Transcriber's Note
Endnotes have been moved to the end of the scene to which they apply.
The following note preceded the printed endnotes:
"In the Quartos there are no divisions of acts and scenes.
A, B, C = 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Quartos."
Italic text is marked by _underscores_, and bold text by ~swung dashes~.
[Illustration]
_THE TEMPLE DRAMATISTS_
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
[Illustration]
The text of this edition is nearly that of the first Quarto, the copy
of which in the Dyce Library at South Kensington has been carefully
collated. I have not noted minute variations. The German editors,
Warnke and Proescholt, give the various readings of the three Quartos
and of later editions.
[Illustration: _Feversham Abbey._]
ARDEN OF
FEVERSHAM
_Edited with a Preface, Notes
and Glossary by_
REV. RONALD BAYNE
M.A.
J. M. DENT AND CO.
ALDINE HOUSE : LONDON
1897
‘Considering the various and marvellous gifts displayed for the first
time on our stage by the great poet, the great dramatist, the strong
and subtle searcher of hearts, the just and merciful judge and painter
of human passions, who gave this tragedy to the new-born literature
of our drama ... I cannot but finally take heart to say, even in
the absence of all external or traditional testimony, that it seems
to me not pardonable merely or permissible, but simply logical and
reasonable, to set down this poem, a young man’s work on the face of
it, as the possible work of no man’s youthful hand but Shakespeare’s.’
Mr. A. C. SWINBURNE.
PREFACE
~Early Editions.~ On 3rd April, 1592, ‘_The Tragedie of Arden of
Feversham and Blackwall_’[A] was entered on the Stationers’ Registers
to Edward White. In the same year appeared, ‘_The lamentable and true
Tragedie of M. Arden of Feversham in Kent. Who was most wickedlye
murdered, by the meanes of his disloyall and wanton wyfe, who for the
love she bare to one Mosbie, hyred two desperat ruffins, Blackwill
and Shakbag, to kill him. Wherin is shewed the great mallice and
discimulation of a wicked woman, the unsatiable desire of filthie lust
and the shamefull end of all murderers. Imprinted at London for Edward
White, dwelling at the lyttle North dore of Paules Church at the signe
of the Gun._ 1592.’ A second Quarto, with the same title, was printed
in 1599. A third, ‘_by Eliz. Allde dwelling neere Christs Church_,’
appeared in 1633. The second and third Quartos are founded textually
upon the first, and their variations are of no value. The text of the
first Quarto is unusually good even when prose and verse are mixed
together, although the printer has apparently no scientific knowledge
of the nature of metre.
[Footnote A: A misprint for _Blackwill_.]
~Place of the Play in the Elizabethan Drama.~ _Arden of Faversham_
is the finest extant specimen of a kind of play which has been
classified as Domestic Tragedy. A picturesque or sensational murder in
the sixteenth century was given to the public first in popular ballads
or pamphlets, and afterwards, if sufficiently notable, in the more
serious Chronicle. From the popular pamphlet, or from the Chronicle,
or from both together, it found its way on to the stage. Four of these
‘murder-plays’ have come down to us, and the titles of many others.
They form a minor section of the Chronicle plays or Histories. They did
not attain any very striking literary development, owing perhaps to the
necessary bondage of the poet to his facts. _Arden of Faversham_ is a
remarkable instance of the possibilities of this class of play, but it
is to be noted that the poet used the narrative of a Chronicler who
wrote twenty-seven years after the date of the murder. _A Warning for
Fair Women_ and Yarington’s _Two Tragedies in One_ are both inferior
to _Arden_, though influenced by it. The fourth ‘murder-play’--_The
Yorkshire Tragedy_--is distinct from the other three in style and
method. Several famous dramatists produced ‘domestic’ tragedies, but
none have survived. _A Late Murder of the Son upon the Mother_, in
which Ford and Webster collaborated, must have been a notable piece of
work.
~Source of the Play.~ On Sunday, 15th February 1550-1, Thomas
Ardern of Faversham, gentleman, ‘was heynously murdered in his own
parlour, about seven of the clock in the night, by one Thomas Morsby, a
taylor of London, late servant to sir Edward North, knight, chancellor
of the augmentations, father-in-law unto Alice Ardern, wife of the
said Thomas Ardern.’ Thomas Ardern was Mayor of Faversham in 1548,
and his murder made such a stir that in 1577 the first edition of
Holinshed’s _Chronicle_ devotes five pages (pp. 1703-8) to an elaborate
account of it. The chronicler begins thus:--‘About this time there was
at Faversham in Kent a Gentleman named Arden most cruelly murthered
and slain by the procurement of his own wife. The which murder for
the horribleness thereof, although otherwise it may seem to be but a
private matter, and therefore as it were impertinent to this History,
I have thought good to set it forth somewhat at large, having the
instructions delivered to me by them that have used some diligence
to gather the true understanding of the circumstances.’ Our first
quotation was from the _Wardmote Book of Faversham_, and proves that
Holinshed’s narrative is not minutely accurate. The _Wardmote Book_
gives a curt account of the actual murder on the Sunday evening with
the names and fate of the culprits. It tells us nothing of the previous
failures of these culprits which give to Holinshed’s tale such a
terrible and dramatic interest. We need not speculate on Holinshed’s
sources. No doubt there were many contemporary pamphlets and ballads
which recounted the murder. We know only of _The Complaint ... of
Mistress Arden of Feversham_, preserved among the _Roxburghe Ballads_,
and reprinted by Evans and in Miss De Vaynes’ _Kentish Garland_.
But this is dated by Mr. Bullen about 1633, when the third Quarto
of the play appeared, and was probably occasioned by that re-issue.
The important point to bear in mind is the excellence of Holinshed’s
narrative. To praise it adequately we must say that it is worthy of
the fine play founded upon it, which probably had no other source.
The play agrees always with Holinshed when Holinshed differs from the
_Wardmote Book_. When the play differs from Holinshed it differs also
from the _Wardmote Book_. To the dramatic instinct of the poet we must
ascribe his suppression of the fact that Arden winked at his wife’s
infidelity. Holinshed and the _Wardmote Book_ both explicitly assert
this. Franklin, Arden’s friend, is also an invention of the dramatist.
~Author of the Play.~ The three Quartos are all anonymous. We
know of no other edition till 1770, when Edward Jacob, a Faversham
antiquary, edited the first Quarto, and boldly claimed the play for
Shakespeare. Ludwig Tieck published in 1823 an excellent German
translation, accompanied by a discriminating statement of the case for
the Shakesperean authorship. Delius, editing the play in 1855, agreed
with Tieck, and was followed by the French translator, François Victor
Hugo, and more recently by Professor Mézières. Owing to the supposed
Shakespearean authorship there have been at least three translations
into German, one into French, and one into Dutch. In England opinion
has been more divided. Henry Tyrrell,[B] Charles Knight, and Mr.
Swinburne[C] have supported the Shakespearean authorship. Professor
Ward[D] and J. A. Symonds incline to reject it. Professor Saintsbury
considers that ‘the only possible hypothesis on which it could be
admitted as Shakespeare’s would be that of an early experiment thrown
off while he was seeking his way in a direction where he found no
thoroughfare.’[E] Mr. Bullen, who edited a careful reprint of the first
Quarto in 1887, suspects ‘that _Arden_ in its present state has been
retouched here and there by the master’s hand.’ The latest German
editors, Warnke and Proescholt (1888), ‘are of opinion that Shakespeare
had nothing to do with _Arden of Faversham_.’
[Footnote B: _Doubtful Plays of Shakespeare._]
[Footnote C: _Study of Shakespeare._]
[Footnote D: _History of English Dramatic Literature._]
[Footnote E: _History of Elizabethan Literature._]
~The Question of Shakespeare’s Authorship.~ The only reason for
ascribing the play to Shakespeare is its merit. It seems incredible
that a drama so mature in its art should have been written in 1592
by a writer otherwise unknown to us. In three directions the art of
the writer is mature. First, the character of the base coward Mosbie,
and of the ‘bourgeois Clytemnestra,’ Alice Arden, are drawn with an
insight, delicacy, and sustained power new to English literature in
1592, and not excelled till Shakespeare excelled them. The picture of
Arden, as a man fascinated and bewitched by his wife and by his fate,
might match that of Mosbie and Alice if the artist had not blurred his
conception by the introduction of the jarring motives of avarice and
sacrilege. But the poet’s aim is clear; it is his own, and it almost
succeeds. Second, the picturesque ferocity and grim humour of Black
Will and Shakebag are described with a firmness and ease and restraint
of style which critics have not sufficiently noted. I can compare it
only with the Jack Cade scenes of the _Contention_ (and _2 Henry VI._).
The prose of our poet is excellent. His humour has a clearly defined
character and style of its own. The character of Michael, so admired
by Mr. Swinburne, is as subtle and well-sustained as Mosbie’s or Alice
Arden’s, and it exhibits our poet’s special humorous gift. This gift,
excellent as it is, seems to me very definitely not Shakespearean.
But thirdly, the terrifying use of signs and omens and of an almost
Shakespearean irony--_e.g._ Arden’s words, ‘I am almost stifled with
this fog!’--combine to produce as the play proceeds an impressive sense
of ‘the slow unerring tread of assassination, balked but persevering,
marching like a fate to its accomplishment.’ But the special
excellencies of the play are all against Shakespeare having written
it by 1592. As Mr. Bullen insists, the weak point in Mr. Swinburne’s
criticism is the phrase ‘a young man’s work.’ This play is not ‘a young
man’s work.’ The copiousness of the young man Shakespeare’s work is
the exact contrary of the deliberate anxious effort which marks the
style of _Arden of Faversham_ except in the prose scenes. In none of
Shakespeare’s plays can it be perceived that the poet has taken such
pains as the poet of _Arden_ takes. Unless Shakespeare wrote this play
as soon as he reached London, and then for a year or two wrote nothing
else, it is impossible to fit it into his work. And if he wrote the
play as soon as he reached London and then took up the studies which
resulted in _Venus and Adonis_ and _Lucrece_, would he have written
_Love’s Labour’s Lost_ and _Comedy of Errors_ on his way back to work
like _Arden_? If Shakespeare wrote _Arden_ it is the most interesting
fact in his literary development. To suggest that Shakespeare revised
the play is to shirk the question. Its excellence is in its warp and
woof, not in its ornaments.
~Literature.~ Mr. Bullen’s _Introduction_ is the best monograph on
the play. Warnke and Proescholt’s _Introduction_ should be consulted,
but lacks the distinction of style and the critical insight of Mr.
Bullen’s essay. Excellent analyses and criticisms of the play are in
Charles Knight’s _Doubtful Plays_ (‘Pictorial Shakespere’); J. A.
Symonds’ _Shakspere’s Predecessors_; Alfred Mézières’ _Prédécesseurs et
Contemporains de Shakspeare_. Mr. Fleay in his _Biographical Chronicle
of the English Drama_ (1891) has suggested Kyd as the author of _Arden_.
[Illustration]
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
THOMAS ARDEN, Gentleman, of Feversham
FRANKLIN, his Friend
MOSBIE
CLARKE, a Painter
ADAM FOWLE, Landlord of the Flower-de-Luce
BRADSHAW, a Goldsmith
MICHAEL, Arden’s Servant
GREENE
RICHARD REEDE, a Sailor
BLACK WILL } Murderers
SHAKEBAG }
A PRENTICE
A FERRYMAN
LORD CHEINY, and his Men
MAYOR OF FEVERSHAM, and Watch
ALICE, Arden’s Wife
SUSAN, Mosbie’s Sister
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM
ACT I
_A Room in Arden’s House._
_Enter Arden and Franklin._
_Franklin._ Arden, cheer up thy spirits, and droop no more!
My gracious Lord, the Duke of Somerset,
Hath freely given to thee and to thy heirs,
By letters patents from his Majesty,
All the lands of the Abbey of Feversham.
Here are the deeds, [_He hands them._
Sealed and subscribed with his name and the king’s:
Read them, and leave this melancholy mood.
_Arden._ Franklin, thy love prolongs my weary life;
And but for thee how odious were this life, 10
That shows me nothing but torments my soul,
And those foul objects that offend mine eyes!
Which makes me wish that for this veil of heaven
The earth hung over my head and covered me.
Love-letters pass ’twixt Mosbie and my wife,
And they have privy meetings in the town:
Nay, on his finger did I spy the ring
Which at our marriage-day the priest put on.
Can any grief be half so great as this?
_Franklin._ Comfort thyself, sweet friend; it is not strange 20
That women will be false and wavering.
_Arden._ Ay, but to dote on such a one as he
Is monstrous, Franklin, and intolerable.
_Franklin._ Why, what is he?
_Arden._ A botcher, and no better at the first;
Who, by base brokage getting some small stock,
Crept into service of a nobleman,
And by his servile flattery and fawning
Is now become the steward of his house,
And bravely jets it in his silken gown. 30
_Franklin._ No nobleman will countenance such a peasant.
_Arden._ Yes, the Lord Clifford, he that loves not me.
But through his favour let him not grow proud;
For were he by the Lord Protector backed,
He should not make me to be pointed at.
I am by birth a gentleman of blood,
And that injurious ribald, that attempts
To violate my dear wife’s chastity
(For dear I hold her love, as dear as heaven)
Shall on the bed which he thinks to defile 40
See his dissevered joints and sinews torn,
Whilst on the planchers pants his weary body,
Smeared in the channels of his lustful blood.
_Franklin._ Be patient, gentle friend, and learn of me
To ease thy grief and save her chastity:
Intreat her fair; sweet words are fittest engines
To race the flint walls of a woman’s breast.
In any case be not too jealous,
Nor make no question of her love to thee;
But, as securely, presently take horse, 50
And lie with me at London all this term;
For women, when they may, will not,
But, being kept back, straight grow outrageous.
_Arden._ Though this abhors from reason, yet I’ll try it,
And call her forth and presently take leave.
How! Alice!
_Here enters Alice._
_Alice._ Husband, what mean you to get up so early?
Summer-nights are short, and yet you rise ere day.
Had I been wake, you had not risen so soon.
_Arden._ Sweet love, thou knowest that we two, Ovid-like, 60
Have often chid the morning when it ’gan to peep,
And often wished that dark night’s purblind steeds
Would pull her by the purple mantle back,
And cast her in the ocean to her love.
But this night, sweet Alice, thou hast killed my heart:
I heard thee call on Mosbie in thy sleep.
_Alice._ ’Tis like I was asleep when I named him,
For being awake he comes not in my thoughts.
_Arden._ Ay, but you started up and suddenly,
Instead of him, caught me about the neck. 70
_Alice._ Instead of him? why, who was there but you?
And where but one is, how can I mistake?
_Franklin._ Arden, leave to urge her over-far.
_Arden._ Nay, love, there is no credit in a dream;
Let it suffice I know thou lovest me well.
_Alice._ Now I remember whereupon it came:
Had we no talk of Mosbie yesternight?
_Franklin._ Mistress Alice, I heard you name him once or twice.
_Alice._ And thereof came it, and therefore blame not me.
_Arden._ I know it did, and therefore let it pass. 80
I must to London, sweet Alice, presently.
_Alice._ But tell me, do you mean to stay there long?
_Arden._ No longer there till my affairs be done.
_Franklin._ He will not stay above a month at most.
_Alice._ A month? ay me! Sweet Arden, come again
Within a day or two, or else I die.
_Arden._ I cannot long be from thee, gentle Alice.
Whilst Michael fetch our horses from the field,
Franklin and I will down unto the quay;
For I have certain goods there to unload. 90
Meanwhile prepare our breakfast, gentle Alice;
For yet ere noon we’ll take horse and away.
[_Exeunt Arden and Franklin._
_Alice._ Ere noon he means to take horse and away!
Sweet news is this. O that some airy spirit
Would in the shape and likeness of a horse
Gallop with Arden ’cross the Ocean,
And throw him from his back into the waves!
Sweet Mosbie is the man that hath my heart:
And he usurps it, having nought but this,
That I am tied to him by marriage. 100
Love is a God, and marriage is but words;
And therefore Mosbie’s title is the best.
Tush! whether it be or no, he shall be mine,
In spite of him, of Hymen, and of rites.
_Here enters Adam of the Flower-de-luce._
And here comes Adam of the Flower-de-luce;
I hope he brings me tidings of my love.
--How now, Adam, what is the news with you?
Be not afraid; my husband is now from home.
_Adam._ He whom you wot of, Mosbie, Mistress Alice,
Is come to town, and sends you word by me 110
In any case you may not visit him.
_Alice._ Not visit him?
_Adam._ No, nor take no knowledge of his being here.
_Alice._ But tell me, is he angry or displeased?
_Adam._ It should seem so, for he is wondrous sad.
_Alice._ Were he as mad as raving Hercules,
I’ll see him, I; and were thy house of force,
These hands of mine should race it to the ground,
Unless that thou wouldst bring me to my love.
_Adam._ Nay, and you be so impatient, I’ll be gone. 120
_Alice._ Stay, Adam, stay; thou wert wont to be my friend.
Ask Mosbie how I have incurred his wrath;
Bear him from me these pair of silver dice,
With which we played for kisses many a time,
And when I lost, I won, and so did he;--
Such winning and such losing Jove send me!
And bid him, if his love do not decline,
To come this morning but along my door,
And as a stranger but salute me there:
This may he do without suspect or fear. 130
_Adam._ I’ll tell him what you say, and so farewell.
[_Exit Adam._
_Alice._ Do, and one day I’ll make amends for all.--
I know he loves me well, but dares not come,
Because my husband is so jealous,
And these my narrow-prying neighbours blab,
Hinder our meetings when we would confer.
But, if I live, that block shall be removed,
And, Mosbie, thou that comes to me by stealth,
Shalt neither fear the biting speech of men,
Nor Arden’s looks; as surely shall he die 140
As I abhor him and love only thee.
_Here enters Michael._
How now, Michael, whither are you going?
_Michael._ To fetch my master’s nag.
I hope you’ll think on me.
_Alice._ Ay; but, Michael, see you keep your oath,
And be as secret as you are resolute.
_Michael._ I’ll see he shall not live above a week.
_Alice._ On that condition, Michael, here’s my hand:
None shall have Mosbie’s sister but thyself.
_Michael._ I understand the painter here hard by 150
Hath made report that he and Sue is sure.
_Alice._ There’s no such matter, Michael; believe it not.
_Michael._ But he hath sent a dagger sticking in a heart,
With a verse or two stolen from a painted cloth,
The which I hear the wench keeps in her chest.
Well, let her keep it! I shall find a fellow
That can both write and read and make rhyme too.
And if I do--well, I say no more:
I’ll send from London such a taunting letter
As she shall eat the heart he sent with salt 160
And fling the dagger at the painter’s head.
_Alice._ What needs all this? I say that Susan’s thine.
_Michael._ Why, then I say that I will kill my master,
Or anything that you will have me do.
_Alice._ But, Michael, see you do it cunningly.
_Michael._ Why, say I should be took, I’ll ne’er confess
That you know anything; and Susan, being a maid,
May beg me from the gallows of the sheriff.
_Alice._ Trust not to that, Michael.
_Michael._ You cannot tell me, I have seen it, I. 170
But, mistress, tell her, whether I live or die,
I’ll make her more worth than twenty painters can;
For I will rid mine elder brother away,
And then the farm of Bolton is mine own.
Who would not venture upon house and land,
When he may have it for a right down blow?
_Here enters Mosbie._
_Alice._ Yonder comes Mosbie. Michael, get thee gone,
And let not him nor any know thy drifts.
[_Exit Michael._
Mosbie, my love!
_Mosbie._ Away, I say, and talk not to me now. 180
_Alice._ A word or two, sweet heart, and then I will.
’Tis yet but early days, thou needst not fear.
_Mosbie._ Where is your husband?
_Alice._ ’Tis now high water, and he is at the quay.
_Mosbie._ There let him be; henceforward know me not.
_Alice._ Is this the end of all thy solemn oaths?
Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds?
Have I for this given thee so many favours,
Incurred my husband’s hate, and, out alas!
Made shipwreck of mine honour for thy sake? 190
And dost thou say ‘henceforward know me not’?
Remember, when I lock’d thee in my closet,
What were thy words and mine; did we not both
Decree to murder Arden in the night?
The heavens can witness, and the world can tell,
Before I saw that falsehood look of thine,
’Fore I was tangled with thy ’ticing speech,
Arden to me was dearer than my soul,--
And shall be still: base peasant, get thee gone,
And boast not of thy conquest over me, 200
Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery!
For what hast thou to countenance my love,
Being descended of a noble house,
And matched already with a gentleman
Whose servant thou may’st be!--and so farewell.
_Mosbie._ Ungentle and unkind Alice, now I see
That which I ever feared, and find too true:
A woman’s love is as the lightning-flame,
Which even in bursting forth consumes itself.
To try thy constancy have I been strange; 210
Would I had never tried, but lived in hope!
_Alice._ What need’st thou try me whom thou ne’er found false?
_Mosbie._ Yet pardon me, for love is jealous.
_Alice._ So lists the sailor to the mermaid’s song,
So looks the traveller to the basilisk:
I am content for to be reconciled,
And that, I know, will be mine overthrow.
_Mosbie._ Thine overthrow? first let the world dissolve.
_Alice._ Nay, Mosbie, let me still enjoy thy love,
And happen what will, I am resolute. 220
My saving husband hoards up bags of gold
To make our children rich, and now is he
Gone to unload the goods that shall be thine,
And he and Franklin will to London straight.
_Mosbie._ To London, Alice? if thou’lt be ruled by me,
We’ll make him sure enough for coming there.
_Alice._ Ah, would we could!
_Mosbie._ I happened on a painter yesternight,
The only cunning man of Christendom;
For he can temper poison with his oil, 230
That whoso looks upon the work he draws
Shall, with the beams that issue from his sight,
Suck venom to his breast and slay himself.
Sweet Alice, he shall draw thy counterfeit,
That Arden may, by gazing on it, perish.
_Alice._ Ay, but Mosbie, that is dangerous,
For thou, or I, or any other else,
Coming into the chamber where it hangs, may die.
_Mosbie._ Ay, but we’ll have it covered with a cloth
And hung up in the study for himself. 240
_Alice._ It may not be, for when the picture’s drawn,
Arden, I know, will come and show it me.
_Mosbie._ Fear not; we’ll have that shall serve the turn.
This is the painter’s house; I’ll call him forth.
_Alice._ But Mosbie, I’ll have no such picture, I.
_Mosbie._ I pray thee leave it to my discretion.
How! Clarke!
_Here enters Clarke._
Oh, you are an honest man of your word! you served me well.
_Clarke._ Why, sir, I’ll do it for you at any time,
Provided, as you have given your word, 250
I may have Susan Mosbie to my wife.
For, as sharp-witted poets, whose sweet verse
Make heavenly gods break off their nectar draughts
And lay their ears down to the lowly earth,
Use humble promise to their sacred Muse,
So we that are the poets’ favourites
Must have a love: ay, Love is the painter’s muse,
That makes him frame a speaking countenance,
A weeping eye that witnesses heart’s grief.
Then tell me, Master Mosbie, shall I have her? 260
_Alice._ ’Tis pity but he should; he’ll use her well.
_Mosbie._ Clarke, here’s my hand: my sister shall be thine.
_Clarke._ Then, brother, to requite this courtesy,
You shall command my life, my skill, and all.
_Alice._ Ah, that thou couldst be secret.
_Mosbie._ Fear him not; leave; I have talked sufficient
_Clarke._ You know not me that ask such questions.
Let it suffice I know you love him well,
And fain would have your husband made away:
Wherein, trust me, you show a noble mind, 270
That rather than you’ll live with him you hate,
You’ll venture life, and die with him you love.
The like will I do for my Susan’s sake.
_Alice._ Yet nothing could inforce me to the deed
But Mosbie’s love. Might I without control
Enjoy thee still, then Arden should not die:
But seeing I cannot, therefore let him die.
_Mosbie._ Enough, sweet Alice; thy kind words makes me melt.
Your trick of poisoned pictures we dislike;
Some other poison would do better far. 280
_Alice._ Ay, such as might be put into his broth,
And yet in taste not to be found at all.
_Clarke._ I know your mind, and here I have it for you.
Put but a dram of this into his drink,
Or any kind of broth that he shall eat,
And he shall die within an hour after.
_Alice._ As I am a gentlewoman, Clarke, next day
Thou and Susan shall be married.
_Mosbie._ And I’ll make her dowry more than I’ll talk of, Clarke.
_Clarke._ Yonder’s your husband. Mosbie, I’ll be gone. 290
_Here enters Arden and Franklin._
_Alice._ In good time see where my husband comes.
Master Mosbie, ask him the question yourself.
[_Exit Clarke._
_Mosbie._ Master Arden, being at London yesternight,
The Abbey lands, whereof you are now possessed,
Were offered me on some occasion
By Greene, one of Sir Antony Ager’s men:
I pray you, sir, tell me, are not the lands yours?
Hath any other interest herein?
_Arden._ Mosbie, that question we’ll decide anon.
Alice, make ready my breakfast, I must hence. 300
[_Exit Alice._
As for the lands, Mosbie, they are mine
By letters patents from his Majesty.
But I must have a mandate for my wife;
They say you seek to rob me of her love:
Villain, what makes thou in her company?
She’s no companion for so base a groom.
_Mosbie._ Arden, I thought not on her, I came to thee;
But rather than I pocket up this wrong----
_Franklin._ What will you do, sir?
_Mosbie._ Revenge it on the proudest of you both. 310
[_Then Arden draws forth Mosbie’s sword._
_Arden._ So, sirrah; you may not wear a sword,
The statute makes against artificers;
I warrant that I do. Now use your bodkin,
Your Spanish needle, and your pressing iron,
For this shall go with me; and mark my words,
You goodman botcher, ’tis to you I speak:
The next time that I take thee near my house,
Instead of legs I’ll make thee crawl on stumps.
_Mosbie._ Ah, Master Arden, you have injured me:
I do appeal to God and to the world. 320
_Franklin._ Why, canst thou deny thou wert a botcher once?
_Mosbie._ Measure me what I am, not what I was.
_Arden._ Why, what art thou now but a velvet drudge,
A cheating steward, and base-minded peasant?
_Mosbie._ Arden, now thou hast belched and vomited
The rancorous venom of thy mis-swoll’n heart,
Hear me but speak: as I intend to live
With God and his elected saints in heaven,
I never meant more to solicit her;
And that she knows, and all the world shall see. 330
I loved her once;--sweet Arden, pardon me,
I could not choose, her beauty fired my heart!
But time hath quenched these over-raging coals;
And, Arden, though I now frequent thy house,
’Tis for my sister’s sake, her waiting-maid,
And not for hers. Mayest thou enjoy her long:
Hell-fire and wrathful vengeance light on me,
If I dishonour her or injure thee.
_Arden._ Mosbie, with these thy protestations
The deadly hatred of my heart’s appeased, 340
And thou and I’ll be friends, if this prove true.
As for the base terms I gave thee late,
Forget them, Mosbie: I had cause to speak,
When all the knights and gentlemen of Kent
Make common table-talk of her and thee.
_Mosbie._ Who lives that is not touched with slanderous tongues?
_Franklin._ Then, Mosbie, to eschew the speech of men,
Upon whose general bruit all honour hangs,
Forbear his house.
_Arden._ Forbear it! nay, rather frequent it more: 350
The world shall see that I distrust her not.
To warn him on the sudden from my house
Were to confirm the rumour that is grown.
_Mosbie._ By my faith, sir, you say true,
And therefore will I sojourn here a while,
Until our enemies have talked their fill;
And then, I hope, they’ll cease, and at last confess
How causeless they have injured her and me.
_Arden._ And I will lie at London all this term
To let them see how light I weigh their words. 360
_Here enters Alice._
_Alice._ Husband, sit down; your breakfast will be cold.
_Arden._ Come, Master Mosbie, will you sit with us?
_Mosbie._ I cannot eat, but I’ll sit for company.
_Arden._ Sirrah Michael, see our horse be ready.
_Alice._ Husband, why pause ye? why eat you not?
_Arden._ I am not well; there’s something in this broth
That is not wholesome: didst thou make it, Alice?
_Alice._ I did, and that’s the cause it likes not you.
[_Then she throws down the broth on the ground._
There’s nothing that I do can please your taste;
You were best to say I would have poisoned you. 370
I cannot speak or cast aside my eye,
But he imagines I have stepped awry.
Here’s he that you cast in my teeth so oft:
Now will I be convinced or purge myself.
I charge thee speak to this mistrustful man,
Thou that wouldst see me hang, thou, Mosbie, thou:
What favour hast thou had more than a kiss
At coming or departing from the town?
_Mosbie._ You wrong yourself and me to cast these doubts:
Your loving husband is not jealous. 380
_Arden._ Why, gentle Mistress Alice, cannot I be ill
But you’ll accuse yourself?
Franklin, thou hast a box of mithridate;
I’ll take a little to prevent the worst.
_Franklin._ Do so, and let us presently take horse;
My life for yours, ye shall do well enough.
_Alice._ Give me a spoon, I’ll eat of it myself;
Would it were full of poison to the brim,
Then should my cares and troubles have an end.
Was ever silly woman so tormented? 390
_Arden._ Be patient, sweet love; I mistrust not thee.
_Alice._ God will revenge it, Arden, if thou dost;
For never woman loved her husband better
Than I do thee.
_Arden._ I know it, sweet Alice; cease to complain,
Lest that in tears I answer thee again.
_Franklin._ Come, leave this dallying, and let us away.
_Alice._ Forbear to wound me with that bitter word;
Arden shall go to London in my arms.
_Arden._ Loth am I to depart, yet I must go. 400
_Alice._ Wilt thou to London, then, and leave me here?
Ah, if thou love me, gentle Arden, stay.
Yet, if thy business be of great import
Go, if thou wilt, I’ll bear it as I may;
But write from London to me every week,
Nay, every day, and stay no longer there
Than thou must needs, lest that I die for sorrow.
_Arden._ I’ll write unto thee every other tide,
And so farewell, sweet Alice, till we meet next.
_Alice._ Farewell, husband, seeing you’ll have it so; 410
And, Master Franklin, seeing you take him hence,
In hope you’ll hasten him home, I’ll give you this.
[_And then she kisseth him._
_Franklin._ And if he stay, the fault shall not be mine.
Mosbie, farewell, and see you keep your oath.
_Mosbie._ I hope he is not jealous of me now.
_Arden._ No, Mosbie, no; hereafter think of me
As of your dearest friend, and so farewell.
[_Exeunt Arden, Franklin, and Michael._
_Alice._ I am glad he is gone; he was about to stay,
But did you mark me then how I brake off?
_Mosbie._ Ay, Alice, and it was cunningly performed. 420
But what a villain is that painter Clarke!
_Alice._ Was it not a goodly poison that he gave?
Why, he’s as well now as he was before.
It should have been some fine confection
That might have given the broth some dainty taste:
This powder was too gross and populous.
_Mosbie._ But had he eaten but three spoonfuls more,
Then had he died and our love continued.
_Alice._ Why, so it shall, Mosbie, albeit he live.
_Mosbie._ It is unpossible, for I have sworn 430
Never hereafter to solicit thee,
Or, whilst he lives, once more importune thee.
_Alice._ Thou shalt not need, I will importune thee.
What? shall an oath make thee forsake my love?
As if I have not sworn as much myself
And given my hand unto him in the church!
Tush, Mosbie; oaths are words, and words is wind,
And wind is mutable: then, I conclude,
’Tis childishness to stand upon an oath.
_Mosbie._ Well proved, Mistress Alice; yet by your leave 440
I’ll keep mine unbroken whilst he lives.
_Alice._ Ay, do, and spare not, his time is but short;
For if thou beest as resolute as I,
We’ll have him murdered as he walks the streets.
In London many alehouse ruffians keep,
Which, as I hear, will murder men for gold.
They shall be soundly fee’d to pay him home.
_Here enters Greene._
_Mosbie._ Alice, what’s he that comes yonder? knowest thou him?
_Alice._ Mosbie, be gone: I hope ’tis one that comes
To put in practice our intended drifts. 450
[_Exit Mosbie_
_Greene._ Mistress Arden, you are well met.
I am sorry that your husband is from home,
Whenas my purposed journey was to him:
Yet all my labour is not spent in vain,
For I suppose that you can full discourse
And flat resolve me of the thing I seek.
_Alice._ What is it, Master Greene? If that I may
Or can with safety, I will answer you.
_Greene._ I heard your husband hath the grant of late,
Confirmed by letters patents from the king, 460
Of all the lands of the Abbey of Feversham,
Generally intitled, so that all former grants
Are cut off; whereof I myself had one;
But now my interest by that is void.
This is all, Mistress Arden; is it true or no?
_Alice._ True, Master Greene; the lands are his in state,
And whatsoever leases were before
Are void for term of Master Arden’s life;
He hath the grant under the Chancery seal.
_Greene._ Pardon me, Mistress Arden, I must speak, 470
For I am touched. Your husband doth me wrong
To wring me from the little land I have.
My living is my life, and only that
Resteth remainder of my portion.
Desire of wealth is endless in his mind,
And he is greedy-gaping still for gain;
Nor cares he though young gentlemen do beg,
So he may scrape and hoard up in his pouch.
But, seeing he hath ta’en my lands, I’ll value life
As careless as he is careful for to get: 480
And tell him this from me, I’ll be revenged,
And so as he shall wish the Abbey lands
Had rested still within their former state.
_Alice._ Alas, poor gentleman, I pity you,
And woe is me that any man should want!
God knows ’tis not my fault; but wonder not
Though he be hard to others, when to me,--
Ah, Master Greene, God knows how I am used.
_Greene._ Why, Mistress Arden, can the crabbed churl
Use you unkindly? respects he not your birth, 490
Your honourable friends, nor what you brought?
Why, all Kent knows your parentage and what you are.
_Alice._ Ah, Master Greene, be it spoken in secret here,
I never live good day with him alone:
When he’s at home, then have I froward looks,
Hard words and blows to mend the match withal;
And though I might content as good a man,
Yet doth he keep in every corner trulls;
And when he’s weary with his trugs at home,
Then rides he straight to London; there, forsooth, 500
He revels it among such filthy ones
As counsels him to make away his wife.
Thus live I daily in continual fear,
In sorrow; so despairing of redress
As every day I wish with hearty prayer
That he or I were taken forth the world.
_Greene._ Now trust me, Mistress Alice, it grieveth me
So fair a creature should be so abused.
Why, who would have thought the civil sir so sullen?
He looks so smoothly. Now, fie upon him, churl! 510
And if he live a day, he lives too long.
But frolic, woman! I shall be the man
Shall set you free from all this discontent;
And if the churl deny my interest
And will not yield my lease into my hand,
I’ll pay him home, whatever hap to me.
_Alice._ But speak you as you think?
_Greene._ Ay, God’s my witness, I mean plain dealing,
For I had rather die than lose my land.
_Alice._ Then, Master Greene, be counsellèd by me: 520
Indanger not yourself for such a churl,
But hire some cutter for to cut him short,
And here’s ten pound to wager them withal;
When he is dead, you shall have twenty more,
And the lands whereof my husband is possess’d
Shall be intitled as they were before.
_Greene._ Will you keep promise with me?
_Alice._ Or count me false and perjured whilst I live.
_Greene._ Then here’s my hand, I’ll have him so dispatched.
I’ll up to London straight, I’ll thither post, 530
And never rest till I have compassed it.
Till then farewell.
_Alice._ Good fortune follow all your forward thoughts.
[_Exit Greene._
And whosoever doth attempt the deed,
A happy hand I wish, and so farewell.--
All this goes well: Mosbie, I long for thee
To let thee know all that I have contrived.
_Here enters Mosbie and Clarke._
_Mosbie._ How, now, Alice, what’s the news?
_Alice._ Such as will content thee well, sweetheart.
_Mosbie._ Well, let them pass a while, and tell me, Alice,
How have you dealt and tempered with my sister?
What, will she have my neighbour Clarke, or no?
_Alice._ What, Master Mosbie! let him woo himself!
Think you that maids look not for fair words?
Go to her, Clarke; she’s all alone within;
Michael my man is clean out of her books.
_Clarke._ I thank you, Mistress Arden, I will in;
And if fair Susan and I can make a gree,
You shall command me to the uttermost,
As far as either goods or life may stretch. 550
[_Exit Clarke._
_Mosbie._ Now, Alice, let’s hear thy news.
_Alice._ They be so good that I must laugh for joy,
Before I can begin to tell my tale.
_Mosbie._ Let’s hear them, that I may laugh for company.
_Alice._ This morning, Master Greene, Dick Greene I mean,
From whom my husband had the Abbey land,
Came hither, railing, for to know the truth
Whether my husband had the lands by grant.
I told him all, whereat he stormed amain
And swore he would cry quittance with the churl, 560
And, if he did deny his interest,
Stab him, whatsoever did befall himself.
Whenas I saw his choler thus to rise,
I whetted on the gentleman with words;
And, to conclude, Mosbie, at last we grew
To composition for my husband’s death.
I gave him ten pound for to hire knaves,
By some device to make away the churl;
When he is dead, he should have twenty more
And repossess his former lands again. 570
On this we ’greed, and he is ridden straight
To London, for to bring his death about.
_Mosbie._ But call you this good news?
_Alice._ Ay, sweetheart, be they not?
_Mosbie._ ’Twere cheerful news to hear the churl were dead;
But trust me, Alice, I take it passing ill
You would be so forgetful of our state
To make recount of it to every groom.
What! to acquaint each stranger with our drifts,
Chiefly in case of murder, why, ’tis the way 580
To make it open unto Arden’s self
And bring thyself and me to ruin both.
Forewarned, forearmed; who threats his enemy,
Lends him a sword to guard himself withal.
_Alice._ I did it for the best.
_Mosbie._ Well, seeing ’tis done, cheerly let it pass.
You know this Greene; is he not religious?
A man, I guess, of great devotion?
_Alice._ He is.
_Mosbie._ Then, sweet Alice, let it pass: I have a drift 590
Will quiet all, whatever is amiss.
_Here enters Clarke and Susan._
_Alice._ How now, Clarke? have you found me false?
Did I not plead the matter hard for you?
_Clarke._ You did.
_Mosbie._ And what? wilt be a match?
_Clarke._ A match, i’ faith, sir: ay, the day is mine.
The painter lays his colours to the life,
His pencil draws no shadows in his love.
Susan is mine.
_Alice._ You make her blush. 600
_Mosbie._ What, sister, is it Clarke must be the man?
_Susan._ It resteth in your grant; some words are past,
And haply we be grown unto a match,
If you be willing that it shall be so.
_Mosbie._ Ah, Master Clarke, it resteth at my grant:
You see my sister’s yet at my dispose,
But, so you’ll grant me one thing I shall ask,
I am content my sister shall be yours.
_Clarke._ What is it, Master Mosbie?
_Mosbie._ I do remember once in secret talk 610
You told me how you could compound by art
A crucifix impoisoned,
That whoso look upon it should wax blind
And with the scent be stifled, that ere long
He should die poisoned that did view it well.
I would have you make me such a crucifix.
And then I’ll grant my sister shall be yours.
_Clarke._ Though I am loth, because it toucheth life,
Yet, rather or I’ll leave sweet Susan’s love,
I’ll do it, and with all the haste I may. 620
But for whom is it?
_Alice._ Leave that to us. Why, Clarke, is it possible
That you should paint and draw it out yourself,
The colours being baleful and impoisoned,
And no ways prejudice yourself withal?
_Mosbie._ Well questioned, Alice; Clarke, how answer you that?
_Clarke._ Very easily: I’ll tell you straight
How I do work of these impoisoned drugs.
I fasten on my spectacles so close
As nothing can any way offend my sight; 630
Then, as I put a leaf within my nose,
So put I rhubarb to avoid the smell,
And softly as another work I paint.
_Mosbie._ ’Tis very well; but against when shall I have it?
_Clarke._ Within this ten days.
_Mosbie._ ’Twill serve the turn.
Now, Alice, let’s in and see what cheer you keep.
I hope, now Master Arden is from home,
You’ll give me leave to play your husband’s part.
_Alice._ Mosbie, you know, who’s master of my heart,
He well may be the master of the house. 640
[_Exeunt._
I. i. 4. _Patents_; the plural is always used in A, cf. _Richard II._
II. i. 202; II. iii. 130.
I. i. 14. Contrast Holinshed:--‘He, _i.e._ Arden, was contented
to wink at her filthy disorder,’ and _Wardmote Book_:--‘All which
things the said Ardern did well know and wilfully did permit and
suffer the same.’ He was afraid to offend Lord North, ‘father-in-law
unto Alice Ardern,’ whose servant Mosbie had been. This
North was the father of the translator of Plutarch.
I. i. 15. _Pass_; so Bullen for _past_, A, B, C.
I. i. 25. _Botcher_, is not ‘butcher,’ but a mender of old clothes.
I. i. 48. _Jealous_: spelt _jelyouse_, and pronounced so throughout
the play.
I. i. 60. The reference is to Ovid’s _Elegy_, ‘Ad Auroram ne
properet.’--_Amor._ i. 13.
I. i. 61. Most editions reject _often_. If we retain it the line is an
Alexandrine. Cf. i. 153, 167, 238, 479; III. v. 73, etc.
I. i. 105. _Flower-de-luce._ ‘An inn, formerly situated in Abbey
Street, nearly opposite Arden’s house.’ C. E. Donne, _An Essay
on the Tragedy of Arden of Faversham_, 1873.
I. i. 117. _thy house of force_, _i.e._ ‘fortified house.’
I. i. 135. _narrow_: so all editors; but the _marrow-prying_ of A
may be correct. _Blab_ is either a verb with _and_ omitted after it,
or a noun, the subject of _hinder_.
I. i. 154. An allusion to verses or inscriptions on tapestry hangings.
I. i. 159. Cf. ‘I’ll write to him a very taunting letter.’--_As You
Like It_, III. v. 134.
I. i. 167. ‘It was popularly supposed that a virgin might save a
criminal from the gallows by offering to marry him.--See note to
my edition of Marston, III. 190-1.’--Bullen.
I. i. 172. Perhaps _worth_ should be omitted.
I. i. 174. _Bolton_ is ‘Boughton, looking down on Canterbury.’--Donne.
I. i. 247. The name ‘Clarke’ is apparently our author’s invention,
like the name and character of Franklin. The painter’s name was
William Blackburn.
I. i. 266. _Leave_; Tyrrell reads _love_.
I. i. 278. _makes_: this singular with a plural subject is frequent in
our play; cf. _Enters_ in the stage directions with a plural, and
I. 151, 437, 502; II. i. 1; III. i. 43 and 83; V. 38, etc. Consult
Mr. Verity’s note on _Edward II._, I. iv. 362, Temple Dramatists.
I. i. 312. The statute in question was 37 Edward III. c. 9.
I. i. 314. ‘The making of Spanish needles was first taught in
England by Elias Crowse a Germane about the eight yeere of
Queene Elizabeth, and in Queen Marie’s time there was a Negro
made fine Spanish needles in Cheapeside, but would never teach
his art to any.’ Quoted by Bullen from _Stowe_, edition 1631,
p. 1038.
I. i. 314. ‘Then Mosby having at his girdle a pressing iron of
14 pound weight stroke him on the head with the same so that
he fell down and gave a great groan.’--Holinshed. Cf V. i. 241.
I. i. 323. _Velvet drudge_: an allusion to Mosbie’s tailoring.
I. i. 426. _Populous_: ‘perhaps used in the sense of _thick_,
_compact_.’--Bullen. Webster quotes this passage and explains,
‘suitable to common people: hence common, inferior, vulgar.’
Delius proposes _palpable_.
I. i. 466. _His in state_, _i.e._ ‘his legally.’
I. i. 472. Cf. ‘To wring the widow from her customed right.’--2
_Henry VI._, V. i. 188.
I. i. 537. Tyrrell begins Act II. here.
I. i. 546. ‘The gentleman is not in your books.’--_Much Ado_,
I. i. 79.
I. i. 548. _make a gree_, come to an agreement. _Agree_ was used
adverbially for _at gree_.
ACT II
SCENE I
_Country between Feversham and London._
_Enter Greene and Bradshaw._
_Bradshaw._ See you them that comes yonder, Master Greene?
_Greene._ Ay, very well: do you know them?
_Here enters Black Will and Shakebag._
_Bradshaw._ The one I know not, but he seems a knave
Chiefly for bearing the other company;
For such a slave, so vile a rogue as he,
Lives not again upon the earth.
Black Will is his name. I tell you, Master Greene,
At Boulogne he and I were fellow-soldiers,
Where he played such pranks
As all the camp feared him for his villainy 10
I warrant you he bears so bad a mind
That for a crown he’ll murder any man.
_Greene._ The fitter is he for my purpose, marry!
_Will._ How now, fellow Bradshaw? Whither away so early?
_Bradshaw._ O Will, times are changed: no fellows now,
Though we were once together in the field;
Yet thy friend to do thee any good I can.
_Will._ Why, Bradshaw, was not thou and I fellow-soldiers
at Boulogne, where I was a corporal, and
thou but a base mercenary groom? No fellows
now! because you are a goldsmith and have a little
plate in your shop! You were glad to call me
‘fellow Will,’ and with a curtsey to the earth, ‘One
snatch, good corporal,’ when I stole the half ox
from John the victualer, and domineer’d with it
amongst good fellows in one night.
_Bradshaw._ Ay, Will, those days are past with me. 27
_Will._ Ay, but they be not past with me, for I keep that
same honourable mind still. Good neighbour Bradshaw,
you are too proud to be my fellow; but were
it not that I see more company coming down the
hill, I would be fellows with you once more, and
share crowns with you too. But let that pass, and
tell me whither you go.
_Bradshaw._ To London, Will, about a piece of service,
Wherein haply thou mayest pleasure me.
_Will._ What is it?
_Bradshaw._ Of late Lord Cheiny lost some plate,
Which one did bring and sold it at my shop,
Saying he served Sir Antony Cooke. 40
A search was made, the plate was found with me,
And I am bound to answer at the ’size.
Now, Lord Cheiny solemnly vows, if law
Will serve him, he’ll hang me for his plate.
Now I am going to London upon hope
To find the fellow. Now, Will, I know
Thou art acquainted with such companions.
_Will._ What manner of man was he?
_Bradshaw._ A lean-faced writhen knave,
Hawk-nosed and very hollow-eyed, 50
With mighty furrows in his stormy brows;
Long hair down his shoulders curled;
His chin was bare, but on his upper lip
A mutchado, which he wound about his ear.
_Will._ What apparel had he?
_Bradshaw._ A watchet satin doublet all-to torn,
The inner side did bear the greater show;
A pair of thread-bare velvet hose, seam rent,
A worsted stocking rent above the shoe,
A livery cloak, but all the lace was off; 60
’Twas bad, but yet it served to hide the plate.
_Will._ Sirrah Shakebag, canst thou remember since we
trolled the bowl at Sittingburgh, where I broke the
tapster’s head of the Lion with a cudgel-stick?
_Shakebag._ Ay, very well, Will.
_Will._ Why, it was with the money that the plate was
sold for. Sirrah Bradshaw, what wilt thou give him
that can tell thee who sold thy plate?
_Bradshaw._ Who, I pray thee, good Will?
_Will._ Why, ’twas one Jack Fitten. He’s now in Newgate
for stealing a horse, and shall be arraigned the next ’size. 72
_Bradshaw._ Why, then let Lord Cheiny seek Jack Fitten forth,
For I’ll back and tell him who robbed him of his plate.
This cheers my heart; Master Greene, I’ll leave you,
For I must to the Isle of Sheppy with speed.
_Greene._ Before you go, let me intreat you
To carry this letter to Mistress Arden of Feversham
And humbly recommend me to herself.
_Bradshaw._ That will I, Master Greene, and so farewell. 80
Here, Will, there’s a crown for thy good news.
[_Exit Bradshaw._
_Will._ Farewell, Bradshaw; I’ll drink no water for thy
sake whilst this lasts.--Now, gentleman, shall we
have your company to London?
_Greene._ Nay, stay, sirs:
A little more I needs must use your help,
And in a matter of great consequence,
Wherein if you’ll be secret and profound,
I’ll give you twenty angels for your pains. 89
_Will._ How? twenty angels? give my fellow George
Shakebag and me twenty angels? And if thou’lt
have thy own father slain, that thou may’st inherit
his land, we’ll kill him. 93
_Shakebag._ Ay, thy mother, thy sister, thy brother,
or all thy kin.
_Greene._ Well, this it is: Arden of Feversham
Hath highly wronged me about the Abbey land,
That no revenge but death will serve the turn.
Will you two kill him? here’s the angels down,
And I will lay the platform of his death. 100
_Will._ Plat me no platforms; give me the money, and
I’ll stab him as he stands pissing against a wall, but
I’ll kill him.
_Shakebag._ Where is he?
_Greene._ He is now at London, in Aldersgate Street.
_Shakebag._ He’s dead as if he had been condemned by
an Act of Parliament, if once Black Will and I
swear his death.
_Greene_. Here is ten pound, and when he is dead,
Ye shall have twenty more. 110
_Will._ My fingers itches to be at the peasant. Ah, that
I might be set a work thus through the year, and
that murder would grow to an occupation, that a
man might follow without danger of law:--zounds, I
warrant I should be warden of the company! Come,
let us be going, and we’ll bait at Rochester, where
I’ll give thee a gallon of sack to handsel the match
withal.
[_Exeunt._
II. i. 51. Mr. Bullen says that such a line as this ‘might have
come straight out of _Tamburlaine_.’ He goes on, ‘but in no other
part of the play can we find a trace of Marlowe’s influence.’ Cf.--
‘He sent a shaggy tottered staring slave,
That when he speaks draws out his grisly beard,
And winds it twice or thrice about his ear;
Whose face has been a grindstone for men’s swords.’
_Jew of Malta_, IV. v. 6.
and Shakespeare’s--
‘They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain ...
A needy hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,
A living dead man.’
_Com. of Errors_, V. i. 237.
II. i. 56. _all to torn_; ‘entirely torn.’ _To_ in the sense of
‘asunder’ was commonly emphasised by _all_. Cf. ‘Her wings ...
were all to ruffled.’--_Comus_, 380.
II. i. 58. _seam rent_: torn at the seams; ‘Seam rent fellows,’--Ben
Jonson.
II. i. 101. Imitated in Yarington’s _Two Tragedies_ (iii. 2):--
‘Grace me no graces, I respect no grace,
But with a grace to give a graceless stab.’
II. i. 114. I have inserted _follow_.
SCENE II
_London. A Street near St. Paul’s._
_Enter Michael._
_Michael._ I have gotten such a letter as will touch the
painter: And thus it is:
_Here enters Arden and Franklin and hears Michael
read this letter._
‘My duty remembered, Mistress Susan, hoping in God
you be in good health, as I Michael was at the
making hereof. This is to certify you that as the
turtle true, when she hath lost her mate, sitteth
alone, so I, mourning for your absence, do walk
up and down Paul’s till one day I fell asleep and
lost my master’s pantofles. Ah, Mistress Susan,
abolish that paltry painter, cut him off by the
shins with a frowning look of your crabbed countenance,
and think upon Michael, who, drunk with
the dregs of your favour, will cleave as fast to your
love as a plaster of pitch to a galled horse-back.
Thus hoping you will let my passions penetrate, or
rather impetrate mercy of your meek hands, I end.
‘Yours, Michael, or else not Michael.’
_Arden._ Why, you paltry knave,
Stand you here loitering, knowing my affairs,
What haste my business craves to send to Kent? 20
_Franklin._ Faith, friend Michael, this is very ill,
Knowing your master hath no more but you,
And do ye slack his business for your own?
_Arden._ Where is the letter, sirrah? let me see it.
[_Then he gives him the letter._
See, Master Franklin, here’s proper stuff:
Susan my maid, the painter, and my man,
A crew of harlots, all in love, forsooth;
Sirrah, let me hear no more of this,
Nor for thy life once write to her a word.
_Here enters Greene, Will, and Shakebag._
Wilt thou be married to so base a trull? 30
’Tis Mosbie’s sister: come I once at home,
I’ll rouse her from remaining in my house.
Now, Master Franklin, let us go walk in Paul’s;
Come but a turn or two, and then away.
[_Exeunt._
_Greene._ The first is Arden, and that’s his man,
The other is Franklin, Arden’s dearest friend.
_Will._ Zounds, I’ll kill them all three.
_Greene._ Nay, sirs, touch not his man in any case;
But stand close, and take you fittest standing,
And at his coming forth speed him: 40
To the Nag’s Head, there is this coward’s haunt.
But now I’ll leave you till the deed be done.
[_Exit Greene._
_Shakebag._ If he be not paid his own, ne’er trust Shakebag.
_Will._ Sirrah Shakebag, at his coming forth I’ll run him
through, and then to the Blackfriars, and there
take water and away.
_Shakebag._ Why, that’s the best; but see thou miss him not.
_Will._ How can I miss him, when I think on the forty
angels I must have more?
_Here enters Prentice._
_Prentice._ ’Tis very late; I were best shut up my stall,
for here will be old filching, when the press comes
forth of Paul’s. 52
[_Then lets he down his window, and it breaks Black Will’s head._
_Will._ Zounds, draw, Shakebag, I am almost killed.
_Prentice._ We’ll tame you, I warrant.
_Will._ Zounds, I am tame enough already.
_Here enters Arden, Franklin, and Michael._
_Arden._ What troublesome fray or mutiny is this?
_Franklin._ ’Tis nothing but some brabling paltry fray,
Devised to pick men’s pockets in the throng.
_Arden._ Is’t nothing else? come, Franklin, let’s away.
[_Exeunt._
_Will._ What ’mends shall I have for my broken head? 60
_Prentice._ Marry, this ’mends, that if you get you not
away all the sooner, you shall be well beaten and
sent to the Counter. [_Exit Prentice._
_Will._ Well, I’ll be gone, but look to your signs, for I’ll
pull them down all. Shakebag, my broken head
grieves me not so much as by this means Arden
hath escaped.
_Here enters Greene._
I had a glimpse of him and his companion.
_Greene._ Why, sirs, Arden’s as well as I; I met him and
Franklin going merrily to the ordinary. What, dare
you not do it? 71
_Will._ Yes, sir, we dare do it; but, were my consent to
give again, we would not do it under ten pound
more. I value every drop of my blood at a French
crown. I have had ten pound to steal a dog, and we
have no more here to kill a man; but that a bargain
is a bargain, and so forth, you should do it yourself.
_Greene._ I pray thee, how came thy head broke?
_Will._ Why, thou seest it is broke, dost thou not? 79
_Shakebag._ Standing against a stall, watching Arden’s
coming, a boy let down his shop-window and broke
his head; whereupon arose a brawl, and in the
tumult Arden escaped us and passed by unthought
on. But forbearance is no acquittance; another
time we’ll do it, I warrant thee.
_Greene._ I pray thee, Will, make clean thy bloody brow,
And let us bethink us on some other place
Where Arden may be met with handsomely.
Remember how devoutly thou hast sworn
To kill the villain; think upon thine oath. 90
_Will._ Tush, I have broken five hundred oaths!
But wouldst thou charm me to effect this deed,
Tell me of gold, my resolution’s fee;
Say thou seest Mosbie kneeling at my knees,
Offering me service for my high attempt,
And sweet Alice Arden, with a lap of crowns,
Comes with a lowly curtsey to the earth,
Saying ‘Take this but for thy quarterage,
Such yearly tribute will I answer thee.’
Why, this would steel soft-mettled cowardice, 100
With which Black Will was never tainted yet.
I tell thee, Greene, the forlorn traveller,
Whose lips are glued with summer’s parching heat,
Ne’er longed so much to see a running brook
As I to finish Arden’s tragedy.
Seest thou this gore that cleaveth to my face?
From hence ne’er will I wash this bloody stain,
Till Arden’s heart be panting in my hand.
_Greene._ Why, that’s well said; but what saith Shakebag?
_Shakebag._ I cannot paint my valour out with words: 110
But, give me place and opportunity,
Such mercy as the starven lioness,
When she is dry sucked of her eager young,
Shows to the prey that next encounters her,
On Arden so much pity would I take.
_Greene._ So should it fare with men of firm resolve.
And now, sirs, seeing that this accident
Of meeting him in Paul’s hath no success,
Let us bethink us of some other place
Whose earth may swallow up this Arden’s blood.
_Here enters Michael._
See, yonder comes his man: and wot you what? 121
The foolish knave’s in love with Mosbie’s sister,
And for her sake, whose love he cannot get
Unless Mosbie solicit his suit,
The villain hath sworn the slaughter of his master.
We’ll question him, for he may stead us much,--
How now, Michael, whither are you going?
_Michael._ My master hath new supped,
And I am going to prepare his chamber.
_Greene._ Where supped Master Arden? 130
_Michael._ At the Nag’s Head, at the eighteen pence
ordinary. How now, Master Shakebag? what,
Black Will! God’s dear lady, how chance your
face is so bloody?
_Will._ Go to, sirrah, there is a chance in it; this sauciness
in you will make you be knocked.
_Michael._ Nay, an you be offended, I’ll be gone.
_Greene._ Stay, Michael, you may not escape us so.
Michael, I know you love your master well.
_Michael._ Why, so I do; but wherefore urge you that?
_Greene._ Because I think you love your mistress better.
_Michael._ So think not I; but say, i’ faith, what, if I should?
_Shakebag._ Come to the purpose, Michael; we hear 143
You have a pretty love in Feversham.
_Michael._ Why, have I two or three, what’s that to thee!
_Will._ You deal too mildly with the peasant. Thus it is:
’Tis known to us that you love Mosbie’s sister;
We know besides that you have ta’en your oath
To further Mosbie to your mistress’ bed,
And kill your master for his sister’s sake.
Now, sir, a poorer coward than yourself 150
Was never fostered in the coast of Kent:
How comes it then that such a knave as you
Dare swear a matter of such consequence?
_Greene._ Ah, Will----
_Will._ Tush, give me leave, there’s no more but this:
Sith thou hast sworn, we dare discover all;
And hadst thou or should’st thou utter it,
We have devised a complat under hand,
Whatever shall betide to any of us,
To send thee roundly to the devil of hell. 160
And therefore thus: I am the very man,
Marked in my birth-hour by the destinies,
To give an end to Arden’s life on earth;
Thou but a member but to whet the knife
Whose edge must search the closet of his breast:
Thy office is but to appoint the place,
And train thy master to his tragedy;
Mine to perform it when occasion serves.
Then be not nice, but here devise with us
How and what way we may conclude his death. 170
_Shakebag._ So shalt thou purchase Mosbie for thy friend,
And by his friendship gain his sister’s love.
_Greene._ So shall thy mistress be thy favourer,
And thou disburdened of the oath thou made.
_Michael._ Well, gentlemen, I cannot but confess,
Sith you have urged me so apparently,
That I have vowed my master Arden’s death;
And he whose kindly love and liberal hand
Doth challenge nought but good deserts of me,
I will deliver over to your hands. 180
This night come to his house at Aldersgate:
The doors I’ll leave unlock’d against you come.
No sooner shall ye enter through the latch,
Over the threshold to the inner court,
But on your left hand shall you see the stairs
That leads directly to my master’s chamber:
There take him and dispose him as ye please.
Now it were good we parted company;
What I have promised, I will perform.
_Will._ Should you deceive us, ’twould go wrong with you. 190
_Michael._ I will accomplish all I have revealed.
_Will._ Come, let’s go drink: choler makes me as dry as a dog. 190
[_Exeunt Will, Greene, and Shakebag._
_Manet Michael._
_Michael._ Thus feeds the lamb securely on the down,
Whilst through the thicket of an arbour brake
The hunger-bitten wolf o’erpries his haunt
And takes advantage for to eat him up.
Ah, harmless Arden, how hast thou misdone,
That thus thy gentle life is levelled at?
The many good turns that thou hast done to me. 200
Now must I quittance with betraying thee.
I that should take the weapon in my hand
And buckler thee from ill-intending foes,
Do lead thee with a wicked fraudful smile,
As unsuspected, to the slaughter-house.
So have I sworn to Mosbie and my mistress,
So have I promised to the slaughtermen;
And should I not deal currently with them,
Their lawless rage would take revenge on me.
Tush, I will spurn at mercy for this once: 210
Let pity lodge where feeble women lie,
I am resolved, and Arden needs must die.
[_Exit Michael._
II. ii. 3. Michael’s letter is a curious effort at euphuism which
calls to mind ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost.’ Note the fabulous natural
history, the alliteration, and the alliterative proverb.
II. ii. 51. _old filching_ = ‘rare filching.’ Cf. ‘Yonder’s old coil at
hand.’--_Much Ado_, V. ii. 98.
II. ii. 63. The Counter was a London prison.
ACT III
SCENE I
_A Room in Franklin’s House, at Aldersgate._
_Enter Arden and Franklin._
_Arden._ No, Franklin, no: if fear or stormy threats,
If love of me or care of womanhood,
If fear of God or common speech of men,
Who mangle credit with their wounding words,
And couch dishonour as dishonour buds,
Might join repentance in her wanton thoughts,
No question then but she would turn the leaf
And sorrow for her dissolution;
But she is rooted in her wickedness,
Perverse and stubborn, not to be reclaimed; 10
Good counsel is to her as rain to weeds,
And reprehension makes her vice to grow
As Hydra’s head that plenished by decay.
Her faults, methink, are painted in my face,
For every searching eye to overread;
And Mosbie’s name, a scandal unto mine,
Is deeply trenchèd in my blushing brow.
Ah, Franklin, Franklin, when I think on this,
My heart’s grief rends my other powers
Worse than the conflict at the hour of death. 20
_Franklin._ Gentle Arden, leave this sad lament:
She will amend, and so your griefs will cease;
Or else she’ll die, and so your sorrows end.
If neither of these two do haply fall,
Yet let your comfort be that others bear
Your woes, twice doubled all, with patience.
_Arden._ My house is irksome; there I cannot rest.
_Franklin._ Then stay with me in London; go not home.
_Arden._ Then that base Mosbie doth usurp my room
And makes his triumph of my being thence. 30
At home or not at home, where’er I be,
Here, here it lies, ah Franklin, here it lies
That will not out till wretched Arden dies.
_Here enters Michael._
_Franklin._ Forget your griefs a while; here comes your man.
_Arden._ What a-clock is’t, sirrah?
_Michael._ Almost ten.
_Arden._ See, see, how runs away the weary time!
Come, Master Franklin, shall we go to bed?
[_Exeunt Arden and Michael._
_Manet Franklin._
_Franklin._ I pray you, go before: I’ll follow you.
--Ah, what a hell is fretful jealousy! 40
What pity-moving words, what deep-fetched sighs,
What grievous groans and overlading woes
Accompanies this gentle gentleman!
Now will he shake his care-oppressèd head,
Then fix his sad eyes on the sullen earth,
Ashamed to gaze upon the open world;
Now will he cast his eyes up towards the heavens,
Looking that ways for redress of wrong:
Sometimes he seeketh to beguile his grief
And tells a story with his careful tongue; 50
Then comes his wife’s dishonour in his thoughts
And in the middle cutteth off his tale,
Pouring fresh sorrow on his weary limbs.
So woe-begone, so inly charged with woe,
Was never any lived and bare it so.
_Here enters Michael._
_Michael._ My master would desire you come to bed.
_Franklin._ Is he himself already in his bed?
[_Exit Franklin. Manet Michael._
_Michael._ He is, and fain would have the light away.
--Conflicting thoughts, encampèd in my breast,
Awake me with the echo of their strokes, 60
And I, a judge to censure either side,
Can give to neither wishèd victory.
My master’s kindness pleads to me for life
With just demand, and I must grant it him:
My mistress she hath forced me with an oath,
For Susan’s sake, the which I may not break,
For that is nearer than a master’s love:
That grim-faced fellow, pitiless Black Will,
And Shakebag, stern in bloody stratagem,
--Two rougher ruffians never lived in Kent,-- 70
Have sworn my death, if I infringe my vow,
A dreadful thing to be considered of.
Methinks I see them with their bolstered hair
Staring and grinning in thy gentle face,
And in their ruthless hands their daggers drawn,
Insulting o’er thee with a peck of oaths,
Whilst thou submissive, pleading for relief,
Art mangled by their ireful instruments.
Methinks I hear them ask where Michael is,
And pitiless Black Will cries: ‘Stab the slave! 80
The peasant will detect the tragedy!’
The wrinkles in his foul death-threat’ning face
Gapes open wide, like graves to swallow men.
My death to him is but a merriment,
And he will murder me to make him sport.
He comes, he comes! ah. Master Franklin, help!
Call on the neighbours, or we are but dead!
_Here enters Franklin and Arden._
_Franklin._ What dismal outcry calls me from my rest?
_Arden._ What hath occasioned such a fearful cry?
Speak, Michael: hath any injured thee? 90
_Michael._ Nothing, sir; but as I fell asleep,
Upon the threshold leaning to the stairs,
I had a fearful dream that troubled me,
And in my slumber thought I was beset
With murderer thieves that came to rifle me.
My trembling joints witness my inward fear:
I crave your pardons for disturbing you.
_Arden._ So great a cry for nothing I ne’er heard.
What? are the doors fast locked and all things safe?
_Michael._ I cannot tell; I think I locked the doors. 100
_Arden._ I like not this, but I’ll go see myself.--
Ne’er trust me but the doors were all unlocked:
This negligence not half contenteth me.
Get you to bed, and if you love my favour,
Let me have no more such pranks as these.
Come, Master Franklin, let us go to bed.
_Franklin._ Ay, by my faith; the air is very cold.
Michael, farewell; I pray thee dream no more.
[_Exeunt._
III. i. 5. _Couch dishonour as dishonour buds._ Warnke explains
_Couch_ = ‘spread,’ comparing ‘couch-grass’; but there is no
authority for this use. Is the word used in its surgical sense?
The line would then = ‘Cut the bud of dishonour so that it bursts
into flower.’ The surgical sense occurs in Holland’s _Pliny_, 1601.
III. i. 13. _plenished_ is Warnke’s reading for the Quartos’ _perisht_.
Delius and Bullen read _flourished_.
III. i. 19. Cf. ‘Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers.’--2
_Henry VI._, II. i. 83.
III. i. 45. For this use of _sullen_ cf. ‘Why are thine eyes fixed to
the sullen earth?’--2 _Henry VI._, I. ii. 5, and Sonnet XXIX. 13.