CAR. See, how they steal away my fair Maria!

But I will follow after her, as far

As Orpheus did to gain his soul's delight;

And Pluto's self shall know, although I am not

Skilful in music, yet I can be mad,

And force my love's enjoyment, in despite

Of hell's black fury. But stay, stay, Carracus.

Where is thy knowledge and that rational sense,

Which heaven's great architect endued thee with?

All sunk beneath the weight of lumpish nature?

Are our diviner parts no noblier free,

Than to be tortur'd by the weak assailments

Of earthsprung griefs? Why is man, then, accounted

The head commander of this universe,

Next the Creator, when a little storm

Of nature's fury straight o'erwhelms his judgment?

But mine's no little storm, it is a tempest

So full of raging, self-consuming woe,

That nought but ruin follows expectation.

O my Maria, what unheard-of sin

Have any of thine ancestors enacted,

That all their shame should be pour'd thus on thee?

Or what incestuous spirit, cruel Albert,

Left hell's vast womb for to enter thee,

And do a mischief of such treachery?

_Enter_ NURSE, _weeping_.

O nurse, how is it with Maria?

If e'er thy tongue did utter pleasing words,

Let it now do so, or hereafter e'er

Be dumb in sorrow.

NURSE. Good sir, take comfort; I am forced to speak

What will not please: your chaste wife, sir, is dead.

CAR. 'Tis dead, indeed! how did you know 'twas so, nurse?

NURSE. What, sir?

CAR. That my heart was dead: sure, thou hast serv'd

Dame Nature's self, and know'st the inward secrets

Of all our hidden powers: I'll love thee for't;

And, if thou wilt teach me that unknown skill,

Shalt see what wonders Carracus will do:

I'll dive into the breast of hateful Albert,

And see how his black soul is round encompass'd

By fearful fiends. O, I would do strange things!

I'd know to whose cause lawyers will incline

When they have[383] fees on both sides; view the thoughts

Of forlorn widows, when their knights have left them;

Search through the guts of greatness, and behold

What several sin best pleased them: thence I'd descend

Into the bowels of some pocky sir,

And tell to lechers all the pains he felt,

That they thereby might warned be from lust.

Troth, 'twill be rare! I'll study it presently.

NURSE. Alas! he is distracted! what a sin

Am I partaker of, by telling him

So curs'd an untruth? But 'twas my mistress' will.

Who is recovered; though her griefs never

Can be recover'd. She hath vow'd with tears

Her own perpetual banishment; therefore to him

Death were not more displeasing than if I

Had told her lasting absence.

CAR. I find my brain's too shallow far for study.

What need I care for being a 'rithmetician?

Let citizens' sons stand, an' they will, for cyphers:

Why should I teach them, and go beat my brains

To instruct unapt and unconceiving dolts;

And, when all's done, my art, that should be fam'd,

Will by gross imitation be but sham'd?

Your judgment, madam?

NURSE. Good sir, walk in; we'll send for learned men,

That can allay your frenzy.

CAR. But can Maria so forget herself,

As to debar us thus of her attendance?

NURSE. She's within, sir, pray you, will you walk to her?

CAR. O, is she so! Come, then, let's softly steal

Into her chamber; if she be asleep,

I'll laugh, shalt see, enough, and thou shalt weep.

Softly, good long-coat, softly. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA _in page's apparel_.

MAR. Cease now thy steps, Maria, and look back

Upon that place where distress'd Carracus

Hath his sad being; from whose virtuous bosom

Shame hath constrained me fly, ne'er to return.

I will go seek some unfrequented path

Either in desert woods or wilderness,

There to bewail my innocent mishaps,

Which heaven hath justly poured down on me,

In punishing my disobediency.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

O, see my brother! [_Exit_ MARIA.

Y. LORD W. Ho, you three-foot-and-a-half! Why, page, I say! 'Sfoot, he

is vanished as suddenly as a dumb show.[384] If a lord had lost his way

now, so he had been served. But let me see: as I take it, this is the

house of Carracus. A very fair building, but it looks as if 'twere dead;

I can see no breath come out of the chimneys. But I shall know the

state on't by and by, by the looks of some servingman. What ho, within

here! [_Beats at the door._

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. Good sir, you have your arms at liberty.

Wilt please you to withdraw your action of battery?

Y. LORD W. Yes, indeed, now you have made your appearance. Is thy

living-giver within, sir?

SER. You mean my master, sir?

Y. LORD W. You have hit it, sir, praised be your understanding. I am to

have conference with him; would you admit my presence?

SER. Indeed, sir, he is at this time not in health, and may not be

disturbed.

Y. LORD W. Sir, if he were in the pangs of childbed, I'd speak with him.

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. Upon what cause, gay man?

Y. LORD W. 'Sfoot, I think he be disturbed indeed; he speaks more

commanding than a constable at midnight. Sir, my lord and father, by me

(a lord) hath sent these lines enclosed, which show his whole intent.

CAR. Let me peruse them; if they do portend

To the state's good, your answer shall be sudden,

Your entertainment friendly; but if otherwise,

Our meanest subject shall divide thy greatness.

You'd best look to't, ambassador.

Y. LORD W. Is your master a statesman, friend?

SER. Alas! no, sir; he understands not what he speaks.

Y. LORD W. Ay, but when my father dies, I am to be called in for one

myself, and I hope to bear the place as gravely as my successors have

done before me.

CAR. Ambassador, I find your master's will

Treats to the good of somewhat, what it is--

You have your answer, and may now depart.

Y. LORD W. I will relate as much, sir; fare ye well.

CAR. But stay, I had forgotten quite our chief'st affairs:

Your master father writes, some three lines lower,

Of one Maria, that is wife to me:

That she and I should travel now with you

Unto his presence.

Y. LORD W. Why, now I understand you, sir: that Maria is my sister, by

whose conjunction you are created brother to me a lord.

CAR. But, brother lord, we cannot go this journey.

Y. LORD W. Alas! no, sir? We mean to do it.

My sister shall ride upon my nag.

CAR. Come, then, we'll in and strive to woo your sister.

I have not seen her, sir, at least these three days.

They keep her in a chamber, and tell me

She's fast asleep still: you and I'll go see.

Y. LORD W. Content, sir.

SER. Madmen and fools agree. [_Aside Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT _and_ REBECCA.

REB. When you have got this prize, you mean to lose me.

HAD. Nay, prythee, do not think so. If I do not marry thee this instant

night, may I never enjoy breath a minute after! By heaven, I respect not

his pelf thus much, but only that I may have wherewith to maintain thee.

REB. O, but to rob my father, though he be bad, the world will think ill

of me.

HAD. Think ill of thee! Can the world pity him that ne'er pitied any?

besides, since there is no end of his goods nor beginning of his

goodness, had not we as good share his dross in his lifetime, as let

controversy and lawyers devour it at his death?

REB. You have prevailed. At what hour is't you intend to have entrance

into his chamber?

HAD. Why, just at midnight; for then our apparition will seem most

fearful. You'll make a way that we may ascend up like spirits?

REB. I will; but how many have you made instruments herein?

HAD. Faith, none but my cousin Lightfoot and a player.

REB. But may you trust the player?

HAD. O, exceeding well. We'll give him a speech he understands not. But,

now I think on't, what's to be done with your father's man Peter?

REB. Why, the least quantity of drink will lay him dead asleep. But

hark, I hear my father coming. Soon in the evening I'll convey you in.

HAD. Till when, let this outward ceremony be a true pledge of our inward

affections. [_Kisses her. Exit_ REBECCA.] Lo, this goes better forward

than the plantation in Virginia: but see, here comes half the West

Indies, whose rich mines this night I mean to be ransacking.

_Enter_ HOG, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PETER.

HOG. Then you'll seal for this small lordship, you say? To-morrow your

money shall be rightly told up for you to a penny.

LIGHT. I pray, let it, and that your man may set contents upon every

bag.

HAD. Indeed, by that we may know what we steal, without labour for the

telling on't over. [_Aside._] How now, gentlemen, are ye agreed upon

the price of this earth and clay?

HOG. Yes, faith, Master Haddit, the gentleman your friend here makes me

pay sweetly for't; but let it go, I hope to inherit heaven, if it be but

for doing gentlemen pleasure.

HOG. Peter!

P. SER. Anon, sir.

HOG. I wonder how Haddit came by that gay suit of clothes; all his means

were consumed long since.

P. SER. Why, sir, being undone himself, he lives by the undoing, or (by

Lady!) it may be by the doing, of others--or peradventure both. A

decayed gallant may live by anything, if he keep one thing safe.

HOG. Gentlemen, I'll to the scrivener's, to cause these writings to be

drawn.

LIGHT. Pray do, sir; we'll now leave you till the morning.

HOG. Nay, you shall stay dinner; I'll return presently. Peter, some beer

here for these worshipful gentlemen.

[_Exeunt_ HOG _and_ PETER.

HAD. We shall be bold, no doubt; and that, old penny-father, you'll

confess by to-morrow morning.

LIGHT. Then his daughter is certainly thine, and condescends to all thy

wishes?

HAD. And yet you would not once believe it; as if a female's favour

could not be obtained by any but he that wears the cap of maintenance;

When 'tis nothing but acquaintance and a bold spirit,

That may the chiefest prize 'mongst all of them inherit.

LIGHT. Well, thou hast got one deserves the bringing home with trumpets,

and falls to thee as miraculously as the £1000 did to the tailor. Thank

your good fortune. But must Hog's man be made drunk?

HAD. By all means; and thus it shall be effected: when he comes in with

beer, do you upon some slight occasion fall out with him, and if you

give him a cuff or two, it will give him cause to know you are the more

angry, then will I slip in and take up the matter, and, striving to make

you two friends, we'll make him drunk.

LIGHT. It's done in conceit already. See where he comes.

_Enter_ PETER.

P. SER. Wilt please you to taste a cup of September beer, gentlemen?

LIGHT. Pray, begin: we'll pledge you, sir.

P. SER. It's out, sir.

LIGHT. Then my hand is in, sir. [LIGHTFOOT _cuffs him_.] Why goodman

Hobby-horse, if we out of our gentility offered you to begin, must you

out of your rascality needs take it?

HAD. Why, how now, sirs, what's the matter?

P. SER. The gentleman here falls out with me upon nothing in the world

but mere courtesy.

HAD. By this light, but he shall not; why, cousin Lightfoot!

P. SER. Is his name Lightfoot? a plague on him, he has a heavy hand.

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY.

Y. LORD W. Peace be here; for I came late enough from a madman.

HAD. My young lord, God save you.

Y. LORD W. And you also: I could speak it in Latin, but the phrase is

common.[385]

HAD. True, my lord, and what's common ought not much to be dealt withal;

but I must desire your help, my lord, to end a controversy here between

this gentleman my friend and honest Peter who, [_Aside_] I dare be

sworn, is as ignorant as your lordship.

Y. LORD W. That I will; but, my masters, this much I'll say unto you--if

so be this quarrel may be taken up peaceably without the endangering of

my own person, well and good: otherwise I will not meddle therewith, for

I have been vexed late enough already.

HAD. Why then, my lord, if it please you, let me, being your inferior,

decree the cause between them.

Y. LORD W. I do give leave or permit.

HAD. Then thus I will propound a reasonable motion; how many cuffs,

Peter, did this gentleman out of his fury make thee partaker of.

P. SER. Three, at the least, sir.

HAD. All which were bestowed upon you for beginning first, Peter.

P. SER. Yes, indeed, sir.

HAD. Why then, hear the sentence of your suffering. You shall both down

into Master Hog's cellar, Peter; and whereas you began first to him, so

shall he there to you; and as he gave you three cuffs, so shall you

retort off, in defiance of him, three black-jacks, which if he deny to

pledge, then the glory is thine, and he accounted by the wise discretion

of my lord here a flincher.

OMNES. A reasonable motion.

Y. LORD W. Why so; this is better than being among madmen yet.

HAD. Were you so lately with any, my lord?

Y. LORD W. Yes, faith; I'll tell you all in the cellar, how I was taken

for an ambassador; and being no sooner in the house, but the madman

carries me up into the garret for a spy, and very roundly bad me

untruss; and, had not a courteous servingman conveyed me away whilst he

went to fetch whips, I think in my conscience, not respecting my honour,

he would have breech'd me.[386]

HAD. By Lady, and 'twas to be fear'd; but come, my lord, we'll hear the

rest in the cellar.

And honest Peter, thou that hast been griev'd,

My lord and I will see thee well-reliev'd. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[383] Old copy, _had_.

[384] _i.e._, One of those _inexplicable dumb shows_ ridiculed by

"Hamlet." See edition of Shakespeare 1778, x.p. 284.--_Steevens._

[385] Alluding to the use of it in Cooke's "City Gallant," commonly

called "Green's Tu quoque," printed in the present volume.

[386] _i.e._, Whipped me.

ACTUS QUARTUS.

_Enter_ ALBERT _in the woods_.

How full of sweet content had this life been,

If it had been embraced but before

My burthenous conscience was so fraught with sin!

But now my griefs o'ersway that happiness.

O, that some lecher or accurs'd betrayer

Of sacred friendship might but here arrive,

And read the lines repentant on each tree

That I have carv'd t' express my misery!

My admonitions now would sure convert

The sinful'st creature; I could tell them now,

How idly vain those humans spend their lives

That daily grieve, not for offences pass'd,

But to enjoy some wanton's company;

Which when obtain'd, what is it but a blot,

Which their whole life's repentance scarce can clear?

I could now tell to friend-betraying man,

How black a sin is hateful treachery,

How heavy on their wretched souls 'twill sit,

When fearful death will plant his siege but near them,

How heavy and affrighted will their end

Seem to approach them, as if then they knew

The full beginning of their endless woe

Were then appointed; which astonishment,

O blest repentance, keep me Albert from!

And suffer not despair to overwhelm,

And make a shipwreck of my heavy soul.

_Enter_ MARIA, _like a page_.

Who's here? a page? what black disastrous fate

Can be so cruel to his pleasing youth?

MARIA. So now, Maria, here thou must forego

What nature lent thee to repay to death!

Famine, I thank thee, I have found thee kindest;

Thou sett'st a period to my misery. [_Faints._

ALB. It is Maria, that fair innocent,

Whom my abhorred lust hath brought to this;

I'll go for sustenance: and, O ye powers!

If ever true repentance wan acceptance,

O, show it Albert now, and let him save

This[387] wronged beauty from untimely grave. [_Exit_ ALBERT.

MARIA. Sure, something spake, or else my feebled sense

Hath lost the use of its due property;

Which is more likely, than that in this place

The voice of human creature should be heard.

This is far distant from the paths of men:

Nothing breathes here but wild and ravening beasts,

With airy monsters, whose shadowing wings do seem

To cast a veil of death on wicked livers;[388]

Which I live dreadless of, and every hour

Strive to meet death, who still unkind avoids me:

But that now gentle famine doth begin

For to give end to my calamities.

See, here is carv'd upon this tree's smooth bark

Lines knit in verse, a chance far unexpected!

Assist me, breath, a little to unfold

What they include.

_The Writing._

_I that have writ these lines am one, whose sin

Is more than grievous; for know, that I have been

A breaker of my faith with one, whose breast

Was all compos'd of truth: but I digress'd,

And fled th' embrace[389] of his dear friendship's love,

Clasping to falsehood, did a villain prove;

As thus shall be express'd. My worthy friend

Lov'd a fair beauty, who did condescend

In dearest affection to his virtuous will;

He then a night appointed to fulfil

Hymen's bless'd rites, and to convey away

His love's fair person, to which peerless prey

I was acquainted made, and when the hour

Of her escape drew on, then lust did pour

Enraged appetite through all my veins,

And base desires in me let loose the reins

To my licentious will: and that black night,

When my friend should have had his chaste delight,

I feign'd his presence, and (by her thought him),

Robb'd that fair virgin of her honour's gem:

For which most heinous crime upon each tree

I write this story, that men's eyes may see

None but a damn'd one would have done like me._

Is Albert then become so penitent,

As in these deserts to deplore his facts,

Which his unfeign'd repentance seems to clear?

How good man is when he laments his ill!

Who would not pardon now that man's misdeeds,

Whose griefs bewail them thus? could I now live,

I would remit thy fault with Carracus:

But death no longer will afford reprieve

Of my abundant woes: wrong'd Carracus, farewell;

Live, and forgive thy wrongs, for the repentance

Of him that caused them so deserves from thee;

And since my eyes do witness Albert's grief,

I pardon Albert, in my wrongs the chief.

_Enter_ ALBERT, _like a hermit_.

ALB. How! pardon me? O sound angelical!

But see, she faints. O heavens! now show your power,

That these distilled waters, made in grief,

May add some comfort to affliction:

Look up, fair youth, and see a remedy.

MAR. O, who disturbs me? I was hand in hand,

Walking with death unto the house of rest.

ALB. Let death walk by himself; if he want company,

There's many thousands, boy, whose aged years

Have ta'en a surfeit of earth's vanities;

They will go with him when he please to call.

Do drink, my boy; thy pleasing, tender youth

Cannot deserve to die; no, it is for us,

Whose years are laden by our often sins,

Singing the last part of our bless'd repentance,

Are fit for death; and none but such as we

Death ought to claim; for when a' snatcheth youth,

It shows him but a tyrant; but when age,

Then is he just, and not compos'd of rage.

How fares my lad?

MAR. Like one embracing death with all his parts,

Reaching at life but with one little finger;

His mind so firmly knit unto the first,

That unto him the latter seems to be,

What may be pointed at, but not possess'd.

ALB. O, but thou shalt possess it.

If thou didst fear thy death but as I do,

Thou wouldst take pity: though not of thyself,

Yet of my aged years. Trust me, my boy,

Thou'st struck such deep compassion in my breast,

That all the moisture which prolongs my life

Will from my eyes gush forth, if now thou leav'st me.

MAR. But can we live here in this desert wood?

If not, I'll die, for other places seem

Like tortures to my griefs. May I live here?

ALB. Ay, thou shalt live with me, and I will tell thee

Such strange occurrents of my fore-pass'd life,

That all thy young-sprung griefs shall seem but sparks

To the great fire of my calamities.

MAR. Then I'll live only with you for to hear,

If any human woes can be like mine.

Yet, since my being in this darksome desert,

I have read on trees most lamentable stories.[390]

ALB. 'Tis true indeed, there's one within these woods

Whose name is Albert; a man so full of sorrow,

That on each tree he passes by he carves

Such doleful lines for his rash follies pass'd,

That whoso reads them, and not drown'd in tears,

Must have a heart fram'd forth of adamant.

MAR. And can you help me to the sight of him?

ALB. Ay, when thou wilt; he'll often come to me,

And at my cave sit a whole winter's night,

Recounting of his stories. I tell thee, boy,

Had he offended more than did that man,

Who stole the fire from heaven, his contrition

Would appease all the gods, and quite revert

Their wrath to mercy. But come, my pretty boy,

We'll to my cave, and after some repose

Relate the sequel of each other's woes. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CARRACUS.

CAR. What a way have I come, yet I know not

Whither: the air's so cold this winter season,

I'm sure a fool--would any but an ass

Leave a warm-matted chamber and a bed,

To run thus in the cold? and (which is more)

To seek a woman--a slight thing call'd woman?

Creatures, which curious nature fram'd, as I suppose,

For rent-receivers to her treasury.

And why I think so now, I'll give you instance;

Most men do know that nature's self hath made them

Most profitable members; then if so,

By often trading in the commonwealth

They needs must be enrich'd; why, very good!

To whom ought beauty then repay this gain,

Which she by nature's gift hath profited,

But unto nature? why, all this I grant.

Why then they shall no more be called women,

For I will style them thus, scorning their leave,

Those that for nature do much rent receive.

This is a wood, sure; and, as I have read,

In woods are echoes which will answer men

To every question which they do propound. Echo.[391]

ECHO. _Echo._

CAR. O, are you there? have at ye then, i' faith.

Echo, canst tell me whether men or women

Are for the most part damn'd?

ECHO. _Most part damn'd._

CAR. O,[392] both indeed; how true this echo speaks!

Echo, now tell me, if amongst a thousand women

There be one chaste or none?

ECHO. _None._

CAR. Why, so I think; better and better still.

Now farther: Echo, in the world of men,

Is there one faithful to his friend, or no?

ECHO. _No._

CAR. Thou speak'st most true, for I have found it so.

Who said thou wast a woman, Echo, lies;

Thou couldst not then answer so much of truth.

Once more, good Echo;

Was my Maria false by her own desire,

Or was't against her will?

ECHO. _Against her will._

CAR. Troth, it may be so; but canst thou tell,

Whether she be dead or not?

ECHO. _Not._

CAR. Not dead!

ECHO. _Not dead._

CAR. Then without question she doth surely live.

But I do trouble thee too much; therefore,

Good speak-truth, farewell.

ECHO. _Farewell._

CAR. How quick it answers! O, that councillors

Would thus resolve men's doubts without a fee!

How many country clients then might rest

Free from undoing! no plodding pleader then

Would purchase great possessions with his tongue.

Were I some demigod, or had that power,

I would straight make this echo here a judge:

He'd spend his judgment in the open court,

As now to me, without being once solicited

In his private chamber; 'tis not bribes could win

Him to o'ersway men's right, nor could he be

Led to damnation for a little pelf;

He would not harbour malice in his heart,

Or envious hatred, base despite, or grudge,

But be an upright, just, and equal judge.

But now imagine that I should confront

Treacherous Albert, who hath rais'd my front!

But I fear this idle prate hath made me

Quite forget my _cinque pace_.[393] [_He danceth._

_Enter_ ALBERT.

ALB. I heard the echo answer unto one,

That by his speech cannot be far remote

From off this ground; and see, I have descri'd him:

O heavens! it's Carracus, whose reason's seat

Is now usurp'd by madness and distraction;

Which I, the author of confusion,

Have planted here by my accursed deeds.

CAR. O, are you come, sir! I was sending

The tavern-boy for you; I have been practising

Here, and can do none of my lofty tricks.

ALB. Good sir, if any spark do yet remain

Of your consumed reason, let me strive----

CAR. To blow it out? troth, I most kindly thank you,

Here's friendship to the life. But, Father Wheybeard,

Why should you think me void of reason's fire,

My youthful days being in the height of knowledge?

I must confess your old years gain experience;

But that so much o'errul'd by dotage,

That what you think experience shall effect,

Short memory destroys. What say you now, sir?

Am I mad now, that can answer thus

To all interrogatories?

ALB. But though your words do savour, sir, of judgment,

Yet when they derogate from the due observance

Of fitting times, they ought to be respected

No more than if a man should tell a tale

Of feigned mirth in midst of extreme sorrows.

CAR. How did you know

My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife,

Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy

To be so freed of a continual trouble?

Had many a man such fortune as I,

In what a heaven would they think themselves,

Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds,

Which in the angry skies call'd women's brows

Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms?

But yet I needs must tell you, old December,

My wife was clear of this; within her brow

She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown:

But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory,

It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on:

She was so kind, of nature so gentle,

That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't:

Was not she then a rare one?

What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor?

Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate

To yield to us, which we will ruinate.

ALB. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see

The shadowing elms, within whose circling round

There is a holy spring about encompass'd

By dandling sycamores and violets,

Whose waters cure all human maladies.

Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples,

Revives your fading memory, and restores

Your senses lost unto their perfect being.

CAR. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh?

For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish

Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't?

ALB. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go?

CAR. Faster than you, I believe, sir. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA.

MAR. I am walk'd forth from my preserver's cave,

To search about these woods, only to see

The penitent Albert, whose repentant mind

Each tree expresseth. O, that some power divine

Would hither send my virtuous Carracus!

Not for my own content, but that he might

See how his distress'd friend repents the wrong,

Which his rash folly, most unfortunate,

Acted 'gainst him and me; which I forgive

A hundred times a day, for that more often

My eyes are witness to his sad complaints.

How the good hermit seems to share his moans,

Which in the daytime he deplores 'mongst trees,

And in the night his cave is fill'd with sighs;

No other bed doth his weak limbs support

Than the cold earth; no other harmony

To rock his cares asleep but blustering winds,

Or some swift current, headlong rushing down

From a high mountain's top, pouring his force

Into the ocean's gulf, where being swallow'd,

Seems to bewail his fall with hideous words:

No other sustentation to suffice,

What nature claims, but raw, unsavoury roots

With troubled waters, where untamed beasts

Do bathe themselves.

_Enter Satyrs, dance, et exeunt._

Ah me! what things are these?

What pretty harmless things they seem to be!

As if delight had nowhere made abode,

But in their nimble sport.

_Enter_ ALBERT [_and_ CARRACUS.]

Yonder's the courteous hermit, and with him

Albert, it seems. O, see, 'tis Carracus!

Joy, do not now confound me!

CAR. Thanks unto heavens and thee, thou holy man,

I have attain'd what doth adorn man's being,

That precious gem of reason, by which solely

We are discern'd from rude and brutish beasts,

No other difference being 'twixt us and them.

How to repay this more than earthly kindness

Lies not within my power, but in his,

That hath indu'd thee with celestial gifts,

To whom I'll pray, he may bestow on thee

What thou deserv'st, bless'd immortality.

ALB. Which unto you befall, thereof most worthy.

But, virtuous sir, what I will now request

From your true generous nature is, that you would

Be pleas'd to pardon that repentant wight,

Whose sinful story upon yon tree's bark

Yourself did read, for that you say, to you

Those wrongs were done.

CAR. Indeed they were, and to a dear wife lost;

Yet I forgive him, as I wish the heavens

May pardon me.

MAR. So doth Maria too. [_She discovers herself._

CAR. Lives my Maria, then? what gracious planet

Gave thee safe conduct to these desert woods?

MAR. My late mishap (repented now by all,

And therefore pardon'd) compell'd me to fly,

Where I had perished for want of food,

Had not this courteous man awak'd my sense,

In which death's self had partly interest.

CAR. Alas, Maria! I am so far indebted

To him already for the late recovery of

My own weakness, that 'tis impossible

For us to attribute sufficient thanks

For such abundant good.

ALB. I rather ought to thank the heaven's Creator

That he vouchsaf'd me such especial grace,

In doing so small a good; which could I hourly

Bestow on all, yet could I not assuage

The swelling rancour of my fore-pass'd crimes.

CAR. O sir, despair not; for your course of life

(Were your sins far more odious than they be)

Doth move compassion and pure clemency

In the all-ruling judge, whose powerful mercy

O'ersways his justice, and extends itself

To all repentant minds. He's happier far

That sins, and can repent him of his sin,

Than the self-justifier, who doth surmise

By his own works to gain salvation;

Seeming to reach at heaven, he clasps damnation.

You then are happy, and our penitent friend,

To whose wish'd presence please you now to bring us,

That in our gladsome arms we may enfold

His much-esteemed person, and forgive

The injuries of his rash follies pass'd.

ALB. Then see false Albert prostrate at your feet,

[_He discovers himself._

Desiring justice for his heinous ill.

CAR. Is it you? Albert's self that hath preserv'd us?

O bless'd bewailer of thy misery!

MARIA. And wofull'st liver in calamity!

CAR. From which, right worthy friend, 'tis now high time

You be releas'd; come then, you shall with us.

Our first and chiefest welcome, my Maria,

We shall receive at your good father's house;

Who, as I do remember, in my frenzy

Sent a kind letter, which desir'd our presence.

ALB. So please you, virtuous pair, Albert will stay,

And spend the remnant of this wearisome life

In these dark woods.

CAR. Then you neglect the comforts heav'n doth send

To your abode on earth. If you stay here,

Your life may end in torture by the cruelty

Of some wild ravenous beasts; but if 'mongst men,

When you depart, the faithful prayers of many

Will much avail to crown your soul with bliss.

ALB. Lov'd Carracus, I have found in thy converse

Comfort so bless'd, that nothing now but death

Shall cause a separation in our being.

MARIA. Which heaven confirm!

CAR. Thus by the breach of faith our friendship's knit

In stronger bonds of love.

ALB. Heaven so continue it! [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[387] The 4º reads _His_.

[388] The 4º has it literally thus--

"To _taste_ a _vale_ of death _in_ wicked livers,"

which Mr Reed altered to _cast a veil_, &c; but ought we not rather to

read--

"To _cast_ a _veil_ of death _on_ wicked livers."

--_Collier._

[389] [Old copy, _them brats_.]

[390] These four lines, which decidedly belong to Maria, in the old

copy are assigned to Albert, and form a part of what he says

before.--_Collier._

[391: The idea of these answers from an echo seems to have been taken

from Lord Stirling's "Aurora," 4º, 1604, sig. K 4. One of the

triumvirate, Pope, Gay, or Arbuthnot, but which of them is not known,

in a piece printed in Swift's "Miscellanies," may have been indebted

for the same thought to either Lord Stirling or the present writer.

Since this note was written, I find nothing was more common than these

answers of echoes in the works of contemporary and earlier writers.

Many instances might be produced. Amongst others, those who can be

pleased with such kind of performances may be referred to Sir P.

Sidney's "Arcadia," or Lodge's "Wounds of Civil War," 1594, act iii.

The folly of them is admirably ridiculed by the author of

"Hudibras."--_Reed._

[392] [Edit., _Of_.]

[393] A dance.

ACTUS QUINTUS.

_Enter_ HOG _in his chamber, with_ REBECCA _laying down his bed, and,

seeming to put the keys under his bolster, conveyeth them into her

pocket_.

HOG. So, have you laid the keys of the outward doors

Under my bolster?

REB. Yes, forsooth.

HOG. Go your way to bed then. [_Exit_ REBECCA.

I wonder who did at the first invent

These beds, the breeders of disease and sloth:

He was no soldier, sure, nor no scholar,

And yet he might be very well a courtier;

For no good husband would have been so idle,

No usurer neither: yet here the bed affords

[_Discovers his gold._

Store of sweet golden slumbers unto him.

Here sleeps command in war; Cæsar by this

Obtain'd his triumphs; this will fight man's cause,

When fathers, brethren, and the near'st of friends

Leave to assist him; all content to this

Is merely vain; the lovers, whose affections

Do sympathise together in full pleasure,

Debarr'd of this, their summer sudden ends;

And care, the winter to their former joys,

Breathes such a cold blast on their turtles' bills:

Having not this, to shroud them[394] forth his storms,

They straight are forc'd to make a separation,

And so live under those that rule o'er this.

The gallant, whose illustrious outside draws

The eyes of wantons to behold with wonder

His rare-shap'd parts, for so he thinks they be,

Deck'd in the robes of glistering gallantry;

Having not this attendant on his person,

Walks with a cloudy brow, and seems to all

A great contemner of society;

Not for the hate he bears to company,

But for the want of this ability.

O silver! thou that art the basest captive

Kept in this prison, how many pale offenders

For thee have suffer'd ruin? But, O my gold!

Thy sight's more pleasing than the seemly locks

Of yellow-hair'd Apollo; and thy touch

More smooth and dainty than the down-soft white

Of lady's tempting breast: thy bright aspect

Dims the great'st lustre of heaven's waggoner.

But why go I about to extol thy worth,

Knowing that poets cannot compass it?

But now give place, my gold; for here's a power

Of greater glory and supremacy

Obscures thy being; here sits enthronis'd

The sparkling diamond, whose bright reflection

Casts such a splendour on these other gems,

'Mongst which he so majestical appears,

As if---- Now my good angels guard me!

[_A flash of fire, and_ LIGHTFOOT _ascends like a spirit_.

LIGHT. _Melior vigilantia somno_.

Stand not amaz'd, good man, for what appears

Shall add to thy content; be void of fears:

I am the shadow of rich kingly Croesus,

Sent by his greatness from the lower world

To make thee mighty, and to sway on earth

By thy abundant store, as he himself doth

In Elysium; how he reigneth there,

His shadow will unfold; give thou then ear.

In under-air, where fair Elysium stands,

Beyond the river styled Acheron,

He hath a castle built of adamant;

Not fram'd by vain enchantment, but there fix'd

By the all-burning hands of warlike spirits:

Whose windows are compos'd of purest crystal,

And deck'd within with oriental pearls:

There the great spirit of Croesus' royal self

Keeps his abode in joyous happiness.

He is not tortur'd there, as poets feign,

With molten gold and sulphury flames of fire,

Or any such molesting perturbation;

But there reputed as a demigod,

Feasting with Pluto and his Proserpine,

Night after night with all delicious cates,

With greater glory than seven kingdoms' states.

Now farther know the cause of my appearance--

The kingly Croesus having by fame's trump

Heard that thy lov'd desires stand affected

To the obtaining of abundant wealth,

Sends me, his shade, thus much to signify,

That if thou wilt become famous on earth,

He'll give to thee even more than infinite;

And after death with him thou shalt partake

The rare delights beyond the Stygian lake.

HOG. Great Croesus' shadow may dispose of me

To what he pleaseth.

LIGHT. So speaks obediency.

For which I'll raise thy lowly thoughts as high,

As Croesus's were in his mortality.

Stand then undaunted, whilst I raise those spirits,

By whose laborious task and industry

Thy treasure shall abound and multiply.

_Ascend, Ascarion, thou that art

A powerful spirit, and dost convert

Silver to gold; I say, ascend

And on me, Croesus' shade, attend,

To work the pleasure of his will._

_The_ PLAYER _appears_.

PLAYER. What, would then Croesus list to fill

Some mortal's coffers up with gold,

Changing the silver it doth hold?

By that pure metal, if't be so,

By the infernal gates I swear,

Where Rhadamanth doth domineer;

By Croesus' name and by his castle,

Where winter nights he keepeth wassail;[395]

By Demogorgon and the fates,

And by all these low-country states;

That after knowledge of thy mind,

Ascarion, like the swift-pac'd wind,

Will fly to finish thy command.

LIGHT. Take, then, this silver out of hand,

And bear it to the river Tagus,

Beyond th' abode of Archi-Magus;

Whose golden sands upon it cast,

Transform it into gold at last:

Which being effected straight return,

And sudden, too, or I will spurn

This trunk of thine into the pit,

Where all the hellish furies sit,

Scratching their eyes out. Quick, begone!

PLAYER. Swifter in course than doth the sun. [_Exit_ PLAYER.

LIGHT. How far'st thou, mortal? be not terrifi'd

At these infernal motions; know that shortly

Great Croesus' ghost shall, in the love he bears thee,

Give thee sufficient power by thy own worth

To raise such spirits.

HOG. Croesus is much too liberal in his favour

To one so far desertless as poor Hog.

LIGHT. Poor Hog! O, speak not that word poor again,

Lest the whole apple-tree of Croesus' bounty,

Crack'd into shivers, overthrow thy fortunes!

For he abhors the name of poverty,

And will grow sick to hear it spoke by those

Whom he intends to raise. But see, the twilight,

Posting before the chariot of the sun,

Brings word of his approach:

We must be sudden, and with speed raise up

The spirit Bazan, that can straight transform

Gold into pearl; be still and circumspect.

_Bazan, ascend up from the treasure

Of Pluto, where thou dost[396] at pleasure

Metamorphose all his gold

Into pearl, which 'bove a thousand-fold

Exceeds the value: quickly rise

To Croesus' shade, who hath a prize

To be performed by thy strength._

[BAZAN _or_] HADDIT _ascends_.

HAD. I am no fencer, yet at length

From Pluto's presence and the hall,

Where Proserpine keeps festival,

I'm hither come; and now I see,

To what intent I'm rais'd by thee;

It is to make that mortal rich,

That at his fame men's ears may itch,

When they do hear but of his store.

He hath one daughter and no more,

Which all the lower powers decree,

She to one Wealthy wedded be;

By which conjunction there shall spring

Young heirs to Hog, whereon to fling

His mass of treasure when he dies;

Thus Bazan truly prophesies.

But come, my task! I long to rear

His fame above the hemisphere.

LIGHT. Take then the gold which here doth lie,

And quick return it by and by

All in choice pearl. Whither to go,

I need not tell you, for you know.

HAD. Indeed I do, and Hog shall find it so. [_Exit_ HADDIT.

LIGHT. Now, mortal, there is nothing doth remain

'Twixt thee and thine abundance, only this:

Turn thy eyes eastward, for from thence appears

Ascarion with thy gold, which having brought

And at thy foot surrender'd, make obeisance;

Then turn about, and fix thy tapers westward,

From whence great Bazan brings thy orient pearl;

Who'll lay it at thy feet much like the former.

HOG. Then I must make to him obeisance thus?

LIGHT. Why, so; in meantime, Croesus' shade will rest

Upon thy bed: but above all, take heed

You suffer not your eyes to stray aside

From the direct point I have set thee at:

For though the spirit do delay the time,

And not return your treasure speedily----

HOG. Let the loss light on me, if I neglect

Or overslip what Croesus' shade commands.[397]

LIGHT. [_Aside._] So, now practise standing, though it be nothing

agreeable to your Hog's age. Let me see, among these writings is my

nephew Haddit's mortgage; but in taking that it may breed suspect on us;

wherefore this box of jewels will stand far better, and let that alone.

It is now break of day, and near by this the marriage is confirmed

betwixt my cousin and great Croesus's friend's daughter here, whom I

will now leave to his most weighty cogitations.

So, gentle sir, adieu; time not permits

To hear those passions and those frantic fits

You're subject to, when you shall find how true

Great Croesus' shade hath made an ass of you. [_Exit._

HOG. Let me now ruminate to myself why Croesus should be so great a

favourer to me. And yet to what end should I desire to know? I think it

is sufficient it is so. And I would he had been so sooner, for he and

his spirits would have saved me much labour in the purchasing of wealth;

but then indeed it would have been the confusion of two or three

scriveners which, by my means, have been properly raised. But now

imagine this only a trick, whereby I may be gulled! But how can that

be? Are not my doors locked? Have I not seen with my own eyes the

ascending of the spirits? Have I not heard with my own ears the

invocation wherewith they were raised? Could any but spirits appear

through so firm a floor as this is? 'Tis impossible. But hark! I hear

the spirit Ascarion coming with my gold. O bountiful Croesus! I'll build

a temple to thy mightiness!

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY _and_ PETER SERVITUDE.

Y. LORD W. O Peter, how long have we slept upon the hogshead?

P. SER. I think a dozen hours, my lord, and 'tis nothing. I'll undertake

to sleep sixteen, upon the receipt of two cups of muskadine.[398]

Y. LORD W. I marvel what's become of Haddit and Lightfoot!

P. SER. Hang 'em, flinchers; they slunk away as soon as they had drank

as much as they were able to carry, which no generous spirit would ha'

done, indeed.

Y. LORD W. Yet I believe Haddit had his part, for, to my thinking, the

cellar went round with him when he left us. But are we come to a bed

yet? I must needs sleep.

P. SER. Come softly by any means, for we are now upon the threshold of

my master's chamber, through which I'll bring you to Mistress Rebecca's

lodging. Give me your hand, and come very nicely.

[PETER _falls into the hole_.

Y. LORD W. Where art, Peter?

P. SER. O, O!

Y. LORD W. Where's this noise, Peter? canst tell?

HOG. I hear the voice of my adopted son-in-law.

Y. LORD W. Why, Peter, wilt not answer me?

P. SER. O, my Lord above, stand still; I'm fallen down at least thirty

fathom deep. If you stand not still till I recover, and have lighted a

candle, you're but a dead man.

HOG. I am robb'd, I am undone, I am deluded! Who's in my chamber?

Y. LORD W. 'Tis I, the lord your son, that shall be; upon my honour, I

came not to rob you.

HOG. I shall run mad! I shall run mad!

Y. LORD W. Why, then, 'tis my fortune to be terrified with madmen.

_Enter_ PETER SERVITUDE, _with a candle_.

P. SER. Where are you, my lord?

HOG. Here, my lady. Where are you, rogue, when thieves break into my

house?

P. SER. Breaking my neck in your service--a plague on't!

Y. LORD W. But are you robbed, indeed, father Hog? Of how much, I pray?

HOG. Of all, of all! See here, they have left me nothing but two or

three rolls of parchment; here they came up like spirits, and took my

silver, gold, and jewels. Where's my daughter?

P. SER. She's not in the house, sir. The street-doors are wide open.

Y. LORD W. Nay, 'tis no matter where she is now. She'll scarce be worth

a thousand pound, and that's but a tailor's prize.[399]

HOG. Then you'll not have her, sir?

Y. LORD W. No, as I hope to live in peace.

HOG. Why, be't so, be't so; confusion cannot come in a fitter time on

all of us. O bountiful Croesus! how fine thy shadow hath devoured my

substance!

P. SER. Good my lord, promise him to marry his daughter, or he will be

mad presently, though you never intend to have her.

Y. LORD W. Well, father Hog, though you are undone, your daughter shall

not be, so long as a lord can stand her in any stead. Come, you shall

with me to my lord and father, whose warrants we will have for the

apprehending of all suspicious livers; and, though the labour be

infinite, you must consider your loss is so.

HOG. Come, I'll do anything to gain my gold.

P. SER. Till which be had, my fare will be but cold.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HADDIT, REBECCA, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PRIEST.

HAD. Now, Master Parson, we will no further trouble you; and, for the

tying of our true love-knot, here's a small amends.

PRIEST. 'Tis more than due, sir; yet I'll take it all.

Should kindness be despis'd, goodwill would fall

Unto a lower ebb, should we detest

The grateful giver's gift, _verissimo est_.

HAD. It's true, indeed; good morrow, honest parson.

PRIEST. Yet, if you please, sir John will back surrender

The overplus of what you now did tender.

HAD. O, by no means; I prythee, friend, good morrow.

LIGHT. Why. if you please, sir John, to me restore

The overplus: I'll give it to the poor.

PRIEST. O, pardon, sir, for, by your worship's leave,

We ought to give from whence we do receive.

HAD. Why, then, to me, sir John.

PRIEST. To all a kind good-morrow. [_Exit_ PRIEST.

HAD. A most fine vicar; there was no other means to be rid of him. But

why are you so sad, Rebecca?

REB. To think in what estate my father is,

When he beholds that he is merely gull'd.

HAD. Nay, be not grieved for that which should rather give you cause of

content; for 'twill be a means to make him abandon his avarice, and save

a soul almost incurable. But now to our own affairs: this marriage of

ours must not yet be known, lest it breed suspicion. We will bring you,

Rebecca, unto Atlas's house, whilst we two go unto the old Lord

Wealthy's, having some acquaintance with his son-in-law Carracus, who I

understand is there; where no question but we shall find your father

proclaiming his loss: thither you shall come somewhat after us, as it

were to seek him; where I doubt not but so to order the matter, that I

will receive you as my wife from his own hands.

REB. May it so happy prove!

LIGHT. Amen, say I; for, should our last trick be known, great Croesus's

shade would have a conjured time on't.

HAD. 'Tis true, his castle of adamant would scarce hold him; but come,

this will be good cause for laughter hereafter.

Then we'll relate how this great bird was pull'd

Of his rich feathers, and most finely gull'd. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ OLD LORD WEALTHY, _with_ CARRACUS, MARIA, _and_ ALBERT.

O. LORD W. More welcome, Carracus, than friendly truce

To a besieged city all distress'd:

How early this glad morning are you come

To make me happy? for pardon of your offence

I've given a blessing, which may heaven confirm

In treble manner on your virtuous lives!

CAR. And may our lives and duty daily strive

To be found worthy of that loving favour,

Which from your reverend age we now receive

Without desert or merit!

_Enter_ YOUNG LORD WEALTHY, HOG, _and_ PETER.

Y. LORD W. Room for a desirer of justice! what, my sister

Maria! who thought to have met you here.

MARIA. You may see, brother, unlooked-for guests prove often

troublesome.

Y. LORD W. Well, but is your husband there any quieter than he was?

CAR. Sir, I must desire you to forget all injuries, if, in not being

myself, I offered you any.

ALB. I'll see that peace concluded.

Y. LORD W. Which I agree to;

For patience is a virtue, father Hog.

O. LORD W. Was it you, son, that cried so loud for justice?

Y. LORD W. Yes, marry was it, and this the party to whom it appertains.

HOG. O, my most honoured lord, I am undone, robbed, this black night, of

all the wealth and treasure which these many years I have hourly

laboured for.

O. LORD W. And who are those have done this outrage to you?

HOG. O, knew I that, I then, my lord, were happy.

O. LORD W. Come you for justice then, not knowing 'gainst whom the

course of justice should extend itself? Nor yet suspect you none?

HOG. None but the devil.

Y. LORD W. I thought he was a cheater, e'er since I heard two or three

Templars[400] swear at dice, the last Christmas, that the devil had got

all.

_Enter_ HADDIT _and_ LIGHTFOOT.

HAD. My kind acquaintance, joy to thy good success.

CAR. Noble and freeborn Haddit, welcome.

LIGHT. Master Hog, good day.

HOG. [Good day], for I have had a bad night on't.

LIGHT. Sickness is incident to age: what, be the writings ready to be

sealed we entreated last day?

HOG. Yes, I think they are; would the scrivener were paid for making

them.

LIGHT. He shall be so, though I do't myself. Is the money put up, as I

appointed?

HOG. Yes, 'tis put up: confusion seize the receivers!

LIGHT. Heaven bless us all! what mean you, sir?

HOG. O sir, I was robb'd this night of all I had;

My daughter too is lost, and I undone.

LIGHT. Marry, God forbid! after what manner, I pray?

HOG. O, to recount, sir, will breed more ruth

Than did the tale of that high Trojan duke[401]

To the sad-fated Carthaginian queen.

HAD. What exclamation's that?

LIGHT. What you will grieve at, coz;

Your worshipful friend, Master Hog, is robb'd.

HAD. Robb'd! by whom, or how?

LIGHT. O, there's the grief: he knows not whom to suspect.

HAD. The fear of hell o'ertake them, whosoe'er they be. But where's your

daughter? I hope she is safe.

_Enter_ REBECCA.

HOG. Thank heaven, I see she's now so. Where hast thou been, my girl?

REB. Alas! sir, carried by amazement I know not where; pursued by the

robbers, forced to fly amazed, affrighted, through the city streets, to

seek redress; but that lay fast asleep in all men's houses, nor would

lend an ear to the distressed.

HAD. O heavy accident! but see, you grieve too much,

Being your daughter's found, for th' other loss,

Since 'tis the will of heaven to give and take,

Value it as nothing: you have yet sufficient

To live in bless'd content, had you no more

But my small mortgage for your daughter here,

Whom I have ever lov'd in dear'st affection.

If so you please so much to favour me,

I will accept her, spite of poverty,

And make her jointure of some store of land,

Which, by the loss of a good aged friend,

Late fell to me: what, is't a match or no?

HOG. It is.

HAD. Then I'll have witness on't: my lord and gentlemen,

Please you draw near to be here witnesses

To a wish'd contract 'twixt this maid and I.

OMNES. We are all willing.

HOG. Then, in the presence of you all, I give my daughter freely to this

gentleman as wife; and to show how much I stand affected to him, for

dowry with her, I do back restore his mortgaged lands; and, for their

loves, I vow ever hereafter to detest, renounce, loathe, and abhor all

slavish avarice,

Which doth ascend from hell, sent by the devil,

To be 'mongst men the actor of all evil.

OMNES. A bless'd conversion.

O. LORD W. A good far unexpected. And now, gentlemen,

I do invite you all to feast with me

This happy day, that we may all together

Applaud his good success: and let this day be spent

In sports and shows, with gladsome merriment.

Come, bless'd converted man,[402] we'll lead the way,

As unto heaven I hope we shall.

HOG. Heaven grant we may!

CAR. Come, my Maria and repentant friend,

We three have tasted worst of misery,

Which now adds joy to our felicity.

HAD. We three are happy we have gain'd much wealth,

And though we have done it by a trick of stealth,

Yet all, I trust, are pleased, and will our ills acquit,

Since it hath sav'd a soul was hell's by right.

Y. LORD W. To follow after, then, our lot doth fall;

Now rhyme it, Peter.

P. SER. A good night to all. [_Exeunt omnes._

FOOTNOTES:

[394] [Old copy, _him_.]

[395] Verstegan, in his "Restitution of Decayed Intelligence," 1634,

p. 126, gives the following account of the origin of this term: "As

this Lady (_i.e._, Rowena) was very beautiful, so was she of a very

comely deportment, and Hingistus, having invited King Vortiger to a

supper at his new-builded castle, caused that after supper she came

foorth of her chamber into the King's presence, with a cup of gold

filled with wine in her hand, and making in very seemly manner a low

reverence unto the King, sayd, with a pleasing grace and countenance,

in our ancient language, _Waes heal hlaford Cyning,_ which is, being

rightly expounded according to our present speech, _Be of health, Lord

King_, for as _was_ is our verbe of the preterimperfect tense, or

preterperfect tense, signifying _have bin_, so _was_ being the same

verb in the imperative mood, and now pronounced _wax_, is as much as

to say _grow, be_, or _become;_ and _waes-heal_, by corruption of

pronunciation, afterwards became to be _wassaile_. The King not

understanding what shee said, demaunded it of his chamberlaine, who

was his interpreter, and when he knew what it was, he asked him how he

might againe answer her in her owne language, whereof being informed,

he sayd unto her _Drinc heal_, that is to say, _Drink health_."--See

also a note to "The Ordinary," in vol. xii.

[396] _Didst_ in the old copy, where these lines are printed as a

stage direction.

[397] The 4º reads--

"I overslip what Croesus _suit_ command."

--_Collier._

[398] Or muscadel. A kind of wine so called, because for sweetness and

smell it resembles musk. "From Bosco Helerno we soon came to

Montefiascone, standing upon a hill. It's a bishop's seate, and

_famous for excellent Muscatello wine_," &c.--Lassells' "Voiage of

Italy," 8º, 1670, 244.--_Gilchrist._

[399] [Referring to some tale of the day. Compare p. 468.]

[400] See note to "A Match at Midnight," act i. sc. i. (vol. xiii.)

[401] Æneas.

[402] [Meaning Hog.]

EPILOGUE

Now expectation hath, at full receiv'd,

What we late promised; if in aught we've pleas'd,

'Tis all we sought t'accomplish; and much more

Than our weak merit dares to attribute

Unto itself, till you vouchsafe to deign,

In your kind censure, so to gratify

Our trivial labours.----

If it hath pleased the judicial ear,

We have our author's wish; and, void of fear,

Dare ignorant men to show their worst of hate,

It not detracts, but adds unto that state

Where desert flourisheth.

We'll rest applauded in their derogation,

Though with a hiss they crown that confirmation.

For this our author saith, if't prove distasteful,

He only grieves you spent two hours so wasteful;

But if it like,[403] and you affect his pen,

You may command it, when you please, again.

[403] _If it like_ is a very common old expression for _if it please;_

but Mr Reed allowed it to be altered to the vulgarism of _if it's

liked_.

THE HEIR.

_EDITION._

_The Heire. A Comedie. As it was acted by the Company of the

Revels. 1620. Written by T.M. London, Printed by Augustine

Mathewes, for Thomas Iones, and are to be sold at his shop in S.

Dunstans Church-yard in Fleetstreet._ 1633. 4º.[404]

[404] There are two title-pages to this comedy in the year 1633, but

they are both the same edition. The one has the words _the second

impression_ upon it; the other is without them; but in all other

respects they are precisely similar. Whether the performance did not

sell well in the first instance, and the stationer resorted to this

expedient to get rid of copies remaining on hand, must be matter of

conjecture only.--_Collier._

INTRODUCTION TO THE FORMER EDITION.

Thomas May was the son of Sir Thomas May, of Mayfield, in the county of

Sussex, Knight, a gentleman of an ancient and honourable family.[405] He

was born in the year 1595, and received his early education in the

neighbourhood of his birthplace; thence he was removed to Sidney-Sussex

College in Cambridge, and took the degree of B.A. in 1612. On the 6th of

August 1615, he was admitted into the society of Gray's-Inn, and soon

after became celebrated for his poetical performances.

Lord Clarendon,[406] with whom he was intimately acquainted, says "that

his father spent the fortune which he was born to, so that he had only

an annuity left him not proportionable to a liberal education; yet,

since his fortune could not raise his mind, he brought his mind down to

his fortune by a great modesty and humility in his nature, which was not

affected, but very well became an imperfection in his speech, which was

a great mortification to him, and kept him from entering upon any

discourse but in the company of his very friends. His parts of nature

and art were very good, as appears by his translation of Lucan (none of

the easiest work of that kind), and more by his Supplement to Lucan

which, being entirely his own, for the learning, the wit and the

language, may be well looked upon as one of the best epic poems in the

English language. He writ some other commendable pieces of the reign of

some of our kings. He was cherished by many persons of honour, and very

acceptable in all places; yet (to show that pride and envy have their

influences upon the narrowest minds, and which have the greatest

semblance of humility) though he had received much countenance, and a

very considerable donative from the king, upon his majesty's refusing to

give him a small pension,[407] which he had designed and promised to

another very ingenious person, whose qualities he thought inferior to

his own, he fell from his duty and all his former friends, and

prostituted himself to the vile office[408] of celebrating the infamous

acts of those who were in rebellion against the king; which he did so

meanly, that he seemed to all men to have lost his wits when he left his

honesty, and shortly after died miserable and neglected, and deserves to

be forgotten."

He died suddenly on the night of the 13th of November 1650, after having

drank his cheerful bottle as usual. The cause of his death is said to

have arisen from the tying of his nightcap too close under his chin,

which occasioned a suffocation when he turned himself about.

He was buried, by appointment of the Parliament, in a splendid manner,

in the south aisle of Westminster Abbey, where a monument to his memory

was erected, with a Latin inscription thereon, composed by Marchemont

Needham, which remained there until the Restoration, when it was

destroyed, and his body dug up, and buried in a large pit belonging to

St Margaret's Church, with many others who had been interred in the

abbey during the Interregnum.

He was the author of the following dramatic pieces--

1. "The Tragedy of Antigone the Theban princesse." 8º. 1631.

2. "The Heire: a Comedy: acted by the Company of the Revels, 1620." 4º.

1633.

3. "The Tragedy of Julia Agrippina, Empress of Rome." 12º. 1639. 12º.

1654.

4. "The Tragedy of Cleopatra, Queen of Ægypt." 12º. 1639. 12º. 1654.

5. "The Old Couple: a Comedy." 4º. 1658.

He also wrote "The reign of king Henry the Second," and "The victorious

reign of Edward the Third,"[409] both in English verse; and translated,

besides Lucan, the "Georgics" of Virgil, the "Epigrams" of Martial, the

"Icon Animorum" by Barclay, and the verses in the "Argenis" of the same

author. He likewise was the author of "The History of the Parliament of

England, which began November 3, 1640, with a short and necessary view

of some precedent years." Folio. 1647.[410]

The following inscription[411] was made upon him by one of the Cavalier

party, which he had abused--

Adsta, Viator, et Poetam legas

Lucani interpretem,

Quem ita feliciter Anglicanum fecerat,

Ut Mayus simul et Lucanus videretur,

Et sane credas Metempsuchosin:

Nam uterque ingratus Principis sui Proditor;

Hic Neronis Tyranni, ille Caroli Regum optimi,

At fata planè diversa;

Lucanum enim ante obitum poenitentem legis,

Mayus vero repentina morte occubuit,

Ne forsan poeniteret.

Parliamentia Rebellis tam pertinax adstipulator,

Ut Musarum, quas olim religiose coluerat,

Sacrilegus Hostis evaserit:

Attamen fingendi artem non penitus amisit,

Nam gesta eorum scripsit et typis mandavit

In prosâ mendax Poeta.

Inter tot Heroas Poetarum, Nobiliumque,

Quod tam indigni sepeliantur Cineres,

Videntur fiere Marmora.

Nec tamen mirere cum hic Rebelles posuisse,

Qui tot sacras Ædes, et Dei delubra,

Equis fecere Stabula.

[A MS. note in one of the former editions says: "This

comedy is full of most palpable imitations of Shakespeare and others,

but it is very pleasingly, and even elegantly, written in many parts."]

FOOTNOTES:

[405] "Thomas May, father of the poet, purchased Mayfield Place, in

Sussex (formerly an archiepiscopal palace, and afterwards the seat of

the Greshams), of Henry Neville, of Billingbere, Berks, in 1597. He

was knighted at Greenwich, July 3, 1603, and died 1616. He was father

to Thomas May, the celebrated poet and historian, by whom Mayfield was

aliened from the family in 1617: his mother, Joan May, and cousin,

Richard May, of Islington, gent. joining with him in the conveyance to

John Baker, Esq., whose descendants have ever since enjoyed

it."--Nichols's "Leicestershire," iii. 156, note.--_Gilchrist._]

[406] Life, edit. 1759, p. 35.]

[407] Some writers suppose he was disgusted that Sir William Davenant

was appointed to succeed Ben Jonson as poet laureate, in the year

1637.]

[408] He was appointed to the post of Historiographer by the

Parliament.]

[409] This poem was dedicated to Charles I. in 1635; hence it appears

that he wrote it by command of the king. "Those defects," he says,

"whatsoever they be, can be imputed only to insufficiency, for neither

was there argument wanting nor yet endeavour, since I had the actions

of a great king to require my skill, and the command of a greater king

to oblige my care."--_Collier._]

[410] Thomas May has a complimentary poem prefixed to Pilkinton's

"Tournament of Tottenham," &c. 4º. 1631.--_Gilchrist._]

[411] The subsequent lines are found in "Wit's Recreations," 1641--

"TO MR. THOMAS MAY.

"Thou son of Mercury, whose fluent tongue

Made Lucan finish his Pharsalian song,

Thy fame is equal, better is thy fate,

Thou hast got Charles his love, he Nero's hate."

Of course this was before (as Lord Clarendon expresses it) "he fell

from his duty."--_Collier._

THE NAMES OF THE ACTORS.

THE KING.

VIRRO, _an old rich count._

POLYMETES, _an old lord_.

EUGENIO, _his son_.

LEOCOTHOE, _his daughter_.

ROSCIO, _his man_.

EUPHUES, _another lord_.

PHILOCLES, _his son_.

CLERIMONT, _a gentleman, friend to Philocles_.

FRANKLIN, _an old rich gentleman_.

LUCE,[412] _his daughter_.

FRANCISCO, _a young man_.

ALPHONSO.

SHALLOW, _a foolish gentleman_.

NICANOR, _a courtier_.

MATHO, _a lawyer_.

PSECTAS,[413] _a waiting gentlewoman_.

_A Parson._

_A Sumner._

_A Constable and Watch._

_Servants._

_Scene, Sicily._

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND

MASTER THOMAS MAY,

UPON HIS COMEDY, THE HEIR.

The Heir being born, was in his tender age

Rock'd in the cradle of a private stage,

Where, lifted up by many a willing hand,

The child did from the first day fairly stand;

Since having gather'd strength, he dares prefer

His steps into the public theatre--

The world: where he despairs not but to find

A doom from men more able, not less kind.

I but his usher am; yet, if my word

May pass, I dare be bound he will afford

Things must deserve a welcome, if well known,

Such as best writers would have wish'd their own.

You shall observe his words in order meet,

And, softly stealing on with equal feet,

Slide into even numbers with such grace,

As each word had been moulded for that place.

You shall perceive an amorous passion, spun

Into so smooth a web as, had the Sun,

When he pursu'd the swiftly-flying maid,

Courted her in such language, she had stay'd:

A love so well express'd must be the same

The author felt himself from his fair flame.

The whole plot doth alike itself disclose

Through the five acts, as doth a lock, that goes

With letters; for, till every one be known,

The lock's as fast as if you had found none;

And, where his sportive Muse doth draw a thread

Of mirth, chaste matrons may not blush to read.

Thus have I thought it fitter to reveal

My want of art (dear friend) than to conceal

My love. It did appear I did not mean

So to commend thy well-wrought comic scene,

As men might judge my aim rather to be

To gain praise to myself than give it thee;

Though I can give thee none but what thou hast

Deserv'd, and what must my faint breath outlast.

Yet was this garment (though I skill-less be

To take thy measure) only made for thee;

And, if it prove too scant, 'tis 'cause the stuff

Nature allow'd me was not large enough.

THOMAS CAREW.[414]

FOOTNOTES:

[412] The author calls her _Luce_ throughout, which the modern editor

changed to Lucy. As a matter of taste, _Lucy_ may be preferable to

_Luce;_ but the author ought to be allowed to judge for himself, and

sometimes the measure of the lines has been spoiled by the needless

alteration.--_Collier._

[413] _i.e., Vituperator_, which answers to her character. Former

editions read _Psecas_.--_Pegge._

[414] "Carew was the younger brother of a good family, and of

excellent parts, and had spent many years of his youth in France and

Italy; and, returning from travel, followed the court, which the

modesty of that time disposed men to do sometime, before they

pretended to be of it; and he was very much esteemed by the most

eminent persons in the court, and well looked upon by the king

himself, some years before he could obtain to be sewer to the king;

and when the king conferred that place upon him, it was not without

the regret even of the whole Scotch nation, which united themselves in

recommending another gentleman to it; and of so great value were those

relations held in that age, when majesty was beheld with the reverence

it ought to be. He was a person of a pleasant and facetious wit, and

made many poems, especially in the amorous way, which, for the

sharpness of the fancy, and the elegancy of the language in which that

fancy was spread, were at least equal, if not superior, to any of that

time; but his glory was, that after fifty years of his life, spent

with less severity or exactness than it ought to have been, he died

with the greatest remorse for that license, and with the greatest

manifestation of Christianity, that his best friends could

desire."--"Life of Clarendon," edit. 1759, i. 36. He died in the year

1639. [But see Hazlitt's edit. of Carew, Introductory Memoir.]

PROLOGUS.

Judicious friends, if what shall here be seen

May taste your sense, or ope your tickled spleen,

Our author has his wish: he does not mean

To rub your galls with a satiric scene;

Nor toil your brains, to find the fustian sense

Of those poor lines that cannot recompense

The pains of study: Comedy's soft strain

Should not perplex, but recreate the brain;

His strain is such, he hopes it, but refers

That to the test of your judicious ears.

THE HEIR.

ACT I.

_Enter_ POLYMETES, ROSCIO.

POL. Roscio.

ROS. My lord.

POL. Hast thou divulg'd the news,

That my son died at Athens?

ROS. Yes, my lord,

With every circumstance: the time, the place,

And manner of his death; that 'tis believed,

And told for news with as much confidence,

As if 'twere writ in Gallo-belgicus.[415]

POL. That's well, that's very well: now, Roscio,

Follows my part; I must express a grief

Not usual; not like a well-left heir

For his dead father, or a lusty widow

For her old husband, must I counterfeit:

But in a deeper, a far deeper strain,

Weep like a father for his only son.

Is not that hard to do, ha! Roscio?

ROS. O, no, my lord,

Not for your skill; has not your lordship seen

A player personate Hieronimo?[416]

POL. By th' mass, 'tis true, I have seen the knave paint grief

In such a lively colour, that for false

And acted passion he has drawn true tears

From the spectators. Ladies in the boxes

Kept time with sighs and tears to his sad accents,

As he had truly been the man he seem'd.

Well, then, I'll ne'er despair: but tell me thou--

Thou that hast still been privy to my bosom,

How will this project take?

ROS. Rarely, my lord,

Even now, methinks, I see your lordship's house

Haunted with suitors of the noblest rank,

And my young lady, your supposed heir,

Tir'd more with wooing than the Grecian queen[417]

In the long absence of her wandering lord.

There's not a ruinous nobility

In all this kingdom, but conceives a hope

Now to rebuild his fortunes on this match.

POL. Those are not they I look for: no, my nets

Are spread for other game; the rich and greedy--

Those that have wealth enough, yet gape for more--

They are for me.

ROS. Others will come, my lord:

All sorts of fish will press upon your nets;

Then in your lordship's wisdom it must lie

To cull the great ones, and reject the fry.

POL. Nay, fear not that; there's none shall have access

To see my daughter, or to speak to her,

But such as I approve, and aim to catch.

ROS. The jest will be, my lord, when you shall see,

How your aspiring suitors will put on

The face of greatness, and belie their fortunes,

Consume themselves in show, wasting (like merchants)

Their present wealth in rigging a fair ship

For some ill-ventur'd voyage that undoes 'em.

Here comes a youth with letters from the court,

Bought of some favourite, at such a price

As will for ever sink him; yet, alas!

All's to no purpose, he must lose the prize.

POL. 'Twill feed me fat with sport, that it shall make,

Besides the large adventures it brings home

Unto my daughter. How now!

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. My lord, Count Virro is come to see you.

POL. Conduct him in. So, so, it takes already!

See, Roscio, see, this is the very man

My project aim'd at, the rich count that knows

No end of his large wealth, yet gapes for more.

There was no other loadstone could attract

His iron heart; for could beauty have mov'd him,

Nature has been no niggard to my girl.

But I must to my grief; here comes the count.

_Enter_ COUNT VIRRO.

VIR. Is your lord asleep?

ROS. No, sir, I think not.

My lord, Count Virro!

VIR. How do you, sir?

POL. I do entreat your lordship pardon me:

Grief and some want of sleep have made me at

This time unmannerly, not fit to entertain

Guests of your worth.

VIR. Alas, sir! I know your grief.

ROS. 'Twas that that fetch'd you hither. [_Aside._

VIR. Y' have lost a worthy and a hopeful son;

But heaven, that always gives, will sometimes take,

And that the best. There is no balsam left us

To cure such wounds as these but patience;

There is no disputing with the acts of heaven;

But, if there were, in what could you accuse

Those powers that else have been so liberal to you,

And left you yet one comfort in your age,

A fair and virtuous daughter.

ROS. Now it begins. [_Aside._

VIR. Your blood is not extinct, nor your age childless:

From that fair branch that's left may come much fruit

To glad posterity: think on that, my lord.

POL. Nay, heaven forbid I should repine,

At what the justice of those powers ordain;

It has pleased them to confine my care

Only to one; and to see her well bestow'd

Is all the comfort that I now must look for;

But if it had pleas'd heaven that my son--

Ah, my Eugenio! [_He weeps._

VIR. Alas, good gentleman!

ROS. 'Fore heaven, he does it rarely! [_Aside._

VIR. But, sir, remember yourself, remember your daughter; let not your

grief for the dead make you forget the living, whose hopes and fortunes

depend upon your safety.

POL. O my good lord, you never had a son.

ROS. Unless they were bastards, and for them no doubt but he has done as

other lords do. [_Aside._

POL. And therefore cannot tell what 'tis to lose

A son, a good son, and an only son.

VIR. I would, my lord, I could as well redress,

As I can take compassion of your grief:

You should soon find an ease.

POL. Pray pardon me, my lord,

If I forget myself toward you at this time;

If it please you to visit my house ofter,

You shall be welcome.

VIR. You would fain sleep, my lord, I'll take my leave.

Heaven send you comfort! I shall make bold shortly

To visit you.

POL. You shall be wondrous welcome.

Wait on my lord, out there. [_To Attend. Exit_ VIRRO.

So, now he's gone: how thinkest thou, Roscio,

Will not this gudgeon bite?

ROS. No doubt, my lord,

So fair a bait would catch a cunning fish.

POL. And such a one is he; he ever lov'd

The beauty of my girl, but that's not it

Can draw the earthbred thoughts of his gross soul.

Gold is the god of his idolatry,

With hope of which I'll feed him, till at length

I make him fasten, and, Ixion-like,

For his lov'd Juno grasp an empty cloud.

ROS. How stands my young lady affected to him?

POL. There's all the difficulty; we must win her to love him. I doubt

the peevish girl will think him too old; he's well near fifty. In this

business I must leave somewhat to thy wit and care: praise him beyond

all measure.

ROS. Your lordship ever found me trusty.

POL. If thou effect it, I will make thee happy. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ PHILOCLES, CLERIMONT.

PHIL. Eugenio's sister, then, is the rich heir

By his decease?

CLER. Yes, and the fair one too:

She needs no gloss that fortune can set on her;

Her beauty of itself were prize enough

To make a king turn beggar for.

PHIL. Heyday!

What, in love, Clerimont? I lay my life 'tis so;

Thou couldst not praise her with such passion else.

CLER. I know not; I slept well enough last night:

But if thou saw'st her once, I would not give

A farthing for thy life; I tell thee, Philocles,

One sight of her would make thee cry, _ah me!_

Sigh, and look pale: methinks I do imagine

How like an idolatrous lover thou wouldst look

Through the eyelids; know nobody.

PHIL. 'Tis very well.

But how did your worship 'scape? You have seen her?

CLER. True, but I have an antidote, and I can teach it thee.

PHIL. When I have need on't, I'll desire it.

CLER. And 'twill be worth thy learning, when thou shalt see the tyranny

of that same scurvy boy, and what fools he makes of us. Shall I

describe the beast?

PHIL. What beast?

CLER. A lover.

PHIL. Do.

CLER. Then, to be brief, I will pass over the opinion of your ancient

fathers, as likewise those strange loves spoken of in the authentic

histories of chivalry, Amadis de Gaul, Parismus, the Knight of the Sun,

or the witty knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, where those brave men,

whom neither enchantments, giants, windmills, nor flocks of sheep, could

vanquish, are made the trophies of triumphing love.

PHIL. Prythee, come to the matter.

CLER. Neither will I mention the complaints of Sir Guy for the fair

Felice, nor the travels of Parismus for the love of the beauteous

Laurana; nor, lastly, the most sad penance of the ingenious knight Don

Quixote upon the mountains of Sierra Morena,[418] moved by the unjust

disdain of the lady Dulcina del Toboso. As for our modern authors, I

will not so much as name them; no, not that excellent treatise of

Tully's love, written by the master of art.[419]

PHIL. I would thou wouldst pass over this passing over of authors, and

speak thine own judgment.

CLER. Why, then, to be brief, I think a lover looks like an ass.

PHIL. I can describe him better than so myself. He looks like a man

that had sitten up at cards all night, or a stale drunkard wakened in

the midst of his sleep.

CLER. But, Philocles, I would not have thee see this lady; she has a

bewitching look.

PHIL. How darest thou venture, man? What strange medicine hast thou

found? Ovid ne'er taught it thee. I doubt I guess thy remedy for love:

go to a bawdy-house or so, is it not?

CLER. Faith, and that's a good way, I can tell you; we younger brothers

are beholden to it. Alas! we must not fall in love, and choose whom we

like best; we have no jointures for them, as you blessed heirs can have.

PHIL. Well, I have found you, sir. And prythee, tell me how gettest thou

wenches?

CLER. Why, I can want no panders. I lie in the constable's house.

PHIL. And there you may whore by authority.

But, Clerimont, I doubt this paragon

That thou so praisest is some ill-favoured wench

Whom thou wouldst have me laugh'd at for commending.

CLER. Believe it, I spoke in earnest: trust your eyes:

I'll show you her.

PHIL. How canst thou do it?

Thou know'st this lady's father is to mine

A deadly enemy; nor is his house

Open to any of our kindred.

CLER. That's no matter:

My lodging's the next door to this lord's house,

And my back-window looks into his garden;

There every morning fair Leucothoë

(For so I hear her nam'd) walking alone

To please her senses, makes Aurora blush,

To see one brighter than herself appear.

PHIL. Well, I will see her then. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ FRANKLIN, FRANCISCO, _and_ LUCE _gravida_.[420]

FRANC. Yet for her sake be advis'd better, sir.

FRANK. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face,

And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou

Hast dishonour'd my daughter--made a whore of her.

FRANC. Gentle sir,

The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter

'Tis now too late to wish undone again:

But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up

Without dishonour: I wi

FRANK. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face,

And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou

Hast dishonour'd my daughter--made a whore of her.

FRANC. Gentle sir,

The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter

'Tis now too late to wish undone again:

But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up

Without dishonour: I will marry her.

FRANK. Marry her! she has a hot catch of that.

Marry a beggar!

What jointure canst thou make her?

FRANC. Sir, I am poor, I must confess;

Fortune has bless'd you better: but I swear

By all things that can bind, 'twas not your wealth

Was the foundation of my true-built love;

It was her single uncompounded self--

Herself without addition--that I lov'd,

Which shall for ever in my sight outweigh

All other women's fortunes and themselves;

And were I great, as great as I could wish

Myself for her advancement, no such bar

As fortune's inequality should stand

Betwixt our loves.

LUCE. Good father, hear me.

FRANK. Dost thou not blush to call me father, strumpet?

I'll make thee an example.

LUCE. But hear me, sir; my shame will be your own.

FRANK. No more, I say. Francisco, leave my house;

I charge you, come not here.

FRANC. I must obey, and will. Dear Luce, be constant.

LUCE. Till death. [_Exit_ FRANCISCO.

FRANK. Here's a fine wedding towards! The bridegroom, when he comes for

his bride, shall find her great with child by another man! Passion-a-me,

minion, how have you hid it so long?

LUCE. Fearing your anger, sir, I strove to hide it.

FRANK. Hide it one day more, then, or be damned. Hide it till Shallow be

married to thee, and then let him do his worst.

LUCE. Sir, I should too much wrong him.

FRANK. Wrong him! there be great ladies have done the like; 'tis no news

to see a bride with child.

LUCE. Good sir.

FRANK. Then be wise; lay the child to him: he's a rich man, t'other's a

beggar.

LUCE. I dare not, sir.

FRANK. Do it, I say, and he shall father it.

LUCE. He knows he never touched me, sir.

FRANK. That's all one; lay it to him, we'll out-face him 'tis his: but

hark! he is coming, I hear the music. Swear thou wilt do thy best to

make him think 'tis his, only for this time; swear quickly.

LUCE. I do.

FRANK. Go, step aside, and come when thy cue is; thou shalt hear us

talk. [LUCE _aside_.

_Enter_ SHALLOW, _with music_.

SHAL. Morrow, father.

FRANK. Son bridegroom, welcome; you have been looked for here.

SHAL. My tailor a little disappointed me; but is my bride ready?

FRANK. Yes, long ago; but you and I will talk a little. Send in your

music.

SHAL. Go, wait within. [_Exit music._] And tell me, father, did she not

think it long till I came?

FRANK. I warrant her, she did; she loves you not a little.

SHAL. Nay, that I dare swear; she has given me many tastes of her

affection.

FRANK. What, before you were married?

SHAL. I mean in the way of honesty, father.

FRANK. Nay, that I doubt; young wits love to be trying, and, to say

truth, I see not how a woman can deny a man of your youth and person

upon those terms: you'll not be known on't now.

SHAL. I have kissed her, or so.

FRANK. Come, come; I know you are no fool, I should think you a very

ass--nay, I tell you plainly, I should be loth to marry my daughter to

you--if I thought you had not tried her in so long acquaintance: but you

have tried her, and she, poor soul, could not deny you.

SHAL. Ha, ha, he!

FRANK. Faith, tell me, son, 'tis but a merry question: she's yours.

SHAL. Upon my virginity, father----

FRANK. Swear not by that, I'll ne'er believe you.

SHAL. Why, then, as I am a gentleman, I never did it, that I remember.

FRAN. That you remember! O, is't thereabouts?

LUCE. He'll take it upon him presently. [_Aside._

FRAN. You have been so familiar with her, you have forgot the times: but

did you never come in half fuddled, and then in a kind humour--_cætera

quis nescit?_

SHAL. Indeed I was wont to serve my mother's maids so, when I came half

foxed, as you said, and then next morning I should laugh to myself.

FRANK. Why, there it goes; I thought to have chid you, son Shallow; I

knew what you had done; 'tis too apparent: I would not have people take

notice of it; pray God she hide her great belly, as she goes to church

to-day.

SHAL. Why, father, is she with child?

FRANK. As if you knew not that! fie, fie! leave your dissembling now.

SHAL. Sure, it cannot be mine.

FRANK. How's this; you would not make my daughter a whore, would you?

This is but to try if you can stir my choler: you wits have strange

tricks, do things over night when you are merry, and then deny 'em. But

stay, here she comes alone; step aside, she shall not see us.

[_They step aside._

LUCE. Ah, my dear Shallow, thou need'st not have made

Such haste, my heart thou know'st was firm enough

To thee; but I may blame my own fond love,

That could not deny thee.

SHAL. She's with child indeed; it swells.

FRANK. You would not believe me. 'Tis a good wench: she does it

handsomely. [_Aside._

LUCE. But yet I know, if thou hadst been thyself, thou wouldst ne'er

have offered it; 'twas drink that made thee.

SHAL. Yes, sure, I was drunk when I did it, for I had forgot it. I lay

my life 'twill prove a girl, because 'twas got in drink.

LUCE. I am ashamed to see anybody.

FRANK. Alas, poor wretch! go comfort her. Luce!

SHAL. Sweetheart! nay, never be ashamed. I was a little too hasty, but

I'll make thee amends; we'll be married presently.

FRANK. Be cheery, Luce; you were man and wife before; it wanted but the

ceremony of the church, and that shall be presently done.

SHAL. Ay, ay, sweetheart, as soon as may be.

FRANK. But now I think on't, son Shallow, your wedding must not be

public, as we intended it.

SHAL. Why so?

FRANK. Because I would not have people take notice of this fault: we'll

go to church, only we three, the minister and the clerk--that's

witnesses enough; so, the time being unknown, people will think you were

married before.

SHAL. But will it stand with my worship to be married in private?

FRANK. Yes, yes; the greatest do it, when they have been nibbling

beforehand; there is no other way to save your bride's credit.

SHAL. Come, let's about it presently.

FRANK. This is closed up beyond our wishes. [_Exeunt._

_Manet_ LUCE.

LUCE. I am undone, unless thy wit, Francisco,

Can find some means to free me from this fool,

Who would have thought the sot could be so gross

To take upon him what he never did,

To his own shame? I'll send to my Francisco,

And I must lose no time; for I am dead,

If not delivered from this loathed bed.

FOOTNOTES:

[415] ["A celebrated political register, as Mr Chalmers aptly terms

it, which was now much used. Mention of it is made by almost all the

writers of Jonson's age. As it treated of contemporary events,

treaties, sieges, &c., in a dead language, it was necessarily driven

to the use of unknown and unwarranted terms."--_Gifford's Ben Jonson_,

ii. 530, _note_.

Cleveland, in the "Character of a London Diurnal," 1644, says: "The

original sinner of this kind was _Dutch, Gallo-belgicus_ the

_Protoplast:_ and the _Modern Mercuries_ but Hans en Kelders." Some

intelligence given by _Mercurius Gallo-belgicus_ is mentioned in

Carew's "Survey of Cornwall," p. 126, originally published in 1602. Dr

Donne, in his verses upon Thomas Coryat's "Crudities," 1611, says--

"To _Gallo Belgicus_ appear

As deep a statesman as a gazetteer."

[416] See the "Spanish Tragedy," vol. v.

[417] Penelope.

[418] In the 4º, 1633, it stands _Sienna Morenna_, and so Mr Reed

allowed it to remain.--_Collier._

[419] The work here mentioned is entitled "Tullies Love, wherein is

discovered the prime of 'Ciceroes youth,' &c. &c., by Robert Greene.

In artibus magister." I have seen no earlier edition of it than that

in 1616.--_Steevens._ [It was first printed in 1589.]

[420] The situation of Luce is expressed after her name in the old

copy by the word _gravida_, and there seems no reason for omitting it.

The conclusion of the play shows the necessity of making her condition

obvious.--_Collier._

ACT II.

_Enter_ PHILOCLES, _and_ CLERIMONT _at the window_.

CLER. See, Philocles, yonder's that happy shade,

That often veils the fair Leucothoë,

And this her usual hour; she'll not be long:

Then thou shalt tell me if so rare an object

E'er bless'd thine eyes before.

PHIL. Well, I would see her once,

Were't but to try thy judgment, Clerimont.

CLER. And when thou dost, remember what I told thee,

I would not be so sick;[421] but soft, look to thy heart,

Yonder she comes, and that's her waiting-woman.

[LEUCOTHOË _and_ PSECTAS _in the garden_.

Now gaze thy fill; speak, man, how lik'st thou her?

LEU. Psectas!

PSEC. Madam.

LEU. What flower was that,

That thou wert telling such a story of

Last night to me?

PSEC. 'Tis call'd Narcissus, madam:

It bears the name of that too beauteous boy

That lost himself by loving of himself;

Who, viewing in a fair and crystal stream

Those lips that only he could never kiss,

Doats on the shadow, which to reach in vain

Striving he drowns: thus, scorning all beside,

For the lov'd shadow the fair substance died.

LEU. Fie, fie! I like not these impossible tales;

A man to fall in love with his own shadow,

And die for love, 'tis most ridiculous!

PSEC. Madam, I know not; I have often seen

Both men and women court the looking-glass

With so much seeming contentation,

That I could think this true; nay, wear it about 'em,

As lovers do their mistress' counterfeit.[422]

LEU. That's not for love, but to correct their beauties,

And draw from others admiration;

For all the comfort that our faces give

Unto ourselves, is but reflection

Of that fair liking that another takes.

CLER. I would we were a little nearer 'em,

We might but hear what talk these wenches have,

When they are alone; I warrant, some good stuff.

PHIL. 'Tis happiness enough for me to see

The motion of her lips.

CLER. I' faith, is't thereabouts?

Why, Philocles! what, lost already, man!

Struck dead with one poor glance! Look up, for shame,

And tell me how thou lik'st my judgment now--

Now thou dost see?

PHIL. Ah, Clerimont! too well;

Too well I see what I shall never taste,

Yon lady's beauty: she must needs be cruel

(Though her fair shape deny it) to the son

Of him that is her father's enemy.

That, Clerimont, that fatal difference

Checks my desire, and sinks my rising hopes;

But love's a torrent violent, if stopp'd,

And I am desperately mad: I must--

I must be hers, or else I must not be.

CLER. Contain that passion, that will else o'er-whelm

All virtue in you, all that is call'd man,

And should be yours; take my advice, my heart,

My life, to second you: let us consult;

You may find time to speak to her and woo her.