The Chief Elizabethan Dramatists

The aim in the selection of the plays in this volume has been twofold: first, to present typical examples of the work of the most important of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, so that, read with Shakespeare’s own writings, they might afford a view of the development of the English drama through its most brilliant period; secondly, to present, as far as it was possible in one volume, the most distinguished plays of that period, regarded merely from the point of view of their intrinsic value. It is clear that these two purposes could not always be perfectly combined; but it is hoped that each has been in good measure achieved without undue sacrifice of the other, and that the interests of the academic student and the general reader have been fairly harmonized.

In the treatment of the text, the same principles have been followed as in the editor’s edition of Shakespeare’s works in the Cambridge Poets Series. Each play has been printed from the most authentic text accessible, and emendations have been adopted sparingly. Modern stage directions, and divisions into scenes and acts which do not appear in the original editions, have been distinguished by square brackets; modern notes of place at the beginning of scenes have been relegated to the footnotes; and indications given by the early copies of the authors’ intentions with regard to the reading of the metre have been carefully preserved, especially in the matter of elided vowels. It is probable that, in the case of most of the present plays, the final -ed of verbs was intended to be pronounced as a separate syllable whenever it is spelled in full. The spelling and punctuation have been modernized throughout, except when the older spelling implied a different pronunciation.

The footnotes give the most important variant readings, and explanations of obsolete expressions; and the Additional Notes at the end of the volume supply information with regard to the circumstances of publication, date, and sources of each play. In accordance with the plan of the Chief Poets Series, to which the volume belongs, there have been added concise biographical sketches and a selected bibliography of the dramatic work of each author. In view of the full bibliographies printed recently in Professor Schelling’s Elizabethan Drama and in The Cambridge History of English Literature, vols. v and vi, it has not seemed advisable to attempt to give exhaustive bibliographies at the expense of reducing the number of dramas. All collected editions of the dramatists concerned are, however, mentioned; all separate editions of the plays here printed; a complete list of each author’s dramas, with the dates of the original editions; and a selection of the more important critical and biographical articles and books. Attention may also be called to the complete index of all the dramatis personae who have speaking parts, and to the index of songs.

In the selection of the thirty plays to be included I have received valuable advice from many friends and colleagues on the faculties of many colleges and universities; so many that a complete acknowledgment would be impracticable, a partial one invidious. For all such help I am deeply grateful. I have also received courtesies from the authorities of[Pg vi] the Boston Public Library, the Boston Athenaeum, and the Harvard College Library, which have enabled me to add to the authority of my texts by a first-hand collation of a number of the original quartos.

Printing from so great a variety of sources and from so many different authors, I have found it difficult to preserve perfect uniformity of treatment, and have doubtless at times failed of accuracy. Any corrections which may occur to students of the Elizabethan drama who use the volume will be warmly welcomed.

THE PROLOGUE

Most high and happy Princess, we must tell you a tale of the Man in the Moon, which, if it seem ridiculous for the method, or superfluous for the matter, or for the means incredible, for three faults we can make but one excuse: it is a tale of the Man in the Moon.

It was forbidden in old time to dispute of Chimæra because it was a fiction: we hope in our times none will apply pastimes,[1] because they are fancies; for there liveth none under the sun that knows what to make of the Man in the Moon. We present neither comedy, nor tragedy, nor story, nor anything but that whosoever heareth may say this: Why, here is a tale of the Man in the Moon.

ACT I

Scene I.[2]

Endymion. I find, Eumenides, in all things both variety to content, and satiety to glut, saving only in my affections, which are so staid, and withal so stately, that I can neither satisfy my heart with love, nor mine eyes with wonder.5 My thoughts, Eumenides, are stitched to the stars, which being as high as I can see, thou mayest imagine how much higher they are than I can reach.

Eum. If you be enamoured of anything 10 above the moon, your thoughts are ridiculous, for that things immortal are not subject to affections; if allured or enchanted with these transitory things under the moon, you show yourself senseless to attribute such lofty 15 titles to such [low][3] trifles.

Eum. There was never any so peevish[5] to imagine the moon either capable of affection or shape of a mistress; for as impossible it is to make love fit to her humour, which no man knoweth, as a coat to her form, which continueth 30 not in one bigness whilst she is measuring. Cease off, Endymion, to feed so much upon fancies. That melancholy blood must be purged which draweth you to a dotage no less miserable than monstrous. 35

End. My thoughts have no veins, and yet unless they be let blood, I shall perish.

End. O, fair Cynthia, why do others term40 thee unconstant whom I have ever found unmovable? Injurious time, corrupt manners, unkind men, who, finding a constancy not to be matched in my sweet mistress, have christened her with the name of wavering, waxing, and45 [Pg 2] waning! Is she inconstant that keepeth a settled course; which, since her first creation, altereth not one minute in her moving? There is nothing thought more admirable or commendable in the sea than the ebbing and flowing;50 and shall the moon, from whom the sea taketh this virtue, be accounted fickle for increasing and decreasing? Flowers in their buds are nothing worth till they be blown, nor are blossoms accounted till they be ripe fruit; and shall55 we then say they be changeable for that they grow from seeds to leaves, from leaves to buds, from buds to their perfection? Then, why be not twigs that become trees, children that become men, and mornings that grow to evenings,60 termed wavering, for that they continue not at one stay? Ay, but Cynthia, being in her fulness, decayeth, as not delighting in her greatest beauty, or withering when she should be most honoured. When malice cannot object65 anything, folly will, making that a vice which is the greatest virtue. What thing (my mistress excepted), being in the pride of her beauty and latter minute of her age, that waxeth young again? Tell me, Eumenides, what is he that70 having a mistress of ripe years and infinite virtues, great honours and unspeakable beauty, but would wish that she might grow tender again, getting youth by years, and never-decaying beauty by time; whose fair face neither the75 summer’s blaze can scorch, nor winter’s blast chap, nor the numbering of years breed altering of colours? Such is my sweet Cynthia, whom time cannot touch because she is divine, nor will offend because she is delicate. O Cynthia, 80 if thou shouldst always continue at thy fulness, both gods and men would conspire to ravish thee. But thou, to abate the pride of our affections, dost detract from thy perfections, thinking it sufficient if once in a month85 we enjoy a glimpse of thy majesty; and then, to increase our griefs, thou dost decrease thy gleams, coming out of thy royal robes, wherewith thou dazzlest our eyes, down into thy swathe clouts,[6] beguiling our eyes; and then—90

Eum. Stay there, Endymion; thou that committest idolatry, wilt straight blaspheme, if thou be suffered. Sleep would do thee more good than speech: the moon heareth thee not, or if she do, regardeth thee not.95

End. Vain Eumenides, whose thoughts never grow higher than the crown of thy head! Why troublest thou me, having neither head to conceive the cause of my love or a heart to receive the impressions? Follow thou thine own fortunes,100 which creep on the earth, and suffer me to fly to mine, whose fall, though it be desperate, yet shall it come by daring. Farewell.

Eum. Without doubt Endymion is bewitched; otherwise in a man of such rare virtues there 105 could not harbour a mind of such extreme madness. I will follow him, lest in this fancy of the moon he deprive himself of the sight of the sun.

Scene II.[7]

Tellus. Treacherous and most perjured Endymion, is Cynthia the sweetness of thy life and the bitterness of my death? What revenge may be devised so full of shame as my thoughts are replenished with malice? Tell me, Floscula, 5 if falseness in love can possibly be punished with extremity of hate? As long as sword, fire, or poison may be hired, no traitor to my love shall live unrevenged. Were thy oaths without number, thy kisses without measure, thy sighs 10 without end, forged to deceive a poor credulous virgin, whose simplicity had been worth thy favour and better fortune? If the gods sit unequal beholders of injuries, or laughers at lovers’ deceits, then let mischief be as well forgiven 15 in women as perjury winked at in men.

Flosc. Madam, if you would compare the state of Cynthia with your own, and the height of Endymion his thoughts with the meanness of your fortune, you would rather yield than 20 contend, being between you and her no comparison; and rather wonder than rage at the greatness of his mind, being affected with a thing more than mortal.

Tellus. No comparison, Floscula? And 25 why so? Is not my beauty divine, whose body is decked with fair flowers, and veins are vines, yielding sweet liquor to the dullest spirits; whose ears are corn, to bring strength; and whose hairs are grass, to bring abundance? 30 Doth not frankincense and myrrh breathe out of my nostrils, and all the sacrifice of the gods breed in my bowels? Infinite are my creatures, without which neither thou, nor Endymion, nor any, could love or live. 35

Flosc. But know you not, fair lady, that Cynthia governeth all things? Your grapes would be but dry husks, your corn but chaff, and all your virtues vain, were it not Cynthia that preserveth the one in the bud and nourisheth the 40 other in the blade, and by her influence both comforteth all things, and by her authority commandeth all creatures. Suffer, then, Endymion to follow his affections, though to obtain her be impossible, and let him flatter himself in his 45 own imaginations, because they are immortal.

Tellus. Loath I am, Endymion, thou shouldest die, because I love thee well; and that thou shouldest live, it grieveth me, because thou lovest Cynthia too well. In these extremities, 50 what shall I do? Floscula, no more words; I am resolved. He shall neither live nor die.

Tellus. Yes, I will entangle him in such a sweet net that he shall neither find the means 55 to come out, nor desire it. All allurements of pleasure will I cast before his eyes, insomuch that he shall slake that love which he now voweth to Cynthia, and burn in mine, of which he seemeth careless. In this languishing, between 60 my amorous devices and his own loose desires, there shall such dissolute thoughts take root in his head, and over his heart grow so thick [Pg 3] a skin, that neither hope of preferment, nor fear of punishment, nor counsel of the wisest, nor 65 company of the worthiest, shall alter his humour, nor make him once to think of his honour.

Tellus. He shall know the malice of a woman 70 to have neither mean nor end; and of a woman deluded in love to have neither rule nor reason. I can do it; I must; I will! All his virtues will I shadow with vices; his person (ah, sweet person!) shall he deck with such rich 75 robes as he shall forget it is his own person; his sharp wit (ah, wit too sharp that hath cut off all my joys!) shall he use in flattering of my face and devising sonnets in my favour. The prime of his youth and pride of his time shall be spent 80 in melancholy passions, careless behaviour, untamed thoughts, and unbridled affections.

Flosc. When this is done, what then? Shall it continue till his death, or shall he dote forever in this delight? 85

Tellus. Ah, Floscula, thou rendest my heart in sunder in putting me in remembrance of the end.

Tellus. Yet suffer me to imitate Juno, who would turn Jupiter’s lovers to beasts on the earth, though she knew afterwards they should be stars in heaven.

Flosc. Affection that is bred by enchantment 95 is like a flower that is wrought in silk,—in colour and form most like, but nothing at all in substance or savour.

Tellus. It shall suffice me if the world talk that I am favoured of Endymion. 100

Flosc. Well, use your own will; but you shall find that love gotten with witchcraft is as unpleasant as fish taken with medicines[9] unwholesome.

Tellus. Floscula, they that be so poor that 105 they have neither net nor hook will rather poison dough than pine with hunger; and she that is so oppress’d with love that she is neither able with beauty nor wit to obtain her friend, will rather use unlawful means than try intolerable 110 pains. I will do it. Exit.

Flosc. Then about it. Poor Endymion, what traps are laid for thee because thou honourest one that all the world wondereth at! And what plots are cast to make thee unfortunate that 115 studiest of all men to be the faithfulest!

Scene III.[10]

Dares. Now our masters are in love up to the ears, what have we to do but to be in knavery up to the crowns?

Samias. Oh, that we had Sir Tophas, that brave squire, in the midst of our mirth,—et 5 ecce autem, “Will you see the Devil”,—

Top. I brook not this idle humour of love; it tickleth not my liver, from whence the lovemongers 10 in former ages seemed to infer they should proceed.

Epi. Love, sir, may lie in your lungs,—and I think it doth, and that is the cause you blow and are so pursy. 15

Top. Why, fool, a poet is as much as one should say—a poet. [Noticing Dares and Samias.] But soft, yonder be two wrens; shall I shoot at them?

Top. Birds or boys, they are both but a pittance for my breakfast; therefore have at 30 them, for their brains must as it were embroider my bolts.[11]

Sam. Stay your courage, valiant knight, for your wisdom is so weary that it stayeth itself.

Top. Because amicitia (as in old annals we find) is inter pares. Now, my pretty companions 40 you shall see how unequal you be to me; but I will not cut you quite off, you shall be my half-friends for reaching to my middle; so far as from the ground to the waist I will be your friend. 45

Dar. Learnedly. But what shall become of the rest of your body, from the waist to the crown?

Top. My children, quod supra vos nihil ad vos; you must think the rest immortal, because 50 you cannot reach it.

Top. I was the first that ever devised war, and therefore by Mars himself given me for my arms a whole armory; and thus I go, as you 65 see, clothed with artillery. It is not silks, milksops, nor tissues, nor the fine wool of Seres,[12] but iron, steel, swords, flame, shot, terror, [Pg 4] clamour, blood, and ruin, that rocks asleep my thoughts, which never had any other cradle70 but cruelty. Let me see, do you not bleed?

Top. You shall live:—you, Samias, because you are little; you, Dares, because you are no bigger; and both of you, because you are but80 two; for commonly I kill by the dozen, and have for every particular adversary a peculiar weapon.

Top. Here is the musket for the untamed or, as the vulgar sort term it, the wild mallard.[14]

Top. Here is a spear and shield, and both necessary, the one to conquer, the other to subdue or overcome the terrible trout, which although95 he be under the water, yet tying a string to the top of my spear and an engine of iron to the end of my line, I overthrow him, and then herein I put him.

Dar. [Aside.] All the better; we shall have good sport hereafter, if we can get leisure.

Sam. [Aside.] Leisure! I will rather lose my master’s service than his company! Look105 how he struts. [To Sir Tophas.] But what is this? Call you it your sword?

Top. No, it is my simitar; which I, by construction often studying to be compendious, call my smiter.110

Top. Mock you me? You shall both suffer, yet with such weapons as you shall make choice115 of the weapon wherewith you shall perish. Am I all a mass or lump; is there no proportion in me? Am I all ass; is there no wit in me? Epi, prepare them to the slaughter.

Sam. I pray, sir, hear us speak! We call120 you mass, which your learning doth well understand is all man, for mas, maris is a man. Then as (as you know) is a weight, and we for your virtues account you a weight.

Top. The Latin hath saved your lives, the125 which a world of silver could not have ransom’d. I understand you, and pardon you.

Dar. Well, Sir Tophas, we bid you farewell, and at our next meeting we will be ready to do you service.130

Top. Samias, I thank you: Dares, I thank you: but especially I thank you both.

Sam. [Aside.] Wisely. Come, next time we ’ll have some pretty gentlewomen with us to walk, for without doubt with them he will135 be very dainty.

Top. Now will I march into the field, where, if I cannot encounter with my foul140 enemies, I will withdraw myself to the river, and there fortify for fish, for there resteth no minute free from fight.

Scene IV.[15]

Tellus. Behold, Floscula, we have met with the woman by chance that we sought for by travel. I will break my mind to her without ceremony or circumstance, lest we lose that time in advice that should be spent in5 execution.

Flosc. Use your discretion; I will in this case neither give counsel nor consent, for there cannot be a thing more monstrous than to force affection by sorcery, neither do I imagine10 anything more impossible.

Tellus. Tush, Floscula, in obtaining of love, what impossibilities will I not try? And for the winning of Endymion, what impieties will I not practise? Dipsas, whom as many honour for15 age as wonder at for cunning, listen in few words to my tale, and answer in one word to the purpose, for that neither my burning desire can afford long speech, nor the short time I have to stay many delays. Is it possible by herbs,20 stones, spells, incantation, enchantment, exorcisms, fire, metals, planets, or any practice,[16] to plant affection where it is not, and to supplant it where it is?

Dipsas. Fair lady, you may imagine that25 these hoary hairs are not void of experience, nor the great name that goeth of my cunning to be without cause. I can darken the sun by my skill and remove the moon out of her course; I can restore youth to the aged and make30 hills without bottoms; there is nothing that I cannot do but that only which you would have me do: and therein I differ from the gods, that I am not able to rule hearts; for were it in my power to place affection by appointment, I35 would make such evil appetites, such inordinate lusts, such corsed desires, as all the world should be filled both with superstitious heats and extreme love.

Tellus. Unhappy Tellus, whose desires are40 so desperate that they are neither to be conceived of any creature, nor to be cured by any art!

Dipsas. This I can: breed slackness in love, though never root it out. What is he whom45 you love, and what she that he honoureth?

Tellus. Endymion, sweet Endymion is he that hath my heart; and Cynthia, too, too fair Cynthia, the miracle of nature, of time, of fortune, [Pg 5] is the lady that he delights in, and 50 dotes on every day, and dies for ten thousand times a day.

Dipsas. Would you have his love either by absence or sickness aslaked?[17] Would you that Cynthia should mistrust him, or be jealous 55 of him without colour?

Tellus. It is the only thing I crave, that, seeing my love to Endymion, unspotted, cannot be accepted, his truth to Cynthia, though it be unspeakable, may be suspected. 60

Dipsas. I will undertake it, and overtake[18] him, that all his love shall be doubted of, and therefore become desperate: but this will wear out with time that treadeth all things down but truth. 65

ACT II

Scene I.[19]

Endymion. O fair Cynthia! O unfortunate Endymion! Why was not thy birth as high as thy thoughts, or her beauty less than heavenly; or why are not thine honours as rare as her beauty, or thy fortunes as great as thy deserts? 5 Sweet Cynthia, how wouldst thou be pleased, how possessed? Will labours, patient of all extremities, obtain thy love? There is no mountain so steep that I will not climb, no monster so cruel that I will not tame, no action 10 so desperate that I will not attempt. Desirest thou the passions of love, the sad and melancholy moods of perplexed minds, the not-to-be-expressed torments of racked thoughts? Behold my sad tears, my deep sighs, my hollow 15 eyes, my broken sleeps, my heavy countenance. Wouldst thou have me vow’d only to thy beauty and consume every minute of time in thy service? Remember my solitary life almost these seven years. Whom have I entertained 20 but mine own thoughts and thy virtues? What company have I used but contemplation? Whom have I wond’red at but thee? Nay, whom have I not contemned for thee? Have I not crept to those on whom I might have trodden, 25 only because thou didst shine upon them? Have not injuries been sweet to me, if thou vouchsafest I should bear them? Have I not spent my golden years in hopes, waxing old with wishing, yet wishing nothing but thy love? 30 With Tellus, fair Tellus, have I dissembled, using her but as a cloak for mine affections, that others, seeing my mangled and disordered mind, might think it were for one that loveth me, not for Cynthia, whose perfection alloweth 35 no companion nor comparison. In the midst of these distemp’red thoughts of mine thou art not only jealous of my truth, but careless, suspicious, and secure; which strange humour maketh my mind as desperate as thy conceits are 40 doubtful. I am none of those wolves that bark most when thou shinest brightest, but that fish (thy fish,[20] Cynthia, in the flood Araris) which at thy waxing is as white as the driven snow, and at thy waning as black as deepest darkness. 45 I am that Endymion, sweet Cynthia, that have carried my thoughts in equal balance with my actions, being always as free from imagining ill as enterprising; that Endymion whose eyes never esteemed anything fair but thy 50 face, whose tongue termed nothing rare but thy virtues, and whose heart imagined nothing miraculous but thy government; yea, that Endymion, who, divorcing himself from the amiableness of all ladies, the bravery of all courts, 55 the company of all men, hath chosen in a solitary cell to live, only by feeding on thy favour, accounting in the world—but thyself—nothing excellent, nothing immortal: thus mayest thou see every vein, sinew, muscle, and artery of 60 my love, in which there is no flattery, nor deceit, error, nor art. But soft, here cometh Tellus. I must turn my other face to her, like Janus, lest she be as suspicious as Juno.

Tellus. Yonder I espy Endymion. I will 65 seem to suspect nothing, but soothe him, that seeing I cannot obtain the depth of his love, I may learn the height of his dissembling. Floscula and Dipsas, withdraw yourselves out of our sight, yet be within the hearing of our 70 saluting. [Floscula and Dipsas withdraw.] How now, Endymion, always solitary? No company but your own thoughts, no friend but melancholy fancies?

End. You know, fair Tellus, that the 75 sweet remembrance of your love is the only companion of my life, and thy presence, my paradise; so that I am not alone when nobody is with me, and in heaven itself when thou art with me. 80

Tellus. Why, is dissembling joined to their sex inseparable, as heat to fire, heaviness to earth, moisture to water, thinness to air?

End. No, but found in their sex as common 90 as spots upon doves, moles upon faces, caterpillars upon sweet apples, cobwebs upon fair windows.

End. I dare not tell; for if I should say you, then would you imagine my flattery to be extreme; if another, then would you think my love to be but indifferent. 100

Tellus. You will be sure I shall take no vantage of your words. But, in sooth, Endymion, [Pg 6] without more ceremonies, is it not Cynthia?

End. You know, Tellus, that of the gods we are forbidden to dispute, because their deities 105 come not within the compass of our reasons; and of Cynthia we are allowed not to talk but to wonder, because her virtues are not within the reach of our capacities.

Tellus. Take heed, Endymion, lest like 120 the wrestler in Olympia, that striving to lift an impossible weight catch’d an incurable strain, thou, by fixing thy thoughts above thy reach, fall into a disease without all recure. But I see thou art now in love with Cynthia. 125

End. No, Tellus, thou knowest that the stately cedar, whose top reacheth unto the clouds, never boweth his head to the shrubs that grow in the valley; nor ivy, that climbeth up by the elm, can ever get hold of the 130 beams of the sun. Cynthia I honour in all humility, whom none ought or dare adventure to love, whose affections are immortal, and virtues infinite. Suffer me, therefore, to gaze on the moon, at whom, were it not for thyself, I would 135 die with wondering.

Scene II.[21]

Dar. Come, Samias, didst thou ever hear such a sighing, the one for Cynthia, the other for Semele, and both for moonshine in the water?

Sam. Let them sigh, and let us sing. How 5 say you, gentlewomen, are not our masters too far in love?

Scint. Their tongues, haply, are dipp’d to the root in amorous words and sweet discourses, but I think their hearts are scarce tipp’d on 10 the side with constant desires.

Dar. How say you, Favilla, is not love a lurcher,[22] that taketh men’s stomachs away that they cannot eat, their spleen that they cannot laugh, their hearts that they cannot fight, 15 their eyes that they cannot sleep, and leaveth nothing but livers to make nothing but lovers!

Favil. Away, peevish boy; a rod were better under thy girdle than love in thy mouth! It will be a forward cock that croweth in the 20 shell.

Favil. And you, Scintilla, be not much more than a spark, though you would be esteemed a flame.

Sam. [Aside to Dares.] It were good sport to see the fight between two sparks. 30

Scint. This it is to be matched with girls, who coming but yesterday from making of babies,[23] would before to-morrow be accounted matrons.

Favil. I cry your matronship mercy. Because 40 your pantables[24] be higher with cork, therefore your feet must needs be higher in the insteps. You will be mine elder because you stand upon a stool and I on the floor.

Dar. [To Samias.] Let them alone, and see with what countenance they will become friends.

Scint. Nay, you think to be the wiser, because you mean to have the last word. 50

Sam. [To Dares.] Step between them lest they scratch.—In faith, gentlewomen, seeing we came out to be merry, let not your jarring mar our jests; be friends. How say you?

Dar. It is their property to carry in their eyes fire and water, tears and torches, and in their mouths honey and gall. 70

Dar. Sir Tophas, Sir Tophas, of whom we told you. If you be good wenches, make as though you love him, and wonder at him. 75

Dar. But first let us stand aside, and let him use his garb,[25] for all consisteth in his gracing.

Top. How likest thou this martial life, where nothing but blood besprinkleth our bosoms? Let me see, be our enemies[26] fat?

Epi. Passing fat: and I would not change this life to be a lord; and yourself passeth all 85 comparison, for other captains kill and beat, [Pg 7] and there is nothing you kill, but you also eat.

Top. I will draw out their guts out of their bellies, and tear the flesh with my teeth, so mortal is my hate, and so eager my 90 unstaunched stomach.

Epi. [Aside.] My master thinks himself the valiantest man in the world if he kill a wren; so warlike a thing he accounteth to take away life, though it be from a lark. 95

Top. Epi, I find my thoughts to swell and my spirit to take wings, insomuch that I cannot continue within the compass of so slender combats.

Favil. This passeth! 100

}

[Aside.]

Scint. Why, is he not mad?

Sam. No, but a little vainglorious.

Top. I will encounter that black and cruel 105 enemy that beareth rough and untewed[27] locks upon his body, whose sire throweth down the strongest walls, whose legs are as many as both ours, on whose head are placed most horrible horns by nature as a defence from all harms. 110

Epi. I cannot imagine it. Yet let me see,—a “black enemy” with “rough locks.” It may be a sheep, and Ovis is a sheep. His sire so 120 strong: a ram is a sheep’s sire, that being also an engine of war. Horns he hath, and four legs,—so hath a sheep. Without doubt, this monster is a black sheep. Is it not a sheep that you mean? 125

Sam. [Aside.] Come let us take him off. [Samias, Dares, Favilla, and Scintilla come forward.] Sir Tophas, all hail! 130

Top. Welcome, children; I seldom cast mine eyes so low as to the crowns of your heads, and therefore pardon me that I spake not all this while.

Dar. No harm done. Here be fair ladies 135 come to wonder at your person, your valour, your wit, the report whereof hath made them careless of their own honours, to glut their eyes and hearts upon yours.

Top. Report cannot but injure me, for that 140 not knowing fully what I am, I fear she hath been a niggard in her praises.

Scint. No, gentle knight, report hath been prodigal, for she hath left you no equal, nor herself credit, so much hath she told, yet no 145 more than we now see.

Favil. If there remain as much pity toward women as there is in you courage against your enemies, then shall we be happy, who, 150 hearing of your person, came to see it, and seeing it, are now in love with it.

Top. Love me, ladies? I easily believe it, but my tough heart receiveth no impression with sweet words. Mars may pierce it, 155 Venus shall not paint on it.

Dar. Will you cast these ladies away, and all for a little love? Do but speak kindly. 160

Top. There cometh no soft syllable within my lips; custom hath made my words bloody and my heart barbarous. That pelting[28] word love, how waterish it is in my mouth; it carrieth no sound. Hate, horror, death, are 165 speeches that nourish my spirits. I like honey, but I care not for the bees; I delight in music, but I love not to play on the bagpipes; I can vouchsafe to hear the voice of women, but to touch their bodies, I disdain it as a 170 thing childish and fit for such men as can digest nothing but milk.

Top. Pity them, Epi? No, I do not think that this breast shall be pest’red with such a foolish passion. What is that the gentlewoman carrieth in a chain? 180

Scint. Sir Tophas, the god of war deal 190 better with you than you do with the god of love.

Favil. Our love we may dissemble, digest we cannot; but I doubt not but time will hamper you and help us. 195

Top. I defy time, who hath no interest in my heart. Come, Epi, let me to the battle with that hideous beast. Love is pap, and hath no relish in my taste because it is not terrible.

Dar. Indeed a black sheep is a perilous 200 beast; but let us in till another time.

Scene III.[30]

End. No rest, Endymion! Still uncertain how to settle thy steps by day or thy thoughts by night! Thy truth is measured by thy fortune, and thou art judged unfaithful because thou art unhappy. I will see if I can beguile 5 myself with sleep, and if no slumber will take hold in my eyes, yet will I embrace the golden thoughts in my head, and wish to melt by musing; that as ebony, which no fire can scorch, is yet [Pg 8] consumed with sweet savours, so my heart, 10 which cannot be bent by the hardness of fortune, may be bruised by amorous desires. On yonder bank never grew anything but lunary,[31] and hereafter I will never have any bed but that bank. O Endymion, Tellus was fair. But 15 what availeth beauty without wisdom? Nay, Endymion, she was wise. But what availeth wisdom without honour? She was honourable, Endymion; belie her not. Ay, but how obscure is honour without fortune. Was she not fortunate 20 whom so many followed? Yes, yes, but base is fortune without majesty: thy majesty, Cynthia, all the world knoweth and wondereth at, but not one in the world that can imitate it or comprehend it. No more, Endymion. Sleep 25 or die. Nay, die, for to sleep, it is impossible;—and yet I know not how it cometh to pass, I feel such a heaviness both in mine eyes and heart that I am suddenly benumbed, yea, in every joint. It may be weariness, for when 30 did I rest? It may be deep melancholy, for when did I not sigh? Cynthia! Ay, so;—I say, Cynthia!

Dipsas. Little dost thou know, Endymion, when thou shalt wake, for hadst thou placed 35 thy heart as low in love as thy head lieth now in sleep, thou mightest have commanded Tellus, whom now, instead of a mistress, thou shalt find a tomb. These eyes must I seal up by art, not nature, which are to be opened neither by 40 art nor nature. Thou that layest down with golden locks shalt not awake until they be turned to silver hairs; and that chin on which scarcely appeareth soft down shall be filled with bristles as hard as broom. Thou shalt sleep 45 out thy youth and flowering time, and become dry hay before thou knewest thyself green grass; and ready by age to step into the grave when thou wakest, that was youthful in the court when thou laidest thee down to sleep. 50 The malice of Tellus hath brought this to pass, which if she could not have intreated of me by fair means, she would have commanded by menacing, for from her gather we all our simples to maintain our sorceries. [To Bagoa.] 55 Fan with this hemlock over his face, and sing the enchantment for sleep, whilst I go in and finish those ceremonies that are required in our art. Take heed ye touch not his face, for the fan is so seasoned that whoso it toucheth with 60 a leaf shall presently die, and over whom the wind of it breatheth, he shall sleep forever.

Bagoa. Let me alone; I will be careful. [Exit Dipsas.] What hap hadst thou, Endymion, to come under the hands of Dipsas? O fair Endymion, 65 how it grieveth me that that fair face must be turned to a withered skin and taste the pains of death before it feel the reward of love! I fear Tellus will repent that which the heavens themselves seemed to rue. But I hear Dipsas 70 coming! I dare not repine, lest she make me pine, and rock me into such a deep sleep that I shall not awake to my marriage.

Dipsas. Well then, let us in; and see that you do not so much as whisper that I did this, for if you do, I will turn thy hairs to adders and all thy teeth in thy head to tongues. Come away, come away.

Music sounds. Three ladies enter: one with a knife and a looking-glass, who, by the procurement of one of the other two, offers to stab Endymion as he sleeps; but the third wrings her hands, lamenteth, offering still to prevent it, but dares 85 not. At last, the first lady looking in the glass, casts down the knife.

Enters an ancient man with books with three leaves; offers the same twice. Endymion refuseth. He rendeth[33] two, and offers the third, 90 where he stands awhile; and then Endymion offers to take it.

ACT III

Scene I.[34]

[Enter] Cynthia, Tellus, [Semele, Eumenides, Corsites, Panelion, and Zontes.]

Cynthia. Is the report true, that Endymion is stricken into such a dead sleep that nothing can either wake him or move him?

Cynth. What maketh you, Tellus, to be so short? The time was Endymion only was.

Eum. It is an old saying, madam, that a 10 waking dog doth afar off bark at a sleeping lion.

Sem. It were good, Eumenides, that you took a nap with your friend, for your speech beginneth to be heavy. 15

Cynth. What, have we here before my face these unseemly and malapert overthwarts![35] I will tame your tongues and your thoughts, 20 and make your speeches answerable to your duties, and your conceits fit for my dignity, else will I banish you both my person and the world.

Eum. Pardon, I humbly ask; but such is my unspotted faith to Endymion that whatsoever 25 seemeth a needle to prick his finger is a dagger [Pg 9] to wound my heart.

Cynth. If you be so dear to him, how happeneth it you neither go to see him, nor search for remedy for him? 30

Eum. I have seen him to my grief, and sought recure with despair, for that I cannot imagine who should restore him that is the wonder to all men. Your Highness, on whose hands the compass of the earth is at command, though 35 not in possession, may show yourself both worthy your sex, your nature, and your favour, if you redeem that honourable Endymion, whose ripe years foretell rare virtues, and whose unmellowed conceits promise ripe counsel. 40

Cynth. I have had trial of Endymion, and conceive greater assurance of his age than I could hope of his youth.

Tellus. But timely, madam, crooks that tree that will be a cammock,[36] and young it pricks 45 that will be a thorn; and therefore he that began without care to settle his life, it is a sign without amendment he will end it.

Cynth. Presumptuous girl, I will make thy tongue an example of unrecoverable displeasure. 50 Corsites, carry her to the castle in the desert, there to remain and weave.

Cynth. It skilleth[37] not which. Go to, in both; for she shall find examples infinite in either 55 what punishment long tongues have. Eumenides, if either the soothsayers in Egypt, or the enchanters in Thessaly, or the philosophers in Greece, or all the sages of the world can find remedy, I will procure it; therefore, dispatch 60 with all speed: you, Eumenides, into Thessaly; you, Zontes, into Greece, because you are acquainted in Athens; you, Panelion, to Egypt; saying that Cynthia sendeth, and if you will, commandeth. 65

Eum. On bowed knee I give thanks, and with wings on my legs, I fly for remedy.

Zon. We are ready at your highness’ command, and hope to return to your full content.

Eum. Your Majesty’s words have been always 75 deeds, and your deeds virtues.

Scene II.[38]

Cors. Here is the castle, fair Tellus, in which you must weave, till either time end your days, or Cynthia her displeasure. I am sorry so fair a face should be subject to so hard a fortune, and that the flower of beauty, which is honoured 5 in courts, should here wither in prison.

Tellus. Corsites, Cynthia may restrain the liberty of my body, of my thoughts she cannot; and therefore do I esteem myself most free, though I am in greatest bondage. 10

Cors. Can you then feed on fancy, and subdue the malice of envy by the sweetness of imagination?

Tellus. Corsites, there is no sweeter music to the miserable than despair; and therefore 15 the more bitterness I feel, the more sweetness I find; for so vain were liberty, and so unwelcome the following of higher fortune, that I choose rather to pine in this castle than to be a prince in any other court. 20

Cors. A humour contrary to your years and nothing agreeable to your sex; the one commonly allured with delights, the other always with sovereignty.

Tellus. I marvel, Corsites, that you being 25 a captain, who should sound nothing but terror and suck nothing but blood, can find in your heart to talk such smooth words, for that it agreeth not with your calling to use words so soft as that of love. 30

Cors. Lady, it were unfit of wars to discourse with women, into whose minds nothing can sink but smoothness; besides, you must not think that soldiers be so rough-hewn, or of such knotty mettle, that beauty cannot allure, 35 and you, being beyond perfection, enchant.

Tellus. Good Corsites, talk not of love, but let me to my labour. The little beauty I have shall be bestowed on my loom, which I now mean to make my lover. 40

Scene III.[39]

Tophas. Then am I but three-quarters of a noun substantive. But alas, Epi, to tell thee the troth. I am a noun adjective.

Tophas. No; but love hath, as it were, 25 milk’d my thoughts and drained from my heart [Pg 10] the very substance of my accustomed courage; it worketh in my head like new wine, so as I must hoop my sconce with iron, lest my head break, and so I bewray[41] my brains. But, I 30 pray thee, first discover me in all parts, that I may be like a lover, and then will I sigh and die. Take my gun and give me a gown: Cedant arma togæ.[42]

Tophas. Take my sword and shield and give me beard-brush and scissors: Bella gerant alii, tu Pari semper ama.[43]

Tophas. Not yet; for I feel a contention 40 within me whether I shall frame the bodkin beard or the bush. But take my pike and give me pen: Dicere quæ puduit, scribere jussit amor.[44]

Tophas. Now, for my bow and bolts give 45 me ink and paper, for my smiter a pen-knife; for

Tophas. Give over wars? No, Epi, Militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido.[46]

Tophas. Quicquid conabar dicere, versus 60 erat.[48] Epi, I feel all Ovid De Arte Amandi lie as heavy at my heart as a load of logs. Oh, what a fine, thin hair hath Dipsas! What a pretty low forehead! What a tall and stately nose! What little hollow eyes! What great 65 and goodly lips! How harmless she is, being toothless,—her fingers fat and short, adorned with long nails like a bittern! In how sweet a proportion her cheeks hang down to her breasts like dugs and her paps to her waist like bags! 70 What a low stature she is, and yet what a great foot she carrieth! How thrifty must she be in whom there is no waist! How virtuous is she like to be, over whom no man can be jealous!

Tophas. O Epi, even as a dish melteth by the fire, so doth my wit increase by love.

Tophas. Good Epi, let me take a nap; for 80 as some man may better steal a horse than another look over the hedge, so divers shall be sleepy when they would fainest take rest.

Epi. Who ever saw such a woodcock![49] Love Dipsas! Without doubt all the world will 85 account him valiant, that ventureth on her whom none durst undertake. But here cometh two wags.

Sam. It is a thing most strange: and I think mine will never return, so that we must both seek new masters, for we shall never live by our manners. 95

Epi. If you want masters, join with me and serve Sir Tophas; who must needs keep more men, because he is toward marriage.

Epi. He hath taken his thoughts a hole lower, and saith, seeing it is the fashion of the world, he will vail[50] bonnet to beauty.

Sam. That ugly creature? Why, she is a fool, a scold, fat, without fashion, and quite 110 without favour.

Epi. Why, in marrying Dipsas he shall 115 have every day twelve dishes of meat to his dinner, though there be none but Dipsas with him: four of flesh, four of fish, four of fruit.

Epi. For fruit these: fritters, medlars, hartichokes, and lady-longings. Thus you see he shall fare like a king, though he be but a 130 beggar.

Dar. Well, Epi, dine thou with him, for I had rather fast than see her face. But see, thy master is asleep; let us have a song to wake this amorous knight. 135

Top. There appeared in my sleep a goodly 160 owl, who, sitting upon my shoulder, cried “Twit, twit”; and before mine eyes presented herself the express image of Dipsas. I marvelled what the owl said, till at the last I perceived “Twit, twit,” “To it, to it,” only 165 by contraction admonished by this vision to make account of my sweet Venus.

Dar. Love? Why, it is impossible that into so noble and unconquered a courage love should creep, having first a head as hard to pierce as steel, then to pass to a heart 175 arm’d with a shirt of mail.

Epi. Ay, but my master yawning one day in the sun, Love crept into his mouth before he could close it, and there kept such a tumbling in his body that he was glad to untruss[53] 180 the points of his heart and entertain Love as a stranger.

Dar. Plead! Nay, we will press her to it. 185 [Aside to Samias.] Let us go with him to Dipsas, and there shall we have good sport.—But, Sir Tophas, when shall we go? For I find my tongue voluble, and my heart venturous, and all myself like myself. 190

Sam. [Aside to Dares.] Come, Dares, let us not lose him until we find our masters, for as long as he liveth, we shall lack neither mirth nor meat.

Scene IV.[56]

Eum. Father, your sad music being tuned on the same key that my hard fortune is, hath so melted my mind that I wish to hang at your mouth’s end till my life end.

Ger. These tunes, gentleman, have I been 5 accustomed with these fifty winters, having no other house to shroud myself but the broad heavens; and so familiar with me hath use made misery that I esteem sorrow my chiefest solace, and welcomest is that guest to me 10 that can rehearse the saddest tale or the bloodiest tragedy.

Ger. You must pardon me if I deny to tell 15 it, for knowing that the revealing of griefs is, as it were, a renewing of sorrow, I have vowed therefore to conceal them, that I might not only feel the depth of everlasting discontentment, but despair of remedy. But whence are you? 20 What fortune hath thrust you to this distress?

Eum. I am going to Thessaly, to seek remedy for Endymion, my dearest friend, who hath been cast into a dead sleep almost these twenty years, waxing old and ready for the grave, 25 being almost but newly come forth of the cradle.

Ger. You need not for recure travel far, for whoso can clearly see the bottom of this fountain shall have remedy for anything.

Eum. That methinketh is impossible. Why, 30 what virtue can there be in water?

Ger. Yes, whosoever can shed the tears of a faithful lover shall obtain anything he would. Read these words engraven about the brim.

Eum. Have you known this by experience, 35 or is it placed here of purpose to delude men?

Ger. I only would have experience of it, and then should there be an end of my misery; and then would I tell the strangest discourse that ever yet was heard. 40

Eum. Yes, father, but a qualm that often cometh over my heart doth now take hold of 45 me. But did never any lovers come hither?

Ger. Lusters, but not lovers; for often have I seen them weep, but never could I hear they saw the bottom.

Ger. They all wept, that the fountain overflowed with tears, but so thick became the water with their tears that I could scarce 55 discern the brim, much less behold the bottom.

Eum. Ah, Eumenides, how art thou perplexed! 60 Call to mind the beauty of thy sweet mistress and the depth of thy never-dying affections. How oft hast thou honoured her, not only without spot, but suspicion of falsehood! And how hardly hath she rewarded thee without 65 cause or colour of despite. How secret hast thou been these seven years, that hast not, nor once darest not to name her, for discontenting her. How faithful, that hast offered to die for her, to please her! Unhappy Eumenides! 70

Eum. She of all women the most froward, and I of all creatures the most fond. 75

Ger. You doted then, not loved, for affection is grounded on virtue, and virtue is never peevish; [Pg 12] or on beauty, and beauty loveth to be praised.

Eum. Ay, but if all virtuous ladies should 80 yield to all that be loving, or all amiable gentlewomen entertain all that be amorous, their virtues would be accounted vices, and their beauties deformities; for that love can be but between two, and that not proceeding of him 85 that is most faithful but most fortunate.

Eum. Yea, father, if that my tears clear not this fountain, then may you swear it is but a 90 mere mockery.

Eum. Ah, I faint, I die! Ah, sweet Semele, let me alone, and dissolve, by weeping, into water. 95

Ger. This affection seemeth strange: if he see nothing, without doubt this dissembling passeth, for nothing shall draw me from the belief.

Eum. Father, I plainly see the bottom, 100 and there in white marble engraven these words: Ask one for all, and but one thing at all.

Ger. O fortunate Eumenides, (for so have I heard thee call thyself,) let me see. I cannot discern any such thing. I think thou dreamest. 105

Eum. Ah, father, thou art not a faithful lover, and therefore canst not behold it.

Eum. Ask? So I will. And what shall I 110 do but ask, and whom should I ask but Semele, the possessing of whose person is a pleasure that cannot come within the compass of comparison; whose golden locks seem most curious when they seem most careless; whose sweet looks 115 seem most alluring when they are most chaste; and whose words the more virtuous they are, the more amorous they be accounted? I pray thee. Fortune, when I shall first meet with fair Semele, dash my delight with some light disgrace, 120 lest embracing sweetness beyond measure, I take a surfeit without recure. Let her practise her accustomed coyness that I may diet myself upon my desires; otherwise the fulness of my joys will diminish the sweetness, and 125 I shall perish by them before I possess them.

Why do I trifle the time in words? The least minute being spent in the getting of Semele is more worth than the whole world; therefore let me ask. What now, Eumenides! Whither 130 art thou drawn? Hast thou forgotten both friendship and duty, care of Endymion, and the commandment of Cynthia? Shall he die in a leaden sleep because thou sleepest in a golden dream? Ay, let him sleep ever, so I slumber 135 but one minute with Semele. Love knoweth neither friendship nor kindred. Shall I not hazard the loss of a friend for the obtaining of her for whom I would often lose myself? Fond[57] Eumenides, shall the enticing beauty of a 140 most disdainful lady be of more force than the rare fidelity of a tried friend? The love of men to women is a thing common and of course; the friendship of man to man infinite and immortal. Tush! Semele doth possess my love. Ay, 145 but Endymion hath deserved it. I will help Endymion. I found Endymion unspotted in his truth. Ay, but I shall find Semele constant in her love. I will have Semele. What shall I do? Father, thy gray hairs are embassadors of 150 experience. Which shall I ask?

Ger. Eumenides, release Endymion, for all things, friendship excepted, are subject to fortune: love is but an eye-worm, which only tickleth the head with hopes and wishes; 155 friendship the image of eternity, in which there is nothing movable, nothing mischievous. As much difference as there is between beauty and virtue, bodies and shadows, colours and life, so great odds is there between love and 160 friendship.

Love is a chameleon, which draweth nothing into the mouth but air, and nourisheth nothing in the body but lungs. Believe me, Eumenides, desire dies in the same moment that beauty 165 sickens, and beauty fadeth in the same instant that it flourisheth. When adversities flow, then love ebbs; but friendship standeth stiffly in storms. Time draweth wrinkles in a fair face, but addeth fresh colours to a fast friend, 170 which neither heat, nor cold, nor misery, nor place, nor destiny, can alter or diminish. O friendship, of all things the most rare, and therefore most rare because most excellent, whose comforts in misery is always sweet, 175 and whose counsels in prosperity are ever fortunate! Vain love, that, only coming near to friendship in name, would seem to be the same or better in nature!

Eum. Father, I allow your reasons, and 180 will therefore conquer mine own. Virtue shall subdue affections, wisdom lust, friendship beauty. Mistresses are in every place, and as common as hares on Athos, bees in Hybla, fowls in the air; but friends to be found 185 are like the phœnix in Arabia, but one; or the philadelphi in Arays, never above two. I will have Endymion. Sacred fountain, in whose bowels are hidden divine secrets, I have increased your waters with the tears of unspotted 190 thoughts, and therefore let me receive the reward you promise. Endymion, the truest friend to me, and faithfulest lover to Cynthia, is in such a dead sleep that nothing can wake or move him. 195

Eum. I see in the same pillar these words: When she whose figure of all is the perfectest, and never to be measured; always one, yet never the same; still inconstant, yet never wavering; 200 shall come and kiss Endymion in his sleep, he shall then rise, else never. This is strange.

Eum. There cometh over mine eyes either a dark mist, or upon the fountain a deep 205 thickness, for I can perceive nothing. But how am I deluded, or what difficult, nay impossible thing is this?

Ger. Is it not impossible to measure her, who still worketh by her influence, never standing at one stay?

Ger. Is she not always Cynthia, yet seldom in the same bigness; always wavering in her waxing or waning, that our bodies might the better be governed, our seasons the dailier give their increase; yet never to be removed from her225 course, as long as the heavens continue theirs?

Ger. Then who can it be but Cynthia, whose virtues being all divine must needs bring things to pass that be miraculous? Go, humble thyself230 to Cynthia; tell her the success, of which myself shall be a witness. And this assure thyself, that she that sent to find means for his safety will now work her cunning.

Eum. I will hasten thither that I may entreat on my knees for succour, and embrace in240 mine arms my friend.

Ger. I will go with thee, for unto Cynthia must I discover all my sorrows, who also must work in me a contentment.

Ger. That shall be as we walk, and I doubt not but the strangeness of my tale will take away the tediousness of our journey.

ACT IV

Scene I.[59]

Tellus. I marvel Corsites giveth me so much liberty,—all the world knowing his charge to be so high and his nature to be most strange,—who hath so ill entreated ladies of great honour that he hath not suffered them to look out5 of windows, much less to walk abroad. It may be he is in love with me, for (Endymion, hard-hearted Endymion, excepted) what is he that is not enamour’d of my beauty? But what respectest thou the love of all the world? Endymion10 hates thee. Alas, poor Endymion, my malice hath excepded my love, and thy faith to Cynthia quenched my affections. Quenched, Tellus? Nay, kindled them afresh; insomuch that I find scorching flames for dead embers,15 and cruel encounters of war in my thoughts instead of sweet parleys. Ah, that I might once again see Endymion! Accursed girl, what hope hast thou to see Endymion, on whose head already are grown gray hairs, and whose life20 must yield to nature, before Cynthia end her displeasure. Wicked Dipsas, and most devilish Tellus, the one for cunning too exquisite, the other for hate too intolerable! Thou wast commanded to weave the stories and poetries25 wherein were showed both examples and punishments of tattling tongues, and thou hast only embroidered the sweet face of Endymion, devices of love, melancholy imaginations, and what not, out of thy work, that thou shouldst30 study to pick out of thy mind. But here cometh Corsites. I must seem yielding and stout; full of mildness, yet tempered with a majesty: for if I be too flexible, I shall give him more hope than I mean; if too froward, enjoy less liberty35 than I would. Love him I cannot, and therefore will practise that which is most contrary[60] to our sex, to dissemble.

Cor. Fair Tellus, I perceive you rise with the lark, and to yourself sing with the40 nightingale.

Tellus. My lord, I have no playfellow but fancy; being barred of all company, I must question with myself, and make my thoughts my friends.45

Cor. I would you would account my thoughts also your friends, for they be such as are only busied in wondering at your beauty and wisdom; and some such as have esteemed your fortune too hard; and divers of that kind50 that offer to set you free, if you will set them free.

Tellus. There are no colours so contrary as white and black, nor elements so disagreeing as fire and water, nor anything so opposite as55 men’s thoughts and their words.

Cor. He that gave Cassandra the gift of prophesying, with the curse that, spake she never so true, she should never be believed, hath I think poisoned the fortune of men,60 that uttering the extremities of their inward passions are always suspected of outward perjuries.

Tellus. Well, Corsites, I will flatter myself and believe you. What would you do to enjoy65 my love?

Cor. Set all the ladies of the castle free, and make you the pleasure of my life: more I cannot do, less I will not.

Tellus. These be great words, and fit your70 calling; for captains must promise things impossible. But will you do one thing for all?

Tellus. If you will remove him from that place by force, and convey him into some obscure cave by policy, I give you here the80 faith of an unspotted virgin that you only shall [Pg 14] possess me as a lover, and in spite of malice have me for a wife.

Cor. Remove him, Tellus! Yes, Tellus, he shall be removed, and that so soon as[61] thou85 shalt as much commend my diligence as my force. I go.

Cor. Ay, Tellus; as I would have none partaker of my sweet love, so shall none be90 partners of my labors. But I pray thee go at your best leisure, for Cynthia beginneth to rise, and if she discover our love, we both perish, for nothing pleaseth her but the fairness of virginity. All things must be not only without95 lust but without suspicion of lightness.

Tellus. Simple Corsites, I have set thee about a task, being but a man, that the gods themselves cannot perform, for little dost thou know how heavy his head lies, how hard his fortune; but such shifts must women have to deceive105 men, and under colour of things easy, entreat that which is impossible; otherwise we should be cumb’red with importunities, oaths, sighs, letters, and all implements of love, which to one resolved to the contrary are most loathsome.110 I will in, and laugh with the other ladies at Corsites’ sweating.

Scene II.[62]

Dar. No; I think he sleeps for a wager. But how shall we spend the time? Sir Tophas is so ar in love that he pineth in his bed and cometh not abroad.5

Epi. A pox of all false proverbs, and were a proverb a page, I would have him by the ears!

Epi. A monstrous lie; for I was tied two hours, and tarried for one to unloose me.

Epi. Poor! No, no, you base-conceited slaves, I am a most complete gentleman, although I be in disgrace with Sir Tophas.

Epi. Ay, because I cannot get him a lodging20 with Endymion. He would fain take a nap for forty or fifty years.

Epi. Why, the other was short. The first 35 is called from the thumb to the little finger; the second from the little finger to the elbow; and some he hath made to reach to the crown of his head, and down again to the sole of his foot. It is set to the tune of the black 40 Saunce[65]; ratio est, because Dipsas is a black saint.

Dar. Very wisely. But pray thee, Epi, how art thou complete; and being from thy master, what occupation wilt thou take? 45

Epi. Know,[66] my hearts. I am an absolute Microcosmus, a petty world of myself: my library is my head, for I have no other books but my brains; my wardrobe on my back, for I have no more apparel than is on my body; 50 my armory at my fingers’ ends, for I use no other artillery than my nails; my treasure in my purse. Sic omnia mea mecum porto.[67]

Epi. Know,[68] sirs, my palace is pav’d with 55 grass, and tiled with stars, for Cœlo tegitur qui non habet urnam,[69]—he that hath no house must lie in the yard.

Epi. Why, is it not said, “It is good walking when one hath his horse in his hand”? 65

Epi. By angling. Oh, ’tis a stately occupation to stand four hours in a cold morning, and to have his nose bitten with frost before his 70 bait be mumbled with a fish.

Epi. Yes, in a western barge, when with a good wind and lusty pugs,[70] one may go ten 75 miles in two days.

Epi. No, when I am in haste, one-and-twenty games at chess, to pass a few minutes.

[Pg 15] Epi. Tush, let me alone! But I must 85 needs see if I can find where Endymion lieth, and then go to a certain fountain hard by, where they say faithful lovers shall have all things they will ask. If I can find out any of these, Ego et magister meus erimus in tuto, I 90 and my master shall be friends. He is resolved to weep some three or four pailfuls to avoid the rheum of love that wambleth[71] in his stomach.

Epi. [Aside.] So methinks, for they smell all of drink, like a beggar’s beard.

1 Watch. Mass, neighbours, he says true, for if I swear I will never drink my liquor by 110 the quart, and yet call for two pints, I think with a safe conscience I may carouse both.

2 Watch. If I say to my wife, “Wife, I will have no raisins in my pudding,” she puts in currants; small raisins are raisins, and boys 120 are men: even as my wife should have put no raisins in my pudding, so shall there no boys see Endymion.

Master Constable. You know, neighbours, ’tis an old said saw, “Children and fools speak true.”

Mast. Const. Well, there you see the men be the fools, because it is provided from the children.

Mast. Const. Then, say I, neighbours, that 135 children must not see Endymion, because children and fools speak true.

1 Watch. Nay, he says true, and therefore 140 till Cynthia have been here, he shall not be uncovered. Therefore, away!

Dar. [Aside to Sam. and Epi.] A watch, quoth you! A man may watch seven years for a wise word, and yet go without it. Their wits 145 are all as rusty as their bills.—But come on, Master Constable, shall we have a song before we go?

Scene III.[76]

Corsites. I am come in sight of the lunary bank. Without doubt Tellus doteth upon me, and cunningly, that I might not perceive her love, she hath set me to a task that is done before it is begun. Endymion, you must change 5 your pillow, and if you be not weary of sleep, I will carry you where at ease you shall sleep your fill. It were good that without more ceremonies I took him, lest being espied, I be entrapt, and so incur the displeasure of Cynthia, who 10 commonly setteth watch that Endymion have no wrong. [He tries to lift Endymion.] What now, is your mastership so heavy, or are you nail’d to the ground? Not stir one whit! Then use all thy force, though he feel it and wake. 15 What, stone-still? Turn’d, I think, to earth with lying so long on the earth. Didst not thou, Corsites, before Cynthia, pull up a tree that forty years was fast’ned with roots and wreathed in knots to the ground? Didst not 20 thou, with main force, pull open the iron gates which no ram or engine could move? Have my weak thoughts made brawn-fallen my strong arms, or is it the nature of love, or the quintessence of the mind, to breed numbness or 25 litherness,[77] or I know not what languishing in my joints and sinews, being but the base strings of my body? Or doth the remembrance of Tellus so refine my spirits into a matter so subtle and divine that the other fleshy parts 30 cannot work whilst they muse? Rest thyself, rest thyself; nay, rend thyself in pieces, Corsites, and strive, in spite of love, fortune, and [Pg 16] nature, to lift up this dulled body, heavier than dead and more senseless than death. 35

But what are these so fair fiends that cause my hairs to stand upright and spirits to fall down? Hags,—out alas, nymphs, I crave pardon. Ay me, out! what do I hear!

[The Fairies dance, and with a song pinch him, and he falleth asleep. They kiss Endymion and depart.

[Enter, at the side of the stage[80] opposite Corsites,] Cynthia, Floscula, Semele, Panelion, Zontes, Pythagoras, and Gyptes. [Corsites sleeps still.]

Cynth. You see, Pythagoras, what ridiculous opinions you hold, and I doubt not but you are now of another mind. 55

Pythag. Madam, I plainly perceive that the perfection of your brightness hath pierced through the thickness that covered my mind; insomuch that I am no less glad to be reformed than ashamed to remember my 60 grossness.

Gyptes. They are thrice fortunate that live in your palace where truth is not in colours but life, virtues not in imagination but execution.

Cynth. I have always studied to have rather 65 living virtues than painted gods, the body of truth than the tomb. But let us walk to Endymion; it may be it lieth in your arts to deliver him; as for Eumenides, I fear he is dead. 70

Cynth. Come, Floscula; I am sure you are glad that you shall behold Endymion. 75

Cynth. Belike you cannot speak except you be spiteful; but as good be silent as saucy. Panelion, what punishment were fit for 85 Semele, in whose speech and thoughts is only contempt and sourness?

Panel. I love not, madam, to give any judgment; yet, sith Your Highness commandeth, I think to commit her tongue close prisoner 90 to her mouth.

Cynth. Agreed. Semele, if thou speak this twelvemonth, thou shalt forfeit thy tongue. Behold Endymion![81] Alas, poor gentleman, hast thou spent thy youth in sleep, that once 95 vowed all to my service! Hollow eyes, gray hairs, wrinkled cheeks, and decayed limbs! Is it destiny or deceit that hath brought this to pass? If the first, who could prevent thy wretched stars? If the latter, I would I 100 might know thy cruel enemy. I favoured thee, Endymion, for thy honour, thy virtues, thy affections; but to bring thy thoughts within the compass of thy fortunes, I have seemed strange, that I might have thee staid; and 105 now are thy days ended before my favour begin. But whom have we here? Is it not Corsites?

Cynth. Awake him. [Zontes wakens Corsites.] How now, Corsites, what make you here? 110 How came you deformed? Look on thy hands, and then thou seest the picture of thy face.

Cors. Miserable wretch, and accursed! How am I deluded! Madam, I ask pardon for my offence, and you see my fortune deserveth pity. 115

Cynth. Speak on; thy offence cannot deserve greater punishment: but see thou rehearse the truth, else shalt thou not find me as thou wishest me.

Cors. Madam, as it is no offence to be in 120 love, being a man mortal, so I hope can it be no shame to tell with whom, my lady being heavenly. Your Majesty committed to my charge fair Tellus, whose beauty in the same moment took my heart captive that I undertook to carry 125 her body prisoner. Since that time have I found such combats in my thoughts between love and duty, reverence and affection, that I could neither endure the conflict, nor hope for the conquest. 130

Cynth. In love? A thing far unfitting the name of a captain, and (as I thought) the tough and unsmoothed nature of Corsites. But forth!

Cors. Feeling this continual war, I thought 135 rather by parley to yield than by certain danger to perish. I unfolded to Tellus the depth of my affections, and framed my tongue to utter a sweet tale of love, that was wont to sound nothing but threats of war. She, too fair to be 140 true and too false for one so fair, after a nice denial, practised a notable deceit, commanding me to remove Endymion from this cabin, and carry him to some dark cave; which I, seeking to accomplish, found impossible; and so by 145 fairies or fiends have been thus handled.

Cynth. How say you, my lords, is not Tellus always practising of some deceits? In sooth, Corsites, thy face is now too foul for a lover, and thine heart too fond for a soldier. You 150 see when warriors become wantons how their [Pg 17] manners alter with their faces. Is it not a shame, Corsites, that having lived so long in Mars his camp, thou shouldst now be rocked in Venus’s cradle? Dost thou wear Cupid’s 155 quiver at thy girdle and make lances of looks? Well, Corsites, rouse thyself and be as thou hast been; and let Tellus, who is made all of love, melt herself in her own looseness.

Cors. Madam, I doubt not but to recover 160 my former state, for Tellus’s beauty never wrought such love in my mind as now her deceit hath despite; and yet to be revenged of a woman were a thing than love itself more womanish.

Gyptes. These spots, gentleman, are to be 165 worn out, if you rub them over with this lunary; so that in place where you received this maim you shall find a medicine.

Cors. I thank you for that. The gods bless me from love and these pretty ladies that 170 haunt this green.

Cynth. Pythagoras and Gyptes, what 180 think you of Endymion? What reason is to be given, what remedy?

Pyth. Madam, it is impossible to yield reason for things that happen not in compass of nature. It is most certain that some strange enchantment 185 hath bound all his senses.

Gyptes. With Pythagoras, that it is enchantment, and that so strange that no art can undo it, for that heaviness argueth a malice unremovable 190 in the enchantress, and that no power can end it, till she die that did it, or the heavens show some means more than miraculous.

Flosc. O Endymion, could spite itself devise a mischief so monstrous as to make thee dead 195 with life, and living, being altogether dead? Where others number their years, their hours, their minutes, and step to age by stairs, thou only hast thy years and times in a cluster, being old before thou rememb’rest thou wast young. 200

Cynth. No more, Floscula; pity doth him no good: I would anything else might; and I vow by the unspotted honour of a lady he should not miss it. But is this all, Gyptes, that is to be done? 205

Gyptes. All as yet. It may be that either the enchantress shall die or else be discovered; if either happen, I will then practise the utmost of my art. In the mean season, about this grove would I have a watch, and the first living 210 thing that toucheth Endymion to be taken.

Cors. Good madam, pardon me! I was overtaken[82] too late. I should rather break into 215 the midst of a main battle than again fall into the hands of those fair babies.

Cynth. Well, I will provide others. Pythagoras and Gyptes, you shall yet remain in my court, till I hear what may be done in this 220 matter.

ACT V

Scene I.[83]

Samias. Eumenides hath told such strange tales as I may well wonder at them, but never believe them.

Dar. The other old man, what a sad speech used he, that caused us almost all to weep. 5 Cynthia is so desirous to know the experiment of her own virtue, and so willing to ease Endymion’s hard fortune, that she no sooner heard the discourse but she made herself in a readiness to try the event. 10

Sam. We will also see the event. But whist! here cometh Cynthia with all her train. Let us sneak in amongst them.

Cynth. Eumenides, it cannot sink into my head that I should be signified by that sacred 15 fountain, for many things are there in the world to which those words may be applied.

Eum. Good madam, vouchsafe but to try; else shall I think myself most unhappy that I asked not my sweet mistress. 20

Eum. Pardon me, good madam, for if Endymion awake, he shall; myself have sworn never to reveal it.

Cynth. Well, let us to Endymion. I will 25 not be so stately, good Endymion, not to stoop to do thee good; and if thy liberty consist in a kiss from me, thou shalt have it; and although my mouth hath been heretofore as untouched as my thoughts, yet now to recover thy life, 30 though to restore thy youth it be impossible, I will do that to Endymion which yet never mortal man could boast of heretofore, nor shall ever hope for hereafter.

Eum. Endymion, Endymion, art thou deaf or dumb, or hath this long sleep taken away thy memory? Ah, my sweet Endymion, seest thou not Eumenides, thy faithful friend, thy faithful 45 Eumenides, who for thy safety hath been careless of his own content? Speak, Endymion! [Pg 18] Endymion! Endymion!

Eum. Hast thou forgotten thyself, Endymion? Then do I not marvel thou rememb’rest not thy friend. I tell thee thou art Endymion, and I Eumenides. Behold also Cynthia, by whose favour thou art awaked, and by whose 55 virtue thou shalt continue thy natural course.

End. “Endymion”! What do I hear[84]? What, a gray beard, hollow eyes, withered body, decayed limbs,—and all in one night?

Eum. One night! Thou hast here slept 65 forty years,—by what enchantress as yet it is not known,—and behold, the twig to which thou laid’st thy head is now become a tree. Callest thou not Eumenides to remembrance?

End. Thy name I do remember by the 70 sound, but thy favour[85] I do not yet call to mind; only divine Cynthia, to whom time, fortune, destiny, and death are subject, I see and remember, and in all humility I regard and reverence. 75

Cynth. You have good cause to remember Eumenides, who hath for thy safety forsaken his own solace.

End. Am I that Endymion who was wont in court to lead my life, and in justs, tourneys, 80 and arms, to exercise my youth? Am I that Endymion?

Eum. Thou art that Endymion, and I Eumenides: wilt thou not yet call me to remembrance? 85

End. Ah, sweet Eumenides, I now perceive thou art he, and that myself have the name of Endymion; but that this should be my body I doubt, for how could my curled locks be turned to gray hairs and my strong body to a dying 90 weakness, having waxed old, and not knowing it.

Cynth. Well, Endymion, arise. [Endymion, trying to rise, sinks back.] A while sit down, for that thy limbs are stiff and not able to stay 95 thee, and tell what hast thou seen in thy sleep all this while,—what dreams, visions, thoughts, and fortunes; for it is impossible but in so long time thou shouldst see things strange.

End. Fair Cynthia, I will rehearse what 100 I have seen, humbly desiring that when I exceed in length, you give me warning, that I may end; for to utter all I have to speak would be troublesome, although haply the strangeness may somewhat abate the tediousness. 105

End. Methought I saw a lady passing fair, but very mischievous, who in the one hand carried a knife with which she offered to cut my throat, and in the other a looking-glass, 110 wherein seeing how ill anger became ladies, she refrained from intended violence. She was accompanied with other damsels, one of which, with a stern countenance, and as it were with a settled malice engraven in her eyes, 115 provoked her to execute mischief; another, with visage sad, and constant only in sorrow, with her arms crossed, and watery eyes, seemed to lament my fortune, but durst not offer to prevent the force. I started in my sleep, 120 feeling my very veins to swell and my sinews to stretch with fear, and such a cold sweat bedewed all my body that death itself could not be so terrible as the vision.

End. After long debating with herself, mercy overcame anger, and there appeared in her heavenly face such a divine majesty mingled with a sweet mildness that I was ravished 130 with the sight above measure, and wished that I might have enjoyed the sight without end: and so she departed with the other ladies, of which the one retained still an unmovable cruelty, the other a constant pity. 135

End. After her, immediately appeared an aged man with a beard as white as snow, carrying in his hand a book with three leaves, 140 and speaking, as I remember, these words: “Endymion, receive this book with three leaves, in which are contained counsels, policies, and pictures,” and with that he offered me the book, which I rejected; wherewith, 145 moved with a disdainful pity, he rent the first leaf in a thousand shivers. The second time he offered it, which I refused also; at which, bending his brows, and pitching his eyes fast to the ground, as though they were fixed 150 to the earth and not again to be removed, then suddenly casting them up to the heavens, he tore in a rage the second leaf, and offered the book only with one leaf. I know not whether fear to offend or desire to know some 155 strange thing moved me: I took the book, and so the old man vanished.

End. There portray’d to life, with a cold 160 quaking in every joint, I beheld many wolves barking at thee, Cynthia, who having ground their teeth to bite, did with striving bleed themselves to death. There might I see Ingratitude with an hundred eyes gazing for benefits, 165 and with a thousand teeth gnawing on the bowels wherein she was bred; Treachery stood all clothed in white, with a smiling countenance, but both her hands bathed in blood; Envy with a pale and meagre face (whose body 170 was so lean that one might tell all her bones, and whose garment was so tatter’d that it was easy to number every thread) stood shooting at stars, whose darts fell down again on her own face. There might I behold drones or 175 beetles—I know not how to term them—creeping under the wings of a princely eagle, who, being carried into her nest, sought there to suck that vein that would have killed the [Pg 19] eagle. I mused that things so base should 180 attempt a fact so barbarous, or durst imagine a thing so bloody. And many other things, madam, the repetition whereof may at your better leisure seem more pleasing, for bees surfeit sometimes with honey, and the gods are 185 glutted with harmony, and your highness may be dulled with delight.

Cynth. I am content to be dieted; therefore, let us in. Eumenides, see that Endymion be well tended, lest either eating immoderately or 190 sleeping again too long, he fall into a deadly surfeit or into his former sleep. See this also be proclaimed: that whosoever will discover this practice shall have of Cynthia infinite thanks and no small rewards. 195

Eum. Yes, Floscula, let Eumenides be somewhat gladder, and do not that wrong to the settled friendship of a man as to compare it 200 with the light affection of a woman. Ah, my dear friend Endymion, suffer me to die with gazing at thee.

End. Eumenides, thy friendship is immortal and not to be conceived; and thy good 205 will, Floscula, better than I have deserved; but let us all wait on Cynthia. I marvel Semele speaketh not a word.

Eum. No, Endymion, thine hath made it stronger, and now are my sparks grown to flames and my fancies almost to frenzies: but let us follow, and within we will debate all this matter at large.220

Scene II.[86]

Top. Epi, Love hath justled my liberty from the wall, and taken the upper hand of my reason.

Epi. Let me then trip up the heels of your affection and thrust your good will into the 5 gutter.

Epi. No doubt there is good cheer: what dishes of delight doth his lordship feast you 10 withal?

Top. First, with a great platter of plum porridge of pleasure, wherein is stewed the mutton of distrust.

Top. Then cometh a pie of patience, a hen of honey, a goose of gall, a capon of care, and many other viands, some sweet and some sour, which proveth love to be, as it was said of in old years, Dulce venenum. 20

Top. But, Epi, I pray thee feel on my chin; something pricketh me. What dost thou feel or see?

Top. I pray thee call it my beard. How shall I be troubled when this young spring[88] shall grow to a great wood!

Epi. Oh, sir, your chin is but a quiller[89] yet; you will be most majestical when it is full-fledged. 30 But I marvel that you love Dipsas, that old crone.

Top. It is an old goose, Epi, that will eat no oats; old kine will kick, old rats gnaw cheese, and old sacks will have much patching. I prefer an old coney before a rabbit-sucker,[91] 40 and an ancient hen before a young chicken-peeper.

Top. Then,—a contrario sequitur argumentum,—give me a wife that looks like an old pippin. 50

Top. Then I conclude that Venus was an old woman in an old cup of wine, for est Venus in vinis, ignis in igne fuit.[93]

Epi. O lepidum caput.[94] O madcap master! You were worthy to win Dipsas, were she as 65 old again, for in your love you have worn the nap of your wit quite off and made it threadbare. But soft, who comes here?

Top. Stately in every joint, which the common people term stiffness. Doth Dipsas stoop? Will she yield? Will she bend?

Dar. Oh, sir, as much as you would wish, 75 for her chin almost toucheth her knees.

Sam. She hath vowed she will never love any that hath not a tooth in his head less than 80 she.

Top. A small request, and agreeable to the gravity of her years. What should a wise man do with his mouth full of bones like a charnel-house? The turtle true hath ne’er a tooth.

Sam. [Aside.] Thy master is in a notable 90 vein, that will lose his teeth to be like a turtle.

Top. That I yield to. What a quiet life shall Dipsas and I lead when we can neither bite nor scratch! You may see, youths, how age provides for peace.

Sam. [Aside.] How shall we do to make 100 him leave his love, for we never spake to her?

Dar. [Aside.] Let me alone. [To Sir Tophas.] She is a notable witch, and hath turned her maid Bagoa to an aspen tree, for bewraying her secrets. 105

Top. I honour her for her cunning, for now when I am weary of walking on two legs, what a pleasure may she do me to turn me to some goodly ass, and help me to four.

Dar. Nay, then I must tell you the 110 truth. Her husband, Geron, is come home, who this fifty years hath had her to wife.

Top. What do I hear? Hath she an husband? Go to the sexton and tell him Desire is dead, and will him to dig his grave. O 115 heavens, an husband! What death is agreeable to my fortune?

Top. I love no grissels[95]; they are so brittle 120 they will crack like glass, or so dainty that if they be touched they are straight of the fashion of wax; animus majoribus instat.[96] I desire old matrons. What a sight would it be to embrace one whose hair were as orient as 125 the pearl, whose teeth shall be so pure a watchet[97] that they shall stain the truest turquoise, whose nose shall throw more beams from it than the fiery carbuncle, whose eyes shall be environ’d about with redness exceeding 130 the deepest coral, and whose lips might compare with silver for the paleness! Such a one if you can help me to, I will by piecemeal curtail my affections towards Dipsas, and walk my swelling thoughts till they be cold. 135

Epi. Wisely provided. How say you, my friends, will you angle for my master’s cause?

Dar. If we speed him not shortly, I will burn my cap. We will serve him of the spades, 140 and dig an old wife out of the grave that shall be answerable to his gravity.

Top. Youths, adieu; he that bringeth me first news, shall possess mine inheritance.

Scene III.[98]

Pan. Who would have thought that Tellus, being so fair by nature, so honourable by birth, so wise by education, would have entered into a mischief to the gods so odious, to men so detestable, and to her friend so malicious. 5

Zon. If Bagoa had not bewrayed it, how then should it have come to light? But we see that gold and fair words are of force to corrupt the strongest men, and therefore able to work silly women like wax. 10

Zon. I fear, as in all causes:—hear of it in justice, and then judge of it in mercy; for how can it be that she that is unwilling to punish 15 her deadliest foes with disgrace, will revenge injuries of her train with death.

Pan. That old witch, Dipsas, in a rage, having understood her practice to be discovered, turned poor Bagoa to an aspen tree. But let 20 us make haste and bring Tellus before Cynthia, for she was coming out after us.

[Enter,] Cynthia, Semele, Floscula, Dipsas, Endymion, Eumenides, [Geron, Pythagoras, Gyptes, and Sir Tophas].

Cynth. Dipsas, thy years are not so many as thy vices, yet more in number than commonly 25 nature doth afford or justice should permit. Hast thou almost these fifty years practised that detested wickedness of witchcraft? Wast thou, so simple as for to know the nature of simples, of all creatures to be most sinful? Thou hast 30 threat’ned to turn my course awry and alter by thy damnable art the government that I now possess by the eternal gods; but know thou, Dipsas, and let all the enchanters know, that Cynthia, being placed for light on earth, is also 35 protected by the powers of heaven. Breathe out thou mayest words; gather thou mayest herbs; find out thou mayest stones agreeable to thine art; yet of no force to appal my heart, in which courage is so rooted, and constant 40 persuasion of the mercy of the gods so grounded, that all thy witchcraft I esteem as weak as the world doth thy case wretched. This noble gentleman, Geron, once thy husband but now thy mortal hate, didst thou procure to live in 45 a desert, almost desperate; Endymion, the flower of my court and the hope of succeeding time, hast thou bewitched by art, before thou [Pg 21] wouldst suffer him to flourish by nature.

Dipsas. Madam, things past may be repented, 50 not recalled: there is nothing so wicked that I have not done, nor anything so wished for as death; yet among all the things that I committed, there is nothing so much tormenteth my rented and ransack’d thoughts as that in 55 the prime of my husband’s youth I divorced him by my devilish art; for which if to die might be amends, I would not live till to-morrow; if to live and still be more miserable would better content him, I would wish of all creatures to 60 be oldest and ugliest.

Geron. Dipsas, thou hast made this difference between me and Endymion, that being both young, thou hast caused me to wake in melancholy, losing the joys of my youth, and him 65 to sleep, not rememb’ring youth.

Cors. I would to Cynthia thou couldst make as good an excuse in truth as to me thou hast 70 done by wit.

Tellus. Truth shall be mine answer, and therefore I will not study for an excuse.

Cynth. Is it possible, Tellus, that so few years should harbour so many mischiefs? Thy 75 swelling pride have I borne, because it is a thing that beauty maketh blameless, which the more it exceedeth fairness in measure, the more it stretcheth itself in disdain. Thy devices against Corsites I smile at, for that wits, the sharper 80 they are, the shrewder[99] they are; but this unacquainted[100] and most unnatural practice with a vile enchantress against so noble a gentleman as Endymion I abhor as a thing most malicious, and will revenge as a deed most monstrous. 85 And as for you, Dipsas, I will send you into the desert amongst wild beasts, and try whether you can cast lions, tigers, boars, and bears into as dead a sleep as you did Endymion, or turn them to trees, as you have done Bagoa. But tell me, 90 Tellus, what was the cause of this cruel part, far unfitting thy sex, in which nothing should be but simpleness, and much disagreeing from thy face, in which nothing seemed to be but softness. 95

Tellus. Divine Cynthia, by whom I receive my life and am content to end it, I can neither excuse my fault without lying, nor confess it without shame; yet were it possible that in so heavenly thoughts as yours there could fall 100 such earthly motions as mine, I would then hope, if not to be pardoned without extreme punishment, yet to be heard without great marvel.

Cynth. Say on, Tellus; I cannot imagine any thing that can colour such a cruelty. 105

Tellus. Endymion, that Endymion, in the prime of his youth, so ravish’d my heart with love, that to obtain my desires I could not find means, nor to resist them reason. What was she that favoured not Endymion, being 110 young, wise, honourable, and virtuous; besides, what metal was she made of (be she mortal) that is not affected with the spice, nay, infected with the poison of that not-to-be-expressed yet always-to-be-felt love, which breaketh the 115 brains and never bruiseth the brow, consumeth the heart and never toucheth the skin, and maketh a deep scar to be seen before any wound at all be felt.[101] My heart, too tender to withstand such a divine fury, yielded to 120 love. Madam, I, not without blushing, confess [I] yielded to love.

Cynth. A strange effect of love, to work such an extreme hate. How say you, Endymion? All this was for love? 125

Cynth. That were as bad, for then by contrary you should never sleep. But on, Tellus; let us hear the end. 130

Tellus. Feeling a continual burning in all my bowels, and a bursting almost in every vein, I could not smother the inward fire, but it must needs be perceived by the outward smoke; and by the flying abroad of divers sparks, 135 divers judged of my scalding flames. Endymion, as full of art as wit, marking mine eyes, (in which he might see almost his own,) my sighs, (by which he might ever hear his name sounded,) aimed at my heart, in which he 140 was assured his person was imprinted, and by questions wrung out that which was ready to burst out. When he saw the depth of my affections, he swore that mine in respect of his were as fumes to Ætna, valleys to Alps, ants 145 to eagles, and nothing could be compared to my beauty but his love and eternity. Thus drawing a smooth shoe upon a crooked foot, he made me believe that (which all of our sex willingly acknowledge) I was beautiful, and 150 to wonder (which indeed is a thing miraculous) that any of his sex should be faithful.

Cynth. Well, Tellus, proceed; but briefly, lest taking delight in uttering thy love, thou offend us with the length of it.

Tellus. I will, madam, quickly make an end of my love and my tale. Finding continual 160 increase of my tormenting thoughts, and that the enjoying of my love made deeper wounds than the entering into it, I could find no means to ease my grief but to follow Endymion, and continually to have him in the object of 165 mine eyes who had me slave and subject to his love. But in the moment that I feared his falsehood and tried myself most in mine affections, I found—ah, grief, even then I lost myself!—I found him in most melancholy and desperate 170 terms cursing his stars, his state, the earth, the heavens, the world, and all for the love of—

Tellus. I, seeing my hopes turned to mishaps, 185 and a settled dissembling towards me, and an immovable desire to Cynthia, forgetting both myself and my sex, fell into this unnatural hate; for knowing your virtues, Cynthia, to be immortal, I could not have an imagination to withdraw 190 him; and finding mine own affections unquenchable, I could not carry the mind that any else should possess what I had pursued. For though in majesty, beauty, virtue, and dignity, I always humbled and yielded myself 195 to Cynthia, yet in affections I esteemed myself equal with the goddesses, and all other creatures, according to their states, with myself; for stars to their bigness have their lights, and the sun hath no more, and little pitchers, when 200 they can hold no more, are as full as great vessels that run over. Thus, madam, in all truth have I uttered the unhappiness of my love and the cause of my hate, yielding wholly to that divine judgment which never erred for want of 205 wisdom or envied for too much partiality.

Cynth. How say you, my lords, to this matter? But what say you, Endymion; hath Tellus told truth?

End. Madam, in all things but in that 210 she said I loved her and swore to honour her.

Cynth. Was there such a time whenas for my love thou didst vow thyself to death, and in respect of it loathed thy life? Speak, Endymion; I will not revenge it with hate. 215

End. The time was, madam, and is, and ever shall be, that I honoured your highness above all the world, but to stretch it so far as to call it love I never durst. There hath none pleased mine eye but Cynthia, none delighted 220 mine ears but Cynthia, none possessed my heart but Cynthia. I have forsaken all other fortunes to follow Cynthia, and here I stand ready to die, if it please Cynthia. Such a difference hath the gods set between our states that all must be 225 duty, loyalty, and reverence; nothing (without it vouchsafe your highness) be termed love. My unspotted thoughts, my languishing body, my discontented life, let them obtain by princely favour that which to challenge they 230 must not presume, only wishing of impossibilities; with imagination of which I will spend my spirits, and to myself, that no creature may hear, softly call it love; and if any urge to utter what I whisper, then will I name it honour. 235 From this sweet contemplation if I be not driven, I shall live of all men the most content, taking more pleasure in mine aged thoughts than ever I did in my youthful actions.

Cynth. Endymion, this honourable respect 240 of thine shall be christened love in thee, and my reward for it, favour. Persevere, Endymion, in loving me, and I account more strength in a true heart than in a walled city. I have laboured to win all, and study to keep such as I 245 have won; but those that neither my favour can move to continue constant, nor my offered benefits get to be faithful, the gods shall either reduce to truth, or revenge their treacheries with justice. Endymion, continue as thou hast 250 begun, and thou shalt find that Cynthia shineth not on thee in vain.

End. Your Highness hath blessed me, and your words have again restored my youth; methinks I feel my joints strong and these 255 mouldy hairs to moult, and all by your virtue, Cynthia, into whose hands the balance that weigheth time and fortune are committed.

Tellus. Ah, Endymion, now I know thee and ask pardon of thee; suffer me still to wish thee well.

Eum. Endymion, the comfort of my life, 270 how am I ravished with a joy matchless, saving only the enjoying of my mistress.

Cynth. Semele, Eumenides? Is it Semele, the very wasp of all women, whose tongue stingeth as much as an adder’s tooth?

Eum. It is Semele, Cynthia, the possessing of whose love must only prolong my life. 280

Cynth. Nay, sith Endymion is restored, we will have all parties pleased. Semele, are you content after so long trial of his faith, such rare secrecy, such unspotted love, to take Eumenides? Why speak you not? Not a word? 285

Sem. A hard choice, madam, either to be married if I say nothing, or to lose my tongue if I speak a word. Yet do I rather choose to have my tongue cut out than my heart distempered: 295 I will not have him.

Cynth. Speaks the parrot! She shall nod hereafter with signs. Cut off her tongue, nay her head, that having a servant of honourable birth, honest manners, and true love, will not be 300 persuaded.

Sem. He is no faithful lover, madam, for then would he have asked his mistress.

Ger. Had he not been faithful, he had never seen into the fountain, and so lost his friend 305 and mistress.

Eum. Thine own thoughts, sweet Semele,[Pg 23] witness against thy words, for what hast thou found in my life but love? And as yet what have I found in my love but bitterness?310 Madam, pardon Semele, and let my tongue ransom hers.

Cynth. Thy tongue, Eumenides! What, shouldst thou live wanting a tongue to blaze the beauty of Semele! Well, Semele, I will315 not command love, for it cannot be enforced; let me entreat it.

Sem. I am content your highness shall command, for now only do I think Eumenides faithful, that is willing to lose his tongue for my320 sake; yet loath, because it should do me better service. Madam, I accept of Eumenides.

Eum. Ah, happy Eumenides, that hast a friend so faithful and a mistress so fair!325 With what sudden mischief will the gods daunt this excess of joy? Sweet Semele, I live or die as thou wilt.

Cynth. What shall become of Tellus? Tellus, you know Endymion is vowed to a service330 from which death cannot remove him. Corsites casteth still a lovely look towards you. How say you, will you have your Corsites, and so receive pardon for all that is past?

Cynth. Well, enjoy thy love. But what have you wrought in the castle, Tellus?345

Cynth. Then so much of Endymion as his picture cometh to, possess and play withal.

Cynth. Now it resteth, Dipsas, that if thou wilt forswear that vile art of enchanting, Geron hath promised again to receive thee; otherwise, if thou be wedded to that wickedness, I must and will see it punished to the uttermost.355

Dipsas. Madam, I renounce both substance and shadow of that most horrible and hateful trade, vowing to the gods continual penance, and to your highness obedience.

Ger. Ay, with more joy than I did the first day, for nothing could happen to make me happy but only her forsaking that lewd[102] and detestable course. Dipsas, I embrace thee.365

Dipsas. And I thee, Geron, to whom I will hereafter recite the cause of these my first follies.

Cynth. Well, Endymion, nothing resteth now but that we depart. Thou hast my favour;370 Tellus her friend, Eumenides in Paradise with his Semele; Geron content with Dipsas.

Cynth. Well, Sir Tophas, it may be there375 are more virtues in me than myself knoweth of, for Endymion I awaked, and at my words he waxed young. I will try whether I can turn this tree again to thy true love.

Cynth. Bagoa, Cynthia putteth an end to thy hard fortunes; for, being turn’d to a tree for revealing a truth, I will recover thee again, if in my power be the effect of truth.385

Cynth. Come, my lords, let us in. You, Gyptes and Pythagoras, if you can content yourselves in our court, to fall from vain follies of philosophers to such virtues as are here practised,390 you shall be entertained according to your deserts, for Cynthia is no stepmother to strangers.

Pythag. I had rather in Cynthia’s court spend ten years than in Greece one hour.

Gyptes. And I choose rather to live by395 the sight of Cynthia than by the possessing of all Egypt.

THE EPILOGUE

A man walking abroad, the Wind and Sun strove for sovereignty, the one with his blast, the other with his beams. The Wind blew hard; the man wrapped his garment about him harder: it blust’red more strongly; he then girt it fast to him. “I cannot prevail,” said the Wind. The Sun, casting her crystal beams, began to warm the man; he unloosed his gown: yet it shined brighter; he then put it off. “I yield,” said the Wind, “for if thou continue shining, he will also put off 5 his coat.”

Dread Sovereign, the malicious that seek to overthrow us with threats, do but stiffen our thoughts, and make them sturdier in storms; but if your highness vouchsafe with your favourable beams to glance upon us, we shall not only stoop, but with all humility lay both our hands and hearts at your majesty’s feet. 10

THE OLD WIVES TALE

Ant. How now, fellow Frolic![104] What, all amort?[105] Doth this sadness become thy madness? What though we have lost our way in the woods, yet never hang the head as though thou hadst no hope to live till to-morrow; for 5 Fantastic and I will warrant thy life to-night for twenty in the hundred.

Fro. Antic and Fantastic, as I am frolic franion,[106] never in all my life was I so dead slain. What, to lose our way in the wood, 10 without either fire or candle, so uncomfortable! O cœlum! O terra! O Maria! O Neptune!

Fan. Why makes thou it so strange, seeing Cupid hath led our young master to the fair lady, and she is the only saint that he hath 15 sworn to serve?

Fro. What resteth, then, but we commit him to his wench, and each of us take his stand up in a tree, and sing out our ill fortune to the tune of “O man in desperation”? 20

Ant. Desperately spoken, fellow Frolic, in the dark; but seeing it falls out thus, let us rehearse the old proverb:

Fan. Hush! a dog in the wood, or a wooden[107] dog! O comfortable hearing! I had even as lief the chamberlain of the White Horse had 30 called me up to bed.

Fro. Either hath this trotting cur gone out of his circuit, or else are we near some village, which should not be far off, for I perceive the glimmering of a glow-worm, a candle, or a 35 cat’s eye, my life for a halfpenny! Enter [Clunch] a smith, with a lantern and candle. In the name of my own father, be thou ox or ass that appearest, tell us what thou art.

Smith. What am I? Why, I am Clunch the smith. What are you? What make you in 40 my territories at this time of the night?

Ant. What do we make, dost thou ask? Why, we make faces for fear; such as if thy mortal eyes could behold, would make thee water the long seams of thy side slops,[108] 45 smith.

Fro. And, in faith, sir, unless your hospitality do relieve us, we are like to wander, with a sorrowful heigh-ho, among the owlets and hobgoblins of the forest. Good Vulcan, for 50 Cupid’s sake that hath cozened us all, befriend us as thou mayst; and command us howsoever, wheresoever, whensoever, in whatsoever, for ever and ever.

Smith. Well, masters, it seems to me you 55 have lost your way in the wood; in consideration whereof, if you will go with Clunch to his cottage, you shall have house-room and a good fire to sit by, although we have no bedding to put you in. 60

Hark![109] this is Ball my dog, that bids you all welcome in his own language. Come, take 65 heed for stumbling on the threshold.—Open door, Madge; take in guests.

Madge.[110] Welcome, Clunch, and good fellows all, that come with my good-man. For my good-man’s sake, come on, sit down; here is70 a piece of cheese, and a pudding of my own making.

Fro. Gammer, thou and thy good-man sit75 lovingly together; we come to chat, and not to eat.

Smith. Well, masters, if you will eat nothing, take away. Come, what do we to pass away the time? Lay a crab in the fire to roast for80 lamb’s-wool.[111] What, shall we have a game at trump[112] or ruff[112] to drive away the time? How say you?

Fan. This smith leads a life as merry as a king with Madge his wife. Sirrah Frolic, I85 am sure thou art not without some round or other; no doubt but Clunch can bear his part.

Ant. This sport does well; but methinks, gammer, a merry winter’s tale would drive away the time trimly. Come, I am sure you are not without a score. 100

Fan. I’faith, gammer, a tale of an hour long were as good as an hour’s sleep.

Fro. Look you, gammer, of the giant and the king’s daughter, and I know not what. I have seen the day, when I was a little one, 105 you might have drawn me a mile after you with such a discourse.

Madge. Well, since you be so importunate, my good-man shall fill the pot and get him to bed; they that ply their work must keep 110 good hours. One of you go lie with him; he is a clean-skinned man I tell you, without either spavin or wind-gall: so I am content to drive away the time with an old wives’ winter’s tale.

Fan. No better hay in Devonshire; o’ my 115 word, gammer, I ’ll be one of your audience.

Ant. Then must I to bed with the good-man.—Bona nox, gammer.—Good night, Frolic.

Fro. Yet this vantage shall we have of them in the morning, to be ready at the sight thereof extempore.

Madge. Now this bargain, my masters, 125 must I make with you, that you will say hum and ha to my tale, so shall I know you are awake.

Madge. Once upon a time, there was a 130 king, or a lord, or a duke, that had a fair daughter, the fairest that ever was, as white as snow and as red as blood; and once upon a time his daughter was stolen away; and he sent all his men to seek out his daughter; and he 135 sent so long, that he sent all his men out of his land.

Madge. O Lord, I quite forgot! There was a conjurer, and this conjurer could do any thing, and he turned himself into a great dragon, and carried the king’s daughter away in his 145 mouth to a castle that he made of stone; and there he kept her I know not how long, till at last all the king’s men went out so long that her two brothers went to seek her. O, I forget! She (he, I would say,) turned a proper[113] 150 young man to a bear in the night, and a man in the day, and keeps[114] by a cross that parts three several ways; and he made his lady run mad,—Gods me bones, who comes here?

Erest.[115] Hips and haws, and sticks and170 straws, and things that I gather on the ground, my son.

1 Bro. Hips and haws, and sticks and straws! Why, is that all your food, father?

2 Bro. Father, here is an alms-penny for me; and if I speed in that I go for, I will give thee as good a gown of grey as ever thou didst wear.

1 Bro. And, father, here is another alms-penny180 for me; and if I speed in my journey, I will give thee a palmer’s staff of ivory, and a [Pg 26] scallop-shell of beaten gold.

2 Bro. Ay, the fairest for white, and the 185 purest for red, as the blood of the deer, or the driven snow.

But here comes Lampriscus, my discontented neighbour. How now, neighbour! You look toward the ground as well as I; you muse on something.

Lamp. Neighbour, on nothing but on the 235 matter I so often moved to you. If you do anything for charity, help me; if for neighbourhood or brotherhood, help me: never was one so cumbered as is poor Lampriscus; and to begin, I pray receive this pot of honey, to 240 mend your fare.

Erest. Thanks, neighbour, set it down; honey is always welcome to the bear. And now, neighbour, let me hear the cause of your coming. 245

Lamp. I am, as you know, neighbour, a man unmarried; and lived so unquietly with my two wives, that I keep every year holy the day wherein I buried them both: the first was on Saint Andrew’s day, the other on Saint 250 Luke’s.

Erest. And now, neighbour, you of this country say, your custom is out. But on with your tale, neighbour.

Lamp. By my first wife, whose tongue 255 wearied me alive, and sounded in my ears like the clapper of a great bell, whose talk was a continual torment to all that dwelt by her or lived nigh her, you have heard me say I had a handsome daughter. 260

Lamp. She it is that afflicts me with her continual clamours, and hangs on me like a bur. Poor she is, and proud she is; as poor as a sheep new-shorn, and as proud of her hopes 265 as a peacock of her tail well-grown.

Lamp. As curst as a wasp, and as froward as a child new-taken from the mother’s teat; 270 she is to my age as smoke to the eyes or as vinegar to the teeth.

Lamp. By my other wife I had a daughter 275 so hard-favoured, so foul and ill-faced, that I think a grove full of golden trees, and the leaves of rubies and diamonds, would not be a dowry answerable to her deformity.

Erest. Well, neighbour, now you have 280 spoke, hear me speak. Send them to the well for the water of life; there shall they find their fortunes unlooked for. Neighbour, farewell.

Lamp. Farewell, and a thousand! And 285 now goeth poor Lampriscus to put in execution this excellent counsel.

Fro. Why, this goes round without a fiddling-stick: but, do you hear, gammer, was this the man that was a bear in the night and a man 290 in the day?

Madge. Ay, this is he; and this man that came to him was a beggar, and dwelt upon a green. But soft! who comes here? O, these are the harvest-men; ten to one they sing a 295 song of mowing.

[Pg 27] Enter Huanebango with his two-hand sword, and Booby,[116] the clown.

Madge. O, this is one that is going to the conjurer. Let him alone; hear what he says.

Huan. Now, by Mars and Mercury, 305 Jupiter and Janus, Sol and Saturnus, Venus and Vesta, Pallas and Proserpina, and by the honour of my house, Polimackeroeplacidus, it is a wonder to see what this love will make silly fellows adventure, even in the wane of their 310 wits and infancy of their discretion. Alas, my friend! what fortune calls thee forth to seek thy fortune among brazen gates, enchanted towers, fire and brimstone, thunder and lightning? Beauty, I tell thee, is peerless, and 315 she precious whom thou affectest. Do off these desires, good countryman; good friend, run away from thyself; and, so soon as thou canst, forget her, whom none must inherit but he that can monsters tame, labours achieve, riddles 320 absolve, loose enchantments, murder magic, and kill conjuring,—and that is the great and mighty Huanebango.

Booby. Hark you, sir, hark you. First know I have here the flurting feather, and have 325 given the parish the start for the long stock:[117] now, sir, if it be no more but running through a little lightning and thunder, and “riddle me, riddle me what ’s this?” I ’ll have the wench from the conjurer, if he were ten conjurers. 330

Huan. I have abandoned the court and honourable company, to do my devoir against this sore sorcerer and mighty magician: if this lady be so fair as she is said to be, she is mine, she is mine; meus, mea, meum, in contemptum 335 omnium grammaticorum.

Huan. If she be mine, as I assure myself 340 the heavens will do somewhat to reward my worthiness, she shall be allied to none of the meanest gods, but be invested in the most famous stock of Huanebango,—Polimackeroeplacidus my grandfather, my father Pergopolineo, 345 my mother Dionora de Sardinia, famously descended.

Huan. Indeed, I had a cousin that sometime 350 followed the court infortunately, and his name Bustegusteceridis.

Huan. O, he loved no capon better! He 355 hath oftentimes deceived his boy of his dinner; that was his fault, good Bustegusteceridis.

Soft! here is an old man at the cross; let us ask him the way thither.—Ho, you gaffer! 360 I pray you tell where the wise man the conjurer dwells.

Huan. Where that earthly goddess keepeth her abode, the commander of my thoughts, and fair mistress of my heart. 365

Huan. I will follow my fortune after mine own fancy, and do according to mine own discretion. 370

Huan. Huanebango giveth no cakes for alms; ask of them that give gifts for poor beggars.—Fair lady, if thou wert once shrined in this bosom, I would buckler thee haratantara.

Booby. Father, do you see this man? You 380 little think he ’ll run a mile or two for such a cake, or pass[118] for a pudding. I tell you, father, he has kept such a begging of me for a piece of this cake! Whoo! he comes upon me with “a superfantial substance, and the foison[119] of 385 the earth,” that I know not what he means. If he came to me thus, and said, “My friend Booby,” or so, why, I could spare him a piece with all my heart; but when he tells me how God hath enriched me above other fellows 390 with a cake, why, he makes me blind and deaf at once. Yet, father, here is a piece of cake for you, as hard as the world goes.[120]

Cor. Farewell, father, farewell; for I must make haste after my two-hand sword that is gone before.

Del. At the foot of the rock for running water, and gathering roots for your dinner, sir.

Sac. Ah, Delia, fairer art thou than the running water, yet harder far than steel or adamant! 425

Del. Then, I pray you, sir, let me have the best meat from the King of England’s table, 430 and the best wine in all France, brought in by the veriest knave in all Spain.

Sac. A cup of neat wine of Orleans, that never came near the brewers in England.

Del. Then, I pray ye, Sir Friar, tell me before you go, which is the most greediest Englishman? 460

Re-enter [Sacrapant] the Conjurer: it lightens and thunders; the Second Brother falls down.

Enter Eumenides, the wandering knight, and [Erestus] the old man at the cross.

Wig. You may be ashamed, you whoreson 525 scald Sexton and Churchwarden, if you had any shame in those shameless faces of yours, to let a poor man lie so long above ground unburied. A rot on you all, that have no more compassion of a good fellow when he is gone! 530

Church.[124] What, would you have us to bury him, and to answer it ourselves to the parish?

Sex. Parish me no parishes; pay me my fees, and let the rest run on in the quarter’s accounts, and put it down for one of your good 535 deeds, o’ God’s name! for I am not one that curiously stands upon merits.

Cor. You whoreson, sodden-headed sheep’s-face, shall a good fellow do less service and more honesty to the parish, and will you not, 540 when he is dead, let him have Christmas burial?

Wig. Peace, Corebus! As sure as Jack was Jack, the frolic’st franion amongst you, and I, Wiggen, his sweet sworn brother, Jack shall have his funerals, or some of them shall lie 545 on God’s dear earth for it, that’s once.[125]

Wig. Sir, sir, dare or dare not, more or less, answer or not answer, do this, or have this. 550

Wiggen sets upon the parish with a pike-staff:[126] Eumenides awakes and comes to them.

Cor. Can you blame him, sir, if he take Jack’s part against this shake-rotten parish that will not bury Jack? 555

Cor. Who, Jack, sir? Who, our Jack, sir? As good a fellow as ever trod upon neat’s-leather.

Wig. Look you, sir; he gave fourscore 560 and nineteen mourning gowns to the parish when he died, and because he would not make them up a full hundred, they would not bury him: was not this good dealing?

Church. O Lord, sir, how he lies! He was 565 not worth a halfpenny, and drunk out every penny; and now his fellows, his drunken companions, would have us to bury him at the charge of the parish. An we make many such matches, we may pull down the steeple, sell 570 the bells, and thatch the chancel. He shall lie above ground till he dance a galliard about the church-yard, for Steven Loach.

Wig. Sic argumentaris, Domine Loach;—“an we make many such matches, we may 575 pull down the steeple, sell the bells, and thatch the chancel!”—in good time, sir, and hang yourselves in the bell-ropes, when you have done. Domine, opponens præpono tibi hanc quœstionem, whether will you have the 580 ground broken or your pates broken first? For one of them shall be done presently, and to begin mine,[127] I’ll seal it upon your coxcomb.

Cor. You capon’s face, we shall have you turned out of the parish one of these days, with never a tatter to your arse; then you are in worse taking than Jack.

Eum. Faith, and he is bad enough. This 590 fellow does but the part of a friend, to seek to bury his friend. How much will bury him?

Eum. Here, hold it, then:—[aside.] and I have left me but one poor three half-pence. Now do I remember the words the old man spake at the cross, “Bestow all thou hast,” and this is all, “till dead men’s bones come 600 at thy call.”—Here, hold it [gives money]; and so farewell.

Wig. God, and all good, be with you, sir! [Exit Eumenides.] Nay, you cormorants, I’ll bestow one peal of[128] Jack at mine own 605 proper costs and charges.

Cor. You may thank God the long staff and the bilbo-blade crossed nor your coxcomb.—Well, we’ll to the church-stile[129] and have a pot, and so trill-lill.610

Fan. But, hark you, gammer, me thinks this Jack bore a great sway in the parish.

Madge. O, this Jack was a marvellous 615 fellow! he was but a poor man, but very well beloved. You shall see anon what this Jack will come to.

Madge. O, this is a choleric gentleman! All you that love your lives, keep out of the smell of his two-hand sword. Now goes he to the 630 conjurer.

Cor. Who-haw, Master Bango, are you 640 here? Hear you, you had best sit down here, and beg an alms with me.

Huan. Hence, base cullion! Here is he that commandeth ingress and egress with his weapon, and will enter at his voluntary, 645 whosoever saith no.

Madge. So with that they kissed, and spoiled the edge of as good a two-hand sword as ever God put life in. Now goes Corebus in, spite 650 of the conjurer.

Enter Zantippa, the curst daughter, to the Well [of Life], with a pot in her hand.

Zan. Now for a husband, house, and home: God send a good one or none, I pray God! 705 My father hath sent me to the well for the water of life, and tells me, if I give fair words, I shall have a husband. But here comes

Enter [Celanta], the foul wench, to the Well for water with a pot in her hand.

Cel. My father hath sent me to the well for water, and he tells me, if I speak fair, I shall have a husband, and none of the worst. Well, though I am black,[133] I am sure all the world will not forsake me; and, as the old proverb 715 is, though I am black, I am not the devil.

Zan. Marry-gup with a murrain,[134] I know wherefore thou speakest that: but go thy ways home as wise as thou camest, or I ’ll set thee home with a wanion.[135] 720

Here she strikes her pitcher against her sister’s, and breaks them both, and then exit.

[Pg 31] Cel. I think this be the curstest quean in the world. You see what she is, a little fair, but as proud as the devil, and the veriest vixen that lives upon God’s earth. Well, I ’ll let her alone, and go home and get another pitcher, and, 725 for all this, get me to the well for water. Exit.

Enter two Furies out of the Conjurer’s cell and lay Huanebango by the Well of Life [and then exeunt.] Re-enter Zantippa with a pitcher to the well.

Zan. Once again for a husband; and, in faith, Celanta, I have got the start of you; belike husbands grow by the well-side. Now my father says I must rule my tongue. Why, alas, 730 what am I, then? A woman without a tongue is as a soldier without his weapon. But I ’ll have my water, and be gone.

She breaks her pitcher upon the Head: then it thunders and lightens; and Huanebango, who is deaf and cannot hear, rises up.

Zan. [aside.] Foh, what greasy groom 750 have we here? He looks as though he crept out of the backside of the well, and speaks like a drum perisht at the west end.

Zan. [aside.] Whoop! now I have my dream. Did you never hear so great a wonder as this? Three blue beans in a blue bladder, rattle, bladder, rattle.

Huan. [aside.] I ’ll now set my countenance, 760 and to her in prose, it may be, this rim-ram-ruff[140] is too rude an encounter.—Let me, fair lady, if you be at leisure, revel with your sweetness, and rail upon that cowardly conjurer, that hath cast me, or congealed me 765 rather, into an unkind sleep, and polluted my carcass.

Zan. [aside.] Laugh, laugh, Zantippa; thou hast thy fortune, a fool and a husband under one.

Huan. Truly, sweet-heart, as I seem, 770 about some twenty years, the very April of mine age.

Zan. By Gogs-bones, thou art a flouting 780 knave. “Her coral lips, her crimson chin”! ka,[141] wilshaw!

Huan. True, my own, and my own because mine, and mine because mine, ha, ha! Above a thousand pounds in possibility, and things 785 fitting thy desire in possession.

Zan. [aside.] The sot thinks I ask of his lands. Lob[142] be your comfort, and cuckold be your destiny!—Hear you, sir; an if you will have us, you had best say so betime. 790

[G. of] Jack. Trusting in God, good Master Eumenides, that you are in so good health as 805 all your friends were at the making hereof, God give you good morrow, sir! Lack you not a neat, handsome, and cleanly young lad, about the age of fifteen or sixteen years, that can run by your horse, and, for a need, make 810 your mastership’s shoes as black as ink? How say you, sir?

Eum. Alas, pretty lad, I know not how to keep myself, and much less a servant, my pretty boy; my state is so bad. 815

[G. of] Jack. Content yourself, you shall not be so ill a master but I ’ll be as bad a servant. Tut, sir, I know you, though you know not me. Are not you the man, sir, deny it if you can, sir, that came from a strange place 820 in the land of Catita, where Jack-an-apes flies with his tail in his mouth, to seek out a lady [Pg 32]as white as snow and as red as blood? Ha, ha! have I touched you now?

Eum. [aside.] I think this boy be a 825 spirit.—How knowest thou all this?

[G. of] Jack. Tut, are not you the man, sir, deny it if you can, sir, that gave all the money you had to the burying of a poor man, and but one three half-pence left in your 830 purse? Content you, sir, I ’ll serve you, that is flat.

Eum. Well, my lad, since thou art so impor[tu]nate, I am content to entertain thee, not as a servant, but a copartner in my journey, 835 But whither shall we go? for I have not any money more than one bare three half-pence.

G. [of] Jack. Well, master, content yourself, for if my divination be not out, that shall be spent at the next inn or alehouse we come 840 to: for, master, I know you are passing hungry; therefore I ’ll go before and provide dinner until that you come; no doubt but you ’ll come fair and softly after.

Enter the Hostess and Jack, setting meat on the table: and Fiddlers come to play. Eumenides walketh up and down, and will eat no meat.

Host. Pray, sir, what is the reason your 855 master is so strange? Doth not this meat please him?

[G. of] Jack. Yes, hostess, but it is my master’s fashion to pay before he eats; therefore, a reckoning, good hostess. 860

Eum. Why. Jack, what dust thou mean? Thou knowest I have not any money; therefore, sweet Jack, tell me what shall I do?

[G. of] Jack. “Alas,” master! does that word belong to this accident? Why, methinks I should have seen you cast away your cloak, 875 and in a bravado dance a galliard round about the chamber. Why, master, your man can teach you more wit than this.

Host. You are heartily welcome; and if it 880 please you to eat of a fat capon, a fairer bird, a finer bird, a sweeter bird, a crisper bird, a neater bird, your worship never eat of.

[G. of] Jack. But hear you, master, one 885 word by the way. Are you content I shall be halves in all you get in your journey?

Eum. Come, hostess, receive your money; 890 and I thank you for my good entertainment.

Enter Corebus [blind], and Celanta, the foul wench, to the Well for water.

Cel. Ay, Corebus, we are almost at the well now. I ’ll go fetch some water; sit down while I dip my pitcher in.

Cel. O, see, Corebus, I have comb’d a great deal of gold into my lap, and a great deal of corn!

Cor. Well said,[144] wench! now we shall have just enough. God send us coiners to coin our 920 gold. But come, shall we go home, sweet-heart?

Eum. Go along. Jack, I ’ll follow thee. Jack, they say it is good to go cross-legged, and say his prayers backward; how sayest thou?

[G. of] Jack. Tut, never fear, master; let me alone. Here sit you still; speak not a word; 930 and because you shall not be enticed with his enchanting speeches, with this same wool I ’ll [Pg 33]stop your ears: and so, master, sit still, for I must to the conjurer. Exit.

[G. of] Jack. O, sir, are you gone? Now I hope we shall have some other coil.—Now, master, how like you this? The conjurer he is 950 dead, and vows never to trouble us more. Now get you to your fair lady, and see what you can do with her.—Alas, he heareth me not all this while; but I will help that.

[G. of] Jack. Here, master, take this sword, and dig with it at the foot of this hill.

[G. of] Jack. Master, without this the conjurer could do nothing; and so long as this 960 light lasts, so long doth his art endure, and this being out, then doth his art decay.

[G. of] Jack. No, master, you may as soon break the smith’s anvil as this little vial; nor the biggest blast that ever Boreas blew cannot 970 blow out this little light; but she that is neither maid, wife, nor widow. Master, wind this horn, and see what will happen.

Eumenides winds the horn. Here enters Venelia, and breaks the glass, and blows out the light, and goeth in again.

So, master, how like you this? This is she that ran madding in the woods, his betrothed love 975 that keeps the cross; and now, this light being out, all are restored to their former liberty. And now, master, to the lady that you have so long looked for.

Eum. God speed, fair maid, sitting alone,—there 980 is once; God speed, fair maid,—there is twice; God speed, fair maid,—that is thrice.

[G. of] Jack. Enough, master, she hath 985 spoke; now I will leave her with you.

Eum. Thanks, gentle madam; but here comes Jack: thank him, for he is the 1000 best friend that we have.

[G. of] Jack. Ah, master, so he deceived them that beheld him! But he was a miserable, old, and crooked man, though to each man’s eye he seemed young and fresh; for, 1010 master, this conjurer took the shape of the old man that kept the cross, and that old man was in the likeness of the conjurer. But now, master, wind your horn.

Eumenides winds his horn. Enter Venelia, the Two Brothers, and [Erestus] he that was at the cross.

[G. of] Jack. So, master, now ye think you have done; but I must have a saying to 1025 you. You know you and I were partners, I to have half in all you got.

[G. of] Jack. Why, then, master, draw your sword, part your lady, let me have half of 1030 her presently.

Eum. Why, I hope. Jack, thou dost but jest. I promised thee half I got, but not half my lady.

[G. of] Jack. But what else, master? 1035 Have you not gotten her? Therefore divide her straight, for I will have half; there is no remedy.

Eum. Well, ere I will falsify my word unto my friend, take her all. Here, Jack, I’ll 1040 give her thee.

Eum. Before I will falsify my faith unto my friend, I will divide her. Jack, thou shalt 1045 have half.

Eum. Content yourselves; my word is passed to him.—Therefore prepare thyself, Delia, for thou must die.

[G. of] Jack. Stay, master; it is sufficient 1055 I have tried your constancy. Do you now remember since you paid for the burying of a poor fellow?

[G. of] Jack. Then, master, thank that 1060 good deed for this good turn; and so God be with you all!

Madge. By the mass, son, ’t is almost day; and my windows shut at the cock’s-crow. 1070

Madge. O, man, this was the ghost of the poor man that they kept such a coil to bury; and that makes him to help the wandering 1075 knight so much. But come, let us in: we will have a cup of ale and a toast this morning, and so depart.[147]

Madge. Yes, faith: when this was done, I took a piece of bread and cheese, and came my way; and so shall you have, too, before you go, to your breakfast.

[Scene I.][148]

Enter Prince Edward malcontented, with Lacy, Warren, Ermsby, and Ralph Simnell.

Ralph. I prithee, tell me, Ned, art thou in 25 love with the Keeper’s daughter?

Ralph. Marry, Sirrah Ned, thou shalt put on my cap and my coat and my dagger, and I will put on thy clothes and thy sword; and so thou shalt be my fool.

Ralph. Why, so thou shalt beguile Love: for Love is such a proud scab, that he will never meddle with fools nor children. Is not Ralph’s counsel good, Ned?

Miles. Marry, sir, now that my hostess is gone to provide supper, conjure up another 175 spirit, and send Doctor Burden flying after.

[Scene III.][172]

Enter Margaret, the fair maid of Fressingfield, and Joan; Thomas, [Richard,] and other Clowns; and Lacy disguised in country apparel.

Thom. By my troth, Margaret, here’s a weather is able to make a man call his father “whoreson”: if this weather hold, we shall have hay good cheap, and butter and cheese at Harleston will hear no price. 5

Thom. Faith, Joan, and shall. I’ll bestow a fairing on you, and then we will to the tavern, 35 and snap off a pint of wine or two.

Rich. Sirrah, are you of Beccles? I pray, how doth Goodman Cob? My father bought a 60 horse of him.—I’ll tell you, Margaret, ’a were good to be a gentleman’s jade, for of all things the foul hilding[177] could not abide a doong-cart.

[Scene IV.][179]

Enter [King] Henry the Third, the Emperor, the King of Castile, Elinor, his daughter, and Vandermast, a German.

[Scene V.][183]

Enter Ralph Simnell in [Prince] Edward’s apparel; and [Prince] Edward, Warren, and Ermsby, disguised.

Ralph. Where be these vagabond knaves, that they attend no better on their master?

Ralph. Sirrah Ned, I’ll have no more post-horse5 to ride on: I’ll have another fetch.[185]

Ralph. Marry, sir, I’ll send to the Isle of Ely for four or five dozen of geese, and I’ll have them tied six and six together with whip-cord,10 Now upon their backs will I have a fair field-bed with a canopy; and so, when it is my pleasure, I’ll flee into what place I please. This will be easy.

War. Your honour hath said well; but15 shall we to Brazen-nose College before we pull off our boots?

Ralph. Wherefore have I such a company of cutting[186] knaves to wait upon me, but to keep and defend my countenance against all mine enemies? Have you not good swords and bucklers?25

Bacon. Why, thou arrant dunce, shall I never make thee good scholar? Doth not all the30 town cry out and say, Friar Bacon’s subsizer[187] is the greatest blockhead in all Oxford? Why, thou canst not speak one word of true Latin.

Miles. No, sir? yes. What is this else? Ego sum tuus homo, “I am your man”: I warrant35 you, sir, as good Tully’s phrase as any is in Oxford.

Miles. Why, sir, let him prove himself an ’a will; I can be heard, felt, and understood.

P. Edw. Come, let us break off this dispute between these two.—Sirrah, where is Brazen-nose College?

Ralph. Sirrah, I am the master of these good fellows; mayst thou not know me to be a lord by my reparrel?59

Miles. Then here ’s good game for the hawk; for here’s the master-fool and a covey of coxcombs. [Pg 41] One wise man, I think, would spring you all.

War. Why, Ned, I think the devil be in65 my sheath; I cannot get out my dagger.

Miles. O, I beseech you conjure his hands75 too, that he may not lift his arms to his head, for he is light-fingered!

Ralph. Why, servant Ned, will not the friar do it? Were not my sword glued to my scabbard by conjuration, I would cut off his110 head, and make him do it by force.

Miles. In faith, my lord, your manhood and your sword is all alike; they are so fast conjured that we shall never see them.

Ralph. Faith, Ned, and I’ll lord it out till thou comest. I’ll be Prince of Wales over all the black-pots[190] in Oxford.135

[Scene VI.][191]

[Scene VII.][204]

Clem. Stay, what rumour is this? The town is up in a mutiny. What hurly-burly is this?

Enter a Constable, with Ralph Simnell, Warren, Ermsby, [all three disguised as before], and Miles.

Ralph. I am, father doctor, as a man would say, the bell-wether of this company; these55 are my lords, and I the Prince of Wales.

Ralph. Sirrah Miles, bring hither the tapster that drew the wine, and, I warrant, when they see how soundly I have broke his head,60 they’ll say ’t was done by no less man than a prince.

Ralph. Doctors, whose doting night-caps are85 not capable of my ingenious dignity, know that I am Edward Plantagenet, whom if you displease will make a ship that shall hold all your colleges, and so carry away the niniversity with a fair wind to the Bankside in Southwark.90 —How sayest thou, Ned Warren, shall I not do it?

War. Yes, my good lord; and, if it please your lordship, I will gather up all your old pantofles, and with the cork[209] make you a95 pinnace of five-hundred ton, that shall serve the turn marvellous well, my lord.

Erms. And I, my lord, will have pioners to undermine the town, that the very gardens and orchards be carried away for your100 summerwalks.

War. I will, Master doctor, and satisfy145 the vintner for his hurt; only I must desire you [Pg 45] to imagine him all this forenoon the Prince of Wales.

Ralph. And upon that I will lead the way;150 only I will have Miles go before me, because I have heard Henry say that wisdom must go before majesty.

[Scene VIII.][212]

[Scene IX.][218]

Enter King Henry, the Emperor, the King of Castile, Elinor, Vandermast, and Bungay.

Bun. Let it be this,—Whether the spirits of pyromancy or geomancy be most predominant25 in magic?

Miles. [aside.] My master hath made me sewer[224] of these great lords; and, God knows,220 I am as serviceable at a table as a sow is under an apple-tree. ’T is no matter; their cheer shall not be great, and therefore what skills where the salt stand, before or behind?

[Scene X.][232]

Mar. (reads) The blooms of the almond-tree grow in a night, and vanish in a morn; the flies hœmeræ,[242] fair Peggy, take life with the sun,125 and die with the dew; fancy that slippeth in with a gaze, goeth out with a wink; and too timely[243] loves have ever the shortest length. I write this as thy grief, and my folly, who at Fressingfield loved that which time hath taught me to be but mean 130 dainties. Eyes are dissemblers, and fancy is but queasy; therefore know, Margaret, I have chosen a Spanish lady to be my wife, chief waiting-woman to the Princess Elinor; a lady fair, and no less fair than thyself, honourable and wealthy. In 135 that I forsake thee, I leave thee to thine own liking: and for thy dowry I have sent thee an hundred pounds; and ever assure thee of my favour, which shall avail thee and thine much.

[Scene XI.][244]

Enter Friar Bacon drawing the curtains with a white stick, a book in his hand, and a lamp lighted by him; and the Brazen Head, and Miles with weapons by him.

[Pg 51] Mil. Think you that the watching of the Brazen Head craves no furniture? I warrant5 you, sir, I have so armed myself that if all your devils come, I will not fear them an inch.

Miles. So; I thought you would talk yourself asleep anon; and ’t is no marvel, for Bungay on the days, and he on the nights, have watched just these ten and fifty days: now this is the night, and ’tis my task, and no more. Now,45 Jesus bless me, what a goodly head it is! and a nose! you talk of nos autem glorificare; but here’s a nose that I warrant may be called nos autem populare for the people of the parish. Well, I am furnished with weapons: now,50 sir, I will set me down by a post, and make it as good as a watchman to wake me, if I chance to slumber. I thought, Goodman Head, I would call you out of your memento.... Passion o’God, I have almost broke my pate! Up, Miles, to55 your task; take your brown-bill[245] in your hand; here’s some of your master’s hobgoblins abroad.

Miles. Time is! Why, Master Brazen-head, have you such a capital nose, and answer60 you with syllables, “Time is”? Is this all my master’s cunning, to spend seven years’ study about “Time is”? Well, sir, it may be we shall have some better orations of it anon. Well, I’ll watch you as narrowly as ever you were65 watched, and I’ll play with you as the nightingale with the slow-worm; I’ll set a prick against my breast. Now rest there, Miles. Lord have mercy upon me, I have almost killed myself! [A great noise.] Up, Miles; list how70 they rumble.

Miles. Well. Friar Bacon, you spent your seven-years’ study well, that can make your head speak but two words at once, “Time75 was.” Yea, marry, time was when my master was a wise man, but that was before he began to make the Brazen Head. You shall lie while[246] your arse ache, an your head speak no better. Well, I will watch, and walk up and down,80 and be a peripatetian and a philosopher of Aristotle’s stamp. [A great noise.] What, a fresh noise? Take thy pistols in hand, Miles.

Here the Head speaks, and a lightning flashes forth, and a hand appears that breaks down the Head with a hammer.

Miles. Master, master, up! Hell’s broken85 loose! Your head speaks; and there’s such a thunder and lightning, that I warrant all Oxford is up in arms. Out of your bed, and take a brown-bill in your hand; the latter day is come.90

Miles. When spake the head! Did not you say that he should tell strange principles of95 philosophy? Why, sir, it speaks but two words at a time.

Miles. Oft! ay, marry, hath it, thrice; but in all those three times it hath uttered but100 seven words.

Miles. Marry, sir, the first time he said “Time is,” as if Fabius Cumentator should have pronounced a sentence; [the second105 time] he said, “Time was”; and the third time, with thunder and lightning, as in great choler, he said, “Time is past.”

Miles. ’Tis no matter, I am against you with the old proverb,—The more the fox is cursed,[247] the better he fares. God be with you,140 sir. I ’II take but a book in my hand, a wide-sleeved gown on my back, and a crowned cap on my head, and see if I can want promotion.

[Scene XII.][248]

Enter the Emperor, the King of Castile, King Henry, Elinor, Prince Edward, Lacy, and Ralph [Simnell].

Ralph. Marry, Harry, follow my counsel: send for Friar Bacon to marry them, for he’ll25 so conjure him and her with his necromancy, that they shall love together like pig and lamb whilst they live.

K. of Cast. But hearest thou, Ralph, art thou content to have Elinor to thy lady?30

Ralph. That she will never scold with Ned, nor fight with me.—Sirrah Harry, I have put her down with a thing impossible.35

Ralph. Why, Harry, didst thou ever see that a woman could both hold her tongue and her hands? No: but when egg-pies grows on apple-trees, then will thy grey mare prove a40 bagpiper.

Emp. What say the Lord of Castile and the Earl of Lincoln, that they are in such earnest and secret talk?

Ralph. You love her?—Madam Nell, never believe him you, though he swears he loves you.

Ralph. Why, his love is like unto a tapster’s glass that is broken with every touch; for75 he loved the fair maid of Fressingfield once out of all ho.[249]—Nay, Ned, never wink upon me; I care not, I.

[Scene XIII.][250]

[Scene XIV.][255]

Enter Margaret in nun’s apparel, the Keeper, her father, and their Friend.

[Scene XV.][258]

Miles. A scholar, quoth you! marry, sir, I would I had been made a bottle-maker when I was made a scholar; for I can get neither to be a deacon, reader, nor schoolmaster, no, not the clerk of a parish. Some call me dunce; 15 another saith, my head is as full of Latin as an egg ’s full of oatmeal. Thus I am tormented, that the devil and Friar Bacon haunts me.—Good Lord, here’s one of my master’s devils! I’ll go speak to him.—What, Master Plutus, 20 how cheer you?

Miles. Know you, sir! Why, are not you one of my master’s devils, that were wont to come to my master, Doctor Bacon, at 25 Brazen-nose?

Miles. Good Lord, Master Plutus, I have seen you a thousand times at my master’s, and yet I had never the manners to make you 30 drink. But, sir, I am glad to see how conformable you are to the statute.—I warrant you, he’s as yeomanly a man as you shall see: mark you, masters, here ’s a plain honest man, without welt or guard.[259] But I pray you, sir, 35 do you come lately from hell?

Miles. Faith, ’tis a place I have desired long to see. Have you not good tippling-houses there? May not a man have a lusty fire there, a 40 pot of good ale, a pair[260] of cards, a swinging piece of chalk, and a brown toast that will clap a white waistcoat[261] on a cup of good drink?

Miles. You are for me, friend, and I am for 45 you. But I pray you, may I not have an office there?

Miles. By my troth, sir, in a place where I may profit myself. I know hell is a hot place, 50 and men are marvellous dry, and much drink is spent there; I would be a tapster.

Miles. There ’s nothing lets me from going with you, but that ’tis a long journey, and 55 I have never a horse.

Miles. Now surely here’s a courteous devil, that, for to pleasure his friend, will not stick to make a jade of himself.—But I pray 60 you, goodman friend, let me move a question to you.

Miles. ’T is well; but take heed it be not a trot: but ’tis no matter, I’ll prevent it.

Miles. Marry, friend, I put on my spurs; 70 for if I find your pace either a trot or else uneasy, I’ll put you to a false gallop; I’ll make you feel the benefit of my spurs.

Miles. O Lord, here’s even a goodly marvel, 75 when a man rides to hell on the devil’s back!

[Scene XVI.][262]

Enter the Emperor with a pointless sword; next the King of Castile carrying a sword with a point; Lacy carrying the globe; Prince Edward; Warren carrying a rod of gold with a dove on it; Ermsby with a crown and sceptre; the Queen; [Princess Elinor] with the Fair Maid of Fressingfield on her left hand; King Henry; Bacon.; with other Lords attending.

THE PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.

[Enter] Mycetes, Cosroe, Meander, Theridamas, Ortygius, Ceneus, [Menaphon,] with others.

Scene II.

[Enter] Tamburlaine leading Zenocrate, Techelles, Usumcasane, [Agydas, Magnetes] and other Lords, and Soldiers, loaden with treasure.

ACT II

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

[Enter] Cosroe, Tamburlaine, Theridamas, Techelles, Usumcasane, and Ortygius, with others.

[Scene IV.]

[Scene V.]

[Enter] Cosroe, Tamburlaine, Theridamas, Menaphon, Meander, Ortygius, Techelles, Usumcasane, with others.

Scene VI.

[Scene VII.]

Enter to the battle, and after the battle enter Cosroe, wounded, Tamburlaine, Theridamas, Techelles, Usumcasane, with others.

ACT III

Scene I.

[Enter] Bajazeth, the Kings of Fez, Morocco, and Argier,[302] with others in great pomp.

Scene II.

Tamburlaine goes to her and takes her away lovingly by the hand, looking wrathfully on Agydas, and says nothing.

Scene III.

[Enter] Tamburlaine, Techelles, Usumcasane, Theridamas, a Basso, Zenocrate, [Anippe,] with others.

Enter Bajazeth with his Bassoes, and contributory Kings [of Fez, Morocco, and Argier; Zabina and Ebea].

Bajazeth flies and [Tamburlaine] pursues him. The battle short, and they enter. Bajazeth is overcome.

Zab. Injurious villains! thieves! runagates! How dare you thus abuse my majesty? 226

ACT IV

Scene I.

[Enter the] Soldan of Egypt, with three or four Lords, Capolin, [and a Messenger].

Scene II.

[Enter] Tamburlaine, Techelles, Theridamas, Usumcasane, Zenocrate, Anippe, two Moors drawing Bajazeth in his cage, and his wife [Zabina] following him.

Scene III.

[Enter the] Soldan, [the King of] Arabia, Capolin, with streaming colours and Soldiers.

Scene IV.

The Banquet; and to it cometh Tamburlaine, all in scarlet, [Zenocrate,] Theridamas, Techelles, Usumcasane, the Turk [Bajazeth in his cage, Zabina,] with others.

Baj. Ay, such a stomach, cruel Tamburlaine, as I could willingly feed upon thy blood-raw heart.

Tamb. Nay thine own is easier to come by; pluck out that, and ’t will serve thee and thy15 wife. Well, Zenocrate, Techelles, and the rest, fall to your victuals.

Tamb. O, let him alone. Here; eat, sir;45 take it from my sword’s point, or I’ll thrust it to thy heart.

Tamb. Take it up, villain, and eat it; or I will make thee slice the brawns of thy arms50 into carbonadoes[330] and eat them.

Usum. Nay, ’twere better he kill’d his wife, and then she shall be sure not to be starv’d. And he be provided for a month’s victual beforehand.55

Tamb. Here is my dagger: despatch her while she is fat; for if she live but a while longer, she will fall into a consumption with fretting, and then she will not be worth the eating.

Tamb. Go to; fall to your meat.—What, not a bit! Belike he hath not been watered today;65 give him some drink.

Tamb. Fast, and welcome, sir, while[332] hunger[Pg 74] make you eat. How now, Zenocrate, doth not the Turk and his wife make a goodly show at a banquet? 70

Tamb. Yet music would do well to cheer up Zenocrate. Pray thee tell why thou art so 75 sad? If thou wilt have a song, the Turk shall strain his voice. But why is it?

Zab. Eat, Bajazeth. Let us live in spite of them, looking[335] some happy power will pity and enlarge[336] us.

Ther. So it would, my lord, specially having 120 so small a walk and so little exercise.

Tamb. Theridamas, Techelles, and Casane, here are the cates you desire to finger, are they not?

Tech. ’T is enough for us to see them, and for Tamburlaine only to enjoy them.

Tamb. Well; here is now to the Soldan of Egypt, the King of Arabia, and the Governor 130 of Damascus. Now take these three crowns, and pledge me, my contributory kings. I crown you here, Theridamas, King of Argier; Techelles, King of Fez; and Usumcasane, King of Moroccus. How say you to this, Turk? These are 135 not your contributory kings.

ACT V

Scene I.

[Enter] the Governor of Damascus, with three or four Citizens, and four Virgins, with branches of laurel in their hands.

Scene II.

[Enter] Tamburlaine, all in black and very melancholy, Techelles, Theridamas, Usumcasane, with others.

Re-enter Tamburlaine, leading the Soldan, Techelles, Theridamas, Usumcasane, with others.

[Scene I.]

[Scene II.][398]

1 Schol. I wonder what’s become of Faustus that was wont to make our schools ring with sic probo?[399]

Wag. That follows not necessary by force of argument, that you, being licentiate, should stand upon ’t: therefore, acknowledge your 15 error and be attentive.

Wag. Yes, sir, I will tell you; yet if you were not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is not he corpus naturale?[400] and is not that mobile? Then wherefore should 26 you ask me such a question? But that I am by nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it were not for you to come within forty foot of the place 30 of execution, although I do not doubt to see you both hang’d the next sessions. Thus having triumph’d over you, I will set my countenance like a precisian,[401] and begin to speak thus:—Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this 36 wine, if it could speak, would inform your worships; and so the Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dear brethren, my dear brethren.40

1 Schol. Nay, then, I fear he has fallen into that damned Art, for which they two are infamous through the world.

2 Schol. Were he a stranger, and not allied to me, yet should I grieve for him. But come, let us go and inform the Rector, and see if he 46 by his grave counsel can reclaim him.

[Scene III.][402]

[Scene IV.][412]

Clown. How, boy! Swowns, boy! I hope you have seen many boys with such pickadevaunts[413] as I have. Boy, quotha!

Wag. Alas, poor slave! See how poverty jesteth in his nakedness! The villain is bare and 10 out of service, and so hungry that I know he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood-raw.

Clown. How? My soul to the Devil for a shoulder of mutton, though ’twere blood-raw! 15 Not so, good friend. By ’r Lady, I had need have it well roasted and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear.

Wag. Well, wilt thou serve me, and I’ll make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus?[414] 20

Clown. How, how. Knave’s acre![416] Ay, I thought that was all the land his father left 25 him. Do you hear? I would be sorry to rob you of your living.

Clown. Oho! Oho! Stavesacre! Why, then, belike if I were your man I should be full of vermin. 31

Wag. So thou shalt, whether thou beest with me or no. But, sirrah, leave your jesting, and bind yourself presently unto me for seven years, or I’ll turn all the lice about thee into familiars, and they shall tear thee in pieces. 36

Clown. Do you hear, sir? You may save that labour, they are too familiar with me already. Swowns! they are as bold with my flesh as if they had paid for [their] meat and 40 drink.

Clown. Mass, but for the name of French crowns, a man were as good have as many English counters. And what should I do with these?

Wag. Why, now, sirrah, thou art at an 50 hour’s warning, whensoever and wheresoever the Devil shall fetch thee.

Wag. Well, I will cause two devils presently to fetch thee away—Baliol and Belcher. 60

Clown. Let your Baliol and your Belcher come here, and I’ll knock them, they were never so knockt since they were devils. Say I should kill one of them, what would folks say? “Do you see yonder tall fellow in the round 65 slop?[417]—he has kill’d the devil.” So I should be call’d Kill-devil all the parish over.

Clown. What, are they gone? A vengeance on them, they have vile long nails! There 70 was a he-devil, and a she-devil! I’ll tell you how you shall know them: all he-devils has horns, and all she-devils has clifts and cloven feet.

Clown. But, do you hear—if I should serve you, would you teach me to raise up Banios 76 and Belcheos?

Wag. I will teach thee to turn thyself to anything; to a dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or anything. 80

Clown. How! a Christian fellow to a dog or a cat, a mouse or a rat! No, no, sir. If you turn me into anything, let it be in the likeness of a little pretty frisky flea, that I may be here and there and everywhere. Oh, I’ll tickle 85 the pretty wenches’ plackets; I’ll be amongst them, i’ faith.

Wag. Villain—call me Master Wagner, and let thy left eye be diametarily[418] fixt upon my right heel, with quasi vestigias nostras insistere.[419]

Clown. God forgive me, he speaks Dutch 95 fustian. Well, I’ll follow him, I’ll serve him, that’s flat.

[Scene V.]

Re-enter [Mephistophilis] with Devils, giving crowns and rich apparel to Faustus, and dance, and then depart.

Faust. Then hear me read them: On these conditions following. First, that Faustus may 95 be a spirit in form and substance. Secondly, that Mephistophilis shall be his servant, and at his command. Thirdly, that Mephistophilis shall do for him and bring him whatsoever [he desires]. Fourthly, that he shall be in his chamber or 100 house invisible. Lastly, that he shall appear to the said John Faustus, at all times, in what form or shape soever he pleases. I, John Faustus, of Wittenberg, Doctor, by these presents do give both body and soul to Lucifer, Prince of the East, 105 and his minister, Mephistophilis; and furthermore grant unto them, that twenty-four years being expired, the articles above written inviolate, full power to fetch or carry the said John Faustus, body and soul, flesh, blood, or goods, into their 110 habitation wheresoever. By me, John Faustus.

Re-enter Mephistophilis with a Devil dressed like a woman, with fireworks.

Faust. Thanks, Mephistophilis; yet fain would I have a book wherein I might behold all spells and incantations, that I might raise170 up spirits when I please.

Faust. Now would I have a book where I might see all characters and planets of the heavens, that I might know their motions and175 dispositions.

Faust. Nay, let me have one book more,— and then I have done,—wherein I might see all plants, herbs, and trees that grow upon180 the earth.

[Scene VI.[427]

Meph. All jointly move from east to west in twenty-four hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motion upon the poles of the zodiac. 50

Faust. Well, resolve me in this question: Why have we not conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time, but in some years we have more, in some less? 70

Faust. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell. ’T is thou hast damn’d distressed Faustus’ soul. Is’t not too late?

Luc. Do so, and we will highly gratify thee. Faustus, we are come from hell to show thee106 some pastime. Sit down, and thou shalt see all the Seven Deadly Sins appear in their proper shapes.

Luc. Talk not of Paradise nor creation, but mark this show: talk of the Devil, and nothing else.—Come away!115

Pride. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to Ovid’s flea: I can120 creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes, like a periwig, I sit upon her brow; or like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips; indeed I do—what do I not? But, fie, what a scent is here! I’ll not speak another word, except the125 ground were perfum’d, and covered with cloth of arras.

Covet. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl in an old leathern bag; and might I130 have my wish I would desire that this house and all the people in it were turn’d to gold, that I might lock you up in my good chest. O, my sweet gold!

Wrath. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt out of a lion’s mouth when I was scarce half an hour old; and ever since I have run up and down the world with this case[430] of rapiers wounding myself when I140 had nobody to fight withal. I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my father.

Envy. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney145 sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt. I am lean with seeing others eat. O that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou150 should’st see how fat I would be. But must thou sit and I stand! Come down with a vengeance!

Glut. Who, I, sir? I am Gluttony. My155 parents are all dead, and the devil a penny they have left me, but a bare pension, and that is thirty meals a day and ten bevers[431]—a small trifle to suffice nature. O, I come of a royal parentage! My grandfather was a Gammon160 of Bacon, my grandmother a Hogshead of Claret-wine, my godfathers were these, Peter Pickleherring, and Martin Martlemas-beef.[432] O, but my godmother, she was a jolly gentlewoman, and well beloved in every good town and165 city; her name was Mistress Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny, wilt thou bid me to supper?

Sloth. I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank, where I have lain ever since; and175 you have done me great injury to bring me from thence: let me be carried thither again by Gluttony and Lechery. I’ll not speak another word for a king’s ransom.

Lech. Who, I, sir? I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton better than an ell of fried stockfish; and the first letter of my name begins with Lechery.

Luc. Away to hell, to hell! (Exeunt the Sins.) Now, Faustus, how dost thou like this?186

[Scene VII.][434]

Sound a sennet.[438] Enter the Pope and the Cardinal of Lorrain to the banquet, with Friars attending.

Pope. How now! Who’s that which snatch’d the meat from me? Will no man look? My69 Lord, this dish was sent me from the Cardinal of Florence.

C. of Lor. My lord, it may be some ghost newly crept out of purgatory, come to beg a pardon of your Holiness.

Pope. It may be so. Friars, prepare a dirge to lay the fury of this ghost. Once again, my80 lord, fall to.

Faust. What, are you crossing of yourself? Well, use that trick no more I would advise you.

[The Pope] crosses [himself] again, and Faustus hits him a box of the ear; and they all run away.

[Scene VIII.][442]

Robin. O, this is admirable! here I ha’ stolen one of Dr. Faustus, conjuring books, and i’ faith I mean to search some circles for my own use. Now will I make all the maidens in our parish dance at my pleasure, stark naked 5 before me; and so by that means I shall see more than e’er I felt or saw yet.

Ralph. Robin, prithee come away; there’s a gentleman tarries to have his horse, and he would have his things rubb’d and made clean. 10 He keeps such a chafing with my mistress about it; and she has sent me to look thee out. Prithee come away.

Robin. Keep out, keep out, or else you are blown up; you are dismemb’red, Ralph: keep 15 out, for I am about a roaring piece of work.

Robin. Yes, my master and mistress shall find that I can read, he for his forehead, she 20 for her private study; she’s born to bear with me, or else my art fails.

Robin. What book! Why, the most intolerable book for conjuring that e’er was invented by any brimstone devil. 25

Robin. I can do all these things easily with it: first, I can make thee drunk with ippocras[443] at any tavern in Europe for nothing; that’s one of my conjuring works. 31

Robin. True, Ralph; and more, Ralph, if them hast any mind to Nan Spit, our kitchenmaid, then turn her and wind her to thy own use 35 as often as thou wilt, and at midnight.

Ralph. O brave Robin, shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine own use? On that condition I’ll feed thy devil with horsebread as long as he lives, of free cost. 40

Robin. No more, sweet Ralph: let’s go and make clean our boots, which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring in the Devil’s name.

[Scene IX.][444]

Robin. Come, Ralph, did not I tell thee we were for ever made by this Doctor Faustus’ book? Ecce signum, here’s a simple purchase[445] for horsekeepers; our horses shall eat no hay as long as this lasts. 5

Robin. Hush! I’ll gull him supernaturally. Drawer, I hope all is paid: God be with you. Come, Ralph.

Vint. Soft, sir; a word with you. I must 10 yet have a goblet paid from you, ere you go.

Robin. I, a goblet, Ralph; I, a goblet! I scorn you, and you are but a[446] &c. I, a goblet! search me.

Ralph. Me, sir! me, sir! search your fill. [Vintner searches him.] Now, sir, you may be ashamed to burden honest men with a matter 21 of truth.

Robin. [Aside.] You lie, drawer, ’tis afore 25 me.—Sirrah you, I’ll teach ye to impeach honest men; stand by;—I’ll scour you for a goblet!—stand aside you had best. I charge you in the name of Belzebub. Look to the goblet, Ralph.30

Robin. I’ll tell you what I mean. Reads [from a book.] Sanctobulorum, Periphrasticon—Nay, I’ll tickle you, vintner. Look to the goblet, Ralph. 35

Enter Mephistophilis, sets squibs at their backs, [and then exit]. They run about.

Robin. Misericordia pro nobis![449] What shall I do? Good Devil, forgive me now, and I’ll never rob thy library more.

Robin. How from Constantinople? You have[Pg 91] had a great journey. Will you take sixpence in your purse to pay for your supper, and begone?

Meph. Well, villains, for your presumption, 55 I transform thee into an ape, and thee into a dog; and so begone.

Robin. How, into an ape? That’s brave! I’ll have fine sport with the boys. I’ll get nuts and apples enow. 60

[Scene X.][450]

Emp. Master Doctor Faustus, I have heard strange report of thy knowledge in the black art, how that none in my empire nor in the whole world can compare with thee for the rare effects of magic; they say thou hast a familiar 5 spirit, by whom thou canst accomplish what thou list. This, therefore, is my request, that thou let me see some proof of thy skill, that mine eyes may be witnesses to confirm what mine ears have heard reported; and here I 10 swear to thee by the honour of mine imperial crown, that, whatever thou doest, thou shalt be no ways prejudiced or endamaged.

Faust. My gracious sovereign, though I must confess myself far inferior to the report men have published, and nothing answerable[451] to the honour of your imperial majesty, yet for that love and duty binds me thereunto, I am content 20 to do whatsoever your majesty shall command me.

Faust. My gracious lord, I am ready to accomplish your request so far forth as by art, and power of my Spirit, I am able to perform. 50

Faust. But, if it like your Grace, it is not in my ability to present before your eyes the true substantial bodies of those two deceased princes, which long since are consumed to dust. 55

Knight. Ay, marry. Master Doctor, now there’s a sign of grace in you, when you will confess the truth.

Faust. But such spirits as can lively resemble Alexander and his paramour shall appear before your Grace in that manner that they best 61 liv’d in, in their most flourishing estate; which I doubt not shall sufficiently content your imperial majesty.

Knight. Do you hear, Master Doctor? You bring Alexander and his paramour before the Emperor!

Faust. No, sir, but when Actæon died, he left the horns for you. Mephistophilis, begone.

Faust. I’ll meet with you anon for interrupting me so. Here they are, my gracious lord. 80

Re-enter Mephistophilis with [Spirits in the shape of] Alexander and his Paramour.

Emp. Master Doctor, I heard this lady while she liv’d had a wart or mole in her neck: how shall I know whether it be so or no?

Emp. Sure these are no spirits, but the 85 true substantial bodies of those two deceased princes.

Faust. Will’t please your Highness now to send for the knight that was so pleasant with me here of late? 90

How now, sir knight! why I had thought thou had’st been a bachelor, but now I see thou hast a wife, that not only gives thee horns, but makes thee wear them. Feel on thy head. 95

Faust. O, not so fast, sir; there’s no haste; 100 but, good, are you rememb’red how you crossed me in my conference with the Emperor? I think I have met with you for it.

Emp. Good Master Doctor, at my entreaty release[Pg 92] him; he hath done penance sufficient. 105

Faust. My gracious lord, not so much for the injury he off’red me here in your presence, as to delight you with some mirth, hath Faustus worthily requited this injurious knight; 109 which, being all I desire, I am content to release him of his horns: and, sir knight, hereafter speak well of scholars. Mephistophilis, transform him straight. [Mephistophilis removes the horns.] Now, my good lord, having done my duty I humbly take my leave. 115

Emp. Farewell, Master Doctor; yet, ere you go, Expect from me a bounteous reward.

[Scene XI.][454]

Horse-C. I have been all this day seeking 10 one Master Fustian: mass, see where he is! God save you. Master Doctor!

Horse-C. Do you hear, sir? I have brought 15 you forty dollars for your horse.

Meph. I pray you let him have him, he is an honest fellow, and he has a great charge, neither wife nor child.

Faust. Well, come, give me your money. [Horse-Courser gives Faustus the money.] 25 My boy will deliver him to you. But I must tell you one thing before you have him; ride him not into the water at any hand.

Faust. O yes, he will drink of all waters, but ride him not into the water: ride him over hedge or ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into the water.

Horse-C. Well, sir.—Now I am made man 35 forever. I’ll not leave my horse for forty. If he had but the quality of hey-ding-ding, hey-ding-ding, I’d make a brave living on him: he has a buttock as slick as an eel. [Aside.] Well, God b’ wi’ ye, sir, your boy will deliver him me: but 40 hark ye, sir; if my horse be sick or ill at ease, if I bring his water to you, you’ll tell me what it is?

Horse-C. Alas, alas! Doctor Fustian, quotha? Mass, Doctor Lopus[455] was never such a doctor. Has given me a purgation has purg ’d me of forty dollars; I shall never see them more. But yet, like an ass as I was, I would not be ruled 55 by him, for he bade me I should ride him into no water. Now I, thinking my horse had had some rare quality that he would not have had me known of, I, like a venturous youth, rid him into the deep pond at the town’s end. I was 60 no sooner in the middle of the pond, but my horse vanish’d away, and I sat upon a bottle of hay, never so near drowning in my life. But I’ll seek out my Doctor, and have my forty dollars again, or I’ll make it the dearest horse!—O, 65 yonder is his snipper-snapper.—Do you hear? You hey-pass,[456] where’s your master?

Horse-C. I’ll speak with him now, or I’ll break his glass windows about his ears.

Horse-C. Ay, this is he. God save you, Master Doctor! Master Doctor. Master Doctor Fustian!—Forty dollars, forty dollars for a bottle of hay!

Horse-C. So ho, ho!—so ho, ho! (Hollas in 85 his ear.) No, will you not wake? I’ll make you wake ere I go. (Pulls Faustus by the leg, and pulls it away.) Alas, I am undone! What shall I do?

Faust. O my leg, my leg! Help, Mephistophilis! 90 call the officers. My leg, my leg!

Horse-C. I have none about me. Come to my ostry[457] and I’ll give them you.

Faust. What, is he gone? Farewell he! 99 Faustus has his leg again, and the horse-courser, I take it, a bottle of hay for his labour. Well, [Pg 93] this trick shall cost him forty dollars more.

Faust. The Duke of Vanholt! an honourable gentleman, to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning. Come, Mephistophilis, let’s away to him. 110

[Scene XII.][458]

Faust. My gracious lord, I am glad it contents you so well.—But it may be, madam, you take no delight in this. I have heard that great-bellied5 women do long for some dainties or other. What is it, madam? Tell me, and you shall have it.

Duchess. Thanks, good Master Doctor; and for I see your courteous intent to pleasure10 me, I will not hide from you the thing my heart desires; and were it now summer, as it is January and the dead time of the winter, I would desire no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes.

Faust. Alas, madam, that’s nothing!15 Mephistophilis, begone. (Exit Mephistophilis.) Were it a greater thing than this, so it would content you, you should have it.

Duke. Believe me, Master Doctor, this makes me wonder above the rest, that being in the dead time of winter, and in the month of January, how you should come by these grapes.

Faust. If it like your Grace, the year is25 divided into two circles over the whole world, that, when it is here winter with us, in the contrary circle it is summer with them, as in India, Saba, and farther countries in the East; and by means of a swift spirit that I have,30 I had them brought hither, as ye see.—How do you like them, madam; be they good?

Duchess. Believe me. Master Doctor, they be the best grapes that I e’er tasted in my life before.35

Duke. Come, madam, let us in, where you must well reward this learned man for the great kindness he hath show’d to you.

Duchess. And so I will, my lord; and40 whilst I live, rest beholding for this courtesy.

[Scene XIII.][459]

1 Schol. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference about fair Ladies, which was the10 beautifullest in all the world, we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the admirablest lady that ever lived, therefore, Master Doctor, if you will do us that favour, as to let us see that peerless dame of Greece,15 whom all the world admires for majesty, we should think ourselves much beholding unto you.

[Scene XIV.][463]

Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still! but now I die eternally. Look, comes he not, comes he not?5

1 Schol. If it be so, we’ll have physicians to10 cure him. ’T is but a surfeit. Never fear, man.

2 Schol. Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven; remember God’s mercies are infinite.15

Faust. But Faustus’ offences can never be pardoned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be sav’d, but not Faustus. Ah, gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though my heart pants and quivers20 to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, oh, would I had never seen Wittenberg, never read book! And what wonders I have done, all Germany can witness, yea, the world; for which Faustus hath lost both25 Germany and the world, yea Heaven itself, Heaven, the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must remain in hell for ever, hell, ah, hell, for ever! Sweet friends! what shall become of Faustus being in hell for ever?31

Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjur’d! on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! Ah, my God, I would weep, but the Devil draws 35 in my tears. Gush forth blood instead of tears! Yea, life and soul! Oh, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands, but see, they hold them, they hold them!

Faust. Lucifer and Mephistophilis. Ah, gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning!

Faust. God forbade it indeed; but Faustus 45 hath done it. For vain pleasure of twenty-four years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the date is expired; the time will come, and he will fetch me. 50

1 Schol. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee?

Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the Devil threat’ned to tear me in pieces if I nam’d God; to fetch both body and soul if I 55 once gave ear to divinity: and now ’t is too late. Gentlemen, away! lest you perish with me.

1 Schol. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room, and there pray for him.

Faust. Ay, pray for me, pray for me! and 65 what noise soever ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.

Faust. Gentlemen, farewell! If I live till 70 morning I’ll visit you: if not—Faustus is gone to hell.

[THE PROLOGUE.]

Scene I.]

[Scene II.][480]

Enter [Ferneze,] Governor of Malta, Knights, [and Officers;] met by Bassoes of the Turk; Calymath.

Reader. “First, the tribute-money of the Turks shall all be levied amongst the Jews, and each of them to pay one half of his estate.”70

Reader. “Secondly, he that denies[485] to pay shall straight become a Christian.”

ACT II

[Scene I.][498]

[Scene II.][503]

[Scene III.][509]

Bar. What, hast thou the philosopher’s stone? An thou hast, break my head with it, I ’ll forgive thee.115

Bar. A youth? I ’ll buy you, and marry120 you to Lady Vanity, if you do well.

Bar. Some wicked trick or other. It may be, under colour of shaving, thou ’lt cut my throat for my goods. Tell me, hast thou thy health well?126

Bar. So much the worse; I must have one that ’s sickly, an ’t be but for sparing victuals: ’t is not a stone of beef a day will maintain130 you in these chops; let me see one that ’s somewhat leaner.

ACT III

[Scene I.][523]

Pilia. Faith, walking the back-lanes, through the gardens, I chanc’d to cast mine eye up to the Jew’s counting-house, where I saw some 20 bags of money, and in the night I clamber’d up with my hooks, and, as I was taking my choice, I heard a rumbling in the house; so I took only this, and run my way. But here’s the Jew’s man. 25

Pilia. Look not towards him, let’s away. Zoons, what a looking thou keep’st; thou’lt betray ’s anon.

Itha. O the sweetest face that ever I beheld! I know she is a courtesan by her attire. Now 30 would I give a hundred of the Jew’s crowns that I had such a concubine.

[Scene II.][524]

[Scene III.][527]

Itha. O mistress! I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtle, bottle-nos’d knave to my master, that ever gentleman had.11

Itha. Why, the devil invented a challenge,20 my master writ it, and I carried it, first to Lodowick, and imprimis to Mathias.
And then they met, [and,] as the story says,
In doleful wise they ended both their days.

Itha. A very feeling one: have not the nuns fine sport with the friars now and then?

[Scene IV.][533]

Itha. Yes, sir, the proverb says he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoon. I have brought you a ladle.55

Itha. Why, master, will you poison her60 with a mess of rice porridge? That will preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten[538] more than you are aware.

Bar. Belike there is some ceremony in ’t.80 There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot! Stay, let me spice it first.

Itha. [Aside.] What a blessing has he given ’t! Was ever pot of rice porridge so sauc’d!—What shall I do with it?105

Bar. O, my sweet Ithamore, go set it down, And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee.

Itha. Here ’s a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares. I’ll carry ’t to the nuns110 with a powder.

[Scene V.][542]

[Scene VI.][544]

ACT IV

[Scene I.][548]

[Scene II.][556]

Itha. Nay, master, be rul’d by me a little,25 [Stands the body upright against the wall and puts a staff in its hand.] So, let him lean upon his staff. Excellent! he stands as if he were begging of bacon.[558]

[Scene III.][559]

F. Jac. Good sirs, I have done’t, but nobody knows it but you two; I may escape.

Itha. Fie upon ’em, master; will you turn Christian when holy friars turn devils and 35 murder one another?

[Scene IV.][562]

Pilia. I think so, and yet I cannot tell; for at the reading of the letter he look’d like a man of another world.

Pilia. That such a base slave as he should 10 be saluted by such a tall[563] man as I am, from such a beautiful dame as you.

Pilia. Not a wise word, only gave me a nod, as who should say, “Is it even so?” and so I 15 left him, being driven to a non-plus at the critical aspect of my terrible countenance.

Pilia. Upon mine own freehold, within forty feet of the gallows, conning his neck-verse, 20 I take it, looking of[564] a friar’s execution, whom I saluted with an old hempen proverb, Hodie tibi, cras mihi, and so I left him to the mercy of the hangman: but the exercise[565] being done, see where he comes. 25

Itha. I never knew a man take his death so patiently as this friar. He was ready to leap off ere the halter was about his neck; and when the hangman had put on his hempen tippet, he made such haste to his prayers, as if he had 30 had another cure to serve. Well, go whither he will, I’ll be none of his followers in haste: and, now I think on ’t, going to the execution, a fellow met me with a muschatoes[566] like a raven’s wing, and a dagger with a hilt like a 35 warming-pan, and he gave me a letter from one Madam Bellamira, saluting me in such sort as if he had meant to make clean my boots with his lips; the effect was, that I should come to her house. I wonder what the reason is; it 40 may be she sees more in me than I can find in myself: for she writes further, that she loves me ever since she saw me, and who would not requite such love? Here’s her house, and here she comes, and now would I were gone; I am 45 not worthy to look upon her.

Itha. [Aside.] Gentleman! he flouts me; what gentry can be in a poor Turk of tenpence? I’ll be gone. 50

Itha. [Aside.] Again, “sweet youth!”—Did not you, sir, bring the sweet youth a letter?

Pilia. I did, sir, and from this gentlewoman, who, as myself, and the rest of the family, 55 stand or fall at your service.

Itha. [Aside.] I’ll go steal some money from my master to make me handsome.—Pray pardon me, I must go and see a ship discharg’d.

Itha. Nay, I care not how much she loves me—Sweet Bellamira, would I had my master’s wealth for thy sake!

Itha. If ’twere above ground, I could and would have it; but he hides and buries it up, as partridges do their eggs, under the earth.

Itha. Ay, and such as—Go to, no more! I’ll make him send me half he has, and glad he scapes so too. Pen and ink! I’ll write unto him; we’ll have money straight.

Itha. [writing.] “I charge thee send me three hundred by this bearer, and this shall be 90 your warrant: if you do not—no more, but so.”

Itha. [writing.] “Otherwise I’ll confess all.”—Vanish, and return in a twinkle.

Pilia. At reading of the letter, he star’d and stamp’d and turn’d aside. I took him by 120 the beard, and look’d upon him thus; told him he were best to send it; then he hugg’d and embrac’d me.

Pilia. Then, like a Jew, he laugh’d and 125 jeer’d, and told me he lov’d me for your sake, and said what a faithful servant you had been.

Itha. The more villain he to keep me thus. Here’s goodly ’parel, is there not? 129

Itha. But ten? I’ll not leave him worth a grey groat. Give me a ream[568] of paper; we’ll have a kingdom of gold for ’t.

Itha. [writing.] “Sirrah, Jew, as you love your life send me five hundred crowns, and give the bearer one hundred.” Tell him I must have’t.

Itha. And if he ask why I demand so much, tell him I scorn to write a line under a hundred crowns. 141

Itha. O, that ten thousand nights were put in one, that we might sleep seven years together afore we wake!

[Scene V.][570]

Pilia. O good words, sir, and send it you were hest! See, there’s his letter. [Gives letter.]

Bar. Might he not as well come as send? Pray bid him come and fetch it; what he writes for you, ye shall have straight. 30

Bar. [Aside.] I must make this villain away.—Please you dine with me, sir;—and you shall be most heartily poison’d.

Pilia. I know enough, and therefore talk not to me of your counting-house. The gold! or 41 know, Jew, it is in my power to hang thee.

[Scene VI.][575]

Itha. You knew Mathias and the governor’s son; he and I killed ’em both, and yet never touch’d ’em.

Itha. I carried the broth that poison’d the nuns; and he and I, snickle hand too fast,[577] strangled a friar.

Bell. [Aside to Pilia-Borsa.] And fit it should: but first let’s ha’ more gold,— Come, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap.

Itha. Wilt drink, Frenchman? Here’s to 35 thee with a——Pox on this drunken hiccup!

Bell. Prythee, Pilia-Borsa, bid the fiddler give me the posy in his hat there.

Itha. ’Tis a strange thing of that Jew, he lives upon pickled grasshoppers and sauc’d mushrooms.

Itha. The hat he wears, Judas left under the elder when he hang’d himself.[579]

Itha. No, I’ll send by word of mouth now.—Bid him deliver thee a thousand crowns, by the same token, that the nuns lov’d rice, that Friar Barnardine slept in his own clothes; any of ’em will do it. 95

ACT V

[Scene I.][581]

Itha. Guilty, my lord, I confess. Your son and Mathias were both contracted unto Abigail; he forg’d a counterfeit challenge.30

Itha. I carried it, I confess; but who writ it? Marry, even he that strangled Barnardine, poison’d the nuns and his own daughter.

Kath. Was my Mathias murder’d by the Jew? Ferneze, ’t was thy son that murder’d him.45

Fern. Be patient, gentle madam, it was he; He forg’d the daring challenge made them fight.

[Scene II.]

[Scene III.][586]

Alarums. Enter [Calymath, Bassoes,] Turks, and Barabas, with Ferneze and Knights prisoners.

[Scene IV.][591]

[Scene V.][593]

[Scene VI.][594]

[ACT I]

[Scene I.][600]

Enter King [Edward], Lancaster, the Elder Mortimer, Young Mortimer; Edmund, Earl of Kent; Guy, Earl of Warwick, and [Attendants].

[Scene II.][612]

Enter [on one side] both the Mortimers; [on the other,] Warwick and Lancaster.

[Scene III.][617]

[Scene IV.][618]

Enter Nobles [Lancaster, Warwick, Pembroke, the Elder Mortimer, Young Mortimer, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Attendants].

Re-enter Nobles [Lancaster, Warwick, Pembroke, the Elder Mortimer, and Young Mortimer] to the Queen.

[ACT II]

[Scene I.][632]

[Scene II.][638]

Enter King Edward, Queen Isabella, Kent, Lancaster, Young Mortimer, Warwick, Pembroke, and Attendants.

Enter Queen Isabella with [King Edward’s Niece, two] Ladies, [Gaveston,] Baldock and Young Spencer.

[Scene III.][657]

[Scene IV.][660]

Enter the Barons, [Lancaster, Warwick, Young Mortimer, and others]. Alarums.

[Scene V.][663]

Enter the Nobles, [Warwick, Lancaster, Pembroke, Young Mortimer, Soldiers, James, and other Attendants of Pembroke].

Exeunt all except Pembroke, Arundel, Gaveston, [James, and other] Attendants of Pembroke.

[ACT III]

[Scene I.][671]

[Scene II.][673]

Enter King Edward and [Young] Spencer, [Baldock, and Nobles of the King’s side, and Soldiers] with drums and fifes.

Enter Queen [Isabella,] and her son [Prince Edward,] and Levune, a Frenchman.

[Scene III.][679]

Re-enter King Edward, the Elder Spencer, Young Spencer, and Noblemen of the King’s side.

[Scene IV.][681]

Enter King Edward [and his followers,] with the Barons [and Kent], captives.

[ACT IV]

[Scene I.][685]

[Scene II.][686]

[Scene III.][692]

Enter King [Edward,] Arundel, the Elder and Younger Spencer, with others.

Y. Spen. (reads).
“My duty to your honour premised, &c, I have, according to instructions in that behalf, dealt with the King of France his lords, and 30 effected that the queen, all discontented and discomforted, is gone: whither, if you ask, with Sir John of Hainault, brother to the marquis, into Flanders. With them are gone Lord Edmund, and the Lord Mortimer, having in their 35 company divers of your nation, and others; and, [Pg 142]as constant report goeth, they intend to give King Edward battle in England, sooner than he can look for them. This is all the news of import. 40

[Scene IV.][694]

Enter Queen [Isabella], her son, [Prince Edward,] Kent, Young Mortimer, and Sir John [of Hainault].

[Scene V.][695]

Enter Queen [Isabella,] Prince [Edward,] Young Mortimer, and Sir John of Hainault.

Enter Rice ap Howell and the Mayor of Bristol, with the Elder Spencer [prisoner, and Attendants].

[Scene VI.][697]

Enter the Abbot, Monks, [King] Edward, Young Spencer, and Baldock [the three latter disguised].

Rice. Come, come, keep these preachments till you come to the place appointed. You, and such as you are, have made wise work in England. Will your lordships away?115

[ACT V]

[Scene I.][701]

Enter King [Edward,] Leicester, the Bishop [of Winchester] for the crown [and Trussel].

[Scene II.][707]

[Scene III.][710]

[Scene IV.][713]

Enter the young King, Queen [Isabella,] the Archbishop [of Canterbury,] Champion and Nobles.

[Scene V.][719]

[Scene VI.][725]

ACT I

[Scene I: Induction.]

[Scene II.][728]

[Scene III.][736]

[Scene IV.][743]

[Scene V.][753]

ACT II

[Scene I.][755]

[Scene II.][761]

[Scene III.][764]

[Scene IV.][767]

ACT III

[Scene I.][775]

[Scene II.][785]

[Scene III.][790]

[Scene IV.][793]

[Scene V.][803]

Boy. My master hath forbidden me to look in this box; and, by my troth, ’t is likely, if he had not warned me, I should not have had so much idle time; for we men’s-kind in our minority are like women in their uncertainty: 5 that they are most forbidden, they will soonest attempt: so I now.——By my bare honesty, here’s nothing but the bare empty box! Were it not sin against secrecy, I would say it were a piece of gentlemanlike knavery. I must go 10 to Pedringano, and tell him his pardon is in this box; nay, I would have sworn it, had I not seen the contrary. I cannot choose but smile to think how the villain will flout the gallows, scorn the audience, and descant on the 15 hangman, and all presuming of his pardon from hence. Will ’t not be an odd jest for me to stand and grace every jest he makes, pointing my finger at this box, as who would say, “Mock on, here’s thy warrant.” Is ’t not a scurvy jest 20 that a man should jest himself to death? Alas! poor Pedringano, I am in a sort sorry for thee; but if I should be hanged with thee, I cannot weep.

[Scene VI.][804]

Ped. O sir, you are too forward: thou wouldst fain furnish me with a halter, to 45 disfurnish me of my habit.[807] So I should go out of this gear, my raiment, into that gear, the rope. But, hangman, now I spy your knavery, I’ll not change without boot,[808] that’s flat.

Hangm. Ay, truly. Come, are you ready? I pray, sir, despatch; the day goes away.

Ped. What, do you hang by the hour? If you do, I may chance to break your old custom. 61

Ped. Dost thou mock me, hangman? Pray God, I be not preserved to break your knave’s pate for this. 66

Hangm. Alas, sir! you are a foot too low to reach it, and I hope you will never grow so high while I am in the office.

Hangm. Ay, and many a fair year after, to truss up many an honester man than either thou or he. 81

Hangm. Faith, I cannot tell, nor I care not greatly; methinks you should rather hearken to your soul’s health. 85

Ped. Why, sirrah, hangman, I take it that that is good for the body is likewise good for [Pg 169]the soul: and it may be, in that box is balm for both. 90

Hangm. Well, thou art even the merriest piece of man’s flesh that e’er groan’d at my office door!

Hangm. Ay, and that shall all they witness that see you seal it with a thief’s name.

Hangm. Ay, marry, sir, this is a good motion. My masters, you see here’s a good fellow. 101

Ped. Nay, nay, now I remember me, let them alone till some other time; for now I have no great need.

[Scene VII.][810]

Hangm. O lord, sir! God bless you, sir! the man, sir, Petergade, sir, he that was so full 20 of merry conceits—

Hangm. O lord, sir, he went the wrong way; the fellow had a fair commission to the contrary. Sir, here is his passport; I pray you, sir, we 25 have done him wrong.

[Scene VIII.][814]

[Scene IX.][817]

[Scene X.][820]

[Scene XI.][826]

[Scene XII.][831]

[Scene XIIa.][837]

Hier. Art a painter? Canst paint me a tear, or a wound, a groan, or a sigh? Canst paint me such 110 a tree[842] as this?

Hier. Bazardo! Afore God, an excellent fellow. Look you, sir, do you see? I’d have you paint me 115 [for] my gallery, in your oil-colours matted,[843] and draw me five years younger than I am—do ye see, sir, let five years go: let them go like the marshal of Spain—my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should 120 intend to this or some such-like purpose: “God bless thee, my sweet son,” and my hand leaning upon his head, thus, sir: do you see? May it be done?

Hier. Nay, I pray, mark me, sir. Then, sir, 125 would I have you paint me this tree, this very tree. Canst paint a doleful cry?

Hier. Nay, it should cry; but all is one. Well, sir, paint me a youth run through and through 130 with villains’ swords, hanging upon this tree. Canst thou draw a murderer?

Paint. I’ll warrant you, sir: I have the pattern of the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain. 135

Hier. O, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine art, and let their beards be of Judas his own colour: and let their eye-brows jutty over: in any case observe that. Then, sir, after some violent noise, bring me forth in my shirt, and my gown under 140 mine arm, with my torch in my hand, and my sword reared up, thus:—and with these words:

Hier. Well, sir; then bring me forth, bring me through alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells 150 tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring,[844] and the clock striking twelve. And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tottering and tottering, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him 155 down. And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio. There you may [show] a passion, there you may show a passion! Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, “The house is a-fire, the house is a-fire, as 160 the torch over my[845] head!” Make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate heaven, and in the end leave me in a trance—and so forth.

Hier. O no, there is no end; the end is death and madness! As I am never better than when I am mad: then methinks I am a brave fellow, then I do wonders; but reason abuseth me, and there’s the torment, there’s the hell. At the last, sir, bring me to 170 [Pg 175]one of the murderers: were he as strong as Hector, thus would I tear and drag him up and down.

[Scene XIII.][846]

[Scene XIV.][860]

Enter King of Spain, the Duke, Viceroy, and Lorenzo, Balthazar, Don Pedro, and Bel-imperia.

ACT IV

[Scene I.][868]

[Scene II.][876]

[Scene III.][880]

[Scene IV.][881]

Enter Spanish King, Viceroy, the Duke of Castile, and their train [to the gallery].[882]

Gentlemen, this play of Hieronimo, in sundry 10 languages, was thought good to be set down in English, more largely, for the easier understanding to every public reader.

PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[899]

[Scene II.][915]

[Enter] Henry, Guise, Montsurry, Elenor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Pyra, Annabelle.

Du. If you enter him in our graces, my lord, methinks by his blunt behaviour he should come out of himself.

Bu. I can sing pricksong,[922] lady, at first sight; and why not be a courtier as suddenly? 90

Bu. Think me not impudent, lady; I am yet no courtier; I desire to be one, and would gladly take entrance, madam, under your princely colours. 95

Du. Soft, sir, you must rise by degrees, first being the servant[923] of some common lady, or knight’s wife; then a little higher to a lord’s wife; next a little higher to a countess; yet a little higher to a duchess, and then turn the ladder. 101

Bu. Do you allow a man, then, four mistresses when the greatest mistress is allowed but three servants?

Bu. [Aside.] Saucy! Companion! ’Tis the Guise, but yet those terms might have been spared of the guiserd.[926] Companion! He’s jealous, by this light. Are you blind of that side, duke? I’ll to her again for that.—Forth, 121 princely mistress, for the honour of courtship. Another riddle!

Bu. Cut my throat? Cut a whetstone, young Accius Naevius.[927] Do as much with your tongue, as he did with a razor. Cut my throat!

Ba. What new-come gallant have we here, that dares mate[928] the Guise thus? 130

L’A. ’Sfoot, ’tis D’Ambois. The duke mistakes him, on my life, for some knight of the new edition.[929]

Bu. Cut my throat! I would the king fear’d thy cutting of his throat no more than I fear thy cutting of mine. 136

Bu. That hand dares not do’t. Y’ave cut too many throats already, Guise; and robb’d the realm of many thousand souls, more precious than thine own.—Come madam, talk on. 141 ’Sfoot, can you not talk? Talk on, I say; another riddle.

Ba. Here’s a sudden transmigration with D’Ambois,—out of the knight’s ward[930] into the duchess’ bed.

Bu. I will not.—I say, mistress, and I will stand unto it, that if a woman may have three servants, a man may have three-score mistresses.

Bu. Whipt? Such another syllable out a th’ presence, if thou dar’st, for thy dukedom.

Bu. Passion of death! Were not the king here, he should strow the chamber like a rush.

Bu. I will not. I’ll court her in despite of him. Not court her! Come, madam, talk on, fear me nothing. [To Guise.] Well may’st thou drive thy master from the Court, but never 171 D’Ambois.

Ba. Why, here’s the lion, scar’d with the throat of a dunghill cock, a fellow that has 185 newly shak’d off his shackles; now does he crow for that victory.

L’A. Out of doubt, some new denizen’d lord, and thinks that suit newly drawn out a’ th’ mercer’s books. 194

Ba. I have heard of a fellow, that by a fixt imagination looking upon a bull-baiting, had a visible pair of horns grew out of his forehead; and I believe this gallant, overjoyed with the conceit of Monsieur’s cast[932] suit, imagines himself to be the Monsieur. 200

L’A. And why not; as well as the ass, stalking [Pg 190]in the lion’s case,[933] bare himself like a lion, braying all the huger beasts out of the forest?

Ba. Marry, let him look, sir. What will you say now if the Guise be gone to fetch a blanket[934] for him?

Ba. If you ask my opinion, sir, I think your suit sits as well as if ’t had been made for you.

Bu. Sir, I have observ’d all your fleerings;[936] and resolve yourselves ye shall give a strict account for’t.

Ba. Oh, miraculous jealousy![937] Do you think yourself such a singular subject for laughter 225 that none can fall into the matter of our merriment but you?

L’A. This jealousy of yours, sir, confesses some close defect in yourself, that we never dream’d of. 230

Py. We held discourse of a perfum’d ass, that being disguis’d in a lion’s case, imagin’d himself a lion. I hope that toucht not you.

Bu. So, sir; your descants[938] do marvellous well fit this ground. We shall meet where 235 your buffoonly laughters will cost ye the best blood in your bodies.

Bu. Go, at your pleasures, I’ll be your ghost to haunt you; an ye sleep an ’t, hang me. 241

Bu. Tush! valour stands not in number; I’ll maintain it, that one man may beat three 246 boys.

Br. Nay, you shall have no odds of him in number, sir; he’s a gentleman as good as the proudest of you, and ye shall not wrong him.

Me. Not, sir: though he be not so rich, he’s a better man than the best of you; and I will not endure it.

Bu. I should thank you for this kindness, if I thought these perfum’d musk-cats (being out of this privilege) durst but once mew at us.

ACT II

Scene I.[939]

[Scene II.][958]

ACT III

Scene I.[977]

[Scene II.][987]

Enter Henry, D’Ambois, Monsieur, Guise, Duchess, Annabelle, Charlotte, Attendants.

Mo. Well said; a spirit of courtship of all hands. Now mine own Pero, hast thou rememb’red 190 me for the discovery I entreated thee make of thy mistress? Speak boldly, and be sure of all things I have sworn to thee.

Pe. Building on that assurance, my lord, I may speak; and much the rather, because 195 my lady hath not trusted me with that I can tell you; for now I cannot be said to betray her.

Mo. Excellent, Pero, thou reviv’st me. May I sink quick to perdition if my tongue discover[1015] it.

Pe. ’Tis thus, then: this last night, my lord lay forth, and I watching my lady’s sitting 206 up, stole up at midnight from my pallet; and (having before made a hole both through the wall and arras to her inmost chamber) I saw D’Ambois and herself reading a letter. 210

Mo. The devil he is, and thy lady his 216 dam! Why, this was the happiest shot that ever flew! The just plague of hypocrisy levell’d it. Oh, the infinite regions betwixt a woman’s tongue and her heart! Is this our goddess of 219 chastity? I thought I could not be so slighted if she had not her fraught besides, and therefore plotted this with her woman, never dreaming of D’Ambois. Dear Pero, I will advance thee for ever; but tell me now,—God’s precious, it transforms me with admiration[1016]— 225 sweet Pero, whom should she trust with this conveyance? Or, all the doors being made sure, how should his conveyance be made?

Pe. Nay, my lord, that amazes[1017] me; I cannot by any study so much as guess at it. 230

Mo. Well, let’s favour our apprehensions with forbearing that a little; for if my heart were not hoopt with adamant, the conceit[1018] of this would have burst it. But hark thee.

[Ch. I swear to you grace, all that I can 235 conjecture touching my lady your niece, is a strong affection she bears to the English Mylor.

Mont. I pray thee, resolve me: the duke 240 will never imagine that I am busy about ’s wife: hath D’Ambois any privy access to her?

An. No, my lord; D’Ambois neglects her, as she takes it, and is therefore suspicious that either your lady, or the Lady Beaupre 245 hath closely[1020] entertain’d him.

Mont. By ’r lady, a likely suspicion, and very near the life, [if she marks it,][1021] especially of my wife.

Mo. Come, we’ll disguise all with seeming 250 only to have courted.—–Away, dry palm[1022] sh’as a liver as dry as a biscuit; a man may go a whole voyage with her, and get nothing but tempests from her windpipe.

Gu. Here’s one, I think, has swallowed a 255 porcupine, she casts pricks from her tongue so.

Mont. And here’s a peacock seems to have devour’d one of the Alps she has so swelling a spirit, and is so cold of her kindness. 259

Ch. We are no windfalls, my lord; ye must gather us with the ladder of matrimony, or we’ll hang till we be rotten.

Mo. Indeed, that’s the way to make ye right openarses.[1023] But, alas! ye have no portions fit for such husbands as we wish you. 265

Pe. Portions, my lord? Yes, and such portions as your principality cannot purchase.

Mo. Ay, marry, wench, I think thy portion 270 [Pg 200]is a right riddle, a man shall never find it out. But let’s hear it.

Pe. No, my lord: ’tis my chastity, which you shall neither riddle nor fiddle.

Mo. Your chastity? Let me begin with the 285 end of it; how is a woman’s chastity nearest a man when ’tis furthest off?

Pe. Why, my lord, when you cannot get it, it goes to th’ heart on you: and that, I think, comes most near you: and I am sure it 290 shall be far enough off. And so we leave you to our mercies.

Mo. Now, my lords, what fruit of our inquisition? Feel you nothing budding yet? Speak, good my Lord Montsurry.

Mont. Nothing but this: D’Ambois is thought negligent in observing the duchess, and 300 therefore she is suspicious that your niece or my wife closely entertains him.

Mo. Her last hour? Why, that comes upon her the more she flies it. Does D’Ambois so, think you?

Mont. That’s not worth the answering. ’Tis miraculous to think with what monsters 311 women’s imaginations engross them when they are once enamour’d, and what wonders they will work for their satisfaction. They will make sheep valiant, a lion fearful. 315

Mo. [Aside.] And an ass confident.—Well, my lord, more will come forth shortly; get you to the banquet.

ACT IV

Scene I.[1034]

[Enter] Henry, Monsieur, with a letter; Guise, Montsurry, Bussy, Elenor, Tamyra, Beaupre, Pero, Charlotte, Annabelle, Pyra, with four Pages.

[Scene II.][1051]

Occidentalium legionum spiritualium imperator (magnus ille Behemoth) veni, veni, comitatus cum Asaroth locotenente invicto Adjurote per Stygis 55 inscrutabilia arcana, per ipsos irremeabiles anfractus Averni: adesto o Behemoth, tu cui pervia sunt Magnatum scrinia; veni, per Noctis & tenebrarum abdita profundissima; per labentia sidera, per ipsos motus horarum furtivos, Hecatesque altum dentium. 60 Appare in forma spiritali, lucente, splendida & amabili.

ACT V

Scene I.[1064]

Montsurry bare, unbraced, pulling Tamyra in by the hair; Friar. One bearing light, a standish[1065] and paper, which sets a table.

[Scene II.][1078]

[Scene III.][1086]

[Scene IV.][1092]

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[1109]

Step. Ay, I know that, sir; I would not ha’ come else. How does my cousin Edward, uncle?

Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an he have e’er a book of the sciences of hawking and hunting; I would fain borrow it.

Step. No, wusse;[1111]—but I’ll practise against next year, uncle. I have bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells, and all; I lack nothing but a book to keep it by.

Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, 45 uncle.—Why, you know an a man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages now-a-days, I’ll not give a rush for him: they are more studied than the Greek, or the Latin. 49 He is for no gallant’s company without ’em; and by gadslid[1112] I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every humdrum: hang ’em, scroyles![1113] there’s nothing in ’em i’ the world. What do you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden.[1114] 54 I shall keep company with none but the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a ducking to Islington ponds! A fine jest, i’ faith! ’Slid,[1112] a gentleman mun[1115] show himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be not angry; I know what I have to do, I trow, I am no 60 novice.

Scene II.[1118]

Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gentility, friend; yet you are welcome: and I assure you mine uncle here is a man of a thousand a year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in 5 all the world, I am his next heir, at the common law, master Stephen, as simple as I stand here, if my cousin die, as there’s hope he will. I have a pretty living o’ mine own too, beside, hard by here. 10

Step. In good time, sir! Why, and in very good time, sir! You do not flout, friend, do you?

Step. Not you, sir! you were not best, sir; 15 an you should, here be them can perceive it, and that quickly too; go to: and they can give it again soundly too, an need be.

Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that presently.[1119]

Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy 25 companion! An you were out o’ mine uncle’s ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon my gentility neither, in ’t.

Step. Whoreson, base fellow! a mechanical 30 serving-man! By this cudgel, an ’twere not for shame, I would——

Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward Knowell; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?

Serv. Are you the gentleman? Cry you mercy, sir: I was requir’d by a gentleman i’ the 50 city, as I rode out at this end o’ the town, to deliver you this letter, sir.

Know. To me, sir! What do you mean? pray you remember your court’sy.[1122] [Reads.] To his most selected friend, master Edward Knowell. 55 What might the gentleman’s name be, sir, that sent it? Nay, pray you be cover’d.

Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister; the rich merchant i’ the Old Jewry.

[Reads.] Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy friends i’ the Old Jewry? or dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? Yet, if thou dost, come over, and but see our 79 frippery;[1123] change an old shirt for a whole smock with us: do not conceive that antipathy between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and hogs-flesh. Leave thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots, evening and 84 morning, o’ the north-west wall. An I had been his son, I had sav’d him the labour long since, if taking in all the young wenches that pass by at the back-door, and coddling[1124] every kernel of the fruit for ’em, would ha’ serv’d. But 89 prithee, come over to me quickly this morning; I have such a present for thee!—our Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Signior. One is a rhymer, sir, o’ your own batch, your own leaven; but doth think himself poet-major o’ the town, willing to be shown, and 95 worthy to be seen. The other—I will not venture his description with you, till you come, because I would ha’ you make hither with an appetite. If the worst of ’em be not worth your journey, draw your bill fit of charges, as unconscionable 100 as any Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allow’d your viaticum.[1125]

Know. Take you this letter, and deliver it my son; but with no notice that I have open’d it, on your life. 131

Scene III.[1130]

E. Know. That scarce contents me. What countenance, prithee, made he i’ the reading of it? Was he angry or pleas’d? 6

Brai. Marry, sir, because he charg’d me, on my life, to tell nobody that he open’d it; which, unless he had done, he would never fear to have it reveal’d.

Step. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow here in what-sha’-call-him doublet? He brought mine uncle a letter e’en now.

Step. And I staid i’ the fields! Whoreson Scanderbag[1131] rogue! O that I had but a horse to fetch him back again! 31

Step. No, faith, it’s no boot to follow him now: let him e’en go and hang. Prithee, help to truss[1132] me a little: he does so vex me——

Brai. You’ll be worst vex’d when you are 40 truss’d, master Stephen. Best keep unbrac’d, and walk yourself till you be cold; your choler may founder you else.

Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell’st me on’t. How dost thou like my leg, Brainworm? 46

Brai. A very good leg, master Stephen; but the woollen stocking does not commend it so well. 49

Step. Foh! the stockings be good enough, now summer is coming on, for the dust: I’ll have a pair of silk again’[1133] winter, that I go to dwell in the town. I think my leg would shew in a silk hose—— 54

Brai. You have an excellent good leg, master Stephen; but I cannot stay to praise it longer now, and I am very sorry for it. 60

E. Know. Here was a letter indeed, to be intercepted by a man’s father, and do him good with him! He cannot but think most virtuously, both of me, and the sender, sure, that make the careful costermonger of him in our familiar 70 epistles. Well, if he read this with patience I’ll be gelt, and troll ballads for Master John Trundle[1135] yonder, the rest of my mortality. It is true, and likely, my father may have as much patience as another man, for he takes much 75 physic; and oft taking physic makes a man very patient. But would your packet, Master Wellbred, had arriv’d at him in such a minute of his patience! then we had known the end of it, which now is doubtful, and threatens—— [sees Master Stephen.] What, my wise 81 cousin! Nay, then I’ll furnish our feast with one gull more toward the mess. He writes to me of a brace, and here’s one, that’s three: oh, for a fourth! Fortune, if ever thou’lt use thine eyes, I entreat thee—— 86

Step. Oh, now I see who he laughed at: he laughed at somebody in that letter. By this good light, an he had laughed at me—— 89

E. Know. Why, be so, gentle coz: and, I pray you, let me entreat a courtesy of you. I am sent for this morning by a friend i’ the Old Jewry, to come to him; it is but crossing over the fields to Moorgate. Will you bear me company? I protest it is not to draw you into bond or any plot against the state, coz. 111

Step. Sir, that’s all one an ’twere; you shall command me twice so far as Moorgate, to do you good in such a matter. Do you think I would leave you? I protest—— 115

Step. By my fackings,[1136] but I will, by your leave:—I’ll protest more to my friend, than I’ll speak of at this time.

E. Know. Your turn, coz! Do you know what you say? A gentleman of your sort,[1137] parts, 124 carriage, and estimation, to talk o’ your turn[1138] i’ this company, and to me alone, like a tankard-bearer at a conduit! fie! A wight that, hitherto, his every step hath left the stamp of a great foot behind him, as every word the 129 savour of a strong spirit, and he! this man! so grac’d, gilded, or, to use a more fit metaphor, so tin-foil’d by nature, as not ten housewives’ pewter again’ a good time,[1139] shows more bright to the world than he! and he! (as I said last, so I say again, and still shall say it) this 135 man! to conceal such real ornaments as these, and shadow their glory, as a milliner’s wife does her wrought stomacher, with a smoky lawn, or a black Cyprus![1140] O, coz! it cannot be answer’d; 139 go not about it. Drake’s old ship[1141] at Deptford may sooner circle the world again. Come, wrong not the quality of your desert, with looking downward, coz; but hold up your head, so: and let the idea of what you are be portrayed i’ your face, that men may read i’ your physnomy, Here within this place is to be seen the true, rare, 145 and accomplished monster, or miracle of nature, which is all one. What think you of this, coz?

Step. Why, I do think of it: and I will be more proud, and melancholy, and gentleman-like, than I have been, I’ll insure you. 151

E. Know. Why, that’s resolute, master Stephen!—[Aside.] Now, if I can but hold him up to his height, as it is happily begun, it will do well for a suburb humour: we may hap have a match with the city, and play him for forty 156 pound.—Come, coz.

Scene IV.[1142]

Cob. Why. sir, an ancient lineage, and a 10 princely. Mine ance’try came from a king’s belly no worse man; and yet no man either, by your worship’s leave, I did lie in that, but herring, the king of fish (from his belly I proceed), one o’ the monarchs o’ the world, I assure you. 15 The first red herring that was broil’d in Adam and Eve’s kitchen, do I fetch my pedigree from, by the harrot’s[1143] book. His cob[1144] was my great, great, mighty-great grandfather.

Cob. Ay, sir. With favour of your worship’s nose, master Mathew, why not the ghost of 30 a herring cob, as well as the ghost of Rasher Bacon?

Cob. I say Rasher Bacon. They were both broil’d o’ the coals; and a man may smell broil’d meat, I hope! You are a scholar; upsolve 36 me that now.

Mat. O raw ignorance!—Cob, canst thou shew me of a gentleman, one captain Bobadill, where his lodging is? 40

Mat. Cob, pray thee advise thyself well; do 45 not wrong the gentleman, and thyself too. I dare be sworn, he scorns thy house; he! he lodge in such a base obscure place as thy house! Tut, I know his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed if thou ’dst gi’ it him. 50

Cob. I will not give it him though, sir. Mass, I thought somewhat was in ’t, we could not get him to bed all night. Well, sir, though he lie not o’ my bed, he lies o’ my bench; an ’t please you to go up, sir, you shall find him with two cushions under his head, and his cloak 56 wrapt about him, as though he had neither won [Pg 219]nor lost; and yet, I warrant, he ne’er cast[1145] better in his life, than he has done to-night.

Cob. Drunk, sir! you hear not me say so. Perhaps he swallow’d a tavern-token,[1146] or some such device, sir; I have nothing to do withal. I deal with water and not with wine.—Gi’ me my tankard there, ho!—God b’ wi’ you, sir. It’s six o’clock: I should ha’ carried two 65 turns by this. What ho! my stopple![1147] come.

Mat. Lie in a water-bearer’s house! a gentleman of his havings! Well, I’ll tell him my mind. 70

Cob. What, Tib; shew this gentleman up to the captain. [Exit Tib with Master Mathew.] Oh, an my house were the Brazen-head[1148] now! faith it would e’en speak Moe[1149] fools yet. You should have some now would take this Master 75 Mathew to be a gentleman, at the least. His father’s an honest man, a worshipful fishmonger, and so forth; and now does he creep and wriggle into acquaintance with all the brave gallants about the town, such as my guest is (O, my guest is a fine man!), and they flout him 81 invincibly. He useth every day to a merchant’s house where I serve water, one master Kitely’s, i’ the Old Jewry; and here’s the jest, he is in love with my master’s sister, Mrs. Bridget, and calls her “Mistress”; and there he will sit 86 you a whole afternoon sometimes, reading o’ these same abominable, vile (a pox on ’em! I cannot abide them), rascally verses, poyetry, poyetry, and speaking of interludes; ’t will 90 make a man burst to hear him. And the wenches, they do so jeer, and ti-he at him.—Well, should they do so much to me, I’d forswear them all, by the foot of Pharaoh! There’s an oath! How many water-bearers shall you 95 hear swear such an oath? O, I have a guest—he teaches me—he does swear the legiblest of any man christ’ned: By St. George! The foot of Pharaoh! The body of me! As I am a gentleman and a soldier! such dainty oaths! and withal 100 he does take this same filthy roguish tobacco, the finest and cleanliest! It would do a man good to see the fumes come forth at ’s tonnels.[1150]—Well, he owes me forty shillings, my wife lent him out of her purse, by sixpence a time, besides his lodging: I would I had it! I shall ha’ it, he says, the next action. Helter skelter, hang 107 sorrow, care ’ll kill a cat, up-tails all, and a louse for the hangman!

Scene V.[1151]

Tib. He would desire you to come up, sir. You come into a cleanly house, here!

Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort[1152] of gallants, where you 20 were wish’d for, and drunk to, I assure you.

Bob. Marry, by young Wellbred, and others.—Why, hostess, a stool here for this gentleman.

Bob. Body o’ me! it was so late ere we parted last night, I can scarce open my eyes yet; I was but new risen, as you came. How passes the day abroad, sir? you can tell.

Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven. Now, 30 trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging here, very neat, and private.

Bob. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master Mathew, in any case possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging. 35

Bob. Not that I need to care who know it, for the cabin is convenient; but in regard I would not be too popular, and generally visited, as some are. 40

Bob. For, do you see, sir, by the heart of valour in me, except it be to some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily engag’d, as yourself, or so, I could not extend 45 thus far.

Bob. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, above all the tumult and roar of fortune. What new book ha’ you there? What! “Go 50 by, Hieronymo?”[1154]

Bob. Well penn’d! I would fain see all the poets of these times pen such another play 55 as that was: they’ll prate and swagger, and keep a stir of art and devices, when, as I am a gentleman, read ’em, they are the most shallow, pitiful, barren fellows that live upon the face of the earth again. 60

Mat. Indeed here are a number of fine speeches in this book. O eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears! There’s a conceit! Fountains fraught with tears! O life, no life, but lively form of death!—another. O world, no 65 [Pg 220]world, but mass of public wrongs!—a third. Confused and fill’d with murder and misdeeds!—a fourth. O, the muses! Is’t not excellent? Is’t not simply the best that ever you heard, captain? Ha! how do you like it? 70

Mat. This, sir! a toy o’ mine own, in my nonage; the infancy of my muses. But 80 when will you come and see my study? Good faith, I can shew you some very good things I have done of late.—That boot becomes your leg passing well, captain, methinks.

Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak o’ the fashion, master Wellbred’s elder brother and I are fall’n out exceedingly. This other day, I happ’ned to enter into some discourse 90 of a hanger,[1155] which, I assure you, both for fashion and workmanship, was most peremptory[1156] beautiful and gentlemanlike: yet he condemn’d, and cri’d it down for the most pied[1157] and ridiculous that he ever saw. 95

Bob. Hang him, rook![1158] he! why he has no more judgment than a malt-horse. By St. 100 George, I wonder you’d lose a thought upon such an animal; the most peremptory[1156] absurd clown of Christendom, this day, he is holden. I protest to you, as I am a gentleman and a soldier, I ne’er chang’d words with his like. 105 By his discourse, he should eat nothing but hay; he was born for the manger, pannier, or packsaddle. He has not so much as a good phrase in his belly, but all old iron and rusty proverbs: a good commodity for some smith to make 110 hob-nails of.

Mat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away[1159] with his manhood still, where he comes: he brags he will gi’ me the bastinado, as I hear.

Bob. That may be; for I was sure it was none of his word: but when, when said he so? 120

Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say; a young gallant, a friend of mine, told me so.

Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an ’twere my case now, I should send him a chartel[1160] presently. The bastinado! a most proper and sufficient 125 dependence,[1161] warranted by the great Caranza.[1162] Come hither, you shall chartel him; I’ll show you a trick or two you shall kill him with at pleasure; the first stoccata,[1163] if you will, by this air. 130

Mat. Troth, I have heard it spoken of divers, 135 that you have very rare, and un-in-one-breath-utterable skill, sir.

Bob. By heaven, no, not I; no skill i’ the earth; some small rudiments i’ the science, as to know my time, distance, or so. I have profest 140 it more for noblemen and gentlemen’s use, than mine own practice, I assure you.—Hostess, accommodate us with another bed-staff here quickly. [Enter Tib.] Lend us another bed-staff—the woman does not understand the words 145 of action.—Look you, sir: exalt not your point above this state, at any hand, and let your poniard maintain your defence, thus:—give it the gentleman, and leave us. [Exit Tib.] So, sir. Come on: O, twine your body more about, 150 that you may fall to a more sweet, comely, gentleman-like guard; so! indifferent: hollow your body more, sir, thus: now, stand fast o’ your left leg, note your distance, keep your due proportion of time.—Oh, you disorder your 155 point most irregularly!

Bob. O, out of measure ill. A well experienc’d hand would pass upon you at pleasure.

Bob. Why, thus, sir,—make a thrust at me—[Master Mathew pushes at Bobadill] come in upon the answer, control your point, and make a full career at the body. The best-practis’d gallants of the time name it the passado; a most desperate thrust, believe it. 166

Bob. Why, you do not manage your weapon with any facility or grace to invite me. I have no spirit to play with you; your dearth of 170 judgment renders you tedious.

Bob. “Venue!” fie; the most gross denomination as ever I heard. O, the “stoccata,” while you live, sir; note that.—Come put 175 on your cloak, and we’ll go to some private place where you are acquainted; some tavern, or so—and have a bit. I’ll send for one of these fencers, and he shall breathe[1165] you, by my direction; and then I will teach you your 180 trick: you shall kill him with it at the first, if you please. Why, I will learn you, by the true judgment of the eye, hand, and foot, to control any enemy’s point i’ the world. Should your adversary confront you with a pistol, ’twere 185 nothing, by this hand! You should, by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line, except it were hail shot, and spread. What money have you about you, master Mathew?

Bob. ’Tis somewhat with the least; but come; we will have a bunch of radish and salt to taste our wine, and a pipe of tobacco to close the orifice of the stomach: and then we’ll 195 call upon young Wellbred. Perhaps we shall meet the Corydon[1166] his brother there, and put him to the question.

ACT II

Scene I.[1167]

Dow. ’Sdeins,[1174] I know not what I should 65 say to him, i’ the whole world! He values me at a crack’d three-farthings, for aught I see. It will never out o’ the flesh that’s bred i’ the bone. I have told him enough, one would think, if that would serve; but counsel to him is as good 70 as a shoulder of mutton to a sick horse. Well! he knows what to trust to, for[1175] George: let him spend, and spend, and domineer, till his heart ache; an he think to be reliev’d by me, when he is got into one o’ your city pounds, the 75 counters, he has the wrong sow by the ear, i’ faith; and claps his dish[1176] at the wrong man’s door. I’ll lay my hand o’ my halfpenny, ere I part with ’t to fetch him out, I’ll assure him.

Dow. ’Sdeath! he mads me: I could eat my very spur-leathers for anger! But, why are you so tame? Why do you not speak to him, and tell him how he disquiets your house?

Scene II.[1182]

Bob. Speak to him! away! By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall not! you shall not do him that grace.—The time of day to you, gentleman o’ the house. Is master Wellbred stirring?

Kit. You shall not follow him now, I pray you, brother, good faith you shall not; I will overrule you.

Dow. Ha! scavenger! Well, go to, I say 20 little; but, by this good day (God forgive me I should swear), if I put it up[1183] so, say I am the rankest cow that ever pist. ’Sdeins, an I swallow this, I’ll ne’er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again while I live; I’ll sit in a 25 barn with madge-howlet, and catch mice first. Scavenger! heart!—and I’ll go near to fill that huge tumbrel-slop[1184] of yours with somewhat, an I have good luck: your Garagantua breech cannot carry it away so. 30

Dow. These are my brother’s consorts, these! These are his cam’rades, his walking mates! He’s a gallant, a cavaliero too, right hangman cut! Let me not live, an I could not find in 35 my heart to swinge the whole ging[1185] of ’em, one after another, and begin with him first. I am griev’d it should be said he is my brother, and take these courses. Well, as he brews, so shall he drink, for George, again. Yet he shall 40 hear on ’t, and that tightly too, an I live, i’ faith.

Kit. How now! (Bell rings.) Oh, the bell rings to breakfast. Brother, I pray you go in, and bear my wife company till I come; I’ll but give order for some despatch of business to my servants.

Scene III.[1186]

Kit. What, Cob! our maids will have you by the back, i’ faith, for coming so late this morning.

Cob. Perhaps so, sir; take heed somebody have not them by the belly, for walking so late in the evening. 5

Dame K. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down the rose-water, above in the closet.—Sweetheart, will you come in to breakfast?

Dame K. Alas, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it is this new disease,[1191] there’s a number are troubled withal. For love’s sake, sweet-heart, come in out of the air.

Dame K. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do you harm, in troth.

Kit. The air! she has me i’ the wind.[1192]— 60 Sweet-heart, I’ll come to you presently; ’t will away, I hope.

Scene IV.[1194]

Brai. ’Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translated thus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create an intolerable sort[1195] of lies, or my present profession loses the grace: and yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is 5 as ominous a fruit as the fico.[1196] O, sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us: so much for my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends to follow my 10 young master, dry-foot,[1197]; over Moorfields to London, this morning; now, I knowing of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracy, and to insinuate with my young master (for so must we that are blue waiters,[1198] and men of hope and 15 service do, or perhaps we may wear motley at the year’s end, and who wears motley,[1199]—you know), have got me afore in this disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscado, and intercept him in the mid-way. If I can but get his 20 cloak, his purse, and his hat, nay, any thing to cut him off, that is, to stay his journey, Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with Captain Caesar, I am made for ever, i’ faith. Well, now I must practise to get the true garb of one of these lance-knights, 25 my arm here, and my——[Odso! my] young master, and his cousin, master Stephen, as I am true counterfeit man of war, and no soldier!

Step. Oh, it’s here. No, an it had been lost, I had not car’d, but for a jet ring mistress Mary sent me.

E. Know. Well, there the saint was your good patron, he help’d you at your need; thank him, thank him. 60

Brai. I cannot take leave on ’em so; I will venture, come what will.—Gentlemen, please you change a few crowns for a very excellent good blade here? I am a poor gentleman, a soldier, one that, in the better state of my fortunes, 65 scorn’d so mean a refuge; but now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. You seem to be gentlemen well affected to martial men, else I should rather die with silence, than live with shame: however, vouchsafe to remember 70 it is my want speaks, not myself; this condition agrees not with my spirit——

Brai. May it please you, sir, in all the late wars of Bohemia, Hungary, Dalmatia, Poland,—where 75 not, sir? I have been a poor servitor by sea and land any time this fourteen years, and follow’d the fortunes of the best commanders in Christendom. I was twice shot at the taking of Aleppo, once at the relief 80 of Vienna; I have been at Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic gulf, a gentleman-slave in the galleys, thrice; where I was most dangerously shot in the head, through both the thighs; and yet, being thus maim’d, I am void of maintenance, 85 nothing left me but my scars, the noted marks of my resolution.

Brai. Generous sir, I refer it to your own judgment; you are a gentleman, give me 90 what you please.

Step. True, I am a gentleman, I know that, friend; but what though? I pray you say, what would you ask?

Brai. I assure you, the blade may become 95 the side or thigh of the best prince in Europe.

Step. Nay, an’t be mine, it shall have a velvet scabbard, coz, that’s flat; I’d not wear it, as it is, an you would give me an angel. 100

Brai. At your worship’s pleasure, sir; [Stephen examines the blade] nay, ’tis a most pure Toledo.

Step. I had rather it were a Spaniard. But tell me, what shall I give you for it? An it had a silver hilt—— 106

E. Know. Come, come, you shall not buy it. Hold, there’s a shilling, fellow; take thy rapier.

Step. Why, but I will buy it now, because you say so; and there’s another shilling, fellow; I scorn to be out-bidden. What, shall I walk 111 with a cudgel, like Higginbottom, and may have a rapier for money!

Step. Tut! I’ll buy this i’ the field, so I will: I have a mind to ’t, because ’tis a field 116 rapier. Tell me your lowest price.

Step. Friend, I am a fool, that’s granted; but I’ll have it, for that word’s sake. Follow me for your money.

Scene V.[1200]

Brai. [Aside.] My master! nay, faith, have at you; I am flesht now, I have sped so well.— Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the estate of a poor soldier; I am asham’d of this base 70 course of life,—God’s my comfort—but extremity provokes me to ’t: what remedy?

Brai. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentleman, it is no ordinary custom in me, but 75 only to preserve manhood. I protest to you, a man I have been: a man I may be, by your sweet bounty.

Brai. Good sir, by that hand, you may do 80 the part of a kind gentleman, in lending a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer, a matter of small value: the king of heaven shall pay you, and I shall rest thankful. Sweet worship——

Brai. Oh, tender sir I need will have its course; I was not made to this vile use. Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated me so much: it’s hard when a man hath serv’d in his prince’s cause, and be thus (Weeps). 90 Honourable worship, let me derive a small piece of silver from you, it shall not be given in the course of time.[1204] By this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last night for a poor supper; I had suck’d the hilts long before, I am a 95 pagan else. Sweet honour——

Brai. Alas, sir, where should a man seek? In the wars, there’s no ascent by desert in these days; but——and for service, would it were as soon purchas’d,[1205] as wisht for! The air’s my 125 comfort.—[Sighs]—I know what I would say.

Know. Nay, nay, I like not these affected oaths. Speak plainly, man, what think’st thou of my words? 135

Brai. Nothing, sir, but wish my fortunes were as happy as my service should be honest.

Brai. Yes, sir, straight; I’ll but garter 140 my hose. Oh that my belly were hoopt now, for I am ready to burst with laughing! never was bottle or hagpipe fuller. ’Slid, was there ever seen a fox in years to betray himself thus! Now shall I be possest of all his counsels; 145 and, by that conduit, my young master. Well, he is resolv’d to prove[1206] my honesty; faith, and I’m resolv’d to prove his patience: oh, I shall abuse[1207] him intolerably. This small piece of service will bring him clean out of love with 150 the soldier for ever. He will never come within the sign of it, the sight of a cassock,[1208] or a musket-rest again. He will hate the musters at Mile-end for it, to his dying day. It’s no matter, let the world think me a bad counterfeit, if 155 I cannot give him the slip[1209] at an instant. Why, this is better than to have staid his journey. Well, I’ll follow him. Oh, how I long to be employed!

ACT III

Scene I.[1210]

Bob. He. Mr. Wellbred, I know not in what kind you hold me; but let me say to you this: as sure as honour, I esteem it so much out of the sunshine of reputation, to throw the least beam of regard upon such a—— 10

Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be sav’d about me, I never saw any gentleman-like part—— 15

Bob. With your leave, sir, an there were no more men living upon the face of the earth, I should not fancy him, by St. George! 20

Mat. Troth, nor I; he is of a rustical cut. I know not how: he doth not carry himself like a gentleman of fashion.

Wel. Oh, master Mathew, that’s a grace peculiar but to a few, quos aequus amavit Jupiter. 25

Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome: how dost thou, sweet spirit, my genius? ’Slid, I shall love Apollo and the mad Thespian girls[1212] the better, 31 while I live, for this, my dear Fury; now I see there’s some love in thee. Sirrah, these be the two I writ to thee of: nay, what a drowsy humour is this now! Why dost thou not speak? 35

E. Know. Yes, I’ll be sworn, I was ne’er guilty of reading the like; match it in all 40 Pliny, or Symmachus’s epistles, and I’ll have my judgment burn’d in the ear for a rogue: make much of thy vein, for it is inimitable. But I marle[1213] what camel it was, that had the carriage of it; for, doubtless, he was no ordinary beast that brought it. 46

E. Know. “Why?” say’st thou! Why, dost thou think that any reasonable creature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too, could have mista’en my father for me? 51

E. Know. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jest on’t, now: but I’ll assure you, my father had the full view of your 55 flourishing style some hour before I saw it.

E. Know. Nay, I know not what he said; but I have a shrewd guess what he thought. 60

E. Know. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow, and I—a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.

Wel. Tut! that thought is like the moon in 65 her last quarter, ’t will change shortly. But, sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my two hang-by’s here; thou wilt take exceeding pleasure in ’em if thou hear’st ’em once go; my wind-instruments; I’ll wind ’em up——But 70 what strange piece of silence is this? The sign of the Dumb Man?

E. Know. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that may make your music the fuller, an he please; he has his humour, sir. 75

E. Know. Nay, I’ll neither do your judgment nor his folly that wrong, as to prepare your apprehension; I’ll leave him to the mercy o’ your search; if you can take him, so! 80

Wel. Well, captain Bobadill, master Mathew, pray you know this gentleman here; he is a friend of mine, and one that will deserve your affection.—I know not your name, sir (to 84 Stephen), but I shall be glad of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.

Step. My name is master Stephen, sir; I am this gentleman’s own cousin, sir; his father is mine uncle, sir. I am somewhat melancholy, 89 but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever is incident to a gentleman.

Bob. (to E. Knowell.) Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general[1214] man; but for master Wellbred’s sake (you may embrace it at what height of favour you please), I do communicate 95 with you, and conceive you to be a gentleman of some parts; I love few words.

Mat. Oh, it’s your only fine humour, sir: your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, diver times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and 106 paper presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.

Step. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold I warrant you; have you a stool there to be melancholy upon?

Mat. That I have, sir, and some papers 120 there of mine own doing, at idle hours, that [Pg 227]you’ll say there’s some sparks of wit in ’em, when you see them.

Wel. [Aside.] Would the sparks would kindle once, and become afire amongst ’em! I 125 might see self-love burnt for her heresy.

Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable piece of service, was perform’d tomorrow, being St. Mark’s day, shall be some ten years now. 135

Bob. Why, at the beleag’ring of Strigonium,[1215] where, in less than two hours, seven hundred resolute gentlemen, as any were in Europe, lost their lives upon the breach. I’ll tell you, gentlemen, 140 it was the first, but the best leaguer that ever I beheld with these eyes, except the taking in[1216] of—what do you call it?[1217] last year, by the Genoways;[1218] but that, of all other, was the most fatal and dangerous exploit that ever I was 145 rang’d in, since I first bore arms before the face of the enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier!

Step. So! I had as lief as an angel I could swear as well as that gentleman. 150

E. Know. Then, you were a servitor at both, it seems; at Strigonium, and what do you call’t?

Bob. O lord, sir! By St. George, I was the first man that ent’red the breach; and had I not effected it with resolution, I had been slain if I had had a million of lives. 156

E. Know. ’T was pity you had not ten; a cat’s and your own, i’ faith. But, was it possible?

Bob. I assure you, upon my reputation, ’tis true, and yourself shall confess.

Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir: they had planted me three demi-culverins[1219] just in the mouth of the breach; now, sir, as we were to give on,[1220] their master-gunner (a man of no mean skill and mark, you must think), confronts 169 me with his linstock,[1221] ready to give fire; I, spying his intendment, discharg’d my petronel[1222] in his bosom, and with these single arms, my poor rapier, ran violently upon the Moors that guarded the ordnance, and put ’em pell-mell to the sword. 175

E. Know. Oh, it was a good figure observ’d, sir. But did you all this, captain, without hurting your blade?

Bob. Without any impeach o’ the earth: 180 you shall perceive, sir. [Shews his rapier.] It is the most fortunate weapon that ever rid on poor gentleman’s thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk of Morglay, Excalibur, Durindana,[1223] or so; tut! I lend no credit to that is fabled of ’em. 185 I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore I dare the boldlier maintain it.

Bob. A Fleming, by heaven! I’ll buy them for a guilder a-piece, an I would have a thousand of them.

Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier: a hundred of lice go with him! He swore it was a Toledo.

Step. Well, I will put it up: but by—I have forgot the captain’s oath, I thought to ha’ sworn by it—an e’er I meet him—— 210

Step. Whoreson, coney-catching[1225] rascal! I could eat the very hilts for anger. 214

Step. A stomach! Would I had him here, you should see an I had a stomach.[1226]

Scene II.[1227]

Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear witness, he has confest it:—By God’s will, an you had not confest it——

Wel. Why, you have done like a gentleman; he has confest it, what would you more?

E. Know. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favour: a pretty piece of civility! Sirrah, how dost thou like him?

Wel. Oh, it’s a most precious fool, make much on him. I can compare him to nothing 25 more happily than a drum; for every one may play upon him.

Brai. You are conceited,[1228] sir. Your name is Master Knowell, as I take it?

E. Know. You are i’ the right; you mean 35 not to proceed in the catechism, do you?

Brai. [taking E. Know. aside.] Faith, sir, I am but servant to the drum[1229] extraordinary, and indeed, this smoky varnish being washt off, and three or four patches remov’d, I appear your worship’s in reversion, after the decease of your good father,—Brainworm. 45

E. Know. Brainworm! ’Slight, what breath of a conjurer hath blown thee hither in this shape?

Brai. The breath o’ your letter, sir, this morning; the same that blew you to the Windmill, and your father after you. 51

Brai. Nay, never start, ’tis true; he has follow’d you over the fields by the foot, as you would do a hare i’ the snow. 55

E. Know. Sirrah Wellbred, what shall we do, sirrah? My father is come over after me.

Brai. At justice Clement’s house, in Coleman-street, where he but stays my return; and then—— 61

Brai. Faith, a device, a device; nay, for the love of reason, gentlemen, and avoiding the danger, stand not here; withdraw, and I’ll tell you all. 69

Wel. We’ll prorogue his expectation, then, a little: Brainworm, thou shalt go with us.—Come on, gentlemen.—Nay, I pray thee, 75 sweet Ned, droop not; ’heart, an our wits be so wretchedly dull, that one old plodding brain can outstrip us all, would we were e’en prest[1230] to make porters of, and serve out the remnant of our days in Thames-street, or at Customhouse 80 quay, in a civil war against the carmen!

Scene III.[1231]

Scene IV.[1242]

Cob. Fasting-days! what tell you me of fasting-days? ’Slid, would they were all on a light fire for me! They say the whole world shall be consum’d with fire one day, but would I had these Ember-weeks and villanous Fridays 5 burnt in the mean time, and then——

Cob. Collar, master Thomas! I scorn your collar, I, sir; I am none o’ your cart-horse, 10 though I carry and draw water. An you offer to ride me with your collar or halter either, I may hap shew you a jade’s trick, sir.

Cash. O, you’ll slip your head out of the collar? Why, goodman Cob, you mistake me. 15

Cob. Humour! mack,[1244] I think it be so indeed. 20 What is that humour? Some rare thing, I warrant.

Cash. Marry I’ll tell thee, Cob: it is a gentleman-like monster, bred in the special gallantry of our time, by affectation, and fed by folly. 25

Cash. Oh ay, humour is nothing if it be not fed; didst thou never hear that? It’s a common phrase, Feed my humour.

Cob. I’ll none on it: humour, avaunt! I know you not, be gone! Let who will make hungry 31 meals for your monstership, it shall not be I. Feed you, quoth he! ’Slid. I ha’ much ado to feed myself; especially on these lean rascally days too; an’t had been any other day but a 35 fasting-day—a plague on them all for me! By this light, one might have done the commonwealth good service, and have drown’d them all i’ the flood, two or three hundred thousand years ago. O, I do stomach[1245] them hugely. I 40 have a maw[1246] now, and ’twere for sir Bevis his horse, against ’em.

Cash. I pray thee, good Cob, what makes thee so out of love with fasting days?

Cob. Marry, that which will make any man 45 out of love with ’em, I think; their bad conditions, an you will needs know. First, they are of a Flemish breed, I am sure on’t, for they raven up more butter than all the days of the week beside; next, they stink of fish and leek-porridge miserably; thirdly, they’ll keep a man devoutly 51 hungry all day, and at night send him supperless to bed.

Cob. Nay, an this were all, ’twere something; but they are the only known enemies to my generation. A fasting-day no sooner comes, but my lineage goes to wrack; poor cobs! they smoke for it, they are made martyrs o’ the gridiron, they melt in passion: and your maids 60 too know this, and yet would have me turn Hannibal,[1247] and eat my own flesh and blood. My princely coz (Pulls out a red herring), fear nothing; I have not the heart to devour you, an I might be made as rich as king Cophetua. O that I had room for my tears, I could weep salt-water 66 enough now to preserve the lives of ten thousand of my kin! But I may curse none but these filthy almanacs; for an ’twere not for them, these days of persecution would never 70 be known. I’ll be hang’d an some fishmonger’s son do not make of ’em, and puts in more fasting-days than he should do, because he would utter[1248] his father’s dried stock-fish and stinking conger. 75

Cash. ’Slight, peace! Thou’lt be beaten like a stock-fish else. Here is master Mathew. Now must I look out for a messenger to my master.

Scene V.[1249]

Wel. Beshrew me, but it was an absolute good jest, and exceedingly well carried!

Wel. Yes, faith; but was it possible thou 5 shouldst not know him? I forgive master Stephen, for he is stupidity itself.

E. Know. ’Fore God, not I, an I might have been join’d patten[1250] with one of the seven wise masters for knowing him. He had so writhen[1251] himself into the habit of one of your poor 11 infantry, your decay’d, ruinous, worm-eaten gentlemen of the round;[1252] such as have vowed to sit on the skirts of the city, let your provost and his half-dozen of halberdiers do what 15 they can; and have translated begging out of the old hackney-pace to a fine easy amble, and made it run as smooth off the tongue as a shove-groat shilling.[1253] Into the likeness of one of these [Pg 231]reformados[1254] had he moulded himself so perfectly, 20 observing every trick of their action, as, varying the accent, swearing with an emphasis, indeed, all with so special and exquisite a grace, that, hadst thou seen him, thou wouldst have sworn he might have been sergeant-major,[1255] if not lieutenant-colonel to the regiment. 26

Wel. Why, Brainworm, who would have thought thou hadst been such an artificer?

E. Know. An artificer! an architect. Except a man had studied begging all his life time, 30 and been a weaver of language from his infancy for the clothing of it, I never saw his rival.

Brai. Of a Houndsditch man, sir, one of the devil’s near kinsmen, a broker. 35

Wel. That cannot be, if the proverb hold; for A crafty knave needs no broker.

Cash. Francis! Martin! Ne’er a one to be found now? What a spite’s this! 46

Cash. No, sir, my master went forth e’en now; but master Downright is within.—Cob! what, Cob! Is he gone too? 51

Wel. Why, dost thou not know him? He is a city-magistrate, a justice here, an excellent good lawyer, and a great scholar; but the only mad, merry old fellow in Europe. I show’d him you the other day. 61

E. Know. Oh, is that he? I remember him now. Good faith, and he is a very strange presence methinks; it shows as if he stood out of the rank from other men: I have heard many 65 of his jests i’ the University. They say he will commit a man for taking the wall of his horse.

Wel. Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, or serving of God; any thing indeed, if it come in the way of his humour. 70

Bob. Master Kitely’s man, pray thee vouchsafe us the lighting of this match. 74

Bob. Body o’ me! here’s the remainder of seven pound since yesterday was seven-night. ’Tis your right Trinidado:[1258] did you never take any, master Stephen? 80

Step. No, truly, sir; but I’ll learn to take it now, since you commend it so.

Bob. Sir, believe me upon my relation, for what I tell you, the world shall not reprove. I have been in the Indies, where this herb grows, where neither myself, nor a dozen gentlemen 86 more of my knowledge, have received the taste of any other nutriment in the world, for the space of one-and-twenty weeks, but the fume of this simple[1259] only; therefore it cannot be but ’tis most divine. Further, take it in the nature, 91 in the true kind; so, it makes an antidote, that, had you taken the most deadly poisonous plant in all Italy, it should expel it, and clarify you, with as much ease as I speak. And for 95 your green wound,—your Balsamum and your St. John’s wort, are all mere gulleries and trash to it, especially your Trinidado: your Nicotian[1260] is good too. I could say what I know of the virtue of it, for the expulsion of rheums, 100 raw humours, crudities, obstructions, with a thousand of this kind; but I profess myself no quacksalver. Only thus much; by Hercules, I do hold it, and will affirm it before any prince in Europe, to be the most sovereign and precious 105 weed that ever the earth tend’red to the use of man.

Cash. Would his match and he, and pipe and all, were at Sancto Domingo! I had forgot it.

Cob. By God’s me, I marle what pleasure or felicity they have in taking this roguish tobacco. It’s good for nothing but to choke a man, and fill him full of smoke and embers. 120 There were four died out of one house last week with taking of it, and two more the bell went for yesternight; one of them, they say, will ne’er scape it; he voided a bushel of soot yesterday, upward and downward. By 125 the stocks, an there were no wiser men than I, I’d have it present whipping, man or woman, that should but deal with a tobacco pipe. Why, it will stifle them all in the end, as many as use it; it’s little better than ratsbane or rosaker.[1261] 130

Cash. Sir, here ’s your match.—Come, thou must needs be talking too, thou’rt well enough serv’d. 135

[Pg 232] Cob. Nay, he will not meddle with his match, I warrant you. Well, it shall be a dear beating, an I live.

E. Know. Nay, good captain, will you regard the humour of a fool? Away, knave.

Bob. A whoreson filthy slave, a dung-worm, an excrement! Body o’ Caesar, but that I scorn to let forth so mean a spirit, I’d have stabb’d him to the earth. 146

Step. Oh, he swears most admirably! By Pharaoh’s foot! Body o’ Caesar!—I shall 150 never do it, sure. Upon mine honour, and by St. George!—No, I have not the right grace.

Mat. Master Stephen, will you any? By this air, the most divine tobacco that ever I drunk.[1262] 154

Step. None, I thank you, sir. O, this gentleman does it rarely too: but nothing like the other. By this air! As I am a gentleman! By——

Wel. No, master Stephen! As I remember, your name is ent’red in the artillery-garden. 169

Step. Ay, sir, that’s true. Cousin, may I swear “as I am a soldier” by that?

Step. Then, as I am a gentleman and a soldier, it is “divine tobacco!” 175

Wel. O let’s follow them. Master Mathew is gone to salute his mistress in verse; we shall ha’ the happiness to hear some of his poetry 180 now; he never comes unfurnish’d.—Brainworm!

Scene VI.[1263]

Cob. Strangers? let me see, one, two; mass, I know not well, there are so many. 5

Cob. Then I am a vagabond, and fitter for Bridewell than your worship’s company, if I saw any body to be kist, unless they would 40 have kist the post[1264] in the middle of the ware-house; for there I left them all at their tobacco, with a pox!

Cob. Nay, soft and fair; I have eggs on the spit;[1265] I cannot go yet, sir. Now am I, for some five and fifty reasons, hammering, hammering 50 revenge: oh for three or four gallons of vinegar, to sharpen my wits! Revenge, vinegar revenge, vinegar and mustard revenge! Nay, an he had not lien in my house, ’twould never have griev’d me; but being my guest, one that, 55 I’ll be sworn, my wife has lent him her smock [Pg 233]off her back, while his own shirt has been at washing; pawn’d her neckerchers for clean bands for him; sold almost all my platters, to buy him tobacco; and he to turn monster of 60 ingratitude, and strike his lawful host! Well, I hope to raise up an host of fury for’t: here comes justice Clement.

Scene VII.[1266]

Clem. ’Heart o’ me! what made him leave us so abruptly?—How now, sirrah! what make you here? What would you have, ha? 5

Cob. An’t please your worship, I am a poor neighbour of your worship’s——

Cob. I dwell, sir, at the sign of the Water-tankard, 10 hard by the Green Lattice:[1267] I have paid scot and lot[1268] there any time this eighteen years.

Cob. No, sir, to the parish. Marry, I have 15 seldom scapt scot-free at the Lattice.

Cob. An’t like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your worship. 20

Clem. Of me, knave! Peace of me, knave! Did I ever hurt thee, or threaten thee, or wrong thee, ha?

Cob. No, sir; but your worship’s warrant for one that has wrong’d me, sir. His arms are at 25 too much liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace, an my credit could compass it, with your worship.

Cob. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour, by his means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day,[1269] I may swear by the law of the land that he kill’d me. 36

Clem. How, how, knave, swear he kill’d thee, and by the law? What pretence, what colour, hast thou for that?

Cob. Marry, an’t please your worship, both black and blue; colour enough, I warrant you. 41 I have it here to shew your worship.

Clem. Bobadill! and why did he bob[1270] and beat you, sirrah? How began the quarrel betwixt you, ha? Speak truly, knave, I advise you. 50

Cob. Marry, indeed, an’t please your worship, only because I spake against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by ’em when they were taking on’t; for nothing else.

Clem. God’s precious! an such drunkards and tankards as you are, come to dispute of tobacco once, I have done. Away with him!

Know. “Sweet Oliver,” would I could do 70 thee any good!—Justice Clement, let me intreat you, sir.

Clem. What! a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never drunk out of better than piss-pot metal[1271] in his life! and he to deprave and 75 abuse the virtue of an herb so generally receiv’d in the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, the cabins of soldiers!—Roger, away with him? By God’s precious—I say, go to. 80

Cob. Dear master justice, let me be beaten again, I have deserv’d it: but not the prison, I beseech you.

Clem. Roger, make him a warrant:—he shall not go, I but fear[1272] the knave. 85

Form. Do not stink, sweet Oliver, you shall not go; my master will give you a warrant.

Clem. Your cares are nothing: they are 95 like my cap, soon put on, and as soon put off. What! your son is old enough to govern himself; let him run his course, it’s the only way to make him a staid man. If he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a licentious liver, 100 then you had reason; you had reason to take care: but, being none of these, mirth’s my witness, an I had twice so many cares as you have, I’d drown them all in a cup of sack. Come, come, let’s try it: I muse[1273] your parcel of a 105 soldier returns not all this while.

ACT IV

Scene I.[1274]

[Pg 234] Dame K. Alas, brother, what would you have me to do? I cannot help it; you see my brother brings ’em in here; they are his friends. 5

Dow. His friends! his fiends! ’Slud! they do nothing but haunt him up and down like a sort of unlucky spirits, and tempt him to all manner of villainy that can be thought of. Well, by this light, a little thing would make me play 10 the devil with some of ’em: an ’twere not more for your husband’s sake than anything else, I’d make the house too hot for the best on ’em; they should say, and swear, hell were broken loose, ere they went hence. But, by God’s will, ’tis nobody’s fault but yours; for an you had 16 done as you might have done, they should have been parboil’d, and bak’d too, every mother’s son, ere they should ha’ come in, e’er a one of ’em. 20

Dame K. God’s my life! did you ever hear the like? What a strange man is this! Could I keep out all them, think you? I should put myself against half a dozen men, should I? Good faith, you’d mad the patient’st body in the 25 world, to hear you talk so, without any sense or reason.

Scene II.[1275]

Downright, Dame Kitely. [Enter] Mistress Bridget, Master Mathew, and Bobadill; [followed, at a distance, by] Wellbred, E. Knowell, Stephen, and Brainworm.

Wel. O, now stand close;[1277] pray Heaven, she can get him to read! He should do it of his own natural impudency.

E. Know. What ails thy brother? Can he not hold his water at reading of a ballad? 20

Wel. O, no; a rhyme to him is worse than cheese, or a bag-pipe; but mark; you lose the protestation.

Mat. Faith, I did it in a humour; I know not how it is; but please you come near, sir. This 25 gentleman has judgment, he knows how to censure of a——pray you, sir, you can judge?

Bob. Master Mathew, you abuse the expectation of your dear mistress, and her fair sister. Fie! while you live, avoid this prolixity. 35

E. Know. ’Slight, he shakes his head like a bottle, to feel an there be any brain in it. 55

E. Know. Well, I’ll have him free of the wit-brokers, for he utters nothing but stol’n remnants. 61

E. Know. A filching[1281] rogue, hang him!—and from the dead! It’s worse than sacrilege. 64

Wel. Sister, what ha’ you here? Verses? Pray you, let’s see. Who made these verses? They are excellent good.

Mat. O, Master Wellbred, ’tis your disposition to say so, sir. They were good i’ the morning: I made them ex tempore this morning.

Mat. Ay, would I might be hang’d else; ask Captain Bobadill; he saw me write them, at the——pox on it!—the Star, yonder.

Step. Body o’ Caesar, they are admirable! the best that I ever heard, as I am a soldier! 84

Dow. I am vext, I can hold ne’er a bone of me still. ’Heart, I think they mean to build and breed here.

Wel. Sister, you have a simple servant here, [Pg 235]that crowns your beauty with such encomiums 89 and devices; you may see what it is to be the mistress of a wit that can make your perfections so transparent, that every blear eye may look through them, and see him drown’d over head and ears in the deep well of desire. Sister Kitely, I marvel you get you not a servant that can rhyme, and do tricks too. 96

Wel. ’Slight, here ’s a trick vied and revied![1282] Why, you monkeys, you, what a cater-wauling do you keep! Has he not given you rhymes and verses and tricks? 106

Wel. Nay, you lamp of virginity, that take it in snuff[1283] so, come, and cherish this tame poetical fury in your servant; you’ll be begg’d 110 else shortly for a concealment:[1284] go to, reward his muse. You cannot give him less than a shilling in conscience, for the book he had it out of cost him a teston[1285] at least. How now, gallants! 114 Master Mathew! Captain! what, all sons of silence? No spirit?

Dow. Come, you might practise your ruffian tricks somewhere else, and not here, I wuss;[1286] this is no tavern nor drinking-school, to vent your exploits in. 120

Dow. Marry, that has mine, sir. Nay, boy, never look askance at me for the matter; I ’ll tell you of it, I, sir; you and your companions mend yourselves when I ha’ done. 125

Dow. Yes, sir, your companions, so I say; I am not afraid of you, nor them neither; your hangbyes here. You must have your poets and your potlings,[1287] your soldados and foolados to 130 follow you up and down the city; and here they must come to domineer and swagger.—Sirrah, you ballad-singer, and Slops[1288] your fellow there, get you out, get you home; or by this steel, I ’ll cut off your ears, and that presently. 135

Wel. ’Slight, stay, let ’s see what he dare do; cut off his ears! cut a whetstone. You are an ass, do you see? Touch any man here, and by this hand I ’ll run my rapier to the hilts in you. 140

Bob. Well, sirrah, you Holofernes; by my hand, I will pink your flesh full of holes with my rapier for this; I will, by this good heaven! Nay, let him come, let him come, gentlemen; by the body of St. George, I ’ll not kill him.

Scene III.[1290]

Dow. A sort[1291] of lewd rake-hells, that care neither for God nor the devil. And they must come here to read ballads, and roguery, and 15 trash! I ’ll mar the knot of ’em ere I sleep, perhaps; especially Bob there, he that ’s all manner of shapes: and Songs and Sonnets, his fellow.

Dow. Respect! what talk you of respect among such as ha’ nor spark of manhood nor good manners? ’Sdeins, I am asham’d to hear you! respect!

Dame K. Indeed he seem’d to be a gentleman 34 of a very exceeding fair disposition, and of excellent good parts.

Scene IV.[1292]

Cob. Nay, you have stunn’d me, i’ faith; you ha’ giv’n me a knock o’ the forehead will stick by me. Cuckold! ’Slid, cuckold!

Tib. Away, you fool! did I know it was you that knockt? Come, come, you may call me as bad when you list. 11

Cob. O, must you be stabb’d by a soldier? Mass, that’s true! When was Bobadill here, your captain? that rogue, that foist,[1293] that fencing Burgullion?[1294] I’ll tickle him, i’ faith.

Cob. O, he has basted me rarely, sumptuously! but I have it here in black and white [Pulls out the warrant], for his black and blue shall pay him. O, the justice, the honestest old brave 25 Trojan in London; I do honour the very flea of his dog. A plague on him, though, he put me once in a villanous filthy fear; marry, it vanished away like the smoke of tobacco; but I was smokt[1295] soundly first. I thank the devil, 30 and his good angel, my guest. Well, wife, or Tib, which you will, get you in, and lock the door; I charge you let nobody in to you, wife; nobody in to you; those are my words: not Captain Bob himself, nor the fiend in his 35 likeness. You are a woman, you have flesh and blood enough in you to be tempted; therefore keep the door shut upon all comers.

Cob. Tut, sweet or sour, thou art a flower. Keep close thy door, I ask no more.

Scene V.[1296]

[Enter] E. Knowell, Wellbred, Stephen, and Brainworm, [disguised as before.]

E. Know. Well, Brainworm, perform this business happily, and thou makest a purchase of my love for ever.

Wel. I’ faith, now let thy spirits use their best faculties: but, at any hand, remember 5 the message to my brother; for there’s no other means to start him.

Brai. I warrant you, sir; fear nothing; I have a nimble soul has wakt all forces of my phant’sie by this time, and put ’em in true 10 motion. What you have possest[1297] me withal, I’ll discharge it amply, sir; make it no question.

Wel. Forth, and prosper, Brainworm. Faith, Ned, how dost thou approve of my abilities in this device? 16

Wel. Take, man! why it cannot choose but take, if the circumstances miscarry not: 20 but, tell me ingenuously, dost thou affect my sister Bridget as thou pretend’st?

Wel. Come, do not protest. In faith, she is a maid of good ornament, and much modesty; 25 and, except I conceiv’d very worthily of her, thou should’st not have her.

E. Know. Nay, that, I am afraid, will be a question yet, whether I shall have her, or no.

Wel. By this hand thou shalt have her; I’ll go fetch her presently. ’Point but where to meet, and as I am an honest man I’ll bring her.

E. Know. Pray thee, be at peace, I am satisfied; and do believe thou wilt omit no 40 offered occasion to make my desires complete.

Scene VI.[1298]

Brai. Marry, peace be my comfort, where I thought I should have had little comfort of your worship’s service.

Brai. O, sir, your coming to the city, your entertainment of me, and your sending me to watch——indeed all the circumstances either of your charge, or my employment, are as open to your son, as to yourself.

Brai. Nay, sir, I cannot tell; unless it be by the black art. Is not your son a scholar, sir?

Brai. You should rather ask where they found me, sir; for I’ll be sworn, I was going along in the street, thinking nothing, when, 30 of a sudden, a voice calls, “Mr. Knowell’s man!” another cries, “Soldier!” and thus half a dozen of ’em, till they had call’d me within a house, where I no sooner came, but they seem’d men, and out flew all their 35 rapiers at my bosom, with some three or four score oaths to accompany them; and all to tell me, I was but a dead man, if I did not confess where you were, and how I was employed, and about what; which when they could not get 40 out of me (as, I protest, they must ha’ dissected, and made an anatomy[1299] o’ me first, and so I told ’em), they lock’d me up into a room i’ the top of a high house, whence by great miracle (having a light heart) I slid down by a 45 bottom[1300] of packthread into the street, and so scapt. But, sir, thus much I can assure you, for I heard it while I was lockt up, there were a great many rich merchants and brave citizens’ wives with ’em at a feast; and your son, 50 master Edward, withdrew with one of ’em, and has ’pointed to meet her anon at one Cob’s house, a water-bearer that dwells by the Wall. Now, there your worship shall be sure to take him, for there he preys, and fail he will not. 56

Brai. Ay, sir, there you shall have him. [Exit Knowell.] Yes—invisible! Much wench, or much son! ’Slight, when he has staid there three or four hours, travailing with the expectation of wonders, and at length be deliver’d of air! O the sport that I should then 65 take to look on him, if I durst! But now, I mean to appear no more afore him in this shape: I have another trick to act yet. O that I were so happy as to light on a nupson[1301] now of this justice’s novice!—Sir, I make you stay somewhat long. 71

Form. Troth, sir, I would be glad to bestow a bottle of wine o’ you, if it please you to accept it—— 81

Form. But to hear the manner of your services, and your devices in the wars. They say they be very strange, and not like those 86 a man reads in the Roman histories, or sees at Mile-end.[1302]

Brai. No, I assure you, sir; why at any time when it please you, I shall be ready to discourse to you all I know; [Aside.]—and more too somewhat. 91

Form. No better time than now, sir; we’ll go to the Windmill; there we shall have a cup of neat grist,[1303] we call it. I pray you, sir, let me request you to the Windmill.

Brai. I’ll follow you, sir; [Aside.]—and make grist o’ you, if I have good luck. 95

Scene VII.[1304]

Mat. Sir, did your eyes ever taste the like clown of him where we were to-day, Mr. Wellbred’s half-brother? I think the whole earth cannot shew his parallel, by this daylight.

E. Know. We were now speaking of him; 5 captain Bobadill tells me he is fall’n foul o’ you too.

Bob. Ay, but I think, I taught you prevention 10 this morning, for that. You shall kill him beyond question, if you be so generously minded.

Bob. O, you do not give spirit enough to 15 your motion; you are too tardy, too heavy! O, it must be done like lightning, hay!

[Pg 238] Bob. Tut! ’tis nothing, an’t be not done in a——punto.[1305] 20

E. Know. Captain, did you ever prove yourself upon any of our masters of defence here?

Bob. I will tell you, sir. Upon my first coming to the city, after my long travel for knowledge 25 in that mystery only, there came three or four of ’em to me, at a gentleman’s house, where it was my chance to be resident at that time, to intreat my presence at their schools: and withal so much importun’d me that, 30 I protest to you as I am a gentleman, I was asham’d of their rude demeanour out of all measure. Well, I told ’em that to come to a public school, they should pardon me, it was opposite, in diameter, to my humour; but if 35 so be they would give their attendance at my lodging, I protested to do them what right or favour I could, as I was a gentleman, and so forth.

Bob. Alas, soon tried: you shall hear, sir. 41 Within two or three days after, they came; and, by honesty, fair sir, believe me, I grac’d them exceedingly, shew’d them some two or three tricks of prevention have purchas’d 45 ’em since a credit to admiration. They cannot deny this; and yet now they hate me; and why? Because I am excellent; and for no other vile reason on the earth.

Bob. Nay, for a more instance of their preposterous natures, but note, sir. They have assaulted me some three, four, five, six of them together, as I have walkt alone in divers skirts i’ the town, as Turnbull, Whitechapel, 56 Shoreditch,[1306] which were then my quarters; and since, upon the Exchange, at my lodging, and at my ordinary: where I have driven them afore me the whole length of a street, in the 60 open view of all our gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. Yet all this lenity will not o’ercome their spleen; they will be doing with the pismire,[1307] raising a hill a man may spurn abroad with his foot at pleasure. By myself, 65 I could have slain them all, but I delight not in murder. I am loth to bear any other than this bastinado for ’em: yet I hold it good polity not to go disarm’d, for though I be skilful, I may be oppress’d with multitudes. 70

E. Know. Ay, believe me, may you, sir: and in my conceit, our whole nation should sustain the loss by it, if it were so.

Bob. Indeed, that might be some loss; but who respects it? I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under seal; I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but 80 were I known to her majesty and the lords,—observe me,—I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general; but to save the one half, 85 nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you?

Bob. Why thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be of good spirit, strong and able constitution; I would choose them by an instinct, a character that I have: and I would teach these nineteen the special rules, as your 96 punto, your reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your passada, your montanto;[1309] till they could all play very near, or altogether, as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into the 101 field the tenth of March, or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not in their honour refuse us: well, we would kill them; challenge twenty more, kill 105 them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that’s twenty score; twenty score, that’s two hundred;[1310] two hundred a day, five days a thousand: forty thousand; forty times five, five times forty, two hundred 111 days kills them all up by computation. And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided there be no treason practis’d upon us, by fair and discreet manhood; 115 that is, civilly by the sword.

E. Know. I would not stand in Downright’s state then, an you meet him, for the wealth of any one street in London.

Bob. Why, sir, you mistake me: if he were here now, by this welkin, I would not draw my weapon on him. Let this gentleman do his 126 mind; but I will bastinado him, by the bright sun, wherever I meet him.

E. Know. Sir, keep your hanging good for some greater matter, for I assure you that was he. 140

Bob. Had I thought it had been he, he must not have gone so: but I can hardly be induc’d to believe it was he yet.

Dow. O, Pharaoh’s foot, have I found you? Come, draw, to your tools; draw, gipsy, or I’ll thrash you.

Bob. Tall[1311] man, I never thought on it till now——body of me, I had a warrant of the peace served on me, even now as I came along, by a water-bearer; this gentleman saw it, 156 Master Mathew.

Dow. Prate again, as you like this, you 160 whoreson foist[1312] you! You’ll “control[1313] the point,” you! Your consort is gone; had he staid he had shar’d with you, sir.

Bob. Well, gentlemen, bear witness, I was bound to the peace, by this good day. 165

E. Know. No, faith, it’s an ill day, captain, never reckon it other: but, say you were bound to the peace, the law allows you to defend yourself: that’ll prove but a poor excuse.

Bob. I cannot tell, sir: I desire good construction 170 in fair sort. I never sustain’d the like disgrace, by heaven! Sure I was struck with a planet thence, for I had no power to touch my weapon.

E. Know. Ay, like enough; I have heard of many that have been beaten under a planet: 176 go, get you to a surgeon. ’Slid! an these be your tricks, your passadas, and your montantos, I’ll none of them. [Exit Bobadill.] O, manners! that this age should bring forth such 180 creatures! that nature should be at leisure to make them! Come, coz.

Step. Nay, it’s mine now, another might have ta’en up as well as I: I’ll wear it, so I will. 186

Scene VIII.[1314]

Wel. No harm done, brother, I warrant you. Since there is no harm done, anger costs a man nothing; and a tall man is never his own man till he be angry. To keep his valour in obscurity, 10 is to keep himself as it were in a cloak-bag. What’s a musician, unless he play? What’s a tall mail unless he fight? For, indeed, all this my wise brother stands upon absolutely; and that made me fall in with him so resolutely. 15

Wel. Might, sister? So might the good warm clothes your husband wears be poison’d, for any thing he knows: or the wholesome wine he 20 drank, even now at the table.

Wel. Is a fit simile a toy? Will he be poison’d with a simile? Brother Kitely, what a strange and idle imagination is this! For shame, be wiser. O’ my soul, there’s no such matter. 39

Brai. Master Kitely, my master, justice 44 Clement, salutes you; and desires to speak with you with all possible speed.

Kit. No time but now, when I think I am sick, very sick! Well, I will wait upon his worship. Thomas! Cob! I must seek them out, and set ’em sentinels till I return. Thomas! Cob! 50 Thomas!

Wel. This is perfectly rare, Brainworm; [Takes him aside.] but how got’st thou this apparel of the justice’s man? 54

Brai. Marry, sir, my proper fine pen-man would needs bestow the grist o’ me, at the Windmill, to hear some martial discourse; where I so marshall’d him, that I made him drunk with admiration: and, because too much heat was the cause of his distemper, I stript 60 him stark naked as he lay along asleep, and borrowed his suit to deliver this counterfeit message in, leaving a rusty armour, and an old brown bill to watch him till my return; which shall be, when I ha’ pawn’d his apparel, and 65 spent the better part o’ the money, perhaps.

Wel. Well, thou art a successful merry knave, [Pg 240]Brainworm: his absence will be a good subject for more mirth. I pray thee return to thy young master, and will him to meet me and my 70 sister Bridget at the Tower[1318] instantly; for here, tell him, the house is so stor’d with jealousy, there is no room for love to stand upright in. We must get our fortunes committed to some larger prison, say; and than the Tower, I 75 know no better air, nor where the liberty of the house may do us more present service. Away!

Wel. Indeed, sister, to ask how he employs Cob, is a necessary question for you that are 100 his wife, and a thing not very easy for you to be satisfied in; but this I’ll assure you, Cob’s wife is an excellent bawd, sister, and oftentimes your husband haunts her house; marry, to what end? I cannot altogether accuse him; imagine 105 you what you think convenient: but I have known fair hides have foul hearts ere now, sister.

Dame K. Never said you truer than that, brother, so much I can tell you for your learning. Thomas, fetch your cloak and go with me. 110

I’ll after him presently: I would to fortune I could take him there, i’ faith. I ’d return him his own, I warrant him!

Wel. So, let ’em go; this may make sport anon. Now, my fair sister-in-law, that you knew but 115 how happy a thing it were to be fair and beautiful.

Wel. That’s true; that’s even the fault of it; for indeed, beauty stands a woman in no 120 stead, unless it procure her touching.—But, sister, whether it touch you or no, it touches your beauties; and I am sure they will abide the touch; an they do not, a plague of all ceruse,[1319] say I! and it touches me too in part, 125 though not in the——Well, there’s a dear and respected friend of mine, sister, stands very strongly and worthily affected toward you, and hath vow’d to inflame whole bonfires of zeal at his heart, in honour of your perfections. I 130 have already engag’d my promise to bring you where you shall hear him confirm much more. Ned Knowell is the man, sister: there’s no exception against the party. You are ripe for a husband; and a minute’s loss to such an 135 occasion is a great trespass in a wise beauty. What say you, sister? On my soul he loves you; will you give him the meeting?

Brid. Faith, I had very little confidence in mine own constancy, brother, if I durst not 140 meet a man: but this motion of yours savours of an old knight adventurer’s servant a little too much, methinks.

Wel. No matter if it did, I would be such an one for my friend. But see, who is return’d to hinder us!

Scene IX.[1322]

Bob. Why, what should they say, but as of a discreet gentleman; quick, wary, respectful of nature’s fair lineaments? and that’s all. 5

[Pg 241] Bob. A rude part, a touch with soft wood, a kind of gross battery us’d, laid on strongly, borne most patiently; and that’s all. 10

Bob. Tut! I assure you, no: you shall have there your nobilis, your gentilezza, come in bravely upon your reverse, stand you close, 15 stand you firm, stand you fair, save your retricato with his left leg, come to the assalto with the right, thrust with brave steel, defy your base wood! But wherefore do I awake this remembrance? I was fascinated, by Jupiter; fascinated, but I will be unwitch’d and reveng’d by law. 21

Mat. Do you hear? Is it not best to get a warrant, and have him arrested and brought before justice Clement?

Mat. Sir, there is one Downright hath abus’d this gentleman and myself, and we determine to make our amends by law. Now, if you would do us the favour to procure a warrant to 34 bring him afore your master, you shall be well considered, I assure you, sir.

Brai. Sir, you know my service is my living; such favours as these gotten of my master is his only preferment,[1323] and therefore you must 39 consider me as I may make benefit of my place.

Brai. Faith, sir, the thing is extraordinary, and the gentleman may be of great account; yet, be he what he will, if you will lay me down a brace of angels in my hand you shall 45 have it, otherwise not.

Mat. Nor I, as I am a gentleman, but two-pence 50 left of my two shillings in the morning for wine and radish: let’s find him some pawn.

Mat. O, yes; I’ll pawn this jewel in my 55 ear, and you may pawn your silk stockings, and pull up your boots, they will ne’er be mist: it must be done now.

Mat. Do you hear, sir? We have no store of money at this time, but you shall have good pawns; look you, sir, this jewel, and that gentleman’s silk stockings; because we would have it dispatch’d ere we went to our chambers. 65

Brai. I am content, sir; I will get you the warrant presently.[1325] What’s his name, say you? Downright?

Mat. A tall big man, sir; he goes in a cloak most commonly of silk-russet, laid about with russet lace.

Brai. Well, gentlemen, I’ll procure you this warrant presently; but who will you have to serve it?

Brai. Why, you were best get one o’ the varlets o’ the city,[1326] a serjeant: I’ll appoint you one, if you please. 85

Brai. This is rare! Now will I go and pawn this cloak of the justice’s man’s at the broker’s 90 for a varlet’s suit, and be the varlet myself; and get either more pawns, or more money of Downright, for the arrest.

Scene X.[1327]

Cob. How, bawd! is my house come to that? Am I preferr’d thither? Did I not charge you to keep your doors shut, Isbel? and do you let ’em lie open for all comers? 75

Tib. Nay, I will go. I’ll see an you may 80 be allow’d to make a bundle o’ hemp[1336] o’ your right and lawful wife thus, at every cuckoldy knave’s pleasure. Why do you not go?

Scene XI.[1337]

Brai. Well, of all my disguises yet, now am I most like myself, being in this serjeant’s gown. A man of my present profession never counterfeits, till he lays hold upon a debtor and says he ’rests him; for then he brings him to all 5 manner of unrest. A kind of little kings we are, bearing the diminutive of a mace, made like a young artichoke, that always carries pepper and salt in itself. Well, I know not what danger I undergo by this exploit; pray Heaven 10 I come well off!

Mat. ’Save you, friend! Are not you here by appointment of justice Clement’s man? 15

Brai. Yes, an’t please you, sir; he told me two gentlemen had will’d him to procure a warrant from his master, which I have about me, to be serv’d on one Downright.

Mat. It is honestly done of you both; and 20 see where the party comes you must arrest; serve it upon him quickly, afore he be aware.

Brai. Master Downright, I arrest you i’ the queen’s name, and must carry you afore a 25 justice by virtue of this warrant.

Step. Me, friend! I am no Downright, I; I am master Stephen. You do not well to arrest me, I tell you, truly; I am in nobody’s bonds nor books, I would you should know it. A plague 30 on you heartily, for making me thus afraid afore my time!

Bob. He wears such a cloak, and that deceived us: but see, here ’a comes indeed; this 35 is he, officer.

Dow. Why how now, signior gull! Are you turn’d filcher of late! Come, deliver my cloak.

Brai. Master Downright, I have a warrant I must serve upon you, procur’d by these two gentlemen.

Brai. Go before master justice Clement, to answer what they can object against you, sir. I will use you kindly, sir. 50

Dow. Nay, that shall not serve your turn now, sir. Officer, I’ll go with thee to the justice’s; bring him along.

Brai. Sir, I’ll take your word, and this gentleman’s too, for his appearance.

Dow. ’Tis true, you may take bail, and choose at another time; but you shall not now, varlet. Bring him along, or I’ll swinge you. 75

ACT V

Scene I.[1339]

Clem. Nay, but stay, stay, give me leave: my chair, sirrah.—You, master Knowell, say you went thither to meet your son?

Know. Nay, I know not now; I left him with your clerk, and appointed him to stay here for me. 10

Clem. And what time came my man with the false message to you, master Kitely? 15

Clem. Very good: but, mistress Kitely, how chance that you were at Cob’s, ha?

Dame K. An ’t please you, sir, I’ll tell you: my brother Wellbred told me that Cob’s house was a suspected place—— 21

Clem. I see rank fruits of a jealous brain, mistress Kitely: but did you find your husband 30 there, in that case as you suspected?

Clem. Did you so? That alters the case. Who gave you knowledge of your wife’s being there?

Clem. Why this is a mere trick, a device; you are gull’d in this most grossly all. Alas, poor wench! wert thou beaten for this?

Serv. Sir, there’s a gentleman i’ the court without, desires to speak with your worship. 50

Clem. A soldier! Take down my armour, my sword quickly. A soldier speak with me! Why, when, knaves! Come on, come on. (Arms himself); 55 hold my cap there, so; give me my gorget,[1340] my sword: stand by, I will end your matters anon.——Let the soldier enter.

Scene II.[1341]

Clem. Nay, keep out, sir; I know not your pretence.—You send me word, sir, you are a soldier; why, sir, you shall be answer’d here: 5 here be them have been amongst soldiers. Sir, your pleasure.

Bob. Faith, sir, so it is, this gentleman and myself have been most uncivilly wrong’d and beaten by one Downright, a coarse fellow 10 about the town here; and for mine own part, I protest, being a man in no sort given to this filthy humour of quarrelling, he hath assaulted me in the way of my peace, despoil’d me of mine honour, disarm ’d me of my weapons, 15 and rudely laid me along in the open streets, when I not so much as once offer’d to resist him.

Clem. O, God’s precious! is this the soldier? Here, take my armour off quickly, ’t will make him swoon, I fear; he is not fit to look on ’t, 20 that will put up a blow.

Serv. There’s one of the varlets of the city, sir, has brought two gentlemen here; one, upon your worship’s warrant.

Scene III.[1344]

[Clement, Bobadill, etc. Enter] Downright, Stephen, and Brainworm [disguised as before].

What, Master Downright! Are you brought in at Mr. Freshwater’s[1345] suit here?[1346]

Step. God’s my witness, uncle, I am wrong’d here monstrously; he charges me with stealing of his cloak, and would I might never stir, if I did not find it in the street by chance.

Step. And you said, I stole it. Nay, now my uncle is here, I’ll do well enough with you.

Clem. Well, let this breathe awhile. You that have cause to complain there, stand forth. Had you my warrant for this gentleman’s 20 apprehension?

Clem. That’s well! an my clerk can make warrants, and my hand not at ’em! Where is the warrant—officer, have you it?

Brai. No, sir. Your worship’s man, Master Formal, bid me do it for these gentlemen, 30 and he would be my discharge.

Clem. Why, Master Downright, are you such a novice, to be serv’d and never see the warrant?

Dow. Marry, sir, he came to me, and said he must serve it, and he would use me kindly, and so—— 39

Clem. O, God’s pity, was it so, sir? He must serve it! Give me my long sword there, and help me off. So, come on, sir varlet, I must cut off your legs, sirrah [Brainworm kneels]; nay, stand up, I’ll use you kindly; I must cut off your legs, I say. 45

Clem. I must do it, there is no remedy; I must cut off your legs, sirrah, I must cut off your ears, you rascal, I must do it: I must 50 cut off your nose, I must cut off your head.

Clem. Well, rise; how dost thou do now? Dost thou feel thyself well? Hast thou no harm? 55

Clem. Why so! I said I must cut off thy legs, and I must cut off thy arms, and I must cut off thy head; but I did not do it: so you said you must serve this gentleman with my 60 warrant, but you did not serve him. You knave, you slave, you rogue, do you say you must, sirrah! Away with him to the jail; I’ll teach you a trick for your must, sir.

Brai. Nay, sir, if you will commit me, it [Pg 245]shall be for committing more than this: I will 70 not lose by my travail any grain of my fame, certain.

Step. O, yes, uncle: Brainworm has been with my cousin Edward and I all this day. 76

Brai. Nay, excellent justice, since I have laid myself thus open to you, now stand strong for me; both with your sword and your balance. 80

Clem. Body o’ me, a merry knave! give me a bowl of sack. If he belong to you, Master Knowell, I bespeak your patience.

Brai. That is it I have most need of. Sir, if you’ll pardon me only, I’ll glory in all the 85 rest of my exploits.

Know. Sir, you know I love not to have my favours come hard from me. You have your pardon, though I suspect you shrewdly for being of counsel with my son against me. 90

Brai. Yes, faith, I have, sir, though you retain’d me doubly this morning for yourself: first, as Brainworm; after, as Fitz-Sword. I was your reform’d soldier, sir. ’T was I sent you to Cob’s upon the errand without end. 95

Know. Is it possible? or that thou should’st disguise thy language so as I should not know thee?

Brai. O, sir, this has been the day of my metamorphosis. It is not that shape alone 100 that I have run through to-day. I brought this gentleman, master Kitely, a message too, in the form of master Justice’s man here, to draw him out o’ the way, as well as your worship, while master Wellbred might make a conveyance 105 of mistress Bridget to my young master.

Brai. Faith, sir, they are both as sure as love, a priest, and three thousand pound, which 110 is her portion, can make ’em; and by this time are ready to bespeak their wedding-supper at the Windmill, except some friend here prevent ’em, and invite ’em home.

Clem. Marry, that will I; I thank thee for 115 putting me in mind on ’t. Sirrah, go you and fetch them hither upon my warrant. [Exit Servant.] Neither’s friends have cause to be sorry, if I know the young couple aright. Here, I drink to thee for thy good news. But I pray 120 thee, what hast thou done with my man, Formal?

Brai. Faith, sir, after some ceremony past, as making him drunk, first with story, and then with wine, (but all in kindness,) and stripping 125 him to his shirt, I left him in that cool vein; departed, sold your worship’s warrant to these two, pawn’d his livery for that varlet’s gown, to serve it in; and thus have brought myself by my activity to your worship’s consideration. 131

Clem. And I will consider thee in another cup of sack. Here’s to thee, which having drunk off this my sentence: Pledge me. Thou hast done, or assisted to nothing, in my 135 judgment, but deserves to be pardon’d for the wit of the offence. If thy master, or any man here, be angry with thee, I shall suspect his ingine,[1348] while I know him, for ’t. How now, what noise is that? 140

Scene IV.[1349]

Form. I beseech your worship to pardon me; I happen’d into ill company by chance, that cast me into a sleep, and stript me of all my 5 clothes.

Clem. Well, tell him I am Justice Clement, and do pardon him: but what is this to your armour? What may that signify?

Form. An’t please you, sir, it hung up i’ 10 the room where I was stript; and I borrow’d it of one of the drawers[1351] to come home in, because I was loth to do penance through the street i’ my shirt.

Scene V.[1349]

Who be these? O, the young company; welcome, welcome! Gi’ you joy. Nay, mistress Bridget, blush not; you are not so fresh a bride, but the news of it is come hither afore you. Master bridegroom, I ha’ made your peace, 5 give me your hand: so will I for all the rest ere you forsake my roof.[1352]

Clem. Only these two have so little of man in ’em, they are no part of my care. 11

Wel. Yes, sir, let me pray you for this gentleman, he belongs to my sister the bride.

Wel. He is not for extempore, sir: he is all for the pocket muse; please you command a sight of it. 25

Wel. You must not deny the queen’s justice, sir, under a writ o’ rebellion. 29

Clem. What! all this verse? Body o’ me, he [Pg 246]carries a whole realm,[1354] a commonwealth of paper in his hose. Let us see some of his subjects.

E. Know. A parody! a parody! with a kind of miraculous gift, to make it absurder than it was.

Clem. Is all the rest of this batch? Bring me a torch; lay it together, and give fire. 40 Cleanse the air. [Sets the papers on fire.] Here was enough to have infected the whole city, if it had not been taken in time. See, see, how our poet’s glory shines! brighter and brighter! still it increases! O, now it’s at the highest; 45 and now it declines as fast. You may see, sic transit gloria mundi!

Clem. Nay, no speech or act of mine be drawn against such as profess it worthily. They are not born every year, as an alderman. There goes more to the making of a good poet, than a sheriff. Master Kitely, you look upon me!—though I live i’ the city here, amongst you, I 55 will do more reverence to him, when I meet him, than I will to the mayor out of his year. But these paper-pedlars! these ink-dabblers! they cannot expect reprehension or reproach; they have it with the fact. 60

Clem. It shall be discourse for supper between your father and me, if he dare undertake 64 me. But to dispatch away these: you sign o’ the soldier, and picture o’ the poet, (but both so false, I will not ha’ you hang’d out at my door till midnight,) while we are at supper, you two shall penitently fast it out in my court without; and, if you will, you may pray there 70 that we may be so merry within as to forgive or forget you when we come out. Here’s a third, because we tender your safety, shall watch you, he is provided for the purpose.[1357]—Look to your charge, sir. 75

Clem. O! I had lost a sheep an he had not bleated: why, sir, you shall give master Downright his cloak; and I will intreat him to take it. A trencher and a napkin you shall 80 have i’ the buttery, and keep Cob and his wife company here; whom I will intreat first to be reconcil’d; and you to endeavour with your wit to keep ’em so.

Cob. Why, now I see thou art honest, Tib, I receive thee as my dear and mortal wife again.

Clem. Good compliment! It will be their bridal night too. They are married anew. Come, I conjure the rest to put off all discontent. You, master Downright, your anger; you, master Knowell, your cares; Master Kitely and his wife, their jealousy. 96

Clem. ’Tis well, ’tis well! This night we’ll dedicate to friendship, love, and laughter. 110 Master bridegroom, take your bride and lead; every one, a fellow. Here is my mistress, Brainworm! to whom all my addresses of courtship shall have their reference: whose adventures this day, when our grandchildren shall 115 hear to be made a fable, I doubt not but it shall find both spectators and applause.

Non hic Centauros, non Gorgonas, Harpyiasque Invenies: Hominem pagina nostra sapit.

My Lord,—If ever any ruin were so great as to survive, I think this be one I send you, The Fall of Sejanus. It is a poem, that, if I well remember, in your lordship’s sight, suffer’d no less violence from our people here, than the subject of it did from the rage of the people of Rome; but with a different fate, as, I hope, merit;[1361] for this hath outliv’d their malice, and begot itself a greater favour than he lost, the love of good men. Amongst whom, if I make your lordship the first it thanks, it is not without a just confession of the bond your benefits have, and ever shall hold upon me,

The following and voluntary labours[1363] of my friends, prefixed to my book, have relieved me in much whereat, without them, I should necessarily have touched. Now I will only use three or four short and needful notes, and so rest.

First, if it be objected, that what I publish is no true poem, in the strict laws of time, I confess it: as also in the want of a proper chorus; whose habit and moods are such and so difficult, as not any, whom I have seen, since the ancients, no, not they who have most presently affected laws, have yet come in the way of. Nor is it needful, or almost possible in these our times, and to such auditors as commonly things are presented, to observe the old state and splendour of dramatic poems, with preservation of any popular delight. But of this I shall take more seasonable cause to speak, in my observations upon Horace his Art of Poetry, which, with the text translated, I [Pg 248]intend shortly to publish.[1364] In the meantime, if in truth of argument, dignity of persons, gravity and height of elocution, fulness and frequency of sentence, I have discharged the other offices of a tragic writer, let not the absence of these forms be imputed to me, wherein I shall give you occasion hereafter, and without my boast, to think I could better prescribe, than omit the due use for want of a convenient knowledge.

The next is, lest in some nice nostril the quotations might savour affected, I do let you know, that I abhor nothing more; and I have only done it to show my integrity in the story, and save myself in those common torturers that bring all wit to the rack; whose noses are ever like swine spoiling and rooting up the Muses’ gardens; and their whole bodies like moles, as blindly working under earth, to cast any, the least, hills upon virtue.

Whereas they are in Latin, and the work in English, it was presupposed none but the learned would take the pains to confer them; the authors themselves being all in the learned tongues, save one,[1365] with whose English side I have had little to do. To which it may be required, since I have quoted the page, to name what editions I followed: Tacit. Lips. in quarto, Antwerp, edit. 1600. Dio. folio, Hen. Steph. 1592. For the rest, as Sueton, Seneca, &c, the chapter doth sufficiently direct, or the edition is not varied.

Lastly, I would inform you, that this book, in all numbers, is not the same with that which was acted on the public stage; wherein a second pen[1366] had good share: in place of which, I have rather chosen to put weaker, and, no doubt, less pleasing, of mine own, than to defraud so happy a genius of his right by my loathed usurpation.

Fare you well, and if you read farther of me, and like, I shall not be afraid of it, though you praise me out.

But that I should plant my felicity in your general saying, good, or well, &c., were a weakness which the better sort of you might worthily contemn, if not absolutely hate me for.

THE ARGUMENT

Aelius Sejanus, son to Seius Strabo, a gentleman of Rome, and born at Vulsinium; after his long service in court, first under Augustus; afterward, Tiberius; grew into that favour with the latter, and won him by those arts, as there wanted nothing but the name to make him a co-partner of the Empire. Which greatness of his, Drusus, the Emperor’s son, not brooking; after many smother’d dislikes, it one day breaking out, the prince struck him publicly on the face. To revenge which disgrace, Livia, the wife of Drusus (being before corrupted by him to her dishonour, and the discovery of her husband’s counsels) Sejanus practiseth with, together with her physician, called Eudemus, and one Lygdus, an eunuch, to poison Drusus. This their inhuman act having successful and unsuspected passage, it emboldeneth Sejanus to farther and more insolent projects, even the ambition of the Empire; where finding the lets[1367] he must encounter to be many and hard, in respect of the issue of Germanicus, who were next in hope for the succession, he deviseth to make Tiberius’ self his means; and instils into his ears many doubts and suspicions, both against the princes, and their mother Agrippina; which Caesar jealously heark’ning to, as covetously consenteth to their ruin, and their friends’. In this time, the better to mature and strengthen his design, Sejanus labours to marry Livia, and worketh with all his ingine,[1368] to remove Tiberius from the knowledge of public business, with allurements of a quiet and retired life; the latter of which, Tiberius, out of a proneness to lust, and a desire to hide those unnatural pleasures which he could not so publicly practise, embraceth: the former enkindleth his fears, and there gives him first cause of doubt or suspect towards Sejanus: against whom he raiseth in private a new instrument, one Sertorius Macro, and by him underworketh, discovers the other’s counsels, his means, his ends, sounds the affections of the senators, divides, distracts them: at last, when Sejanus least looketh, and is most secure; with pretext of doing him an unwonted honour in the senate, he trains[1369] him from his guards, and with a long doubtful letter, in one day hath him suspected, accused, condemned, and torn in pieces by the rage of the people. [This do we advance, as a mark of terror to all traitors, and treasons; to show how just the heavens are, in pouring and thundering down a weighty vengeance on their unnatural intents, even to the worst princes; much more to those, for guard of whose piety and virtue the angels are in continual watch, and God himself miraculously working.][1370]

ACT I

[Scene I.][1371]

[Scene II.][1421]

ACT II

[Scene I.][1440]

[Scene II.][1448]

[Scene III.][1469]

[Scene IV.][1470]

ACT III

[Scene I.]

[Scene II.][1484]

[Scene III.][1487]

ACT IV

[Scene I.][1495]

[Scene II.][1501]

[Scene III.][1503]

[Scene IV.][1506]

[Scene V.][1508]

ACT V

[Scene I.][1518]

[Scene II.][1520]

[Scene III.][1521]

[Scene IV.][1524]

[Enter] Praecones, Flamen, [Tubicines, Tibicines,] Ministri, Sejanus, Terentius, Satrius, [Natta,] etc.

Prae. Be all profane far hence; fly, fly far off: Be absent far; far hence be all profane!

While they sound again, the Flamen takes of the honey with his finger, and tastes, then ministers to all the rest: so of the milk in an earthen vessel, he deals about; which done, he sprinkleth upon the altar, milk; then imposeth the honey, and kindleth his gums, and after censing about the altar, placeth his censer thereon, into which they put several branches of poppy, and the music ceasing, proceed.

[Scene V.][1533]

[Scene VI.][1536]

[Scene VII.][1539]

[Enter Terentius, Minutius, Laco, Cotta, Latiaris, and] Pomponius; Regulus, Trio, [and others, on different sides.]

[Scene VIII.][1540]

Lictors, Consuls, [Regulus and Trio] Sejanus, [Satrius, Sanguinius, Haterius, and many other Senators] pass over the stage.

[Scene IX.][1543]

[Scene X.][1544]

Haterius, Trio, Sanguinius, Cotta, Regulus, Sejanus, Pomponius, Latiaris, Lepidus, Arruntius; Praecones, Lictores.

“Memmius Regulus, and Fulcinius Trio,35 consuls, these present kalends of June, with the first light, shall hold a senate in the temple of Apollo Palatine: all that are fathers, and are regist’red fathers, that have right of ent’ring the senate, we warn or command you be frequently40 present, take knowledge the business is the commonwealth’s: whosoever is absent, his fine or mulct will be taken, his excuse will not be taken.”

“Tiberius Caesar to the Senate greeting. If you, conscript fathers, with your children, be in health, it is abundantly well: we with our friends here are so. The care of the commonwealth, howsoever we are remov’d in person, 70 cannot be absent to our thought: although, oftentimes, even to princes most present, the truth of their own affairs is hid; than which nothing falls out more miserable to a state, or makes the art of governing more difficult. 75 But since it hath been our easeful happiness to enjoy both the aids and industry of so vigilant a senate, we profess to have been the more indulgent to our pleasures, not as being careless of our office, but rather secure of the necessity. Neither do these common rumours of many, 81 and infamous libels published against our retirement, at all afflict us; being born more out of men’s ignorance than their malice: and will, neglected, find their own grave quickly; 85 whereas, too sensibly acknowledge, it would make their obloquy ours. Nor do we desire their authors, though found, be censur’d, since in a free state, as ours, all men ought to enjoy both their minds and tongues free.” 90

“Yet in things which shall worthily and more near concern the majesty of a prince, we shall fear to be so unnaturally cruel to our own fame, as to neglect them. True it is, conscript fathers, that we have raised Sejanus from obscure, 96 and almost unknown gentry,”

“to the highest and most conspicuous point of greatness, and, we hope, deservingly; yet 100 not without danger: it being a most bold hazard in that sov’reign who, by his particular love to one, dares adventure the hatred of all his other subjects.”

“But we affy[1545] in your loves and understandings, 106 and do no way suspect the merit of our Sejanus, to make our favours offensive to any.”

“Though we could have wished his zeal had run a calmer course against Agrippina and our nephews, howsoever the openness of their actions declared them delinquents; and that he would have rememb’red no innocence is so 115 safe, but it rejoiceth to stand in the sight of mercy: the use of which in us he hath so quite taken away toward them, by his loyal fury, as now our clemency would be thought but wearied cruelty, if we should offer to exercise it.”

“Some there be that would interpret this his public severity to be particular ambition; and that, under a pretext of service to us, he doth but remove his own lets:[1546] alleging the 125 strengths he hath made to himself, by the praetorian soldiers, by his faction in court and senate, by the offices he holds himself, and confers on others, his popularity and dependents, his urging and almost driving us to this our unwilling 130 retirement, and, lastly, his aspiring to be our son-in-law.”

“Your wisdoms, conscript fathers, are able 135 to examine, and censure[1548] these suggestions. But were they left to our absolving voice, we durst pronounce them, as we think them, most malicious.”

“Yet are they offer’d to be averr’d, and on the lives of the informers. What we should say, or rather what we should not say, lords of the senate, if this be true, our gods and goddesses confound us if we know! Only we must think, 145 we have plac’d our benefits ill; and conclude, that in our choice, either we were wanting to the gods, or the gods to us.”

“We have not been covetous, honourable 150 fathers, to change; neither is it now any new lust that alters our affection, or old loathing: but those needful jealousies of state, that warn wiser princes hourly to provide their safety; and do teach them how learned a thing it is 155 to beware of the humblest enemy; much more of those great ones, whom their own employ’d favours have made fit for their fears.”

“We therefore desire, that the offices he holds be first seized by the senate; and himself suspended from all exercise of place or power——”

Prae. Silence!—“and himself suspended from all exercise of place or power, but till due and mature trial be made of his innocency, which yet we can faintly apprehend the necessity to 175 doubt. If, conscript fathers, to your more searching [Pg 282] wisdoms, there shall appear farther cause—or of farther proceeding, either to seizure of lands, goods, or more—it is not our power that shall limit your authority, or our favour180 that must corrupt your justice: either were dishonourable in you, and both uncharitable to ourself. We would willingly be present with your counsels in this business; but the danger of so potent a faction, if it should prove185 so, forbids our attempting it: except one of the consuls would be entreated for our safety, to undertake the guard of us home; then we should most readily adventure. In the meantime, it shall not be fit for us to importune190 so judicious a senate, who know how much they hurt the innocent that spare the guilty; and how grateful a sacrifice to the gods is the life of an ingrateful person. We reflect not in this on Sejanus, (notwithstanding, if you195 keep an eye upon him—and there is Latiaris, a senator, and Pinnarius Natta, two of his most trusted ministers; and so profest, whom we desire not to have apprehended,) but as the necessity of the cause exacts it.”200

THE ARGUMENT

PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[1557]

Scene II.[1562]

Scene III[1573]

Scene IV.[1576]

Scene V.[1581]

ACT II

Scene I.[1587]

Scene II.

[To them enter] Mosca and Nano [disguised, followed by persons with materials for erecting a stage.]

Volp. “Most noble gentlemen, and my34 worthy patrons! It may seem strange that I, your Scoto Mantuano, who was ever wont to fix my bank in the face of the public Piazza, near the shelter of the Portico to the Procuratia, should now, after eight months’ absence from40 this illustrious city of Venice, humbly retire myself into an obscure nook of the Piazza.”

Volp. “Let me tell you: I am not, as your Lombard proverb saith, cold on my feet; or45 content to part with my commodities at a cheaper rate than I am accustom’d: look not for it. Nor that the calumnious reports of that impudent detractor, and shame to our profession (Alessandro Buttone, I mean), who gave50 out, in public, I was condemn’d a’ sforzato[1596] to the galleys, for poisoning the Cardinal Bembo’s—cook, hath at all attach’d, much less dejected me. No, no, worthy gentlemen; to tell you true, I cannot endure to see the rabble of55 these ground ciarlitani,[1597] that spread their cloaks on the pavement, as if they meant to do feats of activity, and then come in lamely, with their mouldy tales out of Boccacio, like stale Tabarin,[1598] the fabulist: some of them discoursing60 their travels, and of their tedious captivity in the Turk’s galleys, when, indeed, were the truth known, they were the Christian’s galleys, where very temperately they eat bread, and drunk water, as a wholesome penance, enjoin’d65 them by their confessors, for base pilferies.”

Volp. “These turdy-facy-nasty-paty-lousy-fartical69 rogues, with one poor groat’s-worth of unprepar’d antimony, finely wrapt up in several scartoccios,[1599] are able, very well, to kill their twenty a week, and play; yet these meagre, starv’d spirits, who have half stopt the organs74 of their minds with earthy oppilations,[1600] want not their favourers among your shrivell’d salad-eating artisans, who are overjoy’d that they may have their half-pe’rth of physic; though it purge ’em into another world, ’t makes no matter.”

Volp. “Well, let ’em go. And, gentlemen, honourable gentlemen, know, that for this time, our bank, being thus removed from the clamours of the canaglia[1601] shall be the scene of pleasure and delight; for I have nothing85 to sell, little or nothing to sell.”

Volp. “I protest. I, and my six servants, are not able to make of this precious liquor so fast90 as it is fetch’d away from my lodging by gentlemen of your city; strangers of the Terra-firma;[1602] worshipful merchants; ay, and senators too: who, ever since my arrival, have detain’d me to their uses, by their splendidous liberalities.95 And worthily; for, what avails your rich man to have his magazines stuft with moscadelli, or of the purest grape, when his physicians prescribe him, on pain of death, to drink nothing but water cocted[1603] with aniseeds? O99 health! health! the blessing of the rich! the [Pg 296] riches of the poor! who can buy thee at too dear a rate, since there is no enjoying this world without thee? Be not then so sparing of your purses, honourable gentlemen, as to abridge the natural course of life——” 105

Volp. “For when a humid flux, or catarrh, by the mutability of air, falls from your head into an arm or shoulder, or any other part; take you a ducket, or your chequin of gold, and 110 apply to the place affected: see what good effect it can work. No, no, ’t is this blessed unguento,[1604] this rare extraction, that hath only power to disperse all malignant humours, that proceed either of hot, cold, moist, or windy causes——” 115

Volp. “To fortify the most indigest and crude stomach, ay, were it of one that, through extreme weakness, vomited blood, applying only 120 a warm napkin to the place, after the unction and fricace;[1605]—for the vertigine[1606] in the head, putting but a drop into your nostrils, likewise behind the ears; a most sovereign and approv’d 124 remedy; the mal caduco,[1607] cramps, convulsions, paralyses, epilepsies, tremorcordia, retir’d nerves, ill vapours of the spleen, stoppings of the liver, the stone, the strangury, hernia ventosa, iliaca passio;[1608] stops a dysenteria immediately; easeth the torsion[1609] of the small 130 guts; and cures melancholia hypocondriaca, being taken and appli’d, according to my printed receipt. (Pointing to his bill and his glass.) For this is the physician, this the medicine; this counsels, this cures; this gives the direction, 135 this works the effect; and, in sum, both together may be term’d an abstract of the theoric and practic in the Aesculapian art. ’T will cost you eight crowns. And,—Zan Fritada, prithee sing a verse extempore in honour of it.” 140

Volp. “No more.—Gentlemen, if I had but time to discourse to you the miraculous effects of this my oil, surnam’d Oglio del Scoto; with the countless catalogue of those I have 160 cur’d of th’ aforesaid, and many more diseases; the patents and privileges of all the princes and commonwealths of Christendom; or but the depositions of those that appear’d on my part, before the signiory of the Sanita and most 165 learned College of Physicians; where I was authoris’d, upon notice taken of the admirable virtues of my medicaments, and mine own excellency in matter of rare and unknown secrets, not only to disperse them publicly in this 170 famous city, but in all the territories, that happily joy under the government of the most pious and magnificent states of Italy. But may some other gallant fellow say, ’O, there be divers that make profession to have as good, 175 and as experimented receipts as yours: indeed, very many have assay’d, like apes, in imitation of that, which is really and essentially in me, to make of this oil; bestow’d great cost in 179 furnaces, stills, alembics, continual fires, and preparation of the ingredients (as indeed there goes to it six hundred several simples, besides some quantity of human fat, for the conglutination, which we buy of the anatomists), but when these practitioners come to the last decoction, 185 blow, blow, puff, puff, and all flies in fumo:[1614] ha, ha, ha! Poor wretches! I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time and money; for those may be recover’d by industry: but to be a fool born, is a disease incurable. 191

“For myself, I always from my youth have endeavour’d to get the rarest secrets, and book them, either in exchange, or for money; I spar’d nor cost nor labour, where anything 195 was worthy to be learned. And, gentlemen, honourable gentlemen, I will undertake, by virtue of chymical art, out of the honourable hat that covers your head, to extract the four elements; that is to say, the fire, air, water, 200 and earth, and return you your felt without burn or stain. For, whilst others have been at the ballo,[1615] I have been at my book; and am now past the craggy paths of study, and come to the flowery plains of honour and reputation.” 205

Volp. “You all know, honourable gentlemen, I never valu’d this ampulla, or vial, at less than eight crowns; but for this time, I am content 210 to be depriv’d of it for six; six crowns is the price, and less in courtesy I know you cannot offer me; take it or leave it, howsoever, [Pg 297]both it and I am at your service. I ask you not as the value of the thing, for then I should demand 215 of you a thousand crowns, so the Cardinals Montalto, Fernese, the great Duke of Tuscany, my gossip,[1616] with divers other princes, have given me; but I despise money. Only to show my affection to you, honourable gentlemen, 220 and your illustrious State here, I have neglected the messages of these princes, mine own offices, fram’d my journey hither, only to present you with the fruits of my travels.—Tune 225 your voices once more to the touch of your instruments, and give the honourable assembly some delightful recreation.”

Volp. “Well, I am in a humour at this time to make a present of the small quantity my coffer contains; to the rich in courtesy, and 245 to the poor for God’s sake. Wherefore now mark: I ask’d you six crowns; and six crowns, at other times, you have paid me; you shall not give me six crowns, nor five, nor four, nor three, nor two, nor one; nor half a ducat; no, nor a 250 moccinigo.[1620] Sixpence it will cost you, or six hundred pound—expect no lower price, for, by the banner of my front, I will not bate a bagatine,[1621]—that I will have, only, a pledge of your loves, to carry something from amongst you, to 255 show I am not contemn’d by you. Therefore, now, toss your handkerchiefs, cheerfully, cheerfully; and be advertis’d, that the first heroic spirit that deigns to grace me with a handkerchief, I will give it a little remembrance of 260 something beside, shall please it better than if I had presented it with a double pistolet.”[1622]

Volp. “Lady, I kiss your bounty; and for 265 this timely grace you have done your poor Scoto of Mantua, I will return you, over and above my oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature, shall make you forever enamour’d on that minute, wherein your eye first descended 270 on so mean, yet not altogether to be despis’d, an object. Here is a powder conceal’d in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word; 275 so short is this pilgrimage of man (which some call life) to the expressing of it. Would I reflect on the price? Why, the whole world is but as an empire, that empire as a province, that province as a bank, that bank as a private purse 280 to the purchase of it. I will only tell you; it is the powder that made Venus a goddess (given her by Apollo), that kept her perpetually young, clear’d her wrinkles, firm’d her gums, fill’d her skin, colour’d her hair; from her deriv’d 285 to Helen, and at the sack of Troy unfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recover’d, by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of it to the court of France (but much 290 sophisticated), wherewith the ladies there now colour their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me; extracted to a quintessence: so that, wherever it but touches, in youth it perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; 295 seats your teeth, did they dance like virginal jacks,[1624] firm as a wall: makes them white as ivory, that were black as——”

Scene III.[1625]

Scene IV. [1627]

Scene V.[1629]

Scene VI.[1633]

[Scene VII.][1643]

ACT III

Scene I.[1644]

Scene II.[1647]

Scene III.[1650]

Scene IV.[1652]

Scene V.[1661]

Scene VI.[1664]

Scene VII.[1665]

[Scene VIII.][1674]

[Scene IX.][1677]

ACT IV

Scene I.[1680]

Scene II.[1691]

[Enter, at a distance.] Lady Politic Would-be, Nano, [and two Waiting]-women.

Scene III.[1698]

Scene IV.[1699]

Scene V.[1704]

[Enter] 4 Avocatori, [and take their seats,] Bonario, Celia, Notario, Commandadori, Saffi, and other Officers of Justice.]

Scene VI.[1711]

ACT V

Scene I.[1713]

Scene II.[1714]

Scene III.[1718]

Scene IV.[1723]

Scene V.[1728]

[Enter] Mosca in the habit of a clarissimo, and Volpone in that of a commandadore.

Scene VI.[1730]

Scene VII.[1731]

Scene VIII.[1734]

Scene IX.[1737]

Scene X.[1739]

[Enter] 4 Avocatori, Notario, Bonario, Celia, Corbaccio, Corvino, Commandadori, [Saffi, etc.]

Scene XI.[1742]

Scene XII.[1743]

Avocatori, [Bonario, Celia, Corbaccio, Corvino, Commandadori, Saffi,] etc., [as before.]

[TO THE READER[1749]

If thou beest more, thou art an understander, and then I trust thee. If thou art one that tak’st up, and but a pretender, beware at what hands thou receiv’st thy commodity; for thou wert never more fair in the way to be coz’ned than in this age in poetry, especially in plays, wherein now the concupiscence of jigs and dances[1750] so reigneth, as to run away from nature and be afraid of her is the only point of art that tickles the spectators. But how out of purpose and place do I name art, when the professors are grown so obstinate contemners of it, and presumers on their own naturals,[1751] as they are deriders of all diligence that way, and, by simple mocking at the terms when they understand not the things, think to get off wittily with their ignorance! Nay, they are esteem’d the more learned and sufficient for this by the multitude,[1752] through their excellent vice[1753] of judgment. For they commend writers as they do fencers or wrastlers; who, if they come in robustiously and put for it with a great deal of violence, are receiv’d for the braver fellows; when many times their own rudeness is the cause of their disgrace, and a little touch of their adversary gives all that boisterous force the foil.[1754] I deny not but that these men who always seek to do more than enough may some time happen on some thing that is good and great; but very seldom: and when it comes, it doth not recompence the rest of their ill. It sticks out, perhaps, and is more eminent, because all is sordid and vile about it; as lights are more discern’d in a thick darkness than a faint shadow. I speak not this out of a hope to do good on any man against his will; for I know, if it were put to the question of theirs and mine, the worse would find more suffrages, because the most favour common errors. But I give thee this warning, that there is a great difference between those that (to gain the opinion of copie[1755]) utter[1756] all they can, however unfitly, and those that use election and a mean. For it is only the disease of the unskillful to think rude things greater than polish’d, or scatter’d more numerous than compos’d.]

ARGUMENT

PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[1765]

[Enter] Face, [in a captain’s uniform, with his sword drawn, and] Subtle [with a vial, quarrelling, and followed by] Dol Common.

Scene II.[1802]

Scene III.[1823]

Scene IV.[1844]

ACT II

Scene I.[1846]

Scene II.[1860]

Scene III.[1870]

Scene IV.[1888]

Scene V.[1894]

Scene VI.[1898]

ACT III

Scene I.[1907]

Scene II.[1909]

Scene III.[1924]

Scene IV.[1938]

Scene V.[1952]

Face, Dapper. [Enter] Subtle, disguised like a priest of Fairy [with a strip of cloth].

ACT IV

Scene I.[1957]

Scene II.[1962]

Scene III.[1969]

Sur. Entiendo que la senora es tan hermosa, que codicio tan a verla como la bien aventuranza de mi vida.[1982]

Scene IV.[1992]

Scene V.[2011]

Scene VI.[2022]

Scene VII.[2029]

ACT V

Scene I.[2042]

Scene II.[2047]

Scene III.[2051]

Scene IV.[2054]

Scene V.[2064]

[Enter] Lovewit [in the Spanish dress, with the Parson. Loud knocking at the door.]

THE PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[2083]

[Pg 369] Enter Simon Eyre, [Margery] his wife, Hodge, Firk, Jane, and Ralph with a piece.[2094]

Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! Away with this whimp’ring, this puling, these blubb’ring tears, and these wet eyes! I ’ll get thy husband discharg’d, I warrant thee, sweet Jane; go to! 121

Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! Stand by with your pishery-pashery,[2095] away! I am a man of the best presence; I ’ll speak to them, an[2096] they were Popes.—Gentlemen, captains, colonels, commanders! Brave men, 130 brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience. I am Simon Eyre, the mad shoemaker of Tower Street; this wench with the mealy mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I can tell you; here ’s Hodge, my man and my foreman; 135 here ’s Firk, my fine firking[2097] journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane. All we come to be suitors for this honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and as I am a true shoemaker and a gentleman of the gentle craft, buy spurs yourself, and I ’ll 140 find ye boots these seven years.

Firk. Truly, master cormorant,[2099] you shall do God good service to let Ralph and his wife stay together. She ’s a young new-married woman; if you take her husband away from her a-night, you undo her; she may beg in the daytime; for he ’s as good a workman at a prick and an awl as any is in our trade. 151

Firk. Ay, truly, she shall be laid at one side like a pair of old shoes else, and be occupied for no use. 155

Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a corporal as a colonel, if you cannot discharge 160 one good fellow; and I tell you true, I think you do more than you can answer, to press a man within a year and a day of his marriage.

Marg. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done for such as you, to stand so stiffly against a poor young wife, considering her case, she is new-married; but let that pass. I pray, deal not roughly with her; her husband is a young man, and but newly ent’red; but let that pass. 171

Eyre. Away with your pishery-pashery, your pols and your edipols![2101] Peace, midriff; silence, Cicely Bumtrinket! Let your head speak. 175

Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon! Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? Captains, you will not release him? Well, let him go; he ’s a proper shot; let him vanish! 180 Peace, Jane, dry up thy tears, they ’ll make his powder dankish.[2102] Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant[2103] scoundrels. Prince Arthur’s Round-table—by the Lord of Ludgate—ne’er 185 fed such a tall,[2104] such a dapper swordman; by the life of Pharaoh, a brave resolute swordman! Peace, Jane! I say no more, mad knaves.

Hodge. Th’ art a gull, by my stirrup, if thou dost not go. I will not have thee strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels; prick thine enemies, Ralph. 205

[Pg 370] Eyre. Peace, you crack’d groats,[2108] you mustard tokens,[2109] disquiet not the brave soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph!

Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This fine hand, this white hand, these pretty fingers must spin, must card, must work; work, you bombast cotton-candle-quean; work for your living, 235 with a pox to you.—Hold thee, Ralph, here ’s five sixpences for thee; fight for the honour of the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoemakers, the courageous cordwainers, the flower of St. Martin’s, the mad knaves of Bedlam, Fleet 240 Street, Tower Street and Whitechapel; crack me the crowns of the French knaves; a pox on them, crack them; fight, by the Lord of Ludgate; fight, my fine boy!

Firk. Here, Ralph, here ’s three two-pences; 245 two carry into France, the third shall wash our souls at parting, for sorrow is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa mon cues.

Hodge. Ralph. I am heavy at parting; but here ’s a shilling for thee. God send[2110] thee to 250 cram thy slops[2111] with French crowns, and thy enemies’ bellies with bullets.

Drum sounds. Enter the Lord Mayor, the Earl of Lincoln, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, and Soldiers.

They pass over the stage; Ralph falls in amongst them; Firk and the rest cry “Farewell,” etc., and so exeunt.

ACT II

Scene I.[2113]

Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me, against[2114] I shall be Lady of the Harvest.

Sybil. None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors’ Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations. 25

Sybil. O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here ’a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair 30 of garters,—O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford House here, in Master Belly-mount’s chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, look’d at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not 35 to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion![2115] He pass’d by me as proud —Marry foh! are you grown humorous,[2116] thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.

Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamp crabs.[2117] He lookt upon me as sour as verjuice.[2118] Go thy ways, thought I, thou may’st be much 45 in my gaskins,[2119] but nothing in my nether-stocks.[2120] This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he ’s done to; but if I were as you, I ’d cry, “Go by, Jeronimo, go by!”[2121] 50

Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I see [Pg 371]him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper[2122] man; but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up,[2123] young mistress. 60

Sybil. Will I, quoth ’a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes, I ’ll go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I ’ll sweat in purple, mistress, for you; 70 I ’ll take anything that comes a’ God’s name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at ‘up tails all.’ I ’ll go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress.

Scene II.[2124]

Scene III.[2125]

Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels? They wallow in the fat brewiss[2127] of my bounty, and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed. Come out, you powder-beef[2128] queans! What, Nan! what, Madge Mumble-crust. 6 Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly-whores, and sweep me these kennels[2129] that the noisome stench offend not the noses of my neighbours. What, Firk, I say; what, Hodge! Open my 10 shop windows! What, Firk, I say!

Firk. O master, is ’t you that speak bandog[2130] and Bedlam[2131] this morning? I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the street so early. Have you drunk this morning that 15 your throat is so clear?

Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work! Wash thy face, and thou ’t be more blest.

Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat 20 it. Good master, send for a souse-wife,[2132] if you’ll have my face cleaner.

Eyre. Away, sloven! avaunt, scoundrel!—Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my fine foreman. 25

Hodge. O master, good-morrow; y’ are an early stirrer. Here ’s a fair morning.—Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept this hour. Here ’s a brave day towards.[2133]

Firk. Master, I am dry as dust to hear my fellow Roger talk of fair weather; let us pray for good leather, and let clowns and plough-boys and those that work in the fields pray 35 for brave days. We work in a dry shop; what care I if it rain?

Eyre. How now, Dame Margery, can you see to rise? Trip and go, call up the drabs, your maids. 40

Marg. See to rise? I hope ’t is time enough, ’t is early enough for any woman to be seen abroad. I marvel how many wives in Tower Street are up so soon. Gods me, ’t is not noon,—here ’s a yawling![2134] 45

Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace! Where ’s Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid? She has a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. Call the quean up; if my men want shoe-thread, I ’ll swinge her in a stirrup. 50

[Pg 372] Firk. Master, for my life, yonder’s a brother 59 of the gentle craft; if he bear not Saint Hugh’s bones,[2136] I ’ll forfeit my bones; he ’s some uplandish workman: hire him, good master, that I may learn some gibble-gabble; ’t will make us work the faster. 64

Eyre. Peace, Firk! A hard world! Let him pass, let him vanish; we have journeymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk!

Marg. Nay, nay, y’ are best follow your man’s counsel; you shall see what will come on ’t. We have not men enow, but we must entertain 70 every butter-box;[2137] but let that pass.

Hodge. Dame, ’fore God, if my master follow your counsel, he ’ll consume little beef. He shall be clad of men an he can catch them.

Hodge. ’Fore God, a proper man, and I warrant, a fine workman. Master, farewell; dame, adieu; if such a man as he cannot find work, Hodge is not for you.

Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, you must take a journey to seek a new journeyman; if Roger remove, Firk follows. If Saint Hugh’s bones shall not be set a-work, I may prick mine all in the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, master; good-bye, dame. 86

Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk foreman! Stay, Firk! Peace, pudding-broth! By the Lord of Ludgate, I love my men as my life. Peace, you gallimaufry![2138] Hodge, if he 90 want work, I ’ll hire him. One of you to him; stay,—he comes to us.

Firk. Nails,[2140] if I should speak after him without drinking, I should choke. And you, 95 friend Oake, are you of the gentle craft?

Firk. Den skomaker, quoth ’a! And hark you, skomaker, have you all your tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stopper, a good dresser, your 100 four sorts of awls, and your two balls of wax, your paring knife, your hand-and-thumb-leathers, and good St. Hugh’s bones to smooth up your work? 104

Lacy. Yaw, yaw; be niet vorveard. Ik hab all de dingen voour mack skooes groot and cleane.[2142]

Firk. Ha, ha! Good master, hire him; he ’ll make me laugh so that I shall work more in mirth than I can in earnest.

Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill in 110 the mystery[2143] of cordwainers?

Firk. Why, thus, man: [Imitating by gesture 114 a shoemaker at work.] Ich verste u niet, quoth ’a.

Firk. Yaw, yaw! He speaks yawing like a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with cheese-curds. Oh, he ’ll give a villanous pull at a 120 can of double-beer; but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must drink first, because we are the eldest journeymen.

Eyre. Give me thy hand; th’ art welcome.— Hodge, entertain him; Firk, bid him welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid your maids, your trullibubs,[2146] make ready my fine men’s breakfasts. To him, Hodge! 130

Hodge. Hans, th’ art welcome; use thyself friendly, for we are good fellows; if not, thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger than a giant.

Firk. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou Gargantua. 135 My master keeps no cowards, I tell thee.—Ho, boy, bring him an heel-block, here ’s a new journeyman.

Lacy. O, ich wersto you; ich moet een halve dossen cans betaelen; here, boy, nempt dis skilling, tap eens freelicke.[2147]141

Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away! Firk, scour thy throat; thou shalt wash it with Castilian liquor.

Come, my last of the fives, give me a can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; here, Firk; 146 drink, you mad Greeks, and work like true Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre, the shoemaker.—Here, Hans, and th’ art welcome.

Firk. Lo, dame, you would have lost a good fellow that will teach us to laugh. This 151 beer came hopping in well.

Eyre. Is ’t so. Dame Clapper-dudgeon?[2148] Is ’t seven a clock, and my men’s breakfast not ready? Trip and go, you sous’d conger,[2149] 156 away! Come, you mad hyperboreans; follow me, Hodge; follow me, Hans; come after, my fine Firk; to work, to work a while, and then to breakfast.

Firk. Soft! Yaw, yaw, good Hans, though 161 my master have no more wit but to call you afore me, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder journeyman.

Scene IV.[2150]

Boy. O yea; I saw him leap through a hedge, and then over a ditch, then at my lord mayor’s pale, over he skipt me, and in he went me, and “holla” the hunters cried, and “there,15 boy; there, boy!” But there he is, a’ mine honesty.

Ham. Boy. Godamercy. Cousin, let ’s away; I hope we shall find better sport to-day. 19

Scene V.[2153]

Sybil. Upon some, no. Forester? Go by; no, faith, mistress. The deer came running into the barn through the orchard and over the pale; I wot well, I lookt as pale as a new cheese to see him. But whip, says Goodman Pinclose,6 up with his flail, and our Nick with a prong, and down he fell, and they upon him, and I upon them. By my troth, we had such sport; and in the end we ended him; his throat we cut, flay’d him, unhorn’d him, and my11 lord mayor shall eat of him anon, when he comes.

Rose. Hark, hark, the hunters come; y’ are best take heed, They ’ll have a saying to you for this deed.15

ACT III

Scene I.[2157]

Skip. Ick sal yow wat seggen, Hans; dis skip dot comen from Candy, is all vol, by Got’s sacrament, van sugar, civet, almonds, cambrick, end alle dingen, towsand towsand ding. Nempt it, Hans, nempt it vor u meester. Daer be de bils5 van laden. Your meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen. Wat seggen yow, Hans?[2158]

Hans. Mine liever broder Firk, bringt Meester Eyre tot del signe un Swannekin; daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me. Wat seggen yow, broder Firk? Doot it, Hodge.[2159] Come, skipper.

Firk. Bring him, quoth you? Here ’s no14 knavery, to bring my master to buy a ship north the lading of two or three hundred thousand pounds. Alas, that’s nothing; a trifle, a bauble, Hodge.

Hodge. The truth is, Firk, that the merchant owner of the ship dares not shew his head,20 and therefore this skipper that deals for him, for the love he bears to Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargain in the commodities. He shall have a reasonable day of payment; he may sell24 the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer himself.

Firk. Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twenty porpentines as an earnest penny?

Hodge. Portuguese, thou wouldst say; here29 they be, Firk; hark, they jingle in my pocket like St. Mary Overy’s bells.

Firk. Mum, here comes my dame and my master. She ’ll scold, on my life, for loitering this Monday; but all ’s one, let them all say what they can, Monday ’s our holiday.35

Hodge. Master, I hope you ’ll not suffer my dame to take down your journeymen.40

Firk. If she take me down, I ’ll take her up? yea, and take her down too, a button-hole lower.

Eyre. Peace, Firk; not I, Hodge; by the life of Pharaoh, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every hair whereof I value at a45 king’s ransom, she shall not meddle with you.—Peace, you bombast-cotton-candle-quean; away, queen of clubs; quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firk; I ’ll firk you, if you do.50

Eyre. Let it pass, let it vanish away; peace! Am I not Simon Eyre? Are not these my54 brave men, brave shoemakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? Prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, as being the sole son of a shoemaker. Away, rubbish! vanish, melt; melt; like kitchen-stuff.59

Marg. Yea, yea, ’t is well; I must be call’d rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort[2160] of knaves.

Firk. Nay, dame, you shall not weep and wail in woe for me. Master, I ’ll stay no longer; here ’s an inventory of my shop-tools. Adieu, master; Hodge, farewell.65

Marg. I pray, let them go; there be moe maids than Mawkin, more men than Hodge, and more fools than Firk.70

Firk. Fools? Nails! if I tarry now, I would my guts might be turn’d to shoe-thread.

Hodge. And if I stay, I pray God I may be turn’d to a Turk, and set in Finsbury[2161] for boys to shoot at.—Come, Firk.75

Eyre. Stay, my fine knaves, you arms of my trade, you pillars of my profession. What, shall a tittle-tattle’s words make you forsake Simon Eyre?—Avaunt, kitchen-stuff! Rip, you brown-bread Tannikin; out of my sight! Move me not! Have not I ta’en you from selling81 tripes in Eastcheap, and set you in my shop, and made you hail-fellow with Simon Eyre, the shoemaker? And now do you deal thus84 with my journeymen? Look, you powder-beef-quean, on the face of Hodge, here ’s a face for a lord.

Eyre. Rip, you chitterling, avaunt! Boy, bid the tapster of the Boar’s Head fill me a dozen cans of beer for my journeymen.

Eyre. [in a low voice to the Boy.] An the95 knave fills any more than two, he pays for them. [Exit Boy. Aloud.]—A dozen cans of beer for my journeymen. [Re-enter Boy.] Here, you mad Mesopotamians, wash your livers99 with this liquor. Where be the odd ten?—No more, Madge, no more.—Well said.[2162] Drink and to work!—What work dost thou, Hodge? What work?

[Pg 375] Hodge. I am a making a pair of shoes for my lord mayor’s daughter, Mistress Rose.105

Eyre. Sybil? Fie, defile not thy fine work-manly fingers with the feet of kitchenstuff109 and basting-ladles. Ladies of the court, fine ladies, my lads, commit their feet to our apparelling; put gross work to Hans. Yark[2163] and seam, yark and seam!

Hodge. Well, master, all this is from the bias.[2164] Do you remember the ship my fellow Hans told you of? The skipper and he are both drinking at the Swan. Here be the Portuguese119 to give earnest. If you go through with it, you cannot choose but be a lord at least.

Firk. Tipple, dame? No, we have been bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag:[2165] can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of silk Cyprus, laden with sugar-candy.129

Eyre. Peace, Firk; silence, Tittle-tattle! Hodge, I’ll go through with it. Here’s a seal-ring, and I have sent for a guarded gown[2166] and a damask cassock. See where it comes; look here, Maggy; help me, Firk; apparel me, Hodge; silk and satin, you mad Philistines,135 silk and satin.

Firk. Ha, ha, my master will be as proud as a dog in a doublet, all in beaten[2167] damask and velvet.139

Eyre. Softly, Firk, for rearing[2168] of the nap, and wearing threadbare my garments. How dost thou like me, Firk? How do I look, my fine Hodge?

Hodge. Why, now you look like yourself, master. I warrant you, there ’s few in the146 city but will give you the wall,[2169] and come upon you with[2170] the right worshipful.

Firk. Nails, my master looks like a threadbare cloak new turn’d and drest. Lord, Lord,149 to see what good raiment doth! Dame, dame, are you not enamoured?

Marg. Fine? By my troth, sweetheart, very fine! By my troth, I never likt thee so well155 in my life, sweetheart: but let that pass. I warrant, there be many women in the city have not such handsome husbands, but only for their apparel; but let that pass too.159

Hans. Godden day, mester. Dis be de skipper dat heb de skip van marchandice; de commodity ben good; nempt it, master, nempt it.[2171]

Eyre. Godamercy, Hans; welcome, skipper. Where lies this ship of merchandise?164

Skip. De skip ben in revere; dor be van sugar, civet, almonds, cambrick, and a towsand, towsand tings, gotz sacrament; nempt it, mester: ye sal heb good copen.[2172]

Firk. To him, master! O sweet master!169 O sweet wares! Prunes, almonds, sugar-candy, carrot-roots, turnips, O brave fatting meat! Let not a man buy a nutmeg but yourself.

Eyre. Peace, Firk! Come, skipper, I’ll go aboard with you.—Hans, have you made him drink?175

Eyre. Come, Hans, follow me. Skipper, thou shalt have my countenance in the city.

Firk. Yaw heb veale gedrunck, quoth ’a. They may well be called butter-boxes, when180 they drink fat veal and thick beer too. But come, dame, I hope you’ll chide us no more.

Marg. No, faith, Firk; no, perdy,[2174] Hodge. I do feel honour creep upon me, and which is more, a certain rising in my flesh; but let that pass.186

Firk. Rising in your flesh do you feel, say you? Ay, you may be with child, but why should not my master feel a rising in his flesh, having a gown and a gold ring on? But you are such a shrew, you ’ll soon pull him down.191

Marg. Ha, ha! prithee, peace! Thou mak’st my worship laugh; but let that pass. Come, I’ll go in; Hodge, prithee, go before me; Firk, follow me.195

Scene II.[2175]

Scene III.[2177]

Scene IV.[2184]

Marg. I pray thee, run—do you hear?—run to Guildhall, and learn if my husband, Master5 Eyre, will take that worshipful vocation of Master Sheriff upon him. Hie thee, good Firk.

Firk. Take it? Well, I go; an he should not take it, Firk swears to forswear him. Yes, forsooth, I go to Guildhall.10

Firk. O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence; how like a new cart-wheel my dame speaks, and she looks like an old musty ale-bottle[2185]15 going to scalding.

Hodge. Ay, forsooth, dame—mistress, I should say, but the old term so sticks to the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.

Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger;25 dame is a fair name for any honest Christian; but let that pass. How dost thou, Hans?

Marg. Well, Hans and Roger, you see, God hath blest your master, and, perdy, if ever30 he comes to be Master Sheriff of London—as [Pg 378] we are all mortal—you shall see, I will have some odd thing or other in a corner for your: I will not be your back-friend;[2187] but let that pass. Hans, pray thee, tie my shoe.35

Marg. Roger, thou know’st the length of my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so I thank God, it is handsome enough; prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, cork, good Roger,40 wooden heel too.

Marg. Art thou acquainted with never a farthingale-maker, nor a French hood-maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! How shall45 I look in a hood, I wonder! Perdy, oddly I think.

Hodge. [Aside.] As a cat out of a pillory.— Very well, I warrant you, mistress.

Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and,50 Roger, canst thou tell where I may buy a good hair?

Marg. Thou art an ungracious wag: perdy,55 I mean a false hair for my periwig.

Hodge. Why, mistress, the next time I cut my beard, you shall have the shavings of it; but they are all true hairs.

Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this world’s calling is; perdy, but that it is one of the wonderful65 works of God, I would not deal with it.—Is not Firk come yet? Hans, be not so sad, let it pass and vanish, as my husband’s worship says.

Marg. Oh, fie upon it, Roger, perdy! These filthy tobacco-pipes are the most idle slavering baubles that ever I felt. Out upon it! God75 bless us, men look not like men that use them.

Hodge. What, fellow Ralph? Mistress, look here, Jane’s husband! Why, how now, lame? Hans, make much of him, he’s a brother of our trade, a good workman, and a tall[2191] soldier.80

Marg. Perdy, I knew him not. How dost thou, good Ralph? I am glad to see thee well.

Marg. Trust me, I am sorry, Ralph, to see thee impotent. Lord, how the wars have made him sunburnt! The left leg is not well; ’t was a fair gift of God the infirmity took not hold a little higher, considering thou camest from90 France; but let that pass.

Hodge. Limbs? Hast thou not hands, man? Thou shalt never see a shoemaker want bread, though he have but three fingers on a hand.105

Marg. O Ralph, your wife,—perdy, we know not what ’s become of her. She was here a while, and because she was married, grew more stately than became her; I checkt her, and110 so forth; away she flung, never returned, nor said bye nor bah; and, Ralph, you know, “ka me, ka thee.”[2192] And, so as I tell ye——Roger, is not Firk come yet?

Marg. And so, indeed, we heard not of her, but I hear she lives in London; but let that pass. If she had wanted, she might have opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men; I am sure, there’s not any of them,120 perdy, but would have done her good to his power. Hans, look if Firk be come.

Marg. And so, as I said—but, Ralph, why dost thou weep? Thou knowest that naked125 we came out of our mother’s womb, and naked we must return; and, therefore, thank God for all things.

Hodge. No, faith, Jane is a stranger here; but, Ralph, pull up a good heart. I know thou130 hast one. Thy wife, man, is in London; one told me, he saw her a while ago very brave[2194] and neat; we’ll ferret her out, an London hold her.

Marg. Alas, poor soul, he’s overcome135 with sorrow; he does but as I do, weep for the loss of any good thing. But, Ralph, get thee in, call for some meat and drink, thou shalt find me worshipful towards thee.

Firk. Run, good Hans! O Hodge, O mistress! Hodge, heave up thine ears; mistress, smug up[2195] your looks; on with your best apparel; my master is chosen, my master is called, nay,145 condemn’d by the cry of the country to be sheriff of the city for this famous year now to come. And, time now being, a great many men [Pg 379] in black gowns were askt for their voices and their hands, and my master had all their150 fists about his ears presently, and they cried ’Ay, ay, ay, ay,’—and so I came away—

Hodge. Did not I tell you, mistress? Now I may boldly say: Good-morrow to your worship.

Marg. Good-morrow, good Roger. I thank160 you, my good people all.—Firk, hold up thy hand: here ’s a three-penny piece for thy tidings.

Firk. ’T is but three-half-pence, I think. Yes, ’t is three-pence, I smell the rose.[2197]165

Firk. ’T is her worship speaks so, and not she. No, faith, mistress, speak me in the old key: “To it, Firk;” “there, good Firk;”170 “ply your business, Hodge;” “Hodge, with a full mouth;” “I’ll fill your bellies with good cheer, till they cry twang.”

Marg. Welcome home, Master Shrieve; I pray God continue you in health and wealth.

Eyre. See here, my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre. I shall make thee a lady; here’s a French hood for thee; on with180 it, on with it! dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of mutton,[2199] to make thee look lovely. Where be my fine men? Roger, I’ll make over my shop and tools to thee; Firk, thou shalt be the foreman; Hans, thou shalt have185 an hundred for twenty.[2200] Be as mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, and you shall live to be sheriffs of London.—How dost thou like me, Margery? Prince am I none, yet189 am I princely born. Firk, Hodge, and Hans!

Eyre. Worship and honour, you Babylonian knaves, for the gentle craft. But I forgot myself, I am bidden by my lord mayor to dinner195 to Old Ford; he’s gone before. I must after. Come, Madge, on with your trinkets! Now, my true Trojans, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odd cratchets, some morris, or such like, for the200 honour of the gentlemen shoemakers. Meet me at Old Ford, you know my mind. Come, Madge, away. Shut up the shop, knaves, and make holiday.

Scene V.[2201]

Enter the Lord Mayor, [Rose,] Eyre, his wife [Margery] in a French hood, Sybil, and other Servants.

Eyre. Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity! When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet gown, I’ll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a justice of peace; but now I am here at Old Ford, at my good lord mayor’s house, let it15 go by, vanish, Maggy, I’ll be merry; away with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gulleries. What, honey? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. What says my lord mayor?

L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than20 a thousand pound, I had an heart but half so light as yours.

Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord? A pound of care pays not a dram of debt. Hum, let’s be merry, whiles we are young; old age,25 sack and sugar will steal upon us, ere we be aware.

Eyre. Be rul’d, sweet Rose: th’ art ripe for a man. Marry not with a boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy60 cheeks. A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery: those silken fellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord65 mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack. What, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world.71

Eyre. O my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your honour are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily.76

Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, Firk, and other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a little dancing, the Lord Mayor speaks.

Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim Eyre adds another; then cheerily, Firk; tickle it, Hans, and all for the honour of shoemakers.

Sybil. What, mistress, never fear; I dare venture my maidenhead to nothing, and that ’s great odds, that Hans the Dutchman, when we come to London, shall not only see and speak with you, but in spite of all your father’s policies steal you away and marry you. Will not this please you?111

Sybil. Away, then, and follow your father to London, lest your absence cause him to suspect something:115 To-morrow, if my counsel be obey’d, I’ll bind you prentice to the gentle trade.

ACT IV

Scene I.[2204]

Jane in a Seamster’s shop, working; enter Master Hammon, muffled: he stands aloof.

Scene II.[2206]

Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your work to-day, we loit’red yesterday; to it pell-mell, that we may live to be lord mayors, or aldermen at least.5

Hodge. Well said, i’ faith! How say’st thou, Hans, doth not Firk tickle it?

Firk. Not so neither, my organ-pipe10 squeaks this morning for want of liquoring. Hey, down a down, derry!

Hans. Forward, Firk, tow best un jolly youngster. Hort, I, mester, ic bid yo, cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jeffre’s boots.[2207]15

Firk. Pray, now you are in the cutting vein, cut me out a pair of counterfeits,[2208] or else20 my work will not pass current; hey, down a down!

Ralph. I am in hand with them; she gave charge that none but I should do them for her.

Firk. Thou do for her? Then ’t will be a29 lame doing, and that she loves not. Ralph, thou might’st have sent her to me, in faith, I would have yarked and firked your Priscilla. Hey, down a down, derry. This gear will not hold.

Firk. How, merry! Why, our buttocks went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well, Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought all meal of that nature, I would eat nothing but bagpuddings.39

Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or very sick.

Sybil. Godamercy, sweet Firk; good lord, Hodge, what a delicious shop you have got! You tickle it, i’ faith.54

Firk. Nay, by the mass, we had tickling cheer, Sybil; and how the plague dost thou59 and Mistress Rose and my lord mayor? I put the women in first.

Sybil. Well, Godamercy; but God’s me, I forget myself, where ’s Hans the Fleming?

Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young mistress, to pull on her shoes you made last.

Hodge. Is ’t so? Why, then leave work, Ralph. To breakfast! Boy, look to the tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk.

Scene III.[2212]

Serv. Let me see now, the sign of the Last in Tower Street. Mass, yonder ’s the house. What, haw! Who ’s within?

Serv. Marry, I would have a pair of shoes made for a gentlewoman against to-morrow morning. What, can you do them?

Serv. Why you must make them in all parts like this shoe; but, at any hand, fail not to do them, for the gentlewoman is to be married very early in the morning.

Ralph. How? by this shoe must it be made? By this? Are you sure, sir, by this?16

Serv. How, by this? Am I sure, by this? Art thou in thy wits? I tell thee, I must have a pair of shoes dost thou mark me? A pair of shoes, two shoes, made by this very shoe, this same20 shoe, against to-morrow morning by four a clock. Dost understand me? Canst thou do ’t?

Ralph. Yes, sir, yes—I—I—I can do ’t. By this shoe, you say? I should know this shoe. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do ’t. Four25 a clock, well. Whither shall I bring them?

Serv. To the sign of the Golden Ball in Watling Street; enquire for one Master Hammon, a gentleman, my master.

Serv. I say, Master Hammon at the Golden Ball; he ’s the bridegroom, and those shoes are for his bride.

Ralph. They shall be done by this shoe. Well, well. Master Hammon at the Golden Shoe—I would say, the Golden Ball; very well, very36 well. But I pray you, sir, where must Master Hammon be married?

Serv. At Saint Faith’s Church, under Paul’s. But what ’s that to thee? Prithee, dispatch those shoes, and so farewell. 41

Firk. ’Snails,[2213] Ralph, thou hast lost thy part of three pots, a countryman of mine gave me to breakfast.50

Firk. No, by my troth; neither doth that56 know me! I have no acquaintance with it, ’t is a mere stranger to me.

Firk. Ha, ha! Old shoe, that wert new! How a murrain came this ague-fit of foolishness65 upon thee?

Firk. Thou lie with a woman to build nothing but Cripplegates! Well, God sends fools fortune, and it may be, he may light upon85 his matrimony by such a device; for wedding and hanging goes by destiny.

Scene IV.[2214]

Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mistress?20 Shift for yourself, your father is at hand! He ’s coming, he ’s coming! Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mistress! For God’s sake, shift for yourselves!

Hans. Forware, metresse, ’t is un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.[2215]

Hans. Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well; forware, ’t is un good skoo, ’t is gimait van neitz leither: se euer, mine here.[2216]

Scene V.[2218]

Sybil. I know not, forsooth; she’s fled out of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace!

Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoemaker,55 lusty Roger’s chief lusty journeyman, and I have come hither to take up the pretty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, and thus hoping [Pg 385] your worship is in as good health, as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk.65

Firk. ’T is happy the knave is put before the shoemaker, or else I would not have vouchsafed70 to come back to you. I am moved, for I stir.

Firk. Then ’t is by the gentle craft, and75 to call one knave gently, is no harm. Sit your worship merry! Syb, your young mistress—I ’ll so bob[2220] them, now my Master Eyre is lord mayor of London.

Firk. I am glad to see your worship so merry. I have no maw to this gear, no stomach as yet to a red petticoat.

Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak it in secret: Mistress Rose and he are by this time—no, not so, but shortly are to come over one another with “Can you dance the shaking of the95 sheets?” It is that Hans—[Aside.] I’ll so gull[2220] these diggers![2221]

Firk. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I care not105 for seeing, I love feeling; let me feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; and then Firk is your man—[Aside.] in a new pair of stretchers.[2223]

Firk. No point. Shall I betray my brother? No! Shall I prove Judas to Hans? No! Shall I cry treason to my corporation? No, I shall be firkt and yerkt then. But give me your115 angel; your angel shall tell you.

Firk. Pitchers have ears, and maids have wide mouths; but for Hans Prauns, upon my word, to-morrow morning he and young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to tan leather withal.125

Firk. Am I sure that Paul’s steeple is a handful higher than London Stone,[2224] or that the Pissing-Conduit[2225] leaks nothing but pure129 Mother Bunch?[2226] Am I sure I am lusty Firk? God’s nails, do you think I am so base to gull you?

Firk. I never go to church, but I know the name of it; it is a swearing church—stay a while, ’t is—ay, by the mass, no, no,—’t is—ay, by my troth, no, nor that; ’t is—ay, by my faith, that, that, ’t is, ay, by my Faith’s Church under Paul’s Cross. There they shall140 be knit like a pair of stockings in matrimony; there they’ll be inconie.[2227]

Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to their hey-pass and repass,[2228] pindy-pandy, which hand will you have, very early.

Firk. Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, ha, here ’s no craft in the gentle craft. I came170 hither of purpose with shoes to Sir Roger’s worship, whilst Rose, his daughter, be cony-catcht by Hans. Soft now; these two gulls will be at Saint Faith’s Church to-morrow174 morning, to take Master Bridegroom and Mistress Bride napping, and they, in the mean [Pg 386] time, shall chop up the matter at the Savoy. But the best sport is, Sir Roger Oateley will find my fellow lame Ralph’s wife going to179 marry a gentleman, and then he’ll stop her instead of his daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to do? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoemakers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy Lane, to cozen[2230] my gentleman of lame Ralph’s wife, that’s true.185

ACT V

Scene I. [2231]

Hans. This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable; therefore, if you——5

Eyre. Away with these ifs and ans, Hans, and these et caeteras! By mine honour, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor of London? Fear nothing,10 Rose: let them all say what they can; dainty, come thou to me—laughest thou?

Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think15 you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah! Fie, I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou had’st never cover’d thy Saracen’s head with this French flap, nor20 loaden thy bum with this farthingale, (’t is trash, trumpery, vanity); Simon Eyre had never walk’d in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine journeyman’s Portuguese.—And shall I leave him? No! Prince am I25 none, yet bear a princely mind.

Eyre. Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take two or three of my pie-crust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at30 Simon Eyre’s heels; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my delicate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy; see them linkt, countenance the marriage; and when it is done, cling,35 cling together, you Hamborow turtle-doves. I’ll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou shalt eat minc’d-pies and marchpane.[2232] Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!

Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate, it’s a mad life to be a lord mayor; it’s a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honour of Saint50 Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too,55 they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I’ll do’t, I’ll do’t, by the life60 of Pharaoh; by this beard, Sim Eyre will be no flincher. Besides, I have procur’d that upon every Shrove-Tuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads shall clap up their shop windows, and away.65 This is the day, and this day they shall do’t, they shall do’t.

Scene II. [2233]

Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and five or six Shoemakers, all with cudgels or such weapons.

Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong: were Hammon a king5 of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure ’t is thy wife?

Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I strokt on her shoes,[2234] I lookt upon10 her, and she upon me, and sighed, askt me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said she—tears standing in her eyes—and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this piece of gold. I took it; my lame leg and15 my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she’s mine.

Firk. Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold! She’s thine own, ’t is thy wife, and she loves thee; for I’ll stand to’t,20 there’s no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks better of him than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London! Is not our old master Eyre,25 lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.

Firk. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how dost thou? Good Lord, how the world is changed with you! God be thanked!

Hodge. Hold, my hearts! Touch her, Hammon? Yea, and more than that: we ’ll carry her away with us. My masters and gentlemen, never draw your bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the back, men every inch of them, 46 all spirit.

Hodge. I ’ll show you.—Jane, dost thou 50 know this man? ’T is Ralph, I can tell thee; nay, ’t is he in faith, though he be lam’d by the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the neck and kiss him.

Ham. Pardon me, dear love, for being misled. [To Ralph.] ’T was rumour’d here in London, thou wert dead.

Ham. Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no wrong. Will my Jane leave me thus, and break her faith?

Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my counsel: set the wench in the midst, and let her choose her man, and let her be his woman.

Hodge. Not a rag, Jane! The law ’s on our side: he that sows in another man’s ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph; follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point[2236] from thee. 85

Firk. Stand to that, Ralph; the appurtenances are thine own. Hammon, look not at her!

Firk. Blue coat, be quiet, we ’ll give you a new livery else; we ’ll make Shrove Tuesday Saint George’s Day for you. Look not, Hammon, leer not! I ’ll firk you! For thy head now, one glance, one sheep’s eye, anything, at her! Touch not a rag, lest I and my brethren beat you to clouts. 96

Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thy gold, choke with it! Were I not lame, I would make, thee eat thy words. 110

Firk. [to the Serving-man.] Touch the gold creature, if you dare! Y’ are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let ’s home, my hearts. 125

[Pg 388] Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.

Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder ’s the bride and bridegroom you look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar by your authority men from women, are you?

Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh! My fellow Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all my knavery.

Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope you cannot enforce my wife from me. Where ’s Hammon?

Ralph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you that lay hands on her first, I ’ll lay my crutch ’cross his pate.

Ralph. Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane. Look here else; do you know her now?

Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft.

Firk. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a woman’s quarrel, I warrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too. 195

Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Farewell, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had stay’d, I204 would have so lamb’d[2238] them with flouts! O heart, my codpiece-point is ready to fly in pieces every time I think upon Mistress Rose. But let that pass, as my lady mayoress says.

Hodge. This matter is answer’d. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my fine210 shoemakers, let ’s to our master’s the new lord mayor, and there swagger this Shrove Tuesday. I ’ll promise you wine enough, for Madge keeps the cellar.

Firk. And I ’ll promise you meat enough, for simp’ring Susan keeps the larder. I ’ll lead you to victuals, my brave soldiers; follow your captain. O brave! Hark, hark! Bell rings. 219

Firk. Oh brave! Oh sweet bell! O delicate pancakes! Open the doors, my hearts, and shut up the windows! keep in the house, let out224 the pancakes! Oh rare, my hearts! Let ’s march together for the honour of Saint Hugh to the great new hall[2240] in Gracious Street corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built.

Ralph. O the crew of good fellows that will dine at my lord mayor’s cost to-day! 230

Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a most brave man. How shall prentices be bound to pray for him and the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers! Let ’s feed and be fat with my lord’s bounty. 235

Firk. O musical bell, still! O Hodge, O my brethren! There ’s cheer for the heavens: venison-pasties walk up and down piping hot, like sergeants; beef and brewess[2241] comes marching239 [Pg 389] in dry-vats,[2242] fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheel-barrows; hens and oranges hopping in porters’-basket, collops and eggs in scuttles,[2243] and tarts and custards comes quavering in in malt-shovels.

1 Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why? The lord249 mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to breakfast this morning.

All. Oh brave shoemakers, oh brave lord of incomprehensible good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings.254

Firk. Nay, more, my hearts! Every Shrove-Tuesday is our year of jubilee; and when the pancake-bell rings, we are as free as my lord mayor; we may shut up our shops, and make holiday; I’ll have it call’d Saint Hugh’s Holiday.260

Firk. O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft! March fair, my hearts! Oh rare!265

Scene III.[2244]

Scene IV.[2247]

Enter Eyre, Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and other Shoemakers, all with napkins on their shoulders.

Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers? Let them all walk and wait upon my brethren; for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the5 livery of my company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign.

Eyre. No more, Firk; come, lively! Let your fellow-prentices want no cheer; let wine be10 plentiful as beer, and beer as water. Hang these penny-pinching fathers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb-skins. Rip, knaves, avaunt! Look to my guests!

Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits’ end15 for room; those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them.

Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, Ralph! Frisk20 about, my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathom-healths to the honour of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk?

Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have taken25 their liquor standing so long that they can stand no longer; but for meat, they would eat it an they had it.

Eyre. Want they meat? Where’s this swag-belly, this greasy kitchen stuff cook? Call30 the varlet to me! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to35 eat them. Want meat? Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge!

Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firk; he means, their bellies want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much, they40 can eat nothing.

[Pg 390] Marg. The king’s most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me for thy honour; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass.65

Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren; look to my guests, the prentices. Yet stay a little! How now, Hans? How looks my little Rose?69

Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my honest journeyman; look cheerily! I ’ll fall upon 75 both my knees, till they be as hard as horn, but I ’ll get thy pardon.

Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot![2249] hence, you hopper-arse! hence, you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled carbonado![2250] avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; 85 meddle with your partlets[2251] and your pishery-pashery, your flewes[2252] and your whirligigs; go, rub,[2253] out of mine alley! Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an he were here, and shall I melt, 90 shall I droop before my sovereign? No, come, my Lady Madgy! Follow me, Hans! About your business, my frolic free-booters! Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London. 95

Scene V.[2254]

A long flourish, or two. Enter the King, Nobles, Eyre, his Wife [Margery], Lacy, Rose. Lacy and Rose kneel.

Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, shall set your sweet majesty’s image cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this honour you have done poor Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace, pardon10 my rude behaviour; I am a handicraftsman, yet my heart is without craft; I would be sorry at my soul, that my boldness should offend my king.

Eyre. Say’st thou me so, my sweet Dioclesian? Then, hump! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the Lord of Ludgate, my liege, I ’ll be as merry as a pie.[2255]21

Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a younker; you see not a white hair on my head, not a gray in this beard. Every hair, I assure25 thy majesty, that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon’s ransom, Tamar Cham’s beard was a rubbing brush to ’t: yet I ’ll shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls with it, to please my bully king.30

Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry hump! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danc’d the shaking of the sheets35 with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy nobles,40 it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry hump! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born.

Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid!49 Where be my officers? I ’ll spend my soul, ers my king feel harm.

Eyre. O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacy, and all these favours which you have shown to134 me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should.

[Pg 392] Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh.160

Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! I ’ll do ’t; I warrant you. They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them165 all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week.171

Eyre. In the name of these my poor brethren shoemakers, I most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more.180

Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet presence.184

ACT I.

Scene I.[2260]

Enter at one door a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan, Castruchio, Sinezi, Pioratto, Fluello, and others. At another door enter Hippolito, in discontented appearance; and Matheo, a Gentleman, his friend, labouring to hold him back.

Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.] ’Sblood, the jest were now, if, 62 having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel.[2264] I must humour his lordship.—My Lord Hippolito, 66 is it in your stomach to go to dinner?

Hip. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see how my love looks.

Mat. How your love looks? Worse than a scare-crow. Wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fall for a ducat. 75

Mat. Pray, do so, leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but 80 twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vext thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards. You’ll bleed three pottles of Alicant,[2265] by 86 this light, if you follow ’em, and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up like a baby in swaddling clouts. 90

Mat. Yea marry, this is an easy question: why to-day is—let me see—Thursday.

Mat. Here’s a coil[2266] for a dead commodity. ’Sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.

Mat. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well, and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning.

Mat. O yes, my lord. So soon? Why, I ha’ known them that at dinner have been as 106 well, and had so much health, that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead—drunk.

Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and, like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.

Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad; but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench. 140

Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty,[2270] in your belly, why so jig-makers[2271] and [Pg 395] chroniclers shall pick something out of you;151 but an I smell not you and a bawdy house out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding. I ’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place aforenamed.

[Scene II.][2272]

Enter Fustigo in some fantastic Sea-suit at one door, a Porter meets him at another.

Fus. There ’s for thy pains [gives money]. Godamercy, if I ever stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger,[2273] porter, thou5 shalt earn my money before any clarissimo[2274] in Milan; yet, so God sa’[2275] me, she ’s mine own sister, body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman. Farewell; I ’ll ponder till she come. Thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman. I10 assure thee.

Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into15 a true[2276] house?

Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kickt up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage; marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There ’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [gives30 money]; farewell, honest porter.

Fus. Not so, neither, good porter. God’s lid, yonder she comes. Sister Viola, I am glad to35 see you stirring: it ’s news to have me here, is ’t not, sister?

Vio. Yes, trust me. I wond’red who should be so bold to send for me. You ’re welcome to Milan, brother.

Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married41 to a very rich chuff,[2278] and I was very sorry for it, that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do all our friends?46

Vio. Very well. You ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats.

Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reapt two hundred ducats51 if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come. By this hand, I ’ll discharge at my day, by this hand.55

Vio. Well, well, you shall have them. Put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.61

Fus. I had not sail’d a league in that great66 fishpond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.

Fus. Nay by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire71 once into me.

Vio. Very true, a grave citizen; I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband, but here ’s the spite, he has not all things belonging to a man.81

Fus. God’s my life, he ’s a very mandrake,[2279] or else (God bless us) one a’ these whiblins,[2280] and that ’s worse, and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.86

Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother; I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man. I am sure my husband is a man in print,[2281] for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him.91

Fus. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been mov’d, and mov’d again, for I ’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reel’d like a Dutchman.

Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him96 a wrinkle, no crabbed language make his countenance sour, the stubbornness of no servant shake him; he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician100 will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets,[2282] and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands. Brother, mine can by no thunder turn him106 into a sharpness.

Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately: but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; [Pg 396] nay verily I do long.

Fus. Then you ’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens; nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else. I ha’ read Albertus116 Magnus, and Aristotle’s Emblems.

Vio. You ’re wide a’ th’ bow hand[2283] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward. I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent, the bristling121 quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me. I shall be leaner than the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.[2284]125

Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! He ’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald[2285] hair. No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret.

Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s Street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave[2286] man: instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your140 military scarf hang about your neck.

Vio. O, by any means, to show your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb.145 To be brief, you must be in all points a most terribly wide-mouth’d swaggerer.

Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings,150 jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret.

Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among freshwater soldiers,[2287] call me your love, your ingle,[2288] your cousin, or so; but sister at no160 hand.

Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that ’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their mad-caps that man[2289] ’em to the garden; to call you one a’ mine aunts,’[2290] sister,165 were as good as call you arrant whore; no, no, let me alone to cousin you rarely.

Vio. H ’as heard I have a brother, but never saw him, therefore put on a good face.

Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing, rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice withal; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.174

Fus. By this welkin that here roars I will, or else let me never know what a secret is: why, sister, do you think I ’ll cony-catch[2291] you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.[2292]180

[Scene III.][2293]

[Scene IV.][2302]

Cas. Signor Pioratto, Signor Fluello, shall ’s be merry? Shall ’s play the wags now?

Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent5 mirth.

Pio. Let ’s ha ’t, let ’s ha ’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie?

Cas. At Signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man. They10 say his blood is immoveable, that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman.

Cas. To conclude, the report goes, he ’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror20 [Pg 398] of patience, as angry, as vext, and as mad as an English cuckold.

Cas. Let me alone, I have a trick, a conceit,25 a thing, a device will sting him, i’ faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in ’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern token.[2303]

Pio. Thou stir him? Thou move him? Thou anger him? Alas, I know his approved temper.30 Thou vex him? Why he has a patience above man’s injuries: thou may’st sooner raise a spleen in an angel, than rough humour in him. Why, I ’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully temper’d Signor Candido upon a time35 invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords, of curious taste, and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,[2304] to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trencher-men. She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try40 the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnisht, not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained45 the lords, and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude, they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gull’d,[2305] and their teeth deluded, and,50 if anger could have seiz’d a man, there was matter enough i’ faith to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.

Flu. Ay, I ’ll swear for ’t. ’Sfoot, had it55 been my case, I should ha’ play’d mad tricks with my wife and family. First, I would ha’ spitted the men, stew’d the maids, and bak’d the mistress, and so served them in.

Cas. ’Sblood, Signor Pioratto, you that disparage my conceit, I ’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on ’t, that it moves him, frets65 him, and galls him.

Pio. Done, ’t is a lay,[2306] join golls[2307] on ’t: witness Signor Fluello.

[Scene V.][2308]

Vio. Come, you put up your wares in good order here, do you not, think you? One piece cast this way, another that way! You had need have a patient master indeed.4

Vio. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or I could be a note more angry, for two patient folks in a house spoil all the servants that ever shall come under them.10

Geo. Faith, signor, he ’s a little negotiated,[2311] he ’ll appear presently.21

Geo. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the piece. I can fit you gentlemen25 with fine calicoes too for doublets, the only sweet fashion now, most delicate and courtly, a meek gentle calico, cut upon two double affable taffetas,—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable!30

Geo. Ay, and the purest she that ever you35 finger’d since you were a gentleman. Look how even she is, look how clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all.

Geo. How? Is she rough? But if you bid[2312] pox on ’t, sir, ’t will take away the roughness presently.

Geo. Look you, gentlemen, here ’s another. Compare them I pray, compara Virgilium cum Homero, compare virgins with harlots.

Geo. You may see further for your mind, but trust me, you shall not find better for your body.

Geo. The gentlemen find fault with thisp lawn, fall out with it, and without a cause too.

Cas. Of lawn? Ay, of lawn, a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost not hear? A whole penn’orth, are you deaf? 86

Vio. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen, you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a kind gull[2314] on, besides my husband. 115

Geo. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating companions.[2316] 124

Cand. Look you, gentlemen, there ’s your ware; I thank you, I have your money here; pray know my shop, pray let me have your custom.

Vio. Why fool! why husband! why madman! I hope you will not let ’em sneak away so with a silver and gilt beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue and cry after them.

Vio. O you ’re a goodly patient woodcock,[2321] are you not now? See what your patience comes to: every one saddles you, and rides you; 220 you ’ll be shortly the common stone-horse[2322] of Milan: a woman ’s well holpt up with such a meacock.[2323] I had rather have a husband that would swaddle[2324] me thrice a day, than such a one, that will be gull’d twice in half-an-hour. 225 Oh, I could burn all the wares in my shop for anger.

Geo. The constable, sir, let ’em come along with me, because[2325] there should be no wond’ring: he stays at door.

[ACT II]

[Scene I.][2327]

Enter Roger with a stool, cushion, looking-glass and chafing-dish; those being set down, he pulls out of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and two boxes, one with white, another red painting: he places all things in order, and a candle by them, singing with the ends of old ballads as he does it. At last Bellafront, as he rubs his cheek with the colours, whistles within.

Rog. About you, forsooth; I ’m drawing up a hole in your white silk stocking.5

Rog. Yes, forsooth: your boxes of complexion are here, I think: yes, ’t is here. Here ’s your two complexions,—[Aside.] and if I had all10 the four complexions, I should ne’er set a good face upon ’t. Some men I see, are born under hard-favoured planets as well as women. Zounds, I look worse now than I did before! and it makes her face glister most damnably.15 There ’s knavery in daubing, I hold my life; or else this is only female pomatum.

Enter Bellafront not full ready,[2328] without a gown; she sits down; with her bodkin[2329] curls hair; and colours her lips.

Rog. Your ruff, your poker, are engend’ring together upon the cupboard of the court, or21 the court cupboard.[2331]

Rog. Would the pox were in your fingers,25 unless you could leave flinging! Catch.

Rog. If you do I know who shall smart for ’t. Troth, mistress, what do I look like now?

Rog. I may thank you for that: in faith, I look like an old proverb, “Hold the candle before the devil.”

Bell. Ud’s life, I ’ll stick my knife in your guts an you prate to me so!—What?

Bell. So, poke my ruff now; my gown, my gown! Have I my fall?[2333] Where ’s my fall, Roger?

Bell. And all these baubles lying thus? Away with it quickly.—Ay, ay, knock, and be damn’d, whosoever you be!—So: give the fresh salmon line now: let him come ashore,75 [Exit Roger.] He shall serve for my breakfast, though he go against my stomach.

[Pg 402] Pio. Save thee, little marmoset: how dost thou, good, pretty rogue?81

Rog. You shall, signor, for we that live here in this vale of misery are as dark as hell.85

Rog. Hippocras,[2337] sir, for my mistress, if I fetch it, is most dear to her.

Rog. Right sir, here ’s three shillings and sixpence for a pottle[2339] and a manchet.[2340]

Bell. Faugh, not I, makes your breath stink like the piss of a fox. Acquaintance, where supt you last night?

Cas. At a place, sweet acquaintance, where your health danc’d the canaries,[2342] i’ faith: you should ha’ been there.115

Bell. I there among your punks![2343] Marry, faugh, hang ’em; I scorn ’t. Will you never leave sucking of eggs in other folk’s hens’ nests?119

Cas. Why, in good troth, if you ’ll trust me, acquaintance, there was not one hen at the board; ask Fluello.

Flu. And the knight, Sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his fast with thee.129

Bell. With me? I ’ll choke him then, hang him, molecatcher! It ’s the dreaming’st snotty-nose.

Bell. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted knights, I cannot abide that he should touch me.

Bell. Hang him, he ’ll not live to be so honest, nor to the credit to have scabs about him;140 his betters have ’em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse knight-hood, because he ’s made like an alderman’s night-gown, fac’d all with cony[2344] before, and within nothing but fox. This sweet Oliver will eat mutton[2345] till he145 be ready to burst, but the lean-jaw’d slave will not pay for the scraping of his trencher.

Pio. Plague him; set him beneath the salt, and let him not touch a bit, till every one has had his full cut.150

Flu. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came in to us too; marry ’t was in our cheese, for he had been to borrow money for his lord, of a citizen.154

Bell. Nay, God ’s my pity, what an ass is that citizen to lend money to a lord!

Enter Matheo and Hippolito; Hippolito saluting the company, as a stranger, walks off.[2346] Roger comes in sadly behind them, with a pottle pot, and stands aloof off.

Mat. Save you, gallants. Signor Fluello, exceedingly well met, as I may say.160

Bell. Ee’n as my little pretty servant; sees three court dishes before her, and not one good bit in them:—How now? Why the devil stand’st thou so? Art in a trance?

Rog. Forsooth, ’t is fill’d out already: all the wine that the signors have bestow’d upon you is cast away; a porter ran a little[2347] at me, and so fac’d me down that I had not a drop.174

Bell. I ’m accurst to let such a withered artichoke-faced rascal grow under my nose. Now you look like an old he-cat, going to the gallows. I ’ll be hang’d if he ha’ not put up the money to cony-catch[2348] us all.179

Bell. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall ha’ the mother[2349] presently, I ’m so vext at this horse-plum.[2350]191

Cas. Here Roger, fetch more. [Gives money.] A mischance, i’ faith, acquaintance.195

Bell. Spill that too. [Exit Roger.] What gentleman is that, servant? Your friend?201

Mat. Gods so; a stool, a stool! If you love me mistress, entertain this gentleman respectively,[2352] and bid him welcome.

Flu. Count Hippolito, is’t not? Cry you mercy, signor; you walk here all this while, and we not heard you! Let me bestow a stool upon you, beseech you; you are a stranger here, we know the fashions a’ th’ house.211

Flu. You have abandoned the Court, I see, my lord, since the death of your mistress. Well,215 she was a delicate piece.—Beseech you, sweet, come let us serve under the colours of your acquaintance still for all that.—Please you to meet here at [the] lodging of my coz, I shall bestow a banquet upon you.220

Hip. I never can deserve this kindness, sir. What may this lady be, whom you call coz?

Flu. Faith, sir, a poor gentlewoman, of passing good carriage; one that has some suits in law, and lies here in an attorney’s house.225

Flu. Ha, as all your punks are, a captain’s wife, or so. Never saw her before, my lord?

Flu. By gad, when you know her as we do, you’ll swear she is the prettiest, kindest, sweetest, most bewitching honest ape under the pole. A skin, your satin is not more soft, nor lawn whiter.234

Mat. Thou shalt ha’, i’ faith, mistress.—How now, signors? What, whispering? Did not I lay a wager I should take you, within seven days, in a house of vanity?

Hip. Well, for such a mistress; better, if your mistress be not your master.—I must break manners, gentlemen; fare you well.

Mat. He ’s so malcontent! Sirrah[2354] Bellafront, and you be honest gallants, let’s sup together, and have the count with us:—thou shalt275 sit at the upper end, punk.[2355]

Bell. Prithee, tell me; a buss,[2357] and tell290 me. I warrant he’s an honest fellow, if he take on thus for a wench. Good rogue, who?

Mat. By th’ Lord I will not, must not, faith, mistress. Is’t a match, sirs? this night, at th’ Antelope: ay, for there ’s best wine, and good boys.296

Mat. You’re the waspishest ape. Roger, put your mistress in mind to sup with us on305 Friday next. You’re best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your waistcoat,[2358] and the linings of your kirtle outward, like every common hackney[2359] that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knight’s lodging.310

Rog. Bastard wine,[2360] for if it had been truly begotten, it would not ha’ been asham’d to come in. Here ’s six shillings to pay for nursing [Pg 404] the bastard.

Bell. A company of rooks![2361] O good sweet Roger, run to the poulter’s, and buy me some fine larks!321

[ACT III]

Scene [I.]

Enter Candido, his wife [Viola], George, and two Prentices in the shop: Fustigo enters, walking by.

Geo. See, gentlemen, what you lack; a fine holland, a fine cambric: see what you buy.

Fus. [Aside.] ’Sfoot, I lack ’em all; nay,5 more, I lack money to buy ’em. Let me see, let me look again: mass, this is the shop.—What coz! sweet coz! how dost, i’ faith, since last night after candlelight? We had good sport, i’ faith, had we not? And when shall ’s laugh10 again?

Fus. How fare I? For sixpence a-meal,20 wench, as well as heart can wish, with calves’ chaldrons,[2368] and chitterlings;[2369] besides, I have a punk after supper, as good as a roasted apple.

Fus. The devil’s dung in thy teeth! I ’ll be welcome whether thou wilt or no, I.—What ring ’s this, coz? Very pretty and fantastical, i’ faith! let ’s see it.30

Fus. I ha’ sworn I ’ll ha ’t, and I hope you will not let my oaths be crackt in[2370] the ring, will you? [Seizes the ring.] I hope, sir, you are not malicholly[2371] at this, for all your great looks.35 Are you angry?

Cand. Angry? Not I, sir, nay if she can part So easily with her ring, ’t is with my heart.

Fus. Troth, coz, and well rememb’red. I would thou wouldst give me five yards of lawn, to make my punk some falling bands[2372] a’55 the fashion; three falling one upon another, for that ’s the new edition now. She ’s out of linen horribly, too; troth, sh’as never a good smock to her back neither, but one that has a great many patches in ’t, and that I ’m fain to60 wear myself for want of shift, too. Prithee, put [Pg 407] me into wholesome napery, and bestow some clean commodities upon us.

Fus. Fool? Snails, eat[2373] the fool, or I ’ll so batter your crown, that it shall scarce go for five shillings.70

2 Pren. Do you hear, sir? You ’re best be quiet, and say a fool tells you so.

2 Pren. Sirrah George, I ha’ thought upon a device, how to break his pate, beat him soundly, and ship him away. 85

2 Pren. I ’ll go in, pass through the house, give some of our fellow-prentices the watch-word when they shall enter; then come and fetch my master in by a wile, and place one 90 in the hall to hold him in conference, whilst we cudgel the gull out of his coxcomb.

Cand. I perceive still it is your natural guise to mistake[2374] me, but you are welcome, sir; I much wish your acquaintance.

Fus. My acquaintance? I scorn that, i’ faith; I hope my acquaintance goes in chains of110 gold three and fifty times double:—you know who I mean, coz; the posts of his gate are a-painting too.[2375]

Prentices. [within.] Presently, sir, presently: we are but charging them.121

Geo. Flat-cap? Hark in your ear, sir, you ’re a flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I ’ll thrum[2377] you.—Do you see this cambric, sir?125

Fus. ’Sfoot coz, a good jest, did you hear him? He told me in my ears, I was a “flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I ’ll thrum you:—do you see this cambric, sir?”

1 Pren. I pray, sir, come hither, what say you to this? Here ’s an excellent good one.134

2 Pren. Let your whores cut; you ’re an impudent coxcomb; you get none, and yet I ’ll thrum you.—A very good cambric, sir.139

Fus. Again, again, as God judge me! ’Sfoot, coz, they stand thrumming here with me all day, and yet I get nothing.

1 Pren. A word, I pray, sir, you must not be angry. Prentices have hot bloods, young fellows.—What say you to this piece? Look you,145 ’t is so delicate, so soft, so even, so fine a thread, that a lady may wear it.

Fus. ’Sfoot, I think so; if a knight marry my punk, a lady shall wear it. Cut me off twenty yards; thou ’rt an honest lad.150

Fus. O Lord, sister, did you not hear something cry thrum? Zounds, your men here make a plain ass of me.156

Geo. Ay, in a cause so honest, we ’ll not suffer Our master’s goods to vanish moneyless.

Fus. I ’faith they ha’ pepper’d me, sister; look, dost not spin? Call you these prentices? I ’ll ne’er play at cards more when clubs is trump. I have a goodly coxcomb, sister, have I not?175

Fus. If you have any skill in heraldry, you may soon know that; break but her pate, and you shall see her blood and mine is all one.

Cand. A surgeon! run, a surgeon! [Exit 1 Prentice.] Why then wore you that forged name of cousin?182

Fus. Because it ’s a common thing-to call coz and ningle[2380] now-a-days all the world over.

Fus. Troth, brother, my sister would needs ha’ me take upon me to gull your patience a little: but it has made double gules[2381] on my coxcomb.

Fus. I ’ll ne’er call coz again whilst I live, to have such a coil about it. This should be a coronation day; for my head runs claret lustily.

So, so, kind George, [puts on night-cap]—be secret now; and, prithee, do not laugh at me till I ’m out of sight.271

Geo. Now, looks my master just like one275 of our carpet knights, only he ’s somewhat the honester of the two.

Geo. Well, if you ’ll save me harmless, and put me under covert barn,[2390] I am content to please you, provided it may breed no wrong against him.

Scene [II].[2391]

Miss F. O Roger, Roger, where ’s your mistress, where ’s your mistress? There ’s the finest, neatest gentleman at my house, but newly come over. Oh, where is she, where is she, where is she?5

Rog. My mistress is abroad, but not amongst ’em. My mistress is not the whore now that you take her for.

Mis. F. How? Is she not a whore? Do you go about to take away her good name,10 Roger? You are a fine pander indeed.

Rog. I tell you, Madonna Fingerlock, I am not sad for nothing; I ha’ not eaten one good meal this three and thirty days. I had wont to get sixteen pence by fetching a pottle15 of hippocras; but now those days are past. We had as good things, Madonna Fingerlock, she within doors, and I without, as any poor young couple in Milan.

Rog. I ha’ lost by her squeamishness more than would have builded twelve bawdy-houses.

Mis. F. And had she no time to turn honest but now? What a vile woman is this!25 Twenty pound a night, I ’ll be sworn, Roger, in good gold and no silver. Why here was a time! If she should ha’ pickt out a time, it could not be better: gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of30 legs, and choice of every, every, everything. It cannot sink into my head, that she should be such an ass. Roger, I never believe it.

Mis. F. O sweet madonna, on with your35 loose gown, your felt[2392] and your feather; there ’s the sweetest, prop’rest,[2393] gallantest gentleman at my house; he smells all of musk and ambergris, his pocket full of crowns, flame-coloured doublet, red satin hose, carnation silk stockings,40 and a leg, and a body,—oh!

[Pg 410] Mis. F. Marry come up, with a pox! Have55 you nobody to rail against but your bawd now?

Rog. Sixpence? Nay, that ’s not so: I never took under two shillings four-pence; I hope I know my fee.

Rog. If it be my vocation to swear, every70 man in his vocation. I hope my betters swear and damn themselves, and why should not I?

Mis. F. Marry gup,[2394] are you grown so holy, so pure, so honest with a pox?

Rog. Scurvy honest punk! But stay, madonna, how must our agreement be now? for, you know, I am to have all the comings-in at the hall-door, and you at the chamber-door.86

Mis. F. Why as thus: if a couple come in a coach, and light to lie down a little, then,90 Roger, that ’s my fee, and you may walk abroad; for the coachman himself is their pander.

Rog. Is ’a so? In truth I have almost forgot, for want of exercise. But how if I fetch this95 citizen’s wife to that gull, and that madonna to that gallant, how then?

Mis. F. Why then, Roger, you are to have sixpence a lane;[2396] so many lanes, so many sixpences.100

Scene [III].[2397]

Enter Bellafront with lute, pen, ink, and paper being placed before her.

Mat. You, goody punk, subaudi[2398] cockatrice, oh y ’are a sweet whore of your promise, are you not; think you? How well you came to supper to us last night! Mew, a whore, and break her word! Nay, you may blush, and hold down your head at it well enough. ’Sfoot,25 ask these gallants if we stay’d not till we were as hungry as sergeants.

Cas. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgat yourself too much. We had30 excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper.

Pio. And when we were in, our woodcocks,[2399] sweet rogue, a brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in, and paid all the shot.35

Flu. I am not what I was? No, I ’ll be sworn thou art not; for thou wert honest at five,45 and now th’ art a punk at fifteen. Thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now th’ art a cunning, cony-catching[2400] baggage to-day.

Mat. [Aside.] ’Sfoot, she gulls ’em the best! This is always her fashion, when she would be70 rid of any company that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone.

Flu. What ’s here? Instructions, admonitions, and caveats? Come out, you scabbard of vengeance.75

Mat. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they foist,[2401] you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is vext.

Mat. Is ’t possible to be impossible! An honest whore! I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet finger,[2402] but for a harlot to turn honest is one of Hercules’ labours.110 It was more easy for him in one night to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest again in fifty years. Come, I hope thou dost but jest.

Mat. How! marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot? Marry, faugh, I ’ll be burnt through the nose first.126

[ACT IV]

Scene [I].[2403]

Enter a Servant, setting out a table, on which he places a skull, a picture [of Infelice], a book, and a taper.

Ser. So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my huswifery. Would I had been created a shoemaker, for all the gentle craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy,[2404] and scorn then to work one true stitch. My5 master means sure to turn me into a student, for here ’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowsy first day of the week makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half10 a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back is turn’d, will be naught together.15

Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much.30 What to supper?

Ser. I ’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords; but rather help to make them away. Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. 40

Ser. Vicar! No, sir; has too good a face to be a vicar yet; a youth, a very youth.

Ser. If it be a woman, marrow-bones[2408] and potato pies[2408] keep me from meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’T is a105 male-varlet sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measur’d him.

Ser. ’Cause he has ne’er a beard. ’T is his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.

Ser. Lord bless us, where? He ’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see: besides the devil goes135 more like a gentleman than a page. Good my lord, Buon coraggio.[2411]

Hip. Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape. And thou art damn’d for ’t.139

Ser. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help! Come, mermaid, you must to sea again.

Ser. No more knaves, my lord, that wear smocks: here ’s a letter from Doctor Benedict. I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they200 are half-witches. ’Slid! you are a sweet youth to wear a cod-piece, and have no pins to stick upon ’t.

Scene [II].[2412]

Fus. Hold up your hands, gentlemen, here ’s one, two, three [giving money]—nay, I warrant they are sound pistoles, and without flaws; I had them of my sister and I know she uses to [Pg 414]put [up] nothing that’s crackt—four, five, 5 six, seven, eight, and nine; by this hand bring me but a piece of his blood, and you shall have nine more. I ’ll lurk in a tavern not far off, and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy. The linen-draper’s, remember. Stand 10 to ’t, I beseech you, and play your parts perfectly.

Fus. Nay, nay, weigh it and spare not; if 15 it lack one grain of corn, I ’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make it up.

Cram. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants is it? because we ’ll punish justly.

Fus. Marry, ’t is the head man; you shall 20 taste him by his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a Tuscalonian beard.

Fus. God’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman. My coxcomb was 25 dry beaten, as if my hair had been hemp.

Fus. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried out murder, very manfully. I have her consent, in a manner, to have him pepper’d; 30 else I ’ll not do ’t, to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling.[2413] Break but his pate, or so, only his mazer,[2414] because I ’ll have his head in a cloth as well as mine; he ’s a linen-draper, and may take enough. I could enter mine action 35 of battery against him, but we may perhaps be both dead and rotten before the lawyers would end it.

Cram. No more to do, but ensconce yourself i’ th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a 40 couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangeado[2415]—pie, or so: but how bloody howsoe’er the day be, sally you not forth.

Fus. No, no; nay, if I stir, somebody shall stink. I ’ll not budge; I ’ll lie like a dog in 45 a manger.

Cram. Well, well, to the tavern, let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.

Fus. That ’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst 50 after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I ’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar. 55

Cram. Poli is as tall a man as ever opened oyster; I would not be the devil to meet Poli. Farewell. 60

[Scene III.]

2 Pren. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for keeping our countenance: for, if I list, there ’s ne’er a fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat court-fool, or the lean15 city-fool.

Enter Candido, [dressed as before in the carpet he stares at George,] and exit presently.

Vio. You all know your tasks.—God ’s my life, what ’s that he has got on ’s back? Who can tell?

Vio. Girt about him like a madman! What, has he lost his cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw. What said he, George, when he passed by thee?34

Geo. Troth, mistress, nothing: not so much as a bee, he did not hum; not so much as a hawd, he did not hem; not so much as a cuckold, he did not ha; neither hum, hem, nor ha; only stared me in the face, passed along, and made haste in, as if my looks had worked40 with him, to give him a stool.

Geo. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,[2417] as long as my mistress warrants me. I ’m sure I have his best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that is inferior in apparel50 to me; that ’s an axiom, a principle, and is observ’d as much as the fashion. Let that persuade [Pg 415] you then, that I ’ll shoulder with him for the upper hand in the shop, as long as this chain will maintain it.55

See, what you lack? What is ’t you buy?60 Pure calicoes, fine hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns? See, what you buy? Pray come near, my master will use you well, he can afford you a penny-worth.

Cand. Look you, gentleman, I ’ll make but one spreading, here ’s a piece of cloth, fine,90 yet shall wear like iron. ’T is without fault; take this upon my word, ’t is without fault.

Cand. Ay, well said, George, like honest men, though they be arrant knaves, for that ’s the phrase of the city. Help to lay up these wares.

Geo. Come, we ’ll see whither he goes. If185 the master be mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps; we ’ll be mad-caps too. Farewell, mistress, you shall have us all in Bedlam.

Scene [IV].[2420]

Man. Meet you, sir? He might have met with three fencers in this time, and have received55 less hurt than by meeting one doctor of physic. Why, sir, he has walkt under the old abbey-wall yonder this hour, till he’s more cold than a citizen’s country house in Janivere. You may smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes.

[ACT V]

[Scene I.][2423]

Enter Candido’s wife [Viola with a petition] and George. Pioratto meets them.

Vio. I thank you, sir. [Exit Pioratto.] George, are there many mad folks where thy master lies?

Geo. Oh yes, of all countries some: but especially mad Greeks, they swarm. Troth,10 mistress, the world is altered with you; you had not wont to stand thus with a paper humbly complaining; but you’re well enough serv’d; provender prickt[2424] you, as it does many of our city wives besides.15

[Pg 418] Geo. Truly, mistress, I cannot tell; I think you’ll hardly get him forth. Why, ’t is strange! ’Sfoot, I have known many women that20 have had mad rascals to their husbands, whom they would belabour by all means possible to keep ’em in their right wits; but of a woman to long to turn a tame man into a madman, why the devil himself was never us ’d so by his dam.25

Geo. Afraid! you had more need be30 asham’d. He may rather be afraid of you.

Vio. But, George, he’s not stark mad, is he? He does not rave, he is not horn-mad, George, is he?

Geo. Nay I know not that, but he talks35 like a justice of peace, of a thousand matters, and to no purpose.

Vio. I’ll to the monastery. I shall be mad till I enjoy him, I shall be sick until I see him; yet when I do see him I shall weep out mine eyes.40

Geo. I’d fain see a woman weep out her eyes! That’s as true as to say, a man’s cloak burns, when it hangs in the water. I know you’ll weep, mistress, but what says the painted cloth?[2425]

Vio. Ay, but George, that painted cloth is worthy to be hanged up for lying. All women 50 have not tears at will, unless they have good cause.

Geo. Ay, but mistress, how easily will they find a cause, and as one of our cheese-trenchers[2427] says very learnedly, 55

Geo. Why that’s well done. Good mistress, throw aside this fashion of your humour, be 65 not so fantastical in wearing it; storm no more, long no more. This longing has made you come short of many a good thing that you might have had from my master. Here comes the duke.

Geo. An please your grace, he’s not stark mad, but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat fantastically, that’s all. There’s a thousand about your court, city, and country90 madder than he.

Cas. He that can make any man dead, the doctor: but, my lord, he’s as full of life as wildfire,105 and as quick. Hippolito, the doctor, and one more rid hence this evening; the inn at which they light is Bethlem Monastery; Infelice comes from Bergamo and meets them there. Hippolito is mad, for he means this day to110 be married; the afternoon is the hour, and Friar Anselmo is the knitter.

[Scene II.][2428]

Mat. Ay, well said; lock us into some little room by ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two.25

Mat. How! no noise! Do you know where you are? ’Sfoot, amongst all the madcaps in Milan; so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, and no man will30 suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton.[2430] The more sober we are, the more scurvy[2431] ’t is. And though the friar tell us that here we are safest, I am not of his mind; for if those lay here that had lost their money, none would ever look35 after them; but here are none but those that have lost their wits, so that if hue and cry be made, hither they ’ll come; and my reason is, because none goes to be married till he be stark mad.40

Flu. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! The tempest is too great. I come sweating to tell you of it, that you may get out of it.

Flu. What ’s the matter? You have matter’d it fair; the duke ’s at hand.

Mat. ’Sfoot, he damn’d himself to the pit55 of hell, if he spake on ’t again.

Mat. Pox on ’em, and there be no faith in men, if a man shall not believe oaths. He took bread and salt, by this light, that he would60 never open his lips.

Flu. He ’s but new set out: Castruchio,65 Pioratto, and Sinezi come along with him. You have time enough yet to prevent[2433] them, if you have but courage.

Enter to Fluello the Duke, Castruchio, Pioratto, and Sinezi from several doors, muffled.

Sweep. Yes, forsooth, I am one of the implements; I sweep the madmen’s rooms, and fetch straw for ’em, and buy chains to tie ’em,115 and rods to whip ’em. I was a mad wag myself here, once, but I thank Father Anselmo, he lasht me into my right mind again.

Sweep. How, all? There ’s a question indeed! Why if all the mad folks in Milan130 should come hither, there would not be left ten men in the city.

Sweep. O yes, abundance, abundance! Lands no sooner fall into their hands,135 but straight they run out a’ their wits. Citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by their fathers’ copy.[2435] Farmers’ sons come hither like geese, in flocks, and when they ha’ sold all their cornfields, here they sit and pick the140 straws.

Sweep. Oh, ay, a plague on ’em, there ’s no ho![2436] with ’em; they ’re madder than March145 hares.

Sweep. Oh no, not one; never any lawyer. We dare not let a lawyer come in, for he ’ll make ’em mad faster than we can recover150 ’em.

Sweep. Why, according to the quantity of the moon that ’s got into ’em. An alderman’s155 son will be mad a great while, a very great while, especially if his friends left him well. A whore will hardly come to her wits again. A puritan, there ’s no hope of him, unless he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’160 th’ bell-ropes.

Sweep. Yes, in truth, we have blocks[2437] for all heads; we have good store of wild-oats165 here; for the courtier is mad at the citizen, the citizen is mad at the countryman; the shoemaker is mad at the cobbler, the cobbler at the carman; the punk is mad that the merchant’s wife is no whore, the merchant’s wife is mad170 that the punk is so common a whore. Gods so, here ’s Father Anselmo; pray say nothing that I tell tales out of the school.

1 Mad. Dost not see, fool? There’s a fresh salmon in ’t; if you step one foot further, you’ll be over shoes, for you see I’m over head and ears in the salt-water: and if you fall into215 this whirl-pool where I am, y’ are drown’d: y’are a drown’d rat. I am fishing here for five ships, but I cannot have a good draught, for my net breaks still, and breaks; but I ’ll break some of your necks an I catch you in my clutches.220 Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay, where ’s the wind? where ’s the wind? where ’s the wind? where ’s the wind? Out, you gulls, you goose-caps,[2438] you gudgeon-eaters![2439] Do you look for the wind in the heavens? Ha, ha, ha, ha! no, no! Look225 there, look there, look there! the wind is always at that door: hark how it blows, puff, puff, puff!

1 Mad. Do you laugh at God’s creatures?230 Do you mock old age, you rogues? Is this gray beard and head counterfeit that you cry, ha, ha, ha? Sirrah, art not thou my eldest son?

1 Mad. Then th’ art a fool, for my eldest235 son had a polt-foot,[2440] crooked legs, a verjuice[2441] face, and a pear-colour’d beard. I made him a scholar, and he made himself a fool.—Sirrah, thou there: hold out thy hand.

1 Mad. Such nails had my second boy. Kneel down, thou varlet, and ask thy father’s blessing. Such nails had my middlemost son, and I made him a promoter:[2442] and he scrapt, and250 scrapt, and scrapt, till he got the devil and all: but he scrapt thus, and thus, and thus, and it went under his legs, till at length a company of kites, taking him for carrion, swept up all, all, all, all, all, all, all. If you love your255 lives, look to yourselves: see, see, see, see, the Turks’ galleys are fighting with my ships! Bounce goes the guns! Oooh! cry the men! Rumble, rumble, go the waters! Alas, there; ’t is sunk, ’t is sunk: I am undone, I am undone!260 You are the damn’d pirates have undone me: you are, by the Lord, you are, you are!—Stop ’em—you are!

1 Mad. Tame me! No, I ’ll be madder than a roasted cat. See, see, I am burnt with gunpowder,—these are our close fights!

1 Mad. Whip me? Out you toad! Whip270 me? What justice is this, to whip me because I am a beggar? Alas! I am a poor man: a very poor man! I am starv’d, and have had no meat by this light, ever since the great flood; I am a poor man.275

1 Mad. Ay, ay, pray do; for, look you, here be my guts: these are my ribs—you may look through my ribs—see how my guts come out!280 These are my red guts, my very guts, oh, oh!

[Pg 422] 3 Mad.[2443] All these are whoremongers, and lay with my wife: whore, whore, whore, whore, whore!300

3 Mad. Gaffer shoemaker, you pull’d on my wife’s pumps, and then crept into her pantofles.[2444] lie there, lie there!—This was her tailor.304 You cut out her loose-bodied gown, and put in a yard more than I allowed her; lie there by the shoemaker. O master doctor! are you here? You gave me a purgation, and then crept into my wife’s chamber to feel her pulses, and309 you said, and she said, and her maid said, that they went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat. Doctor, I’ll put you anon into my wife’s urinal. Heigh, come aloft, Jack! This was her school-master, and taught her to play upon the virginals,314 and still his jacks[2445] leapt up, up. You prickt[2446] her out nothing but bawdy lessons, but I’ll prick you all, fiddler—doctor—tailor—shoemaker —shoemaker—fiddler—doctor—tailor! So! lie with my wife again, now.319

2 Mad. I’ll not give thee a spoonful. Thou liest, it’s no dragon, ’t is a parrot that I bought for my sweetheart, and I’ll keep it.

2 Mad. O—oh! I am slain! Murder, murder, murder! I am slain; my brains are beaten out.

3 Mad. I’ll answer ’t at sessions: he was eating of almond-butter, and I long’d for ’t. The child had never been delivered out of my belly, if I had not kill’d him. I’ll answer ’t at sessions, so my wife may be burnt i’ th’ hand, too.354

Bell. A-nutting forsooth. How do you, gaffer? How do you, gaffer? There’s a French curtsey for you, too.

Bell. Then you are an ass,—and you an ass, —and you are an ass,—for I know you.

Bell. Nay, indeed, you shall not go: we’ll run at barley-break first, and you shall be in hell.[2450]384

Bell. Fie! Marry, so, they shall not go indeed, till I ha’ told ’em their fortunes.390

Bell. Am not I a good girl, for finding464 “the friar in the well?”[2453] Gods so, you are a brave man! Will not you buy me some sugar-plums, because I am so good a fortune-teller?

Bell. Pretty soul? A pretty soul is better than a pretty body. Do not you know my pretty soul? I know you. Is not your name Matheo?

Bell. Baa lamb! there you lie, for I am mutton.[2454]—Look, fine man! he was mad for me475 once, and I was mad for him once, and he was mad for her once, and were you never mad? Yes, I warrant; I had a fine jewel once, a very fine jewel, and that naughty man stole it away from me,—a very fine and a rich jewel.480

Bell. Maid? Nay, that ’s a lie. O, ’t was a very rich jewel, called a maidenhead, and had not you it, leerer?

Mat. How? Marry her, my lord? ’Sfoot, marry a madwoman? Let a man get the tamest wife he can come by, she ’ll be mad enough afterward, do what he can.

Geo. Come mistress, we are in Bedlam now; mass and see, we come in pudding-time, for here ’s the duke.

Cast. It ’s Candido, my lord, he ’s here among the lunatics. Father Anselmo, pray fetch him forth. [Exit Anselmo.] This mad woman is his wife, and though she were not with child, yet did she long most spitefully to have her539 husband mad; and because she would be sure he should turn Jew, she placed him here in Bethlem. Yonder he comes.

ACT I

Scene I.[2459]

Enter at one door Beraldo, Carolo, Fontinell, and Astolfo, with Serving-men, or Pages, attending on them; at another door enter Lodovico, meeting them.

Car. Faith, as the physicians do in a plague, see the world sick, and am well myself.5

Lod. Oh, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle,[2460] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?10

Bry. No, so crees sa’[2461] me; my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.

Lod. Footman, does my lord ride i ’th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback?21

Bry. No, foot, la; my lady will have me lord sheet wid her, my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side.

Lod. My lady sheet in de toder side! Did25 you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? Is ’t not strange that a fellow of his star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from[2462] a Christian?

Ast. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange! Why, the nation have running heads.31

Lod. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange, I ha’ been in France, there ’s few of them. Marry, England they count a warm chimney corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but sir, in England I36 have noted one thing.

Lod. In England, sir,—troth, I ever laugh when I think on ’t: to see a whole nation should be markt i’th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron: why, sir, there all costermongers are Irishmen.45

Car. Oh, that ’s to show their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.

Lod. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers50 likewise be Irishmen? Answer that now; come, your wit.

Car. Faith, that ’s soon answered; for St. Patrick, you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing,55 [Pg 426] if they cannot sweep the chimneys.

Lod. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others, and the knaves are60 very faithful where they love. By my faith, very proper men, many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!

Lod. And stout! exceeding stout; why, I65 warrant, this precious wild villain, if he were put to ’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[2464]

Lod. No, no, our country bona-robas,[2465]70 oh! are the sugarest, delicious rogues!

Lod. Not I, I protest. There’s a saying when they commend nations. It goes, the Irishman for his hand, the Welshmen for a leg,75 the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for a beard.

Lod. The Spaniard,—let me see,—for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,—what81 a pox hath he? And so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? Come walk.

Lod. How now, what ’s this, a nurse’s bill? Hath any here got thee with child and now will not keep it?95

Lod. He ’s about his own wife’s now, he ’ll hardly dispatch two causes in a morning.

Ast. No matter what he says, fair lady; he ’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words.101

Lod. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book once. I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco; this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore.110

Lod. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white; this is the birding-piece new scoured; this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito.

Lod. She has been! that ’s the epitaph of all whores. I ’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband. Lord! what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not120 me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suff’red strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars,—no sooner ripe but rotten:125

Bell. I do beseech your lordship, let your eye read o’er this wretched paper.135

Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? If they be not yellow,[2467] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.146

Lod. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if175 you have not left your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.

Bry. I fart di lady is run away from dee, a mighty deal of ground; she sent me back220 for dine own sweet face. I pray dee come, my lord, away, wu’t tow go now?

Bry. A pox a’ de horse’s nose, he is a lousy rascally fellow. When I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled; di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest, an Irishman cannot abide a fart. But I have saddled de hobby-horse, di fine hobby is ready. I pray dee, my good230 sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?

Scene II.[2468]

Lod. Are not we all enjoined as this day,— Thursday is’t not? Ay, as that day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner?5

Ber. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to10 come about the eaves amongst bees.

Lod. Oh ’t is rare sucking a sweet honey comb! Pray Heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! The poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for15 it; she’d tickle them. At any hand let’s try what mettle is in his new bride; if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen, I pity he should marry again; I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.20

Car. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats, that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.25

Lod. Oh, fie upon’t! ’t would undo all us that are courtiers; we should have no whoo with the wenches then.

[Pg 428] Hip. Friscobaldo, oh! pray call him, and leave me; we two have business.

Orl. My noble lord: my Lord Hippolito!40 the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honour’d lordship! Does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando Friscobaldo! old mad Orlando!

Hip. Oh, sir, our friends! they ought to be45 unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood; for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.50

Orl. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? Though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green?55

Orl. I eat snakes,[2469] my lord, I eat snakes. My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry “Hem,” with a clear voice.60

Orl. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man. I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in65 the right colours, I ll bestow it on your lordship.

Orl. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt, sit neither at the duke’s85 side, nor lie at his feet. Wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a90 winding sheet; but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go95 singing to my nest, why so; If a crow! throw me out like a carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now! ha?

Orl. I have a little, have all things. I have nothing; I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare?[2470]105

Orl. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me. Here, she’s here: but, before me, when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like serjeants110 together: but a good couple are seldom parted.

Orl. O my lord! this old tree had one branch, and but one branch growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I prun’d115 it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind, help ’d it to the sun, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs. I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know, nor care.120

Orl. Dead! my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman; he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest.130

Orl. O my lord! a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines; all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell, to be her props, that she may spread upon them. And when135 she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her, then must she be prest. The young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge, yet to taste that lickerish[2471] wine, is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?140

Orl. Would she were turn’d to Heaven! Umph, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave145 sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins!

Orl. In my daughter, you will say! Does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is I have a handkercher to drink them up; soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?

Orl. Then she ’s a right strumpet; I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together. Sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds,170 panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher. She is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[2472] within it, her money, her money.175

Orl. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.

Orl. No let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world. I hate him for her;185 he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.

Orl. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.

Orl. And fare you well, sir. Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. ’Las my girl!210 art thou poor? Poverty dwells next door to despair, there ’s but a wall between them. Despair is one of hell’s catch-poles; and lest that devil arrest her, I ’ll to her. Yet she shall not know me; she shall drink of my wealth,215 as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? That were hard; the pelican does220 it, and shall not I? Yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there, her husband, will be hanged, I fear; I ’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.225

Orl. Give it me. [Takes purse.]—I think I have some gold about me; yes, it ’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I ’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.236

[Orlando puts on the coat of 1 Serving-man, and gives him in exchange his cloak.]

Orl. Hold thy tongue, knave; take thou my cloak. I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bart’ring; bid the steward of my240 house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things. Whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?244

Orl. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[2475] when your master is one of your fellows. Away, do not see me.

Orl. I should put on a worse suit, too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on, now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter. Well, I will spoil a good face for once.

[Scene III.][2476]

Enter Candido, Lodovico, Carolo, [Astolfo], other guests, and Bride with Prentices.

[Pg 430] Ast. Troth, like a spire steeple in a country village overpeering so many thatcht houses.

Lod. It ’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes;[2478] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs,[2479] and he ’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.11

[1 Guest.] Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block[2480] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.20

Cand. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there tells me she is not well.

Lod. A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will take you down in101 your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters?

Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to ’t.110

Lod. What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for fighting it ’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already; [Pg 431] you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The116 moral of which is, that a man must from his beginning be crooked to his wife. Be you like an orange to her; let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?

Lod. I ’ll send my man for ’t within this half hour, and within this two hours I ’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I ’ll sharpen your spurs.130

[ACT II]

[Scene I.][2486]

Bell. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave and art alive again? Oh welcome, welcome!

Mat. Dost know me? My cloak, prithee, lay ’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken5 out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary:[2487] I lackt but the knot here, or here; yet if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice: but, sweetest villain, I am here now and I will talk with thee soon.10

Mat. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah! my little plump rogue, I ’ll bear up for all this, and fly high. Catso catso.[2488]

Mat. What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I ’ll bear up, I ’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.[2489]

Mat. I ’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[2490]

Bell. Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong physic; prithee now be sound.

Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now. Oh, when shall I30 bizzle, bizzle.[2491]

Mat. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess50 has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy.

Mat. I ’ll be the porter. They shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit, I ’ll fly high. 55

[Pg 432] Orl. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!—[Aside.] The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that.—I ’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a70 whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father.

Orl. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well season’d, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.

Orl. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness90 does but then lie in her cradle; ’t is not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings, that are ready to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a95 serving-man at my years be not stored with biscuit enough, that has sailed about the world, to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him East home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much100 for wages, for I have scraped a handful of gold together. I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more—104

Mat. No, no, you say well, thou sayest well; but I must tell you,—How much is the money, sayest thou?

Mat. Twenty pound? Let me see: that shall bring thee in, after ten per centum per annum.—111

Orl. No, no, no, sir, no: I cannot abide to have money engender: fie upon this silver lechery, fie! If I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to115 snort upon when I die, the longer liver take all.

Mat. A good old boy, i’ faith! If thou servest me, thou shalt eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride.

Mat. Front, what dost thou think on ’t? This good old lad here shall serve me.

Mat. Peace, pox on you, peace. There ’s a trick in ’t, I fly high; it shall be so. Front, as I tell you. Give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me i’faith: welcome. As for your money—

Orl. Safe! an ’t were ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper. I have heard what your worship is, an excellent135 dunghill cock, to scatter all abroad; but I ’ll venture twenty pounds on ’s head.

Mat. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?140

Orl. No matter an you ne’er see him;145 it ’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damn’d a cut-throat.

Mat. And an old knave. There ’s more deceit in him than in sixteen ’pothecaries: it ’s a devil; thou may’st beg, starve, hang, damn! does he send thee so much as a cheese?156

Mat. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.170

Mat. Excellent well, I thank your lordship. I owe you my life, my lord; and will pay my best blood in any service of yours.

Hip. I ’ll take no such dear payment.195 Hark you, Matheo, I know the prison is a gulf. If money run low with you, my purse is yours: call for it.

Mat. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars, they send me down some; I cannot sink, so long as these bladders hold.201

[Gives to Friscobaldo, who opens the door, first money, then a purse, and] exit.

Mat. The only royal fellow, he’s bounteous as the Indies. What’s that he said to thee,210 Bellafront?

Mat. Nothing? It’s well. Tricks! that I215 must be beholden to a scald hot-liver’d goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand, and vail[2497] bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself. Would I had been hanged. Nothing? Pacheco, brush my cloak.220

Orl. You have small reason to take his part; for I have heard him say five hundred times, you were as arrant a whore as ever stiff’ned tiffany neckcloths in water-starch upon a246 Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.

Orl. And so if your father call you whore250 you’ll not call him old knave.—[Aside.] Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up and down; she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone.—Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good255 old master, your father, were but to try how my young master, your husband, loved such squibs: but it’s well known, I love your father as myself; I’ll ride for him at midnight, run for you by owl-light; I’ll die for him, drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high,260 as my master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.

Orl. Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter might cut you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my master is in a sure hand.

Orl. I see my young master is a mad-cap,270 and a bonus socius.[2498] I love him well, mistress: yet as well as I love him, I’ll not play the knave with you. Look you, I could cheat you of this purse full of money; but I am an old lad, and I scorn to cony-catch:[2499] yet I ha’ been dog at a cony in my time.275

Orl. The gentleman that went away whisper’d in mine ear, and charged me to give it you.280

Orl. ’T is like so. It may be, he thinks you want money, and therefore bestows his alms286 bravely, like a lord.

Orl. A star? nay, thou art more than the300 moon, for thou hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in thy circle with a bush of thorns. Is’t possible the Lord Hippolito, whose face is as civil as the outside of a dedicatory book, should be a muttonmonger?[2500] A305 poor man has but one ewe, and this grandee sheep-biter leaves whole flocks of fat wethers, whom he may knock down, to devour this. I’ll trust neither lord nor butcher with quick flesh for this trick; the cuckoo, I see now,310 sings all the year, though every man cannot hear him; but I ’ll spoil his notes. Can neither love-letters, nor the devil’s common pick-locks, gold, nor precious stones make my girl draw up her percullis?[2501] Hold out still, wench.315 All are not bawds, I see now, that keep doors, Nor all good wenches that are markt for whores.

[Scene II.][2502]

Lod. Come, come, come, what do ye lack, sir? What do ye lack, sir? What is’t ye lack, sir? Is not my worship well suited? Did you ever see a gentleman better disguised?

Lod. Yes, but when he has been drunk. There be prentices would make mad gallants, for they would spend all, and drink, and whore, and so forth; and I see we gallants could make mad prentices. How does thy wife like me?10 Nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all. Pray you how does my mistress like me?

Lod. And they that are taken for such are15 commonly the arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.

Lod. Remember you’re a linen-draper, and25 that if you give your wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not therefore a quarter of your yard, not a nail.

Lod. Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross her humours. Are not baker’s arms the scales of justice? Yet is not their bread light? And may not you, I pray,40 bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently?

Lod. Nay, if your service be so hot a130 man cannot keep his hair on, I ’ll serve you no longer.

Lod. Yes, faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down. I hope thou canst take him down135 without teaching;
You ha’ got the conquest, and you both are friends.

ACT III

[Scene I.][2507]

Orl. This madam: my poor mistress has a5 waste piece of ground, which is her own by inheritance, and left to her by her mother. There ’s a lord now that goes about not to take it clean from her, but to enclose it to himself, and to join it to a piece of his lordship’s.10

Orl. No more, madam, but what one woman should do for another in such a case. My honourable lord your husband, would do any thing in her behalf, but she had rather put herself15 into your hands, because you, a woman, may do more with the duke, your father.

Orl. Within a stone’s cast of this place. My mistress, I think, would be content to let20 him enjoy it after her decease, if that would serve his turn, so my master would yield too; [Pg 436] but she cannot abide to hear that the lord should meddle with it in her lifetime.

Orl. Her husband stirs in it underhand: but because the other is a great rich man, my master is loth to be seen in it too much.

Orl. ’T is set down, madam, here in black and white already. Work it so, madam, that she may keep her own without disturbance, grievance, molestation, or meddling of any35 other; and she bestows this purse of gold on your ladyship.

Orl. I would all proctors’ clerks were of your mind, I should law more amongst them than I do then. Here, madam, is the survey, not only of the manor itself, but of the grange-house, with every meadow pasture, plough-land,45 cony-burrow, fish-pond, hedge, ditch, and bush, that stands in it.

Orl. From the foresaid party, madam, that50 would keep the foresaid land out of the foresaid lord’s fingers.

Orl. You ’re a good huntress, lady; you ha’ found your game already. Your lord would55 fain be a ranger, but my mistress requests you to let him run a course in your own park. If you ’ll not do ’t for love, then do ’t for money! She has no white money, but there ’s gold; or else she prays you to ring him by this token,60 and so you shall be sure his nose will not be rooting other men’s pastures.

Orl. I do not think, madam, but he fetcht off some poet or other for those lines, for they are parlous hawks to fly at wenches.75

Orl. A little tiny woman, lower than your ladyship by head and shoulders, but as mad a wench as ever unlaced a petticoat: these things should I indeed have delivered to my lord, your husband.90

Orl. The Irish footman can tell you all his hunting hours, the park he hunts in, the doe he would strike; that Irish shackatory[2508] beats the bush for him, and knows all; he brought that letter, and that ring; he is the carrier.100

Bry. Faat satins? faat silvers, faat low gentlefolks? Dow pratest dow knowest not what, i’ faat, la.

Bry. By dis hand and bod dow saist true, if I did so, oh how? I know not a letter a’ de115 book i’ faat, la.

Bry. Never, sa crees sa’ me, never! He may run at a towsand rings i’ faat, and I never120 hold his stirrup, till he leap into de saddle. By St. Patrick, madam. I never touch my lord’s diamond, nor ever had to do, i’ faat, la, with any of his precious stones.124

Bry. Ay, do predy, I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to de, i’ faat! I will never see dine own sweet face more. A mawhid deer a gra,[2515] fare dee well, fare dee well; I will go steal 240 cows again in Ireland.

[Scene II.][2517]

Enter Bellafront, and Orlando [disguised as a Serving-man], Matheo [following].

Orl. Has taken a younger brother’s purge, forsooth, and that works with him.

Orl. He has given up his cloak, and his rapier 5 is bound to the peace. If you look a little higher, you may see that another hath ent’red into hatband for him too. Six and four[2518] have put him into this sweat.

Orl. ’T is put over by exchange; his doublet was going to be translated, but for me. If any man would ha’ lent but half a ducat on his beard, the hair of it had stuft a pair of breeches by this time. I had but one poor penny, and 15 that I was glad to niggle out,[2519] and buy a holly-wand to grace him through the street. As hap was, his boots were on, and them I dustied, to make people think he had been riding, and I had run by him.— 20

Mat. Oh rogue, of what devilish stuff are these dice made of,—the parings of the devil’s corns of his toes, that they run thus damnably?

Mat. If any handicraft’s-man was ever suff’red to keep shop in hell, it will be a dice-maker; he’s able to undo more souls than the devil; I play’d with mine own dice, yet lost. Ha’ you any money? 30

Mat. Must have money, must have some, must have a cloak, and rapier, and things. Will you go set your lime-twigs, and get me some birds, some money? 35

Mat. You will not then? Must have cash and pictures, do ye hear, frailty? Shall I walk in a Plymouth cloak,[2520] that ’s to say, like a rogue, in my hose and doublet, and a crabtree cudgel 40 in my hand, and you swim in your satins? Must have money, come!

Mat. Oh! it’s summer, it’s summer; your only fashion for a woman now is to be light, to be light.

Mat. Thine? I ’ll starve first, I ’ll beg first; when I touch a penny of that, let these fingers’ ends rot.

Orl. [Aside.] So they may, for that ’s past 60 touching. I saw my twenty pounds fly high.

Mat. The gown stood me in[2521] above twenty 65 ducats; borrow ten of[2522] it. Cannot live without [Pg 439] silver.

Mat. Why, do as all of our occupation do against[2523] quarter-days: break up house, remove, shift your lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!95

Mat. I am the most wretched fellow: sure135 some left-handed priest hath christ’ned me. I am so unlucky; I am never out of one puddle or another; still falling.

Orl. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint. I can with all my knocking strike but six sparks of fire out of them; here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.146

Mat. Give me them! [Taking money.] An evil conscience gnaw them all! Moths and plagues hang upon their lousy wardrobes!

Mat. A sort[2526] of rascals are in my debt, God knows what, and they feed me with bits, with crumbs, a pox choke them.

Orl. Nay then, it’s well. I set my brains upon an upright last;[2528] though my wits be old, yet they are like a wither’d pippin, wholesome. Look you, mistress, I told him I had but six180 ducats of the knave broker, but I had eight, and kept these two for you.

Orl. Sell his wife’s clothes from her back?185 Does any poulterer’s wife pull chickens alive? He riots all abroad, wants all at home: he dices, whores, swaggers, swears, cheats, borrows, pawns. I’ll give him hook and line, a little more for all this;190

[Scene III.]

Enter at one door Lodovico and Carolo; at another Bots, and Mistress Horseleech. Candido and his Wife appear in the Shop.

Bots. We want tools, gentlemen, to furnish the trade: they wear out day and night, they wear out till no metal be left in their back. We hear of two or three new wenches are come10 up with a carrier, and your old goshawk here is flying at them.

Mis. H. Ordinary dishes; by my troth,15 sweet men, there’s few good i’ th’ city. I am as well furnisht as any, and, though I say it, as well custom’d.

Bots. We have meats of all sorts of dressing; we have stew’d meat for your Frenchman,20 pretty light picking meat for your Italian, and that which is rotten roasted for Don Spaniardo.

Bots. We have poulterer’s ware for your sweet bloods, as dove, chicken, duck, teal,25 woodcock, and so forth: and butcher’s meat for the citizen: yet muttons[2530] fall very bad this year.

Lod. Stay, is not that my patient linen-draper yonder, and my fine young smug mistress,30 his wife?

Car. Sirrah,[2531] grannam, I ’ll give thee for thy fee twenty crowns, if thou canst but procure me the wearing of yon velvet cap.

Bots. Twenty crowns? We ’ll share, and I ’ll be your pully to draw her on.

Mis. H. Wheel you about, sweet men:40 do you see? I’ll cheapen wares of the man, whilst Bots is doing with his wife.

Lod. To ’t: if we come into the shop to do you grace, we’ll call you madam.

Bots. Pox a’ your old face, give it the45 badge of all scurvy faces, a mask.

Cand. What is ’t you lack, gentlewoman? Cambric or lawns, or fine hollands? Pray draw near; I can sell you a pennyworth.

Cand. My worshipful good servant.—View it well, for ’t is both fine and even.

Car. Cry you mercy, madam; though mask’d, I thought it should be you by your man.—Pray, signor, show her the best, for she commonly deals for good ware.61

Bots. [to Bride.] A word, I pray. There is a waiting gentlewoman of my lady’s—her65 name is Ruyna—says she’s your kinswoman, and that you should be one of her aunts.

Bots. If it please you to bestow the poor labour of your legs at any time, I will be your convoy thither.

Bride. I am a snail, sir, seldom leave my house. If ’t please her to visit me, she shall be welcome.75

Bots. Do you hear? The naked truth is, my lady hath a young knight, her son, who loves you; you ’re made, if you lay hold upon ’t; this jewel he sends you.79

Bride. Sir, I return his love and jewel with scorn. Let go my hand, or I shall call my husband. You are an arrant knave.

Bots. Do? They shall all do if Bots sets upon them once. She was as if she had profest85 the trade, squeamish at first; at last I showed her this jewel, said a knight sent it her.

Bots. Copper, copper; I go a fishing with these baits. She nibbled, but would not swallow the hook, because the conger-head, her91 husband, was by; but she bids the gentleman name any afternoon, and she’ll meet him at her garden house,[2532] which I know.

Lod. Before he has his work done?—But on my knightly word he shall pay ’t thee.100

Fon. Thou shalt but cheapen, and do as we told thee, to put a jest upon him, to abuse his patience.109

Bry. I’ faat, I doubt my pate shall be knocked: but, sa crees sa’ me, for your shakes, I will run to any linen-draper in hell. Come, predee.

Lod. Do you hear it? one, two, three,— ’Sfoot, there came in four gallants! Sure your wife is slipt up, and the fourth man, I hold my life, is grafting your warden tree.[2534]131

Bry. Faat a devil pratest tow so? a pox on dee! I preddee, let me see some hollen, to make linen shirts, for fear my body be lousy.146

Bry. Pox on de gardens, and de weeds, and de fool’s cap dere, and de clouts! Hear? dost make a hobby-horse of me.155

[ACT IV]

[Scene I.][2535]

Mat. And I have play’d a gentleman’s part with my tailor, for I owe him for the making of it.

Mat. To keep the fashion; it ’s your only10 fashion now, of your best rank of gallants, to make their tailors wait for their money; neither were it wisdom indeed to pay them upon the first edition[2538] of a new suit; for commonly the suit is owing for, when the linings15 are worn out, and there ’s no reason, then, that the tailor should be paid before the mercer.

Mat. This is the suit, and I need not shame to wear it, for better men than I would be21 glad to have suits bestowed on them. It ’s a generous fellow,—but—pox on him—we whose pericranions are the very limbecks and stillatories of good wit and fly high, must drive liquor out of stale gaping oysters. Shallow26 knight, poor squire Tinacheo: I ’ll make a wild Cataian[2539] of forty such: hang him, he ’s an ass, he ’s always sober.

Mat. No, faith, Front, Lodovico is a noble [Pg 442] Slavonian: it ’s more rare to see him in a woman’s company, than for a Spaniard to go into England, and to challenge the English 35 fencers there.—[Knocking within.] One knocks,—see.—[Exit Bellafront.]—La, fa, sol, la, fa, la, [sings] rustle in silks and satins! There ’s music in this, and a taffeta petticoat, it makes both fly high. Catso. 40

Re-enter Bellafront; after her Orlando, like himself, with four men after him.

Orl. Is not the door good enough to hold your blue coats? Away, knaves, wear not your 45 clothes threadbare at knees for me; beg Heaven’s blessing, not mine. [Exeunt Servants.]—Oh cry your worship mercy, sir; was somewhat bold to talk to this gentlewoman, your wife here. 50

Orl. It ’s a very poor kingdom then; what, are all your subjects gone a sheep-shearing? Not a maid? not a man? not so much as a cat? You keep a good house belike, just like one 61 of your profession, every room with bare walls, and a half-headed bed to vault upon, as all your bawdy-houses are. Pray who are your upholsters? Oh, the spiders, I see, they bestow hangings upon you. 66

Orl. No acquaintance with it? What maintains thee then? How dost live then? Has thy husband any lands, any rents coming in, any 81 stock going, any ploughs jogging, any ships sailing? Hast thou any wares to turn,[2540] so much as to get a single penny by?

Mat. I ha’ suff’red your tongue, like a barr’d cater-tray,[2541] to run all this while, and ha’ not stopt it.

Mat. If you come to bark at her because she ’s a poor rogue, look you, here ’s a fine path, sir, and there, there, the door.

Mat. Your blue coats stay for you, sir. I love a good honest roaring boy, and so— 101

Mat. Sir, sir, I ’ll ha’ no Joves in my house to thunder avaunt. She shall live and be maintained when you, like a keg of musty sturgeon, 105 shall stink. Where? In your coffin. How? Be a musty fellow, and lousy.

Orl. I know she shall be maintained, but how? She like a quean, thou like a knave; she like a whore, thou like a thief. 110

Mat. Pox on you both! I ’ll not be braved. New satin scorns to be put down with bare bawdy velvet. Thief! 115

Orl. Ay, thief, th’ art a murderer, a cheater, a whoremonger, a pot-hunter, a borrower, a beggar—

Mat. An old ass, a dog, a churl, a chuff, an usurer, a villain, a moth, a mangy mule, 121 with an old velvet foot-cloth on his back, sir.

Orl. As arrant a purse-taker as ever cried, Stand! yet a good fellow I confess, and valiant; but he ’ll bring thee to th’ gallows. You both have robb’d of late two poor country pedlars. 136

Mat. How ’s this? How ’s this? Dost thou fly high? Rob pedlars?—Bear witness, Front—rob pedlars? My man and I a thief?

Orl. Ay, knave, two pedlars. Hue and cry 141 is up, warrants are out, and I shall see thee climb a ladder.

Mat. And come down again as well as a bricklayer or a tiler. [Aside.] How the vengeance knows he this?—If I be hanged, 146 I ’ll tell the people I married old Friscobaldo’s daughter; I ’ll frisco you, and your old carcass.

Orl. Tell what you canst; if I stay here longer, I shall be hang’d too, for being in thy company; therefore, as I found you, I leave 151 you—

Orl. A knave and a quean, a thief and a strumpet, a couple of beggars, a brace of baggages. 156

Mat. Hang; upon him—Ay, ay, sir, fare you well; we are so—follow close—we are beggars—in satin—to him.

Mat. This is your father, your damn’d—Confusion light upon all the generation of you! He can come bragging hither with four white herrings at ’s tail in blue coats, without roes in their bellies; but I may starve ere he give me so much as a cob.[2544] 196

Mat. Go, trot after your dad, do you capitulate; I’ll pawn not for you; I’ll not steal to be hanged for such an hypocritical, close, common harlot: away, you dog!— 201

Mat. Goodman slave, my man too, is gallop’d to the devil a’ the t’ other side: Pacheco, I’ll checo you. Is this your dad’s day? England, 206 they say, is the only hell for horses, and only paradise for women: pray get you to that paradise, because you’re called an honest whore; there they live none but honest whores with a pox. Marry, here in our city, all your 211 sex are but foot-cloth nags:[2545] the master no sooner lights but the man leaps into the saddle.

Mat. [sitting down.] I could tear, by th’ Lord, his flesh, and eat his midriff in salt, as I eat 216 this:—must I choke?—My father Friscobaldo, I shall make a pitiful hog-louse of you, Orlando, if you fall once into my fingers—Here’s the savourest meat! I ha’ got a stomach with chafing.[2546] What rogue should tell him of those 221 two pedlars? A plague choke him, and gnaw him to the bare bones!—Come fill.

Bell. Thou sweatest with very anger, good sweet. Vex not, ’las, ’tis no fault of mine. 225

Mat. Hah, neighbour? Foh, my mouth stinks. You whore, do you beg victuals for me? Is this satin doublet to be bombasted[2547] with broken 231 meat?

Orl. Beat out an ass’s head of your own.—Away, Mistress! [Exit Bellafront.] Zounds, do but touch one hair of her, and I’ll so quilt your cap with old iron, that your coxcomb shall ache the worse these seven years for ’t. Does she look like a roasted rabbit, that you must have the head for the brains? 241

Orl. Four marks? No, sir, my twenty pound that you ha’ made fly high, and I am gone. 245

Mat. Must I be fed with chippings? You’re best get a clapdish,[2548] and say y’ are proctor to some spittle-house.[2549]—Where hast thou been, Pacheco? Come hither my little turkey-cock.

Mat. Hang him! he would ha’ thrust crowns upon me, to have fall’n in again, but I scorn cast clothes, or any man’s gold. 256

Mat. Oh, swore like a dozen of drunken tinkers; at last growing foul in words, he and 260 four of his men drew upon me, sir.

Mat. I made no more ado, but fell to my old lock,[2550] and so thrashed my blue-coats and old crab-tree-face my father-in-law, and then walkt like a lion in my grate.[2551] 266

Mat. Sirrah, he could tell me of the robbing the two pedlars, and that warrants are out for us both. 270

Mat. We ’ll pull that old crow my father: rob thy master. I know the house, thou 275 the servants: the purchase[2554] is rich, the plot to get it is easy; the dog will not part from a bone.

Orl. Pluck’t out of his throat, then. I ’ll snarl for one, if this[2555] can bite.

Mat. Say no more, say no more, old coal; 280 meet me anon at the sign of the Shipwrack.

[Scene II.][2563]

Enter the Duke, Lodovico, and Orlando [disguised as a Serving-man]; after them Infelice, Carolo, Astolfo, Beraldo, and Fontinell.

Orl. I beseech your grace, though your eye be so piercing as under a poor blue coat to cull out an honest father from an old serving-man, yet, good my lord, discover not the plot to any, but only this gentleman that is now to be an5 actor in our ensuing comedy.

Orl. Right, my noble knight: those pedlars were two knaves of mine; he fleec’d the men before, and now he purposes to flay the master. He will rob me; his teeth water to be nibbling15 at my gold; but this shall hang him by th’ gills, till I pull him on shore.

Orl. And remember what I have sworn. She ’s more honest, on my soul, than one of the Turks’ wenches, watcht by a hundred eunuchs.

Orl. He ’s a Turk that makes any woman a whore; he ’s no true Christian, I ’m sure. I commit your grace.

Lod. Uds so, Pacheco! We ’ll have some sport with this warrant: ’t is to apprehend35 all suspected persons in the house. Besides, there ’s one Bots, a pander, and one Madam Horseleech, a bawd, that have abus’d my friend; those two conies will we ferret into the purse-net.[2564]40

Ber. ’T is like so, for when a man goes a wenching, is as if he had a strong stinking breath, every one smells him out, yet he feels it not, though it be ranker than the sweat of sixteen bear warders.75

Car. Troth, my lord. I think we are all as you ha’ been in your youth when you went a-maying; we all love to hear the cuckoo sing80 upon other men’s trees.

Car. A drench that ’s able to kill a horse, cannot kill this disease of smock-smelling, my lord, if it have once eaten deep.

Car. No, my lord, and light wenches are no idle freight; but what ’s your grace’s reach[2565] in this?

Car. Attach all the light heels i’ the city and clap ’em up? Why, my lord, you dive into a well unsearchable: all the whores within the walls, and without the walls? I would not be124 he should meddle with them for ten such dukedoms; the army that you speak on is able to fill all the prisons within this city, and to leave not a drinking-room in any tavern besides.

[Scene III.][2566]

Mat. Let who will come, my noble chevalier; I can but play the kind host, and bid ’em welcome.

Lod. We ’ll trouble your house, Matheo, but as Dutchmen do in taverns, drink, be merry,5 and be gone.

Orl. Indeed, if you be right Dutchmen; if you fall to drinking, you must be gone.

Mat. The worst is, my wife is not at home; but we ’ll fly high, my generous knight, for all that. There ’s no music when a woman is in11 the concert.

Lod. Gentlemen, you all know Signor Candido, the linen-draper, he that ’s more patient than a brown baker upon the day when he heats his oven, and has forty scolds about him.21

Lod. Would it not be a good fit of mirth, to make a piece of English cloth of him, and to stretch him on the tenters,[2567] till the threads of his own natural humour crack, by making26 him drink healths, tobacco, dance, sing bawdy songs, or to run any bias[2568] according as we think good to cast him?29

Mat. To that train I ha’ given fire already; and the hook to draw him hither, is to see certain pieces of lawn, which I told him I have35 to sell, and indeed have such; fetch them down, Pacheco.

Orl. Yes, sir, I ’m your water-spaniel, and will fetch any thing—[Aside.] but I ’ll fetch one dish of meat anon shall turn your stomach, and that ’s a constable. 41

Lod. Peace, two dishes of stewed prunes,[2570] a bawd and a pander. My worthy lieutenant Bots; why, now I see thou ’rt a man of thy word,46 welcome.—Welcome Mistress Horseleech.—Pray, gentlemen, salute this reverend matron.

Lod. I bade a drawer send in wine, too: did none come along with thee, grannam, but the lieutenant?

1 Vint. Imprimis, a pottle[2571] of Greek wine, a pottle of Peter-sameene,[2572] a pottle of Charneco,[2573] [Pg 448] and a pottle of Leatica.[2574]

Bots. Here ’s a hot day towards: but zounds, this is the life out of which a soldier sucks sweetness! When this artillery goes off roundly, some must drop to the ground: cannon, demi-cannon, saker, and basilisk.[2575]71

Bots. So, so: must I venture first upon the breach? To you all, gallants; Bots sets upon you all. 75

Mat. Presently; my man is gone for them. We ha’ rigged a fleet, you see here, to sail about the world.

Lod. Because you are an old lady, I will have you be acquainted with this grave citizen. Pray bestow your lips upon him, and bid him welcome.91

Mis. H. Any citizen shall be most welcome to me:—I have used to buy ware at your shop.

Mis. H. Your prentices know my dealings well; I trust your good wife be in good case. If it please you, bear her a token from my lips, by word of mouth.

Mat. Steal out of such company? Pacheco, my man, is but gone for ’em. Lieutenant Bots, drink to this worthy old fellow, and teach him to fly high.110

Bots. Gray-beard, goat’s pizzle, ’t is a health; have this in your guts, or this, there [touching his sword]. I will sing a bawdy song, sir, because your verjuice[2576] face is melancholy, to make liquor go down glib. Will you fall on your marrowbones, and pledge this health? ’T is to my mistress, a whore.121

Mat. No. O fie, you must fly higher. Yet take ’em home, trifles shall not make us quarrel; we ’ll agree; you shall have them, and a pennyworth. I ’ll fetch money at your shop.154

Const. From the duke: you are the man we look for, signor. I have warrant here from165 the duke, to apprehend you upon felony for robbing two pedlars. I charge you i’ th’ duke’s name, go quickly.

[Pg 449] Mat. Is the wind turn’d? Well, this is that old wolf, my father-in-law.—Seek out your mistress, sirrah.171

Mat. Brave men must be crost; pish, it ’s but Fortune’s dice roving[2580] against me. Come, sir, pray use me like a gentleman; let me not be carried through the streets like a pageant.

Bots. I, sir? Sometimes a figure, sometimes a cipher, as the State has occasion to cast up her accounts. I ’m a soldier.185

Exeunt [Matheo with Lodovico, Astolfo, Carolo, Beraldo, and Fontinell; Bots and Mistress Horseleech, with Billmen.]

[ACT V]

[Scene I.][2581]

Enter at one door Hippolito; at another, Lodovico, Astolfo, Carolo, Beraldo, and Fontinell.

Lod. Yonder ’s the Lord Hippolito; by any means leave him and me together. Now will I turn him to a madman.

Lod. Do you know the brick-house of castigation, by the river side that runs by Milan,—the school where they pronounce no letter well but O?20

Lod. Any man that has borne office of constable or any woman that has fallen from a horse-load to a cart-load,[2584] or like an old hen that has had none but rotten eggs in her nest,25 can direct you to her; there you shall see your punk amongst her back-friends.[2585]

[Scene II.][2586]

Enter Duke, Infelice, Carolo, Astolfo, Beraldo, Fontinell, and three or four Masters of Bridewell.

Orl. This is the hen, my lord, that the cock with the lordly comb, your son-in-law, would crow over, and tread.

Lod. These:—I told him his lark whom he loved, was a Bridewell-bird; he’s mad that this cage should hold her, and is come to let her [Pg 451] out.

Re-enter one of the Governors of the House; Bellafront after him with Matheo; after him the Constable; enter at another door Lodovico and Hippolito. Orlando steps forth and brings in two [of his Servants disguised as] Pedlars.

Mat. I’ll hear none; I fly high in that: rather than kites shall seize upon me, and 94 pick out mine eyes to my face, I’ll strike my talons through mine own heart first, and spit my blood in theirs. I am here for shriving those two fools of their sinful pack. When those jackdaws have caw’d over me, then must I cry 99 guilty, or not guilty. The law has work enough already and therefore I’ll put no work of mine into his hands; the hangman shall ha ’t first. I did pluck those ganders, did rob them.

Mat. Confess and be hanged, and then I fly high, is ’t not so? That for that; a gallows is the worst rub[2593] that a good bowler can meet with; I stumbled against such a post, else this night I had play’d the part of a true son in 109 these days, undone my father-in-law; with him would I ha’ run at leap-frog, and come over his gold, though I had broke his neck for ’t: but the poor salmon-trout is now in the net.

Mat. Right, my lord, and then may you fly low; no more words:—a mouse, mum, you are stopp’d.

Mat. O yes, my lord, yes:—the hangman has never one son at a birth, his children always come by couples. Though I cannot give 125 the old dog, my father, a bone to gnaw, the daughter shall be sure of a choke-pear.—Yes, my lord, there was one more that fiddled my fine pedlars, and that was my wife.

Mat. Oh, sir, you love no quarters of mutton that hang up, you love none but whole mutton. She set the robbery, I perform’d it; she spurr’d me on, I gallop’d away.

Orl. My hand was in the pie, my lord, I confess it. My mistress, I see, will bring me to the gallows, and so leave me; but I’ll not leave her so: I had rather hang in a woman’s company, 154 than in a man’s; because if we should go to hell together, I should scarce be letten in, for all the devils are afraid to have any women come amongst them. As I am true thief, she neither consented to this felony, nor knew of it. 160

Mat. It is my humour, sir, ’t is a foolish bag-pipe that I make myself merry with. Why should I eat hemp-seed at the hangman’s thirteen-pence halfpenny[2594] ordinary, and have this whore laugh at me, as I swing, as I totter? 166

Mat. A barber’s cittern[2595] for every serving-man to play upon; that lord, your son, knows it.

Mat. I cannot talk, sir, and tell of your rems and your rees and your whirligigs and devices: but, my lord, I found ’em like sparrows in one nest, billing together, and bulling of me. I took ’em in bed, was ready to kill him, was up 180 to stab her—

Orl. (discovers himself.) Say thou art not a 200 whore, and that’s more than fifteen women amongst five hundred dare swear without lying, this shalt thou say—no, let me say’t for thee;—thy husband’s a knave, this lord’s an honest man; thou art no punk, this lady’s a right 205 lady. Pacheco is a thief as his master is, but old Orlando is as true a man as thy father is. I ha’ seen you fly high, sir, and I ha’ seen you fly low, sir, and to keep you from the gallows, sir, a blue coat have I worn, and a thief did I turn. 210 Mine own men are the pedlars, my twenty pounds did fly high, sir, your wife’s gown did fly low, sir: whither fly you now, sir? You ha’ scap’d the gallows, to the devil you fly next, sir. Am I right, my liege? 215

Re-enter Constable, after him Bots, after them two Beadles, one with hemp, the other with a beetle.[2597]

Bots. I am what I seem, sir, one of fortune’s bastards, a soldier and a gentleman, and am brought in here with master constable’s band of billmen, because they face me down that I 245 live, like those that keep bowling alleys, by the sins of the people, in being a squire of the body.

Bots. Yes, sir, that degree of scurvy squires; and that I am maintained by the best part 250 that is commonly in a woman, by the worst players of those parts; but I am known to all this company.

Bots. In most of your hottest services in the Low-countries: at the Groyne I was wounded in this thigh, and halted upon ’t, but ’t is now sound. In Cleveland I mist but little, having the bridge of my nose broken down with 261 two great, stones, as I was scaling a fort. I ha’ been tried, sir, too, in Gelderland, and scap’d hardly there from being blown up at a breach: I was fired, and lay i’ th’ surgeon’s hands 265 for ’t, till the fall of the leaf following.

Bots. No soldier, sir? I hope these are services that your proudest commanders do venture upon, and never come off sometimes. 270

Re-enter two of the Masters; a Constable after them, then Dorothea Target, brave;[2599] after her two Beadles, th’ one with a wheel, the other with a blue gown.

Dor. Vuh! yes, sir: and look ye, do you see? the bride-laces that I give at my wedding, will serve to tie rosemary to both your coffins when you come from hanging—Scab!306

Dor. Marry mew, marry muff,[2600] marry, hang you, goodman dog. Whipt? do ye take me for a base, spital-whore? In troth, gentlemen, you wear the clothes of gentlemen, but you carry not the minds of gentlemen, to abuse320 a gentlewoman of my fashion.

Dor. I’m not ashamed of my name, sir; my name is Mistress Doll Target, a Western gentlewoman.329

Dor. Say ye? weep? Yes, forsooth, as you did when you lost your maidenhead. Do you340 not hear how I weep?

Re-enter the two Masters, after them Constable, after him Penelope Whorehound, like a Citizen’s Wife; after her two Beadles, one with a blue gown, another with chalk and a mallet.

Pen. I ha’ worn many a costly gown, but I was never thus guarded[2601] with blue coats, and beadles, and constables, and—

Pen. Oh, sweet sir, I feel the spoiling of other places about me that are dearer than my eyes; if you be gentlemen, if you be men, or ever came of a woman, pity my case! Stand to me, stick to me, good sir, you are an old man.365

Pen. No; God is my judge, sir, I am in for no debts; I paid my tailor for this gown, the last five shillings a-week that was behind, yesterday.

Pen. Penelope Whorehound, I come of the Whorehounds. How does lieutenant Bots?375

Pen. I was never in this pickle before; and yet if I go amongst citizens’ wives, they380 jeer at me; if I go among the loose-bodied gowns,[2602] they cry a pox on me, because I go civilly attired, and swear their trade was a good trade, till such as I am took it out of their384 hands. Good lieutenant Bots, speak to these captains to bail me.

1 Mast. Begging for bail still? You are a trim gossip. Go give her the blue gown, set her to her chare. Work,[2603] huswife, for your bread, away.390

Pen. Out, you dog!—a pox on you all!—women are born to curse thee—but I shall live to see twenty such flat-caps shaking dice for a penny-worth of pippins. Out, you blue-eyed rogue! 395

Bots. Is there any gentleman here, that knows not a whore, and is he a hair the worse for that?406

Re-enter the two Masters first; after them the Constable; after them a Beadle beating a basin,[2604] then Catherina Bountinall, with Mistress Horseleech; after them another Beadle with a blue head guarded[2605] with yellow.

Cat. Sirrah, when I cry, hold your hands, hold, you rogue-catcher, hold.—Bawd, are425 the French chilblains in your heels, that you can come no faster? Are not you, bawd, a whore’s ancient,[2606] and must not I follow my colours?

Mis. H. O Mistress Catherine, you do me wrong to accuse me here as you do, before430 the right worshipful. I am known for a motherly, honest woman, and no bawd.

Cat. Marry foh, honest? Burnt[2607] at fourteen, seven times whipt, six times carted, nine times duck’d, search’d by some hundred and435 fifty constables, and yet you are honest? Honest Mistress Horseleech, is this world a world to keep bawds and whores honest? How many times hast thou given gentlemen a quart of wine in a gallon pot? How many twelve-penny fees, nay two shillings fees, nay, when any441 ambassadors ha’ been here, how many half-crown fees hast thou taken? How many carriers hast thou bribed for country wenches? How often have I rinst your lungs in aqua vitae, and yet you are honest?446

Bots. A thief, no, I defy[2608] the calling; I am a soldier, have borne arms in the field, been in many a hot skirmish, yet come off sound.

Cat. Sound, with a pox to ye, ye abominable rogue! You a soldier? You in skirmishes?459 Where? Amongst pottle pots in a bawdy-house? Look, look here, you Madam Worm-eaten, do you not know him?

Mis. H. Not to know ye, Master Bots? As long as I have breath, I cannot forget thy sweet face.

Cat. He a soldier? A pander, a dog that will lick up sixpence. Do ye hear, you master swines’-snout, how long is’t since you held the door for me, and cried, “To ’t again, no475 body comes!” Ye rogue, you?

Bots. Pox ruin her nose for ’t! An I be not revenged for this—um, ye bitch!

Lod. D’ ye hear ye, madam? Why does your ladyship swagger thus? You’re very brave,481 methinks.

Cat. Not at your cost, master cod’s-head; Is any man here blear-eyed to see me brave?

Lod. O fie, fie, do not vex her! And yet methinks a creature of more scurvy conditions should not know what a good petticoat were.

Cat. Marry, come out; you’re so busy494 about my petticoat, you’ll creep up to my placket, an ye could but attain the honour: but an the outsides offend your rogue-ships, look o’ the lining, ’tis silk.

Cat. Silk? Ay, silk, master slave, you would be glad to wipe your nose with the skirt on’t. This ’tis to come among a company of cod’s-heads[2609] that know not how to use a gentlewoman.

Cat. If the devil were here, I care not. Set forward, ye rogues, and give attendance according to your places! Let bawds and whores509 be sad, for I’ll sing an the devil were a-dying.

Orl. Marry this, my lord, he is my son-in-law, and in law will I be his father: for if law can pepper him, he shall be so parboil’d, that he shall stink no more i’ th’ nose of the commonwealth.540

Orl. Dost thou beg for him, thou precious man’s meat, thou? Has he not beaten thee, kickt thee, trod on thee, and dost thou fawn544 on him like his spaniel? Has he not pawn’d thee to thy petticoat, sold thee to thy smock, made ye leap at a crust, yet wouldst, have me save him?

[Orl.] Have ye eaten pigeons, that you’re so kindhearted to your mate? Nay, you’re a couple of wild bears, I’ll have ye both baited at one stake: but as for this knave, the gallows555 is thy due, and the gallows thou shalt have. I’ll have justice of the duke, the law shall have thy life.—What, dost thou hold him? Let go his hand. If thou dost not forsake him, a559 father’s everlasting blessing fall upon both your heads! Away, go, kiss out of my sight, play thou the whore no more, nor thou the thief again; my house shall be thine, my meat shall be thine, and so shall my wine, but my money shall be mine, and yet when I die, so thou dost not fly high, take all;566

BENIAMINO JONSONIO, POETAE ELEGANTISSIMO, GRAVISSIMO, AMICO SVO, CANDIDO ET CORDATO, IOHANNES MARSTON, MVSARVM ALVMNVS, ASPERAM HANC SVAM THALIAM D.D.

I am an ill orator; and, in truth, use to indite more honestly than eloquently, for it is my custom to speak as I think, and write as I speak.

In plainness, therefore, understand that in some things I have willingly erred, as in supposing a Duke of Genoa, and in taking names different from that city’s families: for which some may wittily accuse me: but my defence shall be as honest as many reproofs unto me have been most malicious; since, I heartily protest, it was my care to write so far from reasonable offence, that even strangers, in whose state I laid my scene, should not from thence draw any disgrace to any, dead or living. Yet, in despite of my endeavours, I understand some have been most unadvisedly over-cunning in misinterpreting me, and with subtlety as deep as hell have maliciously spread ill rumours, which, springing from themselves, might to themselves have heavily returned. Surely I desire to satisfy every firm spirit, who, in all his actions, proposeth to himself no more ends than God and virtue do, whose intentions are always simple: to such I protest that, with my free understanding, I have not glanced at disgrace of any, but of those whose unquiet studies labour innovation, contempt of holy policy, reverend, comely superiority, and establisht unity: for the rest of my supposed tartness, I fear not but unto every worthy mind it will be approved so general and honest as may modestly pass with the freedom of a satire. I would fain leave the paper; only one thing afflicts me, to think that scenes, invented merely to be spoken, should be enforcively published to be read, and that the least hurt I can receive is to do myself the wrong. But, since others otherwise would do me more, the least inconvenience is to be accepted. I have myself, therefore, set forth this comedy; but so, that my enforced absence must much rely upon the printer’s discretion: but I shall entreat slight errors in orthography may be as slightly over-passed, and that the unhandsome shape which this trifle in reading presents, may be pardoned for the pleasure it once afforded you when it was presented with the soul of lively action.

[THE INDUCTION[2611]
TO
THE MALCONTENT, AND THE ADDITIONS[2612] ACTED BY THE KING’S MAJESTY’S SERVANTS.

Sly. Why, we may sit upon the stage at the private house. Thou dost not take me for a country gentleman, dost? Dost think I fear5 hissing? I’ll hold my life thou tookest me for one of the players.

Sly. By God’s slid,[2613] if you had, I would have given you but sixpence for your stool. Let10 them that have stale suits sit in the galleries. Hiss at me! He that will be laught out of a tavern or an ordinary, shall seldom feed well, or be drunk in good company.—Where’s Harry Condell, Dick Burbadge, and William Sly?15 Let me speak with some of them.

Sly. I tell you, no: I am one that hath seen this play often, and can give them intelligence20 for their action. I have most of the jests here in my table-book.[2614]

Sinklo. No, indeed, cousin: the audience then will take me for a viol-de-gambo, and think that you play upon me.

Sinklo. We stayed for you at supper last30 night at my cousin Honeymoon’s, the woollen-draper. After supper we drew cuts for a score of apricocks, the longest cut still to draw an apricock: by this light, ’t was Mistress Frank Honeymoon’s fortune still to have the longest35 cut: I did measure for the women.—What be these, coz?

Sly. I pray you, know this gentleman, my40 cousin; ’t is Master Doomsday’s son, the usurer.

Sly. No, in good faith, for mine ease. Look you, my hat’s the handle to this fan. God’s45 so, what a beast was I, I did not leave my feather at home! Well, but I’ll take an order with you.

Sly. Why, do you think I’ll have jests broken upon me in the play, to be laught at? This play hath beaten all your gallants out of the feathers. Blackfriars hath almost spoiled Blackfriars for feathers.[2615]55

Sinklo. God’s so, I thought ’t was for somewhat our gentlewomen at home counsell’d me to wear my feather to the play: yet I am loth to spoil it.

Sinklo. Because I got it in the tilt-yard; there was a herald broke my pate for taking it up: but I have worn it up and down the Strand, and met him forty times since, and yet he dares not challenge it.65

Condell. Why, sir, ’t is neither satire nor moral, but the mean passage of a history: yet there are a sort of discontented creatures that70 bear a stingless envy to great ones, and these will wrest the doings of any man to their base, malicious applyment;[2616] but should their interpretation come to the test, like your marmoset, they presently turn their teeth to their tail75 and eat it.

Sly. I will not go so far with you; but I say, any man that hath wit may censure,[2617] if he sit in the twelve-penny room;[2618] and I say again, the play is bitter.80

Burbadge. Sir, you are like a patron that, presenting a poor scholar to a benefice, enjoins him not to rail against anything that stands within compass of his patron’s folly. Why should not we enjoy the ancient freedom of poesy?85 Shall we protest to the ladies that their painting makes them angels? or to my young gallant that his expense in the brothel shall gain him reputation? No, sir, such vices as stand not accountable to law should be cured as90 men heal tetters,[2619] by casting ink upon them. Would you be satisfied in anything else, sir?

Condell. Faith, sir, the book was lost; and95 because ’t was pity so good a play should be lost, we found it, and play it.

Condell. Why not Malevole in folio with100 us, as Jeronimo in decimo-sexto with them?[2620] They taught us a name for our play; we call it One For Another.

Burbadge. Sooth, not greatly needful; only105 as your salad to your great feast, to entertain a little more time, and to abridge the not-received custom of music in our theatre. I must leave you, sir.

Sinklo. I durst lay four of mine ears the play is not so well acted as it hath been.

Lowin. Marry, sir, because I have heard of a fellow would offer to lay a hundred-pound120 wager, that was not worth five baubees:[2622] and in this kind you might venture four of your elbows; yet God defend[2623] your coat should have so many!

Sinklo. Nay, truly, I am no great censurer;[2624]125 and yet I might have been one of the college of critics once. My cousin here hath an excellent memory, indeed, sir.

Sly. Who? I? I’ll tell you a strange thing of myself; and I can tell you, for one that130 never studied the art of memory, ’t is very strange too.

Sly. Why, I’ll lay a hundred pound, I’ll walk but once down by the Goldsmith’s135 Row in Cheap, take notice of the signs, and tell you them with a breath instantly.

Sly. They begin as the world did, with Adam and Eve. There’s in all just five and fifty.140 I do use to meditate much when I come to plays too. What do you think might come into a man’s head now, seeing all this company?

Sly. I have an excellent thought. If some145 fifty of the Grecians that were cramm’d in the horse’ belly had eaten garlic, do you not think the Trojans might have smelt out their knavery?

Come to them, and fencing of a congee[2627] with arms and legs, be round with them.

Gentlemen, I could wish for the women’s sakes you had all soft cushions; and gentlewomen, I could wish that for the men’s sakes you165 had all more easy standings.

ACT I.[2628]

Scene I.[2629]

Scene II.[2630]

Enter the Duke Pietro, Ferrardo, Count Equato, Count Celso before, and Guerrino.

Bil. The discord rather than the music is heard from the malcontent Malevole’s chamber.

Mal. (out of his chamber.) Yaugh, god-a-man,5 what dost thou there? Duke’s Ganymede, [Pg 459] Juno’s jealous of thy long stockings. Shadow of a woman, what wouldst, weasel? Thou lamb o’ court, what dost thou bleat for? Ah, you smooth chinn’d catamite![2631]10

Pietro. Come down, thou rugged[2632] cur, and snarl here; I give thy dogged sullenness free liberty; trot about and bespurtle[2633] whom thou pleasest.

Mal. I’ll come among you, you goatish-blooded15 toderers,[2634] as gum into taffeta, to fret, to fret. I’ll fall like a sponge into water, to suck up, to suck up. Howl again;[2635] I’ll go to church and come to you.

Pietro. This Malevole is one of the most20 prodigious affections that ever converst with nature: a man, or rather a monster, more discontent than Lucifer when he was thrust out of the presence. His appetite is insatiable as the grave; as far from any content as from25 heaven. His highest delight is to procure others vexation, and therein he thinks he truly serves heaven; for ’t is his position, whosoever in this earth can be contented is a slave and damned; therefore does he afflict all in30 that to which they are most affected.[2636] The elements struggle within him; his own soul is at variance [within herself]:[2637] his speech is halter-worthy at all hours. I like him, faith: he gives good intelligence to my spirit, makes35 me understand those weaknesses which others’ flattery palliates. Hark! they sing.

Scene III.[2638]

[Pietro.] See, he comes. Now shall you hear the extremity of a malcontent: he is as free as air; he blows over every man.—And, sir, whence come you now?4

Mal. Sects, sects. I have seen seeming Piety change her robe so oft, that sure none but some arch-devil can shape her a new petticoat.

Mal. But, damnation on a politic religion! I am weary: would I were one of the duke’s hounds now!21

Pietro. But what ’s the common news abroad, Malevole? Thou dogg’st rumour still.

Mal. Common news? Why, common words are, “God save ye,” “Fare ye well;” common25 actions, flattery and cozenage; common things, women and cuckolds.—And how does my little Ferrard? Ah, ye lecherous animal!—my little ferret, he goes sucking up and down the palace into every hen’s nest, like a weasel:—30 and to what dost thou addict thy time to now more than to those antique painted drabs that are still affected of[2640] young courtiers, Flattery, Pride, and Venery?34

Mal. Phew! the devil: let him possess thee; he’ll teach thee to speak all languages most readily and strangely; and great reason, marry, he’s travel’d greatly i’ the world, and is everywhere.41

Mal. Ay, save i’ th’ court.—(To Bilioso.) And how does my old muckhill, overspread with fresh snow? Thou half a man, half a45 goat, all a beast! how does thy young wife, old huddle?

Mal. Why, like the knight, Sir Patrick Penlolians, with killing o’ spiders for my lady’s monkey.55

Mal. O, no; but dream the most fantastical! O heaven! O fubbery, fubbery![2641]

Mal. Why, methinks I see that signior pawn his footcloth,[2642] that metreza[2643] her plate: this madam takes physic that t’ other monsieur may minister to her: here is a pander jewel’d; there a fellow in shift of satin this day, that65 could not shift a shirt t’ other night: here a Paris supports that Helen; there’s a Lady Guinever bears up that Sir Lancelot. Dreams, dreams, visions, fantasies, chimeras, imaginations, tricks, conceits!—(To Prepasso.) Sir70 Tristram, Trimtram, come aloft, Jack-an-apes,[2644] with a whim-wham: here’s a knight of the land of Catito shall play at trap[2645] with any page in Europe; do the sword-dance with any morris-dancer in Christendom; ride at the ring till75 the fin[2646] of his eyes look as blue as the welkin; and run the wildgoose-chase even with Pompey the Huge.

Mal. To the devil. Now, signior Guerrino, that thou from a most pitied prisoner shouldst grow a most loath’d flatterer!—Alas, poor Celso, thy star’s opprest: thou art an honest lord: ’t is pity.

Mal. Ay, marry is ’t, philosophical Equato; and ’t is pity that thou, being so excellent a scholar by art, should be so ridiculous a fool by nature.—I have a thing to tell you, duke: bid ’em avaunt, bid ’em avaunt.90

Mal. Mendoza is the man makes thee a horn’d beast; duke, ’t is Mendoza cornutes thee.

Mal. Dull, dull duke, can lazy patience make lame revenge? O God, for a woman to make a man that which God never created, never made?116

Mal. A cuckold: to be made a thing that ’s hoodwinkt with kindness, whilst every rascal fillips his brows; to have a coxcomb with120 egregious horns pinn’d to a lord’s back, every page sporting himself with delightful laughter, whilst he must be the last must know it. Pistols and poniards! pistols and poniards!

Mal. Nay, think, but think what may proceed of this; adultery is often the mother of incest.155

Mal. Yes, incest: mark:—Mendoza of his wife begets perchance a daughter: Mendoza dies, his son marries this daughter: say you? nay, ’t is frequent, not only probable, but no160 question often acted, whilst ignorance, fearless ignorance, clasps his own seed.

Mal. Adultery! Why, next to the sin of simony, ’t is the most horrid transgression under the cope of salvation.[2656]166

Mal. Because (thanks to some churchmen) our age will leave them nothing to sin with. But adultery, O dulness! should show[2657] exemplary punishment, that intemperate bloods may freeze but to think it.] I would damn him175 and all his generation: my own hands should do it; ha, I would not trust heaven with my vengeance anything.

Pietro. Anything, anything, Malevole: thou shalt see instantly what temper my spirit180 holds. Farewell; remember I forget thee not; farewell.

Scene IV.[2660]

O the father of May-poles! did you never see a fellow whose strength consisted in his breath, 45 respect in his office, religion in his lord, and love in himself, why, then, behold!

Mal. My right worshipful lord, your court night-cap makes you have a passing high forehead. 51

Bil. I can tell you strange news, but I am sure you know them already: the duke speaks much good of you.

Mal. Just: what though I call’d thee old ox, egregious wittol, broken-bellied coward, rotten mummy? yet, since I am in favour—

Bil. Words of course, terms of disport. His grace presents you by me a chain, as his grateful remembrance for—I am ignorant for 65 what; marry, ye may impart: yet howsoever—come—dear friend; dost know my son?

Bil. He shall eat wood-cocks, dance jigs, make possets, and play at shuttle-cock with 70 any young lord about the court: he has as sweet a lady, too; dost know her little bitch?

Bil. Believe me, a she-bitch. O, ’t is a good creature! thou shalt be her servant. I’ll 75 make thee acquainted with my young wife too: what! I keep her not at court for nothing. ’T is grown to supper-time; come to my table: that, anything I have, stands open to thee.

Bil. I shall now leave you with my always-best wishes; only let’s hold betwixt us a firm correspondence, a mutual friendly-reciprocal kind of a steady-unanimous-heartily-leagued— 90

Mal. Did your signorship ne’er see a pigeon-house that was smooth, round, and white without, and full of holes and stink within? Ha’ ye not, old courtier? 94

Scene V.[2666]

Mal. Mendoza, hark ye, hark ye. You are a treacherous villain: God b’ wi’ ye!

Mal. We are all the sons of heaven, though a tripe-wife were our mother: ah, you whoreson, hot-rein’d he-marmoset! Aegisthus! didst ever hear of one Aegisthus?

Mal. Ay, Aegisthus: he was a filthy incontinent flesh-monger, such a one as thou art.

Men. Now, good Elysium! what a delicious heaven is it for a man to be in a prince’s favour! O sweet God! O pleasure! O fortune! O all thou best of life! What should I think, what say, what do to be a favourite, a minion? 25 to have a general timorous respect observe[2667] a man, a stateful silence in his presence, solitariness in his absence, a confused hum and busy murmur of obsequious suitors training[2668] him; the cloth held up, and way proclaim’d before 30 him; petitionary vassels licking the pavement with their slavish knees, whilst some odd palace-lampreels[2669] that engender with snakes, and are full of eyes on both sides, with a kind of insinuating humbleness, fix all 35 their delights upon his brow. O blessed state! what a ravishing prospect doth the Olympus of favour yield! Death, I cornute the duke! Sweet women! most sweet ladies! nay, angels! by heaven, he is more accursed than a devil 40 that hates you, or is hated by you; and happier than a god that loves you, or is beloved by you. You preservers of mankind, life-blood of society, who would live, nay, who can live without you? O paradise! how majestical is your 45 austerer presence! how imperiously chaste is your more modest face! but, O, how full of ravishing attraction is your pretty, petulant, languishing, lasciviously-composed countenance! these amorous smiles, those soul-warming 50 sparkling glances, ardent as those flames that singed the world by heedless Phaeton! in body how delicate, in soul how witty, in discourse how pregnant, in life, how wary, in favours how judicious, in day how sociable, and 55 in night how—O pleasure unutterable! indeed, it is most certain, one man cannot deserve only to enjoy a beauteous woman: but a duchess! In despite of Phoebus, I’ll write a sonnet instantly in praise of her.60

Scene VI.[2670]

Enter Ferneze ushering Aurelia, Emilia and Maquerelle bearing up her train, Bianca attending; then exeunt Emilia and Bianca.

Maq. To speak feelingly, more, more richly in solid sense than worthless words, give me those jewels of your ears to receive my enforced duty. As for my part, ’t is well known I can put up anything (Ferneze privately feeds Maquerelle’s 10 hands with jewels during this speech); can bear patiently with any man: but when I heard he wronged your precious sweetness, I was enforced to take deep offence. ’T is most certain he loves Emilia with high appetite: 15 and, as she told me (as you know we women impart our secrets one to another), when she repulsed his suit, in that he was possessed with your endeared grace, Mendoza most ingratefully renounced all faith to you. 20

Maq. By heaven, witch, dri’d biscuit; and contested blushlessly he lov’d you but for a spurt or so.

Maq. Nay, he is the rustiest-jaw’d, the foulest mouth’d knave in railing against our sex: he will rail again’ women— 30

Maq. Why, when Emilia scorn’d his base unsteadiness, the black-throated rascal scolded, and said— 35

Maq. Why, that, at four, women were 40 fools; at fourteen, drabs; at forty, bawds; at fourscore, witches; and [at] a hundred, cats.

Aurel. Enjoy my favour. I will be sick instantly and take physic: therefore in depth of night visit— 60

Maq. Visit her chamber, but conditionally you shall not offend her bed: by this diamond!

Men. Madam, your excellency is graciously 85 encount’red: I have been writing passionate flashes in honour of—

Men. Women! nay, Furies; nay, worse; 95 for they torment only the bad, but women good and bad. Damnation of mankind! Breath, hast thou prais’d them for this? and is ’t you, Ferneze, are wriggled into smock-grace? Sit sure. O, that I could rail against these monsters 100 in nature, models of hell, curse of the earth, women! that dare attempt anything, and what they attempt they care not how they accomplish; without all premeditation or prevention; rash in asking, desperate in working, impatient 105 in suffering, extreme in desiring, slaves unto appetite, mistresses in dissembling, only constant in unconstancy, only perfect in counterfeiting; their words are feigned, their eyes forg’d, their sighs dissembled, their looks 110 counterfeit, their hair false, their given hopes deceitful, their very breath artificial; their blood is their only god; bad clothes and old age are only the devils they tremble at. That I could rail now! 115

Scene VII.[2672]

[Scene VIII.][2676]

Mal. At the devil’s. Ah, you treacherous, damnable monster, how dost? how dost, thou treacherous rogue? Ah, ye rascal! I am banished110 the court, sirrah.

Mal. At your service, by the Lord, la: shall’s go to supper? Let’s be once drunk together,115 and so unite a most virtuously-strength’ned friendship: shall ’s Huguenot? shall ’s?

Mal. As a raven to a dunghill. They say120 there’s one dead here: prickt for the pride of the flesh.

Mal. Because I’ll live lazily, rail upon authority, deny kings’ supremacy in things indifferent, and be a pope in mine own parish.

Mal. To scour plough-shares: I ha’ seen oxen plough up altars; et nunc seges ubi Sion fuit.[2708]

Mal. Nay, monstrous! I ha’ seen a sumptuous steeple turned to a stinking privy; more beastly, the sacredest place made a dogs’ kennel; nay, most inhuman, the stoned coffins of long-dead Christians burst up, and made hogs’ troughs: hic finis Priami[2709] Shall I ha’ some 140 sack and cheese at thy chamber? Good night, good mischievous incarnate devil; good night. Mendoza; ah, ye inhuman villain, good night! night, fuh.[2710]144

Mal. Ay, I will come, friendly damnation, I will come. I do descry cross-points; honesty and courtship straddle as far asunder as a true Frenchman’s legs.

[Pg 469] Mal. Hark! lust cries for a surgeon. What news from Limbo? How does the grand cuckold, Lucifer?155

ACT III

Scene I.[2711]

Bil. Madam, I am going ambassador for Florence; ’t will be great charges to me.

Bian. No matter, my lord, you have the lease of two manors come out next Christmas; you may lay your tenants on the greater rack40 for it: and when you come home again, I’ll teach you how you shall get two hundred pounds a-year by your teeth.

Bian. Cut off so much from house-keeping:45 that which is saved by the teeth, you know, is got by the teeth.

Bian. See the use of flattery: I did ever50 counsel you to flatter greatness, and you have profited well: any man that will do so shall be sure to be like your Scotch barnacle,[2715] now a block, instantly a worm, and presently a great goose: this it is to rot and putrefy in the bosom of greatness.55

Bil. Thou art ever my politician. O, how happy is that old lord that hath a politician to his young lady! I’ll have fifty gentlemen shall attend upon me: marry, the most of them60 shall be farmer’s sons, because they shall bear their own charges: and they shall go apparelled thus,—in sea-water-green suits, ash-colour cloaks, watchet stockings, and popinjay-green feathers: will not the colours do excellent?65

Bian. Out upon ’t! they’ll look like citizens riding to their friends at Whitsuntide; their apparel just so many several parishes.

Bil. I’ll have it so; and Passarello, my fool, shall go along with me; marry, he shall be in velvet.71

Bil. Ay, ’t is common for your fool to wear satin; I’ll have mine in velvet.

Bil. Velvet too; marry, it shall be embroidered, because I’ll differ from the fool somewhat. I am horribly troubled with the gout: nothing grieves me, but that my doctor hath forbidden me wine, and you know your ambassador80 must drink. Didst thou ask thy doctor what [Pg 470] was good for the gout?

Bian. Why, the rack. All your empirics could never do the like cure upon the gout the rack did in England, or your Scotch boot.[2716] The French harlequin will instruct you.90

Bil. Surely, I do wonder how thou, having for the most part of thy lifetime been a country body, shouldst have so good a wit.

Bil. So have I this twenty year, and yet there was a gentleman-usher called me coxcomb t’ other day, and to my face too: was ’t not a backbiting rascal? I would I were better travelled, that I might have been better acquainted with the fashions of several countrymen;101 but my secretary, I think, he hath sufficiently instructed me.

Bil. “Marry, my good lord,” quoth he,105 “your lordship shall ever find amongst a hundred Frenchmen forty hot-shots; amongst a hundred Spaniards, three-score braggarts; amongst a hundred Dutchmen, four-score drunkards; amongst an hundred Englishmen, four-score110 and ten madmen; and amongst an hundred Welshmen”——

Bian. But since you go about a sad embassy. I would have you go in black, my lord.116

Bil. Why, dost think I cannot mourn, unless I wear my hat in cypress,[2718] like an alderman’s heir? That’s vile, very old, in faith.119

Bian. I’ll learn of you shortly: O, we should have a fine gallant of you, should not I instruct you! How will you bear yourself when you come into the Duke of Florence’ court?

Bil. Proud enough, and ’t will do well enough. As I walk up and down the chamber, I’ll125 spit frowns about me, have a strong perfume in my jerkin, let my beard grow to make me look terrible, salute no man beneath the fourth button; and ’t will do excellent.

Bian. But there is a very beautiful lady130 there; how will you entertain her?

Bil. I’ll tell you that, when the lady hath entertained me: but to satisfy thee, here comes the fool.

Pass. Why, then, if your lady take down your fool, your fool will stand no longer for your lady.

Bil. A pestilent fool! ’fore God, I think the world be turned upside down too.145

Pass. O, no, sir; for then your lady and all the ladies in the palace should go with their heels upward, and that were a strange sight, you know.149

Pass. O, ay, like the envy of an elder sister, that hath her younger made a lady before her.

Pass. Ay, and more melancholic than a155 usurer having all his money out at the death of a prince.

Pass. Yes, I found her repairing her face today; the red upon the white showed as if160 her cheeks should have been served in for two dishes of barberries in stewed broth, and the flesh to them a woodcock.

Bil. A bitter fool![2719] Come, madam, this night thou shalt enjoy me freely, and tomorrow165 for Florence.

Pass. What a natural fool is he that would be a pair of bodies[2720] to a woman’s petticoat, to be trussed and pointed to them! Well, I’ll dog my lord; and the word is proper: for when I170 fawn upon him, he feeds me; when I snap him by the fingers, he spits in my mouth. If a dog’s death were not strangling, I had rather be one than a serving-man; for the corruption of coin is either the generation of a usurer or a lousy175 beggar.

Scene II.[2721]

Mal. Elder of Israel, thou honest defect of wicked nature and obstinate ignorance, when [Pg 471] did thy wife let thee lie with her?

Mal. Ambassador! Now, for thy country’s20 honour, prithee, do not put up mutton and porridge i’ thy cloak-bag. Thy young lady wife goes to Florence with thee too, does she not?

Scene III.[2725]

Mal. Why, sure my blood gives me I am noble, sure I am of noble kind; for I find myself possessed with all their qualities;—love dogs, dice, and drabs, scorn wit in stuff-clothes; have beat my shoemaker, knocked my seamstress, 65 cuckold[ed] my ’pothecary, and undone my tailor. Noble! why not? since the stoic[2727] said, Neminem servum non ex regibus, neminem regem non ex servis esse oriundum; only busy Fortune touses, and the provident Chances 70 blend them together. I’ll give you a simile: [Pg 472] did you e’er see a well with two buckets, whilst one comes up full to be emptied, another goes down empty to be filled? Such is the state of all humanity. Why, look you, I may75 be the son of some duke; for, believe me, intemperate lascivious bastardy makes nobility doubtful: I have a lusty daring heart, Mendoza.79

Mal. Shall I get by it? (Men. gives him his purse.) Command me; I am thy slave, beyond death and hell.

Mal. My heart’s wish, my soul’s desire, my fantasy’s dream, my blood’s longing, the only height of my hopes! How, O God, how! O, how my united spirits throng together, to strengthen my resolve!90

Mal. Excellent, admirable, as the devil would have it! Lend me, lend me, rapier, pistol, cross-bow: so, so, I’ll do it.

Men. My utmost project is to murder the duke, that I might have his state, because he makes me his heir; to banish the duchess, that I might be rid of a cunning Lacedaemonian,110 because I know Florence will forsake her; and then to marry Maria, the banished Duke Altofront’s wife, that her friends might strengthen me and my faction: that is all, la.115

Men. Faith, no great affection, but as wise men do love great women, to ennoble their blood and augment revenue. To accomplish this now, thus now. The duke is in the forest, next the sea:120 single him, kill him, hurl him i’ the main, and proclaim thou sawest wolves eat him.

Scene IV.[2728]

Pietro. Would God nothing but the dogs were at it! Let the deer pursue safety,[2729] the dogs follow the game, and do you follow the dogs: as for me, ’t is unfit one beast should hunt another;5 I ha’ one chaseth me: an ’t please you, I would be rid of ye a little.

1 Page. Of a dry summer, my lord; for here’s a hot world towards: but, my lord, I had a strange dream last night.

1 Page. Why, methought I pleased you with singing, and then I dreamt that you gave me that short sword.

1 Page. My duty: but still I dreamt on, my lord; and methought, an ’t shall please your excellency, you would needs out of your royal bounty give me that jewel in your hat.

Pietro. O, thou didst but dream, boy; do25 not believe it: dreams prove not always true; they may hold in a short sword, but not in a jewel. But now, sir, you dreamt you had pleased me with singing; make that true, as I [Pg 473] ha’ made the other.30

1 Page. Faith, my lord, I did but dream, and dreams, you say, prove not always true; they may hold in a good sword, but not in a good song. The truth is, I ha’ lost my voice.

1 Page. With dreaming, faith: but here ’s a couple of sirenical rascals shall enchant ye. What shall they sing, my good lord?

Pietro. Sing of the nature of women: and then the song shall be surely full of variety,40 old crotchets, and most sweet closes; it shall be humorous, grave, fantastic, amorous, melancholy, sprightly, one in all, and all in one.

Pietro. By ’r lady, too many. Sing: my45 speech grows culpable of unthrifty idleness:[2730] sing.

Scene V.[2731]

Mal. If! Come, shade thee with this disguise.31 If! Thou shalt handle it; he shall thank thee for killing thyself. Come, follow my directions, and thou shalt see strange sleights.

ACT IV

Scene I.[2735]

Maq. Medam, medam, are you stirring, medam? If you be stirring, medam,—if I thought I should disturb ye—

Maq. Nay, an ye be in the teens—are ye a gentleman born? Do you know me? My name is Medam Maquerelle; I lie in the old Cunny-court.10

Maq. O ladies, the most abominable mischance! O dear ladies the most piteous disaster!15 Ferneze was taken last night in the duchess’ chamber. Alas, the duke catcht him and kill’d him!

Maq. O, no; but the villanous certainty is,20 the door was not bolted, the tongue-tied hatch held his peace: so the naked troth is, he was found in his shirt, whilst I, like an arrant beast, lay in the outward chamber, heard nothing; and yet they came by me in the dark, and25 yet I felt them not, like a senseless creature as I was. O beauties, look to your busk-points;[2736] if not chastely, yet charily: be sure the door be bolted.—Is your lord gone to Florence?

Maq. I hope you ’ll find the discretion to purchase a fresh gown ’fore his return.—Now, by my troth, beauties, I would ha’ ye once wise. He loves ye; pish! He is witty; bubble! Fair-proportioned; mew! Nobly-born; wind! Let35 this be still your fixed position: esteem me every man according to his good gifts, and so ye shall ever remain most worthy to be most dear ladies.

Maq. Faith, boldly; strongly defies defame, as one that has a duke to her father. And45 there ’s a note to you: be sure of a stout friend in a corner, that may always awe your husband. Mark the behaviour of the duchess now: she dares defame, cries, “Duke, do what thou canst, I ’ll quit mine honour:” nay, as one50 confirmed in her own virtue against ten thousand mouths that mutter her disgrace, she ’s presently for dances.

Emil. Most strange. See, here ’s my servant,[2737] young Ferrardo. How many servants thinkest thou I have, Maquerelle?[2738]

Maq. The more, the merrier. ’T was well59 said, use your servants as you do your smocks; have many, use one, and change often; for that ’s most sweet and courtlike.

Maq. I think he could hardly draw Ulysses’ bow; but, by my fidelity, were his nose narrower, his eyes broader, his hands thinner,69 his lips thicker, his legs bigger, his feet lesser, his hair blacker, and his teeth whiter, he were a tolerable sweet youth, i’ faith. And he will come to my chamber, I will read him the fortune of his beard. 74

Scene II.[2739]

Enter Mendoza supporting the Duchess and Guerrino: the ladies that are on the stage rise: Ferrardo ushers in the Duchess, and then takes a lady to tread a measure.[2740]

Guer. Les quanto,[2741] lady, Pensez bien, Passa regis, or Bianca’s brawl?

Guer. Why, ’t is but two singles on the left, two on the right, three doubles forward, a traverse of six round: do this twice, three singles side, galliard trick-of-twenty, coranto-pace; a figure of eight, three singles broken down,10 come up, meet, two doubles, fall back, and then honour.

Aur. We are not pleased with your intrusion upon our private retirement; we are not25 pleased: you have forgot yourselves.

Page. Alas, I left him burying the earth with his spread joyless limbs: he told me he was heavy, would sleep; bade me walk off,30 for that the strength of fantasy oft made him talk in his dreams. I straight obeyed, nor ever saw him since: but whereso’er he is, he ’s sad.

Scene III.[2742]

Mal. Now, you egregious devil! Ha, ye murdering politician! How dost, duke? How dost look now? Brave duke, i’ faith.

Mal. O ’t was best, sure work; for he that strikes a great man, let him strike home, or else ’ware, he’ll prove no man. Shoulder not80 a huge fellow, unless you may be sure to lay him in the kennel.

Mal. To the gallows, say ye? Come: praemium incertum petit, certum scelus.[2744] How stands the progress?

Men. Go to, then; thou must know that Malevole is a strange villain; dangerous, very105 dangerous: you see how broad ’a speaks; a gross-jawed rogue. I would have thee poison him: he’s like a corn upon my great toe, I cannot go for him; he must be cored out, he must. Wilt do ’t, ha?110

Mal. Your devilship’s ring has no virtue: the buff-captain, the sallow Westphalian gammon-faced zaza cries, “Stand out!” must have a stiffer warrant, or no pass into the castle121 of comfort.

Men. Command our sudden letter.—Not enter! sha’t: what place is there in Genoa but thou shalt? Into my heart, into my very heart: come, let’s love: we must love, we two, soul125 and body.

Scene IV.[2749]

Mal. O, do not rave, do not turn player;5 there’s more of them than can well live one by another already. What, art an infidel still?

Pietro. I am amazed, struck in a swoon with wonder: I am commanded to poison thee—

Mal. Cross capers! tricks! Truth o’15 heaven! he would discharge us as boys do eldern guns one pellet to strike out another. Of what faith art now?

Mal. In none but usurers and brokers; they deceive no man: men take ’em for blood-suckers, and so they are. Now, God deliver me from my friends!

Mal. Yes, from my friends; for from mine enemies I’ll deliver myself. O, cut-throat friendship is the rankest villainy! Mark this Mendoza; mark him for a villain: but heaven will send a plague upon him for a rogue.30

Mal. World! ’tis the only region of death, the greatest shop of the devil; the cruelest prison of men, out of the which none pass without paying their dearest breath for a fee;35 there’s nothing perfect in it but extreme, extreme calamity, such as comes yonder.

Scene V.[2750]

Enter Aurelia, two halberts before and two after, supported by Celso and Ferrardo; Aurelia in base mourning attire.

Mal. Do not weep, kind cuckold: take comfort, man; thy betters have been beccos:[2756] Agamemnon, emperor of all the merry Greeks, that tickled all the true Trojans, was a cornuto; Prince Arthur, that cut off twelve kings’60 beards, was a cornuto; Hercules, whose back bore up heaven, and got forty wenches with child in one night,—

Mal. Faith, forty ’s enow, o’ conscience,—yet65 was a cornuto. Patience; mischief grows proud: be wise.

Mal. Tut, a pitiful surgeon makes a dangerous70 sore; I ’ll tent[2757] thee to the ground. Thinkest I ’ll sustain myself by flattering thee, because thou art a prince? I had rather follow a drunkard, and live by licking up his vomit, than by servile flattery.75

Mal. Great slaves fear better than love, born naturally for a coal-basket;[2758] though the common usher of princes’ presence, Fortune, ha’ blindly given them better place. I am80 vowed to be thy affliction.

Bil. I will conceal the great duke’s pleasure; only this was his charge: his pleasure is, that his daughter die; Duke Pietro be banished90 for publishing[2759] his blood’s dishonour; and that Duke Altofront be re-accepted. This is all: but I hear Duke Pietro is dead.

Mal. Your lordship swears; your young lady will get you a cloth for your old worship’s115 brows. (Exit Bilioso.) Here’s a fellow to be damn’d: this is his inviolable maxim.—flatter the greatest and oppress the least: a whoreson flesh-fly, that still knaws upon the lean galled backs.120

Mal. Faith, as bawds go to church, for fashion sake. Come, be not confounded; thou ’rt but in danger to lose a dukedom. Think this:—this earth is the only grave and Golgotha125 wherein all things that live must rot; ’t is but the draught wherein the heavenly bodies discharge their corruption; the very muck-hill on which the sublunary orbs cast their excrements: man is the slime of this dung pit,130 and princes are the governors of these men; for, for our souls, they are as free as emperors, all of one piece; there goes but a pair of shears betwixt[2760] an emperor and the son of a bagpiper; only the dying, dressing, pressing, glossing,135 makes the difference.

ACT V

[Scene Ia.[2761]

Bil. This calf hath been a reveller this twenty year. When Monsieur Gundi lay here ambassador,5 I could have carried a lady up and down at arm’s end in a platter; and I can tell you, there were those at that time who, to try the strength of a man’s back and his arm, would be coistered.[2762] I have measured calves with10 most of the palace, and they come nothing near me; besides, I think there be not many armours in the arsenal will fit me, especially for the headpiece. I’ll tell thee—

Bil. I can eat stewed broth as it comes seething off the fire; or a custard as it comes reeking out of the oven; and I think there are not many lords can do it. A good pomander,[2763] a little decayed in the scent; but six grains of musk,20 ground with rose-water, and tempered with a little civet, shall fetch her again presently.

Pass. I were better roast a live cat, and might do it with more safety. I am as secret to [the] thieves as their painting. There ’s Maquerelle, oldest bawd and a perpetual beggar—did you never hear of her trick to be known in the30 city?

Pass. Why, she gets all the picture-makers to draw her picture; when they have done, she most courtly finds fault with them one after35 another, and never fetcheth them. They, in revenge of this, execute her in pictures as they do in Germany, and hang her in their shops. By this means is she better known to the stinkards[2764] than if she had been five times carted.40

Pass. Good my lord, give me leave to break a fellow’s pate that hath abused me.45

Bil. Take heed, he’s very valiant; I have known him fight eight quarrels in five days, believe it.50

Pass. Why, thus. He that quarrels seeks to fight; and he that seeks to fight seeks to55 die; and he that seeks to die seeks never to fight more; and he that will quarrel, and seeks means never to answer a man more, I think he ’s a coward.

Scene I.[2765]

Mal. O, thou art a blessed creature! Had 5 I a modest woman to conceal, I would put her to thy custody; for no reasonable creature would ever suspect her to be in thy company. Ah, thou art a melodious Maquerelle,—thou picture of a woman, and substance of a beast!

Maq. O fool, will ye be ready anon to go11 with me to the revels? The hall will be so pestered[2767] anon.

Pass. Wine; I have learned to drink since I went with my lord ambassador: I ’ll drink to the health of Madam Maquerelle,

Pass. Ay; but since I borrowed money of20 her, I ’ll drink to her health now; as gentlemen visit brokers, or as knights send venison to the city, either to take up more money, or to procure longer forbearance.

[Pg 479] Pass. I’ll take it [drinks]:—so. Now I ’ll begin a health to Madam Maquerelle.

Pass. Not pledge Madam Maquerelle! Why, then, will I spew up your lord again with this fool’s finger.

Maq. Verily, very well; for we women always note, the falling of the one is the rising of the other; some must be fat, some must be lean; some must be fools, and some must be lords; some must be knaves, and some must be officers; some50 must be beggars, some must be knights; some must be cuckolds, and some must be citizens. As for example, I have two court-dogs, the most fawning curs, the one called Watch, the other Catch: now I, like Lady Fortune, sometimes love this dog, sometimes raise that56 dog, sometimes favour Watch, most commonly fancy Catch. Now, that dog which I favour I feed; and he ’s so ravenous, that what I give he never chaws it, gulps it down whole, without any relish of what he has, but with a greedy61 expectation of what he shall have. The other dog now—

Mal. No more dog, sweet Maquerelle, no more dog. And what hope hast thou of the65 Duchess Maria? Will she stoop to the duke’s lure? Will she come, thinkest?

Maq. Let me see, where ’s the sign now? Ha’ ye e’er a calendar? Where ’s the sign, trow you?70

Maq. O, believe me, a most secret power: look ye, a Chaldean or an Assyrian, I am sure ’t was a most sweet Jew, told me, court any woman in the right sign, you shall not miss. But you must take her in the right vein76 then; as, when the sign is in Pisces, a fishmonger’s wife is very sociable; in Cancer, a precisian’s wife is very flexible; in Capricorn, a merchant’s wife hardly holds out; in Libra, a lawyer’s wife is very tractable, especially if81 her husband be at the term; only in Scorpio ’t is very dangerous meddling. Has the duke sent any jewel, any rich stones?

Mal. Ay, I think those are the best signs to85 take a lady in. By your favour, signior, I must discourse with the Lady Maria, Altofront’s duchess; I must enter for the duke.

Capt. She here shall give you interview. I89 received the guardship of this citadel from the good Altofront, and for his use I’ll keep ’t, till I am of no use.

Mal. Wilt thou? O heavens, that a Christian should be found in a buff-jerkin! Captain Conscience, I love thee, captain. (Exit Captain.)95 We attend. And what hope hast thou of this duchess’ easiness?

Maq. ’T will go hard, she was a cold creature ever; she hated monkeys, fools, jesters,99 and gentlemen-ushers extremely; she had the vile trick on ’t, not only to be truly modestly honourable in her own conscience, but she would avoid the least wanton carriage that might incur suspect; as, God bless me, she had almost brought bed-pressing out of fashion; I105 could scarce get a fine for the lease of a lady’s favour once in a fortnight.

Mal. Now, in the name of immodesty, how many maidenheads has thou brought to the block?110

Scene II.[2770]

Maq. Nay, by mine honour, madam, as good ha’ ne’er a husband as a banished husband; he’s in another world now. I ’ll tell ye, lady, I have heard of a sect that maintained, when the husband was asleep the wife might lawfully10 entertain another man, for then her husband was as dead; much more when he is banished.

Mal. Molly, he that loves thee is a duke, Mendoza; he will maintain thee royally, love20 thee ardently, defend thee powerfully, marry thee sumptuously, and keep thee in despite of Rosicleer[2771] or Donzel del Phebo. There’s jewels: if thou wilt, so; if not, so.

Mal. Now, the fear of the devil for ever go with thee!—Maquerelle, I tell thee, I have found an honest woman: faith, I perceive,40 when all is done, there is of women, as of all other things, some good, most bad; some saints, some sinners, for as nowadays no courtier but has his mistress, no captain but has his cockatrice,44 no cuckold but has his horns, and no fool but has his feather; even so, no woman but has her weakness and feather too, no sex but has his—I can hunt the letter no farther.—(Aside.) O God, how loathsome this toying is to me! That49 a duke should be forced to fool it! Well, stultorum plena sunt omnia:[2773] better play the fool lord than be the fool lord.—Now, where’s your sleights, Madam Maquerelle?

Maq. Why, are ye ignorant that ’t is said a squeamish affected niceness is natural to55 women, and that the excuse of their yielding is only, forsooth, the difficult obtaining? You must put her to ’t: women are flax, and will fire in a moment.

Scene III.

Bil. Nay, sweet Malevole, since my return I hear you are become the thing I always prophesied would be,—an advanced virtue, a worthily-employed faithfulness, a man o’ grace,10 dear friend. Come; what! Si quoties peccant homines[2776]—if as often as courtiers play the knaves, honest men should be angry—why, look ye, we must collogue[2777] sometimes, forswear sometimes.15

Bil. Right: nemo omnibus horis sapit; “no man can be honest at all hours:” necessity often depraves virtue.

Bil. Right: let us prosper and purchase: our lordships shall live, and our knavery be forgotten.25

Bil. Peace, peace! and thou wilt not be a friend to me as I am a knave, be not a knave to me as I am thy friend, and disclose me. Peace! cornets!]37

Enter Prepasso and Ferrardo, two Pages with lights, Celso and Equato, Mendoza in duke’s robes, and Guerrino.

Mal. Ay, ’t is your young lord’s fashion to do[Pg 481] so, though he was so lazy, being a bachelor, that he would never travel so far as the university: 65 yet, when he married her, tales off, and, Catso, for England!

Mal. Neither; your whore went down with the stews, and your punk came up with your puritan.]

Mal. Excellently; no Jew, ’pothecary, or politician better. Look ye, here’s a box: whom wouldst thou empoison? Here’s a box (giving it), which, opened and the fume ta’en up in conduits thorough which the brain purges itself, 80 doth instantly for twelve hours’ space bind up all show of life in a deep senseless sleep: here’s another (giving it), which, being opened under the sleeper’s nose, chokes all the pores of life, kills him suddenly. 85

Men. I’ll try experiments; ’t is good not to be deceived.—So, so; catso!

Mal. (starts up and speaks.) Death of the126 damned thief! I’ll make one i’ the masque; thou shalt ha’ some brave spirits of the antique dukes.

Mal. Most happy, dear Celso, poisoned with an empty box: I’ll give thee all, anon. My lady comes to court; there is a whirl of fate comes tumbling on; the castle’s captain stands for me, the people pray for me, and the135 great leader of the just stands for me: then courage, Celso; For no disastrous chance can ever move him That leaveth[2782] nothing but a God above him.

[Scene IV.][2783]

Enter Bilioso and Prepasso, two Pages before them; Maquerelle, Bianca, and Emilia.

Bil. Make room there, room for the ladies! Why, gentlemen, will not ye suffer the ladies to be entered in the great chamber? Why, gallants! and you, sir, to drop your torch where the beauties must sit too?5

Bil. Let him play the knave, o’ God’s name; thinkest thou I have no more wit than to strike a great fellow?—The music! more lights!10 revelling-scaffolds! do you hear? Let there be oaths enow ready at the door, swear out the devil himself. Let’s leave the ladies, and go see if the lords be ready for them.

Maq. And, by my troth, beauties, why do15 you not put you into the fashion? This is a stale cut; you must come in fashion: look ye, you must be all felt, felt and feather, a felt upon your bare hair. Look ye, these tiring things[2784] are justly out of request now: and, do ye20 hear? you must wear falling-bands,[2785] you must come into the falling fashion: there is such a deal o’ pinning these ruffs, when the fine clean fall is worth all: and again, if ye should chance to take a nap in the afternoon, your falling-band25 requires no poting-stick[2786] to recover his form: believe me, no fashion to the falling, I say.

Maq. By my maidenhead, la, honour and he agree as well together as a satin suit and woollen stockings.

Emilia. But is not Marshal Make-room, my servant in reversion, a proper gentleman?35

Maq. Yes, in reversion, as he had his office; as, in truth, he hath all things in reversion: he has his mistress in reversion, his clothes in reversion, his wit in reversion; and, indeed, is a suitor to me for my dog in reversion: but,40 in good verity, la, he is as proper a gentleman in reversion as—and, indeed, as fine a man as may be, having a red beard and a pair of warpt legs.

Bian. But, i’ faith, I am most monstrously in love with Count Quidlibet-in-quodlibet:45 is he not a pretty, dapper, unidle[2787] gallant?

Maq. He is even one of the most busy-fingered lords: he will put the beauties to the squeak most hideously.

Bil. Room! make a lane there! the duke 50 is entering: stand handsomely for beauty’s sake, take up the ladies there! So, cornets, cornets!

Scene V.

Re-enter Prepasso, joins to Bilioso; then enter two Pages with lights, Ferrardo, Mendoza; at the other door, two Pages with lights, and the Captain leading in Maria; Mendoza meets Maria and closeth with her; the rest fall back.

Aur. Are you god of ghosts? I have a suit pending in hell betwixt me and my conscience; would fain have thee help me to an advocate.

Cornets: the song to the cornets, which playing, the masque enters; Malevole, Pietro, Ferneze, and Celso, in white robes, with duke’s crowns upon laurel wreaths, pistolets and short swords under their robes.

Ferneze takes Maquerelle and Celso, Bianca: then the cornets sound the measure, one change and rest.

Fer. (to Bianca.) Believe it, lady; shall I swear? Let me enjoy you in private, and I’ll marry you, by my soul.95

Bian. I had rather you would swear by your body: I think that would prove the more regarded oath with you.

Fer. Faith, sweet creature, let me enjoy you to-night, and I’ll marry you to-morrow fortnight, by my troth, la.

Maq. On his troth, la! believe him not;105 that kind of cony-catching[2793] is as stale as Sir Oliver Anchovy’s perfumed jerkin: promise of matrimony by a young gallant, to bring a virgin lady into a fool’s paradise; make her a great woman, and then cast her off;—’t is as common110 [and][2794] natural to a courtier, as jealousy to a citizen, gluttony to a puritan, wisdom to an alderman, pride to a tailor, or an empty hand-basket to one of these six-penny damnations: of his troth, la! believe him not; traps to115 catch pole-cats.

Maq. O good my lord. I have lived in the court this twenty year: they that have been old courtiers, and come to live in the city, they 165 are spited at, and thrust to the walls like apricocks, good my lord.

Bil. My lord, I did know your lordship in this disguise; you heard me ever say, if Altofront did return, I would stand for him: 170 besides, ’t was your lordship’s pleasure to call me wittol and cuckold: you must not think, but that I knew you, I would have put it up so patiently.]

EPILOGUS

PROLOGUE

[ACT I]

[Scene I.][2803]

Enter Master John Frankford, Mistress [Frankford],[2804] Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mountford, Master Malby, Master Wendoll, and Master Cranwell.

[Scene II.][2815]

Enter Nicholas and Jenkin, Jack Slime, Roger Brickbat, with Country Wenches, and two or three Musicians.

Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, to trace withal; Jack Slime, traverse you with Cicely Milkpail; I will take Jane Trubkin, and Roger Brickbat shall have Isabel Motley. And now that they are busy in the parlour, come,5 strike up; we ’ll have a crash[2816] here in the yard.

Nich. My humour is not compendious: dancing I possess not, though I can foot it; yet, since I am fallen into the hands of Cicely10 Milkpail, I consent.

Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have been brought up with serving creatures,—ay, and God’s creatures, too; for we have been15 brought up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, hogs, and such like; and, though we be but country fellows, it may be in the way of dancing we can do the horse-trick as well as the serving-men.

Jen. O Slime! O Brickbat! Do not you know that comparisons are odious? Now we are odious ourselves, too; therefore there are no comparisons to be made betwixt us.

Slime. Foot it quickly! If the music overcome not my melancholy, I shall quarrel; and if30 they suddenly do not strike up, I shall presently strike thee down.

Jen. No quarrelling, for God’s sake! Truly, if you do, I shall set a knave between ye.

Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel.35 Come, what shall it be? Rogero?[2817]

Jen. So the dance will come cleanly off! Come, for God’s sake, agree of something: if you like not that, put it to the musicians; or let me speak for all, and we ’ll have Sellenger’s60 Round.

They dance; Nick dancing, speaks stately and scurvily, the rest after the country fashion.

[Scene III.][2818]

Wind horns. Enter Sir Charles Mountford, Sir Francis Acton, Malby, Cranwell, Wendoll, Falconer, and Huntsmen.

[ACT II]

[Scene I.]

Jen. O Nick! What gentleman is that comes to lie at our house? My master allows him one to wait on him, and I believe it will fall to thy lot. 90

Cic. Nich’las! where are you, Nich’las? You must come in, Nich’las, and help the young gentleman off with his boots. 96

Jen. Nay, ’tis no boot[2844] for me to deny it. 100 My master hath given me a coat here, but he takes pains himself to brush it once or twice a day with a holly wand.

Cic. Come, come, make haste, that you may wash your hands again, and help to serve 105 in dinner!

Jen. You may see, my masters, though it be afternoon with you, ’tis yet but early days with us, for we have not din’d yet. Stay but a little; I’ll but go in and help to bear up the first 110 course, and come to you again presently.

[Scene II.][2845]

[Scene III.][2850]

Jen. What a strange humour is my new master in! Pray God he be not mad; if he should be so, I should never have any mind to serve 55 him in Bedlam. It may be he’s mad for missing of me.

Jen. Because you are my master; and if I have a mistress, I would be glad, like a good servant, to do my duty to her.

Jen. Marry, sir, her husband is riding out of town, and she went very lovingly to bring him on his way to horse. Do you see, sir? Here she comes, and here I go.

[ACT III]

[Scene I.][2858]

[Scene II.][2865]

Enter three or four Serving-men, one with a voider[2866] and a wooden knife, to take away all; another the salt and bread; another with the table-cloth and napkins; another the carpet;[2867] Jenkin with two lights after them.

Jen. So; march in order, and retire in battle array! My master and the guests have supp’d already; all ’s taken away. Here, now spread for the serving-men in the hall!—Butler, it belongs to your office.5

But. I know it, Jenkin. What d’ ye call the gentleman that supp’d there to-night?

But. No, no; Master Wendoll, he’s a daily guest. I mean the gentleman that came10 but this afternoon.

Jen. His name’s Master Cranwell. God’s light! Hark, within there; my master calls to lay more billets[2868] upon the fire. Come, come! Lord, how we that are in office here in the15 house are troubled! One spread the carpet in the parlour, and stand ready to snuff the lights; the rest be ready to prepare their stomachs! More lights in the hall, there! Come, Nicholas.

Enter Master Frankford, as it were brushing the crumbs from his clothes with a napkin, as newly risen from supper.

Enter Mistress Frankford, Master Wendoll, Master Cranwell, Nicholas, and Jenkin with cards, carpets, stools, and other necessaries.

Jen. A pair[2876] of cards, Nicholas, and a carpet to cover the table! Where ’s Cicely, with her 121 counters and her box? Candles and candlesticks, there! Fie! We have such a household of serving-creatures! Unless it be Nick and I, there’s not one amongst them all that can say bo to a goose.—Well said,[2877] Nick! 126

Wen. No, by my faith, when you are together, I sit out. It must be Mistress Frankford and I, or else it is no match.

Frank. ’T is no great matter, neither.— Come, Master Cranwell, shall you and I take them up?[2879]

Frank. I must look to you, Master Wendoll, for you ’ll be playing false. Nay, so will my wife, too.

Frank. If Master Wendoll and my wife be together, there ’s no playing against them at double-hand.

[Scene III.][2886]

[ACT IV]

[Scene I.][2888]

Enter Sir Charles [Mountford], in prison, with irons, his feel bare, his garments all ragged and torn.

[Scene II.[2896]]

Enter Butler and Jenkin, with a table-cloth, bread, trenchers, and salt; [then exeunt.]

[Scene III.][2903]

Jen. My mistress and Master Wendoll, my master, sup in her chamber to-night. Cicely, you are preferr’d, from being the cook, to be chambermaid. Of all the loves betwixt thee and me, tell me what thou think’st of this?5

Cic. Mum; there’s an old proverb,—when the cat’s away, the mouse may play.

Jen. Why, God make my mistress an honest woman! Are not these good words? Pray God my new master play not the knave with my old master! Is there any hurt in this? God send15 no villainy intended; and if they do sup together, pray God they do not lie together! God make my mistress chaste, and make us all His servants! What harm is there in all this? Nay, more; here in my hand, thou shalt never have20 my heart, unless thou say. Amen.

Serving-man. My mistress sends that you should make less noise. So, lock up the doors, and see the household all got to bed! You,25 Jenkin, for this night are made the porter, to see the gates shut in.

Jen. Thus by little and little I creep into office. Come, to kennel, my masters, to kennel; ’t is eleven o’clock already.30

Serving-man. When you have lock’d the gates in, you must send up the keys to my mistress.

Cic. Quickly, for God’s sake, Jenkin; for I must carry them. I am neither pillow nor bolster, but I know more than both.35

Jen. To bed, good Spigot; to bed, good honest serving-creatures; and let us sleep as snug as pigs in pease-straw!

[Scene IV.][2904]

[Scene V.][2906]

Enter Wendoll, running over the stage in a night-gown,[2910] Frankford after him with his sword drawn; a maid in her smock stays his hand, and clasps hold on him. He pauses for a while.

Enter Cicely, Spigot, all the Serving-men, and Jenkin, as newly come out of bed.

[ACT V]

[Scene I.][2915]

Enter Sir Charles Mountford, gentleman-like, and his Sister, gentlewoman-like.

[Scene II.][2923]

[Scene III.][2927]

Enter Mistress Frankford; with Jenkin, her maid Cicely, her Coachmen, and three Carters.

Jen. Comfort, good mistress; you have5 watered your coach with tears already. You have but two miles now to go to your manor. [Pg 505] A man cannot say by my old master Frankford as he may say by me, that he wants manors; for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now.11

Cic. Good mistress, be of good cheer! Sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not; we all mourn to see you so sad.

Nich. Would that had been the worst instrument that e’er you played on! My master commends him to ye; there’s all he can find was ever yours; he hath nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart,—and26 he could afford you that! All that I have to deliver you is this: he prays you to forget him; and so he bids you farewell.29

Jen. What, my young master, that fled in his shirt! How come you by your clothes again? You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha’ ye not, think you? What, shall I serve you still, or cleave to the old house?120

Jen. Marry, an you will not, another will; farewell, and be hang’d! Would you had126 never come to have kept this coil[2932] within our doors! We shall ha’ you run away like a sprite again.

[Scene IV.][2934]

Enter Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mountford, Cranwell, [Malby,] and Susan.

Jen. Oh, Lord, sir! she no sooner heard that her brother and her friends had come to see how she did, but she, for very shame of her30 guilty conscience, fell into such a swoon, that we had much ado to get life in her.

Jen. Oh, sir! I can assure you there ’s no hope of life in her; for she will take no sust’nance: she hath plainly starv’d herself, and now she ’s as lean as a lath. She ever looks for the good hour. Many gentlemen and gentlewomen of the40 country are come to comfort her.

[Scene V.][2938]

THE EPILOGUE

Scene.—London and the neighbouring Country, excepting Act IV, Scene II, where it is in Moldavia.]

TO THE READERS OF THIS COMEDY[2945]

The world is so nice[2946] in these our times, that for apparel there is no fashion: for music (which is a rare art, though now slighted) no instrument; for diet, none but the French kickshaws that are delicate; and for plays, no invention but that which now runneth an invective way, touching some particular persons, or else it is contemned before it is thoroughly understood. This is all that I have to say: that the author had no intent to wrong any one in this comedy; but, as a merry passage, here and there interlaced it with delight, which he hopes will please all, and be hurtful to none.

PROLOGUE[2947]

Where the bee can suck no honey, she leaves her sting behind; and where the bear cannot find origanum[2948] to heal his grief, he blasteth all other leaves with his breath. We fear it is like to fare so with us; that, seeing you cannot draw from our labours sweet content, you leave behind you a sour mislike,[2949] and with open reproach blame our good meaning, because you cannot reap the wonted mirth. Our intent was at this time to move inward delight, not outward lightness; and 5 to breed (if it might be) soft smiling, not loud laughing; knowing it, to the wise, to be a great pleasure to hear counsel mixed with wit, as to the foolish, to have sport mingled with rudeness. They were banished the theatre of Athens, and from Rome hissed, that brought parasites on the stage with apish actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtesans with immodest words. We have endeavoured to be as far from unseemly speeches, to make your ears glow, as we hope you 10 will be free from unkind reports, or mistaking the authors’[2950] intention, (who never aimed at any one particular in this play,) to make our cheeks blush. And thus I leave it, and thee to thine own censure, to like or dislike.—Vale.

[INDUCTION]

[Several Gentlemen sitting on Stools upon the Stage. The Citizen, his Wife, and Ralph sitting below among the Audience.]

Cit. That you have no good meaning: this [Pg 510]seven years there hath been plays at this house,[2951] I have observed it, you have still girds[2952] at citizens; and now you call your play “The London Merchant.” Down with your title,[2953] boy! down with your title! 11

Cit. No, sir! yes, sir. If you were not resolv’d to play the Jacks,[2955] what need you study for new subjects, purposely to abuse your betters? 20 Why could not you be contented, as well as others, with “The legend of Whittington,”[2956] or “The Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham, with the building of the Royal Exchange,”[2957] or “The story of Queen Eleanor, 25 with the rearing of London Bridge upon woolsacks?”[2958]

Prol. Why, what do you say to “The Life and Death of fat Drake, or the Repairing of Fleet-privies?” 34

Cit. I do not like that; but I will have a citizen, and he shall be of my own trade.

Prol. Oh, you should have told us your mind a month since; our play is ready to begin now.

Cit. ’T is all one for that; I will have a grocer, and he shall do admirable[2959] things. 40

Wife. [below.] Hold thy peace, Ralph; I know what I do, I warrant ’ee.—Husband, husband!

Wife. [below.] Let him kill a lion with a 49 pestle, husband! Let him kill a lion with a pestle!

Cit. Ay, cony.—Ralph, help your mistress this way.—Pray, gentlemen, make her a little room.—I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to help up my wife: I thank you, sir.—So.

Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all; I’m 60 something troublesome. I’m a stranger here; I was ne’er at one of these plays, as they say, before; but I should have seen[2961] “Jane Shore”[2962] once; and my husband hath promised me, any time this twelvemonth, to carry me 65 to “The Bold Beauchamps,”[2963] but in truth he did not. I pray you, bear with me.

Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools and then begin; and let the grocer do rare things.70

Prol. But, sir, we have never a boy[2964] to play him: every one hath a part already.

Wife. Husband, husband, for God’s sake, let Ralph play him! Beshrew me, if I do not think he will go beyond them all. 75

Cit. Well rememb’red, wife.—Come up, Ralph.—I’ll tell you, gentlemen; let them but lend him a suit of reparel[2965] and necessaries, and, by gad, if any of them all blow wind in the tail on him,[2966] I’ll be hang’d. 80

Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit of reparel!—I’ll be sworn, gentlemen, my husband tells you true. He will act you sometimes at our house, that all the neighbours 84 cry out on him; he will fetch you up a couraging part so in the garret, that we are all as fear’d, I warrant you, that we quake again: we’ll fear our children with him; if they be never so unruly, do but cry, “Ralph comes, Ralph comes!” to them, and they’ll be as 90 quiet as lambs.—Hold up thy head, Ralph; show the gentlemen what thou canst do; speak a huffing[2967] part; I warrant you, the gentlemen will accept of it.

Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath play’d before, my husband says, “Mucedorus,”[2969] before the wardens of our company. 105

Cit. Ay, and he should have play’d Jeronimo[2970] with a shoemaker for a wager.

Cit. In, Ralph, in, Ralph; and set out the grocery in their kind, if thou lov’st me. 111

Cit. No! I’m a thief if my mind did not126 give me so. Ralph plays a stately part, and he must needs have shawms. I’ll be at the charge of them myself, rather than we’ll be without them.130

Cit. Why, and so I will be: there’s two shillings;—[Gives money.]—let’s have the waits of Southwark—they are as rare fellows as any are in England; and that will fetch them all o’er the water with a vengeance, as if they136 were mad.

Wife. Sit you merry all, gentlemen; I’m bold to sit amongst you for my ease.

ACT I

Scene I.[2973]

Cit. Fie upon ’em, little infidels! what a matter’s here now! Well, I’ll be hang’d for a halfpenny, if there be not some abomination knavery in this play. Well; let ’em look to ’t; Ralph must come, and if there be any tricks65 a-brewing——

Wife. Let ’em brew and bake too, husband, a’ God’s name; Ralph will find all out, I warrant you, an they were older than they are.—[Enter Boy.]—I pray, my pretty youth, is70 Ralph ready?

Wife. Now, I pray you, make my commendations unto him, and withal carry him this stick of liquorice. Tell him his mistress sent it to75 him; and bid him bite a piece; ’t will open his pipes the better, say.

[Scene II.][2979]

Wife. Husband, I prithee, sweet lamb, tell me one thing; but tell me truly.—Stay, youths, I beseech you, till I question my husband.

Wife. Sirrah, didst thou ever see a prettier child? how it behaves itself, I warrant ye, and speaks and looks, and perts up the head!—I pray you, brother, with your favour, were you never none of Master Moncaster’s[2981] scholars?25

Cit. Chicken, I prithee heartily, contain[2982] thyself: the childer are pretty childer; but when Ralph comes, lamb——

Wife. A whoreson tyrant! h’as been an old stringer[2983] in ’s days, I warrant him.

Wife. There’s a kind gentleman. I warrant 60 you; when will you do as much for me, George?

Wife. By my faith and troth. George, and as I am virtuous, it is e’en the kindest young man that ever trod on shoe-leather.—Well, go thy ways; if thou hast her not, ’t is not thy fault, ’faith. 135

Cit. I prithee, mouse, be patient; ’a shall have her, or I’ll make some of ’em smoke for ’t.

Wife. That’s my good lamb, George.—Fie, this stinking tobacco kills me![2989] would there 140 were none in England!—Now, I pray, gentlemen, what good does this stinking tobacco do you? Nothing, I warrant you: make chimneys o’ your faces! Oh, husband, husband, now, now! there’s Ralph, there’s Ralph. 145

[Scene III.]

Enter Ralph, like a Grocer in’s shop with two Prentices [Tim and George], reading “Palmerin of England.”

Cit. Peace, fool! let Ralph alone.—Hark you, Ralph; do not strain yourself too much at the first.—Peace!—Begin, Ralph.

Ralph. [reads.] Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatching their lances from their dwarfs, 5 and clasping their helmets, gallopt amain after the giant; and Palmerin, having gotten a sight of him, came posting amain, saying, “Stay, traitorous thief! for thou mayst not so carry away her, that is worth the greatest lord in 10 the world;” and, with these words, gave him a blow on the shoulder, that he struck him besides[2990] his elephant. And Trineus, coming to the knight that had Agricola behind him, set him soon besides his horse, with his neck 15 broken in the fall; so that the princess, getting out of the throng, between joy and grief, said, “All happy knight, the mirror of all such as [Pg 514]follow arms, now may I be well assured of the love thou bearest me.”[2991] I wonder why the 20 kings do not raise an army of fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big as the army that the Prince of Portigo brought against Rosicleer, and destroy these giants; they do much hurt to wand’ring damsels, that go in 25 quest of their knights.

Wife. Faith, husband, and Ralph says true; for they say the King of Portugal cannot sit at his meat, but the giants and the ettins[2992] will come and snatch it from him. 30

Ralph. And certainly those knights are much to be commended, who, neglecting their possessions, wander with a squire and a dwarf through the deserts to relieve poor ladies. 35

Wife. Ay, by my faith, are they, Ralph; let ’em say what they will, they are indeed. Our knights neglect their possessions well enough, but they do not the rest.

Ralph. There are no such courteous and 40 fair well-spoken knights in this age: they will call one “the son of a whore,” that Palmerin of England would have called “fair sir;” and one that Rosicleer would have call’d “right beauteous damsel,” they will call “damn’d bitch.” 45

Wife. I’ll be sworn will they, Ralph; they have call’d me so an hundred times about a scurvy pipe of tobacco.

Ralph. But what brave spirit could be 50 content to sit in his shop, with a flappet of wood,[2993] and a blue apron before him, selling mithridatum[2994] and dragon’s-water[2994] to visited houses,[2995] that might pursue feats of arms, and, through his noble achievements, procure such a famous 55 history to be written of his heroic prowess?

Ralph. Why should not I, then, pursue 60 this course, both for the credit of myself and our company? for amongst all the worthy books of achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet read of a grocer-errant. I will be the said knight.—Have you heard of any that hath wand’red 65 unfurnished of his squire and dwarf? My elder prentice Tim shall be my trusty squire, and little George my dwarf. Hence, my blue apron! Yet, in remembrance of my former trade, upon my shield shall be portray’d a Burning Pestle, 70 and I will be call’d the Knight of the Burning Pestle.

Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget thy old trade; thou wert ever meek.

Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my dwarf, I charge you that from henceforth you never call me by any other name but “the right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning 80 Pestle;” and that you never call any female by the name of a woman or wench, but “fair lady,” if she have her desires, if not, “distressed damsel;” that you call all forests and heaths “deserts,” and all horses “palfreys.” 85

Wife. This is very fine, faith.—Do the gentlemen like Ralph, think you, husband?

Cit. Ay, I warrant thee; the players would give all the shoes in their shop for him.

Ralph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out. 90 Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight-errant pricking,[2996] and I should bid you inquire of his intents, what would you say?

Ralph. No, thus: “Fair sir, the right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle commanded me to inquire upon what adventure you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed damsels, or otherwise.” 100

Wife. I’ faith, and Ralph told him on ’t before: all the gentlemen heard him.—Did he not, gentlemen? Did not Ralph tell him on’t?

George. Right courteous and valiant 105 Knight of the Burning Pestle, here is a distressed damsel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.

Wife. That’s a good boy! See, the little boy can hit it; by my troth, it’s a fine child. 110

Ralph. Relieve her, with all courteous language. Now shut up shop, no more my prentices, but my trusty squire and dwarf. I must bespeak my shield and arming[2997] pestle.

Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph! As I’m a true[2998] 115 man, thou art the best on ’em all.

[Scene IV.][2999]

Mist Mer. Give thee my blessing? No, I’ll ne’er give thee my blessing; I’ll see thee [Pg 515]hang’d first; it shall ne’er be said I gave thee my blessing. Th’ art thy father’s own son, of the right blood of the Merrythoughts. I may 5 curse the time that e’er I knew thy father; he hath spent all his own and mine too; and when I tell him of it, he laughs, and dances, and sings, and cries, “A merry heart lives long-a.” And thou art a wastethrift, and art run 10 away from thy master that lov’d thee well, and art come to me; and I have laid up a little for my younger son Michael, and thou think’st to bezzle[3000] that, but thou shalt never be able to do it.—Come hither, Michael! 15

Mist. Mer. God bless thee! but Jasper shall 20 never have my blessing; he shall be hang’d first; shall he not, Michael? How sayst thou?

Wife. Ungracious child, I warrant him; hark, how he chops logic with his mother!— Thou hadst best tell her she lies; do, tell her she lies.

Cit. If he were my son, I would hang him 35 up by the heels, and flay him, and salt him, whoreson haltersack.[3001]

Mist. Mer. I’ faith, I had sorrow enough 45 for thee, God knows; but I’ll hamper thee well enough. Get thee in, thou vagabond, get thee in, and learn of thy brother Michael.

Mist. Mer. Hark, my husband! he’s singing and hoiting; and I’m fain to cark[3002] and care, and all little enough.—Husband! Charles! Charles Merrythought!

Mist. Mer. If you would consider your state, you would have little list to sing, i-wis.[3003]

Mer. It should never be considered, while it were an estate, if I thought it would spoil 60 my singing.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles? Thou art an old man, and thou canst not work, and thou hast not forty shillings left, and thou eatest good meat, and drinkest good drink, 65 and laughest.

Mer. How! why, how have I done hitherto 70 this forty years? I never came into my dining room, but, at eleven and six o’clock,[3004] I found excellent meat and drink a’ th’ table; my clothes were never worn out, but next morning a tailor brought me a new suit: and without 75 question it will be so ever; use makes perfectness. If all should fail, it is but a little straining myself extraordinary, and laugh myself to death.

Mist. Mer. Well, Charles; you promis’d to provide for Jasper, and I have laid up for Michael. I pray you, pay Jasper his portion: he’s come home, and he shall not consume Michael’s stock; he says his master turn’d him away, 90 but, I promise you truly, I think he ran away.

Wife. No, indeed. Mistress Merrythought; though he be a notable gallows,[3006] yet I’ll assure you his master did turn him away, even in this place; ’t was, i’ faith, within this half-hour, 95 about his daughter; my husband was by.

Cit. Hang him, rogue! he serv’d him well enough: love his master’s daughter! By my troth, cony, if there were a thousand boys, 100 thou wouldst spoil them all with taking their parts; let his mother alone with him.

Mer. Where is Jasper? He’s welcome, however. Call him in; he shall have his portion. 105 Is he merry?

Mer. Welcome, Jasper! though thou run’st away, welcome! God bless thee! ’T is thy 110 mother’s mind thou shouldst receive thy portion; thou hast been abroad, and I hope hast learn’d experience enough to govern it; thou art of sufficient years. Hold thy hand—one, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine,115 [Pg 516] there ’s ten shillings for thee. [Gives money.] Thrust thyself into the world with that, and take some settled course. If fortune cross thee, thou hast a retiring place; come home to me; I have twenty shillings left. Be a good husband;[3008]120 that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the best meat, and drink the best drink; be merry, and give to the poor, and, believe me, thou hast no end of thy goods.

Mist. Mer. No, Michael; ’t is no matter for his blessing; thou hast my blessing; begone. I’ll fetch my money and jewels, and follow140 thee; I’ll stay no longer with him, I warrant thee. [Exit Michael.]—Truly, Charles, I’ll be gone too.

Mist. Mer. You shall not think, when all your own is gone, to spend that I have been scraping up for Michael.150

Mer. Farewell, good wife; I expect it not: all I have to do in this world, is to be merry; which I shall, if the ground be not taken from me; and if it be,

Wife. I’ll be sworn he’s a merry old gentleman for all that. (Music.) Hark, hark, husband, hark! fiddles, fiddles! now surely they go finely. They say ’t is present death for these160 fiddlers, to tune their rebecks[3009] before the great Turk’s grace; it ’s not. George? (Boy danceth.) But, look, look! here’s a youth dances! —Now, good youth, do a turn a’ th’ toe.—Sweetheart, i’ faith, I’ll have Ralph165 come and do some of his gambols.—He’ll ride the wild mare[3010] gentlemen, ’t would do your hearts good to see him.—I thank you, kind youth; pray, bid Ralph come.169

Cit. Peace, cony!—Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the players send Ralph; or, by God’s——[3011] an they do not, I’ll tear some of their periwigs beside their heads: this is all riff-raff.

ACT II

Scene I. [3012]

Wife. George, dost thou think in thy conscience now ’t will be a match? Tell me but what thou think’st, sweet rogue. Thou seest10 the poor gentleman, dear heart, how it labours and throbs, I warrant you, to be at rest! I’ll go move the father for ’t.

Cit. No, no; I prithee, sit still, honeysuckle; thou ’lt spoil all. If he deny him, I’ll bring15 half-a-dozen good fellows myself, and in the shutting[3013] of an evening, knock ’t up, and there’s an end.

Wife. I’ll buss thee for that, i’ faith, boy. Well, George, well, you have been a wag in20 your days, I warrant you; but God forgive you, and I do with all my heart.

Wife. God’s blessing a’ thy soul, old man!40 I’ faith, thou art loth to part true hearts. I see ’a has her, George; and I’m as glad on ’t!— Well, go thy ways, Humphrey, for a fair-spoken man; I believe thou hast not thy fellow within [Pg 517] the walls of London; an I should say the45 suburbs too, I should not lie.—Why dost not rejoice with me, George?

Cit. If I could but see Ralph again, I were as merry as mine host, i’ faith.

[Scene II.][3015]

Mich. Indeed, forsooth, mother, I cannot5 tell, unless we be at Mile-End. Is not all the world Mile-End, mother?

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, not all the world, boy; but I can assure thee, Michael, Mile-End is a goodly matter: there has been a pitch-field,[3016]10 my child, between the naughty Spaniels[3017] and the Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, and the Englishmen followed: my neighbor Coxstone was there, boy, and kill’d them all with a birding-piece.[3018]15

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, let thy father go snick-up;[3020] he shall never come between a20 pair of sheets with me again while he lives; let him stay at home, and sing for his supper, boy. Come, child, sit down, and I’ll show my boy fine knacks, indeed. [They sit down: and she takes out a casket.] Look here, Michael; here’s a ring, and here’s a brooch, and here’s a26 bracelet, and here’s two rings more, and here’s money and gold by th’ eye,[3021] my boy.

Wife. I cannot tell; I would have Ralph, George; I’ll see no more else, indeed, la; and I pray you, let the youths understand so35 much by word of mouth; for, I tell you truly, I’m afraid a’ my boy. Come, come, George, let’s be merry and wise: the child’s a fatherless child; and say they should put him into a strait pair of gaskins,[3022] ’t were worse than40 knot-grass;[3023] he would never grow after it.

Wife. How do you do, Ralph? you are welcome, Ralph, as I may say. It’s a good boy, hold up thy head, and be not afraid; we are thy friends, Ralph; the gentlemen will praise thee, Ralph, if thou play’st thy part with audacity.47 Begin, Ralph, a’ God’s name!

George. Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I take it, the perilous Waltham-down; in whose bottom stands the enchanted valley.

Mist. Mer. Oh, Michael, we are betray’d, we are betray’d! Here be giants! Fly, boy! fly, boy, fly!56

Wife. Ay, marry, Ralph, this has some savour in ’t; I would see the proudest of them all offer to carry his books after him. But, George, I will not have him go away so soon; I shall be sick if he go away, that I shall. Call Ralph 81 again, George, call Ralph again; I prithee, sweetheart, let him come fight before me, and let’s ha’ some drums and some trumpets, and let him kill all that comes near him, an thou lov’st me, George! 86

Cit. Peace a little, bird: he shall kill them all, an they were twenty more on ’em than there are.

Wife. I do not like that this unthrifty youth should embezzle away the money; the poor gentlewoman his mother will have a heavy heart for it, God knows. 111

Wife. But let him go; I’ll tell Ralph a tale in’s ear shall fetch him again with a wanion,[3025] I warrant him, if he be above ground; and besides, George, here are a number of sufficient 116 gentlemen can witness, and myself, and yourself, and the musicians, if we be call’d in question. But here comes Ralph, George; thou shalt hear him speak as he were an emperal.[3026]

[Scene III.][3027]

Mist. Mer. Alas, sir, I am a poor gentlewoman, and I have lost my money in this forest!

Mist. Mer. Out, alas! I left a thousand 15 pound, a thousand pound, e’en all the money I had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of your mastership, you lookt so grim, and, as I may say it, saving your presence, more like a giant than a mortal man. 20

Mist. Mer. Has he not cause to weep, do you think, when he hath lost his inheritance?

Cit. Did not I tell you, Nell, what your man would do? By the faith of my body, wench, 35 for clean action and good delivery, they may all cast their caps at him.[3030]

Wife. And so they may, i’ faith; for I dare speak it boldly, the twelve companies[3031] of London cannot match him, timber for timber.[3032] Well, George, an he be not inveigled by some 41 of these paltry players, I ha’ much marvel: but, George, we ha’ done our parts, if the boy have any grace to be thankful.

[Scene IV.][3033]

Wife. This young Jasper will prove me another thing, a’ my conscience, an he may be suffered. George, dost not see, George, how ’a swaggers, and flies at the very heads a’ folks, 42 as he were a dragon? Well, if I do not do his lesson[3038] for wronging the poor gentleman, I am no true woman. His friends that brought him up might have been better occupied, i-wis, than ha’ taught him these fegaries:[3039] he’s e’en in 47 the high way to the gallows, God bless him!

Cit. You’re too bitter, cony; the young man may do well enough for all this. 50

Wife. Come hither, Master Humphrey; has he hurt you? Now, beshrew his fingers for ’t! Here, sweetheart, here’s some green ginger for thee. Now, beshrew my heart, but ’a has peppernel[3040] in ’s head, as big as a pullet’s egg! Alas, sweet lamb, how thy temples 56 beat! Take the peace on him,[3041] sweetheart, take the peace on him.

Cit. No, no; you talk like a foolish woman: I’ll ha’ Ralph fight with him, and swinge him up well-favour’dly.—Sirrah boy, come hither. (Enter Boy.) Let Ralph come in and fight 62 with Jasper.

Boy. Sir, you must pardon; the plot of our play lies contrary; and ’t will hazard the spoiling of our play.

Cit. Plot me no plots! I’ll ha’ Ralph come out; I’ll make your house too hot for you else.

Boy. Why, sir, he shall; but if any thing fall out of order, the gentlemen must pardon us. 72

Cit. Go your ways, goodman boy! [Exit Boy.] I’ll hold[3043] him a penny, he shall have his bellyful of fighting now. Ho, here comes Ralph! No more![3044] 76

[Scene V.][3045]

[Humphrey manet.] Enter Ralph, Mistress Merrythought, Michael, Squire [Tim], and Dwarf [George].

Wife. Ay, Ralph, he beat him unmercifully, Ralph; an thou sparest him, Ralph, I would 10 thou wert hang’d.

Wife. Sure the devil (God bless us!) is in this springald![3047] Why, George, didst ever see such a fire-drake?[3048] I am afraid my boy’s miscarried: if he be, though he were Master Merrythought’s son a thousand times, if there be any law in50 England, I ’ll make some of them smart for’t.

Cit. No, no; I have found out the matter, sweetheart; Jasper is enchanted; as sure as we are here, he is enchanted: he could no more have stood in Ralph’s hands than I can in55 my lord mayor’s. I ’ll have a ring to discover all enchantments, and Ralph shall beat him yet. Be no more vext, for it shall be so.

[Scene VI.][3049]

Enter Ralph, Mistress Merrythought, Michael, Squire [Tim], and Dwarf [George].

Wife. Oh, husband, here’s Ralph again!—Stay, Ralph, let me speak with thee. How dost thou, Ralph? Art thou not shrewdly[3050] hurt?—The foul great lungies[3051] laid unmercifully on thee: there’s some sugar-candy for5 thee. Proceed; thou shalt have another bout with him.

Cit. If Ralph had him at the fencing-school, if he did not make a puppy of him, and drive him up and down the school, he should ne’er10 come in my shop more.

Wife. Well said, Ralph!—George, Ralph was ever comfortable,[3052] was he not?

Wife. I shall ne’er forget him. When we had lost our child, (you know it was stray’d almost,25 alone, to Puddle-Wharf, and the criers were abroad for it, and there it had drown’d itself but for a sculler.) Ralph was the most comfortablest to me: “Peace, mistress,” says he, “let it go; I ’ll get you another as good.”30 Did he not, George, did he not say so?

Wife. That game dwarf’s a pretty boy, but the squire’s a groutnol.[3055]55

George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, this is the Squire 60 Tapstero.

Wife. Why, George, shall Ralph beat nobody again? Prithee, sweetheart, let him.

[Scene VII.][3056]

Wife. Oh, George, here ’s Master Humphrey again now, that lost Mistress Luce, and Mistress Luce’s father. Master Humphrey will do somebody’s errand, I ’ll warrant him.

Wife. George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet? Speak, George, what wilt thou lay with me? 25

Wife. Nay, George, you must consider Mistress Luce’s feet are tender: and besides ’t is dark; and, I promise you truly, I do not see 30 how he should get out of Waltham-forest with her yet.

Wife. I will not lay against Ralph, honey, 35 because I have not spoken with him. But look, George, peace! here comes the merry old gentleman again.

[Scene VIII.][3059]

Wife. Mark this, George; ’t is worth noting: Godfrey my tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this gown: 25 and I ’ll be sworn, Mistress Penistone the draper’s wife had one made with twelve.

Wife. Look, George; how sayest thou by this, George? Is’t not a fine old man?—Now, God’s blessing a’ thy sweet lips!—When wilt thou be so merry, George? Faith, thou art 45 the frowning’st little thing, when thou art angry, in a country.

Cit. Peace, cony; thou shalt see him taken down too, I warrant thee. Here’s Luce’s father come now. 50

Mer. Your daughter! what a stir ’s here wi’ your daughter? Let her go, think no more 70 on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing,

Mer. Fie, how scurvily this goes! “And she once more embrace her aged sire?” You’ll make a dog on her, will ye? She cares much for her aged sire, I warrant you.

Cit. Why, this is well, cony; but if Ralph were hot once, thou shouldst see more.

Cit. Ay, Nell; but this is scurvy music. I gave the whoreson gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark. If I hear ’em not anon, I’ll twinge him by the ears.—You musicians, play Baloo! 110

Wife. It’s all the better, George. Now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? The Confutation of St. Paul? 115

Wife. A Tartarian! Well. I would the 120 fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph again!

ACT III

Scene I.[3063]

Wife. Away, George, away! raise the watch at Ludgate, and bring a mittimus[3068] from the justice for this desperate villain!—Now, I charge you, gentlemen, see the king’s peace95 kept!—Oh, my heart, what a varlet ’s this to offer manslaughter upon the harmless gentle-woman!

Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart. By the faith a’ my body, ’a has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as135 ’t were an aspen-leaf. Look a’ my little finger, George, how it shakes. Now, i’ truth, every member of my body is the worse for ’t.

Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse; he shall not fright thee any more. Alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers!141

[Scene II.][3069]

Enter Mistress Merrythought, Ralph, Michael, Squire [Tim], Dwarf [George], Host, and Tapster.

Wife. Oh, Ralph! how dost thou, Ralph? How hast thou slept to-night? Has the knight us’d thee well?

Wife. Look, George! did not I tell thee as much? The knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him: give him his money, George, and let him go snick up.[3071]

Cit. Cap Ralph? No.—Hold your hand,45 Sir Knight of the Bell; there ’s your money [Gives money.]: have you any thing to say to Ralph now? Cap Ralph!

Wife. I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not suffer him to be capt50 for ten times so much, and ten times to the end of that.—Now take thy course, Ralph.

Mist. Mer. Come, Michael; thou and I will go home to thy father; he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we ’ll set fellows55 abroad to cry our purse and our casket: shall we, Michael?

Mich. Ay, I pray, mother; in truth my feet are full of chilblains with travelling.

Wife. Faith, and those chilblains are a60 foul trouble. Mistress Merrythought, when your youth comes home, let him rub all the [Pg 525] soles of his feet, and his heels, and his ancles, with a mouse-skin; or, if none of your people can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed, let65 him roll his feet in the warm embers, and, I warrant you, he shall be well; and you may make him put his fingers between his toes, and smell to them; it’s very sovereign for his head, if he be costive.70

Mist. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell: I thank your worship heartily for your kindness.

Cit. I hold my cap to a farthing he does. Why, Nell, I saw him wrastle with the great Dutchman, and hurl him.

Wife. Faith, and that Dutchman was a goodly man, if all things were answerable to his151 bigness. And yet they say there was a Scotchman higher than he, and that they two and a knight met, and saw one another for nothing. But of all the sights that ever were in London,155 since I was married, methinks the little child that was so fair grown about the members was the prettiest; that and the hermaphrodite.

Wife. Ninivie! Oh, that was the story of Jone and the wall,[3080] was it not, George?

[Scene III.][3081]

Wife. Look, George, here comes Mistress Merrythought again! and I would have Ralph come and fight with the giant; I tell you true, I long to see ’t.

Cit. Good Mistress Merrythought, begone, 5 I pray you, for my sake; I pray you, forbear a little; you shall have audience presently; I have a little business.

Wife. Mistress Merrythought, if it please you to refrain your passion a little, till Ralph 10 have despatcht the giant out of the way, we shall think ourselves much bound to you. I thank you, good Mistress Merrythought.

Boy. In good faith, sir, we cannot; you ’ll utterly spoil our play, and make it to be hist; and it cost money; you will not suffer us to go on with our plot.—I pray, gentlemen, rule him.

Wife. Give him thy hand, George, do; and I ’ll kiss him. I warrant thee, the youth means plainly.25

Wife. [kissing him.] I thank you, little youth. (Exit Boy.) Faith, the child hath a sweet breath, George; but I think it be troubled with the worms; carduus benedictus and mare’s milk30 were the only thing in the world for ’t.

[Scene IV.][3083]

Wife. To him, Ralph, to him! hold up the giant; set out thy leg before, Ralph!35

Cit. Falsify[3087] a blow, Ralph, falsify a blow! The giant lies open on the left side.

Wife. Alas, poor knight!—Relieve him,80 Ralph; relieve poor knights, whilst you live.

Wife. Good Ralph, relieve Sit Pockhole, and send him away; for in truth his breath stinks.

Wife. Hark, George, what a woeful cry there is! I think some woman lies-in there.

Wife. But will not Ralph kill this giant? Surely I am afeard, if he let him go, he will do as much hurt as ever he did.

Wife. Ay, George, if he could convert him; but a giant is not so soon converted as one of us ordinary people. There ’s a pretty tale of a witch, that had the devil’s mark about her, (God bless us!) that had a giant to her son,126 that was call’d Lob-lie-by-the-fire; didst never hear it, George?

Re-enter Squire [Tim], leading a Man, with a glass of lotion in his hand, and Dwarf [George], leading a Woman, with diet-bread and drink [in her hand].

Wife. Ay, George, I see it well enough.—Gentlemen, I thank you all heartily for160 gracing my man Ralph; and I promise you, you shall see him oft’ner.

Cit. Now Ralph is in this humour, I know he would ha’ beaten all the boys in the house, if they had been set on him.

Wife. Ay, George, but it is well as it is. I warrant you, the gentlemen do consider what it is to overthrow a giant. But, look,176 George; here comes Mistress Merrythought, and her son Michael.—Now you are welcome, Mistress Merrythought; now Ralph has done, you may go on.

[Scene V.][3093]

Mist. Mer. Be merry, Mick; we are at home now; where, I warrant you, you shall find the house flung out of the windows. [Music within.]5 Hark! hey, dogs, hey! this is the old world,[3094] i’ faith, with my husband. If I get in among ’em, I ’ll play ’em such a lesson, that they shall have little list to come scraping hither again.—Why, Master Merrythought! husband! Charles Merrythought!11

Mist. Mer. Why, Charles, do you not know your own natural wife? I say, open the door, and turn me out those mangy companions; ’t is more than time that they were fellow and 20 fellow-like with you. You are a gentleman, Charles, and an old man, and father of two children; and I myself, (though I say it) by my mother’s side niece to a worshipful gentleman and a conductor;[3095] he has been three times 25 in his majesty’s service at Chester, and is now the fourth time, God bless him and his charge, upon his journey.

Hark you, Mistress Merrythought, you that walk upon adventures, and forsake your husband, 35 because he sings with never a penny in his purse: what, shall I think myself the worse? Faith, no, I ’ll be merry. You come not here; here ’s none but lads of mettle, lives of a hundred years and upwards; care never 40 drunk their bloods, nor want made ’em warble “Heigh-ho, my heart is heavy.”

Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merrythought, what am I, that you should laugh me to scorn thus abruptly? Am I not your fellow-feeler, as 45 we may say, in all our miseries? your comforter in health and sickness? Have I not brought you children? Are they not like you, Charles? look upon thine own image, hard-hearted man! and yet for all this—— 50

Wife. Marry, if he be, George, I ’ll make bold to tell him he’s an ingrant[3096] old man to use his bed-fellow so scurvily.

Wife. Marry, come up, sir saucebox! I think you ’ll take his part, will you not? Lord, how 66 hot you are grown! You are a fine man, an you had a fine dog; it becomes you sweetly!

[Pg 529] Cit. Nay, prithee, Nell, chide not; for, as I am an honest man and a true Christian grocer,70 I do not like his doings.

Wife. I cry you mercy, then, George! you know we are all frail and full of infirmities.— D’ye hear, Master Merrythought? May I crave a word with you?75

Wife. I had not thought, in truth. Master Merrythought, that a man of your age and discretion, as I may say, being a gentleman,80 and therefore known by your gentle conditions,[3097] could have used so little respect to the weakness of his wife; for your wife is your own flesh, the staff of your age, your yoke-fellow, with whose help you draw through the mire to this85 transitory world; nay, she’s your own rib: and again——

Wife. Marry, with a vengeance! I am heartily sorry for the poor gentlewoman: but if I were thy wife, i’ faith, greybeard, i’ faith——

Wife. Give me such words, that am a gentlewoman born! Hang him, hoary rascal! Get me some drink, George; I am almost molten with fretting: now, beshrew his knave’s heart 100 for it!

Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merrythought, are you disposed to make me wait here? You’ll 105 open, I hope; I’ll fetch them that shall open else.

Mist. Mer. Now a churl’s fart in your teeth, sir!—Come, Mick, we’ll not trouble him; ’a shall not ding us i’ th’ teeth with his bread 115 and his broth, that he shall not. Come, boy; I’ll provide for thee, I warrant thee. We’ll go to Master Venturewell’s, the merchant: I’ll get his letter to mine host of the Bell in Waltham; there I’ll place thee with the tapster: 120 will not that do well for thee, Mick? And let me alone for that old cuckoldly knave your father: I’ll use him in his kind,[3100] I warrant ye.

Wife. This old fornicating fellow will not out of my mind yet.—Gentlemen, I’ll begin to you all; and I desire more of your acquaintance with all my heart. [Drinks.] Fill the gentlemen some beer, George. Music. Boy danceth.130 Look,[3101] George; the little boy’s come again: methinks he looks something like the Prince of Orange in his long stocking, if he had a little harness[3102] about his neck. George, I will have him dance Fading.—Fading is a fine jig,135 I’ll assure you, gentlemen.—Begin, brother. —Now ’a capers, sweetheart!—Now a turn i’ th’ toe, and then tumble! cannot you tumble, youth?

Wife. Why, then, I thank you heartily; there’s twopence to buy you points[3103] withal.

ACT IV

Scene I.[3104]

Wife. Go thy ways; thou art as crooked a sprig as ever grew in London. I warrant him, he’ll come to some naughty end or other; for his looks say no less: besides, his father (you know, George) is none of the best; you heard20 him take me up like a flirt-gill,[3105] and sing bawdy songs upon me; but i’ faith, if I live, George——

Cit. Let me alone, sweetheart: I have a trick in my head shall lodge him in the Arches[3106] for one year, and make him sing peccavi ere26 I leave him; and yet he shall never know who hurt him neither.

Cit. Why, so, sir; go and fetch me him then, and let the Sophy of Persia come and christen him a child.[3107]35

Boy. Believe me, sir, that will not do so well: ’t is stale; it has been had before at the Red Bull.[3108]

Wife. George, let Ralph travel over great hills, and let him be very weary, and come40 to the King of Cracovia’s house, covered with velvet; and there let the king’s daughter stand in her window, all in beaten gold, combing her golden locks with a comb of ivory; and let her spy Ralph, and fall in love with him, and45 come down to him, and carry him into her father’s house; and then let Ralph talk with her.

Boy. Sir, if you will imagine all this to be50 done already, you shall hear them talk together; but we cannot present a house covered with black velvet, and a lady in beaten gold.

Boy. Besides, it will show ill-favouredly55 to have a grocer’s prentice to court a king’s daughter.

Cit. Will it so, sir? You are well read in histories![3109] I pray you, what was Sir Dagonet? Was not he prentice to a grocer in London?60 Read the play of “The Four Prentices of London,”[3110] where they toss their pikes so. I pray you, fetch him in, sir, fetch him in.

[Scene II.][3111]

Wife. Oh, here they come, how prettily the King of Cracovia’s daughter is drest!

Cit. Hark thee, Ralph: there’s money for thee [gives money]; give something in the King of Cracovia’s house; be not beholding to him.56

Wife. I commend Ralph yet, that he will75 not stoop to a Cracovian; there ’s properer[3118] women in London than any are there, I-wis. But here comes Master Humphrey and his love again now, George.

Scene III.[3119]

Mist. Mer. Peace be to your worship! I come as a poor suitor to you, sir, in the behalf of this child.

Mist. Mer. Yes, truly. Would I had ne’er36 seen his eyes! Ha has undone me and himself and his children; and there he lives at home, and sings and hoits and revels among his drunken companions! but, I warrant you,40 where to get a penny to put bread in his mouth he knows not, and therefore, if it like your worship, I would entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell in Waltham, that I may place my child under the protection of his tapster, in some settled course of life.46

Mist. Mer. Will you so, sir? how say you by that?—Come, Mick; let him keep his wind to cool his porridge. We ’ll go to thy nurse’s,60 Mick: she knits silk stockings, boy; and we ’ll knit too, boy, and be beholding to none of them all.

Vent. [reads.] Sir, that I have wronged your love I must confess; in which I have purchast76 to myself, besides mine own undoing, the ill opinion of my friends. Let not your anger, good sir, outlive me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness: let my80 body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought to your daughter, that she may truly know my hot flames are now buried, and withal receive a testimony of the zeal I bore her virtue. Farewell for ever, and be ever85 happy! Jasper.

[Scene IV.][3124]

[Scene V.][3130]

Wife. Ah, old Merrythought, art thou there again? Let’s hear some of thy songs.

Not a denier[3131] left, and yet my heart leaps. I5 do wonder yet, as old as I am, that any man will follow a trade, or serve, that may sing and laugh, and walk the streets. My wife and both my sons are I know not where; I have nothing left, nor know I how to come by meat to supper;10 yet am I merry still, for I know I shall find it upon the table at six o’clock; therefore, hang thought!

This is it that keeps life and soul together,—mirth; this is the philosopher’s stone that they write so much on, that keeps a man ever young.25

Boy. Sir, they say they know all your money is gone, and they will trust you for no more drink.

Mer. Will they not? let ’em choose! The best is, I have mirth at home, and need not30 send abroad for that; let them keep their drink to themselves.

Mer. Hang bread and supper! Let ’s preserve our mirth, and we shall never feel hunger,45 I ’ll warrant you. Let ’s have a catch; boy, follow me, come sing this catch.

Mer. So, boys; enough. Follow me: let ’s change our place, and we shall laugh afresh.

Wife. Let him go, George; ’a shall not have any countenance from us, nor a good word from any i’ th’ company, if I may strike stroke[3133] in ’t.

Cit. No more ’a sha’ not, love. But, Nell, I57 will have Ralph do a very notable matter now, to the eternal honour and glory of all grocers.—Sirrah! you there, boy! Can none of you hear?61

Cit. Let Ralph come out on May-day in the morning, and speak upon a conduit, with all his scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his [Pg 534] rings, and his knacks.66

Cit. Why, sir, I care not what become on ’t: I’ll have him come out, or I’ll fetch him70 out myself; I’ll have something done in honour of the city. Besides, he hath been long enough upon adventures. Bring him out quickly; or, if I come in amongst you——

Boy. Well, sir, he shall come out, but if our play miscarry, sir, you are like to pay for ’t.76

Wife. This will be brave, i’ faith! George, shall not he dance the morris too, for the credit of the Strand?80

Cit. No, sweetheart, it will be too much for the boy. Oh, there he is, Nell! he’s reasonable well in reparel: but he has not rings enough.

ACT V

Scene I.[3144]

Vent. I will have no great store of company at the wedding; a couple of neighbours and their wives; and we will have a capon in stewed broth, with marrow, and a good piece of beef stuck with rosemary.5

Wife. George, call Ralph hither; if you love me, call Ralph hither: I have the bravest thing for him to do, George: prithee, call him quickly.

Wife. Ralph, I would have thee call all60 the youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile-End in pompous[3147] fashion, and there exhort your soldiers to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards from burning, Ralph; and then65 skirmish, and let your flags fly, and cry, “Kill, kill, kill!” My husband shall lend you his jerkin, Ralph, and there ’s a scarf; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and we’ll pay for ’t. Do it bravely, Ralph; and think before70 whom you perform, and what person you represent.

Ralph. I warrant you, mistress; if I do it not for the honour of the city and the credit of my master, let me never hope for75 freedom![3148]

Cit. Let him look narrowly to his service; I shall take him else. I was there myself a pikeman once, in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate86 broken with a scouring-stick,[3149] and yet, I thank God, I am here.

Cit. Ran, tan, tan, tan; ran, tan! Oh, wench, an thou hadst but seen little Ned of Aldgate,91 Drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid on like a tyrant, and then struck softly till the ward[3150] came up, and then thund’red again, and together we go! “Sa, sa, sa, bounce!”95 quoth the guns; “Courage, my hearts!” quoth the captains; “Saint George!” quoth the pikemen; and withal, here they lay, and there they lay: and yet for all this I am here, wench.100

[Scene II.][3151]

Enter Ralph and Company of Soldiers (among whom are William Hammerton, and George Greengoose), with drums and colours.

Ralph. March fair, my hearts! Lieutenant, beat the rear up.—Ancient,[3152] let your colours fly; but have a great care of the butchers’ hooks at Whitechapel; they have been the death of many a fair ancient.—Open your5 files, that I may take a view both of your persons and munition.—Sergeant, call a muster.

Ralph. A corselet and a Spanish pike; ’t is well: can you shake it with a terror?

Ralph. Charge upon me. [He charges on Ralph.]—’T is with the weakest: put more15 strength, William Hammerton, more strength. As you were again!—Proceed, Sergeant.

Ralph. Let me see your piece,[3153] neighbour 20 Greengoose: when was she shot in?

Green. An’t like you, master captain, I made a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly for audacity.

Ralph. It should seem so certainly, for her 25 breath is yet inflamed; besides, there is a main[3154] fault in the touch-hole, it runs and stinketh; and I tell you moreover, and believe it, ten such touch-holes would breed the pox in the army. Get you a feather, neighbour, get you 30 a feather, sweet oil, and paper, and your piece may do well enough yet. Where’s your powder?

Ralph. What, in a paper! As I am a soldier and a gentleman, it craves a martial court! 35 You ought to die for ’t. Where ’s your horn? Answer me to that.

Ralph. It likes me not you should be so; ’t is a shame for you, and a scandal to all our 40 neighbours, being a man of worth and estimation, to leave your horn behind you: I am afraid ’t will breed example. But let me tell you no more on ’t.—Stand, till I view you all. What ’s become o’ th’ nose of your flask? 45

Ralph. Put on a new one at the city’s charge.—Where’s the stone[3155] of this piece?

Ralph. ’T is a fault, my friend; put it in again.—You want a nose,—and you a stone.—Sergeant, take a note on ’t, for I mean to stop it in the pay.—Remove, and march! [They 55 march.] Soft and fair, gentlemen, soft and fair! Double your files! As you were! Faces about! Now, you with the sodden[3156] face, keep in there! Look to your match, sirrah, it will be in your fellow’s flask anon. So; make a crescent now: 60 advance your pikes: stand and give ear!—Gentlemen, countrymen, friends, and my fellow-soldiers, I have brought you this day, from the shops of security and the counters of content, to measure out in these furious fields honour by 65 the ell, and prowess by the pound. Let it not, oh, let it not, I say, be told hereafter, the noble issue of this city fainted; but bear yourselves in this fair action like men, valiant men, and free men! Fear not the face of the enemy, 70 nor the noise of the guns, for, believe me, brethren, the rude rumbling of a brewer’s car is far more terrible, of which you have a daily experience; neither let the stink of powder offend you, since a more valiant stink is nightly with you. 76

I have no more to say but this: stand to your tacklings,[3158] lads, and show to the world you can as well brandish a sword as shake an apron. Saint George, and on, my hearts!

Wife. ’T was well done, Ralph! I’ll send thee a cold capon a-field and a bottle of March beer; and, it may be, come myself to see thee.

Cit. Nell, the boy has deceived me much; I did not think it had been in him. He has 95 performed such a matter, wench, that, if I live, next year I’ll have him captain of the galley-foist[3159] or I’ll want my will.

[Scene III.][3160]

Mer. Yet, I thank God. I break not a wrinkle more than I had. Not a stoop,[3161] boys? Care, live with cats; I defy thee! My heart is as sound as an oak; and though I want drink to wet my whistle, I can sing;5

Boy. Sir, sir, if you knew what I have brought you, you would have little list to 15 sing.

Mist. Mer. [within.] What, Master Merrythought! will you not let ’s in? What do you think shall become of us?

Mist. Mer. [within.] You know me well 45 enough; I am sure I have not been such a stranger to you.

Mist. Mer. [within.] You will not have us starve here, will you, Master Merrythought?

Mist. Mer. [within.] Why, Master Merrythought, 60 will you be a vext thing still?

Mer. Woman, I take you to my love again; but you shall sing before you enter; therefore despatch your song and so come in.

Mist. Mer. [within.] Well, you must have 65 your will, when all’s done.—Mick, what song canst thou sing, boy?

Mich. [within.] I can sing none, forsooth, but A Lady’s Daughter, of Paris properly.

Mer. You are welcome, sir, you are welcome: you see your entertainment; pray you, be merry. 90

Sir, if you will forgive him, clap their hands 115 together; there’s no more to be said i’ th’ matter.

Cit. I do not like this. Peace, boys! Hear me, one of you! Every body’s part is come to an end but Ralph’s, and he’s left out. 121

Cit. Ralph, come away!—Make [an end][3163] on him, as you have done of the rest, boys; come. 126

Boy. ’T will be very unfit he should die, sir, upon no occasion—and in a comedy too.

Cit. Take you no care of that, sir boy; is not his part at an end, think you, when he’s dead?—Come away, Ralph! 135

Wife. Well said, Ralph! do your obeisance to the gentlemen, and go your ways: well said, Ralph!

Mer. Methinks all we, thus kindly and unexpectedly reconciled, should not depart[3170] without a song.

Wife. Nay, by my faith, George, I have more manners than so; I ’ll speak to these gentlemen first.—I thank you all, gentlemen, for210 your patience and countenance to Ralph, a poor fatherless child; and if I might see you at my house, it should go hard but I would have a pottle of wine and a pipe of tobacco for you: for, truly, I hope you do like the youth, but215 I would be glad to know the truth; I refer it to your own discretions, whether you will applaud him or no; for I will wink, and whilst[3171] you shall do what you will. I thank you with all my heart. God give you good night!—Come,220 George.

ACT I

Scene I.[3173]

Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at it. They receiv’d strict charge from the King to attend here; besides, it was boldly published that no officer should forbid any gentleman5 that desired to attend and hear.

Dion. Sir, it is plain, about the Spanish Prince that’s come to marry our kingdom’s heir and be our sovereign.10

Thra. Many that will seem to know much say she looks not on him like a maid in love.

Dion. Faith, sir, the multitude, that seldom know any thing but their own opinions, speak that they would have; but the prince, before15 his own approach, receiv’d so many confident messages from the state, that I think she’s resolv’d to be rul’d.

Cle. Sir, it is thought, with her he shall enjoy both these kingdoms of Sicily and Calabria.

Dion. Sir, it is without controversy so21 meant. But ’t will be a troublesome labour for him to enjoy both these kingdoms with safety, the right heir to one of them living, and living so virtuously: especially, the people admiring25 the bravery of his mind and lamenting his injuries.

Dion. Yes; whose father, we all know, was by our late King of Calabria unrighteously30 deposed from his fruitful Sicily. Myself drew some blood in those wars, which I would give my hand to be washed from.

Cle. Sir, my ignorance in state-policy will not let me know why, Philaster being heir to one35 of these kingdoms, the King should suffer him to walk abroad with such free liberty.

Dion. Sir, it seems your nature is more constant than to inquire after state-news. But the King, of late, made a hazard of both the40 kingdoms, of Sicily and his own, with offering but to imprison Philaster; at which the city was in arms, not to be charm’d down by any state-order or proclamation, till they saw Philaster ride through the streets pleas’d and45 without a guard: at which they threw their hats and their arms from them; some to make bonfires, some to drink, all for his deliverance: which wise men say is the cause the King labours to bring in the power of a foreign nation to awe his own with.51

Dion. She is one that may stand still discreetly enough and ill-favour’dly dance her measure; simper when she is courted by her friend, and slight her husband.

Dion. Faith, I think she is one whom the state keeps for the agents of our confederate princes; she’ll cog[3174] and lie with a whole army, before the league shall break. Her name is common through the kingdom, and the trophies65 of her dishonour advanced beyond Hercules’ [Pg 540] Pillars. She loves to try the several constitutions of men’s bodies; and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of her own body by making experiment upon it for the good of the70 commonwealth.

Meg. Peace, if you love me! You shall see these gentlemen stand their ground and not court us.

Meg. Nay, let her alone.—What if they should! Why, if they should, I say they were never abroad. What foreigner would do so?79 It writes them directly untravell’d.

Meg. Good madam, let her go on.—What if they be! Why, if they be, I will justify,84 they cannot maintain discourse with a judicious lady, nor make a leg[3175] nor say “Excuse me.”

Meg. Near me, perhaps; but there’s a lady endures no stranger; and to me you appear a very strange fellow.94

Dion. I cannot blame him; there’s danger in ’t. Every man in this age has not a soul of crystal, for all men to read their actions270 through: men’s hearts and faces are so far asunder, that they hold no intelligence. Do but view yon stranger well, and you shall see a fever through all his bravery,[3186] and feel him shake like a true tenant.[3187] If he give not back his275 crown again upon the report of an elder-gun, I have no augury.

Meg. A pretty talking fellow, hot at hand. But eye yon stranger: is he not a fine complete gentleman? Oh, these strangers, I do affect[3188] them strangely! They do the rarest 310 home-things, and please the fullest! As I live, I could love all the nation over and over for his sake.

Gal. Gods comfort your poor head-piece, lady! ’T is a weak one, and had need of a nightcap.

[Scene II.][3192]

ACT II

Scene I.[3196]

[Scene II.][3199]

Pha. Why should these ladies stay so long? They must come this way. I know the queen employs ’em not; for the reverend mother[3200] sent me word they would all be for the garden. If they should all prove honest[3201] now, I were5 in a fair taking; I was never so long without sport in my life, and, in my conscience, ’t is not my fault. Oh, for our country ladies!

Gal. Dear prince! how dear? I ne’er cost you a coach yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a banquet. Here’s no scarlet, sir, to blush the sin out it was given for. This wire mine own hair covers; and this face has25 been so far from being dear to any, that it ne’er cost penny painting; and, for the rest of my poor wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand[3202] behind it, to make the jealous mercer’s wife curse our good doings.30

Gal. Full being! I understand you not, unless your grace means growing to fatness; and then your only remedy (upon my knowledge, 40 prince) is, in a morning, a cup of neat white wine brewed with carduus,[3204] then fast till supper; about eight you may eat; use exercise, and keep a sparrow-hawk; you can shoot in a tiller:[3205] but, of all, your grace must fly phlebotomy,[3206] 45 fresh pork, conger,[3207] and clarified whey; they are all duller of the vital spirits.

Pha. [Aside.] This is a crafty wench; I like her wit well; ’t will be rare to stir up a leaden appetite. She’s a Danaë, and must be courted in a shower of gold.—Madam, look here; all these, and more than—— 54

Gal. What have you there, my lord? Gold! now, as I live, ’t is fair gold! You would have silver for it, to play with the pages. You could not have taken me in a worse time; but, if you have present use, my lord, I’ll send my man with silver and keep your gold for you. 60

Pha. If there be but two such more in this kingdom, and near the court, we may even 65 hang up our harps. Ten such camphire[3208] constitutions as this would call the golden age again in question, and teach the old way for every ill-fac’d husband to get his own children; and what a mischief that would breed, let all consider! 71

Here’s another: if she be of the same last, the devil shall pluck her on.—Many fair mornings, lady!

[Pg 547] Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will endeavour. If I do not teach you to do it as easily in one night as you’ll go to bed, I’ll lose my royal blood for ’t.116

Pha. I’ll sooner teach a mare the old measures[3211] than teach her anything belonging to120 the function. She’s afraid to lie with herself if she have but any masculine imaginations about her. I know, when we are married, I must ravish her.

Pha. And for any other I see, excepting your dear self, dearest lady, I had rather be Sir Tim the schoolmaster, and leap a dairy-maid, madam.130

Pha. Out upon her! She’s as cold of her favour as an apoplex; she sail’d by but now.

Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it; she would blow ’em out of the kingdom. They talk of Jupiter; he’s but a squib-cracker to her: look well about you, and you may find a tongue-bolt.140 But speak, sweet lady, shall I be freely welcome.

Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal ’em, and what you dare imagine you can want, I’ll furnish you withal. Give two hours to your thoughts every morning about it. Come I know you are bashful;151

Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat prince! are these your virtues? Well, if I do not lay a train to blow your sport up, I am no woman: and, Lady Towsabel, I’ll fit you for ’t. 160

[Scene III.][3212]

[Scene IV.][3213]

Dion. Sir, I have asked, and her women swear she is within; but they, I think, are bawds. I told ’em, I must speak with her; they laught, [Pg 549] and said, their lady lay speechless. I said,70 my business was important; they said, their lady was about it. I grew hot, and cried, my business was a matter that concern’d life and death; they answered, so was sleeping, at which their lady was. I urg’d again, she had scarce75 time to be so since last I saw her: they smil’d again, and seem’d to instruct me that sleeping was nothing but lying down and winking.[3215] Answers more direct I could not get: in short, sir, I think she is not there.80

Cle. Why, here ’s a male spirit fit for Hercules. If ever there be Nine Worthies of women, this wench shall ride astride and be their captain.190

Dion. Sure, she has a garrison of devils in her tongue, she uttered such balls of wild-fire. She has so nettled the King, that all the doctors in the country will scarce cure him. That boy was a strange-found-out antidote to cure her195 infection; that boy, that princess’ boy; that brave, chaste, virtuous lady’s boy; and a fair boy, a well-spoken boy! All these considered, can make nothing else—but there I leave you, gentlemen.200

ACT III

Scene I.[3220]

[Scene II.][3224]

ACT IV

Scene I.[3230]

Enter King, Pharamond, Arethusa, Galatea, Megra, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, and Attendants.

Dion. He looks like an old surfeited stallion, dull as a dormouse. See how he sinks! The wench has shot him between wind and water, and, I hope, sprung a leak.

Thra. He needs no teaching, he strikes10 sure enough. His greatest fault is, he hunts too much in the purlieus; would he would leave off poaching!

Dion. And for his horn, h’as left it at the lodge where he lay late. Oh, he ’s a precious15 limehound![3231] Turn him loose upon the pursuit of a lady, and if he lose her, hang him up i’ the slip. When my fox-bitch Beauty grows proud, I ’ll borrow him.

Cle. Is ’t possible this fellow should repent? Methinks, that were not noble in him; and25 yet he looks like a mortified member, as if he had a sick man’s salve[3232] in ’s mouth. If a worse man had done this fault now, some physical[3233] justice or other would presently (without the help of an almanack[3234]) have opened the obstructions30 of his liver, and let him blood with a dog-whip.

Dion. See, see how modestly yon lady looks, as if she came from churching with her neighbours! Why, what a devil can a man see in35 her face but that she ’s honest![3235]

Thra. Faith, no great matter to speak of; a foolish twinkling with the eye, that spoils her coat;[3236] but he must be a cunning herald that finds it.40

Dion. See how they muster one another! Oh, there’s a rank regiment where the devil carries the colours and his dam drum-major! Now the world and the flesh come behind with the carriage.[3237]45

Cle. Sure this lady has a good turn done her against her will; before she was common talk, now none dare say cantharides[3238] can stir her. Her face looks like a warrant, willing and commanding all tongues, as they will answer it,50 to be tied up and bolted when this lady means to let herself loose. As I live, she has got her a goodly protection and a gracious; and may use her body discreetly for her health’s sake, once a week, excepting Lent and dog-days. Oh,55 if they were to be got for money, what a great sum would come out of the city for these licences!

[Scene II.][3239]

1 Wood. He shall shoot in a stone-bow[3240] for me. I never lov’d his beyond-sea-ship since10 he forsook the say,[3241] for paying ten shillings. He was there at the fall of a deer, and would needs (out of his mightiness) give ten groats for the dowcets; marry, his steward would have the velvet-head[3242] into the bargain, to15 turf[3243] his hat withal. I think he should love venery; he is an old Sir Tristrem; for, if you be rememb’red, he forsook the stag once to strike a rascal[3244] miching[3245] in a meadow, and her he kill’d in the eye. Who shoots else?20

1 Wood. That ’s a good wench, an she would not chide us for tumbling of her women in the brakes. She ’s liberal, and by the Gods, they say she ’s honest, and whether that be a25 fault, I have nothing to do. There ’s all?

1 Wood. That ’s a firker,[3246] i’ faith, boy. There ’s a wench will ride her haunches as hard after a kennel of hounds as a hunting30 saddle, and when she comes home, get ’em clapt, and all is well again. I have known her lose herself three times in one afternoon (if the woods have been answerable),[3247] and it has been work enough for one man to find her, and35 he has sweat for it. She rides well and she pays well. Hark! let’s go.

Dion. Let him seek his daughter himself. She cannot stray about a little necessary natural business, but the whole court must be in arms. When she has done, we shall have peace.

[Pg 557] Cle. There’s already a thousand fatherless 95 tales amongst us. Some say, her horse ran away with her; some, a wolf pursued her; others, ’t was a plot to kill her, and that arm’d men were seen in the wood: but questionless she rode away willingly. 100

Dion. [Aside.] He articles with the gods. Would somebody would draw bonds for the performance of covenants betwixt them! 141

Dion. [Aside.] Yes; you may do well to spare your lady-bedfellow; and her you may keep for a spawner.

[Scene III.][3248]

C. Fell. I ’ll see the King, if be he in the forest; I have hunted him these two hours. If I should come home and not see him, my sisters would laugh at me. I can see nothing80 but people better hors’d than myself, that outride me; I can hear nothing but shouting. These kings had need of good brains; this whooping is able to put a mean man out of his wits. There ’s a courtier with his sword85 drawn; by this hand, upon a woman, I think!

C. Fell. Hold, dastard! strike a woman! Thou ’rt a craven. I warrant thee, thou90 wouldst be loth to play half a dozen venies[3250] at wasters[3251] with a good fellow for a broken head.

Phi. Pursue thy own affairs: it will be ill To multiply blood upon my head; which thou Wilt force me to.100

C. Fell. I know not your rhetoric; but I can lay it on, if you touch the woman.

[Pg 559] C. Fell. I cannot follow the rogue. I pray thee, wench, come and kiss me now.111

C. Fell. He ’s hurt too; he cannot go far;130 I made my father’s old fox[3253] fly about his ears.

Pha. By this hand, I ’ll leave ne’er a piece of him bigger than a nut, and bring him135 all to you in my hat.

[Scene IV.][3255]

ACT V

Scene I.[3259]

Dion. Yes; but the King must know ’t is not in his power to war with Heaven.

Cle. We linger time; the King sent for Philaster and the headsman an hour ago. 5

[Scene II.][3260]

[Scene III.][3262]

Enter Arethusa, Philaster, Bellario in a robe and garland [and Thrasiline].

Dion. You say true. Are your swords sharp? —Well, my dear countrymen What-ye-lacks,[3265] if you continue, and fall not back upon the first broken skin, I’ll have you chronicled and chronicled, and cut and chronicled, and all-to be-prais’d and sung in sonnets, and bawled135 in new brave ballads, that all tongues shall troll you in saecula saeculorum, my kind can-carriers.

Thra. What, if a toy[3266] take ’em i’ th’ heels now, and they run all away, and cry, “the devil take the hindmost”?140

Dion. Then the same devil take the foremost too, and souse him for his breakfast! If they all prove cowards, my curses fly among them, and be speeding! May they have murrains reign to keep the gentlemen at home unbound145 in easy frieze! May the moths branch[3267] their velvets, and their silks only be worn before sore eyes! May their false lights undo ’em, and discover presses,[3268] holes, stains, and oldness in their stuffs, and make them shop-rid!150 May they keep whores and horses, and break; and live mewed up with necks of beef and turnips! May they have many children, and none like the father! May they know no language but that gibberish they prattle to155 their parcels, unless it be the goatish Latin they write in their bonds—and may they write that false, and lose their debts!

King. Now the vengeance of all the gods confound them! How they swarm together!160 What a hum they raise!—Devils choke your wild throats!—If a man had need to use their valours, he must pay a brokage for it, and then bring ’em on, and they will fight like sheep. ’T is Philaster, none but Philaster, must allay this heat. They will not hear me speak, but166 fling dirt at me and call me tyrant. Oh, run, dear friend, and bring the Lord Philaster! Speak him fair; call him prince; do him all the courtesy you can; commend me to him. Oh, my170 wits, my wits!

Dion. [Aside.] Oh, my brave countrymen! as I live, I will not buy a pin out of your walls for this. Nay, you shall cozen me, and I’ll thank you, and send you brawn and bacon, and soil[3269] you every long vacation a brace of foremen,[3270]176 that at Michaelmas shall come up fat and kicking.

Dion. [Aside.] Why, sir, they’ll flay him, and make church-buckets on’s skin, to quench rebellion; then clap a rivet in’s sconce, and hang him up for a sign.

[Scene IV.][3271]

[Scene V.][3308]

Enter King, Arethusa, Galatea, Megra, Dion, Cleremont, Thrasiline, Bellario, and Attendants.

ACT I

Scene I.[3312]

[Scene II.][3319]

Cal. Diagoras, look to the doors better, for shame! You let in all the world, and anon the King will rail at me. Why, very well said.[3320] By Jove, the King will have the show i’ th’ court!

Cal. One may wear his heart out with swearing, and get thanks on no side. I’ll be gone,11 look to ’t who will.

Diag. My lord, I shall never keep them out. Pray, stay; your looks will terrify them.

Cal. My looks terrify them, you coxcombly15 ass, you! I’ll be judged by all the company whether thou hast not a worse face than I.

Cal. Office! I would I could put it off! I20 am sure I sweat quite through my office. I might have made room at my daughter’s wedding; they ha’ near kill’d her among them; and now I must do service for him that hath forsaken her. Serve that will! 25

Diag. He’s so humorous[3321] since his daughter was forsaken! (Knock within.) Hark, hark! there, there! so, so! codes, codes![3322] What now?

Diag. I hope your lordship brings no troop with you; for, if you do, I must return them.

Diag. The ladies are all plac’d above, save35 those that come in the King’s troop; the best of Rhodes sit there, and there ’s room.

Mel. I thank you, sir.—When I have seen you placed, madam, I must attend the King; but, the masque done, I’ll wait on you again.40

Diag. [opening another door.] Stand back there!—Room for my Lord Melantius! (Exeunt Melantius and Lady, other door.)—Pray, bear back—this is no place for such youth and their trulls[3323]—let the doors shut again.—No!—do your heads itch? I’ll scratch them for46 you. [Shuts the door.]—So, now thrust and hang. [Knocking within.]—Again! who is ’t now?—I cannot blame my Lord Calianax for going away; would he were here! He would run50 raging among them, and break a dozen wiser heads than his own in the twinkling of an eye.—What’s the news now?

[Voice] within. I pray you, can you help me to the speech of the master-cook?55

Diag. If I open the door, I’ll cook some of your calves-heads. Peace, rogues! [Knocking within.]—Again! who is ’t?

Diag. O, my lord, I must. [Opening the door.]—Make room there for my lord. Is your lady plac’d?

ACT II

[Scene I.][3335]

[Scene II.][3355]

ACT III

[Scene I.][3361]

Stra. None; it’s odds against any bridegroom living, he ne’er gets it while he lives.

Diph. You ’re merry with my sister; you ’ll please to allow me the same freedom with10 your mother.

Diph. Then she ’s merry enough of herself; she needs no tickling. Knock at the door.

[Scene II.][3370]

Mel. Amintor, we have not enjoy’d our54 friendship of late, for we were wont to change our souls in talk.

Amin. Melantius, I can tell thee a good jest of Strato and a lady the last day.

Mel. I have long’d to speak with you; not of an idle jest, that’s forc’d, but of matter you are bound to utter to me.

ACT IV

[Scene I.][3378]

[Scene II.][3390]

Enter Amintor, Evadne, Melantius, Diphilus, Lysippus, Cleon, Strato, and Diagoras.

ACT V

[Scene I.][3398]

1 Gent. Come, now she ’s gone, let ’s enter; the King expects it, and will be angry.

2 Gent. ’T is a fine wench; we ’ll have a snap at her one of these nights, as she goes from115 him.

1 Gent. Content. How quickly he had done with her! I see kings can do no more that way than other mortal people.

[Scene II.][3405]

[Scene III.][3406]

Enter Aspatia, in man’s apparel, [and with artificial scars on her face.]

Serv. This is a great grace to my lord, to have the new king come to him. I must tell him he is ent’ring.—Oh, God!—Help, help!

Cal. I know not what the matter is, but I am grown very kind, and am friends with you all now. You have given me that among you will kill me quickly; but I ’ll go home, and live as long as I can. 286

If you be not reasonably assur’d of your knowledge in this kind of poem, lay down the book, or read this, which I would wish had been the prologue. It is a pastoral tragi-comedy, which the people seeing when it was play’d, having ever had a singular gift in defining, concluded to be a play of country hired shepherds in gray cloaks, with curtail’d dogs in strings, sometimes laughing together, and sometimes killing one another; and, missing Whitsun-ales, cream, wassail, and morris-dances, began to be angry. In their error I would not have you fall, lest you incur their censure.[3413] Understand, therefore, a pastoral to be a representation of shepherds and shepherdesses with their actions and passions, which must be such as may agree with their natures, at least not exceeding former fictions and vulgar traditions; they are not to be adorn’d with any art, but such improper ones as nature is said to bestow, as singing and poetry; or such as experience may teach them, as the virtues of herbs and fountains, the ordinary course of the sun, moon, and stars, and such like. But you are ever to remember shepherds to be such as all the ancient poets, and modern, of understanding, have received them; that is, the owners of flocks, and not hirelings. A tragi-comedy is not so called in respect of mirth and killing, but in respect it wants deaths, which is enough to make it no tragedy, yet brings some near it, which is enough to make it no comedy, which must be a representation of familiar people, with such kind of trouble as no life be question’d;[3414] so that a god is as lawful in this as in a tragedy, and mean people as in a comedy. Thus much I hope will serve to justify my poem, and make you understand it; to teach you more for nothing, I do not know that I am in conscience bound.

ACT I

Scene I.

[Scene II.][3421]

Enter an Old Shepherd, with four couples of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, [among whom are Perigot and Amoret.]

[Scene III.][3427]

ACT II

Scene I.[3437]

Enter Old Shepherd with a bell ringing, and the Priest of Pan following.

[Scene II.][3440]

Enter Clorin, the Shepherdess, sorting of herbs, and telling the natures of them.

[Scene III.][3454]

Scene IV.[3458]

ACT III

Scene I.[3460]

Re-enter Amarillis in her own shape, [and Perigot following with his spear.]

ACT IV

Scene I.[3469]

[Scene II.][3472]

[Scene III.][3478]

[Scene IV.][3479]

[Scene V.][3484]

ACT V

Scene I.[3485]

[Scene II.[3486]

[Scene III.][3489]

[Scene IV.][3494]

[Scene V.][3496]

The curtain is drawn, Clorin appears sitting in the cabin, Amoret sitting on the one side of her, Alexis and Cloe on the other; the Satyr standing by.

ACT I

Scene I.[3504]

Scene II.[3509]

Scene III.[3520]

ACT II

Scene I.[3531]

Scene II.[3545]

Scene III.[3551]

ACT III

Scene I.[3563]

[Pg 644] Re-enter De Gard, Oriana, [both disguised as before and Attendants.]

ACT IV

Scene I.[3595]

Scene II.[3600]

Scene III.[3610]

Enter Belleur, Nantolet, La Castre, De Gard, Lugier, Rosalura, and Lillia Bianca.

ACT V

Scene I.[3616]

Scene II.[3618]

Scene III.[3632]

Scene IV.[3633]

Oriana [disguised as an Italian lady,] and two [persons disguised as] Merchants, [discovered above.] Enter, [below, the Young Man disguised as a] Factor, and Mirabel.

Scene V.[3636]

Scene VI.[3638]

Enter [the Young Man disguised as a] Factor, Rosalura, Lillia Bianca, and Oriana [disguised as before].

Ladies, Three Young Children, Two Pilgrims, Executioners, Court Officers, and Attendants.

[Scene.—Amalfi, Rome, Loretto, Milan. Time.—Early Sixteenth Century.]

ACT I

Scene I.[3642]

Bos. I have done you better service than to be slighted thus. Miserable age, where only the reward of doing well is the doing of it!

Bos. I fell into the galleys in your service;35 where, for two years together, I wore two towels instead of a shirt, with a knot on the shoulder, after the fashion of a Roman mantle. Slighted thus! I will thrive some way. Blackbirds fatten best in hard weather; why not40 I in these dog-days?

Bos. With all your divinity do but direct me the way to it. I have known many travel far for it, and yet return as arrant knaves as45 they went forth, because they carried themselves always along with them. [Exit Cardinal.] Are you gone? Some fellows, they say, are possessed with the devil, but this great fellow were able to possess the greatest devil, and make him50 worse.

Bos. He and his brother are like plum-trees that grow crooked over standing-pools; they are rich and o’erladen with fruit, but none but crows, pies, and caterpillars feed on them.56 Could I be one of their flatt’ring panders, I would hang on their ears like a horseleech, till I were full, and then drop off. I pray, leave me. Who would rely upon these miserable dependencies, in expectation to be advanc’d to-morrow?61 [Pg 657] What creature ever fed worse than hoping Tantalus? Nor ever died any man more fearfully than he that hop’d for a pardon. There are rewards for hawks and dogs when65 they have done us service; but for a soldier that hazards his limbs in a battle, nothing but a kind of geometry is his last supportation.

Bos. Ay, to hang in a fair pair of slings, take his latter swing in the world upon an honourable71 pair of crutches, from hospital to hospital. Fare ye well, sir: and yet do not you scorn us; for places in the court are but like beds in the hospital, where this man’s head lies at that man’s foot, and so lower and lower.76

Scene II.[3644]

Ferd. Our sister duchess’ great master of her household? Give him the jewel.—When shall we leave this sportive action, and fall to action indeed?11

Cast. It is fitting a soldier arise to be a prince, but not necessary a prince descend to be a captain.

Ferd. Why should he not as well sleep or eat by a deputy? This might take idle, offensive, and base office from him, whereas the other deprives him of honour.25

Cast. Believe my experience, that realm is never long in quiet where the ruler is a soldier.

Ferd. And of a jest she broke of[3646] a captain she met full of wounds: I have forgot it.

Cast. She told him, my lord, he was a pitiful fellow, to lie, like the children of Ismael, all in tents.[3647]35

Ferd. Why, there ’s a wit were able to undo all the chirurgeons[3648] o’ the city; for although gallants should quarrel, and had drawn their weapons, and were ready to go to it, yet her persuasions would make them put up.40

Ferd. I am of Pliny’s opinion, I think he was begot by the wind; he runs as if he were ballas’d[3650] with quicksilver.46

Ferd. Why do you laugh? Methinks you that are courtiers should be my touch-wood,51 take fire when I give fire; that is, laugh when I laugh, were the subject never so witty.

Cast. True, my lord: I myself have heard a very good jest, and have scorn’d to seem to have so silly a wit as to understand it.56

Cast. He cannot speak, you know, but he makes faces; my lady cannot abide him.

Cast. Nor endure to be in merry company; for she says too full laughing, and too much company, fills her too much of the wrinkle.

Ferd. I would, then, have a mathematical instrument made for her face, that she might not laugh out of compass.—I shall shortly visit66 you at Milan, Lord Silvio.

Ferd. You are a good horseman, Antonio: you have excellent riders in France; what do you think of good horsemanship?71

Ant. Nobly, my lord: as out of the Grecian horse issued many famous princes, so out of brave horsemanship arise the first sparks of growing resolution, that raise the mind to noble action.76

Ant. Some such flashes superficially hang on him for form; but observe his inward character: he is a melancholy churchman. The spring in his face is nothing but the engend’ring of toads; where he is jealous of any man, he lays worse plots for them than ever was impos’d91 on Hercules, for he strews in his way flatterers, panders, intelligencers, atheists, and a thousand such political monsters. He should have been Pope; but instead of coming to it by the primitive decency of the church, he did96 bestow bribes so largely and so impudently as if he would have carried it away without heaven’s knowledge. Some good he hath done——

Card. Be sure you entertain that Bosola154 For your intelligence.[3655] I would not be seen in ’t; And therefore many times I have slighted him When he did court our furtherance, as this morning.

[Scene III.][3659]

ACT II

Scene I.[3673]

Bos. Let me see: you have a reasonable good face for ’t already, and your night-cap expresses your ears sufficient largely. I would have you5 learn to twirl the strings of your band with a good grace, and in a set speech, at th’ end of every sentence, to hum three or four times, or blow your nose till it smart again, to recover your memory. When you come to be a10 president in criminal causes, if you smile upon a prisoner, hang him; but if you frown upon him and threaten him, let him be sure to scape the gallows.

Cast. Rather it would make me have a good stomach to quarrel; for they say, your roaring boys eat meat seldom, and that makes them so valiant. But how shall I know whether the20 people take me for an eminent fellow?

Bos. I will teach a trick to know it: give out you lie a-dying, and if you hear the common people curse you, be sure you are taken for one of the prime night-caps.[3675]25

Bos. Why, from your scurvy face-physic. To behold thee not painted inclines somewhat near a miracle. These in thy face here were deep ruts and foul sloughs the last progress.[3676] There was31 a lady in France that, having had the small-pox, flayed the skin off her face to make it more level; and whereas before she looked like a nutmeg-grater, after she resembled an abortive hedge-hog.35

Bos. No, no, but you call [it] careening[3677] of an old morphew’d[3678] lady, to make her disembogue[3679] again: there ’s rough-cast phrase to your plastic.[3680]

Bos. One would suspect it for a shop of witch-craft, to find in it the fat of serpents, spawn of snakes, Jews’ spittle, and their young children’s ordure; and all these for the face. I would45 sooner eat a dead pigeon taken from the soles of the feet of one sick of the plague, than kiss one of you fasting. Here are two of you, whose sin of your youth is the very patrimony of the physician; makes him renew his foot-cloth50 with the spring, and change his high-pric’d courtesan with the fall of the leaf. I do wonder you do not loathe yourselves. Observe my meditation now.

Bos. O, sir, the opinion of wisdom is a foul tetter[3684] that runs all over a man’s body: if simplicity direct us to have no evil, it directs us90 to a happy being; for the subtlest folly proceeds from the subtlest wisdom. Let me be simply honest.

Bos. Give me leave to be honest in any phrase, in any compliment whatsoever. Shall I confess myself to you? I look no higher than100 I can reach: they are the gods that must ride on winged horses. A lawyer’s mule of a slow pace will both suit my disposition and business; for, mark me, when a man’s mind rides faster than his horse can gallop, they quickly both105 tire.

Bos. O, sir, you are lord of the ascendant,[3685] chief man with the duchess: a duke was your110 cousin-german remov’d. Say you were lineally descended from King Pepin, or he himself, what of this? Search the heads of the greatest rivers in the world, you shall find them but bubbles of water. Some would think the souls of princes115 were brought forth by some more weighty cause than those of meaner persons: they are deceiv’d, there’s the same hand to them; the like passions sway them; the same reason that makes a vicar go to law for a tithe-pig, and120 undo his neighbours, makes them spoil a whole province, and batter down goodly cities with the cannon.

Scene II.[3690]

Bos. So, so, there’s no question but her techiness[3691] and most vulturous eating of the apricocks are apparent signs of breeding.—Now?

Bos. There was a young waiting-woman had a monstrous desire to see the glass-house——6

Bos. And it was only to know what strange instrument it was should swell up a glass to the fashion of a woman’s belly.10

Old Lady. I will hear no more of the glass-house. You are still[3692] abusing women!

Bos. Who? I? No; only, by the way now and then, mention your frailties. The orange-tree bears ripe and green fruit and blossoms all15 together; and some of you give entertainment for pure love, but more for more precious reward. The lusty spring smells well; but drooping autumn tastes well. If we have the same golden showers that rained in the time of20 Jupiter the thunderer, you have the same Danäes still, to hold up their laps to receive them. Didst thou never study the mathematics?

Bos. Why, to know the trick how to make a many lines meet in one centre. Go, go, give your foster-daughters good counsel: tell them, that the devil takes delight to hang at a woman’s girdle, like a false rusty watch, that30 she cannot discern how the time passes.

Scene III.[3696]

Scene IV.[3705]

Scene V.[3711]

ACT III

Scene I.[3717]

Scene II.[3724]

Scene III.[3737]

Scene IV.

Scene V.[3740]

ACT IV

Scene I.[3743]

[Scene II.][3749]

1 Madman. Doom’s-day not come yet! I ’ll draw it nearer by a perspective,[3755] or make a74 glass that shall set all the world on fire upon [Pg 679] an instant. I cannot sleep; my pillow is stuft with a litter of porcupines.

2 Madman. Hell is a mere glass-house, where the devils are continually blowing up women’s souls on hollow irons, and the fire never goes80 out.

3 Madman. I will lie with every woman in my parish the tenth night. I will tithe them over like hay-cocks.84

4 Madman. Shall my ’pothecary out-go me, because I am a cuckold? I have found out his roguery: he makes alum of his wife’s urine, and sells it to Puritans that have sore throats with over-straining.

1 Madman. You do give for your crest a woodcock’s head with the brains pickt out on ’t; you are a very ancient gentleman.94

3 Madman. Greek is turn’d Turk: we are only to be sav’d by the Helvetian translation.[3756]

4 Madman. If I had my glass here, I would show a sight should make all the women here call me mad doctor.105

2 Madman. No, no, no; a snuffling knave that while he shows the tombs, will have his hand in a wench’s placket.[3757]109

3 Madman. Woe to the caroche[3758] that brought home my wife from the masque at three o’clock in the morning! It had a large feather-bed in it.

4 Madman. I have pared the devil’s nails forty times, roasted them in raven’s eggs,115 and cur’d agues with them.

3 Madman. Get me three hundred milch-bats, to make possets[3759] to procure sleep.

4 Madman. All the college may throw their caps at me: I have made a soap-boiler costive;120 it was my masterpiece.

Here the dance, consisting of Eight Madmen, with music answerable thereunto; after which, Bosola, like an old man, enters.

Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory[3760] of green mummy.[3761] What ’s this flesh? A little crudded[3762] milk, fantastical131 puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in135 a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass, and the heaven o’er our heads, like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison.140

Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid’s. Thou sleep’st worse than if a145 mouse should be forc’d to take up her lodging in a cat’s ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow.

ACT V

Scene I.[3766]

[Scene II.][3770]

Ferd. Eagles commonly fly alone: they are30 crows, daws, and starlings that flock together. Look, what ’s that follows me?

Ferd. You are a fool: how is ’t possible I40 should catch my shadow, unless I fall upon ’t? When I go to hell, I mean to carry a bribe; for, look you, good gifts evermore make way for the worst persons.

Ferd. To drive six snails before me from this town to Moscow; neither use goad nor whip to them, but let them take their own time;—the50 patient’st man i’ th’ world match me for an experiment:—an I ’ll crawl after like a sheep-biter.[3771]

Ferd. Use me well, you were best. What I55 have done, I have done: I ’ll confess nothing.

Doc. I must do mad tricks with him, for that ’s the only way on ’t.—I have brought your grace a salamander’s skin to keep you from sun-burning.

Ferd. Let it be a new-laid one, you were best. Hide me from him: physicians are like kings,— They brook no contradiction.70

Doc. Let me have some forty urinals filled with rose-water: he and I ’ll go pelt one75 another with them.—Now he begins to fear me.—Can you fetch a frisk,[3773] sir? Let him go, let him go, upon my peril: I find by his eye he stands in awe of me; I ’ll make him as tame as a dormouse.80

Ferd. Can you fetch your frisks, sir!—I will stamp him into a cullis,[3774] flay off his skin to cover one of the anatomies[3775] this rogue hath set i’ th’ cold yonder in Barber-Chirurgeon’s-hall.—Hence, hence! you are all of you like85 beasts for sacrifice. [Throws the Doctor down and beats him.] There ’s nothing left of you but tongue and belly, flattery and lechery.

Scene III.[3779]

Scene IV.[3780]

Bos. Ha! ’t was the cardinal’s voice; I heard him name Bosola and my death. Listen; I hear one’s footing.35

Ferd. What say to that? Whisper softly: do you agree to ’t? So; it must be done i’ th’ dark; the cardinal would not for a thousand40 [Pg 688] pounds the doctor should see it.

Scene V.[3785]

[ACT I

Scene I.][3786]

Wit. All ’s gone! still thou ’rt a gentleman, that ’s all; but a poor one, that ’s nothing. What milk brings thy meadows forth now? Where are thy goodly uplands, and thy down-lands? All sunk into that little pit, lechery,5 Why should a gallant pay but two shillings for his ordinary that nourishes him, and twenty times two for his brothel that consumes him? But where ’s Longacre?[3787] In my uncle’s conscience, which is three years’ voyage about:10 he that sets out upon his conscience ne’er finds the way home again; he is either swallowed in the quicksands of law-quillets, or splits upon the piles of a praemunire;[3788] yet these old fox-brain’d and ox-brow’d uncles have still defences15 for their avarice, and apologies for their practices, and will thus greet our follies:

and that ’s his uncle; ’t is a principle in usury. I dare not visit the city: there I should be too soon visited by that horrible plague, my debts; and by that means I lose a virgin’s love, her25 portion, and her virtues. Well, how should a man live now that has no living? Hum,—why, are there not a million of men in the world that only sojourn upon their brain, and make their wits their mercers; and am I but one amongst that million, and cannot thrive upon ’t? Any31 trick, out of the compass of law, now would come happily to me.

Cour. I that “have been the secret consumption50 of your purse,” shall I stay now “to undo your last means, your wits? Hence, courtesan,” away!

Wit. I prithee, make me not mad at my own weapon: stay (a thing few women can do, I55 know that, and therefore they had need wear [Pg 691] stays), be not contrary. Dost love me? Fate has so cast[3791] it that all my means I must derive from thee.

Wit. So, so, so: thou shalt presently take70 the name and form upon thee of a rich country widow, four hundred a-year valiant,[3792] in woods, in bullocks, in barns, and in rye-stacks. We ’ll to London, and to my covetous uncle.

Cour. I begin to applaud thee; our states75 being both desperate, they are soon resolute. But how for horses?

Wit. Mass, that ’s true; the jest will be of some continuance. Let me see; horses now, a bots[3793] on ’em! Stay, I have acquaintance with80 a mad host, never yet bawd to thee. I have rins’d the whoreson’s gums in mull-sack[3794] many a time and often. Put but a good tale into his ear now, so it come off cleanly, and there ’s horse and man for us, I dare warrant thee.85

Wit. Why, then, all ’s furnisht. I shall go nigh to catch that old fox, mine uncle. Though he make but some amends for my undoing,95 yet there ’s some comfort in ’t, he cannot otherwise choose (though it be but in hope to cozen[3795] me again) but supply any hasty want that I bring to town with me. The device well and cunningly carried, the name of a rich100 widow, and four hundred a-year in good earth, will so conjure up a kind of usurer’s love in him to me, that he will not only desire my presence,—which at first shall scarce be granted him, I ’ll keep off a’ purpose,—but I shall find105 him so officious to deserve, so ready to supply! I know the state of an old man’s affection so well: if his nephew be poor indeed, why, he let’s God alone with him; but if he be once rich, then he ’ll be the first man that helps him.110

Cour. ’T is right the world;[3796] for, in these days, an old man’s love to his kindred is like his kindness to his wife, ’t is always done before he comes at it.114

Wit. I owe thee for that jest. Begone: here ’s all my wealth; prepare thyself, away. I ’ll to mine host with all possible haste; and with the best art, and most profitable form, pour the sweet circumstance into his ear,119 which shall have the gift to turn all the wax to honey. [Exit Courtesan.]—How now? O, the right worshipful signors of our country!

[O. Hoa.] Faith, about a purchase, fetching over a young heir. Master Hoard, my brother, having wasted much time in beating the bargain, what did rue old Lucre, but as his conscience139 mov’d him, knowing the poor gentleman, stept in between ’em and cozened him himself.

[O. Hoa.] This was e’en it, sir; yet for144 all this, I know no reason but the match might go forward betwixt his wife’s son and my niece; what though there be a dissension between the two old men, I see no reason it should put a difference between the two younger; ’t is as149 natural for old folks to fall out, as for young to fall in. A scholar comes a-wooing to my niece; well, he’s wise, but he’s poor: her son comes a-wooing to my niece; well, he ’s a fool, but he ’s rich.

[O. Hoa.] She now remains at London159 with my brother, her second uncle, to learn fashions, practise music; the voice between her lips, and the viol between her legs, she ’ll be fit for a consort[3798] very speedily: a thousand good pound is her portion; if she marry, we ’ll ride up and be merry.165

[Scene II.][3799]

Wit. Mark me what I say: I ’ll tell thee such a tale in thine ear, that thou shalt trust me spite of thy teeth, furnish me with some money willy nilly, and ride up with me thyself contra vuluntatem et professionem.[3801]14

Host. How? Let me see this trick, and I ’ll say thou hast more art than a conjuror.

Host. Come forfeitures to a usurer, fees to an officer, punks to an host, and pigs to a parson desiredly? Why, then, la.

Wit. Will the report of a widow of four hundred a-year, boy, make thee leap, and sing, and dance, and come to thy place again?26

Wit. I ha’ brought her from her friends,29 turn’d back the horses by a slight; not so much as one among her six men, goodly large yeomanly fellows, will she trust with this her purpose: by this light, all unmann’d,[3802] regardless of her state, neglectful of vain-glorious ceremony, all for my love. O, ’t is a fine little voluble tongue, mine host, that wins a widow!36

Wit. Now, sir, the case stands thus: good mine host, if thou lovest my happiness, assist me.41

Wit. Nay, that ’s not all neither: prithee take truce with thy joy, and listen to me.44 Thou know’st I have a wealthy uncle i’ th’ city, somewhat the wealthier by my follies. The report of this fortune, well and cunningly carried, might be a means to draw some goodness from the usuring rascal; for I have put her in hope49 already of some estate that I have either in land or money. Now, if I be found true in neither, what may I expect but a sudden breach of our love, utter dissolution of the match, and confusion of my fortunes for ever?54

Wit. With thee? Why, will I desire to thrive in my purpose? Will I hug four hundred a-year, I that know the misery of nothing? Will that man wish a rich widow, that has ne’er a60 hole to put his head in? With thee, mine host? Why, believe it, sooner with thee than with a covey of counsellors.

Host. Thank you for your good report, i’ faith, sir; and if I stand you not in stead,65 why then let an host, come off hic et haec hostis, a deadly enemy to dice, drink, and venery. Come, where ’s this widow?

Wit. Why, there we let off together, keep full time; my thoughts were striking then just the same number.

[Scene III.][3803]

Enter at several doors, old Lucre and old Hoard; [Lamprey, Spichcock, Freedom, and Moneylove.] gentlemen coming between them to pacify them.

Lam. Nay, good Master Lucre, and you, Master Hoard, anger is the wind which you’re both too much troubled withal.

Hoa. Shall my adversary thus daily affront me? ripping up the old wound of our malice,5 which three summers could not close up? into which wound the very sight of him drops scalding lead instead of balsamum.

Luc. Why, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard! may I not pass in the state of quietness10 to mine own house? Answer me to that, before witness, and why? I ’ll refer the cause to honest, even-minded gentlemen, or require the mere indifferences[3804] of the law to decide this matter. I got the purchase,[3805] true: was ’t15 not any man’s case? Yes. Will a wise man stand as a bawd, whilst another wipes his nose[3806] of the bargain? No: I answer no in that case.

Hoa. Was it the part of a friend—no,20 rather of a Jew;—mark what I say—when I had beaten the bush to the last bird, or, as I may term it, the price to a pound, then, like a cunning usurer, to come in the evening of the bargain, and glean all my hopes in a minute?25 to enter, as it were, at the back door of the purchase? for thou ne’er camest the right way by it.

Luc. Hast thou the conscience to tell me so without any impeachment to thyself?30

Hoa. Thou that canst defeat thy own nephew, Lucre, lap his lands into bonds, and take the extremity of thy kindred’s forfeitures, because he ’s a rioter, a wastethrift, a brothel-master, and so forth,—what may a stranger expect35 from thee but vulnera dilacerata, as the poet says, dilacerate dealing?

Luc. Upbraidest thou me with nephew? Is all imputation laid upon me? What acquaintance have I with his follies? If he riot, ’t is40 he must want it; if he surfeit, ’t is he must [Pg 693] feel it; if he drab it, ’t is he must lie by ’t: what ’s this to me?

Hoa. What ’s all to thee? Nothing, nothing; such is the gulf of thy desire and the wolf of45 thy conscience: but be assured, old Pecunius Lucre, if ever fortune so bless me that I may be at leisure to vex thee, or any means so favour me that I may have opportunity to mad thee,[3807] I will pursue it with that flame of hate,50 spirit of malice, unrepressed wrath, that I will blast thy comforts.

Hoa. Dost scoff at my just anger? O, that60 I had as much power as usury has over thee!

Lam. When the fire grows too unreasonable70 hot, there ’s no better way than to take off the wood.

Exeunt [Lamprey and Spichcock, drawing off Lucre and Hoard different ways].

Free. ’T is given me to understand that75 you are a rival of mine in the love of Mistress Joyce, Master Hoard’s niece: say me ay, say me no?

Free. Then look to yourself, you cannot80 live long. I’m practising every morning; a month hence I ’ll challenge you.

Free. O, O! what reason had you for that, sir, to strike before the month? You knew86 I was not ready for you, and that made you so crank:[3809] I am not such a coward to strike again, I warrant you. My ear has the law of her side, for it burns horribly. I will teach him to strike a naked face, the longest day of his life.91 ’Slid, it shall cost me some money but I ’ll bring this box into the chancery.

[Scene IV.][3810]

Host. Fear you nothing, sir; I have lodg’d her in a house of credit, I warrant you.

Wit. Prithee, stay, and behold two the5 most prodigious rascals that ever slipt into the shape of men; Dampit, sirrah, and young Gulf, his fellow-caterpillar.

Wit. Heard of him! Why, man, he that has lost both his ears may hear of him; a famous infamous trampler[3811] of time; his own phrase. Note him well: that Dampit, sirrah, he in the uneven beard and the serge cloak, is the15 most notorious, usuring, blasphemous, atheistical, brothel-vomiting rascal, that we have in these latter times now extant; whose first beginning was the stealing of a masty[3812] dog from a farmer’s house.20

Host. He lookt as if he would obey the commandment[s] well, when he began first with stealing.

Wit. True: the next town he came at, he set the dogs together by th’ ears.25

Wit. So it followed, indeed; and being destitute of all fortunes, stakt his masty against a noble,[3813] and by great fortune his dog had the30 day. How he made it up ten shillings, I know not, but his own boast is, that he came to town with but ten shillings in his purse, and now is credibly worth ten thousand pound.

Wit. How the devil came he not by it? If you put in the devil once, riches come with a vengeance. Has been a trampler of the law, sir; and the devil has a care of his footmen. The rogue has spied me now; he nibbled me finely40 once, too:—a pox search you!—O, Master Dampit!—the very loins of thee!—Cry you mercy. Master Gulf; you walk so low, I promise you I saw you not, sir.

Wit. [Aside.] And nigher hell by a foot and a half than the rest of his fellows.—But, my old Harry!

Wit. ’T was a merry world when thou camest to town with ten shillings in thy purse.

Dam. And now worth ten thousand pound, my boy. Report it; Harry Dampit, a trampler of time, say, he would be up in a morning,55 and be here with his serge gown, dasht up to the hams in a cause; have his feet stink about Westminster Hall, and come home again; see the galleons, the galleasses,[3814] the great armadas of the law; then there be hoys[3815] and petty60 vessels, oars and scullers of the time; there be picklocks of the time too: then would I be here; I would trample up and down like a mule: now to the judges, “May it please your reverend honourable fatherhoods;” then to65 my counsellor, “May it please your worshipful patience;” then to the examiner’s office, “May [Pg 694] it please your mastership’s gentleness;” then to one of the clerks, “May it please your worshipful lousiness,”—for I find him scrubbing70 in his codpiece; then to the hall again, then to the chamber again—

Dam. E’en when thou wilt again: tramplers of time, motions[3816] of Fleet-Street, and visions75 of Holborn; here I have fees of one, there I have fees of another; my clients come about me, the fooliaminy[3817] and coxcombry of the country: I still trasht[3818] and trotted for other men’s causes. Thus was pour Harry Dampit80 made rich by others’ laziness, who though they would not follow their own suits, I made ’em follow me with their purses.

Dam. Ay, and I sous’d ’em with bills of85 charges, i’ faith; twenty pound a-year have I brought in for boat-hire, and I ne’er stept into boat in my life.

Wit. Ah, thou ’rt a mad old Harry!—Kind Master Gulf, I am bold to renew my acquaintance.

ACT II

[Scene I.][3820]

Luc. My adversary evermore twits me with my nephew, forsooth, my nephew: why may not a virtuous uncle have a dissolute nephew? What though he be a brotheller, a wastethrift, a common surfeiter, and, to conclude, a beggar,5 must sin in him call up shame in me? Since we have no part in their follies, why should we have part in their infamies? For my strict hand toward his mortgage, that I deny not: I confess I had an uncle’s pen’worth;10 let me see, half in half, true. I saw neither hope of his reclaiming, nor comfort in his being; and was it not then better bestow’d upon his uncle than upon one of his aunts?—I need not say bawd, for every one knows what “aunt” stands for in the last translation.16

Ser. There ’s a country serving-man, sir, attends to speak with your worship.

Host. [Aside.] He calls me thief[3821] at first sight, yet he little thinks I am an host.

Host. Faith, sir, I am sent from my mistress, to any sufficient gentleman indeed, to ask advice upon a doubtful point: ’t is indifferent, sir, to whom I come, for I know none, nor30 did my mistress direct me to any particular man, for she ’s as mere a stranger here as myself; only I found your worship within, and ’t is a thing I ever lov’d, sir, to be despatcht as soon as I can.35

Luc. [Aside.] A good, blunt honesty; I like him well.—What is thy mistress?

Host. Faith, a country gentlewoman, and a widow, sir. Yesterday was the first flight of us; but now she intends to stay till a little40 term business be ended.

Luc. Cuds[3823] me, there ’t is indeed; thou hast put me into memory. There ’s a widow indeed;50 ah, that I were a bachelor again!

Host. No doubt your worship might do much then; but she ’s fairly promist to a bachelor already.

Host. A country gentleman too; one of whom your worship knows not, I ’m sure; h’as spent some few follies in his youth, but marriage, by my faith, begins to call him home. My mistress loves him, sir, and love covers faults, you60 know, one Master Witgood, if ever you have heard of the gentleman.

Host. That ’s his name indeed, sir; my mistress is like to bring him to a goodly seat65 yonder; four hundred a-year, by my faith.

Luc. [Aside.] My nephew, by th’ mass, my nephew! I ’ll fetch out more of this, i’ faith: a simple country fellow, I ’ll work ’t out of him.—And is that gentleman, sayst thou, presently to marry her?76

Host. Faith, he brought her up to town, sir; h’as the best card in all the bunch for ’t, her heart; and I know my mistress will be married ere she go down;[3825] nay, I ’ll swar that, for80 she ’s none of those widows that will go down first, and be married after; she hates that, I [Pg 695] can tell you, sir.

Luc. By my faith, sir, she is like to have a proper gentleman, and a comely; I ’ll give85 her that gift.

Luc. I know him? Does not all the world know him? Can a man of such exquisite90 qualities be hid under a bushel?

Host. Then your worship may save me a labour, for I had charge given me to inquire after him.

Luc. Inquire of him? If I might counsel95 thee, thou shouldst ne’er trouble thyself further; inquire of him no more, but of me; I ’ll fit thee. I grant he has been youthful; but is he not now reclaim’d? Mark you that, sir: has not your mistress, think you, been wanton100 in her youth? If men be wags, are there not women wagtails?

Luc. The worst report you can hear of him, I can tell you, is that he has been a kind gentleman, a liberal, and a worthy; who but lusty Witgood, thrice-noble Witgood!110

Host. Since your worship has so much knowledge in him, can you resolve me, sir, what his living might be? My duty binds me, sir, to have a care of my mistress’ estate; she has been ever a good mistress to me, though I115 say it. Many wealthy suitors has she nonsuited for his sake; yet, though her love be so fixt, a man cannot tell whether his non-performance may help to remove it, sir, he makes us believe he has lands and living.120

Luc. Who, young Master Witgood? Why, believe it, he has as goodly a fine living out yonder,—what do you call the place?

Luc. Hum—see, like a beast, if I have125 not forgot the name—pooh! and out yonder again, goodly grown woods and fair meadows: pax[3826] on ’t, I can ne’er hit of that place neither.—He? Why, he ’s Witgood of Witgood Hall; he an unknown thing!130

Host. Is he so, sir? To see how rumour will alter! Trust me, sir, we heard once he had no lands, but all lay mortgag’d to an uncle he has in town here.

Luc. Why, do you think, i’ faith, he was ever so simple to mortgage his lands to his uncle, or his uncle so unnatural to take the extremity of such a mortgage?141

Host. I do beseech you, sir, do me the favour to conceal it. What a beast was I to utter so much! Pray, sir, do me the kindness to keep it in; I shall have my coat pull’d o’er my ears, an ’t should be known; for the truth is, an ’t155 please your worship, to prevent much rumour and many suitors, they intend to be married very suddenly and privately.

Luc. And dost thou think it stands with my judgment to do them injury? Must I needs160 say the knowledge of this marriage comes from thee? Am I a fool at fifty-four? Do I lack subtlety now, that have got all my wealth by it? There ’s a leash of angels[3827] for thee: come, let me woo thee speak where lie[3828] they?165

Host. I dare trust your worship, sir; but I ’m a stranger to your house; and to avoid all intelligencers, I desire your worship’s ear.

Luc. [Aside.] This fellow ’s worth a matter of trust.—Come, sir. [Host whispers to him.] Why, now, thou ’rt an honest lad.—Ah,176 sirrah, nephew!

Host. Please you, sir, now I have begun with your worship, when shall I attend for your advice upon that doubtful point? I must come warily now.181

Luc. Fare thee well.—There ’s more true185 honesty in such a country serving-man than in a hundred of our cloak companions:[3829] I may well call ’em companions,[3829] for since blue[3830] coats have been turn’d into cloaks, we can scarce know the man from the master.—George!190

Luc. List hither: [whispers] keep the place secret: commend me to my nephew; I know no cause, tell him, but he might see his uncle.

Geo. [Aside.] Here’s a strange alteration; one day he must be turn’d out like a beggar, and now he must be call’d in like a knight.200

Luc. Ah, sirrah, that rich widow!—four hundred a-year! beside, I hear she lays claim to a title of a hundred more. This falls unhappily that he should bear a grudge to me now, being likely to prove so rich. What205 is ’t, trow, that he makes me a stranger for? [Pg 696] Hum,—I hope he has not so much wit to apprehend that I cozened him: he deceives me then. Good Heaven, who would have thought it would ever have come to this pass! yet210 he ’s a proper gentleman, i’ faith, give him his due,—marry, that ’s his mortgage; but that I ne’er mean to give him. I ’ll make him rich enough in words, if that be good: and if it come to a piece of money, I will not greatly stick215 for ’t; there may be hope some of the widow’s lands, too, may one day fall upon me, if things be carried wisely.

Geo. He desires your worship to hold him220 excus’d; he has such weighty business, it commands him wholly from all men.

Luc. [Aside.] When men grow rich, they225 grow proud too, I perceive that. He would not have sent me such an answer once within this twelvemonth: see what ’t is when a man comes to his lands! Return to him again, sir; tell him his uncle desires his company for an hour;230 I ’ll trouble him but an hour, say; ’t is for his own good, tell him: and, do you hear, sir? put “worship” upon him. Go to do as I bid you; he ’s like to be a gentleman of worship very shortly.235

Luc. Troth, he uses his uncle discourteously now. Can he tell what I may do for him? Goodness may come from me in a minute, that comes not in seven year again. He knows my humour;240 I am not so usually good; ’t is no small thing that draws kindness from me, he may know that an he will. The chief cause that invites me to do him most good is the sudden astonishing of old Hoard, my adversary. How245 pale his malice will look at my nephew’s advancement! With what a dejected spirit he will behold his fortunes, whom but last day he proclaim’d rioter, penurious makeshift, despised brothel-master! Ha, ha! ’t will do me250 more secret joy than my last purchase, more precious comfort than all these widow’s revenues.

Luc. You ’ve a fault, nephew; you ’re a260 stranger here. Well, Heaven give you joy!

Wit. You that know my danger i’ th’ city, sir, so well, how great my debts are, and how extreme my creditors, could not out of your pure judgment, sir, have wisht us hither.

Wit. My credit? Nay, my countenance. Pish, nay, I know, uncle, you would have wrought it so by your wit, you would have made her believe in time the whole house had been mine.291

Wit. La, you there! Well, let ’em all prate what they will, there ’s nothing like the bringing of a widow to one’s uncle’s house.295

Luc. Nay, let nephews be rul’d as they list, they shall find their uncle’s house the most natural place when all ’s done.

Luc. Life, they may do anything there,300 man, and fear neither beadle nor summoner. An uncle’s house! a very Cole-Harbour.[3831] Sirrah, I ’ll touch thee near now: hast thou so much interest in thy widow, that by a token thou couldst presently send for her?305

Luc. Attend my nephew. [Witgood whispers to George, who then goes out.]—[Aside.] I love a’ life[3832] to prattle with a rich widow; ’t is pretty, methinks, when our tongues go together:315 and then to promise much and perform little. I love that sport a’ life, i’ faith; yet I am in the mood now to do my nephew some good, if he take me handsomely. What, have you despatcht?320

Luc. Yes, faith, must I. Say your debts be325 many, your creditors importunate, yet the kindness of a thing is all, nephew: you might have [Pg 697] sent me close[3833] word on ’t, without the least danger or prejudice to your fortunes.329

Wit. Troth, I confess it, uncle; I was to blame there; but, indeed, my intent was to have clapt it up suddenly, and so have broke forth like a joy to my friends, and a wonder to the world. Beside, there ’s a trifle of a forty pound matter toward the setting of me forth;335 my friends should ne’er have known on ’t; I meant to make shift for that myself.

Luc. How, nephew? let me not hear such a word again, I beseech you. Shall I be beholding to you?340

Luc. Why, well said I there’s some hope in thee when thou wilt be rul’d. I’ll make it350 up fifty, faith, because I see thee so reclaim’d. Peace; here comes my wife with Sam, her t’ other husband’s son.

Free. Cousin Witgood, I rejoice in my salute; you ’re most welcome to this noble city, govern’d with the sword in the scabbard.

Wit. [Aside.] And the wit in the pommel.— Good Master Sam Freedom, I return the salute.

Luc. By the mass, she ’s coming, wife; let360 me see now how thou wilt entertain her.

Mis. L. I hope I am not to learn, sir, to entertain a widow; ’t is not so long since I was one myself.

Cour. The presumption was nothing, Master Witgood. Is this your uncle, sir?370

Luc. Marry am I, sweet widow; and his good uncle he shall find me; ay, by this smack that I give thee, thou ’rt welcome.—Wife, bid the widow welcome the same way again.374

Free. [Aside.] I am a gentleman now too by my father’s occupation, and I see no reason but I may kiss a widow by my father’s copy:[3834]—truly, I think the charter is not against it; surely these are the words, “The son once a gentleman may revel it, though his father were a dauber;”380 ’t is about the fifteenth page: I ’ll to her. [Offers to kiss the Courtesan, who repulses him.]

Free. Coads-nigs![3835] I was never so disgrac’d since the hour my mother whipt me.

Luc. Beside, I have no child of mine own to care for; she ’s my second wife, old, past bearing; clap sure to him, widow; he ’s like to be my heir, I can tell you.391

Luc. He knows it already, and the knave ’s proud on ’t; jolly rich widows have been offer’d him here i’ th’ city, great merchants’ wives; and do you think he will once look upon396 ’em? Forsooth, he ’ll none. You are beholding to him i’ th’ country, then, ere we could be: nay, I ’ll hold a wager, widow, if he were once known to be in town, he would be presently400 sought after; nay, and happy were they that could catch him first.

Luc. O, there would be such running to and fro, widow! He should not pass the streets for ’em: he ’d be took up in one great house or406 other presently: faugh! they know he has it, and must have it. You see this house here, widow; this house and all comes to him; goodly rooms, ready furnisht, ceil’d with plaster410 of Paris, and all hung about with cloth of arras.—Nephew.

Luc. Show the widow your house; carry her into all the rooms, and bid her welcome.—You415 shall see, widow.—[Aside to Witgood.] Nephew, strike all sure above an thou beest a good boy,—ah!

Luc. The right way, I warrant t’ ee. A pox, art an ass? Would I were in thy stead! get you up, I am asham’d of you. [Exeunt Witgoodand Courtesan.] So! let ’em agree as they will now: many a match has been struck up in my house a’ this fashion’: let ’em try all manner426 of ways, still there ’s nothing like an uncle’s house to strike the stroke in. I ’ll hold my wife in talk a little.—Now Jenny, your son there goes a-wooing to a poor gentlewoman but of430 a thousand pound portion: see my nephew, a lad of less hope, strikes at four hundred a-year in good rubbish.

Luc. I ’ll have his money ready told for him again[3836] he come down. Let me see, too;—by436 th’ mass, I must present the widow with some jewel, a good piece a’ plate, or such a device; ’t will hearten her on well. I have a very fair standing cup; and a good high standing cup440 will please a widow above all other pieces.

Mis. L. Do you mock us with your nephew?—I have a plot in my head, son;—i’ faith, husband, to cross you.

Mis. L. ’T is a plot shall vex him. I charge you, of my blessing, son Sam, that you presently withdraw the action of your love from Master [Pg 698] Hoard’s niece.450

Mis L. Nay, I have a plot in my head, i’ faith. Here, take this chain of gold, and this fair diamond: dog me the widow home to her lodging, and at thy best opportunity, fasten ’em455 both upon her. Nay, I have a reach:[3837] I can tell you thou art known what thou art, son, among the right worshipful, all the twelve companies.

Mis L. He? he ’s a scab to thee: and so certify her thou hast two hundred a-year of thyself, besides thy good parts—a proper person and a lovely. If I were a widow, I could find in my heart to have thee myself, son; ay,465 from ’em all.

Free. Thank you for your good will, mother: but, indeed, I had rather have a stranger: and if I woo her not in that violent fashion, that469 I will make her be glad to take these gifts ere I leave her, let me never be called the heir of your body.

Mis L. Nay, I know there ’s enough in you, son, if you once come to put it forth.474

[Scene II.][3839]

Mon. Faith, Master Hoard, I have bestowed many months in the suit of your niece, such was the dear love I ever bore to her virtues: but since she hath so extremely denied me, I am to lay out for my fortunes elsewhere.5

Hoa. Heaven forbid but you should, sir! I ever told you my niece stood otherwise affected.[3840]

Mon. I must confess you did, sir; yet, in regard of my great loss of time, and the zeal with which I sought your niece, shall I desire one10 favour of your worship?

Mon. I shall rest grateful: ’t is not full three hours, sir, since the happy rumour of a rich15 country widow came to my hearing.

Mon. Most firm, sir; and I have learnt her20 lodging. Here my suit begins, sir; if I might but entreat your worship to be a countenance for me, and speak a good word (for your words will pass). I nothing doubt but I might set fair for the widow; nor shall your labour, sir, end25 altogether in thanks; two hundred angels——

Mon. There lies the comfort, sir; the report of her is yet but a whisper; and only solicited by young riotous Witgood, nephew to your mortal adversary.31

Mon. Most certain, sir; and his uncle very industrious to beguile the widow, and make up the match.35

Mon. Now, sir, you know this young Witgood is a spendthrift, dissolute fellow.

Mon. True, sir; which being well told in your worship’s phrase, may both heave him out of her mind, and drive a fair way for me to the widow’s affections.45

1 Cred. [Nay,] take ’t of my word, if you believe that, you believe the least.75

3 Cred. He owes me a hundred pound, and I protest I ne’er lookt for a penny.80

1 Cred. He little dreams of our coming; he ’ll wonder to see his creditors upon him.

ACT III

[Scene I.][3841]

Wit. Why, alas, my creditors, could you find no other time to undo me but now? Rather your malice appears in this than the justness of the debt.

Wit. What can be kept so close but you creditors hear on ’t! Well, ’t is a lamentable state, that our chiefest afflictors should first hear of our fortunes. Why, this is no good course, i’ faith, sirs: if ever you have hope to be satisfied,15 why do you seek to confound the means that should work it? There’s neither piety, no, nor policy in that. Shine favourably now: why, I may rise and spread again, to your great comforts.20

2 Cred. Faith, we heard you brought up a rich widow, sir, and were suddenly to marry her.44

Wit. Ay, why there it was; I knew ’t was so; but since you are so well resolv’d,[3843] of my faith toward you, let me be so much favour’d of you, I beseech you all——

Wit. As to lie still awhile, and bury my debts in silence, till I be fully possest of the widow; for the truth is—I may tell you as my friends——

Wit. I am to raise a little money in the city, toward the setting forth of myself, for my own credit and your comfort. Now, if my former debts should be divulg’d, all hope of my proceedings were quite extinguisht.59

1 Cred. Do you hear, sir? I may deserve your custom hereafter; pray, let my money be accepted before a stranger’s. Here ’s forty pound I receiv’d as I came to you; if that may stand you in any stead, make use on ’t. [Offers him money, which he at first declines.] Nay, pray, sir; ’t is at your service.66

2 Cred. I go.—[Aside to Witgood.]—Take no care, sir, for money to furnish you; within this hour I send you sufficient. Come, Master Cockpit, we both stay for you.

3 Cred. I ha’ lost a ring, i’ faith; I ’ll follow you presently [exeunt 1 and 2 Creditors]—but80 you shall find it, sir. I know your youth and expenses have disfurnisht you of all jewels: there ’s a ruby of twenty pound price, sir; bestow it upon your widow. [Offers him the ring, which he at first declines.]—What, man! ’t85 will call up her blood to you; beside, if I might so much work with you, I would not have you beholding to those bloodsuckers for any money.

3 Cred. Send a note of all your wants to my shop, and I ’ll supply you instantly.

Wit. Say you so? Why, here ’s my hand then, no man living shalt do ’t but thyself.95

Wit. Welcome, good Master Cockpit. Exit [3 Creditor].—Ha, ha, ha! why, is not this better now than lying a-bed? I perceive there ’s nothing conjures up wit sooner than poverty, and nothing lays it down sooner than wealth and lechery: this has some savour yet. O that105 I had the mortgage from mine uncle as sure in possession as these trifles! I would forswear brothel at noonday, and muscadine[3844] and eggs, at midnight.

[Pg 700] Cour. There ’s some in chains and jewels. I am so haunted with suitors, Master Witgood, I know not which to despatch first.116

Wit. Wench, make up thy own fortunes130 now; do thyself a good turn once in thy days. He ’s rich in money, movables, and lands; marry him: he ’s an old doting fool, and that ’s worth all; marry him. ’T would be a great comfort to me to see thee do well, i’ faith; marry135 him. ’T would ease my conscience well to see thee well bestow’d; I have a care of thee, i’ faith.

Wit. I reach at farther happiness: first, I140 am sure it can be no harm to thee, and there may happen goodness to me by it. Prosecute it well; let ’s send up for our wits, now we require their best and most pregnant assistance.

Hoa. Art thou the widow’s man? By my146 faith, sh’as a company of proper men then.

Hoa. Come, come, thou ’rt modest. There ’s a brace of royals;[3846] prithee, help me to th’ speech of her. 155

Host. [Aside.] Is not this a better place160 than five mark[3847] a-year standing wages? Say a man had but three such clients in a day, methinks he might make a poor living on ’t; beside, I was never brought up with so little honesty to refuse any man’s money; never.165 What gulls there are a’ this side the world! Now know I the widow’s mind; none but my young master comes in her clutches: ha, ha, ha!

Cour. But, Master Hoard, one thing I must remember you of, before these gentlemen, your friends: how shall I suddenly avoid the250 loathed soliciting of that perjur’d Witgood, and his tedious, dissembling uncle? who this very day hath appointed a meeting for the same purpose too; where, had not truth come forth, I had been undone, utterly undone!255

Hoa. Hark thee, widow: train[3850] out young Witgood single; hasten him thither with thee, somewhat before the hour; where, at the260 place appointed, these gentlemen and myself will wait the opportunity, when, by some slight removing him from thee, we ’ll suddenly enter and surprise thee, carry thee away by boat to Cole-Harbour, have a priest ready, and there265 clap it up instantly. How likest it, widow?

Wit. O for more scope! I could laugh eternally! Give you joy, Mistress Hoard, I promise your fortune was good, forsooth; you ’ve fell upon wealth enough, and there ’s young280 gentlemen enow can help you to the rest. Now, it requires our wits: carry thyself but heedfully now, and we are both——

Wit. Mightily, here comes one old gentleman, and he ’ll make her a jointure of three hundred a year, forsooth; another wealthy suitor will estate his son in his lifetime, and make him weigh down the widow; here a300 merchant’s son will possess her with no less than three goodly lordships at once, which were all pawns to his father.

Luc. Peace, nephew, let me hear no more of ’em; it mads me. Thou shalt prevent[3853] ’em305 all. No words to the widow of my coming hither. Let me see—’t is now, upon nine: before twelve, nephew, we will have the bargain struck, we will, faith, boy.309

[Scene II.][3854]

Hoa. Niece, sweet niece, prithee, have a care to my house; I leave all to thy discretion. Be content to dream awhile; I ’ll have a husband for thee shortly: put that care upon me, wench, for in choosing wives and husbands I am only5 [Pg 702] fortunate; I have that gift given me.

—I know this hand—15 (Reads.) Dearer than sight, what the world reports of me, yet believe not; rumour will alter shortly: be thou constant; I am still the same that I was in love, and I hope to be the same in fortunes.20

[Scene III.][3856]

Dra. You ’re very welcome: please you to walk up stairs; cloth ’s laid, sir.45

Wit. Rest yourself here awhile, widow; we ’ll have a cup of muscadine in this little room.

Dra. I cannot readily tell you, sir: if you please you may go into the kitchen and see56 yourself, sir: many gentlemen of worship do use to do it, I assure you, sir.

Wit. Against you are ready to drink to me, widow, I ’ll be present to pledge you.

Cour. Nay. I commend your care, ’t is done well of you. [Exit Witgood.]—’Las, what have I forgot!65

Cour. I slipt my wedding ring off when I washt, and left it at my lodging. Prithee, run; I shall be sad without it. [Exit Host.]—So, he ’s gone. Boy!70

Cour. Come hither, sirrah: learn secretly if one Master Hoard, an ancient gentleman, be about house.

Boy. Out, sir: one Master Hoard, with a guard of gentlemen, carried her out at back door, a pretty while since, sir.

[Scene IV.][3859]

Dam. When did I say my prayers? In anno 88, when the great armada was coming; and in anno 99, when the great thunder and lightning was, I pray’d heartily then, i’ faith, to overthrow Poovies’ new buildings; I kneeled by 5 my great iron chest, I remember.

Aud. Master Dampit, one may hear you before they see you: you keep sweet hours, Master Dampit; we were all a-bed three hours ago.

Dam. So I am i’ faith, and a fine scholar. Do you use to go to bed so early, Audrey?

Dam. Why, is ’t not one of clock i’ th’ 15 morning? Is not that early enough? Fetch me a glass of fresh beer.

Dam. Draw it on then. I am very weak 20 truly. I have not eaten so much as the bulk of an egg these three days.

Dam. I answer you, I cannot. Hold your prating; you prate too much, and understand too little: are you answered? Give me a glass 30 of beer.

Dam. I eat not one pen’north of bread these two years. Give me a glass of fresh beer. I am not sick, nor I am not well.

Aud. Take this warm napkin about your neck, sir, whilst I help to make you unready.[3861]

[Pg 704] Dam. How now, Audrey-prater, with your scurvy devices, what say you now?42

Dam. Hold thy prating: I answer thee, thou art a beggar, a quean, and a bawd: are you answer’d?55

Dam. Why, thou base drudge of infortunity, thou kitchen-stuff-drab of beggary, roguery, and coxcombry, thou cavernesed quean of60 foolery, knavery, and bawdreaminy, I ’ll tell thee what, I will not give a louse for thy fortunes.

Aud. No, Master Dampit? and there ’s a gentleman comes a-wooing to me, and he doubts[3863]65 nothing but that you will get me from him.

Dam. I? If I would either have thee or lie with thee for two thousand pound, would I might be damn’d! Why, thou base, impudent quean of foolery, flattery, and coxcombry, are70 you answer’d?

Dam. She ’s as fine a philosopher of a stinkard’s wife, as any within the liberties. Faugh, faugh, Audrey!

Dam. Fie upon ’t, what a choice of stinks80 here is! What hast thou done, Audrey? Fie upon ’t, here ’s a choice of stinks indeed! Give me a glass of fresh beer, and then I will to bed.

Dam. Foh! I think they burn horns in Barnard’s Inn. If ever I smelt such an abominable stink, usury forsake me.

Aud. They be the stinking nails of his trampling feet, and he talks of burning horns.

ACT IV

[Scene I.]

Enter at Cole-Harbour Hoard, the Widow, [Lamprey, Spichcock,] and Gentlemen, he married now.

[Scene II.][3866]

Free. He thumps his breast like a gallant dicer that has lost his doublet, and stands5 in ’s shirt to do penance.

Free. I warrant you may hear him sigh in a still evening to your house at Highgate.

Free. Were it to do a greater matter, I will not stick with you, sir, in regard you married my mother.

Luc. Sweet gentlemen, cheer him up; I will but fetch the mortgage and return to you15 instantly.

2 [Gent.] Why, how now. Master Witgood? Fie! you a firm scholar, and an understanding20 gentleman, and give your best parts to passion?[3868]

Luc. The wedding-day ’s at hand: prithee, sweet wife, express thy housewifery. Thou ’rt a fine cook, I know ’t; thy first husband married thee out of an alderman’s kitchen; go85 to, he rais’d thee for raising of paste. What! here ’s none but friends; most of our beginnings must be winkt at.—Gentlemen, I invite you all to my nephew’s wedding against Thursday morning.90

[Scene III.][3869]

1 Cred. A’ my troth, she’s the wiser; she has made the happier choice: and I wonder of what stuff those widows’ hearts are made of, that will marry unfledg’d boys before comely thrum-chinn’d[3870] gentlemen.10

Wit. My last joy was so great, it took away the sense of all future afflictions. What a day is here o’ercast! How soon a black tempest rises!

1 Cred. O, we may speak with you now,20 sir! What ’s become of your rich widow? I think you may cast your cap at the widow, may you not, sir?

2 Cred. He a rich widow? Who, a prodigal, a daily rioter, and a nightly vomiter? He a25 widow of account? He a hole i’ th’ Counter.[3871]

Wit. You do well, my masters, to tyrannise over misery, to afflict the afflicted; ’t is a custom you have here amongst you; I would wish you never leave it, and I hope you ’ll do as I bid you.31

[Pg 707] 1 Cred. Come, come, sir, what say you extempore now to your bill of a hundred pound? A sweet debt for froating[3872] your doublets?

1 Cred. No, sir, we ’ll keep you out of breath still; then we shall be sure you will not run away from us.40

2 Cred. You shall pardon us for that, sir; we know you have too fair a tongue of your own; you overcame us too lately, a shame take you! We are like to lose all that for want of witnesses;45 we dealt in policy then: always when we strive to be most politic we prove most coxcombs: non plus ultra I perceive by us, we ’re not ordain’d to thrive by wisdom, and therefore we must be content to be tradesmen.50

Wit. Give me but reasonable time, and I protest I ’ll make you ample satisfaction.

3 Cred. O, ’t is a secret delight we have60 amongst us! We that are us’d to keep birds in cages, have the heart to keep men in prison, I warrant you.

Wit. [Aside.] I perceive I must crave a tittle more aid from my wits: do but make shift for65 me this once, and I ’ll forswear ever to trouble you in the like fashion hereafter; I ’ll have better employment for you, an I live.—You ’ll give me leave, my masters, to make trial of my friends, and raise all means I can?70

Wit. No, by my faith, canst thou; I am in hell here, and the devils will not let me come to thee.

1 Cred. Do you call us devils? You shall find us puritans.—Bear him away; let80 ’em talk as they go: we ’ll not stand to hear ’em.—Ah, sir, am I a devil? I shall think the better of myself as long as I live: a devil, i’faith!

[Scene IV.][3873]

Hoa. What a sweet blessing hast thou, Master Hoard, above a multitude! Wilt thou never be thankful? How dost thou think to be blest another time? Or dost thou count this the full measure of thy happiness? By my troth, I5 think thou dost: not only a wife large in possessions, but spacious in content; she ’s rich, she ’s young, she ’s fair, she ’s wise. When I wake, I think of her lands—that revives me; when I go to bed, I dream of her beauty—and that ’s10 enough for me: she’s worth four hundred a-year in her very smock, if a man knew how to use it. But the journey will be all, in troth, into the country; to ride to her lands in state and order following; my brother, and other worshipful15 gentlemen, whose companies I ha’ sent down for already, to ride along with us in their goodly decorum beards, their broad velvet cassocks, and chains of gold twice or thrice double; against which time I ’ll entertain some ten20 men of mine own into liveries, all of occupations or qualities; I will not keep an idle man about me: the sight of which will so vex my adversary Lucre—for we ’ll pass by his door a’ purpose, make a little stand for [the] nonce, and have25 our horses curvet before the window—certainly he will never endure it, but run up and hang himself presently.

Ser. Yes, sir, there are some i’ th’ hall that wait for your worship’s liking, and desire to be entertain’d.

Hoa. Sayest so? Send ’em all in. [Exit Servant.]—To see ten men ride after me in watchet[3874] liveries, with orange-tawny capes,—’t will cut his comb, i’ faith.

Hoa. A tailor? O, very good: you shall serve to make all the liveries.—What are you, sir?

Hoa. A barber? very needful: you shall shave all the house, and, if need require, stand for46 a reaper i’ th’ summer time.—You, sir?

Hoa. I smelt you before. Perfumers, of all men, had need carry themselves uprightly;50 for if they were once knaves, they would be smelt out quickly.—To you, sir?

Hoa. There, boy, there, boy, there, boy![3876] I am not so old but I have pleasant days to come. I promise, you, my masters, [I take such a good liking to you, that I entertain you all;] I put you already into my countenance, and you60 shall be shortly in my livery; but especially you two, my jolly falconer and my bonny huntsman; we shall have most need of you at my wife’s manor-houses i’ th’ country; there’s goodly parks and champion[3877] grounds for you; we65 shall have all our sports within ourselves; all [Pg 708] the gentlemen a’ th’ country shall be beholding to us and our pastimes.

Hoa. Sayest thou so? Do but make me admire, and thou shall want for nothing.—My tailor.

Hoa. Make ’em all trim fellows, louse ’em well,—especially my huntsman,—and cut80 all their beards of the Polonian fashion.—My perfumer.

Hoa. Cast a better savour upon the knaves, to take away the scent of my tailor’s feet, and my barber’s lotium-water.86

Hoa. But you, my falconer and huntsman, the welcom’st men alive, i’ faith!

Hunt. And we ’ll show you that, sir, shall90 deserve your worship’s favour.

Hoa. I prithee, show me that.—Go, you knaves all, and wash your lungs i’ th’ buttery, go. [Exeunt Tailor, Barber, &c.]—By th’ mass, and well rememb’red! I ’ll ask my wife95 that question.—Wife, Mistress Jane Hoard!

Hoa. I would but know, sweet wife, which might stand best to thy liking, to have the wedding dinner kept here or i’ th’ country?100

Cour. Hum:—faith, sir, ’t would like me better here; here you were married, here let all rites be ended.

Hoa. Could a marquesse[3878] give a better answer? Hoard, bear thy head aloft, thou ’st a wife will advance it.106

What haste comes here now? Yea, a letter? Some dreg of my adversary’s malice. Come hither; what ’s the news?109

Host. Ay, and you, knave, too (cry your worship mercy). You are both like to come into trouble, I promise you, sir; a pre-contract.[3879]

Host. I fear they have too much proof on ’t, sir: old Lucre, he runs mad up and down, and will to law as fast as he can; young Witgood laid hold on by his creditors, he exclaims119 upon you a’ t’ other side, says you have wrought his undoing by the injurious detaining of his contract.

Cour. [Aside.] Alas, his creditors so merciless! my state being yet uncertain, I deem it not unconscionable to further him.

Host. [Aside.] A pretty shift, i’ faith! I commend a woman when she can make away a letter from her husband handsomely, and this was cleanly done, by my troth.

Cour. He is now caught by his creditors; the slave’s needy; his debts petty; he ’ll rather bind himself to all inconveniences than rot in prison; by this only means you may get a release from him. ’T is not yet come to his uncle’s156 hearing; send speedily for the creditors; by this time he ’s desperate; he ’ll set his hand to anything: take order for his debts, or discharge ’em quite: a pax on him, let ’s be rid of a rascal!161

Happy occasion! pray Heaven he be in the right vein now to set his hand to ’t, that nothing alter him; grant that all his follies may meet in him at once, to besot him enough! I pray for him, i’ faith, and here he comes.180

Cour. Doubt nothing; there’s a release a-drawing and all, to which you must set your hand.201

Cour. But methinks, i’ faith, you might have made some shift to discharge this yourself, having in the mortgage, and never have burd’ned my conscience with it.206

Wit. A’ my troth, I could not, for my creditors’ cruelties extend to the present.

Hoa. Wife, you ’re too bitter.— Master Witgood, and you, my masters, you shall hear a mild speech come from me now, and215 this it is: ’t has been my fortune, gentlemen, to have an extraordinary blessing poured upon me a’ late, and here she stands; I have wedded her, and bedded her, and yet she is little the worse. Some foolish words she hath past to you in the country, and some peevish[3880] debts you221 owe here in the city; set the hare’s head to the goose-giblet,[3881] release you her of her words, and I ’ll release you of your debts, sir.

Wit. Would you so? I thank you for that, sir: I cannot blame you, i’ faith.226

1 Cred. Take hold of his offer: pax on her, let her go. If your debts were once discharg’d, I would help you to a widow myself worth ten of her.240

3 Cred. Mass, partner, and now you remember me on ’t, there ’s Master Mulligrub’s sister newly fallen a widow.

1 Cred. Cuds me, as pat as can be! There ’s a widow left for you; ten thousand in money, beside plate, jewels, et cetera: I warrant it a246 match; we can do all in all with her. Prithee, despatch; we ’ll carry thee to her presently.

Wit. My uncle will ne’er endure me when he shall hear I set my hand to a release.250

2 Cred. Hark, I ’ll tell thee a trick for that. I have spent five hundred pound in suits in my time, I should be wise. Thou ’rt now a prisoner; make a release; take ’t of my word, whatsoever a man makes as long as he is in255 durance, ’t is nothing in law, not thus much.

Hoa. Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw! tell me the second time; give me a lighter sum. They are but desperate debts, you know; ne’er call’d270 in but upon such an accident; a poor, needy knave, he would starve and rot in prison. Come, come, you shall have ten shillings in the pound, and the sum down roundly.

Hoa. Go to then, tell your money in the meantime; you shall find little less there. [Giving them money.]—Come, Master Witgood, you are so unwilling to do yourself good now!

Scri. [reads.] Be it known to all men, by these presents, that I, Theodorus Witgood, gentleman, sole nephew to Pecunius Lucre, having unjustly made title and claim to one285 Jane Medler, late widow of Anthony Medler, and now wife to Walkadine Hoard, in consideration of a competent sum of money to discharge my debts, do for ever hereafter disclaim any title, right, estate, or interest in or to290 the said widow, late in the occupation of the said Anthony Medler, and now in the occupation of Walkadine Hoard; as also neither to lay claim by virtue of any former contract, grant, promise, or demise, to any of her295 manors, manor-houses, parks, groves, meadowgrounds, arable lands, barns, stacks, stables, [Pg 710] dove-holes, and coney-burrows; together with all her cattle, money, plate, jewels, borders, chains, bracelets, furnitures, hangings, 300 moveables or immoveables. In witness whereof, I the said Theodorus Witgood, have interchangeably set to my hand and seal before these presents, the day and date above written.

Wit. What a precious fortune hast thou slipt here, like a beast as thou art!306

Hoa. O, as vain a thing as can be! you 310 cannot commit a greater absurdity, sir. So, so; give me that hand now; before all these presents, I am friends for ever with thee.

Wit. Troth, and it were pity of my heart now, if I should bear you any grudge, i’ faith. 315

Hoa. Content: I ’ll send for thy uncle against the wedding dinner; we will be friends once again.

Hoa. Why, well said; a good conscience makes a fine show now-a-days. Come, my masters, you shall all taste of my wine ere you depart.326

Wit. [Aside.] I ’ll try these fellows now.—A word, sir: what, will you carry me to that widow now?330

1 Cred. Why, do you think we were in earnest, i’ faith? Carry you to a rich widow? We should get much credit by that: a noted rioter! a contemptible prodigal! ’T was a trick we have amongst us to get in our money: fare you well, sir.336

Wit. Farewell, and be hang’d, you short pig-hair’d, ram-headed rascals! He that believes in you shall ne’er be sav’d, I warrant him. By this new league I shall have some access unto my love.341

Joyce. Meet me presently; that note directs you [throws him a letter]: I would not be suspected. 345 Our happiness attends us: farewell.

[Scene V.][3883]

Lam. Look you; did not I tell you he lay like the devil in chains, when he was bound for a thousand year?

Spi. But I think the devil had no steel 10 bedstaffs; he goes beyond him for that.

Lam. Nay, do but mark the conceit of his drinking; one must wipe his mouth for him with a muckinder,[3884] do you see, sir?

Dam. Alas, you come at an ill time! I cannot spare it i’ faith; I ha’ but two thousand i’ th’ house.

Dam. Out, you gernative[3885] quean, the mullipood[3885] of villany, the spinner of concupiscency!

Lam. Faith, the same man still: the tavern 35 bitch has bit him i’ the head[3886].

Sir L. We shall have the better sport with him: peace.—And how cheers Master Dampit now?

Sir L. They say you are wax’d proud a’ late, and if a friend visit you in the afternoon, you ’ll scarce know him.

Dam. Fie, fie; proud? I cannot remember any such thing: sure I was drunk then.50

Dam. There ’t was, i’ faith; nothing but the pride of the sack; and so certify ’em.—Fetch sack, sirrah.

Aud. Why, Master Dampit, if you hold on as you begin, and lie a little longer, you need not take care how to dispose your wealth; [Pg 711] you ’ll make the vintner your heir.59

Dam. Out, you babliaminy, you unfeathered, cremitoried quean, you cullisance of scabiosity!

Lam. Note but the misery of this usuring slave: here he lies, like a noisome dunghill, full of the poison of his drunken blasphemies;70 and they to whom he bequeaths all, grudge him the very meat that feeds him, the very pillow that eases him. Here may a usurer behold his end. What profits it to be a slave in this world, and a devil i’ th’ next?75

Dam. Sir Launcelot, let me buss[3887] thee, Sir Launcelot; thou art the only friend that I honour and respect.

Sir L. Gentlemen, an you love me, let me step behind you, and one of you fall a-talking of me to him.

Dam. A louse for his love! his father was a comb-maker; I have no need of his crawling love. He comes to have longer day,[3888] the superlative rascal!100

Sir L. ’Sfoot, I can no longer endure the rogue!—Master Dampit, I come to take my leave once again, sir.

Dam. Who? my dear and kind Sir Launcelot, the only gentleman of England? Let me hug thee; farewell, and a thousand.106

Sir L. Nay, gentlemen, he shall show you more tricks yet; I ’ll give you another taste110 of him.

Sir L. Mass, then ’t will be quite gone! Before he drink that, tell him there ’s a country client come up, and here attends for his learned advice.

Dam. One cup more, and then let the bell120 toll: I hope I shall be weak enough by that time.

Lam. ’T is coming forward, sir. Here ’s125 a countryman, a client of yours, waits for your deep and profound advice, sir.

Sir L. I would entreat your worship’s device[3889] in a just and honest cause, sir.

Dam. I meddle with no such matters; I refer ’em to Master No-man’s office.140

Sir L. I had but one house left me in all the world, sir, which was my father’s, my grandfather’s, my great-grandfather’s, and now a villain has unjustly wrung me out, and took possession on ’t.145

Dam. Has he such feats? Thy best course is to bring thy ejectione firmae, and in seven year thou mayst shove him out by the law.

Sir L. Alas, an ’t please your worship, I have small friends and less money!150

Dam. Hoyday! this gear will fadge well.[3890] Hast no money? Why, then, my advice is, thou must set fire a’ th’ house, and so get him out.

Sir L. I thank your worship for your hot counsel, sir.—Altering but my voice a little, you see he knew me not: you may observe by this, that a drunkard’s memory holds longer in the voice than in the person. But, gentlemen,160 shall I show you a sight? Behold the little dive-dapper[3891] of damnation, Gulf the usurer, for his time worse than t’other.

Sir L. Faith, here he lies, e’en drawing in, sir, good canary as fast as he can, sir; a very weak creature, truly, he is almost past memory.

Hoa. Fie, Master Dampit! you lie lazing a-bed here, and I come to invite you to my175 wedding-dinner: up, up, up!

Dam. Who ’s this? Master Hoard? Who hast thou married, in the name of foolery?

Hoa. She did, I can tell you, in her t’other husband’s days; open house for all comers; horse and man was welcome, and room enough [Pg 712] for ’em all.186

Dam. There ’s too much for thee, then; thou mayst let out some to thy neighbours.

Gulf. What, hung alive in chains? O spectacle! bed-staffs of steel? O monstrum horrendum,190 informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum![3893] O Dampit, Dampit, here ’s a just judgment shown upon usury, extortion, and trampling villany!

Gulf. Is this the end of cut-throat usury, brothel, and blasphemy? Now mayst thou see what race a usurer runs.

Dam. Why, thou rogue of universality,200 do not I know thee? Thy sound is like the cuckoo, the Welsh ambassador;[3894] thou cowardly slave, that offers to fight with a sick man when his weapon ’s down! Rail upon me in my naked[3895] bed? Why, thou great Lucifer’s205 little vicar! I am not so weak but I know a knave at first sight. Thou inconscionable rascal! thou that goest upon Middlesex juries, and wilt make haste to give up thy verdict because thou wilt not lose thy dinner! Are210 you answered?

Lam. Nay, you must exercise patience, Master Gulf, always in a sick man’s chamber.215

Aud. Pray, gentlemen, depart; his hour ’s come upon him.—Sleep in my bosom, sleep.

Sir L. Mass, then ’t will be a pitiful day235 when he wakes: I would be loath to see that day: come.

ACT V

[Scene I.][3896]

Wit. Nay, uncle, let me prevail with you so much: I’ faith, go, now he has invited you.

Wit. Why, la, I thought where I should5 find you presently. Uncle, a’ my troth, ’t is nothing so.

Wit. Uncle, let me perish in your favour15 if you find it not so; and that ’t is I that have married the honest woman.

[Scene II.][3897]

Hoa. Pup, pup, pup, pup, I like not this wine: is there never a better tierce in the house?

Host. Yes, sir, there are as good tierces in the house as any are in England.5

Hoa. Desire your mistress, you knave, to taste ’em all over; she has best skill.

Hoa. I am in love with my liveries every time I think on ’em; they make a gallant show, by my troth. Niece!15

Hoa. Prithee, show a little diligence, and overlook the knaves a little; they ’ll filch and steal to-day, and send whole pasties home to their wives; an thou be’st a good niece, do20 not see me purloin’d.

Joyce. Fear it not, sir—[Aside.] I have cause: though the feast be prepared for you, yet it serves fit for my wedding-dinner too.

Hoa. Master Lamprey and Master Spichcock,25 two the most welcome gentlemen alive! Your fathers and mine were all free a’ th’ fishmongers.[3898]

Hoa. My Lady Foxtone, a’ my life!—Mistress Jane Hoard! wife!—Mass, ’t is her ladyship35 indeed!

Madam, you are welcome to an unfurnisht house, dearth of cheer, scarcity of attendance.

Ser. Your worship’s brother, with other ancient gentlemen, are newly alighted, sir.

Hoa. Ay, I ’ll say that for you, brother; you keep as good an hour to come to a feast as60 any gentleman in the shire.—What, old Master Limber and Master Kix! Do we meet, i’ faith, jolly gentlemen?

Hoa. From ’em all, brother; and I may tell you I had mighty enemies, those that stuck70 sore: old Lucre is a sore fox, I can tell you, brother.

Give her a smack now we may hear it all the house over. (Courtesan and O. Hoard turn back.)

Hoa. Ha, ha, ha! why, how now? Are you both asham’d?—Come, gentlemen, we ’ll look another way.

O. Hoa. That’s another matter: I was ne’er so ’fraid in my life but that you had been in earnest.

Hoa. What reason have I to dissemble94 with my friends, brother? If marriage can make her mine, she is mine. Why——

O. Hoa. Troth, I am not well of a sudden. I must crave pardon, brother; I came to see you, but I cannot stay dinner, i’ faith.

Hoa. What now? what now? Pray, gentlemen:—you were wont to show yourselves wise men.105

Luc. Probo tibi, nephew: he that knows a woman to be a quean must needs be a knave; thou sayst thou knowest her to be one; ergo, if she be a quean, thou ’rt a knave.

Wit. Negatur sequela majoris, uncle; he that knows a woman to be a quean must needs be a knave; I deny that.136

[Pg 714] Hoa. Lucre and Witgood, you’re both villains; get you out of my house!

Wit. And are not you and I sworn perpetual friends before witness, sir, and were both drunk upon ’t?

ACT I

[Scene I.][3906]

Enter Beatrice, Diaphanta, and Servants [Alsemero accosts Beatrice and then kisses her].

Jas. [Aside.] How now? The laws of the Medes are chang’d sure; salute a woman! He kisses too; wonderful! Where learnt he61 this? and does it perfectly too. In my conscience, he ne’er rehearst it before. Nay, go on; this will be stranger and better news at Valencia than if he had ransom’d half Greece from the Turk.66

Jas. I could show thee such a thing with an ingredient that we two would compound together,150 and if it did not tame the maddest blood [Pg 717] i’ th’ town for two hours after, I ’ll ne’er profess physic again.

Jas. Poppy? I ’ll give thee a pop i’ th’ lips for that first, and begin there. Poppy is one simple indeed, and cuckoo (what-you-call ’t) another. I ’ll discover no more now: another time I ’ll show thee all.160

[Scene II.][3918]

Ped. And if your pains prove but commodious, to give but some little strength to his sick and weak part of nature in him, these are [gives him money] but patterns to show you95 [Pg 719] of the whole pieces that will follow to you, beside the charge of diet, washing, and other necessaries, fully defrayed.

Lol. Sir, an officer in this place may deserve100 something. The trouble will pass through my hands.

Lol. Yes, sir, ’t is I must keep him sweet,105 and read to him: what is his name?

Lol. Tony, Tony, ’t is enough, and a very good name for a fool.—What ’s your name,110 Tony?

Lol. Good boy! hold up your head.—He can laugh; I perceive by that he is no beast.115

Lol. Nay, there ’s nobody doubted that; at first sight I knew him for a gentleman, he looks no other yet.

Lol. As good as my mistress lies in, sir;130 and as you allow us time and means, we can raise him to the higher degree of discretion.

Lol. I ’ll warrant you I ’ll make him fit to bear office in five weeks; I ’ll undertake to wind him up to the wit of constable.140

Lol. No, fie; to level him with a head-borough,[3922] beadle, or watchman, were but little better than he is. Constable I ’ll able[3923] him;145 if he do come to be a justice afterwards, let him thank the keeper: or I ’ll go further with you; say I do bring him up to my own pitch, say I make him as wise as myself.

Lol. Well, go to; either I ’ll be as arrant a fool as he, or he shall be as wise as I, and then I think ’t will serve his turn.

Lol. Yes, you may; yet if I had not been155 a fool, I had had more wit than I have too. Remember what state[3924] you found me in.

Lol. Peace, peace, Tony; you must not cry, child, you must be whipt if you do; your cousin is here still; I am your cousin, Tony.165

Lol. I were best try his wit a little, that I may know what form to place him in.

Lol. I must ask him easy questions at first.—Tony, how many true[3925] fingers has a tailor on his right hand?

Lol. Very well answered. I come to you again, cousin Tony; how many fools goes to a wise man?

Ant. All that fall out amongst themselves, and go to a lawyer to be made friends.

Lol. A parlous fool! he must sit in the fourth form at least. I perceive that.—I come185 again, Tony; how many knaves make an honest man?

Lol. No, the question is too hard for you. I ’ll tell you, cousin; there ’s three knaves190 may make an honest man,—a sergeant, a jailor, and a beadle; the sergeant catches him, the jailor holds him, and the beadle lashes him; and if he be not honest then, the hangman must cure him.195

Lol. Yes, this might have serv’d yourself, though I say ’t.—Once more and you shall go play, Tony.201

Lol. Nay, you ’re too forward there, Tony. Mark my question; how many fools and knaves are here; a fool before a knave, a fool behind a knave, between every two fools a knave; how many fools, how many knaves?210

Lol. Here ’s a fool behind a knave, that ’s I; and between us two fools there is a knave, that ’s my master, ’t is but we three, that’s all.

1 Mad. [within.] Put ’s head i’ th’ pillory, the bread ’s too little.

3 Mad. [within.] Give her more onion, or the devil put the rope about her crag.[3927]231

3 Mad. [within.] Cat whore, cat whore! her permasant, her permasant![3929]236

Lol. There ’s no hope of recovery of that Welsh madman; was undone by a mouse that spoil’d him a permasant; lost his wits for ’t.241

Lol. Of which your patients do you think I am? Come, Tony, you must amongst your school-fellows now; there ’s pretty scholars250 amongst ’em, I can tell you; there ’s some of ’em at stultus, stulta, stultum.

Lol. They bite at dinner, indeed, Tony. Well, I hope to get credit by thee; I like thee the best of all the scholars that ever I260 brought up, and thou shalt prove a wise man, or I ’ll prove a fool myself.

ACT II

[Scene I.][3930]

[Scene II.][3937]

ACT III

[Scene I.][3943]

Enter Alonzo and De Flores. (In the act-time[3944] De Flores hides a naked rapier) [behind a door.]

[Scene II][3947]

[Scene III.][3949]

Fran. How sweetly she looks! O, but there’s a wrinkle in her brow as deep as philosophy. Anacreon, drink to my mistress’ health, I’ll pledge it. Stay, stay, there ’s a spider in the cup! No, ’t is but a grape-stone; swallow it,50 fear nothing, poet; so, so, lift higher.

Lol. I would you would get into your hole! (Exit Franciscus.)—Now, mistress, I will106 bring you another sort; you shall be fool’d another while. [Exit, and brings in Antonio.]—Tony, come hither, Tony: look who ’s yonder, Tony.110

Lol. Fear him not, mistress, ’tis a gentle nigget;[3953] you may play with him, as safely with him as with his bauble.116

Lol. Must I come amongst you there?—Keep you the fool, mistress; I’ll go up and play left-handed Orlando amongst the madmen.

Lol. Ay, thank a good tutor. You may put him to ’t; he begins to answer pretty hard170 questions.—Tony, how many is five times six?

Lol. What arithmetician could have answer’d better? How many is one hundred and seven?

Lol. Again! must I come amongst you? Would my master were come home! I am not able to govern both these wards together.

Lol. I would my master were come home! ’T is too much for one shepherd to govern two of these flocks; nor can I believe that one221 churchman can instruct two benefices at once; there will be some incurable mad of the one side, and very fools on the other.—Come, Tony.225

Lol. Well, I ’ll say nothing: but I do not think but he will put you down one of these days.231

[Scene IV.][3960]

ACT IV

Enter Gentlemen, Vermandero meeting them with action of wonderment at the flight of Piracquo. Enter Alsemero with Jasperino and gallants: Vermandero points to him, the gentlemen seeming to applaud the choice. Alsemero, Jasperino, and Gentlemen; Beatrice the bride following in great state, accompanied with Diaphanta, Isabella, and other gentlewomen: De Flores after all, smiling at the accident: Alonzo’s ghost appears to De Flores in the midst of his smile, startles him, showing him the hand whose finger he had cut off. They pass over in great solemnity.[3970]

[Scene I.][3971]

[Scene II.][3981]

[Scene III.][3989]

Lol. The out ’s mad, I’m sure of that; I had a taste on ’t. [Reads letter.] “To the bright Andromeda, chief chambermaid to the Knight of the Sun, at the sign of Scorpio, in the10 middle region, sent by the bellows-mender of Aeolus. Pay the post.” This is stark madness!

Isa. Now mark the inside. [Takes the letter and reads.] “Sweet lady, having now cast off this counterfeit cover of a madman, I appear15 to your best judgment a true and faithful lover of your beauty.”

Isa. [reads.] “If any fault you find, chide those perfections in you which have made20 me imperfect; ’t is the same sun that causeth to grow and enforceth to wither——”

Isa. [reads.] “Shapes and transhapes, destroys and builds again. I come in winter to25 you, dismantled of my proper ornaments; by the sweet splendour of your cheerful smiles, I spring and live a lover.”

Isa. [reads.] “Tread him not under foot,30 that shall appear an honour to your bounties. I remain—mad till I speak with you, from whom I expect my cure, yours all, or one beside himself, Franciscus.”

Lol. You are like to have a fine time on ’t.35 My master and I may give over our professions; I do not think but you can cure fools and madmen faster than we, with little pains too.

Lol. One thing I must tell you, mistress:40 you perceive that I am privy to your skill; if I find you minister once, and set up the trade, I put in for my thirds; I shall be mad or fool else.

Lol. Abuse[3992] ’em! That’s the way to mad the fool, and make a fool of the madman, and then you use ’em kindly.

[Pg 734] Lol. There [gives key]; fit yourself for ’em, and I ’ll fit ’em both for you.

Lol. This is t’ other counterfeit: I ’ll put175 him out of his humour. [Aside. Takes out a letter and reads.] “Sweet lady, having now cast this counterfeit cover of a madman, I appear to your best judgment a true and faithful lover of your beauty.” This is pretty well for a madman.180

Lol. [reads.] “Chide those perfections in you which have made me imperfect.”

Lol. I hope to discover the fool in you ere185 I have done with you. [Reads.] “Yours all, or one beside himself, Franciscus.” This madman will mend sure.

Lol. Your destiny, sir; you ’ll be hang’d for this trick, and another that I know.191

Lol. Stay, let me put yours in my pocket first. [Putting letter into his pocket.] Your hand is196 true,[3999] is it not? It will not pick? I partly fear it, because I think it does lie.

Lol. So if you love my mistress so well as you have handled the matter here, you are like201 to be cur’d of your madness.

Lol. I shall deserve more, sir, I hope. My mistress loves you, but must have some proof of your love to her.

Lol. Ay, that ’s a right course now; see him before you kill him, in any case; and yet it needs not go so far neither. ’T is but a fool that haunts the house and my mistress in the220 shape of an idiot; bang but his fool’s coat well-favouredly, and ’t is well.

Lol. Only reserve him till the masque be past; and if you find him not now in the dance225 yourself, I ’ll show you. In, in! my master!

ACT V

[Scene I.][4001]

[Scene II.][4007]

[Scene III.][4011]

EPILOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[4017]

Scene II.[4033]

Scene III.[4039]

ACT II

Scene I.[4046]

Scene II.[4053]

[Enter] Allworth, Waiting Woman, Chambermaid, Order, Amble, Furnace, and Watchall.

Scene III.[4058]

ACT III

Scene I.[4064]

Scene II.[4068]

Scene III.[4083]

ACT IV

Scene I.[4085]

Scene II.[4093]

Enter Wellborn in a rich habit, [Marrall,] Greedy, Order, Furnace, and Creditors; Tapwell kneeling, delivers his bill of debt.

Scene III.[4101]

ACT V

Scene I.[4107]

Enter Overreach, with distracted looks, driving in Marrall before him [with a box].[4109]

THE EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[4126]

Scene II.[4130]

Flourish. Enter Amyclas the King, Armostes, Prophilus, [Courtiers,] and Attendants.

Enter Calantha, Euphranea; Christalla and Philema [with a garland;] and Crotolon.

Scene III.[4136]

Enter Tecnicus, a philosopher, and Orgilus disguised like a Scholar of his.

ACT II

Scene I[4144]

Scene II.[4156]

Enter Calantha, Penthea, Euphranea, Christalla, Philema, Grausis, Bassanes, and Prophilus.

Scene III.[4162]

ACT III

Scene I.[4169]

[Scene II.][4172]

Soft music, during which time enter Prophilus, Bassanes, Penthea, Grausis, passing over the stage. Bassanes and Grausis enter again softly, stealing to several stands, and listen.

[Scene III.][4188]

Flourish. Enter Amyclas, Nearchus, leading Calantha, Armostes, Crotolon, Euphranea, Christalla, Philema, and Amelus.

[Scene IV.][4191]

[Scene V.][4194]

ACT IV

Scene I.[4196]

[Scene II.][4202]

Enter Ithocles, Penthea her hair about her ears, [Armostes,] Philema, and Christalla.

[Scene III.][4214]

Enter Hemophil and Groneas leading Amyclas, and placing him in a chair; followed by Armostes [with a box], Crotolon, and Prophilus.

Enter Calantha, Ithocles, Prophilus, Orgilus, Euphranea, Hemophil, and Groneas.

Scene [IV].[4217]

Enter Christalla and Philema, bringing in Penthea in a chair, veiled: two other Servants placing two chairs, one on the one side, and the other with an engine[4218] on the other. The Maids sit down at her feet, mourning. The Servants go out: meet them Ithocles and Orgilus.

ACT V

Scene I.[4220]

Scene II.[4224]

Loud music. Enter Groneas and Hemophil, leading Euphranea; Christalla and Philema, leading Prophilus; Nearchus supporting Calantha; Crotolon and Amelus. Cease loud music; all make a stand.

Nearchus dances with Euphranea, Prophilus with Calantha, Christalla with Hemophil, Philema with Groneas.

Scene III.[4230]

An altar covered with white; two lights of virgin wax, during which music of recorders; enter four bearing Ithocles on a hearse, or in a chair, in a rich robe, with a crown on his head; place him on one side of the altar. After him enter Calantha in a white robe and crown’d; Euphranea, Philema, and Christalla, in white; Nearchus, Armostes, Crotolon, Prophilus, Amelus, Bassanes, Hemophil, and Groneas.

Calantha goes and kneels before the altar, the rest stand off, the women kneeling behind, the recorders cease during her devotions. Soft music. Calantha and the rest rise, doing obeisance to the altar.

THE EPILOGUE

ACT I

[Scene I.][4233]

[Scene II.][4252]

ACT II

Scene I.[4260]

[Scene II.][4267]

ACT III

[Scene I.][4277]

Table and looking-glass. Enter Lord —— unready.[4278] Haircut preparing his periwig.

ACT IV

[Scene I.][4308]

[Scene II.][4310]

[Scene III.][4331]

While Haircut is busy about his hair, Sir William Scentlove goes to Celestina.

ACT V

[Scene I.][4336]

THE PROLOGUE

ACT I

[Scene I.][4356]

[Scene II.][4362]

ACT II

[Scene I.][4369]

General Columbo, Hernando, two Colonels, Alphonso, two Captains, and other Officers, as at a Council of War.

[Scene II.][4374]

[Scene III.][4375]

ACT III

[Scene I.][4380]

[Scene II.][4381]

Ant. Here, this; ay, this will fit your part: you shall wear the slashes, because you are a soldier. Here ’s for the blue mute.[4382]

1 Serv. This doublet will never fit me; pox on ’t! Are these breeches good enough for a5 prince too? Pedro plays but a lord, and he has two laces more in a seam.

Ant. You must consider Pedro is a foolish lord; he may wear what lace he please.

3 Serv. Master Secretary might have let Jaques play the soldier; he has a black patch already.

2 Serv. By your favour, Master Secretary, I was ask’d who writ this play for us?20

4 Serv. Dost think he has no more wit than to write a comedy? My lady’s chaplain made the play, though he is content, for the honour and trouble of the business, to be seen in ’t.

5 Serv. Did anybody see my head, gentlemen?30 ’T was here but now.—I shall have never a head to play my part in.

Ant. Is thy head gone? ’T was well thy part was not in ’t. Look, look about; has not Jaques it?35

Ant. Make haste, gentlemen; I ’ll see whether the king has supp’d. Look every man to his wardrobe and his part.40

4 Serv. Why, mute? There was no time for ’t, and the scenes are troublesome.

2 Serv. Half a score deal tack’d together45 in the clouds, what ’s that? A throne, to come down and dance; all the properties have been paid forty times over, and are in the court stock:—but the secretary must have a play, to show his wit.50

4 Serv. Did not I tell thee ’t was the chaplain’s? Hold your tongue, mute.

1 Serv. Under the rose, and would this cloth of silver doublet might never come off again, if there be any more plot than you see in the55 back of my hand.

2 Serv. You talk of a plot! I ’ll not give this for the best poet’s plot in the world, an if it be not well carried.

3 Serv. Ha, ha! Pedro, since he put on his doublet, has repeated but three lines, and he has broke five buttons.

2 Serv. I know not; but by this false beard, and here ’s hair enough to hang a reasonable65 honest man. I do not remember, to say, a strong line indeed in the whole comedy, but when the chambermaid kisses the captain.

5 Serv. Thank you for that! so I may have it made a property. If I have not a head found me, let Master Secretary play my part himself75 without it.

Ant. Are you all ready, my masters? The king is coming through the gallery. Are the women drest?

Ant. Here, with a pox to you! take mine. You a player! you a puppy-dog. Is the music ready?

Gent. Gentlemen, it is my lady’s pleasure that you expect till she call for you. There are85 a company of cavaliers in gallant equipage, newly alighted, have offer’d to present their Revels in honour of this Hymen; and ’t is her grace’s command, that you be silent till their entertainment be over.90

5 Serv. Master Secretary, there ’s your head again; a man ’s a man. Have I broken my sleep to study fifteen lines for an ambassador,95 and after that a constable, and is it come to this?

Ant. Patience, gentlemen, be not so hot; ’t is but deferr’d, and the play may do well enough cold.100

4 Serv. If it be not presented, the chaplain will have the greatest loss; he loses his wits.

Ant. This music speaks the king upon entrance. Retire, retire, and grumble not.

Enter King, Cardinal, Alvarez, Duchess, Celinda, Valeria, Placentia, Lords, and Hernando. They being set, enter Columbo and five more, in rich habits, vizarded; between every two a Torch-bearer. They dance, and afterwards beckon to Alvarez, as if desirous to speak with him.

Re-enter Columbo. Four Masquers bring in Alvarez dead, in one of their habits, and having laid him down, exeunt.

Columbo points to the body; they unvizard it, and find Alvarez bleeding.

ACT IV

[Scene I.][4388]

Enter Columbo, Colonels, Alphonso, and Courtiers. They pass over the stage.

[Scene II.][4389]

[Scene III.][4396]

Enter [on one side] Columbo and Alphonso; [on the other,] Hernando and a Colonel.

ACT V

[Scene I.][4397]

[Scene II.][4398]

[Scene III.][4402]

EPILOGUE

ENDYMION

Endymion was published in 1591, and the title-page states that it had been played “before the Queenes Maiestie at Greenwich on Candlemas day at night, by the Chyldren of Paules.” It is fairly certain that this performance took place on Feb. 2, 1586. The present text is based on Bond’s reprint of the quarto of 1591, with slight additions from the version included by Blount in his Sixe Court Comedies, 1632. Like most of Lyly’s plays, Endymion is an allegory of the court, with a mythological basis. Very little, however, is here borrowed from the myth of the Moon-goddess and her lover, and the plot is evidently invented with a view to carrying contemporary allusions. Beginning with Halpin’s paper in 1843, many attempts have been made to read the riddle, the latest and most ingenious being that of M. Feuillerat, who identities Cynthia with Elizabeth, Tellus with Mary of Scots, and Endymion with her son, James VI. The credit of having disproved the Endymion-Leicester identification is shared with M. Feuillerat by Dr. P. W. Long, who seeks to read the play as mainly an allegory of Heavenly Beauty (Cynthia) and Earthly Beauty (Tellus), an interpretation perhaps not wholly incompatible with the more personal solution.

THE OLD WIVES TALE

The Old Wife’s Tale, as the title should appear in modern spelling (the reference being, of course, to Madge), was first published in 1595, and on this quarto, as reprinted by Gummere, the present text is based. The precise date of production has not been definitely ascertained, but it was probably not far from 1590. Source, in the usual sense of the term, the play can hardly be said to have; it is a medley of a dozen themes from current English folk-tales. Realistic in diction, romantic in subject-matter, the play was a notable innovation in its day; and through the peculiar irony of the satire on romance, Peele introduced a new and subtler form of humor into English comedy. Both in its main theme, and in its use of the induction, this drama is an interesting forerunner of The Knight of the Burning Pestle.

FRIAR BACON AND FRIAR BUNGAY

This play was first printed in quarto in 1594, and that edition (Q₁), as printed by Collins and Gayley, forms the basis of the present text. The existence of a second quarto, said to have been issued in 1599, has been rendered highly doubtful by Gayley. Later editions appeared in 1630 (Q₃) and 1655 (Q₄). The date of production was probably 1589-90. That part of the plot dealing with the marvelous exploits of Friar Bacon is drawn from The Famous Historic of Friar Bacon, a late sixteenth-century account of the legends that had gathered round the name of the Oxford Franciscan, Roger Bacon (born 1214). The love story is Greene’s own. It seems probable that this comedy was conceived as a foil to Marlowe’s tragedy of Doctor Faustus, some of the scenes approaching an actual parody, and stress being laid on the superiority of the English to the German necromancer.

TAMBURLAINE

Both parts of Tamburlaine were entered in the Stationers’ Register on Aug. 14, 1590, and they appeared together in octavo in 1590, and again in 1592. The alleged existence of editions of 1593, 1597, and 1600 is unsupported by evidence; and the third edition seems to be that of 1605 (part i.) and 1606 (part ii.) printed from the first. The issue of 1590 is the basis of the present text. The first part of the play was probably produced three years before, in 1587, and the second part in the following year. All the early editions are anonymous, nor does there survive any pre-Restoration statement as to the authorship; yet so convincing is the internal evidence that the ascription to Marlowe may be regarded as indubitable.

The main source of part i. is Fortescue’s Foreste, 1571, a translation of Pedro Mexia’s Silva de varia lecion, 1543. Additional details were derived from The Notable History of the Saracens by Thomas Newton, 1575, and from Petrus Perondinus, 1553. The title-role was first acted by the gigantic Edward Alleyn.

DOCTOR FAUSTUS

Allusions to contemporary events in the Low Countries fix the limits for the date of Doctor Faustus as 1585 and 1590; and the evidence of style places it after Tamburlaine. A ballad which seems to be inspired by the play was licensed in February, 1589, so that it is generally agreed that the first production of the play fell in the winter of 1588-89. “A booke calld the plaie of Doctor Faustus” was entered in the Stationers’ Register on Jan. 7, 1601, but if an edition was published in that year, no copy has survived. The earliest extant edition is that of 1604 (Q₁), on which the present text is based. This version was reprinted in 1609 and 1611; and in 1616 appeared an enlarged form, followed in the later quartos of 1619, 1620, 1624, and 1631. An edition issued in 1663 has many additions and excisions, but[Pg 856] none with any claim to authority. The question of the authorship of the amplifications in the quarto of 1616 is still under discussion, but recent opinion tends to the view that, except for a few scattered lines, the additions may well be the work of William Birde and Samuel Rowley, engaged by Henslowe in 1602 for this purpose. Marlowe’s knowledge of the Faust legend is derived from the German Faustbuch, published at Frankfurt by Johann Spies in 1587, which he probably knew through an English translation.

THE JEW OF MALTA

The earliest mention of this play occurs in Henslowe’s Diary, where a performance is noted as taking place on February 26, 1592, and it is implied that the tragedy was not then new. Its composition is conjecturally placed about 1590. On May 17, 1594, it was entered on the Stationers’ Register, but no edition had come down to us earlier than a corrupt quarto of 1633, which is thus our sole authority for the text. As to the source from which Marlowe drew his material, nothing definite is known. Kellner (Englishe Studien, X. 80) has elaborated a parallel between the career of Marlowe’s hero and that of a sixteenth-century Portuguese Jew, Michesius, who is mentioned by a number of historians; but such accounts as have been found could have furnished only suggestions.

This play was one of the most popular on the Elizabethan stage, Henslowe recording thirty-six performances before June 21, 1596.

EDWARD II

When The troublesom Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second was entered in the Stationers’ Register on July 6, 1593, the play had been already on the stage for some time; and it is probable that it was first produced in 1591 or 1592. No copy issued in 1593 is extant, and the earliest surviving quarto belongs to 1594. On this, the best of the early prints, the present text is based. Other editions followed in 1598, 1612, and 1622. Marlowe’s main source for the historical basis of the play was Holinshed, Fabyan’s and Stowe’s Chronicles having also supplied some minor details. Chronological accuracy is often disregarded, yet in its main lines the action in substantially faithful to history. The play is Marlowe’s ripest production, and we are fortunate in having the text preserved in a purer state than that of any of his other plays.

In the four plays by Marlowe, Tucker Brooke’s reprints of the early editions haye been used.

THE SPANISH TRAGEDY

The most definite indication of the date of this, one of the most popular of all Elizabethan plays, is found in an allusion in the Induction to Ben Jonson’s Bartholomew Fair (1614), where it seems to be implied that The Spanish Tragedy was then twenty-five or thirty years old. This gives us the years 1584-89 as limits, and the absence of any reference to the Armada, in a play laid in Spain, has led critics to place it before 1588. The year 1586 may, perhaps, be fairly conjectured as coming within a year of the date of composition. In 1592 it was being successfully performed; and on October 6 of that year it was entered for publication. The first edition has disappeared entirely; and the earliest extant is an undated quarto in the British Museum. Other quartos appeared in 1594 and 1599; and in the edition of 1602 are first found the additions made to the play by Ben Jonson, and included in the later quartos of 1610, 1615, 1618, 1623, and 1633. The present text is based on the B. M. quarto for Kyd’s part of the play, and on that of 1602 for the additions, which are pointed out in the foot-notes; and I have availed myself of the collations of both Manly and Boas. All the early editions are anonymous; and the ascription of the play to Kyd is made on the authority of a passage in Heywood’s Apology for Actors, 1612.

BUSSY D’AMBOIS

The first quarto of Bussy D’Ambois appeared in 1607, and a second in 1608. In 1641 a third quarto appeared, which claimed to be “much corrected and amended by the author before his death,” and this was reissued in 1646 and 1657. The present text is based on Boas’s reprint of the quarto of 1641. The date of the production of the play is uncertain. Certain entries in Henslowe’s Diary point to 1598, but if the play was on the stage as early as this, it must have been revised before its publication in 1607. Bussy D’Ambois belongs to the group of Chapman’s plays dealing with almost contemporary French politics. D’Ambois himself was born in 1549, and was murdered by Monsoreau’s retainers in 1579. The earliest extant accounts of his career are later in date than the play, and the precise sources of Chapman’s information have not yet been found. But from the later descriptions it is clear that the action of the play, and the view given of the hero’s character, are substantially historical.

EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR

This play, the first example of the “comedy of humours,” was performed in 1598 with great success. It was published in quarto in 1601, and in this version the characters bear Italian names, and the scene is laid in Italy. It was revised about 1606, and this second version, with the names and scene made English and with many other changes, was published in the folio of 1616. The present text is based directly on the folio. The plot, which seems to have been entirely of Jonson’s invention, is constructed with a view to those classical standards of comedy, which Jonson sought to uphold against the prevailing romantic license.

SEJANUS, HIS FALL

Sejanus was first performed in 1603, but, as Jonson admits, failed to please the audience. It was published in 1605, and again in the folio of 1616. On this latter the present text is based. It is not necessary to discuss the sources of this impressive tragedy, since Jonson has supplied us in his ample foot-notes with documentary evidence for nearly every fact in the play. These notes have been reproduced in the present edition, through the first scene, which is probably as far as the modern reader will care to study them. The delineation of Tiberius is one of the most successful attempts in our literature to recreate a highly complex historical character.

VOLPONE, OR THE FOX

Volpone was performed in 1605 or 1606 at the Globe theatre and at both Oxford and Cambridge, and in 1607 was printed in quarto. It was included in the folio of 1616, on which the present text is based. The main plot is founded on an episode in the Satiricon of Petronius Arbiter; but the parts of Celia and of Sir Politic and Lady Would-be are of Jonson’s own invention. The song, “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” is practically a translation from Philostratus, and “Come, my Celia” is imitated from Catullus. The comedy is a terrible satire on some of the most sordid aspects of human nature, and the superb skill with which it is constructed barely suffices to counteract the depressing effect of the types of character it displays.

THE ALCHEMIST

The Alchemist, which may, perhaps, be regarded as Jonson’s supreme masterpiece in comedy, was performed in 1610, and published in quarto in 1612. The present text is based on that of the folio of 1616. It has been frequently stated that for the plot of this play Jonson was indebted to Plautus, but the borrowing is very slight. In the Mostellaria there is a scene which might have suggested the opening dialogue of The Alchemist, and another which bears a slight resemblance to Face’s attempt to hoodwink his master in V. i. In the Poenulus, a man speaks Punic, and is misunderstood somewhat as Surly’s Spanish is misunderstood in IV. iii. But the plot as a whole is Jonson’s own, and the alchemical and astrological matter is drawn from a wide acquaintance with current treatises on these subjects. Attempts have been made to identify Subtle and Face with the famous Dee and Kelley, but identification is much too strong a word. Hathaway has pointed out a more striking correspondence with the activities of Simon Forman, a notorious quack of Jonson’s day. The Alchemist has been credited with a considerable effectiveness in clearing London of the type of impostors which it ridicules and exposes so trenchantly and amusingly.

THE SHOEMAKERS’ HOLIDAY

This, the first of Dekker’s comedies, was acted in 1599, and printed in the following year. On the text of this quarto, as reprinted by Warnke and Proescholdt, the present text is based. The story of the partly historical Simon Eyre was found by Dekker in one of the tales in Thomas Deloney’s Gentle Craft, 1597; but the main interest of the play lies in its picture of London tradespeople in the author’s own day, and for this Dekker needed no literary source.

THE HONEST WHORE

From a passage in Henslowe’s Diary it appears that Middleton had some share in the first part of The Honest Whore, but it is not supposed that he wrote any considerable portion of it. The second part is wholly Dekker’s, and is generally regarded as superior to the first. The first edition of part i. appeared in 1604, of part ii. in 1630. Pearson’s reprint, on which the present text is based, follows the 1605 quarto of part i. and the 1630 of part ii. A copy of the 1635 quarto of the double play has been used to check Pearson’s text. No source of the plot has been discovered. The play is a highly characteristic product of the time, both in its picture of the vices of the city, and in its sound and straightforward, if somewhat coarse, handling of the moral issues involved. The character of Friscobaldo, in part ii., afforded Hazlitt the theme for what he himself justly regarded as one of his finest pieces of critical interpretation.

THE MALCONTENT

The Malcontent was first issued in 1604; and in the same year a second quarto appeared with the title-page, “The Malcontent. Augmented by Marston. With the Additions played by the Kings Maiesties servants. Written by Ihon Webster. 1604. At London Printed by V. S. for William Aspley, and are to be sold at his shop in Paules Church-yard.” The title-page of the first edition gives John Marston as author; the date and publisher are the same. The second edition, on which the present text is directly based, contains, as new matter, the Induction and a number of additions, marked in the present text by brackets and specified in the foot-notes. Its title-page has proved highly misleading; the facts seem to be that Webster supplied the Induction when the play was revived by the King’s men; and that the other additions are restorations of passages from Marston’s original play which had been cut for acting purposes. Stoll, who has made this clear, places the composition of the[Pg 858] play in 1600, and has given the tragi-comedy a new importance, in addition to its intrinsic vigor and effectiveness, by arguing forcibly for it as an influence on the characters of Shakespeare’s Jaques and Hamlet. The source of the plot has so far not been discovered.

A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS

This tragedy, one of the earliest and most pathetic examples of domestic drama, was first published in 1607; and the present text is based on Pearson’s reprint of this quarto. The play was acted in 1603, as appears from an entry in Henslowe’s Diary. The title, like those of several other plays by Heywood, was a proverbial phrase. Creizenach (IV. 264) states that Heywood borrowed the two plots of this drama from Margaret of Navarre and from Bandello. The thirty-second tale in the Heptameron does indeed tell of a husband who refrained from killing a wife taken in adultery, but the resemblance is far from close.

THE KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE

The Knight of the Burning Pestle was printed in quarto in 1613, and on Murch’s reproduction of this edition the present text is based. A second and a third quarto were issued in 1635, and the play was included in the second folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher in 1679. The date of composition is uncertain, but recent opinion tends to place it about 1610. It cannot be said that there is as yet a general agreement as to the respective snares of the two authors in this comedy, but according to the most careful examination of the question so far made, that of Dr. Murch, most of the play should be ascribed to Beaumont, Fletcher having probably written only the three love scenes, I. i. 1-60; III. i.; and IV. iv. 18-93. In spite of the similarity between the satirical purpose of this play and of Don Quixote, it has not been shown that the authors had any knowledge of the work of Cervantes, or that they could read Spanish. (The first English translation of Don Quixote appeared in 1612.) In the mock-heroic part of the play, the object of the satire was the type of play founded upon medieval romance and popular at that time among the tradespeople of London; and of this type, Heywood’s Four Prentices of London seems to have been especially in view. Koeppel has pointed out the resemblance between the coffin scene in Act IV. and an episode in Marston’s Antonio and Mellida (1602). The love-plot is too commonplace to have a definitely assignable source, and the scenes between Merrythought and his wife, like those of the Induction, are, one may be sure, due to direct observation of contemporary life and manners.

PHILASTER

The first quarto of Philaster, issued in 1620, seems to have been unauthorized, and to have been made up in part from a report taken down at a performance. At the beginning and end it is quite different from the other quartos. The second quarto, 1622, as reprinted by Thorndike, is the basis for the present text, with occasional readings from the later quartos and the folio of 1679. The play was probably written about 1608-10. The respective shares of the two authors are difficult to assign. Oliphant and Thorndike give to Fletcher I. i. 99-360; II. ii.; II. iv. 69-203; passages in III. ii.; V. iii.; and V. iv.; the rest to Beaumont; the prose scenes with less assurance. Macaulay gives little beyond V. iii., iv. to Fletcher. This distribution is made mainly on the grounds of the characteristics of the metre; it does not exclude the probability of intimate collaboration in plot and characterization. The story of the play seems to have been original, though several of the motives are common enough. There is marked indebtedness to Hamlet, and much resemblance to Cymbeline, though Thorndike has argued plausibly for the view that in the latter case Shakespeare was the borrower.

THE MAID’S TRAGEDY

As in the case of Philaster, the first quarto of the The Maid’s Tragedy (1619) is corrupt and unauthorized. The second quarto (1622), with Thorndike’s collations of the first and third (1630), is the basis for the present text. The date of composition is probably about 1609-11. There is more agreement here than in the case of Philaster as to the respective shares of the joint authors. Most critics give Fletcher II. ii; IV. i; V. i. 1-111; V. ii; the rest to Beaumont, with the exception of I. ii, which is uncertain. Macaulay gives II. ii. also to Beaumont. The source of the plot has not been found, though minor resemblances have been noted, such as that of the duel between Aspatia and Amintor, to the fight between Parthenia and Amphialus in Sidney’s Arcadia, book iii, and that of the quarrel between Melantius and Amintor to that between Brutus and Cassius in Julius Caesar.

THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS

The first quarto of The Faithful Shepherdess is undated, but it was certainly issued before May, 1610, and the play had been unsuccessfully produced not long before, perhaps in 1608 or 1609. The present text is based on the first edition, and is dependent on the collations in the Glover and Waller edition of Beaumont and Fletcher. Fletcher’s chief model in this pastoral seems to have been Guarini’s Pastor Fido, and some few details are borrowed from Spenser; but the plot itself seems to be original. The play, as Fletcher confesses in his address To the Reader, was unsuccessful on the stage, but the beauty of its lyric and descriptive poetry has given it, in spite of its weak dramatic quality, a distinguished place in literature. It is notable also as having in part suggested Milton’s Comus.

THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE

The Wild-Goose Chase, we are told by the publisher of the first folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher, was lost when that volume was compiled; it reappeared later, and was issued separately, in folio, in 1652. A second edition appeared in the folio of 1679. The present text is based on the reprint of Waller, following, however, the edition of 1652 in preference to that of 1679. The comedy is known to have been acted as early as 1621. No source for the plot seems as yet to have been found. Farquhar based on it his comedy of The Inconstant, a fact which points to the obvious relationship between the Fletcherian comedy, of which this is a typical example, and the drama of the Restoration.

THE DUCHESS OF MALFI

The first edition of The Duchess of Malfi appeared in quarto in 1623, and was followed by others in 1640, 1678, and 1708. The present text follows chiefly the Harvard copy of the first quarto, with occasional readings supplied by Sampson’s collation of the other editions. The date of first performance cannot be later than 1614, since the actor who created the part of Antonio died in that year. The main plot is taken from Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, vol. II, Nov. 23 (1567). Painter translated his story from Belle-Forest’s paraphrase (1565) of the twenty-sixth novella of Bandello (1554). The story appears in many places, and had been dramatized by Lope de Vega. Crawford (Notes and Queries, Sept. 17-Nov. 12, 1904) has shown many incidental and even literal borrowings from Sidney’s Arcadia. Among the elements in the play not found in Painter are the underplot of Julia and the Cardinal, the scenes of torture, and the most of the fifth act. Some of these are derived from the tradition of the tragedy of revenge, especially as represented by Shakespeare, Marston, and Tourneur; but, in spite of frequent echoes, this impressive tragedy, almost the last of its kind, derives its vitality mainly from the powerful and sombre imagination of Webster.

A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE

This comedy was licensed October 7, 1607, and published in quarto in 1608. A second edition appeared in 1616. The present text is based directly on the copy of the first quarto in the Boston Public Library, with the aid of the readings from the second quarto given by Bullen. The plot is supposed to have given Massinger a suggestion for A New Way to Pay Old Debts, but where Middleton found it, if he did not originate it, is not known. This play is an excellent example of Middleton’s comedies of intrigue and manners, full of bustle and fun, more careful of theatrical effect than of moral or aesthetic consistency.

THE CHANGELING

The Changeling was performed as early as 1623, but did not appear in print till 1653. On a copy of this quarto in the Harvard Library the present text is based. The source of the tragic plot is the fourth history in book i. of John Reynolds’s Triumph of God’s Revenge against Murder (1621), but the prose narrative is not followed closely. The under-plot, which gives its title to the play, may be original. Miss Wiggin assigns to Rowley the whole under-plot, and the opening and closing scenes of the main plot. Symons finds the greatness of the play as a whole due to the collaboration of the two authors, and beyond the powers of either alone (Cf. Camb. Hist. of Eng. Lit., vi. 76-7).

A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS

This play, Massinger’s masterpiece in comedy, appeared in quarto in 1633, and on the Harvard Library copy of this edition the present text is based. The play was acted before 1626, and Fleay places it as early as 1622. Few plays of this whole period have held the English stage so continuously or so long as this. The central idea of the plot seems to have been taken from Middleton’s A Trick to Catch the Old One; but there is almost as great a difference in the dramatic method between the two plays as there is in moral tone. Massinger’s didacticism here finds eloquent expression, without destroying theatrical effectiveness. Prototypes of Sir Giles Overreach and Greedy have been found in the notorious monopolist, Sir Giles Mompesson and his tool, Michael.

THE BROKEN HEART

The only early edition of The Broken Heart was published in 1633, and the present text is based on a copy of this quarto in the Boston Public Library. There is no evidence as to the date of composition except the hitherto unnoted fact that The Garland of Good Will, mentioned in IV. ii. 15, was published in 1631. The prologue seems to imply that the plot of the play is founded on fact, and Sherman has argued plausibly that the reference is to the story of Penelope Devereux, Sidney’s “Stella,” whose second husband Ford had eulogised in his first publication, Fame’s Memorial (1606). It is certain that Ford was interested in both Sidney and Stella, and there are many correspondences between their situation and that of Orgilus and Penthea. The catastrophe is, of course, entirely changed; but in the spiritual situation there is much to recall the sonnets of Astrophel to Stella. There are traces of the influence of the Arcadia also in the play, such as the laying of the plot in Sparta; and in the delineation of the jealousy of Bassanes Ford draws upon Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.

THE LADY OF PLEASURE

The Lady of Pleasure was published in quarto in 1637, and the present text is based on a copy of this edition in the Harvard Library. The play, a good example of Shirley’s comedy of manners, was produced in 1635. No source has been discovered for the plot. Like Fletcher’s Wild-Goose Chase, this type of Shirley’s comedies is important in measuring the approach made toward the Restoration comedy before the Puritan Revolution.

THE CARDINAL

This tragedy, regarded by Shirley as his greatest play, and in fact no unworthy piece to close a volume representing the drama of that age, appeared in a volume of Six New Plays in 1653, the date on the title-page of The Cardinal being 1652. On a copy of this octavo in the Harvard Library the present text is based. The play was acted in 1641, and thus belongs to the last few months before the theatres were closed by the Long Parliament. It is probable that Webster’s Duchess of Malfi afforded more than a suggestion for the plot, but otherwise no source has been found. The play was popular both on its first appearance and when it was revived after the Restoration.

Campaspe, 1584. Sapho and Phao, 1584. Endymion, 1591. Gallathea, 1592. Midas, 1592. Mother Bombie, 1594. The Woman in the Moon, 1597. Love’s Metamorphosis, 1601.

Blount (E.), Six Court Comedies, 1632.—Fairholt (F. W.), 2 vols., 1858.—Bond (R. W.), 3 vols., Oxford, 1902.

Child (C. G.), John Lyly and Euphuism, in Münchener Beiträge, VII., Erlangen and Leipzig, 1894.—Halpin (N. J.), Oberon’s Vision in M. N. Dream, illustrated by comparison with Lyly’s Endymion, [Old] Shakespeare Soc. Pub. 1843.—Long (P. W.), The Purport of Lyly’s Endymion, Pub. Mod. Lang. Ass. Amer., XXIV., 1909.—Feuillerat (A.), John Lyly, Cambridge, 1910.—Brooke (C. F. T.), The Allegory in Lyly’s Endymion, Mod. Lang. Notes, Jan. 1911.

Arraignment of Paris, 1584. Edward I, 1593. Battle of Alcazar, 1594. Old Wives Tale, 1596. David and Bethsabe, 1599.

Ed. Gummere (F. B.), in Gayley’s Representative English Comedies, 1903.—Greg (W. W.), In Malone Society Reprints, 1907.

Lämmerhirt (R.), George Peele, Untersuchungen über sein Leben und seine Werke. Rostock, 1882.—Bayley (A. R.), Peele as a Dramatic Artist. The Oxford Point of View, 15 Feb. 1903.—Odell (G. C.), Peele as a Dramatist. The Bibliographer, vol. II., 1903.

Orlando Furioso, 1594; 1599. Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, 1594; 1599; 1630; 1655. James the Fourth, 1598. Alphonsus of Aragon, 1599. A Looking Glass for London and England (with Lodge), 1594.

Dyce (A.), 2 vols. 1831; 1861,1879.—Grosart (A. B.), 15 vols. 1881-6.—Collins (J. C), 2 vols. Oxford, 1905.—Dickinson (T. A.), six plays in Mermaid Series, 1909.

Ed. Manly (J. M.), in Specimens of Pre-Shakespearean Drama, Boston, 1897-8.—Ward (A. W.), in Old English Drama, Oxford, 1878; New ed. 1901.—Gayley (C. M.), in Representative English Comedies, 1903.

Conrad (H.), Robert Greene als Dramatiker, in Shak. Jahrbuch, XXIX., 1894.—Ehrke (K.) Robert Greene’s Dramen, 1904.—Woodberry (G.), Greene’s Place in Comedy, in Gayley’s Representative English Comedies, 1903.—Ritter (O.), De Rob. Greeni Fabula, Fr. Bacon et Fr. Bungay, Thorn, 1886.

Tamburlaine the Great (parts i and ii), 1590; 1592; part i, 1605; part ii, 1606. Dr. Faustus, 1604; 1609; 1616; 1619; 1620; 1624; 1631; 1663. The Jew of Malta, 1633. Edward II, 1594; 1598; 1612; 1622. The Massacre at Paris, n. d. Dido, Queen of Carthage (with Nashe), 1594.

Robinson (G.), 3 vols. 1826.—Dyce (A.), 3 vols., 1850, 1858; 1 vol., 1865, 1876.—Cunningham (F), 1871. —Bullen (A. H.), 3 vols., 1884-5.—Breymann (H.), and Wagner (A.), 1885-9.—Ellis (H.), five plays in Mermaid Series, 1887.—Brooke (C. F. T.), 1 vol., Oxford, 1910.

Ed. Wagner (W.), 1877—-Ward (A. W.), in Old English Drama, Oxford, new ed. 1891.—Gollancz, (I.), in Temple Dramatists, 1897.

Ed. Wagner (W.), Hamburg. 1871.—Fleay (F. G.), 1873, 1877.—Tancock (O. W.), Oxford, 1879, 1899.—Verity (A. W.), in Temple Dramatists, 1896.—McLaughlin (E. T.), New York, 1894.

Ingram (J. H.), Christopher Marlowe and his Associates, 1904, q. v. for further bibliography.—Tzschaschel (C.), Marlowe’s Edward II und seine Quelle, Halle, 1902.

Cornelia, 1594, 1595. The Spanish Tragedy, 1592(?), 2d ed. n. d., 1594, 1599; with additions, 1602, 1610, 1615, 1618, 1623, 1633. The First Part of Jeronimo, 1605. Soliman and Perseda, 1599.

Ed. Manly (J. M.), in Specimens, vol. II., 1897-8.—Schick (J.), in Temple Dramatists, 1898.—Markscheffel (K.), in Litterarhist. Forsch., Berlin, 1901.

Sarrazin (G.), Thomas Kyd und sein Kreis, Berlin, 1892. (Cf. Schick in Herrig’s Archiv, XC.; Koeppel in Englische Studien, XVIII. 125.)—Bang (W.), Engl. Stud. XXVIII. 229.—Brereton (J. LeG.), Notes on the text of Kyd, Engl. Stud., XXXVII.—Crawford (C.), Concordance to the Works of T. Kyd, in Bang’s Materialien, Louvain, 1909.

The Blind Beggar of Alexandria, 1598. A Humorous Day’s Mirth, 1599. All Fools, 1605. Monsieur D’Olive, 1606. The Gentleman Usher, 1606. Bussy D’Ambois, 1607, 1608, 1641, 1646, 1657. The Conspiracy and Tragedy of Charles, Duke of Byron, 1608. May-Day, 1611. The Widow’s Tears, 1612. The Revenge of Bussy D’Ambois, 1613. Pompey and Cæsar, 1631, 1653. Alphonsus of Germany(?), 1654. Revenge for Honour, 1654. Chabot, Admiral of France (with Shirley), 1639.

Pearson (J.), 1873.—Shepherd (R. H.), 3 vols., 1874; 1889. Phelps (W. L.), five plays in Mermaid Series, 1895.

Coleridge (S. T.), Literary Remains, I. 259, 1836.—Koeppel (E.), Quellenstudien zu Dramen George Chapman’s, etc., in Quellen und Forschungen, LXXXII., Strassburg. 1897—Parrott (T. M.), Notes on the Text of Chapman’s Plays, Anglia, XXX., 1907.—Stoll (E. E.), On the Dates of Some of Chapman’s Plays, Mod. Lang. Notes, XX., 1905.

Every Man Out of his Humour, 1600. Every Man in his Humour, 1601 (S. R. 1600). Cynthia’s Revels, 1601. The Poetaster, 1602 (S. R. 1601). Sejanus, 1605 (S. R. 1604). Volpone, 1607. The Case is Altered, 1606. Catiline, 1611. The Alchemist, 1612 (S. R. 1610). Epicoene, or The Silent Woman, 1609(?), 1612(?), (Acted 1609; S. R. 1610), Fol. 1616. The New Inn, 1631 (Acted 1629). Bartholomew Fair, 1631 (Acted 1614). The Devil is an Ass, 1631 (Acted 1616). The Staple of News, 1631 (Acted 1625). The Magnetic Lady, 1640 (S. R. 1632). A Tale of a Tub, 1640 (S. R. 1633). The Sad Shepherd, 1640. Mortimer, his Fall, 1640.

First Folio, 1616.—Second Folio, 1640.—Whalley (P.), 7 vols., 1756.—Gifford (W.), 9 vols., 1816.—Cunningham (F.), rep. of Gifford, 1871, 1875.—Morley (H.), Plays and Poems of Ben Jonson, 1885.—Herford (C. H.), and Nicholson (B.), 3 vols. in Mermaid Series, 1893-4.—Bang (W.), Reprints from Folios and Quartos in his Materialien; in process.—Eight of the plays have appeared in Yale Studies in English, 1903-8. A new edition by Herford (C. H.) and Simpson (P.) is announced, Oxford.

Rep. from Q. of 1601 by Graban (C.), Shakespeare Jahrbuch, XXXVIII., 1903; and by Bang (W.) and Greg (W. W.), in Bang’s Materialien, XI., 1905.—Wheatley (H. B.), 1877.—Dixon (W. M.), in Temple Dramatists, 1905.

Ed. Thayer (W. R.), Boston, 1890, in Best Elizabethan Plays.—Hathaway (C. H.), New York, 1903, in Yale Studies in English.—Hart (H. C.), 1903, in The King’s Library.—Schelling (F. E.), Boston, 1903, in Belles Lettres Series.

Castelain (M.), Ben Jonson: l’Homme et l’Œuvre. Paris, 1907.—Koeppel (E.), Quellenstudien zu den Dramen Ben Jonson’s, etc., in Münchener Beiträge. XI., Erlangen and Leipzig, 1895.—Swinburne (A. C.), A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.—Symonds (J. A.), Ben Jonson, 1886.—Woodbridge (E.), Studies in Jonson’s Comedy, Boston, 1898.

The Shoemakers’ Holiday, 1600, 1610, 1618, 1631, 1657. Old Fortunatus, 1600. Satiro-mastix, 1602. The Honest Whore, part i, 1604, 1605, 1615, 1616, 1635. The Whore of Babylon, 1607. If it be not Good, the Devil is in it, 1612. The Honest Whore, part ii, 1630. Match me in London, 1631. A Wonder of a Kingdom, 1636. Patient Grisel (with Chettle and Haughton), 1603. Westward Ho! (with Webster), 1607. Northward Ho! (with Webster), 1607. Sir Thomas Wyatt (with Webster), 1607. The Witch of Edmonton (with W. Rowley and Ford), 1658. The Roaring Girl (with Middleton), 1611. The Virgin Martyr (with Massinger), 1622.

Ed. Fritsche (H.), Thorn, 1862.—Warnke (K.) and Proescholdt (L.), Halle, 1886.

Swinburne (A. C.), Thomas Dekker, The Nineteenth Century, Jan. 1887.—Stoll (E. E.), The Influence of Jonson on Dekker, Mod. Lang. Notes, XXI.

Antonio and Mellida, 1602. Antonio’s Revenge, 1602. The Dutch Courtesan, 1605. Parasitaster, or The Fawn, 1606. The Wonder of Women, or Sophonisba, 1606. What you Will, 1607. The Insatiate Countess, 1613. The Malcontent (with Webster), 1604. Eastward Hoe! (with Chapman and Jonson), 1605.

Plays. 1633.—Halliwell [-Phillipps] (J. O), 3 vols., 1856.—Bullen (A. H.), 3 vols., 1887.

Koeppel (E.), Quellenstudien zu den Dramen Ben Jonson’s, John Marston’s, etc. Münchener Beiträge, XI., Erlangen and Leipzig, 1895—Swinburne (A. C.) in Nineteenth Century, XXIV., 1888.—Wurzbach (W. von), in Shak. Jahrbuch, XXXIII., 1897.—Stoll (E. E.), John Webster, chap, ii, sect, ii, Boston, 1905—Stoll (E. E.), Shakspere, Marston and the Malcontent Type, in Modern Philology, III., 1906.—Aronstein (P.), Marston als Dramatiker, Eng. Studien, XX.

Edward the Fourth, parts i and ii, 1600. If You Know Not Me, You Know Nobody, part i, 1605; part ii, 1606. A Woman Killed with Kindness, 1607, 1617. The Rape of Lucrece, 1608. The Four Prentices of London, 1616. rev 1632. The Fair Maid of the West, part i, 1631; part ii, 1631. The Golden Age, 1610. The Silver Age, 1613. The Brazen Age, 1613. The Iron Age, part i, 1632; part ii, 1632. The English Traveller, 1633. A Maidenhead Well Lost, 1634. A Challenge for Beauty, 1636. The Royal King and the Loyal Subject, 1637. The Wise Woman of Hogsdon, 1638. Love’s Mistress, 1636. The Late Lancashire Witches (with Brome), 1634. Fortune by Land and Sea (with W. Rowley), 1655.

Pearson’s Reprint, 6 vols., 1874.—Verity (A. W.), five plays in Mermaid Series, 1888.

Ed. Collier (J. P.), in Shak. Soc. Pub., 1850.—Ward (A. W.), in Temple Dramatists, 1897.—Cox (F. J.), 1907.

The Woman Hater (probably by Beaumont alone), 1607, 1648, 1649. The Knight of the Burning Pestle, 1613, 1635. Cupid’s Revenge, 1616, 1630, 1635. The Scornful Lady, 1616, 1625, 1630, 1635, 1639, 1651, 1677, 1691, 1695. A King and No King, 1619, 1625, 1631, 1639, 1655, 1661, 1676, 1693. The Maid’s Tragedy, 1619, 1622, 1630,[Pg 865] 1638, 1641, 1650, 1661, 1686. Philaster, 1620, 1622, 1630, 1634, 1639, 1651, 1652 (2 edd.), 1660(?), 1687. Thierry and Theodoret, 1621, 1648, 1649.

The Faithful Shepherdess, n. d. (prob. 1609), 1629, 1634, 1656, 1665. Henry VIII (with Shakespeare), in Shakespeare Folio of 1623. The Two Noble Kinsmen (with Shakespeare), 1634. The Elder Brother, 1637, 1651, 1661, 1678. Wit Without Money, 1639, 1661. Monsieur Thomas, 1639. The Bloody Brother, 1639, 1640. Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, 1696, 1697. The Night-Walker, 1640, 1661. The Wild-Goose Chase, 1652. The Humorous Lieutenant, 1830 (from a MS. dated 1625).

The Mad Lover. The Spanish Curate. The Little French Lawyer. The Custom of the Country. The Noble Gentleman. The Captain.* The Beggar’s Bush. The Coxcomb.* The False One. The Chauces. The Loyal Subject. The Laws of Candy. The Lover’s Progress. The Island Princess. The Humorous Lieutenant. The Nice Valour, or The Passionate Mailman. The Maid in the Mill. The Prophetess. Bonduca. The Sea Voyage. The Double Marriage. The Pilgrim. The Knight of Malta. The Woman’s Prize, or The Tamer Tamed. Love’s Cure, or The Martial Maid.* The Honest Man’s Fortune. The Queen of Corinth. Women Pleased. A Wife for a Month. Wit at Several Weapons.* Valentinian. The Fair Maid of the Inn. Love’s Pilgrimage. The Masque at the Marriage of the Prince and Princess Palatine of the Rhine. Four Plays in One.*

(Plays followed by an asterisk are believed to be in part by Beaumont: the rest by Fletcher.)

First Folio, 1647. Fifty Comedies and Tragedies (Second Folio), 1679.—Works of B. and F. (pub. Tonson), 7 vols., 1711.—Theobald, Seward, and Sympson, 10 vols., 1750.—Colman (G.), 10 vols., 1778.—Colman (G.), (with Jonson’s Works), 4 vols., 1811; (without Jonson) 3 Vols., 1811.—Weber (H.), 14 vols. Edin. 1812.—Darley (G.), 2 vols., 1839 (text of Weber).—Dyce (A.), 11 vols., 1843-6; 2 vols., Boston, 1852.—Strachey (J. St. L.), in Mermaid Series, ten plays in 2 vols., 1887.—Builen (A. H.), General editor of Variorum edition by various editors, 12 vols., 1904, (in process).—Glover (A.) and Waller (A. R.), in Cambridge English Classics, 10 vols., 1905. (In process, Text of folio of 1679 with collations of other edd.)

Ed. Morley (H.), in Burlesque Plays and Poems, Universal Library, 1885.—Moorman (F. W.), in Temple Dramatists, 1898.—Murch (H. S.), in Yale Studies in English, New York, 1908.—Alden (R. M.), in Belles Lettres Series, Boston, 1910.

Ed. Thayer (W. R.), in Best Elizabethan Plays, Boston, 1890.—Boas (F. S.), in Temple Dramatists, 1898.—Thorndike (A. H.), in Belles Lettres Series, Boston, 1906.

Ed. Thorndike (A. H.), in Belles Lettres Series, Boston, 1906.—Cox (F. J.), 1908.

Ed. Moorman (F. W.), in Temple Dramatists, 1897.—Fletcher (J. B.), in Belles Lettres Series, announced.

Koeppel (E.), Quellenstudien zu den Dramen...Beaumont’s and Fletcher’s, in Münchener Beiträge, XI. 1895.—Leonhardt (B.), Ucber B. and F.’s Knight of the Burning Pestle, Annaberg, 1885. Cf. also Anglia, VIII. 424; XIX. 34; XIX. 509; XXIII. 14; in Engl. Studien, XII. 307; 1885-1903.—Macaulay (G. C.), Francis Beaumont, a critical study, 1883.—Hatcher (O. L.), John Fletcher, a study in dramatic method, Chicago, 1905.—Swinburne (A. C), Beaumont and Fletcher, in Studies in Prose and Poetry, 1894.—Thorndike (A. H.), Influence of B. and F. on Shakespeare, Worcester, Mass., 1901.—Greg (W. W.), Pastoral Poetry and Pastoral Drama, London, 1906.

The White Devil, 1612. The Duchess of Malfi, 1623, 1640, 1678. The Devil’s Law-case, 1623. Appins and Virginia, 1654. A Cure for a Cuckold (with W. Rowley), 1661. The Thracian Wonder (with W. Rowley), 1661. Induction to The Malcontent, 1604.

Dyce (A.), 4 vols., 1830, 1867.—Hazlitt (W.), 4 vols., 1857.-Symonds (J. A.), two plays in Mermaid Series, 1888.

Ed. Thayer (W. R.), In Best Elizabethan Plays, Boston. 1890.—Vaughan (C. E.), in Temple Dramatists, 1896.—Sampson (M. W.), in Belles Lettres Series, Boston, 1904.

Gosse (E.), in Seventeenth Century Studies, 1883.—Stoll (E. E.), John Webster, the Periods of his work, Boston, 1905.—Pierce (F. E.), The Collaboration of Webster and Dekker, in Yale Studies in English, New York, 1909.—Kiesow (K.), Die Verschichenen Bearbeitungen der Novelle von der Herzogin v. Amalfi, Anglia, XVII. 198.

Blurt, Master-Constable, 1602. The Phoenix, 1607, 1630. Michaelmas Term, 1607. A Trick to Catch the Old One, 1608, 1616. The Family of Love, 1608. A Mad World, my Masters, 1608. Your Five Gallants, n. d. (lic. 1608). A Game at Chess, 1625. A Chaste Maid in Cheapside, 1630. Women Beware Women, 1657. More Dissemblers Besides Women, 1657. No Wit, No Help like a Woman’s, 1657. The Mayor of Quinborough, 1661. Anything for a Quiet Life, 1662. The Witch, 1778. A Fair Quarrel (with W. Rowley), 1617. The Changeling (with W. Rowley), 1653. The Spanish Gipsy (with W. Rowley), 1653. The Old Law (with Massinger and W. Rowley), 1656. The Roaring Girl (with Dekker), 1611. The Widow (with Jonson and Fletcher), 1652.

Dyce (A.), 5 vols., 1840.—Bullen (A. H.), 8 vols., 1885-6.—Swinburne (A. C), and Ellis (H.), ten plays, in Mermaid Series, 1890.

Wiggin (P. G.), An Enquiry into the authorship of the Middleton-Rowley Plays, in Radcliffe College Monographs, Boston, 1897.—Christ (K.), Quellenstudien zu den Dramen Thomas Middleton’s, 1905.

A Search for Money, 1609. A New Wonder, a Woman Never Vext, 1632. A Match at Midnight, 1633. All’s Lost by Lust, 1633. A Shoemaker a Gentleman, 1638. The Changeling (with Middleton), 1653. And many other collaborated plays.

Stork (C. W.), Rowley’s Place in the Drama, in his ed. of All’s Lost by Lust, etc., Philadelphia, 1910.—Wiggin (P. G.), An Enquiry into the authorship of the Middleton-Rowley Plays, Boston, 1897.

The Virgin Martyr (with Dekker), 1622. The Duke of Milan, 1623. The Bondman, 1624. The Roman Actor, 1629. The Renegado, 1630. The Picture, 1630. The Maid of Honour, 1632. The Emperor of the East, 1632. The Fatal Dowry (with N. Field), 1632. A New Way to Pay Old Debts, 1633. The Great Duke of Florence, 1636. The Unnatural Combat, 1639. The Guardian. 1655. A Very Woman, 1655. The Bashful Lover, 1655. The City Madam, 1658. The Parliament of Love (lic. 1624), 1805. Believe as you List (S. R. 1653), 1849.

Coxeter (T.), 4 Vols., 1759, 1761.—Mason (T. M.), 4 vols., 1779.—Gifford (W.), 4 vols., 1805, 1813, 1845, 1850; ed. Cunningham (F.), 1870.—Coleridge (H.), with Ford, 1 vol., 1840.—Symons (A.), in Mermaid Series, ten plays in two vols., 1887-89.

Stephen (Sir L.), in Cornhill Magazine, Oct., 1877 (also in Hours in a Library, III., 1879).—Swinburne (A. C), in Fortnightly Review, July, 1889.—Tréverret (A. de). Étude sur Massinger, Revue de l’enseignement[Pg 867] des langues vivantes, Dec. 1886, Jan. 1887.—Wurzbach (W. von), in Shakespeare Jahrbuch,
XXXV. 214, XXXVI. 128.—Koeppel (E.), Quellenstudien, in Quellen und Forschungen, LXXXII., Strassburg, 1897.—Gardiner (S. R.), The Political Element in Massinger, Contemporary Review, XXVIII., 1876 (also New Shak. Soc. Trans., 1876).—Phelan (J.), Anglia, II., 1879.

The Lover’s Melancholy, 1629. The Broken Heart, 1633. Love’s Sacrifice, 1633. ’T is Pity She’s a Whore, 1633. Perkin Warbeck, 1634. The Fancies, Chaste and Noble, 1638. The Lady’s Trial, 1639. The Witch of Edmonton (with Dekker and W. Rowley). 1658.

Weber (H.), 2 vols., 1811.—Gifford (W.), 2 vols., 1827; w. additions by Dyce (A.), 3 vols., 1869, 1895.—Coleridge (H.), (with Massinger’s Works), 1840.—Ellis (H.), five plays in Mermaid Series, 1888.—Bang (W.), Louvain, 1908 (in process).

Koeppel (E.), Quellenstudien zu den Dramen ... John Ford’s, in Quellen und Forschungen, LXXXII., Strassburg, 1897.—Swinburne (A. C.), in Essays and Studies, 1888.—Wolff (M.), John Ford, ein Nachahmer Shakespeare’s, Heidelberg, 1880.—Sherman (S. P.), Stella and The Broken Heart, in Publ. Mod. Lang. Ass. Amer. XXIV., 274, 1909; see also his Introduction to Bang’s Ford, and his MS. dissertation in the archives of Harvard University Library.—Pierce (F. E.), The Sequence of Ford’s Plays, The Nation, N. Y., Jan. 5, 1911.

The Wedding, 1629. The Grateful Servant, 1630. The School of Compliment, 1631, as Love Tricks, 1637, 1667. Changes, or Love in a Maze, 1632. The Witty Fair One, 1633. The Bird in a Cage, 1633. The Traitor, 1635. Hyde Park, 1637. The Gamester, 1637. The Young Admiral, 1637. The Example, 1637. The Lady of Pleasure, 1637. The Duke’s Mistress, 1638. The Royal Master, 1638. The Maid’s Revenge, 1639. Love’s Cruelty, 1640. The Opportunity, 1640. The Coronation (lic. 1635), 1640. The Constant Maid, 1640, as Love Will Find Out a Way, 1667. St Patrick for Ireland, 1640. The Humorous Courtier, 1640. The Arcadia, 1640. Six New Plays, viz., The Brothers, The Doubtful Heir, The Imposture, The Cardinal, The Sisters, The Court Secret, 1652-3. The Politician, 1655. The Gentleman of Venice, 1655. Honoria and Mammon, 1659. The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 1659. The Ball (with Chapman), 1639. Chabot, Admiral of France (with Chapman), 1639.

Gifford (W.) and Dyce (A.), 6 vols., 1833.—Gosse (E.), six plays, in Mermaid Series, 1888.

Swinburne (A. C.), in Fortnightly Review, April, 1890.—Stiefel (A. L.), Die Nachahmung spanischer Komödien in England, in Romanische Forschungen. V. 193, 1890.—Nissen (P.), James Shirley, Hamburg, 1901.—Gärtner (O.), Shirley, sein Leben und Werken, Halle, 1904.

JOHN LYLY

John Lyly was born in Kent about 1554. His father was Peter Lyly, Registrar of Canterbury, and his grandfather the well-known grammarian, William Lyly, the friend of Colet and More. He entered Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1569, whence he graduated B. A. in 1573, and M. A. in 1575. Here he was more distinguished for wit than for scholarship. Going up to London, and living at first under the protection of Burleigh, be produced in 1578 his Euphues: the Anatomy of Wit, which was followed in 1580 by Euphues and his England, both of which gained a great and immediate popularity. He was now attached to the Earl of Oxford. Campaspe, his first play, was performed in 1581, and most of his dramatic work was done in that decade. The Woman in the Moon, however, may have been produced as late as 1594-5. In 1583, Lyly married Beatrice Browne, a well-connected lady, who bore him eight children. From 1588 he seems to have held an honorary position as Esquire of the Body to the Queen, and he lived for years in the vain hope of succeeding to the office of Master of the Revels. Between 1589 and 1601 he sat in four parliaments, and in his Pappe with an Hatchet (1589) he took part with the Bishops in the Marprelate controversy. In spite of the distinction which Lyly won by his literary work, be failed to obtain from the Queen the substantial preferment which he craved, and he died in 1606, a disappointed place-seeker. Lyly’s reputation has depended largely on the extraordinary vogue of his Euphues, and the immense influence of the style of that work on the prose of the time; but he holds also a highly important position in the development of polite comedy in England.

GEORGE PEELE

The date of Peele’s birth is unknown, but is conjecturally placed about 1558. In 1565 he was a free scholar at Christ’s Hospital, of which his father was clerk, and in 1571 he went to Oxford. He was a student first at Broadgates Hall (now Pembroke College), and later at Christ Church, whence he graduated B. A. in 1577, and M. A. in 1579. From the University, where he had already achieved some reputation as a poet, he went to London, and apparently plunged at once into the irregularities that wrecked his career, for in the same year the governors of Christ’s Hospital forced his father to turn him out of the precincts of the hospital. His wife, whom he had married by 1583, brought him some property, which he soon dissipated; and he became a member of that group of authors who wrote plays, pageants, and all sorts of occasional productions, in the uncertain hope of earning a living. The famous Jests, fathered on Peele, are probably quite unauthentic; but there is an unfortunate appropriateness in many of them to his known mode of life. He seems to have been an actor as well as a playwright. Meres mentions him in Palladis Tamia (1598) as dead.

Peele’s claims to distinction rest upon his treatment of metre, and on his humor. He did much to refine and supple the diction of the drama, and before Marlowe placed his stamp upon blank verse, Peele was writing it with great sweetness and a charming musical quality. In the present play, the realistic element in the dialogue is more notable than the decorative, and this realism is employed in the service of a new type of humor. “He was the first,” says Gummere, “to blend romantic drama with a realism which turns romance back upon itself, and produces the comedy of subconscious humor.”

ROBERT GREENE

Greene was much given to the mingling of autobiography with his fiction, and this has resulted in a much larger body of possibly true biographical details than we possess concerning most of his contemporaries. He was born in Norwich of a respectable family, probably about 1560; entered St. John’s College, Cambridge, in 1575; graduated B. A. in 1578; travelled in Spain and Italy, and, by his own account, lived up to the proverbial reputation of the Italianate Englishman; returned to Cambridge and took his M. A. in 1581; and during the rest of his short life busied himself in the production of the very considerable mass of romances, tracts, songs, and plays which to-day give him his place in literature. About 1585 he married a Lincolnshire woman, who bore him a son, and whom he deserted after spending her portion. The annals of literature hardly bear the record of a more sordid career than that of this university-bred man of letters; and his death was only too fitting a close to it. He died in 1592 in the house of a poor shoemaker, to whom he gave a bond for ten pounds, leaving the following letter to his deserted wife: “Doll, I charge thee by the love of our youth and by my soul’s rest that thou wilt see this man paid, for if he and his wife had not succoured me I had died in the streets.[Pg 870] Robert Greene.” Following his own wish, the shoemaker’s wife crowned his head with a garland of bay.

In spite of the self-confessed wickedness of his ways, Greene was not a hardened criminal, and no themes are more frequent in his tracts than moral exhortation and repentance. It is further notable that his work is freer from grossness than that of most of his contemporary playwrights, and he is distinguished for the freshness and purity of his female creations. He seems also, to judge from his plays, to have retained a love for the country, where he often chose to lay his scenes; and he ranks high among the lyrists of the time. The vivacity and variety of his humor are well exemplified in the play here printed.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Christopher Marlowe was the eldest son of a substantial burgess of Canterbury, and he was born in that city on February 6, 1564. He entered the King’s School in January, 1579, and two years later became a scholar of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, whence he graduated B. A. in 1584, and M. A. in 1587. As Tamburlaine was acted in that year, it appears that Marlowe’s academic and his literary life overlapped. Little is certainly known of his later life, apart from the production of his plays and poems. He belonged to a circle of which Sir Walter Raleigh was the centre, and which contained men like the Earl of Oxford, and Harriot, the mathematician. These men seem to have engaged in scientific and theological speculation, and were suspected of atheism by the narrower spirits of the time. This connection was probably the basis for certain extreme charges made against Marlowe after his death; but there is little evidence worthy of consideration. Even the documents connected with Kyd, in which that author seeks to save his own reputation for orthodoxy at Marlowe’s expense, are under suspicion in point of genuineness. Marlowe died by the hand of a certain Francis Archer, at Deptford, in 1593, but the circumstances are obscure. The later reports, such as that according to which he was stabbed by a serving man in a brawl over a mistress, are inconsistent with one another, and are little worthy of credit. The prevailing impression of the dissoluteness of Marlowe’s life is not based on substantial evidence such as we have, for example, in the case of Greene.

No such uncertainty as surrounds his character and career attaches to the quality of his work. Born in the same year as Shakespeare, he left behind him at twenty-nine work which far surpasses anything his great contemporary had written by that time. In the vastness and intensity of his imagination, the splendid dignity of his verse, and the dazzling brilliance of his poetry at its best, Marlowe exhibited the greatest genius that had so far appeared in the English drama.

THOMAS KYD

The date of Kyd’s birth may with practical certainty be placed in 1558. His father was a London scrivener, and the son was educated at Merchant Taylors’ School, which he entered in 1565. Mulcaster was then headmaster, and Edmund Spenser was among his schoolfellows. He does not seem to have attended a university. A habit of anonymity has thrown a cloud over the extent of Kyd’s literary activity, and the list of his plays and translations has been compiled with difficulty and much less than complete certainty. His fame depends upon The Spanish Tragedy, and upon the importance of his contribution to the Senecan tragedy of revenge in this play and probably in the lost pre-Shakespearean Hamlet, which is now usually ascribed to him.

The later years of his life seem to have been unfortunate, and he was arrested on charges of sedition and atheism in 1593. From the latter he sought, if the letter to Puckering (Boas. p. cviii.) is genuine, to clear himself by ascribing the ownership of the incriminating documents to the dead Marlowe, and he endeavored to minimise the closeness of his intimacy with his great contemporary. These charges, it appears, lost him his patron, and perhaps in some degree his theatrical popularity. He died in 1594.

Kyd seems to have been a man of gloomy temperament, and the vividness and intensity with which he presents in his work the darker sides of human nature and experience are probably in some degree the outcome of his own disposition. In spite of tendencies to melodrama that, to the modern taste, border on the ludicrous, Kyd rises at times to the utterance of genuine passion, and even his sensationalism is frequently impressive. But his historical importance in the development of the type of tragedy of which Hamlet is the climax must be granted to be greater than his intrinsic value.

GEORGE CHAPMAN

George Chapman was born in Hitchin, Hertfordshire, in 1557 or 1559, and was educated at Oxford, and perhaps also at Cambridge. His earliest extant work is The Shadow of Night (1594), which was followed in 1595 by Ovid’s Banquet of Sense, The Amorous Zodiac, and other poems, works curiously obscure and contorted in style, though containing distinguished passages. In 1598, he finished Marlowe’s[Pg 871] incomplete Hero and Leander, and when Meres published his Palladis Tamia in that year,
Chapman was already well-known as a playwright. His reputation, however, is most firmly based on his translations from Homer, issued in detachments in 1598, 1609, 1611, and 1614, and complete in folio in 1616. In this work be was encouraged by Prince Henry, to whom he was “sewer in ordinary.” He was imprisoned in 1605 along with Jonson and Marston on account of the passages against the Scots in Eastward Ho! and in 1608 he again had difficulties with the authorities on account of a scene in Charles, Duke of Byron. He continued his work in translation and in the drama till his death in 1634.

Though one can hardly feel that Chapman’s natural gifts were those of a dramatist, the evidences of intellectual power, and the almost Shakespearean splendor of the poetry in occasional passages throughout his work, entitle him to an honorable place among the writers of the time.

BEN JONSON

Ben Jonson came of an Annandale family, and was born at Westminster in 1573. He followed his stepfather’s trade of bricklaying for a short time, and later served as a soldier in Flanders. He probably began play-writing about 1595, and two years later we find him in the Admiral’s Company of actors. In 1598 he is mentioned by Meres as a writer of tragedy, and in the same year he killed a fellow-actor in a duel. In prison he became a Roman Catholic, but returned to the Church of England twelve years later. He scored a success with Every Man in his Humour in 1598, Shakespeare acting a part in the play. After several years of work on satirical drama, Jonson turned to tragedy; and on the accession of James I. he began his long series of masques and court entertainments. In 1605 he was again in prison, this time for his share in Eastward Ho! From this date till about 1617 Jonson was at the height of his fame, and was the leading literary figure in London. He visited France in 1613 as tutor to Raleigh’s son; and in 1616 issued a folio edition of his works. In 1618, he visited Scotland, and held his famous conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden; and, on his return, Oxford made him an M. A. After the death of James I, Jonson was less fortunate in court favor, suffered from ill health, and was unsuccessful at the theatre. In 1628, however, he succeeded Middleton as chronologer to the city of London, and the King sent him £100 in his sickness, later raising his salary. But fortune turned against him again; he lost his city office, made further attempts to regain theatrical favor, and died August 6, 1637. Besides plays, he left an interesting prose work, Timber, or Discoveries, and a considerable amount of non-dramatic verse. A second folio edition of his Works appeared in 1640.

Jonson’s artistic ideals were classical rather than romantic, and he stands, in significant respects, in opposition to some of the main literary currents of his time. The plays in the present volume include an example of the “comedy of humours” introduced by him, a typical example of his tragedy, and two of his satirical masterpieces. In these alone one can find abundant evidence that, despite a lack of charm and geniality, one is dealing with the work of a deep student of human nature, a vigorous and independent thinker, and a master of eloquent and virile expression.

THOMAS DEKKER

Dekker’s career is an extreme instance of the hazardous life led by the professional author in the time of Shakespeare. Born in London about 1570, Dekker first appears certainly as a dramatist about 1597, when we find him working on plays in collaboration with other dramatists in the pay of Henslowe. He wrote, in partnership or alone, many dramas; and when the market for these was dull, he turned to the writing of entertainments, occasional verses, and prose pamphlets on a great variety of subjects. No writer of the time gives us a more vivid picture of Elizabethan London. But all his activity seems to have failed to supply a decent livelihood, for he was often in prison for debt, at one time for a period of three years; and most of the biographical details about him which have come down to us are connected with borrowing money, or getting into jail or out of it. He disappears from view in the thirties of the seventeenth century.

In spite of the impression of gloom left by such a record, Dekker’s plays abound in high spirits, and their general tendency in plot and characterization is sane and wholesome. Evidences of hasty and careless workmanship are easily found, yet he was far from an uninspired hack, and passages of a noble and delicate poetry are frequent throughout his work.

JOHN MARSTON

John Marston came of an old Shropshire family, and was born, probably at Coventry, about 1575. His father, who bore the same name, was lecturer of the Middle Temple, and there is evidence that the son was trained for the law. He entered Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1592, and, according to Bullen, graduated B. A. in 1594. His first work in poetry was his Metamorphosis of Pigmalion’s Image and Certain Satires, 1598; and later in the same year appeared his Scourge of Villany. In the[Pg 872] following year both books were burned on account of their licentiousness by the order of the Archbishop of Canterbury, though Marston had professed a reformatory purpose in both. In 1599 he turned to play-writing; but the turgid style of his Antonio and Mellida and Antonio’s Revenge brought down on him the ridicule of Jonson in The Poetaster. The Malcontent was written during a period of reconciliation with Jonson, and in 1605 Marston collaborated with him and Chapman in Eastward Ho, a comedy containing a passage reflecting on the Scots, which landed all three dramatists in prison.

Marston gave up play-writing in 1607, and later became a clergyman. From 1616 to 1631 he held the living of Christ Church, Hampshire, and in 1634 died in London, and was buried in the Temple Church.

The extreme tendency to fustian which Jonson had attacked in Marston’s early work no longer appears to any great extent in The Malcontent, and the play exhibits favorably Marston’s capacity for the creation of well marked character and effective stage situations. An attempt has recently been made to show that he exerted a considerable influence on Shakespeare, especially in Hamlet.

THOMAS HEYWOOD

The early records of this, the most prolific of the dramatic writers of the time, are extremely scanty. The date of his birth is conjecturally placed about 1575, and he refers to himself as a native of Lincolnshire, and at one time resident at Cambridge. He begins to figure in Henslowe’s accounts in 1596, and he appears as a member of the Lord Admiral’s Company in 1598. He began writing plays with The Four Prentices of London, and in the Address to the Reader prefixed to his English Traveller (1633) he claims to have written or had a “main finger” in two hundred and twenty plays. Outside of the drama, he tried his hand at almost all sorts of literature, and the quality of his work is extremely uneven. He was still alive in 1648, but probably died soon thereafter.

Heywood’s characteristic power of elicting powerful emotions by a sympathetic treatment of everyday conditions and events, is well illustrated by the play here printed. While much is perfunctory in his work, one constantly finds evidences of a genuine and pious spirit moved by a keen appreciation of the pathos of human life.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

Francis Beaumont was born 1584, the son of Sir Francis Beaumont of Grace-Dieu, Leicestershire, a judge of the common pleas. He was educated at Broadgates Hall (now Pembroke College), Oxford, which he entered in 1597. On the death of his father in 1598, he left the university without a degree, and in 1600 became a member of the Inner Temple. The law, however, if he ever really studied it, was soon abandoned for poetry; and Beaumont became an intimate of Jonson and his circle at the Mermaid. His collaboration with Fletcher began early, and seems to have been brought about by personal preference, not, like most collaboration at that time, by the exigencies of the theatrical manager. Aubrey has preserved the tradition of their domestic intimacy and similarity of tastes. Their joint-production seems to have begun about 1605, and there is no evidence that Beaumont wrote any plays after 1612. About 1613 he married, and three years later died and was buried in Westminster Abbey. He had achieved a high contemporary reputation for his non-dramatic poetry, but he survives as a dramatist.

JOHN FLETCHER

John Fletcher came of a family which has given many distinguished names to English literature. His father was Richard Fletcher, Bishop of London. Giles Fletcher the elder was his uncle, and Giles and Phineas Fletcher his cousins. The dramatist was born at Rye, Sussex, in 1579, and entered Benet College (now Corpus Christi), Cambridge, in 1591; but of the details of his life from this time till his appearance as a dramatist little is known. He collaborated with Beaumont from about 1605 till 1612; and, after Beaumont’s withdrawal, with Shakespeare, Jonson, Massinger, and others. He died of the plague in 1625.

The men who laid the foundations of the Elizabethan drama were generally of somewhat obscure origin; and though some of them had been educated at the universities, they were all poor. Beaumont and Fletcher were the first recruits to the profession of play-writing who came of distinguished families and habitually moved in wealthy circles; and this social environment was early suggested as an explanation of their power of representing naturally the conversation of high-born ladies and gentlemen. The general style of their plays has been thus admirably characterized by Thorndike: “Their plots, largely invented, are ingenious and complicated. They deal with royal or noble persons, with heroic actions, and are placed in foreign localities. The conquests, usurpations, and passions that ruin kingdoms are their themes, there are no battles or pageants, and the action is usually confined to the rooms of the palace or its immediate neighborhood. Usually contrasting a story of[Pg 873] gross sensual passion with one of idyllic love, they introduce a great variety of incidents, and aim at constant but varied excitement.... The plays depend for interest not on their observation or revelation of human nature, or the development of character, but on the variety of situations, the clever construction that holds the interest through one suspense to another up to the unravelling at the very end, and on the naturalness, felicity, and vigor of the poetry.”

JOHN WEBSTER

The dates 1580-1625 are usually given as conjectures for Webster’s birth and death, exact information being entirely lacking. His father was a member of the Merchant Taylors’ Company, of which the son was likewise a freeman; but this does not imply that he was actually a tailor. In 1602, we find him collaborating with seven others in the production of four plays for Henslowe, and the rest of his biography consists in the discussion of the dates of his works.

Webster’s tragedies come towards the close of the great series of tragedies of blood and revenge in which The Spanish Tragedy and Hamlet are landmarks, but before decadence can fairly be said to have set in. Webster, indeed, loads his scene with horrors almost past the point which modern taste can bear; but the intensity of his dramatic situations, and his superb power of flashing in a single line a light into the recesses of the human heart at the crises of supreme emotion, redeem him from mere sensationalism, and place his best plays in the first rank of dramatic writing.

THOMAS MIDDLETON

The date of Middleton’s birth is unknown, but is conjecturally placed about 1570. He came of good family, and his writings indicate that he received a good education. We know, however, nothing about his early training before his entering Gray’s Inn, probably in 1593. His plays abound in allusions to law and pictures of lawyers.

The earliest evidence of his writing for the stage is in the date of The Old Law, which was probably composed by Middleton about 1599, and later revised by Massinger and W. Rowley. He was much employed in the writing of pageants and masques, especially by the city, and in 1621 he obtained the post of city chronologer. In 1624 he gave expression to the popular hatred of Spain in his allegorical play, A Game at Chess, which scored a great success, but which was ultimately suppressed at the instigation of the Spanish ambassador, and led to a warrant for Middleton’s arrest. He died in 1627.

In his comedies Middleton shows himself a keen observer of contemporary life and manners, and few writers of the time have left a more vivacious picture of the London of James I. “His later plays,” says Herford, “show more concentrated as well as more versatile power. His habitual occupation with depraved types becomes an artistic method; he creates characters which fascinate without making the smallest appeal to sympathy, tragedy which harrows without rousing either pity or terror, and language which disdains charm, but penetrates by remorseless veracity and by touches of strange and sudden power.”

WILLIAM ROWLEY

William Rowley was born about 1585. He was an actor as well as a dramatist, and is sometimes confused with two other actors, Ralph and Samuel Rowley. In his earlier years he wrote some non-dramatic verse, mostly of a conventional kind. His most important work was done in collaboration with Middleton, with whom he worked from 1614, but he had many other literary partners. His verse is apt to be rough and irregular, his humor broad and rollicking rather than fine, his serious scenes tending to extravagance and bombast. But his constant employment to coöperate with greater men, or revise their work, points to a general serviceableness and a capacity for theatrical effectiveness. His death is conjecturally placed about 1642.

PHILIP MASSINGER

Philip Massinger was born at Salisbury, in November, 1583. His father was in the service of the Earls of Pembroke, and it has been conjectured that the future dramatist was named after the Countess’s brother, Sir Philip Sidney. He entered St. Alban Hall, Oxford, in 1602, and left four years later without a degree, having, according to Wood, “applied his mind more to poetry and romances than to logic and philosophy.” On coming to London he seems to have turned at once to writing for the stage; and, after Beaumont retired from play-writing, Massinger became Fletcher’s chief partner and warm friend. All Massinger’s relations with his fellow-authors of which we have record seem to have been pleasant; and the impression of his personality which one derives from his work is that of a dignified, hard-working, and conscientious man. He seems to have been much interested in public affairs, and he at times came into collision with the authorities on account of the introduction into[Pg 874] his plays of more or less veiled allusions to political personages and events. He died in 1640, and was buried in St. Saviour’s, Southwark, in the same grave, it is said by Cokayne, as his friend Fletcher.

Massinger’s great merit lies in his masterly conduct of plot. His characters are usually of a somewhat conventional type, his pictures of passion tend to sheer extravagance, and his ethical quality has in it something mechanical. His verse is often eloquent, but the dialogue is often preposterously remote from life. Yet so skillful was he in the manipulation of the action that he usually holds the attention without difficulty; and in the present play this power is combined with a singularly forceful presentation of the main character and a fairly obvious didacticism that together kept the drama on the stage almost down to modern times.

JOHN FORD

John Ford was born at Ilsington in Devonshire in April, 1586, of good family. A man of his name entered Exeter College, Oxford, in 1601; but if this was our Ford, his stay was short, for he became a member of the Middle Temple in November, 1602. Of the rest of his career we know almost nothing, except the names of people to whom he dedicated his plays and verses. He disappears after the publication of his last play in 1639. He seems to have been a man of a somewhat melancholy temperament, independent in his attitude towards the public taste, and capable of espousing unpopular causes.

Ford’s dramas show a tendency to deal with illicit and even incestuous love in a peculiar mood, the dramatist frequently creating strong sympathy for the tempted and the sinner, and leaving the question of guilt open. This, along with his fondness for the theatrical and the sensational, has led to his being frequently chosen as an example of the decadence of the drama. The charge is not to be denied; but in spite of these defects, he shows a power of insight into suffering and perplexity, and writes at times poetry of such beauty and tenderness, that he remains a figure of much intrinsic interest as well as historical importance.

JAMES SHIRLEY

James Shirley, often called “the last of the Elizabethans,” was born in London in September, 1596, and was educated at Merchant Taylors’ School and St. John’s College, Oxford. Later he went to Catherine Hall, Cambridge, whence he graduated. About 1619 he took orders, and obtained a living at St. Albans, Hertfordshire; but resigned to enter the church of Rome, and became master of the St. Albans grammar school in 1623. His first play was licensed in 1625, and from this time till the closing of the theatres he devoted himself to the writing of plays and masques, gaining both popular success and the patronage of the court. With the outbreak of the Civil War, Shirley followed his patron, the Earl of Newcastle, to the field; but after Marston Moor he returned to London, published some of his earlier writings, and resumed teaching. Some of his plays were revived at the Restoration, but he wrote no more. He and his second wife were driven from their home by the fire of London in 1666, and both died from shock on the same day.

Shirley wrote many non-dramatic poems, graceful enough but conventional; few of them are read to-day. Out of nearly forty dramas, seven are tragedies, the rest chiefly romantic comedies and comedies of manners. He was a careful student of the work of his predecessors, and he reproduced many of their dramatic effects with skill. He had a distinct comic gift, and his power in tragedy may be judged by The Cardinal. With Shirley, more than with any of his fellow-playwrights, one feels the disadvantage of coming so late in the development of this phase of the drama that originality of conception seems almost impossible. That he is still able to amuse and to thrill with the old instruments is proof of his capacity as a literary workman; and he should not be denied the possession of passages where he displays touches of imagination all his own.

Endymion, the Man in the Moon, by John Lyly	1
The Old Wives Tale, by George Peele	24
The Honourable History of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, by Robert Greene	35
Tamburlaine, Part I, by Christopher Marlowe	57
The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe	80
The Jew of Malta, by Christopher Marlowe	96
The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, by Christopher Marlowe	122
The Spanish Tragedy; or, Hieronimo is Mad Again, by Thomas Kyd	153
Bussy D’Ambois, by George Chapman	185
Every Man in his Humour, by Ben Jonson	214
Sejanus, His Fall, by Ben Jonson	247
Volpone; or, The Fox, by Ben Jonson	285
The Alchemist, by Ben Jonson	325
The Shoemakers’ Holiday, by Thomas Dekker	367
The Honest Whore, Part I, by Thomas Dekker	393
The Honest Whore, Part II, by Thomas Dekker	425
The Malcontent, by John Marston and John Webster	456
A Woman Killed with Kindness, by Thomas Heywood	485
The Knight of the Burning Pestle, by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher	509
Philaster; or, Love Lies a-Bleeding, by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher	539
The Maid’s Tragedy, by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher	568
The Faithful Shepherdess, by John Fletcher	598
The Wild-Goose Chase, by John Fletcher	625
The Duchess of Malfi, by John Webster	656
A Trick to Catch the Old One, by Thomas Middleton	690
The Changeling, by Thomas Middleton and William Rowley	715
A New Way to Pay Old Debts, by Philip Massinger	741
The Broken Heart, by John Ford	770
The Lady of Pleasure, by James Shirley	800
The Cardinal, by James Shirley	830

Additional Notes on the Plays	855
Bibliographies	861
Biographical Sketches	869
Index of Characters	875
Index of Songs	879
Index of Authors	880
Index of Plays	880

Endymion, in love with Cynthia.
Eumenides, his friend, in love with Semele.
Corsites, a Captain, in love with Tellus.
Panelion,	} Lords of Cynthia’s Court.
Zontes,
Pythagoras, the Greek Philosopher.
Gyptes, an Egyptian Soothsayer.
Geron, an old man, husband to Dipsas.
Sir Tophas, a Braggart.
Dares, Page to Eumenides.
Samias, Page to Endymion.
Epiton, Page to Sir Tophas.

Master Constable.
First Watchman.
Second Watchman.

Cynthia, the Queen.
Tellus, in love with Endymion.
Floscula, her friend.
Semele, loved by Eumenides.
Scintilla,	} Waiting-maids.
Favilla,
Dipsas, an old Enchantress.
Bagoa, her servant.

Sacrapant.
First Brother, named Calypha.
Second Brother, named Thelea.
Eumenides.
Erestus.
Lampriscus.
Huanebango.
Corebus.
Wiggen.
Churchwarden.
Sexton.
Ghost of Jack.
Friar, Harvest-men, Furies, Fiddlers, &c.

Delia, sister to Calypha and Thelea.
Venelia, betrothed to Erestus.
Zantippa,	} daughters to Lampriscus.
Celanta,
Hostess.

Antic.
Frolic.
Fantastic.
Clunch, a smith.
Madge, his wife.]

King Henry the Third.
Edward, Prince of Wales, his son.
Emperor of Germany.
King of Castile.
Lacy, Earl of Lincoln.
Warren, Earl of Sussex.
Ermsby, a gentleman.
Ralph Simnell, the King’s Fool.
Friar Bacon.
Miles, Friar Bacon’s poor scholar.
Friar Bungay.
Jaques Vandermast, a German.
Burden,	} Doctors of Oxford.
Mason,
Clement,
Lambert,	} gentlemen.
Serlsby,
Two Scholars, their sons.
The Keeper of Fressingfield.
Thomas,	} farmers’ sons.
Richard,
Constable.
A Post.
Lords, Country Clowns, &c.

Elinor, daughter to the King of Castile.
Margaret, the Keeper’s daughter of Fressingfield.
Joan, a country wench.
Hostess of the Bell at Henley.

A DEVIL.
Spirit in the shape of Hercules.
A dragon shooting fire.]

Mycetes,King of Persia.
Cosroe,his Brother.
Ortygius,	} Persian Lords and Captains.
Ceneus,
Meander,
Menaphon,
Theridamas,
Tamburlaine, a Scythian Shepherd.
Techelles,	} his Followers.
Usumcasane,
Bajazeth, Emperor of the Turks.
King of Arabia.
King of Fez.
King of Morocco.
King of Argier (Algiers).
Soldan of Egypt.
Governor of Damascus.
Agydas,	} Median Lords.
Magnetes,
Capolin, an Egyptian Captain.
Philemus, a Messenger.
Bassoes, Lords, Citizens, Moors, Soldiers, and Attendants.
Zenocrate, Daughter of the Soldan of Egypt.
Anippe, her Maid.
Zabina, Wife of Bajazeth.
Ebea, her Maid.
Virgins of Damascus.]

All three. {	At sight of her each Fury skips
	And flings into her lap their whips.

All three. {	But if he ope nor mouth nor eyes,155
	He may in time sleep himself wise.

Barabas, a wealthy Jew.
Ferneze, Governor of Malta.
Don Lodowick, his Son.
Selim Calymath, Son of the Grand Seignior.
Martin del Bosco, Vice-Admiral of Spain.
Don Mathias, a Gentleman.
Ithamore, slave of Barabas.
Jacomo,	} Friars.
Barnardine,
Pilia-Borsa, a Bully.
Two Merchants.
Three Jews.
Knights, Bassoes, Officers, Reader, Guard, Messengers, Slaves, and Carpenters.
Katherine, mother of Mathias.
Abigail, Daughter of Barabas.
Bellamira, a Courtesan.
Abbess.
Two Nuns.

Machiavel, Speaker of the Prologue.

Ghost of Andrea, a Spanish nobleman,	} Chorus.
Revenge,
King of Spain.
Don Cyprian, Duke of Castile, his brother.
Lorenzo, the Duke’s son.
Bel-imperia, Lorenzo’s sister.
Viceroy of Portugal.
Balthazar, his son.
Don Pedro, the Viceroy’s brother.
Hieronimo, Marshal of Spain.
Isabella, his wife.
Horatio, their son.
Spanish General.
Deputy.
Don Bazulto, an old man.
Three Citizens.
Portuguese Ambassador.
Alexandro,	} Portuguese Noblemen.
Villuppo,
Two Portuguese.
Pedringano, Bel-imperia’s servant.
Christophil, Bel-imperia’s custodian.
Lorenzo’s Page.
Serberine, Balthazar’s servant.
Isabella’s Maid.
Messenger.
Hangman.
Soliman, Sultan of Turkey (Balthazar),	} In Hieronimo’s Play
Erastus, Knight of Rhodes (Lorenzo),
The Bashaw (Hieronimo),	}
Perseda, (Bel-imperia),
Three Kings and three Knights in the first Dumb-show.
Hymen and two torch-bearers in the second.
Bazardo, a Painter,	} In the additions to the play.
Pedro and Jaques, Hieronimo’s servants,
Army, Royal Suites, Noblemen, Halberdiers, Officers, Three Watchmen, Servants, etc.]

Henry III., King of France.
Monsieur, his brother.
The Duke of Guise.
Montsurry, a Count.
Bussy D’Ambois.
Barrisor,	} Courtiers; enemies of D’Ambois.
L’Anou,
Pyrrhot,
Brisac,	} Courtiers; friends of D’Ambois.
Melynell,
Friar Comolet.
Maffe, steward to Monsieur.
Nuntius.
Murderers.
Behemoth,	} Spirits.
Cartophylax,
Umbra of Friar.

Elenor, Duchess of Guise.
Tamyra, Countess of Montsurry.
Beaupre, niece to Elenor.
Pero, maid to Tamyra.
Charlotte, maid to Beaupre.
Pyra, a court lady.
Annabelle, maid to Elenor.
Lords, Ladies, Pages, &c.
Scene.—Paris.]

Tiberius, [Emperor].
Drusus senior, [Nephew of Tiberius].
Nero,	} [Sons of Germanicus].
Drusus junior,
Caligula,
[Lucius] Arruntius,	}[Gentlemen opposed to Sejanus].
[Caius] Silius,
[Titius] Sabinus,	}
[Marcus] Lepidus,
[Cremutius] Cordus,	}
[Asinius] Gallus,
Regulus, [Consul].
Terentius.
[Gracinus] Laco.
Eudemus, [a Physician].
Rufus.
Sejanus.
Latiaris.
Varro, [Consul].
[Sertorius] Macro.
Cotta.
[Domitius] Afer.
Haterius.
Sanquinius.
Pomponius.
[Julius] Posthumus.
[Fulcinus] Trio, Consul.
Minutius.
Satrius [Secundus].
[Pinnarius] Natta.
Opsius.

Agrippina, [Widow of Germanicus].
Livia, [Wife of Drusus senior].
Sosia, [Wife of C. Silius].
Tribuni.
Praecones.
Flamen.
Tubicines.
Nuntius.
Lictores.
Ministri.
Tibicines.
Servus, [etc.].
Scene.—Rome.

The King.
The Earl of Cornwall.
Sir Hugh Lacy, Earl of Lincoln.
Rowland Lacy, otherwise Hans,	} His Nephews.
Askew
Sir Roger Oately, Lord Mayor of London.
Master Hammon,	} Citizens of London.
Master Warner,
Master Scott,
Simon Eyre, the Shoemaker.
Roger, commonly called Hodge,	} Eyre’s Journeymen.
Firk,
Ralph,
Lovell, a Courtier.
Dodger, a Servant to the Earl of Lincoln.
A Dutch Skipper.
A Boy.
Rose, Daughter of Sir Roger.
Sybil, her Maid.
Margery, Wife of Simon Eyre.
Jane, Wife of Ralph.
Courtiers, Attendants, Officers, Soldiers, Hunters, Shoemakers, Apprentices, Servants.

Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan.
Hippolito, a Count, Husband of Infelice.
Orlando Friscobaldo, Father of Bellafront.
Matheo, Husband of Bellafront.
Candido, a Linen-draper.
Lodovico Sforza.
Beraldo.
Carolo.
Fontinell.
Astolfo.
Antonio Georgio, a poor Scholar.
Bryan, an Irish Footman.
Bots, a Pander.
Masters of Bridewell, Prentices, Servants, Constables, Billmen, etc.

Infelice, Wife of Hippolito.
Bellafront, Wife of Matheo.
Candido’s Bride.
Mistress Horseleech, a Bawd.
Dorothea Target,	} Harlots.
Penelope Whorehound,
Catharina Bountinall,

[Members of the Company of His Majesty’s Servants appearing in the Induction
W. Sly.	D. Burbadge.	J. Lowin.
Sinklo.	H. Condell.	A Tire-man.]

Giovanni Altofronto, disguised as Malevole, sometime Duke of Genoa.
Pietro Jacomo, Duke of Genoa.
Mendoza, a minion to the Duchess of Pietro Jacomo.
Celso, a friend to Altofronto.
Bilioso, an old choleric marshal.
Prepasso, a gentleman-usher.
Ferneze, a young courtier, and enamoured on the Duchess.
Ferrardo, a minion to Duke Pietro Jacomo.
Equato,	} two courtiers.
Guerrino,
Passarello, fool to Biliosa.

Aurelia, Duchess to Duke Pietro Jacomo.
Maria, Duchess to Duke Altofronto.
Emilia,	} two ladies attending on Aurelia.
Bianca,
Maquerelle, an old panderess.

Ferdinand [Duke of Calabria].
Cardinal [his brother]
Antonio [Bologna, Steward of the Household to the Duchess].
Delio [his friend].
Daniel de Bosola [Gentleman of the Horse to the Duchess].
[Castruccio, an old Lord.]
Marquis of Pescara.
[Count] Malatesti.
Roderigo,	} [Lords.]
Silvio,
Grisolan,
Doctor.
The Several Madmen.

Duchess [of Malfi].
Cariola [her woman].
[Julia, Castruccio’s wife, and] the Cardinal’s mistress.
[Old Lady.]

Amyclas, Common to the Kings of Laconia.
Ithocles, Honour of loveliness, a Favourite.
Orgilus, Angry, son to Crotolon.
Bassanes, Vexation, a jealous Nobleman.
Armostes, an Appeaser, a Councillor of State.
Crotolon, Noise, another Councillor.
Prophilus, Dear, Friend to Ithocles.
Nearchus, Young Prince, Prince of Argos.
Tecnicus, Artist, a Philosopher.
Hemophil, Glutton,	} two Courtiers.
Groneas, Tavern-haunter,
Amelus, Trusty, Friend to Nearchus.
Phulas, Watchful, Servant to Bassanes.
Lords, Courtiers, Officers, Attendants, etc.
Calantha, Flower of beauty, the King’s Daughter.
Penthea, Complaint, Sister to Ithocles [and Wife to Bassanes].
Euphranea, Joy, a Maid of honour [Daughter to Crotolon].
Christalla, Christal,	} Maids of honour.
Philema, A Kiss,
Grausis,[4124] Old Beldam, Overseer of Penthea.
Persons included.
Thrasus, Fierceness, Father of Ithocles.
Aplotes, Simplicity, Orgilus so disguised.

Sir Francis Acton, Brother to Mistress Frankford.
Sir Charles Mountford.
Master John Frankford.
Master Malby, friend to Sir Francis.
Master Wendoll, friend to Frankford.
Master Cranwell.
Master Shafton, false friend to Sir Charles.
Old Mountford, Uncle to Sir Charles.
Master Sandy.
Master Roder.
Master Tidy, Cousin to Sir Charles.
Nicholas,	}	Household Servants to Frankford.
Roger Brickbat,
Jenkin,
Jack Slime,	}
Spigot,
Butler,
Sheriff.
Keeper of Prison.
Sheriff’s Officers, Serjeant, Huntsmen, Falconers, Coachmen, Carters, Servants, Musicians.

Mistress Anne Frankford.
Susan, Sister to Sir Charles Mountford.
Cicely, Maid to Mistress Frankford.
Women Servants in Master Frankford’s household.]

Prologue.
A Citizen.
His Wife.
Ralph,[2944] his Apprentice.
Boys.

Venturewell, a Merchant.
Humphrey.
Merrythought.
Jasper,	} His Sons.
Michael,
Tim,	} Apprentices.
George,
William Hammerton.
George Greengoose.
Host.
Tapster.
Barber.
Three Men, supposed captives.
Sergeant.
Soldiers and Attendants.

Luce, Daughter of Venturewell.
Mistress Merrythought.
Pompiona, Daughter of the King of Moldavia.
Woman, supposed a captive.

The King of Sicily.
Philaster, Heir to the Crown.
Pharamond, Prince of Spain.
Dion, a Lord.
Cleremont,	} Noble Gentlemen, his associates.
Thrasiline,
An Old Captain.
Five Citizens.
A Country Fellow.
Two Woodmen.
The King’s Guard and Train.

Arethusa, Daughter of the King.
Euphrasia, Daughter of Dion, but disguised like a Page and called Bellario.
Megra, a lascivious Lady.
Galatea, a wise, modest Lady attending the Princess.
Two other Ladies.

King.
Lysippus, brother to the King.
Amintor, [a noble Gentleman.]
Melantius,	} brothers to Evadne.
Diphilus,
Calianax, an old humorous Lord, and father to Aspatia.
Cleon,	} Gentlemen.
Strato,
Diagoras, a servant.
[Lords, Gentlemen, Servants, etc.]

Evadne, wife to Amintor.
Aspatia, troth-plight wife to Amintor.
Antiphila,	} waiting gentlewomen to Aspatia.
Olympias,
Dula, a Lady, [attendant on Evadne.]
[Ladies.]

Masquers.
Night, Cynthia, Neptune, Aeolus, [Sea Gods, Winds.]

Theodorus Witgood.
Pecunius Lucre, his uncle.
Walkadine Hoard.
Onesiphorus Hoard, his brother.
Limber,	}
Kix,
Lamprey,	} friends of Hoard.
Spichcock,
Harry Dampit,	} usurers.
Gulf,
Sam Freedom, son of Mistress Lucre.
Moneylove.
Host.
Sir Launcelot.
Creditors.
Gentlemen.
George.
Arthur.
Drawer.
Boy.
Scrivener.
Servants, &c.

Courtesan.
Mistress Lucre.
Joyce, niece to Hoard.
Lady Foxtone.
Audrey, servant to Dampit.

[Lord] Lovell, an English Lord.
Sir Giles Overreach, a cruel extortioner.
[Frank] Wellborn, a Prodigal.
[Tom] Allworth, a young Gentleman, Page to Lord Lovell.
Greedy, a hungry Justice of Peace.
Marrall, a Term-Driver; a creature of Sir Giles Overreach.
Order [Steward],	}
Amble [Usher],
Furnace [Cook],	} Servants to the Lady Allworth.
Watchall [Porter],
Willdo, a Parson.
Tapwell, an Alehouse Keeper.
Three Creditors, Servants, &c.

The Lady Allworth, a rich Widow.
Margaret, Overreach his daughter.
Froth, Tapwell’s Wife.
Chambermaid.
Waiting Woman.

Lord ——.
Sir Thomas Bornwell.
Sir William Scentlove,	} [Gallants.]
Master Alexander Kickshaw,
Master John Littleworth,
Master Haircut, [a Barber.]
Master Frederick, [nephew to Lady Bornwell.]
Steward to the Lady Aretina.
Steward to the Lady Celestina.
Secretary [to Lord ——].
Servants, etc.

Aretina, Sir Thomas Bornwell’s Lady.
Celestina, a young widow.
Isabella,	} [Friends of Celestina.]
Mariana,
Madam Decoy, [a Procuress.]
[Gentlewoman.]

King of Navarre.
The Cardinal.
Columbo, the Cardinal’s Nephew.
[Count] d’Alvarez.
Hernando, a Colonel.
Alphonso, [a Captain.]
Lords.
[Antonio,] Secretary to the Duchess.
Colonels.
Antonelli, the Cardinal’s Servant.
[Gentleman-Usher.]
Surgeon.
[Jaques, Pedro, and other Servants.]
Guard.
Attendants, etc.

Duchess Rosaura.
Valeria,	} Ladies.
Celinda,
Placentia, a Lady that waits upon the Duchess.

Transcriber’s note

THE CHIEF ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS

PREFACE

CONTENTS

ENDYMION, THE MAN IN THE MOON

THE PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.[2]

Scene II.[7]

Scene III.[10]

Scene IV.[15]

ACT II

Scene I.[19]

Scene II.[21]

Scene III.[30]

ACT III

Scene I.[34]

Scene II.[38]

Scene III.[39]

Scene IV.[56]

ACT IV

Scene I.[59]

Scene II.[62]

Scene III.[76]

ACT V

Scene I.[83]

Scene II.[86]

Scene III.[98]

THE EPILOGUE

THE OLD WIVES TALE

THE HONOURABLE HISTORY OF FRIAR BACON AND FRIAR BUNGAY

[Scene I.][148]

[Scene II.][163]

[Scene III.][172]

[Scene IV.][179]

[Scene V.][183]

[Scene VI.][191]

[Scene VII.][204]

[Scene VIII.][212]

[Scene IX.][218]

[Scene X.][232]

[Scene XI.][244]

[Scene XII.][248]

[Scene XIII.][250]

[Scene XIV.][255]

[Scene XV.][258]

[Scene XVI.][262]

TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT

THE PROLOGUE

ACT I

Scene I.

Scene II.

ACT II

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

[Scene IV.]

[Scene V.]

Scene VI.

[Scene VII.]

ACT III

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

ACT IV

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Scene IV.

ACT V

Scene I.

Scene II.

THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS

[Scene I.]

[Scene II.][398]

[Scene III.][402]

[Scene IV.][412]

[Scene V.]

[Scene VI.[427]

[Scene VII.][434]

ENDYMION,
THE MAN IN THE MOON

THE SPANISH TRAGEDY
OR
HIERONIMO IS MAD AGAIN