Dr. Soams, master of Peterhouse, Cambridge, towards the close of the
sixteenth century, by a whimsical perverseness deprived the college over
which he presided of a handsome estate. Mary, the widow of Thomas
Ramsey, lord mayor of London, in 1577, after conferring several favours
on that foundation, proffered to settle five hundred pounds a year (a
very large income at that period) upon the house, provided that it might
be called “The college of Peter and Mary.” “No!” said the capricious
master, “Peter, who has lived so long single, is too old now for a
female partner.” Fuller says it was “a dear jest by which to lose so
good a benefactress.” The lady, offended by the doctor’s fantastic
scruple, turned the stream of her benevolence to the benefit of other
public foundations.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXII.
[From “Love’s Metamorphosis,” a Comedy, by John Lily, M. A. 1601.]
_Love half-denied is Love half-confest._
_Nisa. Niobe, her maid._
_Nisa._ I fear Niobe is in love.
_Niobe._ Not I, madam; yet must I confess, that oftentimes I have had
sweet thoughts, sometimes hard conceits; betwixt both, a kind of
yielding; I know not what; but certainly I think it is not love: sigh
I can, and find ease in melancholy: smile I do, and take pleasure in
imagination: I feel in myself a pleasing pain, a chill heat, a
delicate bitterness; how to term it I know not; without doubt it may
be Love; sure I am it is not Hate.
* * * * *
[From “Sapho and Phao,” a Comedy, by the same Author, 1601.]
_Phao, a poor Ferryman, praises his condition.--He ferries over Venus;
who inflames Sapho and him with a mutual passion._
_Phao._ Thou art a ferryman, Phao, yet a freeman; possessing for
riches content, and for honours quiet. Thy thoughts are no higher than
thy fortunes, nor thy desires greater than thy calling. Who climbeth,
standeth on glass, and falleth on thorn. Thy heart’s thirst is
satisfied with thy hand’s thrift, and thy gentle labours in the day
turn to sweet slumbers in the night. As much doth it delight thee to
rule thy oar in a calm stream, as it doth Sapho to sway the sceptre in
her brave court. Envy never casteth her eye low, ambition pointeth
always upward, and revenge barketh only at stars. Thou farest
delicately, if thou have a fare to buy any thing. Thine angle is
ready, when thy oar is idle; and as sweet is the fish which thou
gettest in the river, as the fowl which others buy in the market. Thou
needest not fear poison in thy glass, nor treason in thy guard. The
wind is thy greatest enemy, whose might is withstood by policy. O
sweet life! seldom found under a golden covert, often under a thatcht
cottage. But here cometh one; I will withdraw myself aside; it may be
a passenger.
_Venus, Phao; She, as a mortal._
_Venus._ Pretty youth, do you keep the ferry, that conducteth to
Syracusa?
_Phao._ The ferry, fair lady, that conducteth to Syracusa.
_Venus._ I fear, if the water should begin to swell, thou wilt want
cunning to guide.
_Phao._ These waters are commonly as the passengers are; and
therefore, carrying one so fair in show, there is no cause to fear a
rough sea.
_Venus._ To pass the time in thy boat, can’st thou devise any pastime?
_Phao._ If the wind be with me, I can angle, or tell tales: if against
me, it will be pleasure for you to see me take pains.
_Venus._ I like not fishing; yet was I born of the sea.
_Phao._ But he may bless fishing, that caught such an one in the sea.
_Venus._ It was not with an angle, my boy, but with a net.
_Phao._ So, was it said, that Vulcan caught Mars with Venus.
_Venus._ Did’st thou hear so? it was some tale.
_Phao._ Yea, Madam; and that in the boat did I mean to make my tale.
_Venus._ It is not for a ferryman to talk of the Gods Loves: but to
tell how thy father could dig, and thy mother spin. But come, let us
away.
_Phao._ I am ready to wait--
_Sapho, sleepless for love of Phao, who loves her as much, consults with
him about some medicinal herb: She, a great Lady; He, the poor Ferryman,
but now promoted to be her Gardener._
_Sapho._ What herbs have you brought, Phao?
_Phao._ Such as will make you sleep, Madam; though they cannot make me
slumber.
_Sapho._ Why, how can you cure me, when you cannot remedy yourself?
_Phao._ Yes, madam; the causes are contrary. For it is only a dryness
in your brains, that keepeth you from rest. But--
_Sapho._ But what?
_Phao._ Nothing: but mine is not so--
_Sapho._ Nay then, I despair of help, if our disease be not all one.
_Phao._ I would our diseases were all one!
_Sapho._ It goes hard with the patient, when the physician is
desperate.
_Phao._ Yet Medea made the ever-waking dragon to snort, when she (poor
soul) could not wink.
_Sapho._ Medea was in love, and nothing could cause her rest but
Jason.
_Phao._ Indeed I know no herb to make lovers sleep but Heart’s Ease:
which, because it groweth so high, I cannot reach, for--
_Sapho._ For whom?
_Phao._ For such as love--
_Sapho._ It stoopeth very low, and I can never stoop to it, that----
_Phao._ That what?
_Sapho._ That I may gather it. But why do you sigh so, Phao?
_Phao._ It is mine use, Madam.
_Sapho._ It will do you harm, and me too: for I never hear one sigh,
but I must sigh also.
_Phao._ It were best then that your Ladyship give me leave to be gone;
for I can but sigh--
_Sapho._ Nay, stay; for now I begin to sigh, I shall not leave, though
you be gone. But what do you think best for your sighing, to take it
away?
_Phao._ Yew, Madam.
_Sapho._ Me!
_Phao._ No, Madam; Yew of the tree.
_Sapho._ Then will I love Yew the better. And indeed I think it would
make me sleep too; therefore, all other simples set aside, I will
simply use only Yew.
_Phao._ Do, Madam; for I think nothing in the world so good as Yew.
_Sapho._ Farewell, for this time.
_Sapho questions her low-placed Affection._
_Sapho._ Into the nest of an Alcyon no bird can enter but the Alcyon:
and into the heart of so great a Lady can any creep but a great Lord?
_Cupid. Sapho cured of her love by the pity of Venus._
_Cupid._ But what will you do for Phao?
_Sapho._ I will wish him fortunate. This will I do for Phao, because I
once loved Phao: for never shall it be said, that Sapho loved to hate:
or that out of love she could not be as courteous, as she was in love
passionate.
_Phao’s final resolution._
_Phao._ O Sapho, thou hast Cupid in thy arms, I in my heart; thou
kissest him for sport, I must curse him for spite; yet will I not
curse him, Sapho, whom thou kissest. This shall be my resolution,
wherever I wander, to be as I were ever kneeling before Sapho; my
loyalty unspotted, though unrewarded. With as little malice will I go
to my grave, as I did lie withal in my cradle. My life shall be spent
in sighing and wishing; the one for my bad fortune, the other for
Sapho’s good.