you shall leave 
 
 me in 
 A state I shall not fear the great one's envy. 
 Nor common people's rage ; and j'et, perhaps, 
 You may be credulous against me. 
 
 Duke. Ha! 
 
 Alon. The duke is cool. 
 
 Duke. Alonzo, look you prove 
 Lorenzo what you saj^ 
 
 Alon. I say, my lord ? 
 I have discover'd all my knowledge, sir, 
 
 Dep. Stand to't. 
 
 Lor. With licence of your highness, what 
 Can you imagine I should gain by treason ? 
 Admit I should be impious, as to kill you — 
 I am your nearest kinsman, and should forfeit 
 Both name and future title to the state, 
 By such a hasty, bloody disposition ; 
 The rabble hate me now, how shall I then 
 Expect a safety ? Is it reformation 
 Of Florence they accuse me of ? suggesting 
 
 1 touching reducing of 
 
 A commonwealth — i.e., bringing back the common- 
 wealth, which had been overthrown by the present 
 duke. It is a Latinism, and is used in this sense by 
 Jonson, and, generally, by our old writers. — Giffobd. 
 
5o8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATIST:^. 
 
 I disaffect a monarchy, which how 
 Vain and ridiculous woiild appear in me, 
 Your wisdom judge ; in you I live and flourish ; 
 What, in your death, can I expect, to equal 
 The riches I enjoy under your Avarmth ? 
 Should I, for the aid and talk of a new govern- 
 ment, 
 A commonwealth, lose all my certainties ? 
 And you above them all, whose favours have 
 Fallen like the dew upon me ? have I a soul 
 To think the guilt of such a miirder easy. 
 Were there no other torments ? or can I 
 Ex})ect the people will reward your murderer 
 With anything but death ? a parricide ! 
 
 ^^071. So, so, the duke's already in his circle. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Lor. But I am tame, as if I had no sense, 
 Nor other argument to vindicate 
 My loyalty, thus poison'd by a paper, 
 In my eternal fame, and by a slave ? 
 
 ill to my brow some one that dare accuse me, 
 
 |t him have honour, great as mine, to forfeit, 
 since your grace hath taken me so near 
 
 iur own height, that my scale may not expect 
 [uch a proportion'd adversary, yet let him 
 lave name within his country-, and allow him 
 
 soul, 'gainst which I may engage my more 
 Than equal honour, then 111 praise your justice ; 
 But let him not be one condemn'd akeady, 
 A desperate exile. — Is it possible 
 A treason hatch'd in Florence, 'gainst the duke, 
 Should have no eyes at home to penetrate 
 The growing danger, but at Sienna one 
 Must with a perspective discover all 7 
 Ask this good counsellor, or these gentlemen, 
 Whose faiths are tried, whose cares are always 
 
 waking 
 About your person, how have I appear'd 
 To them, that thus I should be rendered hateful 
 To you and my good country .' they are virtuous, 
 And dare not blemish a white faith, accuse 
 My sound heart of dishonour. Sir, you must 
 Pardon my bold defence : my virtue bleeds 
 By your much easiness, and I am compell'd 
 To break all modest limits, and to waken 
 Your memory (if it be not too late 
 To say you have one) ^vith the story of 
 My fair deservings. Who, sir, overthrew 
 With his designs, your late ambitious brother, 
 Eippolito, who, like a meteor, threaten'd 
 A black and fatal omen ? 
 
 Duke. 'Twas Lorenzo. 
 
 Lor. Be yet as just, and say whose art directed 
 A countermine to check the pregnant hopes 
 Of Salviati, who for his cardinal's cap. 
 In Eome was potent, and here popular ? 
 
 Duke. None but Lorenzo. 
 
 Dep. Admirable traitor ! [^Aside. 
 
 Lor. Whose service was commended when the 
 exiles, 
 One of whose tribe accuse th me, had raised 
 Commotions in our Florence 7 When the hingo 
 Of state ' did faint under the burthen, and 
 The people sweat with their own fears, to think 
 The soldier should inhabit their calm dwellings. 
 Who then rose up your safety, and crush'd all 
 Their plots to air ? 
 
 Duke. Our cousin, dear Lorenzo. 
 
 Lor. When he that should reward, forgets the 
 men 
 That purchas'd his secui'ity, 'tis virtue 
 To boast a merit. With my services 
 1 Lave not starv'd your treasury ; the grand 
 
 * hinge of state. The duke, the person on whom the 
 whole government turned; a forced expression.— 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 Captain Gonzales accounted to king Ferdinand 
 Three hundred thousand crowns, for spies: what 
 
 bills 
 Have I brought in for such intelligence ? 
 
 Dep. I do grow hearty. [^Asids. 
 
 Duke. All thy actions 
 Stand fresh before us, and confirm thou art 
 Our best and dearest friend ; thus we assure 
 Our confidence ; they love us not that feed 
 One jealous thought of our dear coz, Lorenzo. 
 New welcome to us all ; for you, Alonzo, 
 Give o'er your paper kites, learn wit, 'tis time. — 
 
 [Walks aside with Lor. 
 Where shall we meet to-night ? 
 
 Lor. Pardon me, sir ; 
 I am a dangerous man. 
 
 Duke. No more of that ; 
 I'll credit my soul with thee. — Shall we revel 
 This night with Amidea ? 
 
 Dep. The duke courts him. 
 Well, go thy ways, for one of the most excellent, 
 Impudent traitors — [Aside. 
 
 Duke. Yet a murmuring 
 Of traitor ? we shall sooner suspect him 
 That thinks Lorenzo guilty. 
 
 Dep. I, my lord, 
 Dare boldly swear, his honour is as free 
 From any treason, as myself. — 
 I did prophesy this issue. [Aside. 
 
 Duke. 'Tis an age 
 Till night ; I long to fold her in my arms. 
 Prepare Sciarrha ; but be very wise 
 In the discovery, he is all touchwood. 
 
 Lor. I know he is her brother; leave the 
 managing 
 Of things to me. 
 
 Duke. Still Avhen we expect 
 Our bliss, time creeps ; but when the happier 
 
 things 
 Call to enjoy, each saucy hour hath wings. 
 
 lEzeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE L 
 A Room in Sciarrha's House. 
 Enter Sciarrha and Lorenzo. 
 
 Set. My sister! Though he be the duke, he 
 dares not. — 
 Patience, patience ! if there be such a virtue, 
 I want it, Heaven ; yet keep it a little longer, 
 It were a sin to have it ; such an injury 
 Deserves a wrath next to your own.' — My sister I 
 It has thrown wild-fire in my brain, Lorenzo, 
 A thousand furies revel in my skull. 
 Has he not sins enough in's court to damn him, 
 But my roof must be guilty of new lusts. 
 And none but Amidea .' these the honours 
 His presence brings our house ! 
 
 Lor. Temper your rage. 
 
 Set. Are all the brothels rifled? no quaint 
 piece 
 Left him in Florence, that will meet his hot 
 And valiant luxury, that we are come to 
 Supply his blood out of our families? 
 Diseases gnaw his title off ! 
 
 Lor. My lord — 
 
 Sci. He is no prince of mine ; he forfeited 
 His greatness that black minute he first gave 
 Consent to my dishonour. 
 
 ' Deserves a wrath next to your own This is not ex- 
 pressed with our autlior's usual perspicuity; it means, 
 a vengeance next to an affront offered to Heaven.— 
 
 GlFFOSD. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY, 
 
 509 
 
 Lo7'. Then I'm sorry — 
 
 Sci. Why should you be sorry, sir ? 
 You say it is my sister he would strumpet. 
 Mine ! Amidea ! 'tis a wound you feel not ; 
 But it strikes through and through the poor 
 
 Sciarrha. 
 I do not think but all the ashes of 
 My ancestors do swell in their dai-k urns, 
 At this report of Amidea's shame : 
 It is their cause, as well as mine ; and should 
 Heaven suffer the duke's sin to pass unpunish'd, 
 Their dust must of necessity conspire 
 To make an earthquake in the temple. 
 
 Lor. Sir, 
 You said you would hear me out. 
 
 Set. Why, is there more 
 Behind ? 
 
 Lor. And greater: master your high blood 
 Till I conclude, Sciarrha. I accuse not 
 Your noble anger, which, I have observ'd, 
 Is not on every cheap and giddy motion 
 Inflamed ; but, sir, be thrifty in your passion, 
 This is a petty trespass. 
 
 Sci. Has mischief any name 
 Beyond this ? will it kill me with the sound ? 
 
 Lor. My lord, though the dishonouring your 
 sister 
 Be such a fact the blood of any other 
 But Alexander could no less than expiate. 
 Yet this sin stretches further, and involves. 
 With hers, your greater stain. Did you e'er pro- 
 mise him ? — 
 Yet, why do I make any question ? 
 It were another crime to think Sciarrha 
 Could entertain a thought so far beneath 
 His birth. — You stoop to such a horrid baseness! 
 Then all the virtue of mankind would sicken, 
 And soon take leave of earth. 
 
 Sci. You torture me. 
 
 Lor. What then could the duke find, to give 
 him any 
 Encouragement, you would be guilty of 
 An act so fatal unto honour ? What, 
 When you were least yourself (as we are all 
 Frail compositions), did appear so wicked 
 In you, he should conceive a hope, and flatter 
 Himself with possibility to coiTupt 
 Your soul to a deed so monstrous ? 
 
 Sci. To what ? 
 
 Ijor. Though all the teeming glories of his 
 dukedom, 
 Nay, Florence' state, offer'd itself a bribe, 
 And tempted the betraying of your name 
 To infamy, yet to imagine you 
 Would turn officious pander to his lust ! 
 'Tis horrid, aifrights nature ; I grow stiff 
 With the imagination. 
 
 Sci. Ha! 
 
 Lor. Yet this 
 Was his command I should impose. 
 
 Sci. Lorenzo, 
 I do want breath; my voice is ravish'd from 
 
 me; 
 I am not what I was ; or — if I be 
 Sciarrha thou hast talk'd to all this while, 
 Look heedfuUy about me, and thou mayst 
 Discover, through some cranny of my flesh, 
 A fire within ; my soul is but one flame. 
 Extended to all pai-ts of this frail building. 
 I shall turn ashes, I begin to shrink ; — 
 Is not already my complexion alter 'd ? 
 Does not my face look parch'd, and my skin 
 
 gather 
 Into a heap ? my breath is hot enough 
 To thaw the Alps. 
 
 Lor. Your fancy would transport you. 
 
 Sci. It is my rage ; but let it cool, [Lorenzo], 
 
 I 
 
 And then we'll talk of something, something, sir, 
 Shall be to purpose. 
 
 Lor. Now the flame is mounted. 
 My lord, I have given proof, although he be 
 My duke, and kinsman, I abhor his vices, 
 Howe'er the world, without examination, 
 Shoot their malicious noise, and stain my actions: 
 'Tis policy in princes to create 
 A favourite, who must bear all the guilt 
 Of things ill managed in the state ; if any 
 Design be happy, 'tis the prince's own. 
 Heaven knows how I have coxinsell'd this young 
 
 man. 
 By virtue to pret^ent his fate ; and govern 
 With modesty : Oh the religious days 
 Of commonwealths! vve have outlived that bless- 
 ing. 
 
 Sci. But I have thought a cure for this great 
 state 
 Imposthume. 
 
 Lor. AVhat? 
 
 Sci. To lance it ; is't not ripe ? 
 Let us draw cuts, whether your hand or mine 
 Shall do an act for Florence' liberty. 
 And send this tyrant to another world. 
 
 Lor. How ! I draw cuts .' • 
 
 Sci. Coy it not thus, Lorenzo, 
 But answer : by your name and birth, you are 
 His kinsman, we all know it ; that you dwell 
 In's bosom, great in favour as in blood, 
 We know that too ; and, let me tell you more. 
 We know you but disguise your heart, and wish 
 Florence would change her title. 
 
 Ix)r. How is this ? 
 
 Sci. We know you have firm correspondence 
 with 
 The banish'd men, whose desperate fortunes wait 
 Your call to tumult in our streets ; all this, 
 Not to feed your ambition with a dukedom, 
 By the remove of Alexander, but 
 To serve your country, and create their peace 
 Who groan under the tyranny of a proud. 
 Lascivious monarch. — Is't not true, Lorenzo ? 
 My phrase is blunt, my lord. 
 
 Lor. My genius 
 And thine are friends ; I see they have convers'd, 
 And I applaud the wisdom of my stars, 
 That made me for his friendship who preserves 
 The same religious fire. I will confess. 
 When Alexander left his piety 
 To Florence, I placed him beneath my country, 
 As we should all ; but we have lost our souls, 
 Or changed our active spirits, for a dull 
 And lazy sufferance ; let this secret be 
 An argument, how much I dare repose 
 Upon Sciarrha's honour ; virtue witness, 
 I choose no other destiny : command 
 Lorenzo's fate, dissolve me with your breath ; 
 I'll ever live, in your exchange of faith, 
 A patriot, or die my country's martyr. 
 
 Sci. Thou hast a fire beyond Prometheus', 
 To quicken earth ; thy flame is but a prophecy 
 Of that high pyramid the world shall build 
 To thy immortal name : it was the glory 
 Of Eomans to prefer their empire's safety 
 To their own lives ; they were but men like us, 
 And of the same ingredients, our souls 
 Create of no inferior substance ; ha ? — 
 
 Lor. Heaven knows, I've no particular design 
 To leap into a throne ; I will disclaim 
 The privilege of blood ; let me advance 
 Our liberty, restore the ancient laws 
 Of the republic, rescue from the jaws 
 Of lust your mothers, wives, your daughters, 
 sisters — 
 
 Sd. Sisters! 
 
 Lor. From horrid rape — 'las, Amidea I 
 
510 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 Sci. I am resolv'd ; by all that's blest, he 
 dies. 
 Return my willingness to be his pander, 
 My sister's readiness to meet his dalliance ; 
 His promises have bought our shame: — he dies; 
 The roof he would dishonour with his lust 
 Shall be his tomb ; bid him be confident ; 
 Conduct him, good Lorenzo, I'll dispose 
 My house for this great scene of death. 
 
 Lor. Be constant. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Florio and Amidea. 
 
 Flo. Now, brother, what news brings the great 
 Lorenzo ? 
 
 Sci. Let me have truce, vexation, for some 
 minutes. — [Aside. 
 
 What news ? preferments, honours, ofSces. — 
 Sister, you must to court. 
 
 Ami. Who, I to court ? 
 
 Sci. Or else the court will come to you. The 
 
 duke 
 th sent already for us, Amidea : 
 that I knew what happy stars did govern 
 thy nativity ! It were no sin 
 (To adore their influence. 
 
 Ami. What means my brother? 
 
 Flo. He is transported. 
 
 Ami. I shall suspect your health. 
 
 Sci. I easily could forget I am Sciarrha, 
 And fall in love myself. — Is she not fair, 
 Exceeding beautiful, and tempting, Florio ? 
 Look on her well, methinks I could turn poet, 
 And make her a more excellent piece than 
 
 heaven. 
 Let not fond men hereafter commend what 
 They most admire, by fetching from the stars. 
 Or flowers, their glory of similitude. 
 But from thyself the rule to know all beauty ; 
 And he that shall arrive at so much boldness, 
 To say his mistress' eyes, or voice, or breath. 
 Are half so bright, so clear, so sweet as thine. 
 Hath told the world enough of miracle. 
 These are the duke's own raptures, Amidea ; 
 His own poetic flames ; an argument 
 He loves mj'- sister. 
 
 Ami. Love me ? 
 
 Sci. Infinitely. 
 I am in earnest ; he employ'd Lor^zo, 
 No meaner person, in this embassy ; 
 Yoit must to court. Oh happiness ! 
 
 Ami. For what ? 
 
 Sci. What do great ladies do at court, I pray ? 
 Enjoy the pleasures of the world, dance, kiss 
 The amorous lords, and chauge court breath; 
 
 sing ; lose 
 Belief of other heaven ; tell wanton dreams, 
 Rehearse their sprightly bed-scenes, and boast 
 
 which 
 Hath most idolaters ; accuse all faces 
 That trust to the simplicity of nature, 
 Talk witty blasphemy. 
 
 Discourse their gaudy wardrobes, plot new pride, 
 Jest upon courtiers' legs, laugh at the wagging 
 Of their own feathers, and a thousand more 
 Delights, which private ladies never think of. 
 But above all, and wherein thou shalt make 
 All other beauties envy thee, the duke. 
 The duke himself shall call thee his, and single 
 From the fair troop thy person forth, to ex- 
 change 
 Embraces with, lay siege to these soft lips. 
 And not remove, till he hath suck'd thy heart, 
 Which soon dissolv'd with thy sweet breath, 
 
 shall be 
 Made part of his, at the same instant he 
 Conveying a new soul into thy breast 
 With a creating kiss. 
 
 Ami. You make me wonder; 
 Pray speak, that I may understand. 
 
 Sci. Why will you 
 Appear so ignorant ? I speak the dialect 
 Of Florence to you. Come, I find your cunning ; 
 The news doth please, the rolliug of your eye 
 Betrays you, and I see a guilty blush 
 Through this white veil, upon your cheek ; you 
 
 would 
 Have it confirm'd ; you shall ; the duke himself 
 Shall swear he loves yoU. 
 
 Ami. Love me ! why ? 
 
 Sci. To court, 
 And ask him ; be not you too peevish now, 
 And hinder all our fortune : I have promis'd him. 
 To move you for his armful, as I am 
 Sciarrha, and your brother ; more, I have sent 
 Word to him by Lorenzo, that you should 
 Meet his high flame ; in plain Italian, 
 Love him, and — 
 
 Ami. What, for Heaven! be the duke's ? 
 
 Sci. No, no, his mistress; command him, 
 make us. 
 
 Ami. Give up my virgin honour to his lust ? 
 
 Sci. You may give it a better name ; but do it. 
 
 Ami. I do mistake you, brother, do I not ? 
 
 Sci. No, no, my meaning is so broad, you 
 cannot. 
 
 Ami. I would I did then. Is't not possible 
 That this should be a dream ? where did you 
 
 drop 
 Your virtue, sir ? — Florio, why move you not ? 
 Why are you slow to tell this man, — for sure 
 'Tis not Sciarrha, — he hath talk'd so ill. 
 And so much, that we may have cause to fear, 
 The air about's infected 7 
 
 Flo. Are not you 
 My brother ? 
 
 Sci. Be not you a fool, to move 
 These empty questions, but join to make her 
 Supple and pliant for the duke. I hope 
 We are not the first have been advanced by a 
 
 wagtail : 
 No matter for the talk of musty people, 
 Look up to the reward; thou art young, and 
 
 skill'd 
 In these court temptings, naturally soft, 
 And moving, I am rough-hewn ; assist, wilt. 
 With some quaint charm, to win her to this 
 game? 
 
 Flo. My sister? 
 
 Sci. Ay, ay. 
 
 Ami. Come not near him, Florio, 
 'Tis not Sciarrha; sure, my brother's nurse 
 Play'd the impostor, and with some base issue 
 Cheated our house. 
 
 Sci. Gipsy, use better language. 
 Or I'll forget your sex. 
 
 Flo. Offer to touch her 
 With any rudeness, and by all that's virtuous— 
 
 Sci. Why, how now, boy ? 
 
 Flo. I do not fear your sword. [Di^aica. 
 
 This, with my youth and innocence, is more 
 Defence than all thy armoury ; what devil 
 Has crept into thy soul ? 
 
 Sci. You will not help ? » 
 
 Flo. I'll never kill thee. 
 
 Sci. 'Tis very well 
 Have you consider'd better o' the motion. 
 
 Ami. Yes. 
 
 * Sci. You will not help ?—i.e., you will not then assist 
 me in persuading Amidea to yield to the duke? — I do 
 not, however, quite see the purport of Florio's answer; 
 and suspect an error of the press: '111 never kill thee,' 
 should probably be, '111 rather kill thee;' to which 
 Sciairha'3 "Tis very well,' forms an apt reply. — Giffobu 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 511 
 
 Sci. And what is your resolve? 
 
 Ami. To have my name 
 Stand in the ivory register of virgins 
 When 1 am dead. Before one factious thought 
 Should lurk within me to betray my fame 
 To such a blot, my hands shall mutiny, 
 And boldly with a poniard teach my heart 
 To weep out a repentance. 
 
 Sci. Let me kiss thee, 
 My excellent, chaste sister. — Florio, 
 Thou hast my soul ; I did but try your virtues. 
 'Tis truth, the duke does love thee, viciously, 
 Let him, let him ! he comes to be our guest ; 
 This night he means to revel at our house, — 
 The Tarquin shall be entertain'd ; he shall. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. My lord, Pisano is come. \Exit. 
 
 Set. I had forgot his promise. Look up, sister. 
 And shine with thine own smiles ; Pisano's come, 
 Pisano, thy contracted, honour'd friend ; 
 A gentleman so rich in hopes, we shall 
 Be happy in's alliance. 
 
 Hjiter Pisano, Cosmo, and Frederico. 
 
 "Welcome all. 
 But you above the rest, my brother shortly. 
 Sister, and Florio, entertain your noble 
 Friends ; some few minutes I am absent. We 
 Must not forget prepare for the duke's coming ; 
 I'll soon return. [Exit. 
 
 Ami. You are not cheerful, sir ; 
 How is't, my lord ? you were not wont to look 
 So sad when you came hither. 
 
 Pis. I am not well, Amidea. 
 
 Aini. Oh my heart ! 
 
 Pis. Be you 
 Comforted, lady ; let all griefs "repair 
 To this, their proper centre, 
 
 \_Lays his hand on his breast. 
 
 Flo. Sir, how fare you ? 
 
 Pis. Alter'd of late a little. 
 
 Fred. Virtuous lady, 
 I cannot choose but pity her, and accuse 
 Pisano's levity. [Aside. 
 
 Pis. Would he were come back ! 
 I might have finish'd ere ho went, and not 
 Delay'd his business much ; two or three words, 
 And I had despatch'd. 
 
 Ami. How, sir ? your language is 
 Another than you used to speak ; you look 
 
 not 
 With the same brow upon me. 
 
 Cos. 'Las ! sweet lady. — 
 But who shall accuse me ? [Aside. 
 
 Pis. We shall expect too long. Lady, I am 
 come 
 To render all my interest in your love, 
 And to demand myself again ; live happier 
 In other choice, fair Amidea, 'tis 
 Some shame to say my heart's revolted. 
 
 Ami. Ha! 
 
 Pis. Here's witness, all is cancell'd betwixt us; 
 Nay, an you weep— Farewell ! 
 
 Ami. He's gone ! 
 
 Flo. I am amazed. 
 
 Pis. Now lead me to my blessing. 
 
 [Exeu7it Pis. Cor. a7id Fred. 
 
 Flo. Shall a long suit and speeding in his love, 
 With the world's notice, and a general fame 
 Of contract too, just in the instant, when 
 A marriage is expected, be broke off 
 With infamy to our house ? 
 
 Ami. Brother, if ever 
 You loved poor Amidea, let not this 
 
 Arrive Sciarrha's ear, there's danger in 
 His knowledge of it ; this may be a trial 
 Of my affection. 
 
 Flo. A trial, no, it show'd 
 Too like a truth. 
 
 Ami. My tears entreat your silence. 
 
 Flo. You have power to command it; dry 
 your eyes then. 
 He is return'd. 
 
 Re-enter Sciarrha. 
 
 Sci. How now ! 
 Weeping ? Where is Pisano, and his friends ? 
 
 Flo. They're gone, sir. 
 
 A^d. Ha! 
 
 Ami. Guess by my eyes you may, 
 Something of sorrow hath befallen ; no sooner 
 You were departed, but some strange distemper 
 Invaded him ; we might discern a change 
 In's countenance, and though we pray'd him to 
 Repose with us, he would straight back again ; 
 So, with Frederico, 
 And Signior Cosmo, he return'd. 
 
 Flo. The alteration was strange and sudden. 
 
 Sci. 'Las ! noble gentleman — but come, clear up 
 Your face again, we hope it will not last : 
 Look bright again, I say, I have given order — 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 
 Gent. My lord, the duke's already come. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Sci. Remove, 
 Good Amidea, and reserve thy person 
 To crown his entertainment ; be not seen yet. 
 
 [Exit Amidea. 
 
 Enter Duke, Lorenzo, Alonzo, and Attendants. 
 
 Duhe. Sciarrha, we are come to be your guest. 
 
 Sci. Your highness doth an honour to our 
 house. 
 
 Duke. But Where's thy sister ? she must bid us 
 welcome. 
 
 Sci. She is your grace's handmaid. 
 
 Duhe. For this night. 
 Let the whole world conspire to our delight. 
 Lorenzo — [ Whispers him. 
 
 Lor. Sir, be confident — and perish. [Aside. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IL 
 
 The Garden o/Morosa's House, 
 
 Enter Morosa, Oriana, and Servant. 
 
 Mor. You should not rashly give away your 
 heart, 
 Nor must you, without me, dispose yourself. — 
 Pray give access to none — yet, if Pisano 
 Inquire, direct him to the garden. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 Cosmo 
 Is young, and promising, but, while Lorenzo 
 Lives, must expect no sunshine. 
 
 Re-enter Servant with Pisano and Cosmo. 
 
 Pis. There's for thy pains. — 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 They are now at opportunity. 
 
 Cos. My lord. 
 Do you prepare the mother, and let me dose 
 With Oriana. 
 
 Pis. What service can reward thee ? 
 
 Cos. Take occasion 
 To leave us private; this hour be propitious! 
 •Win but the matron to you. 
 
 Pis. She is prepar'd already. 
 
512 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, 
 
 Cos. Lose no time, 
 Take the other walk. 
 
 [^Exeunt Pisano and Morosa. 
 
 Ori. My dear Cosmo. 
 
 Cos. My best Oriana. 
 
 Ori. You have been too much absent, I must 
 chide you. 
 
 Cos. You cannot, sweet; I would I knew 
 which way 
 To make thee angiy ; yes, that I might see 
 How well it would become thee. I do fear 
 Thou art some angel, and that sin would be 
 An argument to me, that thou wert mortal ; 
 I must suspect thy too much goodness else. 
 And leave thee for the fellowship of saints, 
 I am too wicked. 
 
 Ori. You will make me angr3^ 
 
 Cos. But you will love me still, I fear. 
 
 Ori. Do you fear it ? 
 Is't a misfortune? 
 
 Cos. What? 
 
 Ori. My love. 
 
 Cos. Your anger ; 
 And yet the t'other oftentimes may carry 
 An evil with it ; we may love too well, 
 And that's a fault. 
 
 OH. Not where the object's good. 
 
 Cos. Oh yes : always beware of the extremes. 
 
 Ori. What mean you? I affect none but my 
 Cosmo, 
 Nor him with too much flame. 
 
 Cos. If you should, lady, 
 'Twere nobly done. 
 
 Ori. To love another ? 
 
 Cos. Yes, 
 If there be cause, that may be call'd a virtue : 
 For what have I to engross the affection 
 Of any lady, if she can discern 
 A greater merit in some other man ? 
 Wisdom forbid, but she command her smiles, 
 To warm and chei-ish him. 
 
 Ori. So we should be 
 Inconstant. 
 
 Cos. Why not ? if our reason be 
 Convinced, that's no such fault, as the world 
 
 goes. 
 Let us examine all the creatures, read 
 The book of nature through, and we shall find 
 Nothing doth still the same ; the stars do wander, 
 And have their divers influence ; the elements 
 Shuffle into innumerable changes : 
 Our constitutions vary ; herbs and trees 
 Admit tlieir frosts and summer ; and why then 
 Should our desires, that are so nimble, and 
 More subtle than the spirits in our blood. 
 Be such stay'd things within us, and not share 
 Their natural liberty ? Shall we admit a change 
 In smaller things, and not allow it in 
 What most of all concerns us? 
 
 Ori. What? 
 
 Cos. Our loves. 
 
 Ori. Have you suspicion I am changed, and 
 thus 
 Would school me for it ? or shall I imagine 
 That you are alter'd ? 
 
 Cos. Yes, I am, and therefore 
 Proclaim thy freedom ; I do love thee less, 
 To show I love thee more. 
 Ori. What riddle's this ? 
 
 Cos. I will explain. Upon maturity 
 Of counsel, Oriana, I have found 
 I am not worthy of thee, therefore come 
 To make thee satisfaction for my sin 
 Of loving thee, by pointing out a way, 
 And person, will become thy affection better. 
 Ori. You have a pretty humour. 
 Cos. What dost think 
 
 Of brave Pisano ? shall his merit plead 
 Succession in thy chaste thoughts ? 
 
 Ori. I do know him. 
 
 Cos. Thou canst not choose, and I could study 
 none 
 Worthy thy love but him. 
 
 Ori. 'Tis very likely 
 You would resign then ? 
 
 Cos. Ay, to honour thee ; 
 His service will deserve thee at the best 
 And richest value. 
 
 On. Why, it shall be so. 
 
 Cos. Nay, but be serious, and declare me 
 happy. 
 That I may say, I have made thee just amends, 
 [And] I will thank thee. 
 
 On. Why, sir, I do love him. 
 
 Cos. Oh, when did Cupid aim that golden 
 shaft? 
 But dost thou love him perfectly, with a 
 Desire, when sacred rites of marriage 
 Are past, to meet him in thy bed, and call him 
 Thy husband ? 
 
 Ori. Why, sir, did you ever think 
 I was so taken with your worth and person, 
 I could not love another lord as well ? 
 By your favour, there be many as p»*oper men, 
 And as deserving ; you may save your plea, 
 And be assured I need no lesson to 
 Direct my fancy. I did love Pisano 
 Before, but for your sake I mean to place him 
 A great deal nearer. — Sure he does but jest. 
 
 [Aside. 
 You did love me. 
 
 Cos. Now, by my heart, I love thee. 
 This act shall crown our story, Oriana, 
 Thou dost not know how much thou honourest 
 
 me, 
 For he's not in the common list of friends. 
 And he does love thee past imagination. 
 Next his religion he has placed the thought 
 Of Oriana, he sleeps nothing else. 
 And I shall wake him into heaven, to say 
 Thou hast consented to be his. 
 
 Ori. Pray tell me. 
 But truly, I beseech you ; do you wish 
 Pisano mine indeed ? [or] are you jealous, 
 And name him to accuse me ? 
 
 Cos. Not, by goodness ; 
 But if there be a charm beyond thy innocence. 
 By that I would conjure thee, Oriana, 
 Love him, and make three happy ; it shall be 
 My bliss to call you his, let me but own 
 A servant in your memory. 
 
 Ori. Unkind 
 And cruel Cosmo ! dost thou think it possible 
 I can love any but thyself ? thou wilt 
 Undo my heart for ever. 
 
 Re-enter Pisano and Morosa. 
 
 Mor. You shall be 
 Ever most welcome ; if I be her mother. 
 She must declare obedience. — Oriana — 
 
 Cos. Go cheerfully, thy mother calls to him 
 Whose orator I have been.— 'Las, poor lady ! 
 I half repent me, since she is so constant : 
 But a friend's life weighs down all other love ; 
 Beside, I thus secure my fate ; Lorenzo 
 Threatens my spring, he is my enemy. [Aside, 
 
 Ori. You'll not compel affection ? 
 
 Pis. No, but court it ; 
 With honour, and religion, thus invite it. 
 
 Mor. I shall forget the nature of a pai-ent. 
 Unless you show more softness and regard 
 To what is urg'd. What promise could you make 
 To Cosmo without me ? or, if you had — 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 Cos. Here Cosmo dotli give up all title to it ; 
 I have no part in Oriana now. 
 
 Ori. I've heard too much ; do with me what 
 you please, 
 I am all passive, nothing of myself, 
 But an obedience to unhappiness. [^Exit. 
 
 Cos. Follow her, Pisano. 
 Fis. Thou art all friendship. 
 Cos. Trace their wai-m steps, virgins' resolves 
 are weak. 
 Leave not her eyes until you see day break. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Boom in Depazzi's House. 
 
 Enter Dkpazzi and Eogero. 
 
 Dep. Eogero ! 
 
 JRog. My lord. 
 
 Dep. Make fast the chamber door, stifle the 
 key-hole and the crannies, I must discourse of 
 secret matters; dost thou smell nothing, Kogero? 
 Ha.? 
 
 Roff. Smell ? not anything, my lord, to offend 
 my nostril. 
 
 Dep. Come hither ; what do the people talk 
 abroad of me? Answer mo justly, and to the 
 point ; what do they say ? 
 
 Bog. Faith, my lord, they say that you are — 
 
 Dep. They lie, I am not ; they are a lousy, 
 impudent multitude ; a many-headed, and many- 
 horned generation, to say that I am — 
 
 Eog. A noble gentleman, a just and discreet 
 lord, and one that deserved to have his honours 
 without money. 
 
 Dep. Oh, is that it? I thought the rabble 
 would have said, I had been a traitor. I am 
 half mad, certainly, ever since I consented to 
 Lorenzo ; 'tis a very hard condition, that a man 
 must lose his head to recompense the procuiiing 
 of his honours. What if I discover him to the 
 duke ? Ten to one, if Lorenzo come but to speak, 
 his grace Avill not have the grace to believe me, 
 and then I run the hazard to be thrown out of 
 all on t'other side. 'Tis safest to be a traitoi'. 
 [Aside.^ — Hum, who is that you whispered to ? 
 
 Eog. I whisper? 
 
 Dej). Marry did you, sirrah. 
 
 Bog. Not I, good faith, my lord. 
 
 Dtp. Sirrah, sirrah, sirrah, I smell a rat be- 
 hind the hangings. [^Takes up the hangings.^ 
 — Here's nobody. Ha ? Are there no trunks i to 
 convey secret voices ? 
 
 Bog. Your lordship has a pair on. 
 
 Dep. I do not like that face in the arras ; on 
 my conscience he points at me. 'Pox upon this 
 treason, I have no stomach to't. I do see myself 
 upon a scaffold, making a pitiful speech already. 
 I shall have my head cut off. Seven years ago 
 I laid my head upon a wager, I remember, and 
 lost it; let me see, — it shall be so, 'tis good 
 policy to be armed. [Aside.] — Eogero, imagine 
 I were a traitor. 
 
 Bog. How, sir? 
 
 DeiJ. I but say imagine ; we may put the case ; 
 and that I were apprehended for a traitor. 
 
 Bog. Heaven defend!- 
 
 Dep. Heaven has something else to do, than to 
 defend traitors. I say, imagine 1 were brought 
 to the bar. 
 
 1 trunls—i.e. tubes. Rogero's reply is a pun on this 
 word, and the name of the large breeches, or trunk- 
 hose, worn in Shirley's time. — Gikfokd. 
 
 2 defend— i.e. forbid. Depazzi uses the word in its 
 modern sense. — GiFyoRO. 
 
 Bog. Good, my lord ! you brought to the bar ? 
 
 Dep. I will beat you, if you will not imagine, 
 at my bidding. I say, suppose I now were at 
 the bar, to answer for my life. 
 
 Bog. Well, sir. 
 
 Dep. Well, sir? that's as it happens; you 
 must imagine I will answer the best I can for 
 myself. Conceive, I pr'ythee, that these chairs 
 were judges, most grave and venerable beards 
 and faces, at my arraignment, and that thyself 
 wert, in the name of the duke and state, to 
 accuse me, what couldst thou say to me ? 
 
 Bog. I accuse your good honour ? For what, 
 I beseech you ? 
 
 Dep. For high treason, you blockhead. 
 
 Bog. I must be acquainted with some particu- 
 lars first. 
 
 Dep. Mass, thou sayest right. Why, imagine, — 
 do you hear ? you must but imagine, — that some 
 great man had a conspiracy against the duke's 
 person, and that I, being an honest lord, and one 
 of this great man's friends, had been drawn in, 
 for that's the plain truth on't; 'twas against my 
 will, but that's all one. Well, thou understand'st 
 me ; show thy wit, Eogero, scratch thy nimble 
 pericranium, and thunder out my accusation ex 
 tempore. Here I stand, Siguier Depazzi, ready 
 to answer the indictment. 
 
 Bog. Good, my lord, it will not become me, 
 being your humble servant. 
 
 Dep. Humble coxcomb ! is it not for my good ? 
 I say, accuse me, bring it home, jerk me soundly 
 to the quick, Eogero ; tickle me, as thou lov'st 
 thy lord ; I do defy thee, spare me not, and the 
 devil take thee if thou be'st not malicious. 
 
 Bog. Why then have at you. i [First, Signior 
 Depazzi, thou art indicted of high treason ; hold 
 up thy hand : Guilty, or not guilty ?J 
 
 Dep. Very good. 
 
 Bog. Nay, very bad, sir:— [Answer, I say; 
 guilty, or not guilty ?] 
 
 Dep. [Not guilty.] 
 
 Bog. ['Tis your best course to say so :] — well, 
 imagine I rise up the duke's most learned in the 
 laws, and his nimble-tongued orator ; have at 
 you, signior. 
 
 Dep. Come, come on, sir, here I stand. 
 
 Bog. [I will prove thou liest in thy throat, if 
 thou deniest thy treason, and so I address myself 
 to the most understanding seats of justice. — Most 
 wise, most honourable, and most incorrupt judges, 
 sleep not, I beseech you ; my place hath called 
 me to plead, in the behalf of my prince and 
 country, against this notable, this pernicious, 
 and impudent traitor, who hath plotted and con- 
 trived such high, heinous, and horrible treasons, 
 as no age nor history hath ever mentioned the 
 like. Here he stands, whose birth I will not 
 touch, because it is altogether unknown who. 
 begot him. He was brought up among the 
 small wares in the city, became rich by sinister 
 and indirect practices, married a merchant's wife 
 at adventures, and was soon after advanced to be 
 a head officer.] 
 
 Dep. Why, you rascal ! ' 
 
 Bog. [Peace, sirrah, peace! Nay, your lord- 
 ships shall find him very audacious. This fellow, 
 not content to have his branches spread within 
 the city — I speak it to his face, let him deny it — 
 was afterward, by the corruption of his confede- 
 rate, and the mere grace of his highness, raised 
 to honour, received infinite favours from his 
 prince of blessed memory, yet, like a wretch, a 
 
 1 [The language of the mock-trial is enclosed within 
 brackets.] 
 
 2K 
 
5H 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 villain, a viper, a rat of Nilus, lie hath practised 
 treasons against the sacred person of the duke, 
 for which he deserveth not only to die, but also to 
 suffer tortures, whips, racks, strapadoes, wheels, 
 and all the fiery brazen bulls that can be invented, 
 as I shall make it appear to this honourable and 
 illustrious court.] 
 
 Dep. This rogue's transported. 
 
 Rog. [With all my heart ; I obey your lord- 
 ships :— thus then I pass from these circumstances, 
 and proceed to the principal villanies that we 
 have to lay to his charge. Imprimis^ thou, Signior 
 Depazzi, didst offer to a groom one hundred 
 crowns to poison his highness' hunting-saddle.] 
 
 Dep. [Did I ?] 
 
 Rog. [Do not interrupt me, varlet; I will prove 
 it; — his hunting-saddle, and woe shall be unto 
 thy breech thei'efore ; and finding this serpentive 
 treason broken in the shell, — do but lend your 
 reverend ears to his next designs — I will cut 
 them off presently, — this irreligious, nay, atheis- 
 tical traitor, did with his own hands poison the 
 duke's prayer-book ; oh, impiety ! and had his 
 highness, as in former times he accustomed, but 
 prayed once in a month, which, by special grace, 
 he omitted, how fatal had it been to Florence ! 
 but as by justice his excellence did then, and by 
 his own want of devotion, prevent this assassi- 
 nate's purpose, so we hope, in his own discretion, 
 and the counsel of his state, he will take heed 
 how he prays hereafter while he lives, to which 
 every true subject will say, Amen.] 
 
 Dep. [May it please your honours — ] 
 
 Rog. [Thou impudent, brazen-faced traitor, 
 wilt thou deny it.-* Moreover, an't like your 
 good lordships, he hath for this fortnight or three 
 weeks before his apprehension, walked up and 
 down the court with a case of pistols charged, 
 wherewith, as he partly confessed, he intended 
 to send the duke to heaven with a powder !] 
 
 Dep. This rogue will undo the devil at inven- 
 tion. — [May it please this honourable — ] 
 
 Rog. [These are but sprinklings of his treason.] 
 
 Dep. Will you justify this ? Did I any of 
 these things, you tadpole ? 
 
 Rog. Hold youi-self contented, my lord ; he 
 that is brought to the bar in case of treason, 
 must look to have more objected than he can 
 answer, or any man is able to justify. 
 
 Dep. [I confess, an't please your good lord- 
 ships — ~\ 
 
 Rog. [Mark, he will confess — ~\ 
 
 Dep. That's the way to be sent of a headless 
 errand : — [Indeed I confess that I never intended 
 any treason to his highness, nor ever sought the 
 prince's life; true it is, that I heard of a con- 
 spiracy.] 
 
 Rog. [That, that, my lords, hath overthrown 
 him. He saith he never sought the prince's life, 
 ergo^ he sought his death. Besides, he hath heard 
 of treason ; now, he that heareth and discovereth 
 not, is equally guilty in fact : for in offences of 
 this nature there are no accessaries, ergo^ he is a 
 principal, and being a principal traitor, he de- 
 serveth condemnation.] 
 
 Dep. [Shall I not speak ?] 
 
 Rog. [No ; traitors must not be suffered to 
 speak, for when they have leave, they have 
 liberty, and he that is a traitor deserveth to be 
 close prisoner.] 
 
 Dep. [All that this fellow hath uttered is false 
 and forged, abominable lies.] 
 
 Rog. [1 will speak truth, and I will be heard, 
 and no man else, in this place.] 
 
 Dep. [I never dreamt of a hunting-saddle, nor 
 never had so much as a thought of any prayer- 
 book.] 
 
 Rog. [You sit here to do justice ; I speak for 
 the duke, and the safety of the commonwealth.] 
 
 Dep. [As for pistols, 'tis well known I could 
 never endure the report of them. I defy powder 
 and shot as I do him that accuseth me.] 
 
 Rog. \1 defy, all the world that will hear a 
 traitor speak for himself; 'tis against the law, 
 which provides that no man shall defend treason, 
 and he that speaks for himself, being a traitor, 
 doth defend his treason. Thou art a capital ob- 
 streperous malefactor.] 
 
 Dep. Thou art a madman. 
 
 Rog. Go to, you have played the fool too much. 
 
 Dep. Thou continual motion cease ; a pox 
 upon thee, hold thy tongue. 
 
 Rog. The pox will not serve your turn. 
 
 Dep. Why then, this shall. \Beats him. 
 
 Rog. Hold, hold, good my lord, I ani sensible ; 
 I have done, imagine I have done ; I but obeyed 
 your lordship, whose baton I find stronger than 
 my imagination. My lord, you will answer this, 
 to strike in the court thus ? 
 
 Dep. I am as weary — hark, Rogero {knocTcing 
 within] — one knocks. See, see ; there's to make 
 thee amends \^gives him money.] ; see, good Rogero, 
 and say nothing. [£'a:<V Eogero.] Pray heaven 
 it be no pursuivant. 
 
 Re-enter Eogero with Petruchio hearing a letter. 
 
 Rog. Petruchio, my Lord Pisano's secretary. 
 
 Dep. But Lorenzo's engine,^ a very knave. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Pet. My very good lord. 
 
 [Gives Mm the letter. 
 
 Dep. What's here ? It can be no goodness. 
 [Reads aside.] My lord., I would not have you go 
 to bed to-night — he will not let me sleep now, I 
 dreamt as much ; — something will he done to give 
 Florence liberty. In the depth of night you may 
 cunningly disperse some rumours in the city, that 
 the duke is dead ; the people must he distracted ; 
 in the common fright be not you wanting in your 
 person to assist their fears, and speak well of— 
 Lorenzo. Speak well of the devil. — My humble 
 service to your lord, and say he has power to 
 command me in all things. 
 
 Pet. My very good lord. 
 
 Dep. No matter an you were both hang'd. 
 [Aside.] — Eogero, show him the wine cellar. 
 [Exeunt Eogero and Petruchio.]— Let me see, 
 I must report the duke's death ; I cannot a'oide 
 this word death ; yet he desires me but to repoi't 
 it. Hum, if it be false, why, so much the better ; 
 there will be the less harm in it: if it should 
 prove true, they will believe me another time. 
 Well, I will drink myself half drunk, and be 
 fortified. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IL 
 
 A Room in Sciarrha's House. Preparations for 
 a Masque. 
 
 Enter Duke, Amidea, Lorenzo, Sciarrha, 
 Florio, and Attendants. 
 
 Duke. Sciarrha, you exceed in entertainment ; 
 Banquet our eyes too ? 
 
 Lo7'. He will feast all senses. 
 
 Sci. Only a toy, my lord ; I cannot call't 
 A masque, nor worthy of this presence, yet 
 It speaks the freedom of my heart, and gratitude 
 For this great honour. 
 
 Duke. Amidea must 
 Sit near us. 
 
 1 engine— tool. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 51S 
 
 Sci. Lords, your places ; 'twill not be 
 Worth half this ceremony. — Let them begin. 
 
 Enter Lust richly apparelled, the Pleasures 
 attendlnff. 
 
 Duke. Who's the presenter? 
 
 /Sci Lust, sir ; pi'ay observe. 
 
 Lust. Now let Lust possess the throne 
 
 Of Love ^ and rule in hearts alone: 
 You sioeet tempters to my sin^ 
 Beauty^ smiles^ and kisses tcin 
 Upon frail mortals, let them know 
 There is no happiness^ hut you. 
 Shoot no arrows tippd loith lead, 
 Each shaft have his golden head.^ 
 Call no love, delude men still, 
 Through the flesh their spirits Mil ; 
 Nor spend all your art to take 
 Common persons ; greatness make, 
 By your potent charms, to be 
 /Subjects unto hell and me : 
 Inflame but kings with loose desire. 
 You soon set all the world on fire. 
 
 Enter a young Man richly habited, and crowned. 
 
 DuTce. What's he ? 
 
 Sci. A wild young man that follows Lust ; 
 He has too much blood, it seems. 
 
 Duke. Why looks he back ? 
 
 Sci. There is a thing call'd Death, that follows 
 him; 
 With a large train of Furies ; but the Sirens 
 Of Lust make him secure, and now the hag 
 Embraces him, and circles him with pleasures ; 
 The harpies mean to dance too. — [Here Lust, the 
 Pleasures, and the young Man join in a 
 Dance.] — Hang his conscience ! 
 It whines too much. 
 
 Lor. This is too plain. \^Aside. 
 
 Sci. He does not tremble yet. — 
 By and by, sir, you shall see all his tormentors 
 Join with them ; there's the sport on't. 
 
 Lo7'. Methinks they 
 Should have been first, for th' antimasque.^ 
 
 Sci. Oh no ! 
 In hell they do not stand upon the method. 
 As we at court; the grand^ masque and the 
 Begin the revels. — [glory 
 
 Enter Death. 
 
 Sister, you do ill 
 To keep the duke in talk ; he cannot see 
 The devil for you, and the whips : does not 
 That death's head look most temptingly ? the 
 Have kiss'd the lips off. [worms 
 
 Enter Furies, who join in the dance, and in the 
 end carry the young Man away. The rest flee 
 in confusion. 
 
 How does your highness like this dance ? 
 
 Duke. My eyes so feasted here, I did not mark 
 it. 
 But I presume 'twas handsome. 
 
 Sci. Oh the lethargy 
 Of princes ! — We have kept you, sir, from bed. — 
 More lights. 
 
 1 golden head. This is rather an imitation of the old 
 Moralities, than a Masque. 
 
 2 antimasque — apparently a contrast to the masque, 
 being a ridiculous interlude, dividing the parts of the 
 more serious masque. Yet Jonson himself gives it 
 antic-masque, in the Masque of Augurs. They were in 
 effect antic, and were usually performed by actors hired 
 from the theatres, the masque being often by ladies and 
 gentlemen.— Nares. 
 
 3 grand. For grand masque, the old copy reads ground 
 masque. — Giffokd. 
 
 Duke. Good night to all ; to you the best : — 
 Sciarrha, bind us ever by performance. 
 
 Sci. We are all yours. 
 
 Duke. And Florence thine. Once more — 
 Brightest of ladies. 
 
 Lor. You are firm? \^Aside to Sci. 
 
 Sci. Suspect not. 
 
 [^Exeunt all hut Ami. and Flo. 
 
 Flo. I do not like my brother's moral masque ; 
 The duke himself was personated : I 
 Wonder it did not startle him. 
 
 Ami. I hope 
 Sciarrha does not mean so ill as that 
 Did promise. He's return'd ; his looks are full 
 
 Re-enter Sciarrha. 
 
 Of threat'ning. 
 
 Sci. Amidea, go not to bed ; 
 And yet no matter ; I can do't alone. 
 Take both your rest, and in your prayers com- 
 mend 
 The duke to heaven, 'tis charity ; [he] has made 
 His will already, and bequeath'd his body 
 To you, sister; pity his soul, for 'tis now 
 Within few minutes of departing. 
 
 Ami How ? 
 
 Sci. Why, this way {showing a poniard.']— I 
 must help him in his groans^. 
 To bring his flesh a-bed. 
 
 Ami. You will not kill him ? 
 
 Sci. I am not of your mind. 
 
 Ami. I know you cannot. 
 
 Sci. You are not studied so perfect in 
 His destiny, I hope ; I will endeavour — 
 
 Ami. To kill your prince ? 
 
 Flo. What, here ? 
 
 Sci. No, in his chamber. 
 
 Ami. Shall it be read in stories of our Florence, 
 Sciarrha first did stain his family 
 With such a treason ? 
 
 Flo. Was he not invited ? 
 
 Sci. Yes, by his lust. 
 
 Flo. And in your crowned tables, 
 And hospitality, will you murder him? 
 
 Sci. Yes, and the reason wherefore he was 
 murder'd, 
 Shall justify the deed to all posterity ; 
 He came to wrong my sister. 
 
 Flo. Wanton heat ; 
 Let youthful blood excuse him. 
 
 Sci. So it must. 
 
 Flo. Mistake me not ; oh, think but who he is. 
 The duke : that word must needs awake your 
 piety. 
 
 Ami. How will good men in this remembrance 
 Abhor your cruelty, that send to hell 
 One with the weight of all his sins upon him! 
 
 Sci. It is too late to cool with argument 
 My incensed blood. Will you go dally with 
 
 him, 
 And let him board your pinnace ? I have gone 
 So far in promise, if you clasp not with him. 
 It will be dangerous if he outlive 
 This night. 
 
 Ami. I have thought on't; send him to my 
 bed. 
 
 Sci. Ha! 
 
 Ami. Do not question what I propose ; Heaven 
 Witness to my chaste thoughts. 
 
 Sci. Wilt thou trust him ? 
 
 Ami. I will do much, sir, to preserve his life, 
 And your innocence : be not you suspectful ; 
 At the worst, you can but respite your revenge. 
 
 Sci. Dost thou not fear unhappy Lucrece'e 
 chance. 
 Or wretched Philomel's dishonoxir ? 
 
i6 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Ami. No : 
 Give me his life, and send your -wanton to me : 
 I'll to my chamber ; fear me not, Sciarrha, 
 Have not one thought so bad, I shall not prosper ; 
 Virgins in heaven shall suffer with me. 
 
 Flo. Trust her. _ {^Exeunt Ami. and Flo. 
 
 Sci. 'Tis but defemng of my justice; 
 She will not kill him, sure ; draw on her soul 
 The guilt she hates in mine ; if she do yield 
 To the hot encounter, ha 1 'twill I then] be just, 
 That both theu' hearts weep blood, to purge their 
 lust. [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 
 Another Room in the Same. 
 Enter Flobio and Amidea. 
 
 Flo. My poniard .' 
 
 Ami. I've no black intent 
 To staiu't with any blood. 
 
 Flo. Take it ; I know 
 Thou art my virtuous sister, it were wickedness 
 To doubt thy purpose, or the event. 
 
 Ami. Now leave me. 
 
 Flo. Thou hast a guard of angels. 
 
 Ami. They ai-e coming. 
 
 [Florio conceals himself behind tJie hangings. 
 
 Enter Sciarrha and the Duke. 
 
 Sci. Look, there she is, sir ; you know how to 
 undress her. 
 
 DuJce. Dearest Sciarrha. 
 
 Sci. To your recreation. — 
 Here I'll obscure myself. {Aside: sees Fi.OKio 
 as he retires behind the hawjings.'] — Florio .' 
 'tis well. 
 
 Duke. Lady, you know me ? 
 
 Ami. Yes ; my prince. 
 
 Duke. 1 was so 
 Till I saw thee, but I gave up tliat title, 
 A conquest to thy beauty, which, among 
 Her other wonders, hath created me 
 A subject and [a] servant, and I shall 
 Be happier to be received yours by 
 One of those names, than Duke of Tuscany. 
 
 Ami. Oh, take yom'self again, [sir] ; use your 
 greatness 
 To make the hearts of Florence bow to you. 
 And pay their duties thus. '[Kneels. 
 
 Duke. Else, Amidea, 
 And since you have given my power back, it will 
 Become me to command. 
 
 Ai)ii. And me to obey. [Rises. 
 
 Duke. I see thy noble bi'other hath been 
 faithful 
 To my desires ; he has prepai-'d thee with 
 A story of my love, which thou reward'st 
 "With too much humbleness. Thou hast a quarrel. 
 And a just one, with thy stars, that did not make 
 
 thee 
 A princess, Amidea ; yet thou'rt greater, 
 And born to justify unto these times, 
 Venus, the Queen of Love, was but thy figure. 
 And all her graces prophecies of thine. 
 To make our last age best. I could dwell ever 
 Here, and imagine I am in a temple, 
 To offer on this altar of thy hp, 
 
 [Kisses her often. 
 Myriads of flaming kisses, with a cloud 
 Of ... ' sighs breath'd from my heart. 
 
 » 0/ . . . sirjfis breath'd from my lieart. The old copy 
 reads, ' Of sighs breath'd,' etc. Something had pro- 
 l>&b]y been dropped at the press, as the sense now 
 seems incomplete. — Giffoud. 
 
 Which, by the oblation, would increase his stock, 
 To make my pay eternal. 
 
 Ami. What mean you ? 
 
 Duke. That question is propounded timely : 
 hadst thou 
 Not interrupted me, I should have lost 
 Myself upon thy lips, and quite forgot 
 There is a bliss beyond it^, which I came for. 
 Let others satisfy themselves to read 
 The wonders in thy face, make proud their eye, 
 By seeing thine, turn statues at thy voice. 
 And think they never fix enough to hear thee. 
 A man half dead with famine would wish here 
 To feed on smiles, of which the least hath power 
 To call an anchorite from his prayers, tempt 
 
 saints 
 To wish their bodies on. Thou dost with ease 
 Captivate kings with every beam, and mayst 
 Lead them like prisoners round about the "world, 
 Proud of such golden chains; this were enough. 
 Had not my fate provided more, to make me 
 Believe myself immortal in thy touches. 
 I'll laugh at all the fables of the gods, 
 And teach our poets, after I know thee, 
 To write the true Elysium. 
 
 Ami. Good, my lord, 
 I understand you not, and yet I fear 
 You do not mean well ; if you have brought with 
 
 you 
 A sinful pui-pose, which I may suspect — 
 
 Duke. Why, lady, what do you imagine I 
 Came hither for .' 
 
 Ami. I know not. 
 
 Duke. How! 
 1st come to that ? your brother gave you more 
 Desirous of the sport, and brought me hither, 
 liipe for your dalliance. Did you not expect me ? 
 
 Ami. Yes. 
 
 Duke. And to what other purpose ? 
 
 Avii. To tell you that you are not virtuous. 
 
 Duke. I'm of your mind. 
 
 Ami. But I am not so wicked 
 To be of yours. Oh, think but who you are : 
 Your title speaks you nearest heaven, and points 
 You out a glorious reign among the angels ; 
 Do not depose yourself of one, and be 
 Of the other disinherited. 
 
 Duke. I would 
 Your bi'other heard you ; pr'ythee, do not waste 
 This tedious divinity, I am 
 llesolv'd to grapple with you. 
 
 Ami. Keep off. [Shows the poniard. 
 
 Duke. Ha! 
 Turn'd Amazon? 
 
 Ami. Prince, come not too near me, 
 For, by my honour, since you have lost your 
 
 own. 
 Although I bow in duty to your person. 
 I hate your black thoughts ; tempt not my just 
 
 hand 
 With violent approach, I dare and wiU 
 Do that will grieve you, if you have a soul. 
 
 Duke. Thou dar'st not kill me. 
 
 Ami. True, but I dare die. 
 
 Duke. Be thy own murderer ? 
 
 Ami. Bather than you should be my ravisher. 
 
 Duke. Thou canst not be so merciless, 'tis less 
 siu 
 To be unchaste ; I am thy prince, I pr'ythee 
 Throw by that cruel weapon, let our war 
 Be soft embraces, shooting amorous smiles, 
 Kill and restore each other with a kiss, 
 I know thou canst not be unkind so long : 
 Then, I command thee. 
 
 Ami. I must not obey. 
 To be your strumpet : though my hand be un- 
 I shall soon find my heart. [skilful, 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 517 
 
 DxiTce. ril not believe — 
 
 Ami. Let this deserve your faith I dare be just, 
 {She wounds her arm. 
 This crimson river issuing from my arm. 
 
 Duhe. Hold! 
 
 Ami. Never ; it shall flow, and if this channel 
 Yield not enough, I'll strike another vein, 
 And after that another, and not pity 
 The murmuring stream, till through a prodigal 
 
 wound 
 I have drain'd the fountain : this doth weep for 
 
 you, 
 And shall extol my death, if it may teach 
 You to correct your blood. 
 
 Duke. There's so much gone 
 From me, I cool apace ; this action 
 Hath shot an ague through me ; Amidea, 
 Pity thyself. 
 
 Ami. Not till you swear repentance ; 
 I do not faint yet, 'tis somewhat about. 
 But I can find a nearer way ; this does it. 
 
 [Offering to strike htrsdj again. 
 
 Duke. Contain ; 1 am sorry, sorry from my 
 soul; 
 Trust me, I do bleed inward, Amidea, 
 Can answer all thy drops : oh, pardon me. 
 Thou faint'st already, dost not.' 1 am feai-ful. 
 The phrenix, with her wings, when she is dying, 
 Can fan her ashes into another life ; 
 But when thy breath, more sweet than all the 
 
 spice 
 That helps the other's funeral, returns 
 To heaven, the world must be eternal loser. 
 Look to thy wound. 
 
 Ami. May I believe you, sir ? 
 
 Duke. I dare not think awry ; again I ask 
 Forgiveness ; in thy innocence I seo 
 My own deformity, 
 
 [SciARRHA, followed hy Florio, comes hastily 
 from behind the hangings and embraces 
 Amidea. 
 
 Sci. Now a thousand blessings 
 Reward thy goodness ; thou deserv'st a statue, 
 A tall one, which should reach above the clouds, 
 Jostle the moon, that people afar off 
 Beholding it, may be invited hither. 
 In hope to climb to heaven by't ; but apply 
 Betimes unto thy wound. — Florio, assist her. 
 
 [Florio leads off Amidea. 
 And now, my lord — 
 
 Duke. Sciai-rha, I'll begin to be thy lord ; 
 I brought intentions of disiionour to thee, 
 And thy fair sister, but I am reconcUed 
 To virtue, and will study how to satisfy 
 For you and Florence. 
 
 Sci. You will be more precious, 
 Than had you never fallen ; I am ail joy 
 In your conversion. 
 
 Duke. . . . ^ 
 
 Sci. Lorenzo! I think he has not said his 
 prayers yet, 
 But— 
 
 Duke. What.' 
 
 Sci. I cannot tell, maybe he does not use it. 
 
 Duke. How? 
 
 Sci. My lord, you now are lovely ; 
 'Twere better you'd forget him; he's not right 
 At heart, I fear. 
 
 Duke. Fear nothing. 
 
 Sci. To be plain, 
 You chex-ish your disease in him, and are 
 Not safe while he is near you. 
 
 ^ . . . .] Somewhat has probably been dropped here; 
 as Sciarrha appears to reply to a question from the duke 
 relating to Lorenzo. — Gifford. 
 
 Duke. Do not envy him.> 
 
 Sci. Then I must tell you, sir, he is a traitor. 
 Within my knowledge, hath conspir'd your 
 death. 
 
 Duke. With whom ? 
 
 Sci. With me ; I should have kill'd you, sir, 
 This night, and every minute he expects 
 To hear you number'd with the dead. I can 
 Demonstrate this : your pardon, but in truth. 
 The injuries you meant us were severe. 
 And he with as much violence did urge them 
 To your destruction ; but your piety 
 Hath charm'd my purpose, and I look upon you 
 With new obedience. 
 
 Re-enter Florio, 
 
 Duke. Impossible! 
 
 Sci. We will not shift the scene till you be- 
 lieve it. 
 Florio, entreat my Lord Lorenzo hither. 
 
 [Exit Flo. 
 Step but behind the arras, and your ear 
 Shall tell you who's the greatest traitor living. 
 Observe but when I tell him you are slain. 
 How he'll rejoice, and call me Florence's great 
 Preserver, bless my arm, that in your blood 
 Hath given our groaning state a liberty ; 
 Then trust Sciarrha : but obscure,- 1 hear him. 
 [Duke retires behind the hangings. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo. 
 
 \_Aside 
 
 Lor. Whom talk'd he to ? 
 
 Sci. 'Tis done— 
 
 Lor. What, good Scian-ha ? 
 
 Sci. The duke is dead. 
 
 Lor. We are not left so miserable ! 
 Heav'n is more kind to Florence. 
 
 Sci. With this hand 
 I made a passage for his soul. 
 
 Lor. Defend, 
 Omnipotence ! what ! murder'd ? and by noble 
 Sciarrha? how my ear abuses me! 
 
 Sci. Did not we plot it too ? 
 
 Lor. How ! we ? collect, 
 I fear you are not well : pray tell me why 
 You talk thus? where 's the duke? he hath a 
 
 guard, 
 An army of heaven about him ; who in Florence 
 Dares be so black a devil to attempt 
 His death ? 
 
 Sci. This is fine cunning; why, what devil is 
 Lorenzo, if he dare deny it ; Ave are in private, 
 You need appear no stranger to that's done 
 By your direction. 
 
 Lor. I in the practice ? 
 Then let me creep into the earth, and raise 
 A monster to affright mankind. Sciarrha, 
 I must abhor thee for it. Oh my prince ! 
 ]\Iy dearest kinsman ! — may thy hand rot off ! — 
 Treason, treason ! 
 
 Sci. Then my sword shall fetch 
 Another witness in thy heart. 
 
 [^As they draw, the duke comes hastily forth 
 and interposes. 
 
 Duke. Hold! 
 
 Lor. Tush, let him come, 
 My royal lord ; nay, let him kill me now : 
 I've so much joy and peace about me, 'twere 
 A sin to wish my life beyond this minute. 
 
 1 Do not envy him—ie., in the old sense of the word, 
 do not bear him any ill-will ; do not injure him. — 
 
 GiFFORD. 
 
 2 but obscure, J hear him.'] The old copy reads, 'but 
 observe, I hear ^/je/n.'— Giffoed. 
 
5i8 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Duke. Put up, I say. 
 
 Sci. My lord, we are both cozen'd : 
 That very smile's a traitor. 
 
 Duke. Come, be calm : 
 You are too passionate, Scivrtiai a-nd 
 Mistook Lorenzo. 
 
 Lor. But I hold him noble : 
 I see he made this trial of my faith, 
 And I forgive him. 
 
 Dvke. You shall be friends ; you shall, I say. 
 
 Enter hastily Cosmo and Aloxzo. 
 
 Cos. The duke— 
 Alon. Where's the duke .' 
 Cos. My lord, we are blest to see you safe ; 
 report 
 Hath frighted all the city with your death : 
 People forsake their beds, and seeking how 
 To be inform'd, increase the wretched tumult. 
 Alon. There's nothing but confusion ; all men 
 tremble, 
 As if some general fire invaded Florence. 
 Sci. Have comfort, sir. 
 Duke. What's to be done ? 
 Lor. Depazzi has remembered. [Aside. 
 
 My lord, there is no safety for the state, 
 Unless you personally appease them. 
 Duke. How? 
 
 Lor. I hope they'll tear him ; would he were 
 dead any way ! [Aside. 
 
 Alon. He hath counsell'd well. 
 Cos. Your presence only hath the power to 
 
 charm them. 
 Duke. I fear their rage : where is our guard ? 
 Alonzo, haste afore, proclaim our pardon, 
 And that we live to give the offenders mercy. 
 Why are we bom to greatness, mock'd with 
 
 state, 
 When every tumult staggers our proud fate ? 
 Sci. [Aside to Lor.'\ — Our quarrel is deferr'd, 
 sir. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Lorenzo's House. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo. 
 
 Lor. My plots thrive not ; my engines * all de- 
 ceive me. 
 And in the very point of their discharge 
 Kecoil with danger to myself : are there 
 No faithful villains left in nature ? all 
 Turn'd honest ? Man nor spirit aid Lorenzo, 
 Who hath not patience to expect his fate, 
 But must compel it. How Sciarrha play'd 
 The dog-bolt 2 with me ! and had not I provided 
 In wisdom for him, that distress had ruined me. 
 His frozen sister, Amidea, too. 
 Hath half converted him ; but I must set 
 New wheels in motion, to make him yet 
 More hateful, and then cut him from his stalk, 
 Kipe for my vengeance. I'll not trust the rabble ; 
 Confusion on ['em !] — the giddy multitude, 
 That, but two minutes ere the duke came at 
 
 them, 
 Bellow'd out Liberty, shook the city with 
 Their throats, no sooner saw him, but they melted 
 With the hot apprehension of a gallows : 
 And when a pardon was proclaim'd (a fine 
 State-snaffle for such mules), they turn'd their 
 
 cry 
 To acclamations, and deaf'd heaven to beg 
 
 * engines — tools or stratagems 
 
 ' dog-bolt. See Lily's Alexander and Campaspe. 
 
 His long and prosperous reign. A sudden rot 
 Consume this base herd ! an the devil want 
 Any cattle for his own teeth, these are for him. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Sei^. Sciarrha, my lord, desires to speak with 
 
 you. 
 Lor. Sciarrha! come near — [whispers him.'\ — 
 
 you understand ? admit him. [Exit Serv. 
 
 Enter Sciarrha. 
 
 Welcome, my noble lord ; 
 
 You were not wont to visit me. 
 
 Sci. Nor mean 
 Ever to do't again. 
 
 Lor. You bring frowns, 
 I can be sullen too : what is your pleasure ? 
 
 Sci. You have abused me. 
 
 Lor. You have injured me. 
 
 Sci. In what ? 
 
 Lor. Betrayed me basely to the duke. 
 
 Sci. You denied then you wei'e a traitqr ? 
 
 Lor. Yes, 
 I was no fool to run my neck upon 
 The axe, and give you such a cause of triumph. 
 Were it again in question — 
 
 Sci. You are a villain, sir. 
 And I 
 
 Must have it certified under your own hand, 
 To show the duke. 
 
 Lor. You shall be humbled to 
 Confess the contrary, nay, subscribe 
 That I am honest, and desire my pardon. 
 Look, I have a sword, and ai-m, and vigour ; 
 Dare fight with thee, didst ride upon a whirlwind, 
 Provoke thee on a rock, in waves, in fire, 
 And kill thee without scruple ; such a strength 
 Is innocence. 
 
 Sci. Innocence ! dost not fear a thunderbolt ? 
 I shall be charitable to the world, an I , 
 Cut thee in pieces ; and yet then I fear 
 Thou wilt come together again : the devil does 
 Acknowledge thee on earth the greater mischief, 
 And has a fear, when thou art dead, he shall not 
 Be safe in hell ; thou wilt conspire with some 
 Of his black fiends, and get his kingdom from 
 
 him. 
 Didst not thou rail upon the duke ? 
 
 Lor. I grant it. 
 
 Sci. Call him a tyrant ? 
 
 Lor. More, I do confess 
 I did exasperate you to kill or murder him ; 
 Give it what name you please; with joy I brought 
 
 him, 
 Under the colour of your guest, to be 
 The common sacrifice : all this I remember; 
 But is Heaven's stock of mercy spent already, 
 That sins, though great and horrid, may not be 
 Forgiven, to the heart that groans with peni- 
 tence ? 
 Are the eternal fountains quite seal'd up ? 
 I was a villain, traitor, murderer, 
 In my consenting to his death, but hope 
 Those stains are now wash'd off. 
 
 Sci. Hast thou repented ? 
 
 Lor. Trust me, I have. 
 
 Sci. The devil is turn'd religious ! 
 Augment not thy damnation. 
 
 Lor. As he was 
 A lustful duke, a tyrant, I had lost him. 
 In his return to piety, he commanded 
 My prayers, and fresh obedience to wait on him ; 
 He's now my prince again. 
 
 Sci. This is but cunning 
 To save your life. 
 
 Lor. Mv life !— Within there ! Ha ! welcome. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 519 
 
 Enter divers Gentlemen armed. 
 
 1 Gent. My gracious lord. 
 
 2 Gent. Wilt please your honour 
 Command my service ? 
 
 3 Gent. Or me ? 
 
 4 Cen^. Or any ? 
 
 5 G'eHi. Our swords and lives are yours. 
 
 Sci. Perhaps your lordship hath some business 
 with 
 These gentlemen, I'll take some other time. 
 
 Lor. By no means, good Sciarrha : 
 You visit seldom ; those are daily with me. 
 Men that expect employment, that wear swords, 
 And carry spirits, both to be engag'd, 
 If I but name a cause. — Gentlemen, draw. 
 
 Sci. My providence has betray'd me. \ Aside. 
 
 Lor. Now, Sciarrha^ 
 You that with single valour dare come home 
 To affront me thus ; know, but too late, thy 
 
 heart 
 Is at the mercy of my breath: these swords 
 Can fetch it when I please ; and, to prevent 
 Your boast of this great daring — I beseech, 
 As you do love and honour your Lorenzo, 
 No hand advance a weapon, sheath again, 
 And leave us ; I owe service to your loves, 
 But must not so dishonour you. 
 
 All Gent. We obey. [Exeunt. 
 
 Sci. They're gone : this is some nobleness. 
 
 l_Aside. 
 
 Lor. You see 
 I do not fear your sword ; alone, I have. 
 Too much advantage ; yet you may imagine 
 How easily I could correct this rashness : 
 But in my fear to offend gracious Heaven 
 With a new crime, having so late obtain'd 
 My peace, I give you freedom. 
 
 Sci. Do I dream ? 
 
 Lor. Pray chide me still, I will be patient 
 To hear my shame. 
 
 Sci. Is this to be believed ? 
 Doth not Lorenzo counterfeit this virtue ? 
 He does : it is impossible he should repent. 
 
 Lor. Why ? tell me, Scian-ha, and let us argue 
 awhile 
 In cooler blood ; did not you once resolve 
 To kill the duke too ? 
 
 Sci. I confess — 
 
 Lor. To give him death with your own hand .' 
 Methinks it should be the same parricide 
 In you, if not a greater ; yet you chang'd 
 Your purposes ; why did you not go through, 
 And murder him 7 
 
 Sci. He was converted. 
 
 Lor. Good! 
 That taught you mercy, and perhaps repentance 
 For your intent. 
 
 Sci. It did. 
 
 Lor. Why should not, sir. 
 The same conversion of the duke possess 
 My heart, with as much piety to him. 
 And sorrow for myself ? If I should say 
 You are but cunning in this shape of honesty, 
 And still suspect your soul to be a traitor, 
 Might you not blame my want of charity ? 
 
 Sci. He says but right, wo are both men, frail 
 things. [Aside. 
 
 'Tis not impossible. 
 
 Lor. I am reconciled 
 To heaven already, and the duke : if you 
 Be still unsatisfied, I am ready, sir — 
 
 Sci. The circumstance consider'd, I incline 
 To think this may be honest. 
 
 Lor. Come, Sciarrha, 
 We are both hasty : pardon my rash language 
 In the beginning, I will study service 
 
 Shall make you love me; I have been too 
 
 wicked, 
 Too full of passion, inexorable : 
 My nature is corrected ; at this minute 
 I'm friends with all the world, but in your love 
 Shall number many blessings. 
 Sci. I am converted. 
 
 Enter Petruchio. 
 
 Lor. [takes Pet. a^ide."] — What's the news? 
 
 Pet. My lord Depazzi prays some conference 
 In the next chamber ; we arriv'd by chance 
 Together at your gate : I do not like 
 His talk, sir. 
 
 Lor. Hang him, property ! let him 
 Expect ; thou art come in the opportunity 
 I could have wish'd ; be wise, and second me. 
 
 [ Whispers him. 
 
 Sci. He waits upon Pisano, 
 Whose health I may inquire; I have not seen 
 
 him 
 Since he departed sick ; a fit occasion. 
 
 Lor. [aloud.'] Married to Oriana ? thou mis- 
 tarst, 
 'Tis Amidea, Lord Sciarrha's sister. 
 
 Pet. That contract's broken, and the old lady 
 Morosa is violent to have the marriage finish'd 
 with her daughter. 
 
 Lor. [coming forward.'] — S ciarrha, 
 Is't true Pisano marries Oriana, 
 The rich Morosa's daughter? 
 
 Sci. Ha! 
 
 Lor. We did expect to hear your sister should 
 Have been his bride ; has he forsaken Amidea ? 
 
 Sci. Do not you serve Pisano ? 
 
 Pet. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Sci. And dare you talk he's to be married 
 To Oriana? 
 
 Pet. If they live till to-morrow : 
 There's great provision, to my knowledge, and — 
 
 Sci. Take that, and learn to speak a ti-uth 
 hereafter. [Strikes him. 
 
 Lor. That blow shall cost his life. — [Aside. 
 It is not possible he dare affront 
 You thus ; the world takes notice of a contract ; 
 He's much to blame if he should wrong so sweet 
 A lady as Amidea. Now, by Hymen, 
 'Tis not so honourable; he need not scorn 
 Such an alliance. 
 
 Pet. I am not to give 
 Account for my lord's actions, let him answer 
 And justify his honour : but, my lord, 
 Since I am provoked, I must declare lie has 
 Call'd back his vows to Amidea, given 
 Her freedom, and does mean to use his own, 
 And this he dares publish. 
 
 Lor. What! disclaim'd 
 A lady of her birth and glorious merit ? 
 
 Sci. Thou art a villain. 
 
 Lor. My lord, he is not worth your anger ; he 
 Declares but what his master hath committed, 
 'Tis none of his fault. 
 
 Pet. It becomes my duty 
 To take correction, my lord, from you ; 
 I am a servant, a poor gentleman. 
 
 Sci. Shall I 
 Suspect the circumstance at his departure ? 
 
 yAside* 
 
 Lor. It is strange you knew not this before, 
 
 Sci. I must examine if he dares — 
 
 Lor. Be patient. 
 
 Sci. Teach fools and children patience. 
 May dogs eat up Sciarrha : let me live 
 The prodigy of soiTow ; die a death 
 That niay draw tears from Scythians, if Pisano 
 Lead o'er his threshold any soon-won dame, 
 To be my sister's shame ! I am calm now. 
 
520 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 One [thus] false, Heaven, why should thy altars 
 
 save ? 
 'Tis just that Hvmen light him to his grave. 
 
 {Exit. 
 Lor. A thousand Furies swell his rage! al- 
 though 
 Pisano bleed, this is the safest killing ; 
 Wise men secure their fates, and execute 
 Invisibly, like that most subtle flame 
 That burns the heart, yet leaves no part or touch 
 Upon the skin to follow or suspect it. — 
 Farewell, dull, passionate fool! how this doth 
 
 feed me ! 
 Kill, and be lost thyself ; or, if his sword 
 Conclude thy life, both ways I am reveng'd. 
 Petruchio, thou didst hit my instructions rarely. 
 And I applaud thee : now send in Depazzi, 
 And visit me anon. 
 Pet, I shall, my lord. \ExU. 
 
 Lor. Some politician, 
 That is not wise but by a precedent, 
 Would think rae weak for using such an instru- 
 ment 
 As this Depazzi ; but I know by proof, 
 Such men whom fear and honour make our 
 
 creatures, 
 Do prove safe engines ; fools will still obey. 
 When cunning knaves our confidence betray. 
 
 Enter Depazzi. 
 
 Dtp. My lord, I would speak a word or two in 
 private. 
 
 Lor. You may. 
 
 Dep. Is nobody within hearing .' all clear be- 
 hind the arras "i 
 
 Lor. Make no doubt, sir. 
 
 Dep. My lord, the truth is — I am very fear- 
 ful — is your lordship sure there are no eves- 
 droppers ? 
 
 Lor. What needs this circumstance.' I pray 
 come to the point, 
 
 Dep. 'Tis not unknown to your lordship, that 
 you have been my vei-y good lord,i neither am I 
 ignorant that I am your humble servant; you 
 advanced me, brought me into the number of the 
 nobles, and I brought you a reasonable number 
 of crowns: I am not the first wise citizen that 
 hath been converted into a foolish courtier ; but, 
 my lord, I beseech you pardon me : — it will out. 
 
 Lor. What's the matter ? 
 
 Dep. I am ready to burst. 
 
 Lor. With what? 
 
 Dep. Treason, treason ; — now 'tis out, and I 
 feel my body the lighter for it already. The last 
 plot did not take, you see ; and I would humbly 
 entreat your loi'dship to excuse me, and get 
 somebody else hereafter to be your traitor, in my 
 stead. 
 
 Lor. How, sir? 
 
 Dep. If you did but know the tenderness of my 
 constitution, or feel the pangs and convulsions 
 that I suffer, you would pity me. I fall away, you 
 see, I cannot sleep for dreaming of an axe ; I 
 have caus'd my hangings of Holofernes^ to be 
 taken down in my dining-room, because I dare 
 not look upon a head that is cut off in it, some- 
 thing of my complexion. My wisdom tells me I 
 am a fool to be so fearful; but my conscience 
 tells me I am a greater fool if I have not wit 
 enough in my pate to keep my head on my 
 shoulders. I beseech your lordship take me into 
 
 1 you have been my very good lord — i.e. my patron. The 
 phrase is thus used by all fhe writers of Shirley's tmie. 
 
 — GiFFORD. 
 
 2 i.e. han^cings of tapestry having the subject of Judith 
 and Holofernes wrought on them. 
 
 your consideration. I am but a mortal, though I 
 be a lord ; every man hath not the like gift of 
 impudence ; I have a weak stomacli, and treason 
 is physic to me, and although I do not vomit up 
 your secrets, they may out some other way. 
 
 IjOt. You will not betray me ? 
 
 Dep. But, alas! in such a case I may soon 
 bewray myself, and then your lordship may be 
 smelt out. To prevent, therefore, some mischief 
 that may happen, I desire to leave off while I am 
 well ; and that your lordship may know I mean 
 plainly, I have brought you all your letters ; I 
 durst not trust any other place with them, for 
 fear of state rats ; I have unript my bosom to 
 you, and there they are to a title — now, I may 
 safely swear [I] have no hand with your lord- 
 ship. 
 
 Lor. This is very strange. 
 
 Dep. Mistake not, my good lord, I am still 
 your creature, but I have a great mind to be 
 honest a little, while among the weaker sort of 
 nobility : yet thus much persuade yourself, I will 
 never wrong your lordship in a syllable ; should 
 you tell me of a thousand treasons and strata- 
 gems, I will never reveal any; I scorn that: 
 but your lordship must pardon me, I will be a 
 traitor no longer, that's certain ; I will be honest, 
 and the rather because nobody shall hit me in 
 the teeth after I am dead, and say, Look where 
 Depazzi carries his head very high! And, my 
 lord, the more to induce your lordship to dismiss 
 me — Kogero I 
 
 Enter Eogero. 
 
 Fof/. My lord. 
 
 Dep. Give me the gold. — I have brought fifteen 
 hundred crowns more. 
 
 Lor. Wherefore ? 
 
 Dep. That I may have your lordship's good 
 will, to leave my office, before it be taken from 
 me, and preferr'd to a worse ; 'tis half the price 
 I paid for't. I love peace, and a little honesty ; 
 I know your honour Avill find an abler man for 
 it, and it is fit I should pay for my quietus. 
 
 Lor. And what do you resolve ? 
 
 Dep. To return to the dunghill, from whence I 
 came ; for though I was born in the city, I have 
 some land in the country, dirty acres, and man- 
 sion-house, where I will be the miracle of a 
 courtier, and keep good hospitality, love my 
 neighbours and their wives ; be admired amongst 
 the justices, sleep upon every bench, keep a chap- 
 lain in my own house to be my idolater, and 
 furnish me with jests ; and when I have nothing 
 else to do, I will think of the court, and how 
 much I have been obliged to your lordship. My 
 lord, I maj' do you service with a leading voice 
 in the country ; the kennel will cry on my side 
 if it come to election : you or your friend shall 
 carry it against the commonwealth. 
 
 Lor. Well, sir, since you have express'd your- 
 self so freely, I will not counsel you against your 
 disposition 'to stay at court ; you may go when 
 and whither you please; and though at parting 
 I have nothing worth your acceptation, I will 
 bestow these crowns upon your servant. 
 
 [Gives RoG. the money. 
 
 Dep. Thou shalt give them me again. 
 
 Eoff. Indeed, my lord, / love a little honesty; 
 'tis his lordship's bounty; it will be a stock to 
 set me up for myself at court, when your lord- 
 ship is retired into the countr3\ — I humbly thank 
 your lordship, and take my leave of yours. 
 
 [Exit with the maney. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. The duke, my lord. lExit Servant 
 
 Dep. How ! the duke ? 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 521 
 
 Enter the Duke. 
 
 Dulce. Signior DepazzL 
 
 Lor He has been earnest with me, an't please 
 your highness, 
 To be his humble suitor, he may have 
 Freedom to leave the court. 
 
 Duke. He shall be banish'd. 
 
 Dep. How? 
 
 Lor. AV'hat time will your grace allow [him] to 
 provide ? 
 
 Duke. Two hours. 
 
 Dep. I had rather lose my head at home, and 
 save charges of travel, I beseech your grace. 
 
 Duke. Well, 'tis granted; let him not trouble us. 
 
 Lor. Enjoy the country, and return when the 
 duke sends for you. 
 
 Dep. I humbly thank his highness, and will 
 pray for your increase of grace. [Exit. 
 
 Duke. Lorenzo, are we private ? 
 
 Lor. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Duke. I am very melancholy. 
 
 Lor. I know the cause, 'tis Amidea. 
 
 Duke. Eight. 
 
 Lor. I do not wish her dead. 
 
 Duke. It were a sin. 
 
 Lor. Not in heaven, sir ; yet there be ladies 
 that would think it a promotion. 
 
 Duke. It were pity she would leave the world, 
 Till she hath taught [the rest] by her example 
 The nearest way. 
 
 Lor. I am very confident she's yet honest. 
 
 Duke. Yet, Lorenzo? 
 
 Lor. Ay, sir, but I'm not of opinion 
 It is impossible to know a change. 
 
 Duke. Take heed. 
 
 Lor. I must confess she has been very valiant, 
 In making you remove your siege, and show'd a 
 Pretty dexterity at the poniard ; 
 Let herself blood ; ^ but this a mortal virgin 
 Might do, and not be ador'd for't : other women 
 Have gone as far, or else false legends have 
 Been thrust upon the easy world ; some say 
 There have been creatures that have kill'd them- 
 selves, 
 To save their sullen chastities ; but I 
 Have no strong faith that way: yet you were 
 
 startled 
 To see her strike her arm, and grew compas- 
 sionate. 
 
 Duke. I was not marble : we break adamant 
 With blood,2 and could I be a man, and not 
 Be mov'd to see that hasty ebb of life 
 For my sake ? 
 
 Lor. I have read some aged stories : 
 What think you of Lucrece ? she is remembei-'d. 
 
 Duke. Chastity's great example. 
 
 Lor. How the world 
 Was cozen'd in her ! she knew of Tarquin first, 
 And then suspecting she should never meet 
 Again the active gentleman, [and] having 
 Determined of his death, with well dissembled 
 Sorrow did stab herself, in hope to meet 
 The gamester in Elysium. Amidea 
 You will allow beneath this Koman dame ? 
 
 Duke. Lorenzo, had the burning ravisher 
 Made this attempt on Amidea, she 
 
 ^ Let herself blood. The old copy reads, 'See herself 
 bleed.' The allusion is to the wound which Amidea 
 gave herself in her bed-chamber. The text was evi- 
 dently incorrect; whether it be now improved must be 
 left to the reader. — Giffokd. 
 
 we break adamant 
 
 With blood.— 'nm is a very ancient notion ; it is mentioned 
 by Greene, and Lyly, and many more of our old writers, 
 who had .it from Miny, Solinus, <fcc.— Giffokd. 
 
 Would have compell'd his penitence, to quench 
 His fire with holy tears. 1 had a body 
 Eefined to air, or I was borne up by 
 A thousand wings : methought I could have 
 
 flown 
 And kiss'd the cheek of Cynthia, thence with 
 
 ease 
 Have leap'd to Venus' star ; but I was wounded, 
 And the gay feathers, in whose pride I had 
 My confidence, serv'd now but with their weight 
 To hasten me to eai'th. 
 
 Lor. Ascend again, 
 And fix in your lov'd orb; he brings this comfort 
 That can assure it, if you have not lost 
 A heart to entertain with love and pleasure 
 The beauteous Amidea. 
 
 Duke. Ha! 
 
 Jjor. You shall enjoy her. 
 
 Duke. Enjoy fair Amidea ? do not tempt, ' 
 Or rather mock my frailty with such promise. 
 
 Lor. Shake off your melancholy slumber, I 
 Have here decreed you shall possess her : she 
 Be sent submissive to your arms, and you 
 Be gracious to accept what she made coy of. 
 
 iJuke. Is this in nature ? 
 
 Lor. Thus : Sciarrha's life 
 And fortunes are ah-eady growing forfeit, 
 These brains have plotted so: your mercy shall 
 Purchase what you can wish for in his sister; 
 And he acknowledge rifling of her honour 
 A fair and cheap redemption. 
 
 Duke. Do this ; 
 And I'll repent the folly of my penitence, 
 And take thee to my soul, a nearer pledge, 
 Than blood or nature gave me : I'm renew'd, 
 I feel my natural warmth return. When, where 
 Is this to be expected ? I grow old, 
 While our embraces are deferr'd. 
 
 Lor. I go 
 To hasten your delight ; prepare your blood 
 For amorous game : Sciai-rha s fate is cast 
 Firmer than destiny. 
 
 Duke. Thou art my prophet, 
 I'll raise thee up an altar. 
 
 Lor. Trust these brains. 
 
 Duke. Thou makest my spirit caper in my veins. 
 
 f Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IL 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Cosmo and two Gentlemen appear at an upper 
 window. 
 
 1 Gent. This way they pass. 
 Cos. I would not see them. 
 
 2 Gent. Why ? 
 
 1 Gent. What! melancholy o' the sudden? it 
 is now 
 
 Past cure. 
 
 Cos. I know it is, and therefore do not 
 Desire to witness their solemnity. 
 Should Oriana see me to-day — 
 
 2 Gent. What then ? 
 Cos. The object, 
 
 I fear, would be too prodigious. 
 
 2 Gent. We dispute not 
 Those nice formalities. 
 
 Enter Alonzo, Pisano, Oktaxa, and Morosa. 
 
 1 Gent. She has spied you already. 
 Cos. I'm sorry for't. 
 
 [Oriana faints. Cosmo and Gentlemen 
 retire. 
 Mor. How is't, my child ? 
 
52: 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pis. My dearest Oriana ; — 
 She faints ! what grief is so unmannerly 
 To interrupt thee now ? Oriana ! 
 
 Mor. Daughter! 
 
 Pis. Will Heaven divorce us ere the priest have 
 made 
 Our marriage perfect ? we in vain hereafter 
 Shall hear him teach, that our religion binds 
 To have the church's ceremony. She returns. 
 
 Ori. Why were you so unkind to call me from 
 A pleasing slumber ? Death has a fine dwelling. 
 
 Alon. This shows her heart's not yet consent- 
 ing; 'tis 
 Her mother's fierce command. 
 
 On. Something spake to me from that window. 
 
 Pis. There is nothing. 
 
 Ori. Nothing now. 
 
 Pis. Set forward. 
 
 Alon. I do not like this interruption ; it 
 Is ominous. 
 
 Enter Amidea hastily. 
 
 Ami. Not for my sake, but for your own, go 
 back, 
 Or take some other way, this leads to death ; 
 My brother — 
 
 Pis. What of him .9 
 
 Ami. Transported with 
 The fury of revenge for my dishonour, 
 As he conceives, for 'tis against my will, 
 Hath vow'd to kill you in your nuptial glory. 
 Alas ! I fear his haste ; now, good my lord, 
 Have mercy on yourself ; I do not beg 
 Your pity upon me, I know too well 
 You cannot love me now, nor would I rob 
 This virgin of your faith, since you have pleas'd 
 To throw me from your love : I do not ask 
 One smile, nor one poor kiss ; enrich this maid. 
 Created for those blessings ; iDut again 
 I would beseech you, chei-ish your own life, 
 Though I be lost for ever. 
 
 Alon. It is worth 
 Your care, my lord, if there be any danger. 
 
 Pis. Alas ! her grief hath made her wild, poor 
 lady. 
 I should not love Oriana to go back ; 
 Set forward. — Amidea, you may live 
 To be a happier bride : Sciarrha is not 
 So irreligious to profane these rites. 
 
 Ami. Will you not then believe me? — Pray 
 persuade him, 
 You are his friends.— Lady, it will concern 
 You most of all, indeed ; I fear you'll weep 
 To see him dead, as well as I. 
 
 Pis. No more ; 
 Go forward. 
 
 Ami. I have done ; pray be not angry, 
 That still I wish you well : may Heaven divert 
 All harms that threaten you; full blessings crown 
 Your marriage ! I hope there is no sin in this ; 
 Indeed I cannot choose but pray for you. 
 This might have been my wedding-day — 
 
 Ori. Good Heaven, 
 I would it were ! my heart can tell, I take 
 No joy in being his bride, none in your prayers; 
 You shall have my consent to have him still : 
 I will resign my place, and wait on you, 
 If you will marry him. 
 
 Ami. Pray, do not mock me ; 
 But if you do, I can forgive you too. 
 
 Ori. Dear Amidea, do not think I mock 
 Your sorrow ; by these tears, that are not worn 
 By every virgin on her wedding-day, 
 I am compell'd to give away myself : 
 Your hearts were promis'd, but he ne'er had 
 
 mine. 
 Am not I wretched too ? 
 
 Ami. Alas, poor maid ! 
 We two keep sorrow alive then ; but I pr'ythee, 
 When thou art married, love him, pr'ythee love 
 
 him, 
 For he esteems thee well ; and once a day 
 Give him a kiss for me ; but do not tell him, 
 'Twas my desire : perhaps 'twill fetch a sigh 
 From him, and I had rather break my heart. 
 But one word more, and Heaven be with you 
 
 all. — 
 Since you have led the way, I hope, my lord, 
 That I am free to marry too ? 
 
 Pis. Thou art. 
 
 Ami. Let me beseech you then, to be so kind, 
 After your own solemnities are done, 
 To grace my wedding; I shall be married shortly. 
 
 Pis. To whom ? 
 
 Ami. To one whom you have all heard talk of, 
 Your fathers knew him well: one, who will 
 
 never 
 Give cause I should suspect him to forsake me ; 
 A constant lover, one whose lips, though cold, 
 Distil chaste kisses : though our bridal bed 
 Be not adorn'd with roses, 'twill be green ; 
 We shall have virgin laurel, cypress, yew. 
 To make us garlands ; though no pine do bum, 
 Our nuptial shall have torches, and our chamber 
 Shall be cut out of marble, where we'll sleep, 
 Free from all care for ever : Death, my lord, 
 I hope, shall be my husband. Now, farewell ; 
 Although no kiss, accept my parting tear, 
 And give me leave to wear my willow here. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Enter Sciarrha, followed at a distance hy 
 Lorenzo, with a Guard. 
 
 Alon. Sciarrha! then I prophesy — 
 
 Sci. Pisano ! where's Pisano ? 
 
 Pis. Here, Sciarrha. 
 I should have answered with less clamour. 
 
 Sci. But 
 I would not lose my voice ; I must be heard, 
 And [it] does concern you. I profess no augury, 
 I have not quarter'd out the heavens, to take 
 The flight of birds, nor by inspection 
 Of entrails made a divination ; 
 But I must tell you, 'tis not safe to marry. 
 
 Pis. Why? 
 
 Sd. 'Tm^II be fatal ; Hymen is gone abroad. 
 And Venus, lady of your nativity. 
 Is found, by wise astrologers, this day, 
 I' the House of Death. 
 
 Pis. This must not fright me, sir. — Set forward. 
 
 Sci. One cold word, — you are a villain 1 
 I do not flatter. 
 
 Pis. I am patient : 
 This day I consecrate to love, not anger ; 
 We'll meet some other time. 
 
 Sci. Deride my fury ? 
 Then to thy heart I send my own revenge, 
 
 [Stabs him. 
 And Amidea's. 
 
 Pis. I am murdered. 
 
 J\Ioj'. Help ! murder ! gentlemen ! oh, my un- 
 happiness ! 
 
 [Lorenzo and Guard come foi'ward. 
 
 Pis. Bloody Sciarrha ! 
 
 [Dies. They offer to seize Sciar. 
 
 Lor. Hold! 
 
 Sci. Come all at once ; 
 Yet let me tell you, my revenge is perfect, 
 And I would spare your blood, if you despise 
 
 My charity — 
 
 Lor. No man attempt his death ; 
 I'll give you reasons : this fell deed deserves 
 An exemplary justico 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY 
 
 Sci. I am above 
 Tour politic reach, and glory in the wound 
 That punish'd our dishonour. Is he dead ? 
 I woiUd not be so miserable, not to have sped 
 
 him, 
 For the empire. 
 
 Enter Cosmo, 
 
 Cos. Oh, my friend ! poor Oriana ! 
 
 Lor. \jo the Guard.^ — Disarm him : 
 Eeturn and comfort one another ; some 
 Eemove Pisano's body, while I make it 
 My care Sciarrha 'scape not. 
 
 {_£xetmt^ bearing the body o/Tisano, all but 
 Lorenzo, Sciarrha, a?id Guard. 
 
 Sci. Is one of all 
 Give me a scratch ? 
 
 Lor. [to Guard.'] — You have forced him with 
 discretion. 
 
 Sci. Now what must I expect 7 
 
 Lor, You are my prisoner. 
 
 Sci. I am so. 
 
 Lor. And be confident to find 
 That favour — 
 
 Sci. Favour! 
 
 Lor. Be at distance, more.— [T'Ae Guard retire. 
 My lord, I am sorry for your great misfortune, 
 And if you can but study how I may 
 Assist you, you shall soon discern my love, 
 My readiness to serve you. 
 
 Sci. Ha ! this honest ? 
 
 Lor. I would deserve yotir faith, 
 A friend but in affliction'justifies 
 His heart and honour, I durst run some hazard, 
 Might I secure your fate; name something to me 
 That may declare my friendship. 
 
 Sci. Be still safe. 
 And teach the world repentance for mistaking 
 
 thee; 
 I pity not myself, but envy thy 
 Heroic honours. 
 
 Lor. I will impose no more 
 Eestraint, than your own house ; you're honour- 
 able : 
 You have many severe enemies ; the duke 
 Look'd graciously upon Pisano, but — 
 
 Sci. You shall not lose the smallest beam of 
 favour, 
 To buy a man so desperate. I never 
 Thought death the monster that weak men have 
 
 fancied. 
 As foil to make us more in love with life. 
 The devil's picture may affright poor souls 
 Into their bodies' paleness, but the substance 
 To resolute man's a shadow ; * and cold sweat 
 Dare not approach his forehead. I am arm'd 
 To die, and give example of that fortitude 
 Shall shame the law's severity : my sister 
 2»Iay now give back Pisano Ins false vows, 
 To line his cofiin ; one tear shed on me is 
 Enough, the justice I have done shall make 
 My memory belov'd. 
 
 Lor. I have thought a way 
 To recover you, if you incline to it ; 
 Dare you consent? 
 
 Sci. To anything that's noble ; 
 Although I never fear'd to suffer, I 
 Am not so foolish to despise a life. 
 
 Lor. There is no difficulty attends it; listen. 
 The time will not permit much circumstance : 
 The duke, you know, did love your sister. 
 
 Sci. Viciously. 
 
 ' To resolute man's a shadow. The old copy reads— 
 ' but the substance 
 Too resolute: man's a shadow.'- Gifford. 
 
 Lor. Her virtue did but cool him for the 
 present, 
 As sprinklings on a flame ; he's now more pas- 
 sionate 
 To enjoy her, 
 
 Sci. Ha! 
 
 Lo7'. If she consent to meet 
 His soft embrace, with his first kiss he seals 
 Your pardon ; then the act upon Pisano 
 Appears a true revenge, when none dares ques- 
 tion it. 
 Beside addition of state and fortune, 
 To you and Amidea, weigh your danger, 
 And what a trifle she gives up to save 
 Your life, that never can be valued. 
 Less recompens'd ; the duke may be so taken 
 With her return to his delight, who knows 
 But he may marry her, and discharge his duchess 
 With a quaint salad'— you do apprehend me.' 
 
 Set. And repent more I had one good thought 
 of thee, 
 Than I had kill'd a thousand : — save my life, 
 And prostitute my sister ! Though I have 
 No weapon, I will look thee dead, or breathe 
 A damp shall stifle thee : that I could vomit 
 Consuming flames, or stones, like JEtna ! make 
 The earth with motion of my feet shrink lower, 
 And take thee in alive ! Oh that my voice 
 Could call a serpent from corrupted Nile, 
 To make thee part of her accursed bowels! 
 Is this [your] noble friendship ? Eeadiness 
 To save my life ? Let malice read all stories 
 Famous for cruelty, awake dead tyrants. 
 Or be instructed by their ghosts with tortures, 
 Such as will make a damned Fury weep 
 Only to see inflicted, I would bear them. 
 And weary my tormentors, ere consent 
 In thought to thy temptation. 
 
 Lor. 1 have done. 
 And praise your heathen resolution 
 Of death ; go practise immortality. 
 And tell us, when you can get leave to visit 
 This world again, what fine things you enjoy 
 In hell, for thither these rash passions drive thee : 
 And ere thy body hath three days inhabited 
 A melancholy chamber in the earth. 
 Hung round about with skulls and dead men's 
 
 bones. 
 Ere Amidea have told all her tears 
 Upon thy marble, or the epitaph 
 Belie thy soul, by saying it is fled 
 To heaven, this sister shall be ravished, 
 Maugre thy dust and heraldry. 
 
 Sci. Ha ! ravish'd 
 When I am dead ? Was't not so ? Oh my 
 
 soul ! 
 I feel it weep within me, and the tears 
 Soften my flesh. Lorenzo, I repent 
 My fury. 
 
 Lo7\ I advis'd you the best way 
 My wisdom could direct. 
 
 Sci. I thank you for't, 
 You have awak'd my reason, I am asham'd 
 I was no sooner sensible ; does the duke 
 Affect my sister still, say you ? 
 
 T^or. Most passionately. 
 
 Sci. She shall obey him then, upon my life ; 
 That's it, my life. I know she loves me dearly. 
 I shall have much ado to win her to't. 
 But she shall come ; I'll send her. 
 
 Lor. Perform this. 
 
 Sci. I will not only send her, but pi*epar'd 
 Not to be disobedient to his highness ; 
 He shall command her anything. 
 
 * salad. Salads were dressed with poisonous ollg. 
 
524 
 
 777^ ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Lor. Do this, 
 And be for ever happy. "When these have 
 Only for form but waited on you home, 
 This disengages them. 
 
 Sci. My humblest service 
 To the duke I pray, and tell him, Amidea 
 This night shall be at his dispose, by this.i 
 
 Lw. I'm confident; farewell ! — Attend Sciarrha. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Sci. Pity the seaman, that to avoid a shelf, 
 Must strike upon a rock to save himself. 
 
 {Exit, with Gimrd. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Sciarrha's House. 
 
 Enter SciARRHA and Amidea. 
 
 Sci. The doors are fast ; 
 Enough is wept already for Pisano : 
 There's something else that must be thought on, 
 
 and 
 Of greater consequence : I am yet unsafe. 
 That, for thy sake, am guilty of his blood. 
 
 Ami. Though all my stock of tears were spent 
 already 
 Upon Pisano's loss, and that my brain 
 Were bankrupt of moisture, and denied 
 To lend my grief one di*op more for his funeral ; 
 Yet the remembrance that you have made 
 A forfeit of your dear life 
 Is able to create a weeping spring 
 Within my barren head : oh, my lost brother. 
 Thou hast a cruel destiny ! my eyes. 
 In pity of thy fate, desire to drown thee. 
 The law will only seek thee upon land ; 
 Hid in my tears, thou shalt prevent the stroke 
 Kills both our name and thee. 
 
 Sci. I know thou lov'st me, 
 Poor girl. I shall desire to chei-ish life, 
 If thou lament me thus : so rich a comfort 
 Will tempt me wish I might delay my joui-ney 
 To heaven. 
 
 Ami. Good heaven, that we might go together ! 
 
 Sci. That must not be. 
 
 Ami. Then let me go before. 
 
 Sci. How? 
 
 Ami. Make my suit unto the prince, my blood 
 Jfay be your ransom ; let me die, Sciarrha, 
 My life is fruitless unto all the world ; 
 The duke in justice will not deny this : 
 And though 1 weep in telling thee, I shall 
 Smile on the scaffold. 
 
 Sci. How my honour blushes 
 To hear thee, Amidea ! in this love 
 Thou woundat me more, than thou desir'st to 
 
 save. 
 Suffer for me ? Why, thou art innocent : 
 I have provok'd the punishment, and dare 
 Obey it manly ; if thou couldst redeem me 
 With anything but death, I think I should 
 Consent to live, but I'd not have thee venture 
 All at one chance. 
 
 Ami. Nothing can he too precious 
 To save a brother, such a loving brother 
 As you have been. 
 
 Sci. Death's a devouring gamester, 
 And sweeps up all. What thinkst thou of an 
 
 eye? 
 Couldst thou spare one, and think the blemish 
 recompens'd. 
 
 ^ this — that is, as I conceive, by some token, probably 
 ring, or signet, wliich he puts into Lorenzo's hand. 
 
 To see me safe with t'other ? Or a hand ? 
 
 This white hand, [Amidea,] that hath so often, 
 
 With admiration, trembled on the lute. 
 
 Till we have pray'd thee leave the strings awhile, 
 
 And laid our ears close to thy ivory fingei's, 
 
 Suspecting all the harmony proceeded 
 
 From their own motion, without the need 
 
 Of any dull or passive instrument. 
 
 No, Amidea, thou siialt not bear one scar 
 
 To buy my life ; the sickle shall not touch 
 
 A flower that grows so fair upon his stalk 
 
 Thy t'other hand will miss a white companion, 
 
 Aud wither on thy arm. Wliat then can I 
 
 Expect from thee to save me ? I would live, 
 
 And owe my life to thee, so 'twere not bought 
 
 Too dear. 
 
 Ami. Do you believe I should not find 
 The way to heaven ? were both mine eyes thy 
 
 ransom, 
 I shall climb up those high and rugged cliffs 
 Without a hand. 
 
 Sci. One way there is, if thou 
 Dost love [me] with that tenderness. 
 
 Ami. Px-onounce it. 
 And let no danger that attends, incline you 
 To make a pause. 
 
 Sci. The duke, thou knowst, did love thee. 
 
 Ami. Ha ! 
 
 Sci. Nay, do not start already, nor mistake me ; 
 I do not, as before, make trial of thee. 
 Whether thou canst, laying aside thy honour. 
 Meet his lascivious arms ; but, by this virtue, 
 I must beseech thee to forego it all, 
 And turn a sinful woman. 
 
 Avii. Bless me ! 
 
 Sci. I know the kingdoms of the world contain 
 not 
 Riches enough to tempt thee to a fall 
 That will so much undo thee ; but I am 
 Thy brother, dying brother : if thou lov'st 
 Him, therefore, that for thee hath done so much, 
 Dy'd his pale hands in blood to revenge thee. 
 And in that murder wounded his own soul 
 Almost to death, consent to lose thy innocence ; 
 I know it makes thee grieve, but I shall live 
 To love thee better for it : we'll repent 
 Together for our sins, and pray and weep 
 Till Heaven hath pardon'd all. 
 
 Ami. Oh, never, never. 
 
 Sci. Do but repeat thy words, to save my lift., 
 And that will teach compassion, my life ; 
 Our shame, the stain of all our family. 
 Which will succeed in my ignoble death, 
 Thou washest off. 
 
 Ami. But stain myself for ever. 
 
 Sci. Where? In thy face, who shall behold 
 one blemish. 
 Or one spot more in thy whole frame ? Thy 
 
 beauty 
 Will be the very same, thy speech, thy person 
 Wear no deformity. 
 
 Ami. Oh, do not speak 
 So like a rebel to all modesty, 
 To all religion ; if these arguments 
 Spring from your jealousy that I am fallen, 
 After a proof you did so late applaud — 
 
 Sci. I had not kill'd Pisano then ; I am now 
 IMore spotted than the marble. Then my head 
 Did owe no forfeiture to law. 
 It does ache now ; then I but tried thy virtue. 
 Now my condition calls for mercy to thee. 
 Though to thyself thou appear cruel for't : 
 Come, Ave may live both, if you please. 
 
 Ami. I must never 
 Buy my poor breath at such a rate. Who has 
 Made you afraid to die ? I pity you, 
 And wish myself in any noble cause 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 52: 
 
 Your leader. When our souls sliall leave this 
 
 dwelling, 
 The gloiy of one fair and virtuous action 
 Is above all the scutcheous on our tomb, 
 Or silken banners over us. 
 
 Sci. So valiant ! 
 I will not interpose another syllable 
 To entreat your pity ; say your prayers, and 
 
 then 
 Thou'rt ripe to be translated from the earth, 
 To make a cherubiu. 
 
 Ami. What means my brother? 
 
 8ci. To kill you. 
 
 Ami. Do not fright me, good Sciarrha. 
 
 Sci. And I allow three minutes for devotion. 
 
 Ami. Will you murder me ? 
 
 Sci. Do you tremble? 
 
 Ami. Not at the terror of your sword, 
 But at the horror will aflfright thy soul 
 For this black deed. I see Pisano's blood 
 Is texted ^ in thy forehead, and thy hands 
 Ketain too many crimson spots already ; 
 Make not thyself, by murthering of thy sister. 
 All a red letter. 
 
 Sci. You shall be the martyr.2 
 
 Ami. Yet stay; is there no remedy but death, 
 And from your hand ? Then keep your word, 
 
 and let me 
 Use one short prayer. \Kneeh. 
 
 Sci. I shall relent. [Aside. 
 
 Ami. Forgive me, Heaven, and witness I have 
 still 
 My virgin thoughts ; 'tis not to save my life, 
 But his eternal one. — 
 Sciarrha, give me leave to veil my face, 
 
 [Rises. 
 I dare not look upon you, and pronounce 
 1 am too much a sister ; live ; hereafter, 
 I know, you will condemn my frailty for it. 
 1 will obey the duke. 
 
 Sci. Darest thou consent ? [Stabs her. 
 
 Ami. [unveiling.'] — Oh, let me see the wound ; 
 'Tis well, if any other hand had done it : 
 Some angel tell my brother now, I did 
 But seem consenting. 
 
 Sci. Ha ! hut seem ? 
 
 Ami. You may believe my last breath. 
 
 Sci. Why didst say so ? 
 
 Ami. To gain some time, in hope you might 
 call in 
 Your bloody purpose, and prevent the guilt 
 Of being my murdei'er ; but Heaven forgive thee. 
 
 Sci. Again, again, forgive me, Amidea, 
 And pray for me ; live but a little longer. 
 To hear me speak ; my passion hath beti-ay'd 
 Thee to this wound, for which I know not 
 
 whether 
 I should rejoice or weep, since thou art virtuous. 
 The duke, whose soul is black again, expects 
 
 thee 
 To be his whore : — Good Death, be not so 
 
 hasty. — 
 The agent for his lust, Lorenzo, has 
 My oath to send thee to his bed : for otherwise. 
 In ray denial, hell and they decree. 
 When I am dead, to ravish thee — mark that, 
 To ravish thee !— and I confess, in tears 
 As full of sorrow, as thy soul of innocence, 
 In my religious care to have thee spotless. 
 
 1 texted— viriiten. 
 
 * Make not thyself, by murthering of thy sister, 
 All a red letter. 
 
 Sci. You shall be the martyr. 
 
 The allusions here are to the custom, still observed, of 
 printing the names of the martyrs in the Koman Calendar 
 lu red letters. — Gifford. 
 
 I did resolve, when I had found thee ripe. 
 And nearest heaven, with all thy best desires, 
 To send thee to thy peace : thy f eign'd consent 
 Hath brought thy happiness more early to thee, 
 And saved some guilt; forgive me altogether. 
 Ami. With the same heart I beg Heaven for 
 myself ; 
 Farewell. [Swoons. 
 
 Sci. Thou shalt not die yet. Amidea ! sister! — 
 [Knocking within. 
 I cannot come: — 
 But one word more. Oh, which way went thy 
 
 soul? 
 Or is it gone so far it cannot hear me ? — 
 
 Flobio breaks open the door a7id enters. 
 
 Look, here's our sister ! so, so ; chafe her : 
 She may return ; there is some motion. 
 
 Flo. Sister! 
 
 Sci. Speak aloud, Florio ; if her spirit be not 
 Departed, I will seal this passage up ; 
 I feel her breath again. — Here's Florio would 
 Fain take his leave. — So, so, she comes ! 
 
 Flo. Amidea, 
 How came this wound ? 
 
 Ami. 1 drew the weapon to it : 
 Heaven knows, my brother lov'd me. Now, I 
 
 hope, 
 The duke will not pursue me with new flames. 
 Sciarrha, tell the rest. Love one another 
 The time you live together; I'll pray for you 
 In heaven. Farewell ! kiss me when I am dead, 
 You else will stay my journey. [^Dies. 
 
 Sci. Didst not hear 
 An angel call her ? Florio, I have much 
 To tell thee. Take her up ; stay, I will talk 
 A little more with her ; she is not dead. 
 Let her alone ; — nay then, she's gone indeed. 
 But hereabouts her soul must hover still, 
 Let's speak to that. Fair spu-it — 
 
 Flo. You talk idly. 
 
 Sci. Do you talk wisely then. An excellent 
 pattern, 
 As she now stands, for her own alabaster ; ^ 
 Or may she not be kept from putrefaction. 
 And be the very figure on her tomb ? 
 Cannot thy tears and mine preserve her, Florio ? 
 If we want brine, a thousand virgins shall 
 Weep every day upon her, and themselves. 
 In winter, leaning round about her monument. 
 Being moist creatures, stiffen with the cold. 
 And freeze into so many white supporters. 
 But we lose time. — I charge thee, by thy love 
 To this pale relic, be instructed by me. 
 Not to thy danger ; some revenge must be, 
 And I am lost already ; if thou fall, 
 AVho shall survive, to give us funeral ? 
 
 [Exeu7ii. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IL 
 
 A Boom in Lorenzo's Ilotise. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo and Pexxiuchio. 
 
 L01'. Petruchio. 
 
 Pet. My lord. 
 
 Lor. Thou art now my servant. 
 
 Pet. I ever was in heart your humblest vassal. 
 
 Lo7'. Thou art faithful, 1 must cherish thy 
 desert ; 
 I shortly shall reward it, very shortly : 
 Next morning must salute me duke ; the sun 
 And I must rise tocrether. 
 
 1 own alabaster— i.e. as he explains himself, for her 
 own statue, sculptured, as was the custom, in white 
 marble, and placed recumbent on the tomb.— Gifford. 
 
526 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Pet. I shall pray 
 Your glory may outshine him in yonr Florence, 
 And when he sets, we may enjoy your sunbeam. 
 
 Lor. 'Tis handsome flattery, and becomes a 
 courtier. 
 
 Pet. I flatter not, my lord. 
 
 Lor. Then, thou art a fool : 
 No music to a great man chimes so sweetly, 
 And men must thrive ; come hither, 
 How many hast thou kill'd .' 
 
 Pet. But one, my lord. 
 
 Lor. But one ! 
 
 Pet. And I must owe 
 My life to your lordship, I had been hang'd 
 else. 
 
 Lor. But one "i Wait at the door. {Exit Pet,] 
 — He is 
 Not fit to kill a duke, whose hand is guilty 
 But of a single murder ; or at least 
 Not fit alone to act it. I have been 
 Practis'd already, and though no man see it, 
 Nor scarce the eye of Heaven, yet every day 
 I kill a prince. — Appear, thou tragic witness, 
 
 {Brings forth the duke's picture^ a poniard 
 sticking in it. 
 Which, though it bleed not, I may boast a 
 
 murder. 
 Here first the duke was painted to the life, 
 But with this pencil, to the death : I love 
 My brain for the invention, and thus 
 Confirm'd, dare trust my resolution. 
 I did suspect his youth and beauty might 
 Win some compassion when I came to kill him ; 
 Or the remembrance that he is my kinsman. 
 Might thrill my blood ; or something in his title 
 Might give my hand repulse, and startle nature : 
 But thus I have arm'd myself against all pity, 
 That when I come to strike, my poniard may 
 Through all his charms as confidently wound 
 
 him. 
 As thus I stab his picture, and stare on it. 
 
 {Stabs the picture. 
 Methinks the duke should feel me now : is not 
 His soul acquainted ? can he less than tremble, 
 When I lift up my arm to wound his counter- 
 feit 7 1 
 Witches can persecute the lives of whom 
 They hate, when they torment their senseless 
 
 figures, 
 And stick the waxen model full of pins. 
 Can any stroke of mine carry less spell 
 To wound his heart, sent with as great a malice ? 
 He smiles, he smiles upon me ! I will dig 
 Thy wanton eyes out, and supply the dark 
 And hollow cells with two pitch-burning tapers ; 
 Then place thee porter in some charnel-house, 
 To light the cofiins in. — 
 
 Re-enter Petruchio. 
 Pet. My lord. 
 
 Lor. The duke's not come already ? 
 Pet. Signior Florio 
 Desires to speak with you. 
 
 Lor. This must retire 
 Again into my closet. {Puts hack the picture.']— 
 Admit him. 
 
 Enter Florio. 
 
 Welcome! how does Sciarrha? 
 
 Flo. He commends 
 His service to your lordship, and hath sent — 
 
 Lo7\ His sister ? 
 
 Flo. Much ado he had to effect it : 
 He hopes his grace will quickly sign his pardon. 
 
 * coMnier/eW— portrait. 
 
 Jjjr. It shall be done, 
 
 Flo. I have a suit, my lord. 
 
 Lor. To me ? 
 
 Flo. My sister would entreat your honour, 
 She may be admitted privately, and that 
 I may have privilege to prepare her chamber : 
 She does retain some modesty, and would not 
 Trust every servant with her shame ; their eyes 
 Are apt to instruct their tongues. 
 
 Lo7'. I will not see her myself. 
 Command what you desire. 
 
 Flo. You are gracious. 
 
 Lor. I'll give directions instantly : poor lady, 
 This is the duke's hot blood ; but Heaven convert 
 
 him! 
 Follow me, good Florio, 
 
 Flo. I attend, my lord. 
 
 Lor. Things shall be carried honourably. 
 
 Flo. We are all bound to you. {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V,— SCENE III. 
 
 Another Room in the Same. 
 
 Recorders. The Body of Amidea discovered on a 
 bed, prepared by two Gentlewomen. 
 
 1 Gent. This is a sad employment. 
 
 2 Gent. The last we e'er shall do my lady. 
 
 Enter Florio. 
 
 Flo. So ; now you may return : it will become 
 Your modest duties not to enquire the reason 
 Of this strange service, nor to publish what 
 You have been commanded. 
 
 {Exeunt Gentlewomen. 
 
 — Let me look upon 
 My sister now ; still she retains her beauty. 
 Death has been kind to leave her all this 
 
 sweetness. 
 Thus in a morning have I oft saluted 
 My sister in her chamber, sate upon 
 Her bed, and talk'd of many harmless passages ; 
 But now, 'tis night, and a long night with her, 
 I ne'er shall see these curtains drawn again, 
 Until we meet in heaven. — The duke already ! 
 
 Enter Duke and Lorexzo. 
 
 Duke. May I believe ? 
 
 Lor. Trust me, my lord, hereafter. 
 
 Duke. Call me no more thy loi-d, but thy 
 companion ; 
 I will not wear that honour in my title, 
 Shall not be thine.— Who's that ? 
 
 Lor. Her brother Florio. 
 
 Duke. She is abed. 
 
 Flo. This shall declare thee to posterity 
 The best of sisters. — What of that 7 and is not 
 A brother's life more precious than a trifle ? 
 I pr'ythee do not sigh : how many ladies 
 Would be ambitious of thy place to-night. 
 And thank his highness ? yes, and vii-gins too. 
 
 Duke. He pleads for me. 
 
 Lor. He will deserve some ofl&ce 'bout your 
 person. 
 
 Duke. With what words 
 Shall I express my joy ? 
 
 Lor. I leave you, sir, to action ; Florio 
 Is soon dismiss'd. {Exit. 
 
 Flo. He's come : good night— 
 
 Duke. Florio! 
 
 Flo. {Coming forward.']— Yo^^x slave. 
 
 Duke. My friend ! 
 Thou shalt be near our bosom. 
 
 Flo. Pleasures crown 
 Your expectation ! {Exit . 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 527 
 
 Duke. All perfect; till this minute, I could 
 
 never 
 Boast I was happy : all this world has not 
 A blessing to exchange : this world ! 'tis heaven ; 
 And thus I take possession of my saint : 
 
 \Goes up to the bed. 
 Asleep already ? 'twere great pity to 
 Disturb her dream ; yet if her soul be not 
 Tired Avith the body's weight, it must convey 
 Into her slumbers I wait here, and thus 
 Seal my devotion. [Kisses.'] — What winter 
 
 dwells 
 Upon this lip ! 'twas no warm kiss ; I'll try 
 Again. [Kisses.l — The snow is not so cold ; I 
 
 have 
 Drunk ice, and feel a numbness spread through 
 
 [all] 
 My blood at once. — Ha ! let me examine 
 A little better: Amidea! she is dead, she is 
 
 dead! 
 "What horror doth invade me ? — Help, Lorenzo ! 
 Murder ! where is Lorenzo ? 
 
 Re-enter Lokenzo with Petruchio. 
 
 Lor. Here, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Some ^aitor's hid within the chamber ; 
 see. 
 My Amidea's dead ! 
 Lor. Dead ! 'tis impossible ; 
 
 [Goes up to the led. 
 Yet, she has a wound upon her breast. 
 Duke. I pr'ythee kill me : — 
 
 [Thei/ stab him. 
 Ha ! wilt thou murder me, Lorenzo ? — Villain ! — 
 
 [To Pet. 
 Oh, spare me to consider ; I would live 
 A little longer : treason ! 
 
 Lor. A little longer, say you ? 
 It was my duty to obey j^ou, sir. 
 Pet. Let's make him sure, my lord. 
 Loi\ What would you say? — No ears but 
 ours 
 Can reach his voice ; — ^but be not tedious. 
 Duke. Oh, spare me ; I may live, and pardon 
 thee : 
 Thy prince begs mercy from thee, that did never 
 Deny thee anything ; pity my poor soul ; 
 I have not pray'd. 
 
 Lor. I could have wish'd you better 
 Prepar'd, but let your soul e'en take his chance. 
 [Stabs hivi again. 
 Duke. No tears prevail ! oh, whither must [I] 
 wander ? 
 Thus Cffisar fell by Brutus. I shall tell 
 News to the world I go to, will not be 
 Believ'd, Lorenzo killed me. 
 
 Lor. Will it not? 
 I'll presently put in security. 
 
 5 Stabs him again. 
 '. am coming. — 
 For thee, inhuman murderer, expect 
 My blood shall fly to heaven, and there inflam'd, 
 Hang a prodigious meteor all thy life. 
 And when by some as bloody hand as thine 
 Thy soul is ebbing forth, it shall descend 
 In flaming drops upon thee ; ob, I faint ! — 
 Thou flattering world, farewell! let princes 
 
 gather 
 My dust into a glass, and leam to spend 
 Their hour of state, that's all they have; for 
 
 when 
 That's out. Time never turns the glass again. 
 
 [Dies. 
 Lor. So! 
 Lay him beside his mistress ; hide their faces. 
 The duke dismiss'd the train came with him ? 
 Pet. He did, my lord. 
 
 Lor. Eun to Sciarrha, pray him come and 
 speak with me ; 
 Secui-e his passage to this chamber : haste ! — 
 
 [Exit Pet, 
 He's dead; I'll trust him now, and his ghost 
 
 too; 
 Fools start at shadows, I'm in love with night 
 And her complexion. 
 
 Re-enter Petruchio. 
 
 Pet. My lord, he's come without your sum- 
 mons. 
 Lor. Already ? leave us. [Exit Pet. 
 
 Enter Sciarrha and Florio. 
 
 Welcome, let embraces 
 
 Chain us together. — Noble Florio, welcome : — 
 
 But I must honour thy great soul. 
 
 Sci. Where's the duke ? 
 
 Lor. They are abed together. 
 
 Sci. Ha! 
 
 Lor. He's not stirring yet : 
 Thou kill'dst thy sister, didst not ? 
 
 Sci. I preserv'd her. 
 
 Lor. So ! it was bravely done. 
 
 Sci. But Where's the wanton duke ? 
 
 Lor. Asleep, I tell you. 
 
 Sd. And he shall sleep eternally. 
 
 Lor. You cannot wake him ; look you. 
 
 [Leads Sciar. up to the bed. 
 
 Sci. Is he dead ? 
 
 Lo7'. And in his death we two begin our lifo 
 Of greatness, and of empire ; nay, he's dead. 
 
 Sci. That labour's saved. 
 
 Lor. Now I pronounce, Sciarrha, 
 Thy pardon, and to recompense thy loss. 
 The share of Florence ; I'll but wear the title, 
 The power we'll divide. 
 
 Sci. I like this well : 
 You told a tale once of a commonwealth, 
 And liberty. 
 
 Lo7\ It was to gain a faction 
 With discontented persons, a fine trick 
 To make a buz of reformation. 
 My ends are compass'd ; hang the ribble rabble ! 
 
 Sci. Shall we sweat for the people? lose our 
 To get their fame ? [breath 
 
 Lo7'. I'll have it given out 
 The duke did kill thy sister — 
 
 Sci. Excellent! 
 
 Lor. Having first ravish'd her: he cannot 
 be 
 Too hateful ; it will dull the examination 
 Of his own death; or, if that come to ques- 
 tion — 
 
 Sci. What if I say, I kill'd him in revenge 
 Of Amidea ? they will pity me ; 
 Beside, it will be in your power to pardon 
 Me altogether. 
 
 Lo7'. Most discreetly thought on. 
 
 Sci. The devil will not leave us o' the sudden. 
 
 Lor. Rare wit! — 
 How hastily he climbs the precipice, 
 From which one fillip topples him to ruin. 
 
 [Aside 
 We two shall live like brothers. 
 
 Sci. Stay; we two? — 
 Now I consider better, I have no mind 
 To live at all — and you shall not — 
 I'll give you proof ; if you but make a noise. 
 You gallop to the devil. 
 
 Lo7\ I'm betray'd. 
 
 Sci. To death inevitable. — ^Brother, be you 
 Spectator only. 
 
 Lor. This is somewhat noble. 
 
 Sci. Thank me not, Lorenzo; I will not en- 
 gage 
 
528 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 His innocence to blood, — Thy hands are white, 
 Preserve them, Florio, and unless my arm 
 Grow feeble, do not interpose thy sword, 
 I charge thee. 
 Lor. None to assist me ? help, Petruchio ! 
 help! 
 
 \TheyfighL 
 
 Enter Petruchio, and offers to run at Sciarrha, 
 but is intercepted hy Florio, He runs out, 
 crying Help! Florio makes fast the door. 
 
 Stretch thy jaws wider, villain! cry out 
 
 Murder! 
 Treason! anything; hold — oh! 
 Sci. Will you not fall, Colossus ? 
 
 [Lob., falls, and dies. 
 Flo. Are not you hurt ? 
 
 Sci. I know not. Ha ? yes, he has prick'd me 
 somewhere, 
 But I'll make sure of him {stabs Mm again.'] — 
 
 Now must I follow : 
 I'll fight with him in the t'other world — thy 
 
 hand, 
 Florio; fai-ewell. [Die.s. 
 
 Flo. He's dead too ? 'tis in vain for me to fly. 
 \_Within.'] Break ope the doors! 
 Flo. You shall not need. \^Opens the door. 
 
 He-enter Pktruchio, with Cosmo, Alonzo, 
 Frederico, and Guard. 
 
 Alon. Disarm him. 
 Cos. Lorenzo and Sciarrha slain ? 
 Alon. Where is the duke? 
 Pet. Look here, my lords. 
 
 Alon. What traitor.' 
 
 Fred. See, Amidea murder d too. 
 
 Cos. I tremble ; here is a heap of tragedies. 
 
 Alon. We must have an account from Florio. 
 
 Flo. He can inform you best, that brought you 
 hither. 
 
 Alon. Lay hands upon Petruchio ! disarm 
 him ! 
 
 Cos. What blood is that upon his sword.' 'tis 
 fresh. 
 
 Pet. I'm caught. 
 
 Cos. To tortures with him. 
 
 Pet. Spare your fury ; know 
 'Twas the best blood in Florence : I must quit 
 Young Florio ; Lorenzo, and myself, 
 Are only guilty of the prince's death, 
 i Alon. Inhuman traitors ! 
 I Cos. But who kill'd Amidea ? 
 ! Flo. The duke's lust : 
 There was no other way to save her honour ; 
 My brother has reveng'd it here, but fate 
 Denied him triumph. 
 
 Aloji. I never heard 
 Such killing stories ; but 'tis meet we first 
 Settle the state. — Cosmo, you are the next 
 Of blood to challenge Florence. 
 
 Cos. Pray defer 
 That till the morning. Drag that murderer 
 To prison. — Florio you must not expect 
 Your liberty, till all things be examin'd. — 
 Lorenzo, now I am above thy malice, 
 And will make satisfaction to Oriana. — 
 'Tis a sad night, my lords ; by these you see 
 There is no stay in proud mortality. 
 
 [EzeuiU^ 
 
 THE BROTHERS: 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE PKIYATE HOUSE IN BLACKFRIAKS. 
 
 BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 London. 1C26. 
 
 TO HIS TRULY NOBLE FRIEND 
 
 THOMAS STANLEY, ESQUIRE. 
 
 Sir, — The memory and contemplation of good 
 offices received, which by their own nature and 
 impulsion have inclined other men to be active 
 in their returns, have not wrought me into so 
 much boldness ; for when I considered my obliga- 
 tion to your favours, I was still deterred by their 
 greatness and number; for in my poverty, I had 
 thoughts, not without ambition, to reach them with 
 some merit; but when I was studying topropor- 
 tion my gratitude, I fell much lower than when 
 I was the object of your mercy. The way to re- 
 lievo myself, is no more to look at what you 
 have conferred, but on the bestower, for I have 
 now learned to separate you from your benefits, 
 and to convey myself into your pardon, by the 
 exercise of your charity. Thus, in place of can- 
 
 celling my former debts, I put your virtue to a 
 new disbm-sement. Witness this composition, 
 which, after its birth, had in my thoughts a 
 dedication to your name, although it but now 
 took the boldness to wear it in the forehead, 
 both as an ornament and preserver. You were 
 pleased to grace it with your fair opinion, when 
 it was represented ; and though it appear not in 
 that natural dress of the scene, nor so powerful 
 as when it had the soul of action, yet your smile 
 upon it now will give it second animation, by 
 which I shall derive, after so long a silence, a 
 confirmation of my happiness, in being still re- 
 ceived, 
 
 Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 jAiUiS SllIULEY. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 529 
 
 gramafis ^^rsonaj. 
 
 Don Carlos. 
 LuYS, Ms Son. 
 Don Kamykes. 
 
 Don Pedro, a Nobleman. 
 
 Alberto, a Gentleman, lover of J aci'sta. 
 
 Theodoro, Brother to Don Carlos. 
 
 Physician. 
 
 Notary. 
 
 Confessor, 
 
 Servants. 
 
 Alsimira, Wife to Don Carlos. 
 Jacinta, Daughter to Don Carlos. 
 Felisarda, Theodoro's Daughter. 
 EsTEFANiA, a noble Widow. 
 
 S cene — MadHcU 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Troth, gentlemen, I know not what to say, 
 Now I am here ; but you shall have a play : — 
 I hope there are none met but friends ; if you 
 Be pleas'd to hear me first, I'll tell you true, 
 I do not like the Prologue, 'tis not smart. 
 
 Not airy ; then the play's not worth a 
 
 What witty Prologues have we heard ! how keen 
 Upon the time, how tickling o' the spleen ! 
 But that wit's gone, and we, in these sad days. 
 In coarse dull phlegm, must preface to our plays. 
 I'll show you what our author meant should be 
 His Prologue, — ' Gentlemen,' — he shall pardon 
 
 me, 
 I dare not speak a line, not that you need 
 To fear a satire iu't, or wit, indeed. 
 
 He would have you believe no language good 
 And artful, but what's clearly understood ; 
 And then he robs you of much mirth, that lies 
 r the wonder why you laugh at comedies. 
 He says the times are dangerous ; who knows, 
 What treason may be wrapt in giant prose. 
 Or swelling verse at least to sense ? Nay, then. 
 Have at you, Master Poet ! — Gentlemen, 
 Though he pretend fair, I dissemble not, 
 You're all betray'd here to a Spanish plot ; 
 But do not you seem fearful, as you were 
 Shooting the bridge : let no man shift or stir, 
 I'll fetch you off, and two hours hence you may 
 (If not before) laugh at the plot and play. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Don Carlos' House. 
 
 Entei' Francisco, Jacinta, and Felisarda. 
 
 Fran. I take my leave, Jacinta, and cannot 
 wish you 
 More happiness than you possess. 
 
 Jac. You must 
 Dissemble, or it is within your wishes 
 To make yourself, Francisco, mine, which would 
 A fair addition to me, in my faith [be 
 
 Of that most noble love you have profess'd. 
 
 Fran. When you but dare to own me, I am 
 past 
 The fear of any destiny that can 
 Divide us — but your father. — 
 
 Enter Don Carlos and a Servant. 
 
 Your own virtue 
 Be still your guard. I do not like this watch 
 Upon our meeting. — Pretty Felisarda. \_Exeunt. 
 Car. Tell Signior Francisco I would speak 
 with him. [Exit Servant. 
 
 I do not like his frequent visits ; though 
 His birth and generous parts deserve to march 
 With men of honourable name, I am 
 Without ambition to sacrifice 
 My daughter to his pension for life. 
 
 Re-enter Francisco. 
 
 Fran. Your pleasure, sir 7 
 
 Car. Hath hitherto, Francisco, 
 Been to affect^ you in the list of those 
 I held my friends. 
 
 1 ajfec^— suppose. 
 
 Fran. I hope no forfeit made 
 By me, hath lost that good opinion 
 You placed upon me. 
 
 Car. I cannot tell 
 How you may be transported with desires 
 Above my thoughts t' allow ; I would not havo 
 My silence, and the free access you've had to 
 My house (which still is open to wise guests). 
 Betray me, or my daughter, to the mirth 
 And talk of men i' the pla9a.i My estate 
 Doth walk upon sound feet, and though I make 
 No exception to your blood or person, sir. 
 The portion I have fixed upon Jacinta, 
 Beside the wealth her liberal aunt bequeath'd her, 
 Is more than your thin younger brother's fortune 
 Should lay a siege, or hope to. I am plain. 
 
 Fran. And something passionate (if I under- 
 stand you) 
 Without a cause. I am a gentleman, 
 With as much sense of honour as the proudest 
 Don that doth ride on's foot-cloth, and can drop 
 Gold to the numerous minutes of his age ; 
 And let me not be lost for want of that 
 Deserves not to be nam'd to fill the balance 
 Against true honour : — let me tell you, sir. 
 Virtue and blood are weigh'd against them- 
 selves ; 
 You cannot know the price of these, when either 
 Scale is not pois'd with things of the same 
 nature. 
 
 Car. You're very right, and, therefore, I do 
 weigh 
 My daughter's wealth against your fortune, sir ; 
 I take it they are things in the same species : 
 
 * plaga—i.e. the square, the public walk. 
 
 2l 
 
530 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 And find it easy to distinguish ; yours 
 Can liold small competition, and by 
 A consequence that fathers use t' infer, 
 As little hope to equal in affections. 
 Sir, I must tell you, I esteem Jacinta 
 Fit every way to meet j^our elder brother, 
 Whose birth will interest him so much in that 
 Full fortune which your father now is lord of ; 
 Your expectations may prompt you look, 
 Without much curiosity, for a bride. 
 
 Fran. I shall believe thy soul is made of 
 atoms ; 
 That places so much happiness in dust. — 
 
 [_Aside. 
 Sir, I can quit' your jealousy; my thoughts 
 Level beneath your daughter, and shall be 
 Happy if you consent I may devote 
 My applications to Felisarda, 
 Your niece. 
 
 Car. Is it my niece ? I ask your pardon. 
 Kay, then, be welcome ; and t' encourage you, 
 Although her father, a poor gentleman, 
 My brother, by the malice of the sea 
 And winds, have lost what might have rank'd 
 
 him even 
 With some that ride upon their reverend mules, 
 I'll find a portion for her, if you strike 
 Affectionate hearts, and joy to call you nephew. 
 Pray be not angry, that I take a care 
 To place my own where I may see it answer'd 
 With state, as well as family. 
 
 Fran. You show 
 A provident father. I shall not then be 
 Endanger'd to your scruple, if I address 
 ily services to her, whose humble fortune. 
 In the relation to your blood and nobleness. 
 Is wealth enough to me ? 
 
 Car. I wish it prosper. 
 
 Fran. You have much honour'd me. \Exit. 
 
 Car. That scruple's vanish'd. 
 These are considerings, with which parents 
 
 must 
 Timely prevent the folly and the fall 
 Of children, apt to lose themselves in shadows, 
 And gaudy apparitions. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 /b'ejt;. Your son 
 Is come from Salamanca, sir. 
 
 Car. I hope 
 Philosophy hath by this time tam'd his wildness ; 
 I have been carefid not to feed his riots. 
 He's welcome ; my next study is to choose 
 A wife for him. 
 
 Serv. With him a gentleman, 
 That seems of noble quality. 
 
 Enter LuYS and Alberto. 
 
 Luys. Your blessing. 
 Next which, 'twill be a happiness, if you 
 Embrace this noble gentleman, Don Alberto, 
 To whose affection I have been engaged. 
 
 Alb. Our studies grew together, and our loves. 
 
 Car. You do an honour to us. 
 
 Luys. If he thrive 
 Upon his fair intents, sir, to my sister. 
 Whose character he has took delight to hear 
 From me sometimes, it will enlarge our honour. 
 
 Car. He has improved in language — [aside.\ — 
 His estate ? 
 
 lAiys. Six thousand ducats, sir, per annum. 
 In his possession, beside [clear 
 
 The legacy of a grannam when she dies, 
 That has outliv'd six cats within their family. 
 
 quit- 
 
 Car. This tastes again of the old humour ; he's 
 Not settled yet ! [Aside. 
 
 Luys. Your pardon, sir ; I cannot 
 With any patience think of an old woman, 
 They are agues to my nature ; she that lives 
 To threescore is a witch, and fit for fuel, 
 By the civil law. — I hope my mother's well ? — 
 Sir, I beseech you, be not you mistaken ; 
 I am not what I was, I'm strangely alter'd 
 From the wild garb, and can discourse most 
 
 gravely 
 Of anything but old and toothless women. 
 Do not you think it fit she should be burn'd, sir. 
 That lives within an hospital till the roof 
 Consume to dust, and no more left for covering 
 Than is kept up in one continued cobweb, 
 Through which the birds may see her when she 
 
 creeps 
 Under a spider's canopy ? what think you ? 
 Speak your own conscience. 
 
 Car. A young wife will cure 
 This angry heat of blood. — You are most 
 welcome. [To Alberto. 
 
 Command my house, and if you can affect 
 My daughter, for whose love (as my son here 
 Prepares me) you have ta'en these pains, I shall 
 Make equal propositions, I knew 
 Your father well, Don Pioderigo, who 
 Gave up his life with honour 'gainst the Moors. 
 Once more, you're welcome — Son Luys, show 
 The way to your sister, and bid her entertain 
 Your friend with all the love her modesty 
 And my commands may prompt her to. 
 
 Alh. You much oblige my services. 
 
 Luys. Eemember, Don, 
 Conditions ; if my sister and you join 
 Your copyholds, I have a life must be 
 Maintain'd till the old man die. Hang 1i\8 
 
 pension ! 
 'Twill not keep me in salads. I'll conduct you 
 [Aside to, and exit with Alberto. 
 
 Car. 1 like his person well; and his calm 
 gesture 
 Speaks for his other composition. 
 The estate is competent, my daughter is 
 Obedient, which rich parents call a blessing. 
 Whose wisdom is to advance their name and 
 
 fortunes. 
 My son is all my study now. — 
 
 Filter Don EAsnrRES. 
 
 My noble Don Ramyres ! you look cheerful. 
 
 Earn. 'Tis a good omen : I have business wi' y», 
 Such as cannot despair your entertainment : 
 You have a daughter. 
 
 Car. I would you had one ! 
 I should be willing to translate a son, 
 And by his marriage be most proud to call 
 Your daughter mine. 
 
 Bam. You are next a prophet, signior. 
 And, but the sexes differ, speak my thoughts; 
 'Tis harmony on both sides ; to be short, — 
 For let our gravities not waste time and breath 
 In our affairs, — give the young leave to court 
 And spin out days in amorous circumstance. 
 ]\ry son Fernando, I need not call him heir, 
 His birth concludes it, I would commend 
 To fair Jacinta : it can be no dishonour 
 To 3'our family to mix with mine. 
 
 Car. 'Tis an addition 
 Will add a lustre rather to our blood. 
 
 Bam. 'Tis my affection to your daughter, 
 which, confirmed 
 By observation of her virtue, makes 
 Me wish this tie between 'em ; 1 may safely 
 Expect you will assure a portion that 
 Wis fortunes will deserve, who must enjoy 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 531 
 
 What I possess; unless you disaffect ^ 
 His person, or decline his education, 
 Which hath not spar'd my coffers to advance 
 
 him 
 In the best form of gentleman. 
 
 Car. I want 
 Abilities of tongue to answer this 
 Your freedom and the bounty of your nature 
 Towards my daughter ; and so far am fl] from 
 Exception to Fernando, there's no cavalier 
 In Spain I wish to thrive so well in her 
 Opinion. 
 
 Ram. 'Twill be his encouragement, 
 If he intrench upon no other's interest, 
 I mean not to except, how well he can 
 Deserve her nobly from a rival, if 
 Her heart be not contracted ; this were to 
 Engage 'em both to loss of peace and honour, 
 Perhaps betray a life. 
 
 Car. You argue nobly ; 
 She is yet mistress of her thoughts, and free, 
 While her obedience doth keep in trust 
 Her heart, till I direct it, which shall be 
 To love, and choose your son to live within it. — 
 Have I said home "i 
 
 Ram. You have. When they have met, 
 We may conclude the dowry, and confirm 
 Our mutual assurances ; till then 
 Farewell. {Exit. 
 
 Car. I like this well ; Eamyres has 
 A fortune for a grandee. Don Alberto 
 Must now excuse me if my vote prefer 
 Fernando, whom my daughter must accept, 
 Or forfeit me. The new guest is not warm 
 In his access, and shall not feel with what 
 Soft art and subtle ways I steer her passion ; 
 Yet were Alberto's state ten maravedis 
 Above Eamyres', I should place him first. 
 Fame is an empty noise, virtue a word 
 There's not a Jew will lend two ducats on. — 
 He is retui-n'd ; I must prepare Jacinta. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Eamykes with Fernando. 
 
 Fer. I hope my past life hath not, sir, so ill 
 Deserv'd, you should be jealous of my duty 
 When you command, although in things of this 
 High nature, man being nothing more concern'd, 
 Xext the divine considerations. 
 Than in the choice of her that must divide 
 The joys and sufferings of his life, a son 
 May modestly insist upon the privilege 
 That Love by his great charter hath conferr'd 
 On every heart, not to be forced, yet I 
 Freely resign my will, and what men call 
 ;^:ffection, to that object you present me. 
 
 Ram. Apply yourself, then, to Don Carlos' 
 daughter ; 
 She's young, fair, rich, and virtuous, and I've 
 
 had 
 Full treaty with her father, who expects 
 Your visit. 
 
 Fer. Young, fair, rich, and virtuous ! 
 Four excellencies seldom met in one ; 
 She cannot sure want servants,^ that commands 
 Under so many titles. I could wish 
 (So much I have ambition to be thought 
 Obedient, sir) she were but one of those. 
 
 Ram. She is all, and one. 
 
 Fer. My duty were not less 
 If I forgave myself a happiness 
 To perfect your commands ; sir, I am ready 
 To try my fortune. 
 
 Ram. There is no fear of thy repulse ; and when 
 
 I disaffect— a.re ill-aflfected to. 
 ' servants — lovers. 
 
 Thou dost confirm her gain'd to thy affection, 
 
 My greatest act and care of life is over. 
 
 Go on and prosper. '[Exit, 
 
 Fer. He is passionate. 
 And like the fury of the winds, more loud 
 By opposition ; such a providence 
 May be mine one day when I am a father. 
 And he for whose advance my cares are meant, 
 Like me, may with a fair and formal show, 
 Disguise his thoughts too ; yet I am to blamo, 
 For my affection to a dream, a thing 
 With which my eyes only convers'd, to hazard 
 A father's love and the rich peace it brings ; 
 I'll uncreate the face I doat upon, 
 And be myself, or — 
 
 Enter Francisco. 
 
 What! my brother? 
 Now, Francisco, you met my father ? 
 
 Fran. Yes, and he 
 Looks as some news had much exalted him. 
 You are not so merry in the face : what is't ? 
 
 Fer. Nothing. 
 
 Fran. You held no controversies with him ? 
 
 Fe)\ No. 
 
 Fran. I cannot guess he was angry by his 
 smiles. 
 How did you part ? 
 
 Fer. Exceeding kindly. 
 
 Fran. What changes your complexion ? 
 
 Fer. Thou'rt deceived. 
 Pr'ythee, how do men look that are in love ? 
 
 Fi-an. Why, as they did before : what alteration 
 Have you observed in me ? 
 
 Fer. You have then a mistress, 
 And thrive upon her favours ? — but thou art 
 My brother, I'll deliver thee a secret : 
 I was at Saint Sebastian's last Sunday, 
 At vespers — 
 
 Fran. Is it a secret that you went to church ? 
 You need not blush to tell't your ghostly father. 
 
 Fer. I pr'ythee leave thy impertinence ; there 
 I saw 
 So sweet a face, so harmless, so intent 
 Upon her prayers, it frosted my devotion 
 To gaze on her, till by degrees I took 
 Her fair idea * through my covetous eye, 
 Into my heart, and know not how to ease 
 It since of the impression. 
 
 Fran. So ! proceed. 
 
 Fer. Her eye did seem to labour with a tear, 
 Which suddenly took birth, but, overweigh'd 
 With its own swelling, dropp'd upon her bosom. 
 Which, by reflection of her light, appear'd 
 As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament; 
 After, her looks grew cheerful, and I saw 
 A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes. 
 As if they had gained a victory o'er grief, 
 And with it many beams tAvisted themselves. 
 Upon whose golden threads the angels walk 
 To and again from heaven. 
 
 Fran. I do believe. 
 By all these metaphors, you are in love 
 I see you have a fancy ; but proceed, 
 And be not melancholy. 
 
 Fer. I have told thee all. 
 
 Fi'an. This is indeed a vision ; you have 
 But seen her all this while, if I may counsel you, 
 You should proceed ; her face is nothing when 
 You have perus'd the rest. 
 
 Fer. 'Tis dangerous. 
 
 Fran. You must excuse me, brother; 
 There can be no hurt in a handsome woman. 
 
 idea— image. 
 
532 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 For if her face delight so much, what will 
 The enjoying of so sweet a pile of beauty ? 
 
 Ftr. Thou hast infus'd a confidence ; I will 
 Embrace this counsel : you shall with me, 
 
 brother, 
 And see how I behave myself : the lady 
 Is not far off. 
 
 Fran. With all my heart ; I'll pawn 
 My life you shall enjoy her ; what is she 
 Of flesh and blood that will deny, Avhen she 
 Is fairly courted ? May I know the name 
 Of this lov'd mistress? You may clear your 
 
 thoughts, 
 I dare have no design to •«Tong your love. 
 
 Fer. What think you, brother, of the fair 
 
 Jacinta ? 
 Fran. Don Carlos' daughter ? 
 Fer. To that happy coast 
 I now am sailing ; we lose time ; clap on 
 More wings, thou feather'd god : thou hast put 
 
 fire, 
 Francisco, into my drooping thoughts, and as 
 They had already bargained with the wind, 
 They are aloft, and chide Love's lazy motion. 
 Fran. A word before you fly : but is Jacinta 
 Your mistress, then ? 
 
 Fer. The beautiful Jacinta. 
 Dost think I shall not prosper ? What is she 
 Of flesh and blood that can deny, when she 
 Is fairly courted? Add to this, my happiness. 
 That she's the mistress whom, from all her sex, 
 My father hath made choice of for my courtship. 
 He hath already treated with Don Carlos, 
 And 'twas his last command I should address 
 My present visit to her. 
 
 Fran. Very well : 
 If this be truth, you need not trouble wings 
 To overtake this lady ; to my knowledge 
 (I'm serious now) she has bestow'd her heart 
 Upon a friend, who has already fortified 
 Himself against the world that would oppose 
 His title to't. 
 
 Fer. From what intelligence 
 Have you gain'd this ? her father knows it not. 
 Come, these are but subtle pretences scatter'd 
 By some, who cunningly thus hope to make 
 Themselves a victory by cutting off 
 More fruitful expectations ; this must 
 Not disengage me ; pr'ythee, walk. 
 
 Fran. I can produce my author, here, Fer- 
 nando, 
 And with my blood defend that interest 
 She gave me, with intent I should preserve it 
 Fer. How ! is she yours, Francisco ? 
 Fran. Mine, if hearts 
 Have power to make assurance. 
 
 Fer. 'Tis some happiness 
 I have no stranger to oppose, whose high 
 And stubborn soul would not release this treasure 
 But make me force it through his blood. Fran- 
 cisco and 
 Fernando are two rillets from one spring ; 
 I will not doubt he will resign, to make 
 Me fortunate ; or, should his will be cold. 
 And some close thoughts suggest I had no 
 
 privilege. 
 By eldest birth, but came a sly intruder 
 Upon his right of love, there is a tie 
 Of nature and obedience to a father 
 Will make him give this blessing from his 
 
 bosom, 
 And strip his amorous soul of all his wealth. 
 That may invest my wishes. 
 
 Fran. I read not this 
 In any of the reverend casuists ; 
 No inequality being in our blood, 
 The law of nature meant we should be equal ; 
 
 It was first tyranny, then partial custom, 
 Made you more capable of land. Would you 
 Be lord of us because you are first-born, 
 And make our souls your tenants too ? When 
 
 I've 
 Nam'd you my elder brother, I exclude 
 All servitude ; justice, that makes me love you, 
 Carries an equal law to both ; 
 Nay, I can love you more, if I consider you 
 (Without the chain of blood) a friend, than all 
 The bonds of nature can enforce me to : 
 In both relations give me leave to love you 
 As much as man, but not resign my mistress. 
 You ascend higher and persuade by what 
 Obedience is owing to a father ; — 
 They give us life, a good son keeps it for them, 
 And every drop bled in their cause is glory ; 
 I acknowledge this, and sacrifice 
 Life, fortunes, a poor recompense to loso 
 (Were they all multiplied), to show my duty ; 
 But these are things may be resign'd : a mistress 
 Is not a wealth in balance with the world, 
 But much above the poise of all its happiness. 
 And equal with our honour, riveted 
 Into our soul. It leaves her not, when death 
 Hath shook this body off, but flies with it 
 More swift to love it in the other world. 
 
 Fer. You are very passionate. 
 
 Fran. I am very just, 
 And you shall find it, brother, ere you twiue 
 With my Jacinta, mine, if vows may give 
 Possession of each other's soul. 
 
 Fer. No more. 
 May she be worthy of thy heart, till mine 
 Do entertain a treason to divide you ; 
 But I, to satisfy my father, must 
 Present myself, and, trust me, will so manage 
 My love to her, as thou shalt have no cause 
 To interpret me a rival. Oh, Francisco, 
 Our loves are of a kindred, for mine is 
 Devote to Felisarda, to her cousin. 
 Poor Felisarda. 
 
 Fran. Theodoro's daughter? 
 
 Fer. We never yet changed language, nor 
 doth she 
 Imagine with what thoughts I honour her ; 
 But here is the distraction ; thou canst not 
 Expect more opposition from Don Carlos 
 Than I must from my father, if he knew 
 Where I have placed my heart 
 
 Fran. Let us assist 
 Each other, then, till time, and some kind stars, 
 Mature our love. 
 
 Fer. Let fathers look at wealth, 'tis all their 
 saint : 
 Hearts are free-born, and love knows no con- 
 straint. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE L 
 
 A Room in Don Carlos' House. 
 
 Enier Luys and Jacinta. 
 
 Luys. How do you like Alberto, sister? is ho not 
 A gallant gentleman ? 
 
 Jac. For what good brother ? 
 I cannot judge his intellectuals, 
 But we have plenty of more proper men 
 In Spain. 
 
 Luys. He is an excellent scholar ; 
 He was still emperor in the schools ; and sinca 
 He studied logic and philosophy ; 
 He was the flower of's time at Salamanca. 
 
 Jax;. 'Tis pity he should be gather' d, then. 
 
 Luys. What be gather'd ? 
 
 Jac. The flower you talk on- 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 "ill 
 
 L2iys. If you affect him, sister, lie may grow, 
 And you may keep him still for seed, [so] please 
 you. 
 
 Jac. And sell him out at sowing-time to 
 gardeners. 
 
 lyuys. Come, you must love him. 
 
 Jac. Has he the black art .' 
 I know not how magic or philtres may 
 Prevail, and yet he looks suspiciously. 
 
 Lnys. You think you're witty. D'ye hear, 
 you must 
 Affect him for my sake. 
 
 Jac. Now you speak reason ; 
 I may for your sake dote upon him, brother ; 
 This is a conjuration may do much. 
 
 Linjs. Well said ; 
 Thou art my sister, this good nature shows it. 
 And now I'll tell thee, I have promised him 
 As much as marriage comes to, and I lose 
 My honour, if my Don receives the canvas.^ 
 He has a good estate, and I have borrow'd 
 Considerable moneys of him, sister. 
 Pieces of eight, and transitory ducats. 
 
 Jac. Which must be paid. 
 
 Luys. Not if you marry him ; 
 Conditions have been thought on. 
 
 Jac. How ? conditions ? 
 
 lAiys. And some revenue was convenient 
 To do things like a gentleman. I may 
 Tell you, my father is a little costive. 
 Purse-bound, his pension cannot find me tooth- 
 picks; 
 I must live till he die ; 'tis fit, you know : 
 Alberto has an exchequer, which, upon 
 Thy smiles, will stiU be open. 
 
 Jac. Very good ; 
 Then you, upon the matter, have sold me to him, 
 To find you spending money ? 
 
 Luys. No, not sold ; 
 We are at no certain price : sums have been 
 
 lent 
 In expectation, or so, and may again. 
 
 Jac. You deserve, brother, I should hate 
 you now. 
 
 Luys. It is all one to me, so you love him : 
 For my part, I desii'e but my expenses. 
 
 Jac. What if another man supply your wants 
 Upon the same conditions of my love 7 
 
 huys. I am indifferent, so I have my charges. 
 My necessary wine and women, paid for ; 
 Love where you please yourself ; I am but one. 
 I would not see him want, that's all, because 
 My father is not yet resolv'd about 
 His going to heaven. 
 
 Jac. Well, sir, for Don Alberto, 
 You shall be his advocate no more, and there's 
 A fee to bribe your silence in his cause. 
 
 \Gives him money. 
 
 iMys. Why, thank you, sister. Will you die 
 a virgin ? 
 
 Jac. Why do you ask ? 
 
 L^xys. I would speak for somebody; tell me 
 but whom 
 You have a mind to, and I'll plead for him. 
 And if he be a don, he will consider it ; 
 You may give me what you will besides. 
 
 Jac. When I 
 Eesolve, you shall be acquainted. 
 
 Luys. But do you hear ? 
 
 1 receives the canvas— i.e. dismissed. The phrase is 
 taken from the practice of jouraeymen mechanics who 
 travel In quest of -work with the implements of their 
 profession. When they are discharged by their masters, 
 they are said to receive the canvas or the bag; because in 
 tJiis their tools and necessaries are packed up, prepara- 
 tory to their removal. — Giiford. 
 
 Until you do resolve, I would lose no time ; 
 'Tis good keeping a friend, and a warm client ; 
 You may look lovingly upon Alberto, 
 And let him hope, at all adventures ; in 
 Two months you may be otherwise provided. 
 And he may hang himself ; i' the meantime. 
 Some favours now and then to the poor gentle- 
 man 
 Will do him good, and me no hurt; besides 
 You'll please my father in't, whose vote is for 
 
 him. 
 And that's a thing material. I am 
 To meet with Don Alberto and some gentlemen ; 
 I will preserve his confidence, and tell him 
 I have talk'd with thee. Have you any more 
 Of this complexion ? 'cause I know not what 
 Occasions I may have to keep my credit 
 With men of mark and honour, where I ara 
 
 going ; 
 You are my father's darling, and command 
 His yellow ingots ; t' other dohlon d'oro.'^ 
 
 Jac. So I may bring a rentcharge on myself. 
 
 Luys. The t'other drop of orient mercy ; come. 
 
 Jac. You care not what accounts I give my 
 father. 
 
 Luys. Thou hast twenty ways to cozen him ; 
 wedge it 
 Into the next bill ; he wears spectacles, 
 And loves to read — Item for pious uses. — 
 Can it be less to help a brother ? — [Jac. gives 
 him more money.'\ — Well said. 
 
 Jac. Let not this feed your riot. 
 
 Luys. By no means. 
 I am for no Carthusians to-day. 
 Farewell, dear sister. — 
 
 Enter Carlos, Fernando, Francisco, and 
 Felisarda. 
 
 Who is that 7 
 
 Jac. My father. 
 
 Luys. I cannotendure that old man's company. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Car. I am past compliment, and must ac- 
 knowledge 
 Your fair intentions honour us ; she is no goddess 
 Of beauty, sir, but let me, without pride. 
 Boast myself blest, Fernando, in her virtues. 
 And that which crowns 'em all, obedience. — 
 Jacinta, entertain this gentleman 
 With all becoming thoughts of love ; his merit 
 (Out of no rash, but mature judgment) hath 
 Prevail'd with me, to name him to the first 
 And noblest place within your heart. 
 
 Fer. Until this hour I never had the confidence 
 Moi-e than to think of love, and hide a flame 
 That almost hath consumed me. You may think 
 It worth a smile, and that I only flourish 
 To show my vanity of wit or language ; 
 But when you understand that I bring hither 
 No young affection, but a love took in 
 Long since at my ambitious eye, it may 
 Beget your gentle thought, or will to cure me. 
 
 Jac. Pardon me, if the more you strive to 
 print 
 A truth on this short story of your passion, 
 The more I find myself inclined to wonder, 
 Since you seem to infer you took in the 
 Disease at sight of me, I cannot be 
 So ignorant, as not to have receiv'd 
 Your name and character, but never knew 
 Before, when you did grace us with a visit ; 
 And how then at such distance you contracted 
 A danger so consuming, is above 
 ily knowledge, not my pity, if you could 
 Direct me to the cure with virgin honour. 
 
 * doblon cCoro — gold doubloon. 
 
534 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Car. So, so ; I leave you to the amorous 
 dialogue ; 
 Presume you have my voice. 
 
 Jac. Sir, with your pardon, 
 You lead me to a wilderness, and take 
 Yourself away, that should be guide ; do you 
 Engage me to affect this Don Fernando 
 In earnest ? 
 
 Car. Yes. 
 ' Jac. You did direct my love 
 To Don Alberto. 
 
 Car. I dispense with that 
 Command ; you may, by fair degrees, and 
 
 honour, 
 Quit his addresses, and dispose yourself 
 Mistress and bride to Don Eamyres' heir. 
 
 Fel. [to Fraxcisco.] It does not thus become 
 you, sir, to mock 
 A virgin never injur'd you : he is 
 Your elder brother, I am here beneath 
 The level of his thoughts, i' the nature of 
 A servant to my cousin, and depend 
 Upon my uncle's charity. 
 
 Fran. May I be 
 Curst in my own affections, if I 
 Delude thee, though to achieve our best desires 
 We seem to dissemble thus before Don Carlos. 
 This is a secret yet to poor Jacinta. 
 
 Car. You have my will ; obey it. 
 
 Jac. Hath Francisco 
 Broken his faith already ? [Aside. 
 
 Car. May you both joy, where you have 
 placed your loves ! 
 You apply close, Francisco. [Exit. 
 
 Fran. With your good favour, 
 I fairly hope. 
 
 Fer. Your father's gone, Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. I should be 
 Equally pleas'd if you would leave me too. 
 
 Fel. This is a change. 
 
 Jac. Unkind Francisco, hear me. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis my meaning. — Brother, I have 
 prepar'd 
 Your story there with Felisarda ; lose 
 No time. 
 
 Fer. Jacinta, clear your thoughts again. 
 And pardon that I took a shape to fright you ; 
 I shall not grieve to see Francisco prosper, 
 And merit all your favours, since my hopes 
 Must thrive, or have their funeral here. 
 
 [taking Felisarda's hand. 
 
 Jac. Are we 
 So blest, Francisco ? That's a noble brother ! 
 
 Fer. I may suppose my brother, Felisarda, 
 Hath made it now no secret, that I love you ; 
 And since our stars have so contriv'd, that we 
 Have means to assist oiu* mutual ambitions, 
 Do not you make their influence unprofitable ; 
 'Tis the first boldness I e'er took to visit you, 
 Although my eyes have often, with delight 
 And satisfaction to my heart, observ'd you. 
 
 Fel. You seem a noble gentleman, and can take 
 But little glory to undo a maid. 
 Whose fortunes cannot bring you any triumph. 
 
 Fer. How mean you, fairest ? 
 
 Fel. Not to be flatter'd, sir. 
 Into a sin, to cure my poverty ; 
 For men, whose expectations are like yours, 
 Come not with honour to court such as I am 
 (Lost to the world for want of portion), 
 But with some untam'd heat of blood. 
 
 Fer. I dare, 
 With conscience of my pure intent, try what 
 Rudeness you find upon my lip, 'tis chaste 
 As the desires that breathe upon my language. 
 [ began, Felisarda, to affect thee 
 By seeing thee at prayers ; thy virtue wing'd 
 
 Love's arrow first, and 'twere a sacrilege 
 To choose thee now for sin, that hast a power 
 To make this place a temple by thy innocence. 
 I know thy poverty, and came not to 
 Bribe it against thy chastity ; if thou 
 Vouchsafe thy fair and honest love, it shall 
 Adorn my fortunes, which shall stoop to serve it, 
 In spite of friends or destiny. 
 
 Fran, [to Jacixta.] My brother 
 Knows my whole interest in thee, to whom 
 My father's care directed him ; but we 
 Thus mutually resolve to aid each other. 
 
 Jac. This must be wisely manag'd of all sides , 
 Parents have narrow eyes.i 
 
 Fran. Our meeting thus 
 Will happily secure us from their jealousy ; 
 Our fathers must not know this countemiarch. 
 
 Re-enter Carlos, behind. 
 
 Car. Ha! 
 I like not this : Fernando at busy courtship 
 With Felisarda, and Francisco so 
 Close with my daughter ! 
 
 Jac. Alas ! we are betray'd, 
 
 Fel. My uncle. 
 
 Fer. You are her kinswoman, and of her 
 bosom : 
 I pr'ythee, in my absence, plead to fair 
 Jacinta for me ; as an earnest of 
 My gratitude, accept this trifle from me. 
 
 Car. Ha ! 'tis a jewel. 
 
 Fel. Without this reward 
 I should solicit, sir, your cause, and do 
 My duty to Don Carlos, who desires it. 
 
 Fer. I take my leave. 
 
 Fran. Madam, I shall be proud 
 To call you sister, but you will prepare 
 Another happiness if you vouchsafe 
 To speak for me to pretty Felisarda ; 
 She's bound to hear your counsel and obey it ; 
 If I may owe this favour to your charity. 
 
 Jac. Your goodness will deserve more. 
 
 Fran. I must follow him. [Exit. 
 
 Car. Do you take notice, Felisarda, that 
 You live here on the bounty of an uncle .' 
 Your father had but ill news from the Indies. 
 
 Fel. Sir, as your goodness wants no testimony, 
 I shall attend it with all humble services. 
 
 Car. How durst you, in the presence of my 
 daughter, 
 Maintain such whispers with Fernando, eh ? 
 
 Fel. Sir, he was pleas'd — 
 
 Car. No more ; I here discharge you. — 
 Jacinta, I'll provide one to attend you 
 With less relation to your blood. — I'll hear 
 Of no defence ; away ! out of my doors ! 
 Go to your father, Signior Theodore : 
 His ships may rise again were sunk by th' 
 
 Hollander, 
 And's fleet from St. Thomas ; he may prefer you 
 To some rich don ; or, who knows but you may, 
 Borne on the plumes of his estate, be made 
 In time a proud condessa ! so, a Dios, 
 Muy illtistre Senora Felisarda ! [Exit. 
 
 Jac. Thus have I heard a tall ship has been 
 wreck'd 
 By some strange gust within the bay : his passion 
 Admits of no dispute. — Oh, my poor coz, 
 I fear my turn is next to be an exile ; 
 Thy absence must deprive me of Francisco, 
 Who can no more glad his Jacinta's eyes. 
 With a pretence to visit thee. 
 
 ^Parents have narrow cr/e5— meaning, perhaps, that 
 they look carefully, or narrowly, into these atfairs. — 
 
 GiFfOKD. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 535 
 
 Fel. 'Tisnot 
 My fear to suffer want so much afflicts me, 
 As that I must lose you. — But he returns. 
 
 Ee-enter Carlos with a letter, and a Servant. 
 
 Ca7\ Don Pedro de Fuente Calada coming 
 hither, 
 With Don Alberto, and my son ? 
 
 Serv. Yes, sir ; the count desires to see Jacinta, 
 Whom your son has so commended, and sent me 
 To give you notice. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Car. Ha ! Jacinta ! retire 
 To your closet, and put on your richest jewels, 
 A count is come to visit you. — Felisarda, 
 There may be some more art us'd in her dress, 
 To take the eyes of greatness. 
 
 Jac. Sir, you speak 
 As I were meant for sacrifice, or sale ; 
 The Count Don Pedro — 
 
 Car. No reply ; be careful, 
 And humble in your office, Felisarda, 
 And you may live and eat here, till Jacinta 
 Provide another servant to attend her, 
 Which may be three whole days ; my anger is 
 Not everlasting, — Bid my wife come to me. 
 
 [Exeunt Jacinta and Felisarda. 
 
 Enter Alsimira. 
 
 I expect an honourable guest, the Count Don 
 
 Pedro, 
 To see our daughter, whom I have commanded 
 To appear with all her riches, to attract him. 
 
 .4^5. If his intents be honourable ; I have heard 
 Don Pedro loves a handsome donna. 
 
 Car. He had better cool his hot blood i' the 
 
 frozen 
 Sea, and rise thence a rock of adamant, 
 To draw more wonder to the north, than but 
 Attempt to wrong her chastity. — 
 
 Enter Don Pedro, Luys, and Alberto. 
 
 This from Don Pedro is an honour binds 
 The service of our lives* 
 Fed. Noble Don Carlos. 
 
 Als. If we had been prepar'd, we should have 
 met 
 This grace with more becoming entertainment. 
 Ped. 'Tis fair, and equal to my wishes — [he 
 kisses Alsimira.] — She 
 Does smell of roasted garlick — [aside.'] — This 
 your sister ? 
 
 Fe- enter Jacenta and Felisarda. 
 
 Luys. That is my mother, sir; here is Jacinta. 
 Ped. She has a tempting shape ; I now am 
 pleas'd. 
 i use to kiss all. — Hum, a pretty thing ! 
 
 [seeing Felisarda. 
 Car. 1 like not his busy eyes on Felisarda. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Alb. You will be faithful to me? 
 Lui/s. Who, I faithful ? how shall I live else ? 
 Car. Son Luys. [Takes Luys aside. 
 
 Alb. Madam. 
 
 Ped. Will you be pleas'd [f] admit Don Pedro, 
 by 
 The title of your servant, to presume 
 Some time to wait upon you ? 
 
 Jac. It were pride. 
 And saucy ambition, sir, in me, to think 
 You can descend so much from your great birth. 
 To own a name and office so much beneath you. 
 Ped. I, that before thought women easy trifles. 
 And things which nature meant only to quench 
 High flames in man, am taken with this lady. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Luigi, thou haat wrong'd the fair Jacinta; 
 
 Thy praise was thin, and cold ; Spain is not rich 
 Enough to boast her equal ; and I love her. 
 
 Lut/s. Oh, she will be too proud to know it, sir. 
 
 Ped. Proud she must be, whose eyes have such 
 command. 
 She has a pretty servant too, Luigi ; 
 I like 'em both. 
 
 Lziys. How ! both ? 
 
 Ped. They will do well. 
 
 Luys. It will become your high blood. 
 
 Pea. Say I kiss 
 Her white hand, and present her with these 
 peai-ls ? 
 
 Luys. Your honour shall command. 
 
 Ped. Your daughter has a most magnetic face, 
 And I pronounce her happy ; your consent 
 Confirms her mine. 
 
 Car. There's nothing in my blood or fortune, 
 but 
 Don Pedro shall command. — I was prophetical. — 
 Come hither, Alsimira ; wouldst imagine ? 
 He's taken with Jacinta, and hath pray'd 
 Already my consent. 
 
 Als. Believe not all 
 That great men speak are oracles; our daughter — 
 
 Car. If she be stubborn, uncreates herself:! 
 Be you wise, and counsel her to this ambition, 
 Or thus I loose you all. — Ha ! turn away 
 That fairy, she's a witch, the Count talks with 
 her. 
 
 Alb. I hope you hold me not, sir, less deserving 
 Than when you gave me free access to plead 
 My service to your daughter ? — If that don — 
 
 Car. Sir, you too much prejudicate my 
 thoughts ; 
 I must give due respects to men of honour, 
 Nor is it fit I should impose upon 
 The freedom of Jacinta's love. 
 
 Alb. You are noble. 
 
 Car. My lord. 
 
 Alb. I do not like this don. [to Luys. 
 
 Luys. Thou'rt of my mind; I do not like him 
 neither; 
 And yet the blackbird's in the bush;^ see what 
 A present he would give my sister! 
 
 [Showing him the pearls. 
 
 Alb. Did she refuse it ? 
 
 Luys. I never mean she shall; what! wrong 
 my friend ? [Embracing him. 
 
 Yet, I'll take all, and let him hang himself. 
 If he would send his eyes, I would undertake 
 To carry 'em to the jeweller, they would off 
 For pretty toadstones. Have no fear, my mothei 
 Is for you, too ; you must fee both your advocates. 
 
 Car. Jacinta! 
 
 Jac. Sir. 
 
 Luys. She takes herself much honour'd. 
 
 Ped. You oblige. 
 
 Luys. Let me alone to carry things. 
 Be confident to trust me with your honour — 
 If it would pawn for anything. [Aside. 
 
 Jac. I'm not perfect 
 How to neglect Alberto yet, and must I 
 Throw off Fernando, but new entertain'd 
 By your command? the world will censure 
 sti-angely. 
 
 Car. The world will praise thy wisdom, and 
 my care ; 
 Or, if some giddy tongues condemn what's good, 
 Must we be servile to that fear, and lose 
 That which will make us judges of their folly. 
 And damn it with a frown of state ? they're fools 
 That dote upon those shadows, idle talk. 
 The slime of earth-worms, that doth shine to cozen 
 
 ^ And yet the blackbird's in the bush— i.e. hmed, taken.— 
 
 GlFFORD. 
 
536 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Infants! 'tis fit we raise our thoughts to sub- 
 stances. 
 
 Jac. Let modesty and nature plead a little, 
 If I appear not fond to entertain him. 
 I may collect more strength by time and counsel, 
 And for your satisfaction dai-e profess 
 My lord liath too much graced the low Jacinta 
 With a pretence so noble : but I should 
 Be held not worth his person, and too light, 
 At his first breath of courtship, to fall fi'om 
 M}- virgin strength, and give myself his captive. 
 
 Car. I shall allow that ceremony ; the Count 
 Makes an address. 
 
 \Extunt Alsimira and Felisarda. 
 
 Fed. I must use thrift in my delight ; my eyes 
 Are proud, and must be taught by absence how 
 To value such a mistress. I do miss the cham- 
 bemiaid. 
 
 Car. It will become me to attend. 
 
 \Exeunt Aleeuto and Jacinta. 
 
 Fed. Your pardon. 
 I'll take it for an honour, if your son 
 Be pleas'd — but to my coach. 
 
 Luys. Oh, my good lord ! 
 So much I am your creature, if you knew 
 But where to match me, I would be your coach- 
 horse. \Exeunt Pedro and Luys. 
 
 Car. So, so ; Jacinta's stars do smile upon her. 
 'Twill be a match : were but my son as fair 
 In expectation of a bride, I'd wi'ite 
 Nil ultra to my cares ; he is too aiiy 
 And volatile, a wife would timely fix him. 
 And make him fit to manage my estate. — 
 
 Re-enter Luys. 
 
 But he returns ; I'll feel his pulse. 
 
 Car. Thou seest how near Jacinta is to happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Luys. I did some ofiice in't, she may thank me : 
 I first inspird his lordship. 
 
 Car. Such a providence 
 To build thyself a fortune by some brave 
 And noble marriage, would become thy study, 
 And make thy father willingly resign 
 His breath, with confidence to know thee wise 
 To govern what my industry hath gatherd. 
 What think'st thou of a wife? 
 
 Luys. I think little, sir. 
 What should I do with a wife "i 
 
 Car. Imitate me, and study fame and wealth 
 To thy posterity. Have I with care 
 Acquir'd such an estate, that must not last 
 Two generations? 
 
 Luys. The way to make it last, 
 Is not to think of wiving. For my part 
 (Sir, with your pardon, if I may speak freely), 
 I had opinion once I was your son. 
 But fearing, by your narrow exhibition,^ 
 You lov'd me not, I had a controversy 
 Within my thoughts, whether I should resolve 
 To geld myself, or turn a begging friar. 
 
 Car. A begging friar ! 
 
 Luys. 'Tis as I tell you, sir ; 
 This last I fix'd upon, and have been studying 
 Where I conveniently might raise a sum 
 To compass a hair shirt, sir, to make trial, 
 Before I thrust myself point-blank into 
 The order. 
 
 Car. Thus wild sons interpret still 
 A prudent father ; but you may discharge 
 Your jealousies, unless it be your own 
 Devotion to be chaste, and live a recluse. 
 
 Luys. For that I can be ruled ; I have not liv'd 
 After the rate of hating any woman ; 
 
 exhibition — i.e. pension, allowance. 
 
 But I can hear of marriage, if it be 
 
 Your pleasure: but these wives, sir, are such 
 
 tickle 
 Things, not one hardly staid amongst a thou- 
 sand ; — 
 Beside, unless you find one very rich, 
 A man may cast aAvay himself, and get 
 A bundle of beggai-ies, mouths, that day and 
 
 night 
 Are open, like hell-gates, to feed. I would not 
 Hazard my freedom, and the blessings Heaven 
 Has lent you, sir, upon a wife with nothing. 
 
 Car. Thy pension doubles for that word; in 
 earnest 
 How much I like this wisdom, take this purse ; 
 I will have no account; and find me out 
 A wealthy maid or widow, but not ugly. 
 
 Luys. No ! not ill-fa vour'd, sir, if she be rich ; 
 A little old or crippled ? 
 
 Car. I will not have thee 
 Marry a crooked, deform'd thing, because 
 She may have children — 
 
 Lniys. Not unless she have 
 An infinite wealth to make them straight, sir ; 
 I'll marry a witch, so she have money, sir. 
 
 Car. No, on no terms a monster ! 
 
 Luys. Then I will not. 
 And now it comes into my mind, they talk of 
 A young rich widow. Donna Estefania, 
 AVhat do you think of her ? 
 
 Car. Thou hast nam'd one 
 To my own desires ; she lives a widow still. 
 But has refus'd many brave dons. 
 
 Luys. No matter ; 
 I like her, sir, the better. 
 
 Car. She gives good entertainment 
 
 Luys. I will have her. 
 If you but say the word. I wear a charm 
 To catch a widow ; but this purse will hardly 
 Last till we finish ; I must do things with honour. 
 
 Car. Thou shalt be furnish'd like my son ; 
 kneel do-vvn 
 And ask my blessing, I do long to give it thee, 
 
 Luys. I have your blessing here. 
 
 Car. I'll find thee out 
 Some jewels to present thy mistress too. 
 
 Luys. 'Twill not be much amiss ; the gold 
 will go 
 The farther, sir.— [Exit Carlos. 
 
 I know not how this came about, 
 Unless Don Pedro's coming to my sister 
 Have made him mad, and wrought this miracle. — 
 How careful he was I should not marry one de- 
 formed ! I have chose the handsomest things 
 thus far ; an I marry with a witch at these years, 
 let the devil ride my wild mare to death! And, 
 now I consider on it, I will not have the widow, 
 for fear of the worst ; yet I'll to her, and make 
 a business on it, to keep the old man's bags in 
 motion. This, with some good husbandry, and 
 no play, may last a fortnight. 
 'Tis very gold ; yes, it will pay some scores. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT IIL— SCENE I. 
 
 A Street before Ra:viyres' House. 
 
 Enter Eamyres and Fernando. 
 
 Ram. How ! no success ? where lies the oppo- 
 sition ? 
 Don Carlos, equal with myself, profess'd 
 His free desires, and to dispose his daughter 
 To meet thee with all loving entei-tainraents. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 537 
 
 What cau she argue to thy birth or person, 
 Attended with so plentiful a fortune ? 
 I must believe thy courtship dull and faulty. 
 When I was at thy years, and spring of blood, 
 I wound myself like air among the ladies, 
 Commanding every bosom, and could dwell 
 Upon their lips like their own breath : their eyes 
 Doubled their beams on me, and she that was 
 Of hardest composition, whom no love 
 Could soften, when I came with charm of lan- 
 guage. 
 Her frost would straight dissolve, and from her 
 
 eyes 
 Her heart came weeping forth to woo me take it. 
 Fer. Yet you, that did with a magnetic chain 
 Attract so many, could possess but one. 
 I came not to Don Carlos' house with cold 
 Or lukewarm thoughts, but arm'd with active 
 
 fire, 
 That would have melted any heart but hers, 
 Bound up with ribs of treble ice against me ; 
 By which I find there is another fate 
 That governs love, against whose secret doom 
 In vain is eloquence or force. 
 Ram. So obstinate ,' 
 Fer. Nothing that I could say 
 In my own cause could make her tongue or looks 
 Promise an expectation to thrive 
 By any after service ; this disdain 
 1 did resent, as it became my honour. 
 And now confirm'd against her pride, have 
 
 thought 
 Of something that, with your consent, may tame 
 Her scorn, or punish it to her repentance. 
 Ram. Name it. 
 
 Ftr. She has a kinswoman lives with her, 
 Felisarda, daughter to Signior Theodoro, 
 A trade-fall'n merchant, brother to Don Carlos ; 
 This Felisarda, 
 
 That now lives on the charity of her uncle, 
 Half servant, half companion to Jacinta, 
 And fail', I would pretend to love, observe me, 
 
 sir, 
 And in their pi-esence court her as my mistress. 
 Methinks I see already how Jacinta 
 Doth fret and frown. 
 Ram. I like it well. 
 
 Fer. To see her cousin so preferr'd, it is 
 The nature, sir, of women to be vex'd 
 When they know any of their servants court 
 Another ; and that love they thought not worth 
 Their own reward, will sting them to the soul, 
 When 'tis translated where it meets with love ; 
 And this will either break her stubborn heart 
 Or humble her. 
 
 Ram. But what if this pretence 
 By such degrees convey away your heart. 
 That, when Jacinta comes to sense, you cannot 
 Eetrieve your passion from the last "i Or say, 
 Felisarda should believe you, and give up 
 Her heart to your possession, when you 
 Are by your first desires invited back, 
 What cure for Felisarda's wound, if you 
 Affect her not ? Although I like that part 
 Of your revenge, 1 would not have my sou 
 Carry the hated brand of cruelty, 
 Or hear Fernando broke a lady's heart; 
 But live upon his clear and honest truth, 
 And if Jacinta have not valued him, 
 Find his own estimation in some other 
 By fair and noble courtship. Virtue is 
 Above the gaudy shine of gold ; and if 
 My son love where his honour cannot suffer, 
 The want of dower 1 can forgive. 
 
 Fer. You now 
 Kead excellent charity, and, like a father. 
 It is the harmony I would hear ; I chide 
 
 My fears, that did suspect you would prefer 
 
 Wealth in a bride. 
 
 There is no beauty or estate compar'd 
 
 To that resulteth from the soul. I dare 
 
 Now ope this narrow closet, and present 
 
 The name I love above the world ; it is, 
 
 Sir, Felisai'da, equal in her blood, 
 
 AVithin whose virtuous poverty 
 
 More treasures are contain'd, than in those veins 
 
 Of earth, which, open'd by our slaves, do bleed 
 
 Such floods of gold into the lap of Spain. 
 
 Pardon m}^ long concealment of her name, 
 
 'T was sin against your virtue, and once more 
 
 Speak in that blessed language, I may hope 
 
 To call this virgin mine. 
 
 Ram. How long have you 
 Been taken with this female holiness ? 
 
 Fer. Before Jacinta was propounded, this 
 Took firm possession of my faith. 
 
 Ram. Thou hast 
 Discover'd thy destruction, foolish boy! 
 Was this your policy to be reveng'd 
 Upon Jacinta, whom my providence 
 Elected to preserve our name and family. 
 To dote upon a beggar ! Thou hast flung 
 A fire into my brain ; either resolve 
 To perfect my commands, and, throwing off 
 That trifle thou hast prais'd, prefer Jacinta 
 To the best seat within thy heart, and marry her, 
 Or live a stranger to me, and divested 
 Of all those rights which nature and thy birth 
 Have flatter'd thee with hope to find. Expect 
 
 not, 
 Alive, the stipend of a groom to feed thee. 
 Nor, dead, the naked charity of a shi'oud 
 To hide thee from the worms. 
 
 Ftr. Oh, sir, call back 
 That murdering sentence ; it were sin to let 
 This passion dwell upon you, nor would Heaven, 
 AVhose [equal] eyes survey our frailty, suffer 
 So wild a rage possess you. 
 
 Ram. 'Tis within 
 Thy own obedience to divert it. 
 
 Fe)\ When 
 You ha' heard what I can say more, you will 
 Your fierce command. [chide 
 
 Ram. What riddle's this ? 
 Ftr. Jacinta's 
 Already made another's, and my force 
 Upon her vows can be no less than sacrilege. 
 Ram,. This is some new pretence. 
 Fer. Sir, not to waste your patience, she hath 
 Herself by holy contract to Francisco. [given 
 Ram. Thy younger brother "i 
 Fer. This, I know, will calm 
 Your fuiy, and those eyes, that threaten'd light- 
 ning, 
 With smiles applaud Francisco's fate, and praise 
 My disobedience. 
 
 Ram. Francisco's mistress ? 
 Fer. His wife, confirm'd by vows and change 
 of hearts ; 
 I had it from themselves, when either strove 
 Whose circumstance should credit most their 
 
 story — 
 Her tear, or his conclusive groan, to seal 
 Their marriage; but both were equal, sir. 
 What curse had I deserv'd, should I divorce 
 This innocent pair of lovers ? 
 
 Ram. All this talk. 
 Which foolish thou interpret'st thy defence, 
 Hath but enlarg'd thy folly ; and that act 
 Which in Francisco I commend, upbraids 
 Thy own degenerate baseness. Shall thy brother, 
 Who carries all his portion in his blood, 
 Look high, and, careful of his honour, aim 
 At fortunes, and with confidence achieve 
 
53S 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 His gloi'ious end ? and shall his elder brother, 
 Engag'd by nearest tie to advance his name, 
 Lie beating in the common track of gulls, 
 And sacrifice his birth and expectations 
 To a cozening face and poverty ? Instead 
 Of adding monuments, that to the world 
 Should be his living chronicle, to bury 
 His own and all the antique honours he 
 Ne'er sweat for, but were cast into his blood. 
 Within a dunghill ? — Thou hast forfeited 
 Thy birthright, which Francisco shall inherit ; 
 Nor shall the loss of my estate be all 
 Thy punishment. Hear, and believe with horror ; 
 If thou renounce not her that hath bewitch'd 
 Thy heart, Felisarda, and, by such a choice 
 I shall affect, redeem this scandal nobly, 
 Fernando, from this minute, I pronounce 
 Heir to his father's curse. 33e wise, or perish ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 Fer. Why does not all the stock of thunder 
 fall? 
 
 Enter Francisco. 
 
 Or the fierce winds, from their close caves let 
 
 loose, 
 Now shake me into atoms ? 
 
 Fran. Fie, noble brother, what can so deject 
 Your masculine thoughts ? is this done like Fer- 
 nando, 
 Whose resolute soul so late was arm'd to fight 
 With all the miseries of man, and triumph 
 With patience of a martyr ? I observ'd 
 My father late come from you. 
 
 Fer. Yes, Francisco, 
 He hath left his curse upon me. 
 
 Fran. How? 
 
 Fer. His curse : dost compi-ehend what that 
 word carries. 
 Shot from a father's angry breath ? Unless 
 I tear poor Felisarda from my heart. 
 He hath pronounc'd me heir to all his curses. — 
 Does this fright thee, Francisco ? thou hast cause 
 To dance in soul for this, 'tis only I 
 Must lose and mourn. Thou shalt have all ; I am 
 Degraded from my birth, while he affects 
 Thy forward youth, and only calls thee son — 
 Son of his active spirit, and applauds 
 Thy progress with Jacinta, in whose smiles 
 Thou may'st see all thy wishes waiting for thee ; 
 Whilst poor Fernando, for her sake, must stand 
 An excommunicate from every blessing, 
 A thing that dare not give myself a name, 
 But flung into the world's necessities. 
 Until in time, with wonder of my wants, 
 I turn a ragged statue, on whose forehead 
 Each clown may carve his motto. 
 
 Fran. Will it call 
 His blessing back, if you can quit your love 
 To Felisarda ? she is now a stranger 
 To her uncle's house. I met one of his servants 
 Who told me, on some jealous apprehension, 
 Don Carlos had discharg'd and banish'd her. 
 
 Fer. He could not be so barbarous ! 
 
 Fran. You know 
 Her father's poverty. 
 
 Fer. And her wealth of virtue. 
 
 Fran. It is worth your counsel 
 To examine what you may preserve, if wisely 
 You could persuade your heart to love some 
 other — 
 
 Fer. What was't Francisco said ? 
 
 Fran. Whose equal birth 
 And virtues may invite a noble change. 
 
 Fer. Do not you love Jacinta ? 
 
 Fran. Most religiously. 
 
 Fer. If you can but contrive your hearts at 
 distance, 
 
 And, in contempt of honour and your faith. 
 Sacred to Heaven and love, disclaim your mis- 
 tress, 
 I may be happy yet; what say [you] ? I know 
 Jacinta's wise, and when she understands 
 How much it will advance her charity — 
 
 Fran. Our case is not the same with yours, 
 good brother ; 
 We have been long acquainted, to contract 
 Affections. If I understand, your loves 
 Are young, and had no time for growth. 
 
 Fer. Do not wound me. 
 'Tis false, by love itself ! Thou hast deserv'd 
 I should forget thee now. Dost thou consider 
 Love (that doth make all harmony in our soul. 
 And seated in that noblest place of life. 
 The heart) with things that are the slaves of 
 
 time, 
 And that, like common seeds thrown into earth. 
 It must have leisure to corrupt, and after 
 Much expectation, rise to name and vigour ? 
 Love is not like the child that grows, and gets 
 By slow degrees perfection ; but created. 
 Like the first man, at full strength the first 
 
 minute, 
 It makes a noble choice, and gains from time 
 To be call'd only constant, not increas'd. 
 Preserve thy own affections, and think mine 
 Noble as they, I shall suspect thy love 
 To me else : pr'ythee leave me. 
 
 Fran. I'll obey. 
 And study how to serve you. 
 
 [^Exit. Fernando walTcs aside. 
 
 Enter Felisarda. 
 
 Fe7'. Ha ! 'tis Felisarda. 
 
 Fel. Turn'd out like one that had been false ! 
 where shall 
 Poor Felisarda wander ? Were it not 
 To ask a father's blessing, I would visit 
 Some wilderness, ere thus present myself, 
 His burden and his sorrow. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Fed. Had you no 
 Eelation to Jacinta, pretty one ? 
 
 Fel. I was her servant. 
 
 Fed. Come, you shall be my mistress: they 
 have us'd 
 Thee scurvily ; I will provide thee a lodging. 
 
 Fer. 1 shall not use your bounty, sir, for that. 
 
 Fed. Thou art a handsome donna ; here's a 
 pistolet ; 
 Meet me i' the evening, wilt ? 
 
 Fel. Where, and for what ? 
 
 Fed. The where, at thy own choice ; the what, 
 thy honour. 
 
 Fel. You are not noble. 
 
 Fed. Don Pedro will embrace thy buxom body. 
 
 Fer. [coming foi'ward.'] You must unhand this 
 virgin. 
 
 Fel. For goodness, sir, 
 Add not your anger to my sufferings. 
 Unhappy Felisarda ! 
 
 Fed. Is she a friend of yours, signior ? 
 
 Fer. She is not for your sinful knowledge, 
 Don. 
 
 Fed. Beso las manos ; a Dios, senora ! — Diablo I * 
 My blood is high and hot ; unless I marry timely, 
 I must seek out a female julap. [Exit. 
 
 Fel. Don Carlos' fear of you was my first error ; 
 But I accept my banishment, and shall 
 Humbls rayself to my poor father's fortune. — 
 
 I kiss hands ; adieu, lady !— The devil I ' 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 539 
 
 You will be, sir, dishonour'd to be seen 
 With such a walking misery. 
 
 Fer. Thy uncle 
 Hath play'd the tyrant with thee ; but lose not 
 Thy virtuous courage ; how our stories meet 
 And challenge kindred in affliction ! 
 Oh ! Felisarda, I do suffer too. 
 And for thy sake : thou shalt know more. Till I 
 Salute thee at thy father's house, preserve 
 Good thoughts of thy Fernando, and accept 
 This little gold, no bribe against thy honour. 
 
 Fd. My best return must be my prayers. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Fer. Farewell ! — 
 'Tis not impossible my father may 
 Eetract his cruelty, and by time, and some 
 Discreet ways, yet be wrought to like what no w 
 His passion will not let him see — her virtue. 
 How many seas are met to wrestle here ! [Exit. 
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Don Carlos' House. 
 
 Enter Jacinta and Albekto. 
 
 Jac. I love you, sir, so well, that I could wish 
 You were a witch. 
 
 Alh. K witch ! your reason, lady ? 
 
 Jac. Then 'twere within the circle of your art, 
 By some device to rid me of Don Pedro ; 
 Or if you could by any spell but get 
 My father disaffect him. — 
 
 Alb. A witch ! that's a way about ; I were best 
 cut his throat a little. 
 
 Jac. You're much beholding to my brother, sir. 
 He still commends you ; such an advocate 
 Deserves his fee. 
 
 Alb. Unless my cause succeed, 
 He has been fee'd too much — [Aside.'] — Your 
 
 brother, lady. 
 Preserves a noble friendship. If I were sure 
 You would be mine, Jacinta, I could tarry 
 Till your father die. 
 
 Jac. But how can you procure 
 Don Pedro to have patience so long, 
 Whom my father pleads for, and prefers ? 
 
 Alb. There, there's the mischief ; I must 
 poison him : 
 One fig 1 sends him to Erebus ; 'tis in 
 Your power and wit to spin out time ; I may 
 Invent a means for his conveyance. — Ha ! 
 
 Enter Don Carlos, Estefaxla, and Luys. 
 
 Jac. The Lady Estefania ! 
 
 Car. Welcome again ; 
 This is an honour to us. Where's Jacinta ? 
 Salute this noble lady. — Ha, Luigi, 
 Hast thou prevail'd already ? 
 
 Luys. I am i' the way, you see ; 
 She has not been observ'd, they say, to walk 
 So freely with some men that boast more favour. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 Fed. What makes the Lady Estefania here ? 
 
 \^Aside. 
 I like not their converse : this day is ominous, 
 
 [Exit. 
 Car. Was't not the Count Don Pedro that 
 retir'd 7 
 What object here displeas'd him 7 
 Alb. Ha, ha ! didst see the Don ? 
 Car. Preserve your mirth— I must be satisfied. 
 [Exit. Luys and Alb. walk aside. 
 
 1 One fig— i.e. the poisoned fig of Portugal, or rather 
 cf Spain. — Giffobd. 
 
 _ Luys. I'll lay a thousand ducats that my cos- 
 tive don has been tampering with my widow: 
 I observ'd, 
 
 When I by chance let fall discourse, how much 
 He was an amorous servant to Jacinta, 
 She chang'd her colour, and did make 
 Such business how my sister did affect him, 
 That I may guess, though I make use on't 
 
 otherwise 
 To the old man, to keep the pulses of 
 His purse in play, she came to examine chiefly 
 How matters here proceeded. Well, if she love 
 him — 
 
 Alb. She is thy mistress. 
 
 Luys. My mistress ! Yes, but any man shall 
 marry her. 
 
 Alb. How? 
 
 Luys. She is a widow, Don, consider that ; 
 Has buried one was thought a Hercules, 
 Two cubits taller, and a man that cut 
 Three inches deeper in the say^ than I ; 
 Consider that too : 
 
 She may be cock o' twenty f nay, for aught 
 I know, she is immortal. 
 
 Alb. What dost with her.' 
 
 Luys. Faith, nothing yet, 
 And have but little hope ; I think she's honest. 
 
 Alb. Does she love thee.'' 
 
 Luys. At her own peril ; we are not come to 
 articles ; 
 There is no wit in wiving. 
 
 But that I owe thee money, thou shouldst never 
 Marry my sister either. 
 
 Alb. Not Jacinta ? 
 
 Luys. No, 
 Nor any other simpering piece of honesty, 
 If I might counsel thee. 
 
 Is't fit a freeborn gentleman should be chain'd 
 Tenant for life to one .'' Hang marriage shackles ! 
 
 Jac. Don Pedro was to blame ; and trust me, 
 madam. 
 He shall find nothing here t' advance his triumph. 
 
 Estef. You are virtuous, Jacinta ; I presum'd, 
 When I should land my sufferings on your 
 
 knowledge, 
 You would excuse my unexpected visit. 
 
 Jac. My brother has been just in the relation 
 How he pursues my love ; but I shall be 
 Happy to serve your justice, and inust tell 
 The noble Estefania my heart. 
 By all that love can teach to bind a faith, 
 Is placed where it shall never injure what 
 Your mutual vows contracted. I smile not 
 With mine own eyes upon him ; 'tis my father's 
 Severe command to love him ; but this story, 
 Clear'd to my father, would secure us both. 
 
 Estef. If any faith or service in me can 
 Deserve this goodness, cheerfully employ it. 
 
 Jac. I will be confident to use your virtue. 
 
 Estef. I will refuse no office. 
 
 Re-enter Don Carlos. 
 
 Jac. My father comes most aptly. 
 
 Alb. Ha, ha, ha ! have pity on my spleen, 
 I shall crack a rib else ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Car. You are very merry, Don Alberto. — Son, 
 You may be of the counsel too ; this house 
 Is mine, I take it ; I advise you would 
 Frequent it less. 
 
 1 in the say — i.e. in the fat. To take the say, is to 
 draw the knife along the belly of the deer, near the 
 brisket, enough (say the old books on venery) in length 
 and depth to discover how fat he is. The expression 
 occurs perpetually in our old writers, in the sense of 
 making a trial and experiment. — Giffobd. 
 
 2 A cock o' twenty \^ one that has killed such a number 
 of his antagonists in the pit.— Giffobd. 
 
540 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Aib. How, sir? 
 Car. I do not like your visits ; 
 And, to remove the cause, my daughter is 
 Already, sir, dispos'd to one above 
 Your birth and fortune ; so, [sir,] fare you well ! 
 You understand ; now laugh and pick your 
 
 teeth. 
 Daughter — 
 
 Alb. Did you hear this, Luys ? 
 
 Luys. Ay, the old man raves. 
 
 Alb. Must not frequent his house ! 
 
 Luys. Would 'twere in a flame, so his money 
 
 and I were out on't. 
 AJb. But thy sister — 
 Luys, Would be refin'd i' the fire; let her 
 
 burn too. 
 Alb. My friend, if I have not Jacinta, 
 There are certain sums of money — 
 
 Luys. I am not 
 Of your mind, Don ; the sums are most uncer- 
 tain. 
 Come, you did laugh too loud ; my father is 
 A stoic ; but despair not ; go to j'^our lodging. 
 I'll see thee anon, and either bring thee money. 
 Or else some reasons why I do not bring it. 
 We will not go to law ; I'll pawn the widow 
 Eather than thou shalt want. Go, say thy 
 
 prayers, 
 And show thy teeth no more, till I come to 
 thee. — {Exit Alberto. 
 
 Now, the business here ? 
 
 Car. We have agreed, Jacinta ; 
 And he, to-morrow, privately, 
 Will at the church expect thee ; 'tis an age 
 Till I salute thee bride to this great Don, 
 Whose thoughts are wing'd t' enjoy thee, and 
 
 resolve 
 No more delay : prepare to meet this honour. 
 lAiys. To-moiTow ! this must be cross'd. 
 
 \Asidp^. 
 Car. My next ambition, madam, will be perfect, 
 To call you by some nearer name ; my son — 
 
 Estef. Is a most noble gentleman ; 1 know not 
 Where lives so clear a merit. 
 luuys. Oh, sweet madam ! 
 Car. Jacinta! 
 Luys. I liave a suit to you. 
 EstcJ. Tome? 
 
 Luys. Only that you would not dote too much 
 upon me : a gentle, easy, sober pace in love goes 
 far, and is much better than a gallop. If you 
 please, we may hold one another in hand, and 
 love this seven years without sealing and deliver- 
 ing. 
 
 Estef. With all my heart. 
 Ijuys. You'll do me a pleasure, madam. 
 Estef. You instruct well. 
 Luys. This courtship is not common. 
 Estef. I confess it. 
 Car. Son Luys. 
 
 lAiys. Sir. [Car. and Luys converse aside. 
 
 Car. Let her not cool. 
 Luys. An she do, 
 I know the way to heat her again. 
 
 Estef. I will not yet reveal my abuse, Jacinta ; 
 And if you please to favour a design, 
 I have a plot may serve to both our happiness. 
 
 Jac. I'll obey. 
 There is a trembling in my heart. 
 
 Car. You must not leave us yet, madam. 
 Estef. You may command me. 
 Luys. My Don so rampant! there something 
 iu this pannier 
 Shall spoil your match to-morrow : Don Alberto, 
 When 1 disclose, shall worship me, be drunk, 
 Cancel arrears, and beg to lend more money. 
 
 {Exeunt, 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Dos Eamyres' House. 
 
 Enter Eamyres reading a paper, Francisco, and 
 a Notary. 
 
 Earn. 'Tis most exactly done, and firm. 
 
 Nota. I could. 
 Omitting or inserting but a word, 
 Or particle, trouble the whole conveyance. 
 And make work for the law tiU doomsday ; but — 
 
 Fran. Is't possible ? 
 
 Nota. You do not know the quirks of a scrivano. 
 A dash undoes a family, — a point. 
 An artificial accent i' the wrong place. 
 Shall poison an estate, translate your land_ 
 In Spain now, into either of both Indies, 
 In less time than our galleons of plate 
 Are sailing hither ; but you are my friend 
 And noble benefactor. 
 
 Ram. There is more 
 For your reward. [Gives him money. 
 
 Nota. I humbly thank you, signior ; su criado. 
 
 Fran. Farewell. 
 
 Nota. Su servidor. {Exit. 
 
 Ram. This deed makes thee my heir, Fran- 
 cisco, and 
 Will, like a powerful spell upon Don Carlos, 
 Whose soul is superstitious about wealth, 
 Win his consent to make Jacinta thine. 
 
 Fran. Sir, 
 I cannot saj- my duty shall deserve it, 
 Since nature and religion, without all 
 This bounty, challenges my best obedience. 
 
 Enter Fernando. 
 
 Ram. Away I thy sight 
 Is my disease. 
 
 Fer. Your blessing, sir, I kneel for. 
 Ram. What impudence is this? Wilt thou 
 subscribe, 
 To take off mine, thy curse on Felisarda ? 
 For I do hate her heartily : disclaim 
 All promise, contract, or converse for ever, 
 I'm else inexorable. 
 Fer. Sir! 
 
 Ram. His eyes shoot poison at me ; ha ! he has 
 Bewitched m*e, sure. What coldness thus in- 
 vades me ? 
 There's something creeping to my heart. Fran- 
 cisco ! 
 Possess this gift of thy inheritance. 
 
 {Gives him the Deed. 
 Convey me to my chamber ; oh ! — Fernando, 
 If thou dost hope I should take off my curse. 
 Do not approach my sight, unless I send for thee. 
 Fran. Forbear, good brother. — Diego ! Eo- 
 derigo I 
 
 Enter two Servants. 
 
 Your hands t' assist my father : one go for his 
 physician. {Exeunt Francisco, and Ser- 
 vants, bearing Eamyres. 
 Fer. This turn is fatal, and affrights me ; but 
 Heaven has more charity than to let him die 
 With such a hard heart ; 'twere a sin, next his 
 Want of compassion, to suspect he can 
 Take his eternal flight, and leave Fernando 
 This desperate legacy : he will [yet] change 
 The curse into some little prayer, I hope, 
 And then — 
 
 Enter Servant with a Physician. 
 
 Serv. Make haste, I beseech you, doctor. 
 Phys. Noble Fernando. 
 
 Fer. As you would have men think your art 
 is meant 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 541 
 
 Not to abuse mankind, employ it all 
 To cure vcvy poor sick father. 
 Phys. Fear it not, sir. 
 
 \Exeunt Physician and Servant. 
 Fer. But there is more than your thin skill 
 requir'd 
 T' instate a health ; your recipes, perplex'd 
 With tough names, are but mockeries and noise, 
 Without some dew from heaven, to mix and 
 make them 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Thrive in the application — What now ? 
 
 Se7\ Oh, sir, I am sent for the confessor, 
 The doctor fears him much. Your brother says 
 You must have patience, and not enter, sir : 
 Your father is a going, good old man, 
 And, having made him heii', is loath your presence 
 Should interrupt his journey. [Axti. 
 
 Fe7'. Francisco may be honest, yet, methiuks, 
 It would become his love to interpose 
 For my access at such a needful hour. 
 And mediate for my blessing, not assist 
 Unkindly thus my banishment. I'll not 
 Be lost so tamely. Shall my father die 
 And not Fernando take his leave .' — I dare not. — 
 If thou dost hope I should take off this curse, 
 Bo nut apjn^oach nnt'd 1 send — 'twas so, 
 And 'tis a law that binds above my blood. — 
 
 Re-enter Servant with a Confessor. 
 
 Make haste, good father, and if Heaven deny 
 Him life, let not his charity die too. 
 One curse may sink us both : say how I kneel 
 And beg he would bequeath me but his blessing ; 
 Then, though Francisco be his heir, I shall 
 Live happy, and take comfort in my tears, 
 When I remember him, so kind a lather. 
 
 Conf. It is my duty. [Exit. 
 
 Fer. Do your holy office. — 
 Those fond philosophers that magnify 
 Our human nature, and did boast we had 
 Such a prerogative in our rational soul, 
 Convers'd but little with the world ; confined 
 To cells and unfrequented woods, they knew not 
 The fierce vexation of comnmnity. 
 Else they had taught our reason is our loss, 
 And but a privilege that exceedeth sense. 
 By nearer apprehension of what wounds, 
 To know ourselves most miserable. — My heart 
 
 Re-enter Physician and Frakcisco. 
 
 Is teeming with new fears. — Ha ! is he dead ? 
 
 Phys. !Not dead, but in a desperate condition ; 
 And so that little breath remains we have 
 Kemitted to his confessor, whose oflS.ce 
 Is all that's left. 
 
 Fran. Is there no hope of life left, then ? 
 
 Phys. None. 
 
 Fer. Is he not merciful to Fernando yet ? 
 No talk of me ? 
 
 Phys. I find he takes no pleasure 
 To hear you nam'd: Francisco, to us all. 
 He did confirm his heir, with many blessings. 
 
 Fer. And not one left for me ! Oh, take me in. 
 Thou gentle earth, and let me creep through all 
 Thy dark and hollow crannies, till I find 
 Another way to come into the world. 
 For all the air I breathe in here is poison'd. 
 
 Fran. We must have patience, brother; it 
 was no 
 Ambitious thought of mine to supplant you : 
 He may live yet, and you be reconciled. 
 
 Fer. That was some kindness yet, Francisco : 
 but 
 I charge thee by the nearness of our blood. 
 When I am made this mockery, and wonder. 
 
 And know not where to find out charity, 
 
 If unawai'es a chance direct my weary 
 
 And wither'd feet to some fair house of thine. 
 
 Where plenty with full blessings crowns thy 
 
 table. 
 If my thin face betray my want of food, 
 Do not despise me, 'cause I was thy brother. — 
 Fran. Leave these imagined horrors: I must 
 
 not 
 Live when my brother is thus miserable. 
 
 Re-enter Confessor. 
 
 Fer. There's something in that face looks 
 comfortably. 
 
 Conf. Your father, sir, is dead; his will to 
 make 
 Francisco the sole master of his fortunes 
 Is now irrevocable ; a small pension 
 He hath given you for life, which, with his 
 
 blessing, 
 Is all the benefit I bring. 
 
 Fer. Ha! blessing! 
 Speak it again, good father. 
 
 Conf. I did apply some lenitives to soften 
 His anger, and prevail'd ; your father hath 
 Eevers'd that heavy censure of his curse, 
 And in the place bequeath'd his prayer and 
 blessing. 
 
 Fer. I am new created by his charity. 
 
 Conf. Some ceremonies are behind : he did 
 Desire to be inten*'d within our convent, 
 And left his sepulture to me ; I am confident 
 Your pieties will give me leave — 
 
 Fran. His will in all things I obey, and yours, 
 Most reverend father ; order, as you please, 
 His body ; we may after celebrate. 
 With all due obsequies, his funeral. 
 
 Fer. Why you alone obey ? I am your brother, 
 My father's eldest son, though not his heir. 
 
 Fran. It pleas'd my father, sir, to think ma 
 worthy 
 Of such a title ; you shall find me kind, 
 If you can look on matters without en vy. 
 
 Ftr. li I can look on matters without envy ! 
 
 Fran. You may live here still. 
 
 Fer. I may live here, Francisco ! 
 
 Enter a Gentleman with a lettery and whispers 
 Francisco. 
 
 Conditions? 
 
 I would not understand this dialect. — 
 
 Fran. With me ? from Madam Estefania ? 
 
 Gent. If you be Siguier Francisco. 
 
 Fer. Slighted! 
 I find my father was not dead till now. 
 Crowd not, you jealous thoughts. 
 So thick into my brain, lest you do tempt 
 Me to an act will forfeit all again. 
 
 Fran. This is Jacinta's character. — [Reads 
 aside.'] — Fail not to meet [me'] ti/ndy, os you will 
 prevent thedangerofmyrape. — My soid! Estefania 
 can instruct you alt particulars. — 
 My service to your lady ; say, I shall obey her 
 commands. [Exit. Gent. 
 
 Fer. Is that an inventory you peruse ? 
 
 Fran. Fernando, you must pardon me ; there's 
 something 
 Of essence to my life exacts my care 
 And person ; 1 must leave you, we may season- 
 ably 
 Confer of things at my return. — Jacinta ! [Exit. 
 
 Fer. 'Tis clear I am neglected ; he did name 
 Jacinta, too, in triumph, and is gone. 
 Big with his glories, to divide them there, 
 And laugh at what my constant love hath made 
 
 me. 
 My heart is in a storm, and day grows black ; 
 
542 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 There's not a star in heaven will lend a beam 
 To light me to my ruin. Felisarda ! — 
 That name is both my haven and my ship- 
 wreck. {Exit. 
 
 ACT lY.— SCENE 11. 
 Don Alberto's Lodgings. 
 Enter Alberto and Luys. 
 
 Alb. Excellent! 
 
 Luys. You'll give me now a general release 
 For all the sums I owe you ? 
 
 Alb. Thou hast bless'd me. 
 
 Luys. I was boi-n to do you good; about it 
 presently, 
 Now you know where to ambush. Away ! I say, 
 And get comrades. Jacinta and my mother 
 Is all the carriage : you may know the coach 
 By the old woman's cough, ere it come near you. 
 She has a desperate malice to one tooth left 
 Still in her gums ; till she has shook that out 
 You will not need a warning-piece. Farewell. 
 
 Alb. Farewell ? why, what's the matter ? You 
 shall not leave me ; 
 Thy mother will not know thee in a vizard. 
 
 Luys. You must excuse me, friend: I would 
 join wi' ye 
 r the surprise, but that — 
 
 Alb. What, I pr'ythee ? 
 
 Luys. I have extraordinary business, that 
 concerns me 
 As near as life. 
 
 Alb. May not I know't ? Thou art going 
 To the widow, now, thy mistress. 
 
 Luys. 'Tis a business of more consequence. 
 Dost think I would leave thee an there were not 
 such a necessity ? 
 
 Alb. For what? 
 
 Luys. An there were no more sisters in the 
 world. 
 You must excuse me. 
 
 Alb. Nay, nay ; we must not part, unless I 
 know 
 This mystery ; some reason why you leave me. 
 
 Luys. If you will needs know, there's a wench 
 stays for me, 
 The toy I told thee of. Farewell, Alberto. 
 
 Alb. But wiU you leave such business and a 
 friend ? 
 
 Luys. Business! art thou a gentleman, and 
 wouldst have me leave a lady I have not seen 
 this three year 
 
 For business or a friend ? I must to her. 
 If I had a heart [that weighed] ten ton of iron, 
 This female adamant i would draw it to her ; 
 I feel it going. I do tell thee, Don, 
 There is no business so material 
 In nature as a wench ; and if thou art my friend. 
 Thou wouldst leave my sister now in such a cause. 
 And bear me company. I must be drunk. 
 And she must pick my pocket too, that is 
 Another secret, when we meet together, 
 That never fails ! 
 
 Alb. Why, art thou desperate? 
 Dost not thou fear thy body ? 
 
 lAiys. A wench is physic 
 My body has been us'd to. Leave thy prating 
 And let me take my course. 
 
 Alb. An you be so resolute — 
 
 Luys. I must give you one advice before you go. 
 When my sister's in thy custody, observe 
 The time and place, and things convenient, 
 And stand not fooling about ceremonies. 
 But put her to't. 
 
 * adamant — magnet 
 
 Alb. Was ever such a mad-cap ! 
 
 Luys. I'll not pray for thee. 
 
 Alb. I shall not prosper if thou dost. 
 
 Luys. Thy hand ; 
 I'll drink thy health, and hang thyself. 
 Farewell. [ExeunL 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in Don Carlos' House. 
 
 Enter Jacinta and Estefania, hooded and 
 dressed alike. 
 
 Jac. You tell 
 Me wondei's, madam. Don Eamyres dead, 
 His son Fernando disinherited, 
 And young Francisco made his heir ! 
 
 Estef. I took 
 Francisco's word. 
 
 Jac. 'Tis strange. 
 
 Estef. Your stars smile on you. 
 
 Jac. Yet I much pity the poor gentleman. 
 
 Estef. Busy your thought about your own; 
 Francisco — 
 
 Jac. Hath promis'd not to fail ? 
 
 Estef. He waits where he can easily observe 
 How soon the coast is clear, to visit you. 
 
 Jac. So, so : thus hooded. 
 The day cannot distinguish our two faces. 
 And, for your voice, you know how to disguise it, 
 By imitation of my cold and hoarseness ; 
 And when you come to church — 
 
 Estef. Let me alone ; there I'll produce the 
 contract. 
 Which will surprise Don Pedro and your father 
 To see me challenge him. I have prepar'd the 
 
 priest, too, 
 Whose holy eloquence may assist ; however, 
 This will give you opportunity to perfect 
 Your wishes with your servant; put the rest 
 To fate, Jacinta. 
 
 Jac. I hear some approach ; 
 Eetire into my closet. — [Exit Estefania. 
 
 Enter Don Carlos and Don Pedro. 
 
 Ca7'. Jacinta! 
 
 Jac. Sir. 
 
 Car. Not thy voice recover'd ? 
 
 Jac. A violent cold — 
 
 Car. Count Pedro must salute you ere we go. 
 
 Fed. Impute it to devotion, that I make 
 Such haste to be within thy arms ; 
 One kiss, and I shall carry with me 
 Another soul, and count with joy the minutes 
 I am to expect this happiness. [Kisses her. 
 
 Car. Jacinta, 
 You follow with your mother in the coach. — 
 My lord, I wait you. 
 
 Fed. There's heaven upon her lip. 
 
 [Exeunt Carlos and Pedro. 
 
 Re-enter Estefania. 
 
 Jac. He has kiss'd, and took his leave, I hope. 
 I must 
 Owe all my happiness to you, sweet madam; 
 I had been lost without your art to help me. 
 Estef. Love will not leave his votaries. 
 
 [Coughing unthin. 
 Jac. I hear my mother's cough ; I have 
 finish'd. 
 And you must act your part. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Alsimira. 
 
 Als. Come, are you ready, daughter? the 
 coach stays. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 543 
 
 Estef. I attend. 
 
 Als. Don Pedro will cure your cold before the 
 morning. [Exeunt' 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Francisco and Jacenta pass hastily over the 
 stage. 
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE V 
 A Room in Theodoro's House. 
 Enter Theodoro and Feltsarda. 
 Theo. What duty, Felisarda, shall we pay 
 To Heaven for this last care of us ? 
 Let not thy eyes, 
 
 Although ihy grief become them, be in love 
 With tears : I prophesy a joy shall weigh 
 Down all our sufferings ; I see comfort break 
 , Like day, whose forehead cheers the world. If 
 
 Don 
 Fernando love thee, he is a gentleman, 
 Confirm'd in all that's honourable, and cannot 
 Forget whom his own virtue hath made choice 
 To shine upon. 
 
 Fel. Unless my innocence. 
 Apt to believe a flattering tongue, see not 
 The serpent couch, and hide his speckled breast 
 Among the flowers : but it were sin to think 
 He can dissemble, father ; and I know not. 
 Since I was first the object of his charity, 
 I find a pious gratitude disperse 
 Within my soul, and every thought of him 
 Engenders a warm sigh within me, which, 
 Like curls of holy incense, overtake 
 Each other in my bosom, and enlarge 
 With their embrace his sweet remembrance. 
 
 Theo. Cherish 
 Those thoughts; and where such noble worth 
 Be bold to call it love. [invites, 
 
 Ftl. It is too much 
 Ambition to hope he should be just 
 To me, or keep his honour, when I look on 
 The pale complexion of my wants ; and yet, 
 Unless he love me dearly, I am lost. 
 And, if he have but mock'd me into faith, 
 He might as well have murder'd me, for I 
 Shall have no heart to live, if his neglect 
 Deface what my affection printed there. 
 
 Theo. There is no fear of his revolt : lose not 
 His character. I must attend some business ; 
 If Don Fernando visit thee, preserve 
 His fair opinion, and thou may'st live 
 Above thy uncle's pity. 
 Fel. Will you leave me ? 
 Theo. My stay shall not be long. The garden will 
 With smiling flowers encourage thee to walk. 
 And raise thy drooping eyes with hope to see 
 A spring like theirs upon thee. [Exit. 
 
 Fel. Why should I 
 Give any entertainment to my fears ? 
 Suspicions are but Uke the shape of clouds, 
 And idle forms i' the air, we make to fright us. 
 I will admit no jealous thought to wound 
 Fernando's truth, but with that cheerfulness, 
 My own first clear intents to honour him 
 Can arm me with, expect to meet his faith 
 As noble as he promis'd. — Ha ! 'tis he. 
 
 Enter Fernando. 
 My poor heart trembles like a timorous leaf, 
 Which the wind shakes upon his sickly stalk, 
 And frights into a palsy. 
 
 Fer. Felisarda! 
 
 Fel. Shall I want fortitude to bid him wel- 
 come ? — [^Aside. 
 Sir, if you think there is a heart alive 
 That can be grateful, and with humble thought 
 And prayers reward your piety, despise not 
 The offer of it here ; you have not cast 
 Your bounty on a rock : while the seeds thrive 
 Where you did place your charity, my joy 
 May seem ill-di-ess'd to come like sorrow thus ; 
 But you may see through every tear, and find 
 My eyes meant innocence, and your hearty wel- 
 come. 
 Fer. Who did prepare thee, Felisarda, thus 
 To entertain me weeping ? Sure our souls 
 Meet and converse, and we not know't ; thero i^ 
 Such beauty in that watery circle, I 
 Am fearful to come near, and breathe a kiss 
 Upon thy cheek, lest I pollute that crystal ; 
 And yet I must salute thee, and I dare. 
 With one warm sigh, meet and dry up this 
 sorrow. 
 Fel. I shall forget all misery ; for when 
 I look upon the world, and race of men, 
 I find them proud, and all so unacquainted 
 With pity to such miserable things 
 As poverty hath made us, that I must 
 Conclude you sent from heaven. 
 
 Fer. Oh, do not flatter 
 Thyself, poor Felisarda ; I am mortal ; 
 The life 1 bear about me is not mine, 
 But borrow'd to come to thee once again. 
 And, ere I go, to clear how much I love thee. — 
 But first, I have a story to deliver, 
 A tale will make thee sad ; but I must tell it :— 
 There is one dead that lov'd thee not. 
 
 Fel. One dead 
 That lov'd me not ? This carries, sir, in nature 
 No killing sound : I shall be sad to know 
 I did deserve an enemy, or he want 
 A charity at death. 
 
 Fer. Thy cruel enemy. 
 And my best friend, hath took eternal leave, 
 And's gone — to heaven, I hope. Excuse my tears: 
 It is a tribute I must pay his memory, 
 For I did love my father. 
 Fel. Ha ! your father ? 
 Fer. Yes, 'Felisarda, he is gone, that in 
 The morning promis'd many years ; but death 
 Hath in few hours made him as stiff, as all 
 The winds of winter had thrown cold upon him, 
 And whisper'd him to marble. 
 
 Fel. Now trust me. 
 My heart weeps for him ; but I understand 
 Not how I was concem'd in his displeasure, 
 And in such height as you profess. 
 
 Fer. He did 
 Command me, on his blessing, to forsake thee. 
 Was't not a cruel precept, to enforce 
 The soul, and curse his son for honest love? 
 Fel. This is a wound indeed. 
 Fer. But not so mortal ; 
 For his last breath was balsam pour'd upon it, 
 By which he did reverse his malediction ; 
 And I, that groan'd beneath the weight of that 
 Anathema, sunk almost to despair. 
 Where night and heavy shades hung round 
 
 about me, 
 Found myself rising like the morning star 
 To view the world. 
 
 Fel. Never, I hope, to be 
 Eclips'd again. 
 Fer. This was a welcome blessing. 
 Fel. Heaven had a care of both : my joys are 
 mighty. 
 Vouchsafe me, sir, your pardon, if I blush, 
 And say I love, but rather than the peace 
 
544 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. 
 
 That should preserve your bosom suffer for 
 My sake, 'twere better I were dead. 
 
 Fer. No, live, 
 And live for ever happy : thou deservedst it. 
 It is Fernando doth make haste to sleep 
 In his forgotten dust. 
 
 Fel. Those accents did 
 Not sound so cheerfully. 
 Fer. Dost love me ? 
 Fd. Sir.' 
 
 Fer. Do not, I pr'jtheo, do not; I am lost, 
 Alas ! I am no more Fernando, there 
 Is nothing but the empty name of him 
 That did betray thee ; place a guard about 
 Thy heart betime; I am not worth this sweetness. 
 Fel. Did not Fernando speak all this ? Alas, 
 He knew that I was poor before, and needed not 
 Despise me now for that. 
 
 Ftr. Desert me goodness, 
 When I upbraid thy wants, 'Tis I am poor, 
 For I have not a stock in all the world 
 Of so much dust as would contrive one narrow 
 Cabin to shroud a worm : my dying father 
 Hath given away my birthright to Francisco ; 
 I'm disinherited, thrown out of all, 
 But the small earth I borrow, thus to walk on ; 
 And having nothing left, I come to kiss thee, 
 And take my everlasting leave of thee too. 
 Farewell ! this will persuade thee to consent 
 To my eternal absence. 
 
 Fel. I must beseech you stay a little, sir, 
 And clear my faith. Hath your displeased father 
 Depriv'd you then of all, and made Francisco 
 The lord of your inheritance, without hope 
 To be repair'd in fortune ? 
 Fer. 'Tis sad truth.^ 
 
 Fel. This is a happiness I did not look for. 
 Fer. A happiness ! 
 Fel. Yes, sir, a happiness. 
 Fer. Can Felisarda take delight to hear 
 What hath undone her servant ? 
 
 Fel. Heaven avert it. 
 But 'tis not worth my grief to be assured 
 That this will bring me nearer now to him 
 Whom I most honour of the world ; and 'tis 
 My pride, if you exceed me not in fortune, 
 That I can boast my heart, as high and rich, 
 With noble flame, and every way your equal. 
 And if you be as poor as I, Fernando, 
 I can deserve you now, and love you more 
 Than when your expectation carried all 
 The pride and blossoms of the spring upon it. 
 Fer. Those shadows will not feed more than 
 your fancies ; 
 Two poverties will keep but a thin table ; 
 And while we dream of this high nourishment, 
 We do but starve more gloriously. 
 
 Fel. 'Tis ease 
 And wealth first taught us art to surfeit by : 
 Nature is wise, not costly, and will spread 
 A table for us in the wilderness ; 
 And the kind earth keep us alive and healthful, 
 With what her bosom doth invite us to ; 
 The brooks, not there suspected, as the Avine 
 That sometime princes quaff, are all transparent. 
 And with their pretty murmurs call to taste them. 
 In every tree a chorister to sing 
 Health to our loves ; our lives shall there be free 
 As the first knowledge was from sin, and all 
 Our dreams as innocent. 
 
 Fer. Oh, Felisarda ! 
 If thou didst own less virtue I might prove 
 Unkind, and marry thee : but being so rich 
 
 ^'Tii tad tnith. Had Fernando forgotten that a pcn- 
 Bion was left him by his father ?— See p. 641. 
 
 In goodness, it becomes me not to bring 
 One that is poor in every worth, to waste 
 So excellent a dower: be free, and meet 
 One that hath wealth to cherish it; I shall 
 Undo thee quite ; but pray for me, as I, 
 That thou mayst change for a moi'e happy bride- 
 groom ; 
 I dare as soon be guilty of my death. 
 As make thee miserable by expecting me. 
 Farewell! and do not Avrong my soul, to think 
 That any storm could separate us two. 
 But that 1 have no fortune now to serve thee. 
 Fel. This will be no exception, sir, I hope. 
 When we are both dead, yet our bodies may 
 Be cold, and strangers in the winding-sheet, 
 We shall be married when our spirits meet. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 
 An open Space before a Church. 
 Enter Dox Carlos and Don Pedro. 
 Fed. Your daughter does not use me well, Don 
 
 Carlos. 
 Car. I know not what to think, some great 
 misfortune 
 Must be the cause. 
 
 Fed. Not yet appear ? they might, 
 An they had crept like tortoises, arrived 
 Before this time. 
 
 Car. There is some strange disaster. 
 Fed. The coach o'erthrown, and both their lives 
 endanger'd, 
 Can but excuse them. 
 
 Enter Alstmira hastily. 
 
 Ah. Oh, my lord Don Carlos ! 
 
 Fed. The tragic voice of women strikes mine 
 ear. 
 
 Car. Alsimira! 
 
 Fed. Madam. — 
 
 Car. Where is our daughter ? 
 
 Ah. My fear almost distracts me ; she is gone, 
 Stolen, ravish'd from me. 
 
 Fed. Ha! 
 
 Ah. An armed troop, 
 In vizards, forced her from my coach ; aud 
 
 Heaven knows 
 Where they have hurried the poor Jacinta. 
 
 Car. A troop of armed devils ! 
 
 Fed. Let them be 
 A legion, they are all damn'd. 
 
 Ah. Nay, they were men aud mortal sure. 
 
 Fed. I will not leave one soul amongst them 
 all. 
 
 Car. Mine is in torment. 
 r the hope and height of my ambition 
 To be thus crossed ! How 'scap'd you ? 
 
 Ah. Alas, I was not young enough; I offered 
 Myself to bear her company, and suffer 
 As much as she did, but one boisterous fellow, 
 With a starch'd voice, and a woi'se vizard, took 
 
 me 
 Just here above my sciatica, and quoited mo 
 Into the coach again upon my head 
 I had a larum in't for half an hour, 
 And so I 'scap'd with life. 
 
 Fed. Did they use her 
 With any rigour ? 
 
 Ah. To say truth, they were 
 Gentle enough to her. 
 
 Fed. That mollifies, and they may lire. 
 Car. Hell overtake them ! Let's retura. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 545 
 
 Ped. They had better ravish'd Proserpine 
 before 
 Don Lucifer's own face. I am all fury. 
 
 \Exe.urd. 
 
 ACT V.-SCENE II. 
 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Alberto, and Estefania dhguised and 
 veiled as before. 
 
 Alb. Pardon, my dear Jacinta ; it was love 
 That threw me on this act ; I had no patience 
 To see thee forced into a marriage 
 By a eovetous father, whose devotion 
 Is only wealth and title. I esteem 
 No danger, if at last the fair Jacinta 
 Smile and allow this duty ; let not silence 
 Deprive me longer of thy voice, whose every 
 Accent will please, though it pronounce my 
 
 sentence : * 
 
 There's death in this eclipse too ; sweet, dismiss 
 Thy ungentle veil, and let thy eyes make bright 
 This melancholy air, that droops and dies 
 JFor want of thy restoring beams. 
 
 Estef. Now, sir, [Takes off her veil. 
 
 What think you of your misti'ess ? 
 
 Alb. You are the lady Estefania, I take it. 
 
 Estef. Yes, you did take me from the coach, 
 Alberto, 
 But by a consequence I find you thought 
 Jacinta in your power ; I could have told you, 
 Had you discovex-'d sooner what you were, 
 Where to have found your mistress, but she's 
 
 now 
 Above your hope, and by the priest, ere this. 
 Made wife to Don Francisco. 
 
 Alb. To Don Pedro. 
 
 Estef. It was not, sir, impossible that I, 
 Had not your violence prevented me 
 (By a plot between Jacinta and myself. 
 To take her place and person in the coach), 
 Had by this time been married to Count Pedro, 
 Whom I have power and justice, sir, to challenge, 
 If contracts carry weight. 
 
 Alb. Have I so long 
 Lain beating at the bush, and is the bird 
 Fled to Francisco ? 
 
 Estef. I should show I had 
 A passion, sir, and sense of this captivity. 
 But that I find 'twas error, and not will. 
 Led you to this ; and your own loss, now made 
 Irreparable, helps to tie up my anger. 
 
 Alb. Madam, I must confess a wrong, and dare 
 Submit to let your anger punish me. 
 For I despise myself, now I have lost 
 My expectation ; and if you please 
 To think I had no malice in this act 
 To you, you can propose no satisfaction 
 I shall esteem a penance to repair you. 
 As far as my poor life, if you'll direct it. 
 
 Estef. 'Tis nobly promis'd, sir. You shall re- 
 deem 
 In my thoughts what is past, if you be pleas'd 
 To make my stay no longer here ; I have 
 No desperate aim to make Don Pedro yet 
 Know how to right [me], or make public what 
 Should bind his honour to perform. 
 
 Alb. Was not Luys, madam^ entertain'd your 
 servant ? 
 
 Estef. I shall make known the story, if you 
 walk 
 But to Don Carlos' house. 
 
 Alb. You shall command me. [^Exeunt 
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IIL 
 
 A Room in Don Carlos' House, 
 
 Enter Carlos, Alsimira, and Servant. 
 
 Car. No news yet of Jacinta ? 
 
 Als. None. 
 
 Car, He must 
 Not live in Spain, nor in the world, if my 
 Kevenge can overtake him, that has stolen 
 My daughter ; could you not by voice or habit 
 Guess at the ravisher ? ye are traitors all. 
 
 Als. Now I consider better, I suspect 
 Alberto one of the conspiracy ; 
 Some voice did sound like his. You know he 
 lov'd her. 
 
 Car, Ha! Alberto? 
 
 Als. And how he might engage some ruffians 
 To cross Don Pedro. 
 
 Car. It was he ; where's Luys ? 
 I do not like his absence, they're both guilty : 
 My own blood turn'd a rebel! Send for the 
 
 alcaides. 
 They shall both trot like thieves to the corre- 
 
 gidor. — 
 Where is Count Pedro ? 
 
 Als. Gone in search 
 Of his lost mistress. 
 
 Car. When all things were ripe, 
 The very priest prepar'd to seal our joys, 
 A work my brain did labour for, and sweat 
 With hope to see accomplish'd, undermin'd, 
 And in a minute all blown up I 
 
 Als. Have patience. 
 She may be found again. 
 
 Car. But how my lord 
 May be inclin'd to accept her, foil'd, or wounded 
 
 Enter Luys drunk. 
 
 In fame. — 
 
 Als. Luys is here. 
 
 Car. Borachio ! here's a spectacle ! more afflic- 
 tion! 
 Where is your sister ? what's become of Jacinta ? 
 
 Luys. My sister and Jacinta are gone together ; 
 I know all the business. 
 
 Als. Where is she ? 
 
 Luys. She is very well; I know not where 
 she is. 
 But Don Alberto is an honest gentleman, 
 And has by this time done the feat. 
 
 Car. Confusion ! 
 
 Luys. You think you had all the wit, it was 
 my plot. 
 You may thank Heaven that you are old and 
 ugly, \to Alsimira. 
 
 You had been no mother of this world. — But, sir, 
 I have some news would be deliver'd privately. — 
 Mother of mine, avaunt ! 
 
 Car. Thou'rt not my son. 
 Was ever man so miserable ?• -Away 
 Thou sponge !— Get him to sleep. 
 
 Als, I dare not meddle with him. \Exit. 
 
 Luys. In sobriety 
 A word. 
 
 Car, Where is Alberto ? 
 
 Luys. Where every honest man should be. 
 Old man, I have consider'd o' the foi-mer matter 
 we talked on, and would do things like a dutiful 
 son, but I find that a wife is not altogether so 
 convenient for me as a — 
 
 Car, Will none deliver me ? 
 
 Luys, They are somewhat slug.^ — Now I have 
 found out an excellent tumbler, that can do the 
 
 » 5?w^— sluggish, slow. 
 
 2m 
 
546 
 
 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 somerset ; please you to be acquainted with her 
 and give me your opinion : she is but seven- 
 teen : there's a periwinkle ! I had a gemini befoi-e 
 I went to travel, and I am bound in conscience, 
 if you think fit, to see her well provided for — 
 
 Car. With whips, — I'll have her skin flay'd ojBf. 
 
 Luys. Her skin flay'd off! dost thou know, 
 mortal man, Avhat thou hast said? I tell thee, 
 Don, nothing can come near her in the shape of 
 an officer; she is a very basilisk, and will kill 
 them with her eyes threescore yards point- 
 blank : but you may talk, and do your pleasure 
 with her, for I came o' purpose to bring her to 
 your lodging ; if you love me, do but see her ; it 
 shall cost you nothing, you shall be my friend ; 
 hang money ! 
 
 Car. Thus will my state consume; vexation! 
 What shall I do ? when you have slept, Luys, 
 I'll tell you more. — Attend him to his chamber, 
 And make his door fast. 
 
 Ijuys. You will consider on't? 
 Upon those terms I will go sleep a tAvinkling. 
 
 \Exeunt Servant and Luys. 
 
 Car. And will not all this take away my 
 senses ? 
 My son is lost too ! this is all a curse 
 For my ambition and my avarice. 
 
 Re-enter Alsijhra, and a Servant with a lettei\ 
 
 Ah. News, Don Carlos, from our daughter. 
 
 Car. Ha ! a letter ! 'tis Jacinta's hand. 
 
 [I'eads. 
 
 Ah. Know'st thou where she is'? 
 
 Sei'. Yes, madam, and her resolution to attend 
 her father, with my master, Don Francisco, if 
 Don Carlos please to admit them ; the matter's 
 
 Ah. What matter? [done. 
 
 Sei'. They are as fast as any priest can make 
 them. 
 
 Ca7'. Wife to Francisco, now his father's heir ! 
 That's some allay, if it be true ; she Avrites — 
 
 Don Pedro was contracted to Estefania, who 
 supplied her person in the coach — 'twas not 
 Jacinta was ravish'd. Then Don Pedro was not 
 noble, after he had made faith, to intangle my 
 Jacinta. — Hum ! say they shall be welcome. 
 
 Ser. They are present, sir. {^Exit. 
 
 Enter Franxisco and Jacinta. 
 
 Car. I am not yet collected, but if this 
 Paper be justified,^ I receive you both. — 
 Peruse those wonders, Alsimira. 
 
 Jac. Sir, 
 Though by the tie of nature you may challenge 
 All duty, this is done so like a father, 
 It exceeds all your care. 
 
 Fran. Let this confirm ; 
 I bring a fortune not to be despis'd, 
 But were I master of the world, I should 
 At price of all my wealth, think this a treasure 
 Purchas'd too cheap. 
 
 Car. My blessing and my prayers ; I'm new 
 created, 
 And bow to that great Providence : all Joy 
 Spread through your souls! this is not much 
 
 Fran. But what's become of Madam Estefania, 
 That took Jacinta's place ? 
 
 Ah. Forced from the coach 
 By Don Alberto, thinking her my daughter. 
 
 Jac. That part of our plot fail'd; but my 
 intents 
 Were fair, and to assist this injur'd lady. 
 
 >t«<(/fed— verified, proved true. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. Don Pedro, sir. 
 
 Car. You shall for some few minutes 
 "Withdraw into that chamber, in his passion 
 He may be violent ; leave me to moderate [him]. 
 
 Fran. I shall obey you, sir. 
 
 ^Exeunt Francisco and Jacinta. 
 
 Enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Fed. Was ever man of my great birth and 
 fortune 
 Affronted thus ? I am become the talk 
 Of every picaro and ladron ; ^ I challenge 
 A reparation of my honour ; where's 
 Jacinta ? 'Tis a plot, a base contrivement 
 To make my name ridiculous, the subject 
 Of every scurril language. 
 
 Car. My lord, with pardon 
 Of your altesa,2 you're not injur'd here, 
 Unless I have been faulty in too much 
 Observance, and desires to serve your person 
 With th' almost sacrifice of ray daughter. 
 
 Fed. Ha! 
 Too much to me ? 
 
 Car. I would you had remember'd 
 How much your honour was engag'd before, 
 By conti-act, to another, when you mock'd 
 The innocent Jacinta, now not mine. 
 
 Fed. Who hath traduc'd my fame, or mention'd 
 me 
 With that dishonour ? I disclaim all contracts ; 
 The un confined air's not more free than I 
 To all the world, except your beauteous daughter. 
 
 Car. Do you know the Lady Estefania ? 
 
 Fed. Dares she make saucy claim ? My breath 
 dissolves it. 
 If every lady whom we grace with our converse 
 Should challenge men of my nobility — 
 
 Ca7\ I wish, my lord, you could evade it, for 
 The honour of my family ; if your conscience 
 Or art can nullify that lady's interest, 
 I am resolv'd — my son Luigi shall 
 Then marry with that widow. — [Aside."] — I have 
 
 no other 
 Ambition. 
 
 Fed. You are wise, and I 
 Am fortified to clear myself thought-free 
 From any promise to that sullen madam. — 
 
 Enter Alberto, and Estefania disguised as 
 before^ with a paper in her hand. 
 
 Ha I 'tis Jacinta, and she wears the jewel 
 
 I did present, conspicuously. — I ask 
 
 No reason for thy absence, let me chain 
 
 My darling in this amorous curl ; 'tis happiness 
 
 Enough to repossess thee : not the policy 
 
 And power of hell shall separate us again. 
 
 Este/. It is but justice, sir ! 
 
 [ Uncovering her face. 
 
 Fed. Ha! Estefania! 
 
 Alb. Do you know her, sir? 
 
 Estef. Do you know this character ? 
 
 [Showing him the paper. 
 
 Fed. Conspiracy! 
 
 Estef. When this is read, Don Carlos, 
 You will imagine he has wrong'd your daughter. 
 
 Car. Is this your hand. Count Pedro ? 
 
 Fed. Mine ? 'tis counterfeit, 
 Upon my honour ; and I thus dissolve 
 Thy insolent claim. [Tears the paper in pieces. 
 
 ^ Of every picaro and ladron — every rogue and th^f. 
 2 aUesa — highness. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 547 
 
 Estef. Nothing can bind, I see, 
 A false heart. 
 
 Car. This must give you freedom, madam, 
 If you release his hasty vow. 
 
 Estef. Faith cannot 
 Be compell'd, sir. 
 
 Fed. These are all impostures : 
 I take myself into myself. 
 
 All. What shall 
 Become of her, my noble Count ? 
 
 Fed. I pity her. 
 But cannot cure her wound ; and if you be 
 Her friend, advise her to contain her passions, 
 And wisely love one that can entertain it. 
 
 Alh. You hear this, madam ? 
 
 Estef. And can smile upon 
 His violated faith. 
 
 Car. Now for Luigi, 
 To strike in with the widow 
 
 Serv. He's asleep. 
 
 Car. I'll wake and quicken him. {Exit. 
 
 Estef Hadst thou been worth my love, I 
 should have held 
 Thee worth my anger, shadow of a lord ! 
 Thy greatness I despise, and think thee now 
 Too poor for my revenge, and freely give 
 Thee back thy barren promises ; and when 
 I read in story one that has been perjur'd, 
 I'll write Don Pedro in the place of him 
 That broke his faith, and thank my fate to have 
 miss'd thee. 
 
 Alh. If you please, madam, while he's i' the 
 humour 
 Of being base, I'll make him gather up 
 These paper relics, which he shall make himself 
 Up into rolls, and having swallow'd them 
 For pills, thank you his physic was so gentle. 
 
 Estef. It will be too much time and breath 
 lost on him. 
 
 Alb. It will become me, madam, to attend you. 
 \^Exeunt Estefania and Alberto. 
 
 Fed. So, she is taken off, and my path free 
 To Carlos' daughter. 
 
 Ee-enter Dox Carlos and Luts. 
 
 Luys. Contracted to Don Pedro, say [you] ? 
 
 Car. She was. — Where is Estefania ? 
 
 Fed. Gone with Alberto, proud to wait upon 
 The lady I neglected. 
 
 Cai'. Follow them, Luys. 
 I do not like he should insinuate. 
 Now she is free, and his hopes desperate in 
 Jacinta's love. 
 
 Luys. How long have I slept, sir ? 
 
 Car. Thou dost dream still. Pursue the 
 widow now. 
 Or never look at such a fortune [more]. 
 
 Luys. Is she gone with Alberto ? What if I 
 say 
 I have lain with her, and that she's with child 
 by me? 
 
 Car. That would stain both your fames. Away, 
 and welcome 
 When thou return'st, and she confirm'd. 
 
 Luys. I'll confirm her, or confound somebody : 
 No more ; I am awake. This is Don Pedro, 
 I'll talk with him first. — Will you justify^ 
 The widow is a widow still, and sweet. 
 For all your contract ? that you have not been 
 My rival, as they say, after the flesh, 
 And that you did not know I had a mind. 
 Or not a mind, to do the deed of matrimony ? 
 
 Fed. Not I, upon my honour. 
 
 *>i«fiy"y— prove. 
 
 Luys. You are witness. — 
 Now to Alberto. 
 
 Car. Manage the business temperately. 
 
 Luys. Let me alone to be temperate; if I do 
 not cozen somebody, let me never drink sack 
 again. [Exit. 
 
 Car. What think you of Jacinta now, my 
 lord? 
 
 Fed. As of the saint I pay my chief devotions 
 to. 
 
 Enier Fernando with his sword drawn. 
 
 Fer. I come to seek one that I late call'd 
 
 brother. 
 But he hath forfeited that name, and Justice, 
 Weary of such a prodigy in nature, 
 Hath arm'd me thus in her revenge. — Don Carlos, 
 Obscure him not, no darkness can protect him ; 
 My sword shall forage every room like lightning. 
 No cave but it shall visit, and through ribs 
 Of steel compel my passage to his heart, 
 Although I meet him in his mistress' arms. 
 The lover's sanctuary, I dare force Francisco, 
 And with my sword cut the embrace that chains 
 
 him, 
 Eather than he shall glory in my ruins. 
 And revel out those honours with her he 
 Took from my blood. 
 
 Re-enter Francisco with a parchment in his hand. 
 
 Fran. It shall not need, Fernando. 
 
 Fed. Hum! here is like to be a bloody 
 business ; 
 I'll not disturb them. {^Exit. 
 
 Car. As you are brothers, by your father's dust 
 That should sleep quiet in his urn, by her 
 Dear name that gave you life, that now prays 
 
 for you. 
 Chide this unnatural fury. 
 
 Fran. What demands 
 Fernando ? 
 
 Fer. My inheritance, wrought from me 
 By thy sly creeping to supplant my birth, 
 And cheat our father's easy soul, unworthily 
 Betraying to his anger, for thy lust 
 Of wealth, the love and promise of two hearts ; 
 Poor Felisardo and Fernando now 
 Wither at soul, and, robb'd by thee of that 
 Should cherish virtue, like to rifled pilgrims 
 Met on the way, and having told their story. 
 And dropp'd their even tears for both their loss, 
 Wander from one another. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis not, sure, 
 Fernando, but his passion, that obeys not 
 The counsel of his reason, would accuse me ; 
 And if my father now (since spirits lose not 
 Intelligence, but more active when they have 
 Shook off their chains of flesh) would leave his 
 
 dwelling, 
 And visit this coarse orb again, my innocence 
 Should dare the appeal, and make Fernando see 
 His empty accusations. 
 
 Fer. He that thrives 
 By wicked art, has confidence to dress 
 His action with simplicity, and shapes 
 To cheat our credulous natures ; 'tis ray wonder 
 Thou durst do so much injury, Francisco, 
 As must provoke my justice to revenge, 
 Yet wear no sword. 
 
 Fran. I need no guard ; I know 
 Thou darest not kill me. 
 
 Fer. Dare I not ? 
 
 Fran. And name 
 Thy cause ; 'tis thy suspicion, not Francisco, 
 Hath wrought thee high and passionate. To 
 assure it, 
 
548 
 
 777^ ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. 
 
 If you dare violate, I dare possess you 
 With all my title to your land. 
 
 Car. How is that ? 
 Will you resign the interest to such 
 A fair estate, and wrong my daughter, sir ? 
 Fran, Let him receive it at his peril. 
 
 [^Gives the parchment to Fernando, who 
 reads it. 
 Fer. Ha! 
 
 Fran. It was my father's act, not mine; he 
 trembled 
 To hear his curse alive, what horror will 
 His conscience feel when he shall spurn his dust 
 And call the reverend shade from his bless'd seat. 
 To this bad world again, to walk and fright him ? 
 Car. I am abused.* 
 Fer. Can this be more than dream ? 
 Fran. Sir, you may cancel it, but think withal 
 How you can answer him that's dead, when he 
 Shall charge your timorous soul for this con- 
 tempt 
 To nature and religion, to break 
 His last bequest and breath, that seal'd your 
 blessings ! 
 Car. These are fine fancies. 
 Fer. Here, and may it prosper, 
 
 [^Gives hack the parchment to Francisco. 
 Where my good father meant it ; I'm o'ercome. 
 Forgive me, and enjoy it ; I may find 
 Some earth that is not thine, where I may die, 
 And take up a dark chamber : love Jacinta, 
 And, while I seek out where to be forgotten. 
 Live happy, and divide the spring between you. 
 
 [^Going. 
 
 Enter Eamyres, Felisarda, and Theodoro 
 behind. 
 
 Fran. So, so ; all's well again. 
 
 Ram. {coming forward with the rest.l — Fer- 
 nando, stay ! 
 
 Fer. Ha ! my father and Felisarda ? 
 
 Car. Don Eamyres and my niece ? 
 
 Fer. Are they both dead 7 [Fernando kneels. 
 I dare kneel too ; they do converse. — Don Carlos, 
 Do not you know that shape ? 'tis wondrous like 
 Your niece. 
 
 Car. And that your father ; ha ? 
 
 Fer. How long hath Felisarda been a sad 
 Companion to the shades .' I did not think 
 To find thee in this pale society 
 Of ghosts so soon. 
 
 Fel. I am alive, Fernando, 
 And Don Ramyres still thy living father. 
 
 Fran. You may believe it, sir. I was o' the 
 counsel. [Exit. 
 
 Fer. It is a joy will tempt me wish to live 
 Here, without more ambition to change 
 For blessings of the other world ; and is 
 My father willing that we both should live ? 
 
 Car. Men thought you dead. 
 
 Ham. It lay within 
 The knowledge of Francisco, and some few, 
 By this device to advance my younger son 
 To a marriage with Jacinta, sir, and try 
 Fernando's piety and his mistress' virtue ; 
 Which I have found worth him, and my accept- 
 ance. — 
 With her I give thee what thy birth did chal- 
 Keceive thy Felisarda. [lenge : 
 
 Fer. 'T is a joy 
 So flowing, it drowns all my faculties ; 
 My soul will not contain, I fear, but lose, 
 And leave me in this ecstasy. 
 Car. I am cheated. 
 
 Ram. Not so; what dower you add above 
 that fortune 
 
 Descends upon her by your sister's legacy, 
 Francisco shall deserve, with a proportion 
 
 Re-enter Francisco and Jacinta. 
 Out of my state ; live and be happy both, 
 You shall not want a father in my care. 
 Our children thus increased, Don Carlos, 'tis 
 Our shame if we neglect them. — Theodoro, 
 You now may call me brother. 
 
 Theo. 1 am honour'd. 
 
 Car. Well, take my blessing too. Love her, 
 Francisco. 
 My bounty is to come, and if my son 
 But finish with his mistress — he's return'd ; — 
 
 Re-enter LuYS. 
 
 [Aside to Luys 
 
 Where is the widow ? 
 
 Luys. Sure enough. 
 
 Car. And Don Alberto ? 
 
 Luys. I have made him sure too ; I have 
 pepper'd him. 
 
 Car. How? 
 
 Luys. In your ear, I have cut his throat. Do 
 none pursue me ? 
 
 Car. I hope thou hast not killed him ? ha ? 
 
 Luys. You hope too late ; I could not help it ; 
 You said he was my rival. 
 
 Car. Not too loud. 
 
 Luys. Where, where shall I obscure me ? 
 The alcaides 
 Will be here presently, and search for me. 
 I left him giving up the ghost, at a cranny 
 I made into his side, through which a man 
 Might see into his midriff. 
 
 Car. Art thou desperate? 
 
 LAtys. Beside one window, that did look into 
 his lungs, from whence his wind came strong 
 enough in six hours' sail to despatch a carrack to 
 the straits. 
 
 Car. I'm mad. 
 
 Luys. I should neglect my life, but 'twould 
 not sound well 
 With your honour that Don Carlos' son was 
 
 hang'd, 
 Or put into the galleys. Are they not come yet ? 
 
 Car. I am undone ; there is no safety here ; 
 Make fast those doors, and by the postern gate 
 Thou mayst escape. Take the best hoi'se : 
 away! 
 
 Luys. I shall want money, sir. 
 
 Car. Come, follow me. 
 This accident, I fear, will quite distract me. 
 
 Luys. You must despatch me quickly, sir; 
 there is 
 No staying to tell the money, give't me in lump : 
 I'll count it afterwards. Good sir, make haste. 
 [Exeunt IjVYs and Carlos. 
 
 Ram. Something hath happen'd that doth fresh 
 perplex him. 
 
 Fran. Where is Don Pedro ? 
 
 Fer. He's here. 
 
 Re-enter Don Pedro. 
 
 Fed. The storm is over, sure ; I hear no noise. 
 Toledos 1 are asleep.— Jacinta ! have 
 I found my love [here] ? 
 
 Fran. Here 'twas lost indeed : 
 I must allow no such familiarity 
 With my wife. 
 
 Fed. How! married? 
 
 Jac. 'Tis most true, my lord. 
 
 Fed. You have not used me thus ? 
 
 Fran. It had been impious to divorce your 
 heart 
 
 1 ro/ec?os— s'.vords. From Toledo in Spain, where 
 swords of the finest temper were manufactured. 
 
JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 549 
 
 From Estefania ; my good lord, we know 
 Your lordship is religious in your promises. 
 Fed. I defy all Estefanias ; lady, you are civil. 
 \To Felisabda. 
 Fer. It will become my care so to preserve her, 
 My honourable Count. 
 
 Fed. Honourable? 
 It appears not by these contempts. 
 Ram. Your lordship cannot want a female 
 
 furniture. 
 Fed. I must have somebody ; now I'm pre- 
 par'd, my blood 
 Will take it ill ; would I had Estefania ! — 
 
 Fe-enter Alberto and Estefania. 
 She's here. — Madam, I hope you have a better 
 faith than to believe I was in earnest. Don 
 Pedro is only at your service. 
 
 Estef. 'Tis too late, sir; this gentleman is 
 witness 
 Of your surrender, and is now possess'd 
 Of all that's mine. 
 
 Alb. It was your noble bounty, 
 For which I cannot study a return 
 More apt than to resign to your good lordship 
 My interest in Jacinta: give you joy, Count 5 
 Such a rich widow serves my turn. 
 
 Fed. So, so ; 
 If I consider well, this is but justice. 
 
 Re-enter Don Carlos. 
 Car. Ha! 
 Are not you Don Alberto ? — Fetch back Luys. 
 Alb. The very same, sir, and this lady is my 
 wife ; 
 Please you, salute her. 
 
 Re-enter Luys. 
 
 Lui/s. Sir, for the credit of your wisdom, talk 
 not; 
 The man, you see, 's alive, and married too. 
 With my consent. Alas, I ow'd him money ; 
 That widow has paid all ; I must be honest, 
 I had no heart to leave you so unsatisfied. 
 These sums must go for other debts. — 
 My debts do clog my conscience, and are better 
 When they are timely paid, sir, than let run 
 With their long teeth to bite your state here- 
 after ; 
 And if, when I am free, you dare but trust me — 
 
 Car. Was ever father cheated thus? Come 
 hither ; 
 How dar'st thou be so impudent ? 
 
 Zdiys. I cannot help it, sir ; unless you die 
 Or give me better means, I shall make bold 
 With these devices ; you are my father, sir. 
 And I am bound — 
 
 Cai\ To cozen me ? 
 
 Luys. All must be mine, and if 
 I pay myself a little before the day, 
 
 You shall be no loser when you come to reckon ; 
 This shall not make a breach 'twixt you and I, 
 They are honest men I owe this money to. 
 When I am clear, prescribe me any method, 
 And rank me like your son, I will deserve 
 You shall forget my wildness, and acknowledge 
 
 me 
 A convert without blemish to your family. 
 
 Ram. I must be intercessor. 
 
 Jac. And we all. 
 
 Car. I'll think upon't. 
 
 Fed. Since I cannot have Jacinta, I desire 
 I may have her brother. 
 
 Luys. Not in marriage ! 
 
 Fed. I like his wit, his spirit, and his humour. — 
 Thou shalt never want. 
 We'll live together, 
 And, if thy father be not bountiful, 
 Thou shalt command my fortune. 
 
 Luys. You speak nobly. 
 
 Fed. Ladies, I ask your pardon ; 
 Unless you hold me desperate, disdain not 
 That I may this day wait upon your triumph, 
 And to each bride offer some gift to expiate 
 My folly and offence. 
 
 Ram. You are too bountiful. 
 
 Car. You're all my guests to-day. 
 
 Ram. I beg your next 
 Kemove may place the scene of joy with me ; 
 My house shall be much honour'd. Lead the 
 
 way. 
 With verse and wine let poets crown this day. 
 
 [Exezmt. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Spoken by Don Pedro. 
 
 So, so ; your danger's over,' and the state 
 Secure, as when our fleet in eighty-eight 
 Was fir'd and scatter'd. To confirm it true, 
 Here is Don Pedro, taken prisoner too ; 
 I'm at your mercy, gentlemen, and I 
 Confess, without a rack, conspiracy. 
 So far as my poor part i' the play comes to; 
 But I am innocent from hurt to you. 
 And I dare quit the rest from any plot 
 Meant but to please ; if you believe it not, 
 I dare make oath ; your hands can do no less 
 Than certify your friends what I confess. 
 
 » The danger of the ' Spanish plot.' See the Prologue. 
 The next line contains an allusion to the defeat and de- 
 struction of the Spanish Armada in 1588.— Gijffokd. 
 
 MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, 
 PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE. 
 

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