_Arden’s House at Feversham._
_Here enters Mosbie._
_Mosbie._ Disturbèd thoughts drives me from company
And dries my marrow with their watchfulness;
Continual trouble of my moody brain
Feebles my body by excess of drink,
And nips me as the bitter north-east wind
Doth check the tender blossoms in the spring.
Well fares the man, howe’er his cates do taste,
That tables not with foul suspicion;
And he but pines amongst his delicates,
Whose troubled mind is stuffed with discontent. 10
My golden time was when I had no gold;
Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure;
My daily toil begat me night’s repose,
My night’s repose made daylight fresh to me.
But since I climbed the top-bough of the tree
And sought to build my nest among the clouds,
Each gentle stirry gale doth shake my bed,
And makes me dread my downfall to the earth.
But whither doth contemplation carry me?
The way I seek to find, where pleasure dwells, 20
Is hedged behind me that I cannot back,
But needs must on, although to danger’s gate.
Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree;
For Greene doth ear the land and weed thee up
To make my harvest nothing but pure corn.
And for his pains I’ll hive him up a while,
And after smother him to have his wax:
Such bees as Greene must never live to sting.
Then is there Michael and the painter too,
Chief actors to Arden’s overthrow; 30
Who when they shall see me sit in Arden’s seat,
They will insult upon me for my meed,
Or fright me by detecting of his end.
I’ll none of that, for I can cast a bone
To make these curs pluck out each other’s throat,
And then am I sole ruler of mine own.
Yet Mistress Arden lives; but she’s myself,
And holy Church rites makes us two but one.
But what for that? I may not trust you, Alice:
You have supplanted Arden for my sake, 40
And will extirpen me to plant another.
’Tis fearful sleeping in a serpent’s bed,
And I will cleanly rid my hands of her.
_Here enters Alice._
But here she comes, and I must flatter her.
--How now, Alice? what, sad and passionate?
Make me partaker of thy pensiveness:
Fire divided burns with lesser force.
_Alice._ But I will dam that fire in my breast
Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah, Mosbie! 50
_Mosbie._ Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst
Discharged against a ruinated wall,
Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou know’st it well, and ’tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks to wound a breast
Where lies a heart that dies when thou art sad.
It is not love that loves to anger love.
_Alice._ It is not love that loves to murder love.
_Mosbie._ How mean you that? 60
_Alice._ Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me.
_Mosbie._ And then?
_Alice._ And then--conceal the rest, for ’tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried with the wind,
And published in the world to both our shames.
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what hath passed betwixt us,
For how I blush and tremble at the thoughts!
_Mosbie._ What? are you changed? 70
_Alice._ Ay, to my former happy life again,
From title of an odious strumpet’s name
To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife.
Ha, Mosbie! ’tis thou has rifled me of that
And made me slanderous to all my kin;
Even in my forehead is thy name ingraven,
A mean artificer, that low-born name.
I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me!
_Mosbie._ Nay, if you ban, let me breathe curses forth, 80
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.
I have neglected matters of import
That would have stated me above thy state,
Forslowed advantages, and spurned at time:
Ay, Fortune’s right hand Mosbie hath forsook
To take a wanton giglot by the left.
I left the marriage of an honest maid,
Whose dowry would have weighed down all thy wealth,
Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee: 90
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapt my credit in thy company.
I was bewitched,--that is no theme of thine,
And thou unhallowed has enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
And put another sight upon these eyes
That showed my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair, I viewed thee not till now;
Thou art not kind, till now I knew thee not;
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, 100
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
I am too good to be thy favourite.
_Alice._ Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth,
Which too incredulous I ne’er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two; 110
I’ll bite my tongue if it speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or I’ll kill myself:
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look.
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me;
I will do penance for offending thee,
And burn this prayer-book, where I here use
The holy word that had converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves, and in this golden cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell; 120
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,
And hold no other sect but such devotion.
Wilt thou not look? is all thy love o’erwhelmed?
Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thine ears?
Why speaks thou not? what silence ties thy tongue?
Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,
And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,
And spoke as smoothly as an orator,
When I have bid thee hear or see or speak,
And art thou sensible in none of these? 130
Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie’s muddy looks.
A fence of trouble is not thickened still:
Be clear again, I’ll ne’er more trouble thee.
_Mosbie._ O no, I am a base artificer:
My wings are feathered for a lowly flight.
Mosbie? fie! no, not for a thousand pound.
Make love to you? why, ’tis unpardonable;
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are.
_Alice._ Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king, 140
And I too blind to judge him otherwise.
Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lands,
Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns;
So, whatsoe’er my Mosbie’s father was,
Himself is valued gentle by his worth.
_Mosbie._ Ah, how you women can insinuate,
And clear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue!
I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
Provided I’ll be tempted so no more.
_Here enters Bradshaw._
_Alice._ Then with thy lips seal up this new-made match.
_Mosbie._ Soft, Alice, here comes somebody. 151
_Alice._ How now, Bradshaw, what’s the news with you?
_Bradshaw._ I have little news, but here’s a letter
That Master Greene importuned me to give you.
_Alice._ Go in, Bradshaw; call for a cup of beer;
’Tis almost supper-time, thou shalt stay with us.
[_Exit Bradshaw._
_Then she reads the letter._
‘We have missed of our purpose at London, but shall
perform it by the way. We thank our neighbour
Bradshaw.--Yours, Richard Greene.’
How likes my love the tenor of this letter? 160
_Mosbie._ Well, were his date completed and expired.
_Alice._ Ah, would it were! Then comes my happy hour:
Till then my bliss is mixed with bitter gall.
Come, let us in to shun suspicion.
_Mosbie._ Ay, to the gates of death to follow thee. [_Exeunt._
III. v. 4. _drink_: perhaps we ought to read _think_.
III. v. 17. _stirry_: this is meant by the _starry_ of the Quartos.
III. v. 26. _hive_: Delius’s correction of _heave_, A, B, C.
III. v. 51. _deep pathaires_: Delius conjectures _deep fet airs_; but
Mr. Gollancz has probably solved the crux of the play by his
suggestion,--‘“Pathaire,” I take to be some special form of “petarre,”
_i.e._ “petard,” probably used in the metaphorical sense of
passionate outburst.’--(Lamb’s _Specimens_, I. i. 297.) The use may
be quite literal; for the form cf. Powell’s _Tom of All Trades_,
p. 163, ‘An Enginere for making of Patars.’
III. v. 58. Quoted by Bullen as of ‘genuine Shakesperean
flavour.’ He adds III. v. 112-130.
III. v. 116. Mr. Bullen puts a comma at _use_.
III. v. 131. _Thy_: several editors read _my_; but the sense is ‘the
good turns I have done you.’
III. v. 133. Warnke explains ‘the quarrel has not yet thickened
to so impenetrable a fence as to separate us for ever.’ Perhaps we
should read ‘is not thick-set ill.’
III. v. 157. An inconsistency. Cf. II. i. 75. Holinshed quotes
from the letter, ‘We have got a man for our purpose, we may
thank my brother Bradshaw.’ The _Wardmote Book_ says nothing
of Bradshaw’s innocence.