_Ri_. A Monopolie for composeing and selling of perriwiggs.

_Fra_. Excuse me, Sir, I dare not deale in 'em.

If I be not mistaken, Sir, your name

Is _Engine_?

_En_. Yes, Sir.

_Fra_. The proiector generall?

If I may advise you, Sir, you should make your will,

Take some convenient phisick and dye tymely

To save your credit, and an execution:

It is thought else--

_En_. Oh--

_Fra_. What aile you, Sir?

_En_. A Megrim in my head.

_Ri_. Whoes there?

_Enter Thomas_.

Looke to Mr. _Engine_ heere, he faints, and send

To your Ladie for some Cordiall waters presently.

_Tho_. There is a Soveraigne Well hard by has done

Strange cures: please you, ile throw him into that.

_Ext. [Thomas; carrying away Engine_.

_Ri_. Though I distast his busines I wod not

He should miscarry here; you frighted him.

But come, I thinke tis supper tyme, Sir _Francis_.

I shall expect youle hunt with me i'th morning;

I have a pack of Doggs sent me will make

The Forrest ring.

_Fra_. Ile cheerefully attend you,

I love the sport; as earlie as you please, Sir.

_Ri_. I wish wee had all pleasures to delight you,

But no thing wants in my true love to serve you.

_Fra_.--Yet I must cuckold him; I cannot helpe it.

_Act the Third_.

_Enter Thomas with Sir Richards bootes_.

_Tho_. Sir.

_Within Ri_. Whoes that? _Thomas_?

_Tho_. The sun is up before you. Here be your bootes.

_Ri_. That's well.

_Within La_. I preethe donot rise yet; it is hardly day. Sirra, who bid

you call him so earlie? Sir _Richard_ wonot rise yet.

_Tho_. I cannot helpe it, it is none of my fault.

_La_. Wheres _Doroty_?

[_Enter Doroty_.

_Do_. Here, Madam; what make you up so soone, _Thomas_?

_Tho_. O Mistres _Dority_, tis e'ne long of you, for betweene sleepe

and awake your remembrance came to me this morning, and _Thomas_ was

up presently.

_Enter Sir Richard [& Lady]_.

_Ri_. You must excuse me, wife;

I meane to kill a brace of hares before

You thinke tis day. Come, on with my Bootes, _Thomas_;

And _Dorothy_ goe you to Sir _Francis_ Chamber,

Tell him the Day growes old and I am readie,

Our horses and the merry hounds expect us.

_La_. Any excuse to leave me.

_Ri_. You may take

Your ease a bed still, Madam. Ile not loose

One morning that invites so pleasantly,

To heare my Doggs, for a new Maidenhead, I.

Twas for these sports and my excess of charge

I left the towne: besides the Citty foggs

And steame of Brick hills almost stifled me;

This Aire is pure and all my owne.

_Tho_. My Ladie

Meanes shee would have you gett another heire,

Sir, for your lands; though it be against my Master

The young Captaine, yet she speakes but reason.

And now I talke o'th Captaine, Sir,

Would you had given him Counsell.

_Ri_. To what?

_Tho_. Before he tooke this huffing[248] trade upon him,

To have been a man of peace, I meane a Justice.

Nature has made him fit for both alike.

Hee's now at charge to keepe a Captaine Schoolemaster;

He might have sav'd the qua[r]teridge of his Tutor

If I had been his Clarke: and then the income

That broken heads bring in, and new yeares guifts

From soder'd virgins and their shee provintialls

Whose warren must be licenc'd from our office!

_Ri_. Away you prating knave.--

[_Enter Dorothy_.

What? is he readie?

_Do_. Alas, hee's almost dead.

_Ri_. How? dead?

_Do_. He has been troubled with a fitt o'th stone,

Sir, all this night. Sweet gentleman he groanes,

And sweates, and cannot--

_Ri_. What?

_Do_. Make urine, Sir.

_Tho_. I heard my Ladie has an excellent

Receit to cure the Stone; she is a peece

Of a rare Surgeon.

_Ri_. Well, away and get the horses readie, sirra,

For I shall ride you and your witt together.

_Tho_. Alas, any foole may ride me, but I would

faine see any man ride Mistres _Dorothy_.

_Do_. How, sirra?

[_Exit Thomas_.

_Ri_. I am sorry I must leave such a Companion.

But more lament the cause. I wish him health;

My presence cannot serve him. Morrow, wife:

I cannot lose my sport. [_Exit_.

_Do_. Nor shee when you are gone.

My Lady does expect another hunt's up.

_La_. Now I must trust thy secresie.

_Do_. You shall not doubt me, Madam, and t'assure you

My faith, I have a suit to your Ladiship

Whose grant, were there no other bonds upon me,

Would tye me everlastinglie to silence.

_La_. What ist? but name, and I shall soone confirme thee.

_Do_. Our Captaine o'th traind band has been offring

To chaffer Maidenheads with me. I must

Confesse I can affect the foole upon

Good tearmes, and could devise a plott to noose

My amorous woodcock, if you privatlie

Assist me and dare trust me with some Jewell

Of price, that is not knowne, which shalbe faithfully

Restor'd Madam.

_La_. I that dare trust my honour with thee sha'not

Suspect thy faith in any treasure else.

But prethe draw the Curtains close, while I

Expect this friend: I needes must hide my blushes.

Thou maist discover from the Gallory windowe

When they are hors'd. I tremble to consider

What I have promis'd.

_Do_. Tremble to meet a Ghost!

You are more fearefull then a Virgin, Madam.

Why this setts me a longing; but ile watch:

This is the timerous world of flesh and blood.

[_Exit_.

_Enter Sir Richard_.

_La. within_. Alas!

What doe you meane? retire for heavens sake!

My husband is not gone, I heare his voice yet;

This rashnes will undoe my fame for ever

Should he returne.

_Ri_. How's this?

"Returne for heavens sake! my husband is not gone:

I heard his voice; this will undoe my fame!"

It was my wife, and this is sure my bed chamber.

_La_. (_looking forth_.) I have undone my selfe; it is my husband.

_Ri_. My forehead sweats: Where are you, Madam?

Whome did you talke too or take me for? ha! Asleepe

Alreadie, or doe I dreame? I am all wonder.

Madam,--

_La_. You may kill him and please you, sweet heart;

I cannot abide a Blackamore.

_Ri_. How's this, wife?

_La_. Helpe, helpe, deare husband, strangle him with one

Of my Lute strings; doe, doe, doe.

_Ri_. If shee be a sleepe she was not us'd to talke thus:

She has some hideous dreame. She spake to me, to;

Whom should I strangle, sweet hart, with a lute string?

_La_. The King of _Morocco_, I thinke.

_Ri_. Tis so, she dreames. What strange Chimeras wee

Doe fancie in our sleepe! I were best wake her.

Madam, Madam!

_La_. O Murder, Murder!

_Ri_. Sweet heart, Madam, wake!

_La_. Whoes that?

_Ri_. Tis I.

_La_. Sir _Richard_? Oh you have delivered me

From such a dreame I quake to thinke upon't.

_Ri_. I must confesse you frighted me at first.

_Enter Dorothy_.

_Do_.--My Master come back? if he had found the [sic] Sir _Francis_ here!

_Ri_. How now? art thou frighted too?

_Do_. Frighted, quoth a! Oh, Madam, the key of the Closet quickly. I

must have some Cordiall water for Sir _Francis_; I feare this fitt will

kill him.

_La_. Alas, good gentleman! make hast.

_Do_.--His appearance would betray all: I thus prevent it.

_La_. Nay, sweet hart, you sha'not leave me till I ha told

What a cruell Dreame I had. Methought a king

Of Blackamores was in love with me, and haveing

By flattering Courtship drawne me to his bed chamber,

With my consent or force swore to enjoy mee.

I knew not by what reasons to divert

The Ravisher, but told him that I heard

Thy voice, and bid him if he lov'd his life

Retire, for thou wouldst deere revenge my honour.

But he pursueing me, I cry'd out Murder!

At which sad noise methought I saw thee enter,

But, having nere a sword, I counselld thee

To strangle him with a Lute string, for which cruelty

Of mine, me thought he threw an Arrow at me,

Which, if thou hadst not wak'd me as thou didst,

Would as I slept with my strong feares ha killd me.

_Ri_. This was the King of _Morocco_: well, I'me glad

I came to take away thy fright.

_La_. But, sweet, you left me with a resolution

To hunt this morning. Have you done already?

_Ri_. The theeves prevented me.

My Stable has been rob'd to night; two geldings

And my roane Nagg are vanished.

_La_. How?

_Ri_. Nay, doe not thou vexe:

I have sent hue and cry that may oretake 'em.

But come, Ile leave thee to my glasse,

And visit Sir _Francis_ now shees return'd.--

[_Enter Dorothy_.

How does our Noble guest?

_Do_. Hees pretty well: he has voided one stone since

And now finds ease.

_Ri_. Tis well: attend your Mistres. [_Exit_.

_La_. O, wench, I had almost undone my selfe,

Come o'tother side, reach me that peticote;

Ile tell the storie as I make me ready.

_Ex[eun]t_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Device, Sister_.

_Sis_. Ist possible you can talke thus and be no travailer?

_De_. I have traveld in my fancie, Ladie, and with the Muses, and do for

my recreation of witt compose some wonders in verse, poeticall essaies,

as once upon the report of a heate that was in _Egipt_.

_Sis_. Lets heare 'em.

_De_. _In Countreys I have been

Under the Equinoctiall, where I have seene

The Sunne disperse such a prodigious heat

That made our sive-like skins to raine with sweat.

Men would have given for an Ecclipse their lives,

Or one whisper of Aire; yet each man strives

To throw up grasse, feathers, nay women, too,

To find the wind: all falls like lead, none blew.

The Dogstarre spits new fire till't came to passe

Each eye became his neighbours burning glasse.

Leane men did burne to ashes presentlie,

Fatt men did wast to leane Anatomye;

Young womens heat did gett themselves with child,

For none but they themselves themselves defild;

Old women naturally to witches turne,

And onely rubbing one another burne.

The beasts were bak'd, skin turnd to crust, they say,

And fishes in the River boild away.

Birds in the aire were rosted and not burn'd,

For, as they fell downe, all the way they turn'd_.

_Sis_. Most excellent!

_De_. I have seene Larkes in that motion at fire

With an Engine of packthread perpendicular.

_Sis_. What would they have given for a shower in those Cuntries?

_De_. Now you talke of a Shower you shall heare

Another coppie of Verses that I made

Of a mighty raine which fell once in the _Indies_.

_Sis_. That you made? If you will venture your lungs let me heare more

impossible stories to passe away the tyme.

_De. _Heaven did not weepe, but in its swelling eye

Whole Seas of Rhume and moist Catarrs did lie,

Which so bespauld the lower world, men see

Corne blasted and the fruit of every tree;

Aire was condenst to water gainst their wish,

And all their foule was turn'd to flying Fish;

Like watermen they throng'd to ply a fare,

As though it had been navigable Aire.

Beasts lost the naturall motion of each limbe,

Forgott to goe with practiseing to swime:

A trout now here you would not thinke how soone

Taken and drest for th'Emperour o'the Moone,

The fixed Starres, though to our eyes were missing

Wee knew yet were by their continuall hissing.

Weomen were mermaides sailing with the wind,

The greatest miracle was fish behind:

But men were all kept chast against their wish,

And could comitt but the cold sin of fish_.

_Sis_. And that synne would puzzle all the Civell Lawyers in the

kingdome. Sinns of the flesh they are perfect in; they know well enough

what belongs to Adultery and simple fornication, but you would much

improve and oblige the practise of the Court, if you could bring this

sinne of fish under the Commission. But now, I hope, the raine is over

we shall have faire weather.

_De_. Now I can tell you, Lady, what a strange frost was in one part of

the world--

_Sis_. I shall cry out fire if you doe; I had rather have some discourse

to keepe me warm still.

_De_. Or how the whole world was troubled with the wind Collick.

_Sis_. No more Earthquakes, I beseech you. Some frends of myne lost a

great deale of land the last terme, and for ought I know tis never like

to be recover'd. Why, all these verses you have honourd me to heare were

translated out of _French_.

_De_. You say very right, Lady.

_Sis_. No, no; they are out of _Spanish_, as I remember.

_De_. I thinke it be out of _Spanish_, indeed.

_Sis_. Or else the _Italian_.

_De_. Troth, I know not which very well.

_Sis_. And yet you made 'em! Some gentlemen have the faculty to make

verses and forgett what language was the Originall: tis Alamode, I

confesse, sir.

_De_. Thers the mischiefe in poetry: a man might have told 200 lies in

prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.--But, leaving these rude

rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir _Richard_ comended.

_Sis_. Mr. _Courtwell_?

_De_. Is he not a pretty Chrisome[249]? I could not choose but laugh to

observe in what rurall deportment he came to salute you, that should

have made his address in theis postures.

_Sis_. Tis enough, sir; I apprehend what you would doe. The truth is,

touching that thing in black, I doe not love him.

_De_. I know't; tis impossible.

_Sis_. Why is't impossible? The man's a pretty indifferent meaning man,

but I must have one of a more active spiritt. No, no, the man's a

Coward.

_De_. He lookes like one.

_Sis_. I put him to't, he dares not fight; and he that expects my favour

to so high a degree as marriage must be none of my lord Maiors

whifflers[250]; he must be valiant in Armes. I am not taken with a ring

or Caskanet, as some avaritious Ladies; he that presents me with the

sword of his rivall is more welcome then all the silken soft natur'd six

hundreds a yeere, that will be baffeld in their best clothes and goe

downe into the Country every Vacacon like Atturneys to be beaten against

next terme and get damage by it, but I forget some affaires that

concerne me. I take my leave. Your deserts upon me are eminent and many,

and for all your noble services I--will promise you nothing: you

apprehend me?

_De_. O, sweet Lady, tis too much.

_Sis_. I am so weary I can stay no longer w'ee. [_Exit_.

_De_. You make mee over happie.--So, so; the matters done. I may write

my friends. Hum: well thought upon! I shall leave her joyes without any

bound to entertaine me if I first beat this foolish rivall of mine and

present her with his sword. She assures me he dares not fight: it shall

be so. Thus with one baffling and disarming him I shall secure my

Mistresse and get the reputation of a fighting Cavallier, which may save

me many a knock hereafter among men of strong faith that shall heare how

much honour I have elsewhere taken upon the ticket.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Captaine and Underwit_.

_Un_. Stand right to your files, make even your rankes, silence!

Front to the right hand.

As you were.

To the right hand about.

By the left hand.

As you were.

Rankes to the right double.

Rankes as you were.

Rankes to the left double.

Midlemen to the right hand double the front; as you were,--to the left,

--double the front; middle-men to the right entire [or[251] by division]

double the front; files to the right,--to the left,--to the right hand

countermarch,--to the right,--to the left,--wheele about--

_Cap_. Ran tan: enough,--you must not wast your lunges

Too much at once. March faire and make a Captaine.

When these words of Command are rotten (rooted?) wee

Will sowe some other military seeds.

You beare[252] a braine and memory.

_Un_. I hope so.

[_Cap_.[253]] And now you are chose a Captaine for your Countrey

You must give good example to your Soldiers

And cherish nature after exercise:

You must drinke sack, sack is a fortifier.

Come, wee'le to the taverne.

_Un_. With all my heart.

[_Enter Mr. Courtwell_.

Here's Mr. _Courtwell_: lett's take him with us.

_Cap_. My costive Countrey man? hee's an Anabaptist: he wonot drinke,

and yet kist the Cupp of last night, me thought, when his Mistres--

drank to him: wee'le try. How ist, my man of mortall breeding?

_Cou_. My man of warre, trebonn.--Your servant, Captaine.

_Cap_. Why, this was spoke like one of us; canst doo't

Agen? thy voice is more authentick, soundes

As I have heard a Cavalliers in taverne,

Or like the merry master of the _Dragon_,

Small _Neptune_, that controlls the rich Canaries,

When he Comaunds the Tritons of his cellar

'Skud, and bring wine, you varlotts, with a flavour

For my Nobilitie.' Wee were conspiring

To goe to'th taverne.

_Cou_. Ile make one, gentlemen, to wash away some melancholy.

_Cap_. Spoke boldlie, like an _Argonaute_.

_Cou_. I am not now in _London_,

Upon a hall day marching with the puisnes,

Twenty on's in a teame, to _Westminster_

In our torne gownes, embroiderd with _Strand_ dirt,

To heare the Law.

_Cap_. Is not thy father dead, thou talkst so well?

How I was cosend in thee: come away.

_Enter Thomas_.

_Un_. Here's my man _Thomas_.

_Cap_. Now the Newes, Sir _Tristram_.

_Tho_. Oh the Gentleman is mad.

_Un_. What gentleman?

_Tho_. Why, Mr. Engine that did faint last night.

_Un_. With feare of being hang'd for his projections.

_Cou_. My Uncle told me of him.

_Cap. Let him to _Bedlam_ then; what makes he here?

Clean straw and a good whip are held restoratives.

_Tho_. He walkes and talkes the madliest; twenty midwives

Are nothing to him, he drownes all their noise.

His tongue is twenty ring of Bells, and yett

He seemes so merry.

_Enter Engine_.

_En_. Save you, gentlemen, gallants, Cavalliers. How farre travell you:

me thinkes you are very finely accomodated. Are you a Doctor, sir?

_Cap_. No, but I can tell you how to purge, and please you.

_En_. You say very well. Troth, gentlemen you must pardon me: cry you

mercy, your name is Captaine _Underwit_.

_Un_. Yes, sir, but my mother came of the _Over-muches_ by the _Peake_.

She broke my father's hart, and Sir _Richard_ buried her: things must be

as please the starres.

_En_. What thinke you of the blazeing starre in _Germany_? according to

_Ptolmy_ tis very strange. Does the race hold at _Newmarket_ for the

Cup[254]? When is the Cocking, gentlemen? There are a parcell of rare

Jewells to be sold now, and a man had money. I doe meane to build a very

fine house next summer and fish ponds. What did you heare of the new

play. I am afraid the witts are broke; there be men will make affidavit

that [they] have not heard a good jest since _Tarleton_[255] dyed. Pray,

may I crave your name, sir?

_Cou_. My name is _Courtwell_, sir.

_En_. In your eare; I have a cast of the best Marlins[256] in England,

but I am resolv'd to goe no more by water but in my Coach. Did you ever

see the great ship?[257]

_Cap_. I have been one of twenty that have dind in her lanterne.

_En_. It may be so; she is a good sailer. But ile tell you one thing: I

intend to have the best pack of hounds in _Europe_; Sir Richard loves

the sport well. And then if I can but find out the reason of the

loadstone I were happie and would write _Non Ultra_.

_Cap_. The philosophers stone were better in my opinion. Have you no

project to gett that?

_Cou_. That has startled him: I doubt this fellow does but counterfeit.

_Un_. What thinke you of the Dromedary that was to be seene at the back

side[258] of the _Bell_.

_En_. I have seene a stranger beast.

_Cap_. So have I; I have seene you before now, sir.

_En_. Why then, ile tell you: the strangest beast that ever I saw was an

Ostridge that eate up the Iron mynes. But now you talke of birds I saw

an Elephant beat a Taylor in the fenceing schoole at his owne weapon.

_Tho_. The _Spanish_ needle?

_En_. He did out eat him in bread, and that was miraculous. I have seene

a Catamountaine[259] once; but all was nothing to the wench that turnd

round and thred needles.

_Cou_. Troth, sir, I thinke you have turnd round, too, and are not

setled yet.

_En_. Now you talke of setling I knew a gentleman, that was borne to a

good fortune, sold all his land, went to sea in a _Hollander_, was taken

by the _Dunkirke_; at seaven yeares end stole away in an _English_

botome; after that saw both the _Indies_; for all this was taken by a

_Turks_ man of warre, put into the Gallies, and for ought I heare by

credible report is not setled yet.

_Tho_. Sure he is a great scholler; a man cannot understand him.

_Un_. His braines are out of tune.

_En_. Now you talke of Musick theres no man in the world loves musick

better then I,--ile give you the reason: I have been deafe almost this

halfe yeare, and it came with a cold sitting up a primero.

_Co_. Now you talke of the cold it puts me in mind of the new device of

fire for brewing and bakeing. Had you no hand in the project?

_Cap_. Againe hees startled: come, he shall to taverne with us and

confess all. If he do not strip his soule stark naked to us, say I am no

fortune teller.--Please you to honour our society: we are going to

indulge at the taverne hard by.

_En_. You shall comand me, sir. Oh the Neats tongues and partargoes that

I have eaten at Stillyard, but of all things in the world I do not love

a black catt: next a brewers cart, there's nothing will stay a man so

much in the night as a Constables. One word before you go, and I beseech

you give me your opinion cleerely: was not the _Morocco_ Ambasadour a

very fine gentleman for a pagan?

_Cap_. Yes, surely, and the lead mines in _Darbishire_ hold still for

the Allom businesses. But come; will you walke, Sir?

_En_. I do use to goe a foote sometymes but when I ride; and then I must

confesse there is no striving with the streame. You were in _London_

lately: they say the people are more affected to beare baiting then in

former tyme.

_Cap_. There are some a late are drawne like beares to the stake; but

for your owne part the gout and the grand pox are all one to you. What

price beare[s] meat in the shambles?

_En_. Flesh rises and falls as it us'd to doe, sir; but a Countrey life

is the best when all's done. What thinke you of a bridg from _Lion_ key

to _Flaunders_? You may guess I talke at randum, gentlemen; but you must

not interpret all foolish discourse a distemper of the braine: Lords

would take it for a _Scandalum Magnatum_ and your Ladies would bee angry

too.

_Enter Sir Francis and Lady_.

Now you talke of Ladies--

_Cap_. By no meanes, Mr. _Engin_; that gentleman loves you not. Come,

ile bring up the rere. Where's _Thomas_?

[_Exeunt Underwit, Captain, Courtwell and Engine_.

_Tho_. Ile follow, sir.--I would give my fower marks a yeare that I

could talke like that mad gentleman. Hee's here and there and

everywhere. How will his tongue run when his Coggs are oild; theile

drench him! [_Exit_.

_Fra_. Although I mist a happines, I applaud

Your nimble wit that securd both our honours.

You have an excellent Instrument too o' your gentlewoman.

_La_. Oh she deliver'd to the life how you

Were troubled with the Stone. At first I did

Beleev't my selfe, and thinke of the sad consequence.

But tyme is pretious now: although our Starres

Have not been yet propitious to our meeting

Ile try my art to night to make 'em shine.

With happie influence on our Loves.

_Fra_. Most excellent Madam, how?

_La_. Ile not engage

Your visit to my chamber, since the first

Prov'd so unfortunate, but come to youres.

_Fra_. This night? wonot your husband be at home.

_La_. Yes.

_Fra_. You enjoy but one bed.

_La_. Without witchcraft, sir,

I have a stratageme to delude my husband

And all his jealous waking eyes, a plott

That cannot faile if you dare but expect me.

_Fra_. I grow immortall with my hopes and fancie

More than the worlds most pretious Empire in

Our first embrace. I should runne back into

An Infant once agen, and by degrees

And tyme grow up to meet so vast a happines.

Ages in expectation spent were poore

And easy sufferings weigh'd against this triumph!

Methinkes I am not man but something of

A more exalted essence: humane nature

Hath not capacity to understand

And owne theis spatious blessings.

_La_. No more rapture;

But with the confidence of a lover spread

Your equall thoughts, and in your heart and armes

Prepare an entertainement for that guest

That hath no life or name but what you give.

A kisse! and leave our soules to thinke upon

The joyes this night attend us.

_Fra_. Sullen day,

Do not tire now; tis downehill all the way.

[_Exeunt severally_.

_Act the Fourth_.

[SCENE 1.[260]]

[_Captain,[261] Underwit, Courtwell and Musicians,

discovered in the Tavern_.]

_Capt_. Come, my _Apollos_, my _Orpheuses_ or my _Bacchus_ his

Minst[rels], which, to leave poeticall expressions, in broader phrase

is Taverne fidlers, some of your new tunes, my Masters; doe you heare?

1. Do you meane Mr. _Adson_'s[262] new ayres, Sir?

_Cap_. I, Sir; but they are such phantasticall ayres as it putts a Poet

out of his witts to rhime to them; but let mee heare.

1 _Play_.

_Capt_. No, I doe not like that.

1 _Play againe_.

_Capt_. Nor that. (_Play againe_)--No, no, no, neither.

1. An't please your Worship, Mr. _Capt_., our Boyes can singe songs

to these.

_Cap_. No, no, saveing your presence, your Boyes have nothing,

sarreverence,[263] but Love songs, and I hate those monstruously, to

make thinges appeare better then they are, and that is but _deceptio

Visus_, which after some embraceings the parties see presently what

it is.

_The Musique Playes_.

(_Hee sings and reeks and fillips all the time

with his finger, then sayees_:)

_Cap_. I, I, this thumping tune I like a life; a Song, a Song to it!

_One Singes.

This Song.

_The Juice of Spanish squeez'd Grapes is It

That makes a dull Braine so full of witt;

The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine

The grosser witts too, doth much refine.

Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime,

Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime.

The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white,

Who doth not in them sometimes take delight?

If with Mimique Gestures you'le keep you from sadnes,

Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes;

And then to settle you no hopes in Beer

But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere_.

_Cap_. But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song. You

have beene ill catechiz'd, Boy, for a _White Divell_ is but a poeticall

fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke.

_Boy_. No, Captaine, I say white wine at the Divell.

_Cap_. That's true; thats a good Boy, indeed. _Underwit_, lend mee a

Peice to give these harmonious men there. And now begon, my Masters,

without noise, for I will have no more fiddle-faddle for my money, no

tunes of supererrogation after the Musicall Bill is paid.

[_Exeunt[266] omnes_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Thomas_.

_Tho_. They are all drunke already, and such Confusion in their heads

and tongues, my master kisses the next man and calls him Mistres

_Dorothy_; Mr. _Courtwell_, possest with the spiritt of defiance to

_Cupid_, is ready to beat him for being in love; my Projector dead drunk

in a Chaire, and the Captaine peepeing into his mouth like a tooth

drawer and powring downe sack which he feeles not, but his chapps shut

againe like a spring lock till he returne with a key to open his teeth,

to poure in the next health.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. My Cloake and sword, Drawer.

_Tho_. Tis here, sir.

_Cou_. Thou art a pretty fellow; here's half a Crowne, say I am

gone _Thomas_.

_Tho_. You are pretty well.

_Enter Captaine and Underwit_.

_Un_. What shalls doe with him; this Engine burnes like _Etna_.

_Cap_. Throw him into the River.

_Un_. Hee's able to mull the _Thames_ well, for my owne part would

Mistresse _Dorothy_ were here to open her files.

_Cou_. Did you not name a woman. I will have no mention of any thing

that's female.

_Un_. May not a man talke of Sack?

_Cap_. Sack is a soveraigne medicine.

_Un_. Oh very Soveraigne.

_Cap_. Is it not _hic et hec_ sack, both for he and she. Stay, is my

Countryman gone? come hither, _Thomas_; do you thinke I am drunke?

_Tho_. Truly, Captaine, I cannot tell.

_Cap_. You cannot tell? there's your ignorance. Drink is a vice I am as

little given to as another man, for I doe abhorre it in my selfe. I do

wonder how any reasonable man can be drunk; therefore every wise man

take Counsell and example by me, and he may see very plainely what an

odious thing it is; for you must follow your leader, and vertue, which

is an Antient--

_Tho_. Vertue an Antient?

_Cap_. I, an Antient old gentlewoman that is growne very poore, and

nobodie knowes where she dwells very hard to find her out, especially

for a Capt.; you will find it very difficult for a Livetenent. But wee

will endeavour the best wee can; you see my courses, I have travel'd to

find her out, and I could never yet see her at a baudihouse.

_Un_. Who is to be seene at a baudihouse? to the right hand countermarch.

_Tho_. He talkes of vertue, sir.

_Un_. Vertue? she never comes there; why do you thinke she should be

there, Captaine?

_Cap_. Why, because she is an old gentlewoman and might keepe the house.

_Tho_. Alas, Captaine, Mistris _Vertue_ is poore and leane.

_Cap_. Nay, then she is not fit to be a baud, but tell me did you ever

see her, or if so did you ever doo't with her?

_Un_. No, but twas none of my fault; I know not what I may do in time

when she understands the wordes of Command.

_Tho_. He does not meane Mistris _Dorothy_: but, Captaine, I would faine

know the reason why your baudes are so fat still.

_Cap_. A plaine case: they lie fallow and get hart, then they keepe

themselves so in health and so soluble with stewd prunes; and then

sipping of sack is a great matter to fatten 'em. But they are as good

people as a man shall keepe company withall, and bring up the young

gentlewomen so vertuously. I came into one of their houses tother day

for a carreere, and I found the baud sick upon her death bed, very

religious and much given to repentance for those poore sins she had

comitted. When she had taken order for her soule, she told me the young

gentlewoman I look'd for was in the next roome; and desiring her upon

her blessing to give me content, she turnes herselfe to the wall and

gives up the ghost very privatly, because she was loth to trouble us.

_Un_. By your relation theis appeare to be very good people. What if we

went to visit one of these Matrons? I have a great mind--

_Cap_. Wy, now you speake like an understanding soldier, and one that

may come to something in the end. Lett us therefore march on.

_Un_. March on to _Venus_ Warres.

_Cap_. For you know, _Thomas_, that the Spider and the Bee, the Spider

and the Bee, do both--something, but in troth I have forgott what tis.

_Un_. Tis no matter what; let us goe.

_Cap_. Goe? no more but goe? though I be a Captaine, if I be not chosen

in this imployment--

_Tho_. What, then, Captaine?

_Cap_. Why, then--I cannot goe.

_Tho_. Very right; but wo' not those young gentlewomen you talk'd of

give a man something to make a man afraid of pepper upon occasion?

_Cap_. You will be prating so long till I breake your head for

pretending to that which you have not, sirra.

_Tho_. Alas, I never had it in my life.

_Un_. What's that, Captaine?

_Cap_. Wit, I talke of wit.

_Un_, Who has any wit? does my man offer to have wit?

_Cap_. Nay, take no offence at it, for I meant none to either of you

by this sack. Drawer, give me my oath, cannot you drinke without wit?

cannot you game without wit?

_Un_. And yet by your favour the gamesters are cald the wits now.

_Cap_. Tis no wit to cozen; confederacy and dishonesty will doo't

without wit. Ile iustifie it: do not you know the receit of Cozenage?

take an ounce of knavery at the least,--and confederacie is but so many

knaves put together,--then you must take a very fine young Codling heire

and pound him as small as you can.

_Un_. And what then, Captaine?

_Cap_. Why, then you must cozen him.

_Un_. But which way?

_Cap_. Which way? Why, which way you will: is not cozen him enough? thou

art a pretty fellow, ile talke with thee. Thy name's _Thomas_; take

heed, I say still, _Thomas_, of being drunke, for it doth drowne the

mortall soule; and yours cannot swim, _Thomas_,--can it?

_Tho_. Not as I know, Captaine; if it scape fire tis as much as I

looke for.

_Within Eng_. Oh--oh--

_Cap_. What's that?

_Tho_. Tis Mr. _Engine_ recovered from his dead sleepe. [_Exit_.

_Un_. D'ee heare, Captaine, for all this I have a great mind to a wench,

and a wench I must have if there be one above ground. Oh _London,

London_, thou art full of frank tenements, give me _London_. Shall we

wheele about yet?

_Cap_. Give you _London_? Wo'nott _Cheapeside_ serve your turne, or the

_Exchange_?

_Enter Thomas_.

_Tho_. Oh, gentlemen, Mr. _Engine_ is surely bewitch'd.

_Cap_. What, what's the matter? bring the witch and Mr. _Engine_

before us.

_Tho_. He does vomit the strangest things yonder.

_Cap_. Did not I say, murder will out?

_Tho_. I thinke he has eaten and drunke nothing but Monopolies, and too

hard to be digested they come up againe.

_Within Eng_. Oh!

_Tho_. Harke, I must hold his head. [_Exit_.

_Cap_. Did not I tell you something would come out?

_Tho_. Pins, pins, they lay across his throat. I told you he was

bewitch'd. Heyday! cards and dice, out with 'em, the Divells a gamester

and paies the box soundly--Now, now, now.

_Un_. Whats that?

_Tho_. Tis something clammy,--now,--oh, tis sope!

_Cap_. Sope? give a man leave to wash his mouth.

_Un_. Does not the lyme burne his throat, _Thomas_?

_Tho_. Alas, poore gentleman, something now agen is ready to strangle

him; out with em,--hides, hides,--it was the hornes stuck in his gullett.

_Within_. Oh--

_Tho_. Well straind; what a foule stomack he has! open your mouth,

Mr. _Engine_.

_Cap_. Throw downe a pottlepot.

_Tho_. I have, sir, and it has come up full of medium wine; if you have

any charity come and helpe me to hold his head; now agen!

_Within_. Oh, oh, oh!

_Un_. This is very strange, Captaine; the man is certainely enchanted.

_Tho_. Master, master, tis _Shrovetuesday_[267] and the prentices are

pulling downe _Covent Garden_; the Brickes come as whole out as if he

had swallowed Cherristones. Hey! will you take Tobacco in the Roll? here

is a whole shiplading of _Bermudas_ and one little twopenny paper of

berrinas, with a superscription 'To my very loving friends the

Custome-house.'

_Cap_. Put up that for a relique, _Thomas_, and open it upon high dayes

to clear the sore eyes of our _Spanish_ Marchants. _Thomas_, no more,

but call the Drawer, an understanding Drawer and one that writes

orthographie.

[_Enter Drawer_.

--Sirra, I charge you set a padlock upon that Chamber doore; there is a

dangerous fellow must be brought to his purgation. And looke all the

goods that he hath vomitted be forthcomeing, while we discreetly goe and

enforme the Magistrates.--At your perill, sirra, at your perill seale up

the Doore; and do you pay the reckoninge.

_Un_. Sir _Richard_ is a Justice. There's your money, and yet wee need

not pay; the gentleman hath left enough for the Reckoning in the next

Roome.

_Un_. I ha made him fast, you are very welcome, gentlemen. All's paid in

the Percullis.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Courtwell and Sister_.

_Sis_. Ile walke no further; if you have a secret

To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees

And hedges will not listen. What's the business?

I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.

_Cou_. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in,

I doe not love you, Lady.

_Sis_. How? you ha not

Traind me thus farr to tell me that?

_Cou_. You are

Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle,

And one with whome tis most impossible

I ere should change Affection; theres nothing

To invite me too't, not so much as that

Wee call a seeming reason, upon which

All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it,

My understanding Ladie.

_Sis_. You thinke I am very dull that you expound

Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator,

Not by the Author, tis so very plaine;

But to despise me most of all the sexe

Is something oversaid. Though I affect

No flattery, I hate uncivill Language.

You do not meane to quarrell, now you have

Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?

_Cou_. What is there in your face more to attract mee

Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell

Do you thinke I should dote upon your person?

That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.

_Sis_. By that

I understand all this revenge, because

You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me,

And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I

Should love you now, could not you love agen?

_Cou_. In troth I thinke I could not.

_Sis_. You do but thinke.

_Cou_. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish,

And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke

Shall praise me fort and say Amen.

_Sis_. What reasons?

_Cou_. I shall be very loath

To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen,

Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie,

Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire

Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory,

Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head,

When my owne Conscience tells me that _Bunhill_

Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but _Higate_

Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you;

Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime

Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be,

Whine love unto[268] a tune.

_Sis_. This all your feare?

_Cou_. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse,

And my witts too, jolting them all away

To waite on you in prouder Coaches.

_Sis_. Is this all?

_Cou_. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at

By all the world when I shall come at last

To this reward for all my services,

To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely

A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.

_Sis_. But how

Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate

(I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it.

What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?

_Cou_. A little sack had power to cure this madnes.

_Sis_. I hope you are not sober yet, the humour

May change when you ha slept.

_Cou_. Ile rather stick

My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare

Perpetually.

_Sis_. Then you may see me agen.

_Cou_. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder,

When you are in the Ivie bush, that face

Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes,

So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of

Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't,

With those black patches it does put me in mind

Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me.

How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches;

You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of

Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt

And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.

_Sis_. This rudenes

Is beyond the manners of a gentleman.

_Cou_. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so.

_Sis_. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken,

But if your passion have not drownd all reason

I pray let us part civilly.

_Cou_. With all my heart; I dare then take my leave, to[o].

_Sis_. Whoe's there?

_Cou_. Where?

_Sis_. Behind that tree?

_Cou_. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape?

Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries

That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.

_Sis_. I know youle bring me home in Curtesie.

_Cou_. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you

Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you.

Fare you well, Ladie.--Do you see that Bull?

_Sis_. Yes, Sir.

_Cou_. That is a happie beast

_Sis_. Why happie, sir?

_Cou_. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is

Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour,

Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer

To appear still in new rich suites, but lives

Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none.

Like the great _Turke_ he walkes in his Seraglio,

And doth command which concubine best pleases;

When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe,

And makes as he had never knowne the Dun,

White, Red or Brindled Cowe.

_Sis_. You are unmanly.

_Cou_. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it.

Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie,

An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather

Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not;

For, if you raile, too, men that know you can

Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and

Tis not my ayme.

_Sis_. You are a fine man!

_Cou_. I am in my best clothes?

_Sis_. I perceave

That tis truth now what the world saies of you,

And yet tis strange.

_Cou_. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.

_Sis_. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope

Your malice should spare me abroad that have

So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame

That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men

Care not whose name you blast with a loose character,

So you maintaine your pride of talke.

_Cou_. Howe's this?

It is confess'd I have talk'd in my tyme

And talk'd too much, but not too much of you;

For I but seldome thought of such a woman:

For any other--

_Sis_. Nay, sir, I am satisfied;

You can talke your pleasure.

_Cou_. Have I not done it, too?

_Sis_. Yes, by your own report, and with a lady

So much in vertue and in birth above you;

And therefore I expect not--

_Cou_. Stay; this moves me.

I never tooke a pleasure yet to lie

With Ladies fames, or ever thought that sport

Lay in the tongue. Such humours are for men

That live by brothell offices: let me know

Who hath traduc'd me to you thus, he shall

Be knowne no more.

_Sis_. Ile not be guiltie, sir,

Of any murder; when we meet agen,

And you in better humour, I may tell you.

So farewell, _Gondarino_,[271] nothing's lost

When you turne _Woman Hater_. [_Exit_.

_Cou_. She has vext me.

If we make Matrimony after this rate,

The Divell is like to dance at our wedding. Ho!

_Enter Device_.

_De_. Hee's here,

Alone too, and the place most opportune.

How shall I beginne?--Mr. _Courtwell_, do you love

Any friend of mine?

_Cou_. Not to my knowledge, Sir; I should be sorry.

_De_. Do not you love a gentlewoman?

_Cou_. If she be a friend of yours ile take the first

Occasion to neglect her for your sake.

_De_. It will become your wisdome and your safety.

_Cou_. What mischiefe have done to your face?

_De_. My face?

_Cou_. You looke so scurvily; come hither, thou

New Monster, with more feet then a Caterpiller;

What tyme a day ist? you that move upon

So many wheeles, say, Monsier, are you not

A walkeing Clock? I have a mighty mind

To see you tooke a peeces.

_De_. I doe not like this.--

You wo'not put me, sir, together againe.

_Cou_. I wo'not take the paines. Why do you smile now?

_De_. At your conceite to thinke I was a Clock:

I am a watch, I never strike.--Hee's valiant.

_Cou_. You have pretty colours there; are these your Mistresses?

_De_. If you did know the mistery you would applaud 'em.

Have you read _Livre de blason_? What meane you?

_Cou_. I will bestow 'em, sir, upon some forehorse?

They will become a countrey teame rarely.

_De_. Mor bleu!

Why, you dare fight, it seemes, and I was told

You were no Cavellier, a very dreame [droane?]

A wedg for men to breake their swords upon.

I shall never trust fame agen for your sake.

_Cou_. Thou never cosendst me.

_De_. I was never so illiterate in man.

_Cou_. For I did ever thinke thou durst not fence

But at a complement; a glittering vapour,

A thing of clothes and fitt for chambermaides

To whet their witts upon, but now resolve

Either to have your skin flead of or fight wo' me

For troubling my present meditations.

_De_. Why, sir, if you be serious I shall quit

That prejudice you have upon my valour.

Looke you, sir, I can draw, and thus provok'd

I dare chastise you, too. Cause I was merry

I was not bound to feed your spleen eternally

With laughter; yet I am not ignorant

What an advantage, sir, your weapon gives you

In length.

_Cou_. Wee'le change; why, this is honour in thee.

[_They measure and Device getts both weapons_.

_De_. Now, sir, keepe of.

_Cou_. Th'art not so base?

_De_. I never cosen'd you, do you remember?

These two will guide me on the rope.

_Cou_. You meane to dance, then?

_De_. Yes, the Canaries,[272] but with quicker tyme

Then you, I hope, can follow: thus I begin.

Fa, la, la, &c. [_Excurrit_.

_Cou_. What a heathen Coward's this? how the rogue tripps like a fairie

to the towne with 'em! He has been a footman, sure; I have not aire

enough to overtake him, and twill be darke presently. If I loose the

sight on him ile search the towne, and if I find him not there, pursue

him with hue and cries and after hang him.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 4.]

_Enter Sir Francis, a taper prepar'd_.

_Fra_. The sun whose busie eye is still employ'd

A spie upon our actions, tir'd with waiting,

Is drowsie gone to bed, about whose pillow

Night hath hung all her wings and set up tapers

As if the Day were timerous like a Child

And must have lights to sleepe by. Welcome all

The houres that governe pleasure, but be slow

When you have blest me with my wishes. Time

And Love should dwell like twins; make this your bower

And charme the aire to sweetnes and to silence.

Favour me now and you shall change your states;

Time shall be old no more, I will contract

With Destiny, if he will spare his winges

To give him youth and beauty, that we may

Find every minute a fresh child of pleasure.

Love shall be proud to be no more a boy

But grow to perfect strength and bold consistence[273];

For when too Active Lovers meet, so happie

As wee, whose equall flames light to embraces,

Twill be no weight to number many yeares

In our delights and thinke all age a blessing.

But language is to narrow to expresse

What I expect, tis fitt my soule retire

Till she present her selfe; and, if it can

Measure my hop'd for ioyes with thought, prepare

To entertaine the happines.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 5.]

_Sir Richard and his Lady abed. Enter Dorothy with a Light_.

_Do_. I have set already my designe a moveing

To take my Captaine _Underwit_, who in wine

Was late more feirie upon me. I'th meane tyme

I cannot choose but laugh at the device

Wee have to cheat my Master; sure the Divell

Is a great friend to women that love men,

He doth so furnish us with quaint inventions.

Presently after supper she began

Her fitt othe toothach, and did counterfeit

So naturally; but since she went to bed

She almost rav'd by turnes:--I heare her at it.

_La_. Oh--oh, whoe's there?

_Do_. Tis I forsooth, I heard you groane and I

Have not the hart to sleepe. Shall I watch by you?

_La. Oh, no, no, no; get you to bed, make fast the Chamber;

I cannot endure the candle.

[_Dorothy towards the dore putts out the Candle and returnes_.

_Ri_. Deare hart be patient.

_La_. I, you have your homilies of patience, but if you had my paine

twould make you wild. Oh!

_Ri_. Ile send for the _french_ toothdrawer in the morning.

_La_. Oh, there is no rack nor torture like it. What shall I do? I shall

never sleepe agen.

_Ri_. Which tooth ist?

_Do_.--The sweet one you may be sure which troubles her.

_La_. This, this, O that there.

_Ri_. They are happie that are old and have no teeth.

_La_. Oh, take heed, now it shoots up to my head.

_Ri_. Thou dost make my head ake with the noise.

_La_. If you knew what I suffer your head would ake indeed. I must rise

and walke in the Chamber; there is no remedy.

_Ri_. You will catch more cold.

_La_. Oh, no, no, deere life, do not crosse me; and you were in my

torment you would rise and trie any thing for a little ease. It cannot

be worse; the paine sure came with a cold, and who knowes but an other

cold may cure me.

_Ri_. I prethe come to bed agen.

_La_. So, so, do not troble me; I am now in some little ease; its a

heavenly thing to be goeing.

_Ri_. Dost heare?

_La_. Your noise will bring my paine back agen; if you knew what a

vexation it were for me to speake, You wo'not put me too't so. If you

doe talke I wo'not answere a word more, oh!

_Ri_. Well by this no light ile to _London_ tomorrow.

[_She takes Dorothy by the hand and exit_.

Now do I see it is possible that a womans teeth should be as

troublesome as her tongue.

_Do_. Oh, oh!

_Ri_. I cannot choose but pitty her, that any woman should hold so much

paine in a hollow tooth.

_Do_.--If my Mr. touched with so much compassion should rise and force

me to bed with him, I must not cry out a rape; tis at the worst on my

side but fornication in my owne defence.

_Ri_. I prethe come to Bed.

_Do_. Oh, oh, oh!

_Ri_. The musick at a convocation of Catts upon a witches upsetting is

the spheres to this Catterwalling. I will thrust my head into the

pillow, as _Dametas_[274] did in a bush when the beare was a comeing,

and then I shanot heare her.

_Do_. Oh, this is a kind of Purgatory for sins of the flesh. If she

should fall asleepe with the tother knight it is not possible I should

hold out till morning; that which would fright away an Ague would put me

into a feare, I shall ha the toothache indeed with counterfeiting; I

have knowne some men caught the stammers so; my gums begin to murmure,

there is a feare all over my flesh, she will stay so long, and then---

_Ri. coughs_.--Uh, uh!

_Do_. Oh, oh!--Ile shift places to shew more distraction; at the worst

my noise shall be within his reach; it may give her notice to returne

too.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 6.]

_Sir Francis a sleepe; a table, inke, and paper. Enter Lady_.

_La_. I am full of feares, and my owne motion frights me;

This furious love is a strange pilot. Sir,

Where are you? ha! asleepe! can any dulnes

That is not Death possess a gentleman,

So valiant in desires, when he expects

To meete his Mistresse? How I blush to raise him!

Was I not worth thy waking expectation?

Farewell; yet something that [like?] a charme that's fastned

To my poore hart restraines me. Inke and paper!

Ile leave him a short monument of this shame

And my neglected Love. [_Writes_.

He knowes my hand: farwell, forgetfull Lover.

[_Exit_.

_Fra_. What? have I slept? some witchcraft did betray

My eyes to so much darkenes; yet my dreame

Was full of rapture, such as I with all

My wakeing sence would flie to meet. Me thought

I saw a thousand Cupids slide from heaven,

And landing here made this their scene of revells,

Clapping their golden feathers which kept tyme

While their owne feet strook musike to their dance,

As they had trod and touched so many Lutes.

This done, within a Cloud formd like a Throne,

She to whom love had consecrate this night,

My Mistresse, did descend and, comeing toward me,

My soule that ever wakes, angrie to see

My body made a prisoner and so mock'd,

Shook of the chaines of sleepe, least I should loose

Essentiall pleasure for a dreame. Tis happie;

I will not trust my selfe with ease and silence,

But walke and waite her comeing that must bless me.

Forgive me, you bright starres, and do not frowne

That I have not attended as became

One that must live by your kind influence.

Not yet appeard? She did comand I should

With confidence expect her. Ha! what's here?

This Character, was not visible before.

_That man's too much compos'd of phleame

Will loose his Mistress for a Dreame_. [_Reades_.

Tis her's, I know't; she has been here, oh fatall!

And finding me asleepe scorn'd to uncharme

My dull and cursed silence. This distracts me:

Have I so long, with so much Art and study,

Labour'd this honour, and obtaind what my

Ambition look'd at, her consent; and when

The tree it selfe bowed downe its golden fruit

And tempted me to gather, must I make

My selfe uncapable and be guilty of

So black, so base a forfeit? I could teare

My eyelids of, that durst let in a Mist

So darke and so destroying, must I sleepe

At such a tyme that the Divell must be over

Watche too! This houre hath blasted such a hope

As the Earth never teemd with nor the spring

Gave up in smileing blosomes to the breath

Of those sweet windes that whisper from the West

A tale of triumph to the yeere. I could

Dissolve with curseing of my Lathargie.

How shall I looke upon her face whose love

And bold adventure I have thus rewarded?

But passion cannot cure my wound; which must

Bleed till I see her, and then either cease,

Blest by her pardon, or dismiss a life

(Though iust) too poore a Sacrifice for her anger.

Where shall I hide my selfe and shame for ever!

[_Exit_.

_The Fifth Act_.

_Enter Sister_.

_Sis_. I cannot forgett my carelesse gentleman: his neglect and

reproaches have wrought strangely upon me.--Hee's here.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. Is there not a weesill crept into your Chamber, lady?

_Sis_. A weesill, sir?

_Cou_. A Mounsier sucklegge.

_Sis_. Do you take my Chamber for a henns neast?

_Cou_. There is a thing that calls himselfe _Device_,

One that will break the hart of a post horse

To continue a hand gallop with him; your Alamode,

Your fighting faery feather'd footed servant,--

When saw you him?

_Sis_. My fighting servant? has he beaten you, sir?

Perhapps he thought you were his Rivall; surely

I saw him not since yesterday.

_Cou_. Bu'y, Ladie.--

How many mile ist to the next Cutlers?

The rogue has pawn'd or sold my sword.

[_Offers to go forth_.

_Sis_. Dee heare, sir?

I can tell you now what Lady twas you did

Abuse so.

_Cou_. I abuse a Ladie! tell me the slave

Reported it. I hope twill prove this Mounsieur.

If ere we meet agen! Who wast?

_Sis_. Upon condition, sir, you will requite me

But with one gentle favour.

_Cou_. Any thing--

_Sis_. You must sitt downe and heare me then while I

At a distance thus deliver--

_Cou_. Tis more state.

_Sis_. I am most unfortunate.

_Cou_. In what, deare Damsell?

_Sis_. And much wrongd by a gentleman I lov'd.

_Cou_. Can he be a gentleman that dares

Wrong so much love and beauty? what's the offence?

_Sis_. He wo'not love agen.

_Cou_. And you would have

The stubborne man corrected?

_Sis_. I would be

Revengd if I knew how, and honour him

Should do me Justice.

_Cou_. Name the man; Ile doot.

_Sis_. I cannot.

_Cou_. How?

_Sis_. Yet turne your face: alas, it is yourselfe.

I have your word to punish him.

_Cou_. Sweet Ladie,

I am well acquainted with the worthy gentleman,

But will not kill nor strike him, for I know

He has just reason not to love you--you

Of all your sex; he told me so.

_Sis_. His reason?

_Cou_. Was in these wordes; suppose you hear him speak it;

Now do you sit--Lady, when I consider you,

The perfect frame of what we can call hansome,

With all your attributes of soule and body,

Where no addition or detraction can

By _Cupids_ nicer Crittick find a fault,

Or _Mercury_ with your eternall flame;

And then consider what a thing I am

To this high Character of you, so low,

So lost to noble merits, I despaire

To love a Mistresse cannot love agen.

_Sis_. This is a much dissembled Modesty.

_Cou_. Therefore give me the kinder Chambermaid,

That will returne me love for my two peeces

And give me back twelve pennyworth agen,

Which is as much as I can well receave;

So there is thirty and nyne shillings cleere

Gotten in Love, and much good do her too't;

I thinke it very well bestow'd.

_Sis_. But if I thinke you worthy, and accept

Your service, it destroies this other reason

For your despaire. Why, I can praise you, too.

_Cou_. No, lett it alone I have other reasons Lady

Among my papers. But to love or to be in love

Is to be guld; that's the plaine _English_ of _Cupids Latine_.

Beside, all reverence to the calling, I

Have vowd never to marry, and you know

Love may bring a Man toot at last, and therefore

My fine Gewgaw do not abuse me.

_Sis_. How can I

When you will neither Love nor marry me?

_Cou_. I was not made for a husband.

_Sis_. But I would make you.

_Cou_. I know what you would make me.

_Enter Servant_.

_Ser_. Mounsier _Device_, if you be alone, would present his service.

_Cou_. Is he come?

_Sis_. Sir, do me but one favour, ile recant

My Love, I wonot have so much as one

Good thought on you; I will neglect you, sir,

Nay and abuse you, too, if you obscure

But for three minutes.

_Cou_. Ile have patience so long.

_Sis_. Admitt him.--I wilbe reveng'd o' somebody.--

Now, Sir.

_Enter Device_.

_De_. I ha brought you a weapon, Lady.

_La_. Mee, what to do, Sir?

_De_. Tis Justice I present it to your feete

Whose love arm[e]d me to vindicate your honour.

_Sis_. My honour?

_De_. This is but the first of my valour in your cause;

If you affect these Monuments ile make

You up an Armorie; meane tyme receave

My Service with this sword: if he provoke me

To fight with him agen, Ile cut his hand of

And bring that wo' me to present the next.

_Sis_. Whose hand, deare servant?

_De_. He is not worth the nameing; las, this does not

Deserve your knowledge. Only thinke what I

Dare do when your bright name is question[e]d,

And I in tyme may merit to be cald

The darling of your virgin thoughts.

_Sis_. I pray stay.

My name traduc'd? who was so impudent?

Do me the grace to let me know on whome

Your valour had been exercis'd.

_De_. Why, the formall thing _Courtwell_; I would [not] call him

Gentleman; but that I ha baffled him

You need no other witnes but his sword

With that fine holliday hilt, Ladie.

[_She shutts the Doore_.

_Sis_. Looke you, sir, I ha made fast the Doore,

Because I meane before you goe to have

A satisfaction for the base injury

You ha done me.

_De_. I done you injurie!

_Sis_. Not that I value _Courtwell_, whome you would

Pretend has been to saucy with my honour;

But, cause I scorne to owne a goodnes should

Depend upon your sword or vindication,

Ile fight with you my selfe in this small vollume

Against your bulke in folio.

_Cou_. Excellent wench!

_De_. I was your Champion, lady.

_Sis_. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it.

Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme

A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants

And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants

They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles,

Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes

To the _Bankeside_ and save the Beares a whipping

That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging

A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too.

Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you.

_De_. At that weapon?

_Sis_. This, and no other.

_De_. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword

In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes

May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave

The Lillies to lament the rude divorce.

But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy,

My rage more nimble then [the] _Median_ shaft

Should flie into his bosome, and your eye

Change anger into smiles to see me fight

And cut him into a ragged staffe.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, with running;

ile try how you can eate a sword.

_De_. Ha you an ambush, Lady? Ile cry out murder.

Is two to one faire play?

_Cou_. Let me cut one legg of, to marre his running.

_De_. Hold, let me speake.

_Cou_. What canst thou say for thy baseness?

_De_. Some men loves wit, and can without dishonour

Endure a jeast. Why, do you thinke I know not

You were here, and but obscur'd to see my humour.

I came to waite upon you with your sword, I.

_Cou_. How came you by'te? confesse before this Lady.

_De_. Dost thinke her witts so limber to believe

I could compell it from thee. Twas a trick,

A meere conceipt of mirth; thou sha't ha mine.

Dost thinke I stand upon a sword? Ile gi' thee

A case of Pistolls when we come to _London_;

And shoot me when I love thee not. Pox ont,

Thou apprehende'st me well enough.

_Cou_. But I am not

Satisfied: do you affect this gentlewoman?

_De_. Hum.

_Cou_. You will resolve, sir?

_De_. As may become a stranger; ile not loose

Thy friendship for all woman kind.

_Cou_. He dares not owne you.

_Sis_. I easilie forgive him; I should hate

My selfe, if I depended on his pitty.

_Cou_. Th'art a noble wench. Shall we leave of

These jigs and speake our harts in earnest? By

These twin lips I love thee extreamely.

_Sis_. Sweare by your owne.

_Cou_. They shall bee mine. Mounsier,

For your penance you shall along and witnes.

_Sis_. What, I pray?

_Cou_. The Priest shall tell you; come, we have both dissembled,

We do love one another.

_Sis_. Tis not possible.

_Cou_. Unless you will denie me i'the church.

I ha vou'd to lie with you to night: _Device_,

Amble before and find the parson out;

We will bee friends and thou shalt be her father.

_De_. I must maintaine my humour or be beaten. [_Ex_.

_Cou_. Come, weele have no more acquainted.

_Sis_. Very pretty.

--I may deceave you yet for all your confidence.

_Cou_. If the skie fall weele have the larkes to supper.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Ladie, Sir Francis, Dorothy_.

_La_. It was strange neglect, sir.

_Fra_. I confesse it,

And not deserve to live for't; yet if you

But knew my sufferings--

_La_. Let her be Judge.

_Fra_. By no meanes, Madam.

_La_. You may trust her knowledge.

_Fra_. This is worse then a whipping now; these Ladies

Have no mercy on a delinquent. I must stand toot.

There is no tyrant to a chamberwoman

Made judg in such a cause; Ide give a Limbe

To be quit now, but, if she choose, I am

A Criple for this world.

_Do_. Ist possible a man and such a beast?

_Fra_. So, I must to the shameles.

_La_. What punishment can be equall to the offence?

_Do_. He lookes with some compunction for his fault.

Troth, Madam, choose an other night and trye

Whether he will sleepe agen.

_Fra_. Mercifull wench!

If we peece agen it shall be a good turne in thy way.

_La_. My husband is this day resolv'd for _London_;

It is his humour, or els, worse, suspition.

Ther's no pretence for him to stay behind.

_Do_. You have made ill use of your time, Sir _Francis_;

I know not how to helpe you. Seaven yeare hence

You may have such an other oportunitie.

_La_. Watch if my husband come not this way, _Dorothy_.

--Well, sir, though your transgresse deserve no pardon,

Yet I am charitable upon Condition--

_Fra_. Anything, Madam. This shewes exlent in you;

No pennance shall displease so you absolve me.

Bid me to clime some Rock or Pyramide,

Upon whose narrow spire you have advanc'd

My peace, and I will reach it or else fall,

Lost to the world in my attempt.

_La_. You speake

Gloriously; the condition that assures

Your pardon, 's only this--that you conclude

Here all your loose desires with a resolve

Never to prosecute or hope to enjoy me.

_Fra_. Call you this Charity? let me rather loose

Your pardon then for ever to be thus forfeited;

Bind me never to see you (and yet that

Were cruelty) then charme me to forgett

That I am man or have a hart, and you

A beauty, which your absence can as well

Make nothing as devide from my adoring.

It is not cure but killing to prescribe

I never must enjoy you. If you have

Resolv'd a Death upon me, let it bee

When we like Lovers have embrac'd--

_La_. It is not possible.

_Fra_. Nothing in love

Can be impossible to willing mindes.

Ile tell you, Madam--(sure the Divell has

Forsworne the flesh)--there may be a plot. I have it!

An exelent rare devise, if you but favour it.

Your husband is imediately for _London_,

I must in modesty ride with him; you

Are left behind.

_La_. How can that profitt you?

_Do_.--What a deale of submission these foolish men

Trouble us women with, that are more forward

To be friends agen then they are!

_Fra_. I will counterfeit a fall.

_La_. A fall?

_Fra_. I, from my horse; observe me, then--

_Do_.--My confederate, I hope, by this time is at gate

Enquiring for Sir _Richard_ very formally

From the old knight, his Master, and good Ladie.

The fellow has witt to manage it.

_Fra_. My footman shall pretend himselfe the Surgeon

To attend me; is't not rare?

Stand but to'th fate of this, and if it faile

I will sitt downe a Convert and renounce

All wanton hope hereafter. Deerest Madam,

If you did meane before this honour to me,

Let not your loving thoughts freeze in a Minuit.

My genius is a prophet.

_Do_. Sir _Richard_, Madam,

Is comeing this way.

_Fra_. Shall I hope agen?

_La_. I wo'not say you shall despaire.

_Fra_. You blesse me. [_Exit_.

_Do_. My busines is a foote; your Jewell, Madam,

Will credit much the cause.

_La_. Wee will withdraw

And let me know how you have cast the plott.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 3.)

_Enter Sir Richard, opening a Letter; a Footman waiting_.

_Ri_. From thy Master? his name?

_Foo_. Sir _Walter Littleland_.

_Ri_. I doe not know him.

_Foo_. His name is well knowne in _Lincolnsheire_ neere the fenns: there

were his family antient gentlemen before the Conquest; some say ever

since the flood.

_Ri_. _Littleland_!

_Foo_. But he has now more land then three of the best in the shire,

thanke the _Duchmen_ that have drunk up all the water.

_Ri_. They water drinkers?

_Foo_. Why not, as well as eate dry land? they are lin'd with butter,

Sir, and feare no Dropsie.

_Sir Richard reades_.

_She has been absent theis two yeares; the occasion, her dislike and

disaffection to a gentleman whome I confesse I did too seveerely urge

her to marry. If she have liv'd with you, as my late intelligence hath

enformed me, in the nature of a servant, which is beneath my wishes and

her condition, I hope upon this knowledge you will with consideration of

her quality (she being the onely Child and heire to my fortune) use her

like a gentlewoman. And though my yeares have made me unfitt for

travell, I do intend, upon returne of your Letters, personally to give

you thankes for your respects to my Daughter, whome I shall receave as

new blessing from you, and be happie upon any turne presented to

expresse my selfe for your favours, your true friend and servant_

_W. Littleland._

My maide _Dorothy_ a Knights Daughter and heire! Doe you know your yong

Mistresse.

_Foo_. I shall be happie to see her and present her with a Letter & some

token from her Ladie Mother.

_Ri_. I pray trust me to deliver it.

_Foo_. With all my hart, Sir, you may comand.

[_Enter Thomas_.

_Ri_. _Thomas_, pray entertaine this footman in the butterie; let him

drinke and refresh himselfe, and set the cold chine of Beefe before him:

he has ranne hard.

_Tho_. That will stay his stomach, indeed, but Claret is your only

binder.

_Foo_. Sack, while you live, after a heat, Sir.

_Tho_. Please you, my friend, ile shew you the way to be drunke.

[_Exit. [Tho. with footman_.

_Ri_. To my loving Daughter. May not this be a trick?

By your favour, Madam. [_He opens the Letter_.

_Enter Underwit_.

Captaine, gather you the sence of that Letter while I peruse this. You

know Mistress _Dorothy_.

_Un_. I have had a great desire to know her, I confess, but she is

still like the bottome of the map, _terra incognita_. I have been a

long tyme hovering about the _Magellan_ streights, but have made no

new discoveries.

_Ri_. Ha! this is not counterfeit, I dare trust my owne Judgment; tis a

very rich one. I am confirmed, and will scale them up agen. My Ladies

woman Sir _Walter Littlelands_ Daughter and heire! What think you now of

Mistris _Dorothy_?

_Un_. A great deale better than I did; and yet I have lov'd her this

halfe yeare in a kind of way. O' my conscience why may not I marry her?

_Ri_. This Jewell was sent by her mother to her.

_Un_. Deere Uncle conseale till I have talk'd with her. Oh for some

witchcraft to make all sure.

_Ri_. I like this well; shees here.

_Enter Dorothy_.

_Un_. I vow, Mistris Dorothy, if I were immodest twas the meere impudence

of my sack and not my owne disposition; but if you please to accept my

love now, by the way of Marriage, I will make you satisfaction like a

gentleman in the point of honour.

_Do_. Your birth and estate is to high and unequall for me, sir.

_Un_. What care I for a portion or a face! She that has good eyes has

good----Give me vertue.

_Do_. You are pleas'd to make your mirth of me.

_Un_. By this Rubie, nay you shall weare it in the broad eye of the

world, dost thinke I am in Jeast.

_Do_. Sir _Richard_--

_Un_. And were he ten Sir _Richards_, I am out of my wardship.

_Do_.--How he flutters in the lime bush! it takes rarely.

_Un_. What a necessary thing now were a household Chaplaine.

[_Ext. [Dorothy & Underwit_.

_Ri_. So, so, the wench inclines. I will hasten my journey that I may

appear with more excuse when they are married in my absence.

_Enter Captaine and Engine_.

_Cap_. Sir, I heare you are for _London_ presentlie;

It will concerne you take this gentleman

Along w'ee to bee cur'd.

_Ri_. Mr. _Engine_ sick!

_Cap_. Oh, sir,

Dangerously; he has purg'd his stomack, but the ill spiritts

Are flowne into his head and spoild his eares.

He was ever troubled with Devices in his head;

I stronglie feare he must have his scull open'd,

His brains are very foule within. I know

And can direct you to an excle'nt Surgeon.

_En_. I cannot heare you, Captaine--

_Cap_. One that has a rare dexteritie at lanceing

Or opening of a stomack that has crudities;

So neat at separation of a limbe

And quartering of treason.

_Ri_. You meane the hangman?

_Cap_. He has practised late to mend his hand, and now

With the very wind and flourish of his instrument

He will strike flatt a projector at twelve score.

_Ri_. Does he not heare you?

_Cap_. He has lost that sence he saies, unless he counterfeits;

It wilbe your securitie to see him

Safe in the Surgeons hands.

[_they whisper_.

_En_.--Into what misery have my Projects flung me!

They shanot know I understand 'em. That

I were quitt with loss of both my eares, although

I cut my haire like a Lay Elder, too,

To shew the naked conyholes! I doe thinke

What cursed Balletts will be made upon me

And sung to divilish tunes at faire and Marketts

To call in cutpurses. In a puppet play,

Were but my storie written by some scholler,

Twould put downe _hocas pocas_ and the tumblers

And draw more audience than the Motion

Of _Ninivie_[275] or the dainty docile horse[276]

That snorts at _Spaine_ by an instinct of Nature.

_Cap_. Ile leave him to you and seeke out Captaine _Underwit_.

[_Exit_.

_Ri_. Come, Master _Engine_, weele to horse imediately.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 4.]

_Enter Courtwell, Sister and Device_.

_Cou_. So, we are fast enough, and now I have thee

Ile tell thee all the fault I find; thou hast

A little too much witt to bee a wife;

It could not be too nimble for a Mistresse.--

_Device_, there is a part still of your pennance

Behind. You would pretend to be a Poet;

Ile not disgrace the name to call thee one,

But let me have rimes against we go to bed,

Two Anagrams that weigh an ounce, with coment,

And after that in verse your Affidavit

That you do wish us joy, and I discharge you.

_De_. Tis tyme I were at study then.

_Cou_. About e'm:

Your double congey and depart with silence. [_Exit Device_.

Now prethe tell me who reported I

Had wrong'd a Ladie? Wast not thy revenge

To make me angrie?

_Sis_. Twas, indeed. Now tell me:

Why at the first approach seem'd you so modest?

You have confidence to spare now.

_Cou_. Troth I came not

With any wooing purpose; only to please

My Uncle, and try thy witt; and that converted me.

_Enter Thomas_.

_Tho_. Did you see my Master, Captaine _Underwit_?

_Cou_. Yes, hee's talking with the priest and Mistris _Dorothy_.

_Tho_. Her fathers footman was here; she is a knights daughter

And heire, but she does not know it yet.

_Sis_. I thinke so.

_Cou_. Where's my Uncle.

_Tho_. A mile ons way to _London_ by this tyme with

Sir _Richard_. I long to see my Master. [_Exit_.

_Cou_. Wee shall want companie to dance.

_Enter Ladie_.

_Sis_. My Sister.

_Cou_. If you please, Madam, you may call me Brother:

We have been at 'I _John_ take the _Elizabeth_'.

A possett and foure naked thighes a bed

To night will bid faire earnest for a boy, too.

_Sis_. Tis even so; Madam, the preist has done it.

_La_. May then all joyes attend you; if this had

Been knowne, it might have staid Sir _Richard_ and

Your Uncle one day more.

_Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas_.

_Un_. Come for another Couple.

_Tho_. In hell[277]; my Master is married.

_La_. My husband left some letters and a token

Was sent you Mistris _Dorothy_. You did ill

To obscure your selfe so much; you shall not want

Hereafter all respects that may become you.

_Do_. Madam, I know not what you meane.

_Cap_. She wonot take it upon her yet.

_Un_. Theres the sport.

_Enter Device_.

_De_. Oh, Madam, newes, ill newes, an accident

Will blast all your mirth: Sir _Francis_--

_Cou: La_. What of him?

_De_. Has brooke--

_Cou_. His neck?

_De_. You guest very neere it, but his shoulder

Has sav'd that joynt. A fall from's horse, they say,

Hath much endanger'd him.

_Cou_. My Uncle hurt! [_Exit_.

_La_. He has kept his word; now if he but counterfeit handsomely.

_Un_. Mounsier _Device_, I must entreat a Courtesie; you have wit, and

I would have a Masque to entertaine my new father-in-law Sir _Walter

Littleland_. Mistres _Dorothy_, now my wife, is his onely Daughter and

heire.

_Do_. Who has guld you thus? I am no knights _Daughter_;

You may share your poeticall invention, sir.

_De_. Give you joy, Captaine.

_Un_. She is still loth to confesse it.

_Enter Sir Francis, Lady, Courtwell, Sister, Captaine_.

_Fra_. If you have charity a bone setter.

_La_. He does counterfeit rarely.--Wheres Sir _Richard_?

_Fra_. He rid before, but I sent my footman to tell him this misfortune.

Oh, Madam!

_La_.--This is better then the toothack; he carries it excellently.

_Fra_. Aske me no torturing questions; I desire,

Madam, a little conference with you.

Ile thanke the rest if they withdraw: oh!

[_Cou_.[278]] Letts leave him.

_Un_. Wee'le to my chamber, captaine.

_Cap_. You have a mind to examine the business privatly?

_Do_. No, good Captaine, you may be present.

_Cou_. Come, _Thomas_, thou shat be witnes, too.

[_Ext. all but Sir Francis and Lady_.

_La_. They are gone; they feigne most artificially,

Let me embrace you.

_Fra_. Oh, take heed.

_La_. What's the matter?

_Fra_. Tis no dissembling,--Madam; I have had

A fall indeed, a dreadfull fall; I feele it.

I thinke my horse saw the Divell in some hedge:

Ere I had rid three furlongs, gave a start,

Pitcht me of ons back like a barr and broke

A flint with my shoulder, I thinke, which strooke fire too;

There was something like it in my eyes, Ime punish'd.

_La_. But is this serious? are you hurt indeed?

_Fra_. Hurt? I ha broke my shoulder feelingly,

And I am of opinion when I doe

Enjoy you, Madam, I shall breake my neck;

That will be next. Ile take this for a warning

And will leave of in tyme.

_La_. This makes me tremble.

_Fra_. I will be honest now; and so forgive me.

Not the Surgeon come yet?

_La_. Heaven hath cur'd us both.

_Fra_. I am not cured yet. Oh for the bone setter!

If ere I counterfeit agen.

_La_. There is a blessing falne upon my blood.

Your only charme had power to make my thoughts

Wicked, and your conversion disinchants me;

May both our lives be such as heaven may not

Grieve to have shew'd this bounty.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. Sir _Richard_, Madam.

_La_. You may enter now, sir.

_Enter the rest and Sir Richard_.

_Ri_. I do not like this stratageme; Sir _Francis_

Must not heere practise his Court tricks; I wo'not

_Enter Surgeon_.

Trust my wives surgerie. Hee's come.--How ist,

Noble Sir _Francis_? Best withdraw; ile see

Him drest my selfe. [_They lead out Sir Francis_.

_Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas_.

_Un_. Madam and gentlemen, Mistris _Dorothy_ wo'not acknowledge she is

a knight's daughter; she sweares she knows no _Littleland_.

_Do_. Till it appeare to whom this gemme was meant,

Deare Madame, be you treasurer. I confesse

I have wealth enough in such a noble husband.

_La_. It shall belong to thee; be honest, _Dorothy_,

And use him well.

_Do_. With my best study, Madam.

_La_. Where is the footman you talke of?

_Tho_. He pretended Letters to carry two mile of to a kinsman of his

Masters, and returne presently. He dranke three or fower beere glasses

of sack, and he ran away so lightlie.

_Do_. His reward shall overtake him.

_Un_. Will you have her? she will doe you service, Captaine, in a _Low

Country_[279] Leaguer. Or thou, _Thomas_? ile give thee a Coppiehold.

_Tho_. You have one life to come in that lease, yet I thank you: I am

free, and that's inheritance; for ought I know she may serve us both.

_La_. Come you may perswade her to looke high and take it upon her for

your credit. The gullery is yet within these walles; let your shame goe

no farther. The wench may prove right, she may.

_Enter Sir Richard_.

_La_. What news from Sir _Francis_?

_Ri_. Wife, I hardly aske thee forgivenes; I had jealous thoughts, but

all's right agen.

_La_. I will deserve your confidence.

_Ri_. No great danger, his blade bone dislocated; the man has put

everything in his right place.

_Un_. Dee heare, Sir _Richard_? wee are married.

_Ri_. Tis well done, send you joy; tis to my mind.

_Un_. Come hither, _Dorothy_.

_Cap_. But where's Mr. _Engine_?

_Ri_. He rid before.

_Cap_. If the rascall have any wit left he will ride quite away with

himselfe; tis his best course to fly oversea.

_Tho_. If he were sure to flie, he were sure to escape.

_Cap_. At the worst, drowning is a most [sic] honourable death then

hanging.

_Do_. My mother died, I have it by tradition,

As soone as I was borne; my father (but

No knight) is now i'th _Indies_, a poore Merchant,

That broke for 20,000 pounds.

_Ri_. The shipps may come home. Hee!

_Do_. You were best use me well, now we are married.

I will be sworne you forc'd me to the Church

And thrice compeld me there to say _I Dorothy_.

The Parsons oath and mine, for ought I know,

May make it halfe a rape.

_Ri_. There is no remedy;

We can prove no conspiracie. And, because

I have been gulld my selfe, gett her with child,

--My Doe is barren,--at birth of her first baby

Ile give her a hundred peeces.

_Un_. That's somewhat yet, when charge comes on. Thy hand! a wife can be

but a wife: it shall cost me 500 pounds but ile make thee a Ladie in

earnest.

_Enter Sir Francis and Surgeon_.

_Ri_. How ist, Sir _Francis_?

_Fra_. My Surgeon sayes no danger; when you please,

I may venture, Sir, to _London_.

_Ri_. No hast now.

_Cou_. Not to-night, Sir; wee must have revells and you salute my Bride.

_Un_. And mine.

_Tho_. A knights Daughter and heire.

_Fra_. May all joy thrive upon your Loves.

--Then you are cosend of your Mistres, Mounseir?

_Do_. But your nephew knowes I have met with my match. Some bodie has

been put to the sword.

_Ri_. Come, we loose tyme.

_Fra_. Preserve your marriage faith: a full increase

Of what you wish confirme your happinesse.

[_Exeunt_.

FINIS.

APPENDIX I.

The folio volume numbered Eg. MS. 1,994 contains 349 leaves. It was

purchased by the British Museum, for the very modest sum of thirty-three

pounds, at the sale of Lord Charlemont's library on August 6, 1865. Mr.

Warner (of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum), to whom the

public are indebted for an excellent catalogue of the Dulwich

Collection, thinks that the volume originally belonged to Dulwich

College. Towards the end of the XVIIth century Cartwright, the actor,

bequeathed to the College a number of MS. plays, which the College

authorities in the middle of the last century exchanged (horrendum

dictu!) for tomes of controversial divinity. Of all the plays left by

the actor only one[280]--and that imperfect--remains. The late Lord

Charlemont was a friend of Malone, and it is well known that Malone had

many of the Dulwich documents in his possession for years. Mr. Warner's

theory is that Malone lent the volume to Lord Charlemont, and that it

was never returned. The objection that naturally suggests itself is,

"How came so acute a scholar as Malone to fail to draw attention to a

Collection of such considerable interest?" And I confess that I am not

able to offer any satisfactory answer.

The volume contains in all fifteen plays, written in various hands. One

piece has the author's initials attached, but the others have neither

name nor initials.

First in order, leaves 1-29, stands Fletcher's _Elder Brother_. I have

compared the MS. with Dyce's text, and find the variations to be few and

unimportant. In III. 3 Dyce follows the old copies in reading:--

What a noise is in this house! my head is broken

Within a parenthesis: in every corner,

As if the earth were shaken with some strange colic,

There are stirs and motions.

As the words "within a parenthesis" were found in all the old copies

Dyce did not feel justified in rejecting them, although he had only the

most grotesque meaning to assign to them. Theobald rightly saw that

"within a parenthesis" was a marginal note, mistaken for a part of the

text when the book was sent to press. The MS. gives--

Sweet heart,

What noyse is in this house? my head is broken

In every corner, as the earth were shaken

With some strange Collick: there are stirs and motions:

What planet rules this house? Whos there?

In III. 5 the MS. supports Mason's correction "Their blue veins _and_

blush disclose," where Dyce followed the old reading "_in_ blush."--At

the end of the play, after the Epilogue, are written the three following

Epigrams:--

A freemans life is like a pilgrimage:

What's his life then that lives in mariage?

Tis _Sisyphus_ his toyle that with a stone

Doth doe what surely for ease must be done.

His labours journey's endles; 'tis no riddle,

Since he's but halfe on's way that stands inth' middle.

_Ad Janum_.

Take comfort, _Janus_; never feare thy head

Which to the quick belongs, not to the dead.

Thy wife did lye with one; thou, being dead drunke,

Then art no Cuckold though she bee a Punke.

Tis not the state nor soveraintie of _Jove_

Could draw thy pure affections from my love:

Nor is there any _Venus_ in the skyes

Could from thy lookes withdraw my greedy eyes.

Leaves 30-51 are taken up with _Dick of Devonshire_. Then follows an

unnamed play (leaves 52-73), written in a villainous hand. If I succeed

in transcribing this play I shall print it in the third volume, for it

seems to be an unpublished play of Heywood's. The next piece, entitled

_Calisto_ (leaves 74-95), which is written in the same hand, consists of

scenes from Heywood's _Golden Age_ and _Silver Age_. There are many

variations from the printed copies, showing that the most active of the

old playwrights found time to revise his works. Here is a song that was

omitted in the printed copy. Its proper place in Pearson's _Reprint_ of

Heywood is vol. iii. p. 67:--

Whether they be awake or sleepe,

With what greate Care ought Virgins keepe,

With what art and indevor,

The Jewell which they ought to pryse

Above the ritchest marchandise,--

And once lost lost for ever!

Virginity is a rare gem,

Rated above a diadem,

And was despised never:

'Tis that at which the most men ayme

And being gott they count their game

And once lost lost for ever.

Of the charming song "Haile beauteous _Dian_, Queene of Shades" the MS.

gives a far inferior version:--

Thou _Trivia_, dost alone excell,

In heaven when thou dost please to dwell

Cald _Cynthia, Proserpine_ in Hell:

But when thou theair art fyred

And takest thy bugle and thy bowe,

To chase on Earth the hart or doe,

Thee for _Diana_ all men knowe,

Who art mongst us admired:

_Pan_ and _Pomona_ boath rejoyce,

So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.

Off all chast vestalls thou art queene

Which are, which heretofore have been;

The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene

On earth wayte to attend thee;

And when that thou on huntinge goest,

In which thou art delighted moest,

They off their active swiftnes boast,

For which we all comend thee.

_Pan_ and _Pomona_ boath rejoyce,

So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.

We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), _Edmond Ironside: The

English King_. This piece had a second title--_A trew Chronicle History

called War hath made all friends_. It must be confessed that this old

play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The

following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:--

_Enter Canutus, Edricus with other Lords and souldiers_.

_Canutus_. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards!

Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred

Doth come into the pitt with greater grace,

Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes,

Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out

Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight;

Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke,

Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself:

Even soe my bigbond _Daines_, adrest to fight

As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven,

(And like the Giants graple with the gods)

At first encounter rush uppon theire foes

But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye

As men distraught with lightninge from above

Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.

_Edricus_. Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self.

Fortune in turninge will exalt your state

And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe,

Now you must hope for better still and better

And _Edmond_ must expect still worse and worse,

A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye,

Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile

On you and frowne on _Ironside_.

_Canutus_. What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes,

Of her sower visage and her rowling stone?

Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery.

Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades

Ye are but cowards every one of you!

_Edmond_ is blest: oh, had I but his men,

I would not doute to conquer all the world

In shorter time the [then] _Alexander_ did.

But all my _Daines_ are Braggadochios

And I accurst to bee the generall

Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.

_South_. Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men,

All _English_ borne except a Thousand _Daines_.

Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive

If thus to Choller you give libertie.

_Canutus_. It weare no matter if they all weare slaine,

Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.

_Uska_. My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe:

In all their broyles _English_ gainst _English_ fight;

The _Daines_ or none or very few are slaine.

_Canutus_. It was a signe yee fledd and did not fight.

[_turns towards Uskatant_.

Ist not a dishonour unto you

To see a foraingne nation fight for mee

Whenas my homebred Cuntrymen doe runne,

Leaving theire king amongest his enimies?

_Edricus_. Give not such scoope to humerous discontent,

Wee all are partners of your privat greefes.

Kinges are the heads, and yf the head but ache

The little finger is distempered.

Wee greeve to se you greeved, which hurteth us

And yet availes not to asswage your greefe.

You are the Sunne, my lo:, wee Marigolds;

Whenas you shine wee spred our selves abroad

And take our glory from your influence;

And when you hide your face or darken yt

With th'least incounter of a clowdy looke,

Wee close our eies as partners of your woes,

Droopinge our heades as grasse downe waid with due.

Then cheere ye upp, my lord, and cheere upp us,

For now our valours are extinguished

And all our force lyes drownd in brinish teares,

As Jewells in the bottome of the sea.

--I doe beseech your grace to heare mee speake.

[_Edricus talks to him_.

The next piece (leaves 119-135), which is without a title, is founded on

the Charlemagne romances. My friend, Mr. S.L. Lee, editor of _Huon of

Bordeaux_, in answer to my inquiries writes as follows: "Almost all the

characters in this play are the traditional heroes of the French

Charlemagne romances, and stand in the same relation to one another as

in the _Lyf of Charles the Grete_ and the _Four Sons of Aymon_, both of

which were first printed by Caxton, and secured through later editions a

wide popularity in England during the XVIth century. I believe, however,

that the story of the magic ring is drawn from another source. It is

unknown to the Charlemagne romances of France and England, but it

appears in several German legends of the Emperor, and is said to be

still a living tradition at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the episode is

usually localised (cf. Gaston, Paris, _Histoire Poétique de

Charlemagne_, p. 383). Petrarch has given a succinct account of it in a

letter written from Cologne, in which he states that he learnt it from

the priests of the city, and it is through his narrative that the legend

appears to have reached England. John Skelton in his poem 'Why come ye

not to court?' quotes the story, and refers to the Italian poet as his

authority (cf. Dyce's Skelton, II. 48 and 364, where the letter is

printed at length). Southey has also made the tradition the subject of a

ballad entitled _King Charlemain_ to which he has prefixed a French

translation of the passage of Petrarch. In 1589 George Peele in a

_Farewell_ addressed to Morris and Drake on setting out with the English

forces for Spain tells them to

Bid theatres and proud tragedians,

Bid Mahomet, Scipio, & mighty Tamburlaine,

King _Charlemagne_, Tom Stukeley and the rest

Adieu.

Dyce, in a note on this passage (Dyce's Peele, II. 88) writes: 'No drama

called _Charlemagne_ has come down to us, nor am I acquainted with any

old play in which that monarch figures.' But we know from Henslowe's

diary that in at least two plays that were dramatised from Charlemagne

romances the Emperor must have taken a part." Mr. Lee concludes his most

interesting note by suggesting that the present play may be the one to

which Peele alludes; but he will at once perceive from my extracts that

the date 1589 is much too early. Here is a passage that might have been

written by Cyril Tourneur:--

[_Ganelon_ stabs _Richard_, his dearest friend,

suspecting him of treachery.]

_Rich_. O you've slayne me! tell me, cruell sir,

Why you have doone thys, that myne innocent soule

May teache repentance to you-- _dies_.

_Gan_. Speake it out,--

What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe?

You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so:

You have the trycke of mightie men in courte

To speake at leasure and pretend imployment.

Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall

Whether you speake the resydue behynde

Now or at doomes day. If thy common sence

Be not yet parted from thee, understand

I doe not misse thee dyinge because once

I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that

There is no Devyll in me nor in hell

That could have flesht me to this violent deathe

Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.

The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in

the _Revenger's Tragedy_. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the

whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or

perhaps by the author[281] of the _Second Maiden's Tragedy_. All the

figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to

watch the riot of devils. Here is an extract from the scene where

_Orlando_, returning from the wars, hears that _Charlemagne_, his uncle,

has married _Ganelon's_ niece, and that his own hopes of succession have

been ruined by the birth of a son:--

_Orl[ando.]_ I am the verye foote-ball of the starres,

Th'anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects

With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves

Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.

My starres, my starres!

O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares

So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.

_Enter La Buffe_.

_Rei[naldo.]_ Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne--

A propertie oth court, that least his owne

Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt

In pollycie to scoffe at other mens.

He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that

Keepes hym secure from all taxation.

_Orl_. Y'are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman

And hated of hys father for hys vertues.

_Buf_. Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe

May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!

_Orl_. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs

Can ere be heard to my desyred good,

I am not so voyde of humanytie

But I will thancke your loue.

_Rei_. Pray, Sir, what newse

Hath the courte latterly beene deliverd of?

_Buf_. Such as the gallymaufry that is fownd

In her large wombe may promise: he that has

The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte

And knowes no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists

Invay agaynst plurallytie of liueinge

And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without

The remedye of sugar candye for't.

Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott

Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes,

I & allmost disjested too assoone.

_Oli[ver]_. I, but in sober sadnes whatts doone there?

_Buf_. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,

For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs

To mere confussyon; nothing there hath forme

But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte

Vice only thrives & merrytt starves in courte.

_Rei_. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte

Oure fayre eied royall empresse?

_Buf_. Trothe I wonderd, Sir,

You spooke of that no sooner, yet I hope

None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke

To kyndell that ill flame.

_Orl_. No, of my trothe,

I knowe thee much too honest; but how fares

The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?

_Buf_. Sir, as a woman in her casse may doe;

Shee's broughte [to] bedd.

_Rei_. What, has she a chylde then?

_Buf_. I, my Lord.

_Orl_. A Sonne?

_Buf_. Mys-fortune hathe inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.

_Orl_. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche

I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt.

--O harte, will nothing breake the?

_Rei_. Tis most straunge.

_Orl_. Straunge? not a whytt. Why, if she had beene spayd

And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyght

My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde--

Of a son too. Hencefourthe let no man

That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve

Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't

Would tourne the hope't successe to an event

That would fryghte nature, & make patyence braule

With the most pleasinge obiecte.

_Buf_. Sir, be at peace;

Much may be found by observatyon.

_Orl_. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable.

Thys observation thou advysest to

Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate

That I should be distrackt. I can observe

Naughte but varyetye of mysseries

Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours.

I neare did good for any but great _Charles_,

And the meare doing that hath still brought fourth

To me some plague too heavye to be borne,

But that I am reserud onlye to teach

The studyed envye of mallignant starrs.

If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde,

It is with studyinge myne afflictions:

But, for her standing on a roullinge stone,

Theare learninge faylls theym, for she fixed stands

And onlye against me.

I may perhaps be tempted to print this play in full. The MS. has

suffered somewhat, many lines having been cut away at the foot of some

of the pages. Although the first scene is marked _Act 2, Scene 2_,[282]

the play seemed to me to be complete. On the last leaf is written "Nella

[Greek: phdphnr] la B." Some name is possibly concealed under these

enigmatic letters; but the riddle would defy an Oedipus.

The next play (leaves 136-160) is entitled _The fatal Maryage, or a

second Lucreatya_. _Galeas_, on returning from the wars, crowned with

praises, is requested by his widowed mother to make a journey into the

province of _Parma_ to receive moneys owed by Signor _Jouanny_. On his

arrival he falls in love with _Jouanny's_ daughter, _Lucretia_, runs

away with her, and secretly marries her. _Galeas'_ mother, angered at

the match, practises to convey _Lucretia_ to a nunnery and get her son

married to an earl's daughter; but _Galeas_ defeats his mother's

machinations by killing himself and _Lucretia_. There is a second plot

to this odd play, but enough has been said. The meeting between _Galeas_

and _Jouanny_ is the best thing in the play:--

_Enter Galeas & Jacomo_.

_Ga_. You spake with him as I comanded you?

_Jac_. And had his promise to meet you presently.

_Ga_. I have heard much fame of him since my arrive,

His generall nature, hospitable love;

His [He's?] good to all men, enemy to none.

Indeed he has that perfect character

Before I see him I'm in love with him.

_Jac_. Hee has the fame few Cittizens deserve.

_Ga_. Why, sir, few Cittizens?

_Jac_. His words his bond, and does not break that bond

To bankrupt others; he makes you not a library

Of large monopolie to cosen all men:

_Subintelligitur_, he hates to deale

With such portentious othes as furr his mouth

In the deliverance.

_Enter Jouanny_.

_Ga_. Hee comes himselfe.

_Jou_. Sir _Galeas_, if I mistake not?

_Ga_. I weare my fathers name, sir.

_Jou_. And tis a dignity to weare that name.

Whatts your affairs in _Parma_?

_Ga_. To visit you, sir.

_Jou_. Gladness nor sorrow never paid mans debts.

--Your pleasure, sir?

_Ga_. The livery of my griefe: my fathers dead

And mee hath made his poore executor.

_Jou_. What? ought hee ten thousand duckets?

Thy fathers face fixt in thy front

Should be the paymaster tho from my hand.

_Ga_. I doe not come to borrow: please yee read.

_Jou_. Read? and with good regard, for sorrow paies noe debts.

_Ga_. The summes soe great I feare, once read by him,

My seeming frend will prove my enemy.

_Jac_. Faith, if he doe, hee proves like your French

galloshes that promise faire to the feet, yet twice a day

leave a man in the durt.

_Jou_. Was this your fathers pleasure?

_Ga_. It was his hand.

_Jou_. It was his writing, I know it as my owne,

Wherein hee has wronged mee beyond measure?

_Ga_. How? my father wrongd yee? I'm his sonn.

_Jou_. Wert thou his father I'm wrongd,--

Iniurd, calumniated, baffled to my teeth;

And were it not that these gray haires of mine

Were priviledgd ane enemy to vallour,

I have a heart could see your fathers wrong--

_Ga_. What? raile you, sir?

_Jac_. Challenge a half pint pot.

_Jou_. There in a sawpitt, knave, to quitt my self

Of such an inury.--Hee writes mee here

That I should pay to you tenn thousand crownes.

_Ga_. As being due to him.

_Jou_. But thatts not my quarrell, sir; for I did owe to him

Millions of Crownes, millions of my love;--

And but to send a note here for his owne!

Ist not a quarrell for an honest man?

_Jac_. With very few, I thinke.

_Jou_. Why, looke yee, sir:

When after many a storme and dreadfull blow

Strooke from fire-belching clouds, bankrupt of life

I have home return'd; when all my frends denide

Their thresholds to mee, and my creditors

Desir'd to sinke mee in a prisoners grave,

Hee gave mee dying life, his helpefull hand

Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land.

Ist not a quarrell then to seeke butts owne?

_Ga_. Oh, pray, sir--

_Jou_. When all the talents of oppression

Of usurers, lawyers and my creditors

Had fangd upon my wife and family,

Hee gave mee dying life, his helpfull hand

Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land.

Ist not a quarrell then to seeke but's owne?

_Ga_. Good sir--

_Jou_. Come in, sir, where I will pay all that you can demand:

Noe other quarrell, sir, shall passe your hand.

_Ga_. If every [one] should pay as well as you

The world were good, wee should have bankrupts few.

_Jac_. I'm of your mind for that. [_Exeunt_.

We now come to a play (leaves 161-185), without title, and wanting some

leaves at the end, on the subject of Richard the Second. I think with

Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, who printed eleven copies of this piece, that

it is anterior to Shakespeare's play. There is less extravagance of

language than in most of the plays belonging to that early date (circ.

1593?); and the blank verse, though it is monotonous enough, has perhaps

rather more variety than we should expect to find. Much of the play is

taken up with _Greene_ and _Baggott_; but the playwright has chiefly

exerted himself in representing the murder of _Woodstock_ at Calais.

Before the murder, _Woodstock_ falls asleep, and there appears to him

the ghost of the _Black Prince_:

... Oh I am nought but ayre:

Had I the vigour of my former strength

When thou beheldst me fight at _Cressy_ feild,

Wher hand to hand I tooke King _John_ of _France_

And his bould sonns my captive prisoners,

Ide shake these stiff supporters of thy bed

And dragg thee from this dull securyty.

Oh yett for pittye wake; prevent thy doome;

Thy blood upon my sonne will surely come:

For which, deere brother _Woodstocke_, haste and fly,

Prevent his ruein and thy tragedy. [_Exit Ghoste_.

Undisturbed by this appeal, _Woodstock_ slumbers on. Then enters the

ghost of _Edward the Third_. His speech is worthy of Robert Greene:--

Sleepst thou so soundly and pale death so nye?

_Thomas_ of _Woodstocke_, wake my sone and fly.

Thy wrongs have roused thy royall fathers ghost,

And from his quiat grave king _Edwards_ come

To guard thy innocent life, my princely sonne.

Behould me heere, sometymes faire _Englands_ lord:

(7) warlicke sonnes I left, yett being gone

No one succeeded in my kingly throne, &c.

I will not inflict more of this stuff on the reader. Suffice it to say

that _Woodstock_ wakes in terror and calls aloud. _Lapoole_, the

governor of the city, who is close at hand with two murderers, enters

and comforts him. Here the playwright shows a touch of pathos:--

Good nyght, _Lapoole_, and pardon me, I prethee,

That my sadd feare made question of thy faith.

My state is fearefull and my mynd was troubled

Even at thy entrance with most fearefull vissions

Which made my passiones more extreame and hastye.

Out of my better judgment I repent itt

And will reward thy love: once more, good nyght.

Now follows the _Lady Mother_ (leaves 186-211), which I have proved to

be a play of Glapthorne's. No doubt it is the same piece as the _Noble

Trial_, entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660, but not

printed.

Then we have a masque (leaves 212-223). On the first page are given the

_nomina actorum_, and underneath is written "August 5th, 1643." I was

surprised to find in this masque a long passage that occurs also in

Chapman's _Byron's Tragedie_ (ed. Pearson, ii. 262). Ben Jonson said (to

Drummond of Hawthornden) that only he and Chapman knew how to write a

masque. The remark has always puzzled me, and certainly I should never

have thought of Chapman's name in connexion with this masque. Here is an

extract, containing the passage from _Byron's Tragedie_:--

_Love_. For thy sake, Will, I feathered all my thoughts

And in a bird's shape flew in to her bosome,

The bosome of _Desert_, thy beautious Mistris,

As if I had been driven by the hauke

In that sweet sanctuary to save my liffe.

She smild on me, cald me her prety bird,

And for her sport she tyed my little legs

In her faire haire. Proud of my golden fetters

I chirped for Joy; she confident of my lameness,

Soon disintangled me & then she percht me

Upon her naked breast. There being ravishd

I sung with all my cheere and best of skill.

She answered note for note, relish for relish,

And ran division with such art and ease

That she exceeded me.

_Judgment_. There was rare musicke.

_Love_. In this swete strife, forgetting where I stood.

I trod so hard in straining of my voice

That with my claw I rent her tender skin;

Which as she felt and saw vermillion follow

Stayning the cullor of _Adonis_ bleeding

In _Venus_ lap, with indignation

She cast me from her.

_Will_. That fortune be to all that injure her.

_Love_. Then I put on this shepheards shape you see;

I tooke my bow and quiver as in revenge

Against the birds, shooting and following them

From tre to tre. She passing by beheld

And liked the sport. I offerrd her my prey,

Which she receved and asked to feele my bowe;

Which when she handled and beheld the beauty

Of my bright arrowes, she began to beg em.

I answered they were all my riches, yet

I was content to hazard all and stake em

Downe to a kiss at a game at chess with her.

"Wanton," quoth she, being privy to her skill,

"A match!" Then she with that dexterrytey

Answered my challenge that I lost my weapons:

Now _Cupides_ shaffts are headed with her lookes.

My mother soone perceiving my disgrace,

My Arms beinge lost and gon which made me a terror

To all the world, she tooke away my wings,

Renouncd me for her child and cast me from her;

And more, to be revengd upon _Desert_,

Comanded _Danger_ to be her strong keeper,

That should she empt my quiver at the hearts

Of men they might not dare to court her, fearing

That horrid mischiefe that attends [on] her.

On this I threw me headlong on the sea

To sleepe my tyme out in the bottome off it;

Whence you have puld me up to be a scorne

To all the World.

_Will_. Not so, my prety boy, Ill arme the againe;

My breast shall be thy quiver, my sighes thy shaffts:

And heres an opportunytey to be wingd againe;

Se here the wings of _Fortune_.

_Love_. _Fortunes_ wings

Are full of giddy feathers to unsure

For me to fly with all, but I will stay with you,

I like so well this aire; onely you must

Provide to keepe me from the hands of _Danger_

That wayts upon _Dessert_.

_Will_. Our selfes and all

_Arcadia_ shall be your guard and wher

_Love_ passes and recides he shall be allwayes

Armd and attended by a band of lovers,

Such faithfull ones as if that ugly _Danger_

Were _Lucifer_ himselfe, they should defend you.

Next on our List (leaves 224-244) is the _Two Noble Ladyes, or the

Converted Conjurer_. This "Tragicomicall Historie often tymes acted with

approbation at the _Red Bull_ in St. _John's_ Streete by the company of

the Revells," is a coarse noisy play. The comic part consists of the

most absurd buffoonery, and the rest is very stilted. But there is one

scene--and one only--which shows genuine poetic power. It is where

_Cyprian_, the sorcerer, having by his magical arts saved _Justina_, a

Christian maiden, tries to gain her love:--

_Enter Cyprian and Justina_.

_Cyprian_. Doe not disdayne, faire peece of Natures pride,

To heare him plead for love that sav'd thy life.

It was my pow'rfull arte produc'd those monsters

To drowne those monstrous executioners

That should have wrought your wracke.

_Justina_. Sir, I am sorry

Hell had a hand in my delivery:

That action cannot merrit my affection.

_Cyprian_. I not alleadge it for desert of grace

But argument of mercie: pitty him

That in distresse so lately pitty'd you.

_Justina_. I am the troth-plight wife of _Clitophon_,

The Prince of _Babylon_; hee has my hart,

And theres no share for others.

_Cyprian_. That high state

Is now at a low ebbe: destruction

Hangs like a threatning Commet ore the walls

Of _Babilon_. Then fix thy love on him

That can more then the greatest prince on earth.

Love mee, and princes shall thy pages bee;

Monarchs shall lay their crownes and royalties

As presents at thy feet; the _Indian_ mynes

Shall be thy ioyntures; all the worldes rich marchants

Shall bring their pearles and pretious stones to thee,

Sweet gums and spices of _Arabia_,

Fine _Median_ linnen and Barbarian silkes;

The earth shall beare no fruit of raritie

But thou shalt taste it. Weele transforme ourselves

In quaintest shapes to vary our delights.

And in a chariot wrought out of a cloud,

Studded with starres, drawne through the subtle aire

By birds of paradise, wee'll ride together

To fruitfull _Thessalie_, where in fair _Tempe_

(The only pleasant place of all the earth)

Wee'll sport us under a pavilion

Of _Tyrian_ scarlet.

_Justina_. Should these rarities

(Faithlesse as are your wondrous promises)

Lead me into the hazard of my soule

And losse of such ay-lasting happinesse

As all earths glories are but shaddows to?

_Cyprian_. Thincke you this rare pile of perfection.

Wherein Love reads a lecture of delight,

Ows not it's use to Nature? There is love

In every thing that lives: the very sunne

Does burne in love while we partake his heate;

The clyming ivy with her loving twines

Clips the strong oake. No skill of surgerie

Can heale the wounds, nor oceans quench the flames

Made by all pow'rfull love. Witnesse myselfe:

Since first the booke of your perfections

Was brought so neare than I might read it ore,

I have read in it charmes to countermand

All my enchantments and enforce mee stoop

To begge your love.

_Justina_. How ere you please to style

A lustfull appetite, it takes not mee.

Heav'n has my bow my life shall never bee

Elder then my unstain'd virginitie.

_Cyprian_. Virginitie! prize you so dearely that

Which common things cast of? Marke but the flow'rs

That now as morning fresh, fragrant and faire,

Lay ope their beautys to the courting sunne,

And amongst all the modest mayden rose:

These wanton with the aire until unleavd

They die and so loose their virginitie.

_Justina_. In _India_ there is a flow'r (they say)

Which, if a man come neare it, turnes away:

By that I learne this lesson, to descrie

Corrupt temptations and the tempter flie.

Leaves 245-267 are taken up with the _Tragedy of Nero_, which was

printed in 1624. Then comes [Daborne's] _Poore Man's Comfort_

(268-292), an inferior play printed in 1655. Afterwards follows a dull

play (leaves 293-316), _Loves Changlelings Changed_, founded on Sidney's

_Arcadia_. The last piece in the book (leaves 317-349) is _The

lancheinge of the May_, Written by W.M. Gent in his return from _East

India_, A.D. 1632. There is a second title, _The Seamans honest wife_,

to this extraordinary piece. On the last leaf is a note by Sir Henry

Herbert:--"This Play called ye _Seamans honest wife_, all ye Oaths

left out in ye action as they are crost in ye booke & all other

Reformations strictly observed, may bee acted, not otherwise. This 27th

June, 1633. HENRY HERBERT.

"I command your Bookeeper to present mee with a faire Copy hereaft[er]

and to leave out all oathes, prophaness & publick Ribaldry as he will

answer it at his perill. H. HERBERT."

It is plain therefore that the piece was intended for presentation on

the stage; but it must have been a strange audience that could have

listened to it. Dramatic interest there is none whatever. The piece is

nothing more, than a laudation of the East India Company. In tables of

statistics we have set before us the amount of merchandise brought from

the East; and the writer dwells with enthusiasm on the liberality of the

Company, and shows how new channels have been opened for industry. One

extract will be enough:--

Nor doe our marchants tradinge into Spayne,

The _Streights_, to _Venice_, _Lisbon_ or the like,

Give entertaynment unto novices

Which have not some experience of the sea.

But when all doors of Charitie are shutt

The _East India_ gates stand open, open wide,

To entertayne the needie & the poore

With good accomodation. Two monthes paye

They have before hand for to make provision,

Needfull provision for so longe a voyage,

And two monthes paye theyr wives are yearely payd

The better to mayntayne theyr poore estate

Duringe the discontinuance of theyr husbands.

Yf in the voyage he doe chance to [MS. doe] dye

The widowe doth receave whatere's found due,

Yf not by will disposed otherwise;

Which often happeneth to be such a sume

As they togeather never sawe the like.

And when did any of these widowes begge

For mayntenaunce in Churches as some doe?

_Blackwall_ proclaymes theyr bountie; _Lymehouse_ speakes

(Yf not ingrate) their liberalitie;

_Ratcliffe_ cannot complayne nor _Wapping_ weepe,

Nor _Shadwell_ crye agaynst theyr niggardnes.

No, they doe rather speake the contrary

With acclamations to the highest heavens.

APPENDIX II.

The following note is by Mr. Robert Boyle, of St. Petersburg, a

Shakespearian scholar, whose name is well known to readers of the

_Anglia_ and the _New Shakspere Society's Transactions_. Mr. Boyle, who

has a close acquaintance with Massinger, on seeing the proof-sheets of

_Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt_, pointed out several repetitions of

expressions used in other plays of Massinger. It will be understood that

I do not adopt Mr. Boyle's conclusions unreservedly. Possibly in an

Appendix to Vol. IV. I may return to a consideration of _Barnavelt_, but

the present volume has already swollen beyond its limits.

_Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt_.

This play, the most valuable Christmas present English scholars have for

half a century received, appears indubitably to belong to the Massinger

and Fletcher series. Even a cursory glance will convince the reader that

it is one of the greatest treasures of our dramatic literature. That

such a gem should lie in manuscript for over 200 years, should be

catalogued in our first library, should be accessible to the eye of the

prying scholar, and yet never even be noticed till now, affords a

disagreeable but convincing proof of the want of interest in our early

literature displayed even by those whose studies in this field would

seem to point them out for the work of rescuing these literary treasures

from a fate as bad as that which befell those plays which perished at

the hands of Warburton's "accursed menial." The present play has some

remarkable features in it. It is taken from contemporary history (the

only one as far as we know of that class in which Massinger was

engaged). It was written almost immediately after the events it

describes. These events took place in the country in which Englishmen

then took more interest than in any other country in Europe. There is a

tone of political passion in the play which, particularly in one place,

breaks out in an expression which the hearers must have applied to their

own country. There is no doubt that the audience wandered away in their

thoughts from Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt, the saviour of his country

from the Spanish yoke, as he professed himself in his defence on his

trial, and Spain's determined enemy, to Sir Walter Raleigh, whose head

had just fallen on the block, the victim of a perfidious foe and of a

mean, shuffling king. The following is the passage:--

Octavius, when he did affect the Empire,

And strove to tread upon the neck of Rome

And all her ancient freedoms, took that course

That now is practised on you; for the Catos,

And all free spirits slain or else proscribed,

That durst have stirred against him, he then seized

The Absolute rule of all. _You can apply this_. p. 292.

In a note Mr. Bullen informs us, that "You can apply this" is crossed

through. He does not state whether there is anything to show that this

was done by Sir George Buck, Master of the Revels, and consequently

Censor for the Stage. But this would appear to be the case, the more so

as the present play seems to have raised scruples in many places in the

mind of the dramatic Cerberus. It is hardly possible to imagine that the

spectators did not apply the "free spirits" to Raleigh, and the "Catos"

to those members who were shortly after to be imprisoned on account of a

memorable protest entered in the journals of the House, which Octavius,

who was trying to seize the absolute rule of all, tore out with his own

royal hands. There is a peculiar fitness in this hit at James as

Octavius which probably did not escape the audience. There is another

passage, on p. 253, which, singular to say, seems to have escaped the

notice of the Censor:--

Such mild proceedings in a Government

New settled, whose main power had its dependence

Upon the power of some particular men,

Might be given way to, but in ours it were

Unsafe and scandalous.

Vandort, the speaker here, is opposing the idea of mercy to Barnavelt.

The language is very mild, but receives a peculiar shade of meaning when

read in connexion with the following passage by Massinger from the

_Virgin Martyr_, I. 1, 236:--

In all growing empires

Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer

And be set up examples to strike terror

In others, though far off: but when a state

Is raised to her perfection, and her bases

Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy

And do't with safety.

The _Virgin Martyr_ is noticed October 6th, 1620, as newly reformed. It

was probably written not long before. The two passages above mentioned

would seem to bring the two plays into connexion. But, it may be asked,

what proof have we that it was a production of Massinger and Fletcher?

As for the latter, there can be no doubt. His double endings are

sufficient proof. As for the Massinger part, there is first the

probability of his being Fletcher's partner, as the play belongs to a

period when we know they were working together; secondly, the metrical

style could belong to nobody else; thirdly, according to his well-known

manner, he has allusions to and repetitions of expressions in his other

plays. As I have gone through Massinger with a view to these

repetitions, I propose to notice those that occur in the present play.

When I allude to a play going under the name of Beaumont and Fletcher as

partly Massinger's, I am supported either by Mr. Fleay's tables,

published in the _Transactions of the New Shakspere Society_, or to my

own extension of these tables published in the _Eng. Studien_, a German

periodical for English literature and philology.