_Clown_. Bake him, and if they put him in one Pasty a new Oven must be
made, with a mouth as wide as the gates of the City. (_Horne_.)
_Omnes_. There boy, there boy.
_Hornes and Noise within: Enter Antony meeting Damianus_.
_Ant_. _Cosmo_ had like beene kild; the Boare receiving[154]
A Speare full in the Flanke from _Cosmo's_ hand,
Foaming with rage he ranne at him, unhorst him
And had, but that he fell behinde an Oake
Of admirable greatnesse, torne out his bowels;
His very Tuskes, striking into the tree,
Made the old Champion[155] shake.
[_Enter Cosmo_.
_Dam_. Where are the Dogges?
_Cosmo_. No matter for the Curres:
I scapt well, but cannot finde the King.
_Anton_. When did you see him?
_Cosmo_. Not since the Boare tos'd up
Both horse and rider.
_Enter Epidophorus and all the Huntsmen in a hurry_.
_Epi_. A Liter for the King; the King is hurt.
_Ant_. How?
_Epi_. No man knowes: some say stung by an Adder
As from his horse he fell; some cry, by the Boare.
_Anton_. The Boare never came neare him.
_Dam_. The King's Physitians!
_Cosmo_. Runne for the King's Physitians.
_Epi_. Conduct us to him.
_Anton_. A fatall hunting when a King doth fall:
All earthly pleasures are thus washt in gall.
[_Exeunt_.
(SCENE 2.)
_Eugenius discovered sitting loaden with many Irons,
a Lampe burning by him; then enter Clowne with a
piece of browne bread and a Carret roote_.
_Eugen_. Is this my Dyet?
_Clown_. Yes, marry is it; though it be not Dyet bread[156] 'tis bread,
'tis your dinner; and though this be not the roote of all mischiefe yet
'tis a Carret, and excellent good meate if you had powderd Beefe to it.
_Eugen_. I am content with this.
_Clown_. If you bee not I cannot helpe it; for I am threatned to be
hang'd if I set but a Tripe before you or give you a bone to gnaw.
_Eugen_. For me thou shalt not suffer.
_Clown_. I thank you; but were not you better be no good Christian, as
I am, and so fill your belly as to lie here and starve and be hang'd
thus in Chaines?
_Eugen_. No, 'tis my tryumph; all these Chaines to me
Are silken Ribbonds, this course bread a banquet;
This gloomy Dungeon is to me more pleasing
Than the Kings Palace; and cou'd I winne thy soule
To shake off her blacke ignorance, thou, as I doe,
Would'st feele thirst, hunger, stripes and Irons nothing,
Nay, count death nothing. Let me winne thee to me.
_Clown_. Thank yee for that: winne me from a Table full of good meat to
leape at a crust! I am no Scholler, and you (they say) are a great one;
and schollers must eate little, so shall you. What a fine thing is it
for me to report abroad of you that you are no great feeder, no
Cormorant! What a quiet life is it when a womans tongue lies still! and
is't not as good when a mans teeth lyes still?
_Eugen_. Performe what thou art bidden; if thou art charg'd
To starve me, Ile not blame thee but blesse heaven.
_Clown_. If you were starv'd what hurt were that to you?
_Eugen_. Not any; no, not any.
_Clown_. Here would be your praise when you should lie dead: they would
say, he was a very good man but alas! had little or nothing in him.
_Eugen_. I am a slave to any misery
My Iudges doome me too.
_Clown_. If you bee a slave there's more slaves in the world than you.
_Eugen_. Yes, thousands of brave fellows slaves to their vices;
The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine,
Adulterers to their lust.
_Clown_. Right, Sir; so in Trades: the Smith is a slave to the
Ironmonger, the itchy silk-weaver to the Silke-man, the Cloth-worker
to the Draper, the Whore to the Bawd, the Bawd to the Constable, and
the Constable to a bribe.
_Eugen_. Is it the kings will that I should be thus chain'd?
_Clown_. Yes indeed, Sir. I can tell you in some countries they are held
no small fooles that goe in Chaines.
_Eugen_. I am heavy.
_Clown_. Heavy? how can you chuse, having so much Iron upon you?
_Eugen_. Death's brother and I would have a little talk
So thou wouldst leave us.
_Clown_. With all my heart; let Deaths sister talke with you, too, and
shee will, but let not me see her, for I am charg'd to let no body come
into you. If you want any water give mee your Chamber pot; Ile fill it.
[_Exit_.
_Eugen_. No, I want none, I thanke thee.
Oh sweet affliction, thou blest booke, being written
By Divine fingers! you Chaines that binde my body
To free my soule; you Wheeles that wind me up
To an eternity of happinesse,
Mustre my holy thoughts; and, as I write,
Organ of heavenly Musicke to mine ears,
Haven to my Shipwracke, balme to my wounds,
Sunne-beames which on me comfortably shine
When Clouds of death are covering me; (so gold,
As I by thee, by fire is purified;
So showres quicken the Spring; so rough Seas
Bring Marriners home, giving them gaines and ease);
Imprisonment, gyves, famine, buffetings,
The Gibbet and the Racke; Flint stones, the Cushions
On which I kneele; a heape of Thornes and Briers,
The Pillow to my head; a nasty prison,
Able to kill mankinde even with the Smell:
All these to me are welcome. You are deaths servants;
When comes your Master to me? Now I am arm'd for him.
Strengthen me that Divinity that enlightens
The darknesse of my soule, strengthen this hand
That it may write my challenge to the world
Whom I defie; that I may on this paper
The picture draw of my confession.
Here doe I fix my Standard, here bid Battaile
To Paganisme and infidelity.
_Musicke; enter Angel_.
Mustre my holy thoughts, and, as I write,
In this brave quarrell teach me how to fight.
(_As he is writing an Angel comes and stands before
him: soft musick; he astonisht and dazeld_.)
This is no common Almes to prisoners;
I never heard such sweetnesse--O mine eyes!
I, that am shut from light, have all the light
Which the world sees by; here some heavenly fire
Is throwne about the roome, and burnes so clearely,
Mine eye-bals drop out blasted at the sight.
(_He falls flat on the earth, and whilst a Song is heard
the Angel writes, and vanishes as it ends_.)