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Title: The Works of John Marston
       Volume 1

Author: John Marston

Editor: A. H. Bullen

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Language: English

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The English Dramatists

JOHN MARSTON

VOLUME THE FIRST

THE WORKS

OF

JOHN MARSTON

EDITED BY

A. H. BULLEN, B.A.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOLUME THE FIRST

LONDON
JOHN C. NIMMO
14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
MDCCCLXXXVII

Two hundred copies of this Edition on Laid paper, medium 8vo, have been printed, viz., 120 for the English Market, and 80 for America. Each copy numbered as issued.

No. 30

TO

AN OLD FRIEND AND FELLOW-STUDENT,

CHARLES H. FIRTH,

These Volumes

ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

BY THE EDITOR.

PREFACE.

Marston’s Works were edited in 1856 by Mr. Halliwell (3 vols. 8vo.) for Mr. Russell Smith’s Library of Old Authors. I yield to none in my admiration for the best and the most accurate of living Shakespearean scholars; but I am sure that Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, who in his Outlines of the Life of Shakespeare has set so singularly high a standard of excellence, would be the first to acknowledge that his edition of Marston’s Works needs revision.

In the present volumes I have done my best to regulate the text, which is frequently very corrupt; but I am painfully conscious that I have left plenty of work for future editors.

A valuable edition of Marston’s poems was published in 1879, for private circulation, by Dr. Grosart. I have availed myself freely of the results of Dr. Grosart’s biographical researches; and I am indebted to his edition for the text of the Entertainment in vol. iii.

Dr. Brinsley Nicholson, whose recently published edition of Reginald Scot’s Discovery of Witchcraft met with the enthusiastic welcome that it deserved, has helped me liberally with advice and suggestions; and I have to thank Mr. P. A. Daniel, whose scholarship is as sound as it is acute, for his kindness in reading my Introduction.

In deference to friendly criticism, I have prefixed to each play a brief summary of the plot.

18th March 1887.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

INTRODUCTION.

When other poets were repeating Horace’s boast, “Exegi monumentum,” &c., John Marston dedicated the first fruits of his genius “To everlasting Oblivion.” In much of Marston’s satire there is an air of evident insincerity, but the dedicatory address at the close of The Scourge of Villainy is of startling earnestness:—

“Let others pray
For ever their fair poems flourish may;
But as for me, hungry Oblivion,
Devour me quick, accept my orison,
My earnest prayers, which do importune thee,
With gloomy shade of thy still empery
To veil both me and my rude poesy.”

Those lines were printed in 1598. Six and thirty years afterwards the poet was laid in his grave, and on the grave-stone was inscribed “Oblivioni sacrum.” But prayers cannot purchase oblivion; and the rugged Timon of the Elizabethan drama, who sought to shroud himself “in the uncomfortable night of nothing,” will be forced from time to time to emerge from the shades and pass before the eyes of curious scholars.

It was established by the genealogical researches of that acute and indefatigable antiquary, Joseph Hunter,[1] that John Marston belonged to the old Shropshire family of Marstons. The dramatist’s father, John Marston, third son of Ralph Marston of Gayton (or Heyton), co. Salop, was admitted a member of the Middle Temple in 1570; married Maria, daughter of Andrew Guarsi[2] (or Guersie), an Italian surgeon who had settled in London, and had married Elizabeth Gray, daughter of a London merchant; migrated to Coventry; was lecturer of the Middle Temple in 1592.

The year of the poet’s birth is unknown, but it may be fixed circ. 1575, and we shall probably not be wrong in assuming that the birthplace was Coventry. For his early education Marston was doubtless indebted to the Coventry free-school. On 4th February 1591-2, “John Marston, aged 16, a gentleman’s son, of co. Warwick,” was matriculated at Brazennose College, Oxford (Grosart’s Introduction, p. x.). There is not the slightest doubt that this John Marston, who was admitted Bachelor of Arts on 6th February 1593-4 as the “eldest son of an Esquire” (Wood’s Fasti, ed. Bliss, i. 602), was the poet; and Wood went wrong in identifying our John Marston with another John Marston, or Marson, who belonged to Corpus. In the will of the elder Marston, proved in 1599, there is a curious passage which shows that the poet, contrary to his father’s wishes, abandoned the profession of the law. An abstract of the will (communicated by Col. Chester) has been printed by Dr. Grosart, and is here reprinted:—

“John Marston of City of Coventry Gent dated 24 Oct. 1599 to Mary my wife, my mansion &c. in Crosse Cheepinge in Coventry and other premises for life rem^r to John my son and heirs of body rem^r to heirs of body of Raphe Marston Gent my father dec^d rem^r to right heirs of my s^d son[;] to s^d wife my interest in certain lands &c. after death of John Butler[3] my father in law and Margaret his now wife in par. Cropedy co. Oxon and others in Wardington co. Oxon rem^r to John my son to s^d wife ½ of plate and household stuff &c. to s^d son John my furniture &c. in my chambers in the Middle Temple my law books &c. to my s^d son whom I hoped would have profited by them in the study of the law but man proposeth and God disposeth &c. to kinsman and servant Tho^s Marston 20 nobles to my poorest brother Rich^d Marston 20 nobles for him and his children all residue to Mary my wife &c. (G. Gascoigne a witness) Proved 29 Nov. 1599.” In the Prerogative Court of Canterbury (82 Kidd.).

Wood vaguely says that the poet (the John Marston of Brazennose College) “after completing that degree [the degree of B.A.] by determination, went his way and improved his learning in other faculties.” It is clear from his father’s will that he found legal studies distasteful, and we may conjecture that he quickly turned from the professional career on which he had entered and devoted his attention to literature and the stage. Few biographical facts concerning Marston have come down. He married (but at what precise date we cannot determine) Mary, daughter of the Rev. William Wilkes, Chaplain to James I., and Rector of St. Martin’s, co. Wilts. Ben Jonson told Drummond of Hawthornden that “Marston wrote his father-in-law’s preachings, and his father-in-law his comedies;” a witty remark, contrasting the asperity of Marston’s comedies with the blandness of his father-in-law’s sermons. Marston’s plays—with the exception of The Insatiate Countess—were published between 1602 and 1607. He seems to have definitely abandoned play-writing about the year 1607; but the date at which he entered the Church is not clearly ascertained. On 10th October 1616 he was presented to the living of Christ Church in Hampshire;[4] he compounded for the firstfruits of Christ Church on 12th February 1616-7; and he formally resigned the living (probably from ill-health) on 13th September 1631. William Sheares the publisher issued in 1633 a collective edition of Marston’s plays, and in the dedicatory address to Lady Elizabeth Carey, Viscountess Falkland, speaks of the author as “in his autumn and declining age” and “far distant from this place.” On 25th June 1634 Marston died in Aldermanbury parish, London. His will, dated 17th June 1634, was drawn up when he was so ill as to be compelled to make a mark instead of affixing his signature. The will[5] runs thus:—

“In the name of God Amen I John Marston of London Clarke being sicke in bodie but of perfect and sound mind and memorie doe make my last Will and Testament in manner and forme following Imprimise I give and bequeath my soule into the hands of Allmightie God my Maker and Redeemer and my bodie to be buried in Christian buriall in some convenient place where my executor hereafter named shall appointe Item I give and bequeath to James Coghill and James Boynton both of Christchurch in the County of South^tn the somme of fortie shillinges apeece to be paide within six mounthes after my decease Item I give and bequeath to Marie Fabian the wife of W^m Fabian of Christchurch aforesaide towards the educac’on of hir five sonnes the somme of twentie eight pound of currant money of England to be paide to hir within sixe monthes after my decease Item I give to the parrish Church of Christchurch aforesaide the somme of five poundes to be paide within sixe monthes next after my decease Item I give and bequeath to my couzin Hunt of Ashford in the countie of Saloppe the somme of twentie poundes to be paide within sixe moneths after my decease Item I give and bequeath to my cozen Griffins daughter of Kingston in the Countie of Surrey the somme of five poundes to be paide unto hir within sixe monthes after my decease  Item I give to Marie Collice the daughter of my cozen Anne Collis of Chancerie Lane the somme of five poundes to be paide unto hir sixe monthes after my decease Item I give and bequeath to my cozen Richard Marston of Newe Inne in the Countie of Midd’ my silver bason and ewre but my will is that my wife shall have the use of it untill it shalbe demaunded of hir by the said Richard or his attorney in that behalfe lawfullye deputed Item I give and bequeath unto George Wallie and James Walley sonnes of M^r Henry Wallie the somme of five poundes apeece to be paide to the saide Henrie for theier vse within sixe monthes after my decease Item all the rest of my goodes and cattles moveable and vnmoveable my debts and legacies and funeral expences being charged I give and bequeathe to my wel beloved wiefe Marie whome I ordaine my soule Executrixe of this my last Will and Testament And I doe hereby renounce and make voide all former Wills by me heretofore made In Witnes whereof I have herevnto putt my hand and seale the seaventeenth daie of June in the tenth yeere of the rainge [sic] of oure Soveraigne Lord Charles 1634.”

Wood tells us that he was buried beside his father “in the church belonging to the Temple in the suburb of London, under the stone which hath written on it Oblivioni Sacrum.” Dr. Grosart prints the following entry from the Temple Church burial-register:

“1634, June 26. Mr. John Marston, Minister, sometimes of the Middle Temple, who died in Aldermanbury parish: buried below the Communion Table on the Middle Temple side.”

The will was proved on 9th July 1634 in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury by his widow, who was buried by his side on 4th July 1657. She had desired in her will,[6] dated 12th June 1657, that she should be buried “by the body of my dear husband dec^d;” and she bequeathed her “dear husband’s picture” to Master Henry Wally of Stationers’ Hall. Neither in Marston’s will nor in his widow’s is there mention of children.

Marston’s earliest publication was The Metamorphosis of Pygmalion’s Image:[7] And Certain Satires, which was entered in the Stationers’ Registers on 27th May 1598, and issued in the same year. Another series of satires, The Scourge of Villainy, was published later in 1598; it had been entered in the Stationers’ Registers on 8th September. A second edition of the Scourge, containing an additional satire (the tenth), appeared in 1599.

Pygmalion is written in the same metre as Venus and Adonis (from which poem Marston drew his inspiration)—a metre which Lodge had handled with considerable success. A poet who would approach the subject of Pygmalion and his image ought to be gifted with tact and delicacy. In our own day Mr. Morris (in The Earthly Paradise) has told the old Greek story in choice and fluent narrative verse; no poet could have treated it more gracefully. Tact and delicacy were precisely the qualities in which Marston was deficient; but the versification is tolerably smooth, and the licentiousness does not call for any special reprehension. In the Scourge of Villainy (sat. vi.) Marston pretends that Pygmalion was written to bring contempt on the class of poems to which it belongs:—

“Hence, thou misjudging censor! know I wrote
Those idle rhymes to note the odious spot
And blemish that deforms the lineaments
Of modern poesy’s habiliments.”

But it would require keener observation than most readers possess to discover in Pygmalion any trace of that moral motive by which the poet claimed to have been inspired. Archbishop Whitgift did not approve of its moral tone, for in 1599 he ordered it to be committed to the flames with Sir John Davies’ Epigrams, Cutwode’s Caltha Poetarum, and other works of a questionable character. In Cranley’s Amanda, 1635, it is mentioned, in company with Hero and Leander and Venus and Adonis, as part of a courtezan’s library.

There is not much pleasure or profit to be derived from a perusal of Marston’s satires. The author deliberately adopted an uncouth and monstrous style of phraseology; his allusions are frequently quite unintelligible to modern readers, and even the wits of his contemporaries must have been sorely exercised. After a course of Marston’s satires Persius is clear as crystal. In the second satire there are some lines which aptly express the reader’s bewilderment:

"O darkness palpable; Egypt’s black night!
My wit is stricken blind, hath lost his sight:
My shins are broke with searching for some sense
To know to what his words have reference.”

Our sense is deafened by the tumult of noisy verbiage “as when a madman beats upon a drum.” In Marston’s satires there is little of the raciness and buoyancy that we find in the elder satirists—Skelton, Roy, and William Baldwin—who dealt good swashing blows in homely vigorous English. Persius would not have been flattered by Marston’s or Hall’s attempts at imitation: “nec pluteum cædit nec demorsos sapit ungues” would have been his comment on the spurious pseudo-classical Elizabethan satire. Hall claimed to have been the first to introduce classical satire into England. In the prologue to the first book of Virgidemiæ, 1597, he writes:—

“I first adventure with foolhardy might
To tread the steps of perilous despight:
I first adventure: follow me who list,
And be the second English satirist.”

It matters little whether Hall’s claim was well-founded or not; but it has been often pointed out that there is extant a MS. copy of Donne’s satires dated 1593. Hall, who lived to be one of the glories of the English Church, in early manhood certainly did not present an example of Christian meekness and charity. He took a very low view of contemporary writers, but never had the slightest misgivings about his own abilities. It is not easy to ascertain how his quarrel with Marston arose, but it seems clear that he was the aggressor. Pygmalion was published a year later than Virgidemiæ, but it had probably been circulated in manuscript, according to the custom of the time, before it issued from the press. There can be little doubt that the ninth satire of book i. of Virgidemiæ, is directed against Marston. The opening lines run thus:—

“Envy, ye Muses, at your thrilling mate,
Cupid hath crowned a new laureat;
I saw his statue gaily tired in green,
As if he had some second Phœbus been;
His statue trimm’d with the Venerean tree
And shrined fair within your sanctuary.
What! he that erst to gain the rhyming goal,
The worn recital-post of capitol,
Rhymed in rules of stewish ribaldry
Teaching experimental bawdery,
Whiles th’ itching vulgar, tickled with the song,
Hanged on their unready poet’s tongue?
Take this, ye patient Muses, and foul shame
Shall wait upon your once profaned name.”

When Pygmalion was published Hall wrote a poor epigram (see vol. iii. p. 369), which he contrived to paste in those copies of the poem “that came to the stationers at Cambridge.”[8] One of the satires, entitled “Reactio,”[9] appended to Pygmalion, is a violent attack on Hall. In his “Defiance to Envy,” prefixed to Virgidemiæ, Hall had boasted that he could, an’ that he would, hold his own with any of the poets,—even hinting that he was a match for Spenser. The “Defiance” is a well-written piece of verse, but it gave Marston an excellent opportunity, which he used to the full in “Reactio,” of making a very effective attack. In the first satire of book vi. of Virgidemiæ Hall replies to Marston’s raillery with less vigour than we should have expected. Again and again in The Scourge of Villainy Marston attacks Hall; he would not let the quarrel drop, but worried his adversary with the pertinacity of a bull-dog. In 1601 a certain “W. I.,” who has been doubtfully identified (by Dr. Nicholson) with a Cambridge man, William Ingram, published The Whipping of the Satire, which was chiefly directed against Marston (with gibes at Ben Jonson and others). There is a lengthy and spirited preface, in which Marston is taken to task after this fashion:—

“Think you that foul words can beget fair manners? If you do I will not bate you an ace of an ass, for experience gives you the lie to your face. But your affection over-rules your reason, and therefore you are as sudden of passion in all matters as an interjection and yet as defective in most cases as an heteroclite: you gathered up men’s sins as though they had been strawberries, and picked away their virtues as they had been but the stalks. They shall not make me believe but that you were the devil’s intelligencer, for there went not a lie abroad but it was presently entertained of your ear; and every sin kept under writing for fear lest the devil waxing almost six thousand years of age should fail in his memory and so chance to forget it.”

The following stanzas have a sting in them:—

“Can you seem wise to any simple men
That seem’d so simple unto all the wise
And fitter far to hold the plough than pen,
Such incompt stuff you rudely poetise?
Yet I confess there’s much conceipt in it,
For you have shown great store of little wit.

Take me your staff and walk some half-score miles,
And I’ll be hang’d if in that quantity
You find me out but half so many stiles
As you have made within your poesy:
Nay for your style there’s none can you excel,
You may be called John-a-Stile full well.

* * * * *

But he that mounts into the air of Fame
Must have two wings, Nature and Art, to fly;
And that he may soar safely with the same
Must take his rise low from humility;
And not with you a goose’s quill to take,
Thinking with that an eagle’s flight to make.

Your stately Muse, starched with stiff-neck’d pride,
Dain’d it amongst us, most imperiously;
With lavish laughter she did each deride
That came within the prospect of her eye:
Despising all, all her again despise,
Contemn’d of foolish and condemn’d of wise.”

At this easy rate “W. I.” ambles on; and the quiet leisurely stanzas are a relief after the fury of the Scourge. Modern readers will feel that Marston was not driven by “sæva indignatio” to write satire, and they will not be inclined to accept the young author of Pygmalion as a sedate moralist. “W. I.” puts the matter clearly:

“He scourgeth villainies in young and old
As boys scourge tops for sport on Lenten day.”

The publication of The Whipping of the Satire could hardly have been agreeable to Marston, but it is highly improbable that he is to be held responsible for the poor answer to The Whipping, published anonymously in the same year, under the title of The Whipper of the Satire, his Penance in a White Sheet; or the Beadle’s Confutation.[10] If I have read The Whipper aright, it is the work of one of Marston’s personal friends, or of some admirer who had more zeal than wit. There are some general remarks, of slight account, on the use of satire; and Marston is exhorted to persist in his task of scourging the vices of the age. It will be enough to quote two stanzas:—

“Meantime, good satire, to thy wonted train,
As yet there are no lets to hinder thee:
Thy touching quill with a sweet moving strain
Sings to the soul a blessèd lullaby:
Thy lines beget a timorous fear in all,
And that same fear deep thoughts angelical.

So that the whilom lewd lascivious man
Is now remote from his abhorred life,
And cloathes [loathes?] the dalliance of a courtezan;
And every breathing wicked soul at strife,
Contending which shall first begin to mend
That they may glory in a blessèd end.”

The italicised lines give a delightfully ludicrous description of The Scourge of Villainy.

It is abundantly clear that Marston’s uncouth satires, which to-day are so difficult to read, caused much excitement at the time of their publication. Meres in Palladis Tamia, 1598, reckons Marston among the leading English satirists. John Weever, in his Epigrams, 1599, couples Marston’s name with Jonson’s:—

“Ad Jo. Marston et Ben Johnson.

Marston, thy muse enharbours Horace’ vein,
Then some Augustus give thee Horace’ merit!
And thine, embuskin’d Johnson, doth retain
So rich a style and wondrous gallant spirit,
That if to praise your Muses I desired
My Muse would muse. Such wits must be admired.”

The following address is from Charles Fitzgeoffrey’s Affaniæ, 1601:—

“Ad Joannem Marstonium.

Gloria, Marstoni, satirarum proxima primæ,
Primaque, fas primas si numerare duas!
Sin primam duplicare nefas, tu gloria saltem,
Marstoni, primæ proxima semper eris.
Nec te pœniteat stationis, Jane: secundus,
Cum duo sint tantum, est neuter at ambo pares.”

But the most elaborate notice that any contemporary has given of Marston’s satires is to be found in The Return from Parnassus.[11] The passage has been often quoted, but it must find a place here:—

“What, Monsieur Kinsayder, lifting up your leg and pissing against the world? put up, man! put up, for shame!
Methinks he is a ruffian in his style,
Withouten bands or garters’ ornament:
He quaffs a cup of Frenchman’s Helicon,
Then roister-doister in his oily terms;
Cuts, thrusts, and foins at whomsoever he meets
And strews about Ram-Alley meditations.
Tut, what cares he for modest close-couch’d terms
Cleanly to gird our looser libertines?
Give him plain naked words stripp’d from their shirts,
That might become plain-dealing Aretine.
Ay, there is one that backs a paper-steed,
And manageth a pen-knife gallantly:
Strikes his poynado at a button’s breadth,
Brings the great battering-ram of terms to towns,[12]
And at first volly of his cannon-shot
Batters the walls of the old fusty world.”

Under date 28th September 1599 Henslowe records in his Diary (p. 156, ed. Collier) that he lent “unto Mr. Maxton, the new poete (Mr. Mastone), the sum of forty shillings” in earnest of an unnamed play. The name “Mastone” is interlined in a different hand as a correction for “Maxton;” but there can be no doubt that the “new poete,” whose name the illiterate manager misspelled, was John Marston. There is no other mention of him in the Diary. In 1602 were published Marston’s First Part of Antonio and Mellida and Antonio’s Revenge, which had been entered in the Stationers’ Registers on 24th October 1601, and had been ridiculed in that year by Ben Jonson in The Poetaster. Considered as a work of art the two parts of Antonio and Mellida cannot be rated highly. The plot is clumsy and grotesque, and the characters, from the prodigious nature of their sins and sorrows, fail to excite in us any real interest. Marston was possessed of high tragic power, but he has not done himself justice. The magnificent prologue to Antonio’s Revenge prepares us to expect an impressive tale of tragic woe, but the promise is not worthily redeemed. He could conceive a fine situation, and he had at his command abundance of striking imagery. But we are never sure of him: from tragic solemnity he passes to noisy rhodomontade; at one moment he gives us a passage Æschylean in its subtle picturesqueness, at another he feebly reproduces the flaccid verbosity of Seneca’s tragedies. Lamb quoted in his Specimens the finest scene of Antonio and Mellida,—the scene where the old Andrugio on the Venice marsh, overthrown by the chance of war and banished from his kingdom, gives tongue to the conflicting passions that shake his breast. That scene deserves the eloquent praise that it received from the hands of Lamb; and if Marston had been able to keep the rest of the play at that level the First Part of Antonio and Mellida would rank with the masterpieces of Webster. But what is to be said of a writer who, in describing a shipwreck, gives us such lines as the following?—

“Lo! the sea grew mad,
His bowels rumbling with wind-passion;
Straight swarthy darkness popp’d out Phœbus’ eye,
And blurr’d the jocund face of bright-cheek’d day;
Whilst crudled fogs mask’d even darkness’ brow:
Heaven bad ’s good night, and the rocks groan’d
At the intestine uproar of the main.
Now gusty flaws strook up the very heels
Of our mainmast, whilst the keen lightning shot
Through the black bowels of the quaking air;
Straight chops a wave, and in his sliftred paunch
Down falls our ship, and there he breaks his neck;
Which in an instant up was belkt again.”

This is hardly a fair specimen of Marston’s powers, but it exhibits to perfection his besetting fault of straining his style a peg too high; of seeking to be impressive by the use of exaggerated and unnatural imagery. When he disencumbers himself of this fatal habit his verse is clear and massive. Neither Webster nor Chapman ever gave utterance to more dignified reflections than Marston puts into the mouth of the discrowned Andrugio in the noble speech beginning, “Why, man, I never was a prince till now” (vol. i., p. 64). There is nothing of bluster in that speech; there is not a word that one would wish to alter. Nor is Marston without something of that power, which Webster wielded so effectively, of touching the reader’s imagination with a vague sense of dread. He felt keenly the mysteries of the natural world; the weird stillness that precedes the breaking of the dawn, and

“the deep affright
That pulseth in the heart of night.”

Antonio and Mellida amply testifies that Marston possessed a strangely subtle and vivid imagination; but few are the traces of that “sanity” which Lamb declared to be an essential condition to true genius.

In 1604 was published The Malcontent;[13] another edition, augmented by Webster, appeared in the same year. From the Induction we learn that it had been originally acted by the Children’s Company at the Blackfriars; and that when the Children appropriated The Spanish Tragedy, in which the King’s Company at the Globe had an interest, the King’s Company retaliated by acting Marston’s play, with Webster’s additions. The Malcontent has more dramatic interest than Antonio and Mellida; it is also more orderly and artistic. Jonson’s criticism evidently had a salutary effect, for we find no such flowers of speech as “glibbery urchin,” “sliftred paunch,” “the fist of strenuous vengeance is clutch’d,” &c. Marston has been at pains to give a more civil aspect to his “aspera Thalia.” Moreover, the moralising is less tedious, and the satire more pungent than in the earlier plays. There is less of declamation and more of action. The atmosphere is not so stifling, and one can breathe with something of freedom. There are no ghosts to shout “Vindicta!” and no boys to be butchered at midnight in damp cloisters; nobody has his tongue cut out prior to being hacked to pieces. Marston has on this occasion contrived to write an impressive play without deeming it necessary to make the stage steam like a shambles. As before, the scene is laid in Italy; and again we have a vicious usurper, and a virtuous deposed duke; but the characters are more human than in the earlier plays. Mendoza, the upstart tyrant, is indeed a deeply debased villain, but he is not deformed, like Piero, beyond all recognition. Altofronto, the banished duke, who disguises himself in the character of a malcontent and settles at the usurper’s court, is a more possible personage than Andrugio. The description that the malcontent gives of himself in iii. 1, and the other description of the hermit’s cell in iv. 2, exemplify Marston’s potent gift of presenting bold conceptions in strenuously compact language.

The Malcontent was dedicated by Marston in very handsome terms to Ben Jonson, and there is a complimentary allusion to Jonson in the epilogue. At this distance of time it is impossible to fully understand the relations that existed between Jonson and Marston. There seem to have been many quarrels and more than one reconciliation. During his visit to Hawthornden, Jonson told Drummond that “He had many quarrels with Marston, beat him and took his pistol from him, wrote his Poetaster on him; the beginning of them were that Marston represented him in the stage in his youth given to venery.”[14] The original quarrel seems to have begun about the year 1598. In the apology at the end of The Poetaster, Jonson writes:

“Three years
They did provoke me with their petulant styles
On every stage: and I at last unwilling,
But weary, I confess, of so much trouble,
Thought I would try if shame could win upon ’em.”

The Poetaster was produced in 1601; so these attacks on Jonson, in which Marston must have taken a leading part, began about 1598. In the address “To those that seem judicial Perusers” prefixed to The Scourge of Villainy, Marston undoubtedly ridicules Ben Jonson for his use of “new-minted epithets[15] (as real, intrinsecate, Delphic).” “Real” occurs in Every Man out of his Humour (ii. 1); “intrinsecate"” in Cynthia’s Revels (v. 2); and “Delphic” in an early poem of Jonson’s. But, as Every Man out of his Humour was first produced at Christmas 1599, and Cynthia’s Revels in 1600, these “new-minted epithets” must have been used by Jonson in some early plays that have perished. Jonson retaliated by attacking Marston in Every Man out of his Humour, and Cynthia’s Revels. In the former play (iii. 1) he introduces two characters, Clove and Orange, who are expressly described as “mere strangers to the whole scope of our play.” They are on the stage only for a few minutes. Clove is represented as a pretender to learning: “he will sit you a whole afternoon sometimes in a bookseller’s shop, reading the Greek, Italian, and Spanish, when he understands not a word of either.” Orange is a mere simpleton who can say nothing but “O Lord, sir,” and “It pleases you to say so, sir.” In the “characters of the persons" (prefixed to the play) we are told that this “inseparable case of coxcombs ... being well flattered” will “lend money and repent when they have done. Their glory is to invite players and make suppers.” Dr. Brinsley Nicholson suggests that Orange was intended as a caricature of Dekker, and that Clove stands for Marston. This view is, doubtless, partly correct, but we must not insist on it too strongly. Dekker—whatever may be said of Marston—had no money to lend, and would rather have expected to sup at the players’ expense than to be made the shot-clog of the feast: again and again in The Poetaster he is ridiculed on the score of poverty. It is undeniable that Jonson, to raise a laugh against Marston, puts into Clove’s mouth grotesque words culled from The Scourge of Villainy. “Monsieur Orange,” whispers Clove to his companion, as they are walking in the middle aisle of Paul’s, “yon gallants observe us; prithee let’s talk fustian a little and gull them; make them believe we are great scholars.” Presently we have the passage containing the Marstonian words (which I have printed in italics):—

“Now, sirs, whereas the ingenuity of the time and the soul’s synderisis are but embryons in nature, added to the paunch of Esquiline,[16] and the intervallum of the zodiac, besides the ecliptic line being optic and not mental, but by the contemplative and theoric part thereof doth demonstrate to us the vegetable circumference and the ventosity of the tropics, and whereas our intellectual, or mincing capreal (according to the metaphysics) as you may read in Plato’s Histriomastix.[17] You conceive me, sir?"

In the first scene of the second act, Puntarvolo addresses Carlo Buffone as “thou Grand Scourge, or Second Untruss of the time,” in allusion to Marston’s Scourge of Villainy.

Cynthia’s Revels was produced in 1600 and printed in 1601. In this play, Anaides and Hedon are represented as being jealous of Crites, and as seeking by underhand means to bring him into discredit. It is certain that Jonson was glancing particularly at Marston and Dekker. In the second scene of the third act, Crites, defending himself against his two traducers, observes:—

“If good Chrestus,
Euthus, or Phronimus, had spoke the words,
They would have moved me, and I should have call’d
My thoughts and actions to a strict account
Upon the hearing; but when I remember
’Tis Hedon and Anaides, alas, then
I think but what they are, and am not stirr’d.
The one a light voluptuous reveller,
The other a strange arrogating puff,
Both impudent and arrogant enough;
That talk as they are wont, not as I merit;
Traduce by custom, as most dogs do bark;
Do nothing out of judgment, but disease;
Speak ill because they never could speak well:
And who’d be angry with this race of creatures?”

Dekker in Satiromastix[18] puts four of these lines (“I think but what they are ... arrogant enough”) into the mouth of Horace (Jonson), plainly assuming that the abuse was intended for Marston and himself. Marston, too, in What You Will (p. xlviii.), fastens on this speech of Crites and uses it as a weapon against Jonson. Cynthia’s Revels was quickly followed by The Poetaster, which was produced in 1601 by the Children of the Queen’s Chapel. Hitherto, Jonson had merely skirmished with his adversaries; in The Poetaster he assails them might and main with all the artillery of invective. Marston is ridiculed as Crispinus, and Dekker as Demetrius Fannius. Crispinus is represented as a coarse-minded, ill-conditioned fellow, albeit of gentle parentage, who, like the bore encountered by Horace in the Via Sacra, is prepared to adopt the meanest stratagems in order to gain admittance to the society of courtiers and wits. He plots with the shifty out-at-elbows Demetrius (a witless “dresser of plays about the town here,” to wit, Thomas Dekker), and a huffing Captain Tucca, to disgrace Horace (Ben Jonson). But the attempt results in a ludicrous failure; Crispinus and Demetrius are arraigned at a session of the poets, and, after receiving a severe rebuke for their calumnies, are contemptuously dismissed on taking oath for their future good behaviours. In court a dose of hellebore is administered to Crispinus, who thereupon proceeds to vomit up gobbets of Marston’s fustian vocabulary. When the physic has worked its effect Virgil gives Crispinus such advice as Lycinus gave to Lexiphanes in Lucian’s dialogue; bidding him form his style on classical models and not

“hunt for wild outlandish terms
To stuff out a peculiar dialect.”

The Poetaster was entered in the Stationers’ Register on 21st December 1601, and Satiromastix had already been entered on the 11th of the preceding month. The title-page of Satiromastix bears only Dekker’s name, and to Dekker the play is attributed in the Stationers’ Register. It was doubtless with Marston’s approval that Dekker took up the cudgels against the truculent Ben, but there is no evidence to show that Marston had any share in the authorship of Satiromastix. It is not necessary to deal here with Dekker’s spirited rejoinder, but there is one difficult passage, put into the mouth of Horace, to which passing attention must be called:—

“As for Crispinus, that Crispin-ass and Fannius his play-dresser, who (to make the Muses believe their subjests’ [sic] ears were starved and that there was a dearth of poesy) cut an innocent Moor i’th middle, to serve him in twice, and when he had done made Poules’ work of it; as for these twins, these poet-apes,

Their mimic tricks shall serve
With mirth to feast our muse whilst their own starve.”
(Works, 1873, i. 212.)

The meaning of this obscure passage seems to be that Marston and Dekker wrote in conjunction a play which had a Moor for its leading character; that the writers’ barren invention prompted them to treat the story again in a Second Part; and that the two parts, when they had served their time upon the stage, were published in Paul’s Churchyard. At least that is the only intelligible explanation that I can give to the words; but I am altogether unable to fix on any extant play, in which a Moor figures, that could be attributed to Marston and Dekker. From Henslowe’s Diary we know that Dekker was concerned in the authorship of a play called The Spanish Moor’s Tragedy (which has been doubtfully identified with Lust’s Dominion, printed in 1657 as a work of Marlowe’s); but Dekker’s coadjutors in that play were William Haughton and John Day.

It is curious to note that in the very year (1601) when the quarrel between Marston and Jonson reached a climax, the two enemies are contributing poems to the Divers Poetical Essays appended to Robert Chester’s tedious and obscure Love’s Martyr. The other contributors were Shakespeare and Chapman; Marston’s verses follow Shakespeare’s Phœnix and Turtle. In 1604, as we have noticed, Marston dedicated his Malcontent to Jonson in very cordial terms; and in 1605 he prefixed some complimentary verses to Sejanus.

In 1605 was published the comedy of The Dutch Courtezan, which had been acted by the Children’s Company at the Blackfriars. There is more of life and movement in this play than in any other of Marston’s productions. The character of the passionate and implacable courtesan, Franceschina, is conceived with masterly ability. Few figures in the Elizabethan drama are more striking than this fair vengeful fiend, who is as playful and pitiless as a tigress; whose caresses are sweet as honey and poisonous as aconite. All the characters are drawn with skill and spirit. Young Freevill is a typical Elizabethan gallant, very frank in his utterances, and not burthened with an excess of modesty. Malheureux, his moody friend, is noted for his strictness of life, but a glance from Franceschina scatters his virtuous resolutions, and he is ready at the temptress’ bidding to kill his friend in order to satisfy his passion. The innocent shamefaced Beatrice, affianced to young Freevill, is drawn with more tenderness than Marston usually shows; and her gay prattling sister Crispinella recalls (longo intervallo) another more famous Beatrice. Cockledemoy, the droll and nimble trickster, who at every turn dexterously cozens Master Mulligrub, the vintner, affords abundance of amusement; but his plain speaking shocks the sensitively chaste ears of Mary Faugh, the old bawd. Antony Nixon, in The Black Year, 1606, speaks of the play as “corrupting English conditions”;[19] but Nixon’s protest went for little. In December 1613 The Dutch Courtezan was acted at Court (Cunningham’s Extracts from the Accounts of the Revels, p. xliv.). Having received some alterations at the hands of Betterton, it was revived in 1680 under the title of The Revenge, or A Match in Newgate.

A singularly fresh and delightful study of city-life is the comedy of Eastward Ho, published in 1605. Three dramatists combined to produce this genial masterpiece—Chapman, Jonson, and Marston. It seems to have been written shortly after James’ accession, when the hungry Scots were swarming southwards in quest of preferment. Englishmen were justly indignant at the favours bestowed by James on these Scotch adventurers, and a passage in Eastward Ho stated the grievance very plainly. “You shall live freely there” [i.e., in Virginia], says Seagull, “without sergeants, or courtiers, or lawyers, or intelligencers, only a few industrious Scots, perhaps, who, indeed, are dispersed over the face of the whole earth. But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England, when they are out on’t, in the world, than they are. And for my part, I would a hundred thousand of ’hem were there, for we are all one countrymen now, ye know; and we should find ten times more comfort of them there than we do here.” At the instance of Sir James Graham, one of James’ newly-created knights, the playwrights were committed to prison[20] for their abuse of the Scots, and the report went that their ears were to be cut and their noses slit. Ben Jonson told Drummond that he had not contributed the objectionable matter, and that he voluntarily imprisoned himself with Chapman and Marston, who “had written it amongst them.” After his release from prison Jonson gave a banquet to “all his friends,” Camden and Selden being among the guests. In the middle of the banquet his old mother drank to him and produced a paper containing “lusty strong poison,” which she had intended, if the sentence had been confirmed, to take to the prison and mix in his drink; and she declared—to show “that she was no churl”—that “she minded first to have drunk of it herself.” The passage about the Scots is found only in some copies of the 4tos; in others it was expunged. Scotch pride seems to have been easily wounded. On 15th April, 1598, George Nicolson, the English agent at the Scotch Court, writing from Edinburgh to Lord Burghley, stated that “it is regretted that the Comedians of London should scorn the king and the people of this land in their play; and it is wished that the matter be speedily amended, lest the king and the country be stirred to anger” (Cal. of State Papers, Scotland, ii. 749). Certainly the reflections in Eastward Ho have somewhat more of bitterness than banter; but one would have thought that the favoured Scots about the Court would be content to let the matter pass. Sir James Murray was the person who acted as delator, and it is not improbable that he found in the play some uncomplimentary allusions to himself, in addition to the sweeping satire on his countrymen. In the first scene of the fourth act there is a curious passage which has no point unless we suppose that it is directed against some particular courtier:

“1st Gent. I ken the man weel; he’s one of my thirty pound knights.

“2d Gent. No, no, this is he that stole his knighthood o’ the grand day for four pound given to a page; all the money in’s purse, I wot well.”

Satirical references to King James’ knights, the men who purchased knighthood from the king, are as common as blackberries; but in the present passage there must be a covert allusion to some person who procured the honour by an unworthy artifice, and I suspect that the allusion is to Sir James Murray. It is surprising that, when the reflections on the Scots were expunged, the passage in iv. 1 was allowed to stand; for, whether Sir James Murray was or was not personally ridiculed, the mimicry of James’ Scotch accent is unmistakeable. Perhaps the king joined in the laugh against himself, when the play was acted before him by the Lady Elizabeth’s Servants at Whitehall on 25th January 1613-4 (Cunningham’s Extracts from the Account of the Revels, p. xliv.).

Of the merits of Eastward Ho it would be difficult to speak too highly. To any who are in need of a pill to purge melancholy this racy old comedy may be safely commended. Few readers, after once making his acquaintance, will forget Master Touchstone, the honest shrewd old goldsmith, rough of speech at times but ever gentle at heart, thrifty to outward show but bountiful as the sun in May: he lives in our affections with Orlando Friscobaldo and Simon Eyre. Quicksilver, the rowdy prentice, dazed from last night’s debauch, reciting in a thick voice stale scraps of Jeronymo as he reels about Master Touchstone’s shop, heedless of the maxims of temperance which frown in print from the walls; Golding, the well-conducted prentice, the apple of his master’s eye, armed at all points with virtue and sobriety; Gertrude, the goldsmith’s extravagant daughter, with her magnificent visions of coaches, and castles, and cherries at an angel a pound; Mildred, her sister, simple and dutiful; Mistress Touchstone, who has been infected with Gertrude’s vanity, but quickly learns penitence in the school of necessity; Sir Petronel Flash, the shifty knight, eager to escape from creditors and serjeants to the new-found land of Virginia; Security, the blood-sucker and egregious gull:—all these characters, and the list is not exhausted, stand limned in all the warmth of life. Mr. Swinburne, in his masterly essay on Chapman, says with truth that “in no play of the time do we get such a true taste of the old city life so often turned to mere ridicule by playwrights of less good humour, or feel about us such a familiar air of ancient London as blows through every scene.”

It is very certain that Marston could never have written single-handed so rich and genial a play. In all Marston’s comedies there is a strong alloy of bitterness; we are never allowed to rise from the comic feast with a pleasant taste in the mouth. What precise share Marston had in Eastward Ho it would be difficult to determine with any approach to certainty. In the very first scene (vol. iii. p. 8) we come across a passage which is distinctly in Marston’s manner:—

“I am entertained among gallants, true; they call me cousin Frank, right; I lend them monies, good; they spend it well.”

Compare a passage of The Fawn (vol. ii. p. 181):—

“His brother your husband, right; he cuckold his eldest brother, true; he get her with child, just.”

But in the same opening scene there are equally unmistakable signs of Jonson’s presence. Touchstone says of Golding:—“He is a gentleman, though my prentice ...; well friended, well parted.” The curious expression “well parted” will be at once recognised as Jonsonian by the vigilant reader, who will remember how Macilente, in “The Characters of the Persons” prefixed to Every Man out of his Humour,[21] is described as “A man well parted, a sufficient scholar,” &c. Jonson and Marston worked on the first scene together; and it seems to me that throughout the first two acts we have the mixed work of these two writers. In the second scene of the third act, as Mr. Swinburne notices, Chapman’s hand is clearly seen in the quaint allusion to “the ship of famous Draco.” Quicksilver’s moralising, in iv. 1, after he has scrambled ashore at Wapping on the night of the drunken shipwreck, is again in Chapman’s manner; but his elaborate devices for blanching copper and sweating angels (later in the same scene) must, without the shadow of a doubt, be ascribed to the invention of the author of The Alchemist. It would be of doubtful advantage to pursue the inquiry at length.

Eastward Ho was revived at Drury Lane on Lord Mayor’s day 1751, under the title of The Prentices (n. d. 12mo), and again in 1775 under the title of Old City Manners. Hogarth is said to have drawn from Eastward Ho the plan of his prints The Industrious and Idle Prentices. Nahum Tate’s farce Cuckold’s Haven, published in 1685, is drawn partly from Eastward Ho and partly from The Devil is an Ass.

Parasitaster, or the Fawn, published in 1606, takes us again to Italy, and once more we have to listen to a satirical exposure of the courtiers’ vices and follies. In spite of occasional tediousness the play is interesting. Dulcimel, Gonzago’s witty daughter, who gulls her self-conceited old father by a pretended discovery of Tiberio’s love for her, and succeeds by her blandishments in converting the young misogynist into a perfervid wooer, is a delightfully attractive heroine. The stratagem employed by Dulcimel is of ancient date: it is found in Terence’s Adelphi, Boccaccio’s Decameron (third tale of the third day), and Molière’s L’École des Maris. I am half inclined to suspect that Marston was slily glancing at the “wise fool” King James in the person of the silly and pedantic Gonzago; and it is probable that some social scandals of the time afforded material for the description of the intrigues of Gonzago’s courtiers. Granuffo, who gains a reputation for wisdom by never opening his mouth, might possibly be made an amusing character by an actor skilled in facial contortions; but the humour of the thing is not very apparent in print. Signior No in the Noble Spanish Soldier (attributed to Samuel Rowley, though the play may properly belong to Dekker), and Littleword in Nabbes’ Covent Garden, are somewhat similar characters. The address To the Equal Reader, prefixed to Parasitaster, is excellently written, and exhibits Marston in a very pleasant light. “For mine own interest for once,” he writes, with a frankness which is not without a touch of pathos, “let this be printed,—that of men of my own addiction I love most, pity some, hate none; for let me truly say it, I once only loved myself, for loving them, and surely I shall ever rest so constant to my first affection, that let their ungentle combinings, discourteous whisperings, never so treacherously labour to undermine my unfenced reputation, I shall (as long as I have being) love the least of their graces and only pity the greatest of their vices.” A candid and creditable avowal, but, alas, “words is wind and wind is mutable.” In the second edition there follows a briefer address, in which the writer promises to “present a tragedy which shall boldly abide the most curious perusal;” and from a marginal note we learn that the tragedy of Sophonisba, published in 1606, was the work which was so boldly to challenge criticism. It is to be feared that this cherished offspring of Marston’s imagination will not be regarded with affection by many readers. For hideous blood-curdling realism the description of the witch Erictho and her cave is, I venture to think, without a parallel in literature. Tough as whipcord must have been the nerves of an audience which could listen patiently to the recital of Erictho’s atrocities. If there were any women of delicate health among the audience, a repetition of the mishaps connected with the performance of the Eumenides must surely have been unavoidable. Regarded, however, as a whole, the play is not impressive. Sophonisba is a fearless and magnanimous heroine, but her temper is too masculine; she talks too much and too bluntly, and is too fond of striking an attitude. Syphax, the villain of the play, is so prodigiously brutal as to appear perfectly grotesque; and the hero Massinissa bores us by his trite moral reflections. Marston strove to produce a stately tragedy, and was under the impression that his efforts had been crowned with success; but candid readers will judge the performance to be stiff and crude, wanting in energy and dramatic movement, too rhetorical, “climbing to the height of Seneca his style.” In the prefatory address he has a hit at Sejanus (to which in the previous year he had contributed a copy of eulogistic verses), informing us that “to transcribe authors, quote authorities, and translate Latin prose orations into English blank verse, hath, in this subject, been the least aim of my studies.” But Sejanus has certainly not less of dramatic interest than Sophonisba, and in other respects it is far superior.

In 1607 was published the comedy of What You Will (written, I suspect, shortly after the appearance of Cynthia’s Revels), which is largely indebted for its plot to Plautus’s Amphitruo. In the Induction, Marston again has his fling at Ben Jonson. Philomusus’ heated denunciation of censorious critics,

“Believe it, Doricus, his spirit
Is higher blooded than to quake and pant
At the report of Scoff’s artillery,” &c.,

was evidently written in derisive mimicry of Jonson’s scornful addresses to the audience; and Doricus’ remonstrance,

“Now out upon’t, I wonder what tight brain
Wrung in this custom to maintain contempt
’Gainst common censure,” &c.,

was unquestionably intended as a stiff rebuke to Jonson’s towering arrogance. But these strokes of personal satire are not confined to the Induction. Quadratus’ scathing ridicule of Lampatho Doria, in the first scene of the second act, was certainly aimed at some adversary of Marston’s; and there can be little doubt that this adversary was Ben Jonson. Lampatho is described in the following terms by his admirer Simplicius Faber:—

“Monsieur Laverdure, do you see that gentleman? He goes but in black satin, as you see, but, by Helicon! he hath a cloth of tissue wit. He breaks a jest;[22] ha, he’ll rail against the court till the gallants—O God! he is very nectar: if you but sip of his love, you were immortal.”

At first Lampatho speaks the language of an affected gallant; it is nothing but “protest” with him. Quadratus is disgusted with him:—

“A fusty cask
Devote to mouldy customs of hoary eld.”

After listening to much abuse, Lampatho turns on his assailant:—

“So Phœbus warm my brain, I’ll rhyme thee dead.
Look for the satire: if all the sour juice
Of a tart brain can souse thy estimate,
I’ll pickle thee.”

The threat only irritates Quadratus the more:—

“Why, you Don Kinsayder!
Thou canker-eaten rusty cur, thou snaffle
To freer spirits!
Think’st thou a libertine, an ungyved breast,
Scorns not the shackles of thy envious clogs?
You will traduce us unto public scorn?”

Curious that Marston should apply his own nom de plume “Kinsayder” to the adversary whom he is bullying! In the Scourge of Villainy he sneered at his own poem Pygmalion, and here he is referring contemptuously to his own achievements in satire. A man who openly ridicules himself blunts the edge of an enemy’s sarcasm.

We have seen (p. xxxiii.) that Crites’ bitter abuse of Anaides and Hedon (i.e., Marston and Dekker), in Cynthia’s Revels, was flung back in Jonson’s face by Dekker. Marston puts into the mouth of Quadratus a speech, modelled closely on those lines of Crites:—

“Lam. O sir, you are so square, you scorn reproof.”
“Qua. No, sir; should discreet Mastigophorus,
Or the dear spirit acute Canaidus
(That Aretine, that most of me beloved,
Who in the rich esteem I prize his soul,
I term myself); should these once menace me,
Or curb my humour with well-govern’d check,
I should with most industrious regard,
Observe, abstain, and curb my skipping lightness;
But when an arrogant, odd, impudent,
A blushless forehead, only out of sense
Of his own wants, bawls in malignant questing
At others’ means of waving gallantry,—
Pight foutra!”

Who “discreet Mastigophorus” and “acute Canaidus” were it would be useless to conjecture. But it is not to be doubted that Quadratus’ abuse of Lampatho was levelled at Ben Jonson; and that Marston was avenging himself in this way for the insults showered upon him by Jonson. In iv. 1, Quadratus sneers at Lampatho’s verse. Lampatho threatens to be revenged. “How, prithee?” says Quadratus; “in a play? Come, come, be sociable.”

The tragedy of The Insatiate Countess was published in 1613, with Marston’s name on the title-page. In the Duke of Devonshire’s library there is a copy,[23] dated 1616, with no name on the title-page. The play was reprinted in 1631, and Marston’s name is found on the title-page of most copies of that edition; but the Duke of Devonshire possesses a copy,[24] in which the author’s name is given as William Barksteed. In the collected edition of Marston’s plays, 1633, The Insatiate Countess is not included. It is therefore clear that Marston’s authorship is not established by external evidence. When we come to examine the play itself, which has unfortunately descended in a most corrupt state, the difficulty is not removed. Two picturesque lines at the close of the last scene,

“Night, like a masque, is enter’d heaven’s great hall,
With thousand torches ushering the way,”

are found verbatim in Barksteed’s poem Myrrha. We know little of Barksteed, but it is probable that he is to be identified with the William Barksted, or Backsted, who was one of Prince Henry’s players in August 1611 (Collier’s Memoirs of Edward Alleyn, p. 98), and belonged to the company of the Prince Palatine’s players in March 1615-6 (ibid., p. 126). He is the author of two poems,[25] which display some graceful fancy (though the subject of the first is ill-chosen),—Myrrha the Mother of Adonis, 1607, and Hiren and the Fair Greek, 1611. As we read The Insatiate Countess we cannot fail to notice passages containing a richness of fancy, and a musical fluency of expression, to which Marston’s undoubted plays afford no parallel. The italicised lines are certainly not in Marston’s vein:—

“Like to the lion when he hears the sound
Of Dian’s bowstring in some shady wood,
I should have couched my lowly limb on earth
And held my silence a proud sacrifice.”
“Others, compared to her, show like faint stars
To the full moon of wonder in her face.”

Again: the play contains an unusually large number of imitations of Shakespearean passages. In fact I know no play of this early date in which Shakespeare is so persistently imitated or plagiarised. Again and again we find images and expressions borrowed more or less closely from Hamlet. Shakespeare’s historical plays, too, were laid under contribution. In the very first scene we have these lines:—

“Slave, I will fight with thee at any odds;
Or name an instrument fit for destruction,
That e’er was made to make away a man,
I’ll meet thee on the ridges of the Alps,
Or some inhospitable wilderness.”

A very cool piece of plagiarism from Richard II. (i. 1):—

“Which to maintain I would allow him odds
And meet him, were I tied to run a-foot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps
Or any other ground inhabitable.”

In the lines,

“The ghosts of misers that imprison’d gold
Within the harmless bowels of the earth,”

the italicised words were unquestionably suggested by a passage of Hotspur’s famous speech in Henry IV., i. 2,—

“That villainous salt-petre should be digg’d
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth.“

When Don Sago in iv. 3 exclaims—

“A hundred times in life a coward dies,”

we are immediately reminded of Shakespeare’s Julius Cæsar (ii. 2),

“Cowards die many times before their death;”

and Sago’s lament in v. 1,

“Although ... the waves of all the Northern sea
Should flow for ever through these guilty hands,
Yet the sanguinolent stain would extant be,”

decidedly smacks of Macbeth. Occasionally, it is true, Marston does not scruple to borrow from Shakespeare, but in none of his plays are the Shakespearean echoes so clear and frequent as in The Insatiate Countess. The text, as I have said, is extremely corrupt, and the confusion among the dramatis personæ is perplexing to the last degree (see note, vol. iii. p. 154). I suspect that Marston, on entering the church, left this tragedy in a fragmentary state, and that it was completed by the actor Barksteed. The whole interest centres in the beautiful and sinful Isabella, whose wayward glances, as she moves in splendour, fascinate all beholders; who is indeed a “glorious devil” without shame or pity, boundless and insatiable as the sea in the enormity of her caprices.

In addition to his plays, his poem of Pygmalion, and his satires, Marston wrote a Latin pageant on the occasion of the visit paid by the King of Denmark to James I. in 1606, and an entertainment, which is not without elegance, in honour of a visit paid by the Dowager Countess of Derby to her son-in-law and daughter, Lord and Lady Huntingdon, at Ashby. I strongly doubt whether The Mountebank’s Masque, performed at Court in February 1616-17 (when Marston was attending to his clerical duties in Hampshire), has been correctly assigned to Marston.

There are two anonymous plays[26] in which Marston’s hand is plainly discernible,—Histriomastix, published in 1610, and Jack Drum’s Entertainment, published in 1616. It has been mentioned (see note, p. xxxii.) that Jonson in Every Man out of his Humour puts into Clove’s mouth, with the object of ridiculing Marston, words and expressions found in Histriomastix (coupling them with flowers of speech culled from The Scourge of Villainy), and even mentions the play by name—“as you may read in Plato’s Histriomastix.” Only in a few scenes of Histriomastix can Marston’s hand be detected. It is a poor semi-allegorical play, a clumsy piece of patchwork. Marston’s additions must have been made before Christmas 1599 (when Every Man out of his Humour was produced), on the occasion of some revival. The following lines, which occur early in the second act, seem to refer to Ben Jonson:—

“How, you translating scholar? You can make
A stabbing satire or an epigram,
And think you carry just Rhamnusia’s whip
To lash the patient! go, get you clothes:
Our free-born blood such apprehension loathes.”

Jack Drum’s Entertainment, an indifferent comedy, which appears to have been written about the year 1600,[27] bears the clearest traces of Marston’s early style. All the monstrous phraseology of The Scourge of Villainy and Antonio and Mellida is seen here in perfection. When Jonson in The Poetaster (v. 1) ridiculed Marston’s absurd vocabulary, he selected, inter alia, for castigation, some expressions which occur only in Jack Drum, and are not found (in so closely parallel a form) in the works published under Marston’s name: clear proof that the authorship of this play is to be ascribed, at least in part if not entirely, to Marston. In act iii. of Jack Drum we have—

“Crack not the sinews of my patience,”

which is ridiculed in The Poetaster—

“As if his organons of sense would crack
The sinews of my patience.”

In act ii. are these ridiculous lines—

“Let clumsy chilblain’d gouty wits
Bung up their chief contents within the hoops
Of a stuff’d dry-fat;”

so in The Poetaster—

“Upon that puft-up lump of barmy froth,
Or clumsy chilblain’d judgment.”

In act iv. Planet’s reflections on the arrogant Old Brabant are clearly directed against Jonson.

Collier in his Memoirs of Edward Alleyn (p. 154) printed a letter of Marston to Henslowe; but, as “the whole letter is manifestly a forgery, having been first traced in pencil, the marks of which are in places still visible” (Warner’s Catalogue of Dulwich Manuscripts and Muniments, p. 49), this relic is of no interest. Another letter, addressed to Lord Kimbolton by a “John Marston,"[28] is printed in Collier’s Shakespeare[29] (i. 179, ed. 1858); but as it was written in 1641, the writer could not have been the dramatist, who died in 1634. Among the additional MSS. (14,824-6) in the British Museum is a poem entitled The New Metamorphosis, or a Feast of Fancy or Poetical Legends ... Written by J. M., Gent., 1600, which has been, not very wisely, ascribed to Marston. I must confess that I have only a superficial acquaintance with this poem; but, as the work fills nearly nine hundred closely-packed pages, I trust that my confession will not be severely criticised. After the title-page is a leaf containing the arguments of books i.-vi.; then comes a new title-page An Iliad of Metamorphosis or the Arraignment of Vice, followed by a dialogue between Cupid and Momus. Six lines headed “The Author to his Book” follow the dialogue, and then comes “The Epistle Dedicatory,” consisting of a couple of lines—

“To Momus, that same ever-carping mate,
And unto Cupid I this dedicate.”

After the commendably brief epistle come two lines which inform us that—

“My name is French, to tell you in a word;
Yet came not in with conquering William’s sword.”

(Marston’s name was certainly not French; it was a good old Shropshire name.) The prologue begins thus:—

“Upon the public stage to Albion’s eye
I here present my new-born poesy,
Not with vain-glory puft to make it known,
Nor Indian-like with feathers not mine own
To deck myself, as many use to do;
To filching lines I am a deadly foe,” &c.

Presently the poet indulges in his invocation:—

“Matilda fair, guide you my wand’ring quill!”

Having turned some thirty thousand verses off the reel, “J. M., Gent.” abruptly concludes, with the remark,—

“My leave I here of poetry do take,
For I have writ until my hand doth ache.”

There is a fine field for an editor in The New Metamorphosis; virgin soil, I warrant.

Manningham in his Diary, under date 21st November 1602, has been at the pains to record a bon mot of Marston:—“Jo. Marstone, the last Christmas, when he daunct with Alderman Mores wives daughter, a Spaniard borne, fell into a strange commendation of hir witt and beauty. When he had done she thought to pay him home, and told him, she thought he was a poet. ’Tis true, said he, for poets feigne and lye, and soe did I, when I commended your beauty, for you are exceeding foule.” Not a very witty saying, and not very polite.

In 1633, William Sheares the publisher issued, in 1 vol. sm. 8vo, The Workes[30] of Mr. John Marston, being Tragedies and Comedies collected into one volume containing the two parts of Antonio and Mellida, Sophonisba, What You Will, The Fawn, and The Dutch Courtezan. The following dedicatory epistle to Viscountess Falkland, in which the publisher insists on the modesty (save the mark!) of Marston’s Muse, is found in some copies:—

“To the Right Honourable, the Lady Elizabeth Carey, Viscountess Falkland.

“Many opprobies and aspersions have not long since been cast upon Plays in general, and it were requisite and expedient that they were vindicated from them; but, I refer that task to those whose leisure is greater, and learning more transcendent. Yet, for my part, I cannot perceive wherein they should appear so vile and abominable, that they should be so vehemently inveighed against. Is it because they are Plays? The name, it seems, somewhat offends them; whereas, if they were styled Works, they might have their approbation also. I hope that I have now somewhat pacified that precise sect, by reducing all our Author’s several Plays into one volume, and so styled them The Works of Mr. John Marston, who was not inferior unto any in this kind of writing, in those days when these were penned; and, I am persuaded, equal unto the best poets of our times. If the lines be not answerable to my encomium of him, yet herein bear with him, because they were his Juvenilia and youthful recreations. Howsoever, he is free from all obscene speeches, which is the chief cause that makes Plays to be so odious unto most men. He abhors such writers, and their works; and hath professed himself an enemy to all such as stuff their scenes with ribaldry, and lard their lines with scurrilous taunts and jests; so that, whatsoever, even in the spring of his years, he hath presented upon the private and public theatre, now, in his autumn and declining age, he need not be ashamed of. And, were it not that he is so far distant from this place, he would have been more careful in revising the former impressions, and more circumspect about this, than I can. In his absence, Noble Lady, I have been emboldened to present these Works unto your Honour’s view; and the rather, because your Honour is well acquainted with the Muses. In brief, Fame hath given out that your Honour is the mirror of your sex, the admiration, not only of this island, but of all adjacent countries and dominions, which are acquainted with your rare virtues and endowments. If your Honour shall vouchsafe to accept this work, I, with my book, am ready pressed and bound to be

“Your truly devoted,

“WILLIAM SHEARES.”

Ben Jonson’s copy of the 1633 edition of Marston’s plays is preserved in the Dyce Library at South Kensington.

Marston’s literary career barely covers a space of ten years: his satires were published in 1598, and he seems to have entered the Church, and to have abandoned the writing of plays, about the year 1607. It is hard to picture Marston as a preacher of the Gospel of Glad Tidings. Were we to judge him by his writings we should say that he was a scornful spirit, at strife with himself and with the world; a man convinced of the hollowness of present life, and yet not looking forward hopefully to any future sphere of activity; only anxious to drop into the jaws of that oblivion which he invoked in his verse and courted even on his gravestone. There was another, a greater than Marston, who began by writing satires and ended by writing sermons. Marston’s sermons have perished, but the sermons of John Donne,[31] Dean of St. Paul’s, are imperishable. At the thought of that oblivion for which Marston hungered the soul of Donne turned sick. “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” Fearful indeed; but “to fall out of the hands of the living God,” said Donne in a sermon preached before the Earl of Carlisle, “is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.” In a strain of marvellous eloquence he proceeds; and surely no utterance of poet or divine is more pitiful and passionate than this cry wrung from the heart of the great Dean Donne:—

“That God should let my soul fall out of His hand into a bottomless pit and roll an unremovable stone upon it, ... and never think more of that soul, never have more to do with it; that of that providence of God, that studies the life of every weed, and worm, and ant, and spider, and toad, and viper, there should never, never any beam flow out upon me; that that God, who looked upon me, when I was nothing, and called me when I was not, as though I had been, out of the womb and depth of darkness, will not look upon me now, when, though a miserable, and a banished, and a damned creature, yet I am His creature still, and contribute something to His glory, even in my damnation; that that God, who hath often looked upon me in my foullest uncleanness, and when I had shut out the eye of the day, the sun, and the eye of the night, the taper, and the eyes of all the world, with curtains and windows and doors, did yet see me, and see me in mercy, by making me see that He saw me, and sometimes brought me to a present remorse and (for that time) to a forbearing of that sin, should so turn Himself from me to His glorious Saints and Angels, as that no Saint nor Angel nor Christ Jesus Himself should ever pray Him to look towards me, never remember Him that such a soul there is; that that God,—who hath so often said to my soul Quare morieris? Why wilt thou die? and so often sworn to my soul Vivit Dominus, As the Lord liveth I would not have thee die but live,—will neither let me die nor let me live, but die an everlasting life and live an everlasting death; that that God, who when He could not get into me by standing and knocking, by His ordinary means of entering, by His word, His mercies, hath applied His judgments and hath shaked the house, this body, with agues and palsies, and set this house on fire with fevers and calentures, and frighted the master of the house, my soul, with horrors and heavy apprehensions, and so made an entrance into me; that that God should frustrate all His own purposes and practises upon me, and leave me and cast me away, as though I had cost Him nothing; that this God at last should let this soul go away, as a smoke, as a vapour, as a bubble, and that then this soul cannot be a smoke, a vapour, nor a bubble, but must lie in darkness, as long as the Lord of light is light itself, and never spark of that light reach to my soul: what Tophet is not Paradise, what brimstone is not amber, what gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage-bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God!”

ADDENDA.

Vol. i. page 13. “Blind Gew.”—I have come upon a mention of this actor in the fifth satire of Edward Guilpin’s Skialetheia, 1598:—

“But who’s in yonder coach? my lord and fool,
One that for ape-tricks can put Gue to school.”

Guilpin’s eleventh epigram is addressed “To Gue”:—

“Gue, hang thyself for woe, since gentlemen
Are now grown cunning in thy apishness,” &c.

Page 15, line 17. “Heavy dryness.”—I was wrong in accepting the reading of ed. 1633 in preference to the “heathy dryness” of ed. 1602. Heathy is a Marstonian word; and we find it in act iv. of Jack Drum’s Entertainment:—

“Good faith, troth is they are all apes and gulls,
Vile imitating spirits, dry heathy turfs.”

Page 60, line 256. Dr. Nicholson proposes “Her own heels, God knows, are not half so light”—a good emendation.

Page 239, line 21. “Distilled oxpith,” &c.—We have a similar list of provocatives in John Mason’s Turk, first published in 1610, but written some years previously:—

“Here is a compound of Cantharides, diositerion, marrow of an ox, hairs of a lion, stones of a goat, cock-sparrows’ brains, and such like.” (Sig. F. 3, verso.)

Page 311, lines 88, 89. “Life is a frost ... vanity.”—I have discovered that these lines are from an epigram in Thomas Bastard’s Chrestoleros, 1598, sig. H. I quote the epigram in full, as it is of striking solemnity:—

“When I behold with deep astonishment
To famous Westminster how there resort,
Living in brass or stony monument,
The princes and the worthies of all sort,
Do not I see reform’d nobility
Without contempt or pride or ostentation?
And look upon offenceless majesty
Naked of pomp or earthly domination?
And how a play-game of a painted stone
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites
Whom all the world, which late they stood upon,
Could not content nor squench [sic] their appetites?
Life is a frost of cold felicity
And death the thaw of all our vanity.”

Vol. ii. page 355, line 274. Mr. P. A. Daniel suggests that for “others’ fate” we should read “adverse fate.”

Vol. iii. page 51, lines 41-2. “But a little higher, but a little higher,” &c.—These lines are from a song of Campion, beginning—

“Mistress, since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupid’s fire,” &c.

No. xvi. in Campion and Rosseter’s Book of Airs, 1601. They occur again in Campion’s Fourth Book of Airs, No. xxii.

Page 243, line 247. “Like Mycerinus,” &c.—I notice that a similar emendation is made, in a seventeenth century hand, in the margin of one of Dyce’s copies at South Kensington. My emendation was printed before I discovered that it had been anticipated.

ERRATA.

VOL. I.

Page 64, line 48, for Tyrrian read Tyrian.

Page 120, note 2, for Grumean read Grumeau.

Page 159, note 1, for “The star-led wisards hasten” read “The star-led wisards haste.”

Page 191, after “Antonii Vindictæ” the word “Finis” should be added (i.e., “End of Antonio’s Revenge”).

VOL. II.

Page 125, note 2, after “The Famous History of Fryer” add “Bacon.”

Page 322, line 15, for “Sir Signior” read “Sir, Signior” (comma after “Sir”).

Page 363, for “Still went on went I” read “Still on went I” (an annoying blunder).

Page 394, lines 158-9, in “delicious, sweet” the comma should be struck out, as “sweet” is doubtless to be taken as a substantive.

VOL. III.

Page 3, five lines from the bottom, read “insists on starting.”

Page 342, note 2, in “Huc usque of Xylinum” del. “of.”

ADDITIONAL CORRECTIONS AND EMENDATIONS.

For the following corrections and emendations I am indebted to Mr. P. A. Daniel. I am sorry that I did not have them earlier.

First I will correct the actual mistakes for which I must bear the responsibility (in whole or part).

Vol. i., page xxxviii., line 11, for “Sir James Graham” read “Sir James Murray.”

Vol. i., page 26, line 205, for “The first thing he spake” read “The first word that he spake.”

Vol. i., page 60, line 263, for “in time to come” the old eds. read “time to come.” (I prefer "in time,” but should not have added "in” silently.)

Vol. i., page 89, line 296, “His father’s” [fathers] is the reading of ed. 1602; but ed. 1633 gives “His father”—a better reading.

Vol. i., page 121, line 318, for “aspish” read “apish.”

Vol. i., page 175, line 78, for “scorn’d” read “scorn’t.”

Vol. ii., page 17, the stage-direction “Enter Cocledemoy” is superfluous.

Vol. ii., page 28, line 160, for “feast o’ grace” (where old eds. give fiest) read “fist o’ grace,” and compare page 42, line 58, &c.

Vol. ii., page 32, line 33, for “not swaggering” read “not of swaggering.”

Vol. ii., page 109. The address should be headed “To my Equal Reader.”

Vol. ii., page 197, line 417, for “show” read “sue” (the reading of ed. 1633).

Vol. ii., page 213, line 92, delete “not.”

Vol. ii., page 222, line 308, in “thy vice from apparent here” delete “from.” (But query “thy vice from apparent heir”?)

Vol. ii., page 277, line 117, “All but Zanthia and Vangue depart.” Unquestionably these words are a stage-direction. They are printed as part of the text in ed. 1633; but in ed. 1606 they are italicised, and (though printed in the same line as “Withdraw, withdraw”) evidently form part of the previous stage-direction.

Vol. ii., page 328, for “For many debts” read “For many many debts.”

Vol. ii., page 341, line 227, for “For” read “Fore.”

Vol. ii., page 346, line 51, for “hoary eld” ed. 1607 reads “hoard,” and ed. 1633 “hoar’d.” Probably the true reading is “hoar.”

Vol. ii., page 369, lines 37-38. These lines have been transposed by my printers; line 38 ("And those that rank,” &c.) should stand before line 37 (“Study a faint salute,” &c.).

In the foregoing instances it is I who am chiefly to blame, and not the old copies. I now come to Mr. Daniel’s valuable emendations.

Vol. i., page 8, line 35, for “great” read “create” (an excellent emendation).

Vol. i., page 32, line 56. Does not this speech belong to Feliche?

Vol. i., page 53, line 107. The prefix should be “Cat.”

Vol. i., page 60, line 247. Add the stage-direction “Exit Antonio.”

Vol. i., page 70, line 182. Mr. Daniel suggests that for “Spavento” (an awkward word here) we should read “Speranza.”

Vol. i., page 110. “Enter Antonio,” &c.—Strike out the names of Feliche and Forobosco.

Vol. i., page 128, line 107, for “How could he come on?” Mr. Daniel proposes “How coldly he comes on!”

[Vol. i., page 142, line 2. In old eds. the line stands thus:—“Bout heauens brow. (12) Tis now starke dead night.” The bracketed “(12)” I expanded into a stage-direction; but Mr. Swinburne suggests to me that “the word ‘twelve’—ejaculated by Antonio on hearing the clock strike—is wanted for the metre.” If we are to insert the word “twelve” I should place it at the end of the line.]

Vol. i., page 145, line 54, for “The neat gay mists of the light’s not up” Mr. Daniel suggests “The neat gay mistress,” &c. (i.e., Aurora)—an admirable emendation.

[Vol. i., page 150, line 190, for “swell thy hour out” Mr. Swinburne proposes “honour.” If any change is needed I should prefer to read “horror;” but “hour” frequently has a dissyllabic value.]

Vol. i., page 151, line 211, for “night-ghosts and graves” Mr. Daniel would read “Night (i.e., good-night), ghosts and graves.”

Vol. i., page 156, line 99, for “Why lags delay” Mr. Daniel would read “Why, lags, delay?” taking lags as a substantive (“the sooty coursers of the night”).

Vol. i., page 158, line 41. I should have mentioned in a footnote that “stirs” is an old form of “steers.”

[Vol. i., page 172, line 22. Mr. Swinburne doubts whether my correction “see” for “sir” is necessary, as the apostrophe “sir” or “sirs” is occasionally found in a monologue.]

Vol. ii., page 9, line 54. Here, and in line 58, the prefix should be “Tys.”; and at line 62 Tysefew’s exit should be marked.

Vol. ii., page 16. At the bottom of the page should be marked “Exit Mary,” and at line 180 “Exit Cocledemoy.”

Vol. ii., page 86. “Enter Franceschina,” &c. Among those who enter should be included “Freeville disguised.”

Vol. ii., page 93, line 46. “Ha, get you gone.” It is a question whether these words apply to Freeville’s disguise or are addressed to musicians. (In spite of line 32, “I bring some music,” it is doubtful whether there are any musicians on the stage.)

Vol. ii., page 139, line 111. “Nymphadoro, in direct phrase.” Mr. Daniel proposes (rightly) to read:— “Nym. In direct phrase,” &c.

Vol. ii., page 145, line 252. This speech should probably be given to Herod.

Vol. ii., page 153, line 460. The prefix should doubtless be “Zuc.”

Vol. ii., page 154, lines 477, 478. “And nose” should doubtless be given to Hercules, and “And brain” to Zuccone.

Vol. ii., page 157, line 569. The old. eds give “Venice duke,” but we should read “Urbin’s duke” (cf. page 226, line 444).

Vol. ii., page 171, line 299. Mr. Daniel suggests that we should place a full stop after the word “speaks” and read “His signs to me and mien of profound reach.”

Vol. ii., page 248, line 134. The words “No more: I bleed” appear to belong to the wounded Carthalon.

Vol. ii., page 261, lines 21, 22. Query “bemoan’t” and “revenge’t”?

Vol. ii., page 414, line 244, for “prolonged” Mr. Daniel ingeniously suggests “prologued.”

Vol. iii., page 214, line 78, for “faint” Mr. Daniel proposes “feigned” (a certain emendation). In line 91, for “I resisted” he proposes “if resisted.”

Vol. iii., page 240, line 166, for “stung” Mr. Daniel proposes “stone.”

Mr. Daniel sends me the following note on the plot of What You Will:—

“A somewhat similar plot is found in I Morti Vivi, Comedia, del molto excellente signore Sforza D’Oddi, nell’Academia degli Insensati detto Forsennato, 1576. Oranta, a lady of Naples, whose husband, Tersandro, is supposed drowned at sea, is about to re-marry with Ottavio. Luigi, another suitor for her hand, to hinder the marriage conspires with others to induce one Iancola to personate Tersandro. Tersandro, however, has escaped the sea, and arrives to find himself denied by his own family (who have discovered Luigi’s plot), and to be mistaken by the conspirators themselves for Iancola. Tersandro’s adventures till his identity is established are somewhat similar to those of Albano in What You Will.

“D’Oddi apparently derived many incidents of his plot from the Greek romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, by Achilles Tatius; as also did Anibal Caro for his comedy of Gli Straccioni, 1582.”

FIRST PART\[Pg 1]

OF

ANTONIO AND MELLIDA.

The History of Antonio and Mellida. The first part. As it hath beene sundry times acted, by the children of Paules. Written by I. M. London Printed for Mathewe Lownes, and Thomas Fisher, and are to be soulde in Saint Dunstans Church-yarde. 1602. 4to.

STORY OF THE PLAY.

Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, being utterly defeated in a sea-fight by Piero Sforza, Duke of Venice, and banished by the Genoways, conceals himself, with Lucio (an old courtier) and a page, among the marshes round Venice. Piero proclaims throughout Italy that whoever brings the head of Andrugio or of Andrugio’s son, Antonio (who is in love with Piero’s daughter, Mellida), shall receive a reward of twenty thousand pistolets. Antonio disguises himself as an Amazon, and, obtaining an interview with Mellida, announces that her lover has been drowned at sea. The pretended Amazon is received as a guest in Piero’s palace, and there quickly discovers himself to Mellida. Arrangements are made by the lovers to escape to England; but Piero gaining intelligence (through a letter that Mellida has dropped) of the intended flight, the plot is frustrated and Mellida escapes to the marshes in the disguise of a page. While Piero is giving orders for Antonio’s arrest, a sailor rushes forward, pretending to be in hot pursuit of Antonio towards the marshes. The pursuer is Antonio himself, who had assumed the disguise of a sailor at the instance of Feliche, a high-minded gentleman of the Venetian court. Piero gives the pretended sailor his signet-ring that he may pass the watch and not be hindered in the pursuit. Arrived at the marshes, Antonio, distracted with grief for the fall of his father and for the loss of Mellida, flings himself prostrate on the ground. Presently Andrugio approaches with Lucio and the page, and a joyful meeting ensues between father and son. Andrugio and Lucio retire to a cave which they had fitted up as a dwelling, and Antonio, promising to quickly rejoin them, stays to hear a song from Andrugio’s page. Meanwhile Mellida, disguised as a page, approaches unobserved, and hearing her name passionately pronounced, recognises the sailor as Antonio. She discovers herself to her lover, and after a brief colloquy despatches him across the marsh to observe whether any pursuers are in sight. Hardly has Antonio departed when Piero and his followers come up, and Mellida is drawn from a thicket where she had concealed herself. Piero hastens back to the court with his daughter, whom he resolves to marry out of hand to Galeatzo, son of the Duke of Florence. Antonio, returning in company with Andrugio and Lucio to the spot where he had left Mellida, learns from Andrugio’s page that she has been carried away. Andrugio now separates himself from Antonio and Lucio; proceeds, clad in a complete suit of armour, to the court of Piero, and announces that he has come to claim the reward offered for Andrugio’s head. Piero declares his willingness to pay the reward; and then Andrugio, raising his beaver, discovers himself to Piero and the assembled courtiers. Piero affects to be struck with admiration for his adversary’s magnanimity, and professes friendship for the future. A funeral procession now enters, followed by Lucio, who announces that he has brought the body of Antonio. Andrugio mourns for the death of his son and Piero affects to share his grief, protesting that he would give his own life or his daughter’s hand to purchase breath for the dead man. Thereupon Antonio, who had died only in conceit, rises from the bier and claims the hand of Mellida. Piero assents, and the First Part of Antonio and Mellida closes joyfully.

To the only rewarder and most just poiser of virtuous merits, the most honourably renowned Nobody,[32] bounteous Mecænas of poetry and Lord Protector of oppressed innocence, do dedicoque.

Since it hath flowed with the current of my humorous blood to affect (a little too much) to be seriously fantastical, here take (most respected Patron) the worthless present of my slighter idleness. If you vouchsafe not his protection, then, O thou sweetest perfection (Female Beauty), shield me from the stopping of vinegar bottles. Which most wished favour if it fail me, then Si nequeo flectere superos, Acheronta movebo. But yet, honour’s redeemer, virtue’s advancer, religion’s shelter, and piety’s fosterer, yet, yet, I faint not in despair of thy gracious affection and protection; to which I only shall ever rest most servingman-like, obsequiously making legs and standing (after our free-born English garb) bareheaded. Thy only affied slave and admirer,

J. M.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.[33]

Piero Sforza, Duke of Venice.
Andrugio, Duke of Genoa.
Antonio, son to Andrugio, in love with Mellida.
Feliche, a high-minded courtier.
Alberto, a Venetian gentleman, in love with Rossaline.
Balurdo, a rich gull.
Matzagente, a modern braggadoch, son to the Duke of Milan.
Galeatzo, son to the Duke of Florence, a suitor to Mellida.
Forobosco, a Parasite.
Castilio Balthazar, a spruce courtier.
Lucio,[34] an old nobleman, friend to Andrugio.
Catzo, page to Castilio.
Dildo, page to Balurdo.
Painter, Andrugio’s page, &c.

Mellida, daughter to Piero, in love with Antonio.
Rossaline, niece to Piero.
Flavia, a waiting-woman.

Scene—Venice and the Neighbourhood.

INDUCTION.[35]

Enter Galeatzo, Piero, Alberto, Antonio, Forobosco, Balurdo, Matzagente, and Feliche, with parts in their hands; having cloaks cast over their apparel.

Gal. Come, sirs, come! the music will sound straight for entrance. Are ye ready, are ye perfect?

Pier. Faith! we can say our parts; but we are ignorant in what mould we must cast our actors.

Alb. Whom do you personate?

Pier. Piero, Duke of Venice.

Alb. O! ho! then thus frame your exterior shape
To haughty form of elate majesty,
As if you held the palsy-shaking head
Of reeling chance under your fortune’s belt    10
In strictest vassalage: grow big in thought,
As swoln with glory of successful arms.

Pier. If that be all, fear not; I’ll suit it right.
Who cannot be proud, stroke up the hair, and strut?

Alb. Truth; such rank custom is grown popular;
And now the vulgar fashion strides as wide,
And stalks as proud upon the weakest stilts
Of the slight’st fortunes, as if Hercules
Or burly Atlas shoulder’d up their state.

Pier. Good: but whom act you?    20

Alb. The necessity[36] of the play forceth me to act two parts: Andrugio, the distressed Duke of Genoa, and Alberto, a Venetian gentleman, enamoured on the Lady Rossaline; whose fortunes being too weak to sustain the port of her, he proved always disastrous in love; his worth being much underpoised by the uneven scale, that currents all things by the outward stamp of opinion.

Gal. Well, and what dost thou play?

Bal. The part of all the world.

Alb. The part of all the world? What’s that?    30

Bal. The fool. Ay, in good deed law now, I play Balurdo, a wealthy mountbanking burgomasco’s heir of Venice.

Alb. Ha! ha! one whose foppish nature might seem great, only for wise men’s recreation; and, like a juiceless bark, to preserve the sap of more strenuous spirits. A servile hound, that loves the scent of forerunning fashion, like an empty hollow vault, still giving an echo to wit: greedily champing what any other well valued judgment had beforehand chew’d.[37]    40

Foro. Ha! ha! ha! tolerably good, good faith, sweet wag.

Alb. Umph; why tolerably good, good faith, sweet wag? Go, go; you flatter me.

Foro. Right; I but dispose my speech to the habit of my part.

Alb. Why, what plays he?

[To Feliche.

Feli. The wolf that eats into the breasts of princes; that breeds the lethargy and falling sickness in honour; makes justice look asquint; and blinds[38] the eye of merited reward from viewing desertful virtue.    51

Alb. What’s all this periphrasis, ha?

Feli. The substance of a supple-chapt flatterer.

Alb. O! doth he play Forobosco the Parasite? Good, i’faith. Sirrah, you must seem now as glib and straight in outward semblance as a lady’s busk,[39] though inwardly as cross as a pair of tailors’ legs; having a tongue as nimble as his needle, with servile patches of glavering flattery to stitch up the bracks[40] of unworthily honour’d—    60

Foro. I warrant you, I warrant you, you shall see me prove the very periwig to cover the bald pate of brainless gentility. Ho! I will so tickle the sense of bella gratiosa madonna with the titillation of hyperbolical praise, that I’ll strike it in the nick, in the very nick, chuck.

Feli. Thou promisest more than I hope any spectator gives faith of performance; but why look you so dusky, ha?

[To Antonio.

Ant. I was never worse fitted since the nativity of my actorship; I shall be hiss’d at, on my life now.    70

Feli. Why, what must you play?

Ant. Faith, I know not what; an hermaphrodite, two parts in one; my true person being Antonio, son to the Duke of Genoa; though for the love of Mellida, Piero’s daughter, I take this feigned presence of an Amazon, calling myself Florizell, and I know not what. I a voice to play a lady! I shall ne’er do it.

Alb. O! an Amazon should have such a voice, virago-like. Not play two parts in one? away, away, ’tis common fashion. Nay, if you cannot bear two subtle fronts under one hood, idiot, go by, go by, off this world’s stage! O time’s impurity!    82

Ant. Ay, but when use hath taught me action
To hit the right point of a lady’s part,
I shall grow ignorant, when I must turn
Young prince again, how but to truss[41] my hose.

Feli. Tush, never put them off; for women wear the breeches still.

Mat. By the bright honour of a Milanoise,
And the resplendent fulgor of this steel,    90
I will defend the feminine to death,
And ding[42] his spirit to the verge of hell,
That dares divulge a lady’s prejudice!

[Exeunt Matzagente, Forobosco, and Balurdo.[43]

Feli. Rampum scrampum, mount tufty Tamburlaine!
What rattling thunderclap breaks from his lips?

Alb. O! ’tis native to his part. For acting a modern[44] braggadoch under the person of Matzagente, the Duke of Milan’s son, it may seem to suit with good fashion of coherence.    99

Pier. But methinks he speaks with a spruce Attic accent of adulterate Spanish.

Alb. So ’tis resolv’d. For Milan being half Spanish, half high Dutch, and half Italians, the blood of chiefest houses is corrupt and mongrel’d; so that you shall see a fellow vain-glorious for a Spaniard, gluttonous for a Dutchman, proud for an Italian, and a fantastic idiot for all. Such a one conceit this Matzagente.

Feli. But I have a part allotted me, which I have neither able apprehension to conceit, nor what I conceit gracious ability to utter.    110

Gal. Whoop, in the old cut![45] Good, show us a draught of thy spirit.

Feli. ’Tis steady and must seem so impregnably fortressed with his own content that no envious thought could ever invade his spirit; never surveying any man so unmeasuredly happy, whom I thought not justly hateful for some true impoverishment; never beholding any favour of Madam Felicity gracing another, which his well-bounded content persuaded not to hang in the front of his own fortune; and therefore as far from envying any man, as he valued all men infinitely distant from accomplished beatitude. These native adjuncts appropriate to me the name of Feliche. But last, good, thy humour.    124

[Exeunt Piero, Alberto, and Galeatzo.[46]

Ant. ’Tis to be described by signs and tokens. For unless I were possessed with a legion of spirits, ’tis impossible to be made perspicuous by any utterance: for sometimes he must take austere state, as for the person of Galeatzo, the son of the Duke of Florence, and possess his exterior presence with a formal majesty: keep popularity in distance, and on the sudden fling his honour so prodigally into a common arm, that he may seem to give up his indiscretion to the mercy of vulgar censure. Now as solemn as a traveller,[47] and as grave as a Puritan’s ruff;[48] with the same breath as slight and scattered in his fashion as a—a—anything; now as sweet and neat as a barber’s casting-bottle;[49] straight as slovenly as the yeasty breast of an ale-knight: now lamenting, then chafing, straight laughing, then——    140

Feli. What then?

Ant. Faith, I know not what; ’t had been a right part for Proteus or Gew. Ho! blind Gew[50] would ha’ done ’t rarely, rarely.

Feli. I fear it is not possible to limn so many persons in so small a tablet as the compass of our plays afford.

Ant. Right! therefore I have heard that those persons, as he and you, Feliche, that are but slightly drawn in this comedy, should receive more exact accomplishment in a second part; which, if this obtain gracious acceptance, means to try his fortune.    151

Feli. Peace, here comes the Prologue: clear the stage.

[Exeunt.

THE PROLOGUE.

The wreath of pleasure and delicious sweets,
Begirt the gentle front of this fair troop!
Select and most respected auditors,
For wit’s sake do not dream of miracles.
Alas! we shall but falter, if you lay
The least sad weight of an unusèd hope
Upon our weakness; only we give up
The worthless present of slight idleness
To your authentic censure. O! that our Muse
Had those abstruse and sinewy faculties,    10
That, with a strain of fresh invention,
She might press out the rarity of Art;
The pur’st elixèd juice of rich conceit
In your attentive ears; that with the lip
Of gracious elocution we might drink
A sound carouse into your health of wit.
But O! the heavy[51] dryness of her brain,
Foil to your fertile spirits, is asham’d
To breathe her blushing numbers to such ears.
Yet (most ingenious) deign to veil our wants;    20
With sleek acceptance polish these rude scenes;
And if our slightness your large hope beguiles,
Check not with bended brow, but dimpled smiles.

[Exit Prologue.

THE FIRST PART

OF

ANTONIO AND MELLIDA.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Neighbourhood of Venice.

The cornets sound a battle within.

Enter Antonio, disguised like an Amazon.

Ant. Heart, wilt not break? and thou abhorrèd life,
Wilt thou still breathe in my enragèd blood?
Veins, sinews, arteries, why crack ye not,
Burst and divulst with anguish of my grief?
Can man by no means creep out of himself,
And leave the slough of viperous grief behind?
Antonio, hast thou seen a fight at sea,
As horrid as the hideous day of doom,
Betwixt thy father, Duke of Genoa,
And proud Piero, the Venetian Prince:    10
In which the sea hath swoln with Genoa’s blood,
And made spring-tides with the warm reeking gore,
That gush’d from out our galleys’ scupper-holes?
In which thy father, poor Andrugio,
Lies sunk, or leap’d into the arms of chance,
Choked with the labouring ocean’s brackish foam;
Who, even despite Piero’s canker’d hate,
Would with an armèd hand have seized thy love,
And link’d thee to the beauteous Mellida.
Have I outlived the death of all these hopes?    20
Have I felt anguish pour’d into my heart,
Burning like balsamum in tender wounds!
And yet dost live! Could not the fretting sea
Have roll’d me up in wrinkles of his brow?
Is death grown coy, or grim confusion nice,
That it will not accompany a wretch,
But I must needs be cast on Venice’ shore,
And try new fortunes with this strange disguise
To purchase my adorèd Mellida?

[The cornets sound a flourish; cease.

Hark how Piero’s triumphs beat the air!    30
O, rugged mischief, how thou grat’st my heart!—
Take spirit, blood; disguise, be confident;
Make a firm stand; here rests the hope of all:
Lower than hell, there is no depth to fall.

The cornets sound a senet. Enter Feliche and Alberto, Castilio and Forobosco, a Page carrying a shield; Piero in armour; Catzo and Dildo and Balurdo. All these (saving Piero) armed with petronels.[52] Being entered, they make a stand in divided files.

Pier. Victorious Fortune, with triumphant hand,
Hurleth my glory ’bout this ball of earth,
Whilst the Venetian Duke is heavèd up
On wings of fair success, to overlook
The low-cast ruins of his enemies,
To see myself adored and Genoa quake;    40
My fate is firmer than mischance can shake.

Feli. Stand; the ground trembleth.

Pier. Ha! an earthquake?

Bal. O! I smell a sound.

Feli. Piero, stay, for I descry a fume
Creeping from out the bosom of the deep,
The breath of darkness, fatal when ’tis wist
In greatness’ stomach. This same smoke, call’d pride,
Take heed: she’ll lift thee to improvidence,
And break thy neck from steep security;    50
She’ll make thee grudge to let Jehovah share
In thy successful battles. O! she’s ominous;
Enticeth princes to devour heaven,
Swallow omnipotence, out-stare dread fate,
Subdue eternity in giant thought;
Heaves[53] up their heart[54] with swelling, puff’d conceit,
Till their souls burst with venom’d arrogance.
Beware, Piero; Rome itself hath tried,
Confusion’s train blows up this Babel pride.

Pier. Pish! Dimitto superos, summa votorum attigi.[55]    60
Alberto, hast thou yielded up our fix’d decree
Unto the Genoan ambassador?
Are they content, if that their Duke return,
To send his and his son Antonio’s head,
As pledges steep’d in blood, to gain their peace?

Alb. With most obsequious sleek-brow’d entertain,
They all embrace it as most gracious.

Pier. Are proclamations sent through Italy,
That whosoever brings Andrugio’s head,
Or young Antonio’s, shall be guerdonèd    70
With twenty thousand double pistolets,
And be endearèd to Piero’s love?

Foro. They are sent every way: sound policy,
Sweet lord.

Feli. [Aside.] Confusion to these limber sycophants!
No sooner mischiefs born in regency,
But flattery christens it with policy.[56]

Pier. Why, then,—O me cœlitum excelsissimum!
The intestine malice and inveterate hate
I always bore to that Andrugio,    80
Glories in triumph o’er his misery;
Nor shall that carpet-boy[57] Antonio
Match with my daughter, sweet-cheek’d Mellida.
No; the public power makes my faction strong.

Feli. Ill, when public power strength’neth private wrong.

Pier. ’Tis horse-like not for man to know his force.

Feli. ’Tis god-like for a man to feel remorse.[58]

Pier. Pish! I prosecute my family’s revenge,
Which I’ll pursue with such a burning chase,
Till I have dried up all Andrugio’s blood;    90
Weak rage, that with slight pity is withstood.—

[The cornets sound a flourish.

What means that fresh triumphal flourish sound?

Alb. The prince of Milan, and young Florence’ heir,
Approach to gratulate your victory.

Pier. We’ll girt them with an ample waste of love.
Conduct them to our presence royally;
Let vollies of the great artillery
From off our galleys’ banks[59] play prodigal,
And sound loud welcome from their bellowing mouths.

[Exeunt all but Piero.

The cornets sound a senet. Enter above, Mellida, Rossaline, and Flavia. Enter below, Galeatzo with Attendants; Piero meeteth him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound a flourish; Piero and Galeatzo exeunt; the rest stand still.

Mel. What prince was that passed through my father’s guard?    100

Fla. ’Twas Galeatzo, the young Florentine.

Ros. Troth, one that will besiege thy maidenhead;
Enter the walls, i’faith (sweet Mellida),
If that thy flankers be not cannon-proof.

Mel. O, Mary Ambree,[60] good, thy judgment, wench?
Thy bright election’s clear:[61] what will he prove?

Ros. Hath a short finger and a naked chin,
A skipping eye; dare lay my judgment (faith)
His love is glibbery;[62] there’s no hold on’t, wench.
Give me a husband whose aspect is firm;    110
A full-cheek’d gallant with a bouncing thigh:
O, he is the Paradizo dell madonne contento.

Mel. Even such a one was my Antonio.

[The cornets sound a senet.

Ros. By my nine and thirtieth servant, sweet,
Thou art in love; but stand on tiptoe,[63] fair;
Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, i’faith.

Enter Matzagente; Piero meets him, embraceth; at which the cornets sound a flourish: they two stand, using seeming compliments, whilst the scene passeth above.

Mel. St. Mark, St. Mark! what kind of thing appears?

Ros. For fancy’s passion, spit upon him! Fie,
His face is varnish’d. In the name of love,
What country bred that creature?

Mel. What is he, Flavia?    120

Fla. The heir of Milan, Signior Matzagente.

Ros. Matzagente! now, by my pleasure’s hope,
He is made like a tilting-staff; and looks
For all the world like an o’er-roasted pig:
A great tobacco-taker too, that’s flat;
For his eyes look as if they had been hung
In the smoke of his nose.

Mel. What husband will he prove, sweet Rossaline?

Ros. Avoid him; for he hath a dwindled leg,
A low forehead, and a thin coal-black beard;    130
And will be jealous too, believe it, sweet;
For his chin sweats, and hath a gander neck,
A thin lip, and a little monkish eye.
’Precious! what a slender waist he hath!
He looks like a may-pole,[64] or a notched stick;
He’ll snap in two at every little strain.
Give me a husband that will fill mine arms,
Of steady judgment, quick and nimble sense;
Fools relish not a lady’s excellence.

[Exeunt all on the lower stage; at which the cornets sound a flourish, and a peal of shot is given.

Mel. The triumph’s ended; but look, Rossaline!    140
What gloomy soul in strange accustrements[65]
Walks on the pavement?

Ros. Good sweet, let’s to her; prithee, Mellida.

Mel. How covetous thou art of novelties!

Ros. Pish! ’tis our nature to desire things
That are thought strangers to the common cut.

Mel. I am exceeding willing, but——

Ros. But what? prithee, go down; let’s see her face:
God send that neither wit nor beauty wants,
Those tempting sweets, affection’s adamants.    150

[Exeunt.

Ant. Come down: she comes like—O, no simile
Is precious, choice, or elegant enough
To illustrate her descent! Leap heart, she comes!
She comes! smile heaven, and softest southern wind
Kiss her cheek gently with perfumèd breath.
She comes! creation’s purity, admir’d,
Ador’d amazing rarity, she comes!
O, now, Antonio, press thy spirit forth
In following passion, knit thy senses close,
Heap up thy powers, double all thy man.    160

Enter Mellida, Rossaline, and Flavia.

She comes!
O, how her eyes dart wonder on my heart!
Mount blood! soul to my lips! taste Hebe’s cup:
Stand firm on deck, when beauty’s close fight’s[66] up.

Mel. Lady, your strange habit doth beget
Our pregnant thoughts, even great of much desire,
To be acquaint with your condition.

Ros. Good, sweet lady, without more ceremonies,
What country claims your birth? and, sweet, your name?

Ant. In hope your bounty will extend itself    170
In self-same nature of fair courtesy,
I’ll shun all niceness; my name’s Florizell,
My country Scythia; I am Amazon,
Cast on this shore by fury of the sea.

Ros. Nay, faith, sweet creature, we’ll not veil our names.
It pleas’d the font to dip me Rossaline;
That lady bears the name of Mellida,
The Duke of Venice’ daughter.

Ant. Madam, I am oblig’d to kiss your hand,
By imposition of a now dead man.    180

[To Mellida, kissing her hand.

Ros. Now, by my troth, I long, beyond all thought,
To know the man; sweet beauty, deign his name.

Ant. Lady, the circumstance is tedious.

Ros. Troth, not a whit; good fair, let’s have it all:
I love not, I, to have a jot left out,
If the tale come from a loved orator.

Ant. Vouchsafe me, then, your hush’d observances.—
Vehement in pursuit of strange novelties,
After long travel through the Asian main,
I shipp’d my hopeful thoughts for Brittany;[67]    190
Longing to view great Nature’s miracle,
The glory of our sex, whose fame doth strike
Remotest ears with adoration.
Sailing some two months with inconstant winds,
We view’d the glistering Venetian forts,
To which we made: when lo! some three leagues off,
We might descry a horrid spectacle;
The issue of black fury strew’d the sea
With tatter’d carcasses of splitted ships,
Half sinking, burning, floating topsy-turvy.    200
Not far from these sad ruins of fell rage,
We might behold a creature press the waves;
Senseless he sprawl’d, all notch’d with gaping wounds.
To him we made, and (short) we took him up;
The first thing he spake was,—Mellida!
And then he swooned.[68]

Mel. Ay me!

Ant. Why sigh you, fair?

Mel.[69] Nothing but little humours; good sweet, on.

Ant. His wounds being dress’d, and life recoverèd,
We ’gan discourse; when lo! the sea grew mad,
His bowels rumbling with wind-passion;    210
Straight swarthy darkness popp’d out Phœbus’ eye,
And blurr’d the jocund face of bright-cheek’d day;
Whilst crudled[70] fogs masked even darkness’ brow:
Heaven bad’s good night, and the rocks groan’d
At the intestine uproar of the main.
Now gusty flaws strook up the very heels
Of our mainmast, whilst the keen lightning shot
Through the black bowels of the quaking air;
Straight chops a wave, and in his sliftred[71] paunch
Down falls our ship, and there he breaks his neck;    220
Which in an instant up was belkt again.
When thus this martyr’d soul began to sigh:
“Give me your hand (quoth he): now do you grasp
Th’ unequall’d[72] mirror of ragg’d misery:
Is’t not a horrid storm? O, well-shaped sweet,
Could your quick eye strike through these gashèd wounds,
You should behold a heart, a heart, fair creature,
Raging more wild than is this frantic sea.
Wolt[73] do me a favour? if thou chance survive,
But visit Venice, kiss the precious white    230
Of my most,—nay, all epithets are base
To attribute to gracious Mellida:
Tell her the spirit of Antonio
Wisheth his last gasp breath’d upon her breast.”

Ros. Why weeps soft-hearted Florizell?

Ant. Alas, the flinty rocks groan’d at his plaints.
“Tell her, (quoth he) that her obdurate sire
Hath crack’d his bosom;” therewithal he wept,
And thus sigh’d on: “The sea is merciful;
Look how it gapes to bury all my grief!    240
Well, thou shalt have it, thou shalt be his tomb:
My faith in my love live; in thee, die woe;
Die, unmatch’d anguish, die, Antonio!”
With that he totter’d from the reeling deck,
And down he sunk.

Ros. Pleasure’s body! what makes my Lady weep?

Mel. Nothing, sweet Rossaline, but the air’s sharp[74] —
My father’s palace, Madam, will be proud
To entertain your presence, if you’ll deign
To make repose within. Ay me!    250

Ant. Lady, our fashion is not curious.[75]

Ros. ’Faith, all the nobler, ’tis more generous.

Mel. Shall I then know how fortune fell at last,
What succour came, or what strange fate ensued?

Ant. Most willingly: but this same court is vast,
And public to the staring multitude.

Ros. Sweet Lady, nay good sweet, now by my troth
We’ll be bedfellows: dirt on compliment froth![76]

[Exeunt; Rossaline giving Antonio the way.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Palace of the Duke of Venice.

Enter Catzo, with a capon eating; Dildo following him.

Dil. Hah, Catzo, your master wants a clean trencher: do you hear?
Balurdo calls for your diminutive attendance.

Cat. The belly hath no ears,[77] Dildo.

Dil. Good pug,[78] give me some capon.

Cat. No capon, no not a bit, ye smooth bully;[78] capon’s no meat for Dildo: milk, milk, ye glibbery urchin, is food for infants.

Dil. Upon mine honour.

Cat. Your honour with a paugh! ’slid, now every jackanapes loads his back with the golden coat of honour; every ass puts on the lion’s skin and roars his honour. Upon your honour? By my lady’s pantable,[79] I fear I shall live to hear a vintner’s boy cry, “’Tis rich neat canary.” Upon my honour!    14

Dil. My stomach’s up.

Cat. I think thou art hungry.

Dil. The match of fury is lighted, fastened to the linstock[80] of rage, and will presently set fire to the touch-hole of intemperance, discharging the double culverin of my incensement in the face of thy opprobrious speech.

Cat. I’ll stop the barrel thus: good Dildo, set not fire to the touch-hole.    22

Dil. My rage is stopp’d, and I will eat to the health of the fool, thy master Castilio.

Cat. And I will suck the juice of the capon, to the health of the idiot, thy master Balurdo.

Dil. Faith, our masters are like a case[81] of rapiers sheathed in one scabbard of folly.

Cat. Right Dutch blades. But was’t not rare sport at the sea-battle, whilst rounce robble hobble roared from the ship-sides, to view our masters pluck their plumes and drop their feathers, for fear of being men of mark.    32

Dil. ’Slud (cried Signior Balurdo), O for Don Rosicleer’s[82] armour, in the Mirror of Knighthood! what coil’s here? O for an armour, cannon-proof! O, more cable, more featherbeds![83] more featherbeds, more cable! till he had as much as my cable-hatband[84] to fence him.

Enter Flavia in haste, with a rebato.[85]

Cat. Buxom Flavia, can you sing? song, song!

Fla. My sweet Dildo, I am not for you at this time: Madam Rossaline stays for a fresh ruff to appear in the presence: sweet, away.    41

Dil. ’Twill not be so put off, delicate, delicious, spark-eyed, sleek-skinn’d, slender-waisted, clean-legg’d, rarely-shaped—

Fla. Who? I’ll be at all your service another season: my faith, there’s reason in all things.

Dil. Would I were reason then, that I might be in all things.

Cat. The breve and the semiquaver is, we must have the descant you made upon our names, ere you depart.

Fla. Faith, the song will seem to come off hardly.    51

Cat. Troth not a wit, if you seem to come off quickly.

Fla. Pert Catzo, knock[86] it lustily then.

[A song.

Enter Forobosco, with two torches: Castilio singing fantastically; Rossaline running a coranto[87] pace, and Balurdo; Feliche following, wondering at them all.

Foro. Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence.

Dil. What squeaking cart-wheel have we here? ha! “Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence.”

Ros. Faugh, what a strong scent’s here! somebody useth to wear socks.    60

Bal. By this fair candle light, ’tis not my feet; I never wore socks since I sucked pap.

Ros. Savourly put off.

Cast. Hah, her wit stings, blisters, galls off the skin with the tart acrimony of her sharp quickness: by sweetness, she is the very Pallas that flew out of Jupiter’s brainpan. Delicious creature, vouchsafe me your service: by the purity of bounty, I shall be proud of such bondage.

Ros. I vouchsafe it; be my slave.—Signior Balurdo, wilt thou be my servant, too?    70

Bal. O God,[88] forsooth in very good earnest, law, you would make me as a man should say, as a man should say—

Feli. ’Slud, sweet beauty, will you deign him your service?

Ros. O, your fool is your only servant. But, good Feliche, why art thou so sad? a penny for thy thought, man.

Feli. I sell not my thought so cheap: I value my meditation at a higher rate.    80

Bal. In good sober sadness, sweet mistress, you should have had my thought for a penny: by this crimson satin that cost eleven shillings, thirteen pence, three pence halfpenny a yard, that you should, law!

Ros. What was thy thought, good servant?

Bal. Marry forsooth, how many strike of pease would feed a hog fat against Christtide.

Ros. Paugh! [she spits] servant,[89] rub out my rheum, it soils the presence.

Cast. By my wealthiest thought, you grace my shoe with an unmeasured honour: I will preserve the sole of it, as a most sacred relic for this service.    92

Ros. I’ll spit in thy mouth, and thou wilt, to grace thee.

Feli. [Aside.] O that the stomach of this queasy age
Digests, or brooks such raw unseasoned gobs,
And vomits not them forth! O! slavish sots!
Servant, quoth you? faugh! if a dog should crave
And beg her service, he should have it straight:
She’d give him favours too, to lick her feet,
Or fetch her fan, or some such drudgery:    100
A good dog’s office, which these amorists
Triumph of: ’tis rare, well give her more ass,
More sot, as long as dropping of her nose
Is sworn rich pearl by such low slaves as those.

Ros. Flavia, attend me to attire me.

[Exeunt Rossaline and Flavia.

Bal. In sad good earnest, sir, you have touched the very bare of naked truth; my silk stocking hath a good gloss, and I thank my planets, my leg is not altogether unpropitiously shaped. There’s a word: unpropitiously? I think I shall speak unpropitiously as well as any courtier in Italy.    111

Foro. So help me your sweet bounty, you have the most graceful presence, applausive elecuty, amazing volubility, polish’d adornation, delicious affability.

Feli. Whoop: fut, how he tickles yon trout under the gills! you shall see him take him by and by with groping flattery.

Foro. That ever ravish’d the ear of wonder. By your sweet self, than whom I know not a more exquisite, illustrate, accomplished, pure, respected, adored, observed, precious, real,[90] magnanimous, bounteous—if you have an idle rich cast jerkin, or so, it shall not be cast away, if—ha! here’s a forehead, an eye, a head, a hair, that would make a—: or if you have any spare pair of silver spurs, I’ll do you as much right in all kind offices—

Feli. [Aside.] Of a kind parasite.

Foro. As any of my mean fortunes shall be able to.

Bal. As I am true Christian now, thou hast won the spurs.

Feli. [Aside.] For flattery.    130
O how I hate that same Egyptian louse,
A rotten maggot, that lives by stinking filth
Of tainted spirits! vengeance to such dogs,
That sprout by gnawing senseless carrion!

Enter Alberto.

Alb. Gallants, saw you my mistress, the lady Rossaline?

Foro. My mistress, the lady Rossaline, left the presence even now.

Cast. My mistress, the lady Rossaline, withdrew her gracious aspect even now.

Bal. My mistress, the lady Rossaline, withdrew her gracious aspect even now.    141

Feli. [Aside.] Well said, echo.

Alb. My mistress, and his mistress, and your mistress, and the dog’s mistress. Precious dear heaven, that Alberto lives to have such rivals!—
’Slid, I have been searching every private room,
Corner, and secret angle of the court:
And yet, and yet, and yet she lives conceal’d.
Good sweet Feliche, tell me how to find
My bright-faced mistress out.    150

Feli. Why man, cry out for lanthorn and candle-light:[91] for ’tis your only way, to find your bright-flaming wench with your light-burning torch: for most commonly, these light creatures live in darkness.

Alb. Away, you heretic, you’ll be burnt for——

Feli. Go, you amorous hound, follow the scent of your mistress’ shoe; away!

Foro. Make a fair presence; boys, advance your lights; the princess makes approach.

Bal. And please the gods, now in very good deed, law, you shall see me tickle the measures for the heavens. Do my hangers[92] show?    162

Enter Piero, Antonio, Mellida, Rossaline, Galeatzo, Matzagente, Alberto, and Flavia. As they enter, Feliche and Castilio make a rank for the Duke to pass through. Forobosco ushers the Duke to his state:[93] then, whilst Piero speaketh his first speech, Mellida is taken by Galeatzo and Matzagente to dance, they supporting her: Rossaline, in like manner, by Alberto and Balurdo: Flavia, by Feliche and Castilio.

Pier. Beauteous Amazon, sit and seat your thoughts
In the reposure of most soft content.
Sound music there! Nay, daughter, clear your eyes,
From these dull fogs of misty discontent:
Look sprightly, girl. What? though Antonio’s drown’d,—
That peevish dotard on thy excellence,
That hated issue of Andrugio,—
Yet may’st thou triumph in my victories;    170
Since, lo, the high-born bloods of Italy
Sue for thy seat of love.—Let[94] music sound!
Beauty and youth run descant on love’s ground.[95]

Mat. Lady, erect your gracious symmetry,
Shine in the sphere of sweet affection:
Your eye[’s] as heavy, as the heart of night.

Mel. My thoughts are as black as your beard; my fortunes as ill-proportioned as your legs; and all the powers of my mind as leaden as your wit, and as dusty as your face is swarthy.    180

Gal. Faith, sweet, I’ll lay thee on the lips for that jest.

Mel. I prithee intrude not on a dead man’s right.

Gal. No, but the living’s just possession:
Thy lips and love are mine.

Mel. You ne’er took seizin on them yet: forbear.
There’s not a vacant corner of my heart,
But all is fill’d with dead Antonio’s loss.
Then urge no more; O leave to love at all;
’Tis less disgraceful not to mount than fall.

Mat. Bright and refulgent lady, deign your ear:    190
You see this blade,—had it a courtly lip,
It would divulge my valour, plead my love,
Justle that skipping feeble amorist
Out of your love’s seat; I am Matzagent.

Gal. Hark thee; I pray thee, taint not thy sweet ear
With that sot’s gabble; by thy beauteous cheek,
He is the flagging’st bulrush that e’er droop’d
With each slight mist of rain. But with pleased eye
Smile on my courtship.

Mel. What said you, sir? alas my thought was fix’d    200
Upon another object. Good, forbear:
I shall but weep. Ay me, what boots a tear!
Come, come, let’s dance. O music, thou distill’st
More sweetness in us than this jarring world:
Both time and measure from thy strains do breathe,
Whilst from the channel of this dirt doth flow
Nothing but timeless grief, unmeasured woe.

Ant. O how impatience cramps my crackèd veins
And cruddles thick my blood, with boiling rage!
O eyes, why leap you not like thunderbolts,
   210 Or cannon bullets in my rival’s face!
Ohime infeliche misero, O lamentevol fato!

Alb. What means the lady fall upon the ground?

Ros. Belike the falling sickness.

Ant. I cannot brook this sight, my thoughts grow wild:
Here lies a wretch, on whom heaven never smiled.

Ros. What, servant, ne’er a word, and I here man?
I would shoot some speech forth, to strike the time
With pleasing touch of amorous compliment.
Say, sweet, what keeps thy mind, what think’st thou on?    220

Alb. Nothing.

Ros. What’s that nothing?

Alb. A woman’s constancy.

Ros. Good, why, would’st thou have us sluts, and never shift
The vesture of our thoughts? Away for shame.

Alb. O no, th’art too constant to afflict my heart,
Too too firm fixèd in unmovèd scorn.

Ros. Pish, pish; I fixed in unmovèd scorn!
Why, I’ll love thee to-night.

Alb. But whom to-morrow?

Ros. Faith, as the toy puts me in the head.

Bal. And pleased the marble heavens, now would I might be the toy, to put you in the head, kindly to conceit my—my—my—pray you, give in an epithet for love.

Feli. Roaring, roaring.    232

Bal.[96] O love, thou hast murder’d me, made me a shadow, and you hear not Balurdo, but Balurdo’s ghost.

Ros. Can a ghost speak?

Bal. Scurvily, as I do.

Ros. And walk?

Bal. After their fashion.

Ros. And eat apples?

Bal. In a sort, in their garb.    240

Feli. Prithee, Flavia, be my mistress.

Fla. Your reason, good Feliche?

Feli. Faith, I have nineteen mistresses already, and I not much disdain that thou should’st make up the full score.

Fla. O, I hear you make commonplaces of your mistresses to perform the office of memory by. Pray you, in ancient times were not those satin hose? In good faith, now they are new dyed, pink’d, and scoured, they show as well as if they were new. What, mute, Balurdo?    250

Feli. Ay, in faith, and ’twere not for printing, and painting, my breech and your face would be out of reparation.[97]

Bal. Ay, in[98] faith, and ’twere not for printing, and painting,[99] my breech and your face would be out of reparation.

Feli. Good again, Echo.

Fla. Thou art, by nature, too foul to be affected.

Feli. And thou, by art, too fair to be beloved.
By wit’s life, most spark spirits, but hard chance.
La ty dine.    261

Pier. Gallants, the night grows old; and downy sleep
Courts us to entertain his company:
Our tirèd limbs, bruis’d in the morning fight,
Entreat soft rest, and gentle hush’d repose.
Fill out Greek wines; prepare fresh cressit-light:[100]
We’ll have a banquet: Princes, then good-night.

[The cornets sound a senet, and the Duke goes out in state. As they are going out, Antonio stays Mellida: the rest exeunt.

Ant. What means these scatter’d looks? why tremble you?
Why quake your thoughts in your distracted eyes?
Collect your spirits, Madam; what do you see?    270
Dost not behold a ghost?
Look, look where he stalks, wrapt up in clouds of grief,
Darting his soul upon thy wond’ring eyes.
Look, he comes towards thee; see, he stretcheth out
His wretched arms to gird thy loved waist,
With a most wish’d embrace: see’st him not yet?
Nor yet? Ha, Mellida; thou well may’st err:
For look, he walks not like Antonio:
Like that Antonio, that this morning shone
In glistering habiliments of arms,    280
To seize his love, spite of her father’s spite:
But like himself, wretched, and miserable,
Banish’d, forlorn, despairing, strook quite through,
With sinking grief, rolled up in sevenfold doubles
Of plagues [un]vanquishable: hark, he speaks to thee.

Mel. Alas, I cannot hear, nor see him.

Ant. Why? all this night about the room he stalk’d,
And groan’d, and howl’d, with raging passion,
To view his love (life-blood of all his hopes,
Crown of his fortune) clipp’d by strangers’ arms.    290
Look but behind thee.

Mel. O Antonio!
My lord, my love, my——

Ant. Leave passion, sweet; for time, place, air, and earth,
Are all our foes: fear, and be jealous; fair,
Let’s fly.

Mel. Dear heart, ha, whither?

Ant. O, ’tis no matter whither, but let’s fly.
Ha! now I think on’t, I have ne’er a home,
No father, friend, or country to embrace
These wretched limbs: the world, the all that is,    300
Is all my foe: a prince not worth a doit:
Only my head is hoisèd to high rate,
Worth twenty thousand double pistolets,
To him that can but strike it from these shoulders.
But come, sweet creature, thou shalt be my home;
My father, country, riches, and my friend,
My all, my soul; and thou and I will live,—
Let’s think like what—and you and I will live
Like unmatch’d mirrors of calamity.
The jealous ear of night eave-drops our talk.    310
Hold thee, there’s a jewel; and look thee, there’s a note
That will direct thee when, where, how to fly.
Bid me adieu.

Mel. Farewell, bleak misery!

Ant. Stay, sweet, let’s kiss before you go!

Mel. Farewell, dear soul!

Ant. Farewell, my life, my heart!

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The sea-shore.

Enter Andrugio in armour, Lucio with a shepherd’s gown in his hand, and a Page.

And. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn that flakes
With silver tincture the east verge of heaven?

Lu. I think it is, so please your excellence.

And. Away! I have no excellence to please.
Prithee observe the custom of the world,
That only flatters greatness, states exalts.
And please my excellence! O Lucio,
Thou hast been ever held respected dear,
Even precious to Andrugio’s inmost love.
Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou giv’st not faith    10
That I am wretched, O read that, read that.

Piero Sforza to the Italian Princes, fortune.

Lu. [reads] EXCELLENT, the just overthrow Andrugio took in the Venetian gulf, hath so assured the Genoways of the [in]justice of his cause, and the hatefulness of his person, that they have banish’d him and all his family: and, for confirmation of their peace with us, have vowed, that if he or his son can be attached, to send us both their heads. We therefore, by force of our united league, forbid you to harbour him, or his blood: but if you apprehend his person, we entreat you to send him, or his head, to us. For we vow, by the honour of our blood, to recompense any man that bringeth his head, with twenty thousand double pistolets, and the endearing of our choicest love.

From Venice: Piero Sforza.    24

And. My thoughts are fix’d in contemplation
Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal,
That eats her children, should not have eyes and ears.
Philosophy maintains that Nature’s wise,
And forms no useless or unperfect thing.
Did Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature?    30
For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man,
Moulds me up honour; and, like a cunning Dutchman,
Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath,
And gives a sot appearance of a soul.
Go to, go to; thou liest, Philosophy.
Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain.
Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears
That she might see desert, and hear men’s plaints?
That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief,
He might fall thus, upon the breast of earth,    40

[He throws himself on the ground.

Exclaiming thus: O thou all-bearing earth,
Which men do gape for, till thou cramm’st their mouths,
And chokest their throats with dust; O chaune[101] thy breast,
And let me sink into thee! Look who knocks;
Andrugio calls.—But O, she’s deaf and blind:
A wretch but lean relief on earth can find.

Lu. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm.
Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea,
We are roll’d up upon the Venice marsh,
Let’s clip all fortune, lest more low’ring fate—    50

And. More low’ring fate! O Lucio, choke that breath.
Now I defy chance: Fortune’s brow hath frown’d,
Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend:
Her venom’s spit. Alas, what country rests,
What son, what comfort that she can deprive?
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow?
Gapes not my native country for my blood?
Lies not my son tomb’d in the swelling main?
And yet more low’ring fate! There’s nothing left
Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio:    60
And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take.
Fortune my fortunes, not my mind, shall shake.

Lu. Spoke[102] like yourself; but give me leave, my Lord,
To wish your safety. If you are but seen,
Your arms display you; therefore put them off,
And take——.

And. Would’st thou have me go unarm’d among my foes?
Being besieg’d by passion, ent’ring lists,
To combat with despair and mighty grief;
My soul beleaguer’d with the crushing strength    70
Of sharp impatience? ha, Lucio, go unarm’d?
Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth;
Myself, myself will dare all opposites:[103]
I’ll muster forces, an unvanquish’d power:
Cornets of horse shall press th’ ungrateful earth;
This hollow wombèd mass shall inly groan,
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms:
Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair,
Shall hurry on before, and usher us,
Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death.    80

Lu. Peace, good my Lord, your speech is all too light.
Alas, survey your fortunes, look what’s left
Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes:
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self.

And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms,—
Why that’s an army all invincible!
He who hath that, hath a battalion royal,
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbèd steeds,
Main squares of pikes, millions of harquebush.
O, a fair cause stands firm, and will abide;    90
Legions of angels fight upon her side.[104]

Lu. Then, noble spirit, slide, in strange disguise,
Unto some gracious Prince, and sojourn there,
Till time and fortune give revenge firm means.

And. No, I’ll not trust the honour of a man.
Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness
A common waiter in most princes’ courts:
He’s in the check-roll;[105] I’ll not trust my blood;
I know none breathing but will cog a die[106]
For twenty thousand double pistolets.    100
How goes the time?

Lu. I saw no sun to-day.[107]

And. No sun will shine, where poor Andrugio breathes.
My soul grows heavy: boy, let’s have a song:
We’ll sing yet, faith, even in[108] despite of fate.

[A song.

And. ’Tis a good boy, and by my troth, well sung.
O, and thou felt’st my grief, I warrant thee,
Thou would’st have strook division[109] to the height,
And made the life of music breathe: hold, boy; why so.
For God’s sake call me not Andrugio,
That I may soon forget what I have been.    110
For heaven’s name, name not Antonio,
That I may not remember he was mine.
Well, ere yon sun set, I’ll show myself,
Worthy my blood. I was a Duke; that’s all.
No[110] matter whither, but from whence we fall.[111]

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Palace of the Duke of Venice.

Enter Feliche walking, unbraced.

Feli. Castilio, Alberto, Balurdo! none up?
Forobosco! Flattery, nor thou up yet?
Then there’s no courtier stirring: that’s firm truth?
I cannot sleep: Feliche seldom rests
In these court lodgings. I have walk’d all night,
To see if the nocturnal court delights
Could force me envy their felicity:
And by plain troth, I will confess plain troth,
I envy nothing but the travense[112] light.
O, had it eyes, and ears, and tongues, it might    10
See sport, hear speech of most strange surquedries.[113]
O, if that candle-light were made a poet,
He would prove a rare firking satirist,
And draw the core forth of imposthum’d sin.
Well, I thank heaven yet, that my content
Can envy nothing, but poor candle-light.
As for the other glistering copper spangs,
That glisten in the tire of the court,
Praise God, I either hate, or pity them.
Well, here I’ll sleep till that the scene of up    20
Is pass’d at court. O calm hush’d rich Content,
Is there a being blessedness without thee?
How soft thou down’st the couch where thou dost rest,
Nectar to life, thou sweet Ambrosian feast!

Enter Castilio and his Page Catzo: Castilio with a casting-bottle[114] of sweet water in his hand, sprinkling himself.

Cast. Am not I a most sweet youth now?

Cat. Yes, when your throat’s perfum’d; your very words
Do smell of ambergris. O stay, sir, stay;
Sprinkle some sweet water to your shoe’s heels,
That your mistress may swear you have a sweet foot.

   30 Cast. Good, very good, very passing[115] passing good.

Feli. Fut, what treble minikin[116] squeaks there, ha? “good, very good, very very good!”

Cast. I will warble to the delicious conclave of my mistress’ ear: and strike her thoughts with the pleasing touch of my voice.

[A song.

Cast. Feliche, health, fortune, mirth, and wine.

Feli. To thee, my love divine.

Cast. I drink to thee, sweeting.

Feli. [Aside.] Plague on thee for an ass!

Cast. Now thou hast seen the court, by the perfection of it, dost not envy it?    41

Feli. I wonder it doth not envy me. Why, man,
I have been borne upon the spirit’s wings,
The soul’s swift Pegasus, the fantasy:
And from the height of contemplation,
Have view’d the feeble joints men totter on.
I envy none; but hate, or pity all.
For when I view, with an intentive thought,
That creature fair but proud; him rich, but sot;
Th’ other witty, but unmeasured arrogant;    50
Him great, yet boundless in ambition;
Him high-born, but of base life; t’ other fear’d,
Yet fearèd fears, and fears most to be loved;[117]
Him wise, but made a fool for public use;
The other learned, but self-opinionate:
When I discourse all these, and see myself
Nor fair, nor rich, nor witty, great, nor fear’d,
Yet amply suited with all full content,
Lord, how I clap my hands, and smooth my brow,
Rubbing my quiet bosom, tossing up    60
A grateful spirit to Omnipotence!

Cast. Hah, hah! but if thou knew’st my happiness,
Thou would’st even grate away thy soul to dust,
In envy of my sweet beatitude.
I cannot sleep for kisses; I cannot rest
For ladies’ letters, that importune me
With such unusèd vehemence of love,
Straight to solicit them, that——.

Feli. Confusion seize me, but I think thou liest.
Why should I not be sought to then as well?    70
Fut, methinks I am as like a man.
Troth, I have a good head of hair, a cheek
Not as yet wan’d, a leg, ’faith, in the full.
I ha’ not a red beard, take not tobacco much:
And ’lid, for other parts of manliness—

Cast. Pew waw, you ne’er accourted[118] them in pomp,
Put your good parts in presence graciously.
Ha, and you had, why, they would ha’ come off,
Sprung to your arms, and sued, and prayed, and vowed,
And opened all their sweetness to your love.    80

Feli. There are a number of such things as thou[119]
Have often urged me to such loose belief;
But, ’slid, you all do lie, you all do lie.
I have put on good clothes, and smugg’d my face,
Strook a fair wench with a smart, speaking eye;
Courted in all sorts, blunt and passionate;
Had opportunity, put them to the ah!
And, by this light, I find them wondrous chaste,
Impregnable; perchance a kiss, or so:
But for the rest, O most inexorable!    90

Cast. Nay then, i’faith, prithee look here.

[Shows him the superscription of a seeming letter.

Feli. To her most esteemed, loved, and generous servant, Sig. Castilio Balthazar.
Prithee from whom comes this? faith, I must see.
From her that is devoted to thee, in most private sweets of love, Rossaline.
Nay, God’s my comfort, I must see the rest;
I must, sans ceremony; faith, I must.

[Feliche takes away the letter by force.

Cast. O, you spoil my ruff, unset my hair; good, away!    100

Feli. Item, for strait canvass, thirteen pence halfpenny; item, for an ell and a half of taffeta to cover your old canvass doublet, fourteen shillings and threepence.—’Slight, this is a tailor’s bill.

Cast. In sooth, it is the outside of her letter, on which I took the copy of a tailor’s bill.

Dil. But ’tis not cross’d, I am sure of that. Lord have mercy on him, his credit hath given up the last gasp. Faith, I’ll leave him; for he looks as melancholy as a wench the first night she——    110

[Exit.

Feli. Honest musk-cod, ’twill not be so stitched together; take that [striking him], and that, and belie no lady’s love: swear no more by Jesu, this madam, that lady; hence, go, forswear the presence, travel three years to bury this bastinado: avoid, puff-paste, avoid!

Cast. And tell not my lady-mother. Well, as I am a true gentleman, if she had not willed me on her blessing not to spoil my face, if I could not find in my heart to fight, would I might ne’er eat a potato-pie more.

[Exit.

Enter Balurdo, backward; Dildo following him with a looking-glass in one hand, and a candle in the other hand: Flavia following him backward, with a looking-glass in one hand, and a candle in the other; Rossaline following her; Balurdo and Rossaline stand setting of faces; and so the Scene begins.

Feli. More fool, more rare fools! O, for time and place, long enough, and large enough, to act these fools! Here might be made a rare scene of folly, if the plat[120] could bear it.    123

Bal. By the sugar-candy sky, hold up the glass higher, that I may see to swear in fashion. O, one loof[121] more would ha’ made them shine; God’s neaks,[122] they would have shone like my mistress’ brow. Even so the Duke frowns, for all this curson’d[123] world: O, that gern[124] kills, it kills. By my golden—what’s the richest thing about me?    130

Dil. Your teeth.

Bal. By my golden teeth, hold up, that I may put in: hold up, I say, that I may see to put on my gloves.

Dil. O, delicious, sweet-cheek’d master, if you discharge but one glance from the level of that set face, O, you will strike a wench; you’ll make any wench love you.

Bal. By Jesu, I think I am as elegant a courtier as——. How likest thou my suit?

Cat. All, beyond all, no peregal:[125] you are wondered at—[Aside.] for an ass.    141

Bal. Well, Dildo, no Christen creature shall know hereafter, what I will do for thee heretofore.

Ros. Here wants a little white, Flavia.

Dil. Ay, but, master, you have one little fault; you sleep open-mouth’d.

Bal. Pew, thou jest’st. In good sadness, I’ll have a looking-glass nail’d to the testern of the bed, that I may see when I sleep whether ’tis so or not; take heed you lie not: go to, take heed you lie not.    150

Fla. By my troth, you look as like the princess, now—Ay—but her lip is—lip is—a little——redder, a very little redder.

Ros.[126] But by the help of art or nature, ere I change my periwig, mine shall be as red.

Fla.[127] O ay, that face, that eye, that smile, that writhing of your body, that wanton dandling of your fan, becomes prethely, so sweethly, ’tis even the goodest lady that breathes, the most amiable——. Faith, the fringe of your satin petticoat is ript. Good faith, madam, they say you are the most bounteous lady to your women that ever—— most delicious beauty! Good madam, let me kith it.

Feli. Rare sport, rare sport! A female fool, and a female flatterer.    164

Ros. Body o’ me, the Duke! away[128] the glass!

Enter Piero.

Pier. Take up your paper, Rossaline.

Ros. Not mine, my Lord.

Pier. Not yours, my Lady? I’ll see what ’tis.

Bal. And how does my sweet mistress? O Lady dear, even as ’tis an old say, “’tis an old horse can neither wighy,[129] nor wag his tail:” even so do I hold my set face still: even so, ’tis a bad courtier that can neither discourse, nor blow his nose.    173

Pier.—[reads.] Meet me at Abraham’s, the Jew’s, where I bought my Amazon’s disguise. A ship lies in the port, ready bound for England; make haste, come private.  Antonio.

Enter Castilio and Forobosco.

Forobosco, Alberto, Feliche, Castilio, Balurdo! run, keep the palace, post to the ports, go to my daughter’s chamber! whither now? scud to the Jew’s! stay, run to the gates, stop the gundolets,[130] let none pass the marsh! do all at once! Antonio! his head, his head! Keep you the court, the rest stand still, or run, or go, or shout, or search, or scud, or call, or hang, or do-do-do su-su-su something! I know not who-who-who what I do-do-do, nor who-who-who, where I am.    185
O trista traditrice, rea ribalda fortuna,
Negando mi vindetta mi causa fera morte.

[Exeunt all but Feliche.

Feli. Ha ha ha! I could break my spleen at his impatience.

Enter Antonio and Mellida.

Ant. Alma et graziosa fortuna siate favorevole,
Et fortunati siano voti del[la] mia dolce Mellida, Mellida.

Mel. Alas, Antonio, I have lost thy note!
A number mount my stairs; I’ll straight return.

[Exit.

Feli. Antonio,    194
Be not affright, sweet Prince; appease thy fear,
Buckle thy spirits up, put all thy wits
In wimble[131] action, or thou art surprised.

Ant. I care not.

Feli. Art mad, or desperate? or——

Ant. Both, both, all, all: I prithee let me lie;    200
Spite of you all, I can, and I will die.

Feli. You are distraught; O, this is madness’ breath!

Ant. Each man take[s] hence life, but no man death:
He’s a good fellow, and keeps open house:
A thousand thousand ways lead to his gate,
To his wide-mouthèd porch, when niggard life
Hath[132] but one little, little wicket through.
We wring ourselves into this wretched world,
To pule, and weep, exclaim, to curse and rail,
To fret, and ban the fates, to strike the earth,    210
As I do now. Antonio, curse thy birth,
And die!

Feli. Nay, heaven’s my comfort, now you are perverse:
You know I always loved you; prithee live.
Wilt thou strike dead thy friends, draw mourning tears?

Ant. Alas, Feliche, I ha’ ne’er a friend;
No country, father, brother, kinsman left
To weep my fate or sigh my funeral:
I roll but up and down, and fill a seat
In the dark cave of dusky misery.    220

Feli. ’Fore heaven, the Duke comes! hold you, take my key,
Slink to my chamber; look you, that is it:
There shall you find a suit I wore at sea;
Take it, and slip away. Nay, ’precious!
If you’ll be peevish, by this light, I’ll swear
Thou rail’dst upon thy love before thou diedst,
And call’d her strumpet.

Ant. She’ll not credit thee.

Feli. Tut, that’s all one: I will defame thy love,
And make thy dead trunk held in vile regard.

Ant. Wilt needs have it so? why then, Antonio,    230
Vive esperanza in dispetto del fato.

[Exit.

Enter Piero, Galeatzo, Matzagente, Forobosco, Balurdo, and Castilio, with weapons.

Pier. O, my sweet princes, was’t not bravely found?
Even there I found the note, even there it lay:
I kiss the place for joy, that there it lay.
This way he went, here let us make a stand:
I’ll keep this gate myself. O gallant youth!
I’ll drink carouse unto your country’s health
Even in Antonio’s skull.

Bal. Lord bless us, his breath is more fearful than a sergeant’s voice when he cries, I arrest.    240

Enter Antonio, disguised as a sailor.

Ant. Stop Antonio! keep, keep Antonio!

Pier. Where, where, man, where?

Ant. Here, here: let me pursue him down the marsh!

Pier. Hold, there’s my signet, take a gundelet:
Bring me his head, his head, and, by mine honour,
I’ll make thee the wealthiest mariner that breathes.

Ant. I’ll sweat my blood out till I have him safe.

Pier. Spoke[133] heartily, i’faith, good mariner.
O, we will mount in triumph; soon at night,
I’ll set his head up. Let’s think where.    250

Bal. Upon his shoulders, that’s the fittest place for it.
If it be not as fit as if it were made for them, say,—
Balurdo, thou art a sot, an ass.

Enter Mellida in Pages attire, dancing.

Pier. Sprightly, i’faith. In troth he’s somewhat like
My daughter Mellida: but, alas! poor soul,
Her honour’s[134] heels, God knows, are[n’t] half so light.

Mel. [Aside.] Escaped I am, spite of my father’s spite.

[Exit.

Pier. Ho, this will warm my bosom ere I sleep.

Enter Flavia running.

Fla. O my Lord, your daughter——

Pier. Ay, ay, my daughter’s safe enough, I warrant thee.—    260
This vengeance on the boy will lengthen out
My days unmeasuredly.
It shall be chronicled in time to come,
Piero Sforza slew Andrugio’s son.

Fla. Ay, but, my Lord, your daughter——

Pier. Ay, ay, my good wench, she is safe enough.

Fla. O, then, my Lord, you know she’s run away.

Pier. Run away, away! how run away?

Fla. She’s vanish’d in an instant, none knows whither.

Pier. Pursue, pursue, fly, run, post, scud away!    270

Feli. [Sings.] “And was not good king Salomon,” &c.

Pier. Fly, call, run, row, ride, cry, shout, hurry, haste!
Haste, hurry, shout, cry, ride, row, run, call, fly,
Backward and forward, every way about!
Mal[e]detta fortuna che[135] dura sorte!
Che farò, che dirò, pur fugir tanto mal!

Cast. ’Twas you that struck me even now: was it not?

Feli. It was I that struck you even now.

Cast. You bastinadoed me, I take it.

Feli. I bastinadoed you, and you took it.    280

Cast. ’Faith, sir, I have the richest tobacco in the court for you; I would be glad to make you satisfaction, if I have wronged you. I would not the sun should set upon your anger; give me your hand.

Feli. Content, faith; so thou’lt breed no more such lies.
I hate not man, but man’s lewd qualities.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Sea-shore near Venice.

Enter Antonio, in his sea-gown running.

Ant. Stop, stop Antonio, stay Antonio!
Vain breath, vain breath, Antonio’s lost;
He cannot find himself, not seize himself.
Alas, this that you see is not Antonio;
His spirit hovers in Piero’s court,
Hurling about his agile faculties,
To apprehend the sight of Mellida:
But poor, poor soul, wanting apt instruments
To speak or see, stands dumb and blind, sad spirit,
Roll’d up in gloomy clouds as black as air    10
Through which the rusty coach of Night is drawn.
’Tis so; I’ll give you instance that ’tis so.
Conceit you me: as having clasp’d a rose[136]
Within my palm, the rose being ta’en away,
My hand retains a little breath of sweet:
So may man’s trunk, his spirit slipp’d away,
Hold[137] still a faint perfume of his sweet guest.
’Tis so; for when discursive powers fly out,
And roam in progress through the bounds of heaven,
The soul itself gallops along with them,    20
As chieftain of this wingèd troop of thought,
Whilst the dull lodge of spirit standeth waste,
Until the soul return from——. What was’t I said?
O, this is naught but speckling melancholy.
I have been—
That Morpheus’ tender skinp[138] —Cousin german
Bear with me, good—
Mellida: clod upon clod thus fall.
Hell is beneath, yet heaven is over all.

[Falls on the ground.

Enter[139] Andrugio, Lucio, and Page.

And. Come, Lucio, let’s go eat: what hast thou got?    30
Roots, roots? alas, they are seeded, new cut up.
O, thou hast wrongèd Nature, Lucio:
But boots not much; thou but pursu’st the world,
That cuts off virtue, ’fore it comes to growth,
Lest it should seed, and so o’errun her son,
Dull purblind error.—Give me water, boy.
There is no poison in’t, I hope; they say
That lu[r]ks in massy plate: and yet the earth
Is so infected with a general plague,
That he’s most wise, that thinks there’s no man fool;    40
Right prudent, that esteems no creature just;
Great policy the least things to mistrust.
Give me assay[140] ——. How we mock greatness now!

Lu. A strong conceit is rich, so most men deem;
If not to be, ’tis comfort yet to seem.

And. Why man, I never was a prince till now.
’Tis not the barèd pate, the bended knees,
Gilt tipstaves, Tyrrian purple, chairs of state,
Troops of pied butterflies that flutter still
In greatness’ summer, that confirm a prince:    50
’Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes,
Shouting and clapping, with confusèd din,
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he’s a king,
A true right king, that dares do aught save wrong;
Fears nothing mortal but to be unjust;
Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs
Of spongy sycophants; who stands unmov’d,
Despite the justling of opinion;
Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng
That strive to press his quiet out of him;    60
Who sits upon Jove’s footstool, as I do,
Adoring, not affecting, majesty;
Whose brow is wreathèd with the silver crown
Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king,
And of this empire every man’s possest
That’s worth his soul.

Lu. My Lord, the Genoways had wont to say—

And. Name not the Genoways: that very word
Unkings me quite, makes me vile passion’s slave.
O, you that slide[141] upon the glibbery ice    70
Of vulgar favour, view Andrugio.
Was never prince with more applause confirm’d,
With louder shouts of triumph launchèd out
Into the surgy main of government;
Was never prince with more despite cast out,
Left shipwrack’d, banish’d, on more guiltless ground.
O rotten props of the crazed multitude,
How you still double, falter under the lightest chance
That strains your veins! Alas, one battle lost,
Your whorish love, your drunken healths, your houts[142] and shouts,    80
Your smooth God save’s, and all your devils lost[143]
That tempts our quiet to your hell of throngs!
Spit on me, Lucio, for I am turnèd slave:
Observe how passion domineers o’er me.

Lu. No wonder, noble Lord, having lost a son,
A country, crown, and——.

And. Ay, Lucio, having lost a son, a son,
A country, house, crown, son. O lares, miseri[144] lares!
Which shall I first deplore? My son, my son,
My dear sweet boy, my dear Antonio!    90

Ant. Antonio?

And. Ay, echo, ay; I mean Antonio.

Ant. Antonio, who means Antonio?

And. Where art? what art? know’st thou Antonio?

Ant. Yes.

And. Lives he?

Ant. No.

And. Where lies he dead?

Ant. Here.

And. Where?

Ant. Here.[145]

And. Art thou Antonio?

Ant. I think I am.

And. Dost thou but think? What, dost not know thyself?

Ant. He is a fool that thinks he knows himself.

And. Upon thy faith to heaven, give thy name.    100

Ant. I were not worthy of Andrugio’s blood,
If I denied my name’s Antonio.

And. I were not worthy to be call’d thy father,
If I denied my name Andrugio.
And dost thou live? O, let me kiss thy cheek,
And dew thy brow with trickling drops of joy.
Now heaven’s will be done: for I have lived
To see my joy, my son Antonio.
Give me thy hand; now fortune do thy worst,
His blood, that lapp’d thy spirit in the womb,    110
Thus (in his love) will make his arms thy tomb.

Ant. Bless not the body with your twining arms,
Which is accurs’d of heaven. O, what black sin
Hath been committed by our ancient house,
Whose scalding vengeance lights upon our heads,
That thus the world and fortune casts us out,
As loathèd objects, ruin’s branded slaves!

And. Do not expostulate the heavens’ will,
But, O, remember to forget thyself;
Forget remembrance what thou once hast been.    120
Come, creep with me from out this open air:
Even trees have tongues, and will betray our life.
I am a-raising of our house, my boy,
Which fortune will not envy, ’tis so mean,
And like the world (all dirt): there shalt thou rip
The inwards of thy fortunes in mine ears,
While I sit weeping, blind with passion’s tears.
Then I’ll begin, and we’ll such order keep,
That one shall still tell griefs, the other weep.

[Exeunt Andrugio and Lucio, leaving Antonio and the Page.

Ant. I’ll follow you. Boy, prithee stay a little.    130
Thou hast had a good voice, if this cold marsh
Wherein we lurk have not corrupted it.

Enter Mellida, standing out of sight, in her Page’s suit.

I prithee sing, but, sirra, (mark you me)
Let each note breathe the heart of passion,
The sad extracture of extremest grief.
Make me a strain speak groaning like a bell
That tolls departing souls;
Breathe me a point that may enforce me weep,
To wring my hands, to break my cursèd breast,
Rave, and exclaim, lie grovelling on the earth,    140
Straight start up frantic, crying, Mellida!
Sing but, Antonio hath lost Mellida,
And thou shalt see me (like a man possess’d)
Howl out such passion, that even this brinish marsh
Will squeeze out tears from out his spongy cheeks:
The rocks even groan, and——prithee, prithee sing,
Or I shall ne’er ha’ done when I am in;
’Tis harder for me end, than to begin.

[The Boy runs a note, Antonio breaks it.

For look thee, boy, my grief that hath no end,    149
I may begin to plain, but——prithee, sing.

[A song.

Mel. Heaven keep you, sir!

Ant. Heaven keep you from me, sir!

Mel. I must be acquainted with you, sir.

Ant. Wherefore? Art thou infected with misery,
Sear’d with the anguish of calamity?
Art thou true sorrow, hearty grief? canst weep?
I am not for thee if thou canst not rave,

[Antonio falls on the ground.

Fall flat on the ground, and thus exclaim on heaven:
O trifling nature, why inspired’st thou breath?

Mel. Stay, sir, I think you namèd Mellida.

Ant. Know’st thou Mellida?    160

Mel. Yes.

Ant. Hast thou seen Mellida?

Mel. Yes.

Ant. Then hast thou seen the glory of her sex,
The music of Nature, the unequall’d lustre
Of unmatch’d excellence, the united sweet
Of heaven’s graces, the most adorèd beauty,
That ever strook amazement in the world!

Mel. You seem to love her.

Ant. With my very soul.

Mel. She’ll not requite it: all her love is fix’d    170
Upon a gallant, one[146] Antonio,
The Duke of Genoa’s son. I was her page,
And often as I waited, she would sigh,
O, dear Antonio! and to strengthen thought,
Would clip my neck, and kiss, and kiss me thus.
Therefore leave loving her: fa, faith methinks
Her beauty is not half so ravishing
As you discourse of; she hath a freckled face,
A low forehead, and a lumpish eye.    179

Ant. O heaven, that I should hear such blasphemy!
Boy, rogue, thou liest! and
Spavento del mio cor dolce Mellida,
Di grave morte ristoro vero, dolce Mellida,
Celeste salvatrice, sovrana Mellida
Del mio sperar; trofeo vero Mellida.

Mel. Diletta e soave anima mia Antonio,
Godevole bellezza cortese Antonio.
Signior mio e virginal amore bell’Antonio,
Gusto delli miei sensi, car’Antonio.

Ant. O svanisce[147] il cor in un soave bacio.    190

Mel. Muoiono[148] i sensi nel desiato desio:

Ant. Nel cielo può esser beltà più chiara?

Mel. Nel mondo può[149] esser beltà più chiara?

Ant. Dammi un bacio da quella bocca beata,
Lasciami[150] coglier l’aura odorata
Che ha[151] sua seggia in quelle dolci labbra.

Mel. Dammi per impero del tuo gradit’amore
Che bea me con sempiterno honore,
Così, così mi converrà morir.
Good sweet, scout o’er the marsh, for my heart trembles    200
At every little breath that strikes my ear.
When thou returnest, then I will discourse
How I deceiv’d the court; then thou shalt tell
How thou escaped’st the watch: we’ll point our speech
With amorous kissing[152] commas, and even suck
The liquid breath from out each other’s lips.

Ant. Dull clod, no man but such sweet favour clips.
I go, and yet my panting blood persuades me stay.
Turn coward in her sight? away, away!    209

[Exit.

[Page.] I think confusion of Babel is fall’n upon those lovers, that they change their language; but I fear me, my master having but feigned the person of a woman, hath got their unfeigned imperfection, and is grown double tongued: as for Mellida, she were no woman, if she could not yield strange language. But howsoever, if I should sit in judgment, ’tis an error easier to be pardoned by the auditors, than excused by the authors; and yet some private respect may rebate the edge of the keener censure.

Enter Piero, Castilio, Matzagente, Forobosco, Feliche, Galeatzo, at one door; Balurdo, and his Page, at another door.

Pier. This way she took: search, my sweet gentlemen.
How now, Balurdo, canst thou meet with anybody?    221

Bal. As I am true gentleman, I made my horse sweat, that he hath ne’er a dry thread on him: and I can meet with no living creature, but men and beasts. In good sadness,[153] I would have sworn I had seen Mellida even now; for I saw a thing stir under a hedge, and I peep’d, and I spied a thing, and I peer’d, and I tweer’d[154] underneath: and truly a right wise man might have been deceived, for it was——.

Pier. What, in the name of heaven?    230

Bal. A dun cow.

Feli. Sh’ad ne’er a kettle[155] on her head?

Pier. Boy, did’st thou see a young lady pass this way?

Gal. Why speak you not?

Bal. God’s neaks, proud elf, give the Duke reverence!
Stand bare with a——.
Whogh! heavens bless me! Mellida, Mellida!

Pier. Where man, where?

Bal. Turned man, turned man; women wear the breeches.
Lo, here!    240

Pier. Light and unduteous! kneel not, peevish elf;
Speak not, entreat not, shame unto my house,
Curse to my honour. Where’s Antonio?
Thou traitress to my hate, what, is he shipp’d
For England now? well, whimpering harlot, hence!

Mel. Good father!

Pier. Good me no goods. Seest thou that sprightly youth?
Ere thou canst term to-morrow morning old,
Thou shalt call him thy husband, lord, and love.

Mel. Ay me!    250

Pier. Blirt on your “ay me’s!” guard her safely hence.
Drag her away, I’ll be your guard to-night.
Young prince, mount up your spirits and prepare
To solemnise your nuptial’s eve with pomp.

Gal. The time is scant: now nimble wits appear:
Phœbus begins to[156] gleam, the welkin’s clear.

[Exeunt all but Balurdo and his Page.

Bal. Now nimble wits appear! I’ll myself appear,
Balurdo’s self, that in quick wit doth surpass,
Will show the substance of a complete——.

Dil. Ass, ass.

Bal. I’ll mount my courser, and most gallantly prick——.    260

Dil. Gallantly prick is too long, and stands hardly in the verse, sir.

Bal. I’ll speak pure rhyme, and will so bravely prank it, that I’ll toss love like a—prank, prank it!—a rhyme for prank it?

Dil. Blanket.

Bal. That I’ll toss love, like a dog in a blanket. Hah hah, indeed, law. I think, hah hah; I think, hah hah, I think I shall tickle the Muses. And I strike it not dead, say, Balurdo, thou art an arrant sot.    270

Dil. Balurdo, thou art an arrant sot.

Enter Andrugio and Antonio wreathed together, Lucio.

And. Now, come, united force of chap-fall’n death;
Come, power of fretting anguish, leave distress.
O, thus enfolded, we have breasts of proof
’Gainst all the venom’d stings of misery.

Ant. Father, now I have an antidote
’Gainst all the poison that the world can breathe:
My Mellida, my Mellida doth bless
This bleak waste with her presence.—How
now, boy, Why dost thou weep? alas! where’s Mellida?    280

Page.[157] Ay me, my Lord.

Ant.[158] A sudden horror doth invade my blood;
My sinews tremble, and my panting heart
Scuds round about my bosom, to go out,
Dreading the assailant, horrid passion.
O, be no tyrant, kill me with one blow;
Speak quickly, briefly, boy.

Page. Her father found, and seized her; she is gone.

And. Son, heat thy blood, be not froze up with grief
Courage, sweet boy, sink not beneath the weight    290
Of crushing mischief. O where’s thy dauntless heart,
Thy father’s spirit! I renounce thy blood,
If thou forsake thy valour.

Lu. See how his grief speaks in his slow-paced steps.
Alas!
’Tis more than he can utter, let him go:
Dumb solitary path best suiteth woe.

[Exit Antonio.

And. Give me my arms, my armour, Lucio.

Lu. Dear lord, what means this rage? when lacking use[159]
Scarce safe’s your life, will you in armour rise?    300

And. Fortune fears valour, presseth cowardice.

Lu. Then valour gets applause, when it hath place,
And means to blaze it.

And. Nunquam potest non esse.

Lu. Patience, my lord, may bring your ills some end.

And. What patience, friend, can ruin’d hopes attend?
Come, let me die like old Andrugio,
Worthy my birth. O, blood-true-honour’d graves
Are far more blessèd than base life of slaves.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Palace of the Duke of Venice.

Enter Balurdo, a Painter with two pictures, and Dildo.

Bal. And are you a painter? sir, can you draw, can you draw?

Pa. Yes, sir.

Bal. Indeed, law! now so can my father’s forehorse. And are these the workmanship of your hands?

Pa. I did limn them.

Bal. Limn them? a good word, limn them: whose picture is this? Anno Domini, 1599. Believe me, master Anno Domini was of a good settled age when you limn’d him: 1599 years old! Let’s see the other. Ætatis suæ 24. Byrlady, he is somewhat younger. Belike master Ætatis suæ was Anno Domini’s son.    12

Pa. Is not your master a——

Dil. He hath a little proclivity to him.

Pa. Proclivity, good youth? I thank you for your courtly proclivity.

Bal. Approach, good sir. I did send for you to draw me a device, an Imprezza, by Synecdoche a Mott. By Phœbus’ crimson taffeta mantle, I think I speak as melodiously,—look you, sir, how think you on’t? I would have you paint me, for my device, a good fat leg of ewe mutton, swimming in stewed broth of plums (boy, keel[160] your mouth, it runs over) and the word[161] shall be, Hold my dish, whilst I spill my pottage. Sure, in my conscience, ’twould be the most sweet device, now.    25

Pa. ’Twould scent of kitchen-stuff too much.

Bal. God’s neaks, now I remember me, I ha’ the rarest device in my head that ever breathed. Can you paint me a driveling reeling song, and let the word be, Uh.    30

Pa. A belch?

Bal. O, no no: Uh, paint me Uh, or nothing.

Pa. It cannot be done, sir, but by a seeming kind of drunkenness.

Bal. No? well, let me have a good massy ring, with your own posy graven in it, that must sing a small treble, word for word, thus:

And if you will[162] my true lover be,
Come follow me to the green wood.

Pa. O Lord, sir, I cannot make a picture sing.    40

Bal. Why? ’slid, I have seen painted things sing as sweet;
But I have’t will tickle it for a conceit, i’faith.

Enter Feliche and Alberto.

Alb. O dear Feliche, give me thy device.
How shall I purchase love of Rossaline?

Feli. ’Swill, flatter her soundly.

Alb. Her love is such, I cannot flatter her:
But with my utmost vehemence of speech,
I have ador’d her beauties.

Feli. Hast writ good moving unaffected rhymes to her?

Alb. O, yes, Feliche, but she scorns my writ.    50

Feli. Hast thou presented her with sumptuous gifts?

Alb. Alas, my fortunes are too weak to offer them.

Feli. O, then I have it, I’ll tell thee what to do.

Alb. What, good Feliche?

Feli. Go and hang thyself; I say, go hang thyself,
If that thou canst not give, go hang thyself:
I’ll rhyme thee dead, or verse thee to the rope.
How think’st thou of a poet that sung thus?
Munera sola pacant, sola addunt munera formam:
Munere sollicites Pallada, Cypris erit.    60
Munera, munera!

Alb. I’ll go and breathe my woes unto the rocks,
And spend my grief upon the deafest seas.
I’ll weep my passion to the senseless trees,
And load most solitary air with plaints.
For woods, trees, sea, or rocky Apennine,
Is not so ruthless as my Rossaline.
Farewell, dear friend, expect no more of me:
Here ends my part in this love’s comedy.    69

[Exeunt Alberto and Painter.

Feli. Now, master Balurdo, whither are you going, ha?

Bal. Signior Feliche, how do you, faith? and by my troth, how do you?

Feli. Whither art thou going, bully?[163]

Bal. And as heaven help me, how do you?
How, do you, i’faith, hee?

Feli. Whither art going, man?

Bal. O God, to the court; I’ll be willing to give you grace and good countenance, if I may but see you in the presence.

Feli. O, to court? farewell.    80

Bal. If you see one in a yellow taffeta doublet, cut upon carnation velure,[164] a green hat, a blue pair of velvet hose, a gilt rapier, and an orange-tawny pair of worsted silk stockings, that’s I, that’s I.

Feli. Very good: farewell.

Bal. Ho, you shall know me as easily; I ha’ bought me a new green feather with a red sprig; you shall see my wrought[165] shirt hang out at my breeches; you shall know me.    89

Feli. Very good, very good, farewell.

Bal. Marry, in the mask ’twill be somewhat hard. But if you hear anybody speak so wittily, that he makes all the room laugh; that’s I, that’s I. Farewell, good Signior.

Enter Forobosco, Castilio, a Boy carrying a gilt harp; Piero, Mellida, in night apparel; Rossaline, Flavia, two Pages.

Pier. Advance the music’s prize; now, cap’ring wits,
Rise to your highest mount; let choice delight
Garland the brow of this triumphant night.
’Sfoot, ’a sits like Lucifer himself.

Ros. Good sweet Duke,
First let their voices strain for music’s prize.[166]
Give me the golden harp:    100
Faith, with your favour, I’ll be umperess.

Pier. Sweet niece, content: boys, clear your voice and sing.

First[167] Boy sings.

Ros. By this gold, I had rather have a servant with a short nose, and a thin hair, than have such a high-stretch’d minikin[168] voice.

Pier. Fair niece, your reason?

Ros. By the sweet of love, I should fear extremely that he were an eunuch.

Cast. Spark spirit, how like you his voice?

Ros. Spark spirit, how like you his voice!    110
So help me, youth, thy voice squeaks like a dry corkshoe:[169] come, come; let’s hear the next.

Second Boy sings.

Pier. Trust me, a strong mean. Well sung, my boy.

Enter Balrudo.

Bal. Hold, hold, hold: are ye blind? could ye not see my voice coming for the harp? And I knock not division[170] on the head, take hence the harp, make me a slip,[171] and let me go but for ninepence. Sir Mark, strike up for master Balurdo.

Third Boy sings.

Judgment, gentlemen, judgment! Was’t not above line?
I appeal to your mouths that heard my song.    120
Do[172] me right, and dub me knight, Balurdo.

Ros. Kneel down, and I’ll dub thee knight of the golden harp.

Bal. Indeed, law, do, and I’ll make you lady of the silver fiddlestick.

Ros. Come, kneel, kneel.

Enter a Page to Balurdo.

Bal. My troth, I thank you, it hath never a whistle in’t.

Ros. Nay, good sweet coz, raise up your drooping eyes; and I were at the point of To have and to hold from this day forward, I would be asham’d to look thus lumpish. What, my pretty coz, ’tis but the loss of an odd maidenhead.    133
Shall’s dance? thou art so sad, hark in thine[173] ear:
I was about to say, but I’ll forbear.

Bal. I come, I come; more than most honeysuckle sweet ladies, pine not for my presence, I’ll return in pomp. Well spoke, Sir Jeffrey Balurdo. As I am a true knight, I feel honourable eloquence begin to grope me already.    140

[Exit.

Pier. Faith, mad niece, I wonder when thou wilt marry?

Ros. Faith, kind uncle, when men abandon jealousy, forsake taking of tobacco, and cease to wear their beards so rudely long. O, to have a husband with a mouth continually smoking, with a bush of furze on the ridge of his chin, ready still to flop into his foaming chaps; ah, ’tis more than most intolerable.

Pier. Nay faith, sweet niece, I was mighty strong in thought we should have shut up night with an old comedy: the Prince of Florence[174] shall have Mellida, and thou should’st have——.    152

Ros. Nobody, good sweet uncle. I tell you, sir, I have thirty-nine servants, and my monkey that makes the fortieth. Now I love all of them lightly for something, but affect none of them seriously for anything. One’s a passionate fool, and he flatters me above belief; the second’s a testy ape, and he rails at me beyond reason; the third’s as grave as some censor, and he strokes up his mustachios three times, and makes six plots of set faces, before he speaks one wise word; the fourth’s as dry as the bur of an hartichoke; the fifth paints, and hath always a good colour for what he speaks; the sixth——.    164

Pier. Stay, stay, sweet niece, what makes you thus suspect your gallants’ worth?

Ros. O, when I see one wear a periwig, I dread his hair; another wallow in a great slop,[175] I mistrust the proportion of his thigh; and wears a ruffled boot,[176] I fear the fashion of his leg. Thus, something in each thing, one trick in everything makes me mistrust imperfection in all parts; and there’s the full point of my addiction.    172

The cornets sound a senet. Enter Galeatzo, Matzagente, and Balurdo in maskery.

Pier. The room’s too scant: boys, stand in there, close.

Mel. [To Galeatzo.] In faith, fair sir, I am too sad to dance.

Pier. How’s that, how’s that? too sad? By heaven, dance,
And grace him too, or go to——, I say no more.

Mel. A burning glass, the word[177] splendente Phœbo?
It is too curious, I conceit it not.

Gal. Faith, I’ll tell thee. I’ll no longer burn,
Than you will shine and smile upon my love.    180
For look ye, fairest, by your pure sweets,
I do not dote upon your excellence;
And faith, unless you shed your brightest beams
Of sunny favour and acceptive grace
Upon my tender love, I do not burn:
Marry, but shine, and I’ll reflect your beams

With fervent ardour. Faith! I would be loath to flatter thee, fair soul, because I love, not dote, court like thy husband, which thy father swears to-morrow morn I must be. This is all; and now from henceforth, trust me, Mellida, I’ll not speak one wise word to thee more.

Mel. I trust ye.    192

Gal. By my troth, I’ll speak pure fool[178] to thee now.

Mel. You will speak the liker yourself.

Gal. Good faith, I’ll accept of the coxcomb, so you will not refuse the bable.[179]

Mel. Nay, good sweet, keep them both; I am enamoured of neither.

Gal. Go to, I must take you down for this. Lend me your ear.    200

Ros. A glow-worm? the word,—Splendescit tantùm tenebris.

Mat. O, lady, the glow-worm figurates my valour, which shineth brightest in most dark, dismal, and horrid achievements.

Ros. Or rather, your glow-worm represents your wit, which only seems to have fire in it, though indeed ’tis but an ignis fatuus, and shines only in the dark dead night of fools’ admiration.

Mat. Lady, my wit hath spurs, if it were dispos’d to ride you.    211

Ros. Faith, sir, your wit’s spurs have but walking rowels; dull, blunt, they will not draw blood: the gentlemen-ushers may admit them the presence, for any wrong they can do to ladies.

Bal. Truly, I have strained a note above ela[180] for a device: look you, ’tis a fair-ruled singing book; the word, Perfect, if it were prick’d.

Fla. Though you are mask’d, I can guess who you are by your wit. You are not the exquisite Balurdo, the most rarely-shaped Balurdo.    221

Bal. Who, I? No, I am not Sir Jeffrey Balurdo. I am not as well known by my wit as an alehouse by a red lattice.[181] I am not worthy to love and be beloved of Flavia.

Fla. I will not scorn to favour such good parts As are applauded in your rarest self.    227

Bal. Truly, you speak wisely, and like a jantlewoman of fourteen years of age. You know the stone called lapis; the nearer it comes to the fire, the hotter it is: and the bird, which the geometricians call avis, the farther it is from the earth, the nearer it is to the heaven; and love, the nigher it is to the flame, the more remote (there’s a word, remote!) the more remote it is from the frost. Your wit is quick; a little thing pleaseth a young lady, and a small favour contenteth an old courtier; and so, sweet mistress, I truss my codpiece point.    238

Enter Feliche.

Pier. What might import this flourish? Bring us word.

Feli. Stand away: here’s such a company of flyboats,[182] hulling[183] about this galleasse[184] of greatness, that there’s no boarding him.

Do you hear, yon thing call’d duke?

Pier. How now, blunt Feliche; what’s the news?

Feli. Yonder’s a knight, hath brought Andrugio’s head,
And craves admittance to your chair of state.

Cornets sound a senet. Enter Andrugio in armour.

Pier. Conduct him with attendance sumptuous;
Sound all the pleasing instruments of joy;
Make triumph stand on tiptoe whilst we meet:
O sight most gracious, O revenge most sweet!    250

And. We vow, by the honour of our birth, to recompense any man that bringeth Andrugio’s head, with twenty thousand double pistolets, and the endearing to our choicest love.

Pier. We still with most unmoved resolve[185] confirm
Our large munificence, and here breathe
A sad and solemn protestation:
When I recall this vow, O, let our house
Be even commanded, stain’d, and trampled on,
As worthless rubbish of nobility.    260

And. Then here [raising his beaver], Piero, is Andrugio’s head,
Royally casquèd in a helm of steel:
Give me thy love, and take it. My dauntless soul
Hath that unbounded vigour in his spirits
That it can bear more rank indignity,
With less impatience than thy canker’d hate
Can sting and venom his untainted worth
With the most vip’rous sound of malice. Strike!
O, let no glimpse of honour light thy thoughts;
If there be any heat of royal breath    270
Creeping in thy veins, O stifle it;
Be still thyself, bloody and treacherous.
Fame not thy house with an admirèd act
Of princely pity. Piero, I am come
To soil thy house with an eternal blot
Of savage cruelty; strike, or bid me strike.
I pray my death; that thy ne’er-dying shame
Might live immortal to posterity.
Come, be a princely hangman, stop my breath.
O dread thou shame, no more than I dread death.    280

Pier. We are amazed, our royal spirit’s numb’d
In stiff astonish’d wonder at thy prowess.
Most mighty, valiant, and high-tow’ring heart,
We blush, and turn our hate upon ourselves,
For hating such an unpeer’d excellence.
I joy my state: him whom I loath’d before,
That now I honour, love, nay more, adore.

[The still flutes sound a mournful senet. Enter a funeral procession, followed by Lucio.

But stay; what tragic spectacle appears!
Whose body bear you in that mournful hearse?

Lu. The breathless trunk of young Antonio.    290

Mel. Antonio! ay me! my lord, my love! my——.

And. Sweet precious issue of most honour’d blood,
Rich hope, ripe virtue, O untimely loss!
Come hither, friend: prithee, do not weep.
Why, I am glad he’s dead; he shall not see
His father’s vanquish’d by his enemy,
Even in princely honour. Nay, prithee, speak!
How died the wretched boy?

Lu. My lord!

And. I hope he died yet like my son, i’faith.    300

Lu. Alas, my lord!

And. He died unforced, I trust, and valiantly?

Lu. Poor gentleman, being——

And. Did his hand shake, or his eye look dull,
His thoughts reel fearful when he struck the stroke?
And if they did, I’ll rend them out the hearse,
Rip up his cerecloth, mangle his bleak face,
That when he comes to heaven, the powers divine,
Shall ne’er take notice that he was my son:
I’ll quite disclaim his birth. Nay, prithee, speak!    310
And ’twere not hooped with steel, my breast would break.

Mel. O that my spirit in a sigh could mount
Into the sphere where thy sweet soul doth rest!

Pier. O that my tears, bedewing thy wan cheek,
Could make new spirit sprout in thy cold blood!

Bal. Verily, he looks as pitifully as a poor John;[186] as I am true knight, I could weep like a ston’d horse.

And. Villain, ’tis thou hast murderèd my son!
Thy unrelenting spirit, thou black dog,    320
That took’st no passion[187] of his fatal love,
Hath forced him give his life untimely end.

Pier. O! that my life, her love, my dearest blood,
Would but redeem one minute of his breath!

Ant. [rising.] I seize that breath. Stand not amazed, great states;
I rise from death that never lived till now.
Piero, keep thy vow, and I enjoy
More unexpressèd height of happiness
Than power of thought can reach; if not, lo, here
There stands my tomb, and here a pleasing stage.    330
Most-wish’d spectators of my tragedy,
To this end have I feign’d, that her fair eye,
For whom I lived, might bless me ere I die.

Mel. Can breath depaint[188] my unconceivèd thoughts?
Can words describe my infinite delight
Of seeing thee, my lord Antonio?
O no; conceit, breath, passion, words, be dumb,
Whilst I instill the dew of my sweet bliss,
In the soft pressure of a melting kiss!
Sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras.    340

Pier. Fair son (now I’ll be proud to call thee son),
Enjoy me thus: my very breast is thine;
Possess me freely, I am wholly thine.

Ant. Dear father——

And. Sweet son, sweet son, I can speak no more:
My joy’s passion flows above the shore,
And chokes the current of my speech.

Pier. Young Florence prince, to you my lips must beg
For a remittance of your interest.

Gal. In your fair daughter? with all my thought.    350
So help me faith, the nak’d truth I’ll unfold;
He that was never[189] hot will soon be cold.

Pier. No man else makes claim unto her?

Mat. The valiant speak truth in brief: no—

Bal. Truly, for Sir Jeffrey Balurdo, he disclaims to have had anything in her.

Pier. Then here I give her to Antonio.
Royal, valiant, most respected prince,
Let’s clip our hands, I’ll thus observe my vow:
I promised twenty thousand double pistolets,    360
With the endearing to my dearest love,
To him that brought thy head; thine be the gold,
To solemnise our houses’ unity;
My love be thine, the all I have, be thine.
Fill us fresh wine, the form we’ll take by this;
We’ll drink a health, while they two sip a kiss.[190]
Now there remains no discord that can sound
Harsh accents to the ear of our accord:
So please you,[191] niece, to match.    369

Ros. Troth, uncle, when my sweet-faced coz hath told me how she likes the thing called wedlock, may be I’ll take a survey of the checkroll of my servants; and he that hath the best parts of—I’ll prick him down for my husband.

Bal. For passion of love now, remember me to my mistress, lady Rossaline, when she is pricking down the good parts of her servants. As I am true knight, I grow stiff; I shall carry it.

Pier. I will.
Sound Lydian wires, once make a pleasing note    380
On nectar streams of your sweet airs to float.

Ant. Here ends the comic crosses of true love;
O! may the passage most successful prove!

EPILOGUS.

And. Gentlemen, though I remain an armed Epilogue,[192] I stand not as a peremptory challenger of desert, either for him that composed the Comedy, or for us that acted it; but a most submissive suppliant for both. What imperfection you have seen in us, leave with us, and we’ll amend it; what hath pleased you, take with you, and cherish it. You shall not be more ready to embrace anything commendable, than we will endeavour to amend all things reprovable. What we are, is by your favour. What we shall be, rests all in your applausive encouragements.

[Exeunt.

[Pg 95]ANTONIO’S REVENGE.

THE SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY OF
ANTONIO AND MELLIDA.

Antonios Reuenge. The second part. As it hath beene sundry times acted, by the children of Paules. Written by I. M. London. Printed for Thomas Fisher, and are to be soulde in Saint Dunstans Church-yarde. 1602. 4to.

STORY OF THE PLAY.

Piero had been a suitor for the hand of Maria, daughter of the Duke of Ferrara, but his addresses had been rejected and Maria had married Andrugio, the offspring of the union being Antonio. When Piero, dissembling his hatred, affects to be reconciled to Andrugio, Lucio is despatched to bring Maria to the Venetian Court. Piero, at a banquet given on the eve of his daughter’s marriage with Antonio, instils in Andrugio’s cup a poison which has no immediate effect but works fatally after a few hours. With the help of a base creature, Strotzo, he proceeds in the night to murder Antonio’s friend, Feliche, whose body is carried by Strotzo to Mellida’s chamber. At sunrise Maria and Lucio arrive at Venice. Antonio, whose sleep has been troubled by hideous dreams, is abroad early, and is met by his mother as he paces disquietly in front of Mellida’s chamber. Presently the window-curtain is drawn aside and there is exposed the body of Feliche, stabbed thick with wounds. While Antonio is distractedly calling upon Mellida to rise, Piero advances and proclaims himself the author of Feliche’s death, protesting that he had found his daughter in the embraces of the murdered man. The scene of confusion is heightened by the entrance of Strotzo, who announces that Andrugio has died from excess of joy at his sudden change of fortunes. Mellida is put in close confinement, and a day is appointed for her trial. Strotzo is instructed by Piero to come forward at the trial and accuse Antonio of having instigated the murders of Andrugio and Feliche. But before the trial Andrugio’s ghost appears to Antonio, discloses Piero’s villainy, and bids Antonio take vengeance on the murderer. Antonio stabs Piero’s young son Julio at Andrugio’s shrine; he then disguises himself as Maria’s fool and watches his opportunity for further vengeance. The trial of Mellida is held: Strotzo enters the court with a cord round his neck, declaring that he had been suborned by Antonio to commit the crimes; and officers are despatched to arrest Antonio, who in his fool’s habit is watching the proceedings. It had been part of the plot that Strotzo, after making his confession, should break into passionate outbursts of sorrow and implore Piero to rid him of a dishonourable life; whereupon Piero was to spring forward, grasp the cord round Strotzo’s neck as with intent to strangle him, then suddenly to relax his hold, moved by Strotzo’s penitent conduct. Strotzo goes through his part of the performance; but Piero, grasping one end of the cord while Castilio (a courtier) grasps the other, is careful not to loose his hold before the victim is strangled. Presently word is brought that Antonio in a fit of distraction has flung himself from a high tower into the sea. At this news Mellida falls into a deep swoon and is conveyed to her chamber, whither Antonio after a short delay contrives to follow her, but arrives only in time to see her expire. Piero, notwithstanding his daughter’s untoward death, determines that his marriage with Maria (who affects to acquiesce in the arrangement) shall take place without delay. A scheme of vengeance is contrived between Antonio, Pandulfo (Feliche’s father) and Alberto (Feliche’s friend). The conspirators attire themselves as maskers and appear at a banquet given by Piero on the eve of his marriage. On the appearance of the maskers Piero enquires for his son, Julio, and sends an attendant to fetch him to see the dances. After dancing a measure the maskers request Piero to have the hall cleared while they sit unmasked at the banquet. Thereupon the guests and retainers withdraw, but Piero at the maskers’ request remains. He takes a seat at the banquet; the conspirators, unmasking themselves, spring forward and bind him with cords to the chair; insult over him, cut out his tongue, produce in a dish the limbs of his murdered son, and finally hack him to death with their swords. The tyrant’s death is welcomed with universal joy. The conspirators are hailed as saviours of their country, and are offered high offices of state; but prefer to spend the rest of their lives in the seclusion of a religious house.

THE PROLOGUE.

The rawish dank of clumsy[193] winter ramps
The fluent summer’s vein; and drizzling sleet
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb’d earth,
Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves
From the nak’d shudd’ring branch; and pills[194] the skin
From off the soft and delicate aspects.
O now, methinks, a sullen tragic scene
Would suit the time with pleasing congruence.
May we be happy in our weak devoir,
And all part pleasèd in most wish’d content!    10
But sweat of Hercules can ne’er beget
So blest an issue. Therefore, we proclaim,
If any spirit breathes within this round,
Uncapable of weighty passion,
(As from his birth being huggèd in the arms,
And nuzzled ’twixt the breasts of happiness)
Who winks, and shuts his apprehension up
From common sense of what men were and are,
Who would not know what men must be—let such
Hurry amain from our black-visaged shows:    20
We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast
Nail’d to the earth with grief; if any heart
Pierc’d through with anguish pant within this ring;
If there be any blood whose heat is choked
And stifled with true sense of misery;
If ought of these strains fill this consort up—
Th’ arrive most welcome. O that our power
Could lackey or keep wing with our desires,
That with unusèd paize[195] of style and sense,
We might weigh massy in judicious scale.    30
Yet here’s the prop that doth support our hopes:
When our scenes falter, or invention halts,
Your favour will give crutches to our faults.[196]

[Exit.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.[197]

Piero Sforza, Duke of Venice.
Antonio, son to the murdered Andrugio, affianced to Mellida.
Pandulfo, father to the murdered Feliche.
Alberto, a Venetian gentleman.
Balurdo, a rich gull.
Matzagente, a modern braggadoch.
Galeatzo, son to the Duke of Milan.
Forobosco, a Parasite.
Castilio Balthazar, a spruce courtier.
Lucio, an old nobleman, attendant to Maria.
Strotzo, a creature of Piero.
Julio, son to Piero.