_Fortune._ No, endless follies follow endless wealth.

Thou hadst thy fancy, I must have thy fate,

Which is, to die when th’art most fortunate.

This inky thread, thy ugly sins have spun,

Black life, black death; faster! that it were done.

_Fort._ Oh, let me live, but till I can redeem.

_Fortune._ The Destinies deny thee longer life.

_Fort._ I am but now lifted to happiness.

_Fortune._ And now I take most pride to cast thee down.

Hadst thou chosen wisdom, this black had been white,

And Death’s stern brow could not thy soul affright.

_Fort._ Take this again! (_Offering the purse._) Give wisdom to my sons.

_Fortune._ No, fool, ’tis now too late: as death strikes thee,

So shall their ends sudden and wretched be.

Jove’s daughters--righteous Destinies--make haste!

His life hath wasteful been, and let it waste.

[_Exeunt_ FORTUNE _and ~The Three Destinies~_.

_Andel._ Why the pox dost thou sweat so?

_Shad._ For anger to see any of God’s creatures have such filthy

faces as these sempsters[377] had that went hence.

[377] Sempstresses, alluding to their spinning.

_Andel._ Sempsters? why, you ass, they are Destinies.

_Shad._ Indeed, if it be one’s destiny to have a filthy face, I

know no remedy but to go masked and cry “Woe worth the Fates.”

_Amp._ Why droops my father? these are only shadows,

Raised by the malice of some enemy,

To fright your life, o’er which they have no power.

_Shad._ Shadows? I defy their kindred.

_Fort._ O Ampedo, I faint; help me, my sons.

_Andel._ Shadow, I pray thee run and call more help.

_Shad._ If that desperate Don Dego[378] Death hath ta’en up the

cudgels once, here’s never a fencer in Cyprus dare take my old

master’s part.

[378] See _The Devil’s Answer to Pierce Pennylesse_, p. 100,

“that great Dego of Devils.”--_Dekker’s Non-Dramatic Works._

_Andel._ Run, villain, call more help.

_Shad._ Bid him thank the Destinies for this. [_Exit._

_Fort._ Let me shrink down, and die between your arms,

Help comes in vain. No hand can conquer fate,

This instant is the last of my life’s date.

This goddess, if at least she be a goddess,

Names herself Fortune: wand’ring in a wood,

Half famished, her I met. I have, quoth she,

Six gifts to spend upon mortality,

Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life and riches.

Out of my bounty one of these is thine.

_Amp._ What benefit did from your choice arise?

_Fort._ Listen, my sons! in this small compass lies

Infinite treasure: this she gave to me,

And gave to this, this virtue, Take, quoth she,

So often as from hence thou draw’st thy hand,

Ten golden pieces of that kingdom’s coin,

Where’er thou liv’st; which plenteous sure shall last,

After thy death, till thy sons’ lives do waste.

_Andel._ Father, your choice was rare, the gift divine.

_Fort._ It had been so, if riches had been mine.

_Amp._ But hath this golden virtue never failed?

_Fort._ Never.

_Andel._ O admirable: here’s a fire

Hath power to thaw the very heart of death,

And give stones life; by this most sacred breath,[379]

See brother, here’s all India in my hand.

[379] Death, in original,--an evident misprint.

_Fort._ Inherit you, my sons, that golden land.

This hat I brought away from Babylon,

I robbed the Soldan of it, ’tis a prize

Worth twenty empires in this jewel lies.

_Andel._ How, father? jewel? call you this a jewel? it’s coarse

wool, a bald fashion, and greasy to the brim; I have bought a

better felt for a French crown forty times: of what virtuous

block is this hat, I pray?

_Fort._ Set it upon thy head, and wish a wish,

Thou in the moment, on the wind’s swift wings,

Shalt be transported into any place.

_Andel._ A wishing hat, and a golden mine?

_Fort._ O Andelocia, Ampedo, now Death

Sounds his third summons, I must hence! These jewels

To both I do bequeath; divide them not,

But use them equally: never bewray

What virtues are in them; for if you do,

Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you.

Peruse this book; farewell! behold in me

The rotten strength of proud mortality. [_Dies._

_Amp._ His soul is wandering to the Elysian shades.

_Andel._ The flower that’s fresh at noon, at sunset fades.

Brother, close you down his eyes, because you were his eldest;

and with them close up your tears, whilst I as all younger

brothers do, shift for myself: let us mourn, because he’s dead,

but mourn the less, because he cannot revive. The honour we can

do him, is to bury him royally; let’s about it then, for I’ll

not melt myself to death with scalding sighs, nor drop my soul

out at mine eyes, were my father an emperor.

_Amp._ Hence, hence, thou stop’st the tide of my true tears.

True grief is dumb, though it hath open ears.

_Andel._ Yet God send my grief a tongue, that I may have good

utterance for it: sob on, brother mine, whilst you sigh there,

I’ll sit and read what story my father has written here.

[_They both fall asleep_: FORTUNE _and a

company of ~Satyrs~ enter with music, and playing about_

FORTUNATUS’ _body, take it away. Afterwards_

SHADOW _enters running_.

_Shad._ I can get none, I can find none: where are you, master?

Have I ta’en you napping? and you too? I see sorrow’s eye-lids

are made of a dormouse skin, they seldom open, or of a miser’s

purse, that’s always shut. So ho, master.

_Andel._ Shadow, why how now? what’s the matter?

_Shad._ I can get none, sir, ’tis impossible.

_Amp._ What is impossible? what canst not get?

_Shad._ No help for my old master.

_Andel._ Hast thou been all this while calling for help?

_Shad._ Yes, sir: he scorned all Famagosta when he was in his

huffing,[380] and now he lies puffing for wind, they say they

scorn him.

[380] Swaggering mood.

_Amp._ The poison of their scorn infects not him;

He wants no help. See where he breathless lies:

Brother, to what place have you borne his body?

_Andel._ I bear it? I touched it not.

_Amp._ Nor I: a leaden slumber pressed mine eyes.

_Shad._ Whether it were lead or latten[381] that hasped down

those winking casements, I know not, but I found you both

snorting.

[381] Ital. _Latta_, tin-plate.

_Amp._ And in that sleep, methought, I heard the tunes

Of sullen passions apt for funerals,

And saw my father’s lifeless body borne

By Satyrs: O I fear that deity

Hath stolen him hence!--that snudge, his destiny.

_Andel._ I fear he’s risen again; didst not thou meet him?

_Shad._ I, sir? do you think this white and red durst have

kissed my sweet cheeks, if they had seen a ghost? But, master,

if the Destinies, or Fortune, or the Fates, or the Fairies have

stolen him, never indict them for the felony: for by this means

the charges of a tomb is saved, and you being his heirs, may do

as many rich executors do, put that money in your purses, and

give out that he died a beggar.

_Andel._ Away, you rogue, my father die a beggar!

I’ll build a tomb for him of massy gold.

_Shad._ Methinks, master, it were better to let the memory of

him shine in his own virtues, if he had any, than in alabaster.

_Andel._ I shall mangle that alabaster face, you whoreson

virtuous vice.

_Shad._ He has a marble heart, that can mangle a face of

alabaster.

_Andel._ Brother, come, come, mourn not; our father is but

stepped to agree with Charon for his boat hire to Elysium. See,

here’s a story of all his travels; this book shall come out

with a new addition: I’ll tread after my father’s steps; I’ll

go measure the world, therefore let’s share these jewels, take

this, or this!

_Amp._ Will you then violate our father’s will?

_Andel._ A Puritan!--keep a dead man’s will? Indeed in the old

time, when men were buried in soft church-yards, that their

ghosts might rise, it was good: but, brother, now they are

imprisoned in strong brick and marble, they are fast. Fear not:

away, away, these are fooleries, gulleries, trumperies; here’s

this or this, or I am gone with both!

_Amp._ Do you as you please, the sin shall not be mine. Fools

call those things profane that are divine.

_Andel._ Are you content to wear the jewels by turns? I’ll have

the purse for a year, you the hat, and as much gold as you’ll

ask; and when my pursership ends, I’ll resign, and cap you.

_Amp._ I am content to bear all discontents. [_Exit._

_Andel._ I should serve this bearing ass rarely now, if I should

load him, but I will not. Though conscience be like physic,

seldom used, for so it does least hurt, yet I’ll take a dram of

it. This for him, and some gold: this for me; for having this

mint about me, I shall want no wishing cap. Gold is an eagle,

that can fly to any place, and, like death, that dares enter all

places. Shadow, wilt thou travel with me?

_Shad._ I shall never fadge[382] with the humour because I

cannot lie.

[382] Succeed.

_Andel._ Thou dolt, we’ll visit all the kings’ courts in the

world.

_Shad._ So we may, and return dolts home, but what shall we

learn by travel?

_Andel._ Fashions.[383]

[383] Farcy, a disease to which horses are subject, still

sometimes miscalled “Fashions” by country farriers. Dekker puns

on it again in _The Gull’s Horn-Book_:--“Fashions then was

counted a disease, and horses died of it: But now (thanks to

folly) it is held the only rare physic, and the purest golden

Asses live upon it.”

_Shad._ That’s a beastly disease: methinks it’s better staying

in your own country.

_Andel._ How? In mine own country--like a cage-bird, and see

nothing?

_Shad._ Nothing? yes, you may see things enough, for what can

you see abroad that is not at home? The same sun calls you up in

the morning, and the same man in the moon lights you to bed at

night; our fields are as green as theirs in summer, and their

frosts will nip us more in winter: our birds sing as sweetly and

our women are as fair: in other countries you shall have one

drink to you; whilst you kiss your hand, and duck,[384] he’ll

poison you: I confess you shall meet more fools, and asses, and

knaves abroad than at home. Yet God be thanked we have pretty

store of all. But for punks,[385] we put them down.

[384] Bow.

[385] Prostitutes.

_Andel._ Prepare thy spirits, for thou shalt go with me.

To England shall our stars direct our course;

Thither the Prince of Cyprus, our king’s son,

Is gone to see the lovely Agripyne.

Shadow, we’ll gaze upon that English dame,

And try what virtue gold has to inflame.

First to my brother, then away let’s fly;

Shadow must be a courtier ere he die. [_Exit._

_Shad._ If I must, the Fates shall be served: I have seen many

clowns courtiers, then why not Shadow? Fortune, I am for thee.

[_Exit._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--_London. The Court of_ ATHELSTANE.

_Enter_ ORLEANS _melancholy_, GALLOWAY _with him; a ~Boy~ after them

with a lute_.

ORLE. Begone: leave that with me, and leave me to myself; if the

king ask for me, swear to him I am sick, and thou shalt not lie;

pray thee leave me.

_Boy._ I am gone, sir. [_Exit._

_Orle._ This music makes me but more out of tune.

O, Agripyne.

_Gall._ Gentle friend, no more.

Thou sayest love is a madness, hate it then,

Even for the name’s sake.

_Orle._ O, I love that madness,

Even for the name’s sake.

_Gall._ Let me tame this frenzy,

By telling thee thou art a prisoner here,

By telling thee she’s daughter to a king,

By telling thee the King of Cyprus’ son

Shines like a sun, between her looks and thine,

Whilst thou seem’st but a star to Agripyne:

He loves her.

_Orle._ If he do: why so do I.

_Gall._ Love is ambitious, and loves majesty.

_Orle._ Dear friend, thou art deceived, love’s voice doth sing

As sweetly in a beggar as a king.

_Gall._ Dear friend, thou art deceived: O bid thy soul

Lift up her intellectual eyes to Heaven,

And in this ample book of wonders read,

Of what celestial mould, what sacred essence,

Herself is formed, the search whereof will drive

Sounds musical among the jarring spirits,

And in sweet tune set that which none inherits.

_Orle._ I’ll gaze on Heaven if Agripyne be there:

If not: fa, la, la, sol, la, &c.

_Gall._ O, call this madness in; see, from the windows

Of every eye derision thrusts out cheeks,

Wrinkled with idiot laughter; every finger

Is like a dart shot from the hand of scorn,

By which thy name is hurt, thine honour torn.

_Orle._ Laugh they at me, sweet Galloway?

_Gall._ Even at thee.

_Orle._ Ha, ha, I laugh at them, are not they mad

That let my true true sorrow make them glad?

I dance and sing only to anger grief,

That in that anger, he might smite life down

With his iron fist. Good heart, it seemeth then,

They laugh to see grief kill me: O, fond men,

You laugh at others’ tears; when others smile,

You tear yourselves in pieces: vile, vile, vile!

Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of fools,

Crowding together to be counted wise,

I laugh because sweet Agripyne’s not there,

But weep because she is not anywhere,

And weep because whether she be or not,

My love was ever, and is still, forgot: forgot, forgot, forgot.

_Gall._ Draw back this stream, why should my Orleans mourn?

_Orle._ Look yonder, Galloway, dost thou see that sun?

Nay, good friend, stare upon it, mark it well,

Ere he be two hours older, all that glory

Is banished Heaven, and then for grief this sky,

That’s now so jocund, will mourn all in black,

And shall not Orleans mourn? Alack, alack!

O what a savage tyranny it were

T’enforce care laugh, and woe not shed a tear!

Dead is my love, I am buried in her scorn,

That is my sunset, and shall I not mourn?

Yes, by my troth I will.

_Gall._ Dear friend, forbear,

Beauty, like sorrow, dwelleth everywhere.

Rase out this strong idea of her face,

As fair as hers shineth in any place.

_Orle._ Thou art a traitor to that white and red,

Which, sitting on her cheeks, being Cupid’s throne,

Is my heart’s sovereign: O, when she is dead,

This wonder, beauty, shall be found in none.

Now Agripyne’s not mine, I vow to be

In love with nothing but deformity.

O fair Deformity, I muse all eyes

Are not enamoured of thee: thou didst never

Murder men’s hearts, or let them pine like wax,

Melting against the sun of destiny;

Thou art a faithful nurse to chastity;

Thy beauty is not like to Agripyne’s,

For cares, and age, and sickness hers deface,

But thine’s eternal. O Deformity,

Thy fairness is not like to Agripyne’s,

For dead, her beauty will no beauty have,

But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.

_Enter the_ PRINCE OF CYPRUS _and_ AGRIPYNE.

_Gall._ See where they come together, hand in hand.

_Orle._ O watch, sweet Galloway, when their hands do part,

Between them shalt thou find my murdered heart.

_Cypr._ By this then it seems a thing impossible, to know when

an English lady loves truly.

_Agrip._ Not so, for when her soul steals into her heart, and

her heart leaps up to her eyes, and her eyes drop into her

hands, then if she say, Here’s my hand! she’s your own,--else

never.

_Cyp._ Here’s a pair of your prisoners, let’s try their opinion.

_Agrip._ My kind prisoners, well encountered; the Prince of

Cyprus here and myself have been wrangling about a question

of love: my lord of Orleans, you look lean, and likest a

lover--Whether is it more torment to love a lady and never enjoy

her, or always to enjoy a lady whom you cannot choose but hate?

_Orle._ To hold her ever in mine arms whom I loath in my heart,

were some plague, yet the punishment were no more than to be

enjoined to keep poison in my hand, yet never to taste it.

_Agrip._ But say you should be compelled to swallow the poison?

_Orle._ Then a speedy death would end a speeding misery. But to

love a lady and never enjoy her, oh it is not death, but worse

than damnation; ’tis hell, ’tis----

_Agrip._ No more, no more, good Orleans; nay then, I see my

prisoner is in love too.

_Cypr._ Methinks, soldiers cannot fall into the fashion of love.

_Agrip._ Methinks a soldier is the most faithful lover of all

men else; for his affection stands not upon compliment. His

wooing is plain home-spun stuff; there’s no outlandish thread in

it, no rhetoric. A soldier casts no figures to get his mistress’

heart; his love is like his valour in the field, when he pays

downright blows.

_Gall._ True, madam, but would you receive such payment?

_Agrip._ No, but I mean, I love a soldier best for his plain

dealing.

_Cypr._ That’s as good as the first.

_Agrip._ Be it so, that goodness I like: for what lady can abide

to love a spruce silken-face courtier, that stands every morning

two or three hours learning how to look by his glass, how to

speak by his glass, how to sigh by his glass, how to court his

mistress by his glass? I would wish him no other plague, but to

have a mistress as brittle as glass.

_Gall._ And that were as bad as the horn plague.

_Cypr._ Are any lovers possessed with this madness?

_Agrip._ What madmen are not possessed with this love? Yet by my

troth, we poor women do but smile in our sleeves to see all this

foppery: yet we all desire to see our lovers attired gallantly,

to hear them sing sweetly, to behold them dance comely and such

like. But this apish monkey fashion of effeminate niceness, out

upon it! Oh, I hate it worse than to be counted a scold.

_Cypr._ Indeed, men are most regarded, when they least regard

themselves.

_Gall._ And women most honoured, when they show most mercy to

their lovers.

_Orle._ But is’t not a miserable tyranny, to see a lady triumph

in the passions of a soul languishing through her cruelty?

_Cypr._ Methinks it is.

_Gall._ Methinks ’tis more than tyranny.

_Agrip._ So think not I; for as there is no reason to hate any

that love us, so it were madness to love all that do not hate

us; women are created beautiful, only because men should woo

them; for ’twere miserable tyranny to enjoin poor women to

woo men: I would not hear of a woman in love, for my father’s

kingdom.

_Cypr._ I never heard of any woman that hated love.

_Agrip._ Nor I: but we had all rather die than confess we love;

our glory is to hear men sigh whilst we smile, to kill them with

a frown, to strike them dead with a sharp eye, to make you this

day wear a feather, and to-morrow a sick nightcap. Oh, why this

is rare, there’s a certain deity in this, when a lady by the

magic of her looks, can turn a man into twenty shapes.

_Orle._ Sweet friend, she speaks this but to torture me.

_Gall._ I’ll teach thee how to plague her: love her not.

_Agrip._ Poor Orleans, how lamentably he looks: if he stay,

he’ll make me surely love him for pure pity. I must send him

hence, for of all sorts of love, I hate the French; I pray thee,

sweet prisoner, entreat Lord Longaville to come to me presently.

_Orle._ I will, and esteem myself more than happy, that you will

employ me. [_Exit._

_Agrip._ Watch him, watch him for God’s sake, if he sigh not or

look not back.

_Cypr._ He does both: but what mystery lies in this?

_Agrip._ Nay, no mystery, ’tis as plain as Cupid’s forehead: why

this is as it should be.--“And esteem myself more than happy,

that you will employ me.” My French prisoner is in love over

head and ears.

_Cypr._ It’s wonder how he ’scapes drowning.

_Gall._ With whom, think you?

_Agrip._ With his keeper, for a good wager: Ah, how glad is

he to obey! And how proud am I to command in this empire of

affection! Over him and such spongy-livered youths, that lie

soaking in love, I triumph more with mine eye, than ever he did

over a soldier with his sword. Is’t not a gallant victory for me

to subdue my father’s enemy with a look? Prince of Cyprus, you

were best take heed, how you encounter an English lady.

_Cypr._ God bless me from loving any of you, if all be so cruel.

_Agrip._ God bless me from suffering you to love me, if you be

not so formable.

_Cypr._ Will you command me any service, as you have done

Orleans?

_Agrip._ No other service but this, that, as Orleans, you love

me, for no other reason, but that I may torment you.

_Cypr._ I will: conditionally, that in all company I may call

you my tormentor.

_Agrip._ You shall: conditionally, that you never beg for mercy.

Come, my Lord of Galloway.

_Gall._ Come, sweet madam.

[_Exeunt all except the_ PRINCE OF CYPRUS.

_Cypr._ The ruby-coloured portals of her speech

Were closed by mercy: but upon her eye,

Attired in frowns, sat murdering cruelty.

_Re-enter_ AGRIPYNE _and listens_.

She’s angry, that I durst so high aspire.

O, she disdains that any stranger’s breast

Should be a temple for her deity:

She’s full of beauty, full of bitterness.

Till now, I did not dally with love’s fire:

And when I thought to try his flames indeed,

I burnt me even to cinders. O, my stars,

Why from my native shore did your beams guide me,

To make me dote on her that doth deride me?

[AGRIPYNE _kneels_: CYPRUS _walks musing_.

_Agrip._ Hold him in this mind, sweet Cupid, I conjure thee. O,

what music these hey-hos make! I was about to cast my little

self into a great love trance for him, fearing his heart had

been flint: but since I see ’tis pure virgin wax, he shall melt

his bellyful: for now I know how to temper him. [_Exit; as she

departs_ CYPRUS _spies her_.

_Cypr._ Never beg mercy? yet be my tormentor.

I hope she heard me not: doubtless she did,

And now will she insult upon my passions,

And vex my constant love with mockeries.

Nay, then I’ll be mine own physician,

And outface love, and make her think that I

Mourned thus, because I saw her standing by.

What news, my Lord of Cornwall?

_Enter_ CORNWALL.

_Cornw._ This fair prince,

One of your countrymen, is come to court,

A lusty gallant brave, in Cyprus’ isle,

With fifty bard[386] horses prancing at his heels,

Backed by as many strong-limbed Cypriots,

All whom he keeps in pay: whose offered service,

Our king with arms of gladness hath embraced.

[386] Barded, or barbed: _i.e._ Adorned with trappings.

_Cypr._ Born in the isle of Cyprus? what’s his name?

_Cornw._ His servants call him Fortunatus’ son.

_Cypr._ Rich Fortunatus’ son? Is he arrived?

_Enter_ LONGAVILLE, GALLOWAY, _and_

CHESTER _with jewels_.

_Longa._ This he bestowed on me.

_Chest._ And this on me.

_Gall._ And this his bounteous hand enforced me take.

_Longa._ I prize this jewel at a hundred marks,[387]

Yet would he needs bestow this gift on me.

[387] The mark was worth 13_s._ 4_d._

_Cypr._ My lords, whose hand hath been thus prodigal?

_Gall._ Your countryman, my lord, a Cypriot.

_Longa._ The gallant sure is all compact of gold,

To every lady hath he given rich jewels,

And sent to every servant in the court

Twenty fair English angels.[388]

[388] The angel varied from 6_s._ 8_d._ to 10_s._ in value.

_Cypr._ This is rare.

_Enter_ LINCOLN.

_Linc._ My lords, prepare yourselves for revelling,

’Tis the king’s pleasure that this day be spent

In royal pastimes, that this golden lord,

For so all that behold him, christen him,

May taste the pleasures of our English court.

Here comes the gallant, shining like the sun. [_Trumpets sound._

_Enter_ ATHELSTANE, ANDELOCIA,

AGRIPYNE, ORLEANS, _~Ladies~, and other

~Attendants~, also_ INSULTADO. _Music sounds within._

_Andel._ For these your royal favours done to me,

Being a poor stranger, my best powers shall prove,

By acts of worth, the soundness of my love.

_Athelst._ Herein your love shall best set out itself,

By staying with us: if our English isle

Hold any object welcome to your eyes,

Do but make choice, and claim it as your prize. [_The_

KING _and_ CYPRUS _confer aside_.

_Andel._ I thank your grace: would he durst keep his word,

I know what I would claim. Tush, man, be bold,

Were she a saint, she may be won with gold.

_Cypr._ ’Tis strange, I must confess, but in this pride,

His father Fortunatus, if he live,

Consumes his life in Cyprus: still he spends,

And still his coffers with abundance swell,

But how he gets these riches none can tell. [_The_ KING

_and_ AGRIPYNE _confer aside_.

_Athelst._ Hold him in talk: come hither, Agripyne.

_Cypr._ But what enticed young Andelocia’s soul

To wander hither?

_Andel._ That which did allure

My sovereign’s son, the wonder of the place.

_Agrip._ This curious heap of wonders, which an Empress

Gave him, he gave me, and by Venus’ hand,

The warlike Amorato needs would swear,

He left his country Cyprus for my love.

_Athelst._ If by the sovereign magic of thine eye,

Thou canst enchant his looks to keep the circles

Of thy fair cheeks, be bold to try their charms,

Feed him with hopes, and find the royal vein,

That leads this Cypriot to his golden mine.

Here’s music spent in vain, lords, fall to dancing.

_Cypr._ My fair tormentor, will you lend a hand?

_Agrip._ I’ll try this stranger’s cunning[389] in a dance.

[389] Skill.

_Andel._ My cunning is but small, yet who’ll not prove

To shame himself for such a lady’s love?

_Orle._ These Cypriots are the devils that torture me.

He courts her, and she smiles, but I am born

To be her beauty’s slave, and her love’s scorn.

_Andel._ I shall never have the face to ask the question twice.

_Agrip._ What’s the reason? Cowardliness or pride?

_Andel._ Neither: but ’tis the fashion of us Cypriots, both

men and women, to yield at first assault, and we expect others

should do the like.

_Agrip._ It’s a sign, that either your women are very black, and

are glad to be sped, or your men very fond, and will take no

denial.

_Andel._ Indeed our ladies are not so fair as you.

_Agrip._ But your men more venturous at a breach than you, or

else they are all dastardly soldiers.

_Andel._ He that fights under these sweet colours, and yet turns

coward, let him be shot to death with the terrible arrows of

fair ladies’ eyes.

_Athelst._ Nay, Insultado, you must not deny us.

_Insultad._ _Mi corazon es muy pesado, mi anima muy atormentada.

No por los Cielos: El pie de Español no hace musica en tierra

ingles._[390]

[390] “My heart is weighed down, my soul much tormented. No,

by Heaven, the Spanish foot does not beat to music on English

ground.”

_Cypr._ Sweet Insultado, let us see you dance.

I have heard the Spanish dance is full of state.

_Insultad._ _Verdad, señor: la danza española es muy alta,

Majestica, y para monarcas: vuestra Inglesa,

Baja, fantastica, y muy humilde._[391]

[391] “The truth, sir; the Spanish dance is full of state,

majestic, and fit for monarchs: your English low, fantastic, and

very humble.”

_Agrip._ Doth my Spanish prisoner deny to dance? He has sworn

to me by the cross of his pure Toledo, to be my servant: by that

oath, my Castilian prisoner, I conjure you to show your cunning;

though all your body be not free, I am sure your heels are at

liberty.

_Insultad._ _Nolo quiero contra deseo; vuestro ojo hace

conquista á su prisionero: Oyerer la a pavan española; sea

vuestra musica y gravidad, y majestad: Paje, daime tabacco, toma

my capa, y my espada. Mas alta, mas alta: Desviaios, desviaios,

compañeros, mas alta, mas alta._[392] [_He dances._

[392] “I desire only to please you: your eye has conquered its

prisoner. You shall hear the Spanish Pavan, let your music be

grave and majestic: Page, give me tobacco; take my cloak and

my sword. Higher, higher: Make way, make way friends, higher,

higher.” The Pavan was a stately Spanish dance.

_Athelst._ Thanks, Insultado.

_Cypr._ ’Tis most excellent.

_Agrip._ The Spaniard’s dance is as his deeds be, full of pride.

_Athelst._ The day grows old, and what remains unspent,

Shall be consumed in banquets. Agripyne,

Leave us a while, if Andelocia please,

Go bear our beauteous daughter company.

_And._ Fortune, I thank thee: now thou smil’st on me. [_Exeunt_

AGRIPYNE, ANDELOCIA, _and ~Ladies~_.

_Athelst._ This Cypriot bears a gallant princely mind.

My lord, of what birth is your countryman?

Think not, sweet prince, that I propound this question,

To wrong you in your love to Agripyne:

Our favours grace him to another end.

Nor let the wings of your affection droop,

Because she seems to shun love’s gentle lure.

Believe it on our word, her beauty’s prize

Only shall yield a conquest to your eyes.

But tell me what’s this Fortunatus’ son?

_Cypr._ Of honourable blood, and more renowned

In foreign kingdoms, whither his proud spirit,

Plumed with ambitious feathers, carries him,

Than in his native country; but last day

The father and the sons were, through their riots,

Poor and disdained of all, but now they glister

More bright than Midas: if some damnèd fiend

Fed not his bags, this golden pride would end.

_Athelst._ His pride we’ll somewhat tame, and curb the head

Of his rebellious prodigality:

He hath invited us, and all our peers,

To feast with him to-morrow; his provision,

I understand, may entertain three kings.

But Lincoln, let our subjects secretly

Be charged on pain of life that not a man

Sell any kind of fuel to his servants.

_Cypr._ This policy shall clip his golden wings,

And teach his pride what ’tis to strive with kings.

_Athelst._ Withdraw awhile: [_Exeunt all except_ ATHELSTANE.

None filled his hands with gold, for we set spies,

To watch who fed his prodigality:

He hung the marble bosom of our court,

As thick with glist’ring spangles of pure gold,

As e’er the spring hath stuck the earth with flowers.

Unless he melt himself to liquid gold,

Or be some god, some devil, or can transport

A mint about him, by enchanted power,

He cannot rain such showers. With his own hands

He threw more wealth about in every street,

Than could be thrust into a chariot.

He’s a magician sure, and to some fiend,

His soul by infernal covenants has he sold,

Always to swim up to the chin in gold.

Be what he can be, if those doting fires,

Wherein he burns for Agripyne’s love,

Want power to melt from him this endless mine,

Then like a slave we’ll chain him in our tower,

Where tortures shall compel his sweating hands

To cast rich heaps into our treasury. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_The same._

_Music sounding still; a curtain being drawn_, ANDELOCIA _is discovered

sleeping in_ AGRIPYNE’S _lap; she has his purse, and she and another

lady tie another like it in its place, and then rise from him. Enter_

ATHELSTANE.

_Agrip._ I have found the sacred spring that never ebbs.

Leave us: [_Exit ~Lady~._] But I’ll not show’t your majesty

Till you have sworn by England’s royal crown,

To let me keep it.

_Athelst._ By my crown I swear,

None but fair Agripyne the gem shall wear.

_Agrip._ Then is this mine: see, father, here’s the fire

Whose gilded beams still burn, this is the sun

That ever shines, the tree that never dies,

Here grows the Garden of Hesperides;

The outside mocks you, makes you think ’tis poor,

But entering it, you find eternal store.

_Athelst._ Art sure of this? How didst thou drive it out?

_Agrip._ Fear not his waking yet, I made him drink

That soporiferous juice which was composed

To make the queen,[393] my mother, relish sleep,

When her last sickness summoned her to Heaven.

He sleeps profoundly: when his amorous eyes

Had singed their wings in Cupid’s wanton flames,

I set him all on fire, and promised love,

In pride whereof, he drew me forth this purse,

And swore, by this he multiplied his gold.

I tried and found it true: and secretly

Commanded music with her silver tongue,

To chime soft lullabies into his soul,

And whilst my fingers wantoned with his hair,

T’entice the sleepy juice to charm his eyes,

In all points was there made a purse, like his,

Which counterfeit is hung in place of this.

[393] History does not record that Athelstane had either wife or

daughter.

_Athelst._ More than a second kingdom hast thou won.

Leave him, that when he wakes he may suspect,

Some else has robbed him; come, dear Agripyne,

If this strange purse his sacred virtues hold,

We’ll circle England with a wall of gold. [_Exeunt._

_Music still: Enter_ SHADOW _very gallant, reading a

bill, with empty bags in his hand, singing._

_Shad._ These English occupiers are mad Trojans: let a man

pay them never so much, they’ll give him nothing but the bag.

Since my master created me steward over his fifty men, and his

one-and-fifty horse, I have rid over much business, yet never

was galled, I thank the destinies. Music? O delicate warble: O

these courtiers are most sweet triumphant creatures! Seignior,

sir, monsieur, sweet seignior: this is the language of the

accomplishment. O delicious strings; these heavenly wire-drawers

have stretched my master even out at length: yet at length he

must wake. Master?

_Andel._ Wake me not yet, my gentle Agripyne.

_Shad._ One word, sir, for the billets, and I vanish.

_Andel._ There’s Heaven in these times: throw the musicians

A bounteous largesse of three hundred angels. [ANDELOCIA _starts up_.

_Shad._ Why, sir, I have but ten pounds left.

_Andel._ Ha, Shadow? where’s the Princess Agripyne?

_Shad._ I am not Apollo, I cannot reveal.

_Andel._ Was not the princess here, when thou cam’st in?

_Shad._ Here was no princess but my princely self.

_Andel._ In faith?

_Shad._ No, in faith, sir.

_Andel._ Where are you hid? where stand you wantoning? Not here?

gone, i’faith? have you given me the slip? Well, ’tis but an

amorous trick, and so I embrace it: my horse, Shadow, how fares

my horse?

_Shad._ Upon the best oats my under-steward can buy.

_Andel._ I mean, are they lusty, sprightly, gallant, wanton,

fiery?

_Shad._ They are as all horses are, caterpillars to the

commonwealth, they are ever munching: but, sir, for these

billets, and these fagots and bavins?

_Andel._ ’Sheart, what billets, what fagots? dost make me a

woodmonger?

_Shad._ No, sweet seignior, but you have bid the king and his

peers to dinner, and he has commanded that no woodmonger sell

you a stick of wood, and that no collier shall cozn you of your

measure, but must tie up the mouth of their sacks, lest their

coals kindle your choler.

_Andel._ Is’t possible? is’t true, or hast thou learnt of the

English gallants to gull?

_Shad._ He’s a gull that would be taught by such gulls.

_Andel._ Not a stick of wood? Some child of envy has buzzed this

stratagem into the king’s ear, of purpose to disgrace me. I have

invited his majesty, and though it cost me a million, I’ll feast

him. Shadow, thou shalt hire a hundred or two of carts, with

them post to all the grocers in London, buy up all the cinnamon,

cloves, nutmegs, liquorice and all other spices, that have any

strong heart, and with them make fires to prepare our cookery.

Ere Fortunatus’ son look red with shame,

He’ll dress a king’s feast in a spicèd flame.

_Shad._ This device, sir, will be somewhat akin to Lady Pride,

’twill ask cost.

_Andel._ Fetch twenty porters, I’ll lade all with gold.

_Shad._ First, master, fill these bags.

_Andel._ Come then, hold up. How now? tricks, new crotchets,

Madame Fortune? Dry as an eel-skin? Shadow, take thou my gold

out.

_Shad._ Why, sir, here’s none in.

_Andel._ Ha, let me see: O here’s a bastard cheek,

I see now ’tis not mine; ’tis counterfeit,

’Tis so! Slave, thou hast robbed thy master.

_Shad._ Not of a penny, I have been as true a steward--

_Andel._ Vengeance on thee and on thy stewardship!

Yet wherefore curse I thee? thy leaden soul

Had never power to mount up to the knowledge

Of the rich mystery closed in my purse.

Oh no, I’ll curse myself, mine eyes I’ll curse,

They have betrayed me; I will curse my tongue,

That hath betrayed me; I’ll curse Agripyne,

She hath betrayed me. Sirens, cease to sing,

Your charms have ta’en effect, for now I see,

All your enchantments were, to cozen me. [_Music ceases._

_Shad._ What shall I do with this ten pound, sir?

_Andel._ Go buy with it a chain and hang thyself.

Now think I on my father’s prophecy.

Tell none, quoth he, the virtue, if you do,

Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you.

With tears I credit his divinity.

O fingers, were you upright justices,

You would tear out mine eyes! had not they gazed

On the frail colour of a painted cheek,

None had betrayed me: henceforth I’ll defy

All beauty, and will call a lovely eye,

A sun whose scorching beams burn up our joys,

Or turn them black like Ethiopians.

O women, wherefore are you born men’s woe,

Why are your faces framed angelical?

Your hearts of sponges, soft and smooth in show,

But touched, with poison they do overflow.

Had sacred wisdom been my father’s fate,

He had died happy, I lived fortunate.

Shadow, bear this to beauteous Agripyne,

With it this message, tell her, I’ll reprove

Her covetous sin the less, because for gold,

I see that most men’s souls too cheap are sold.

_Shad._ Shall I buy these spices to-day or to-morrow?

_Andel._ To-morrow? ay, to-morrow thou shalt buy them.

To-morrow tell the princess I will love her,

To-morrow tell the king I’ll banquet him,

To-morrow, Shadow, will I give thee gold;

To-morrow pride goes bare and lust acold.

To-morrow will the rich man feed the poor,

And vice to-morrow virtue will adore.

To-morrow beggars shall be crownèd kings,

This no-time, morrow’s-time, no sweetness sings:

I pray thee hence; bear that to Agripyne.

_Shad._ I’ll go hence, because you send me; but I’ll go weeping

hence, for grief that I must turn villain as many do, and leave

you when you are up to the ears in adversity. [_Exit._

_Andel._ She hath robbed me, and now I’ll play the thief,

Ay, steal from hence to Cyprus, for black shame

Here, through my riots, brands my lofty name.

I’ll sell this pride for help to bear me thither,

So pride and beggary shall walk together.

This world is but a school of villany,

Therefore I’ll rob my brother, not of gold,

Nor of his virtues, virtue none will steal--

But, if I can, I’ll steal his wishing hat,

And with that, wandering round about the world,

I’ll search all corners to find Misery,

And where she dwells, I’ll dwell, languish and die. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE FOURTH.

Chorus. Gentles, if e’er you have beheld the passions,

The combats of his soul, who being a king,

By some usurping hand hath been deposed

From all his royalties: even such a soul,

Such eyes, such heart swol’n big with sighs and tears,

The star-crossed son of Fortunatus wears.

His thoughts crowned him a monarch in the morn,

Yet now he’s bandied by the seas in scorn

From wave to wave: his golden treasure’s spoil

Makes him in desperate language to entreat

The winds to spend their fury on his life:

But they, being mild in tyranny, or scorning

To triumph in a wretch’s funeral,

Toss him to Cyprus. Oh, what treachery

Cannot this serpent gold entice us to?

He robs his brother of the Soldan’s prize,

And having got his wish, the wishing hat,

He does not, as he vowed, seek misery,

But hopes by that to win his purse again,

And in that hope from Cyprus is he fled.

If your swift thoughts clap on their wonted wings,

In Genoa may you take this fugitive,

Where having cozened many jewellers,

To England back he comes; step but to court,

And there disguised you find him bargaining

For jewels with the beauteous Agripyne,

Who wearing at her side the virtuous purse,

He clasps her in his arms, and as a raven,

Griping the tender-hearted nightingale,

So flies he with her, wishing in the air

To be transported to some wilderness:

Imagine this the place; see, here they come!

Since they themselves have tongues, mine shall be dumb. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

SCENE I.--_A Wilderness._

_Enter_ ANDELOCIA _with the wishing hat on, and dragging_ AGRIPYNE

_by the hand_.

Agrip. What devil art thou that affright’st me thus,

Haling a princess from her father’s court,

To spoil her in this savage wilderness?

_Andel._ Indeed the devil and the pick-purse should always fly

together, for they are sworn brothers: but Madam Covetousness,

I am neither a devil as you call me, nor a jeweller as I call

myself; no, nor a juggler,--yet ere you and I part, we’ll have

some legerdemain together. Do you know me?

_Agrip._ I am betrayed: this is the Cypriot.

Forgive me, ’twas not I that changed thy purse,

But Athelstane my father; send me home,

And here’s thy purse again: here are thy jewels,

And I in satisfaction of all wrongs--

_Andel._ Talk not you of satisfaction, this is some recompense,

that I have you. ’Tis not the purse I regard: put it off, and

I’ll mince it as small as pie meat. The purse? hang the purse:

were that gone, I can make another, and another, and another,

ay, and another: ’tis not the purse I care for, but the purser,

you, ay you. Is’t not a shame that a king’s daughter, a fair

lady, a lady not for lords, but for monarchs, should for gold

sell her love, and when she has her own asking, and that there

stands nothing between, then to cheat your sweetheart? O fie,

fie, a she cony-catcher? You must be dealt fondly with.

_Agrip._ Enjoin what pains thou wilt, and I’ll endure them,

So thou wilt send me to my father’s court.

_Andel._ Nay God’s lid, y’are not gone so: set your heart at

rest, for I have set up my rest, that except you can run swifter

than a hart, home you go not. What pains shall I lay upon you?

Let me see: I could serve you now but a slippery touch: I could

get a young king or two, or three, of you, and then send you

home, and bid their grandsire king nurse them: I could pepper

you, but I will not.

_Agrip._ O, do not violate my chastity.

_Andel._ No, why I tell you I am not given to the flesh, though

I savour in your nose a little of the devil, I could run away

else, and starve you here.

_Agrip._ If I must die, doom me some easier death.

_Andel._ Or transform you, because you love picking, into a

squirrel, and make you pick out a poor living here among the nut

trees: but I will not neither.

_Agrip._ What will my gentle Andelocia do?

_Andel._ Oh, now you come to your old bias of cogging.[394]

[394] Your old mind (or, more literally, inclination) of

cajoling.

_Agrip._ I pray thee, Andelocia, let me go:

Send me to England, and by Heaven I swear,

Thou from all kings on earth my love shalt bear.

_Andel._ Shall I in faith?

_Agrip._ In faith, in faith thou shalt.

_Andel._ Hear, God a mercy: now thou shalt not go.

_Agrip._ Oh God.

_Andel._ Nay, do you hear, lady? Cry not, y’are best; no nor

curse me not. If you think but a crabbed thought of me, the

spirit that carried you in mine arms through the air, will tell

me all; therefore set your Sunday face upon’t. Since you’ll love

me, I’ll love you, I’ll marry you, and lie with you, and beget

little jugglers: marry, home you get not. England, you’ll say,

is yours: but, Agripyne, love me, and I will make the whole

world thine.

_Agrip._ I care not for the world, thou murd’rest me;

Between my sorrow, and the scalding sun

I faint, and quickly will my life be done,

My mouth is like a furnace, and dry heat

Drinks up my blood. O God, my heart will burst,

I die, unless some moisture quench my thirst.

_Andel._ ’Sheart, now I am worse than ere I was before:

For half the world I would not have her die.

Here’s neither spring nor ditch, nor rain, nor dew,

Nor bread nor drink: my lovely Agripyne,

Be comforted, see here are apple trees.

_Agrip._ Climb up for God’s sake, reach me some of them.

_Andel._ Look up, which of these apples likes thee best?

_Agrip._ This hath a withered face, ’tis some sweet fruit.

Not that, my sorrows are too sour already.

_Andel._ Come hither, here are apples like gold.

_Agrip._ O, ay, for God’s sake, gather some of these.

Ay me, would God I were at home again!

_Andel._ Stand farther, lest I chance to fall on thee. [_Climbs up._

Oh here be rare apples, rare red-cheeked apples, that cry come

kiss me: apples, hold your peace, I’ll teach you to cry. [_Eats

one._

_Agrip._ O England, shall I ne’er behold thee more?

_Andel._ Agripyne, ’tis a most sugared delicious taste in one’s

mouth, but when ’tis down, ’tis as bitter as gall.

_Agrip._ Yet gather some of them. Oh, that a princess

Should pine for food: were I at home again,

I should disdain to stand thus and complain.

_Andel._ Here’s one apple that grows highest, Agripyne; an’ I

could reach that, I’ll come down. [_Fishes with his girdle for

it._

_Agrip._ Make haste, for the hot sun doth scald my cheeks.

_Andel._ The sun kiss thee? hold, catch, put on my hat, I will

have yonder highest apple, though I die for’t.

_Agrip._ I had not wont be sun-burnt, wretched me.

O England, would I were again in thee! [_Exit._

ANDELOCIA _leaps down_.

_Andel._ ’Swounds, Agripyne, stay, Oh I am undone!

Sweet Agripyne, if thou hear’st my voice,

Take pity of me, and return again.

She flies like lightning: Oh she hears me not!

I wish myself into a wilderness,

And now I shall turn wild: here I shall famish,

Here die, here cursing die, here raving die,

And thus will wound my breast, and rend mine hair.

What hills of flint are grown upon my brows?

O me, two forkèd horns, I am turned beast,

I have abused two blessings, wealth and knowledge,

Wealth in my purse, and knowledge in my hat,

By which being borne into the courts of kings,

I might have seen the wondrous works of Jove,

Acquired experience, learning, wisdom, truth,

But I in wildness tottered out my youth,

And therefore must turn wild, must be a beast,

An ugly beast: my body horns must bear,

Because my soul deformity doth wear.

Lives none within this wood? If none but I

Live here,--thanks Heaven! for here none else shall

die. [_Lies down and sleeps under the tree._

_Enter_ FORTUNE, VICE, VIRTUE,

_the ~Priest~: and ~Satyrs~ with music, playing before_

FORTUNE.

_Fortune._ See where my new-turned devil has built his hell.

_Vice._ Virtue, who conquers now? the fool is ta’en.

_Virtue._ O sleepy sin.

_Vice._ Sweet tunes, wake him again. [_Music sounds awhile, and

then ceases._

_Fortune._ Vice sits too heavy on his drowsy soul,

Music’s sweet concord cannot pierce his ear.

Sing, and amongst your songs mix bitter scorn.

_Virtue._ Those that tear Virtue, must by Vice be torn.

SONG.

Virtue, stand aside: the fool is caught.

Laugh to see him, laugh aloud to wake him;

Folly’s nets are wide, and neatly wrought,

Mock his horns, and laugh to see Vice take him.

_Chorus._ Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, laugh, laugh in scorn,

Who’s the fool? the fool, he wears a horn. [ANDELOCIA

_wakens and stands up_.

Virtue, stand aside, mock him, mock him, mock him,

Laugh aloud to see him, call him fool.

Error gave him suck, now sorrows rock him,

Send the riotous beast to madness’ school.

_Chorus._ Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, laugh, laugh in scorn.

Who’s the fool? the fool, he wears a horn.

Virtue, stand aside: your school he hates.

Laugh aloud to see him, mock, mock, mock him.

Vanity and hell keep open gates,

He’s in, and a new nurse, Despair, must rock him.

_Chorus._ Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, laugh, laugh in scorn,

Fool, fool, fool, fool, fool, wear still the horn.

[VICE _and_ VIRTUE _hold apples out to_

ANDELOCIA, VICE _laughing_, VIRTUE

_grieving_.

_Andel._ O me, what hell is this? fiends, tempt me not.

Thou glorious devil, hence. O now I see,

This fruit is thine, thou hast deformèd me:

Idiot, avoid, thy gifts I loathe to taste.

Away: since I am entered madness’ school,

As good to be a beast, as be a fool.

Away, why tempt you me? some powerful grace

Come and redeem me from this hideous place.

_Fortune._ To her hath Andelocia all his life

Sworn fealty; would’st thou forsake her now?

_Andel._ Whose blessed tongue names Andelocia?

_Fortune._ Hers, who, attended on by destinies,

Shortened thy father’s life, and lengthens thine.

_Andel._ O sacred Queen of chance, now shorten mine,

Else let thy deity take off this shame.

_Fortune._ Woo her, ’twas she that set it on thy head.

_Andel._ She laughs to see me metamorphosèd. [_Rises._

_Virtue._ Woo me, and I’ll take off this ugly scorn.

_Vice._ Woo me, and I’ll clap on another horn.

_Andel._ I am beset with anguish, shame and death.

O bid the Fates work fast, and stop my breath.

_Fortune._ No, Andelocia, thou must live to see

Worse torments, for thy follies, light on thee.

This golden tree, which did thine eyes entice,

Was planted here by Vice: lo, here stands Vice:

How often hast thou sued to win her grace?

_Andel._ Till now, I never did behold her face.

_Fortune._ Thou didst behold her at thy father’s death,

When thou in scorn didst violate his will;

Thou didst behold her, when thy stretched-out arm

Catched at the highest bough, the loftiest vice,

The fairest apple, but the foulest price;

Thou didst behold her, when thy liquorish eye

Fed on the beauty of fair Agripyne;

Because th’ hadst gold, thou thought’st all women thine.

When look’st thou off from her? for they whose souls

Still revel in the nights of vanity,

On the fair cheeks of Vice still fix their eye.

Because her face doth shine, and all her bosom

Bears silver moons, thou wast enamoured of her.

But hadst thou upward looked, and seen these shames,

Or viewed her round about, and in this glass

Seen idiots’ faces, heads of devils and hell,

And read this “Ha, ha, he,” this merry story,

Thou wouldst have loathed her: where, by loving her,

Thou bear’st this face, and wear’st this ugly head,

And if she once can bring thee to this place,

Loud sounds these “Ha, ha, he!” She’ll laugh apace.

_Andel._ O, re-transform me to a glorious shape,

And I will learn how I may love to hate her.

_Fortune._ I cannot re-transform thee, woo this woman.

_Andel._ This woman? wretched is my state, when I,

To find out wisdom, to a fool must fly.

_Fortune._ Fool, clear thine eyes, this is bright Aretë,[395]

This is poor virtue, care not how the world

Doth crown her head, the world laughs her to scorn,

Yet “SIBI SAPIT,” Virtue knows her worth.

Run after her, she’ll give thee these and these,

Crowns and bay-garlands, honour’s victories:

Serve her, and she will fetch thee pay from Heaven,

Or give thee some bright office in the stars.

[395] Virtue. _Greek._

_Andel._ Immortal Aretë, Virtue divine: [_Kneels._

O smile on me, and I will still be thine.

_Virtue._ Smile thou on me, and I will still be thine:

Though I am jealous of thy apostasy,

I’ll entertain thee: here, come taste this tree,

Here’s physic for thy sick deformity.

_Andel._ Tis bitter: this fruit I shall ne’er digest.

_Virtue._ Try once again, the bitterness soon dies.

_Vice._ Mine’s sweet, taste mine.

_Virtue._ But being down ’tis sour,

And mine being down has a delicious taste.

The path that leads to Virtue’s court is narrow,

Thorny and up a hill, a bitter journey,

But being gone through, you find all heavenly sweets,

The entrance is all flinty, but at th’ end,

To towers of pearl and crystal you ascend.

_Andel._ O delicate, O sweet Ambrosian relish,

And see, my ugliness drops from my brows,

Thanks, beauteous Aretë: O had I now

My hat and purse again, how I would shine,

And gild my soul with none but thoughts divine.

_Fortune._ That shall be tried, take fruit from both these trees,

By help of them, win both thy purse and hat,

I will instruct thee how, for on my wings

To England shalt thou ride; thy virtuous brother

Is, with that Shadow who attends on thee,

In London, there I’ll set thee presently.

But if thou lose our favours once again,

To taste her sweets, those sweets must prove

thy bane.

_Virtue._ Vice, who shall now be crowned with victory?

_Vice._ She that triumphs at last, and that must I. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_London._ _The Court of_ ATHELSTANE.

_Enter_ ATHELSTANE, LINCOLN _with_ AGRIPYNE, CYPRUS, GALLOWAY,

CORNWALL, CHESTER, LONGAVILLE _and_ MONTROSE.

_Athelst._ Lincoln, how set’st thou her at liberty?

_Linc._ No other prison held her but your court,

There in her chamber hath she hid herself

These two days, only to shake off that fear,

Which her late violent rapture cast upon her.

_Cypr._ Where hath the beauteous Agripyne been?

_Agrip._ In Heaven or hell, in or without the world,

I know not which, for as I oft have seen,

When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks,

A whirlwind come, and from her frizzled brows,

Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls,

That stood upon her forehead, which awhile,

Being by the boist’rous wind hung in the air,

At length hath flung them down and raised a storm,--

Even with such fury was I wherried up,

And by such force held prisoner in the clouds,

And thrown by such a tempest down again.

_Cornw._ Some soul is damned in hell for this black deed.

_Agrip._ I have the purse safe, and anon your grace

Shall hear the wondrous history at full.

_Cypr._ Tell me, tormentor, shall fair Agripyne,

Without more difference be now christened mine!

_Agrip._ My choice must be my father’s fair consent.

_Athelst._ Then shall thy choice end in this Cyprus prince.

Before the sun shall six times more arise,

His royal marriage will we solemnise.

Proclaim this honoured match! Come, Agripyne,

I am glad th’ art here, more glad the purse is mine.

[_As they are going in, enter_ ANDELOCIA _and_

SHADOW, _disguised as Irish coster-mongers_.

AGRIPYNE, LONGAVILLE, _and_ MONTROSE

_stay listening to them, the rest exeunt_.

_Both._ Buy any apples, feene apples of Tamasco,[396] feene

Tamasco peepins: peeps feene, buy Tamasco peepins.

[396] In the English translation from the original story of

Fortunatus, as published in the Dutch, Andelocia invents the

name of Damascus, or Damasco, for his apples, on the spur of the

moment, so as to give them an air of rarety, the name apparently

not being one previously used for any special kind of apple. In

an earlier English edition of the story, published about 1650,

however, they are otherwise described. It says there:--“They

were brought from Jerusalem, and were from the Holy Garden.”

_Agrip._ Damasco apples? good my Lord Montrose,

Call yonder fellows.

_Montr._ Sirrah coster-monger.

_Shad._ Who calls: peeps of Tamasco, feene peeps: Ay, fat

’tis de sweetest apple in de world, ’tis better den de Pome

water,[397] or apple John.[398]

[397] A large sweet apple, full of juice [see _Bailey’s

Dictionary_].

[398] John apple, a good keeping apple, which long retains its

freshness.

_Andel._ By my trat, madam, ’tis reet Tamasco peepins, look

here els.

_Shad._ I dare not say, as de Irishman my countryman say, taste

de goodness of de fruit: no, sayt, ’tis farie teere, mistriss,

by Saint Patrick’s hand ’tis teere Tamasco apple.

_Agrip._ The fairest fruit that ever I beheld.

Damasco apples, wherefore are they good?

_Longa._ What is your price of half a score of these?

_Both._ Half a score, half a score? dat is doos many,

mester.[399]

[399] “That is too many, master.” Dekker’s Irish even surpasses

his Dutch in unintelligibility, and it would need more space

than mere footnotes can afford, to attempt any full elucidation.

_Longa._ Ay, ay, ten, half a score, that’s five and five.

_Andel._ Feeve and feeve? By my trat and as Creeze save me la,

I cannot tell wat be de price of feeve and feeve, but ’tis tree

crown for one peepin, dat is de preez if you take ’em.

_Shad._ Ay fat, ’tis no less for Tamasco.

_Agrip._ Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they?

_Shad._ O, ’tis feene Tamasco apple, and shall make you a great

teal wise, and make you no fool, and make feene memory.

_Andel._ And make dis fash be more fair and amiable, and make

dis eyes look always lovely, and make all de court and country

burn in desire to kiss di none sweet countenance.

_Montr._ Apples to make a lady beautiful?

Madam, that’s excellent.

_Agrip._ These Irishmen,

Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear

These two the badge of their own country wear.

_Andel._ By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez

save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di

countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt he love di countryman,

’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet

countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I

wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,[400] and run

hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.

[400] Stockings probably, from the use of the term for bales of

wool.

_Shad._ As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.

_Agrip._ I’ll try what power lies in Damasco fruit.

Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.

_Montr._ Lord Longaville, buy some.

_Longa._ I buy? not I:

Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [_Exeunt_

AGRIPYNE, LONGAVILLE _and_ MONTROSE.

_Both._ Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels

look upon dat fash and make it fair.

_Re-enter_ MONTROSE _softly_.

_Shad._ Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.

_Andel._ Peace, Shadow, buy any peepins, buy.

_Both._ Peeps feene, feene Tamasco apples.

_Montr._ Came not Lord Longaville to buy some fruit?

_Andel._ No fat, master, here came no lords nor ladies, but di

none sweet self.

_Montr._ ’Tis well, say nothing, here’s six crowns for two:

You say the virtues are to make one strong.

_Both._ Yes fat, and make sweet countenance and strong too.

_Montr._ ’Tis excellent: here! farewell! if these prove,

I’ll conquer men by strength, women by love. [_Exit._

_Re-enter_ LONGAVILLE.

_Andel._ Ha, ha, ha! why this is rare.

_Shad._ Peace, master, here comes another fool.

_Both._ Peepes feene, buy any peepes of Tamasco?

_Longa._ Did not the Lord Montrose return to you?

_Both._ No fat, sweet master, no lord did turn to us: peepes

feene!

_Longa._ I am glad of it; here are nine crowns for three.

What are the virtues besides making fair?

_Andel._ O, ’twill make thee wondrous wise.

_Shad._ And dow shall be no more a fool, but sweet face and wise.

_Longa._ ’Tis rare, farewell, I never yet durst woo.

None loves me: now I’ll try what these can do. [_Exit._

_Andel._ Ha, ha, ha. So, this is admirable, Shadow, here end my

torments in Saint Patrick’s Purgatory, but thine shall continue

longer.

_Shad._ Did I not clap on a good false Irish face?

_Andel._ It became thee rarely.

_Shad._ Yet that’s lamentable, that a false face should become

any man.

_Andel._ Thou art a gull,[401] tis all the fashion now, which

fashion because we’ll keep, step thou abroad, let not the world

want fools; whilst thou art commencing thy knavery there, I’ll

precede Dr. Dodipoll[402] here: that done, thou, Shadow, and I

will fat ourselves[403] to behold the transformation of these

fools: go fly.

[401] Dekker uses “Gallant,” as an equivalent in _The Gull’s

Horn-Book_, but he means something more opprobrious;--“Masher,”

as we would say to-day, a fool of fashion.

[402] An allusion to the comedy _The Wisdom of Dr. Dodipoll_.

[403] _i.e._ Grow jolly, at the spectacle.

_Shad._ I fear nothing, but that whilst we strive to make others

fools, we shall wear the cock’s combs ourselves. Pips fine.

[_Exit_ SHADOW.

_Enter_ AMPEDO.

_Andel._ S’heart, here’s my brother whom I have abused:

His presence makes me blush, it strikes me dead,

To think how I am metamorphosèd.

Feene peepins of Tamasco!

_Amp._ For shame cast off this mask.

_Andel._ Wilt thou buy any pips?

_Amp._ Mock me no longer

With idle apparitions: many a land

Have I with weary feet and a sick soul

Measured to find thee; and when thou art found,

My greatest grief is that thou art not lost.

Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost,

Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead,

With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head.

That Shadow that pursues thee, filled mine ears

With sad relation of thy wretchedness,

Where is the purse, and where my wishing hat?

_Andel._ Where, and where? are you created constable? You stand

so much upon interrogatories. The purse is gone, let that fret

you, and the hat is gone, let that mad you: I run thus through

all trades to overtake them, if you be quiet, follow me, and

help, if not, fly from me, and hang yourself. Wilt thou buy any

pippins? [_Exit._

_Amp._ Oh, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed?

Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes

He shall not start, till he have repossessed

Those virtuous jewels, which found once again,

More cause they ne’er shall give me to complain,

Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames,

And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.--_London. The Court of Athelstane._

_Enter_ ATHELSTANE, _followed by_ AGRIPYNE, MONTROSE, _and_ LONGAVILLE

_with horns; then_ LINCOLN _and_ CORNWALL.

Athelst. In spite of sorcery try once again,

Try once more in contempt of all damned spells.

_Agrip._ Your majesty fights with no mortal power.

Shame, and not conquest, hangs upon this strife.

O, touch me not, you add but pain to pain,

The more you cut, the more they grow again.

_Linc._ Is there no art to conjure down this scorn?

I ne’er knew physic yet against the horn.

_Enter_ CYPRUS.

_Athelst._ See, Prince of Cyprus, thy fair Agripyne

Hath turned her beauty to deformity.

_Cypr._ Then I defy thee, Love; vain hopes, adieu,

You have mocked me long; in scorn I’ll now mock you.

I came to see how the Lord Longaville

Was turned into a monster, and I find

An object, which both strikes me dumb and blind.

To-morrow should have been our marriage morn,

But now my bride is shame, thy bridegroom scorn.

tell me yet, is there no art, no charms,

No desperate physic for this desperate wound?

_Athelst._ All means are tried, but no means can be found.

_Cypr._ Then, England, farewell: hapless maid, thy stars,

Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars.

I am enforced to leave thee, and resign

My love to grief.

_Enter_ ORLEANS _and_ GALLOWAY.

_Agrip._ All grief to Agripyne.

_Cypr._ Adieu, I would say more, had I a tongue

Able to help his master: mighty king,

I humbly take my leave; to Cyprus I;

My father’s son must all such shame defy. [_Exit._

_Orle._ So doth not Orleans; I defy all those

That love not Agripyne, and him defy,

That dares but love her half so well as I.

O pardon me! I have in sorrow’s jail

Been long tormented, long this mangled bosom

Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds,

Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet

I offer love and life. Oh, cast an eye

Of mercy on me, this deformèd face

Cannot affright my soul from loving thee.

_Agrip._ Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate.

_Orle._ What sentence will my love pronounce on me?

_Gall._ Will Orleans then be mad? O gentle friend.

_Orle._ O gentle, gentle friend, I am not mad:

He’s mad, whose eyes on painted cheeks do doat,

O Galloway, such read beauty’s book by rote.

He’s mad, that pines for want of a gay flower,

Which fades when grief doth blast, or sickness lower,

Which heat doth wither, and white age’s frost

Nips dead: such fairness, when ’tis found, ’tis lost.

I am not mad, for loving Agripyne,

My love looks on her eyes with eyes divine;

I doat on the rich brightness of her mind,

That sacred beauty strikes all other blind.

O make me happy then, since my desires

Are set a burning by love’s purest fires.

_Athelst._ So thou wilt bear her far from England’s sight,

Enjoy thy wishes.

_Agrip._ Lock me in some cave,

Where staring wonder’s eye shall not be guilty

To my abhorrèd looks, and I will die

To thee, as full of love as misery.

_Athelst._ I am amazed and mad, some speckled soul

Lies pawned for this in hell, without redemption,

Some fiend deludes us all.

_Cornw._ O unjust Fates,

Why do you hide from us this mystery?

_Linc._ My Lord Montrose, how long have your brows worn

This fashion? these two feather springs of horn?

_Montr._ An Irish kerne sold me Damasco apples

Some two hours since, and like a credulous fool--

He swearing to me that they had this power

To make me strong in body, rich in mind--

I did believe his words, tasted his fruit,

And since have been attired in this disguise.

_Longa._ I fear that villain hath beguiled me too.

_Cornw._ Nay before God he has not cozened you,

You have it soundly.

_Longa._ Me he made believe,

One apple of Damasco would inspire

My thoughts with wisdom, and upon my cheeks

Would cast such beauty that each lady’s eye,

Which looked on me, should love me presently.

_Agrip._ Desire to look more fair, makes me more fool,[404]

Those apples did entice my wandering eye,

To be enamoured of deformity.

[404] A play upon “fool” and “foul.”

_Athelst._ This proves that true, which oft I have heard in schools,

Those that would seem most wise, do turn most fools.

_Linc._ Here’s your best hope, none needs to hide his face,

For hornèd foreheads swarm in every place.

_Enter_ CHESTER, _with_ ANDELOCIA _disguised

as a ~French Soldier~._

_Athelst._ Now, Chester, what physicians hast thou found?

_Chest._ Many, my liege, but none that have true skill

To tame such wild diseases: yet here’s one,

A doctor and a Frenchman, whom report

Of Agripyne’s grief hath drawn to court.

_Athelst._ Cure her, and England’s treasury shall stand,

As free for thee to use, as rain from Heaven.

_Montr._ Cure me, and to thy coffers I will send

More gold from Scotland than thy life can spend.

_Longa._ Cure Longaville, and all his wealth is thine.

_Andel._ He Monsieur Long-villain,[405] gra tanck you: Gra tanck

your mashesty a great teal artely by my trat: where be dis Madam

Princeza dat be so mush tormenta? O Jeshu: one, two: an tree,

four an five, seez horn: Ha, ha, ha, pardona moy prea wid al

mine art, for by my trat, me can no point shose but laugh, Ha,

ha, ha, to mark how like tree bul-beggera, dey stand. Oh, by my

trat and fat, di divela be whoreson, scurvy, paltry, ill favore

knave to mock de madam, and gentill-home so: Ha, ha, ha, ha.

[405] Elucidation of his jargon must be left to the discretion

of the reader.

_Linc._ This doctor comes to mock your majesty.

_Andel._ No, by my trat la, but me lova musha musha merymant:

come, madam, pre-artely stand still, and letta me feel you. Dis

horn, O ’tis pretty horn, dis be facile, easy for pull de vey;

but, madam, dis O be grand, grand horn, difficil, and very deep;

’tis perilous, a grand laroone. But, madam, prea be patient, we

shall take it off vell.

_Athelst._ Thrice have we pared them off, but with fresh pain,

In compass of a thought they rise again.

_Andel._ It’s true, ’tis no easy mattra, to pull horn off, ’tis

easy to pull on, but hard for pull off; some horn be so good

fellow, he will still inhabit in de man’s pate, but ’tis all one

for tat, I shall snap away all dis. Madam, trust dis down into

your little belly.

_Agrip._ Father, I am in fear to taste his physic.

First let him work experiments on those.

_Andel._ I’ll sauce you for your infidelity.

In no place can I spy my wishing hat. [_Aside._

_Longa._ Thou learned Frenchman, try thy skill on me,

More ugly than I am, I cannot be.

_Montr._ Cure me, and Montrose wealth shall all be thine.

_Andel._ ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea

mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur

Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent

medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now

snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good?

[_Pulls_ LONGAVILLE’S _horns off_.

_Athelst._ This is most strange.

Was’t painful, Longaville?

_Longa._ Ease took them off, and there remains no pain.

_Agrip._ O try thy sacred physic upon me.

_Andel._ No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al

de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be

among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.

_Athelst._ Prepare it then, and thou shalt have more gold

From England’s coffers, than thy life can waste.

_Andel._ I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in

Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time,

no point.

_Agrip._ There’s nothing in the world, but may for gold

Be bought in England; hold your lap, I’ll rain

A shower of angels.

_Andel._ Fie, fie, fie, fie, you no credit le dockature? Ha,

but vel, ’tis all one for tat: ’tis no mattera for gold! vel,

vel, vel, vel, vel, me have some more, prea say noting, shall be

presently prepara for your horns.

(_Aside._) She has my purse, and yonder lies my hat,

Work, brains, and once more make me fortunate.--

Vel, vel, vel, vel, be patient, madam, presently, presently! Be

patient, me have two, tree, four and five medicines for de horn:

presently, madam, stand you der, prea wid all my art, stand

you all der, and say noting,--so! nor look noting dis vey. So,

presently, presently, madam, snip dis horn off wid de rushes and

anoder ting by and by, by and by, by and by. Prea look none dis

vey, and say noting. [_Takes his hat._

_Athelst._ Let no man speak, or look, upon his life.

Doctor, none here shall rob thee of thy skill.

_Andel._ So, taka dis hand: winck now prea artely with your two

nyes: why so.

Would I were with my brother Ampedo! [_Exit with_ AGRIPYNE.

_Agrip._ Help, father, help, I am hurried hence perforce.

_Athelst._ Draw weapons, where’s the princess? follow him,

Stay the French doctor, stay the doctor there. [CORNWALL _and

others run out, and presently re-enter_.

_Cornw._ Stay him! ’s heart, who dare stay him? ’tis the devil

In likeness of a Frenchman, of a doctor.

Look how a rascal kite having swept up

A chicken in his claws, so flies this hell-hound

In th’ air with Agripyne in his arms.

_Orle._ Mount every man upon his swiftest horse.

Fly several ways, he cannot bear her far.

_Gall._ These paths we’ll beat. [_Exeunt_ GALLOWAY _and_ ORLEANS.

_Linc._ And this way shall be mine. [_Exit._

_Cornw._ This way, my liege, I’ll ride. [_Exit._

_Athelst._ And this way I:

No matter which way, to seek misery. [_Exit._

_Longa._ I can ride no way, to out-run my shame.

_Montr._ Yes, Longaville, let’s gallop after too;

Doubtless this doctor was that Irish devil,

That cozened us, the medicine which he gave us

Tasted like his Damasco villany.

To horse, to horse, if we can catch this fiend,

Our forkèd shame shall in his heart blood end.

_Longa._ O how this mads me, that all tongues in scorn,

Which way soe’er I ride, cry, ’ware the horn! [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_An open Space near London: a Prison and a Pair of

Stocks in the background._

_Enter_ ANDELOCIA _with_ AGRIPYNE, AMPEDO _and_ SHADOW _following_.

_Agrip._ O gentle Andelocia, pity me,

Take off this infamy, or take my life.

_Andel._ Your life? you think then that I am a true doctor

indeed, that tie up my living in the knots of winding sheets:

your life? no, keep your life, but deliver your purse: you know

the thief’s salutation,--“Stand and deliver.” So, this is mine,

and these yours: I’ll teach you to live by the sweat of other

men’s brows.

_Shad._ And to strive to be fairer than God made her.

_Andel._ Right, Shadow: therefore vanish, you have made me

turn juggler, and cry “hey-pass,” but your horns shall not

repass.[406]

[406] See _ante_, “They mean to fall to their hey-pass and

re-pass.”

_Agrip._ O gentle Andelocia.

_Andel._ Andelocia is a nettle: if you touch him gently, he’ll

sting you.

_Shad._ Or a rose: if you pull his sweet stalk he’ll prick you.

_Andel._ Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh

not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by

the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her

head;[407] you have two, and perhaps you shall cast both. As

you use me, mark those words well, “as you use me,” nay, y’are

best fly, I’ll not endure one word more. Yet stay too, because

you entreat me so gently, and that I’ll make some amends to your

father,--although I care not for any king in Christendom, yet

hold you, take this apple, eat it as you go to court, and your

horns shall play the cowards and fall from you.

[407] A reference probably to a woman exhibited at some show

in London, and transferred by Dekker, with his usual artistic

liberty, to Cyprus.

_Agrip._ O gentle Andelocia.

_Andel._ Nay, away, not a word.

_Shad._ Ha, ha, ha! ’Ware horns! [_Exit_ AGRIPYNE,

_weeping_.

_Andel._ Why dost thou laugh, Shadow?

_Shad._ To see what a horn plague follows covetousness and pride.

_Amp._ Brother, what mysteries lie in all this?

_Andel._ Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics,

mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than

all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the

purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not

start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you,

fly and away: a sort of broken-shinned limping-legged jades run

hobbling to seek us. Shadow, we’ll for all this have one fit of

mirth more, to make us laugh and be fat.

_Shad._ And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons

do, laugh and lie down.

_Andel._ Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire,

I’ll to court presently.

_Shad._ I’ll go to court in this attire, for apparel is but the

shadow of a man, but shadow is the substance of his apparel.

[_Exit_ SHADOW.

_Andel._ Away, away, and meet me presently.

_Amp._ I had more need to cry away to thee.

Away, away with this wild lunacy,

Away with riots.

_Andel._ Away with your purity, brother, y’are an ass. Why doth

this purse spit out gold but to be spent? why lives a man in

this world, to dwell in the suburbs of it, as you do? Away,

foreign simplicity, away: are not eyes made to see fair ladies?

hearts to love them? tongues to court them, and hands to feel

them? Out, you stock, you stone, you log’s end: Are not legs

made to dance, and shall mine limp up and down the world after

your cloth-stocking-heels? You have the hat, keep it. Anon I’ll

visit your virtuous countenance again; adieu! Pleasure is my

sweet mistress, I wear her love in my hat, and her soul in my

heart: I have sworn to be merry, and in spite of Fortune and the

black-browed Destinies, I’ll never be sad. [_Exit._

_Amp._ Go, fool; in spite of mirth, thou shalt be sad.

I’ll bury half thy pleasures in a grave

Of hungry flames; this fire I did ordain

To burn both purse and hat: as this doth perish,

So shall the other; count what good and bad

They both have wrought, the good is to the ill

As a small pebble to a mighty hill.

Thy glory and thy mischiefs here shall burn;

Good gifts abused to man’s confusion turn.

_Enter_ LONGAVILLE _and_ MONTROSE _with

~Soldiers~_.

_Longa._ This is his brother: soldiers, bind his arms.

_Montr._ Bind arms and legs, and hale the fiend away.

_Amp._ Uncivil: wherefore must I taste your spite?

_Longa._ Art thou not one of Fortunatus’ sons?

_Amp._ I am, but he did never do you wrong.

_Longa._ The devil thy brother has; villain, look here.

_Montr._ Where is the beauteous purse and wishing hat?

_Amp._ My brother Andelocia has the purse,

This way he’ll come anon to pass to court.

Alas, that sin should make men’s hearts so bold,

To kill their souls for the base thirst of gold.

The wishing hat is burnt.

_Montr._ Burnt? Soldiers, bind him.

Tortures shall wring both hat and purse from you.

Villain, I’ll be revenged for that base scorn

Thy hell-hound brother clapped upon my head.

_Longa._ And so will Longaville.

Away with him!

_Montr._ Drag him to yonder tower, there shackle him,

And in a pair of stocks lock up his heels,

And bid your wishing cap deliver you.

Give us the purse and hat, we’ll set thee free,

Else rot to death and starve.

_Amp._ Oh tyranny, you need not scorn the badge which you did bear:

Beasts would you be, though horns you did not wear.

_Montr._ Drag hence the cur: come, noble Longaville,

One’s sure, and were the other fiend as fast,

Their pride should cost their lives: their purse and hat

Shall both be ours, we’ll share them equally.

_Longa._ That will be some amends for arming me.

_Enter_ ANDELOCIA, _and_ SHADOW _after him_.

_Montr._ Peace, Longaville, yonder the gallant comes.

_Longa._ Y’are well encountered.

_Andel._ Thanks, Lord Longaville.

_Longa._ The king expects your presence at the court.

_Andel._ And thither am I going.

_Shad._ Pips fine, fine apples of Tamasco, ha, ha, ha!

_Montr._ Wert thou that Irishman that cozened us?

_Shad._ Pips fine, ha, ha, ha! no not I: not Shadow.

_Andel._ Were not your apples delicate and rare?

_Longa._ The worst that e’er you sold; sirs, bind him fast.

_Andel._ What, will you murder me? help, help, some help!

_Shad._ Help, help, help! [_Exit_ SHADOW.

_Montr._ Follow that dog, and stop his bawling throat.

_Andel._ Villains, what means this barbarous treachery?

_Longa._ We mean to be revenged for our disgrace.

_Montr._ And stop the golden current of thy waste.

_Andel._ Murder! they murder me, O call for help.

_Longa._ Thy voice is spent in vain; come, come, this purse,

This well-spring of your prodigality.

_Andel._ Are you appointed by the king to this?

_Montr._ No, no; rise, spurn him up! know you who’s this?

_Andel._ My brother Ampedo? Alas, what fate

Hath made thy virtues so unfortunate?

_Amp._ Thy riot and the wrong of these two lords,

Who causeless thus do starve[408] me in this prison.

[408] This is an imaginative prevision on the part of Ampedo, as

again in his next speech, “My want is famine.”

_Longa._ Strive not y’are best, villains, lift in his legs.

_Andel._ Traitors to honour, what do you intend?

_Longa._ That riot shall in wretchedness have end.

Question thy brother with what cost he’s fed,

And so assure thou shall be banqueted. [_Exeunt_ LONGAVILLE

_and_ MONTROSE.

_Amp._ In want, in misery, in woe and care,

Poor Ampedo his fill hath surfeited:

My want is famine, bolts my misery,

My care and woe should be thy portion.

_Andel._ Give me that portion, for I have a heart

Shall spend it freely, and make bankrupt

The proudest woe that ever wet man’s eyes.

Care, with a mischief! wherefore should I care?

Have I rid side by side by mighty kings,

Yet be thus bridled now? I’ll tear these fetters,

Murder! cry, murder! Ampedo, aloud.

To bear this scorn our fortunes are too proud.

_Amp._ O folly, thou hast power to make flesh glad,

When the rich soul in wretchedness is clad.

_Andel._ Peace, fool, am I not Fortune’s minion?

These bands are but one wrinkle of her frown,

This is her evening mask, her next morn’s eye

Shall overshine the sun in majesty.

_Amp._ But this sad night will make an end of me.

Brother, farewell; grief, famine, sorrow, want,

Have made an end of wretched Ampedo.

_Andel._ Where is the wishing hat?

_Amp._ Consumed in fire.

_Andel._ Accursèd be those hands that did destroy it;

That would redeem us, did we now enjoy it.

_Amp._ Wanton, farewell! I faint, Death’s frozen hand

Congeals life’s little river in my breast.

No man before his end is truly blest. [_Dies._

_Andel._ O miserable, miserable soul!

Thus a foul life makes death to look more foul.

_Re-enter_ LONGAVILLE _and_ MONTROSE _with a

halter_.

_Longa._ Thus shall this golden purse divided be,

One day for you, another day for me.

_Montr._ Of days anon, say, what determine you,

Shall they have liberty, or shall they die?

_Longa._ Die sure: and see, I think the elder’s dead.

_Andel._ Ay, murderers, he is dead. O sacred Wisdom,

Had Fortunatus been enamourèd

Of thy celestial beauty, his two sons

Had shined like two bright suns.

_Longa._ Pull hard, Montrose.

_Andel._ Come you to strangle me? are you the hangman?

Hell-hounds, y’are damned for this impiety.

Fortune, forgive me! I deserve thy hate;

Myself have made myself a reprobate.

Virtue, forgive me! for I have transgressed

Against thy laws; my vows are quite forgot,

And therefore shame is fallen to my sin’s lot.

Riches and knowledge are two gifts divine.

They that abuse them both as I have done,

To shame, to beggary, to hell must run.

O conscience, hold thy sting, cease to afflict me.

Be quick, tormentors, I desire to die;

No death is equal to my misery.

Cyprus, vain world and vanity, farewell.

Who builds his Heaven on earth, is sure of hell. [_Dies._

_Longa._ He’s dead: in some deep vault let’s throw their bodies.

_Montr._ First let us see the purse, Lord Longaville.

_Longa._ Here ’tis, by this we’ll fill this tower with gold.

_Montr._ Frenchman, this purse is counterfeit.

_Longa._ Thou liest.

Scot, thou hast cozened me, give me the right,

Else shall thy bosom be my weapon’s grave.

_Montr._ Villain, thou shalt not rob me of my due. [_They fight._

_Enter_ ATHELSTANE, AGRIPYNE, ORLEANS, GALLOWAY, CORNWALL, CHESTER,

LINCOLN, _and_ SHADOW _with weapons at one door_: FORTUNE, VICE, _and

their ~Attendants~ at the other_.

_All._ Lay hands upon the murderers, strike them down.

_Fortune._ Surrender up this purse, for this is mine.

_All._ Are these two devils, or some powers divine?

_Shad._ O see, see, O my two masters, poor Shadow’s substances;

what shall I do? Whose body shall Shadow now follow?

_Fortune._ Peace, idiot, thou shalt find rich heaps of fools,

That will be proud to entertain a shadow.

I charm thy babbling lips from troubling me.

You need not hold them, see, I smite them down

Lower than hell: base souls, sink to your heaven.

_Vice._ I do arrest you both my prisoners.

_Fortune._ Stand not amazed, you gods of earth, at this,

She that arresteth these two fools is Vice,

They have broke Virtue’s laws, Vice is her sergeant,

Her jailer and her executioner.

Look on those Cypriots, Fortunatus’ sons,

They and their father were my minions,

My name is Fortune.

_All._ O dread deity!

_Fortune._ Kneel not to me: if Fortune list to frown,

You need not fall down, for she’ll spurn you down;

Arise! but, fools, on you I’ll triumph thus:

What have you gained by being covetous?

This prodigal purse did Fortune’s bounteous hand

Bestow on them, their riots made them poor,

And set these marks of miserable death

On all their pride, the famine of base gold

Hath made your souls to murder’s hands be sold,

Only to be called rich. But, idiots, see

The virtues to be fled, Fortune hath caused it so;

Those that will all devour, must all forego.

_Athelst._ Most sacred Goddess!

_Fortune._ Peace, you flatterer.

Thy tongue but heaps more vengeance on thy head.

Fortune is angry with thee, in thee burns

A greedy covetous fire, in Agripyne

Pride like a monarch revels, and those sins

Have led you blind-fold to your former shames,

But Virtue pardoned you, and so doth Fortune.

_Athelst._ and _Agrip._ All thanks to both your sacred deities.

_Fortune._ As for these metal-eaters, these base thieves,

Who rather than they would be counted poor,

Will dig through hell for gold,--you were forgiven

By Virtue’s general pardon; her broad seal

Gave you your lives, when she took off your horns.

Yet having scarce one foot out of the jail,

You tempt damnation by more desperate means,

You both are mortal, and your pains shall ring

Through both your ears, to terrify your souls,

As please the judgment of this mortal king.

_Athelst._ Fair Empress of the world, since you resign

Your power to me, this sentence shall be mine:

Thou shall be tortured on a wheel to death,

Thou with wild horses shall be quarterèd. [_Points to_ MONTROSE

_and_ LONGAVILLE.

_Vice._ Ha, ha, weak judge, weak judgment; I reverse

That sentence, for they are my prisoners.

Embalm the bodies of those Cypriots,

And honour them with princely burial.

For those do as you please; but for these two,

I kiss you both, I love you, y’are my minions.

Untie their bands, Vice doth reprieve you both.

I set you free.

_Both._ Thanks, gracious deity.

_Vice._ Begone, but you in liberty shall find

More bondage than in chains; fools, get you hence,

Both wander with tormented conscience.

_Longa._ O horrid judgment, that’s the hell indeed.

_Montr._ Come, come, our death ne’er ends if conscience bleed.

_Both._ O miserable, miserable men! [_Exeunt_ LONGAVILLE

_and_ MONTROSE.

_Fortune._ Fortune triumphs at this, yet to appear

All like myself, that which from those I took,

King Athelstane, I will bestow on thee,

And in it the old virtue I infuse:

But, king, take heed how thou my gifts dost use.

England shall ne’er be poor, if England strive

Rather by virtue than by wealth to thrive.

_Enter_ VIRTUE, _crowned: ~Nymphs~ and ~Kings~ attending on her,

crowned with olive branches and laurels; music sounding_.

_Vice._ Virtue? alas good soul, she hides her head.

_Virtue._ What envious tongue said, “Virtue hides her head?”

_Vice._ She that will drive thee into banishment.

_Fortune._ She that hath conquered thee: how dar’st thou come,

Thus tricked in gaudy feathers, and thus guarded

With crownèd kings and Muses, when thy foe

Hath trod thus on thee, and now triumphs so?

Where’s virtuous Ampedo? See, he’s her slave;

For following thee, this recompense they have.

_Virtue._ Is Ampedo her slave? Why, that’s my glory.

The idiot’s cap I once wore on my head,

Did figure him; those that like him do muffle

Virtue in clouds, and care not how she shine,

I’ll make their glory like to his decline.

He made no use of me, but like a miser,

Locked up his wealth in rusty bars of sloth;

His face was beautiful, but wore a mask,

And in the world’s eyes seemed a blackamoor:

So perish they that so keep Virtue poor.

_Vice._ Thou art a fool to strive, I am more strong,

And greater than thyself; then, Virtue, fly,

And hide thy face, yield me the victory.

_Virtue._ Is Vice higher than Virtue? that’s my glory,

The higher that thou art, thou art more horrid:

The world will love me for my comeliness.

_Fortune._ Thine own self loves thyself: why on the heads

Of Agripyne, Montrose, and Longaville,--

English, Scot, French--did Vice clap ugly horns,

But to approve that English, French and Scot,

And all the world else, kneel and honour Vice;

But in no country, Virtue is of price!

_Virtue._ Yes, in all countries Virtue is of price,

In every kingdom some diviner breast

Is more enamoured of me than the rest.

Have English, Scot and French bowed knees to thee?

Why that’s my glory too, for by their shame,

Men will abhor thee and adore my name.

Fortune, thou art too weak, Vice, th’art a fool

To fight with me; I suffered you awhile

T’eclipse my brightness, but I now will shine,

And make you swear your beauty’s base to mine.

_Fortune._ Thou art too insolent; see, here’s a court

Of mortal judges; let’s by them be tried,

Which of us three shall most be deified.

_Vice._ I am content.

_Fortune._ And I.

_Virtue._ So am not I.

My judge shall be your sacred deity.[409]

[409] Virtue here evidently addressed Queen Elizabeth, as she

sat in the audience; this direct recognition is kept up to the

end of the play.

_Vice._ O miserable me, I am undone. [_Exit_ VICE _and her train_.

_All._ O stop the horrid monster.

_Virtue._ Let her run.

Fortune, who conquers now?

_Fortune._ Virtue, I see,

Thou wilt triumph both over her and me.

_All._ Empress of Heaven and earth.

_Fortune._ Why do you mock me?

Kneel not to me, to her transfer your eyes,

There sits the Queen of Chance, I bend my knees

Lower than yours. Dread goddess, ’tis most meet

That Fortune fall down at thy conquering feet.

Thou sacred Empress that command’st the Fates,

Forgive what I have to thy handmaid done,

And at thy chariot wheels Fortune shall run,

And be thy captive, and to thee resign

All powers which Heaven’s large patent have made mine.

_Virtue._ Fortune, th’art vanquished. Sacred deity,

O now pronounce who wins the victory,

And yet that sentence needs not, since alone,

Your virtuous presence Vice hath overthrown,

Yet to confirm the conquest on your side,

Look but on Fortunatus and his sons;

Of all the wealth those gallants did possess,

Only poor Shadow is left, comfortless:

Their glory’s faded and their golden pride.

_Shad._ Only poor Shadow tells how poor they died.

_Virtue._ All that they had, or mortal men can have,

Sends only but a Shadow from the grave.

Virtue alone lives still, and lives in you;

I am a counterfeit, you are the true;

I am a shadow, at your feet I fall,

Begging for these, and these, myself and all.

All these that thus do kneel before your eyes,

Are shadows like myself: dread nymph, it lies

In you to make us substances. O do it!

Virtue I am sure you love, she wooes you to it.

I read a verdict in your sun-like eyes,

And this it is: Virtue the victory.

_All._ All loudly cry, Virtue the victory!

_Fortune._ Virtue the victory! for joy of this,

Those self-same hymns which you to Fortune sung

Let them be now in Virtue’s honour rung.

SONG.

Virtue smiles: cry holiday,

Dimples on her cheeks do dwell,

Virtue frowns, cry welladay,

Her love is Heaven, her hate is hell.

Since Heaven and hell obey her power,

Tremble when her eyes do lower.

Since Heaven and hell her power obey,

Where she smiles, cry holiday.

Holiday with joy we cry,

And bend, and bend, and merrily,

Sing hymns to Virtue’s deity:

Sing hymns to Virtue’s deity.

_As they are about to depart, enter ~Two Old Men~._

[Illustration]

THE EPILOGUE AT COURT.[410]

[410] See note 1 to Prologue.

_1st O. Man._ Nay stay, poor pilgrims, when I entered first

The circle of this bright celestial sphere,

I wept for joy, now I could weep for fear.

_2nd O. Man._ I fear we all like mortal men shall prove

Weak, not in love, but in expressing love.

_1st O. Man._ Let every one beg once more on his knee,

One pardon for himself, and one for me;

For I enticed you hither. O dear Goddess,

Breathe life in our numbed spirits with one smile,

And from this cold earth, we with lively souls,

Shall rise like men new-born, and make Heaven sound

With hymns sung to thy name, and prayers that we

May once a year so oft enjoy this sight,

Till these young boys change their curled locks to white,

And when gray-wingèd age sits on their heads,

That so their children may supply their steads,

And that Heaven’s great arithmetician,

Who in the scales of number weighs the world,

May still to forty-two add one year more,

And still add one to one, that went before,

And multiply four tens by many a ten:

To this I cry, Amen.

_All._ Amen, amen!

_1st O. Man._ Good-night, dear mistress, those that wish thee harm,

Thus let them stoop under destruction’s arm.

_All._ Amen, amen, amen! [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE WITCH OF EDMONTON._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The Witch of Edmonton, which was probably first performed in

1623, was not published until thirty-five years later, in 1658.

It was then issued in the usual quarto form, with the title:

_The Witch of Edmonton_: “A known True Story. Composed into a

Tragi-Comedy by divers well-esteemed Poets, William Rowley,

Thomas Dekker, John Ford, &c. Acted by the Prince’s Servants,

often at the Cock-Pit in Drury-Lane, once at Court, with

singular Applause.” The best modern reprint of the play is that

in the Gifford-Dyce edition of Ford, upon which the present

version is based.

It is impossible to assign the exact share of the various

authors in the play. The business of the Witch, the rustic

chorus, and certain other parts mark themselves out as mainly

Dekker’s. The conception of Sir Arthur Clarington, and the

subsidiary domestic plot is no doubt mainly Ford’s. Rowley’s

share is more difficult to ascertain. The intimate collaboration

of all three can alone be held accountable for some of the

scenes, and indeed in even the passages most characteristic of

any one of the authors, the touch of another often shows itself

in a chance word or phrase.

The justification for the description of the play as “A known

true story” is a pamphlet written by Henry Goodcole, and

published at London in 1621, giving an account of one Elizabeth

Sawyer, late of Islington, who was “executed in 1621 for

witchcraft.” See Caulfield’s “Portraits, Memoirs, and Characters

of Remarkable Persons,” 1794. No existing copy of the pamphlet

is known, but the British Museum possesses copies of two of

Goodcole’s other pamphlets on similar subjects.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: PROLOGUE.]

The town of Edmonton hath lent the stage

A Devil[411] and a Witch, both in an age.

To make comparisons it were uncivil

Between so even a pair, a Witch and Devil;

But as the year doth with his plenty bring

As well a latter as a former spring,

So hath this Witch enjoyed the first, and reason

Presumes she may partake the other season:

In acts deserving name, the proverb says,

“Once good, and ever;” why not so in plays?

Why not in this? since, gentlemen, we flatter

No expectation; here is mirth and matter.

[411] An allusion to the popular old play of _The Merry Devil of

Edmonton_, written about twenty years previously.

MASTER BIRD.

[Illustration]

_The whole argument of the play is this distich._

Forced marriage, murder; murder blood requires:

Reproach, revenge; revenge hell’s help desires.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: _DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._]

Sir ARTHUR CLARINGTON.

_Old Thorney_, a Gentleman.

CARTER, a Rich Yeoman.

WARBECK, }

SOMERTON,} Suitors To Carter’s Daughters.

FRANK, Thorney’s Son.

OLD BANKS, a Countryman.

CUDDY BANKS, his Son.

RATCLIFFE, } Countrymen.

HAMLUC, }

Morris-dancers.

SAWGUT, an old Fiddler.

A Dog, a Familiar.

A Spirit.

Countrymen, Justice, Constable, Officers, Serving-men and Maids.

Mother SAWYER, the Witch.

ANN, Ratcliffe’s Wife.

SUSAN, }

KATHERINE, } Carter’s Daughters.

WINNIFRED, Sir Arthur’s Maid.

SCENE--The town and neighbourhood of EDMONTON; in the

end of the last act, LONDON.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE WITCH OF EDMONTON._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.--_The neighbourhood of Edmonton. A Room in the House of

~Sir~_ ARTHUR CLARINGTON.

_Enter_ FRANK THORNEY _and_ WINNIFRED, _who is with child_.

Frank. Come, wench; why, here’s a business soon dispatched:

Thy heart I know is now at ease; thou need’st not

Fear what the tattling gossips in their cups

Can speak against thy fame; thy child shall know

Whom to call dad now.

_Win._ You have here discharged

The true part of an honest man; I cannot

Request a fuller satisfaction

Than you have freely granted: yet methinks

’Tis an hard case, being lawful man and wife,

We should not live together.

_Frank._ Had I failed

In promise of my truth to thee, we must

Have then been ever sundered; now the longest

Of our forbearing either’s company

Is only but to gain a little time

For our continuing thrift; that so hereafter

The heir that shall be born may not have cause

To curse his hour of birth, which made him feel

The misery of beggary and want,--

Two devils that are occasions to enforce

A shameful end. My plots aim but to keep

My father’s love.

_Win._ And that will be as difficult

To be preserved, when he shall understand

How you are married, as it will be now,

Should you confess it to him.

_Frank._ Fathers are

Won by degrees, not bluntly, as our masters

Or wrongèd friends are; and besides I’ll use

Such dutiful and ready means, that ere

He can have notice of what’s past, th’ inheritance

To which I am born heir shall be assured;

That done, why, let him know it: if he like it not,

Yet he shall have no power in him left

To cross the thriving of it.

_Win._ You who had

The conquest of my maiden-love may easily

Conquer the fears of my distrust. And whither

Must I be hurried?

_Frank._ Prithee do not use

A word so much unsuitable to the constant

Affections of thy husband: thou shalt live

Near Waltham Abbey with thy uncle Selman;

I have acquainted him with all at large:

He’ll use thee kindly; thou shalt want no pleasures,

Nor any other fit supplies whatever

Thou canst in heart desire.

_Win._ All these are nothing

Without your company.

_Frank._ Which thou shalt have

Once every month at least.

_Win._ Once every month!

Is this to have an husband?

_Frank._ Perhaps oftener;

That’s as occasion serves.

_Win._ Ay, ay; in case

No other beauty tempt your eye, whom you

Like better, I may chance to be remembered,

And see you now and then. Faith, I did hope

You’d not have used me so: ’tis but my fortune.

And yet, if not for my sake, have some pity

Upon the child I go with; that’s your own:

And ’less you’ll be a cruel-hearted father,

You cannot but remember that.

Heaven knows how--

_Frank._ To quit which fear at once,

As by the ceremony late performed

I plighted thee a faith as free from challenge

As any double thought; once more, in hearing

Of Heaven and thee, I vow that never henceforth

Disgrace, reproof, lawless affections, threats,

Or what can be suggested ’gainst our marriage,

Shall cause me falsify that bridal oath

That binds me thine. And, Winnifred, whenever

The wanton heat of youth, by subtle baits

Of beauty, or what woman’s art can practise,

Draw me from only loving thee, let Heaven

Inflict upon my life some fearful ruin!

I hope thou dost believe me.

_Win._ Swear no more;

I am confirmed, and will resolve to do

What you think most behoveful for us.

_Frank._ Thus, then;

Make thyself ready; at the furthest house

Upon the green without the town, your uncle

Expects you. For a little time, farewell!

_Win._ Sweet,

We shall meet again as soon as thou canst possibly?

_Frank._ We shall. One kiss--away! [_Exit_ WINNIFRED.

_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARINGTON.

_Sir Arth._ Frank Thorney!

_Frank._ Here, sir.

_Sir Arth._ Alone? then must I tell thee in plain terms

Thou hast wronged thy master’s house basely and lewdly.

_Frank._ Your house, sir?

_Sir Arth._ Yes, sir: if the nimble devil

That wantoned in your blood rebelled against

All rules of honest duty, you might, sir,

Have found out some more fitting place than here

To have built a stews in. All the country whispers

How shamefully thou hast undone a maid,

Approved for modest life, for civil carriage,

Till thy prevailing perjuries enticed her

To forfeit shame. Will you be honest yet,

Make her amends and marry her?

_Frank._ So, sir,

I might bring both myself and her to beggary;

And that would be a shame worse than the other.

_Sir Arth._ You should have thought on this before, and then

Your reason would have overswayed the passion

Of your unruly lust. But that you may

Be left without excuse, to salve the infamy

Of my disgracèd house, and ’cause you are

A gentleman, and both of you my servants,

I’ll make the maid a portion.

_Frank._ So you promised me

Before, in case I married her. I know

Sir Arthur Clarington deserves the credit

Report hath lent him, and presume you are

A debtor to your promise: but upon

What certainty shall I resolve? Excuse me

For being somewhat rude.

_Sir Arth._ It is but reason.

Well, Frank, what think’st thou of two hundred pounds

And a continual friend?

_Frank._ Though my poor fortunes

Might happily prefer me to a choice

Of a far greater portion, yet, to right

A wrongèd maid and to preserve your favour,

I am content to accept your proffer.

_Sir Arth._ Art thou?

_Frank._ Sir, we shall every day have need to employ

The use of what you please to give.

_Sir Arth._ Thou shall have’t.

_Frank._ Then I claim

Your promise.--We are man and wife.

_Sir Arth._ Already?

_Frank._ And more than so, sir, I have promised her

Free entertainment in her uncle’s house

Near Waltham Abbey, where she may securely

Sojourn, till time and my endeavours work

My father’s love and liking.

_Sir Arth._ Honest Frank!

_Frank._ I hope, sir, you will think I cannot keep her

Without a daily charge.

_Sir Arth._ As for the money,

’Tis all thine own! and though I cannot make thee

A present payment, yet thou shalt be sure

I will not fail thee.

_Frank._ But our occasions--

_Sir Arth._ Nay, nay,

Talk not of your occasions; trust my bounty;

It shall not sleep.--Hast married her, i’faith, Frank?

’Tis well, ’tis passing well!--then, Winnifred,

Once more thou art an honest woman. Frank,

Thou hast a jewel; love her; she’ll deserve it.

And when to Waltham?

_Frank._ She is making ready;

Her uncle stays for her.

_Sir Arth._ Most provident speed.

Frank, I will be thy friend, and such a friend!--

Thou’lt bring her thither?

_Frank._ Sir, I cannot; newly

My father sent me word I should come to him.

_Sir Arth._ Marry, and do; I know thou hast a wit

To handle him.

_Frank._ I have a suit t’ye.

_Sir Arth._ What is’t?

Anything, Frank; command it.

_Frank._ That you’ll please

By letters to assure my father that

I am not married.

_Sir Arth._ How!

_Frank._ Some one or other

Hath certainly informed him that I purposed

To marry Winnifred; on which he threatened

To disinherit me:--to prevent it,

Lowly I crave your letters, which he seeing

Will credit; and I hope, ere I return,

On such conditions as I’ll frame, his lands

Shall be assured.

_Sir Arth._ But what is there to quit[412]

My knowledge of the marriage?

[412] _i.e._ Acquit.

_Frank._ Why, you were not

A witness to it.

_Sir Arth._ I conceive; and then--

His land confirmed, thou wilt acquaint him throughly

With all that’s past.

_Frank._ I mean no less.

_Sir Arth._ Provided

I never was made privy to’t.

_Frank._ Alas, sir,

Am I a talker?

_Sir Arth._ Draw thyself the letter,

I’ll put my hand to’t. I commend thy policy;

Thou’rt witty, witty, Frank; nay, nay, ’tis fit:

Dispatch it.

_Frank._ I shall write effectually. [_Exit._

_Sir Arth._ Go thy way, cuckoo;--have I caught the young man?

One trouble, then, is freed. He that will feast

At other’s cost must be a bold-faced guest.

_Re-enter_ WINNIFRED _in a riding-suit_.

Win, I have heard the news; all now is safe;

The worst is past: thy lip, wench [_Kisses her_]: I must bid

Farewell, for fashion’s sake; but I will visit thee

Suddenly, girl. This was cleanly carried;

Ha! was’t not, Win?

_Win._ Then were my happiness,

That I in heart repent I did not bring him

The dower of a virginity. Sir, forgive me;

I have been much to blame: had not my lewdness[413]

Given way to your immoderate waste of virtue,

You had not with such eagerness pursued

The error of your goodness.

[413] This speech is very corrupt. Dyce suggested “lewdness” in

place of the “laundress” of the old edition.

_Sir Arth._ Dear, dear Win,

I hug this art of thine; it shows how cleanly

Thou canst beguile, in case occasion serve

To practise; it becomes thee: now we share

Free scope enough, without control or fear,

To interchange our pleasures; we will surfeit

In our embraces, wench. Come, tell me, when

Wilt thou appoint a meeting?

_Win._ What to do?

_Sir Arth._ Good, good, to con the lesson of our loves,

Our secret game.

_Win._ O, blush to speak it further!

As you’re a noble gentleman, forget

A sin so monstrous: ’tis not gently done

To open a cured wound: I know you speak

For trial; ’troth, you need not.

_Sir Arth._ I for trial?

Not I, by this good sunshine!

_Win._ Can you name

That syllable of good, and yet not tremble

To think to what a foul and black intent

You use it for an oath? Let me resolve[414] you:

If you appear in any visitation

That brings not with it pity for the wrongs

Done to abusèd Thorney, my kind husband,--

If you infect mine ear with any breath

That is not thoroughly perfumed with sighs

For former deeds of lust,--may I be cursed

Even in my prayers, when I vouchsafe

To see or hear you! I will change my life

From a loose whore to a repentant wife.

[414] Assure.

_Sir Arth._ Wilt thou turn monster now? art not ashamed

After so many months to be honest at last?

Away, away! fie on’t!

_Win._ My resolution

Is built upon a rock. This very day

Young Thorney vowed, with oaths not to be doubted,

That never any change of love should cancel

The bonds in which we are to either bound

Of lasting truth: and shall I, then, for my part

Unfile the sacred oath set on record

In Heaven’s book? Sir Arthur, do not study

To add to your lascivious lust the sin

Of sacrilege; for if you but endeavour

By any unchaste word to tempt my constancy

You strive as much as in you lies to ruin

A temple hallowed to the purity

Of holy marriage. I have said enough;

You may believe me.

_Sir Arth._ Get you to your nunnery;

There freeze in your cold cloister: this is fine!

_Win._ Good angels guide me! Sir, you’ll give me leave

To weep and pray for your conversion?

_Sir Arth._ Yes:

Away to Waltham! Pox on your honesty!

Had you no other trick to fool me? well,

You may want money yet.

_Win._ None that I’ll send for

To you, for hire of a damnation.

When I am gone, think on my just complaint:

I was your devil; O, be you my saint! [_Exit._

_Sir Arth._ Go, go thy ways; as changeable a baggage

As ever cozened knight: I’m glad I’m rid of her.

Honest! marry, hang her! Thorney is my debtor;

I thought to have paid him too; but fools have fortune. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_Edmonton. A Room in_ CARTER’S _House_.

_Enter_ OLD THORNEY _and_ CARTER.

_O. Thor._ You offer, Master Carter, like a gentleman; I cannot

find fault with it, ’tis so fair.

_Car._ No gentleman I, Master Thorney; spare the Mastership,

call me by my name, John Carter. Master is a title my father,

nor his before him, were acquainted with; honest Hertfordshire

yeomen; such an one am I; my word and my deed shall be proved

one at all times. I mean to give you no security for the

marriage money.

_O. Thor._ How! no security? although it need not so long as you

live, yet who is he has surety of his life one hour? Men, the

proverb says, are mortal; else, for my part, I distrust you not,

were the sum double.

_Car._ Double, treble, more or less, I tell you, Master Thorney,

I’ll give no security. Bonds and bills are but terriers to catch

fools, and keep lazy knaves busy; my security shall be present

payment. And we here about Edmonton hold present payment as sure

as an alderman’s bond in London, Master Thorney.

_O. Thor._ I cry you mercy, sir; I understood you not.

_Car._ I like young Frank well, so does my Susan too; the girl

has a fancy to him, which makes me ready in my purse. There be

other suitors within, that make much noise to little purpose. If

Frank love Sue, Sue shall have none but Frank. ’Tis a mannerly

girl, Master Thorney, though but a homely man’s daughter; there

have worse faces looked out of black bags, man.

_O. Thor._ You speak your mind freely and honestly. I marvel my

son comes not; I am sure he will be here some time to-day.

_Car._ To-day or to-morrow, when he comes he shall be welcome to

bread, beer, and beef, yeoman’s fare; we have no kickshaws: full

dishes, whole bellyfuls. Should I diet three days at one of the

slender city-suppers, you might send me to Barber-Surgeons’ hall

the fourth day, to hang up for an anatomy.[415]--Here come they

that--

[415] Skeleton.

_Enter_ WARBECK _with_ SUSAN,

SOMERTON _with_ KATHERINE.

How now, girls! every day play-day with you? Valentine’s day

too, all by couples? Thus will young folks do when we are laid

in our graves, Master Thorney; here’s all the care they take.

And how do you find the wenches, gentlemen? have they any mind

to a loose gown and a strait shoe? Win ’em and wear ’em; they

shall choose for themselves by my consent.

_War._ You speak like a kind father.--Sue, thou hear’st

The liberty that’s granted thee; what say’st thou?

Wilt thou be mine?

_Sus._ Your what, sir? I dare swear

Never your wife.

_War._ Canst thou be so unkind,

Considering how dearly I affect thee,

Nay, dote on thy perfections?

_Sus._ You are studied,

Too scholar-like, in words I understand not.

I am too coarse for such a gallant’s love

As you are.

_War._ By the honour of gentility,--

_Sus._ Good sir, no swearing; yea and nay with us

Prevail above all oaths you can invent.

_War._ By this white hand of thine,--

_Sus._ Take a false oath!

Fie, fie! flatter the wise; fools not regard it,

And one of these am I.

_War._ Dost thou despise me?

_Car._ Let ’em talk on, Master Thorney; I know Sue’s mind. The

fly may buzz about the candle, he shall but singe his wings when

all’s done; Frank, Frank is he has her heart.

_Som._ But shall I live in hope, Kate?

_Kath._ Better so

Than be a desperate man.

_Som._ Perhaps thou think’st it is thy portion

I level at: wert thou as poor in fortunes

As thou art rich in goodness, I would rather

Be suitor for the dower of thy virtues

Than twice thy father’s whole estate; and, prithee,

Be thou resolved[416] so.

[416] Persuaded.

_Kath._ Master Somerton,

It is an easy labour to deceive

A maid that will believe men’s subtle promises;

Yet I conceive of you as worthily

As I presume you to deserve.

_Som._ Which is,

As worthily in loving thee sincerely

As thou art worthy to be so beloved.

_Kath._ I shall find time to try you.

_Som._ Do, Kate, do;

And when I fail, may all my joys forsake me!

_Car._ Warbeck and Sue are at it still. I laugh to myself,

Master Thorney, to see how earnestly he beats the bush, while

the bird is flown into another’s bosom. A very unthrift, Master

Thorney; one of the country roaring-lads: we have such as well

as the city, and as arrant rake-hells as they are, though not

so nimble at their prizes of wit. Sue knows the rascal to an

hair’s-breadth, and will fit him accordingly.

_O. Thor._ What is the other gentleman?

_Car._ One Somerton; the honester man of the two by five pound

in every stone-weight. A civil fellow; he has a fine convenient

estate of land in West Ham, by Essex: Master Ranges, that dwells

by Enfield, sent him hither. He likes Kate well; I may tell you

I think she likes him as well: if they agree, I’ll not hinder

the match for my part. But that Warbeck is such another--I use

him kindly for Master Somerton’s sake; for he came hither first

as a companion of his: honest men, Master Thorney, may fall into

knaves’ company now and then.

_War._ Three hundred a-year jointure, Sue.

_Sus._ Where lies it?

By sea or by land? I think by sea.

_War._ Do I look like a captain?

_Sus._ Not a whit, sir.

Should all that use the seas be reckoned captains,

There’s not a ship should have a scullion in her

To keep her clean.

_War._ Do you scorn me, Mistress Susan?

Am I a subject to be jeered at?

_Sus._ Neither

Am I a property for you to use

As stale[417] to your fond wanton loose discourse:

Pray, sir, be civil.

[417] A stalking-horse, cover.

_War._ Wilt be angry, wasp?

_Car._ God-a-mercy, Sue! she’ll firk him, on my life, if he

fumble with her.

_Enter_ FRANK.

Master Francis Thorney, you are welcome indeed; your father

expected your coming. How does the right worshipful knight, Sir

Arthur Clarington, your master?

_Frank._ In health this morning.--Sir, my duty.

_O. Thor._ Now

You come as I could wish.

_War._ [_Aside_] Frank Thorney, ha!

_Sus._ You must excuse me.

_Frank._ Virtuous Mistress Susan,

Kind Mistress Katharine. [_Kisses them._]--Gentlemen, to both

Good time o’ th’ day.

_Som._ The like to you.

_War._ ’Tis he.

A word, friend. [_Aside to Som._] On my life, this is the man

Stands fair in crossing Susan’s love to me.

_Som._ [_Aside to War._] I think no less; be wise, and take no

notice on’t;

He that can win her best deserves her.

_War._ [_Aside to Som._] Marry

A serving-man? mew!

_Som._ [_Aside to War._] Prithee, friend, no more.

_Car._ Gentlemen all, there’s within a slight dinner ready,

if you please to taste of it; Master Thorney, Master Francis,

Master Somerton.--Why, girls! what huswives! will you spend all

your forenoon in tittle-tattles? away! it’s well, i’faith.--Will

you go in, gentlemen?

_O. Thor._ We’ll follow presently; my son and I

Have a few words of business.

_Car._ At your pleasure.

[_Exeunt all but_ O. THOR. _and_ FRANK.

_O. Thor._ I think you guess the reason, Frank, for which

I sent for you.

_Frank._ Yes, sir.

_O. Thor._ I need not tell you

With what a labyrinth of dangers daily

The best part of my whole estate’s encumbered;

Nor have I any clue to wind it out

But what occasion proffers me; wherein

If you should falter, I shall have the shame,

And you the loss. On these two points rely

Our happiness or ruin. If you marry

With wealthy Carter’s daughter, there’s a portion

Will free my land; all which I will instate,[418]

Upon the marriage, to you: otherwise

I must be of necessity enforced

To make a present sale of all; and yet,

For aught I know, live in as poor distress,

Or worse, than now I do. You hear the sum?

I told you thus before; have you considered on’t?

[418] Make over.

_Frank._ I have, sir; and however I could wish

To enjoy the benefit of single freedom,--

For that I find no disposition in me

To undergo the burthen of that care

That marriage brings with it,--yet, to secure

And settle the continuance of your credit,

I humbly yield to be directed by you

In all commands.