Title: Thomas Dekker
Author: Thomas Dekker
Editor: Ernest Rhys
Release date: April 10, 2014 [eBook #45357]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by Henry Flower and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (https://archive.org/details/americana)
The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Mermaid Series. Edited by H. Ellis. The best plays of the old dramatists. Thomas Dekker. Edited, with an introduction and notes by Ernest Rhys., by Thomas Dekker, Edited by Ernest Rhys
Note: | Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/thomasdekker00dekkiala |
THE MERMAID SERIES.
Edited by Havelock Ellis.
The Best Plays of the Old Dramatists.
Thomas Dekker.
In Half-Crown Monthly Volumes uniform with the present Work.
THE MERMAID SERIES.
The Best Plays of the Old Dramatists.
The following comprise the earlier Volumes of the series:—
MARLOWE. Edited by Havelock Ellis. With a General Introduction by J. A. Symonds.
MASSINGER. Edited by Arthur Symons.
MIDDLETON. With an Introduction by A. C. Swinburne.
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER (2 vols.). Edited by J. St. Loe Strachey.
CONGREVE. Edited by Alexander C. Ewald.
DEKKER. Edited by Ernest Rhys.
NERO and other plays. Edited by H. P. Horne, etc.
WEBSTER & CYRIL TOURNEUR. Edited by J. A. Symonds.
SHIRLEY. Edited by Edmund Gosse.
BEN JONSON (2 vols.). Edited by C. H. Herford.
OTWAY. Edited by the Hon. Roden Noel.
THOMAS HEYWOOD. Edited by J. A. Symonds.
FORD. Edited by Havelock Ellis.
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM, and other Plays attributed to Shakespeare. Edited by Arthur Symons.
EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,
By Ernest Rhys.
UNEXPURGATED EDITION.
LONDON:
VIZETELLY & CO., 42, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1887.
LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
PAGE | |
Thomas Dekker | vii |
The Shoemaker’s Holiday | 1 |
The Honest Whore.—Part the First | 89 |
The Honest Whore.—Part the Second | 191 |
Old Fortunatus | 287 |
The Witch of Edmonton | 387 |
In Henslowe’s Diary, among the curious items which Alleyn’s fellow manager in the Fortune and other theatres set down concerning his transactions in the plays of the time, the name of a certain “Mr. Dickers,” will be found under date 8th of January, 1597. In this way, the adventure of Thomas Dekker into the precarious field of dramatic authorship is first recorded for us. The entry refers to some twenty shillings “lent unto Thomas Dowton” to buy a book of Dekker’s, no doubt the MS. of some play written by him, the name of which, however, is not given. A week later, a second entry notes again a disbursement, this time of four pounds, also for a book of his “called Fayeton” (Phaeton), possibly a further part of the same work. The third entry referring to him is ominous: “Lent unto the companey, the 4 of febreary 1598, to disecharge Mr. Dicker owt of the[Pg viii] cownter in the powltrey, the some of fortie shillings. I saye dd to Thomas Dowton ... xxxxs.” In the sorry indication of these three entries, showing first the promising emergence of the young playwright, and then immediately the coming of disaster upon him, and his being lodged for debt in “the Counter in the Poultry,” we have at once the key to Dekker’s career. Dekker, perhaps the most original and most striking figure among the lesser known men of that brilliant array which follows Marlowe, is at the same time one of the most unfortunate in his life and its artistic outcome, judged by the standard of his own genius. It was as if Fortune, to take a figure from his own play, having first presented him with the gift which, as a poet of the time, he most desired,—the playwright’s great opportunity, then turned upon him, and said,—
If, however, he lived with cares, he laughed at them, and he was too strong to let them kill him outright. But, nevertheless, there they were; they never perhaps quite upset that undaunted good-humour of his, but they defeated him as an artist, they allied themselves insidiously with his own natural weaknesses to defeat the consummation of a really great poetic faculty.
Dekker, however, is one of those authors whose personal effect tends to outgo the purely artistic one. He has the rare gift of putting heart into[Pg ix] everything he says, and because of this abounding heartiness of his, it is hard to measure him by the absolute standards of criticism. Indeed, after the endless shortcomings and disappointments of his verse and prose have been estimated and written against him, he remains, after all has been set down, still the same lovable, elusive being, a man of genius, a child of nature. For this reason, it is disappointing that so little is to be actually known of his life. As one reads his plays, and marks the strong individuality shown in them, the desire to know how he adjusted himself to the everyday life, and took its little defeats and encouragements, springs very strongly. It is the natural interest that one takes in men of his cordial humanity, and it is disappointing to be balked of its satisfaction.
The outline of Dekker’s life is indeed singularly blank. We do not know exactly when he was born, or where; there is scarcely any clue to the important period of his youth, and his early struggles as a poet and playwright; we do not even know when he died. A few further entries in Henslowe’s Diary, whose value an uneasy sense of J. Payne Collier’s editorial methods tends to depreciate, and a few incidental references in Dekker’s own works, chiefly in the dedications and introductions to his plays, form the whole of the exact record which we have to rely upon.
In the dedication to Match Me in London, perhaps the most interesting of all the plays by him[Pg x] not included in this volume, which was published in 1631, he says, sadly enough, “I have been a Priest in Apollo’s Temple many years, my voice is decaying with my Age, yet yours being clear and above mine shall much honour me, if you but listen to my old tunes.” Again in 1637, in the dedicatory epistle of his prose tract, English Villainies Seven Several Times Pressed to Death, he refers more definitely to his “three-score years.” Sixty years back from 1637 gives us 1577, but as Collier[1] tells us that he was married before 1594, and as we know that he had already won recognition as a young playwright in 1597, it will be well to read the term “three-score years” pretty freely, as meaning generally the term between sixty and seventy, and to put down the date of his birth at about the year 1569-70, or even a little earlier.
There is less uncertainty about his birthplace: various references in his prose tracts prove pretty certainly that he was born in London, as seems so fit in one of the most devoted of those poets who have celebrated the English capital. “O thou beautifullest daughter of two united Monarchies!” he cries, in his Seven Deadly Sins of London; “from thy womb received I my being, from thy breasts my nourishment.” This is confirmed by similar passages in the Dead Term, The Rod for Runaways, and other of the prose pamphlets. The particular spot in London where he was born is not however to be learnt, although Collier sur[Pg xi]mises that he was born in Southwark. The name itself,—whether Dekker or Decker, suggests a Dutch origin, which is further corroborated by the curious knowledge shown in the plays and prose tracts of Dutch people and Dutch books, to say nothing of the frequent Dutch realism of Dekker’s dramatic method. Dr. Grosart, whose indefatigable energy of research was probably never exercised to so little purpose in the case of any author, discovered on the title-page of one copy of the civic “Entertainment” by Dekker, Troia-Nova-Triumphans, or London Triumphing, the words “Merchant-Tailor” written opposite his name, as if by one who had known him. From this we may again conjecture that his father was a tailor, and that possibly the boy went to Merchant Tailor’s School, and was intended for that trade. The intimate knowledge of the daily routine of tailors’ and shoemakers’ shops displayed in The Shoemaker’s Holiday, and other of the plays, bear every evidence of being drawn from actual experience. It is not a very wild imagination, therefore, to imagine that the boy Dekker may have been apprenticed in the ordinary way as a shoemaker or tailor, making escape from the craftsman’s life as his poetic ambition grew hot, and at last inevitable, in its hazardous issue upon the path of a playwright and man of letters.
It is only by free inference from his works that we can possibly fill up the early part of his life, until, in 1597, as already noted, we find him com[Pg xii]mitted to the life of an author and playwright, and tasting, no doubt, of its sweets, as in the early part of 1598 he had a sharp foretaste of its bitterness. Much of the description in his plays casts a vivid light upon this wild life of the playhouse and tavern which he, with other young poets of the extraordinary decade terminating the sixteenth century must have lived. Some of the scenes in The Honest Whore, and again in Satiromastix and other of the lesser known comedies, are full of this interest; and luminous passages also occur in the plays of his various collaborators. In some of his own prose works, especially in his singular guide to the gallant’s life in Elizabethan London, The Gull’s Horn Book, Dekker has indirectly supplied a still more realistic account of the life lived by the young bloods who frequented the playhouses and taverns. From this inimitable book one gathers much curious detail for the picture of Dekker’s daily surroundings. In Chapter V., which is headed, “How a Gallant should behave himself in an Ordinary,” the young hero of the period is advised to repair to the “ordinary,” or eating-house, so early as “some half-hour after eleven; for then you shall find most of your fashion-mongers planted in the room waiting for meat.” Amongst the types of gallant to whom Dekker gives special advice as to behaviour at the ordinary, is the poet:—
“If you be a Poet,” he says, “and come into the Ordinary; though it can be no great glory to be an ordinary Poet; order yourself[Pg xiii] thus. Observe no man; doff not cap to that gentleman to-day at dinner, to whom, not two nights since, you were beholden for a supper; but, after a turn or two in the room, take occasion, pulling out your gloves, to have some Epigram, or Satire, or Sonnet fastened in one of them.... Marry, if you chance to get into your hands any witty thing of another man’s, that is somewhat better; I would counsel you then, if demand be made who composed it, you may say: ‘Faith, a learned Gentleman, a very worthy friend.’ And this seeming to lay it on another man will be counted either modesty in you, or a sign that you are not ambitious of praise, or else that you dare not take it upon you for fear of the sharpness it carries with it.”
At dinner, directions are given in the same vein of irony, as to the manner of eating and so forth; and after dinner, among other occupations and diversions proposed for the afternoon figures the play. The next chapter is devoted accordingly to expounding “How a Gallant should behave himself in a Playhouse.” From the point of view of Dekker’s dramatic work, this is naturally the most interesting part of the book. It gives us a vivid idea of the associations which would colour his thoughts as, the dinner hour over, the stream of gallants, ’prentices and so forth, issued from the ordinaries, the fashionable promenade in the Middle Aisle of St. Paul’s, and elsewhere, and wended their way at afternoon to the play. Dekker, it is quite evident, speaks feelingly, remembering his own troubles, in these ironical counsellings to the “Gull,” who in his seat on the stage seems to have acted as a sort of irresponsible chorus, hindering rather than aiding the understanding of the play, however, and resented equally by the playwright[Pg xiv] and the playgoers in pit or gallery. “Whither,” proceeds the Horn Book,—
“Whither therefore the gatherers of the public, or private Playhouse stand to receive the afternoon’s rent; let our Gallant having paid it, presently advance himself up to the Throne of the stage; I mean not into the lord’s room, which is now but the stage’s suburbs; no, ... but on the very rushes where the comedy is to dance, yea, and under the state of Cambyses himself, must our feathered ostrich, like a piece of ordnance, be planted valiantly, because impudently, beating down the mews and hisses of the opposed rascality.” Here it continues—“By sitting on the stage, you may, without travelling for it, at the very next door ask whose play it is; and, by that Quest of Inquiry, the law warrants you to avoid much mistaking; if you know not the author, you may rail against him, and peradventure so behave yourself, that you may enforce the author to know you.”
The refinements of torture to which the Elizabethan playwright was subject under this arrangement, must indeed have been infinite. Dekker further enlarges with the piteous irony of a long-suffering experience:—
“It shall crown you with rich commendation, to laugh aloud in the middest of the most serious and saddest scene of the terriblest tragedy; and to let that clapper, your tongue, be tossed so high, that all the house may ring of it.”
Again, even more suggestively—
“Now, sir; if the writer be a fellow that hath either epigrammed you, or hath had a flirt at your mistress, or hath brought either your feather, or your red beard, or your little legs, etc., on the stage; you shall disgrace him worse than by tossing him in a blanket, or giving him the bastinado in a tavern, if, in the middle of his play, be it Pastoral or Comedy, Moral or Tragedy, you rise with a screwed and discontented face from your stool to be gone.”
From another passage, it is clear that the first arrival of the gallant upon the stage, as seen from[Pg xv] the front of the house, must have been almost as striking as this precipitate exit.
“Present not yourself on the stage,” it advises “especially at a new play, until the quaking Prologue hath, by rubbing, got colour into his cheeks, and is ready to give the trumpets their cue that he is upon point to enter; for then it is time, as though you were one of the properties, or that you dropt out of the hangings, to creep from behind the arras, with your tripos or three-footed stool, in one hand, and a teston (tester,—sixpence) mounted between a forefinger and a thumb in the other.”
From the ordinary to the playhouse, from the playhouse to the tavern, the satirist follows still as good-humouredly:—“the next places that are filled, after the playhouses be emptied are, or ought to be, taverns; into a tavern then let us next march, where the brains of one hogshead must be beaten out to make up another.”
The ordinary, the playhouse, the tavern:—Dekker no doubt knew them only too well, but it is not to be inferred because of this that his life was an idle one. His extraordinary energy, at the beginning of his career at any rate, becomes clear when we turn to the record of his plays. We have already referred to those which he had been engaged to write for Henslowe, and which no doubt were written and duly performed before the appearance of The Shoemaker’s Holiday, the first of those actually remaining to us. The year 1599 especially, towards the middle of which The Shoemaker’s Holiday was published, must have been a year of immense activity. On the 9th and 16th April, Henslowe records a play by Dekker[Pg xvi] and Chettle, Troilus and Cressida. On the 2nd of May, a payment of five shillings was made to him, “in earnest of a book called Orestes’ Furies,” and again in the same month there are payments to him and Chettle, for The Tragedy of Agamemnon. In July and August, The Step-mother’s Tragedy, is mentioned; and on the 1st of August, he receives forty shillings “for a book called Bear-a-brain.” In September he is associated with Jonson and Chettle, “on account of a play called Robert the Second, King of Scots Tragedy.” In January, 1599-1600, a book called Truth’s Supplication to Candlelight is mentioned, and the next month The Spanish Moor’s Tragedy in which Haughton and Day appear to have collaborated, and which, it has been thought, is the same as the play called Lust’s Dominion sometime assigned to Marlowe. This has brought us past the time of the publication of The Shoemaker’s Holiday, the first edition of which probably appeared in July, 1599, if we are right in taking the entry against the 17th of that month in Henslowe’s Diary to refer to the buying of a book actually published, and not one merely in MS.
The Shoemaker’s Holiday represents Dekker admirably on the side of his facile humour and bright dramatic realism, as Old Fortunatus, which must have followed it very closely, represents him on the more purely poetical side. Taken as a whole, and as a successful accomplishment of what it attempts, this hearty comedy—so[Pg xvii] full of overflowing good humour—gives us Dekker on his happiest side. It displays all that genial interest in everything human, all that ready democratic sympathy, which, among the Elizabethans, Dekker has peculiarly displayed. The comedy is indeed the most perfect presentation of the brightness and social interest of the everyday Elizabethan life which is to be found in the English drama. It realises with admirable vividness certain simpler types of character, of which the people, as opposed to the aristocratic classes from which most of the dramatists drew their characters, was formed. The craftsman’s life, merging itself in the citizen’s, is the end and all of the play; the King himself is but a shadow of social eminence compared with the Lord Mayor. Simon Eyre, the shoemaker, jolliest, most exuberant of all comedy types, is the very incarnation of the hearty English character on its prosperous workaday side, untroubled by spiritual misgivings and introspections; and he is so set amidst the rest of the characters as to delightfully fulfil the joyous main intention of the play.
The plot proper, as stated in the prose Argument, dealing with the romance of Lacy and his disguise as a shoemaker in order to win the love of Rose, is of less consequence indeed than the interest centred in the doings of Simon Eyre and his journeymen in the shoemaker’s shop. Of these Firk is a capital low-comedy character, a healthy, lusty animal, serving as an excellent dramatic foil to his more delicate companion Ralph, and to[Pg xviii] Lacy in his disguise as Hans, the Dutchman. Of the female characters, Eyre’s wife is a good sample of foolish, conventional femininity, well realised in the little she has to say and do. The most taking of the female parts, however, is Jane: the whole episode of Ralph’s going to the wars, his delayed return to her, her wooing by Hammon, and her final rescue at the last moment by the band of shoemakers, is worked out with singular sweetness, and with great feeling for simple dramatic effect. One of the prettiest scenes in the whole of Dekker, is that where Jane is shown sitting alone in the shop sewing when Hammon approaches, and tries by fair means and foul to win her love. Compared with her, Rose, the heroine in chief, is indistinct. Sybil, the maid, however, is an excellent counterpart to Firk, the feminine to his masculine,—as unabashed in her innuendo as he in his blunt animalism.
Taken all through, this “Pleasant Comedy of the Gentle Craft” is one to be remembered with the score or so of the best comedies of pure joy of life which were produced by the Elizabethans; and remembered it probably will be even when Dekker’s stronger and maturer work is overlooked. The abounding happiness that fills it is contagious; only here and there the note of trouble for Ralph and Jane occurs to set off the unadulterated comedy of the rest. The whole spirit of the play is expressed in the words of Simon Eyre when he sums up his philosophy for the edification of the Lord Mayor,[Pg xix] who says to him, laughing—“Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pound, I had an heart but half so light as yours;” and Eyre replies, “Why, what should I do, my Lord? A pound of care pays not a dram of debt. Hum, let’s be merry whiles we are young; old age, sack and sugar, will steal upon us, ere we be aware.” As pointed out in the notes to the play, it is worth remembering that Robert Herrick, who was a goldsmith’s apprentice in London when the play was first performed there, seems to have in part appropriated these words of Eyre’s, and paraphrased them in one of his inimitable verses. Dekker has himself twice overflowed into song in the play, and the shoemaker’s drinking-song shows at once the exquisite lyric faculty which he possessed. Its chorus lingers long in the memory as an echo of the happy, boisterous life, well nourished with cakes and ale, of the Elizabethan craftsman:—
The Shoemaker’s Holiday serves well as an instance of Dekker’s realistic method. One sees in it a natural outcome of his prentice life in London, as a shoemaker, a “seamster,” or what not. In coming to Old Fortunatus on the other hand, we have Dekker as pure poet and idealist. Instead of the lusty zest of comedy, we have the romantic spirit in its perfection; the glamour of romance is[Pg xx] cast over everything. Founded upon one of those fabulous histories in which the sixteenth century so loved to indulge its imagination, the play appeals directly to the sense of wonder and adventure which the poets, playwrights and story-tellers of the day, could always count upon in their audience. As pointed out in the preliminary note to the play, Dekker’s version is founded upon an earlier one which was performed some three years before he began his. It would be interesting to discover what the character of the original version was, both in its general lines and in its details. In his admirable book, “Studies in the Literary Relations of England and Germany in the sixteenth century,” Mr. C. H. Herford has pointed out the resemblance in certain parts of the original legend and of the play to the story of Faustus. This indirectly leads us to the consideration of how far the writer of the earlier play may have been influenced, if at all, by the dramatic method of Marlowe. For in some parts of Dekker’s version, the resemblance in the structure of the blank verse on occasion, and in the scenic and other detail, to Marlowe is striking. Only, in the verse, it is Tamburlaine rather than Dr. Faustus that is suggested, as for instance in Fortune’s address to Fortunatus, when she appears to him with her array of discrowned kings and kings new-created.
The preceding passage, beginning “Thou shalt be one of Fortune’s minions,” which contains too a direct reference to—
is still more like Marlowe. Dekker’s verse, it is true, does not march mail-clad like Marlowe’s: it has a plasticity and a suppleness which the other’s “mighty line” lacked, while it fails to achieve the same state and sustained dignity. But after all differences are allowed for, there is much in the blank verse in some parts of Old Fortunatus, which only Marlowe could have inspired.
This is not said with any thought of depreciating Dekker, who has so often been depreciated in order to add to the lustre of others, but because it marks an interesting point in his development as a poet and dramatist. Two things were enough in themselves to prevent his carrying on the tradition of Marlowe: one, and an insuperable one, his faculty of humour; the second, springing from the first, his lack of that sense of his own artistic dignity, failing which his genius never rose to its potential height. Signs of the power to achieve the very highest in poetry are scattered extravagantly all through ‘Old Fortunatus,’ so that one does not[Pg xxii] wonder at Charles Lamb’s tremendous compliment. There are lines in it which have rarely been surpassed, and there are fewer lapses in the play than is usual with Dekker, in the inspired recklessness of his method. Dekker’s theory of blank verse, in especial, was not a severe one. It admitted of a free interspersion of rhymed lines, and of other dubious modifications of the strict measure. But it is remarkable how successful many of the passages are in spite of these irregularities. Dekker had the privilege of genius, and the faculty of putting into words that rhythmical unction and natural charm which defy the exacter laws of prosody.
Part of the structural defects of the play are due to one of those exigencies to which the Elizabethan playwrights were peculiarly liable. Mr. C. H. Herford, in the book before alluded to, has shewn that Dekker had practically finished the play on the lines of the original fable of Fortunatus, when it was ordered for performance at Court, whereupon further special additions were made with a view to this. Thus, it will be perceived that there are two prologues; while a serious interference with the original lines of the play is shown in the intrusion of Virtue and Vice, in the fashion of a “Masque” or “Triumph,” so as to upset the simple dramatic motive of the supremacy of Fortune. In this way, as Mr. Herford says, the right moral tension of the tragedy gives way to the decorous conventionalities of the[Pg xxiii] Masque. For, the apparent moral effect gained by the triumph of Virtue over Vice and over Fortune is only one of appearance. Dekker had already, according to his wont, moralised the original story, which is innocent of moral intention. For instance, Andelocia, who like Fortunatus is in Dekker’s hands a prodigal upon whom Fortune wreaks a tragic retribution, is in the original romance a hero to the last, using the immoral supremacy afforded by the Purse and Wishing Cap without either moral recoil or material injury to himself.
There are other parts, fine in themselves, but insufficiently related to the main line of the plot, whose inconsequence can not be excused because of any exterior later addition, as for instance, the Orleans episode. It is hard, at the same time, to have to find fault with an intrusion which has resulted so delightfully in itself; and we may best take leave of the play in the tempered eulogy of Mr. J. Addington Symonds, who, after speaking of certain of these defects, goes on to say, “Among the poet’s most perfect achievements, however, are the scenes in which Orleans indulges a lover’s lunacy in a passion of wild fancies. To quote passages would be to murder the effect. Nothing can be imagined finer than the paradoxes of this witty fanatic, in whose opinion the whole world is mad and he the only wise man left; who scorns the scorn of sober folk, extols deformity, and adores the very horns that sprout upon his lady’s brow.[Pg xxiv] The mastery of Dekker is shown throughout this comedy in the flesh and blood reality which he has given to abstractions; even the subordinate characters define each a clearly defined quality. Fortunatus and his sons have a higher degree of reality; while Virtue, Vice, and Fortune, withdrawn from human action and anxiety, survey the world from thrones and feel such passions only as befits immortals. They enter and depart in pomps and pageants to solemn strains of music.... To have conceived the comedy of Old Fortunatus proves Dekker a poet of no common order. A little more firmness in its ground-plan would have made it a masterpiece.”[2]
It may seem that undue attention has been given to these two plays, but in them will be found so characteristic an embodiment of Dekker’s qualities as a playwright,—as a realistic writer of comedy and as a romantic poet, that they serve as an admirable illustration of the whole of his dramatic works. The next play of which we have any record is the famous burlesque upon Ben Jonson, Satiromastix, which was published in 1602. As an artistic whole, this deserves, no doubt, all that has been said against it; Dekker’s awkward fashion of interweaving two more or less inconsequent dramatic motives was never displayed more unfortunately. But as a young poet’s retort upon an unsparing antagonist of Ben Jonson’s autocratic position, the thing is surely not contemptible.[Pg xxv] The exaggerated reproduction of Jonson’s Captain Tucca, in especial, which has been pointed to as proving a lack of invention on Dekker’s part, was no doubt one of the favourite hits of the piece, an out-Heroding of Herod which could not fail to immensely tickle the playgoers of the day. And the appearance of Horace cleverly got up in imitation of the author of The Poetaster, labouring over an ode by candlelight, must have brought down the house.
What is remarkable about Dekker’s retort is its perfect good-humour; there is not a trace of vindictiveness in all its satire. Dekker probably took up the cudgels, as beforetime he first entered upon the literary career, more “for the fun of it,” than with any very deliberate or serious intention. Though the episode of Cœlestine has no conceivable reference to the “Untrussing of the Humourous Poet,” it is worth turning to for its own sake. Mr. Swinburne’s conjecture that this part of the play was originally designed for another purpose, and was only used here for want of material to fill out[Pg xxvi] the Jonson burlesque to the required length, is probably the correct one.
The reputation which Dekker won by Satiromastix seems to have been the cause of something of a new departure in the year following its publication; we find him then appearing for the first time as a prose-writer. He had already been engaged in writing Canaan’s Calamity; the Destruction of Jerusalem, in sensational doggrel,—the wretched hack-work of a few hasty hours, no doubt, written for some urgent bookseller, which I am afraid there is no sufficient reason to think with Mr. Swinburne that he did not compose. And now he may be said to have seriously begun his career as a man of letters, as distinct from a playwright, by the publication of an interesting work whose title-page well suggests its contents. The title runs:—The Wonderful Year: “Wherein is shewed the picture of London lying sick of the Plague. At the end of all (like a merry Epilogue to a dull Play) certain tales are cut out in sundry fashions of purpose to shorten the lives of long winter’s nights, that lie watching in the dark for us.” Passages in this work show clearly enough that Dekker had the making in him too of a prose writer, if he could only learn to master and rightly direct his faculty of words, but there is no pervading sense of the art of prose in it. Immediately following The Wonderful Year, however, came another prose-work which in its way is perfect. The Bachelor’s Banquet is a delightful satire on the life matrimonial, “plea[Pg xxvii]santly discoursing the variable humours of women, their quickness of wits and unsearchable deceits.” Here we have Dekker at his best. His facile humour for once served him capably from beginning to end, and the result is a satire of inimitable pleasantry, full of his hearty spontaneity of fun, and all the more effective because, like Satiromastix, it is so devoid of any real offence. As if to offer atonement for having satirised woman-kind at all, it must have been about this time that he collaborated with Haughton and Chettle, in The Pleasant Comedy of Patient Grissill, with its charming picture of a woman’s ideal patience. As this play is to be given in a later volume, it need not be examined at length here.
And now, in 1604, we come to the work, of all Dekker’s, which most fully and characteristically represents his genius, with its fund of great qualities and great defects—The Honest Whore. The second part of the play, it is true, was not published until many years later, but it will be convenient to take both parts together in considering it here, noting only significant changes in style and so forth. With the play as a whole, Hazlitt’s well-known criticism has become so inseparably identified and forms so incomparable an exposition, that I prefer to give it here instead of commentary of my own, completing it by what further notes seem to be required.
“Old honest Dekker’s Signior Orlando Friscobaldo I shall never forget! I became only of late acquainted with this last-mentioned[Pg xxviii] worthy character! but the bargain between us is, I trust, for life. We sometimes regret that we had not sooner met with characters like this, that seem to raise, revive, and give a new zest to our being.... The execution is, throughout, as exact as the conception is new and masterly. There is the least colour possible used; the pencil drags; the canvas is almost seen through: but then, what precision of outline, what truth and purity of tone, what firmness of hand, what marking of character! The words and answers all along are so true and pertinent, that we seem to see the gestures, and to hear the tone with which they are accompanied. So when Orlando, disguised, says to his daughter, ‘You’ll forgive me,’ and she replies, ‘I am not marble, I forgive you;’ or again, when she introduces him to her husband, saying simply, ‘It is my father,’ there needs no stage-direction to supply the relenting tones of voice or cordial frankness of manner with which these words are spoken. It is as if there were some fine art to chisel thought, and to embody the inmost movements of the mind in every-day actions and familiar speech.
“Simplicity and extravagance of style, homeliness and quaintness, tragedy and comedy, interchangeably set their hands and seals to this admirable production. We find the simplicity of prose with the graces of poetry. The stalk grows out of the ground; but the flowers spread their flaunting leaves in the air. The mixture of levity in the chief character bespeaks the bitterness from which it seeks relief; it is the idle echo of fixed despair, jealous of observation or pity. The sarcasm quivers on the lip, while the tear stands congealed on the eyelid. This ‘tough senior,’ this impracticable old gentleman, softens into a little child; this choke-pear melts in the mouth like marmalade. In spite of his resolute professions of misanthropy, he watches over his daughter with kindly solicitude; plays the careful housewife; broods over her lifeless hopes; nurses the decay of her husband’s fortune, as he had supported her tottering infancy; saves the high-flying Matheo from the gallows more than once, and is twice a father to them. The story has all the romance of private life, all the pathos of bearing up against silent grief, all the tenderness of concealed affection: there is much sorrow patiently borne, and then comes peace.... The manner too in which Infelice, the wife of Hippolito, is made acquainted with her husband’s infidelity, is finely dramatic; and in the scene where she convicts him of his injustice, by taxing herself with incontinence first, and then turning his most galling reproaches to her into upbraidings against his own conduct, she acquits herself with infinite spirit and address. The contrivance by which, in the first part, after being supposed dead, she is restored to life, and married to Hippolito, though perhaps a little far-fetched, is affecting and romantic.”
It must be constantly borne in mind, when reading the two parts of the play, that an interval of twenty-five years separates them, and that Orlando Friscobaldo is the creation of an obviously more matured imagination than are the characters of the earlier part. Indeed, the way in which Bellafront’s casual mention of her father’s name in the earlier part is developed into so masterly a characterisation is very significant. In the period between, Dekker had gone through strange and bitter experience. According to Collier, he married early, and a daughter was baptised in his name as early as 1594, and we can only wonder what dark sorrow he had known, that he came to shape out of himself the inexpressible tragi-comedy of Bellafront’s shame and her father’s love. There is all the difference between youth and age, indeed, in the two parts; and it is impressive to note how a conception, prompted mainly by the humourist’s artistic interest in the first instance, came to be wrought out and carried to the end with such a bitter freight of actuality. In this grim masterpiece, Dekker has used his realistic method with terrible sincerity, and yet, with so cunning a grasp of the nettle of shame that with its sting it yields a fragrance as of the perfect flower of love. The weakest parts of the play are those where Dekker conforms most to conventional dramatic methods, as in the forensic contest between Bellafront and Hippolito, which is dramatically weak, though in passages not ineffective. In[Pg xxx] Henslowe’s Diary, Middleton is mentioned as a collaborator in the play with Dekker, and there are parts of it which might very well be from his hand. Mr. A. H. Bullen conjectures that the scenes where Bellafront is first discovered in her chamber and again the shop scenes where the gallants try to irritate Candido, are chiefly Middleton’s. Mr. J. Addington Symonds considers also that the play as a whole has “the movement of one of Middleton’s acknowledged plays.” Making due allowance for every assistance of the kind, the essential merit of the whole work is so unmistakeably Dekker’s, however, that the reader may safely leave Middleton out of court in considering the play as a whole, and put it down as Dekker’s to all intents and purposes.
Before the publication of the first part, Dekker had, in 1603, in his Magnificent Entertainment given to King James, inserted some lines of Middleton’s, which proves that they were in contact about the time when the play was being written. After its publication Dekker apparently gave himself up for a while to prose-writing. In 1606, one of his best known pamphlets, The Seven Deadly Sins of London, appeared, which he himself affirmed on the title-page was only a week’s work, “Opus Septem Dierum.” The satire, though here and there forced, and roughly written, is not unimpressive, and contains many passages of vivid imaginative power. The Seven Deadly Sins, or as Dekker has it, “The Names[Pg xxxi] of the Actors in this Old Interlude of Iniquity,” are not at all what one would be likely to expect. The terms by which they are designated are extravagantly metaphorical, and including “Politic Bankruptism,” “Candlelight,” and “Shaving,” and there is a special addendum to say that “Seven may easily play this, but not without a Devil.” Published in the same year, News from Hell, brought by the Devil’s Carrier, which resolves itself into “The Devil’s Answer to Pierce Pennylesse,” is a confused, gruesomely humoresque description of the nether regions, and of a Mephistophelian journey thence to London and other places in the upper world. The Double PP, a rather ungainly satire on the Papists, partly in prose, partly in verse, inspired by the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, also appeared in 1606.
The year 1607 shows Dekker at his worst as a playwright. The production of The Whore of Babylon marks the low-water mark of his unfortunate career. It is a sort of allegory, presenting Elizabeth as Titania, and other national and international topics in a hopelessly cumbrous disguise. As a rule Dekker illuminates even his hastiest productions with some gleam of true humour or imagination, but here there is hardly a redeeming touch of either, or, if one does exist, the dull atmosphere of the whole keeps it hidden from sight. Dekker atoned a little for his sins as a playwright in this year, however, by the issue of an interesting miscellany of prose writings, whose[Pg xxxii] comprehensive title may be quoted in full:—Jests to make you Merry: “With the Conjuring up of Cock Watt (the Walking Spirit of Newgate) to tell tales. Unto which is added the Misery of a Prison, and a Prisoner. And a Paradox in Praise of Serjeants. Written by T. D. and George Wilkins.” George Wilkins, says Dr. Grosart, “was in a small way a contemporary playwright;” and it is impossible to say exactly what share he may have had in this strange composition. But some of the little stories among the “Jests” bear very clearly Dekker’s touch, and “The Misery of a Prison and a Prisoner” is unmistakeably the pitiful and bitter expression of his own sorry experiences. In this year was also re-issued under the new title of A Knight’s Conjuring done in Earnest, discovered in Jest, the before-mentioned News from Hell, without anything to show that the book was chiefly a republication. There are some few additions to it, however, including an interesting vision of Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, Greene, Peele, and Nash in the haunts of Apollo.
Now, too, we find Dekker in collaboration with Webster, in the plays Westward Ho, Northward Ho, and Sir Thomas Wyatt. Of these, the first two are lively comedies of intrigue, affording many striking pictures of contemporary life, grossly realistic often, but not more so than is usual in comedies of the time. In Northward Ho the social diversions of the Greenshields and the Mayberrys are amusingly contrived, and there are passages[Pg xxxiii] in Westward Ho of a higher and poetic kind, as in the passage (Act iv., Sc. ii.) quoted by Mr. J. A. Symonds in his essay on Dekker:—
The speeches of the earl in this play contain other rare imaginative touches, in strange contrast with the reckless farcical tenour of the piece generally. Sir Thomas Wyatt is less satisfactory, a medley of absurd printer’s errors adding to the confusion of what was probably a confused work at best. Marston’s protest, as to the unfairness of taking seriously and critically plays which were hastily and carelessly written to meet the demand of the hour, must be remembered in judging plays like this. In addition to the plays which their authors revised and set forth with their deliberate imprimatur, many were written without any idea of publication; the playwrights looked upon them merely as a sort of journalism, which they did not wish to have judged by permanent artistic standards. It would be waste of time to deliberate over the exact share to be alloted to Dekker and Webster in these three plays. It will be noted, however, in the two comedies, that certain of the characters, as the Welsh captain and Hans in Northward Ho, speak in a dialect suspiciously like that of the dialect parts in Dekker’s other plays.
For the next two or three years Dekker appears to have occupied himself again chiefly with prose. In 1608 appeared The Bellman of London, which is a sort of unconventional cyclopedia of thieving and vagabondage, containing much curious information about the shady side of Elizabethan life. Its importance in relation to Dekker’s fondness for the same subject-maker in his plays, however, is somewhat lessened when we discover that the work is partly appropriated from a book first published about forty years before, in 1567, entitled A Caveat or Warning for Common Cursitors, vulgarly called Vagabonds; by Thomas Harman. The Bellman of London seems to have been successful; for it was followed the next year by a second book of the same kind, Lanthorn and Candle-light; or, The Bellman’s Second Night Walk: also in part taken from Harman. In 1609 The Gull’s Horn-book, which has already been referred to, was published,—by far the most important and interesting of all Dekker’s prose works. Its value will be apparent from the passages already quoted, but to anyone who wishes to realise intimately the everyday life of the time, and its relation to Dekker’s own environment, the book is simply indispensable. The initial conception, like most of Dekker’s conceptions, was not original. The idea of it is taken from a Dutch book which Dekker had thought of translating into English verse, but, finding difficulties in the way, he decided instead to write a new prose work on the same lines. The[Pg xxxv] earlier parts of the book are the least reliable, as here Dekker made free use of the Dutch original; but from Chap. iv., “How a Gallant should behave Himself in Paul’s Walk,” onwards, the book is probably as true as it is humorously realistic in its descriptions, forming a delightful prose complement to the plays. The rest of Dekker’s prose works, interesting as they are in themselves, have not enough bearing upon the plays to warrant me in any lengthy examination of them. Between the two “Bellman” books appeared The Dead Term; or, Westminster’s Complaint for Long Vacations and Short Terms, which, amid some extravagance, contains a great deal in the way of description of London life, which is picturesque and historically valuable. In 1609 two other works followed or preceded The Gull’s Horn-book. The most valuable of the two is entitled, Work for Armourers; or, the Peace is Broken, which contains some suggestive autobiographical references to Dekker’s delight in history, to the hard lot of poetry and the drama, and to many other matters, interesting, personally, in approaching its main fancifully treated thesis of the struggle between Poverty and Money. The Raven’s Almanack, the second of the two, is chiefly a budget of stories, with “A Song sung by an Old Woman in a Meadow,” which has something of Dekker’s rougher lyrical quality in it.
In 1611 Dekker and Middleton came together again, and wrote conjointly The Roaring Girl, a[Pg xxxvi] vigorous comedy, whose heroine, Moll Cutpurse, goes about in the guise of a gallant, and wreaks summary vengeance upon offenders. In spite of her aggressive masculinity, she is somehow made in her way really attractive. Some of the scenes, as those in the “Sempster’s” shop, and those in which the Gallipots and Tiltyards go duck-hunting, are full of contemporary colour. The Mayoralty Pageant of 1612 has already been mentioned. In that year also appeared an absurd semi-allegorical dramatic fantasy by Dekker, founded upon Machiavelli’s “Belphegor,”—If this be not a Good Play the Devil is in it, in which Devils, Zanies, Friars, Dancing Girls, and other human and superhuman elements are wrought into a curious medley of utter nonsense with real humour and fancy. From 1613 to 1616, Oldys informs us that Dekker was in prison again. An interesting and pathetic letter exists from him to Alleyne, who must have acted generously towards him throughout; the letter is dated “King’s Bench, Sept. 12, 1616.” It is significant that in the first year of his re-imprisonment, he issued a very remarkable book of prayers, entitled The Four Birds of Noah’s Ark, to the profound eloquence and power of devotional expression in which, as in “A Prayer for a Soldier,” Mr. Swinburne has paid a well-deserved tribute. With A Strange Horse-Race, published also in 1613, were included the singular piece of humour,—“The Devil’s last Will and Testament,” and another prose fantasy, “The Bankrupt’s Banquet.” A much more[Pg xxxvii] notable work is Dekker his Dream, which is mainly in verse. It is a rough and unpolished piece of work, most interesting autobiographically, but full of vigorous and sometimes very imaginative descriptions, and with occasional fine passages, as two lines, taken almost at random, will testify:—
Dekker did not emerge again as a playwright until 1622, when he appears with still another collaborator, the last man whom one would have expected him to work with,—Massinger. They wrote together The Virgin Martyr, which is, as might be expected, a patchwork of incongruous qualities. Dekker probably supplied both the weakest and the strongest parts of the play, the atrocious humorous passages, equally with the exquisitely tender scene, for instance, between Dorothea, the Virgin Martyr, and Angelo, “a good spirit, serving Dorothea in the habit of a Page.” This is the scene which won from Charles Lamb in his “Specimens of the Elizabethan Dramatists,” his unbounded tribute to Dekker’s genius; and as the scene can be turned to there, I need not repeat it here, as I should otherwise be inclined to do.
There is no record of the next five years of Dekker’s life. In 1628 and 1629 he again wrote the Mayoralty pageants under title Britannia’s Honour, and London’s Tempe, which at best con[Pg xxxviii]tain glimpses of his true quality. In 1631, Match Me in London, a comedy of court intrigue in civic life, has something of his real genius again. It was in the dedicatory note of this play, to “The Noble Lover, and deservedly beloved, of the Muses, Ludovick Carlisle, Esquire, Gentleman of the Bows, and Groom of the King and Queen’s Privy-Chamber,” that Dekker so pathetically referred to his voice, “Decaying with my Age.” But comparatively with some of the second-rate pieces of ten, and even twenty years before, there is little sign of decay. Match Me in London shows, it is true, the prose side of Dekker’s dramatic faculty, rather than its side of poetic exuberance; but the piece is as full of Dekker’s old picturesque realism and genial humanity, as ever. The street and shop scenes, supposed to be placed chiefly in Seville, might just as well be in London: Dekker transfers the ‘Counter’ there without hesitation, and except for occasional doubtful attempts at Spanish local colour, the whole play is as native as anything Dekker has done. The plot turns chiefly upon the attempt of the King to corrupt Tormiella, one of the brightest and most taking of all Dekker’s heroines, whose guileless fidelity to her husband is delicately portrayed. The usual sub-plot in which Don John, the King’s brother, conspires for the throne, is less inconsequent than most of Dekker’s supplementary plots, and the whole comedy is managed with a higher sense of dramatic form than Dekker often showed. Match Me in[Pg xxxix] London, as being entirely Dekker’s own composition, certainly deserves to rank with his half-dozen best plays, and I am sorry that it was not possible to find room for it in this edition, although the same ground has already been partly covered in his other comedies.
I confess I find it hard to understand how anyone can seriously prefer The Wonder of a Kingdom, which appeared some few years later, to Match Me in London, as Mr. J. A. Symonds has done. In the former we find Dekker for once working without any real pervading humanity; there are touches of his usual heartiness in it, but as a whole it is a heartless production—more a cold study of motives and passions than a sympathetic re-creation of them in forms of art. It was highly appropriate, indeed, that Dekker long before had been chosen as a champion to meet Ben Jonson, for the two men mark very clearly two types of poet and artist. Jonson in his plays worked largely from the mere curiosity about men’s passions and motives, he wrought conceptions which sprang too often from an analytical interest, rather than the emotional human impulse which drives the poet to reflect men’s strifes and destinies for simple love’s sake. With Dekker it was different. Without perhaps consciously realising it, he worked mainly from this impulse of the heart, putting himself passionately into all that he characterised, in his exuberant, careless way. For once, however, in The Wonder of a Kingdom, he[Pg xl] seems to have laid aside something of his natural kindliness. The episode of old Lord Vanni’s intrigue with Alphonsina is repulsive, unvisited as it is by even ordinary comedy retribution. It is only fair to allow, however, that Dekker’s kindlier quality crops up in some scenes of the play, and Hazlitt’s testimony to Gentili, “that truly ideal character of a magnificent patron,” may be set against the comment of the German critic, Dr. Schmidt, who has said very truly,—“That the youthful fire which fills Fortunatus is in this drama extinguished.”
Although the two remaining plays which Dekker wrote with Ford, The Sun’s Darling and The Witch of Edmonton, were not published till 1656 and 1658 respectively, they were certainly written and performed long before Match Me in London, probably helping to fill up the five blank years following that in which The Virgin Martyr appeared. The Sun’s Darling is a charming conception, inadequately wrought out, but nevertheless full of facile and exuberant poetic quality. The lyrics, especially, the best of which are undoubtedly Dekker’s, are so fresh and full of impulse that one inclines to think that they date back to the first half of his life. Some of these have found their way, infrequently, into the anthologies, as that beginning, “What bird so sings, yet so does wail,” and again the delightful country song, in which one can forgive the mixture of musk-roses and daffodils, haymaking and hunting, lambs[Pg xli] and partridges, in defiance of all rustic tradition, for the sake of its catching tune:—
The hero of this Moral Masque, as the authors term it,—Raybright, “The Sun’s Darling,” is shown in progression through the seasons under the Sun’s guidance, which he perverts in his restless pursuit of sensuous pleasure. All these scenes are full of suggestions of beauty, but they are imperfectly realised. Exquisite passages occur, however, as in the scene where Spring, Health, Youth, and Delight appear to Raybright, and Spring, wooing him in vain, proffers him the bay-tree:—
When it is too late, Raybright, filled with love for the Spring, is seized with remorse: so in turn all the seasons pass by, while Humour and Folly lead him always astray. The Sun’s peroration in addressing Raybright at the end of his foiled career is a solemn and profound, if rather fanciful, summing-up of life. Altogether The Sun’s Darling forms a valuable later complement to Old Fortunatus, and it is only to be regretted that its authors did not bestow upon it the longer, patient labour which would have made it worthy of its conception.
The Witch of Edmonton, the second play in[Pg xlii] which Ford and Dekker worked conjointly, is so utterly different to The Sun’s Darling that one finds it difficult to believe that the same hands can have been concerned in its production. Possibly the initial conception was Rowley’s, and though it would not be easy to differentiate his exact share in any special scene or passage, there is a considerable residuum which marks itself off as unlike the work of Dekker or Ford. Dekker’s share is more apparent. The scenes where Cuddy Banks and his fellow villagers disport themselves, some of those where the Witch herself appears, and again those of Susan’s love and sorrow, have by general critical consent been awarded to him. Part of the severer tragedy in the terrible hallucination of Mother Sawyer, however, which has generally been considered Dekker’s, I fancy bears the stamp of Ford. In his essay on Ford, Mr. Swinburne has essayed a comparison of the parts due severally to Dekker and to Ford, which is too important to be overlooked. He would assign the part of Mother Sawyer chiefly to Dekker. “In all this part of the play I trace the hand of Dekker; his intimate and familiar sense of wretchedness, his great and gentle spirit of compassion for the poor and suffering with whom his own lot in life was so often cast, in prison and out.” The part of Susan also, he allots to Dekker; and of the scene where Frank Thorney’s guilt is discovered, he remarks suggestively: “The interview of Frank with the disguised Winifred in this scene may be compared by the[Pg xliii] student of dramatic style with the parting of the same characters at the close; the one has all the poignant simplicity of Dekker, the other all the majestic energy of Ford.”
The dates of publication of the two last plays bring us far beyond the time of Dekker’s death, of which, however, we have no record at all. None of his prose works reach so late a period; the last is A Rod for Runaways, published in 1625. Collier, who always made his evidence go as far as possible, himself admits that there is no further trace of him after 1638, the year when Milton wrote Lycidas, the year when Scotland was ominously signing the Covenant. In the further oncoming of the Civil War, Dekker disappears altogether, as uncertainly as he first entered the scene.
In summing up this strange life and its dramatic outcome, it is easily seen what is to be said on the adverse side. Dekker had, let us admit, great defects. He was the type of the prodigal in literature,—the kindhearted, irresponsible poet whom we all know, and love, and pardon seventy times seven. But it is sad to think that with a little of the common talent which every successful man of affairs counts as part of his daily equipment, he might have left a different record. He never attained the serious conception of himself and his dignity as a worker which every poet, every artist must have, who would take effect proportionate to his genius. He never seemed to become conscious[Pg xliv] in any enduring way of his artistic function, and he constantly threw aside, under pressure of the moment, those standards of excellence which none knew better than he how to estimate. But after all has been said, he remains, by his faults as well as by his faculties, one of the most individual, one of the most suggestive, figures of the whole Elizabethan circle. Because of the breath of simple humanity in them, his works leave a sense of brightness and human encouragement whose charm lingers when many more careful monuments of literary effort are forgotten. His artistic sincerity has resulted in a picture of life as he saw it, unequalled for its sentiment, for its living spirit of tears and laughter, as well as for its outspoken truth. His homely realism brings before us all the pleasant everyday bustle of the Elizabethan streets—the craftsmen and prentices, the citizens at their shop doors, the gallants in the Middle Aisle of St. Paul’s. The general feeling is that of a summer’s morning in the pleasant Cheapside of those days—more like the street of a little market-town than the Cheapside of to-day—where in the clear sunny air the alert cry of the prentices, “What do you lack?” rings out cheerily, and each small incident of the common life is touched with vivid colour. And if the night follows, dark and haunted by grim passions and sorrows, and the King’s Bench waits for poor poets not far away, this poet who had known the night and the prison only too well! sang so undauntedly, that the terrors of them fell away at the sound.
As he had this faith in the happy issue out of his own troubles, so Dekker looked unflinchingly as a poet upon the grim and dark side of human life, seeing it to emerge presently, bright in the higher vision of earth and Heaven. Much that at first seems gratuitously obscene and terrible in his dramatic presentation may in this way be accepted with the same vigorous apprehension of the comedy and tragedy of life, which he himself showed. The whole justification of his lifework, indeed, is to be found in these words of his, from the dedicatory epistle to His Dream, which we may well take as his parting behest:—“So in these of mine, though the Devil be in the one, God is in the other: nay in both. What I send you, may perhaps seem bitter, yet it is wholesome; your best physic is not a julep; sweet sauces leave rotten bodies. There is a Hell named in our Creed, and a Heaven, and the Hell comes before; if we look not into the first, we shall never live in the last.”
Ernest Rhys
Note: Students of Dekker will find Pearson’s Edition of his Plays in 4 Vols., published in 1873, and Dr. Grosart’s edition of his Non-Dramatic Works, in 5 Vols., published in the Huth Library, 1885-6, sufficient for all ordinary purposes. There are no notes, however, in Dr. Grosart’s reprint, and the notes to the plays in Pearson’s edition are few and far between. Mr. Swinburne’s article on Dekker (Nineteenth Century, January, 1887), will be found valuable also.
(See Frontispiece.)
The original Fortune Theatre was built on the site of an old timber house standing in a large garden near Golden Lane, Cripplegate, and said to have been formerly a nursery for Henry the Eighth’s children, who were sent to this then suburban spot for the benefit of the air. Edward Alleyn the actor acquired the lease of the house and grounds on December 22, 1599, and, early the following year, supported by the Lord Admiral (the Earl of Nottingham), to whose company of players he belonged, he, in conjunction with Henslowe, his father-in-law, employed Peter Streete to build there “a newe house and stadge for a Plaiehowse” for the sum of £440.
Alleyn notes his acquisition of the lease and his expenditure upon the new theatre in the following terms:—
“What the Fortune cost me Novemb., 1599 [1600].
First for the leas to Brew, £240.
Then for the building the playhouse, £520.
For other privat buildings of myn owne, £120.
So in all it has cost me for the leasse, £880.
Bought the inheritance of the land of the Gills of the Ile of Man, which is the Fortune, and all the howses in Whight crosstrett and Gowlding lane, in June, 1610, for the some of £340.
Bought in John Garretts lease in revertion from the Gills for 21 years, for £100.
So in all itt cost me £1320.
Blessed be the Lord God everlasting.”
It was at the Fortune that Alleyn’s fame as an actor reached its height. He was especially popular in the character of Barabas in Marlowe’s Jew of Malta, which he revived at the new theatre. Here also many of the plays written in the whole or part by Dekker were originally performed, as Dekker generally wrote for the Lord Admiral’s company, who played regularly at the Fortune under Alleyn and Henslowe’s management, while the Lord Chamberlain’s company, with whom Shakespeare and Burbadge were associated, played at the Globe.
Some twenty years after the erection of the theatre Alleyn records in his diary under date December 9, 1621, “This night, att 12 of ye clock, ye Fortune was burnt.” The year following the theatre was rebuilt, and leased by Alleyn to various persons, he having then decided to retire from the stage. On the suppression of the theatres by the Puritans the inside of the Fortune was destroyed by a company of soldiers, and the lessees failed to pay their rent, whereby a considerable loss was sustained by the authorities of Dulwich College, in whom the property of the Fortune was vested. This eventually led to the Court of Assistants ordering the more dilapidated portions of the theatre to be pulled down, and to their leasing the ground belonging to it for building purposes. So recently, however, as the year 1819, the front of the old theatre was still standing, as represented in the frontispiece to the present volume—a reduced copy of an engraving in Wilkinson’s “Londina.”
The shoemaker’s holiday, or a Pleasant Comedy of the Gentle Craft, was first published in 1599, as we learn from a passage in Henslowe’s Diary; but the earliest known edition is the quarto of 1600, which describes the play as “acted before the Queen’s most excellent Maiestie New-years day at night last, by the right honourable the Earle of Nottingham, Lord High Admirall of England, his seruants.” Other editions followed in 1610, 1618, and 1657. Of modern editions, Germany has produced the only one which is at all reliable, and upon this edition, admirably collated and edited by Drs. Karl Warnke and Ludwig Proescholdt, and published at Halle in 1886, the present reprint is based, the excellence of text, notes and introduction, leaving little beyond the modernising and some elucidation here and there to be done.
Dekker appears to have had a collaborator in the play in Robert Wilson, the actor, who is said to have created the part of Firk on its performance, but although Wilson may have provided some of the situations and dialogue, the credit of the play as a whole is undoubtedly Dekker’s. The Shoemaker’s Holiday is the first of Dekker’s plays, in order of publication, which has survived, although according to Henslowe he began to write for the stage in 1596.
The conception of Simon Eyre, the Shoemaker, is taken from a real person of that name, who, according to Stow, was an upholsterer, and afterwards a draper. He built Leadenhall in 1419, as referred to by Dekker in Act V.,[Pg 3] Sc. 5, became Sheriff of London in 1434, was elected Lord Mayor in 1445, and died in 1459. About his character nothing certain is known. “It may well be,” say the editors of the Halle edition, “that long after Eyre’s death the builder of Leadenhall was supposed to have been a shoemaker himself, merely because Leadenhall was used as a leather-market. This tradition was probably taken up by the poet, who formed out of it one of the most popular comedies of the age.”
Kind gentlemen and honest boon companions, I present you here with a merry-conceited Comedy, called The Shoemaker’s Holiday, acted by my Lord Admiral’s Players this present Christmas before the Queen’s most excellent Majesty, for the mirth and pleasant matter by her Highness graciously accepted, being indeed no way offensive. The argument of the play I will set down in this Epistle: Sir Hugh Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, had a young gentleman of his own name, his near kinsman, that loved the Lord Mayor’s daughter of London; to prevent and cross which love, the Earl caused his kinsman to be sent Colonel of a company into France: who resigned his place to another gentleman his friend, and came disguised like a Dutch shoemaker to the house of Simon Eyre in Tower Street, who served the Mayor and his household with shoes: the merriments that passed in Eyre’s house, his coming to be Mayor of London, Lacy’s getting his love, and other accidents, with two merry Three-men’s-songs. Take all in good worth that is well intended, for nothing is purposed but mirth; mirth lengtheneth long life, which, with all other blessings, I heartily wish you. Farewell!
As it was pronounced before the Queen’s Majesty.
Rowland Lacy, otherwise Hans, | } | His Nephews. |
Askew |
Master Hammon | } | Citizens of London. |
Master Warner | ||
Master Scott |
Roger, commonly called Hodge[4] | } | Eyre’s Journeymen. |
Firk | ||
Ralph |
THE SHOEMAKER’S HOLIDAY
Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of Lincoln.
Enter Lovell, Lacy, and Askew.
Enter Simon Eyre, Margery his wife, Hodge, Firk, Jane, and Ralph with a pair of shoes.[9]
Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! Away with this whimpering, this puling, these blubbering tears, and these wet eyes! I’ll get thy husband discharged, I warrant thee, sweet Jane; go to!
Hodge. Master, here be the captains.
Eyre. Peace, Hodge; hush, ye knave, hush!
Firk. Here be the cavaliers and the colonels, master.
Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! Stand by with your pishery-pashery,[10] away! I am a man of the best presence; I’ll speak to them, an they were Popes.—Gentlemen, captains, colonels, commanders! Brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience. I am Simon Eyre, the mad shoemaker of Tower Street; this wench with the mealy mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I can tell you; here’s Hodge, my man and my foreman; here’s Firk, my fine firking journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane. All we come to be suitors for this honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and as I am a true shoemaker and a gentleman of the gentle craft, buy spurs yourselves, and I’ll find ye boots these seven years.
Marg. Seven years, husband?
Eyre. Peace, midriff, peace! I know what I do. Peace!
Firk. Truly, master cormorant, you shall do God good service to let Ralph and his wife stay together. She’s a young new-married woman; if you take her husband away[Pg 12] from her a night, you undo her; she may beg in the day-time; for he’s as good a workman at a prick and an awl, as any is in our trade.
Jane. O let him stay, else I shall be undone.
Firk. Ay, truly, she shall be laid at one side like a pair of old shoes else, and be occupied for no use.
Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a corporal as a colonel, if you cannot discharge one good fellow; and I tell you true, I think you do more than you can answer, to press a man within a year and a day of his marriage.
Eyre. Well said, melancholy Hodge; gramercy, my fine foreman.
Marg. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done for such as you, to stand so stiffly against a poor young wife, considering her case, she is new-married, but let that pass: I pray, deal not roughly with her; her husband is a young man, and but newly entered, but let that pass.
Eyre. Away with your pishery-pashery, your pols and your edipols![11] Peace, midriff; silence, Cicely Bumtrinket! Let your head speak.
Firk. Yea, and the horns too, master.
Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon! Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? Captains, you will not release him? Well, let him go; he’s a proper shot; let him vanish! Peace, Jane, dry up thy tears, they’ll make his powder dankish. Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant[12] scoundrels, Prince Arthur’s Round-table—by the Lord of Ludgate[13]—ne’er fed such a tall, such a dapper swordsman;[Pg 13] by the life of Pharaoh, a brave, resolute swordsman! Peace, Jane! I say no more, mad knaves.
Firk. See, see, Hodge, how my master raves in commendation of Ralph!
Hodge. Ralph, th’art a gull, by this hand, an thou goest not.
Hodge. Th’art a gull, by my stirrup, if thou dost not go. I will not have thee strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels; prick thine enemies, Ralph.
Enter Dodger.
Eyre. Peace, you cracked groats,[15] you mustard tokens,[16] disquiet not the brave soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph!
Firk. Why, be doing with me or my fellow Hodge; be not idle.
Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This fine hand, this white hand, these pretty fingers must spin, must card, must work; work, you bombast-cotton-candle-quean;[17] work for your living, with a pox to you.—Hold thee, Ralph, here’s five sixpences for thee; fight for the honour of the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoemakers, the courageous cordwainers, the flower of St. Martin’s, the mad knaves of Bedlam, Fleet Street, Tower Street and Whitechapel; crack me the crowns of the French knaves; a pox on them, crack them; fight, by the Lord of Ludgate; fight, my fine boy!
Firk. Here, Ralph, here’s three twopences: two carry into France, the third shall wash our souls at parting, for sorrow is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa mon cues.
Hodge. Ralph, I am heavy at parting; but here’s a[Pg 15] shilling for thee. God send thee to cram thy slops with French crowns, and thy enemies’ bellies with bullets.
Drum sounds. Enter the Lord Mayor, the Earl of Lincoln, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, and Soldiers. They pass over the stage; Ralph falls in amongst them; Firk and the rest cry “Farewell,” etc., and so exeunt.
Enter Rose, alone, making a garland.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me; against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.
Rose. Sybil, what news at London?
Sybil. None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors’ Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations.
Rose. Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?
Sybil. O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here ’a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,—O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford house, here in Master Belly-mount’s chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, looked at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion![18] He passed by me as proud—Marry foh! are you grown humorous, thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.
Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs.[19] He looked upon me as sour as verjuice. Go thy ways, thought I; thou may’st be much in my gaskins,[20] but nothing in my nether-stocks. This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he’s done to; but if I were as you, I’d cry: Go by, Jeronimo, go by![21]
Rose. Will my love leave me then, and go to France?
Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper man;[Pg 18] but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up,[22] young mistress.
Sybil. Will I, quoth a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes I’ll go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I’ll sweat in purple, mistress, for you; I’ll take anything that comes a God’s name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at ‘up tails all.’ I’ll go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress. [Exit.
Enter Lacy, disguised as a Dutch Shoemaker.
Enter Eyre, making himself ready.[23]
Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels? They wallow in the fat brewiss[24] of my bounty, and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed. Come out, you powder-beef[25] queans! What, Nan! what, Madge Mumble-crust. Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly-whores, and sweep me these kennels that the noisome stench offend not the noses of my neighbours. What, Firk, I say; what, Hodge! Open my shop-windows! What, Firk, I say!
Enter Firk.
Firk. O master, is’t you that speak bandog[26] and Bed[Pg 20]lam this morning? I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the street so early; have you drunk this morning that your throat is so clear?
Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work! Wash thy face, and thou’lt be more blest.
Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat it. Good master, send for a souse-wife,[27] if you’ll have my face cleaner.
Enter Hodge.
Eyre. Away, sloven! avaunt, scoundrel!—Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my fine foreman.
Hodge. O master, good-morrow; y’are an early stirrer. Here’s a fair morning.—Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept this hour. Here’s a brave day towards.
Firk. Master, I am dry as dust to hear my fellow Roger talk of fair weather; let us pray for good leather, and let clowns and ploughboys and those that work in the fields pray for brave days. We work in a dry shop; what care I if it rain?
Enter Margery.
Eyre. How now, Dame Margery, can you see to rise? Trip and go, call up the drabs, your maids.
Marg. See to rise? I hope ’tis time enough, ’tis early enough for any woman to be seen abroad. I marvel how many wives in Tower Street are up so soon. Gods me, ’tis not noon,—here’s a yawling![28]
Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace! Where’s Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid? She has a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. Call the quean up; if my men want shoe-thread, I’ll swinge her in a stirrup.
Firk. Yet, that’s but a dry beating; here’s still a sign of drought.
Enter Lacy disguised, singing.
Firk. Master, for my life, yonder’s a brother of the gentle craft; if he bear not Saint Hugh’s bones,[30] I’ll forfeit my bones; he’s some uplandish workman: hire him, good master, that I may learn some gibble-gabble; ’twill make us work the faster.
Eyre. Peace, Firk! A hard world! Let him pass, let him vanish; we have journeymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk!
Marg. Nay, nay, y’are best follow your man’s counsel; you shall see what will come on’t: we have not men enow, but we must entertain every butter-box; but let that pass.
Hodge. Dame, ’fore God, if my master follow your counsel, he’ll consume little beef. He shall be glad of men, and he can catch them.
Firk. Ay, that he shall.
Hodge. ’Fore God, a proper man, and I warrant, a fine workman. Master, farewell; dame, adieu; if such a man as he cannot find work, Hodge is not for you. [Offers to go.
Eyre. Stay, my fine Hodge.
Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, you must take a journey to seek a new journeyman; if Roger remove, Firk follows. If Saint Hugh’s bones shall not be set a-work, I may prick mine awl in the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, master; good-bye, dame.
Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk foreman! Stay, Firk! Peace, pudding-broth! By the Lord of Ludgate, I love my men as my life. Peace, you gallimafry[31] Hodge, if he want work, I’ll hire him. One of you to him; stay,—he comes to us.
Lacy. Goeden dach, meester, ende u vro oak.[32]
Firk. Nails, if I should speak after him without drinking, I should choke. And you, friend Oake, are you of the gentle craft?
Lacy. Yaw, yaw, ik bin den skomawker.[33]
Firk. Den skomaker, quoth a! And hark you, skomaker, have you all your tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stopper, a good dresser, your four sorts of awls, and your two balls of wax, your paring knife, your hand- and thumb-leathers, and good St. Hugh’s bones to smooth up your work?
Lacy. Yaw, yaw; be niet vorveard. Ik hab all de dingen voour mack skooes groot and cleane.[34]
Firk. Ha, ha! Good master, hire him; he’ll make me laugh so that I shall work more in mirth than I can in earnest.
Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill in the mystery of cordwainers?
Lacy. Ik weet niet wat yow seg; ich verstaw you niet.[35]
Firk. Why, thus, man: (Imitating by gesture a shoemaker at work) Ick verste u niet, quoth a.
Lacy. Yaw, yaw, yaw; ick can dat wel doen.[36]
Firk. Yaw, yaw! He speaks yawing like a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with cheese-curds. Oh, he’ll give a villanous pull at a can of double-beer; but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must drink first, because we are the eldest journeymen.
Eyre. What is thy name?
Lacy. Hans—Hans Meulter.
Eyre. Give me thy hand; th’art welcome.—Hodge, entertain him; Firk, bid him welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid your maids, your trullibubs,[37] make ready my fine men’s breakfasts. To him, Hodge!
Hodge. Hans, th’art welcome; use thyself friendly, for we are good fellows; if not, thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger than a giant.
Firk. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou Gargantua. My master keeps no cowards, I tell thee.—Ho, boy, bring him an heel-block, here’s a new journeyman.
Enter Boy.
Lacy. O, ich wersto you; ich moet een halve dossen cans betaelen; here, boy, nempt dis skilling, tap eens freelicke.[38] [Exit Boy.
Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away! Firk, scour thy throat, thou shalt wash it with Castilian liquor.
Enter Boy.
Come, my last of the fives, give me a can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; here, Firk; drink, you mad Greeks, and work like true Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre, the shoemaker.—Here, Hans, and th’art welcome.
Firk. Lo, dame, you would have lost a good fellow that will teach us to laugh. This beer came hopping in well.
Marg. Simon, it is almost seven.
Eyre. Is’t so, Dame Clapper-dudgeon?[39] Is’t seven a clock, and my men’s breakfast not ready? Trip and go, you soused conger,[40] away! Come, you mad hyperboreans; follow me, Hodge; follow me, Hans; come after, my fine Firk; to work, to work a while, and then to breakfast! [Exit.
Firk. Soft! Yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master have no more wit but to call you afore me, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder journeyman. [Exeunt.
Holloaing within. Enter Master Warner and Master Hammon, attired as Hunters.
A noise of Hunters within. Enter a Boy.
Ham. How now, boy? Where’s the deer? speak, saw’st thou him?
Boy. O yea; I saw him leap through a hedge, and[Pg 25] then over a ditch, then at my lord mayor’s pale, over he skipped me, and in he went me, and “holla” the hunters cried, and “there, boy; there, boy!” But there he is, ’a mine honesty.
Hunting within. Enter Rose and Sybil.
Rose. Why, Sybil, wilt thou prove a forester?
Sybil. Upon some, no; forester, go by; no, faith, mistress. The deer came running into the barn through the orchard and over the pale; I wot well, I looked as pale as a new cheese to see him. But whip, says Goodman Pin-close, up with his flail, and our Nick with a prong, and down he fell, and they upon him, and I upon them. By my troth, we had such sport; and in the end we ended him; his throat we cut, flayed him, unhorned him, and my lord mayor shall eat of him anon, when he comes. [Horns sound within.
Enter Master Hammon, Master Warner, Huntsmen, and Boy.
Enter the Lord Mayor and Servants.
Enter Lacy otherwise Hans, Skipper, Hodge, and Firk.
Skip. Ick sal yow wat seggen, Hans; dis skip, dot comen from Candy, is al vol, by Got’s sacrament, van sugar, civet, almonds, cambrick, end alle dingen, towsand towsand ding. Nempt it, Hans, nempt it vor v meester. Daer be de bils van laden. Your meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen. Wat seggen yow, Hans?[44]
Firk. Wat seggen de reggen de copen, slopen—laugh, Hodge, laugh!
Hans. Mine liever broder Firk, bringt Meester Eyre tot det signe vn Swannekin; daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me. Wat seggen yow, broder Firk? Doot it, Hodge.[45] Come, skipper. [Exeunt.
Firk. Bring him, quoth you? Here’s no knavery, to bring my master to buy a ship worth the lading of two or[Pg 29] three hundred thousand pounds. Alas, that’s nothing; a trifle, a bauble, Hodge.
Hodge. The truth is, Firk, that the merchant owner of the ship dares not shew his head, and therefore this skipper that deals for him, for the love he bears to Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargain in the commodities. He shall have a reasonable day of payment; he may sell the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer himself.
Firk. Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twenty porpentines as an earnest penny?
Hodge. Portuguese,[46] thou wouldst say; here they be, Firk; hark, they jingle in my pocket like St. Mary Overy’s bells.[47]
Enter Eyre and Margery.
Firk. Mum, here comes my dame and my master. She’ll scold, on my life, for loitering this Monday; but all’s one, let them all say what they can, Monday’s our holiday.
Firk. Smart for me, dame; why, dame, why?
Hodge. Master, I hope you’ll not suffer my dame to take down your journeymen.
Firk. If she take me down, I’ll take her up; yea, and take her down too, a button-hole lower.
Eyre. Peace, Firk; not I, Hodge; by the life of Pharaoh, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every hair whereof I value at a king’s ransom, she shall not meddle with you.—Peace, you bombast-cotton-candle-quean; away, queen of clubs; quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firk; I’ll firk you, if you do.
Marg. Yea, yea, man, you may use me as you please; but let that pass.
Eyre. Let it pass, let it vanish away; peace! Am I not Simon Eyre? Are not these my brave men, brave shoemakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? Prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, as being the sole son of a shoemaker. Away, rubbish! vanish, melt; melt like kitchen-stuff.
Marg. Yea, yea, ’tis well; I must be called rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort of knaves.
Firk. Nay, dame, you shall not weep and wail in woe for me. Master, I’ll stay no longer; here’s an inventory of my shop-tools. Adieu, master; Hodge, farewell.
Hodge. Nay, stay, Firk; thou shalt not go alone.
Marg. I pray, let them go; there be more maids than Mawkin, more men than Hodge, and more fools than Firk.
Firk. Fools? Nails! if I tarry now, I would my guts might be turned to shoe-thread.
Hodge. And if I stay, I pray God I may be turned to a Turk, and set in Finsbury[48] for boys to shoot at.—Come, Firk.
Eyre. Stay, my fine knaves, you arms of my trade, you pillars of my profession. What, shall a tittle-tattle’s words make you forsake Simon Eyre?—Avaunt, kitchen-stuff! Rip, you brown-bread Tannikin;[49] out of my sight! Move me not! Have not I ta’en you from selling tripes in Eastcheap, and set you in my shop, and made you hail-fellow with Simon Eyre, the shoemaker? And now do you deal thus with my journeymen? Look, you powder-beef-quean, on the face of Hodge, here’s a face for a lord.
Firk. And here’s a face for any lady in Christendom.
Eyre. Rip, you chitterling, avaunt! Boy, bid the[Pg 31] tapster of the Boar’s Head fill me a dozen cans of beer for my journeymen.
Firk. A dozen cans? O, brave! Hodge, now I’ll stay.
Eyre. (In a low voice to the Boy). An the knave fills any more than two, he pays for them. (Exit Boy. Aloud.) A dozen cans of beer for my journeymen. (Re-enter Boy.) Here, you mad Mesopotamians, wash your livers with this liquor. Where be the odd ten? No more, Madge, no more.—Well said. Drink and to work!—What work dost thou, Hodge? what work?
Hodge. I am a making a pair of shoes for my lord mayor’s daughter, Mistress Rose.
Firk. And I a pair of shoes for Sybil, my lord’s maid. I deal with her.
Eyre. Sybil? Fie, defile not thy fine workmanly fingers with the feet of kitchenstuff and basting-ladles. Ladies of the court, fine ladies, my lads, commit their feet to our apparelling; put gross work to Hans. Yark and seam, yark and seam!
Firk. For yarking and seaming let me alone, an I come to’t.
Hodge. Well, master, all this is from the bias.[50] Do you remember the ship my fellow Hans told you of? The skipper and he are both drinking at the Swan. Here be the Portuguese to give earnest. If you go through with it, you cannot choose but be a lord at least.
Firk. Nay, dame, if my master prove not a lord, and you a lady, hang me.
Marg. Yea, like enough, if you may loiter and tipple thus.
Firk. Tipple, dame? No, we have been bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag:[51] can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of silk Cyprus, laden with sugar-candy.
Enter Boy with a velvet coat and an Alderman’s gown. Eyre puts them on.
Eyre. Peace, Firk; silence, Tittle-tattle! Hodge, I’ll go through with it. Here’s a seal-ring, and I have sent for a guarded gown[52] and a damask cassock. See where it comes; look here, Maggy; help me, Firk; apparel me, Hodge; silk and satin, you mad Philistines, silk and satin.
Firk. Ha, ha, my master will be as proud as a dog in a doublet, all in beaten[53] damask and velvet.
Eyre. Softly, Firk, for rearing[54] of the nap, and wearing threadbare my garments. How dost thou like me, Firk? How do I look, my fine Hodge?
Hodge. Why, now you look like yourself, master. I warrant you, there’s few in the city, but will give you the wall, and come upon you with the right worshipful.
Firk. Nails, my master looks like a threadbare cloak new turned and dressed. Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment doth! Dame, dame, are you not enamoured?
Eyre. How say’st thou, Maggy, am I not brisk? Am I not fine?
Marg. Fine? By my troth, sweetheart, very fine! By my troth, I never liked thee so well in my life, sweetheart; but let that pass. I warrant, there be many women in the city have not such handsome husbands, but only for their apparel; but let that pass too.
Re-enter Hans and Skipper.
Hans. Godden day, mester. Dis be de skipper dat heb de skip van marchandice; de commodity ben good; nempt it, master, nempt it.[55]
Eyre. Godamercy, Hans; welcome, skipper. Where lies this ship of merchandise?
Skip. De skip ben in revere; dor be van Sugar, cyvet, almonds, cambrick, and a towsand towsand tings, gotz sacrament; nempt it, mester: ye sal heb good copen.[56]
Firk. To him, master! O sweet master! O sweet wares! Prunes, almonds, sugar-candy, carrot-roots, turnips, O brave fatting meat! Let not a man buy a nutmeg but yourself.
Eyre. Peace, Firk! Come, skipper, I’ll go aboard with you.—Hans, have you made him drink?
Skip. Yaw, yaw, ic heb veale gedrunck.[57]
Eyre. Come, Hans, follow me. Skipper, thou shalt have my countenance in the city. [Exeunt.
Firk. Yaw, heb veale gedrunck, quoth a. They may well be called butter-boxes, when they drink fat veal and thick beer too. But come, dame, I hope you’ll chide us no more.
Marg. No, faith, Firk; no, perdy,[58] Hodge. I do feel honour creep upon me, and which is more, a certain rising in my flesh; but let that pass.
Firk. Rising in your flesh do you feel, say you? Ay, you may be with child, but why should not my master feel a rising in his flesh, having a gown and a gold ring on? But you are such a shrew, you’ll soon pull him down.
Marg. Ha, ha! prithee, peace! Thou mak’st my worship laugh; but let that pass. Come, I’ll go in; Hodge, prithee, go before me; Firk, follow me.
Firk. Firk doth follow: Hodge, pass out in state. [Exeunt.
Enter the Earl of Lincoln and Dodger.
Enter the Lord Mayor and Master Scott.
Enter Master Hammon and Rose.
Enter Eyre.
Enter Dodger.
Enter Firk, Margery, Hans, and Roger.
Marg. Thou goest too fast for me, Roger. O, Firk!
Firk. Ay, forsooth.
Marg. I pray thee, run—do you hear?—run to Guildhall, and learn if my husband, Master Eyre, will take that worshipful vocation of Master Sheriff upon him. Hie thee, good Firk.
Firk. Take it? Well, I go; an’ he should not take it, Firk swears to forswear him. Yes, forsooth, I go to Guildhall.
Marg. Nay, when? thou art too compendious and tedious.
Firk. O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence; how like a new cart-wheel my dame speaks, and she looks like an old musty ale-bottle[62] going to scalding.
Marg. Nay, when? thou wilt make me melancholy.
Firk. God forbid your worship should fall into that humour;—I run. [Exit.
Marg. Let me see now, Roger and Hans.
Hodge. Ay, forsooth, dame—mistress I should say, but the old term so sticks to the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.
Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger; dame is a fair name for any honest Christian; but let that pass. How dost thou, Hans?
Hans. Mee tanck you, vro.[63]
Marg. Well, Hans and Roger, you see, God hath blest your master, and, perdy, if ever he comes to be Master Sheriff of London—as we are all mortal—you shall see, I will have some odd thing or other in a corner for you: I will not be your back-friend; but let that pass. Hans, pray thee, tie my shoe.
Hans. Yaw, ic sal, vro.[64]
Marg. Roger, thou know’st the size of my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so I thank God, it is handsome[Pg 41] enough; prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, cork, good Roger, wooden heel too.[65]
Hodge. You shall.
Marg. Art thou acquainted with never a farthingale-maker, nor a French hood-maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! How shall I look in a hood, I wonder! Perdy,[66] oddly, I think.
Hodge. As a cat out of a pillory:[67] very well, I warrant you, mistress.
Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and, Roger, canst thou tell where I may buy a good hair?
Hodge. Yes, forsooth, at the poulterer’s in Gracious Street.[68]
Marg. Thou art an ungracious wag; perdy, I mean a false hair for my periwig.
Hodge. Why, mistress, the next time I cut my beard, you shall have the shavings of it; but they are all true hairs.
Marg. It is very hot, I must get me a fan or else a mask.
Hodge. So you had need to hide your wicked face.
Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this world’s calling is; perdy, but that it is one of the wonderful works of God, I would not deal with it. Is not Firk come yet? Hans, be not so sad, let it pass and vanish, as my husband’s worship says.
Hans. Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo.[69]
Hodge. Mistress, will you drink a pipe of tobacco?
Marg. Oh, fie upon it, Roger, perdy! These filthy tobacco-pipes are the most idle slavering baubles that ever I felt. Out upon it! God bless us, men look not like men that use them.
Enter Ralph, lame.
Roger. What, fellow Ralph? Mistress, look here, Jane’s husband! Why, how now, lame? Hans, make much of him, he’s a brother of our trade, a good workman, and a tall soldier.
Hans. You be welcome, broder.
Marg. Perdy, I knew him not. How dost thou, good Ralph? I am glad to see thee well.
Marg. Trust me, I am sorry, Ralph, to see thee impotent. Lord, how the wars have made him sunburnt! The left leg is not well; ’twas a fair gift of God the infirmity took not hold a little higher, considering thou camest from France; but let that pass.
Marg. Yea, truly, Ralph, I thank my Maker; but let that pass.
Hodge. And, sirrah Ralph, what news, what news in France?
Ralph. Tell me, good Roger, first, what news in England? How does my Jane? When didst thou see my wife?
Hodge. Limbs? Hast thou not hands, man? Thou shalt never see a shoemaker want bread, though he have but three fingers on a hand.
Ralph. Yet all this while I hear not of my Jane.
Marg. O Ralph, your wife,—perdy, we know not what’s become of her. She was here a while, and because she was married, grew more stately than became her; I checked her, and so forth; away she flung, never returned, nor said bye nor bah; and, Ralph, you know,[Pg 43] “ka me, ka thee.”[70] And so, as I tell ye——Roger, is not Firk come yet?
Hodge. No, forsooth.
Marg. And so, indeed, we heard not of her, but I hear she lives in London; but let that pass. If she had wanted, she might have opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men; I am sure, there’s not any of them, perdy, but would have done her good to his power. Hans, look if Firk be come.
Hans. Yaw, ik sal, vro.[71] [Exit Hans.
Marg. And so, as I said—but, Ralph, why dost thou weep? Thou knowest that naked we came out of our mother’s womb, and naked we must return; and, therefore, thank God for all things.
Hodge. No, faith, Jane is a stranger here; but, Ralph, pull up a good heart, I know thou hast one. Thy wife, man, is in London; one told me, he saw her a while ago very brave and neat; we’ll ferret her out, an’ London hold her.
Marg. Alas, poor soul, he’s overcome with sorrow; he does but as I do, weep for the loss of any good thing. But, Ralph, get thee in, call for some meat and drink, thou shalt find me worshipful towards thee.
Enter Hans and Firk running.
Firk. Run, good Hans! O Hodge, O mistress! Hodge, heave up thine ears; mistress, smug up[72] your looks; on with your best apparel; my master is chosen, my master is called, nay, condemned by the cry of the country to be sheriff of the city for this famous year now to come. And time now being, a great many men in black gowns were asked for their voices and their hands[Pg 44] and my master had all their fists about his ears presently, and they cried ‘Ay, ay, ay, ay,’—and so I came away—
Hans. Yaw, my mester is de groot man, de shrieve.
Hodge. Did not I tell you, mistress? Now I may boldly say: Good-morrow to your worship.
Marg. Good-morrow, good Roger. I thank you, my good people all.—Firk, hold up thy hand: here’s a threepenny piece for thy tidings.
Firk. ’Tis but three-half-pence, I think. Yes, ’tis three-pence, I smell the rose.[74]
Hodge. But, mistress, be ruled by me, and do not speak so pulingly.
Firk. ’Tis her worship speaks so, and not she. No, faith, mistress, speak me in the old key: ‘To it, Firk,’ ‘there, good Firk,’ ‘ply your business, Hodge,’ ‘Hodge, with a full mouth,’ ‘I’ll fill your bellies with good cheer, till they cry twang.’
Enter Eyre wearing a gold chain.
Hans. See, myn liever broder, heer compt my meester.
Marg. Welcome home, Master Shrieve; I pray God continue you in health and wealth.
Eyre. See here, my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre. I shall make thee a lady; here’s a French hood for thee; on with it, on with it! dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of mutton,[75] to make thee look lovely. Where be my fine men? Roger, I’ll make over my shop and tools to thee; Firk, thou shalt be the foreman; Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for twenty.[76] Be as[Pg 45] mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, and you shall live to be Sheriffs of London.—How dost thou like me, Margery? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. Firk, Hodge, and Hans!
All three. Ay forsooth, what says your worship, Master Sheriff?
Eyre. Worship and honour, you Babylonian knaves, for the gentle craft. But I forgot myself, I am bidden by my lord mayor to dinner to Old Ford; he’s gone before, I must after. Come, Madge, on with your trinkets! Now, my true Trojans, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odd crotchets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers. Meet me at Old Ford, you know my mind. Come, Madge, away. Shut up the shop, knaves, and make holiday. [Exeunt.
Enter the Lord Mayor, Rose, Eyre, Margery in a French hood, Sybil, and other Servants.
Eyre. Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity! When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet gown, I’ll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a justice of peace; but now I am here at Old Ford, at my good lord mayor’s house, let it go by, vanish, Maggy, I’ll be merry; away with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gulleries. What, honey? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. What says my lord mayor?
L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pound, I had an heart but half so light as yours.
Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord? A pound of care pays not a dram of debt. Hum, let’s be merry, whiles we are young; old age, sack and sugar will steal upon us, ere we be aware.[77]
The First Three-Men’s Song.[78]
Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the grace to take nothing that’s bad.
Eyre. Be ruled, sweet Rose: th’art ripe for a man. Marry not with a boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery: those silken fellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack; what, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world.[Pg 48] [A noise within of a tabor and a pipe.
L. Mayor. What noise is this?
Eyre. O my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your honour are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily.
Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, Firk, and other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a little dancing the Lord Mayor speaks.
L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these shoemakers?
Eyre. All cordwainers, my good lord mayor.
Rose. (Aside.) How like my Lacy looks yond’ shoemaker!
Hans. (Aside.) O that I durst but speak unto my love!
L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to make these drink. You are all welcome.
All. We thank your lordship. [Rose takes a cup of wine and goes to Hans.
Hans. Ic bedancke, good frister.[79]
Marg. I see, Mistress Rose, you do not want judgment; you have drunk to the properest man I keep.
Firk. Here be some have done their parts to be as proper as he.
Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim Eyre adds another; then cheerily, Firk; tickle it, Hans, and all for the honour of shoemakers. [All go dancing out.
L. Mayor. Come, Master Eyre, let’s have your company. [Exeunt.
Rose. Sybil, what shall I do?
Sybil. Why, what’s the matter?
Sybil. What, mistress, never fear; I dare venture my maidenhead to nothing, and that’s great odds, that Hans the Dutchman, when we come to London, shall not only see and speak with you, but in spite of all your father’s policies steal you away and marry you. Will not this please you?
Rose. Do this, and ever be assured of my love.
Sybil. Away, then, and follow your father to London, lest your absence cause him to suspect something:
Jane in a Seamster’s shop, working; enter Master Hammon, muffled; he stands aloof.
Hodge, at his shop-board, Ralph, Firk, Hans, and a Boy at work.
All. Hey, down a down, down derry.
Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your work to-day,[Pg 55] we loitered yesterday; to it pell-mell, that we may live to be lord mayors, or aldermen at least.
Firk. Hey, down a down, derry.
Hodge. Well said, i’faith! How say’st thou, Hans, doth not Firk tickle it?
Hans. Yaw, mester.
Firk. Not so neither, my organ-pipe squeaks this morning for want of liquoring. Hey, down a down, derry!
Hans. Forward, Firk, tow best un jolly yongster. Hort, I, mester, ic bid yo, cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jeffre’s boots.[81]
Hodge. Thou shalt, Hans.
Firk. Master!
Hodge. How now, boy?
Firk. Pray, now you are in the cutting vein, cut me out a pair of counterfeits,[82] or else my work will not pass current; hey, down a down!
Hodge. Tell me, sirs, are my cousin Mrs. Priscilla’s shoes done?
Firk. Your cousin? No, master; one of your aunts, hang her; let them alone.
Ralph. I am in hand with them; she gave charge that none but I should do them for her.
Firk. Thou do for her? then ’twill be a lame doing, and that she loves not. Ralph, thou might’st have sent her to me, in faith, I would have yearked and firked your Priscilla. Hey, down a down, derry. This gear will not hold.
Hodge. How say’st thou, Firk, were we not merry at Old Ford?
Firk. How, merry? why, our buttocks went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well, Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought[Pg 56] all meal of that nature, I would eat nothing but bagpuddings.
Ralph. Of all good fortunes my fellow Hans had the best.
Firk. ’Tis true, because Mistress Rose drank to him.
Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or very sick.
Firk. I care not, I’ll be none.
Ralph. No, nor I; but then my Master Eyre will come quickly to be lord mayor.
Enter Sybil.
Firk. Whoop, yonder comes Sybil.
Hodge. Sybil, welcome, i’faith; and how dost thou, mad wench?
Firk. Syb-whore, welcome to London.
Sybil. Godamercy, sweet Firk; good lord, Hodge, what a delicious shop you have got! You tickle it, i’faith.
Ralph. Godamercy, Sybil, for our good cheer at Old Ford.
Sybil. That you shall have, Ralph.
Firk. Nay, by the mass, we had tickling cheer, Sybil; and how the plague dost thou and Mistress Rose and my lord mayor? I put the women in first.
Sybil. Well, Godamercy; but God’s me, I forget myself, where’s Hans the Fleming?
Firk. Hark, butter-box, now you must yelp out some spreken.
Hans. Wat begaie you? Vat vod you, Frister?[83]
Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young mistress, to pull on her shoes you made last.
Hans. Vare ben your egle fro, vare ben your mistris?[84]
Sybil. Marry, here at our London house in Cornhill.
Firk. Will nobody serve her turn but Hans?
Sybil. No, sir. Come, Hans, I stand upon needles.
Hodge. Why then, Sybil, take heed of pricking.
Sybil. For that let me alone. I have a trick in my budget. Come, Hans.
Hans. Yaw, yaw, ic sall meete yo gane.[85] [Exit Hans and Sybil.
Hodge. Go, Hans, make haste again. Come, who lacks work?
Firk. I, master, for I lack my breakfast; ’tis munching-time, and past.
Hodge. Is’t so? why, then leave work, Ralph. To breakfast! Boy, look to the tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk. [Exeunt.
Enter a Serving-man.
Serv. Let me see now, the sign of the Last in Tower Street. Mass, yonder’s the house. What, haw! Who’s within?
Enter Ralph.
Ralph. Who calls there? What want you, sir?
Serv. Marry, I would have a pair of shoes made for a gentlewoman against to-morrow morning. What, can you do them?
Ralph. Yes, sir, you shall have them. But what length’s her foot?
Serv. Why, you must make them in all parts like this shoe; but, at any hand, fail not to do them, for the gentlewoman is to be married very early in the morning.
Ralph. How? by this shoe must it be made? by this? Are you sure, sir, by this?
Serv. How, by this? Am I sure, by this? Art thou in thy wits? I tell thee, I must have a pair of shoes[Pg 58] dost thou mark me? a pair of shoes, two shoes, made by this very shoe, this same shoe, against to-morrow morning by four a clock. Dost understand me? Canst thou do’t?
Ralph. Yes, sir, yes—I—I—I can do’t. By this shoe, you say? I should know this shoe. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do’t. Four a clock, well. Whither shall I bring them?
Serv. To the sign of the Golden Ball in Watling Street; enquire for one Master Hammon, a gentleman, my master.
Ralph. Yea, sir; by this shoe, you say?
Serv. I say, Master Hammon at the Golden Ball; he’s the bridegroom, and those shoes are for his bride.
Ralph. They shall be done by this shoe; well, well, Master Hammon at the Golden Shoe—I would say, the Golden Ball; very well, very well. But I pray you, sir, where must Master Hammon be married?
Serv. At Saint Faith’s Church, under Paul’s.[86] But what’s that to thee? Prithee, dispatch those shoes, and so farewell. [Exit.
Enter Firk.
Firk. ’Snails,[87] Ralph, thou hast lost thy part of three pots, a countryman of mine gave me to breakfast.
Ralph. I care not; I have found a better thing.
Firk. A thing? away! Is it a man’s thing, or a woman’s thing?
Ralph. Firk, dost thou know this shoe?
Firk. No, by my troth; neither doth that know me! I have no acquaintance with it, ’tis a mere stranger to me.
Firk. Ha, ha! Old shoe, that wert new! How a murrain came this ague-fit of foolishness upon thee?
Firk. And why may’st not thou be my sweet ass? Ha, ha!
Firk. Thou lie with a woman to build nothing but Cripple-gates! Well, God sends fools fortune, and it may be, he may light upon his matrimony by such a device; for wedding and hanging goes by destiny. [Exit.
Enter Hans and Rose, arm in arm.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mistress? Shift for yourself, your father is at hand! He’s coming, he’s coming! Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mistress! For God’s sake, shift for yourselves!
Hans. Your hither come, sweet Rose—what shall I do? Where shall I hide me? How shall I escape?
Rose. A man, and want wit in extremity? Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoemaker, Pull on my shoe.
Enter the Lord Mayor.
Hans. Mass, and that’s well remembered.
Sybil. Here comes your father.
Hans. Forware, metresse, ’tis un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.[88]
Rose. Oh God, it pincheth me; what will you do?
Hans. (Aside.) Your father’s presence pincheth, not the shoe.
L. Mayor. Well done; fit my daughter well, and she shall please thee well.
Hans. Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well; forware, ’tis un good skoo, ’tis gimait van neits leither; se euer, mine here.[89]
Enter a Prentice.
Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of Lincoln.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God’s sake! my mistress; oh, my young mistress!
L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? What’s become of her?
Sybil. She’s gone, she’s fled!
L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled?
Sybil. I know not, forsooth; she’s fled out of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace!
L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! Where be my men? Which way?
Sybil. I know not, an it please your worship.
L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can this be true?
Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God’s in Heaven.
Enter Firk with shoes.
Firk. Yea, forsooth; ’tis a very brave shoe, and as fit as a pudding.
L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this? From whence comest thou?
Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoemaker, lusty Roger’s chief lusty journeyman, and I have come hither to take up the pretty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, and thus hoping your worship is in as good health, as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk.
L. Mayor. Stay, stay, Sir Knave!
Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker!
Firk. ’Tis happy the knave is put before the shoemaker, or else I would not have vouchsafed to come back to you. I am moved, for I stir.
L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us knaves by craft.
Firk. Then ’tis by the gentle craft, and to call one knave gently, is no harm. Sit your worship merry![91] Syb, your young mistress—I’ll so bob them, now my Master Eyre is lord mayor of London.
L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, who’s man are you?
Firk. I am glad to see your worship so merry. I have no maw to this gear, no stomach as yet to a red petticoat. [Pointing to Sybil.
Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero. Roger, my fellow, is now my master.
Lincoln. Sirrah, know’st thou one Hans, a shoemaker?
Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak it in secret: Mistress Rose and he are by this time—no, not so, but shortly are to come over one another with “Can you dance the shaking of the sheets?” It is that Hans—(Aside.) I’ll so gull these diggers![92]
L. Mayor. Know’st thou, then, where he is?
Firk. Yes, forsooth; yea, marry!
Lincoln. Canst thou, in sadness——
Firk. No, forsooth; no, marry!
Firk. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I care not for seeing, I love feeling; let me feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; and then Firk is your man in a new pair of stretchers.[93]
Firk. No point! Shall I betray my brother? no! Shall I prove Judas to Hans? no! Shall I cry treason to my corporation? no, I shall be firked and yerked then. But give me your angel; your angel shall tell you.
Lincoln. Do so, good fellow; ’tis no hurt to thee.
Firk. Send simpering Syb away.
L. Mayor. Huswife, get you in. [Exit Sybil.
Firk. Pitchers have ears, and maids have wide mouths; but for Hans Prauns, upon my word, to-morrow morning he and young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to tan leather withal.
L. Mayor. But art thou sure of this?
Firk. Am I sure that Paul’s steeple is a handful higher than London Stone,[94] or that the Pissing-Conduit[95] leaks nothing but pure Mother Bunch? Am I sure I am lusty Firk? God’s nails, do you think I am so base to gull you?
Lincoln. Where are they married? Dost thou know the church.
Firk. I never go to church, but I know the name of it; it is a swearing church—stay a while, ’tis—ay, by the mass, no, no,—’tis—ay, by my troth, no, nor that; ’tis—ay,[Pg 66] by my faith, that, that, ’tis, ay, by my Faith’s Church under Paul’s Cross. There they shall be knit like a pair of stockings in matrimony; there they’ll be inconie.[96]
Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to their hey-pass and repass, pindy-pandy, which hand will you have,[97] very early.
Lincoln. At Saint Faith’s Church thou say’st?
Firk. Yes, by their troth.
Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. [Exit.
Firk. Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, ha, here’s no craft in the gentle craft. I came hither of purpose with[Pg 67] shoes to Sir Roger’s worship, whilst Rose, his daughter, be cony-catched by Hans. Soft now; these two gulls will be at Saint Faith’s Church to-morrow morning, to take Master Bridegroom and Mistress Bride napping, and they, in the mean time, shall chop up the matter at the Savoy. But the best sport is, Sir Roger Oateley will find my fellow lame Ralph’s wife going to marry a gentleman, and then he’ll stop her instead of his daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to do? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoemakers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy Lane, to cozen my gentleman of lame Ralph’s wife, that’s true.
Enter Eyre, Margery, Hans, and Rose.
Eyre. This is the morning, then; stay, my bully, my honest Hans, is it not?
Hans. This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable; therefore, if you——
Eyre. Away with these ifs and ands, Hans, and these et caeteras! By mine honour, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor of London? Fear nothing, Rose: let them all say what they can; dainty, come thou to me—laughest thou?
Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.
Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah! Fie, I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou had’st never covered thy Saracen’s head with this French flap, nor loaden thy bum with this farthingale, (’tis trash, trumpery, vanity); Simon Eyre had never walked in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine journeyman’s Portuguese.—And shall I leave him? No! Prince am I none, yet bear a princely mind.
Hans. My lord, ’tis time for us to part from hence.
Eyre. Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take two or three of my pie crust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at Simon Eyre’s heels; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my delicate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy; see them linked, countenance the marriage; and when it is done, cling, cling together, you Hamborow turtle-doves. I’ll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou shalt eat minced-pies and marchpane.[98] Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!
Marg. Farewell, my lord.
Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than deer we’ll run. [Exeunt Hans, Rose, and Margery.
Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate, it’s a mad life to be a lord mayor; it’s a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honour of Saint Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I’ll do’t, I’ll do’t, by the life of Pharaoh; by this beard, Sim Eyre will be no flincher. Besides, I have procured that upon every Shrove-Tuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads shall clap up their shop windows, and away. This is the day, and this day they shall do’t, they shall do’t.
Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and five or six Shoemakers, all with cudgels or such weapons.
Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong; were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure ’tis thy wife?
Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I stroked[99] on her shoes, I looked upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, asked me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said she—tears standing in her eyes—and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this piece of gold. I took it; my lame leg and my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she’s mine.
Firk. Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold! She’s thine own, ’tis thy wife, and she loves thee; for I’ll stand to’t, there’s no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks better of him, than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London. Is not our old master Eyre, lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.
All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to his cost.
Enter Hammon, his Serving-man, Jane and Others.
Hodge. Peace, my bullies; yonder they come.
Ralph. Stand to’t, my hearts. Firk, let me speak first.
Hodge. No, Ralph, let me.—Hammon, whither away so early?
Ham. Unmannerly, rude slave, what’s that to thee?
Firk. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how dost thou? Good Lord, how the world is changed with you! God be thanked!
Ham. Villains, hands off! How dare you touch my love?
All. Villains? Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices![100]
Hodge. Hold, my hearts! Touch her, Hammon? Yea, and more than that: we’ll carry her away with us. My masters and gentlemen, never draw your bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the back, men every inch of them, all spirit.
Those of Hammon’s side. Well, and what of all this?
Hodge. I’ll show you.—Jane, dost thou know this man? ’Tis Ralph, I can tell thee; nay, ’tis he in faith, though he be lamed by the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the neck and kiss him.
Firk. Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack home with him. Now, Master Hammon, where’s your mistress, your wife?
Serv. ’Swounds, master, fight for her! Will you thus lose her?
All. Down with that creature! Clubs! Down with him!
Hodge. Hold, hold!
Firk. Yea, sir! She must, sir! She shall, sir! What then? Mend it!
Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my counsel: set the wench in the midst, and let her choose her man, and let her be his woman.
Hodge. Not a rag, Jane! The law’s on our side; he that sows in another man’s ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph; follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point[101] from thee.
Firk. Stand to that, Ralph; the appurtenances are thine own. Hammon, look not at her!
Serv. O, swounds, no!
Firk. Blue coat, be quiet, we’ll give you a new livery else; we’ll make Shrove Tuesday Saint George’s Day for you. Look not, Hammon, leer not! I’ll firk you! For thy head now, one glance, one sheep’s eye, anything, at her! Touch not a rag, lest I and my brethren beat you to clouts.
Serv. Come, Master Hammon, there’s no striving here.
Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thy gold, choke with it! Were I not lame, I would make thee eat thy words.
Firk. A shoemaker sell his flesh and blood? Oh indignity!
Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be packing.
Firk. (To the Serving-man.) Touch the gold, creature, if you dare! Y’are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let’s home, my hearts.
Hodge. Stay! Who comes here? Jane, on again with thy mask!
Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord Mayor and Servants.
Lincoln. Yonder’s the lying varlet mocked us so.
L. Mayor. Come hither, sirrah!
Firk. I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean me, do you not?
Lincoln. Where is my nephew married?
Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.
Firk. Truly, I am sorry for’t; a bride’s a pretty thing.
Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder’s the bride and bridegroom you look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar by your authority men from women, are you?
Firk. Yea, truly; God help the poor couple, they are lame and blind.
Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh! My fellow Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all my knavery.
Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope you cannot enforce my wife from me. Where’s Hammon?
L. Mayor. Your wife?
Lincoln. What, Hammon?
Ralph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you that lays hands on her first, I’ll lay my crutch ’cross his pate.
Firk. To him, lame Ralph! Here’s brave sport!
Ralph. Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane. Look here else; do you know her now?[Pg 75] [Unmasking Jane.
Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft.
Firk. Why, here is good laced mutton, as I promised you.
Lincoln. Villain, I’ll have thee punished for this wrong.
Firk. Punish the journeyman villain, but not the journeyman shoemaker.
Enter Dodger.
Lincoln. Dares Eyre the shoemaker uphold the deed?
Firk. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a woman’s quarrel, I warrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too.
Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Farewell, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had stayed, I would have so lambed[102] them with flouts! O heart, my codpiece-point is ready to fly in pieces every time I think upon Mistress Rose; but let that pass, as my lady mayoress says.
Hodge. This matter is answered. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my fine shoemakers, let’s to our master’s, the new lord mayor, and there swagger this Shrove-Tuesday. I’ll promise you wine enough, for Madge keeps the cellar.
All. O rare! Madge is a good wench.
Firk. And I’ll promise you meat enough, for simp’ring Susan keeps the larder. I’ll lead you to victuals, my brave soldiers; follow your captain. O brave! Hark, hark! [Bell rings.
All. The pancake-bell rings, the pancake-bell! Tri-lill, my hearts!
Firk. Oh brave! Oh sweet bell! O delicate pancakes! Open the doors, my hearts, and shut up the windows! keep in the house, let out the pancakes! Oh rare, my hearts! Let’s march together for the honour of Saint Hugh to the great new hall[103] in Gracious Street-corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built.
Ralph. O the crew of good fellows that will dine at my lord mayor’s cost to-day!
Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a most brave man. How shall prentices be bound to pray for him and the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers! Let’s feed and be fat with my lord’s bounty.
Firk. O musical bell, still! O Hodge, O my brethren! There’s cheer for the heavens: venison-pasties walk up and down piping hot, like sergeants; beef and brewess[104] comes marching in dry-vats,[105] fritters and pancakes comes[Pg 77] trowling in in wheel-barrows; hens and oranges hopping in porters’-baskets, collops and eggs in scuttles, and tarts and custards comes quavering in in malt-shovels.
Enter more Prentices.
All. Whoop, look here, look here!
Hodge. How now, mad lads, whither away so fast?
1st Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why? The lord mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to breakfast this morning.
All. Oh brave shoemaker, oh brave lord of incomprehensible good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings. [Cast up caps.
Firk. Nay, more, my hearts! Every Shrove-Tuesday is our year of jubilee; and when the pancake-bell rings, we are as free as my lord mayor; we may shut up our shops, and make holiday. I’ll have it called Saint Hugh’s Holiday.
All. Agreed, agreed! Saint Hugh’s Holiday.
Hodge. And this shall continue for ever.
All. Oh brave! Come, come, my hearts! Away, away!
Firk. O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft! March fair, my hearts! Oh rare! [Exeunt.
Enter the King and his Train across the stage.
King. Is our lord mayor of London such a gallant?
Enter Eyre, Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and other Shoemakers, all with napkins on their shoulders.
Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers? Let them all walk and wait upon my brethren; for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the livery of my company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign.
Firk. O my lord, it will be rare!
Eyre. No more, Firk; come, lively! Let your fellow-prentices want no cheer; let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water. Hang these penny-pinching fathers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb-skins. Rip, knaves, avaunt! Look to my guests!
Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits’ end for room; those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them.
Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, Ralph! Frisk about, my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathom-healths to the honour of the shoemakers.[Pg 79] Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk?
Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have taken their liquor standing so long that they can stand no longer; but for meat, they would eat it, an they had it.
Eyre. Want they meat? Where’s this swag-belly, this greasy kitchenstuff cook? Call the varlet to me! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat? Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge!
Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firk; he means, their bellies want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much, they can eat nothing.
The Second Three Men’s Song.[108]
[Repeat as often as there be men to drink; and at last when all have drunk, this verse:
Enter Hans, Rose, and Margery.
Marg. Where is my lord?
Eyre. How now, Lady Madgy?
Marg. The king’s most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me for thy honour; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass.
Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren; look to my guests, the prentices. Yet stay a little! How now, Hans? How looks my little Rose?
Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my honest journeyman; look cheerily! I’ll fall upon both my knees, till they be as hard as horn, but I’ll get thy pardon.
Marg. Good my lord, have a care what you speak to his grace.
Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot![110] hence, you hopperarse! you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled carbonado![111] avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; meddle with your partlets[112] and your pishery-pashery, your flewes[113] and your whirligigs; go, rub, out of mine alley! Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, to[Pg 81] Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine,[114] an he were here; and shall I melt, shall I droop before my sovereign? No, come, my Lady Madgy! Follow me, Hans! About your business, my frolic free-booters! Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London.
Firk. Hey, for the honour of the shoemakers. [Exeunt.
A long flourish, or two. Enter the King, Nobles, Eyre, Margery, Lacy, Rose. Lacy and Rose kneel.
Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, shall set your sweet majesty’s image cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this honour you have done poor Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace, pardon my rude behaviour; I am a handicraftsman, yet my heart is without craft; I would be sorry at my soul, that my boldness should offend my king.
Eyre. Say’st thou me so, my sweet Dioclesian? Then, humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the Lord of Ludgate, my liege, I’ll be as merry as a pie.[115]
King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how old thou art.
Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a younker; you see not a white hair on my head, not a gray in this beard. Every hair, I assure thy majesty, that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon’s ransom, Tamar Cham’s[116] beard was a rubbing brush to’t: yet I’ll shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls with it, to please my bully king.
King. But all this while I do not know your age.
Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry humph! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danced the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy nobles, it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born.
Enter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord Mayor.
Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid! Where be my officers? I’ll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm.
Eyre. O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacy, and all these favours which you have shown to me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should.
Eyre. I thank your majesty.
Marg. God bless your grace!
King. Lincoln, a word with you!
Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and more Shoemakers.
Eyre. How now, my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king.
King. My mad lord mayor, are all these shoemakers?
Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh.
All the Shoemakers. God save your majesty!
King. Mad Simon, would they anything with us?
Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! I’ll do’t; I warrant you. They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week.
All. Jesus bless your grace!
Eyre. In the name of these my poor brethren shoemakers, I most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more.
King. What is it, my lord mayor?
Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet presence.
Eyre. O my dear king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving,[118] which I promised long ago to the prentices of London.
Gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feast all the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered; they are gone home and vanished;
Between the publication of the first, and of the second, parts of The Honest Whore, a quarter of a century passed. The first part appeared in 1604, having the sub-title “With the Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife.” In 1630 followed the second part, in which the sub-title is further expanded:—“With the Humours of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, persuaded by strong arguments to turne Courtesan again: her brave refuting those Arguments.—And lastly, the Comical Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the scene ends.” Both title-pages give Dekker’s name alone as author, although from a passage in Henslow’s Diary, we learn that Middleton collaborated with him in the play.
It is impossible now to decide exactly what Middleton’s share was, but it was certainly not inconsiderable. Mr. Bullen points out, in his introduction to Middleton’s works, the close resemblance between the scene where Bellafront prepares for her visitors, and the first scene in the 3rd Act of Middleton’s Michaelmas Term; but this play did not appear until three years after the first part of Dekker’s. Still the fact of Middleton’s repeating the scene, goes to show that he had some special share in it, and certain other scenes in the first part are somewhat reminiscent of his style, as those in Acts I. and III., indicated by Mr. Bullen, where the gallants try to irritate Candido. The second part contains nothing that I should be inclined to allot to Middleton, agreeing in this with Mr. Swinburne, who remarks that it “seems so thoroughly of one piece and pattern, so apparently the result of one man’s invention and composition, that without more positive evidence I should hesitate to assign a share in it to any colleague of the poet under whose name it first[Pg 91] appeared.” Mr. J. Addington Symonds has conjectured that the work as a whole has “the movement of one of Middleton’s acknowledged plays,” and it is possible that the main direction of the plot may have owed something to his more restraining dramatic sense of form. However this may be, the essential heart and spirit of the play are Dekker’s beyond all question. Bellafront, Matheo, Friscobaldo, Candido, are creatures not to be mistaken; and their interplay is managed throughout in Dekker’s individual manner. The source whence these, with the rest of the characters and episodes of the play, have been derived, has not been discovered: they were no doubt transcribed from life, and their secret lies hidden probably in Dekker’s brain alone.
“There is in the second part of The Honest Whore, where Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honour and shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without immodesty, which is worth all the strong lines against the harlot’s profession, with which both parts of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men.”—C. Lamb: Specimens of English Dramatic Poets.
THE HONEST WHORE.
Part the First.
Enter at one side a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheon and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan, Castruchio, Sinezi, Pioratto, Fluello, and others. At the other side enter Hippolito, and Matheo labouring to hold him back.
Cas., Sin. On afore there, ho!
[Exeunt with hearse, all except the Duke, Hippolito and Matheo.
Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.] S’blood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [Aside]. My Lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner?
Hip. Where is the body?
Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed.
Hip. I shall forget myself.
Mat. Pray, do so, leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Alicant,[120] by this light, if you follow ’em, and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up like a baby in swaddling clouts.
Hip. What day is to-day, Matheo?
Mat. Yea marry, this is an easy question: why to-day is—let me see—Thursday.
Hip. Oh! Thursday.
Mat. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity. ’Sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.
Hip. She died on Monday then.
Mat. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well, and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning.
Mat. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them, that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health, that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk.
Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and, like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.
Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad: but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench.
Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in[Pg 98] your belly, why so jig-makers[122] and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but an I smell not you and a bawdy house out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding: I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place aforenamed. [Exeunt.
Enter Fustigo in some fantastic Sea-suit, meeting a Porter.
Fus. How now, porter, will she come?
Por. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come.
Fus. There’s for thy pains [Gives money]. Godamercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger,[123] porter, thou shalt earn my money before any clarissimo[124] in Milan; yet, so God sa’ me, she’s mine own sister body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman; farewell; I’ll ponder till she come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I assure thee.
Por. No matter if I had, sir, better men than porters are bawds.
Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house?
Por. I think so, for I met with no thieves.
Fus. Nay, but art sure it was my sister, Viola.
Por. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered.
Fus. Not very tall?
Por. Nor very low; a middling woman.
Fus. ’Twas she, ’faith, ’twas she, a pretty plump cheek, like mine?
Por. At a blush a little, very much like you.
Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage, marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [Gives money]; farewell, honest porter.
Por. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you.
Fus. Not so, neither, good porter. [Exit Porter.] God’s lid, yonder she comes. [Enter Viola.] Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister?
Vio. Yes, trust me; I wondered who should be so bold to send for me: you are welcome to Milan, brother.
Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff,[125] and I was very sorry for it, that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do all our friends?
Vio. Very well; you ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats.
Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand.
Vio. These are your old oaths.
Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?
Vio. Well, well, you shall have them: put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.
Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse if I like the matter.
Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?
Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fishpond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.
Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer.
Fus. Nay by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.
Vio. Then lend me your ears.
Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.
Vio. I am married to a man that has wealth enough, and wit enough.
Fus. A linen-draper, I was told, sister.
Vio. Very true, a grave citizen, I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband: but here’s the spite, he has not all the things belonging to a man.
Fus. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake,[126] or else (God bless us) one a’ these whiblins,[127] and that’s worse, and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.
Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother; I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man. I am sure my husband is a man in print, for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him.
Fus. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved, and moved again, for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman.
Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle, no crabbed language make his countenance sour, the stubbornness of no servant shake him; he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets, and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder, turn him into a sharpness.
Fus. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then.
Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily I do long.
Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens; nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else. I ha’ read Albertus Magnus, and Aristotle’s Problems.
Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow hand[128] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward: I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent, the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.
Fus. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold.
Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.
Fus. The honester citizen he; then make him drunk and cut off his beard.
Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald[129] hair. No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret.
Fus. As your mid-wife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon.
Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s Street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave man: instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.
Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister.
Vio. O, by any means, to show your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.
Fus. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone.
Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret.
Fus. By this hand, sister.
Vio. Swear as if you came but new from knighting.
Fus. Nay, I’ll swear after four-hundred a year.
Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers, call me your love, your ingle,[130] your cousin, or so; but sister at no hand.
Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their mad-caps that man ’em to the garden; to call you one a’ mine aunts’[131] sister, were as good as call you arrant whore; no, no, let me alone to cousin you rarely.
Vio. H’as heard I have a brother, but never saw him, therefore put on a good face.
Fus. The best in Milan, I warrant.
Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing, rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice with; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.
Fus. By this welkin that here roars I will, or else let me never know what a secret is: why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch[132] you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.[133]
Vio. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell.
Fus. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats.
Enter the Duke, Doctor Benedict, and two Servants.
[A curtain is drawn back and Infelice discovered lying on a couch.
1st Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.
2nd Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.
Enter Castruchio, Pioratto, and Fluello.
Cas. Signor Pioratto, Signor Fluello, shall’s be merry? shall’s play the wags now?
Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent mirth.
Pio. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie?
Cas. At Signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man; they say his blood is immoveable, that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman.
Flu. That makes so many whores now-a-days.
Cas. Ay, and so many knaves too.
Pio. Well, sir.
Cas. To conclude, the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold.
Flu. O, ’twere admirable mirth, that: but how will’t be done, signor?
Cas. Let me alone, I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern token.
Pio. Thou stir him? thou move him? thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper: thou vex him? why he has a patience above man’s injuries: thou may’st sooner raise a spleen in an angel, than rough humour in him. Why I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered Signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords, of curious taste, and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,[135] to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trencher-men. She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnished, not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained the lords, and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude, they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled,[Pg 108] and their teeth deluded, and, if anger could have seized a man, there was matter enough i’faith to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.
Flu. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case, I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family: first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids, and baked the mistress, and so served them in.
Cas. ’Sblood, Signor Pioratto, you that disparage my conceit, I’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on’t, that it moves him, frets him, and galls him.
Pio. Done, ’tis a lay,[136] join golls[137] on’t: witness Signor Fluello.
George and two Prentices discovered: enter Viola.
Vio. Come, you put up your wares in good order here, do you not, think you? one piece cast this way, another that way! you had need have a patient master indeed.
Geo. Ay. I’ll be sworn, for we have a curst mistress. [Aside.
Vio. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or I could be a note more angry! for two patient[Pg 109] folks in a house spoil all the servants that ever shall come under them.
1st Pren. You patient! ay, so is the devil when he is horn-mad. [Aside.
Enter Castruchio, Fluello, and Pioratto.
Geo. Gentlemen, what do you lack?[138]
1st Pren. What is’t you buy?
2nd Pren. See fine hollands, fine cambrics, fine lawns.
Geo. What is’t you lack?
2nd Pren. What is’t you buy?
Cas. Where’s Signor Candido, thy master?
Geo. Faith, signor, he’s a little negotiated, he’ll appear presently.
Cas. Fellow, let’s see a lawn, a choice one, sirrah.
Geo. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the piece. I can fit you gentlemen with fine calicoes too for doublets, the only sweet fashion now, most delicate and courtly, a meek gentle calico, cut upon two double affable taffetas,—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable!
Flu. A notable voluble-tongued villain.
Pio. I warrant this fellow was never begot without much prating.
Cas. What, and is this she, sayest thou?
Geo. Ay, and the purest she that ever you fingered since you were a gentleman: look how even she is, look how clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all.
Cas. Pooh, thou talkest—pox on’t, ’tis rough.
Geo. How? is she rough? but if you bid pox on’t, sir, ’twill take away the roughness presently.
Flu. Ha, signor; has he fitted your French curse?
Geo. Look you, gentlemen, here’s another, compare them I pray, compara Virgilium cum Homero, compare virgins with harlots.
Cas. Pooh, I ha’ seen better, and as you term them, evener and cleaner.
Geo. You may see further for your mind, but trust me, you shall not find better for your body.
Enter Candido.
Cas. O here he comes, let’s make as though we pass. Come, come, we’ll try in some other shop.
Cand. How now? what’s the matter?
Geo. The gentlemen find fault with this lawn, fall out with it, and without a cause too.
Flu. He calls us.
Cas. —Makes the better for the jest.
Cas. Well, how do you rate it?
Cand. Very conscionably, eighteen shillings a yard.
Cas. That’s too dear: how many yards does the whole piece contain, think you?
Cas. Why, let me see—would it were better too!
Cand. Truth, tis the best in Milan at few words.
Cas. Well: let me have then—a whole penny-worth.
Cand. Ha, ha! you’re a merry gentleman.
Cas. A penn’orth I say.
Cand. Of lawn!
Cas. Of lawn? Ay, of lawn, a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost not hear? a whole penn’orth, are you deaf?
Cas. Nay, an you and your lawns be so squeamish, fare you well.
Cand. Pray stay; a word, pray, signor: for what purpose is it, I beseech you?
Cas. ’Sblood, what’s that to you: I’ll have a penny-worth.
Cand. A penny-worth! why you shall: I’ll serve you presently.
2nd Pren. ’Sfoot, a penny-worth, mistress!
Vio. A penny-worth! call you these gentlemen?
Cas. No, no: not there.
Cand. What then, kind gentlemen, what at this corner here?
Cas. Yes, here’s one.
Cand. Lend it me, I pray.
Flu. An excellent followed jest!
Vio. What will he spoil the lawn now?
Cand. Patience, good wife.
Vio. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen, you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a kind gull on, besides my husband.
Vio. Customers with a murrain! call you these customers?
Cand. Patience, good wife.
Vio. Pox a’ your patience.
Geo. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating companions.
Cand. Look you, gentlemen, there’s your ware, I thank you, I have your money here; pray know my shop, pray let me have your custom.
Vio. Custom quoth’a.
Cand. Let me take more of your money.
Vio. You had need so.
Pio. Hark in thine ear, thou’st lost an hundred ducats.
Re-enter George with beaker.
Cand. Here wife, begin you to the gentleman.
Vio. I begin to him! [Spills the wine.
Cas. Sweet Fluello, I should be bountiful to that conceit.
Flu. Well, ’tis enough.
Re-enter George with beaker.
Cas. I pledge you, Signor Candido—[Drinks.]—here you that must receive a hundred ducats.
Pio. I’ll pledge them deep, i’faith, Castruchio.—Signor Fluello. [Drinks.
Cand. George supply the cup.[Pg 114] [Exit George who returns with beaker filled.
Flu. Not pledge me? ’Sblood, I’ll carry away the beaker then.
Flu. Nay, it doth please me, and as you say, ’tis a very good one. Farewell Signor Candido.
[Exeunt Castruchio, Fluello carrying off the beaker, and Pioratto.
Geo. I told you before, mistress, they were all cheaters.
Vio. Why fool! why husband! why madman! I hope you will not let ’em sneak away so with a silver and gilt beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue and cry after them.
Vio. O you’re a goodly patient woodcock,[140] are you not now? See what your patience comes to: every one saddles you, and rides you; you’ll be shortly the common stone-horse of Milan: a woman’s well holped up with such a meacock[141]; I had rather have a husband that would swaddle[142] me thrice a day, than such a one, that will be gulled twice in half-an-hour: Oh, I could burn all the wares in my shop for anger.
Vio. Hang your agreements! but if my beaker be gone.— [Exit.
Re-enter Castruchio, Fluello, Pioratto, and George.
Cand. Oh, here they come.
Geo. The constable, sir, let ’em come along with me, because there should be no wondering: he stays at door.
Cas. Constable, Goodman Abra’m.[143]
Flu. Now Signor Candido, ’sblood why do you attach us?
Cas. I hope y’are not angry, sir.
Cand. Then you hope right; for I’m not angry.
Flu. No, but a little moved.
Cand. I moved! ’twas you were moved, you were brought hither.
Enter Roger with a stool, cushion, looking-glass and chafing-dish; these being set down, he pulls out of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and two boxes, one with white, another with red paint; he places all things in order, and a candle by them, singing the ends of old ballads as he does it. At last Bellafront, as he rubs his cheek with the colours, whistles within.
Rog. Anon, forsooth.
Bell. [Within.] What are you playing the rogue about?
Rog. About you, forsooth; I’m drawing up a hole in your white silk stocking.
Bell. Is my glass there? and my boxes of complexion?
Rog. Yes, forsooth: your boxes of complexion are here, I think: yes, ’tis here: here’s your two complexions, and if I had all the four complexions, I should ne’er set a good face upon’t. Some men I see, are born, under hard-favoured planets as well as women. Zounds, I look worse now than I did before! and it makes her face glister most damnably. There’s knavery in daubing, I hold my life; or else this only female pomatum.
Enter Bellafront not full ready;[144] she sits down; curls her hair with her bodkin; and colours her lips.
Bell. Where’s my ruff and poker,[145] you blockhead?
Rog. Your ruff, your poker, are engendering together upon the cupboard of the court, or the court cupboard.[146]
Bell. Fetch ’em: is the pox in your hams, you can go no faster? [Strikes him.
Rog. Would the pox were in your fingers, unless you could leave flinging! catch— [Exit.
Bell. I’ll catch you, you dog, by and by: do you grumble? [Sings.
Re-enter Roger with ruff and poker.
Rog. There’s your ruff, shall I poke it?
Bell. Yes, honest Roger—no, stay; prithee, good boy, hold here. [Sings.] [Roger holds the glass and candle.] Down, down, down, down, I fall down and arise,—down—I never shall arise.
Rog. Troth mistress, then leave the trade if you shall never rise.
Bell. What trade, Goodman Abra’m?[147]
Rog. Why that of down and arise or the falling trade.
Bell. I’ll fall with you by and by.
Bell. Like as you are; a panderly sixpenny rascal.
Rog. I may thank you for that: in faith I look like an old proverb, “Hold the candle before the devil.”
Bell. Ud’s life, I’ll stick my knife in your guts an you prate to me so!—What? [Sings.
Pox on you, how dost thou hold my glass?
Rog. Why, as I hold your door: with my fingers.
Bell. Nay, pray thee, sweet honey Roger, hold up handsomely. [Sings.
We shall ha’ guests to day, I lay my little maidenhead; my nose itches so.
Rog. I said so too last night, when our fleas twinged me.
Bell. So, poke my ruff now, my gown, my gown! have I my fall? where’s my fall, Roger?
Rog. Your fall, forsooth, is behind. [Knocking within.
Bell. God’s my pittikins![149] some fool or other knocks.
Rog. Shall I open to the fool, mistress?
Bell. And all these baubles lying thus? Away with it quickly.—Ay, ay, knock, and be damned, whosoever you be!—So: give the fresh salmon line now: let him come ashore. [Exit Roger.] He shall serve for my breakfast, though he go against my stomach.
Enter Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto, with Roger.
Flu. Morrow, coz.
Cas. How does my sweet acquaintance?
Pio. Save thee, little marmoset: how dost thou, good, pretty rogue?
Bell. Well, God-a-mercy, good, pretty rascal.
Flu. Roger, some light, I prithee.
Rog. You shall, signor, for we that live here in this vale of misery are as dark as hell. [Exit for a candle.
Cas. Good tobacco, Fluello?
Flu. Smell.
Pio. It may be tickling gear: for it plays with my nose already. [Re-enter Roger with candle.
Rog. Here’s another light angel,[150] signor.
Bell. What? you pied curtal,[151] what’s that you are neighing?
Rog. Hippocras,[152] sir, for my mistress, if I fetch it, is most dear to her.
Flu. Hippocras? there then, here’s a teston for you, you snake. [They give money.
Rog. Right sir, here’s three shillings and sixpence for a pottle[153] and a manchet.[154] [Exit.
Cas. Here’s most Herculanean tobacco; ha’ some, acquaintance?
Bell. Faugh, not I, makes your breath stink like the piss of a fox. Acquaintance, where supped you last night?
Cas. At a place, sweet acquaintance, where your health danced the canaries,[155] i’faith: you should ha’ been there.
Bell. I there among your punks![156] marry, faugh, hang’em; I scorn’t: will you never leave sucking of eggs in other folk’s hens’ nests?
Cas. Why, in good troth, if you’ll trust me, acquaintance, there was not one hen at the board; ask Fluello.
Flu. No, faith, coz, none but cocks; Signor Malavella drunk to thee.
Bell. O, a pure beagle; that horse-leech there?
Flu. And the knight, Sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his fast with thee.
Bell. With me? I’ll choke him then, hang him, mole-catcher! it’s the dreamingest snotty-nose.
Pio. Well, many took that Lollio for a fool, but he’s a subtle fool.
Bell. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted knights, I cannot abide that he should touch me.
Cas. Why, wench? is he scabbed?
Bell. Hang him, he’ll not live to be so honest, nor to the credit to have scabs about him; his betters have ’em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse knight-hood, because he’s made like an alderman’s night-gown, faced all with cony[157] before, and within nothing but fox: this sweet Oliver will eat mutton till he be ready to burst, but the lean-jawed slave will not pay for the scraping of his trencher.
Pio. Plague him; set him beneath the salt, and let him not touch a bit, till every one has had his full cut.
Flu. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came into us too; marry ’twas in our cheese, for he had been to borrow money for his lord, of a citizen.
Cas. What an ass is that lord, to borrow money of a citizen!
Bell. Nay, God’s my pity, what an ass is that citizen to lend money to a lord!
Enter Matheo and Hippolito; Hippolito saluting the company, as a stranger, walks off.[158] Roger comes in sadly behind them, with a pottle pot, and stands aloof off.
Mat. Save you, gallants. Signor Fluello, exceedingly well met, as I may say.
Flu. Signor Matheo, exceedingly well met too, as I may say.
Mat. And how fares my little pretty mistress?
Bell. Ee’n as my little pretty servant; sees three court dishes before her, and not one good bit in them:—How now? why the devil standest thou so? Art in a trance?
Rog. Yes, forsooth.
Bell. Why dost not fill out their wine?
Rog. Forsooth, ’tis filled out already: all the wine that the signors have bestowed upon you is cast away; a porter ran a little at me, and so faced me down that I had not a drop.
Bell. I’m accursed to let such a withered artichoke-faced rascal grow under my nose: now you look like an old he-cat, going to the gallows: I’ll be hanged if he ha’ not put up the money to cony-catch[159] us all.
Rog. No, truly, forsooth, ’tis not put up yet.
Bell. How many gentlemen hast thou served thus?
Rog. None but five hundred, besides prentices and serving-men.
Bell. Dost think I’ll pocket it up at thy hands?
Rog. Yes, forsooth, I fear you will pocket it up.
Bell. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall ha’ the mother[160] presently, I’m so vext at this horse-plumb.
Flu. Plague, not for a scald[161] pottle of wine!
Mat. Nay, sweet Bellafront, for a little pig’s wash!
Cas. Here Roger, fetch more. [Gives money.] A mischance, i’faith, acquaintance.
Bell. Out of my sight, thou ungodly puritanical creature.
Rog. For the t’other pottle? yes, forsooth.
Bell. Spill that too. [Exit Roger.] What gentleman is that, servant? your friend?
Mat. Gods so; a stool, a stool! If you love me mistress, entertain this gentleman respectively,[162] and bid him welcome.
Bell. He’s very welcome,—pray, sir, sit.
Hip. Thanks, lady.
Flu. Count Hippolito, is’t not? Cry you mercy signor; you walk here all this while, and we not heard you! Let me bestow a stool upon you, beseech you; you are a stranger here, we know the fashions a’th’ house.
Cas. Please you be here, my lord? [Offers tobacco.
Hip. No, good Castruchio.
Flu. You have abandoned the Court, I see, my lord, since the death of your mistress; well, she was a delicate piece—Beseech you, sweet, come let us serve under the colours of your acquaintance still for all that—Please you to meet here at the lodging of my coz, I shall bestow a banquet upon you.
Flu. Faith, sir, a poor gentlewoman, of passing good carriage; one that has some suits in law, and lies here in an attorney’s house.
Hip. Is she married?
Flu. Ha, as all your punks are, a captain’s wife, or so: never saw her before, my lord?
Hip. Never, trust me: a goodly creature!
Flu. By gad, when you know her as we do, you’ll swear she is the prettiest, kindest, sweetest, most bewitching honest ape under the pole. A skin, your satin is not more soft, nor lawn whiter.
Hip. Belike, then, she’s some sale courtesan.[163]
Flu. Troth, as all your best faces are, a good wench.
Hip. Great pity that she’s a good wench.
Mat. Thou shalt ha’, i’faith, mistress.—How now, signors? what, whispering? Did not I lay a wager I should take you, within seven days, in a house of vanity?
Hip. You did; and, I beshrew your heart, you’ve won.
Mat. How do you like my mistress?
Hip. Well, for such a mistress; better, if your mistress be not your master—I must break manners, gentlemen, fare you well.
Mat. ’Sfoot, you shall not leave us.
Bell. The gentleman likes not the taste of our company.
Flu., Cas., &c. Beseech you stay.
Hip. Trust me, my affairs beckon for me; pardon me.
Mat. Will you call for me half an hour hence here?
Hip. Perhaps I shall.
Mat. Perhaps? faugh! I know you can swear to me you will.
Hip. Since you will press me, on my word, I will. [Exit.
Bell. What sullen picture is this, servant?
Mat. It’s Count Hippolito, the brave count.
Pio. As gallant a spirit as any in Milan, you sweet Jew.
Flu. Oh! he’s a most essential gentleman, coz.
Cas. Did you never hear of Count Hippolito, acquaintance?
Bell. Marry muff,[164] a’ your counts, and be no more life in ’em.
Mat. He’s so malcontent! sirrah[165] Bellafront—An you be honest gallants, let’s sup together, and have the count with us:—thou shalt sit at the upper end, punk.[166]
Bell. Punk? you soused gurnet!
Mat. King’s truce: come, I’ll bestow the supper to have him but laugh.
Cas. He betrays his youth too grossly to that tyrant melancholy.
Mat. All this is for a woman.
Bell. A woman? some whore! what sweet jewel is’t?
Pio. Would she heard you!
Flu. Troth, so would I.
Cas. And I, by Heaven.
Bell. Nay, good servant, what woman?
Mat. Pah!
Bell. Prithee, tell me; a buss, and tell me: I warrant he’s an honest fellow, if he take on thus for a wench: good rogue, who?
Mat. By th’ Lord I will not, must not, faith’ mistress. Is’t a match, sirs? this night, at th’ Antelope: ay, for there’s best wine, and good boys.
Flu., Cas., Pio. It’s done; at th’ Antelope.
Bell. I cannot be there to night.
Mat. Cannot? by th’ Lord you shall.
Bell. By the Lady I will not: shall!
Flu. Why, then, put it off till Friday; wu’t come then, coz?
Bell. Well.
Re-enter Roger.
Mat. You’re the waspishest ape. Roger, put your mistress in mind to sup with us on Friday next. You’re best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your waistcoat, and the linings of your kirtle outward, like every common hackney that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knight’s lodging.
Bell. Go, go, hang yourself!
Cas. It’s dinner-time, Matheo; shall’s hence?
All. Yes, yes.—Farewell, wench.
Bell. Farewell, boys.—[Exeunt all except Bellafront and Roger.]—Roger, what wine sent they for?
Rog. Bastard wine,[167] for if it had been truly begotten, it would ha’ been ashamed to come in. Here’s six shillings to pay for nursing the bastard.
Bell. A company of rooks! O good sweet Roger, run to the poulter’s, and buy me some fine larks!
Rog. No woodcocks?[168]
Bell. Yes, faith, a couple, if they be not dear.
Rog. I’ll buy but one, there’s one already here. [Exit.
Enter Hippolito.
Hip. Is the gentleman, my friend, departed, mistress?
Bell. His back is but new turned, sir.
Hip. Fare you well.
Bell. I can direct you to him.
Hip. Can you, pray?
Bell. If you please, stay, he’ll not be absent long.
Hip. I care not much.
As she is about to stab herself re-enter Hippolito.
Candido, Viola, George, and two Prentices discovered: Fustigo enters, walking by.
Geo. See, gentlemen, what you lack; a fine holland, a fine cambric: see what you buy.
1st Pren. Holland for shirts, cambric for bands; what is’t you lack?
Fus. ’Sfoot, I lack ’em all; nay, more, I lack money to buy ’em. Let me see, let me look again: mass, this is the shop. [Aside.] What coz! sweet coz! how dost, i’faith, since last night after candlelight? we had good sport, i’faith, had we not? and when shall’s laugh again?
Vio. When you will, cousin.
Fus. Spoke like a kind Lacedemonian: I see yonder’s thy husband.
Vio. Ay, there’s the sweet youth, God bless him!
Fus. And how is’t, cousin? and how, how is’t, thou squall?[170]
Vio. Well, cousin, how fare you?
Fus. How fare I? for sixpence a-meal, wench, as well as heart can wish, with calves’ chaldrons,[171] and chitterlings;[172] besides, I have a punk after supper, as good as a roasted apple.
Cand. Are you my wife’s cousin?
Fus. I am, sir; what hast thou to do with that?
Cand. O, nothing, but you’re welcome.
Fus. The devil’s dung in thy teeth! I’ll be welcome whether thou wilt or no, I.—What ring’s this, coz? very pretty and fantastical, i’faith! let’s see it.
Vio. Pooh! nay, you wrench my finger.
Fus. I ha’ sworn I’ll ha’t, and I hope you will not let my oaths be cracked in the ring, will you? [Seizes the ring.] I hope, sir, you are not malicholly[173] at this, for all your great looks: are you angry?
Geo. But in the mean-time she makes an ass of some body.
2nd Pren. See, see, see, sir, as you turn your back they do nothing but kiss.
Fus. Troth, coz, and well remembered, I would thou wouldst give me five yards of lawn, to make my punk some falling bands a’ the fashion; three falling one upon another, for that’s the new edition now: she’s out of linen horribly, too; troth, sh’ as never a good smock to her back neither, but one that has a great many patches in’t, and that I’m fain to wear myself for want of shift, too: prithee, put me into wholesome napery, and bestow some clean commodities upon us.
Vio. Reach me those cambrics, and the lawns hither.
Cand. What to do, wife? to lavish out my goods upon a fool?
Fus. Fool? Snails, eat the fool, or I’ll so batter your crown, that it shall scarce go for five shillings.
2nd Pren. Do you hear, sir? you’re best be quiet, and say a fool tells you so.
Fus. Nails, I think so, for thou tellest me.
Fus. Zounds, cousin, he talks to me, as if I were a scurvy tragedian.
2nd Pren. Sirrah George, I ha’ thought upon a device, how to break his pate, beat him soundly, and ship him away.
Geo. Do’t.
2nd Pren. I’ll go in, pass through the house, give some of our fellow-prentices the watch-word when they shall enter; then come and fetch my master in by a wile, and place one in the hall to hold him in conference, whilst we cudgel the gull out of his coxcomb. [Exit 2nd Prentice.
Geo. Do’t: away, do’t.
Vio. Must I call twice for these cambrics and lawns?
Cand. Nay see, you anger her, George, prithee despatch.
1st Pren. Two of the choicest pieces are in the warehouse, sir.
Cand. Go fetch them presently.
Fus. Ay, do, make haste, sirrah. [Exit 1st Prentice.
Cand. Why were you such a stranger all this while, being my wife’s cousin?
Fus. Stranger? no sir, I’m a natural Milaner born.
Cand. I perceive still it is your natural guise to mistake me, but you are welcome, sir; I much wish your acquaintance.
Fus. My acquaintance? I scorn that, i’faith; I hope my acquaintance goes in chains of gold three and fifty times double:—you know who I mean, coz; the posts of his gate are a-painting too.[174]
Re-enter the 2nd Prentice.
2nd Pren. Signor Pandulfo the merchant desires conference with you.
Vio. When do you show those pieces?
Fus. Ay, when do you show those pieces?
Prentices. [Within.] Presently, sir, presently: we are but charging them.
Fus. Come, sirrah: you flat-cap,[175] where be these whites?
Re-enter 1st Prentice with pieces.
Geo. Flat-cap? hark in your ear, sir, you’re a flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I’ll thrum[176] you:—do you see this cambric, sir?
Fus. ’Sfoot coz, a good jest, did you hear him? he told me in my ears, I was a “flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I’ll thrum you:—do you see this cambric sir?”
Vio. What, not my men, I hope?
Fus. No, not your men, but one of your men i’faith.
1st Pren. I pray, sir, come hither, what say you to this? here’s an excellent good one.
Fus. Ay, marry, this likes[177] me well; cut me off some half-score yards.
2nd Pren. Let your whores cut; you’re an impudent coxcomb; you get none, and yet I’ll thrum you:—a very good cambric, sir.
Fus. Again, again, as God judge me! ’Sfoot, coz, they stand thrumming here with me all day, and yet I get nothing.
1st Pren. A word, I pray, sir, you must not be angry. Prentices have hot bloods, young fellows,—what say you to this piece? Look you, ’tis so delicate, so soft, so even, so fine a thread, that a lady may wear it.
Fus. ’Sfoot, I think so, if a knight marry my punk, a lady shall wear it: cut me off twenty yards: thou’rt an honest lad.
1st Pren. Not without money, gull, and I’ll thrum you too.
Prentices. [Within.] Gull, we’ll thrum you.
Fus. O Lord, sister, did you not hear something cry thrum? zounds, your men here make a plain ass of me.
Vio. What, to my face so impudent?
Fus. Mass, and I’ll take ’em as freely.
Geo., 1st and 2nd Pren., and other prentices, rushing in. We’ll make you lay ’em down again more freely. [They all attack Fustigo with their clubs.
Vio. Help, help! my brother will be murdered.
Re-enter Candido.
Cand. How now, what coil is here? forbear I say. [Exeunt all the Prentices except the 1st and 2nd.
Geo. He calls us flat-caps, and abuses us.
Cand. Why, sirs, do such examples flow from me?
Vio. They’re of your keeping, sir. Alas, poor brother.
Fus. I’faith they ha’ peppered me, sister; look, dost not spin? call you these prentices? I’ll ne’er play at cards more when clubs is trump: I have a goodly coxcomb, sister, have I not?
Cand. Sister and brother? brother to my wife?
Fus. If you have any skill in heraldry, you may soon know that; break but her pate, and you shall see her blood and mine is all one.
Cand. A surgeon! run, a surgeon! [Exit 1st Prentice.] Why then wore you that forged name of cousin?
Fus. Because it’s a common thing to call coz, and ningle[178] now-a-days all the world over.
Fus. Troth, brother, my sister would needs ha’ me take upon me to gull your patience a little: but it has made double gules[179] on my coxcomb.
Vio. What, playing the woman? blabbing now, you fool?
Cand. Oh, my wife did but exercise a jest upon your wit.
Fus. I’ll ne’er call coz again whilst I live, to have such a coil about it; this should be a coronation day; for my head runs claret lustily. [Exit.
Cand. Go, wish[180] the surgeon to have great respect— [Exit 2nd Prentice.
Enter an Officer.
Re-enter George.
Cand. Good wife, kind wife, it is a needful trouble, but for my gown!
Geo. Troth, sir, were’t any but you, they would break open chest.
Re-enter George with carpet.
Geo. Indifferent well, sir, for a night-gown, being girt and pleated.
Cand. Ay, and a night-cap on my head.
Geo. That’s true sir, I’ll run and fetch one, and a staff. [Exit.
Re-enter George, with nightcap and staff.
So, so, kind George, [Puts on nightcap.]—be secret now: and, prithee, do not laugh at me till I’m out of sight.
Geo. I laugh? not I, sir.
Geo. Now, looks my master just like one of our carpet knights,[186] only he’s somewhat the honester of the two.
Re-enter Viola.
Geo. ’Twill wrong my master’s patience.
Vio. Prithee, George.
Geo. Well, if you’ll save me harmless, and put me under covert barn,[188] I am content to please you, provided it may breed no wrong against him.
Enter Mistress Fingerlock and Roger.
Mis. F. O Roger, Roger, where’s your mistress, where’s your mistress? there’s the finest, neatest gentleman at my house, but newly come over: Oh, where is she, where is she, where is she?
Rog. My mistress is abroad, but not amongst ’em: my mistress is not the whore now that you take her for.
Mis. F. How? is she not a whore? do you go about to take away her good name, Roger? you are a fine pander indeed.
Rog. I tell you, Madonna Fingerlock, I am not sad for nothing, I ha’ not eaten one good meal this three and thirty days: I had wont to get sixteen pence by fetching a pottle of hippocras; but now those days are past. We[Pg 143] had as good doings, Madonna Fingerlock, she within doors, and I without, as any poor young couple in Milan.
Mis. F. God’s my life, and is she changed now?
Rog. I ha’ lost by her squeamishness, more than would have builded twelve bawdy-houses.
Mis. F. And had she no time to turn honest but now? what a vile woman is this! twenty pound a-night, I’ll be sworn, Roger, in good gold and no silver: why here was a time! if she should ha’ picked out a time, it could not be better: gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, and choice of every, every, everything: it cannot sink into my head, that she should be such an ass. Roger, I never believe it.
Rog. Here she comes now.
Enter Bellafront.
Mis. F. O sweet madonna, on with your loose gown, your felt[189] and your feather, there’s the sweetest, properest,[190] gallantest gentleman at my house; he smells all of musk and ambergris his pocket full of crowns, flame-coloured doublet, red satin hose, carnation silk stockings, and a leg, and a body,— oh!
Mis. F. Marry come up, with a pox, have you nobody to rail against, but your bawd now?
Bell. And you, knave pander, kinsman to a bawd.
Rog. You and I, madonna, are cousins.
Rog. Sixpence? nay, that’s not so: I never took under two shillings four-pence; I hope I know my fee.
Rog. If it be my vocation to swear, every man in his vocation: I hope my betters swear and damn themselves, and why should not I?
Bell. Roger, you cheat kind gentlemen.
Rog. The more gulls they.
Bell. Slave, I cashier thee.
Mis. F. An you do cashier him, he shall be entertained.
Rog. Shall I? then blurt[191] a’ your service.
Mis. F. Marry gup, are you grown so holy, so pure, so honest with a pox?
Rog. Scurvy honest punk! but stay, madonna, how must our agreement be now? for, you know, I am to have all the comings-in at the hall-door, and you at the chamber-door.
Mis. F. True Roger except my vails.
Rog. Vails? what vails?
Mis. F. Why as thus; if a couple come in a coach, and light to lie down a little, then, Roger, that’s my fee, and you may walk abroad; for the coachman himself is their pander.
Rog. Is ’a so? in truth I have almost forgot, for want of exercise. But how if I fetch this citizen’s wife to that gull, and that madonna to that gallant, how then?
Mis. F. Why then, Roger, you are to have sixpence a lane; so many lanes, so many sixpences.
Rog. Is’t so? then I see we two shall agree, and live together.
Mis. F. Ay, Roger, so long as there be any taverns and bawdy-houses in Milan. [Exeunt.
Bellafront discovered sitting with a lute; pen, ink, and paper on a table before her.
Enter Matheo, Castruchio, Fluello, and Pioratto.
Mat. You, goody punk, subaudi cockatrice, oh you’re a sweet whore of your promise, are you not, think you? how well you came to supper to us last night; mew, a whore, and break her word! nay, you may blush, and hold down your head at it well enough. ’Sfoot, ask these gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as sergeants.
Flu. Ay, and their yeomen too.
Cas. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgat yourself too much: we had excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper.
Pio. And when we were in, our woodcocks,[192] sweet rogue, a brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in, and paid all the shot.
Mat. Pox on her! let her alone.
Flu. I am not what I was? no, I’ll be sworn thou art not: for thou wert honest at five, and now thou’rt a punk at fifteen: thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now thou’rt a cunning, cony-catching baggage to day.
Mat. ’Sfoot, she gulls ’em the best! this is always her fashion, when she would be rid of any company that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone. [Aside.
Flu. What’s here? instructions, admonitions, and caveats? Come out, you scabbard of vengeance.
Mat. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fist, you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is vexed.
Mat. Ha, ha, thou dost gull ’em so rarely, so naturally! If I did not think thou hadst been in earnest: thou art a sweet rogue for’t i’faith.
Mat. Is’t possible to be impossible! an honest whore! I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet finger,[193] but for a harlot to turn honest is one of Hercules’ labours. It was more easy for him in one night to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest again in fifty years. Come, I hope thou dost but jest.
Mat. How! marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot? maarr, faugh, I’ll be burnt through the nose first.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my huswifery.—[Sets out a table, on which he places a skull, a picture of Infelice, a book, and a taper.]—Would I had been created a shoemaker, for all the gentle-craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student, for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week, makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back is turned, will be naught together.
Enter Hippolito.
Hip. Are all the windows shut?
Ser. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.
Hip. Sighs.
Ser. What to dinner?
Hip. Tears.
Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?
Hip. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman.
Ser. Indeed that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.[194]
Hip. Prithee, away.
Ser. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords; but rather help to make them away: Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. [Aside and exit.
Re-enter Servant.
Ser. Here’s a parson[196] would speak with you, sir.
Hip. Hah!
Ser. A parson, sir, would speak with you.
Hip. Vicar?
Ser. Vicar! no sir, has too good a face to be a vicar yet, a youth, a very youth.
Hip. What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors.
Ser. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato pies keep me from meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’tis a male-varlet sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him.
Hip. Let him give thee his message and be gone.
Ser. He says he’s Signor Matheo’s man, but I know he lies.
Hip. How dost thou know it?
Ser. ’Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.
Enter Bellafront, dressed as a Page, with a letter.
Re-enter Servant.
Ser. Call you, my lord?
Hip. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil!
Ser. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see: besides the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page; good my lord, Buon coraggio![198]
Ser. Not damned I hope for putting in a woman to a lord.
Ser. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help! Come, mermaid, you must to sea again.
Re-enter Servant with letter.
Ser. No more knaves, my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from Doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half-witches. ’Slid![199] you are a sweet youth to wear a cod-piece, and have no pins to stick upon’t.
Enter Fustigo, Crambo, and Poh.
Fus. Hold up your hands, gentlemen, here’s one, two, three [Giving money]—nay, I warrant they are sound pistoles, and without flaws; I had them of my sister and I know she uses to put up nothing that’s cracked—four, five, six, seven, eight and nine; by this hand bring me but a piece of his blood, and you shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off, and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy: the linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you, and play your parts perfectly.
Cram. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we weigh—
Fus. Nay, nay, weigh it and spare not; if it lack one grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make it up.
Cram. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants is it? because we’ll punish justly.
Fus. Marry ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a Tuscalonian beard.
Poh. Tuscalonian? very good.
Fus. God’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman: my coxcomb was dry beaten, as if my hair had been hemp.
Cram. We’ll dry-beat some of them.
Fus. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried out murder, very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to have him peppered: else I’ll not do’t, to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling: break but his pate, or so, only his mazer,[200] because I’ll have his head in a cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take enough. I could enter mine action of battery against him, but we[Pg 158] may’haps be both dead and rotten before the lawyers would end it.
Cram. No more to do, but ensconce yourself i’th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangeado-pie, or so: but how bloody howsoe’er the day be, sally you not forth.
Fus. No, no; nay if I stir, some body shall stink: I’ll not budge: I’ll lie like a dog in a manger.
Cram. Well, well, to the tavern, let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.
Fus. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar.
Enter Viola and the two Prentices.
2nd Pren. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for keeping our countenance: for, if I list, there’s ne’er a fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat court-fool, or the lean city-fool.
Vio. Enough then, call down George.
2nd Pren. I hear him coming.
Enter George in Candido’s apparel.
Geo. I thank you, mistress, my back’s broad enough, now my master’s gown’s on.
Geo. ’Twere a good Comedy of Errors[202] that, i’faith.
2nd Pren. Whist, whist! my master.
Vio. You all know your tasks.
Enter Candido,[203] dressed as before in the carpet: he stares at George, and exit.
God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who can tell?
Geo. [Aside.] That can I, but I will not.
Vio. Girt about him like a madman! what has he lost his cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw. What said he, George, when he passed by thee?
Geo. Troth, mistress, nothing: not so much as a bee, he did not hum: not so much as a bawd, he did not hem: not so much as a cuckold, he did not ha: neither hum, hem, nor ha; only stared me in the face, passed along, and made haste in, as if my looks had worked with him, to give him a stool.
Geo. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,[204] as long as my mistress warrants me: I’m sure I have his best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that is inferior in apparel to me, that’s an axiom, a principle, and is observed as much as the fashion; let that persuade you then, that I’ll shoulder with him for the upper hand in the shop, as long as this chain will maintain it.
Vio. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the tongue of a prentice.
Re-enter Candido dressed as a Prentice.
Why how now, madman? what in your tricksi-coats?
Cand. O peace, good mistress.
Enter Crambo and Poh.
See, what you lack? what is’t you buy? pure calicoes, fine Hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns: see what you buy? pray come near, my master will use you well, he can afford you a penny-worth.
Vio. Ay, that he can, out of a whole piece of lawn i’faith.
Cand. Pray see your choice here, gentlemen.
Vio. O fine fool! what, a madman! a patient madman![Pg 161] who ever heard of the like? Well, sir, I’ll fit you and your humour presently: what, cross-points? I’ll untie ’em all in a trice: I’ll vex you i’faith: boy, take your cloak, quick, come. [Exit with 1st Prentice.
Geo. Umh, umh, hum.
Cram. That’s the shop, and there’s the fellow.
Poh. Ay, but the master is walking in there.
Cram. No matter, we’ll in.
Poh. ’Sblood, dost long to lie in limbo?
Cram. An limbo be in hell, I care not.
Cand. Look you, gentlemen, your choice: cambrics?
Cram. No, sir, some shirting.
Cand. You shall.
Cram. Have you none of this striped canvas for doublets?
Cand. None striped, sir, but plain.
2nd Pren. I think there be one piece striped within.
Geo. Step, sirrah, and fetch it, hum, hum, hum. [Exit 2nd Pren., and returns with the piece.
Cand. Look you, gentleman, I’ll make but one spreading, here’s a piece of cloth, fine, yet shall wear like iron, ’tis without fault; take this upon my word, ’tis without fault.
Cram. Then ’tis better than you, sirrah.
Cand. There was, indeed, a little flea-biting.
Poh. A gentleman had his pate broke; call you that but a flea-biting?
Cand. He had so.
Cram. Zounds, do you stand to it? [Strikes Candido.
Geo. ’Sfoot, clubs, clubs! prentices, down with ’em!
Enter several Prentices with clubs, who disarm Crambo and Poh.
Ah, you rogues, strike a citizen in’s shop?
Cand. None of you stir, I pray; forbear, good George.
Cram. I beseech you, sir, we mistook our marks; deliver us our weapons.
Geo. Your head bleeds, sir; cry clubs!
Geo. Yes, sir, we’ll use ’em like honest men.
Cand. Ay, well said, George, like honest men, though they be arrant knaves, for that’s the phrase of the city; help to lay up these wares.
Re-enter Viola and 1st Prentice with Officers.
Vio. Yonder he stands.
1st Off. What in a prentice-coat?
Vio. Ay, ay; mad, mad; pray take heed.
Vio. Ay, ay, by degrees I pray: Oh me! What makes he with the lawn in his hand? He’ll tear all the ware in my shop.
1st Off. Fear not, we’ll catch him on a sudden.
Vio. Oh! you had need do so; pray take heed of your warrant.
1st Off. I warrant, mistress. Now, Signor Candido.
Cand. Now, sir, what news with you, sir?
Vio. What news with you? he says: oh, he’s far gone!
Cand. Ay, and women turn to men, you say true: ha, ha, a mad world, a mad world. [Officers seize Candido.
Geo. Come, we’ll see whither he goes; if the master be mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps; we’ll be mad-caps too. Farewell, mistress, you shall have us all in Bedlam. [Exeunt George and Prentices.
Enter Duke, Doctor Benedict, Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto.
[Exeunt Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto.
Enter the Doctor’s Servant.
Ser. Meet you, sir? he might have met with three fencers in this time, and have received less hurt than by meeting one doctor of physic: Why, sir, he has walked under the old abbey-wall yonder this hour, till he’s more cold than a citizen’s country house in Janivery. You may smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes.
Doct. Leave me.
Ser. I’th’ lurch, if you will. [Exit.
Enter Hippolito.
Doct. O my most noble friend!
Enter Viola, with a petition and George.
Vio. Oh watch, good George, watch which way the duke comes.
Geo. Here comes one of the butterflies; ask him.
Enter Pioratto.
Vio. Pray, sir, comes the duke this way?
Pio. He’s upon coming, mistress.
Vio. I thank you, sir. [Exit Pioratto.] George, are there many mad folks where thy master lies?
Geo. Oh yes, of all countries some; but especially mad Greeks, they swarm. Troth mistress, the world is altered with you; you had not wont to stand thus with a paper humbly complaining: but you’re well enough served: provender pricked you, as it does many of our city wives besides.
Vio. Dost think, George, we shall get him forth?
Geo. Truly, mistress, I cannot tell; I think you’ll hardly get him forth. Why, ’tis strange! ’Sfoot, I have known many women that have had mad rascals to their husbands, whom they would belabour by all means possible to keep ’em in their right wits, but of a woman to long to turn a tame man into a madman, why the devil himself was never used so by his dam.
Vio. How does he talk, George! ha! good George, tell me.
Geo. Why you’re best go see.
Vio. Alas, I am afraid!
Geo. Afraid! you had more need be ashamed, he may rather be afraid of you.
Vio. But, George, he’s not stark mad, is he? he does not rave, he is not horn-mad, George, is he?
Geo. Nay I know not that, but he talks like a justice of peace, of a thousand matters, and to no purpose.
Vio. I’ll to the monastery: I shall be mad till I enjoy him, I shall be sick until I see him; yet when I do see him, I shall weep out mine eyes.
Geo. I’d fain see a woman weep out her eyes, that’s as true as to say, a man’s cloak burns, when it hangs in the water: I know you’ll weep, mistress, but what says the painted cloth?[206]
Vio. Ay, but George, that painted cloth is worthy to be hanged up for lying; all women have not tears at will, unless they have good cause.
Geo. Ay, but mistress, how easily will they find a cause, and as one of our cheese-trenchers[208] says very learnedly,
Vio. —Tame, George. But I ha’ done storming now.
Geo. Why that’s well done: good mistress, throw aside this fashion of your humour, be not so fantastical in wearing it: storm no more, long no more. This longing has made you come short of many a good thing that you might have had from my master: Here comes the duke.
Enter Duke, Fluello, Pioratto, and Sinezi.
Geo. An please your grace, he’s not stark mad, but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat fantastically, that’s all: there’s a thousand about your court, city, and country madder than he.
Duke. Provide a warrant, you shall have our hand.
Geo. Here’s a warrant ready drawn, my lord.
Duke. Get pen and ink, get pen and ink.[Pg 172] [Exit Geo.
Enter Castruchio.
Cas. Where is my lord the duke?
Duke. How now! more madmen?
Cas. I have strange news, my lord.
Duke. Of what? of whom?
Cas. Of Infelice, and a marriage.
Duke. Ha! where? with whom?
Cas. Hippolito.
Re-enter George, with pen and ink.
Geo. Here, my lord.
Duke. Hence, with that woman! void the room!
Flu. Away! the duke’s vexed.
Geo. Whoop, come, mistress, the duke’s mad too. [Exeunt Viola and George.
Duke. Who told me that Hippolito was dead?
Cas. He that can make any man dead, the doctor: but, my lord, he’s as full of life as wild-fire, and as quick. Hippolito, the doctor, and one more rid hence this evening; the inn at which they light is Bethlem Monastery; Infelice comes from Bergamo and meets them there. Hippolito is mad, for he means this day to be married; the afternoon is the hour, and Friar Anselmo is the knitter.
Duke. What’s he?
Cas. Matheo.
Flu. Matheo knows all.
Pior. He’s Hippolito’s bosom.
Duke. How far stands Bethlem hence?
Cas., Flu., &c. Six or seven miles.
Enter Friar Anselmo, Hippolito, Matheo, and Infelice.
Inf. Father, your love’s most dear.
Mat. Ay, well said, lock us into some little room by ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two.
Hip. O, good Matheo, no, let’s make no noise.
Mat. How! no noise! do you know where you are? ’sfoot, amongst all the mad-caps in Milan: so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, and no man will suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton[210]: the more sober we are, the more scurvy ’tis. And though the friar tell us, that here we are safest, I am not of his mind, for if those lay here that had lost their money, none would ever look after them, but here are none but those that have lost their wits, so that if hue and cry be made, hither they’ll come; and my reason is, because none goes to be married till he be stark mad.
Hip. Muffle yourselves, yonder’s Fluello.
Enter Fluello.
Mat. Zounds!
Flu. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! the[Pg 175] tempest is too great: I come sweating to tell you of it, that you may get out of it.
Mat. Why, what’s the matter?
Flu. What’s the matter? you have mattered it fair: the duke’s at hand.
All. The duke?
Flu. The very duke.
Flu. Castruchio! Castruchio told the duke, and Matheo here told Castruchio.
Hip. Would you betray me to Castruchio?
Mat. ’Sfoot, he damned himself to the pit of hell, if he spake on’t again.
Hip. So did you swear to me: so were you damned.
Mat. Pox on ’em, and there be no faith in men, if a man shall not believe oaths: he took bread and salt,[211] by this light, that he would never open his lips.
Hip. O God, O God!
Flu. He’s but new set out: Castruchio, Pioratto and Sinezi come along with him; you have time enough yet to prevent[213] them, if you have but courage.
Enter the Duke, Castruchio, Pioratto, and Sinezi from different doors, muffled.
Enter a Sweeper.
Duke. Oh, here comes one; question him, question him.
Flu. Now, honest fellow? dost thou belong to the house?
Sweep. Yes, forsooth, I am one of the implements, I sweep the madmen’s rooms, and fetch straw for ’em, and buy chains to tie ’em, and rods to whip ’em. I was a mad wag myself here, once, but I thank Father Anselmo, he lashed me into my right mind again.
Pio. Sirrah, are all the mad folks in Milan brought hither?
Sweep. How, all? there’s a question indeed: why if all the mad folks in Milan should come hither, there would not be left ten men in the city.
Duke. Few gentlemen or courtiers here, ha?
Sweep. O yes, abundance, abundance! lands no sooner fall into their hands, but straight they run out a’ their wits: citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by their fathers’ copy. Farmers’ sons come hither like geese, in flocks, and when they ha’ sold all their corn-fields, here they sit and pick the straws.
Sin. Methinks you should have women here as well as men.
Sweep. Oh, ay, a plague on ’em, there’s no ho![214] with ’em; they’re madder than March hares.
Flu. Are there no lawyers amongst you?
Sweep. Oh no, not one; never any lawyer, we dare not let a lawyer come in, for he’ll make ’em mad faster than we can recover ’em.
Duke. And how long is’t ere you recover any of these?
Sweep. Why, according to the quantity of the moon that’s got into ’em. An alderman’s son will be mad a great while, a very great while, especially if his friends left him well; a whore will hardly come to her wits again: a puritan, there’s no hope of him, unless he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’ th’ bell-ropes.
Flu. I perceive all sorts of fish come to your net.
Sweep. Yes, in truth, we have blocks[215] for all heads; we have good store of wild-oats here: for the courtier is mad at the citizen, the citizen is mad at the countryman; the shoemaker is mad at the cobbler, the cobbler at the car-man; the punk is mad that the merchant’s wife is no whore, the merchant’s wife is mad that the punk is so common a whore. Gods so, here’s Father Anselmo; pray say nothing that I tell tales out of the school. [Exit.
Re-enter Anselmo and Servants.
[Opens a door and then retires: enter 1st Madman, wrapt in a net.
Flu. Alas, poor soul!
Cas. A very old man.
Duke. God speed, father!
1st Mad. God speed the plough, thou shalt not speed me.
Pio. We see you, old man, for all you dance in a net.
1st Mad. True, but thou wilt dance in a halter, and I shall not see thee.
Ans. Oh do not vex him, pray.
Cas. Are you a fisherman, father?
1st Mad. No, I am neither fish nor flesh.
Flu. What do you with that net then?
1st Mad. Dost not see, fool? there’s a fresh salmon[Pg 180] in’t; if you step one foot further, you’ll be over shoes, for you see I’m over head and ears in the salt-water: and if you fall into this whirl-pool where I am, you’re drowned: you’re a drowned rat. I am fishing here for five ships, but I cannot have a good draught, for my net breaks still, and breaks; but I’ll break some of your necks an I catch you in my clutches. Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay, where’s the wind? where’s the wind? where’s the wind? where’s the wind? Out you gulls, you goose-caps, you gudgeon-eaters! do you look for the wind in the heavens? ha, ha, ha, ha! no, no! look there, look there, look there! the wind is always at that door: hark how it blows, puff, puff, puff!
All. Ha, ha, ha!
1st Mad. Do you laugh at God’s creatures? Do you mock old age, you rogues? Is this gray beard and head counterfeit that you cry, ha, ha, ha? Sirrah, art not thou my eldest son?
Pio. Yes indeed, father.
1st Mad. Then thou’rt a fool, for my eldest son had a polt-foot,[216] crooked legs, a verjuice face, and a pear-coloured beard: I made him a scholar, and he made himself a fool. Sirrah, thou there: hold out thy hand.
Duke. My hand? well, here ’tis.
1st Mad. Look, look, look, look! has he not long nails, and short hair?
Flu. Yes, monstrous short hair, and abominable long nails.
1st Mad. Ten penny nails, are they not?
Flu. Yes, ten-penny nails.
1st Mad. Such nails had my second boy. Kneel down, thou varlet, and ask thy father’s blessing. Such nails had my middlemost son, and I made him a promoter:[217] and he scraped, and scraped, and scraped, till he got the devil and all: but he scraped thus, and thus, and thus, and it went under his legs, till at length a[Pg 181] company of kites, taking him for carrion, swept up all, all, all, all, all, all, all. If you love your lives, look to yourselves: see, see, see, see, the Turks’ galleys are fighting with my ships! Bounce go the guns! Oooh! cry the men! Rumble, rumble, go the waters! Alas, there; ’tis sunk, ’tis sunk: I am undone, I am undone! You are the damned pirates have undone me: you are, by the Lord, you are, you are! Stop ’em—you are!
Ans. Why, how now sirrah! must I fall to tame you?
1st Mad. Tame me! no, I’ll be madder than a roasted cat. See, see, I am burnt with gunpowder,—these are our close fights!
Ans. I’ll whip you, if you grow unruly thus.
1st Mad. Whip me? Out you toad! Whip me? What justice is this, to whip me because I am a beggar? Alas! I am a poor man: a very poor man! I am starved, and have had no meat by this light, ever since the great flood; I am a poor man.
Ans. Well, well, be quiet, and you shall have meat.
1st Mad. Ay, ay, pray do; for look you, here be my guts: these are my ribs—you may look through my ribs—see how my guts come out! These are my red guts, my very guts, oh, oh!
Ans. Take him in there. [Servants remove 1st Madman.
Flu., Pio., &c. A very piteous sight.
Cas. Father, I see you have a busy charge.
[Opens another door, from which enter 2nd and 3rd Madmen.
3rd Mad. All these are whoremongers, and lay with my wife: whore, whore, whore, whore, whore!
Flu. Observe him.
3rd Mad. Gaffer shoemaker, you pulled on my wife’s pumps, and then crept into her pantofles:[218] lie there, lie there! This was her tailor. You cut out her loose-bodied gown, and put in a yard more than I allowed her; lie there by the shoemaker. O master doctor! are you here? you gave me a purgation, and then crept into my wife’s chamber, to feel her pulses, and you said, and she said, and her maid said, that they went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat. Doctor, I’ll put you anon into my wife’s urinal. Heigh, come aloft, Jack: this was her schoolmaster, and taught her to play upon the virginals, and still his jacks leapt up, up.[219] You pricked her out nothing but bawdy lessons, but I’ll prick you all, fiddler—doctor—tailor—shoemaker—shoemaker—fiddler—doctor—tailor! So! lie with my wife again, now.
Cas. See how he notes the other, now he feeds.
3rd Mad. Give me some porridge.
2nd Mad. I’ll give thee none.
3rd Mad. Give me some porridge.
2nd Mad. I’ll not give thee a bit.
3rd Mad. Give me that flap-dragon.[220]
2nd Mad. I’ll not give thee a spoonful: thou liest, it’s[Pg 183] no dragon, ’tis a parrot, that I bought for my sweetheart, and I’ll keep it.
3rd Mad. Here’s an almond for parrot.
2nd Mad. Hang thyself!
3rd Mad. Here’s a rope for parrot.[221]
2nd Mad. Eat it, for I’ll eat this.
3rd Mad. I’ll shoot at thee, an thou’t give me none.
2nd Mad. Wu’t thou?
3rd Mad. I’ll run a tilt at thee, an thou’t give me none.
2nd Mad. Wu’t thou? do an thou darest.
3rd Mad. Bounce! [Strikes him.
2nd Mad. O—oh! I am slain! murder, murder, murder! I am slain; my brains are beaten out.
Ans. How now, you villains! Bring me whips: I’ll whip you.
2nd Mad. I am dead! I am slain! ring out the bell, for I am dead.
Duke. How will you do now, sirrah? you ha’ killed him.
3rd Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions: he was eating of almond-butter, and I longed for’t: the child had never been delivered out of my belly, if I had not killed him. I’ll answer’t at sessions, so my wife may be burnt i’ th’ hand, too.
Ans. Take ’em in both: bury him, for he’s dead.
2nd Mad. Indeed, I am dead; put me, I pray, into a good pit-hole.
3rd Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions. [Servants remove 2nd and 3rd Madmen.
Enter Bellafront.
Ans. How now, huswife, whither gad you?
Bell. A-nutting, forsooth: how do you, gaffer? how do you, gaffer? there’s a French curtsey for you, too.
Flu. ’Tis Bellafront!
Pio. Tis the punk, by th’ Lord!
Duke. Father, what’s she, I pray?
Bell. Do not you know me?—nor you?—nor you?—nor you?
All. No, indeed.
Bell. Then you are an ass,—and you an ass,—and you are an ass,—for I know you.
Ans. Why, what are they? come, tell me, what are they?
Bell. They’re fish-wives, will you buy any gudgeons? God’s santy![222] yonder come friars, I know them too—
Enter Hippolito, Matheo, and Infelice, disguised as Friars.
How do you, friar?
Bell. Nay, indeed, you shall not go: we’ll run at barley-break first, and you shall be in hell.[223]
Mat. My punk turned mad whore, as all her fellows are!
Hip. Say nothing; but steal hence, when you spy time.
Ans. I’ll lock you up, if you’re unruly: fie!
Bell. Fie? marry, soh! they shall not go indeed, till I ha’ told ’em their fortunes.
Duke. Good father, give her leave.
Bell. Ay, pray, good father, and I’ll give you my blessing.
Pio. Come, to their fortunes.
Bell. Let me see, one, two, three, and four. I’ll begin with the little friar[224] first. Here’s a fine hand, indeed! I never saw friar have such a dainty hand: here’s a hand for a lady! Here’s your fortune:—
All. Oh, happy change!
Bell. Am not I a good girl, for finding the friar in the well? God’s-so, you are a brave man: will not you buy me some sugar-plums, because I am so good a fortune-teller?
Bell. Pretty soul? a pretty soul is better than a pretty body: do not you know my pretty soul? I know you: Is not your name Matheo?
Mat. Yes, lamb.
Bell. Baa lamb! there you lie, for I am mutton.[226]—Look, fine man! he was mad for me once, and I was mad for him once, and he was mad for her once, and were you never mad? Yes, I warrant; I had a fine jewel once, a very fine jewel, and that naughty man stole it away from me,—a very fine and a rich jewel.
Duke. What jewel, pretty maid?
Bell. Maid? nay, that’s a lie: O, ’twas a very rich jewel, called a maidenhead, and had not you it, leerer?
Mat. Out, you mad ass! away.
Bell. Shall he? O brave Arthur of Bradley[227] then?
Mat. How? marry her, my lord? ’Sfoot, marry a madwoman? Let a man get the tamest wife he can come by, she’ll be mad enough afterward, do what he can.
Enter Viola and George.
Geo. Come mistress, we are in Bedlam now; mass and see, we come in pudding-time, for here’s the duke.
Vio. My husband, good my lord.
Duke. Have I thy husband?
Cast. It’s Candido, my lord, he’s here among the lunatics: Father Anselmo, pray fetch him forth. [Exit Anselmo.] This mad woman is his wife, and though she were not with child, yet did she long most spitefully to have her husband mad: and because she would be sure he should turn Jew, she placed him here in Bethlem. Yonder he comes.
Enter Anselmo with Candido.
Duke. Come hither, signor; are you mad?
Cand. You are not mad.
Duke. Why, I know that.
Duke. Come, come, we’ll have you friends; join hearts, join hands.
Dorothea Target, | } | Harlots. |
Penelope Whorehound, | ||
Catharina Bountinall, |
THE HONEST WHORE.
Part the Second.
On one side enter Beraldo, Carolo, Fontinell, and Astolfo, with Serving-men, or Pages, attending on them; on the other side enter Lodovico.
Lod. Good day, gallants.
All. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.
Lod. How dost thou, Carolo?
Car. Faith, as the physicians do in a plague, see the world sick, and am well myself.
Fon. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
Lod. Oh, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle,[231] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?
Ast. Yes, he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
Ber. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.
Car. Oh, we shall ride switch and spur; would we were there once.
Enter Bryan.
Lod. How now, is thy lord ready?
Bry. No, so crees sa’ me, my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.
Car. Oh, then they’ll to breakfast.
Lod. Footman, does my lord ride i’th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback?
Bry. No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her, my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [Exit.
Lod. My lady sheet in de toder side! Did you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? Is’t not strange that a fellow of his star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian?
Enter Antonio, with a book.
Ast. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange! why, the nation have running heads. [They walk up and down.
Lod. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange, I ha’ been in France, there’s few of them. Marry, England they count a warm chimney corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but sir, in England I have noted one thing.
Lod. Marry this, sir,—what’s he yonder?
Ber. A poor fellow would speak with my lord.
Lod. In England, sir,—troth, I ever laugh when I think on’t: to see a whole nation should be marked i’th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron: why, sir, there all costermongers are Irishmen.
Car. Oh, that’s to show their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.
Ast., Ber., &c. Good, good! ha, ha!
Lod. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.
Car. Faith, that’s soon answered, for St. Patrick, you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing, if they cannot sweep the chimneys.
Ast., Ber., &c. Good again.
Lod. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others,[232] and the knaves are very faithful where they love. By my faith, very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!
Ast., Ber., &c. Are they so?
Lod. And stout! exceeding stout; why, I warrant, this precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[233]
Ast. The women, they say, are very fair.
Lod. No, no, our country buona-robas,[234] oh! are the sugarest, delicious rogues!
Ast. Oh, look, he has a feeling of them!
Lod. Not I, I protest. There’s a saying when they commend nations. It goes, the Irishman for his hand, the Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for a beard.
Fon. I’faith, they may make swabbers of them.
Lod. The Spaniard,—let me see,—for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,—what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come walk.
Ast. This Lodovico is a notable tongued fellow.
Fon. Discourses well.
Ber. And a very honest gentleman.
Ast. Oh! he’s well valued by my lord.
Enter Bellafront, with a petition.
Fon. How now, how now, what’s she?
Ber. Let’s make towards her.
Bell. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth?
Ast. Would you speak with my lord?
Lod. How now, what’s this, a nurse’s bill? hath any here got thee with child and now will not keep it?
Bell. No, sir, my business is unto my lord.
Lod. He’s about his own wife’s now, he’ll hardly dispatch two causes in a morning.
Ast. No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words.
Fon. My lord will pass this way presently.
Ber. A pretty, plump rogue.
Ast. A good lusty, bouncing baggage.
Ber. Do you know her?
Lod. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book once; I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore.
Ast., Ber., &c. Is this she?
Lod. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white: this is the birding-piece new scoured: this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito.
Ast. She has been a goodly creature.
Lod. She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband. Lord! what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars,—no sooner ripe but rotten:
Enter Hippolito, Infelice, and two Waiting-women.
Hip. We ha’ wasted half this morning. Morrow, Lodovico.
Lod. Morrow, madam.
Hip. Let’s away to horse.
Lod., Ast., &c. Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.
Bell. I do beseech your lordship, let your eye read o’er this wretched paper.
Hip. I’m in haste, pray thee, good woman, take some apter time.
Inf. Good woman, do.
Bell. Oh ’las! it does concern a poor man’s life.
Hip. Life! sweetheart?—Seat yourself, I’ll but read this and come.
Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,[235] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.
Inf. Oh sir, that cannot make me jealous.
[Exeunt all except Hippolito, Bellafront, and Antonio.
Hip. Your business, sir? to me?
Ant. Yes, my good lord.
Hip. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?
Bell. That most unfortunate woman.
Re-enter Lodovico.
Lod. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.
Hip. Ride softly on before, I’ll o’ertake you.
Lod. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before, without ye.
Hip. Prithee, good Lodovico.
Lod. My lord, pray hasten.
Hip. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you to wonted grace?
Bell. It is impossible.
Re-enter Bryan.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?
Bry. I fart di lady is run away from dee, a mighty deal of ground, she sent me back for dine own sweet face, I pray dee come, my lord, away, wu’t tow go now?
Hip. Is the coach gone? Saddle my horse, the sorrel.
Bry. A pox a’ de horse’s nose, he is a lousy rascally fellow, when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled; di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest, an Irishman cannot abide a fart. But I have saddled de hobby-horse, di fine hobby is ready, I pray dee my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?
Hip. Well, sir,—I pray let’s see you, master scholar.
Bry. Come, I pray dee, wu’t come, sweet face? Go. [Exeunt.
Enter Lodovico, Carolo, Astolfo, and Beraldo.
Lod. Godso’, gentlemen, what do we forget?
Car., Ast., Ber. What?
Lod. Are not we all enjoined as this day.—Thursday is’t not? Ay, as this day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner?
Car. Signor Candido, the patient man.
Ast. Afore Jove, true, upon this day he’s married.
Ber. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees.
Lod. Oh ’tis rare sucking a sweet honey comb! pray[Pg 201] Heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! The poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for it, she’d tickle them. At any hand let’s try what mettle is in his new bride; if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen, I pity he should marry again; I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.
Car. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats, that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.
Lod. Oh, fie upon’t! ’twould undo all us that are courtiers, we should have no whoop! with the wenches then.
Enter Hippolito.
Car., Ast., Ber. My lord’s come.
Hip. How now, what news?
Car., Ast., Ber. None.
Lod. Your lady is with the duke, her father.
Hip. And we’ll to them both presently—
Enter Orlando Friscobaldo.
Who’s that!
Car., Ast., Ber. Signor Friscobaldo.
Hip. Friscobaldo, oh! pray call him, and leave me, we two have business.
Car. Ho Signor! Signor Friscobaldo! The Lord Hippolito. [Exeunt all but Hippolito and Friscobaldo.
Orl. My noble lord: my Lord Hippolito! the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honoured lordship! does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando Friscobaldo! old mad Orlando!
Hip. Oh, sir, our friends! they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see,[Pg 202] Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood, for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.
Orl. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stripped bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? Though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green?
My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry “Hem,” with a clear voice.
Hip. You are the happier man, sir.
Orl. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your lordship.
Hip. I stay for it.
Hip. It’s very well; I thank you for this picture.
Orl. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet. Wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know[Pg 203] yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding sheet: but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why so! If a crow! throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now! ha?
Hip. You may; would I were partner in your mirth.
Orl. I have a little, have all things. I have nothing; I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare?
Hip. Is your wife then departed?
Orl. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me. Here, she’s here: but before me, when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like serjeants together: but a good couple are seldom parted.
Hip. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?
Orl. O my lord! this old tree had one branch, and but one branch growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, dressed it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know, nor care.
Orl. Dead! my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman, he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest.
Hip. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?
Orl. O my lord! a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines; all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of[Pg 204] hell, to be her props, that she may spread upon them. And when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her, then must she be pressed. The young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge, yet to taste that liquorish wine, is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?
Hip. She’s turned to earth.
Orl. Would she were turned to Heaven! Umph, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins!
Orl. In my daughter, you will say! does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is I have a handkercher to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?
Hip. Trust me, I think she is.
Orl. Then she’s a right strumpet; I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have too many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools and knaves do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher: she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[237] within it, her money, her money.
Orl. Not seventeen summers.
Hip. Is your hate so old?
Orl. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.
Hip. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.
Orl. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world: I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.
Hip. Nay, but Friscobaldo!—
Orl. I detest her, I defy[238] both, she’s not mine, she’s—
Hip. Hear her but speak.
Orl. I love no mermaids, I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe.[239]
Hip. You’re now beyond all reason.
Orl. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.
Hip. Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more.
Orl. And fare you well, sir. [Exit Hippolito.] Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. ’Las my girl! art thou poor? poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them; despair is one of hell’s[Pg 206] catch-poles; and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her. Yet she shall not know me; she shall drink of my wealth, as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? That were hard; the pelican does it, and shall not I? Yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there, her husband, will be hanged, I fear; I’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.
Enter two Serving-men.
How now, knaves? whither wander you?
1st Ser. To seek your worship.
Orl. Stay, which of you has my purse? what money have you about you?
2nd Ser. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.
Orl. Give it me.—[Takes purse.]—I think I have some gold about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.
[Orlando puts on the coat of 1st Serving-man, and gives him in exchange his cloak.
1st Ser. What do you mean to do, sir?
Orl. Hold thy tongue, knave, take thou my cloak. I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bart’ring; bid the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things. Whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?
2nd Ser. As if it were made for your worship.
Orl. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[240] when your master is one of your fellows. Away! do not see me.
Both. This is excellent. [Exeunt Serving-men.
Orl. I should put on a worse suit, too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter.
Enter Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.
Cand. O gentlemen, so late, you are very welcome, pray sit down.
Lod. Carolo, did’st e’er see such a nest of caps?[241]
Ast. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.
Lod. What does he i’th’ middle look like?
Ast. Troth, like a spire steeple in a country village overpeering so many thatched houses.
Lod. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes;[242] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs, and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.
Ast. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Cand. What’s that you laugh at, signors?
1st Guest. Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block[243] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.
[They bare their heads and drink. As 1st Prentice offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the lips, breaking the glass.
1st Pren. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—a scurvy trick.
Cand. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there tells me she is not well.
Guests. Step to her, step to her.
Lod. A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters.
Cand. How, hang her in her garters?
Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to’t.
Cand. What would you have me do, sir?
Lod. What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already; you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning be crooked to his wife; be you like an orange to her, let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?
Cand. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.
Lod. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?
Cand. I have the very same which myself wore.
Lod. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hour I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.
Cand. It will be but some jest, sir?
Lod. Only a jest: farewell, come, Carolo. [Exeunt Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.
Guests. We’ll take our leaves, sir, too.
Enter Bellafront and Matheo.
Bell. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave and art alive again? Oh welcome, welcome!
Mat. Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary[247]: I lacked but the knot here, or here; yet if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice[248]: but sweetest villain, I am here now and I will talk with thee soon.
Bell. And glad am I thou art here.
Mat. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah! my little plump rogue. I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high. Catso catso.[249]
Bell. Matheo?
Mat. What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.
Mat. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[250]
Bell. Thou dost not hear me?
Mat. Yes, faith, do I.
Bell. Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong physic; prithee now be sound.
Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now. Oh, when shall I bizzle, bizzle?[251]
Bell. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! Come, I will not have thee swagger.
Mat. Honest ape’s face!
Mat. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy. [Knocking within.
Bell. One knocks at door.
Mat. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit, I’ll fly high. [Exit.
Re-enter Matheo, with Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Mat. Come in, pray! would you speak with me, sir?
Orl. Is your name Signor Matheo?
Mat. My name is Signor Matheo.
Orl. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?
Mat. This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.
Orl. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!—The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that. [Aside.] I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father.
Orl. I can speak no more.
Mat. How now, old lad, what dost cry?
Orl. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.
Mat. What is’t, my little white-pate?
Orl. Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship.
Mat. To serve me? Troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may say—
Orl. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings, that are ready to fall: but my white[Pg 215] head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a serving-man at my years, that has sailed about the world, be not stored with biscuit enough to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him East home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much for wages, for I have scraped a handful of gold together. I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more—
Mat. No, no, you say well, thou sayest well; but I must tell you,—how much is the money, sayest thou?
Orl. About twenty pound, sir.
Mat. Twenty pound? Let me see: that shall bring thee in, after ten per centum per annum.
Orl. No, no, no, sir, no: I cannot abide to have money engender: fie upon this silver lechery, fie; if I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to snort upon when I die, the longer liver take all.
Mat. A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou shall eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride.
Orl. That’s if you have money to hire horses. [Aside.
Mat. Front, what dost thou think on’t? This good old lad here shall serve me.
Mat. Peace, pox on you, peace. There’s a trick in’t, I fly high, it shall be so, Front, as I tell you: give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me i’faith: welcome: as for your money—
Orl. Nay, look you, sir, I have it here.
Mat. Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure ’tis safe.
Orl. Safe! an’ twere ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your worship is, an excellent dunghill cock, to scatter all abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head.[Pg 216] [Gives money to Matheo.
Mat. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?
Orl. I served him so long, till he turned me out of doors.
Mat. It’s a notable chuff[252]: I ha’ not seen him many a day.
Orl. No matter an you ne’er see him; it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat.
Mat. Away, ass! He speaks but truth, thy father is a—
Bell. Gentleman.
Mat. And an old knave. There’s more deceit in him than in sixteen ’pothecaries: it’s a devil; thou mayest beg, starve, hang, damn! does he send thee so much as a cheese?
Mat. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.
Orl. He shall live to see thee hanged first. [Aside.
Enter Hippolito.
Mat. Yes, sir.
Hip. I’ll borrow her lip. [Kisses Bellafront.
Mat. With all my heart, my lord.
Orl. Who’s this, I pray, sir.
Mat. My Lord Hippolito: what’s thy name?
Orl. Pacheco.
Mat. Pacheco, fine name; thou seest, Pacheco, I keep company with no scoundrels, nor base fellows.
Hip. Came not my footman to you?
Bell. Yes, my lord.
Mat. Excellent well. I thank your lordship: I owe you my life, my lord; and will pay my best blood in any service of yours.
Hip. I’ll take no such dear payment. Hark you, Matheo, I know the prison is a gulf. If money run low with you, my purse is your’s: call for it.
Mat. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars, they send me down some; I cannot sink, so long these bladders hold.
Mat. Open the door, sirrah.
Hip. Drink this, and anon, I pray thee, give thy mistress this.
[Gives to Friscobaldo, who opens the door, first money, then a purse, and exit.
Mat. The only royal fellow, he’s bounteous as the Indies, what’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?
Bell. Nothing.
Mat. I prithee, good girl?
Bell. Why, I tell you, nothing.
Mat. Nothing? it’s well: tricks! that I must be beholden to a scald hot-livered goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand, and vail bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself. Would I had been hanged. Nothing? Pacheco, brush my cloak.
Orl. Where is’t, sir?
Orl. You have small reason to take his part; for I have heard him say five hundred times, you were as arrant a whore as ever stiffened tiffany neckcloths in water-starch upon a Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.
Orl. And so if your father call you whore you’ll not call him old knave:—Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up and down; she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone. [Aside] Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good old master, your father, were but to try how my young master, your husband, loved such squibs: but it’s well known, I love your father as myself; I’ll ride for him at mid-night, run for you by owl-light; I’ll die for him, drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high, as my master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.
Bell. I am not made of marble; I forgive thee.
Orl. Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter might cut you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my master, is in a sure hand.
Bell. In a sure hand, I warrant thee, for spending.
Orl. I see my young master is a mad-cap, and a bonus socius. I love him well, mistress: yet as well as I love him, I’ll not play the knave with you; look you, I could cheat you of this purse full of money; but I am an old lad, and I scorn to cony-catch[254]: yet I ha’ been dog at a cony in my time. [Gives purse.
Bell. A purse? where hadst it?
Orl. The gentleman that went away, whispered in mine ear, and charged me to give it you.
Bell. The Lord Hippolito?
Orl. Yes, if he be a lord, he gave it me.
Bell. ’Tis all gold.
Orl. ’Tis like so: it may be, he thinks you want money, and therefore bestows his alms bravely, like a lord.
Orl. As your nails to your fingers, which I think never deceived you.
Orl. A star? nay, thou art more than the moon, for thou hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in thy circle with a bush of thorns. Is’t possible the Lord Hippolito, whose face is as civil as the outside of a dedicatory book, should be a muttonmonger?[255] A poor man has but one ewe, and this grandee sheep-biter leaves whole flocks of fat wethers, whom he may knock down, to devour this. I’ll trust neither lord nor butcher with quick flesh for this trick; the cuckoo, I see now, sings all the year, though every man cannot hear him; but I’ll spoil his notes. Can neither love-letters, nor the devil’s common pick-locks, gold, nor precious stones make my girl draw up her percullis?[256] Hold out still, wench.
Enter Candido, and Lodovico disguised as a Prentice.
Lod. Come, come, come, what do ye lack, sir? what do ye lack, sir? what is’t ye lack, sir? Is not my worship well suited? did you ever see a gentleman better disguised?
Cand. Never, believe me, signor.
Lod. Yes, but when he has been drunk. There be prentices would make mad gallants, for they would spend all, and drink, and whore, and so forth; and I see we gallants could make mad prentices. How does thy wife like me? Nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all: pray you how does my mistress like me?
Cand. Well; for she takes you for a very simple fellow.
Lod. And they that are taken for such are commonly the arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.
Lod. ’Sblood, cannot you do as all the world does, counterfeit?
Lod. Remember you’re a linen-draper, and that if you give your wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not therefore a quarter of your yard, not a nail.
Lod. Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross[Pg 222] her humours. Are not baker’s arms the scales of justice? yet is not their bread light? and may not you, I pray, bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently?
Enter Bride.
Lod. Yes, indeed, sir, I would deal in linen, if my mistress like me so well as I like her.
Cand. I hope to find him honest, pray; good wife, look that his bed and chamber be made ready.
Lod. Swear, cry Zounds!—
Cand. I will not—go to, wife—I will not—
Lod. That your great oath?
Cand. Swallow these gudgeons!
Lod. Well said!
Bride. Then fast, then you may choose.
Lod. A yard for my master.
[Lodovico returns from the shop with a yard-wand and followed by Prentices.
1st Pren. My master is grown valiant.
Cand. I’ll teach you fencing tricks.
Prentices. Rare, rare! a prize![258]
Lod. What will you do, sir?
Cand. Marry, my good prentice, nothing but breathe my wife.
Bride. Breathe me with your yard?
Lod. No, he’ll but measure you out, forsooth.
Lod. An ell for my mistress![Pg 224] [Brings an ell wand from the shop. Keep the laws of the noble science, sir, and measure weapons with her; your yard is a plain heathenish weapon; ’tis too short, she may give you a handful, and yet you’ll not reach her.
Bride. Who? your man?
Lod. Nay, if your service be so hot a man cannot keep his hair on, I’ll serve you no longer. [Takes off his false hair.
Bride. Is this your schoolmaster?
Lod. Yes, faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down: I hope thou canst take him down without teaching;
Enter Infelice, and Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Inf. From whom sayst thou?
Orl. From a poor gentlewoman, madam, whom I serve.
Inf. And what’s your business?
Orl. This madam: my poor mistress has a waste piece of ground, which is her own by inheritance, and left to her by her mother. There’s a lord now that goes about not to take it clean from her, but to enclose it to himself, and to join it to a piece of his lordship’s.
Inf. What would she have me do in this?
Orl. No more, madam, but what one woman should do for another in such a case. My honourable lord your husband, would do any thing in her behalf, but she had rather put herself into your hands, because you, a woman, may do more with the duke, your father.
Inf. Where lies this land?
Orl. Within a stone’s cast of this place; my mistress, I think, would be content to let him enjoy it after her decease, if that would serve his turn, so my master would yield too; but she cannot abide to hear that the lord should meddle with it in her lifetime.
Inf. Is she then married? why stirs not her husband in it?
Orl. Her husband stirs in it underhand: but because the other is a great rich man, my master is loath to be seen in it too much.
Orl. ’Tis set down, madam, here in black and white already: work it so madam, that she may keep her own without disturbance, grievance, molestation, or meddling of any other; and she bestows this purse of gold on your ladyship.
Orl. I would all proctors’ clerks were of your mind, I should law more amongst them than I do then; here, madam, is the survey, not only of the manor itself, but of the grange-house, with every meadow, pasture, plough-land, cony-burrow, fish-pond, hedge, ditch, and bush, that stands in it. [Gives a letter.
Orl. From the foresaid party, madam, that would keep the foresaid land out of the foresaid lord’s fingers.
Inf. My lord turned ranger now?
Orl. You’re a good huntress, lady; you ha’ found your game already: your lord would fain be a ranger, but my mistress requests you to let him run a course in your own park. If you’ll not do’t for love, then do’t for money! she has no white money, but there’s gold; or else she prays you to ring him by this token, and so you shall be sure his nose will not be rooting other men’s pastures. [Gives purse and ring.
Orl. Not I, madam, old serving-men want no money.
Orl. I do not think, madam, but he fetched off some poet or other for those lines, for they are parlous hawks to fly at wenches.
Orl. Nay, that’s true, madam, a wench will whet any thing, if it be not too dull.
Orl. One of those creatures that are contrary to man; a woman.
Inf. What manner of woman?
Orl. A little tiny woman, lower than your ladyship by head and shoulders, but as mad a wench as ever unlaced a petticoat: these things should I indeed have delivered to my lord, your husband.
Orl. ’Ware, ’ware, there’s knavery.
Orl. The Irish footman can tell you all his hunting hours, the park he hunts in, the doe he would strike; that Irish shackatory[260] beats the bush for him, and knows all; he brought that letter, and that ring; he is the carrier.
Inf. Knowest thou what other gifts have passed between them?
Orl. Little Saint Patrick knows all.
Inf. Him I’ll examine presently.
Orl. Not whilst I am here, sweet madam.
Inf. Be gone then, and what lies in me command. [Exit Orlando.
Enter Bryan.
Bry. Faat satins? faat silvers, faat low gentlefolks? dow pratest dow knowest not what, i’faat, la.
Inf. She there, to whom you carried letters.
Bry. By dis hand and bod dow saist true, if I did so, oh how? I know not a letter a’ de book i’faat, la.
Bry. Never, sa crees[261] fa’ me, never! he may run at a towsand rings i’faat, and I never hold his stirrup, till he leap into de saddle. By Saint Patrick, madam, I never touch my lord’s diamond, nor ever had to do, i’faat, la, with any of his precious stones.
Enter Hippolito.
Inf. Are you so close, you bawd, you pandering slave? [Strikes Bryan.
Hip. How now? why, Infelice; what’s your quarrel?
Inf. Out of my sight, base varlet! get thee gone.
Hip. Away, you rogue!
Bry. Slawne loot,[262] fare de well, fare de well. Ah marragh frofat boddah breen![263] [Exit.
Hip. What, grown a fighter? prithee, what’s the matter?
Hip. Lest you cuff me, I’ll tell you presently: I am near two.
Re-enter Bryan.
Bry. I’faat, I care not.
Hip. Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else.
Bry. Ay, do predy, I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to de, i’faat! I will never see dine own sweet face more. A mawhid deer a gra,[266] fare dee well, fare dee well; I will go steal cows again in Ireland. [Exit.
Enter Bellafront, and Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Bell. How now, what ails your master?
Orl. Has taken a younger brother’s purge, forsooth, and that works with him.
Bell. Where is his cloak and rapier?
Orl. He has given up his cloak, and his rapier is bound to the peace: If you look a little higher, you may see that another hath entered into hatband for him too. Six and four have put him into this sweat.
Bell. Where’s all his money?
Orl. ’Tis put over by exchange; his doublet was going to be translated, but for me. If any man would ha’ lent but half a ducat on his beard, the hair of it had stuffed a pair of breeches by this time; I had but one poor penny, and that I was glad to niggle out, and buy a holly-wand to grace him through the street. As hap was, his boots were on, and them I dustied, to make people think he had been riding, and I had run by him.
Bell. Oh me!
Enter Matheo.
How does my sweet Matheo?
Mat. Oh rogue, of what devilish stuff are these dice made of,—the parings of the devil’s corns of his toes, that they run thus damnably?
Bell. I prithee, vex not.
Mat. If any handicraft’s-man was ever suffered to keep shop in hell, it will be a dice-maker; he’s able to undo more souls than the devil; I played with mine own dice, yet lost. Ha’ you any money?
Bell. ’Las, I ha’ none.
Mat. Must have money, must have some, must have a cloak, and rapier, and things. Will you go set your lime-twigs, and get me some birds, some money?
Bell. What lime-twigs should I set?
Mat. You will not then? Must have cash and pictures, do ye hear, frailty? shall I walk in a Plymouth cloak,[268] that’s to say, like a rogue, in my hose and doublet, and a crabtree cudgel in my hand, and you swim in your satins? Must have money, come! [Taking off her gown.
Orl. Is’t bed-time, master, that you undo my mistress?
Orl. Why, hear you, sir? i’faith do not make away her gown.
Mat. Oh! it’s summer, it’s summer; your only fashion for a woman now is to be light, to be light.
Orl. Why, pray sir, employ some of that money you have of mine.
Mat. Thine? I’ll starve first, I’ll beg first; when I touch a penny of that, let these fingers’ ends rot.
Orl. So they may, for that’s past touching. I saw my twenty pounds fly high. [Aside.
Mat. Knowest thou never a damned broker about the city?
Orl. Damned broker? yes, five hundred.
Mat. How now, little chick, what ailest, weeping for a handful of tailor’s shreds? pox on them, are there not silks enow at mercer’s?
Mat. Why? do as all of our occupation do against quarter-days: break up house, remove, shift your lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!
Enter Lodovico.
Lod. Where’s this gallant?
Mat. Signor Lodovico? how does my little Mirror of Knighthood?[269] this is kindly done i’faith: welcome, by my troth.
Mat. You send for’t?—Some wine, I prithee.
Bell. I ha’ no money.
Mat. ’Sblood, nor I.—What wine love you, signor?
Lod. Here! (Offering money,) or I’ll not stay, I protest; trouble the gentlewoman too much? [Gives money to Bellafront, who goes out.
And what news flies abroad, Matheo?
Mat. Troth, none. Oh signor, we ha’ been merry in our days.
Mat. I am the most wretched fellow: sure some left-handed priest hath christened me, I am so unlucky; I am never out of one puddle or another; still falling.
Re-enter Bellafront with wine.
Re-enter Orlando.
Orl. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint. I can with all my knocking strike but six sparks of fire out of them; here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.
Mat. Give me them! [Taking money.] An evil conscience gnaw them all! moths and plagues hang upon their lousy wardrobes!
Lod. Is this your man, Matheo?
Mat. An old serving-man.
Orl. You may give me t’other half too, sir, that’s the beggar.
Lod. What hast there,—gold?
Mat. A sort of rascals are in my debt, God knows what, and they feed me with bits, with crumbs, a pox choke them.
Orl. I hope he will not sneak away with all the money, will he?
Bell. Thou sees’t he does.
Orl. Nay then, it’s well. I set my brains upon an upright last; though my wits be old, yet they are like a withered pippin, wholesome. Look you, mistress, I told him I had but six ducats of the knave broker, but I had eight, and kept these two for you.
Bell. Thou should’st have given him all.
Orl. What, to fly high?
Bell. Like waves, my misery drives on misery. [Exit.
Orl. Sell his wife’s clothes from her back? does any poulterer’s wife pull chickens alive? He riots all abroad, wants all at home: he dices, whores, swaggers, swears, cheats, borrows, pawns: I’ll give him hook and line, a little more for all this;
Enter at one side Lodovico and Carolo; at another Bots, and Mistress Horseleech.
Lod. Hist, hist, Lieutenant Bots, how dost, man?
Car. Whither are you ambling, Madam Horseleech?
Mis. H. About worldly profit, sir: how do your worships?
Bots. We want tools, gentlemen, to furnish the trade: they wear out day and night, they wear out till no metal be left in their back. We hear of two or three new wenches are come up with a carrier, and your old goshawk here is flying at them.
Lod. And, faith, what flesh have you at home?
Mis. H. Ordinary dishes; by my troth, sweet men,[Pg 240] there’s few good i’ th’ city; I am as well furnished as any, and, though I say it, as well customed.
Bots. We have meats of all sorts of dressing; we have stewed meat for your Frenchman, pretty light picking meat for your Italian, and that which is rotten roasted for Don Spaniardo.
Lod. A pox on’t.
Bots. We have poulterer’s ware for your sweet bloods, as dove, chicken, duck, teal, woodcock, and so forth; and butcher’s meat for the citizen: yet muttons[272] fall very bad this year.
Lod. Stay, is not that my patient linen-draper yonder, and my fine young smug mistress, his wife?
Car. Sirrah,[273] grannam, I’ll give thee for thy fee twenty crowns, if thou canst but procure me the wearing of yon velvet cap.
Mis. H. You’d wear another thing besides the cap. You’re a wag.
Bots. Twenty crowns? we’ll share, and I’ll be your pully to draw her on.
Lod. Do’t presently; we’ll ha’ some sport.
Mis. H. Wheel you about, sweet men: do you see? I’ll cheapen wares of the man, whilst Bots is doing with his wife.
Lod. To’t: if we come into the shop to do you grace, we’ll call you madam.
Bots. Pox a’ your old face, give it the badge of all scurvy faces, a mask.
[Mistress Horseleech puts on a mask.
Cand. What is’t you lack, gentlewoman? Cambric or lawns, or fine hollands? Pray draw near, I can sell you a pennyworth.
Bots. Some cambric for my old lady.
Car. Save you, Signor Candido.
Lod. How does my noble master? how my fair mistress?
Cand. My worshipful good servant.—View it well, for ’tis both fine and even. [Shows cambric.
Car. Cry you mercy, madam; though masked, I thought it should be you by your man.—Pray, signor, show her the best, for she commonly deals for good ware.
Cand. Then this shall fit her.—This is for your ladyship.
Bots. A word, I pray; there is a waiting gentlewoman of my lady’s: her name is Ruyna, says she’s your kinswoman, and that you should be one of her aunts.
Bride. One of her aunts? troth, sir, I know her not.
Bots. If it please you to bestow the poor labour of your legs at any time, I will be your convoy thither?
Bride. I am a snail, sir, seldom leave my house. If’t please her to visit me, she shall be welcome.
Bots. Do you hear? the naked truth is; my lady hath a young knight, her son, who loves you, you’re made, if you lay hold upon’t; this jewel he sends you. [Offers jewel.
Bride. Sir, I return his love and jewel with scorn; let go my hand, or I shall call my husband. You are an arrant knave. [Exit.
Lod. What will she do?
Bots. Do? They shall all do if Bots sets upon them once: she was as if she had professed the trade, squeamish at first; at last I showed her this jewel, said a knight sent it her.
Lod. Is’t gold, and right stones?
Bots. Copper, copper, I go a fishing with these baits. She nibbled, but would not swallow the hook, because the conger-head, her husband, was by; but she bids the gentleman name any afternoon, and she’ll meet him at her garden house,[274] which I know.
Lod. Is this no lie now?
Bots. Damme, if—
Lod. Oh, prithee stay there.
Bots. The twenty crowns, sir.
Lod. Before he has his work done? but on my knightly word he shall pay’t thee.
Enter Astolfo, Beraldo, Fontinell, and Bryan.
Ast. I thought thou hadst been gone into thine own country.
Bry. No, faat, la, I cannot go dis four or tree days.
Ber. Look thee, yonder’s the shop, and that’s the man himself.
Fon. Thou shalt but cheapen, and do as we told thee, to put a jest upon him, to abuse his patience.
Bry. I’faat, I doubt my pate shall be knocked: but, sa crees sa’ me, for your shakes, I will run to any linen-draper in hell: come predee.
Ast., Ber., Fon. Save you, gallants.
Lod., Car. Oh, well met!
Cand. You’ll give no more, you say? I cannot take it.
Mis. H. Truly I’ll give no more.
Ast. Nay, here’s the customer.
[Exeunt Bots and Mistress Horseleech.
Lod. The garden-house, you say? we’ll bolt[275] out your roguery.
Lod. Do your hear it? one, two, three,—’Sfoot, there came in four gallants! Sure your wife is slipt up, and the fourth man, I hold my life, is grafting your warden tree.[276]
Lod. Have you so? nay, then—
Cand. Now, gentlemen, is’t cambrics?
Bry. I predee now let me have de best waures.
Cand. What’s that he says, pray, gentlemen?
Lod. Marry, he says we are like to have the best wars.
Bry. Faat a devil pratest tow so? a pox on dee! I preddee, let me see some hollen, to make linen shirts, for fear my body be lousy.
Cand. Indeed, I understand no word he speaks.
Bry. Pox on de gardens, and de weeds, and de fool’s cap dere, and de clouts! hear? dost make a hobby-horse of me? [Tearing the cambric.
All. Oh, fie! he has torn the cambric.
Cand. ’Tis no matter.
All. Ha, ha, ha! come, come, let’s go, let’s go. [Exeunt.
Enter Matheo brave,[277] and Bellafront.
Mat. How am I suited, Front? am I not gallant, ha?
Bell. Yes, sir, you are suited well.
Mat. Exceeding passing well, and to the time.
Bell. The tailor has played his part with you.
Mat. And I have played a gentleman’s part with my tailor, for I owe him for the making of it.
Bell. And why did you so, sir?
Mat. To keep the fashion; it’s your only fashion now, of your best rank of gallants, to make their tailors wait for their money; neither were it wisdom indeed to pay them upon the first edition of a new suit; for commonly the suit is owing for, when the linings are worn out, and there’s no reason, then, that the tailor should be paid before the mercer.
Bell. Is this the suit the knight bestowed upon you?
Mat. This is the suit, and I need not shame to wear it, for better men than I would be glad to have suits bestowed on them. It’s a generous fellow,—but—pox on him—we whose pericranions are the very limbecks and stillatories of good wit and fly high, must drive liquor[Pg 245] out of stale gaping oysters—shallow knight, poor squire Tinacheo: I’ll make a wild Cataian[278] of forty such: hang him, he’s an ass, he’s always sober.
Bell. This is your fault to wound your friends still.
Mat. No, faith, Front, Lodovico is a noble Slavonian: it’s more rare to see him in a woman’s company, than for a Spaniard to go into England, and to challenge the English fencers there.—[Knocking within.] One knocks,—see.—[Exit Bellafront.]—La, fa, fol, la, fa, la, [Sings] rustle in silks and satins! there’s music in this, and a taffeta petticoat, it makes both fly high. Catso.
Re-enter Bellafront with Orlando in his own dress, and four Servants.
Bell. Matheo! ’tis my father.
Mat. Ha! father? It’s no matter, he finds no tattered prodigals here.
Orl. Is not the door good enough to hold your blue coats?[279] away, knaves, Wear not your clothes threadbare at knees for me; beg Heaven’s blessing, not mine.—[Exeunt Servants.]—Oh cry your worship mercy, sir; was somewhat bold to talk to this gentlewoman, your wife here.
Mat. A poor gentlewoman, sir.
Mat. If it offend you, sir, ’tis for my pleasure.
Orl. Your pleasure be’t, sir. Umh, is this your palace?
Bell. Yes, and our kingdom, for ’tis our content.
Orl. It’s a very poor kingdom then; what, are all your subjects gone a sheep-shearing? not a maid? not a man? not so much as a cat? You keep a good house belike, just like one of your profession, every room with bare[Pg 246] walls, and a half-headed bed to vault upon, as all your bawdy-houses are. Pray who are your upholsters? Oh, the spiders, I see, they bestow hangings upon you.
Mat. Bawdy-house? Zounds, sir—
Orl. No acquaintance with it? what maintains thee then? how dost live then? Has thy husband any lands? any rents coming in, any stock going, any ploughs jogging, any ships sailing? hast thou any wares to turn, so much as to get a single penny by?
Mat. Do you hear, sir?
Orl. So, sir, I do hear, sir, more of you than you dream I do.
Mat. You fly a little too high, sir.
Orl. Why, sir, too high?
Mat. I ha’ suffered your tongue, like a bard cater-tray,[280] to run all this while, and ha’ not stopt it.
Orl. Well, sir, you talk like a gamester.
Mat. If you come to bark at her, because she’s a poor rogue, look you, here’s a fine path, sir, and there, there’s the door.
Bell. Matheo?
Mat. Your blue coats stay for you, sir. I love a good honest roaring boy, and so—
Orl. That’s the devil.
Mat. Sir, sir, I’ll ha’ no Joves in my house to thunder avaunt: she shall live and be maintained when you, like a keg of musty sturgeon, shall stink; where? in your coffin—how? be a musty fellow, and lousy.
Orl. I know she shall be maintained, but how? she like a quean, thou like a knave; she like a whore, thou like a thief.
Mat. Thief? Zounds! Thief?
Bell. Good, dearest Mat!—Father!
Mat. Pox on you both! I’ll not be braved. New satin scorns to be put down with bare bawdy velvet. Thief?
Orl. Ay, thief, th’art a murderer, a cheater, a whoremonger, a pot-hunter, a borrower a beggar—
Bell. Dear father—
Mat. An old ass, a dog, a churl, a chuff, an usurer, a villain, a moth, a mangy mule, with an old velvet foot-cloth on his back, sir.
Bell. Oh me!
Orl. Varlet, for this I’ll hang thee.
Mat. Ha, ha, alas!
Orl. Thou keepest a man of mine here, under my nose—
Mat. Under thy beard.
Orl. As arrant a smell-smock, for an old muttonmonger[281] as thyself.
Mat. No, as yourself.
Orl. As arrant a purse-taker as ever cried, Stand! yet a good fellow I confess, and valiant; but he’ll bring thee to th’ gallows; you both have robbed of late two poor country pedlars.
Mat. How’s this? how’s this? dost thou fly high? rob pedlars?—bear witness, Front—rob pedlars? my man and I a thief?
Bell. Oh, sir, no more.
Orl. Ay, knave, two pedlars; hue and cry is up; warrants are out, and I shall see thee climb a ladder.
Mat. And come down again as well as a bricklayer or a tiler. How the vengeance knows he this? If I be hanged, I’ll tell the people I married old Friscobaldo’s daughter; I’ll frisco you, and your old carcass.
Orl. Tell what you canst; if I stay here longer, I shall be hanged too, for being in thy company; therefore, as I found you, I leave you—
Mat. Kneel, and get money of him.
Orl. A knave and a quean, a thief and a strumpet, a couple of beggars, a brace of baggages.
Mat. Hang upon him—Ay, ay, sir, farewell; we are—follow close—we are beggars—in satin—to him.
Orl. It’s not seen by your cheeks.
Mat. I think she has read an homily to tickle the old rogue. [Aside.
Orl. Want bread! there’s satin: bake that.
Mat. ’Sblood, make pasties of my clothes?
Orl. A fair new cloak, stew that; an excellent gilt rapier.
Mat. Will you eat that, sir?
Orl. I could feast ten good fellows with these hangers.[282]
Mat. The pox, you shall!
Mat. This is your father, your damned—Confusion light upon all the generation of you; he can come bragging hither with four white herrings at’s tail in blue coats, without roes in their bellies, but I may starve ere he give me so much as a cob.[283]
Bell. What tell you me of this? alas!
Mat. Go, trot after your dad, do you capitulate; I’ll pawn not for you; I’ll not steal to be hanged for such an hypocritical, close, common harlot: away, you dog!—Brave i’faith! Udsfoot, give me some meat.
Bell. Yes, sir. [Exit.
Mat. Goodman slave, my man too, is galloped to the devil a’ t’other side: Pacheco, I’ll checo you. Is this your dad’s day? England, they say, is the only hell for horses, and only paradise for women: pray get you to that paradise, because you’re called an honest whore; there they live none but honest whores with a pox. Marry here in our city, all your sex are but foot-cloth nags,[284] the master no sooner lights but the man leaps into the saddle.
Re-enter Bellafront with meat and drink.
Bell. Will you sit down I pray, sir?
Mat. [Sitting down.] I could tear, by th’ Lord, his[Pg 250] flesh, and eat his midriff in salt, as I eat this:—must I choke—my father Friscobaldo, I shall make a pitiful hog-louse of you, Orlando, if you fall once into my fingers—Here’s the savourest meat! I ha’ got a stomach with chafing. What rogue should tell him of those two pedlars? A plague choke him, and gnaw him to the bare bones!—Come fill.
Bell. Thou sweatest with very anger, good sweet, vex not, as ’tis no fault of mine.
Mat. Where didst buy this mutton? I never felt better ribs.
Bell. A neighbour sent it me.
Re-enter Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Mat. Hah, neighbour? foh, my mouth stinks,—You whore, do you beg victuals for me? Is this satin doublet to be bombasted[285] with broken meat? [Takes up the stool.
Orl. What will you do, sir?
Mat. Beat out the brains of a beggarly—
Orl. Beat out an ass’s head of your own—Away, Mistress [Exit Bellafront.] Zounds, do but touch one hair of her, and I’ll so quilt your cap with old iron, that your coxcomb shall ache like a roasted rabbit, that you must have the head for the brains?
Mat. Ha, ha! go out of my doors, you rogue, away, four marks; trudge.
Orl. Four marks? no, sir, my twenty pound that you ha’ made fly high, and I am gone.
Mat. Must I be fed with chippings? you’re best get a clapdish,[286] and say you’re proctor to some spittle-house.[287] Where hast thou been, Pacheco? Come hither my little turkey-cock.
Orl. I cannot abide, sir, to see a woman wronged, not I.
Mat. Sirrah, here was my father-in-law to day.
Orl. Pish, then you’re full of crowns.
Mat. Hang him! he would ha’ thrust crowns upon me, to have fallen in again, but I scorn cast clothes, or any man’s gold.
Orl. But mine; [Aside.]—How did he brook that, sir?
Mat. Oh, swore like a dozen of drunken tinkers; at last growing foul in words, he and four of his men drew upon me, sir.
Orl. In your house? would I had been by!
Mat. I made no more ado, but fell to my old lock, and so thrashed my blue-coats and old crab-tree-face my father-in-law, and then walked like a lion in my grate.
Orl. O noble master!
Mat. Sirrah, he could tell me of the robbing the two pedlars, and that warrants are out for us both.
Orl. Good sir, I like not those crackers.
Mat. Crackhalter, wou’t set thy foot to mine?
Orl. How, sir? at drinking.
Mat. We’ll pull that old crow my father: rob thy master. I know the house, thou the servants: the purchase[288] is rich, the plot to get it is easy, the dog will not part from a bone.
Orl. Pluck’t out of his throat, then: I’ll snarl for one, if this[289] can bite.
Mat. Say no more, say no more, old coal, meet me anon at the sign of the Shipwreck.
Orl. Yes, sir.
Mat. And dost hear, man?—the Shipwreck. [Exit.
Enter Hippolito and Bellafront.
Enter the Duke, Lodovico, and Orlando, disguised as a Serving-man; after them Infelice, Carolo, Astolfo, Beraldo, and Fontinell.
Orl. I beseech your grace, though your eye be so piercing as under a poor blue coat to cull out an honest father from an old serving-man, yet, good my lord, discover not the plot to any, but only this gentleman that is now to be an actor in our ensuing comedy.
Lod. To attach him upon felony, for two pedlars: is’t not so?
Orl. Right, my noble knight: those pedlars were two knaves of mine; he fleeced the men before, and now he purposes to flay the master. He will rob me; his teeth water to be nibbling at my gold, but this shall hang him by th’ gills, till I pull him on shore.
Duke. Away: ply you the business.
Orl. Thanks to your grace: but, my good lord, for my daughter—
Duke. You know what I have said.
Orl. And remember what I have sworn. She’s more honest, on my soul, than one of the Turks’ wenches, watched by a hundred eunuchs.
Lod. So she had need, for the Turks make them whores.
Orl. He’s a Turk that makes any woman a whore; he’s no true Christian, I’m sure. I commit your grace.
Duke. Infelice.
Inf. Here, sir.
Lod. Signor Friscobaldo.
Orl. Frisking again? Pacheco.
Lod. Uds so, Pacheco? we’ll have some sport with this warrant: ’tis to apprehend all suspected persons in the house. Besides, there’s one Bots a pander, and one Madam Horseleech a bawd, that have abused my friend; those two conies will we ferret into the purse-net.[292]
Orl. Let me alone for dabbing them o’th’ neck: come, come.
Lod. Do ye hear, gallants? meet me anon at Matheo’s.
Car., Ast., &c. Enough. [Exeunt Lodovico and Orlando.
All. Yes, my lord.
Car. All the city thinks he’s a whoremonger.
Ast. Yet I warrant he’ll swear no man marks him.
Ber. ’Tis like so, for when a man goes a wenching, it is as if he had a strong stinking breath, every one smells him out, yet he feels it not, though it be ranker than the sweat of sixteen bear warders.
Car. Troth, my lord, I think we are all as you ha’ been in your youth when you went a-maying, we all love to hear the cuckoo sing upon other men’s trees.
Car. A drench that’s able to kill a horse, cannot kill this disease of smock smelling, my lord, if it have once eaten deep.
Car. No, my lord, and light wenches are no idle freight; but what’s your grace’s reach in this?
Car. Attach all the light heels i’th’ city, and clap ’em up? why, my lord, you dive into a well unsearchable: all the whores within the walls, and without the walls? I would not be he should meddle with them for ten such dukedoms; the army that you speak on is able to fill all the prisons within this city, and to leave not a drinking room in any tavern besides.
Car. Arraign the poor whores!
Ast. I’ll not miss that sessions.
Font. Nor I.
Ber. Nor I, though I hold up my hand there myself. [Exeunt.
Enter Matheo, Lodovico, and Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Mat. Let who will come, my noble chevalier, I can but play the kind host, and bid ’em welcome.
Lod. We’ll trouble your house, Matheo, but as Dutchmen do in taverns, drink, be merry, and be gone.
Orl. Indeed, if you be right Dutchmen, if you fall to drinking, you must be gone.
Mat. The worst is, my wife is not at home; but we’ll fly high, my generous knight, for all that: there’s no music when a woman is in the concert.
Enter Astolfo, Carolo, Beraldo and Fontinell.
Lod. See, the covey is sprung.
Ast., Car., &c. Save you, gallants.
Mat. Happily encountered, sweet bloods.
Lod. Gentlemen, you all know Signor Candido, the linen-draper, he that’s more patient than a brown baker, upon the day when he heats his oven, and has forty scolds about him.
Ast., Car., &c. Yes, we know him all, what of him?
Lod. Would it not be a good fit of mirth, to make a piece of English cloth of him, and to stretch him on the tenters, till the threads of his own natural humour crack, by making him drink healths, tobacco,[293] dance, sing bawdy songs, or to run any bias according as we think good to cast him?
Car. ’Twere a morris-dance worth the seeing.
Ast. But the old fox is so crafty, we shall hardly hunt him out of his den.
Mat. To that train I ha’ given fire already; and the hook to draw him hither, is to see certain pieces of lawn,[Pg 262] which I told him I have to sell, and indeed have such; fetch them down, Pacheco.
Orl. Yes, sir, I’m your water-spaniel, and will fetch any thing—but I’ll fetch one dish of meat anon shall turn your stomach, and that’s a constable. [Aside and exit.
Enter Bots ushering in Mistress Horseleech.
Ast., Ber., Fon. How now? how now?
Car. What gally-foist[294] is this?
Lod. Peace, two dishes of stewed prunes,[295] a bawd and a pander. My worthy lieutenant Bots; why, now I see thou’rt a man of thy word, welcome.—Welcome Mistress Horseleech: pray, gentlemen, salute this reverend matron.
Mis. H. Thanks to all your worships.
Lod. I bade a drawer send in wine, too: did none come along with thee, grannam, but the lieutenant?
Mis. H. None came along with me but Bots, if it like your worship.
Bots. Who the pox should come along with you but Bots.
Enter two Vintners with wine.
Ast., Car., &c. Oh brave! march fair.
Lod. Are you come? that’s well.
Mat. Here’s ordnance able to sack a city.
Lod. Come, repeat, read this inventory.
1st Vint. Imprimis, a pottle of Greek wine, a pottle of Peter-sameene,[296] a pottle of Charnico,[297] and a pottle of Leatica.[298]
Lod. You’re paid?
2nd Vint. Yes, Sir. [Exeunt Vintners.
Mat. So shall some of us be anon, I fear.
Bots. Here’s a hot day towards: but zounds, this is the life out of which a soldier sucks sweetness! when this artillery goes off roundly, some must drop to the ground: cannon, demi-cannon, saker, and basilisk.[299]
Lod. Give fire, lieutenant.
Bots. So, so: Must I venture first upon the breach? to you all, gallants: Bots sets upon you all. [Drinks.
Ast., Car., &c. It’s hard, Bots, if we pepper not you, as well as you pepper us.
Enter Candido.
Lod. My noble linen-draper!—some wine!—Welcome old lad!
Mat. You’re welcome, signor.
Cand. These lawns, sir?
Mat. Presently; my man is gone for them: we ha’ rigged a fleet, you see here, to sail about the world.
Cand. A dangerous voyage, sailing in such ships.
Bots. There’s no casting over board yet.
Lod. Because you are an old lady, I will have you be acquainted with this grave citizen, pray bestow your lips upon him, and bid him welcome.
Mis. H. Any citizen shall be most welcome to me:—I have used to buy ware at your shop.
Cand. It may be so, good madam.
Mis. H. Your prentices know my dealings well; I trust your good wife be in good case: if it please you, bear her a token from my lips, by word of mouth. [Kisses him.
Lod. A woman of a good house, and an ancient, she’s a bawd.
Mat. Steal out of such company? Pacheco, my man is but gone for ’em: Lieutenant Bots, drink to this worthy old fellow, and teach him to fly high.
Lod., Ast., &c. Swagger: and make him do’t on his knees.
Bots. Gray-beard, goat’s pizzle: ’tis a health, have this in your guts, or this, there [Touching his sword.] I will sing a bawdy song, sir, because your verjuice face is melancholy, to make liquor go down glib. Will you fall on your marrowbones, and pledge this health? ’Tis to my mistress, a whore.
Bots. Zounds, who dare?
Lod., Ast., &c. We shall ha’ stabbing then?
Cand. I ha’ reckonings to cast up, good Master Bots.
Bots. This will make you cast ’em up better.
Lod. Why does your hand shake so?
Cand. The palsy, signor, danceth in my blood.
Bots. Pipe with a pox, sir, then, or I’ll make your blood dance—
Cand. Hold, hold, good Master Bots, I drink. [Kneels.[301]
Ast., Lod., &c. To whom?
Cand. To the old countess there. [Drinks.
Mis. H. To me, old boy? this is he that never drunk wine! Once again to’t.
Re-enter Orlando with lawns.
Mat. Hast been at gallows?
Orl. Yes, sir, for I make account to suffer to day.
Mat. Look, signor; here’s the commodity.
Cand. Your price?
Mat. Thus.[302]
Cand. No: too dear: thus.
Mat. No: O fie, you must fly higher: yet take ’em home, trifles shall not make us quarrel, we’ll agree, you shall have them, and a pennyworth; I’ll fetch money at your shop.
Cand. Be it so, good signor, send me going.
Mat. Going? a deep bowl of wine for Signor Candido.
Orl. He would be going.
Cand. I’ll rather stay than go so: stop your bowl.
Enter Constable and Billmen.
Lod. How now?
Bots. Is’t Shrove-Tuesday, that these ghosts walk?[303]
Mat. What’s your business, sir?
Const. From the duke: you are the man we look for, signor. I have warrant here from the duke, to apprehend you upon felony for robbing two pedlars: I charge you i’th’ duke’s name go quickly.
Mat. Is the wind turned? Well: this is that old wolf, my father-in-law:—seek out your mistress, sirrah.
Lod., Ast., &c. In troth, we are sorry.
Mat. Brave men must be crossed; pish, it’s but fortune’s dice roving against me. Come, sir, pray use me like a gentleman; let me not be carried through the streets like a pageant.
Const. If these gentlemen please, you shall go along with them.
Lod., Ast., &c. Be’t so: come.
Const. What are you, sir?
Bots. I, sir? sometimes a figure, sometimes a cipher, as the State has occasion to cast up her accounts: I’m a soldier.
Const. Your name is Bots, is’t not?
Bots. Bots is my name; Bots is known to this company.
Const. I know you are, sir: what’s she?
Bots. A gentlewoman, my mother.
Const. Take ’em both along.
Bots. Me, sir?
Billmen. Ay, sir!
Const. If he swagger, raise the street.
Bots. Gentlemen, gentlemen, whither will you drag us?
Lod. To the garden house. Bots, are we even with you?
Const. To Bridewell with ’em.
Bots. You will answer this.
Const. Better than a challenge. I’ve warrant for my work, sir.
Lod. We’ll go before.
Const. Pray do.—
[Exeunt Matheo with Lodovico, Astolfo, Carolo, Beraldo, and Fontinell; Bots and Mistress Horseleech, with Billmen.
Const. What have you there?
Cand. Lawns which I bought, sir, of the gentleman that keeps the house.
Enter at one side Hippolito; at the other, Lodovico, Astolfo, Carolo, Beraldo and Fontinell.
Lod. Yonder’s the Lord Hippolito; by any means leave him and me together; now will I turn him to a madman.
Ast., Car., &c. Save you my lord.
[Exeunt all except Hippolito and Lodovico.
Lod. I ha’ strange news to tell you.
Hip. What are they?
Lod. Your mare’s i’th’ pound.
Hip. How’s this?
Lod. Your nightingale is in a limebush.
Hip. Ha?
Lod. Your puritanical honest whore sits in a blue gown.[304]
Hip. Blue gown!
Lod. She’ll chalk out your way to her now: she beats chalk.
Hip. Where? who dares?—
Lod. Do you know the brick-house of castigation, by the river side[305] that runs by Milan,—the school where they pronounce no letter well but O?
Hip. I know it not.
Lod. Any man that has borne office of constable, or any woman that has fallen from a horse-load to a cart-load,[306] or like an old hen that has had none but rotten eggs in her nest, can direct you to her: there you shall see your punk amongst her back-friends.
Hip. What rogue durst serve that warrant, knowing I loved her?
Enter Duke, Infelice, Carolo, Astolfo, Beraldo, Fontinell, and several Masters of Bridewell.
Enter Orlando, disguised as a Serving-man, and Bellafront.
Duke. His name?
Bell. Matheo.
Duke. For a robbery? where is he?
Bell. In this house. [Exeunt Bellafront and 2nd Master.
Orl. This is the hen, my lord, that the cock with the lordly comb, your son-in-law, would crow over, and tread.
Duke. Are your two servants ready?
Inf. Pray do so. [Exit with 1st Master, who returns alone.
Enter Lodovico.
Lod. Your son, the Lord Hippolito, is entered.
Lod. These—I told him his lark whom he loved, was a Bridewell-bird; he’s mad that this cage should hold her, and is come to let her out.
Duke. ’Tis excellent: away, go call him hither. [Exit Lodovico.
Re-enter on one side 2nd Master and Bellafront with Matheo, and Constable; on the other, Lodovico with Hippolito. Orlando goes out, and returns with two of his Servants disguised as Pedlars.
Mat. I’ll hear none: I fly high in that: rather than kites shall seize upon me, and pick out mine eyes to my face, I’ll strike my talons through mine own heart first, and spit my blood in theirs. I am here for shriving those two fools of their sinful pack: when those jackdaws have cawed over me, then must I cry guilty, or not guilty; the law has work enough already and therefore I’ll put no work of mine into his hands; the hangman shall ha’t first; I did pluck those ganders, did rob them.
Duke. ’Tis well done to confess.
Mat. Confess and be hanged, and then I fly high, is’t not so? That for that; a gallows is the worst rub that a good bowler can meet with; I stumbled against such a post, else this night I had played the part of a true son in these days, undone my father-in-law; with him would I ha’ run at leap-frog, and come over his gold, though I had broke his neck for’t: but the poor salmon-trout is now in the net.
Hip. And now the law must teach you to fly high.
Mat. Right, my lord, and then may you fly low; no more words:—a mouse, mum, you are stopped.
Bell. Be good to my poor husband, dear my lords.
Mat. O, yes, my lord, yes:—the hangman has never one son at a birth, his children always come by couples: though I cannot give the old dog, my father, a bone to gnaw, the daughter shall be sure of a choke-pear.[311] Yes, my lord, there was one more that fiddled my fine pedlars, and that was my wife.
Bell. Alas, I?
Orl. O everlasting, supernatural superlative villain! [Aside.
Duke, Lod., &c. Your wife, Matheo?
Hip. Sure it cannot be.
Mat. Oh, sir, you love no quarters of mutton that hang up, you love none but whole mutton. She set the robbery, I performed it; she spurred me on, I galloped away.
Orl. My lords,—
Orl. A good child, hang thine own father! [Aside.
Duke. Old fellow, was thy hand in too?
Orl. My hand was in the pie, my lord, I confess it: my mistress, I see, will bring me to the gallows, and so leave me; but I’ll not leave her so: I had rather hang in a woman’s company, than in a man’s; because if we should go to hell together, I should scarce be letten in,[Pg 275] for all the devils are afraid to have any women come amongst them. As I am true thief, she neither consented to this felony, nor knew of it.
Duke. What fury prompts thee on to kill thy wife?
Mat. It is my humour, sir, ’tis a foolish bag-pipe that I make myself merry with: why should I eat hemp-seed at the hangman’s thirteen-pence halfpenny[312] ordinary, and have this whore laugh at me, as I swing, as I totter?
Duke. Is she a whore?
Mat. A six-penny mutton pasty, for any to cut up.
Orl. Ah, toad, toad, toad.
Mat. A barber’s cittern[313] for every serving-man to play upon; that lord, your son, knows it.
Hip. I, sir? Am I her bawd then?
Mat. No, sir, but she’s your whore then.
Orl. Yea, spider; dost catch at great flies? [Aside.
Hip. My whore?
Mat. I cannot talk, sir, and tell of your rems and your rees and your whirligigs and devices: but, my lord, I found ’em like sparrows in one nest, billing together, and bulling of me. I took ’em in bed, was ready to kill him, was up to stab her—
Re-enter Infelice.
Bel. What shall I say?
Orl. [Throwing off his disguise.] Say thou art not a whore, and that’s more than fifteen women amongst five hundred dare swear without lying: this shalt thou say—no, let me say’t for thee—thy husband’s a knave, this lord’s an honest man; thou art no punk, this lady’s a right lady. Pacheco is a thief as his master is, but old Orlando is as true a man as thy father is. I ha’ seen you fly high, sir, and I ha’ seen you fly low, sir, and to keep you from the gallows, sir, a blue coat have I worn, and a thief did I turn. Mine own men are the pedlars, my twenty pounds did fly high, sir, your wife’s gown did fly low, sir: whither fly you now, sir? you ha’ scaped the gallows, to the devil you fly next, sir. Am I right, my liege?
Enter Candido and Constable, who presently goes out.
Re-enter Constable, after him Bots, then two Beadles, one with hemp, the other with a beetle.[315]
Duke. Stay, stay, what’s he? a prisoner?
Const. Yes, my lord.
Hip. He seems a soldier?
Bots. I am what I seem, sir, one of fortune’s bastards, a soldier and a gentleman, and am brought in here with master constable’s band of billmen, because they face me down that I live, like those that keep bowling alleys, by the sins of the people, in being a squire of the body.
Hip. Oh, an apple-squire.[316]
Bots. Yes, sir, that degree of scurvy squires; and that[Pg 278] I am maintained by the best part that is commonly in a woman, by the worst players of those parts; but I am known to all this company.
Lod. My lord, ’tis true, we all know him, ’tis Lieutenant Bots.
Duke. Bots, and where ha’ you served, Bots?
Bots. In most of your hottest services in the Low-countries: at the Groyne I was wounded in this thigh, and halted upon’t, but ’tis now sound. In Cleveland I missed but little, having the bridge of my nose broken down with two great stones, as I was scaling a fort. I ha’ been tried, sir, too, in Gelderland, and ’scaped hardly there from being blown up at a breach: I was fired, and lay i’ th’ surgeon’s hands for’t, till the fall of the leaf following.
Hip. All this may be, and yet you no soldier.
Bots. No soldier, sir? I hope these are services that your proudest commanders do venture upon, and never come off sometimes.
Bots. I wish to be tried at no other weapon.
Duke. Why, is he furnished with those implements?
Duke. Let them be marshalled in.—[Exeunt 1st and 2nd Masters, Constable, and Beadles.]—Be covered all, Fellows, now to make the scene more comical.
Car. Will not you be smelt out, Bots?
Bots. No, your bravest whores have the worse noses.
Re-enter 1st and 2nd Masters and Constable, then Dorothea Target, brave[317]; after her two Beadles, the one with a wheel, the other with a blue gown.
Lod. Are not you a bride, forsooth?
Dor. Say ye?
Car. He would know if these be not your bridemen.
Dor. Vuh! yes, sir: and look ye, do you see? the bride-laces that I give at my wedding, will serve to tie rosemary to both your coffins when you come from hanging—Scab!
Orl. Fie, punk, fie, fie, fie!
Dor. Out, you stale, stinking head of garlic, foh, at my heels.
Orl. My head’s cloven.
Hip. O, let the gentlewoman alone, she’s going to shrift.
Ast. Nay, to do penance.
Car. Ay, ay, go, punk, go to the cross and be whipt.
Dor. Marry mew, marry muff,[318] marry, hang you, goodman dog: whipt? do ye take me for a base spittle-[Pg 280]whore? In troth, gentlemen, you wear the clothes of gentlemen, but you carry not the minds of gentlemen, to abuse a gentlewoman of my fashion.
Lod. Fashion? pox a’ your fashions! art not a whore?
Dor. Goodman slave.
Dor. I’m not ashamed of my name, sir; my name is Mistress Doll Target, a Western gentlewoman.
Lod. Her target against any pike in Milan.
Duke. Why is this wheel borne after her?
1st Mast. She must spin.
Dor. A coarse thread it shall be, as all threads are.
Ast. If you spin, then you’ll earn money here too?
Dor. I had rather get half-a-crown abroad, than ten crowns here.
Orl. Abroad? I think so.
Inf. Dost thou not weep now thou art here?
Dor. Say ye? weep? yes, forsooth, as you did when you lost your maidenhead: do you not hear how I weep? [Sings.
Lod. Farewell, Doll.
Dor. Farewell, dog. [Exit.
Duke. Past shame: past penitence! Why is that blue gown?
Duke. Are all the rest like this?
Duke. Variety is good, let’s see the rest. [Exeunt 1st and 2nd Masters and Constable.
Bots. Your grace sees I’m sound yet, and no bullets hit me.
Duke. Come off so, and ’tis well.
Lod., Ast., &c. Here’s the second mess.
Re-enter 1st and 2nd Masters and Constable, then Penelope Whorehound, dressed like a Citizen’s Wife; her two Beadles, one with a blue gown, another with chalk and a mallet.
Pen. I ha’ worn many a costly gown, but I was never thus guarded[319] with blue coats, and beadles, and constables, and—
Car. Alas, fair mistress, spoil not thus your eyes.
Pen. Oh, sweet sir, I fear the spoiling of other places about me that are dearer than my eyes; if you be gentlemen, if you be men, or ever came of a woman, pity my case! stand to me, stick to me, good sir, you are an old man.
Orl. Hang not on me, I prithee, old trees bear no such fruit.
Pen. Will you bail me, gentlemen?
Lod. Bail thee? art in for debt?
Pen. No; God is my judge, sir, I am in for no debts; I paid my tailor for this gown, the last five shillings a-week that was behind, yesterday.
Duke. What is your name, I pray?
Pen. Penelope Whorehound, I come of the Whorehounds. How does Lieutenant Bots?
Lod., Ast., &c. Aha, Bots!
Bots. A very honest woman, as I’m a soldier—a pox Bots ye.
Pen. I was never in this pickle before; and yet if I go amongst citizens’ wives, they jeer at me; if I go among the loose-bodied gowns,[320] they cry a pox on me, because I go civilly attired, and swear their trade was a good trade, till such as I am took it out of their hands. Good Lieutenant Bots, speak to these captains to bail me.
Pen. Out, you dog!—a pox on you all!—women are born to curse thee—but I shall live to see twenty such flat-caps shaking dice for a penny-worth of pippins—out, you blue-eyed rogue. [Exit.
Lod., Ast., &c. Ha, ha, ha.
Duke. Even now she wept, and prayed; now does she curse?
1st Mast. Seeing me; if still sh’ had stayed, this had been worse.
Hip. Was she ever here before?
Lod., Ast., &c. Bots, you know her?
Bots. Is there any gentleman here, that knows not a whore, and is he a hair the worse for that?
Duke. Is she a city-dame, she’s so attired?
Duke, Lod., &c. Let’s see her.
1st Mast. Then behold a swaggering whore. [Exeunt 1st and 2nd Masters and Constable.
Orl. Keep your ground, Bots.
Bots. I do but traverse to spy advantage how to arm myself.
Re-enter 1st and 2nd Masters and Constable; after them a Beadle beating a basin,[322] then Catherina Bountinall, with Mistress Horseleech; after them another Beadle with a blue head guarded[323] with yellow.
Cat. Sirrah, when I cry hold your hands, hold, you rogue-catcher, hold:—Bawd, are the French chilblains in your heels, that you can come no faster? Are not you, bawd, a whore’s ancient,[324] and must not I follow my colours?
Mis. H. O Mistress Catherine, you do me wrong to accuse me here as you do, before the right worshipful. I am known for a motherly, honest woman, and no bawd.
Cat. Marry foh, honest? burnt[325] at fourteen, seven times whipt, five times carted, nine times ducked, searched by some hundred and fifty constables, and yet you are honest? Honest Mistress Horseleech, is this world a world to keep bawds and whores honest? How many times hast thou given gentlemen a quart of wine in a gallon pot? how many twelve-penny fees, nay two shillings fees, nay, when any ambassadors ha’ been here, how many half-crown fees hast thou taken? How many carriers hast thou bribed for country wenches? how often have I rinsed your lungs in aqua vitæ, and yet you are honest?
Duke. And what were you the whilst?
Cat. Marry hang you, master slave, who made you an examiner?
Lod. Well said! belike this devil spares no man.
Cat. What art thou, prithee? [To Bots.
Bots. Nay, what art thou, prithee?
Cat. A whore, art thou a thief?
Bots. A thief, no, I defy[326] the calling; I am a soldier, have borne arms in the field, been in many a hot skirmish, yet come off sound.
Cat. Sound, with a pox to ye, ye abominable rogue! you a soldier? you in skirmishes? where? amongst pottle pots in a bawdy-house? Look, look here, you Madam Wormeaten, do you not know him?
Mis. H. Lieutenant Bots, where have ye been this many a day?
Bots. Old bawd, do not discredit me, seem not to know me.
Mis. H. Not to know ye, Master Bots? as long as I have breath, I cannot forget thy sweet face.
Duke. Why, do you know him? he says he is a soldier.
Cat. He a soldier? a pander, a dog that will lick up sixpence: do ye hear, you master swines’-snout, how long is’t since you held the door for me, and cried to’t again, No body comes! ye rogue, you?
Lod., Ast., &c. Ha, ha, ha! you’re smelt out again, Bots.
Bots. Pox ruin her nose for’t! an I be not revenged for this—um, ye bitch!
Lod. D’ye hear ye, madam? why does your ladyship swagger thus? you’re very brave,[327] methinks.
Cat. Marry muff master whoremaster, you come upon me with sentences.
Ber. By this light, has small sense for’t.
Lod. O fie, fie, do not vex her! And yet methinks a creature of more scurvy conditions should not know what a good petticoat were.
Cat. Marry come out, you’re so busy about my petticoat, you’ll creep up to my placket, an ye could but attain the honour: but an the outsides offend your rogueships, look o’the lining, ’tis silk.
Duke. Is’t silk ’tis lined with, then?
Cat. Silk? Ay, silk, master slave, you would be glad to wipe your nose with the skirt on’t. This ’tis to come among a company of cod’s-heads[328] that know not how to use a gentlewoman.
Duke. Tell her the duke is here.
1st Mast. Be modest, Kate, the duke is here.
Cat. If the devil were here, I care not: set forward, ye rogues, and give attendance according to your places! Let bawds and whores be sad, for I’ll sing an the devil were a-dying. [Exit with Mistress Horseleech and Beadles.
Orl. Marry this, my lord, he is my son-in-law, and in[Pg 286] law will I be his father: for if law can pepper him, he shall be so parboiled, that he shall stink no more i’ th’ nose of the common-wealth.
Bell. Be yet more kind and merciful, good father.
Orl. Dost thou beg for him, thou precious man’s meat, thou? has he not beaten thee, kicked thee, trod on thee, and dost thou fawn on him like his spaniel? has he not pawned thee to thy petticoat, sold thee to thy smock, made ye leap at a crust, yet wouldst have me save him?
Orl. Have ye eaten pigeons, that you’re so kind-hearted to your mate? Nay, you’re a couple of wild bears, I’ll have ye both baited at one stake: but as for this knave, the gallows is thy due, and the gallows thou shall have, I’ll have justice of the duke, the law shall have thy life—What, dost thou hold him? let go, his hand. If thou dost not forsake him, a father’s everlasting blessing fall upon both your heads! Away, go, kiss out of my sight, play thou the whore no more, nor thou the thief again; my house shall be thine, my meat shall be thine, and so shall my wine, but my money shall be mine, and yet when I die, so thou dost not fly high, take all;
The Pleasant Comedy of Old Fortunatus was first published in 1600, having been produced at Court on the Christmas before. The play as it stands is an amplification and a recast of an earlier play, The First Part of Fortunatus, which had been performed at Henslowe’s Theatre about four years previously. This had long been laid aside, when the idea seems to have occurred to Henslowe to revive it in fuller form, and Dekker was commissioned to write a second part, with the result that he recast the whole in one play instead, adding the episode of the sons of Fortunatus to the original version. So far, the whole play was taken from the same source, the old Volksbuch of “Fortunatus,” which, first published at Augsburg in 1509, was popular in various languages in the sixteenth century. An interesting account of this legend and of its connection with the play, is given in Professor Herford’s “Studies in the Literary Relations of England and Germany in the Sixteenth Century,” from which the present note on the play is largely drawn. When Dekker had completed his recast of the play, it was immediately ordered for performance at Court, and further scenes, in this case altogether extraneous to the original story—those, namely, in which Virtue and Vice are introduced as rivals to Fortune—were added with a special view to this end. Otherwise the play is pretty faithful to the story, even in its absurdities. It is worth mention that Hans Sachs had already dramatized the subject in 1553, which may have had something to do indirectly with the production of the first English version.
In the original quarto of 1600, Old Fortunatus is not divided into acts and scenes, and the division is here attempted for the first time. It has been necessary also in some instances to supply stage directions.
Enter Two Old Men.
1st O. Man. Are you then travelling to the temple of Eliza?[330]
2nd O. Man. Even to her temple are my feeble limbs travelling. Some call her Pandora: some Gloriana, some Cynthia: some Delphœbe, some Astræa: all by several names to express several loves: yet all those names make but one celestial body, as all those loves meet to create but one soul.
1st O. Man. I am one of her own country, and we adore her by the name of Eliza.
2nd O. Man. Blessed name, happy country: your Eliza makes your land Elysium: but what do you offer?
1st O. Man. That which all true subjects should: when I was young, an armed hand; now I am crooked, an upright heart: but what offer you?
2nd O. Man. That which all strangers do: two eyes struck blind with admiration: two lips proud to sound her glory: two hands held up full of prayers and praises: what not, that may express love? what not, that may make her beloved?
1st O. Man. How long is’t since you last beheld her?
2nd O. Man. A just year: yet that year hath seemed to me but one day, because her glory hath been my hourly contemplation, and yet that year hath seemed to me more than twice seven years, because so long I have been absent from her. Come therefore, good father, let’s go faster, lest we come too late: for see, the tapers of the night are already lighted, and stand brightly burning in their starry candle-sticks: see how gloriously the moon shines upon us. [Both kneel.
Cornwall, | } | English Nobles. |
Chester, | ||
Lincoln, |
Montrose, | } | Scotch Nobles. |
Galloway, |
Orleans, | } | French Nobles. |
Longaville, |
Ampedo, | } | Sons of Fortunatus. |
Andelocia, |
Fortune, | } | Goddesses. |
Virtue, | ||
Vice, |
OLD FORTUNATUS.
Enter Fortunatus meanly attired; he walks about cracking nuts ere he speaks.
Fort. So, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Echo [Within.]. Ho, ho, ho, ho.
Fort. There, boy.
Echo. There, boy.
Fort. An thou bee’st a good fellow, tell me how call’st this wood.
Echo. This wood.
Fort. Ay, this wood, and which is my best way out.
Echo. Best way out.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, that’s true, my best way out is my best way out, but how that out will come in, by this maggot I know not. I see by this we are all worms’ meat. Well, I am very poor and very patient; Patience is a virtue: would I were not virtuous, that’s to say, not poor, but full of vice, that’s to say, full of chinks. Ha, ha, so I am, for I am so full of chinks, that a horse with one eye may look through and through me. I have sighed long, and that makes me windy; I have fasted long, and that makes me chaste; marry, I have prayed[Pg 294] little, and that makes me I still dance in this conjuring circle; I have wandered long, and that makes me weary. But for my weariness, anon I’ll lie down, instead of fasting I’ll feed upon nuts, and instead of sighing will laugh and be lean, Sirrah Echo.
Echo. Sirrah Echo.
Fort. Here’s a nut.
Echo. Here’s a nut.
Fort. Crack it.
Echo. Crack it.
Fort. Hang thyself.
Echo. Hang thyself.
Fort. Th’art a knave, a knave.
Echo. A knave, a knave.
Fort. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Echo. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Fort. Why so, two fools laugh at one another, I at my tittle tattle gammer Echo, and she at me. Shortly there will creep out in print some filthy book of the old hoary wandering knight, meaning me: would I were that book, for then I should be sure to creep out from hence. I should be a good soldier, for I traverse my ground rarely; marry I see neither enemy nor friends, but popinjays, and squirrels, and apes, and owls, and daws, and wagtails, and the spite is that none of these grass-eaters can speak my language, but this fool that mocks me, and swears to have the last word, in spite of my teeth, ay, and she shall have it because she is a woman, which kind of cattle are indeed all echo, nothing but tongue, and are like the great bell of St. Michael’s[331] in Cyprus, that keeps most rumbling when men would most sleep. Echo, a pox on thee for mocking me.
Echo. A pox on thee for mocking me.
Fort. Why so, Snip snap, this war is at an end, but[Pg 295] this wilderness is world without end. To see how travel can transform: my teeth are turned into nutcrackers, a thousand to one I break out shortly, for I am full of nothing but waxen kernels, my tongue speaks no language but an almond for a parrot, and crack me this nut. If I hop three days more up and down this cage of cuckoos’ nests, I shall turn wild man sure, and be hired to throw squibs among the commonalty upon some terrible day. In the meantime, to tell truth, here will I lie. Farewell, fool!
Echo. Farewell, fool.
Fort. Are not these comfortable words to a wise man? All hail, signor tree, by your leave I’ll sleep under your leaves. I pray bow to me, and I’ll bend to you, for your back and my brows must, I doubt, have a game or two at noddy ere I wake again: down, great heart, down. Hey, ho, well, well. [He lies down and sleeps.
Enter a Shepherd, a Carter,[332] a Tailor,[333] and a Monk, all crowned; a Nymph with a globe, another with Fortune’s wheel; then Fortune. After her, four Kings with broken crowns and sceptres, chained in silver gyves and led by her. The foremost enter singing. Fortune takes her chair, the Kings lying at her feet so that she treads on them as she ascends to her seat.
Song.
The Kings. We dwell with cares, yet cannot quickly die. [Exeunt all singing, except Fortunatus.
Fort. But now go dwell with cares and quickly die? How quickly? if I die to-morrow, I’ll be merry to-day: if next day, I’ll be merry to-morrow. Go dwell with cares? Where dwells Care? Hum ha, in what house dwells Care, that I may choose an honester neighbour? In princes’ courts? No. Among fair ladies? Neither: there’s no care dwells with them, but care how to be most gallant. Among gallants then? Fie, fie, no! Care is afraid sure of a gilt rapier, the scent of musk is her prison, tobacco chokes her, rich attire presseth her to death. Princes, fair ladies and gallants, have amongst you then, for this wet-eyed wench Care dwells with wretches: they are wretches that feel want, I shall feel none if I be never poor; therefore, Care, I cashier you my company. I wonder what blind gossip this minx is that is so prodigal; she should be a good one by her open dealing: her name’s Fortune: it’s no matter what she is, so she does as she says. “Thou shalt spend ever, and be never poor.” Mass, yet I feel nothing here to make me rich:—here’s no sweet music with her silver sound. Try deeper: ho God be here: ha, ha, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten, good, just ten. It’s gold sure, it’s so heavy, try again, one, two, &c. Good again, just ten, and just ten. Ha, ha, ha, this is rare: a leather mint, admirable: an Indian mine in a lamb’s skin, miraculous! I’ll fill three or four bags full for my sons, but keep this for myself. If that lean tawny face tobacconist Death, that turns all into smoke, must turn me so quickly into ashes, yet I will not mourn in ashes, but in music, hey, old lad, be merry. Here’s riches, wisdom, strength, health, beauty, and long life (if I die not quickly). Sweet purse, I kiss thee; Fortune, I adore thee; Care, I despise thee; Death, I defy thee.[349] [Exit.
Enter Ampedo, Shadow after him, both sad: then Andelocia.
Andel. ’Sheart,[350] why how now: two knights of the post?[351]
Shad. Ay, master, and we are both forsworn, as all such wooden knights be, for we both took an oath—marry it was not corporal, you may see by our cheeks, that we would not fast twenty-four hours to amend, and we have tasted no meat since the clock told two dozen.
Andel. That lacks not much of twenty-four, but I wonder when that half-faced moon of thine will be at the full.
Shad. The next quarter, not this, when the sign is in Taurus.
Shad. Fasting day.
Andel. What day was yesterday?
Shad. Fasting day too.
Andel. Will to-morrow be so too?
Shad. Ay, and next day too.
Shad. I had rather be a fool and wear a fat pair of cheeks.
Andel. Now I am prouder of this poverty, which I know is mine own, than a waiting gentlewoman is of a frizzled groatsworth of hair, that never grew on her head. Sir Shadow, now we can all three swear like Puritans at one bare word: this want makes us like good bowlers, we are able to rub out and shift in every place.
Shad. That’s not so, we have shifted ourselves in no[Pg 306] place this three months: marry, we rub out in every corner, but here follows no amendment either of life or of livery.
Andel. Why, brother Ampedo, art thou not yet tired with riding post? Come, come, ’light from this logger-headed jade, and walk afoot, and talk with your poor friends.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, he is like me: if his belly be empty, his heart is full.
Andel. The famine of gold gnaws his covetous stomach, more than the want of good victuals: thou hast looked very devilishly ever since the good angel[352] left thee: come, come, leave this broad-brim fashions; because the world frowns upon thee, wilt not thou smile upon us?
Shad. ’Tis not the crab-tree faced World neither that makes mine sour.
Andel. Her gifts toys! Well, brother Virtue, we have let slip the ripe plucking of those toys so long, that we flourish like apple-trees in September, which, having the falling sickness, bear neither fruit nor leaves.
Shad. Nay, by my troth, master, none flourish in these withering times, but ancient bearers[353] and trumpeters.
Andel. Shadow, when thou provest a substance, then the tree of virtue and honesty, and such fruit of Heaven, shall flourish upon earth.
Shad. True; or when the sun shines at midnight, or women fly, and yet they are light enough.
Andel. ’Twas never merry world with us, since purses and bags were invented, for now men set lime-twigs to catch wealth: and gold, which riseth like the sun out of the East Indies, to shine upon every one, is like a cony taken napping in a pursenet,[354] and suffers his glistering yellow-face deity to be lapped up in lambskins, as if the innocency of those leather prisons should dispense with the cheveril[355] consciences of the iron-hearted gaolers.
Shad. Snudges[356] may well be called gaolers: for if a poor wretch steal but into a debt of ten pound, they lead him straight to execution.
Andel. Doth it not vex thee, Shadow, to stalk up and down Cyprus, and to meet the outside of a man, lapped all in damask, his head and beard as white as milk, only with conjuring in the snowy circles of the field argent, and his nose as red as scarlet, only with kissing[Pg 308] the ruddy lips of angels,[357] and such an image to wear on his thumb, three men’s livings in the shape of a seal ring, whilst my brother Virtue here,—
Shad. And you his brother Vice!
Andel. Most true, my little lean Iniquity—whilst we three, if we should starve, cannot borrow five shillings of him neither in word nor deed: does not this vex thee, Shadow?
Shad. Not me; it vexes me no more to see such a picture, than to see an ass laden with riches, because I know when he can bear no longer, he must leave his burthen to some other beast.
Andel. Art not thou mad, to see money on goldsmiths’ stalls, and none in our purses?
Shad. It mads not me, I thank the destinies.
Andel. By my poverty, and that’s but a thread-bare oath, I am more than mad to see silks and velvets lie crowding together in mercers’ shops, as in prisons, only for fear of the smell of wax—they cannot abide to see a man made out of wax, for these satin commodities have such smooth consciences that they’ll have no man give his word for them or stand bound for their coming forth, but vow to lie till they rot in those shop counters, except Monsieur Money bail them. Shadow, I am out of my little wits to see this.
Shad. So is not Shadow: I am out of my wits, to see fat gluttons feed all day long, whilst I that am lean fast every day: I am out of my wits, to see our Famagosta fools turn half a shop of wares into a suit of gay apparel, only to make other idiots laugh, and wise men to cry, who’s the fool now? I am mad, to see soldiers beg, and cowards brave: I am mad, to see scholars in the broker’s shop, and dunces in the mercer’s: I am mad, to see men that have no more fashion in them than poor Shadow, yet must leap thrice a day into three orders of fashions:[Pg 309] I am mad, to see many things, but horn-mad, that my mouth feels nothing.
Enter Fortunatus, gallant.[358]
Andel. Peace, good Virtue; Shadow, here comes another shadow.
Shad. It should be a chameleon: for he is all in colours.
Andel. My father Fortunatus, and thus brave?
Shad. ’Tis no wonder to see a man brave, but a wonder how he comes brave.
Andel. Father, be not angry, if I set open the windows of my mind: I doubt for all your bragging, you’ll prove like most of our gallants in Famagosta, that have a rich outside and a beggarly inside, and like mules wear gay trappings, and good velvet foot-cloths[359] on their backs, yet champ on the iron bit of penury—I mean, want coin. You gild our ears with a talk of gold, but I pray dazzle our eyes with the majesty of it.
Amp. Believe me, sir, I hear not any thing.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. ’Sheart, I thought as much; if I hear any jingling, but of the purse strings that go flip flap, flip flap, flip flap, would I were turned into a flip-flap,[360] and sold to the butchers!
Fort. Shadow, I’ll try thine ears; hark, dost rattle?
Shad. Yes, like three blue beans in a blue bladder, rattle bladder, rattle: your purse is like my belly, th’ one’s without money, th’ other without meat.
Amp. Shadow, there’s one for thee, provide thee food.
Fort. Stay, boy: hold, Shadow, here are ten for thee.
Shad. Ten, master? then defiance to fortune, and a fig for famine.
Fort. Now tell me, wags, hath my purse gold or no?
Andel. We the wags have gold, father; but I think there’s not one angel more wagging in this sacred temple. Why, this is rare: Shadow, five will serve thy turn, give me th’ other five.
Shad. Nay, soft, master, liberality died long ago. I see some rich beggars are never well, but when they be[Pg 311] craving: my ten ducats are like my ten fingers, they will not jeopard a joint for you. I am yours, and these are mine; if I part from them, I shall never have part of them.
Music sounds. Enter Vice with a gilded face, and horns on her head; her garments long, painted before with silver half-moons, increasing by little and little till they come to the full; while in the midst of them is written in capital letters, “Crescit Eundo.” Behind her garments are painted with fools’ faces and heads; and in the midst is written, “Ha, Ha, He.” She, and others wearing gilded vizards and attired like devils, bring out a fair tree of gold with apples on it.
After her comes Virtue, with a coxcomb on her head, and her attire all in white before; about the middle is written “Sibi sapit.” Her attire behind is painted with crowns and laurel garlands, stuck full of stars held by hands thrust out of bright clouds, and among them is written, “Dominabitur astris.” She and other nymphs, all in white with coxcombs on their heads, bring a tree with green and withered leaves mingled together, and with little fruit on it.
After her comes Fortune, with two Nymphs, one bearing her wheel, another her globe.
And last, the Priest.
[Whilst the Priest sings, the rest set the trees into the earth.
Song.
Enter Chorus.
Enter the Soldan, Noblemen, and Fortunatus.
Re-enter Nobles.
Enter Andelocia, very gallant,[371] and Shadow.
Andel. Shadow? what have I lost to-day at dice?
Shad. More than you will win again in a month.
Andel. Why, sir, how much comes it to?
Shad. It comes to nothing, sir, for you have lost your wits; and when a man’s wits are lost, the man is like twenty pounds’ worth of tobacco, which mounts into th’ air, and proves nothing but one thing.
Andel. And what thing is that, you ass?
Shad. Marry, sir, that he is an ass that melts so much money in smoke.
Andel. ’Twere a charitable deed to hang thee a smoking.
Shad. I should never make good bacon, because I am not fat.
Andel. I’ll be sworn thy wit is lean.
Shad. It’s happy I have a lean wit: but, master, you have none; for when your money tripped away, that went after it, and ever since you have been mad. Here comes your brother.
Enter Ampedo.
Borrow a dram of him, if his be not mouldy: for men’s wits in these days are like the cuckoo, bald once a year, and that makes motley so dear, and fools so good cheap.
Andel. Brother, all hail.
Shad. There’s a rattling salutation.
Andel. You must lend me some more money. Nay, never look so strange, an you will come off, so; if you will bar me from square play, do. Come, come, when the old traveller my father comes home, like a young ape, full of fantastic tricks, or a painted parrot stuck full of outlandish feathers, he’ll lead the world in a string, and then like a hot shot I’ll charge and discharge all.
Shad. I would be loth, master, to see that day: for he leads the world in a string that goes to hanging.
Andel. Thanks for my crowns.[372] Shadow, I am villainous hungry, to hear one of the seven wise masters talk thus emptily.
Shad. I am a villain, master, if I am not hungry.
Andel. Because I’ll save this gold, sirrah Shadow, we’ll feed ourselves with paradoxes.
Shad. Oh rare: what meat’s that?
Andel. Meat, you gull: ’tis no meat: a dish of paradoxes is a feast of strange opinion, ’tis an ordinary that our greatest gallants haunt nowadays, because they would be held for statesmen.
Shad. I shall never fill my belly with opinions.
Andel. In despite of sway-bellies, gluttons, and sweet mouthed epicures, I’ll have thee maintain a paradox in commendations of hunger.
Shad. I shall never have the stomach to do’t.
Andel. See’st thou this crusado?[373] do it, and turn this into a feast.
Shad. Covetousness and lechery are two devils, they’ll tempt a man to wade through deep matters: I’ll do’t though good cheer conspire my death, for speaking treason against her.
Andel. Fall to it then with a full mouth.
Amp. O miserable invocation.
Andel. Silence!
Shad. There’s no man but loves one of these three beasts, a horse, a hound, or a whore; the horse by his goodwill has his head ever in the manger; the whore with your ill will has her hand ever in your purse; and a hungry dog eats dirty puddings.
Andel. This is profound, forward: the conclusion of this now.
Shad. The conclusion is plain: for since all men love one of these three monsters, being such terrible eaters, therefore all men love hunger.
Amp. A very lean argument.
Shad. I can make it no fatter.
Andel. Proceed, good Shadow; this fats me.
Shad. Hunger is made of gunpowder.
Andel. Give fire to that opinion.
Shad. Stand by, lest it blow you up. Hunger is made of gunpowder, or gunpowder of hunger, for they both eat through stone walls; hunger is a grindstone, it sharpens wit; hunger is fuller of love than Cupid, for it makes a man eat himself; hunger was the first that ever opened a cook shop, cooks the first that ever made sauce, sauce being liquorish, licks up good meat; good meat preserves life: hunger therefore preserves life.
Amp. By my consent thou shouldst still live by hunger.
Shad. Not so, hunger makes no man mortal: hunger is an excellent physician, for he dares kill any body. Hunger is one of the seven liberal sciences.
Andel. Oh learned! Which of the seven?
Shad. Music, for she’ll make a man leap at a crust; but as few care for her six sisters, so none love to dance after her pipe. Hunger, master, is hungry and covetous; therefore the crusado.
Andel. But hast thou no sharper reasons than this?
Shad. Yes, one: the dagger of Cyprus had never stabbed out such six penny pipes, but for hunger.
Andel. Why, you dolt, these pipes[374] are but in their minority.
Shad. My belly and my purse have been twenty times at dagger’s drawing, with parting the little urchins.
Enter Fortunatus.
Amp. Peace, idiot, peace, my father is returned.
Fort. Touch me not, boys, I am nothing but air; let none speak to me, till you have marked me well.
Shad. (Chalking Fortunatus’ back.) Now speak your mind.
Amp. Villain, why hast thou chalked my father’s back?
Shad. Only to mark him, and to try what colour air is of.
Fort. Regard him not, Ampedo: Andelocia, Shadow, view me, am I as you are, or am I transformed?
Andel. I thought travel would turn my father madman or fool.
Amp. How should you be transformed? I see no change.
Shad. If your wits be not planet stricken, if your brains lie in their right place, you are well enough; for your body is little mended by your fetching vagaries.
Andel. Methinks, father, you look as you did, only your face is more withered.
Fort. That’s not my fault; age is like love, it cannot be hid.
Shad. Or like gunpowder a-fire, or like a fool, or like a young novice new come to his lands: for all these will show of what house they come. Now, sir, you may amplify.
Fort. Shadow, turn thy tongue to a shadow, be silent! Boys, be proud, your father hath the whole world in this compass, I am all felicity, up to the brims. In a minute[Pg 326] am I come from Babylon, I have been this half-hour in Famagosta.
Andel. How? in a minute, father? Ha, ha, I see travellers must lie.
Shad. ’Tis their destiny: the Fates do so conspire.
Fort. I have cut through the air like a falcon; I would have it seem strange to you.
Shad. So it does, sir.
Fort. But ’tis true: I would not have you believe it neither.
Shad. No more we do not, sir.
Fort. But ’tis miraculous and true. Desire to see you, brought me to Cyprus. I’ll leave you more gold, and go visit more countries.
Shad. Leave us gold enough, and we’ll make all countries come visit us.
Andel. Faith, father, what pleasure have you met by walking your stations?
Fort. What pleasure, boy? I have revelled with kings, danced with queens, dallied with ladies, worn strange attires, seen fantasticos, conversed with humorists, been ravished with divine raptures of Doric, Lydian and Phrygian harmonies. I have spent the day in triumphs, and the night in banqueting.
Andel. Oh rare: this was heavenly.
Shad. Methinks ’twas horrible.
Andel. He that would not be an Arabian phœnix to burn in these sweet fires, let him live like an owl for the world to wonder at.
Amp. Why, brother, are not all these vanities?
Fort. Vanities? Ampedo, thy soul is made of lead, too dull, too ponderous to mount up to the incomprehensible glory that travel lifts men to.
Shad. My old master’s soul is cork and feathers, and being so light doth easily mount up.
Andel. Sweeten mine ears, good father, with some more.
Shad. Why, sir, are there other heavens in other countries?
Andel. Peace; interrupt him not upon thy life.
Andel. Oh how my soul is rapt to a third heaven. I’ll travel sure, and live with none but kings.
Shad. Then Shadow must die among knaves; and yet why so? In a bunch of cards, knaves wait upon the kings.
Andel. When I turn king, then shalt thou wait on me.
Shad. Well, there’s nothing impossible: a dog has his day, and so have you.
Enter Fortune in the background: after her The Three Destinies,[376] working.
Shad. I know a medicine for that malady.
Fort. By travel, boys, I have seen all these things.
Andel. And these are sights for none but gods and kings.
Shad. Yes, and for Christian creatures, if they be not blind.
[Exeunt Fortune and The Three Destinies.
Andel. Why the pox dost thou sweat so?
Shad. For anger to see any of God’s creatures have such filthy faces as these sempsters[377] had that went hence.
Andel. Sempsters? why, you ass, they are Destinies.
Shad. Indeed, if it be one’s destiny to have a filthy face, I know no remedy but to go masked and cry “Woe worth the Fates.”
Shad. Shadows? I defy their kindred.
Fort. O Ampedo, I faint; help me, my sons.
Andel. Shadow, I pray thee run and call more help.
Shad. If that desperate Don Dego[378] Death hath ta’en up the cudgels once, here’s never a fencer in Cyprus dare take my old master’s part.
Andel. Run, villain, call more help.
Shad. Bid him thank the Destinies for this. [Exit.
Andel. How, father? jewel? call you this a jewel? it’s coarse wool, a bald fashion, and greasy to the brim; I have bought a better felt for a French crown forty times: of what virtuous block is this hat, I pray?
Brother, close you down his eyes, because you were his eldest; and with them close up your tears, whilst I as all younger brothers do, shift for myself: let us mourn, because he’s dead, but mourn the less, because he cannot revive. The honour we can do him, is to bury him royally; let’s about it then, for I’ll not melt myself to death with scalding sighs, nor drop my soul out at mine eyes, were my father an emperor.
Andel. Yet God send my grief a tongue, that I may have good utterance for it: sob on, brother mine, whilst you sigh there, I’ll sit and read what story my father has written here.
[They both fall asleep: Fortune and a company of Satyrs enter with music, and playing about Fortunatus’ body, take it away. Afterwards Shadow enters running.
Shad. I can get none, I can find none: where are you, master? Have I ta’en you napping? and you too? I see sorrow’s eye-lids are made of a dormouse skin, they seldom open, or of a miser’s purse, that’s always shut. So ho, master.
Andel. Shadow, why how now? what’s the matter?
Shad. I can get none, sir, ’tis impossible.
Amp. What is impossible? what canst not get?
Shad. No help for my old master.
Andel. Hast thou been all this while calling for help?
Shad. Yes, sir: he scorned all Famagosta when he was in his huffing,[380] and now he lies puffing for wind, they say they scorn him.
Andel. I bear it? I touched it not.
Amp. Nor I: a leaden slumber pressed mine eyes.
Shad. Whether it were lead or latten[381] that hasped down those winking casements, I know not, but I found you both snorting.
Andel. I fear he’s risen again; didst not thou meet him?
Shad. I, sir? do you think this white and red durst have kissed my sweet cheeks, if they had seen a ghost? But, master, if the Destinies, or Fortune, or the Fates, or the Fairies have stolen him, never indict them for the felony: for by this means the charges of a tomb is saved, and you being his heirs, may do as many rich executors do, put that money in your purses, and give out that he died a beggar.
Shad. Methinks, master, it were better to let the memory of him shine in his own virtues, if he had any, than in alabaster.
Andel. I shall mangle that alabaster face, you whoreson virtuous vice.
Shad. He has a marble heart, that can mangle a face of alabaster.
Andel. Brother, come, come, mourn not; our father is but stepped to agree with Charon for his boat hire to Elysium. See, here’s a story of all his travels; this book shall come out with a new addition: I’ll tread after my[Pg 334] father’s steps; I’ll go measure the world, therefore let’s share these jewels, take this, or this!
Amp. Will you then violate our father’s will?
Andel. A Puritan!—keep a dead man’s will? Indeed in the old time, when men were buried in soft church-yards, that their ghosts might rise, it was good: but, brother, now they are imprisoned in strong brick and marble, they are fast. Fear not: away, away, these are fooleries, gulleries, trumperies; here’s this or this, or I am gone with both!
Amp. Do you as you please, the sin shall not be mine. Fools call those things profane that are divine.
Andel. Are you content to wear the jewels by turns? I’ll have the purse for a year, you the hat, and as much gold as you’ll ask; and when my pursership ends, I’ll resign, and cap you.
Amp. I am content to bear all discontents. [Exit.
Andel. I should serve this bearing ass rarely now, if I should load him, but I will not. Though conscience be like physic, seldom used, for so it does least hurt, yet I’ll take a dram of it. This for him, and some gold: this for me; for having this mint about me, I shall want no wishing cap. Gold is an eagle, that can fly to any place, and, like death, that dares enter all places. Shadow, wilt thou travel with me?
Shad. I shall never fadge[382] with the humour because I cannot lie.
Andel. Thou dolt, we’ll visit all the kings’ courts in the world.
Shad. So we may, and return dolts home, but what shall we learn by travel?
Andel. Fashions.[383]
Shad. That’s a beastly disease: methinks it’s better staying in your own country.
Andel. How? In mine own country—like a cage-bird, and see nothing?
Shad. Nothing? yes, you may see things enough, for what can you see abroad that is not at home? The same sun calls you up in the morning, and the same man in the moon lights you to bed at night; our fields are as green as theirs in summer, and their frosts will nip us more in winter: our birds sing as sweetly and our women are as fair: in other countries you shall have one drink to you; whilst you kiss your hand, and duck,[384] he’ll poison you: I confess you shall meet more fools, and asses, and knaves abroad than at home. Yet God be thanked we have pretty store of all. But for punks,[385] we put them down.
Shad. If I must, the Fates shall be served: I have seen many clowns courtiers, then why not Shadow? Fortune, I am for thee. [Exit.
Enter Orleans melancholy, Galloway with him; a Boy after them with a lute.
Orle. Begone: leave that with me, and leave me to myself; if the king ask for me, swear to him I am sick, and thou shalt not lie; pray thee leave me.
Boy. I am gone, sir. [Exit.
Enter the Prince of Cyprus and Agripyne.
Cypr. By this then it seems a thing impossible, to know when an English lady loves truly.
Agrip. Not so, for when her soul steals into her heart, and her heart leaps up to her eyes, and her eyes drop into her hands, then if she say, Here’s my hand! she’s your own,—else never.
Cyp. Here’s a pair of your prisoners, let’s try their opinion.
Agrip. My kind prisoners, well encountered; the Prince of Cyprus here and myself have been wrangling about a question of love: my lord of Orleans, you look lean, and likest a lover—Whether is it more torment to love a lady and never enjoy her, or always to enjoy a lady whom you cannot choose but hate?
Orle. To hold her ever in mine arms whom I loath in my heart, were some plague, yet the punishment were no more than to be enjoined to keep poison in my hand, yet never to taste it.
Agrip. But say you should be compelled to swallow the poison?
Orle. Then a speedy death would end a speeding misery. But to love a lady and never enjoy her, oh it is not death, but worse than damnation; ’tis hell, ’tis——
Agrip. No more, no more, good Orleans; nay then, I see my prisoner is in love too.
Cypr. Methinks, soldiers cannot fall into the fashion of love.
Agrip. Methinks a soldier is the most faithful lover of all men else; for his affection stands not upon compliment. His wooing is plain home-spun stuff; there’s no outlandish thread in it, no rhetoric. A soldier casts no figures to get his mistress’ heart; his love is like his valour in the field, when he pays downright blows.
Gall. True, madam, but would you receive such payment?
Agrip. No, but I mean, I love a soldier best for his plain dealing.
Cypr. That’s as good as the first.
Agrip. Be it so, that goodness I like: for what lady can abide to love a spruce silken-face courtier, that stands every morning two or three hours learning how to look by his glass, how to speak by his glass, how to sigh by his glass, how to court his mistress by his glass? I would wish him no other plague, but to have a mistress as brittle as glass.
Gall. And that were as bad as the horn plague.
Cypr. Are any lovers possessed with this madness?
Agrip. What madmen are not possessed with this love? Yet by my troth, we poor women do but smile in our sleeves to see all this foppery: yet we all desire to see our lovers attired gallantly, to hear them sing sweetly, to behold them dance comely and such like. But this apish monkey fashion of effeminate niceness, out upon it! Oh, I hate it worse than to be counted a scold.
Cypr. Indeed, men are most regarded, when they least regard themselves.
Gall. And women most honoured, when they show most mercy to their lovers.
Orle. But is’t not a miserable tyranny, to see a lady triumph in the passions of a soul languishing through her cruelty?
Cypr. Methinks it is.
Gall. Methinks ’tis more than tyranny.
Agrip. So think not I; for as there is no reason to hate any that love us, so it were madness to love all that do not hate us; women are created beautiful, only because men should woo them; for ’twere miserable tyranny to enjoin poor women to woo men: I would not hear of a woman in love, for my father’s kingdom.
Cypr. I never heard of any woman that hated love.
Agrip. Nor I: but we had all rather die than confess we love; our glory is to hear men sigh whilst we smile, to kill them with a frown, to strike them dead with a sharp eye, to make you this day wear a feather, and to-morrow[Pg 341] a sick nightcap. Oh, why this is rare, there’s a certain deity in this, when a lady by the magic of her looks, can turn a man into twenty shapes.
Orle. Sweet friend, she speaks this but to torture me.
Gall. I’ll teach thee how to plague her: love her not.
Agrip. Poor Orleans, how lamentably he looks: if he stay, he’ll make me surely love him for pure pity. I must send him hence, for of all sorts of love, I hate the French; I pray thee, sweet prisoner, entreat Lord Longaville to come to me presently.
Orle. I will, and esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me. [Exit.
Agrip. Watch him, watch him for God’s sake, if he sigh not or look not back.
Cypr. He does both: but what mystery lies in this?
Agrip. Nay, no mystery, ’tis as plain as Cupid’s forehead: why this is as it should be.—“And esteem myself more than happy, that you will employ me.” My French prisoner is in love over head and ears.
Cypr. It’s wonder how he ’scapes drowning.
Gall. With whom, think you?
Agrip. With his keeper, for a good wager: Ah, how glad is he to obey! And how proud am I to command in this empire of affection! Over him and such spongy-livered youths, that lie soaking in love, I triumph more with mine eye, than ever he did over a soldier with his sword. Is’t not a gallant victory for me to subdue my father’s enemy with a look? Prince of Cyprus, you were best take heed, how you encounter an English lady.
Cypr. God bless me from loving any of you, if all be so cruel.
Agrip. God bless me from suffering you to love me, if you be not so formable.
Cypr. Will you command me any service, as you have done Orleans?
Agrip. No other service but this, that, as Orleans, you love me, for no other reason, but that I may torment you.
Cypr. I will: conditionally, that in all company I may call you my tormentor.
Agrip. You shall: conditionally, that you never beg for mercy. Come, my Lord of Galloway.
Gall. Come, sweet madam.
[Exeunt all except the Prince of Cyprus.
Re-enter Agripyne and listens.
[Agripyne kneels: Cyprus walks musing.
Agrip. Hold him in this mind, sweet Cupid, I conjure thee. O, what music these hey-hos make! I was about to cast my little self into a great love trance for him, fearing his heart had been flint: but since I see ’tis pure virgin wax, he shall melt his bellyful: for now I know how to temper him. [Exit; as she departs Cyprus spies her.
Enter Cornwall.
Enter Longaville, Galloway, and Chester with jewels.
Enter Lincoln.
Enter Athelstane, Andelocia, Agripyne, Orleans, Ladies, and other Attendants, also Insultado. Music sounds within.
Andel. Neither: but ’tis the fashion of us Cypriots, both men and women, to yield at first assault, and we expect others should do the like.
Agrip. It’s a sign, that either your women are very black, and are glad to be sped, or your men very fond, and will take no denial.
Andel. Indeed our ladies are not so fair as you.
Agrip. But your men more venturous at a breach than you, or else they are all dastardly soldiers.
Andel. He that fights under these sweet colours, and yet turns coward, let him be shot to death with the terrible arrows of fair ladies’ eyes.
Athelst. Nay, Insultado, you must not deny us.
Insultad. Mi corazon es muy pesado, mi anima muy atormentada. No por los Cielos: El pie de Español no hace musica en tierra ingles.[390]
Agrip. Doth my Spanish prisoner deny to dance? He has sworn to me by the cross of his pure Toledo, to be my servant: by that oath, my Castilian prisoner, I conjure you to show your cunning; though all your body be not free, I am sure your heels are at liberty.
Insultad. Nolo quiero contra deseo; vuestro ojo hace conquista á su prisionero: Oyerer la a pavan española; sea vuestra musica y gravidad, y majestad: Paje, daime tabacco, toma my capa, y my espada. Mas alta, mas alta: Desviaios, desviaios, compañeros, mas alta, mas alta.[392] [He dances.
Athelst. Thanks, Insultado.
Cypr. ’Tis most excellent.
Agrip. The Spaniard’s dance is as his deeds be, full of pride.
Music sounding still; a curtain being drawn, Andelocia is discovered sleeping in Agripyne’s lap; she has his purse, and she and another lady tie another like it in its place, and then rise from him. Enter Athelstane.
Music still: Enter Shadow very gallant, reading a bill, with empty bags in his hand, singing.
Shad. These English occupiers are mad Trojans: let a man pay them never so much, they’ll give him nothing but the bag. Since my master created me steward over his fifty men, and his one-and-fifty horse, I have rid over much business, yet never was galled, I thank the destinies. Music? O delicate warble: O these courtiers are most sweet triumphant creatures! Seignior, sir, monsieur, sweet seignior: this is the language of the accomplishment. O delicious strings; these heavenly wire-drawers have stretched my master even out at length: yet at length he must wake. Master?
Andel. Wake me not yet, my gentle Agripyne.
Shad. One word, sir, for the billets, and I vanish.
Shad. Why, sir, I have but ten pounds left.
Andel. Ha, Shadow? where’s the Princess Agripyne?
Shad. I am not Apollo, I cannot reveal.
Andel. Was not the princess here, when thou cam’st in?
Shad. Here was no princess but my princely self.
Andel. In faith?
Shad. No, in faith, sir.
Andel. Where are you hid? where stand you wantoning? Not here? gone, i’faith? have you given me the slip? Well, ’tis but an amorous trick, and so I embrace it: my horse, Shadow, how fares my horse?
Shad. Upon the best oats my under-steward can buy.
Andel. I mean, are they lusty, sprightly, gallant, wanton, fiery?
Shad. They are as all horses are, caterpillars to the commonwealth, they are ever munching: but, sir, for these billets, and these fagots and bavins?
Andel. ’Sheart, what billets, what fagots? dost make me a woodmonger?
Shad. No, sweet seignior, but you have bid the king and his peers to dinner, and he has commanded that no woodmonger sell you a stick of wood, and that no collier shall cozn you of your measure, but must tie up the mouth of their sacks, lest their coals kindle your choler.
Andel. Is’t possible? is’t true, or hast thou learnt of the English gallants to gull?
Shad. He’s a gull that would be taught by such gulls.
Andel. Not a stick of wood? Some child of envy has buzzed this stratagem into the king’s ear, of purpose to disgrace me. I have invited his majesty, and though it cost me a million, I’ll feast him. Shadow, thou shalt hire a hundred or two of carts, with them post to all the grocers in London, buy up all the cinnamon, cloves, nutmegs, liquorice and all other spices, that have any strong heart, and with them make fires to prepare our cookery.
Shad. This device, sir, will be somewhat akin to Lady Pride, ’twill ask cost.
Andel. Fetch twenty porters, I’ll lade all with gold.
Shad. First, master, fill these bags.
Andel. Come then, hold up. How now? tricks, new crotchets, Madame Fortune? Dry as an eel-skin? Shadow, take thou my gold out.
Shad. Why, sir, here’s none in.
Shad. Not of a penny, I have been as true a steward—
Shad. What shall I do with this ten pound, sir?
Shad. Shall I buy these spices to-day or to-morrow?
Shad. I’ll go hence, because you send me; but I’ll go weeping hence, for grief that I must turn villain as many do, and leave you when you are up to the ears in adversity. [Exit.
Enter Andelocia with the wishing hat on, and dragging Agripyne by the hand.
Andel. Indeed the devil and the pick-purse should always fly together, for they are sworn brothers: but Madam Covetousness, I am neither a devil as you call me, nor a jeweller as I call myself; no, nor a juggler,—yet ere you and I part, we’ll have some legerdemain together. Do you know me?
Andel. Talk not you of satisfaction, this is some recompense, that I have you. ’Tis not the purse I regard: put it off, and I’ll mince it as small as pie meat. The purse? hang the purse: were that gone, I can make another,[Pg 355] and another, and another, ay, and another: ’tis not the purse I care for, but the purser, you, ay you. Is’t not a shame that a king’s daughter, a fair lady, a lady not for lords, but for monarchs, should for gold sell her love, and when she has her own asking, and that there stands nothing between, then to cheat your sweetheart? O fie, fie, a she cony-catcher? You must be dealt fondly with.
Andel. Nay God’s lid, y’are not gone so: set your heart at rest, for I have set up my rest, that except you can run swifter than a hart, home you go not. What pains shall I lay upon you? Let me see: I could serve you now but a slippery touch: I could get a young king or two, or three, of you, and then send you home, and bid their grandsire king nurse them: I could pepper you, but I will not.
Andel. No, why I tell you I am not given to the flesh, though I savour in your nose a little of the devil, I could run away else, and starve you here.
Andel. Or transform you, because you love picking, into a squirrel, and make you pick out a poor living here among the nut trees: but I will not neither.
Andel. Oh, now you come to your old bias of cogging.[394]
Andel. Shall I in faith?
Agrip. In faith, in faith thou shalt.
Andel. Hear, God a mercy: now thou shalt not go.
Agrip. Oh God.
Andel. Nay, do you hear, lady? Cry not, y’are best; no[Pg 356] nor curse me not. If you think but a crabbed thought of me, the spirit that carried you in mine arms through the air, will tell me all; therefore set your Sunday face upon’t. Since you’ll love me, I’ll love you, I’ll marry you, and lie with you, and beget little jugglers: marry, home you get not. England, you’ll say, is yours: but, Agripyne, love me, and I will make the whole world thine.
Oh here be rare apples, rare red-cheeked apples, that cry come kiss me: apples, hold your peace, I’ll teach you to cry. [Eats one.
Andel. Agripyne, ’tis a most sugared delicious taste in one’s mouth, but when ’tis down, ’tis as bitter as gall.
Andel. Here’s one apple that grows highest, Agripyne; an’ I could reach that, I’ll come down. [Fishes with his girdle for it.
Andel. The sun kiss thee? hold, catch, put on my hat, I will have yonder highest apple, though I die for’t.
Andelocia leaps down.
Enter Fortune, Vice, Virtue, the Priest: and Satyrs with music, playing before Fortune.
Vice. Virtue, who conquers now? the fool is ta’en.
Virtue. O sleepy sin.
Vice. Sweet tunes, wake him again. [Music sounds awhile, and then ceases.
Song.
[Vice and Virtue hold apples out to Andelocia, Vice laughing, Virtue grieving.
Enter Athelstane, Lincoln with Agripyne, Cyprus, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Longaville and Montrose.
[As they are going in, enter Andelocia and Shadow, disguised as Irish coster-mongers. Agripyne, Longaville, and Montrose stay listening to them, the rest exeunt.
Both. Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,[396] feene Tamasco peepins: peeps feene, buy Tamasco peepins.
Montr. Sirrah coster-monger.
Shad. Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat ’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome water,[397] or apple John.[398]
Andel. By my trat, madam, ’tis reet Tamasco peepins, look here els.
Shad. I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss, by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.
Longa. What is your price of half a score of these?
Both. Half a score, half a score? dat is doos many, mester.[399]
Longa. Ay, ay, ten, half a score, that’s five and five.
Andel. Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la, I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.
Shad. Ay fat, ’tis no less for Tamasco.
Agrip. Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they?
Shad. O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.
Andel. And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.
Andel. By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt[Pg 364] he love di countryman, ’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,[400] and run hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.
Shad. As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.
Both. Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.
Re-enter Montrose softly.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.
Andel. Peace, Shadow, buy any peepins, buy.
Both. Peeps feene, feene Tamasco apples.
Montr. Came not Lord Longaville to buy some fruit?
Andel. No fat, master, here came no lords nor ladies, but di none sweet self.
Re-enter Longaville.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha! why this is rare.
Shad. Peace, master, here comes another fool.
Both. Peepes feene, buy any peepes of Tamasco?
Longa. Did not the Lord Montrose return to you?
Both. No fat, sweet master, no lord did turn to us: peepes feene!
Andel. O, ’twill make thee wondrous wise.
Shad. And dow shall be no more a fool, but sweet face and wise.
Andel. Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue longer.
Shad. Did I not clap on a good false Irish face?
Andel. It became thee rarely.
Shad. Yet that’s lamentable, that a false face should become any man.
Andel. Thou art a gull,[401] tis all the fashion now, which fashion because we’ll keep, step thou abroad, let not the world want fools; whilst thou art commencing thy knavery there, I’ll precede Dr. Dodipoll[402] here: that done, thou, Shadow, and I will fat ourselves[403] to behold the transformation of these fools: go fly.
Shad. I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine. [Exit Shadow.
Enter Ampedo.
Andel. Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any pippins? [Exit.
Enter Athelstane, followed by Agripyne, Montrose, and Longaville with horns; then Lincoln and Cornwall.
Enter Cyprus.
Enter Orleans and Galloway.
Enter Chester, with Andelocia disguised as a French Soldier.
Andel. He Monsieur Long-villain,[405] gra tanck you: Gra tanck your mashesty a great teal artely by my trat: where be dis Madam Princeza dat be so mush tormenta? O Jeshu: one, two: an tree, four an five, seez horn: Ha, ha, ha, pardona moy prea wid al mine art, for by my trat, me can no point shose but laugh, Ha, ha, ha, to mark how like tree bul-beggera, dey stand. Oh, by my trat and fat, di divela be whoreson, scurvy, paltry, ill favore knave to mock de madam, and gentill-home so: Ha, ha, ha, ha.
Linc. This doctor comes to mock your majesty.
Andel. No, by my trat la, but me lova musha musha merymant: come, madam, pre-artely stand still, and letta[Pg 371] me feel you. Dis horn, O ’tis pretty horn, dis be facile, easy for pull de vey; but, madam, dis O be grand, grand horn, difficil, and very deep; ’tis perilous, a grand laroone. But, madam, prea be patient, we shall take it off vell.
Andel. It’s true, ’tis no easy mattra, to pull horn off, ’tis easy to pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good fellow, he will still inhabit in de man’s pate, but ’tis all one for tat, I shall snap away all dis. Madam, trust dis down into your little belly.
Andel. ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good? [Pulls Longaville’s horns off.
Andel. No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.
Andel. I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time, no point.
Andel. Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit le dockature? Ha, but vel, ’tis all one for tat: ’tis no mattera for gold! vel, vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more, prea say noting, shall be presently prepara for your horns.
Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently! Be patient, me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn: presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand you all der, and say noting,—so! nor look noting dis vey. So, presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by. Prea look none dis vey, and say noting. [Takes his hat.
Andel. So, taka dis hand: winck now prea artely with your two nyes: why so.
Enter Andelocia with Agripyne, Ampedo and Shadow following.
Andel. Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets: your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know the thief’s salutation,—“Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine, and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other men’s brows.
Shad. And to strive to be fairer than God made her.
Andel. Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not repass.[406]
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Andelocia is a nettle: if you touch him gently, he’ll sting you.
Shad. Or a rose: if you pull his sweet stalk he’ll prick you.
Andel. Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her head;[407] you have two, and perhaps you shall cast both. As you use me, mark those words well, “as you use me,” nay, y’are best fly, I’ll not endure one word more. Yet stay too, because you entreat me so gently, and that I’ll make some amends to your father,—although I care not for any king in Christendom, yet hold you, take this apple, eat it as you go to court, and your horns shall play the cowards and fall from you.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Nay, away, not a word.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! ’Ware horns! [Exit Agripyne, weeping.
Andel. Why dost thou laugh, Shadow?
Shad. To see what a horn plague follows covetousness and pride.
Amp. Brother, what mysteries lie in all this?
Andel. Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics, mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you, fly and away: a sort of[Pg 375] broken-shinned limping-legged jades run hobbling to seek us. Shadow, we’ll for all this have one fit of mirth more, to make us laugh and be fat.
Shad. And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons do, laugh and lie down.
Andel. Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire, I’ll to court presently.
Shad. I’ll go to court in this attire, for apparel is but the shadow of a man, but shadow is the substance of his apparel. [Exit Shadow.
Andel. Away with your purity, brother, y’are an ass. Why doth this purse spit out gold but to be spent? why lives a man in this world, to dwell in the suburbs of it, as you do? Away, foreign simplicity, away: are not eyes made to see fair ladies? hearts to love them? tongues to court them, and hands to feel them? Out, you stock, you stone, you log’s end: Are not legs made to dance, and shall mine limp up and down the world after your cloth-stocking-heels? You have the hat, keep it. Anon I’ll visit your virtuous countenance again; adieu! Pleasure is my sweet mistress, I wear her love in my hat, and her soul in my heart: I have sworn to be merry, and in spite of Fortune and the black-browed Destinies, I’ll never be sad. [Exit.
Enter Longaville and Montrose with Soldiers.
Enter Andelocia, and Shadow after him.
Montr. Peace, Longaville, yonder the gallant comes.
Longa. Y’are well encountered.
Andel. Thanks, Lord Longaville.
Longa. The king expects your presence at the court.
Andel. And thither am I going.
Shad. Pips fine, fine apples of Tamasco, ha, ha, ha!
Montr. Wert thou that Irishman that cozened us?
Shad. Pips fine, ha, ha, ha! no not I: not Shadow.
Andel. Were not your apples delicate and rare?
Longa. The worst that e’er you sold; sirs, bind him fast.
Andel. What, will you murder me? help, help, some help!
Shad. Help, help, help! [Exit Shadow.
Montr. Follow that dog, and stop his bawling throat.
Andel. Villains, what means this barbarous treachery?
Longa. We mean to be revenged for our disgrace.
Montr. And stop the golden current of thy waste.
Andel. Murder! they murder me, O call for help.
Andel. Are you appointed by the king to this?
Montr. No, no; rise, spurn him up! know you who’s this?
Re-enter Longaville and Montrose with a halter.
Enter Athelstane, Agripyne, Orleans, Galloway, Cornwall, Chester, Lincoln, and Shadow with weapons at one door: Fortune, Vice, and their Attendants at the other.
Shad. O see, see, O my two masters, poor Shadow’s substances; what shall I do? Whose body shall Shadow now follow?
Enter Virtue, crowned: Nymphs and Kings attending on her, crowned with olive branches and laurels; music sounding.
Song.
As they are about to depart, enter Two Old Men.
The Witch of Edmonton, which was probably first performed in 1623, was not published until thirty-five years later, in 1658. It was then issued in the usual quarto form, with the title: The Witch of Edmonton: “A known True Story. Composed into a Tragi-Comedy by divers well-esteemed Poets, William Rowley, Thomas Dekker, John Ford, &c. Acted by the Prince’s Servants, often at the Cock-Pit in Drury-Lane, once at Court, with singular Applause.” The best modern reprint of the play is that in the Gifford-Dyce edition of Ford, upon which the present version is based.
It is impossible to assign the exact share of the various authors in the play. The business of the Witch, the rustic chorus, and certain other parts mark themselves out as mainly Dekker’s. The conception of Sir Arthur Clarington, and the subsidiary domestic plot is no doubt mainly Ford’s. Rowley’s share is more difficult to ascertain. The intimate collaboration of all three can alone be held accountable for some of the scenes, and indeed in even the passages most characteristic of any one of the authors, the touch of another often shows itself in a chance word or phrase.
The justification for the description of the play as “A known true story” is a pamphlet written by Henry Goodcole, and published at London in 1621, giving an account of one Elizabeth Sawyer, late of Islington, who was “executed in 1621 for witchcraft.” See Caulfield’s “Portraits, Memoirs, and Characters of Remarkable Persons,” 1794. No existing copy of the pamphlet is known, but the British Museum possesses copies of two of Goodcole’s other pamphlets on similar subjects.