dark, yet would not have me cry. I shall grow wondrous melancho[l]y
if I stay long here without company; I was wont to get a nap with
saying my prayers, I'll see if they will work upon me now; but
then, if I should talk in my sleep, and they hear me, they would
make a Recorder of my windpipe, slit my throat: heaven be prais'd,
I hear some noise, it may be new purchase, and then I shall have
fellows.
_Devit._ They are gone past hearing, now to taske _Devitry_, help,
help, as you are men help; some charitable hand, relieve a poor
distressed miserable wretch, thieves, wicked thieves have robb'd
me; bound me.
_Prot._ 'Foot, would they had gagg'd you too, your noise will
betray us, and fetch them again.
_Devit._ What blessed tongue spake to me, where, where where are
you Sir?
_Prot._ A plague of your bawling throat, we are well enough if you
have the grace to be thankful for't, do but snore to me, and 'tis
as much as I desire, to pass away time with, till morning, then
talk as loud as you please Sir, I am bound not to stir, therefore
lie still and snore I say.
_Devit._ Then you have met with thieves too I see.
_Prot._ And desire to meet with no more of them.
_Devit._ Alas, what can we suffer more? they are far enough by this
time; have they not all, all that we have Sir?
_Prot._ No by my faith have they not Sir; I gave them one trick to
boot for their learning, my Boots Sir, my Boots, I have sav'd my
stock, and my jewels in them, and therefore desire to hear no more
of them.
_Devit._ Now blessing on your wit, Sir, what a dull slave was I,
dreamt not of your conveyance, help to unbind me Sir, and I'll
undoe you, my life for yours, no worse thief than my self meets you
again this night.
_Prot._ Reach me thy hands.
_Devit._ Here Sir, here, I could beat my brains out, that could not
think of boots, boots Sir, wide topt boots, I shall love them the
better whilst I live; but are you sure your Jewels are here Sir?
_Prot._ Sure sayst thou? ha, ha, ha.
_Devit._ So ho, illo ho. [_Within Soldiers._
Here Captain, here.
_Prot._ 'Foot what do you mean Sir?
_Enter Soldiers._
_Devit._ A trick to boot, say you; here you dull slaves, purchase,
purchase the soul of the Rock, Diamonds, sparkling Diamonds.
_Prot._ I'm betraid, lost, past recovery, lost, as you are men.
_Devit._ Nay rook, since you will be prating, we'll share your
carrion with you, have you any other conveyance now Sir?
_1._ 'Foot here are Letters, Epistles, familiar Epistles, we'll see
what treasure is in them, they are seal'd sure.
_Prot._ Gentlemen, as you are Gentlemen spare my Letters, and take
all willingly, all: I'll give you a release, a general release, and
meet you here to morrow with as much more.
_Devit._ Nay, since you have your tricks, and your conveyances, we
will not leave a wrinkle of you unsearcht.
_Prot._ Hark, there comes company, you will be betraid, as you love
your safeties, beat out my brains, I shall betray you else.
_Devit._ Treason, unheard of Treason, monstrous, monstrous
villanies.
_Prot._ I confess my self a Traitor, shew your selves good
subjects, and hang me up for't.
_1._ If it be treason, the discovery will get our pardon, Captain.
_Devit._ Would we were all lost, hang'd, quarter'd, to save this
one, one innocent Prince; _Thierry_'s poison'd, by his mother
poison'd, the Mistriss to this stallion, who by that poison ne'er
shall sleep again.
_2._ 'Foot let us mince him by piece-meal[e], till he eat himself
up.
_3._ Let us dig out his heart with needles, and half broil him like
a Mussel.
_Prot._ Such another and I prevent you, my bloud's setled already.
_Devit._ Here's that shall remove it, toad, viper, drag him unto
_Martel_, unnatural par[r]icide, cruel, bloudy woman.
_Omnes._ On you dogfish, leech, caterpillar.
_Devit._ A longer sight of him will make my rage turn pity, and
with his suddain end, prevent revenge and torture, wicked, wicked
_Brunhalt_. [_Exit._
_Enter_ Bawdber _and three Courtiers_.
_1._ Not sleep at all, no means.
_2._ No Art can do it.
_Bawdb._ I will assure you, he can sleep no more
Than a hooded Hawk[e], a centinel to him,
Or one of the City Constables are tops.
_3._ How came he so?
_Bawdb._ They are too wise that dare know,
Something's amiss, heaven help all.
_1._ What cure has he?
_Bawdb._ Armies of those we call Physitians, some with glisters,
Some with Lettice-caps, some posset-drinks, some Pills,
Twenty consulting here about a drench,
[As many here to blood him;
Then comes a Don of _Spaine_, and he prescribes
More cooling opium then would kill a turke,
Or quench a whore ith dogdayes; after him
A wise Italian, and he cries, tie unto him
A woman of fourescore, whose bones are marble,
Whose bloud snow water, not so much heate about her
As may conceive a prayer: after him
An English Doctor, with a bunch of pot hearbes;
And he cries out Endiffe and suckery,
With a few mallow rootes and butter milke,
And talkes of oyle made of a churchmans charity,
Yet still he wakes.
_1._ But your good honor
Has a praye[r] in store if all should faile.
_Bawdb._ I could have prayed, and handsomely,
But age and an ill memory.
_3._ Has spoyl'd your primmer.
_Bawdb._ Yet if there be a man of faith i'the Court,
And can pray for a pension.
_Enter Thierry, on a bed, with Doctors and attendants._
_2._ Here's the King Sir,
And those that will pray without pay.
_Bawdb._ Then pray for me too.
_1 Doct._ How does your grace now feele your selfe?
_Thier._ What's that?
_1 Doct._ Nothing at all Sir, but your fancy.
_Thier._ Tell me,
Can ever these eyes more shut up in slumbers,
Assure my soule there is sleepe? is there night
And rest for humane labors? do not you
And all the world as I do, out stare time,
And live like funerall lampes never extinguisht?
Is there a grave, and do not flatter me,
Nor feare to tell me truth; and in that grave
Is there a hope I shall sleepe, can I die,
Are not my miseries immortall? o
The happinesse of him that drinkes his water
After his weary day, and sleepes for ever,
Why do you crucifie me thus with faces,
And gaping strangely upon one another,
When shall I rest?
_2 Doct._ O Sir, be patient.
_Thier._ Am I not patient? have I not endur'd
More then a maingy dog among your dosses?
Am I not now your patient? yee can make
Unholesome fooles sleepe for a garded foote-cloth;
Whores for a hot sin offering; yet I must crave
That feede ye, and protect ye, and proclame ye,
Because my powre is far above your searching,
Are my diseases so? can ye cure none
But those of equall ignorance, dare ye kill me?
_1 Doct._ We do beseech your grace be more reclam'd,
This talke doth but distemper you.
_Thier._ Well, I will die
In spight of all your potions; one of you sleepe,
Lie downe and sleepe here, that I may behold
What blessed rest it is my eyes are robde of:
See, he can sleepe, sleepe any where, sleepe now,
When he that wakes for him can never slumber,
I'st not a dainty ease?
_2 Doct._ Your grace shall feele it.
_Thier._ O never I, never, the eyes of heaven
See but their certaine motions, and then sleepe,
The rages of the _Ocean_ have their slumbers,
And quiet silver calmes; each violence
Crownes in his end a peace, but my fixt fires
Shall never, never set, who's that?
_Enter Martell, Brunhalt, Devitry, souldiers._
_Mart._ No woman,
Mother of mischiefe, no, the day shall die first,
And all good things live in a worse then thou art,
Ere thou shalt sleepe, doest thou see him?
_Brun._ Yes, and curse him,
And all that love him foole, and all live by him.
_Mart._ Why art thou such a monster?
_Brun._ Why art thou
So tame a knave to aske me?
_Mart._ Hope of hell,
By this faire holy light, and all his wrongs
Which are above thy yeares, almost thy vices,
Thou shalt not rest, not feele more what is pitty,
Know nothing necessary, meete no society,
But what shall curse and crucifie thee, feele in thy selfe
Nothing but what thou art, bane, and bad conscience,
Till this man rest; but for whose reverence
Because thou art his mother, I would say
Whore, this shall be, do ye nod? ile waken ye
With my swords point.
_Brun._ I wish no more of heaven,
Nor hope no more, but a sufficient anger
To torture thee.
_Mart._ See, she that makes you see Sir,
And to your misery still see, your mother,
The mother of your woes Sir, of your waking,
The mother of your peoples cries, and curses,
Your murdering mother, your malicious mother:
_Thier._ Phisitians, halfe my state to sleepe an houre now;
Is it so mother?
_Brun._ Yes it is so sonne;
And were it yet againe to do, it should be.
_Mart._ She nods againe, swing her.
_Thier._ But mother,
For yet I love that reverence, and to death
Dare not forget you have bin so; was this,
This endlesse misery, this curelesse malice,
This snatching from me all my youth together,
All that you made me for, and happy mothers
Crownde with eternall time are proud to finish,
Done by your will?
_Brun._ It was, and by that will.
_Thier._ O mother, do not lose your name, forget not
The touch of nature in you, tendernes
'Tis all the soule of woman, all the sweetnesse;
Forget not I beseech you what are children,
Nor how you [have] gron'd for um, to what love
They are borne inheritors, with what care kept,
And as they rise to ripenesse still remember
How they impe out your age; and when time calls you,
That as an Autum flower you fall, forget not
How round about your hearse they hang like penons.
_Brun._ Holy foole,
Whose patience to prevent my wrongs has kill'd thee,
Preach not to me of punishments, or feares,
Or what I ought to be, but what I am,
A woman in her liberall will defe[at]ed,
In all her greatnesse crost, in pleasure blasted,
My angers have bin laught at, my ends slighted,
And all those glories that had crownd my fortunes,
Suffer'd by blasted vertue to be scatter'd,
I am the fruitefull mother of these angers,
And what such have done, reade, and know thy ruine.
_Thier._ Heaven forgive you.
_Mart._ She tells you true, for milions of her mischiefes
Are now apparent, _Protaldye_, we have taken
An equall agent with her, to whose care
After the damnde defeate on you, she trusted.
_Enter Messenger._
The bringing in of _Leonor_ the bastard
Son to your murther'd brother, her Physitian
By this time is attacht to that damn'd devil.
_Mess._ 'Tis like he will be so, for e'er we came
Fearing an equal justice for his mischiefs,
He drencht himself.
_Brun._ He did like one of mine then.
_Thier._ Must I still see these miseries, no night
To hide me from their horrors, that _Protaldy_
See justice fall upon.
_Brun._ Now I could sleep too.
_Enter_ Ordella.
_Mart._ I'll give you yet more Poppy, bring the Lady
And heaven in her embraces; gives him quiet,
Madam, unveil yourself.
_Ordel._ I do forgive you,
And though you sought my bloud, yet I'll pray for you.
_Brun._ Art thou alive?
_Mart._ Now could you sleep?
_Brun._ For ever.
_Mart._ Go carry her without wink of sleep, or quiet,
Where her strong knave _Protaldye_'s broke o'th' wheel,
And let his cries and roars be musick to her,
I mean to waken her.
_Thier._ Do her no wrong.
_Mart._ Nor right, as you love justice.
_Brun._ I will think,
And if there be new curses in old nature,
I have a soul dare send them.
_Mart._ Keep her waking. [_Exit_ Brunhalt.
_Thier._ What's that appears so sweetly? there's that face.
_Mart._ Be moderate, Lady.
_Thier._ That Angels face.
_Mart._ Goe nearer.
_Thier. Martel_, I cannot last long, see the soul,
I see it perfectly of my _Ordella_,
The heavenly figure of her sweetness there,
Forgive me gods, it comes, Divinest substance,
Kneel, kneel, kneel every one, Saint of thy Sex,
If it be for my cruelty thou comest,
Do ye see her hoe?
_Mart._ Yes Sir, and you shall know her.
_Thier._ Down, down again, to be reveng'd for bloud,
Sweet Spirit I am ready, she smiles on me,
O blessed sign of Peace.
_Mart._ Goe nearer Lady.
_Ordel._ I c[o]me to make you happy.
_Thier._ Hear you that, Sir?
She comes to crown my soul: away, get sacrifice
Whilst I with holy Honors.
_Mart._ She's alive, Sir.
_Thier._ In everlasting life, I know it friend,
Oh happy, happy soul.
_Ordel._ Alas, I live Sir,
A mortal woman still.
_Thier._ Can spirits weep too?
_Mart._ She's no spirit Sir, pray kiss her, Lady,
Be very gentle to him.
_Thier._ Stay, she is warm,
And by my life the same lips tell me brightness,
Are you the same _Ordella_ still?
_Mart._ The same, Sir,
Whom heavens and my good Angel staid from ruin.
_Thier._ Kiss me again.
_Ordel._ The same still, still your servant.
_Thier._ 'Tis she, I know her now _Martel_; sit down sweet.
Oh blest and happiest woman, a dead slumber
Begins to creep upon me, oh my jewel!
_Enter Messenger and_ Memberge.
_Ordel._ Oh sleep my Lord.
_Thier._ My joyes are too much for me.
_Mess. Brunhalt_ impatient of her constraint to see
_Protaldye_ tortur'd, has choak'd her self.
_Mart._ No more, her sins go with her.
_Thier._ Love, I must die, I faint, close up my glasses.
_1 Doct._ The Queen faints too, and deadly.
_Thier._ One dying kiss.
_Ordel._ My last Sir, and my dearest, and now
Close my eyes too.
_Thier._ Thou perfect woman.
_Martel_, the Kingdom's yours, take _Memberge_ to you,
And keep my line alive; nay, weep not, Lady,
Take me, I go.
_Ordel._ Take me too, farewel honour. [_Die both._
_2 Doct._ They are gone for ever.
_Mart._ The peace of happy souls go after them,
Bear them to their last beds, whilst I study
A Tomb to speak their loves; whilst old time laste[t]h
I am your King in sorrows.
_Omnes._ We your subjects.
_Mart. Devitry_, for your service, be near us,
Whip out these instruments of this mad mother
From Court, and all good people; and because
She was born Noble, let that Title find her
A private grave, but neither tongue nor honor:
And now lead on, they that shall read this story,
Shall find that Virtue lives in Good, not Glory.
[_Exeunt Omnes._
The Woman-Hater.
PROLOGUE.
_Gentlemen, Inductions are out of date, and a Prologue in Verse,
is as stale as a black Velvet Cloak, and a Bay Garland: therefore
you shall have it plain Prose, thus: If there be any amongst you,
that come to hear lascivious Scenes, let them depart: for I do
pronounce this, to the utter discomfort of all twopenny Gallery
men, you shall have no bawdery in it: or if there be any lurking
amongst you in corners, with Table-books, who have some hope to
find fit matter to feed his ---- ---- malice on, let them claspe
them up, and slink away, or stay and be converted. For he that
made this Play, means to please Auditors so, as he may be an
Auditor himself hereafter, and not purchase them with the dear
[losse] of his [e]ares: I dare not call it_ Comedy _or_ Tragedy;
_'tis perfectly neither: A Play it is, which was meant to make you_
_laugh, how it [will] please you, is not written in my Part: for_
_though you should like it to day, perhaps your selves know not
how you should digest it to morrow: Some things in it you may
meet with, which are out of the common road: a Duke there is,
and the Scæne lies in Italy, as those two things lightly we never
miss. But you shall not find in it the ordinary and over-worn
Trade of jesting at Lords and Courtiers, and Citizens, without
taxation of any particular or new vice by them found out, but at
the persons of them; such, he, that made this, thinks vile, and
for his own part vows; That he did never think, but that a [Lord]
born might be a wise man, and a Courtier an honest man._
_Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._
_Enter Duke of_ Millain, Arrigo, Lucio, _and two Courtiers_.
Tis now the sweetest time for sleep, the night is scarce
spent; _Arrigo_, what's a clock?
_Arri._ Past four.
_Duke._ Is it so much, and yet the morn not up?
See yonder where the shamefac'd Maiden comes
Into our sight, how gently doth she slide,
Hiding her chaste cheeks, like a modest Bride,
With a red veil of blushes; as [is] she,
Even such all modest virtuous Women be.
Why thinks your Lordship I am up so soon?
_Lucio._ About some weighty State plot.
_Duke._ And what thinks your knighthood of it?
_Arr._ I do think to cure some strange corruptions in the
Common-wealth.
_Duke._ Y'are well conceited of your selves to think
I chuse you out to bear me company
In such affairs and business of state:
For am not I a pattern for all Princes,
That break my soft sleep for my subjects good?
Am I not careful? very provident?
_Luc._ Your Grace is careful.
_Arri._ Very provident.
_Duke._ Nay, knew you how my serious working plots,
Concern the whole Estates of all my subjects,
I, and their lives; then _Lucio_ thou wouldst swear,
I were a loving Prince.
_Luc._ I think your Grace intends to walk the publick
streets disguis'd, to see the streets disorders.
_Duke._ It is not so.
_Arri._ You secretly will cross some other states, that do
conspire against you.
_Duke._ Weightier far:
You are my friends, and you shall have the cause;
I break my sleeps thus soon to see a wench.
_Luc._ Y'are wond'rous careful for your subjects good.
_Arri._ You are a very loving Prince indeed.
_Duke._ This care I take for them, when their dull eyes,
Are clos'd with heavy slumbers.
_Arri._ Then you rise to see your wenches?
_Luc._ What _Milan_ beauty hath the power, to charme her
Sovereign eyes, and break his sleeps?
_Duke._ Sister to Count _Valore_, she's a Maid
Would make a Prince forget his throne, and sta[t]e,
And lowly kneel to her: the general fate
Of all mortality, is hers to give;
As she disposeth, so we die and live.
_Luc._ My Lord, the day grows clear, the Court will rise.
_Duk._ We stay too long, is the _Umbranoes_ head as we commanded,
sent to the sad _Gondarino_, our General?
_Arr._ 'Tis sent.
_Duke._ But stay, where shines that light?
_Arri._ 'Tis in the chamber of _Lazarello_.
_Duke. Lazarillo?_ what is he?
_Arri._ A Courtier my Lord, and one that I wonder your Grace knows
not: for he hath followed your Court, and your last predecessors,
from place to place, any time this seven year[e], as faithfully as
your Spits and your Dripping-pans have done, and almost as greasily.
_Duke._ Oh we know him, as we have heard, he keeps a Kalender of
all the [famous] dishes of meat, that have been in the Court, ever
since our great Grandfathers time; and when he can thrust in at no
Table, he makes his meat of that.
_Lucio._ The very same my Lord.
_Duk[e]._ A Courtier call'st thou him?
Believe me _Lucio_, there be many such
About our Court, respected, as they think,
Even by our self; with thee I will be plain:
We Princes do use, to preferre many for nothing, and to take
particular and free knowledg[e], almost in the nature of
acquaintance of many; whom we do use only for our pleasures, and
[d]o give largely to numbers; more out of policy to be thought
liberal, and by that means to make the people strive to deserve
our Love; than to reward any particular desert of theirs, to whom
we give: and do suffer our selves to hear flatterers, more for
recreation
Than for love of it, though we seldom hate it:
And yet we know all these, and when we please,
Can touch the wheel, and turn their names about.
_Luc._ I wonder they that know their states so well, should fancy
such base slaves.
_Duke._ Thou wond'rest _Lucio_,
Dost not thou think, if thou wert Duke of _Milan_,
Thou should'st be flattered?
_Luc._ I know my Lord, I would not.
_Duke._ Why so, I thought till I was Duke, I thought I should have
left me no more flatterers, than there are now Plain-dealers; and
yet for all this my resolution, I am most palpably flattered: the
poor man may loath covetousness and flattery, but fortune will
alter the mind when the wind turns: there may be well a little
conflict, but it will drive the billows before it.
_Arrigo_ it grows late, for see, fair _Thetis_ hath undone the barrs
To _Phebus_ team; and his unrival'd light,
Hath cha[s]'d the mornings modest blush away:
Now must we to our love, bright _Paphian_ Queen;
Thou _Cytherean_ goddess, that delights
In stirring glances, and art still thy self,
More toying than thy team of Sparrows be;
Thou laughing _Errecina_, oh inspire
Her heart with love, or lessen my desire. [_Exeunt._
_Scæna Secunda._
_Enter_ Lazarillo _and his boy_.
_Laz._ Go run, search, pry in every nook and angle of the Kitchins,
Larders, and Pasteries, know what meat's boil'd, bak'd, rost,
stew'd, fri'd, or sous'd, at this dinner to be serv'd directly, or
indirectly, to every several Table in the Court, be gone.
_Boy._ I run, but not so fast as your mouth will do upon the stroke
of Eleven. [_Exit Boy._
_Laz._ What an excellent thing did God bestow upon man, when he
[did give] him a good stomach! what unbounded graces there are
pour'd upon them that have the continual command of the very best
of these blessings! 'tis an excellent thing to be a Prince; he is
serv'd with such admirable variety of Fare; such innumerable choice
of Delicates; his Tables are full fraught with most nourishing
food, and his Cubbards heavy laden with rich Wines; his Court
is still filled with most [pleasing varieties]: In the Summer,
his Palace is full of Green Geese; and in Winter it [swarmeth]
Woodcocks,
Oh thou goddess of Plenty
Fill me this day with some rare delicates
And I will every year most constantly,
As this day celebrate a sumptuous Feast,
If thou wilt send me victuals in thine honor;
And to it shall be bidden for thy sake,
Even all the valiant stomachs in the Court:
All short-cloak'd Knights, and all cross-garter'd Gentlemen;
All pump and pantofle, foot-cloth riders;
With all the swarming generation
Of long stocks, short pain'd hose, and huge stuff'd doublets:
All these shall eat, and which is more than yet
Hath e'er been seen, they shall be satisfied.
I wonder my Ambassador returns not!
_Enter Boy._
_Boy._ Here I am Master.
_Laza._ And welcome:
Never did that sweet Virgin in her smock,
Fair-cheek'd _Andromeda_, when to the rock
Her Ivorie limbs were chain'd, and straight before
A huge Sea-monster, tumbling to the shore,
To have devour'd her, with more longing sight
Expect the coming of some hardy Knight,
That might have quell'd his pride, and set her free,
Than I with longing sight have look'd for thee.
_Boy._ Your _Perseus_ is come Master, that will destroy him,
The very comfort of whose presence shuts
The monster hunger from your yelping guts.
_Laza._ Brief boy, brief, discourse the service of each several
Table compendiously.
_Boy._ Here's a Bill of all Sir.
_Laza._ Give it me, a Bill of all the several services this day
appointed for every Table in the Court,
I, this is it on which my hopes relye,
Within this paper all my joyes are clos'd:
Boy, open it, and read it with reverence.
_Boy._ For the Captain of the Guards Table, three chines of Beef,
and two jo[l]ls of Sturgeon.
_Laza._ A portly service, but gross, gross, proceed to the Dukes
own Table, dear boy, to the Dukes own Table.
_Boy._ For the Dukes own Table, the head of an _Umbrana_.
_Laza._ Is't possible? can Heaven be so propitious to the Duke?
_Boy._ Yes, I'll assure you Sir, 'tis possible, Heaven is so
propitious to him.
_Laza._ Why then he is the richest Prince alive:
He were the wealthiest Monarch in all _Europe_,
Had he no other Territories, Dominions, Provinces, Seats,
No[r] Palaces, but only that _Umbrana_'s head.
_Boy._ 'Tis very fresh and sweet, Sir, the fish was taken but
this night, and the head, as a rare novelty, appointed by special
commandement for the Dukes own Table, this dinner.
_Laza._ If poor unworthy I may come to eat
Of this most sacred dish, I here do vow
(If that blind Huswife, Fortune will bestow
But means on me) to keep a sumptuous house,