A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 09
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Title: A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 09
Compiler: Robert Dodsley
Editor: William Carew Hazlitt
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #10550]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10550
Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SELECT COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS, VOLUME 09 ***
A SELECT COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS, VOL. IX
Originally published by Robert Dodsley in the Year 1744.
Fourth Edition,
Now first chronologically arranged, revised and enlarged with the Notes
of all the Commentators, and new Notes
By
W. CAREW HAZLITT.
1874-76.
CONTENTS:
How a Man May Choose a Good Wife from a Bad
The Return from Parnassus
Wily Beguiled
Lingua
The Miseries of Enforced Marriage
HOW A MAN MAY CHOOSE A GOOD WIFE FROM A BAD.
_EDITION
A Pleasant conceited Comedie, Wherein is shewed how a man may chuse a
good Wife from a bad. As it hath bene sundry times Acted by the Earle of
Worcesters Seruants. London Printed for Mathew Lawe, and are to be solde
at his shop in Paules Church-yard, neare unto S. Augustines gate, at the
signe of the Foxe_. 1602. 4to.
[There were editions in 1605, 1608, 1614, 1621, 1630, 1634, all in 4to.
It is not improbable that the author was Joshua Cooke, to whom, in an
old hand on the title of edit. 1602 in the Museum, it is attributed.]
[PREFACE TO THE FORMER EDITION.[1]]
This play agrees perfectly with the description given of it in the
title; it is certainly a most pleasant conceited comedy, rich in humour,
and written altogether in a right merry vein. The humour is broad and
strongly marked, and at the same time of the most diverting kind; the
characters are excellent, and admirably discriminated; the comic parts
of the play are written with most exquisite drollery, and the serious
with great truth and feeling. Of the present piece there were seven
editions, within a short period, with all of which the present reprint
has been carefully collated, and is now, for the first time, divided
into acts and scenes.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
OLD MASTER ARTHUR.
OLD MASTER LUSAM.
YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.
YOUNG MASTER LUSAM.[2]
MASTER ANSELM.
MASTER FULLER.
SIR AMINADAB, _a Schoolmaster_.
JUSTICE REASON.
BRABO.
HUGH, _Justice Reason's Servant_.
PIPKIN, _Master Arthur's Servant_.
_Boys, Officers, &c_.
MISTRESS ARTHUR.
MISTRESS MARY.
MISTRESS SPLAY.
MAID.
_Scene, London_.
A PLEASANT CONCEITED COMEDY; WHEREIN IS SHOWED
HOW A MAN MAY CHOOSE A GOOD WIFE FROM A BAD.
ACT I., SCENE I.
_The Exchange_.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR _and_ YOUNG MASTER LUSAM.
Y. ART. I tell you true, sir; but to every man
I would not be so lavish of my speech:
Only to you, my dear and private friend,
Although my wife in every eye be held
Of beauty and of grace sufficient,
Of honest birth and good behaviour,
Able to win the strongest thoughts to her,
Yet, in my mind, I hold her the most hated
And loathed object, that the world can yield.
Y. LUS. O Master Arthur, bear a better thought
Of your chaste wife, whose modesty hath won
The good opinion and report of all:
By heaven! you wrong her beauty; she is fair.
Y. ART. Not in mine eye.
Y. LUS. O, you are cloy'd with dainties, Master Arthur,
And too much sweetness glutted hath your taste,
And makes you loathe them: at the first
You did admire her beauty, prais'd her face,
Were proud to have her follow at your heels
Through the broad streets, when all censuring tongues
Found themselves busied, as she pass'd along,
T'extol her in the hearing of you both.
Tell me, I pray you, and dissemble not,
Have you not, in the time of your first-love,
Hugg'd such new popular and vulgar talk,
And gloried still to see her bravely deck'd?
But now a kind of loathing hath quite chang'd
Your shape of love into a form of hate;
But on what reason ground you this hate?
Y. ART. My reason is my mind, my ground my will;
I will not love her: if you ask me why,
I cannot love her. Let that answer you.
Y. LUS. Be judge, all eyes, her face deserves it not;
Then on what root grows this high branch of hate?
Is she not loyal, constant, loving, chaste:
Obedient, apt to please, loath to displease:
Careful to live, chary of her good name,
And jealous of your reputation?
Is she not virtuous, wise, religious?
How should you wrong her to deny all this?
Good Master Arthur, let me argue with you.
[_They walk aside_.
_Enter_ MASTER ANSELM _and_ MASTER FULLER.
FUL. O Master Anselm! grown a lover, fie!
What might she be, on whom your hopes rely?
ANS. What fools they are that seem most wise in love,
How wise they are that are but fools in love!
Before I was a lover, I had reason
To judge of matters, censure of all sorts,
Nay, I had wit to call a lover fool,
And look into his folly with bright eyes.
But now intruding love dwells in my brain,
And franticly hath shoulder'd reason thence:
I am not old, and yet, alas! I doat;
I have not lost my sight, and yet am blind;
No bondman, yet have lost my liberty;
No natural fool, and yet I want my wit.
What am I, then? let me define myself:
A dotard young, a blind man that can see,
A witty fool, a bondman that is free.
FUL. Good aged youth, blind seer, and wise fool,
Loose your free bonds, and set your thoughts to school.
_Enter_ OLD MASTER ARTHUR _and_ OLD MASTER LUSAM.
O. ART. 'Tis told me, Master Lusam, that my son
And your chaste daughter, whom we match'd together,
Wrangle and fall at odds, and brawl and chide.
O. LUS. Nay, I think so, I never look'd for better:
This 'tis to marry children when they're young.
I said as much at first, that such young brats
Would 'gree together e'en like dogs and cats.
O. ART. Nay, pray you, Master Lusam, say not so;
There was great hope, though they were match'd but young,
Their virtues would have made them sympathise,
And live together like two quiet saints.
O. LUS. You say true, there was great hope, indeed,
They would have liv'd like saints; but where's the fault?
O. ART. If fame be true, the most fault's in my son.
O. LUS. You say true, Master Arthur, 'tis so indeed.
O. ART. Nay, sir, I do not altogether excuse
Your daughter; many lay the blame on her.
O. LUS. Ah! say you so? by the mass, 'tis like enough,
For from her childhood she hath been a shrew.
O. ART. A shrew? you wrong her; all the town admires her
For mildness, chasteness, and humility.
O. LUS. 'Fore God, you say well, she is so indeed;
The city doth admire her for these virtues.
O. ART. O, sir, you praise your child too palpably;
She's mild and chaste, but not admir'd so much.
O. LUS. Ay, so I say--I did not mean admir'd.
O. ART. Yes, if a man do well consider her,
Your daughter is the wonder of her sex.
O. LUS. Are you advis'd of that? I cannot tell,
What 'tis you call the wonder of her sex,
But she is--is she?--ay, indeed, she is.
O. ART. What is she?
O. LUS. Even what you will--you know best what she is.
ANS. Yon is her husband: let us leave this talk:[3]
How full are bad thoughts of suspicion;
I love, but loathe myself for loving so,
Yet cannot change my disposition.
FUL. _Medice, cura teipsum_.
ANS. _Hei mihi! quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis_.
[_Exeunt_ ANSELM and FULLER.
Y. ART. All your persuasions are to no effect,
Never allege her virtues nor her beauty,
My settled unkindness hath begot
A resolution to be unkind still,
My ranging pleasures love variety.
Y. LUS. O, too unkind unto so kind a wife,
Too virtueless to one so virtuous,
And too unchaste unto so chaste a matron.
Y. ART. But soft, sir, see where my two fathers are
Busily talking; let us shrink aside,
For if they see me, they are bent to chide.
[_Exeunt_ Y. ARTHUR _and_ Y. LUSAM.
O. ART. I think 'tis best to go straight to the house,
And make them friends again; what think ye, sir?
O. LUS. I think so too.
O. ART. Now I remember, too, that's not so good:
For divers reasons, I think best stay here,
And leave them to their wrangling--what think you?
O. LUS. I think so too.
O. ART. Nay, we will go, that's certain.
O. LUS. Ay, 'tis best, 'tis best--
In sooth, there's no way but to go.
O. ART. Yet if our going should breed more unrest,
More discord, more dissension, more debate,
More wrangling where there is enough already?
'Twere better stay than go.
O. LUS. 'Fore God, 'tis true;
Our going may, perhaps, breed more debate,
And then we may too late wish we had stay'd;
And therefore, if you will be rul'd by me,
We will not go, that's flat: nay, if we love
Our credits or our quiets, let's not go.
O. ART. But if we love
Their credits or their quiets, we must go,
And reconcile them to their former love;
Where there is strife betwixt a man and wife 'tis hell,
And mutual love may be compared to heaven,
For then their souls and spirits are at peace.
Come, Master Lusam, now 'tis dinner-time;
When we have dined, the first work we will make,
Is to decide their jars for pity's sake.
O. LUS. Well fare a good heart! yet are you advis'd?
Go, said you, Master Arthur? I will run
To end these broils, that discord hath begun.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Young Arthur's House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR _and_ PIPKIN.
MRS ART. Come hither, Pipkin.
How chance you tread so softly?
PIP. For fear of breaking, mistress.
MRS ART. Art thou afraid of breaking, how so?
PIP. Can you blame me, mistress? I am crack'd already.
MRS ART. Crack'd, Pipkin, how? hath any crack'd your crown?
PIP. No, mistress; I thank God,
My crown is current, but--
MRS ART. But what?
PIP. The maid gave me not my supper yesternight, so that indeed my belly
wambled, and standing near the great sea-coal fire in the hall, and not
being full, on the sudden I crack'd, and you know, mistress, a pipkin is
soon broken.
MRS ART. Sirrah, run to the Exchange, and if you there
Can find my husband, pray him to come home;
Tell him I will not eat a bit of bread
Until I see him; prythee, Pipkin, run.
PIP. By'r Lady, mistress, if I should tell him so, it may be he would
not come, were it for no other cause but to save charges; I'll rather
tell him, if he come not quickly, you will eat up all the meat in the
house, and then, if he be of my stomach, he will run every foot, and
make the more haste to dinner.
MRS ART. Ay, thou may'st jest; my heart is not so light
It can digest the least conceit of joy:
Entreat him fairly, though I think he loves
All places worse that he beholds me in.
Wilt thou begone?
PIP. Whither, mistress? to the 'Change?
MRS ART. Ay, to the 'Change.
PIP. I will, mistress: hoping my master will go so oft to the 'Change,
that at length he will change his mind, and use you more kindly. O, it
were brave if my master could meet with a merchant of ill-ventures, to
bargain with him for all his bad conditions, and he sell them outright!
you should have a quieter heart, and we all a quieter house. But hoping,
mistress, you will pass over all these jars and squabbles in good health,
as my master was at the making thereof, I commit you.
MRS ART. Make haste again, I prythee. [_Exit_ PIPKIN.] Till I see him,
My heart will never be at rest within me:
My husband hath of late so much estrang'd
His words, his deeds, his heart from me,
That I can seldom have his company;
And even that seldom with such discontent,
Such frowns, such chidings, such impatience,
That did not truth and virtue arm my thoughts,
They would confound me with despair and hate,
And make me run into extremities.
Had I deserv'd the least bad look from him,
I should account myself too bad to live,
But honouring him in love and chastity,
All judgments censure freely of my wrongs.
[_Exit_.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, YOUNG MASTER LUSAM, _and_ PIPKIN.
Y. ART. Pipkin, what said she when she sent for me?
PIP. 'Faith, master, she said little, but she thought
[The] more, for she was very melancholy.
Y. ART. Did I not tell you she was melancholy,
For nothing else but that she sent for me,
And fearing I would come to dine with her.
Y. LUS. O, you mistake her; even, upon my soul,
I durst affirm you wrong her chastity.
See where she doth attend your coming home.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR.
MRS ART. Come, Master Arthur, shall we in to dinner?
Sirrah, begone, and see it served in.
Y. LUS. Will you not speak unto her?
Y. ART. No, not I; will you go in, sir.
MRS ART. Not speak to me! nor once look towards me!
It is my duty to begin, I know,
And I will break this ice of courtesy.
You are welcome home, sir.
Y. ART. Hark, Master Lusam, if she mock me not!
_You are welcome home, sir_. Am I welcome home?
Good faith, I care not if I be or no.
Y. LUS. Thus you misconstrue all things, Master Arthur.
Look, if her true love melt not into tears.
Y. ART. She weeps, but why? that I am come so soon,
To hinder her of some appointed guests,
That in my absence revel in my house:
She weeps to see me in her company,
And, were I absent, she would laugh with joy.
She weeps to make me weary of the house,
Knowing my heart cannot away with grief.
MRS ART. Knew I that mirth would make you love my bed,
I would enforce my heart to be more merry.
Y. ART. Do you not hear? she would enforce her heart!
All mirth is forc'd, that she can make with me.
Y. LUS. O misconceit, how bitter is thy taste!
Sweet Master Arthur, Mistress Arthur too,
Let me entreat you reconcile these jars,
Odious to heaven, and most abhorr'd of men.
MRS ART. You are a stranger, sir; but by your words
You do appear an honest gentleman.
If you profess to be my husband's friend,
Persist in these persuasions, and be judge
With all indifference in these discontents.
Sweet husband, if I be not fair enough
To please your eye, range where you list abroad,
Only, at coming home, speak me but fair:
If you delight to change, change when you please,
So that you will not change your love to me.
If you delight to see me drudge and toil,
I'll be your drudge, because 'tis your delight.
Or if you think me unworthy of the name
Of your chaste wife, I will become your maid,
Your slave, your servant--anything you will,
If for that name of servant and of slave
You will but smile upon me now and then.
Or if, as I well think, you cannot love me,
Love where you list, only but say you love me:
I'll feed on shadows, let the substance go.
Will you deny me such a small request?
What, will you neither love nor flatter me?
O, then I see your hate here doth but wound me,
And with that hate it is your frowns confound me.
Y. LUS. Wonder of women! why, hark you, Master Arthur!
What is your wife, a woman or a saint?
A wife or some bright angel come from heav'n?
Are you not mov'd at this strange spectacle?
This day I have beheld a miracle.
When I attempt this sacred nuptial life,
I beg of heaven to find me such a wife.
Y. ART. Ha, ha! a miracle, a prodigy!
To see a woman weep is as much pity
As to see foxes digg'd out of their holes.
If thou wilt pleasure me, let me see thee less;
Grieve much; they say grief often shortens life:
Come not too near me, till I call thee, wife;
And that will be but seldom. I will tell thee,
How thou shalt win my heart--die suddenly,
And I'll become a lusty widower:
The longer thy life lasts, the more my hate
And loathing still increaseth towards thee.
When I come home and find thee cold as earth,
Then will I love thee: thus thou know'st my mind.
Come, Master Lusam, let us in to dine.
Y. LUS. O, sir, you too much affect this evil;
Poor saint! why wert thou yok'd thus with a devil? [_Aside_.
[_Exeunt_ Y. ART. _and_ Y. LUS.
MRS ART. If thou wilt win my heart, die suddenly!
But that my soul was bought at such a rate,
At such a high price as my Saviour's blood,
I would not stick to lose it with a stab;
But, virtue, banish all such fantasies.
He is my husband, and I love him well;
Next to my own soul's health I tender him,
And would give all the pleasures of the world
To buy his love, if I might purchase it.
I'll follow him, and like a servant wait,
And strive by all means to prevent his hate.
[_Exit_.
_Enter_ OLD MASTER ARTHUR _and_ OLD MASTER LUSAM.
O. ART. This is my son's house; were it best go in?
How say you, Master Lusam?
O. LUS. How? Go in? How say you, sir?
O. ART. I say 'tis best.
O. LUS. Ay, sir, say you so? so say I too.
O. ART. Nay, nay, it is not best; I'll tell you why.
Haply the fire of hate is quite extinct
From the dead embers; now to rake them up,
Should the least spark of discontent appear,
To make the flame of hatred burn afresh,
The heat of this dissension might scorch us;
Which, in his own cold ashes smother'd up,
May die in silence, and revive no more:
And therefore tell me, is it best or no?
O. LUS. How say you, sir?
O. ART. I say it is not best.
O. LUS. Mass, you say well, sir, and so say I too.
O. ART. But shall we lose our labour to come hither,
And, without sight of our two children,
Go back again? nay, we will in, that's sure.
O. LUS. In, quotha! do you make a doubt of that;
Shall we come thus far, and in such post-haste,
And have our children here, and both within,
And not behold them e'er our back-return?
It were unfriendly and unfatherly.
Come, Master Arthur, pray you follow me.
O. ART. Nay, but hark you, sir, will you not knock?
O. LUS. Is't best to knock?
O. ART. Ay, knock in any case.
O. LUS. 'Twas well you put it in my mind to knock,
I had forgotten it else, I promise you.
O. ART. Tush, is't not my son's and your daughter's door,
And shall we two stand knocking? Lead the way.
O. LUS. Knock at our children's doors! that were a jest.
Are we such fools to make ourselves so strange,
Where we should still be boldest? In, for shame!
We will not stand upon such ceremonies.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_The Street_.
_Enter_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
FUL. Speak: in what cue, sir, do you find your heart,
Now thou hast slept a little on thy love?
ANS. Like one that strives to shun a little plash
Of shallow water, and (avoiding it)
Plunges into a river past his depth:
Like one that from a small spark steps aside,
And falls in headlong to a greater flame.
FUL. But in such fires scorch not thyself, for shame!
If she be fire, thou art so far from burning,
That thou hast scarce yet warm'd thee at her face;
But list to me, I'll turn thy heart from love,
And make thee loathe all of the feminine sex.
They that have known me, knew me once of name
To be a perfect wencher: I have tried
All sorts, all sects, all states, and find them still
Inconstant, fickle, always variable.
Attend me, man! I will prescribe a method,
How thou shalt win her without all peradventure.
ANS. That would I gladly hear.
FUL. I was once like thee,
A sigher, melancholy humorist,
Crosser of arms, a goer without garters,
A hatband-hater, and a busk-point[4] wearer,
One that did use much bracelets made of hair,
Rings on my fingers, jewels in mine ears,
And now and then a wench's carcanet,
Scarfs, garters, bands, wrought waistcoats, gold-stitch'd caps,
A thousand of those female fooleries; but when
I look'd into the glass of reason, straight
I began to loathe that female bravery,
And henceforth studied[5] to cry
_Peccavi_ to the world.
ANS. I pray you, to your former argument:
Prescribe a means to win my best-belov'd.
FUL. First, be not bashful, bar all blushing tricks:
Be not too apish-female; do not come
With foolish sonnets to present her with,
With legs, with curtsies, congees, and such like:
Nor with penn'd speeches, or too far-fetch'd sighs:
I hate such antique, quaint formality.
ANS. O, but I cannot snatch[6] occasion:
She dashes every proffer with a frown.
FUL. A frown, a fool! art thou afraid of frowns?
He that will leave occasion for a frown,
Were I his judge (all you his case bemoan),
His doom should be ever to lie alone.
ANS. I cannot choose but, when a wench says nay,
To take her at her word, and leave my suit.
FUL. Continue that opinion, and be sure
To die a virgin chaste, a maiden pure.
It was my chance once, in my wanton days,
To court a wench; hark, and I'll tell thee how:
I came unto my love, and she look'd coy,
I spake unto my love, she turn'd aside,
I touch'd my love, and 'gan with her to toy,
But she sat mute, for anger or for pride;
I striv'd and kiss'd my love, she cry'd _Away_!
Thou wouldst have left her thus--I made her stay.
I catch'd my love, and wrung her by the hand:
I took my love, and set her on my knee,
And pull'd her to me; O, you spoil my band,
You hurt me, sir; pray, let me go, quoth she.
I'm glad, quoth I, that you have found your tongue,
And still my love I by the finger wrung.
I ask'd her if she lov'd me; she said, No.
I bad her swear; she straight calls for a book;
Nay then, thought I, 'tis time to let her go,
I eas'd my knee, and from her cast a look.
She leaves me wond'ring at these strange affairs,
And like the wind she trips me up the stairs.
I left the room below, and up I went,
Finding her thrown upon her wanton bed:
I ask'd the cause of her sad discontent;
Further she lies, and, making room, she said,
Now, sweeting, kiss me, having time and place;
So clings me to her with a sweet embrace.
ANS. Is't possible? I had not thought till now,
That women could dissemble. Master Fuller,
Here dwells the sacred mistress of my heart;
Before her door I'll frame a friv'lous walk,
And, spying her, with her devise some talk.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, MISTRESS ARTHUR, OLD MASTER ARTHUR,
OLD MASTER LUSAM, YOUNG MASTER LUSAM, _and_ PIPKIN.
FUL. What stir is this? let's step but out the way,
And hear the utmost what these people say.
O. ART. Thou art a knave, although thou be my son.
Have I with care and trouble brought thee up,
To be a staff and comfort to my age,
A pillar to support me, and a crutch
To lean on in my second infancy,
And dost thou use me thus? Thou art a knave.
O. LUS. A knave, ay, marry, and an arrant knave;
And, sirrah, by old Master Arthur's leave,
Though I be weak and old, I'll prove thee one.
Y. ART. Sir, though it be my father's pleasure thus
To wrong me with the scorned name of knave,
I will not have you so familiar,
Nor so presume upon my patience.
O LUS. Speak, Master Arthur, is he not a knave?
O. ART. I say he is a knave.
O. LUS. Then so say I.
Y. ART. My father may command my patience;
But you, sir, that are but my father-in-law,
Shall not so mock my reputation.
Sir, you shall find I am an honest man.
O. LUS. An honest man!
Y. ART. Ay, sir, so I say.
O. LUS. Nay, if you say so, I'll not be against it:
But, sir, you might have us'd my daughter better,
Than to have beat her, spurn'd her, rail'd at her
Before our faces.
O. ART. Ay, therein, son Arthur,
Thou show'dst thyself no better than a knave.
O. LUS. Ay, marry, did he, I will stand to it:
To use my honest daughter in such sort,
He show'd himself no better than a knave.
Y. ART. I say, again, I am an honest man;
He wrongs me that shall say the contrary.
O. LUS. I grant, sir, that you are an honest man,
Nor will I say unto the contrary:
But wherefore do you use my daughter thus?
Can you accuse her of unchastity, of loose
Demeanour, disobedience, or disloyalty?
Speak, what canst thou object against my daughter?
O. ART. Accuse her! here she stands; spit in her face,
If she be guilty in the least of these.
MRS ART. O father, be more patient; if you wrong
My honest husband, all the blame be mine,
Because you do it only for my sake.
I am his handmaid; since it is his pleasure
To use me thus, I am content therewith,
And bear his checks and crosses patiently.
Y. ART. If in mine own house I can have no peace,
I'll seek it elsewhere, and frequent it less.
Father, I'm now past one and twenty years;
I'm past my father's pamp'ring, I suck not,
Nor am I dandled on my mother's knee:
Then, if you were my father twenty times,
You shall not choose, but let me be myself.
Do I come home so seldom, and that seldom
Am I thus baited? Wife, remember this!
Father, farewell! and, father-in-law, adieu!
Your son had rather fast than feast with you.
[_Exit_.
O. ART. Well, go to, wild-oats! spendthrift! prodigal!
I'll cross thy name quite from my reck'ning book:
For these accounts, faith, it shall scathe thee somewhat,
I will not say what somewhat it shall be.
O. LUS. And it shall scathe him somewhat of my purse:
And, daughter, I will take thee home again,
Since thus he hates thy fellowship;
Be such an eyesore to his sight no more:
I tell thee, thou no more shalt trouble him.
MRS ART. Will you divorce whom God hath tied together?
Or break that knot the sacred hand of heaven
Made fast betwixt us? Have you never read,
What a great curse was laid upon his head
That breaks the holy band of marriage,
Divorcing husbands from their chosen wives?
Father, I will not leave my Arthur so;
Not all my friends can make me prove his foe.
O. ART. I could say somewhat in my son's reproof.
O. LUS. Faith, so could I.
O. ART. But, till I meet him, I will let it pass.
O. LUS. Faith, so will I.
O. ART. Daughter, farewell! with weeping eyes I part;
Witness these tears, thy grief sits near my heart.
O. LUS. Weeps Master Arthur? nay, then, let me cry;
His cheeks shall not be wet, and mine be dry.
MRS ART. Fathers, farewell! spend not a tear for me,
But, for my husband's sake, let these woes be.
For when I weep, 'tis not for my own care,
But fear, lest folly bring him to despair.
[_Exeunt_ O. ART. _and_ O. LUS.
Y. LUS. Sweet saint! continue still this patience,
For time will bring him to true penitence.
Mirror of virtue! thanks for my good cheer--
A thousand thanks.
MRS ART. It is so much too dear;
But you are welcome for my husband's sake;
His guests shall have best welcome I can make.
Y. LUS. Than marriage nothing in the world more common;
Nothing more rare than such a virtuous woman.
[_Exit_.
MRS ART. My husband in this humour, well I know,
Plays but the unthrift; therefore it behoves me
To be the better housewife here at home;
To save and get, whilst he doth laugh and spend:
Though for himself he riots it at large,
My needle shall defray my household's charge.
[_She sits down to work in front of the house_.
FUL. Now, Master Anselm, to her, step not back;
Bustle yourself, see where she sits at work;
Be not afraid, man; she's but a woman,
And women the most cowards seldom fear:
Think but upon my former principles,
And twenty pound to a drachm,[7] you speed.
ANS. Ay, say you so?
FUL. Beware of blushing, sirrah,
Of fear and too much eloquence!
Rail on her husband, his misusing her,
And make that serve thee as an argument,
That she may sooner yield to do him wrong.
Were it my case, my love and I to plead,
I have't at fingers' ends: who could miss the clout,
Having so fair a white, such steady aim.
This is the upshot: now bid for the game.
[ANSELM _advances_.
ANS. Fair mistress, God save you!
FUL. What a circumstance
Doth he begin with; what an ass is he,
To tell her at the first that she is fair;
The only means to make her to be coy!
He should have rather told her she was foul,
And brought her out of love quite with herself;
And, being so, she would the less have car'd,
Upon whose secrets she had laid her love.
He hath almost marr'd all with that word fair. [_Aside_.[8]]
ANS. Mistress, God save you!
FUL. What a block is that,
To say, God save you! is the fellow mad?
Once to name God in his ungodly suit.
MRS ART. You are welcome, sir. Come you to speak with me
Or with my husband? pray you, what's your will?
FUL. She answers to the purpose; what's your will?
O zounds, that I were there to answer her.
ANS. Mistress, my will is not so soon express'd
Without your special favour, and the promise
Of love and pardon, if I speak amiss.
FUL. O ass! O dunce! O blockhead! that hath left
The plain broad highway and the readiest path,
To travel round about by circumstance:
He might have told his meaning in a word,
And now hath lost his opportunity.
Never was such a truant in love's school;
I am asham'd that e'er I was his tutor.
MRS ART. Sir, you may freely speak, whate'er it be,
So that your speech suiteth with modesty.
FUL. To this now could I answer passing well.
ANS. Mistress, I, pitying that so fair a creature--
FUL. Still fair, and yet I warn'd the contrary.
ANS. Should by a villain be so foully us'd,
As you have been--
FUL. _As you have been_--ay, that was well put in!
ANS. If time and place were both convenient[9]--
Have made this bold intrusion, to present
My love and service to your sacred self.
FUL. Indifferent, that was not much amiss.
MRS ART. Sir, what you mean by service and by love,
I will not know; but what you mean by villain,
I fain would know.
ANS. That villain is your husband,
Whose wrongs towards you are bruited through the land.
O, can you suffer at a peasant's hands,
Unworthy once to touch this silken skin,
To be so rudely beat and buffeted?
Can you endure from such infectious breath,
Able to blast your beauty, to have names
Of such impoison'd hate flung in your face?
FUL. O, that was good, nothing was good but that;
That was the lesson that I taught him last.
ANS. O, can you hear your never-tainted fame
Wounded with words of shame and infamy?
O, can you see your pleasures dealt away,
And you to be debarr'd all part of them,
And bury it in deep oblivion?
Shall your true right be still contributed
'Mongst hungry bawds, insatiate courtesans?
And can you love that villain, by whose deed
Your soul doth sigh, and your distress'd heart bleed?
FUL. All this as well as I could wish myself.
MRS ART. Sir, I have heard thus long with patience;
If it be me you term a villain's wife,
In sooth you have mistook me all this while,
And neither know my husband nor myself;
Or else you know not man and wife is one.
If he be call'd a villain, what is she,
Whose heart and love, and soul, is one with him?
'Tis pity that so fair a gentleman
Should fall into such villains' company.
O, sir, take heed, if you regard your life,
Meddle not with a villain or his wife. [_Exit_.
FUL. O, that same word villain hath marr'd all.
ANS. Now where is your instruction? where's the wench?
Where are my hopes? where your directions?
FUL. Why, man, in that word villain you marr'd all.
To come unto an honest wife, and call
Her husband villain! were he[10] ne'er so bad,
Thou might'st well think she would not brook that name
For her own credit, though no love to him.
But leave not thus, but try some other mean;
Let not one way thy hopes make frustrate clean.
ANS. I must persist my love against my will;
He that knows all things, knows I prove this will.
_Exeunt_.
ACT II., SCENE I.
_A School_.
_Enter_ AMINADAB, _with a rod in his hand, and_
BOYS _with their books_.
AMIN. Come, boys, come, boys, rehearse your parts,
And then, _ad prandium; jam, jam, incipe_!
1ST BOY. Forsooth, my lesson's torn out of my book.
AMIN. _Quae caceris chartis deseruisse decet_.
Torn from your book! I'll tear it from your breech.
How say you, Mistress Virga, will you suffer
_Hic puer bonae[11] indolis_ to tear
His lessons, leaves, and lectures from his book?
1ST BOY. Truly, forsooth, I laid it in my seat,
While Robin Glade and I went into _campis_;
And when I came again, my book was torn.
AMIN. _O mus_, a mouse; was ever heard the like?
1ST BOY. _O domus_, a house; master, I could not mend it.
2D BOY. _O pediculus_, a louse; I knew not how it came.
AMIN. All toward boys, good scholars of their times;
The least of these is past his accidence,
Some at _qui mihi_; here's not a boy
But he can construe all the grammar rules.
_Sed ubi sunt sodales_? not yet come?
Those _tardè venientes_ shall be whipp'd.
_Ubi est_ Pipkin? where's that lazy knave?
He plays the truant every Saturday;
But Mistress Virga, Lady Willow-by,[12]
Shall teach him that _diluculo surgere
Est saluberrimum_: here comes the knave.
_Enter_ PIPKIN.
1ST BOY. _Tardè, tardè, tardè_.
2D. BOY. _Tardè, tardè, tardè_.
AMIN. _Huc ades_, Pipkin--reach a better rod--
_Cur tam tardè venis_? speak, where have you been?
Is this a time of day to come to school?
_Ubi fuisti_? speak, where hast thou been?
PIP. _Magister, quomodo vales_?
AMIN. Is that _responsio_ fitting my demand?
PIP. _Etiam certè_, you ask me where I have been, and I say _quomodo
vales_, as much as to say, come out of the alehouse.
AMIN. Untruss, untruss! nay, help him, help him!
PIP. _Quaeso, preceptor, quaeso_, for God's sake do not whip me:
_Quid est grammatica_?
AMIN. Not whip you, _quid est grammatica_, what's that?
PIP. _Grammatica est_, that, if I untruss'd, you must needs whip me
upon them, _quid est grammatica_.
AMIN. Why, then, _dic mihi_, speak, where hast thou been?
PIP. Forsooth, my mistress sent me of an errand to fetch my master from
the Exchange; we had strangers at home at dinner, and, but for them, I
had not come _tardè; quaeso, preceptor_!
AMIN. Construe your lesson, parse it, _ad unguem
et condemnato_ to, I'll pardon thee.
PIP. That I will, master, an' if you'll give me leave.
AMIN. _Propria quae maribus tribuuntur mascula, dicas; expone, expone_.
PIP. Construe it, master, I will; _dicas_, they say--_propria_, the
proper man--_quae maribus_, that loves marrow-bones--_mascula_,
miscalled me.
AMIN. A pretty, quaint, and new construction.
PIP. I warrant you, master, if there be marrow-bones in my lesson,
I am an old dog at them. How construe you this, master, _rostra
disertus amat_?
AMIN. _Disertus_, a desert--_amat_, doth love--_rostra_, roast-meat.
PIP. A good construction on an empty stomach. Master, now I have
construed my lesson, my mistress would pray you to let me come home
to go of an errand.
AMIN. Your _tres sequuntur_, and away.
PIP. _Canis_ a hog, _rana_ a dog, _porcus_ a frog,
_Abeundum est mihi_. [_Exit_.
AMIN. Yours, sirrah, too, and then _ad prandium_.
1ST BOY. _Apis_ a bed, _genu_ a knee, _Vulcanus_, Doctor Dee:
_Viginti minus usus est mihi_.
AMIN. By _Juno's_ lip and _Saturn's_ thumb
It was _bonus, bona, bonum_.
2D BOY. _Vitrum_ glass, _spica_ grass, _tu es asinus_, you are an ass.
_Precor tibi felicem noctem_.
AMIN. _Claudite jam libros, pueri: sat, prata, bibistis_,
Look, when you come again, you tell me _ubi fuistis_.
He that minds trish-trash, and will not have care of his _rodix_.
Him I will be-lish-lash, and have a fling at his _podix_.
[_Exeunt_ BOYS.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.
Y. ART. A pretty wench, a passing pretty wench.
A sweeter duck all London cannot yield;
She cast a glance on me as I pass'd by,
Not Helen had so ravishing an eye.
Here is the pedant Sir Aminadab;
I will inquire of him if he can tell
By any circumstance, whose wife she is:
Such fellows commonly have intercourse
Without suspicion, where we are debarr'd.
God save you, gentle Sir Aminadab!
AMIN. _Salve tu quoque_! would you speak with me?
You are, I take it, and let me not lie,
For, as you know, _mentiri non est meum_,
Young Master Arthur; _quid vis_--what will you?
Y. ART. You are a man I much rely upon;
There is a pretty wench dwells in this street
That keeps no shop, nor is not public known:
At the two posts, next turning of the lane,
I saw her from a window looking out;
O, could you tell me how to come acquainted
With that sweet lass, you should command me, sir,
Even to the utmost of my life and power.
AMIN. _Dii boni, boni_! 'tis my love he means;
But I will keep it from this gentleman,
And so, I hope, make trial of my love. [_Aside_.]
Y. ART. If I obtain her, thou shalt win thereby
More than at this time I will promise thee.
AMIN. _Quando venis aput_, I shall have two horns on my _caput_.
[_Aside_.]
Y. ART. What, if her husband come and find one there?
AMIN. _Nuncquam time_, never fear,
She is unmarried, I swear.
But, if I help you to the deed,
_Tu vis narrare_ how you speed.
Y. ART. Tell how I speed? ay, sir, I will to you:
Then presently about it. Many thanks
For this great kindness, Sir Aminadab. [_Exit_.
AMIN. If my _puella_ prove a drab,
I'll be reveng'd on both: _ambo_ shall die;
Shall die! by what? for _ego_ I
Have never handled, I thank God,
Other weapon than a rod;
I dare not fight for all my speeches.
_Sed cave_, if I take him thus,
_Ego sum expers_ at untruss.
[_Exit_.
SCENE II.
_A Room in Justice Reason's House_.
_Enter_ JUSTICE REASON, OLD MASTER ARTHUR, OLD MASTER LUSAM,
MISTRESS ARTHUR, YOUNG MASTER LUSAM, _and_ HUGH.
O. ART. We, Master Justice Reason, come about
A serious matter that concerns us near.
O. LUS. Ay, marry, doth it, sir, concern us near;
Would God, sir, you would take some order for it.
O. ART. Why, look ye, Master Lusam, you are such another,
You will be talking what concerns us near,
And know not why we come to Master Justice.
O. LUS. How? know not I?
O. ART. No, sir, not you.
O. LUS. Well, I know somewhat, though I know not that;
Then on, I pray you.
JUS. Forward, I pray, [and] yet the case is plain.
O. ART. Why, sir, as yet you do not know the case.
O. LUS. Well, he knows somewhat; forward, Master Arthur.
O. ART. And, as I told you, my unruly son,
Once having bid his wife home to my house,
There took occasion to be much aggriev'd
About some household matters of his own,
And, in plain terms, they fell in controversy.
O. LUS. 'Tis true, sir, I was there the selfsame time,
And I remember many of the words.
O. ART. Lord, what a man are you! you were not there
That time; as I remember, you were rid
Down to the North, to see some friends of yours.
O. LUS. Well, I was somewhere; forward, Master Arthur.
JUS. All this is well; no fault is to be found
In either of the parties; pray, say on.
O. ART. Why, sir, I have not nam'd the parties yet,
Nor touch'd the fault that is complain'd upon.
O. LUS. Well, you touch'd somewhat; forward, Master Arthur.
O. ART. And, as I said, they fell in controversy:
My son, not like a husband, gave her words
Of great reproof, despite, and contumely,
Which she, poor soul, digested patiently;
This was the first time of their falling out.
As I remember, at the selfsame time
One Thomas, the Earl of Surrey's gentleman,
Din'd at my table.
O. LUS. I knew him well.
O. ART. You are the strangest man; this gentleman,
That I speak of, I am sure you never saw;
He came but lately from beyond the sea.
O. LUS. I am sure I know one Thomas;--forward, sir.
JUS. And is this all? Make me a _mittimus_,
And send the offender straightways to the jail.
O. ART. First know the offender--now[13] began the strife
Betwixt this gentlewoman and my son--
Since when, sir, he hath us'd her not like one
That should partake his bed, but like a slave.
My coming was that you, being in office
And in authority, should call before you
My unthrift son, to give him some advice,
Which he will take better from you than me,
That am his father. Here's the gentlewoman,
Wife to my son, and daughter to this man,
Whom I perforce compell'd to live with us.
JUS. All this is well; here is your son, you say,
But she that is his wife you cannot find.
Y. LUS. You do mistake, sir, here's the gentlewoman;
It is her husband that will not be found.
JUS. Well, all is one, for man and wife are one;
But is this all?
Y. LUS. Ay, all that you can say,
And much more than you can well put off.
JUS. Nay, if the case appear thus evident,
Give me a cup of wine. What! man and wife
To disagree! I prythee, fill my cup;
I could say somewhat: tut, tut, by this wine,
I promise you 'tis good canary sack.
MRS ART. Fathers, you do me open violence,
To bring my name in question, and produce
This gentleman and others here to witness
My husband's shame in open audience.
What may my husband think, when he shall know
I went unto the Justice to complain?
But Master Justice here, more wise than you,
Says little to the matter, knowing well
His office is no whit concern'd herein;
Therefore with favour I will take my leave.
JUS. The woman saith but reason, Master Arthur,
And therefore give her licence to depart.
O. LUS. Here is dry justice, not to bid us drink!
Hark thee, my friend, I prythee lend thy cup;
Now, Master Justice, hear me but one word;
You think this woman hath had little wrong,
But, by this wine which I intend to drink--
JUS. Nay, save your oath, I pray you do not swear;
Or if you swear, take not too deep an oath.
O. LUS. Content you, I may take a lawful oath
Before a Justice; therefore, by this wine--
Y. LUS. A profound oath, well-sworn, and deeply took;
'Tis better thus than swearing on a book.
O. LUS. My daughter hath been wronged exceedingly.
JUS. O, sir, I would have credited these words
Without this oath: but bring your daughter hither,
That I may give her counsel, ere you go.
O. LUS. Marry, God's blessing on your heart for that!
Daughter, give ear to Justice Reason's words.
JUS. Good woman, or good wife, or mistress, if you have done amiss, it
should seem you have done a fault; and making a fault, there's no
question but you have done amiss: but if you walk uprightly, and
neither lead to the right hand nor the left, no question but you have
neither led to the right hand nor the left; but, as a man should say,
walked uprightly; but it should appear by these plaintiffs that you
have had some wrong: if you love your spouse entirely, it should seem
you affect him fervently; and if he hate you monstrously, it should
seem he loathes you most exceedingly, and there's the point at which I
will leave, for the time passes away: therefore, to conclude, this is
my best counsel: look that thy husband so fall in, that hereafter you
never fall out.
O. LUS. Good counsel, passing good instruction;
Follow it, daughter. Now, I promise you,
I have not heard such an oration
This many a day. What remains to do?
Y. LUS. Sir, I was call'd as witness to this matter,
I may be gone for aught that I can see.
JUS. Nay, stay, my friend, we must examine you.
What can you say concerning this debate
Betwixt young Master Arthur and his wife?
Y. LUS. Faith, just as much, I think, as you can say,
And that's just nothing.
JUS. How, nothing? Come, depose him; take his oath;
Swear him, I say; take his confession.
O. ART. What can you say, sir, in this doubtful case?
Y. LUS. Why, nothing, sir.
JUS. We cannot take him in contrary tales,
For he says nothing still, and that same nothing
Is that which we have stood on all this while;
He hath confess'd even all, for all is nothing.
This is your witness, he hath witness'd nothing
Since nothing, then, so plainly is confess'd,
And we by cunning answers and by wit
Have wrought him to confess nothing to us,
Write his confession.
O. ART. Why, what should we write?
JUS. Why, nothing: heard you not as well as I
What he confess'd? I say, write nothing down.
Mistress, we have dismissed you; love your husband,
Which, whilst you do, you shall not hate your husband.
Bring him before me; I will urge him with
This gentleman's express confession
Against you; send him to me; I'll not fail
To keep just nothing in my memory.
And, sir, now that we have examin'd you,
We likewise here discharge you with good leave.
Now, Master Arthur and Master Lusam too,
Come in with me; unless the man were here,
Whom most especially the cause concerns,
We cannot end this quarrel: but come near,
And we will taste a glass of our March beer.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_A Room in Mistress Mary's House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS MARY, MISTRESS SPLAY, _and_ BRABO.
MRS MA. I prythee, tell me, Brabo, what planet, think'st thou, governed
at my conception, that I live thus openly to the world?
BRA. Two planets reign'd at once; Venus, that's you,
And Mars, that's I, were in conjunction.
MRS SPLAY. Prythee, prythee, in faith, that conjunction copulative is
that part of speech that I live by.
BRA. Ha, ha! to see the world! we swaggerers,
That live by oaths and big-mouth'd menaces,
Are now reputed for the tallest men:
He that hath now a black moustachio,
Reaching from ear to ear, or turning up,
_Puncto reverso_, bristling towards the eye;
He that can hang two handsome tools at his side,
Go in disguis'd attire, wear iron enough,
Is held a tall man and a soldier.
He that with greatest grace can swear Gog's-zounds,
Or in a tavern make a drunken fray,
Can cheat at dice, swagger in bawdy-houses,
Wear velvet on his face, and with a grace
Can face it out with,--As I am a soldier!
He that can clap his sword upon the board,
He's a brave man--and such a man am I.
MRS MA. She that with kisses can both kill and cure,
That lives by love, that swears by nothing else
But by a kiss, which is no common oath;
That lives by lying, and yet oft tells truth;
That takes most pleasure when she takes most pains;
She's a good wench, my boy, and so am I.
MRS SPLAY. She that is past it, and prays for them that may--
BRA. Is an old bawd, as you are, Mistress Splay.
MRS SPLAY. O, do not name that name; do you not know,
That I could ne'er endure to hear that name?
But, if your man would leave us, I would read
The lesson that last night I promis'd you.
MRS MA. I prythee, leave us, we would be alone.
BRA. And will, and must: if you bid me begone,
I will withdraw, and draw on any he,
That in the world's wide round dare cope with me.
Mistress, farewell! to none I never speak
So kind a word. My salutations are,
Farewell, and be hang'd! or, in the devil's name!
What they have been, my many frays can tell;
You cannot fight; therefore to you, farewell!
[Exit.
MRS MA. O, this same swaggerer is
The bulwark of my reputation; but,
Mistress Splay, now to your lecture that you promised me.
MRS SPLAY. Daughter, attend, for I will tell thee now
What, in my young days, I myself have tried;
Be rul'd by me, and I will make thee rich.
You, God be prais'd, are fair, and, as they say,
Full of good parts; you have been often tried
To be a woman of good carriage,
Which, in my mind, is very commendable.
MRS MA. It is indeed; forward, good Mother Splay.
MRS SPLAY. And, as I told you, being fair, I wish,
Sweet daughter, you were as fortunate.
When any suitor comes to ask thy love,
Look not into his words, but into his sleeve;
If thou canst learn what language his purse speaks,
Be ruled by that; that's golden eloquence.
Money can make a slavering tongue speak plain.
If he that loves thee be deform'd and rich,
Accept his love: gold hides deformity.
Gold can make limping Vulcan walk upright;
Make squint eyes straight, a crabbed face look smooth,
Gilds copper noses, makes them look like gold;
Fills age's wrinkles up, and makes a face,
As old as Nestor's, look as young as Cupid's.
If thou wilt arm thyself against all shifts,
Regard all men according to their gifts.
This if thou practise, thou, when I am dead.
Wilt say: Old Mother Splay, soft lie[14] thy head.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.
MRS MA. Soft, who comes here? begone, good Mistress Splay;
Of thy rule's practice this is my first day.
MRS SPLAY. God, for thy passion, what a beast am I
To scare the bird, that to the net would fly!
[_Exit_.
Y. ART. By your leave, mistress.
MRS MA. What to do, master?
Y. ART. To give me leave to love you.
MRS MA. I had rather afford you some love to leave me.
Y. ART. I would you would as soon love me, as I could leave you.
MRS MA. I pray you, what are you, sir?
Y. ART. A man, I'll assure you.
MRS MA. How should I know that?
Y. ART. Try me, by my word, for I say I am a man;
Or by my deed I'll prove myself a man.
MRS MA. Are you not Master Arthur?
Y. ART. Not Master Arthur, but Arthur, and your servant,
sweet Mistress Mary.
MRS MA. Not Mistress Mary, but Mary, and your handmaid,
sweet Master Arthur.
Y. ART. That I love you, let my face tell you; that I love you more
than ordinarily, let this kiss testify; and that I love you fervently
and entirely, ask this gift, and see what it will answer you, myself,
my purse, and all, being wholly at your service.
MRS MA. That I take your love in good part, my thanks shall speak for
me; that I am pleased with your kiss, this interest of another shall
certify you; and that I accept your gift, my prostrate service and
myself shall witness with me. My love, my lips, and sweet self, are at
your service: wilt please you to come near, sir?
Y. ART. O, that my wife were dead! here would I make
My second choice: would she were buried!
From out her grave this marrigold should grow,
Which, in my nuptials, I would wear with pride.
Die shall she, I have doom'd her destiny. [_Aside_.]
MRS MA. 'Tis news, Master Arthur, to see you in such a place:
How doth your wife?
Y. ART. Faith, Mistress Mary, at the point of death,
And long she cannot live; she shall not live
To trouble me in this my second choice.
_Enter_ AMINADAB _with a bill and headpiece_.
MRS MA. I pray forbear, sir, for here comes my love:
Good sir, for this time leave me; by this kiss
You cannot ask the question at my hands
I will deny you: pray you, get you gone.
Y. ART. Farewell, sweet Mistress Mary! [_Exit_.
MRS MA. Sweet, adieu!
AMIN. Stand to me, bill! and, headpiece, sit thou close!
I hear my love, my wench, my duck, my dear,
Is sought by many suitors; but with this
I'll keep the door, and enter he that dare!
Virga, be gone, thy twigs I'll turn to steel;
These fingers, that were expert in the jerk;
Instead of lashing of the trembling _podex_,
Must learn pash and knock, and beat and mall,
Cleave pates and _caputs_; he that enters here,
Comes on to his death! _mors mortis_ he shall taste.
[_He hides himself_.
MRS MA. Alas! poor fool, the pedant's mad for love!
Thinks me more mad that I would marry him.
He's come to watch me with a rusty bill,
To keep my friends away by force of arms:
I will not see him, but stand still aside,
And here observe him what he means to do. [_Retires_.
AMIN. _O utinam_, that he that loves her best,
Durst offer but to touch her in this place!
_Per Jovem et Junonem! hoc_
Shall pash his coxcomb such a knock,
As that his soul his course shall take
To Limbo and Avernus' lake.
In vain I watch in this dark hole;
Would any living durst my manhood try,
And offer to come up the stairs this way!
MRS MA. O, We should see you make a goodly fray. [_Aside_.]
AMIN. The wench I here watch with my bill,
_Amo, amas, amavi_ still.
_Qui audet_--let him come that dare!
Death, hell, and limbo be his share!
_Enter_ BRABO _with his sword in his hand_.
BRA. Where's Mistress Mary? never a post here,
A bar of iron, 'gainst which to try my sword?
Now, by my beard, a dainty piece of steel.
AMIN. O Jove, what a qualm is this I feel!
BRA. Come hither, Mall, is none here but we two?
When didst thou see the starveling schoolmaster?
That rat, that shrimp, that spindle-shank,
That wren, that sheep-biter, that lean chitty-face,
That famine, that lean envy, that all-bones,
That bare anatomy, that Jack-a-Lent,
That ghost, that shadow, that moon in the wane?
AMIN. I wail in woe, I plunge in pain.[15] [_Aside_.]
BRA. When next I find him here, I'll hang him up,
Like a dried sausage, in the chimney's top:
That stock-fish, that poor John, that gut of men!
AMIN. O, that I were at home again! [_Aside_.]
BRA. When he comes next, turn him into the streets.
Now, come, let's dance the shaking of the sheets.
[_Exeunt_ MISTRESS MARY _and_ BRABO.
AMIN. _Qui, quae, quod_!
Hence, boist'rous bill! come, gentle rod!
Had not grimalkin stamp'd and star'd,
Aminadab had little car'd;
Or if, instead of this brown bill,
I had kept my Mistress Virga still,
And he upon another's back,
His points untruss'd, his breeches slack;
My countenance he should not dash,
For I am expert in the lash.
But my sweet lass my love doth fly,
Which shall make me by poison die.
_Per fidem_, I will rid my life
Either by poison, sword, or knife.
[_Exit_.
ACT III., SCENE I.
_A Room in Young Arthur's House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR _and_ PIPKIN.
MRS ART. Sirrah! when saw you your master?
PIP. Faith, mistress, when I last look'd upon him.
MRS ART. And when was that?
PIP. When I beheld him.
MRS ART. And when was that?
PIP. Marry, when he was in my sight, and that was yesterday; since when
I saw not my master, nor looked on my master, nor beheld my master, nor
had any sight of my master.
MRS ART. Was he not at my father-in-law's?
PIP. Yes, marry, was he.
MRS ART. Didst thou not entreat him to come home?
PIP. How should I, mistress? he came not there to-day.
MRS ART. Didst thou not say he was there?
PIP. True, mistress, he was there? but I did not tell ye when; he hath
been there divers times, but not of late.
MRS ART. About your business! here I'll sit and wait
His coming home, though it be ne'er so late.
Now once again go look him at the 'Change,
Or at the church with Sir Aminadab.
'Tis told me they use often conference;
When that is done, get you to school again.
PIP. I had rather play the truant at home, than go seek my master at
school: let me see, what age am I? some four and twenty, and how have
I profited? I was five years learning to crish cross[16] from great A,
and five years longer coming to F; there I stuck some three years,
before I could come to Q; and so, in process of time, I came to e per
se e, and com per se, and tittle; then I got to a, e, i, o, u; after,
to Our Father; and, in the sixteenth year of my age, and the fifteenth
of my going to school,
I am in good time gotten to a noun,
By the same token there my hose went down;
Then I got to a verb,
There I began first to have a beard;
Then I came to _iste, ista, istud_,
There my master whipped me till he fetched the blood,
And so forth: so that now I am become the greatest scholar in the
school, for I am bigger than two or three of them. But I am gone;
farewell, mistress!
[_Exit_.
SCENE II.
_The Street_.
_Enter_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
FUL. Love none at all! They will forswear themselves,
And when you urge them with it, their replies
Are, that Jove laughs at lovers' perjuries.
ANS. You told me of a jest concerning that;
I prythee, let me hear it.
FUL. That thou shalt.
My mistress in a humour had protested,
That above all the world she lov'd me best;
Saying with suitors she was oft molested,
And she had lodg'd her heart within my breast;
And sware (but me), both by her mask and fan,
She never would so much as name a man.
Not name a man? quoth I; yet be advis'd;
Not love a man but me! let it be so.
You shall not think, quoth she, my thought's disguis'd
In flattering language or dissembling show;
I say again, and I know what I do,
I will not name a man alive but you.
Into her house I came at unaware,
Her back was to me, and I was not seen;
I stole behind her, till I had her fair,
Then with my hands I closed both her een;
She, blinded thus, beginneth to bethink her
Which of her loves it was that did hoodwink her.
First she begins to guess and name a man,
That I well knew, but she had known far better;
The next I never did suspect till then:
Still of my name I could not hear a letter;
Then mad, she did name Robin, and then James,
Till she had reckon'd up some twenty names;
At length, when she had counted up a score,
As one among the rest, she hit on me;
I ask'd her if she could not reckon more,
And pluck'd away my hands to let her see;
But, when she look'd back, and saw me behind her,
She blush'd, and ask'd if it were I did blind her?
And since I sware, both by her mask and fan,
To trust no she-tongue, that can name a man.
ANS. Your great oath hath some exceptions:
But to our former purpose; yon is Mistress Arthur;
We will attempt another kind of wooing,
And make her hate her husband, if we can.
FUL. But not a word of passion or of love;
Have at her now to try her patience.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR.
God save you, mistress!
MRS ART. You are welcome, sir.
FUL. I pray you, where's your husband?
MRS ART. Not within.
ANS. Who, Master Arthur? him I saw even now
At Mistress Mary's, the brave courtesan's.
MRS ART. Wrong not my husband's reputation so;
I neither can nor will believe you, sir.
FUL. Poor gentlewoman! how much I pity you;
Your husband is become her only guest:
He lodges there, and daily diets there,
He riots, revels, and doth all things;
Nay, he is held the Master of Misrule
'Mongst a most loathed and abhorred crew:
And can you, being a woman, suffer this?
MRS ART. Sir, sir! I understand you well enough:
Admit, my husband doth frequent that house
Of such dishonest usage; I suppose
He doth it but in zeal to bring them home
By his good counsel from that course of sin;
And, like a Christian, seeing them astray
In the broad path that to damnation leads,
He useth thither to direct their feet
Into the narrow way that guides to heaven.
ANS. Was ever woman gull'd so palpably! [_Aside_.]
But, Mistress Arthur, think you as you say?
MRS ART. Sir, what I think, I think, and what I say,
I would I could enjoin you to believe.
ANS. Faith, Mistress Arthur, I am sorry for you:
And, in good sooth, I wish it lay in me
To remedy the least part of these wrongs
Your unkind husband daily proffers you.
MRS ART. You are deceived, he is not unkind:
Although he bear an outward face of hate,
His heart and soul are both assured mine.
ANS. Fie, Mistress Arthur! take a better spirit;
Be not so timorous to rehearse your wrongs:
I say, your husband haunts bad company,
Swaggerers, cheaters, wanton courtesans;
There he defiles his body, stains his soul,
Consumes his wealth, undoes himself and you
In danger of diseases, whose vile names
Are not for any honest mouths to speak,
Nor any chaste ears to receive and hear.
O, he will bring that face, admir'd for beauty,
To be more loathed than a lep'rous skin!
Divorce yourself, now whilst the clouds grow black;
Prepare yourself a shelter for the storm;
Abandon his most loathed fellowship:
You are young, mistress; will you lose your youth?
MRS ART. Tempt no more, devil! thy deformity
Hath chang'd itself into an angel's shape,
But yet I know thee by thy course of speech:
Thou gett'st an apple to betray poor Eve,
Whose outside bears a show of pleasant fruit;
But the vile branch, on which this apple grew,
Was that which drew poor Eve from paradise.
Thy Syren's song could make me drown myself,
But I am tied unto the mast of truth.
Admit, my husband be inclin'd to vice,
My virtues may in time recall him home;
But, if we both should desp'rate run to sin,
We should abide certain destruction.
But he's like one, that over a sweet face
Puts a deformed vizard; for his soul
Is free from any such intents of ill:
Only to try my patience he puts on
An ugly shape of black intemperance;
Therefore, this blot of shame which he now wears,
I with my prayers will purge, wash with my tears.
[_Exit_.
ANS. Fuller!
FUL. Anselm!
ANS. How lik'st thou this?
FUL. As school-boys jerks, apes whips, as lions cocks,
As Furies do fasting-days, and devils crosses,
As maids to have their marriage-days put off;
I like it as the thing I most do loathe.
What wilt thou do? for shame, persist no more
In this extremity of frivolous love.
I see, my doctrine moves no precise ears,
But such as are profess'd inamoratos.
ANS. O, I shall die!
FUL. Tush! live to laugh a little:
Here's the best subject that thy love affords;
Listen awhile and hear this: ho, boy! speak.
_Enter_ AMINADAB.
AMIN. _As in presenti_, thou loath'st the gift I sent thee;
_Nolo plus_ tarry, but die for the beauteous Mary;
Fain would I die by a sword, but what sword shall I die by?
Or by a stone, what stone? _nullus lapis jacet ibi_.
Knive I have none to sheathe in my breast, or empty my full veins:
Here's no wall or post which I can soil with my bruis'd brains;
First will I therefore say two or three creeds and Ave Marys,
And after go buy a poison at the apothecary's.
FUL. I pry thee, Anselm, but observe this fellow;
Doest not hear him? he would die for love;
That misshap'd love thou wouldst condemn in him,
I see in thee: I prythee, note him well.
ANS. Were I assur'd that I were such a lover
I should be with myself quite out of love:
I prythee, let's persuade him still to live.
FUL. That were a dangerous case, perhaps the fellow
In desperation would, to soothe us up,
Promise repentant recantation,
And after fall into that desperate course,
Both which I will prevent with policy.
AMIN. O death! come with thy dart! come, death, when I bid thee!
_Mors, veni: veni, mors_! and from this misery rid me;
She whom I lov'd--whom I lov'd, even she--my sweet pretty Mary,
Doth but flout and mock, and jest and dissimulary.
FUL. I'll fit him finely; in this paper is
The juice of mandrake, by a doctor made
To cast a man, whose leg should be cut off,
Into a deep, a cold, and senseless sleep;
Of such approved operation
That whoso takes it, is for twice twelve hours
Breathless, and to all men's judgments past all sense;
This will I give the pedant but in sport;
For when 'tis known to take effect in him,
The world will but esteem it as a jest;
Besides, it may be a means to save his life,
For being [not] perfect poison, as it seems
His meaning is, some covetous slave for coin
Will sell it him,[17] though it be held by law
To be no better than flat felony.
ANS. Uphold the jest--but he hath spied us; peace!
AMIN. Gentles, God save you!
Here is a man I have noted oft, most learn'd in physic,
One man he help'd of the cough, another he heal'd of the pthisic,
And I will board him thus, _salve, O salve, magister_!
FUL. _Gratus mihi advenis! quid mecum vis_?
AMIN. _Optatus venis; paucis te volo_.
FUL. _Si quid industria nostra tibi faciet, dic, quaeso_.
AMIN. Attend me, sir;--I have a simple house,
But, as the learned Diogenes saith
In his epistle to Tertullian,
It is extremely troubled with great rats;
I have no _mus_ puss, nor grey-ey'd cat,
To hunt them out. O, could your learned art
Show me a means how I might poison them,
_Tuus dum suus_, Sir Aminadab.
FUL. With all my heart; I am no rat-catcher;
But if you need a poison, here is that
Will pepper both your dogs, and rats, and cats:
Nay, spare your purse: I give this in good will;
And, as it proves, I pray you send to me,
And let me know. Would you aught else with me?
AMIN. _Minimè quidem_; here's that you say will take them?
A thousand thanks, sweet sir; I say to you,
As Tully in his Aesop's Fables said
_Ago tibi gratias_; so farewell, _vale_!
[_Exit_.
FUL. Adieu! Come, let us go; I long to see,
What the event of this new jest will be.
_Enter_ YOUNG ARTHUR.
Y. ART. Good morrow, gentleman; saw you not this way,
As you were walking, Sir Aminadab?
ANS. Master Arthur, as I take it?
Y. ART. Sir, the same.
ANS. Sir, I desire your more familiar love:
Would I could bid myself unto your house,
For I have wish'd for your acquaintance long.
Y. ART. Sweet Master Anselm, I desire yours too;
Will you come dine with me at home to-morrow?
You shall be welcome, I assure you, sir.
ANS. I fear, sir, I shall prove too bold a guest.
Y. ART. You shall be welcome, if you bring your friend.
FUL. O Lord, sir, we shall be too troublesome.
Y. ART. Nay, now I will enforce a promise from you:
Shall I expect you?
FUL. Yes, with all my heart.
ANS. A thousand thanks. Yonder's the schoolmaster.
So, till to-morrow, twenty times farewell.
Y. ART. I double all your farewells twenty-fold.
ANS. O, this acquaintance was well scrap'd of me;
By this my love to-morrow I shall see.
[_Exeunt_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
_Enter_ AMINADAB.
AMIN. This poison shall by force expel
_Amorem_, love, _infernum_, hell.
_Per hoc venenum, ego_, I
For my sweet lovely lass will die.
Y. ART. What do I hear of poison; which sweet means
Must make me a brave frolic widower?
It seems the doting fool, being forlorn,
Hath got some compound mixture in despair,
To end his desperate fortunes and his life;
I'll get it from him, and with this make way
To my wife's night and to my love's fair day.
AMIN. _In nomine domini_, friends, farewell!
I know death comes, here's such a smell!
_Pater et mater_, father and mother,
_Frater et soror_, sister and brother,
And my sweet Mary, not these drugs
Do send me to the infernal bugs,
But thy unkindness; so, adieu!
Hob-goblins, now I come to you.
Y. ART. Hold, man, I say! what will the madman do?
[_Takes away the supposed poison_.
Ay, have I got thee? thou shalt go with me. [_Aside_.
No more of that; fie, Sir Minadab!
Destroy yourself! If I but hear hereafter
You practise such revenge upon yourself,
All your friends shall know that for a wench--
A paltry wench--you would have kill'd yourself.
AMIN. _O tace, quaeso_; do not name
This frantic deed of mine for shame.
My sweet _magister_, not a word;
I'll neither drown me in a ford,
Nor give my neck such a scope,
T'embrace it with a hempen rope;
I'll die no way, till nature will me,
And death come with his dart, and kill me,
If what is pass'd you will conceal,
And nothing to the world reveal;
Nay, as Quintillian said of yore,
I'll strive to kill myself no more.
Y. ART. On that condition I'll conceal this deed:
To-morrow, pray, come and dine with me;
For I have many strangers; 'mongst the rest,
Some are desirous of your company.
You will not fail me?
AMIN. No, in sooth;
I'll try the sharpness of my tooth;
Instead of poison, I will eat
Rabbits, capons, and such meat;
And so, as Pythagoras says,
With wholesome fare prolong my days.
But, sir, will Mistress Mall be there?
Y. ART. She shall, she shall; man, never fear.
AMIN. Then my spirit becomes stronger,
And I will live and stretch longer;
For Ovid said, and did not lie,
That poison'd men do often die:
But poison henceforth I'll not eat,
Whilst I can other victuals get.
To-morrow, if you make a feast,
Be sure, sir, I will be your guest.
But keep my counsel, _vale tu_!
And, till to-morrow, sir, adieu!
At your table I will prove,
If I can eat away my love. [_Exit_.
Y. ART. O, I am glad I have thee; now devise
A way how to bestow it cunningly;
It shall be thus: to-morrow I'll pretend
A reconcilement 'twixt my wife and me,
And to that end I will invite thus many--
First Justice Reason, as the chief man there;
My father Arthur, old Lusam, young Lusam.
Master Fuller and Master Anselm I have bid already;
Then will I have my lovely Mary too,
Be it but to spite my wife, before she die;
For die she shall before to-morrow night.
The operation of this poison is
Not suddenly to kill; they that take it
Fall in a sleep, and then 'tis past recure,
And this will I put in her cup to-morrow.
_Enter_ PIPKIN, _running_.
PIP. This 'tis to have such a master! I have sought him at the 'Change,
at the school, at every place, but I cannot find him nowhere.
[_Sees_ M. ART.]
O, cry mercy! my mistress would entreat you to come home.
Y. ART. I cannot come to-night; some urgent business
Will all this night employ me otherwise.
PIP. I believe my mistress would con you as much thank to do that
business at home as abroad.
Y. ART. Here, take my purse, and bid my wife provide
Good cheer against to-morrow; there will be
Two or three strangers of my late acquaintance.
Sirrah, go you to Justice Reason's house;
Invite him first with all solemnity;
Go to my father's and my father-in-law's;
Here, take this note--
The rest that come I will invite myself:
About it with what quick despatch thou can'st.
PIP. I warrant you, master, I'll despatch this business with more
honesty than you'll despatch yours. But, master, will the gentlewoman
be there?
Y. ART. What gentlewoman?
PIP. The gentlewoman of the old house, that is as well known by the
colour she lays on her cheeks, as an alehouse by the painting is laid
on his lattice; she that is, like _homo_, common to all men; she that
is beholden to no trade, but lives of herself.
Y. ART. Sirrah, begone, or I will send you hence.
PIP. I'll go [_aside_]; but, by this hand, I'll tell my mistress as
soon as I come home that mistress light-heels comes to dinner
to-morrow. [_Exit_.
Y. ART. Sweet Mistress Mary, I'll invite myself:
And there I'll frolic, sup, and spend the night.
My plot is current; here 'tis in my hand
Will make me happy in my second choice:
And I may freely challenge as mine own,
What I am now enforc'd to seek by stealth.
Love is not much unlike ambition;
For in them both all lets must be remov'd
'Twixt every crown and him that would aspire;
And he that will attempt to win the same
Must plunge up to the depth o'er head and ears,
And hazard drowning in that purple sea:
So he that loves must needs through blood and fire,
And do all things to compass his desire.
[_Exit_.
SCENE III.
_A Room in Young Arthur's House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR _and her_ MAID.
MRS ART. Come, spread the table; is the hall well rubb'd?
The cushions in the windows neatly laid?
The cupboard of plate set out? the casements stuck
With rosemary and flowers? the carpets brush'd?
MAID. Ay, forsooth, mistress.
MRS ART. Look to the kitchen-maid, and bid the cook take down the
oven-stone, [lest] the pies be burned: here, take my keys, and give
him out more spice.
MAID. Yes, forsooth, mistress.
MRS ART. Where's that knave Pipkin? bid him spread the cloth,
Fetch the clean diaper napkins from my chest,
Set out the gilded salt, and bid the fellow
Make himself handsome, get him a clean band.
MAID. Indeed, forsooth, mistress, he is such a sloven,
That nothing will sit handsome about him;
He had a pound of soap to scour his face,
And yet his brow looks like the chimney-stock.
MRS ART. He'll be a sloven still; maid, take this apron,
And bring me one of linen: quickly, maid.
MAID. I go, forsooth.
MRS ART. There was a curtsy! let me see't again;
Ay, that was well.--[_Exit_ MAID.] I fear my guests will come
Ere we be ready. What a spite is this.
_Within_. Mistress!
MRS ART. What's the matter?
_Within_. Mistress, I pray, take Pipkin from the fire;
We cannot keep his fingers from the roast.
MRS ART. Bid him come hither; what a knave is that!
Fie, fie, never out of the kitchen!
Still broiling by the fire!
_Enter_ PIPKIN.
PIP. I hope you will not take Pipkin from the fire,
Till the broth be enough.
_Enter_ MAID, _with an apron_.
MRS ART. Well, sirrah, get a napkin and a trencher,
And wait to-day. So, let me see: my apron. [_Puts it on_.]
PIP. Mistress, I can tell ye one thing, my master's wench
Will come home to-day to dinner.
_Enter_ JUSTICE REASON, _and his man_ HUGH.
MRS ART. She shall be welcome, if she be his guest.
But here's some of our guests are come already:
A chair for Justice Reason, sirrah!
JUS. Good morrow, Mistress Arthur! you are like a good housewife:
At your request I am come home. What, a chair!
Thus age seeks ease. Where is your husband, mistress?
What, a cushion, too!
PIP. I pray you, ease your tail, sir.
JUS. Marry, and will, good fellow; twenty thanks.
[HUGH _and_ PIPKIN _converse apart_.]
PIP. Master Hugh, as welcome as heart can tell, or tongue can think.
HUGH. I thank you, Master Pipkin; I have got many a good dish of broth
by your means.
PIP. According to the ancient courtesy, you are welcome; according to
the time and place, you are heartily welcome: when they are busied at
the board, we will find ourselves busied in the buttery; and so, sweet
Hugh, according to our scholars' phrase, _gratulor adventum tuum_.
HUGH. I will answer you with the like, sweet Pipkin, _gratias_.
PIP. As much grace as you will, but as little of it as you can,
good Hugh. But here comes more guests.
_Enter_ OLD MASTER ARTHUR _and_ OLD MASTER LUSAM.
MRS ART. More stools and cushions for these gentlemen.
O. ART. What, Master Justice Reason, are you here?
Who would have thought to have met you in this place?
O. LUS. What say mine eyes, is Justice Reason here?
Mountains may meet, and so, I see, may we.
JUS. Well, when men meet, they meet,
And when they part, they oft leave one another's company;
So we, being met, are met.
O. LUS. Truly, you say true;
And Master Justice Reason speaks but reason:
To hear how wisely men of law will speak!
_Enter_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
ANS. Good morrow, gentlemen!
MRS ART. What? are you there?
ANS. Good morrow, mistress, and good morrow, all!
JUS. If I may be so bold in a strange place,
I say, good morrow, and as much to you.
I pray, gentlemen, will you sit down?
We have been young, like you; and, if you live
Unto our age, you will be old like us.
FUL. Be rul'd by reason; but who's here?
_Enter_ AMINADAB.
AMIN. _Salvete, omnes_! and good day
To all at once, as I may say;
First, Master Justice; next, Old Arthur,
That gives me pension by the quarter;
To my good mistress and the rest,
That are the founders of this feast;
In brief, I speak to _omnes_, all,
That to their meat intend to fall.
JUS. Welcome, Sir Aminadab; O, my son
Hath profited exceeding well with you:
Sit down, sit down, by Mistress Arthur's leave.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, YOUNG MASTER
LUSAM, _and_ MISTRESS MARY.
Y. ART. Gentlemen, welcome all; whilst I deliver
Their private welcomes, wife, be it your charge
To give this gentlewoman entertainment.
MRS ART. Husband, I will. O, this is she usurps
The precious interest of my husband's love;
Though, as I am a woman, I could well
Thrust such a lewd companion out of doors;
Yet, as I am a true, obedient, wife,
I'd kiss her feet to do my husband's will. [_Aside_.
You are entirely welcome, gentlewoman;
Indeed you are; pray, do not doubt of it.
MRS MA. I thank you, Mistress Arthur; now, by my little honesty,
It much repents me to wrong so chaste a woman. [_Aside_.
Y. ART. Gentles, put o'er your legs; first, Master Justice,
Here you shall sit.
JUS. And here shall Mistress Mary sit by me.
Y. ART. Pardon me, sir, she shall have my wife's place.
MRS ART. Indeed, you shall, for he will have it so.
MRS MA. If you will needs; but I shall do you wrong
To take your place.
O. LUS. Ay, by my faith, you should.
MRS ART. That is no wrong, which we impute no wrong!
I pray you, sit.
Y. ART. Gentlemen all, I pray you, seat yourselves:
What, Sir Aminadab, I know where your heart is.
[_Aside_.
AMIN. Mum, not a word, _pax vobis_, peace:
Come, gentles, I'll be of this mess.
Y. ART. So, who gives thanks?
AMIN. Sir, that will I.
Y. ART. I pray you to it by and by.
Where's Pipkin?
Wait at the board; let Master Season's man
Be had into the buttery; but first give him
A napkin and a trencher. Well-said. Hugh,
Wait at your master's elbow: now say grace.
AMIN. _Gloria Deo_, sirs, proface;
Attend me now, whilst I say grace.
For bread and salt, for grapes and malt,
For flesh and fish, and every dish;
Mutton and beef, of all meats chief;
For cow-heels, chitterlings, tripes and souse,
And other meat that's in the house;
For racks, for breasts, for legs, for loins,
For pies with raisins and with proins,
For fritters, pancakes, and for fries,
For ven'son pasties and minc'd pies;
Sheeps'-head and garlic, brawn and mustard,
Wafers, spic'd cakes, tart, and custard;
For capons, rabbits, pigs, and geese,
For apples, caraways, and cheese;
For all these and many mo:
_Benedicamus Domino_!
ALL. Amen.
JUS. I con you thanks; but, Sir Aminadab,
Is that your scholar! now, I promise you,
He is a toward stripling of his age.
PIP. Who? I, forsooth? yes, indeed, forsooth, I am his scholar. I would
you should well think I have profited under him too; you shall hear, if
he will pose me.
O. ART. I pray you, let's hear him.
AMIN. _Huc ades_, Pipkin.
PIP. _Adsum_.
AMIN. _Quot casus sunt_? how many cases are there?
PIP. Marry, a great many.
AMIN. Well-answer'd, a great many: there are six,
Six, a great many; 'tis well-answer'd;
And which be they?
PIP. A bow-case, a cap-case, a comb-case, a lute-case, a fiddle-case,
and a candle-case.
JUS. I know them all; again, well-answer'd:
Pray God, my youngest son profit no worse.
AMIN. How many parsons are there?
PIP. I'll tell you as many as I know, if you'll give me leave to reckon
them.
ANS. I prythee, do.
PIP. The parson of Fenchurch, the parson of Pancras, and the parson
of------
Y. ART. Well, sir, about your business:--now will I
Temper the cup my loathed wife shall drink
[_Aside, and exit_.
O. ART. Daughter, methinks you are exceeding sad.
O. LUS. Faith, daughter, so thou art exceeding sad.
MRS ART. 'Tis but my countenance, for my heart is merry:
Mistress, were you as merry as you are welcome,
You should not sit so sadly as you do.
MRS MA. 'Tis but because I am seated in your place,
Which is frequented seldom with true mirth.
MRS ART. The fault is neither in the place nor me.
AMIN. How say you, lady?
To him you last did lie by!
All this is no more, _praebibo tibi_.
MRS MA. I thank you, sir. Mistress, this draught shall be
To him that loves both you and me!
MRS ART. I know your meaning.
ANS. Now to me,
If she have either love or charity.
MRS ART. Here, Master Justice, this to your grave years,
A mournful draught, God wot: half-wine, half-tears. [_Aside_.
JUS. Let come, my wench; here, youngsters, to you all!
You are silent: here's that will make you talk.
Wenches, methink you sit like puritans:
Never a jest abroad to make them laugh?
FUL. Sir, since you move speech of a puritan,
If you will give me audience, I will tell ye
As good a jest as ever you did hear.
O. ART. A jest? that's excellent!
JUS. Beforehand, let's prepare ourselves to laugh;
A jest is nothing, if it be not grac'd.
Now, now, I pray you, when begins this jest?
FUL. I came unto a puritan, to woo her,
And roughly did salute her with a kiss:
Away! quoth she, and rudely push'd me from her;
Brother, by yea and nay, I like not this:
And still with amorous talk she was saluted,
My artless speech with Scripture was confuted.
O. LUS. Good, good, indeed; the best that e'er I heard.
O. ART. I promise you, it was exceeding good.
FUL. Oft I frequented her abode by night,
And courted her, and spake her wond'rous fair;
But ever somewhat did offend her sight,
Either my double ruff or my long hair;
My scarf was vain, my garments hung too low,
My Spanish shoe was cut too broad at toe.
ALL. Ha, ha! the best that ever I heard!
FUL. I parted for that time, and came again,
Seeming to be conform'd in look and speech;
My shoes were sharp-toed, and my band was plain,
Close to my thigh my metamorphos'd breech;
My cloak was narrow-cap'd, my hair cut shorter;
Off went my scarf, thus march'd I to the porter.
ALL. Ha, ha! was ever heard the like?
FUL. The porter, spying me, did lead me in,
Where his fair mistress sat reading of a chapter;
Peace to this house, quoth I, and those within,
Which holy speech with admiration wrapp'd her;
And ever as I spake, and came her nigh,
Seeming divine, turn'd up the white of eye.
JUS. So, so, what then?
O. LUS. Forward, I pray, forward, sir.
FUL. I spake divinely, and I call'd her sister,
And by this means we were acquainted well:
By yea and nay, I will, quoth I, and kiss'd her.
She blush'd, and said, that long-tongu'd men would tell;
I swore[18] to be as secret as the night,
And said, on sooth, I would put out the light.
O. ART. In sooth he would! a passing-passing jest.
FUL. O, do not swear, quoth she, yet put it out,
Because I would not have you break your oath.
I felt a bed there, as I grop'd about;
In troth, quoth I, here will we rest us both.
Swear you, in troth, quoth she? had you not sworn,
I had not done't, but took it in full scorn:
Then you will come, quoth I? though I be loth,
I'll come, quoth she, be't but to keep your oath.
JUS. 'Tis very pretty; but now, when's the jest?
O. ART. O, forward, to the jest in any case.
O. LUS. I would not, for an angel, lose the jest.
FUL. Here's right the dunghill cock that finds a pearl.
To talk of wit to these, is as a man
Should cast out jewels to a herd of swine--[_aside_.]
Why, in the last words did consist the jest.
O. LUS. Ay, in the last words? ha, ha, ha!
It was an excellent admired jest--
To them that understood it.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, _with two cups of wine_.
JUS. It was, indeed; I must, for fashion's sake,
Say as they say; but otherwise, O, God! [_Aside_.
Good Master Arthur, thanks for our good cheer.
Y. ART. Gentlemen, welcome all; now hear me speak--
One special cause that mov'd me lead you hither,
Is for an ancient grudge that hath long since
Continued 'twixt my modest wife and me:
The wrongs that I have done her I recant.
In either hand I hold a sev'ral cup,
This in the right hand, wife, I drink to thee,
This in the left hand, pledge me in this draught,
Burying all former hatred; so, have to thee. [_He drinks_.
MRS ART. The welcom'st pledge that yet I ever took:
Were this wine poison, or did taste like gall,
The honey-sweet condition of your draught
Would make it drink like nectar: I will pledge you,
Were it the last that I should ever drink.
Y. ART. Make that account: thus, gentlemen, you see
Our late discord brought to a unity.
AMIN. _Ecce, quam bonum et quam jucundum
Est habitare fratres in unum_.
O. ART. My heart doth taste the sweetness of your pledge,
And I am glad to see this sweet accord.
O. LUS. Glad, quotha? there's not one among'st us,
But may be exceeding glad.
JUS. I am, ay, marry, am I, that I am.
Y. LUS. The best accord that could betide their loves.
ANS. The worst accord that could betide my love.
[_All about to rise_.
AMIN: What, rising, gentles? keep your place,
I will close up your stomachs with a grace;
_O Domine et care Pater_,
That giv'st us wine instead of water;
And from the pond and river clear
Mak'st nappy ale and good March beer;
That send'st us sundry sorts of meat,
And everything we drink or eat;
To maids, to wives, to boys, to men,
_Laus Deo Sancto_, Amen.
Y. ART. So, much good do ye all, and, gentlemen,
Accept your welcomes better than your cheer.
O. LUS. Nay, so we do, I'll give you thanks for all.
Come, Master Justice, you do walk our way,
And Master Arthur, and old Hugh your man;
We'll be the first [that] will strain courtesy.
JUS. God be with you all!
[_Exeunt_ O. ART., O. LUS., _and_ JUS. REASON.
AMIN. _Proximus ego sum_, I'll be the next,
And man you home; how say you, lady?
Y. ART. I pray you do, good Sir Aminadab.
MRS MA. Sir, if it be not too much trouble to you,
Let me entreat that kindness at your hands.
AMIN. Entreat! fie! no, sweet lass, command;
_Sic_, so, _nunc_, now, take the upper hand.
[_Exit_ MRS MARY _escorted by_ AMINADAB.
Y. ART. Come, wife, this meeting was all for our sakes:
I long to see the force my poison takes. [_Aside_.
MRS ART. My dear-dear husband, in exchange of hate,
My love and heart shall on your service wait.
[_Exeunt_ Y. ART., MRS ART., _and_ PIPKIN.
ANS. So doth my love on thee; but long no more;
To her rich love thy service is too poor.
FUL. For shame, no more! you had best expostulate
Your love with every stranger; leave these sighs,
And change them to familiar conference.
Y. LUS. Trust me, the virtues of young Arthur's wife,
Her constancy, modest humility,
Her patience, and admired temperance,
Have made me love all womankind the better.
_Re-enter_ PIPKIN.
PIP. O, my mistress! my mistress! she's dead!
She's gone! she's dead! she's gone!
ANS. What's that he says?
PIP. Out of my way! stand back, I say!
All joy from earth has fled!
She is this day as cold as clay;
My mistress she is dead!
O Lord, my mistress! my mistress! [_Exit_.
ANS. What, Mistress Arthur dead? my soul is vanish'd,
And the world's wonder from the world quite banish'd.
O, I am sick, my pain grows worse and worse;
I am quite struck through with this late discourse.
FUL. What! faint'st thou, man? I'll lead thee hence; for shame!
Swoon at the tidings of a woman's death!
Intolerable, and beyond all thought!
Come, my love's fool, give me thy hand to lead;
This day one body and two hearts are dead.
[_Exeunt_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
Y. LUS. But now she was as well as well might be,
And on the sudden dead; joy in excess
Hath overrun her poor disturbed soul.
I'll after, and see how Master Arthur takes it;
His former hate far more suspicious makes it.
[_Exit_.
_Enter_ HUGH, _and after him_, PIPKIN.
HUGH. My master hath left his gloves behind where he sat in his chair,
and hath sent me to fetch them; it is such an old snudge, he'll not
lose the droppings of his nose.
PIP. O mistress! O Hugh! O Hugh! O mistress!
Hugh, I must needs beat thee; I am mad!
I am lunatic! I must fall upon thee: my mistress is dead!
[_Beats_ HUGH.
HUGH. O Master Pipkin, what do you mean? what do you mean,
Master Pipkin?
PIP. O Hugh! O mistress! O mistress! O Hugh!
HUGH. O Pipkin! O God! O God! O Pipkin!
Pip. O Hugh, I am mad! bear with me, I cannot choose: O death!
O mistress! O mistress! O death! [_Exit_.
HUGH. Death, quotha? he hath almost made me dead with beating.
_Re-enter_ JUSTICE REASON, OLD MASTER ARTHUR,
_and_ OLD MASTER LUSAM.
JUS. I wonder why the knave, my man, stays thus,
And comes not back: see where the villain loiters.
_Re-enter_ PIPKIN.
PIP. O Master Justice! Master Arthur! Master Lusam! wonder not why I
thus blow and bluster; my mistress is dead! dead is my mistress! and
therefore hang yourselves. O, my mistress, my mistress!
[_Exit_.
O. ART. My son's wife dead!
O. LUS. My daughter!
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, _mourning_.
JUS. Mistress Arthur! Here comes her husband.
Y. ART. O, here the woful'st husband comes alive,
No husband now; the wight, that did uphold
That name of husband, is now quite o'erthrown,
And I am left a hapless widower.
O. ART. Fain would I speak, if grief would suffer me.
O. LUS. As Master Arthur says, so say I;
If grief would let me, I would weeping die.
To be thus hapless in my aged years!
O, I would speak; but my words melt to tears.
Y. ART. Go in, go in, and view the sweetest corpse
That e'er was laid upon a mournful room;
You cannot speak for weeping sorrow's doom:
Bad news are rife, good tidings seldom come.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT IV., SCENE I.
_A Street_.
_Enter_ ANSELM.
ANS. What frantic humour doth thus haunt my sense,
Striving to breed destruction in my spirit?
When I would sleep, the ghost of my sweet love
Appears unto me in an angel's shape:
When I'm awake, my fantasy presents,
As in a glass, the shadow of my love:
When I would speak, her name intrudes itself
Into the perfect echoes of my speech:
And though my thought beget some other word,
Yet will my tongue speak nothing but her name.
If I do meditate, it is on her;
If dream of her, or if discourse of her,
I think her ghost doth haunt me, as in times
Of former darkness old wives' tales report.
_Enter_ FULLER.
Here comes my better genius, whose advice
Directs me still in all my actions.
How now, from whence come you?
FUL. Faith, from the street, in which, as I pass'd by,
I met the modest Mistress Arthur's corpse,
And after her as mourners, first her husband,
Next Justice Reason, then old Master Arthur,
Old Master Lusam, and young Lusam too,
With many other kinsfolks, neighbours, friends,
And others, that lament her funeral:
Her body is by this laid in the vault.
ANS. And in that vault my body I will lay!
I prythee, leave me: thither is my way.
FUL. I am sure you jest, you mean not as you say.
ANS. No, no, I'll but go to the church, and pray.
FUL. Nay, then we shall be troubled with your humour.
ANS. As ever thou didst love me, or as ever
Thou didst delight in my society,
By all the rights of friendship and of love,
Let me entreat thy absence but one hour,
And at the hour's end I will come to thee.
FUL. Nay, if you will be foolish, and past reason,
I'll wash my hands, like Pilate, from thy folly,
And suffer thee in these extremities. [_Exit_.
ANS. Now it is night, and the bright lamps of heaven
Are half-burn'd out: now bright Adelbora
Welcomes the cheerful day-star to the east,
And harmless stillness hath possess'd the world:
This is the church,--this hollow is the vault,
Where the dead body of my saint remains,
And this the coffin that enshrines her body,
For her bright soul is now in paradise.
My coming is with no intent of sin,
Or to defile the body of the dead;
But rather take my last farewell of her,
Or languishing and dying by her side,
My airy soul post after hers to heaven.
[_Comes to_ MRS ARTHUR'S _tomb_.
First, with this latest kiss I seal my love:
Her lips are warm, and I am much deceiv'd,
If that she stir not. O, this Golgotha,
This place of dead men's bones is terrible,
Presenting fearful apparitions!
It is some spirit that in the coffin lies,
And makes my hair start up on end with fear!
Come to thyself, faint heart--she sits upright!
O, I would hide me, but I know not where.
Tush, if it be a spirit, 'tis a good spirit;
For with her body living ill she knew not;
And with her body dead ill cannot meddle.
MRS ART. Who am I? Or where am I?
ANS. O, she speaks,
And by her language now I know she lives.
MRS ART. O, who can tell me where I am become?
For in this darkness I have lost myself;
I am not dead, for I have sense and life:
How come I then in this coffin buried?
ANS. Anselm, be bold; she lives, and destiny
Hath train'd thee hither to redeem her life.
MRS ART. Lives any 'mongst these dead? none but myself?
ANS. O yes, a man, whose heart till now was dead,
Lives and survives at your return to life:
Nay, start not; I am Anselm, one who long
Hath doted on your fair perfection,
And, loving you more than became me well,
Was hither sent by some strange providence,
To bring you from these hollow vaults below,
To be a liver in the world again.
MRS ART. I understand you, and I thank the heavens,
That sent you to revive me from this fear,
And I embrace my safety with good-will.
_Enter_ AMINADAB _with two or three_ BOYS.
AMIN. _Mane citus lectum fuge, mollem discute somnum,
Templa petas supplex, et venerate deum_.
Shake off thy sleep, get up betimes,
Go to the church and pray,
And, never fear, God will thee hear,
And keep thee all the day.
Good counsel, boys; observe it, mark it well;
This early rising, this _diluculo_
Is good both for your bodies and your minds:
'Tis not yet day; give me my tinder-box;
Meantime, unloose your satchels and your books:
Draw, draw, and take you to your lessons, boys.
1ST BOY. O Lord, master, what's that in the white sheet?
AMIN. In the white sheet, my boy? _Dic ubi_, where?
1ST BOY. _Vide_, master, _vide illic_, there.
AMIN. O, _Domine, Domine_, keep us from evil,
A charm from flesh, the world, and the devil!
[_Exeunt_.
MRS ART. O, tell me not my husband was ingrate,
Or that he did attempt to poison me,
Or that he laid me here, and I was dead;
These are no means at all to win my love.
ANS. Sweet mistress, he bequeath'd you to the earth;
You promis'd him to be his wife till death,
And you have kept your promise: but now, since
The world, your husband, and your friends suppose
That you are dead, grant me but one request,
And I will swear never to solicit more
Your sacred thoughts to my dishonest love.
MRS ART. So your demand may be no prejudice
To my chaste name, no wrong unto my husband,
No suit that may concern my wedlock's breach,
I yield unto it; but
To pass the bounds of modesty and chastity,
Sooner[19] will I bequeath myself again
Unto this grave, and never part from hence,
Than taint my soul with black impurity.
ANS. Take here my hand and faithful heart to gage.
That I will never tempt you more to sin:
This my request is--since your husband dotes
Upon a lewd, lascivious courtesan--
Since he hath broke the bonds of your chaste bed,
And, like a murd'rer, sent you to your grave,
Do but go with me to my mother's house;
There shall you live in secret for a space,
Only to see the end of such lewd lust,
And know the difference of a chaste wife's bed,
And one whose life is in all looseness led.
MRS ART. Your mother is a virtuous matron held:
Her counsel, conference, and company
May much avail me; there a space I'll stay,
Upon condition, as you said before,
You never will move your unchaste suit more.
ANS. My faith is pawn'd. O, never had chaste wife
A husband of so lewd and unchaste life!
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_A Room in Mistress Mary's House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS MARY, MISTRESS SPLAY, _and_ BRABO.
BRA. Mistress, I long have serv'd you, even since
These bristled hairs upon my grave-like chin
Were all unborn; when I first came to you,
These infant feathers of these ravens' wings
Were not once begun.
MRS SPLAY. No, indeed, they were not.
BRA. Now in my two moustachios for a need,
(Wanting a rope) I well could hang myself;
I prythee, mistress, for all my long service,
For all the love that I have borne thee long,
Do me this favour now, to marry me.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.
MRS MA. Marry, come up, you blockhead! you great ass!
What! wouldst thou have me marry with a devil!
But peace, no more; here comes the silly fool,
That we so long have set our lime-twigs for;
Begone, and leave me to entangle him.
[_Exeunt_ MISTRESS SPLAY _and_ BRABO.
Y. ART. What, Mistress Mary?
MRS MA. O good Master Arthur,
Where have you been this week, this month, this year?
This year, said I? where have you been this age?
Unto a lover ev'ry minute seems
Time out of mind:
How should I think you love me,
That can endure to stay so long from me?
Y. ART. I' faith, sweetheart, I saw thee yesternight.
MRS MA. Ay, true, you did, but since you saw me not;
At twelve o'clock you parted from my house,
And now 'tis morning, and new-strucken seven;
Seven hours thou stay'd'st from me; why didst thou so?
They are my seven years' 'prenticeship of woe.
Y. ART. I prythee, be patient; I had some occasion
That did enforce me from thee yesternight.
MRS MA. Ay, you are soon enforc'd; fool that I am,
To dote on one that nought respecteth me!
'Tis but my fortune, I am born to bear it,
And ev'ry one shall have their destiny.
Y. ART. Nay, weep not, wench; thou wound'st me with thy tears.
MRS MA. I am a fool, and so you make me too;
These tears were better kept than spent in waste
On one that neither tenders them nor me.
What remedy? but if I chance to die,
Or to miscarry with that I go withal,
I'll take my death that thou art cause thereof;
You told me that, when your wife was dead,
You would forsake all others, and take me.
Y. ART. I told thee so, and I will keep my word,
And for that end I came thus early to thee;
I have procur'd a licence, and this night
We will be married in a lawless[20] church.
MRS. MA. These news revive me, and do somewhat ease
The thought that was new-gotten to my heart.
But shall it be to-night?
Y. ART. Ay, wench, to-night.
A se'nnight and odd days, since my wife died,
Is past already, and her timeless death
Is but a nine-days' talk; come, go with me,
And it shall be despatched presently.
MRS. MA. Nay, then, I see thou lov'st me; and I find
By this last motion thou art grown more kind.
Y. ART. My love and kindness, like my age, shall grow,
And with the time increase; and thou shalt see
The older I grow, the kinder I will be.
MRS. MA, Ay, so I hope it will; but, as for mine,
That with my age shall day by day decline. [_Aside_.
Come, shall we go?
Y. ART. With thee to the world's end,
Whose beauty most admire, and all commend.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_The Street near the House of Anselm's Mother_.
_Enter_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
ANS. 'Tis true, as I relate the circumstance,
And she is with my mother safe at home;
But yet, for all the hate I can allege
Against her husband, nor for all the love
That on my own part I can urge her to,
Will she be won to gratify my love.
FUL. All things are full of ambiguity,
And I admire this wond'rous accident.
But, Anselm, Arthur's about a new wife, _a bona roba_;
How will she take it when she hears this news?
ANS. I think, even as a virtuous maiden should;
It may be that report may, from thy mouth,
Beget some pity from her flinty heart,
And I will urge her with it presently.
FUL. Unless report be false, they are link'd already;
They are fast as words can tie them: I will tell thee
How I, by chance, did meet him the last night:--
One said to me this Arthur did intend
To have a wife, and presently to marry.
Amidst the street, I met him as my friend,
And to his love a present he did carry;
It was some ring, some stomacher, or toy;
I spake to him, and bad God give him joy.
God give me joy, quoth he; of what, I pray?
Marry, quoth I, your wedding that is toward.
'Tis false, quoth he, and would have gone his way.
Come, come, quoth I, so near it and so froward:
I urg'd him hard by our familiar loves,
Pray'd him withal not to forget my gloves.
Then he began:--Your kindness hath been great,
Your courtesy great, and your love not common;
Yet so much favour pray let me entreat,
To be excus'd from marrying any woman.
I knew the wench that is become his bride,
And smil'd to think how deeply he had lied;
For first he swore he did not court a maid;
A wife he could not, she was elsewhere tied;
And as for such as widows were, he said,
And deeply swore none such should be his bride:
Widow, nor wife, nor maid--I ask'd no more,
Knowing he was betroth'd unto a whore.
ANS. Is it not Mistress Mary that you mean?
She that did dine with us at Arthur's house?
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR.
FUL. The same, the same:--here comes the gentlewoman;
O Mistress Arthur, I am of your counsel:
Welcome from death to life!
ANS. Mistress, this gentleman hath news to tell ye,
And as you like of it, so think of me.
FUL. Your husband hath already got a wife;
A huffing wench, i' faith, whose ruffling silks
Make with their motion music unto love,
And you are quite forgotten.
ANS. I have sworn
To move this my unchaste demand no more. [_Aside_.]
FUL. When doth your colour change? When do your eyes
Sparkle with fire to revenge these wrongs?
When doth your tongue break into rage and wrath,
Against that scum of manhood, your vile husband?'
He first misus'd you.
ANS. And yet can you love him?
FUL. He left your chaste bed, to defile the bed
Of sacred marriage with a courtesan.
ANS. Yet can you love him?
FUL. And, not content with this,
Abus'd your honest name with sland'rous words,
And fill'd your hush'd house with unquietness.
ANS. And can you love him yet?
FUL. Nay, did he not
With his rude fingers dash you on the face,
And double-dye your coral lips with blood?
Hath he not torn those gold wires from your head,
Wherewith Apollo would have strung his harp,
And kept them to play music to the gods?
Hath he not beat you, and with his rude fists
Upon that crimson temperature of your cheeks
Laid a lead colour with his boist'rous blows?
ANS. And can you love him yet?
FUL. Then did he not,
Either by poison or some other plot,
Send you to death where, by his providence,
God hath preserved you by that wond'rous miracle?
Nay, after death, hath he not scandalis'd
Your place with an immodest courtesan?
ANS. And can you love him yet?
MRS ART. And yet, and yet,
And still, and ever whilst I breathe this air:
Nay, after death, my unsubstantial soul,
Like a good angel, shall attend on him,
And keep him from all harm.
But is he married? much good do his heart!
Pray God, she may content him better far
Than I have done; long may they live in peace,
Till I disturb their solace; but because
I fear some mischief doth hang o'er his head,
I'll weep my eyes dry with my present care,
And for their healths make hoarse my tongue with prayer.
[_Exit_.
FUL. Art sure she is a woman? if she be,
She is create of nature's purity.
ANS. O yes, I too well know she is a woman;
Henceforth my virtue shall my love withstand,
And of my striving thoughts get th'upper hand.
FUL. Then, thus resolv'd, I straight will drink to thee
A health thus deep, to drown thy melancholy.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT V., SCENE I.
_A Room in Mistress Mary's House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS MARY, YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR,
BRABO, _and_ MISTRESS SPLAY.
MRS MA. Not have my will! yes, I will have my will;
Shall I not go abroad but when you please?
Can I not now and then meet with my friends,
But, at my coming home, you will control me?
Marry, come up!
Y. ART. Where art thou, patience?
Nay, rather, where's become my former spleen?
I had a wife would not have us'd me so.
MRS MA. Why, you Jacksauce! you cuckold! you what-not!
What, am I not of age sufficient
To go and come still, when my pleasure serves,
But must I have you, sir, to question me?
Not have my will! yes, I will have my will.
Y. ART. I had a wife would not have us'd me so;
But she is dead.
BRA. Not have her will, sir! she shall have her will:
She says she will, and, sir, I say she shall.
Not have her will! that were a jest indeed;
Who says she shall not? if I be dispos'd
To man her forth, who shall find fault with it?
What's he that dare say black's her eye?[21]
Though you be married, sir, yet you must know,
That she was ever born to have her will.
MRS SPLAY. Not have her will! God's passion! I say still,
A woman's nobody that wants her will.
Y. ART. Where is my spirit? what, shall I maintain
A strumpet with a Brabo and her bawd,
To beard me out of my authority?
What, am I from a master made a slave?
MRS MA. A slave? nay, worse; dost thou maintain my man,
And this my maid? 'tis I maintain them both.
I am thy wife; I will not be dress'd so,
While thy gold lasts; but then most willingly
I will bequeath thee to flat beggary.
I do already hate thee; do thy worst;
[_He threatens her_.
Nay, touch me, if thou dar'st; what, shall he beat me?
BRA. I'll make him seek his fingers 'mongst the dogs,
That dares to touch my mistress; never fear,
My sword shall smoothe the wrinkles of his brows,
That bends a frown upon my mistress.
Y. ART. I had a wife would not have us'd me so:
But God is just.
MRS MA. Now, Arthur, if I knew
What in this world would most torment thy soul,
That I would do; would all my evil usage
Could make thee straight despair and hang thyself!
Now, I remember:--where is Arthur's man,
Pipkin? that slave! go, turn him out of doors;
None that loves Arthur shall have house-room here.
_Enter_ PIPKIN.
Yonder he comes; Brabo, discard the fellow.
Y. ART. Shall I be over-master'd in my own?
Be thyself, Arthur:--strumpet! he shall stay.
MRS MA. What! shall he, Brabo? shall he, Mistress Splay?
BRA. Shall he? he shall not: breathes there any living
Dares say he shall, when Brabo says he shall not?
Y. ART. Is there no law for this? she is my wife;
Should I complain, I should be rather mock'd.
I am content; keep by thee whom thou list.
Discharge whom thou think'st good; do what thou wilt,
Rise, go to bed, stay at home, or go abroad
At thy good pleasure, keep all companies;
So that, for all this, I may have but peace.
Be unto me as I was to my wife;
Only give me, what I denied her then,
A little love, and some small quietness--
If he displease thee, turn him out of doors.
PIP. Who, me? Turn me out of doors? Is this all the wages I shall have
at the year's end, to be turned out of doors? You, mistress! you are a--
MRS SPLAY. A what? speak, a what? touch her and touch me, taint her and
taint me; speak, speak, a what?
PIP. Marry, a woman that is kin to the frost.[22]
MRS SPLAY. How do you mean that?
PIP. And you are akin to the Latin word, to understand.
MRS SPLAY. And what's that?
PIP. _Subaudi, subaudi_? and, sir, do you not use to pink doublets?
MRS SPLAY. And why?
PIP. I took you for a cutter, you are of a great kindred; you are a
common cozener, everybody calls you cousin; besides, they say you are
a very good warrener, you have been an old coneycatcher: but, if I be
turned a-begging, as I know not what I am born to, and that you ever
come to the said trade, as nothing is unpossible, I'll set all the
commonwealth of beggars on your back, and all the congregation of vermin
shall be put to your keeping; and then if you be not more bitten than
all the company of beggars besides, I'll not have my will: zounds!
turned out of doors! I'll go and set up my trade; a dish to drink in,
that I have within; a wallet, that I'll make of an old shirt; then my
speech, For the Lord's sake, I beseech your worship; then I must have
a lame leg; I'll go to football and break my shins--and I am provided
for that.
BRA. What! stands the villain prating? hence, you slave!
[_Exit_ PIPKIN.
Y. ART. Art thou yet pleas'd?
MRS MA. When I have had my humour.
Y. ART. Good friends, for manners' sake awhile withdraw.
BRA. It is our pleasure, sir, to stand aside.
[MISTRESS SPLAY _and_ BRABO _stand aside_.
Y. ART. Mary, what cause hast thou to use me thus?
From nothing I have rais'd thee to much wealth;
'Twas more than I did owe thee: many a pound,
Nay, many a hundred pound, I spent on thee
In my wife's time; and once, but by my means,
Thou hadst been in much danger: but in all things
My purse and credit ever bare thee out.
I did not owe thee this. I had a wife,
That would have laid herself beneath my feet
To do me service; her I set at nought
For the entire affection I bare thee.
To show that I have lov'd thee, have I not,
Above all women, made chief choice of thee?
An argument sufficient of my love!
What reason then hast thou to wrong me thus?
MRS MA. It is my humour.
Y. ART. O, but such humours honest wives should purge:
I'll show thee a far greater instance yet
Of the true love that I have borne to thee.
Thou knew'st my wife: was she not fair?
MRS MA. So, so.
Y. ART. But more than fair: was she not virtuous?
Endued with the beauty of the mind?
MRS MA. Faith, so they said.
Y. ART. Hark, in thine ear: I'll trust thee with my life,
Than which what greater instance of my love:
Thou knew'st full well how suddenly she died?
T'enjoy thy love, even then I poison'd her!
MRS MA. How! poison'd her? accursed murderer!
I'll ring this fatal 'larum in all ears,
Than which what greater instance of my hate?
Y. ART. Wilt thou not keep my counsel?
MRS MA. Villain, no!
Thou'lt poison me, as thou hast poison'd her.
Y. ART. Dost thou reward me thus for all my love?
Then, Arthur, fly, and seek to save thy life!
O, difference 'twixt a chaste and unchaste wife!
[_Exit_.
MRS MA. Pursue the murd'rer, apprehend him straight.
BRA. Why, what's the matter, mistress?
MRS MA. This villain Arthur poison'd his first wife,
Which he in secret hath confess'd to me;
Go and fetch warrants from the justices
T'attach the murd'rer; he once hang'd and dead,
His wealth is mine: pursue the slave that's fled.
BRA. Mistress, I will; he shall not pass this land,
But I will bring him bound with this strong hand.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_The Street before the House of Anselm's Mother_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR, _poorly_.
MRS ART. O, what are the vain pleasures of the world,
That in their actions we affect them so?
Had I been born a servant, my low life
Had steady stood from all these miseries.
The waving reeds stand free from every gust,
When the tall oaks are rent up by the roots.
What is vain beauty but an idle breath?
Why are we proud of that which so soon changes?
But rather wish the beauty of the mind,
Which neither time can alter, sickness change,
Violence deface, nor the black hand of envy
Smudge and disgrace, or spoil, or make deform'd.
O, had my riotous husband borne this mind,
He had been happy, I had been more blest,
And peace had brought our quiet souls to rest.
_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.
Y. ART. O, whither shall I fly to save my life
When murder and despair dogs at my heels?
O misery! thou never found'st a friend;
All friends forsake men in adversity:
My brother hath denied to succour me,
Upbraiding me with name of murderer;
My uncles double-bar their doors against me;
My father hath denied to shelter me,
And curs'd me worse than Adam did vile Eve.
I that, within these two days, had more friends
Than I could number with arithmetic,
Have now no more than one poor cypher is,
And that poor cypher I supply myself:
All that I durst commit my fortunes to,
I have tried, and find none to relieve my wants.
My sudden flight and fear of future shame
Left me unfurnish'd of all necessaries,
And these three days I have not tasted food.
MRS ART. It is my husband; O, how just is heaven!
Poorly disguis'd, and almost hunger-starv'd!
How comes this change?
Y. ART. Doth no man follow me?
O, how suspicious guilty murder is!
I starve for hunger, and I die for thirst.
Had I a kingdom, I would sell my crown
For a small bit of bread: I shame to beg,
And yet, perforce, I must or beg or starve.
This house, belike, 'longs to some gentlewoman,
And here's a woman: I will beg of her.
Good mistress, look upon a poor man's wants.
Whom do I see? tush! Arthur, she is dead.
But that I saw her dead and buried,
I would have sworn it had been Arthur's wife;
But I will leave her; shame forbids me beg
Of one so much resembles her.
MRS ART. Come hither, fellow! wherefore dost thou turn
Thy guilty looks and blushing face aside?
It seems thou hast not been brought up to this.
Y. ART. You say true, mistress; then for charity,
And for her sake whom you resemble most.
Pity my present want and misery.
MRS ART. It seems thou hast been in some better plight;
Sit down, I prythee: men, though they be poor,
Should not be scorn'd; to ease thy hunger, first
Eat these conserves; and now, I prythee, tell me
What thou hast been--thy fortunes, thy estate,
And what she was that I resemble most?
Y. ART. First, look that no man see or overhear us:
I think that shape was born to do me good. [_Aside_.]
MRS ART. Hast thou known one that did resemble me?
Y. ART. Ay, mistress; I cannot choose but weep
To call to mind the fortunes of her youth.
MRS ART. Tell me, of what estate or birth was she?
Y. ART, Born of good parents, and as well brought up;
Most fair, but not so fair as virtuous;
Happy in all things but her marriage;
Her riotous husband, which I weep to think,
By his lewd life, made them both miscarry.
MRS ART. Why dost thou grieve at their adversities?
Y. ART. O, blame me not; that man my kinsman was,
Nearer to me a kinsman could not be;
As near allied was that chaste woman too,
Nearer was never husband to his wife;
He whom I term my friend, no friend of mine,
Proving both mine and his own enemy,
Poison'd his wife--O, the time he did so!
Joyed at her death, inhuman slave to do so!
Exchang'd her love for a base strumpet's lust;
Foul wretch! accursed villain! to exchange so.
MRS ART. You are wise and blest, and happy to repent so:
But what became of him and his new wife?
Y. ART. O, hear the justice of the highest heaven:
This strumpet, in reward of all his love,
Pursues him for the death of his first wife;
And now the woful husband languisheth,
And flies abroad,[23] pursu'd by her fierce hate;
And now too late he doth repent his sin,
Ready to perish in his own despair,
Having no means but death to rid his care.
MRS ART. I can endure no more, but I must weep;
My blabbing tears cannot my counsel keep. [_Aside_.
Y. ART. Why weep you, mistress? if you had the heart
Of her whom you resemble in your face--
But she is dead, and for her death
The sponge of either eye
Shall weep red tears, till every vein is dry.
MRS ART. Why weep you, friend? your rainy drops pray keep;
Repentance wipes away the drops of sin.
Yet tell me, friend--he did exceeding ill,
A wife that lov'd and honour'd him to kill.
Yet say one like her, far more chaste than fair,
Bids him be of good comfort, not despair.
Her soul's appeased with his repentant tears,
Wishing he may survive her many years.
Fain would I give him money to supply
His present wants, but fearing he should fly,
And getting over to some foreign shore,
These rainy eyes should never see him more.
My heart is full, I can no longer stay,
But what I am, my love must needs bewray. [_Aside_.
Farewell, good fellow, and take this to spend;
Say, one like her commends her to your friend. [_Exit_.
Y. ART. No friend of mine. I was my own soul's foe,
To murther my chaste wife, that lov'd me so!
In life she lov'd me dearer than her life:
What husband here but would wish such a wife?
I hear the officers with hue and cry;
She saved my life but now, and now I die.
And welcome, death! I will not stir from hence;
Death I deserv'd, I'll die for this offence.
_Enter_ BRABO, _with_ OFFICERS, MISTRESS SPLAY, _and_ HUGH.
BRA. Here is the murderer; and, Reason's man,
You have the warrant: sirs, lay hands on him;
Attach the slave, and lead him bound to death.
HUGH. No, by my faith, Master Brabo, you have the better heart, at
least you should have; I am sure you have more iron and steel than I
have; do you lay hands on him; I promise you I dare not.
BRA. Constables, forward; forward, officers;
I will not thrust my finger in the fire.
Lay hands on him, I say: why step you back?
I mean to be the hindmost, lest that any
Should run away, and leave the rest in peril.
Stand forward: are you not asham'd to fear?
Y. ART. Nay, never strive; behold, I yield myself.
I must commend your resolution
That, being so many and so weapon'd,
Dare not adventure on a man unarm'd.
Now, lead me to what prison you think best.
Yet use me well; I am a gentleman.
HUGH. Truly, Master Arthur, we will use you as well as heart can think;
the justices sit to-day, and my master is chief: you shall command me.
BRA. What! hath he yielded? if he had withstood us,
This curtle-axe of mine had cleft his head;
Resist he durst not, when he once spied me.
Come, lead him hence: how lik'st thou this, sweet witch?
This fellow's death will make our mistress rich.
MRS SPLAY. I say, I care not who's dead or alive,
So by their lives or deaths we two may thrive.
HUGH. Come, bear him away.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_A Room, in Justice Season's House_.
_Enter_ JUSTICE REASON, OLD MASTER ARTHUR,
_and_ OLD MASTER LUSAM.
JUS. Old Master Arthur and Master Lusam, so
It is that I have heard both your complaints,
But understood neither, for, you know,
_Legere et non intelligere negligere est_.
O. ART. I come for favour, as a father should,
Pitying the fall and ruin of his son.
O. LUS. I come for justice, as a father should,
That hath by violent murder lost his daughter.
JUS. You come for favour, and you come for justice:
Justice with favour is not partial,
And, using that, I hope to please you both.
O. ART. Good Master Justice, think upon my son.
O. LUS. Good Master Justice, think upon my daughter.
JUS. Why, so I do; I think upon them both;
But can do neither of you good;
For he that lives must die, and she that's dead
Cannot be revived.
O. ART. Lusam, thou seek'st to rob me of my son,
My only son.
O. LUS. He robb'd me of my daughter, my only daughter.
JUS. And robbers are flat felons by the law.
O. ART. Lusam, I say thou art a blood-sucker,
A tyrant, a remorseless cannibal:
Old as I am, I'll prove it on thy bones.
O. LUS. Am I a blood-sucker or cannibal?
Am I a tyrant that do thirst for blood?
O. ART. Ay, if thou seek'st the ruin of my son,
Thou art a tyrant and a blood-sucker.
O. LUS. Ay, if I seek the ruin of thy son,
I am indeed.
O. ART. Nay, more, thou art a dotard;
And, in the right of my accused son,
I challenge thee the field. Meet me, I say,
To-morrow morning beside Islington,
And bring thy sword and buckler, if thou dar'st.
O. LUS. Meet thee with my sword and buckler?
There's my glove.
I'll meet thee, to revenge my daughter's death.
Call'st thou me dotard? Though these threescore years
I never handled weapon but a knife,
To cut my meat, yet will I meet thee there.
God's precious! call me dotard?
O. ART. I have cause,
Just cause, to call thee dotard, have I not?
O. LUS. Nay, that's another matter; have you cause?
Then God forbid that I should take exceptions
To be call'd dotard of one that hath cause.
JUS. My masters, you must leave this quarrelling, for quarrellers are
never at peace; and men of peace, while they are at quiet, are never
quarrelling: so you, whilst you fall into brawls, you cannot choose but
jar. Here comes your son accused, and his wife the accuser; stand forth
both. Hugh, be ready with your pen and ink to take their examinations
and confessions.
_Enter_ MISTRESS MARY, BRABO, YOUNG MASTER
ARTHUR, MISTRESS SPLAY, HUGH, _and_ OFFICERS.
Y. ART. It shall not need; I do confess the deed,
Of which this woman here accuseth me;
I poison'd my first wife, and for that deed
I yield me to the mercy of the law.
O. LUS. Villain! thou mean'st my only daughter,
And in her death depriv'dst me of all joys.
Y. ART. I mean her. I do confess the deed;
And though my body taste the force of law,
Like an offender, on my knee I beg
Your angry soul will pardon me her death.
O. LUS. Nay, if he kneeling do confess the deed,
No reason but I should forgive her death.
JUS. But so the law must not be satisfied;
Blood must have blood, and men must have death;
I think that cannot be dispens'd withal.
MRS MA. If all the world else would forgive the deed,
Yet would I earnestly pursue the law.
Y. ART. I had a wife would not have us'd me so;
The wealth of Europe could not hire her tongue
To be offensive to my patient ears;
But, in exchanging her, I did prefer
A devil before a saint, night before day,
Hell before heaven, and dross before tried gold;
Never was bargain with such damage sold.
BRA. If you want witness to confirm the deed,
I heard him speak it; and that to his face,
Before this presence, I will justify;
I will not part hence, till I see him swing.
MRS SPLAY. I heard him too: pity but he should die,
And like a murderer be sent to hell.
To poison her, and make her belly swell!
MRS MA. Why stay you, then? give judgment on the slave,
Whose shameless life deserves a shameful grave.
Y. ART. Death's bitter pangs are not so full of grief
As this unkindness: every word thou speak'st
Is a sharp dagger thrust quite through my heart.
As little I deserve this at thy hands,
As my kind patient wife deserv'd of me:
I was her torment, God hath made thee mine;
Then wherefore at just plagues should I repine?
JUS. Where did'st thou buy this poison? for such drugs
Are felony for any man to sell.
Y. ART. I had the poison of Aminadab:
But, innocent man, he was not accessory
To my wife's death; I clear him of the deed.
JUS. No matter; fetch him, fetch him, bring him
To answer to this matter at the bar.
Hugh, take these officers and apprehend him.
BRA. I'll aid him too; the schoolmaster, I see,
Perhaps may hang with him for company.
_Enter_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.
ANS. This is the day of Arthur's examination
And trial for the murder of his wife;
Let's hear how Justice Reason will proceed,
In censuring of his strict punishment.
FUL. Anselm, content; let's thrust in 'mong the throng.
_Enter_ AMINADAB, _brought in with_ OFFICERS.
AMIN. _O Domine_! what mean these knaves,
To lead me thus with bills and glaves?
O, what example would it be
To all my pupils for to see,
To tread their steps all after me,
If for some fault I hanged be;
Somewhat surely I shall mar,
If you bring me to the bar.
But peace; betake thee to thy wits,
For yonder Justice Reason sits.
JUS. Sir Dab, Sir Dab, here's one accuseth you,
To give him poison, being ill-employ'd:
Speak, how in this case you can clear yourself.
AMIN. _Hei mihi_! what should I say? the poison given I deny;
He took it perforce from my hands, and, _Domine_, why not?
I got it of a gentleman; he most freely gave it,
As he knew me; my meaning was only to have it.[24]
Y. ART. 'Tis true, I took it from this man perforce,
And snatch'd it from his hand by rude constraint,
Which proves him in this act not culpable.
JUS. Ay, but who sold the poison unto him?
That must be likewise known; speak, schoolmaster.
AMIN. A man _verbosus_, that was a fine _generosus_;
He was a great guller, his name I take to be Fuller;
See where he stands, that unto my hands convey'd a powder;
And, like a knave, sent her to her grave, obscurely to shroud her.
JUS. Lay hands on him; are you a poison-seller?
Bring him before us: sirrah, what say you?
Sold you a poison to this honest man?
FUL. I sold no poison, but I gave him one
To kill his rats?
JUS. Ha, ha! I smell a rat.
You sold him poison then to kill his rats?
The word to kill argues a murd'rous mind;
And you are brought in compass of the murder
So set him by, we will not hear him speak:
That Arthur, Fuller, and the schoolmaster,
Shall by the judges be examined.
ANS. Sir, if my friend may not speak for himself,
Yet let me his proceedings justify.
JUS. What's he that will a murther justify?
Lay hands on him, lay hands on him, I say;
For justifiers are all accessories,
And accessories have deserved to die.
Away with him! we will not hear him speak;
They all shall to the High Commissioners.
_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR.
MRS ART. Nay, stay them, stay them yet a little while!
I bring a warrant to the contrary;
And I will please all parties presently.
Y. ART. I think my wife's ghost haunts me to my death;
Wretch that I was, to shorten her life's breath!
O. ART. Whom do I see, my son's wife?
O. LUS. What, my daughter?
JUS. Is it not Mistress Arthur that we see,
That long since buried we suppos'd to be?
MRS ART. This man's condemn'd for pois'ning of his wife;
His poison'd wife yet lives, and I am she;
And therefore justly I release his bands:
This man, for suff'ring him these drugs to take,
Is likewise bound, release him for my sake:
This gentleman that first the poison gave,
And this his friend, to be releas'd I crave:
Murther there cannot be where none is kill'd;
Her blood is sav'd, whom you suppos'd was spill'd.
Father-in-law, I give you here your son,
The act's to do which you suppos'd was done.
And, father, now joy in your daughter's life,
Whom heaven hath still kept to be Arthur's wife.
O. ART. O, welcome, welcome, daughter! now I see
God by his power hath preserved thee.
O. LUS. And 'tis my wench, whom I suppos'd was dead;
My joy revives, and my sad woe is fled.
Y. ART. I know not what I am, nor where I am;
My soul's transported to an ecstasy,
For hope and joy confound my memory.
MRS MA. What do I see? lives Arthur's wife again?
Nay then I labour for his death in vain. [_Aside_.
BRA. What secret force did in her nature lurk,
That in her soul the poison would not work? [_Aside_.
MRS SPLAY. How can it be the poison took no force?
She lives with that which would have kill'd a horse! [_Aside_.
MRS ART. Nay, shun me not; be not asham'd at all;
To heaven, not me, for grace and pardon fall.
Look on me, Arthur; blush not at my wrongs.
Y. ART. Still fear and hope my grief and woe prolongs.
But tell me, by what power thou didst survive?
With my own hands I temper'd that vile draught,
That sent thee breathless to thy grandsire's grave,
If that were poison I receiv'd of him.
AMIN. That _ego nescio_, but this dram
Receiv'd I of this gentleman;
The colour was to kill my rats,
But 'twas my own life to despatch.
FUL. Is it even so? then this ambiguous doubt
No man can better than myself decide;
That compound powder was of poppy made and mandrakes,
Of purpose to cast one into a sleep,
To ease the deadly pain of him whose leg
Should be saw'd off;
That powder gave I to the schoolmaster.
AMIN. And that same powder, even that _idem_,
You took from me, the same, _per fidem_!
Y. ART. And that same powder I commix'd with wine,
Our godly knot of wedlock to untwine.
O. ART. But, daughter, who did take thee from thy grave?
O. LUS. Discourse it, daughter.
ANS. Nay, that labour save;
Pardon me, Master Arthur, I will now
Confess the former frailty of my love.
Your modest wife with words I tempted oft;
But neither ill I could report of you,
Nor any good I could forge for myself,
Would win her to attend to my request;
Nay, after death I lov'd her, insomuch
That to the vault where she was buried
My constant love did lead me through the dark,
There ready to have ta'en my last farewell.
The parting kiss I gave her I felt warm;
Briefly, I bare her to my mother's house,
Where she hath since liv'd the most chaste and true,
That since the world's creation eye did view.
Y. ART. My first wife, stand you here: my second, there,
And in the midst, myself; he that will choose
A good wife from a bad, come learn of me,
That have tried both, in wealth and misery.
A good wife will be careful of her fame,
Her husband's credit, and her own good name;
And such art thou. A bad wife will respect
Her pride, her lust, and her good name neglect;
And such art thou. A good wife will be still
Industrious, apt to do her husband's will;
But a bad wife, cross, spiteful and madding,
Never keep home, but always be a-gadding;
And such art thou. A good wife will conceal
Her husband's dangers, and nothing reveal
That may procure him harm; and such art thou.
But a bad wife corrupts chaste wedlock's vow.
On this hand virtue, and on this hand sin;
This who would strive to lose, or this to win?
Here lives perpetual joy, here burning woe;
Now, husbands, choose on which hand you will go.
Seek virtuous wives, all husbands will be blest;
Fair wives are good, but virtuous wives are best.
They that my fortunes will peruse, shall find
No beauty's like the beauty of the mind.
[_Exeunt_.
THE END.
THE RETURN FROM PARNASSUS.
_EDITION.
The Retvrne from Pernassvs: Or, The Scourge of Simony. Publiquely acted
by the Students in Saint Iohns Colledge in Cambridge. At London Printed
by G. Eld, for Iohn Wright, and are to bee sold at his shop at
Christchurch Gate_. 1606. 4to.
[See Hazlitt's "Handbook," p. 470. Almost all the extant copies of this
drama--and no fewer than ten have been examined--appear to vary in
certain literal particulars. Of two copies in the Malone collection, one
presents additions which might bespeak it a later impression than the
other; and yet, on the other hand, has errors (some of a serious kind)
peculiar to itself. The text has now been considerably improved by the
collection of the quartos at Oxford.
It was the intention of my kind acquaintance, the Rev. J.W. Ebsworth,
Vicar of Moldash, by Ashford, Kent, to have reprinted the "Return from
Parnassus" separately; but on learning that I intended to include it in
my series, Mr Ebsworth not only gave way, but obligingly placed the
annotated copy which he had prepared, at my free disposal.
I have also to thank Dr Ingleby, of Valentines, near Ilford, Essex, for
lending me a copy of the play corresponding with one of those in the
Bodleian, as regards its occasionally various readings.
A long account, and very favourable estimate, of this drama will be
found in Hazlitt's "Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth," 1820.]
[HAWKINS'S PREFACE.]
We can learn no more of the history of this play than what the
title-page gives us, viz., that it was "publickly acted by the students
in Saint John's College, Cambridge."[25] The merits and characters of
our old poets and actors are censured by the author with great freedom;
and the shameful prostitution of Church preferment, by the selling of
livings to the ignorant and unworthy, laid the foundation of Dr Wild's
"Benefice, a Comedy," 4to, 1689.
[Hawkins himself elsewhere (in his "General Introduction") remarks:--]
As the piece which follows, called "The Return from Parnassus," is,
perhaps, the most singular composition in our language, it may be proper
to give a succinct analysis of it. This satirical drama seems to have
been composed by the wits and scholars of Cambridge, where it was acted
at the opening of the last century. The design of it was to expose the
vices and follies of the rich in those days, and to show that little
attention was paid by that class of men to the learned and ingenious.
Several students of various capacities and dispositions leave the
university in hopes of advancing their fortunes in the metropolis. One
of them attempts to recommend himself by his publications; another, to
procure a benefice by paying his court to a young spark named Amoretto,
with whom he had been intimate at college; two others endeavour to gain
a subsistence by successively appearing as physicians, actors, and
musicians: but the Man of Genius is disregarded, and at last prosecuted
for his productions; the benefice is sold to an illiterate clown; and in
the end three of the scholars are compelled to submit to a voluntary
exile; another returns to Cambridge as poor as when he left it; and the
other two, finding that neither their medicines nor their music would
support them, resolve to turn shepherds, and to spend the rest of their
days on the Kentish downs. There is a great variety of characters in
this play, which are excellently distinguished and supported; and some
of the scenes have as much wit as can be desired in a perfect comedy.
The simplicity of its plan must naturally bring to our mind the old
species of comedy described by Horace, in which, before it was
restrained by a public edict, living characters were exposed by name
upon the stage, and the audience made merry at their expense without any
intricacy of plot or diversity of action: thus in the piece before us
Burbage and Kempe, two famous actors, appear in their proper persons;
and a number of acute observations are made on the poets of that age, of
whom the editor has given an account in the notes, and has added some
chosen specimens of their poetry.
[The late Mr Bolton Corney thought that this play was from the pen of
John Day. We learn from the Prologue that a drama, of which nothing is
now known, preceded it, under the title of "The Pilgrimage to
Parnassus." The loss is perhaps to be regretted.]
THE PROLOGUE.
BOY, STAGEKEEPER, MOMUS, DEFENSOR.
BOY.
Spectators, we will act a comedy: _non plus_.
STAGEKEEPER.
A pox on't, this book hath it not in it: you would be whipped, thou
rascal; thou must be sitting up all night at cards, when thou should be
conning thy part.
BOY.
It's all along on you; I could not get my part a night or two before,
that I might sleep on it.
[STAGEKEEPER _carrieth the_ BOY _away under his arm_.
MOMUS.
It's even well done; here is such a stir about a scurvy English show!
DEFENSOR.
Scurvy in thy face, thou scurvy Jack: if this company were not,--you
paltry critic gentleman, you that know what it is to play at primero or
passage--you that have been student at post and pair, saint and loadam
--you that have spent all your quarter's revenues in riding post one
night in Christmas, bear with the weak memory of a gamester.
MOMUS.
Gentlemen, you that can play at noddy, or rather play upon noddies--you
that can set up a jest at primero instead of a rest, laugh at the
prologue, that was taken away in a voider.
DEFENSOR.
What we present, I must needs confess, is but slubber'd invention: if
your wisdom obscure the circumstance, your kindness will pardon the
substance.
MOMUS.
What is presented here is an old musty show, that hath lain this
twelvemonth in the bottom of a coal-house amongst brooms and old shoes;
an invention that we are ashamed of, and therefore we have promised the
copies to the chandler to wrap his candles in.
DEFENSOR.
It's but a Christmas toy; and may it please your courtesies to let it pass.
MOMUS.
It's a Christmas toy, indeed! as good a conceit as sloughing[26]
hotcockles or blindman-buff.
DEFENSOR.
Some humours you shall see aimed at, if not well-resembled.
MOMUS.
Humours, indeed! Is it not a pretty humour to stand hammering upon two
_individuum vagum_, two scholars, some whole year? These same Philomusus
and Studioso have been followed with a whip and a verse, like a couple
of vagabonds, through England and Italy. The Pilgrimage to Parnassus and
the Return from Parnassus have stood the honest stagekeepers in many a
crown's expense for links and vizards; purchased a sophister a knock
with[27] a club; hindered the butler's box,[28] and emptied the college
barrels: and now, unless you know the subject well, you may return home
as wise as you came, for this last is the least part of the return from
Parnassus: that is both the first and last time that the author's wit
will turn upon the toe in this vein, and at this time the scene is not
at Parnassus, that is, looks not good invention in the face.
DEFENSOR.
If the catastrophe please you not, impute it to the unpleasing fortunes
of discontented scholars.
MOMUS.
For catastrophe, there's never a tale in Sir John Mandeville or Bevis
of Southampton, but hath a better turning.
STAGEKEEPER.
What, you jeering ass! begone, with a pox!
MOMUS.
You may do better to busy yourself in providing beer; for the show
will be pitiful dry, pitiful dry. [_Exit_.
STAGEKEEPER.
No more of this: I heard the spectators ask for a blank verse.
What we show is but a Christmas jest;
Conceive of this, and guess of all the rest:
Full like a scholar's hapless fortune's penn'd,
Whose former griefs seldom have happy end.
Frame as well we might with easy strain,
With far more praise and with as little pain,
Stories of love, where forne[29] the wond'ring bench
The lisping gallant might enjoy his wench;
Or make some sire acknowledge his lost son:
Found, when the weary act is almost done.[30]
Nor unto this, nor unto that our scene is bent;
We only show a scholar's discontent.
In scholars' fortunes, twice forlorn and dead,
Twice hath our weary pen erst laboured;
Making them pilgrims in Parnassus' Hill,
Then penning their return with ruder quill.
Now we present unto each pitying eye
The scholars' progress in their misery:
Refined wits, your patience is our bliss;
Too weak our scene, too great your judgment is:
To you we seek to show a scholar's state,
His scorned fortunes, his unpity'd fate;
To you: for if you did not scholars bless,
Their case, poor case, were too-too pitiless.
You shade the muses under fostering,
And made[31] them leave to sigh, and learn to sing.
THE NAMES OF THE ACTORS.
INGENIOSO.
JUDICIO.
DANTER.
PHILOMUSUS.
STUDIOSO.
FUROR POETICUS.
PHANTASMA.
_Patient_.
RICARDETTO.
THEODORE, _a Physician_.
BURGESS, _a Patient_.
JAQUES, _a Studioso_.
ACADEMICO.
AMORETTO.
_Page_.
SIGNIOR IMMERITO.
STERCUTIO, _his Father_.
SIR RADERIC.
_Recorder_.
_Page_.
PRODIGO.
BURBAGE.
KEMP.
_Fiddlers_.
_Patient's man_.
THE RETURN FROM PARNASSUS.
ACTUS I, SCAENA 1.
INGENIOSO, _with Juvenal in his hand_.
INGENIOSO.
_Difficile est satyram non scribere. Nam quis iniquae
Tam patiens Urbis, tam ferreus,[32] ut teneat se_?
Ay, Juvenal, thy jerking hand is good,
Not gently laying on, but fetching blood;
So, surgeon-like, thou dost with cutting heal,
Where nought but lancing[33] can the wound avail:
O, suffer me, among so many men,
To tread aright the traces of thy pen,
And light my link at thy eternal flame,
Till with it I brand everlasting shame
On the world's forehead, and with thine own spirit
Pay home the world according to his merit.
Thy purer soul could not endure to see
Ev'n smallest spots of base impurity,
Nor could small faults escape thy cleaner hands.
Then foul-fac'd vice was in his swaddling-bands,
Now, like Anteus, grown a monster is,
A match for none but mighty Hercules:
Now can the world practise in plainer guise
Both sins of old and new-born villanies:
Stale sins are stole; now doth the world begin
To take sole pleasure in a witty sin:
Unpleasant as[34] the lawless sin has been,
At midnight rest, when darkness covers sin;
It's clownish, unbeseeming a young knight,
Unless it dare outface the glaring light:
Nor can it nought our gallant's praises reap,
Unless it be done in staring Cheap,
In a sin-guilty coach, not closely pent,
Jogging along the harder pavement.
Did not fear check my repining sprite,
Soon should my angry ghost a story write;
In which I would new-foster'd sins combine,
Not known erst by truth-telling Aretine.
ACTUS I, SCAENA 2.
_Enter_ JUDICIO _and_ INGENIOSO.
JUDICIO.
What, Ingenioso, carrying a vinegar bottle about thee, like a great
schoolboy giving the world a bloody nose?[35]
INGENIOSO.
Faith, Judicio, if I carry the vinegar bottle, it's great reason I
should confer it upon the baldpated world: and again, if my kitchen
want the utensils[36] of viands, it's great reason other men should
have the sauce of vinegar; and for the bloody nose, Judicio, I may
chance, indeed, give the world a bloody nose, but it shall hardly give
me a crack'd crown, though it gives other poets French crowns.
JUDICIO.
I would wish thee, Ingenioso, to sheathe thy pen, for thou canst not
be successful in the fray, considering thy enemies have the advantage
of the ground.
INGENIOSO.
Or rather, Judicio, they have the grounds with advantage, and the
French crowns with a pox; and I would they had them with a plague too:
but hang them, swads, the basest corner in my thoughts is too gallant
a room to lodge them in. But say, Judicio, what news in your press?
did you keep any late corrections upon any tardy pamphlets?
JUDICIO.
_Veterem jubes renovare dolorem_, Ingenioso: whate'er befalls thee,
keep thee from the trade of the corrector of the press.
INGENIOSO.
Marry, so I will, I warrant thee; if poverty press not too much, I'll
correct no press but the press of the people.
JUDICIO.
Would it not grieve any good spirits to sit a whole month knitting out
a lousy, beggarly pamphlet, and, like a needy physician, to stand whole
years tossing and tumbling the filth that falleth from so many draughty
inventions as daily swarm in our printing-house.
INGENIOSO.
Come, I think we shall have you put finger in the eye, and cry, O
friends, no friends! Say, man, what new paper hobby-horses, what
rattle-babies, are come out in your late May morris-dance?
JUDICIO.
Fly[37] my rhymes as thick as flies in the sun; I think there be never
an alehouse in England, not any so base a maypole on a country green,
but sets forth some poet's petronels or demi-lances to the paper wars
in Paul's Churchyard.
INGENIOSO.
And well too may the issue of a strong hop learn to hop all over
England, when as better wits sit, like lame cobblers, in their studies.
Such barmy heads will always be working, when as sad vinegar wits sit
souring at the bottom of a barrel; plain meteors, bred of the
exhalation of tobacco and the vapours of a moist pot, that soar[38] up
into the open air, when as sounder wit keeps below.
JUDICIO.
Considering the furies of the times, I could better endure to see those
young can-quaffing hucksters shoot off their pellets, so they would
keep them from these English _Flores poetarum_; but now the world is
come to that pass, that there starts up every day an old goose that
sits hatching up those eggs which have been filched from the nest of
crows and kestrels. Here is a book, Ingenioso; why, to condemn it to
clear [fire,][39] the usual Tyburn of all misliving papers, were too
fair a death for so foul an offender.
INGENIOSO.
What's the name of it, I pray thee, Judicio?
JUDICIO.
Look, it's here; "Belvidere."[40]
INGENIOSO.
What, a bell-wether in Paul's Churchyard! so called because it keeps a
bleating, or because it hath the tinkling bell of so many poets about
the neck of it? What is the rest of the title?
JUDICIO. "The Garden of the Muses."
INGENIOSO.
What have we here, the poet garish, gaily bedecked, like fore-horses of
the parish? What follows?
JUDICIO.
_Quem, referent musae, vivet, dum robora tellus,
Dum coelum stellas, dum vehit amnis aquas_.
Who blurs fair paper with foul bastard rhymes,
Shall live full many an age in latter times:
Who makes a ballad for an alehouse door,
Shall live in future times for evermore:
Then ( )[41] thy muse shall live so long,
As drafty ballads to thy praise are sung.
But what's his device? Parnassus with the sun and the laurel?[42] I
wonder this owl dares look on the sun; and I marvel this goose flies
not the laurel: his device might have been better, a fool going into
the market-place to be seen, with this motto: _Scribimus indocti_; or,
a poor beggar gleaning of ears in the end of harvest, with this word:
_Sua cuique gloria_.
JUDICIO.
Turn over the leaf, Ingenioso, and thou shalt see the pains of this
worthy gentleman: _Sentences, gathered out of all kind of poets,
referred to certain methodical heads, profitable for the use of these
times, to rhyme upon any occasion at a little warning_. Read the names.
INGENIOSO.
So I will, if thou wilt help me to censure them.
Edmund Spenser. Thomas Watson.
Henry Constable. Michael Drayton.
Thomas Lodge. John Davis.
Samuel Daniel. John Marston.
Kit Marlowe.
Good men and true; stand together; hear your censure. What's thy
judgment of Spenser?
JUDICIO.
A sweeter[43] swan than ever sung in Po,
A shriller nightingale than ever bless'd
The prouder groves of self-admiring Rome.
Blithe was each valley, and each shepherd proud,
While he did chant his rural minstrelsy:
Attentive was full many a dainty ear,
Nay, hearers hung upon his melting tongue,
While sweetly of his Fairy Queen he sung;
While to the waters' fall he tun'd for fame,
And in each bark engrav'd Eliza's name:
And yet for all this unregarding soil
Unlac'd the line of his desired life,
Denying maintenance for his dear relief;
Careless care to prevent his exequy,
Scarce deigning to shut up his dying eye.
INGENIOSO.
Pity it is that gentler wits should breed,
Where thickskin chuffs laugh at a scholar's need.
But softly may our honour's ashes rest,
That lie by merry Chaucer's noble chest.
But, I pray thee, proceed briefly in thy censure, that I may be proud
of myself; as in the first, so in the last, my censure may jump with
thine.--Henry Constable, Samuel Daniel,[44] Thomas Lodge, Thomas Watson.
JUDICIO.
Sweet Constable[45] doth take the wond'ring ear,
And lays it up in willing prisonment:
Sweet honey-dropping Daniel doth wage
War with the proudest big Italian,
That melts his heart in sugar'd sonneting;
Only let him more sparingly make use
Of others' wit, and use his own the more,
That well may scorn base imitation.
For Lodge[46] and Watson,[47] men of some desert,
Yet subject to a critic's marginal;
Lodge for his oar in ev'ry paper boat,
He, that turns over Galen ev'ry day,
To sit and simper Euphues' Legacy.[48]
INGENIOSO.
Michael Drayton?
JUDICIO.
Drayton's sweet muse is like a sanguine dye,
Able to ravish the rash gazer's eye.
INGENIOSO.
However, he wants one true note of a poet of our times, and that is
this: he cannot swagger it well in a tavern, nor domineer in a
hothouse. John Davis?[49]
JUDICIO.
Acute John Davis, I affect thy rhymes,
That jerk in hidden charms these looser times;
Thy plainer verse, thy unaffected vein,
Is graced with a fair and sweeping[50] train.
INGENIOSO.
Lock and Hudson?[51]
JUDICIO.
Lock and Hudson, sleep, you quiet shavers, among the shavings of the
press, and let your books lie in some old nooks amongst old boots and
shoes; so you may avoid my censure.
INGENIOSO. Why, then, clap a lock on their feet, and turn them to
commons. John Marston?[52]
JUDICIO.
What, Monsieur Kinsayder, lifting up your leg, and pissing against the
world? put up, man, put up, for shame!
Methinks he is a ruffian in his style,
Withouten bands or garters' ornament:
He quaffs a cup of Frenchman's Helicon;
Then roister doister in his oily terms,
Cuts, thrusts, and foins, at whomsoever he meets,
And strews about Ram-Alley meditations.
Tut, what cares he for modest close-couch'd terms,
Cleanly to gird our looser libertines?
Give him plain naked words, stripp'd from their shirts,
That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine.
Ay, there is one, that backs a paper steed,
And manageth a penknife gallantly,
Strikes his poinardo at a button's breadth,
Brings the great battering-ram of terms to towns;
And, at first volley of his cannon-shot,
Batters the walls of the old fusty world.
INGENIOSO.
Christopher Marlowe?
JUDICIO.
Marlowe was happy in his buskin'd muse;
Alas! unhappy in his life and end:
Pity it is that wit so ill should dwell
Wit lent from heav'n, but vices sent from hell.[53]
INGENIOSO.
Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got,
A tragic penman for a dreary plot.
Benjamin Jonson?
JUDICIO.
The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England.
INGENIOSO.
A mere empiric, one that gets what he hath by observation, and makes
only nature privy to what he indites; so slow an inventor, that he were
better betake himself to his old trade of bricklaying; a bold whoreson,
as confident now in making of[54] a book, as he was in times past in
laying of a brick. William Shakespeare?
JUDICIO.
Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape,
His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life,
Could but a graver subject him content,
Without love's foolish, lazy[55] languishment.
INGENIOSO.
Churchyard?[56]
Hath not Shore's wife, although a light-skirts she,
Giv'n him a chaste, long-lasting memory?
JUDICIO.
No; all light pamphlets once I finden shall,
A Churchyard and a grave to bury all!
Thomas Nash.[57]
INGENIOSO.
Ay, here is a fellow, Judicio, that carried the deadly stock[58] in his
pen, whose muse was armed with a gag-tooth,[59] and his pen possessed
with Hercules' furies.
JUDICIO.
Let all his faults sleep with his mournful chest,
And then for ever with his ashes rest:
His style was witty, though he had some gall,
Something he might have mended; so may all:
Yet this I say that, for a mother-wit,
Few men have ever seen the like of it.
INGENIOSO _reads the rest of the names_.
JUDICIO.
As for these, they have some of them been the old hedge-stakes of the
press; and some of them are, at this instant, the bots and glanders of
the printing-house: fellows that stand only upon terms to serve the
term,[60] with their blotted papers, write, as men go to stool, for
needs; and when they write, they write as a bear pisses, now and then
drop a pamphlet.
INGENIOSO.
_Durum telum necessitas_. Good faith, they do, as I do--exchange words
for money. I have some traffic this day with Danter[61] about a little
book which I have made; the name of it is, A Catalogue of Cambridge
Cuckolds. But this Belvidere, this methodical ass, hath made me almost
forget my time; I'll now to Paul's Churchyard; meet me an hour hence at
the sign of the Pegasus in Cheapside, and I'll moist thy temples with a
cup of claret, as hard as the world goes.
[_Exit_ JUDICIO.
ACTUS I., SCAENA 3.
_Enter_ DANTER _the Printer_.
INGENIOSO.
Danter, thou art deceived, wit is dearer than thou takest it to be: I
tell thee, this libel of Cambridge has much fat and pepper in the nose;
it will sell sheerly underhand, when all these books of exhortations and
catechisms lie moulding on thy shopboard.
DANTER.
It's true: but, good faith, Master Ingenioso, I lost by your last book;
and, you know, there is many a one that pays me largely for the printing
of their inventions: but, for all this, you shall have forty shillings
and an odd bottle of wine.
INGENIOSO.
Forty shillings! a fit reward for one of your rheumatic poets, that
beslavers all the paper he comes by, and furnishes all the chandlers
with waste-papers to wrap candles in; but as for me, I'll be paid dear
even for the dregs of my wit: little knows the world what belongs to the
keeping of a good wit in waters, diets, drinks, tobacco, &c. It is a
dainty and a costly creature; and therefore I must be paid sweetly.
Furnish me with money, that I may put myself in a new suit of clothes,
and I'll suit thy shop with a new suit of terms. It's the gallantest
child my invention was ever delivered of: the title is, A Chronicle of
Cambridge Cuckolds. Here a man may see what day of the month such a
man's commons were enclosed, and when thrown open; and when any entailed
some odd crowns upon the heirs of their bodies unlawfully begotten.
Speak quickly: else I am gone.
DANTER.
O, this will sell gallantly; I'll have it, whatsoever it cost: will you
walk on, Master Ingenioso? We'll sit over a cup of wine, and agree on it.
INGENIOSO.
A cup of wine is as good a constable as can be to take up the quarrel
betwixt us.
[_Exeunt_.
ACTUS I., SCAENA 4.
PHILOMUSUS _in a physician's habit_: STUDIOSO,
_that is_, JAQUES _man, and_ PATIENT.
PHILOMUSUS.
Tit, tit, tit, non point;[62] non debet fieri phlebotomia in coitu Lunae.
Here is a recipe.
PATIENT.
A recipe?
PHILOMUSUS.
Nos Galliâ non curamus quantitatem syllabarum: let me hear how many
stools you do make. Adieu, monsieur: adieu, good monsieur.--What,
Jaques, il n'y a personne apres ici?
STUDIOSO.
Non.
PHILOMUSUS.
Then let us steal time for this borrowed shape,
Recounting our unequal haps of late:
Late did the ocean grasp us in his arms;
Late did we live within a stranger air,
Late did we see the cinders of great Rome:
We thought that English fugitives there ate
Gold for restorative, if gold were meat.
Yet now we find by bought experience
That, wheresoe'er we wander up and down
On the round shoulders of this massy world,
Or our ill-fortunes or the world's ill-eye
Forespeak our good, procure[63] our misery.
STUDIOSO.
So oft the northern wind with frozen wings
Hath beat the flowers that in our garden grew,
Thrown down the stalks of our aspiring youth;
So oft hath winter nipp'd our trees' fair rind,
That now we seem nought but two bared boughs,
Scorn'd by the basest bird that chirps in grove.
Nor Rome, nor Rhemes, that wonted are to give
A cardinal cap to discontented clerks,
That have forsook the home-bred, thatched[64] roofs,
Yielded us any equal maintenance:
And it's as good to starve 'mongst English swine,
As in a foreign land to beg and pine.
PHILOMUSUS.
I'll scorn the world, that scorneth me again.
STUDIOSO.
I'll vex the world, that works me so much pain.
PHILOMUSUS.
Thy[65] lame revenging power the world well weens.
STUDIOSO.
Flies have their spleen, each silly ant his teens.
PHILOMUSUS.
We have the words, they the possession have.
STUDIOSO.
We all are equal in our latest grave.
PHILOMUSUS.
Soon then, O, soon may we both graved be.
STUDIOSO.
Who wishes death doth wrong wise destiny.
PHILOMUSUS.
It's wrong to force life-loathing men to breathe.
STUDIOSO.
It's sin 'fore doomed day to wish thy death.
PHILOMUSUS.
Too late our souls flit to their resting-place.
STUDIOSO.
Why, man's whole life is but a breathing space.
PHILOMUSUS.
A painful minute seems a tedious year.
STUDIOSO.
A constant mind eternal woes will bear.
PHILOMUSUS.
When shall our souls their wearied lodge forego?
STUDIOSO.
When we have tired misery and woe.
PHILOMUSUS.
Soon may then fates this gaol[66]-deliver send us: Small woes vex long,
[but] great woes quickly end us. But let's leave this capping of rhymes,
Studioso, and follow our late device, that we may maintain our heads in
caps, our bellies in provender, and our backs in saddle and bridle.
Hitherto we have sought all the honest means we could to live, and now
let us dare _aliqua brevibus gyris[67] et carcere dignum_; let us run
through all the lewd forms of lime-twig, purloining villanies; let us
prove coneycatchers, bawds, or anything, so we may rub out. And first my
plot for playing the French doctor--that shall hold; our lodging stands
here fitly[68] in Shoe Lane: for, if our comings-in be not the better,
London may shortly throw an old shoe after us; and with those shreds of
French that we gathered up in our host's house in Paris, we'll gull the
world, that hath in estimation foreign physicians: and if any of the
hidebound brethren of Cambridge and Oxford, or any of those stigmatic
masters of art that abused us in times pass'd, leave their own
physicians, and become our patients, we'll alter quite the style of
them; for they shall never hereafter write, Your lordship's most
bounden, but, Your lordship's most laxative.
STUDIOSO.
It shall be so: see what a little vermin poverty altereth a whole milky
disposition.
PHILOMUSUS.
So then myself straight with revenge I'll sate.[69]
STUDIOSO.
Provoked patience grows intemperate.
ACTUS I, SCAENA 5.
_Enter_ RICHARDETTO, JAQUES, _Scholar learning French_.
JAQUES.
How now, my little knave? Quelle nouvelle, monsieur?
RICHARDETTO.
There's a fellow with a nightcap on his head, an urinal in his hand,
would fain speak with Master Theodore.
JAQUES.
Parle François, mon petit garçon.
RICHARDETTO.[70]
Ici un homme, avec le bonnet de nuit sur la tete, et un urinal en la
main, que veut parler avec Maistre Theodore.
JAQUES.
Fort bien.
THEODORE.
Jaques, a bonne heure.
[_Exeunt_.
ACTUS I., SCAENA 6.
FUROR POETICUS; _and presently after enters_ PHANTASMA.
FUROR POETICUS, _rapt with contemplation_.
Why, how now, pedant Phoebus?[71] are you smouching Thaly on her tender
lips? There, hoi! peasant, avaunt! Come, pretty short-nosed nymph. O
sweet Thalia, I do kiss thy foot. What, Clio? O sweet Clio! Nay,
prythee, do not weep, Melpomene. What, Urania, Polyhymnia, and Calliope!
let me do reverence to your deities.
[PHANTASMA _pulls him by the sleeve_.
I am your holy swain that, night and day,
Sit for your sakes, rubbing my wrinkled brow,
Studying a month for a epithet.
Nay, silver Cynthia, do not trouble me;
Straight will I thy Endymion's story write,
To which thou hastest me on day and night.
You light-skirt stars, this is your wonted guise,
By gloomy light perk out your doubtful heads;
But when Dan[72] Phoebus shows his flashing snout,
You are sky-puppies;[73] straight your light is out.
PHANTASMA.
So ho, Furor!
Nay, prythee, good Furor, in sober sadness--
FUROR.
Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo.
PHANTASMA.
Nay, sweet Furor,--ipsae te, Tityre, pinus--
FUROR.
Ipsi te fontes, ipsa haec arbusta vocarunt.
Who's that runs headlong on my quill's sharp point,
That, wearied of his life and baser breath,
Offers himself to an Iambic verse?
PHANTASMA.
Si, quoties peccant homines, sua fulmina mittat
Jupiter, exiguo tempore inermis erit.
FUROR.
What slimy, bold, presumptuous groom[74] is he,
Dares with his rude, audacious, hardy chat
Thus sever me from sky-bred[75] contemplation?
PHANTASMA.
_Carmina vel coelo possunt deducere lunam_.
FUROR.
O Phantasma! what, my individual[76] mate?
PHANTASMA.
_O, mihi post nullos, Furor, memorande sodales_!
FUROR.
Say, whence comest thou? sent from what deity?
From great Apollo or sly Mercury?
PHANTASMA.
I come from the little Mercury Ingenioso: for,
_Ingenio pollet, cui vim natura negavit_.
FUROR.
Ingenioso?
He is a pretty inventor of slight prose;
But there's no spirit in his grov'lling speech.
Hang him, whose verse cannot outbelch the wind,
That cannot beard and brave Dan Aeolus;
That, when the cloud of his invention breaks,
Cannot outcrack the scarecrow thunderbolt.
Hang him, I say![77]
PHANTASMA.
_Pendo, pependi; tendo, tetendi; pedo, pepedi_. Will it please you,
Master Furor, to walk with me? I promise to bring you to a drinking-inn
in Cheapside, at the sign of the Nag's Head; for
_Tempore lenta pati fraena docentur equi_.
FUROR.
Pass thee before, I'll come incontinent.
PHANTASMA.
Nay, faith, Master Furor, let's go together, _quoniam convenimus ambo_.
FUROR.
Let us march on unto the house of fame;
There, quaffing bowls of Bacchus' blood full nimbly,
Indite a-tiptoe strutting poesy.
[_They offer the way one to the other_.
PHANTASMA.
_Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui plenum?
Tu major: tibi me est aequum parere, Menalca_.
ACTUS II., SCAENA 1.
_Enter_ PHILOMUSUS, THEODORE, _his patient, the_
BURGESS, _and his man with his staff_.
THEODORE.
[_Puts on his spectacles_.] Monsieur, here are _atomi natantes_, which
do make show your worship to be as lecherous as a bull.
BURGESS.
Truly, Master Doctor, we are all men.
THEODORE.
This vater is intention of heat: are you not perturbed with an ache in
your vace[78] or in your occipit? I mean your headpiece. Let me feel
the pulse of your little finger.
BURGESS.
I'll assure you, Master Theodore, the pulse of my head beats
exceedingly; and I think I have disturbed myself by studying the penal
statutes.
THEODORE.
Tit, tit, your worship takes care of your speeches.
_O, Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent_: it is an aphorism in Galen.
BURGESS.
And what is the exposition of that?
THEODORE.
That your worship must take a gland, _ut emittatur sanguis_: the sign
is _fort_ excellent, _fort_ excellent.
BURGESS.
Good Master Doctor, use me gently; for, mark you, sir, there is a double
consideration to be had of me: first, as I am a public magistrate;
secondly, as I am a private butcher; and but for the worshipful credit
of the place and office wherein I now stand and live, I would not hazard
my worshipful apparel with a suppository or a glister: but for the
countenancing of the place, I must go oftener to stool; for, as a great
gentleman told me, of good experience, that it was the chief note of a
magistrate not to go to the stool without a physician.
THEODORE.
Ah, vous êtes un gentilhomme, vraiment.--What, ho, Jaques! Jaques,
donnez-vous un fort gentil purgation for Monsieur Burgess.
JAQUES.
Votre très-humble serviteur, à votre commandment.
THEODORE.
Donnez-vous un gentil purge à Monsieur Burgess.--I have considered of
the crasis and syntoma of your disease, and here is un fort gentil
purgation per evacuationem excrementorum, as we physicians use to
parley.
BURGESS.
I hope, Master Doctor, you have a care of the country's officer. I tell
you, I durst not have trusted myself with every physician; and yet I am
not afraid for myself, but I would not deprive the town of so careful a
magistrate.
THEODORE.
O Monsieur, I have a singular care of your _valetudo_. It is requisite
that the French physicians be learned and careful; your English
velvet-cap is malignant and envious.
BURGESS.
Here is, Master Doctor, fourpence--your due, and eightpence--my bounty.
You shall hear from me, good Master Doctor; farewell, farewell, good
Master Doctor.
THEODORE.
Adieu, good Monsieur; adieu, good sir Monsieur. _Exit_ BURGESS.
Then burst with tears, unhappy graduate;
Thy fortunes still wayward and backward been;
Nor canst thou thrive by virtue nor by sin.
STUDIOSO.
O, how it grieves my vexed soul to see
Each painted ass in chair of dignity!
And yet we grovel on the ground alone,
Running through every trade, yet thrive by none:
More we must act in this life's tragedy.
PHILOMUSUS.
Sad is the plot, sad the catastrophe.
STUDIOSO.
Sighs are the chorus in our tragedy.
PHILOMUSUS.
And rented thoughts continual actors be.[79]
STUDIOSO.
Woe is the subject, Phil.;[80] earth the loath'd stage
Whereon we act this feigned personage;
Most like[81] barbarians the spectators be,
That sit and laugh at our calamity.
PHILOMUSUS.
Bann'd be those hours when, 'mongst the learned throng,
By Granta's muddy bank we whilome sung!
STUDIOSO.
Bann'd be that hill, which learned wits adore,
Where erst we spent our stock and little store!
PHILOMUSUS.
Bann'd be those musty mews, where we have spent
Our youthful days in paled languishment!
STUDIOSO.
Bann'd be those cos'ning arts that wrought our woe,
Making us wand'ring pilgrims to and fro.
PHILOMUSUS.
And pilgrims must we be without relief;
And wheresoe'er we run, there meets us grief.
STUDIOSO.
Where'er we toss upon this crabbed stage,
Griefs our companion; patience be our page.
PHILOMUSUS.
Ah, but this patience is a page of ruth,
A tired lackey to our wand'ring youth!
ACTUS II., SCAENA 2.
ACADEMICO, _solus_.
Fain would I have a living, if I could tell how
to come by it. _Echo_. Buy it.
Buy it, fond Echo? why, thou dost greatly
mistake it. _Echo_. Stake it.
Stake it? what should I stake at this game of
simony? _Echo_. Money.
What, is the world a game? are livings gotten
by paying?[82] _Echo_. Paying.
Paying? But say, what's the nearest way to
come by a living? _Echo_. Giving.
Must his worship's fists be needs then oiled with
angels? _Echo_. Angels.
Ought his gouty fists then first with gold to be
greased? _Echo_. Eased.
And is it then such an ease for his ass's back to
carry money? _Echo_. Ay.
Will, then, this golden ass bestow a vicarage
gilded? _Echo_. Gelded.
What shall I say to good Sir Raderic, that have
no[83] gold here? _Echo_. Cold cheer.
I'll make it my lone request, that he would be
good to a scholar. _Echo_. Choler.
Yea, will he be choleric to hear of an art or a
science? _Echo_. Hence.
Hence with liberal arts? What, then, will he
do with his chancel? _Echo_. Sell.
Sell it? and must a simple clerk be fain to compound
then? _Echo_. Pounds then.
What, if I have no pounds? must then my suit
be prorogued? _Echo_. Rogued.
Yea? given to a rogue? Shall an ass this
vicarage compass? _Echo_. Ass.
What is the reason that I should not be as fortunate
as he? _Echo_. Ass he.
Yet, for all this, with a penniless purse will I
trudge to his worship. _Echo_. Words cheap.
Well, if he give me good words, it's more than I
have from an Echo. _Echo_. Go.
[_Exit_.
ACTUS II, SCAENA 3.
AMORETTO _with an Ovid in his hand_, IMMERITO.
AMORETTO.
Take it on the word of a gentleman, thou cannot have it a penny under;
think on it, think on it, while I meditate on my fair mistress--
_Nunc sequor imperium, magne Cupido, tuum_.
Whate'er become of this dull, threadbare clerk,
I must be costly in my mistress' eye:
Ladies regard not ragged company.
I will with the revenues of my chaffer'd church
First buy an ambling hobby for my fair,
Whose measur'd pace may teach the world to dance,
Proud of his burden, when he 'gins to prance.
Then must I buy a jewel for her ear,
A kirtle of some hundred crowns or more.
With these fair gifts when I accompani'd go,
She'll give Jove's breakfast; Sidney terms it so.
I am her needle, she is my adamant,
She is my fair rose, I her unworthy prick.
ACADEMICO.
Is there nobody here will take the pains to geld his mouth? [_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
She's Cleopatra, I Mark Antony.
ACADEMICO.
No, thou art a mere mark for good wits to shoot at: and in that suit
thou wilt make a fine man to dash poor crows out of countenance.
[_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
She is my Moon, I her Endymion.
ACADEMICO.
No, she is thy shoulder of mutton, thou her onion: or she may be thy
Luna, and thou her lunatic. [_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
I her Aeneas, she my Dido is.
ACADEMICO.
She is thy Io, thou her brazen ass,
Or she Dame Phantasy, and thou her gull;
She thy Pasiphae, and thou her loving bull.[84]
[_Aside_.
ACTUS II, SCAENA 4.
_Enter_ IMMERITO _and_ STERCUTIO, _his father_.
STERCUTIO.
Son, is this the gentleman that sells us the living?
IMMERITO.
Fie, father! thou must not call it selling: thou must say, Is this the
gentleman that must have the _gratuito_?
ACADEMICO.
What have we here? old truepenny come to town, to fetch away the living
in his old greasy slops? Then, I'll none: the time hath been when such a
fellow meddled with nothing but his ploughshare, his spade, and his
hobnails; and so to a piece of bread and cheese, and went his way. But
now these fellows are grown the only factors for preferment. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
O, is this the grating gentleman? And how many pounds must I pay?
IMMERITO.
O, thou must not call them pounds, but thanks. And, hark thou, father;
thou must tell of nothing that is done, for I must seem to come clear
to it.
ACADEMICO.
Not pounds, but thanks? See, whether this simple fellow that hath
nothing of a scholar, but that the draper hath blacked him over, hath
not gotten the style of the time. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
By my faith, son, look for no more portion.
IMMERITO.
Well, father, I will not--upon this condition, that when thou have
gotten me the _gratuito_ of the living, thou wilt likewise disburse a
little money to the bishop's poser;[85] for there are certain questions
I make scruple to be posed in.
ACADEMICO.
He means any question in Latin, which he counts a scruple. O. this
honest man could never abide this popish tongue of Latin. O, he is as
true an Englishman as lives. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
I'll take the gentleman, now he is in a good vein, for he smiles.
AMORETTO.
Sweet Ovid, I do honour every page.
ACADEMICO.
Good Ovid, that in his lifetime lived with the Getes; and now, after his
death, converseth with a barbarian. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
God be at your work, sir. My son told me you were the grating gentleman;
I am Stercutio his father, sir, simple as I stand here.
AMORETTO.
Fellow, I had rather given thee an hundred pounds than thou shouldst
have put me out of my excellent meditation: by the faith of a gentleman,
I was wrapp'd in contemplation.
IMMERITO.
Sir, you must pardon my father: he wants bringing up.
ACADEMICO.
Marry, it seems he hath good bringing up, when he brings up so much
money. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
Indeed, sir, you must pardon me; I did not know you were a gentleman of
the Temple before.
AMORETTO.
Well, I am content in a generous disposition to bear with country
education: but, fellow, what's thy name?
STERCUTIO.
My name, sir? Stercutio, sir.
AMORETTO.
Why then, Stercutio, I would be very willing to be the instrument to my
father, that this living might be conferred upon your son: marry, I
would have you know that I have been importuned by two or three several
lords, my kind cousins, in the behalf of some Cambridge man, and have
almost engaged my word. Marry, if I shall see your disposition to be
more thankful than other men, I shall be very ready to respect
kind-natured men; for, as the Italian proverb speaketh well, _chi ha,
havra_.
ACADEMICO.
Why, here is a gallant young drover of livings. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
I beseech you, sir, speak English; for that is natural to me and to my
son, and all our kindred, to understand but one language.
AMORETTO.
Why thus, in plain English, I must be respected with thanks.
ACADEMICO.
This is a subtle tractive, when thanks may be felt and seen. [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
And I pray you, sir, what is the lowest thanks that you will take?
ACADEMICO.
The very same method that he useth at the buying of an ox. [_Aside_.]
AMORETTO.
I must have some odd sprinkling of an hundred pounds; if so, so--I shall
think you thankful, and commend your son as a man of good gifts to my
father.
ACADEMICO.
A sweet world! give an hundred pounds; and this is but counted
thankfulness! [_Aside_.]
STERCUTIO.
Hark thou, sir; you shall have eighty thanks.
AMORETTO.
I tell thee, fellow, I never opened my mouth in this kind so cheap
before in my life: I tell thee, few young gentlemen are found that would
deal so kindly with thee as I do.
STERCUTIO.
Well, sir, because I know my son to be a toward thing, and one that has
taken all his learning on his own head, without sending to the
university, I am content to give you as many thanks as you ask, so you
will promise me to bring it to pass.
AMORETTO.
I warrant you for that, if I say it once. Repair you to the place, and
stay there. For my father, he is walked abroad to take the benefit of
the air: I'll meet him, as he returns, and make way for your suit.
Gallant, i'faith.[86]
[_Exeunt_ STERCUTIO _and_ IMMERITO.
ACTUS II., SCAENA 5.
ACADEMICO, AMORETTO.
ACADEMICO.
I see, we scholars fish for a living in these shallow fords without a
silver hook. Why, would it not gall a man to see a spruce gartered youth
of our college, a while ago, be a broker for a living and an old bawd
for a benefice? This sweet sir preferred me much kindness when he was of
our college, and now I'll try what wind remains in his bladder. God save
you, sir.
AMORETTO.
By the mass, I fear me, I saw this _genus_ and _species_ in Cambridge
before now: I'll take no notice of him now. [_Aside_.] By the faith of a
gentleman, this is pretty elegy. Of what age is the day, fellow? Sirrah
boy, hath the groom saddled my hunting hobby? Can Robin hunter tell
where a hare sits? [_Soliloquising_.
ACADEMICO.
See a poor Old friend of yours of S---- College in Cambridge.
AMORETTO.
Good faith, sir, you must pardon me: I have forgotten you.
ACADEMICO.
My name is Academico, sir; one that made an oration for you once on the
Queen's day, and a show that you got some credit by.
AMORETTO.
It may be so, it may be so; but I have forgotten it. Marry, yet I
remember that there was such a fellow that I was beneficial unto in my
time. But, howsoever, sir, I have the courtesy of the town for you.
I am sorry you did not take me at my father's house; but now I am in
exceeding great haste, for I have vowed the death of a hare that we
found this morning musing on her meaze.
ACADEMICO.
Sir, I am emboldened by that great acquaintance that heretofore I had
with you, as likewise it hath pleased you heretofore--
AMORETTO.
Look, sirrah, if you see my hobby come hitherward as yet.
ACADEMICO.
--to make me some promises, I am to request your good mediation to the
worshipful your father in my behalf: and I will dedicate to yourself,
in the way of thanks, those days I have to live.
AMORETTO.
O good sir, if I had known your mind before; for my father hath already
given the induction to a chaplain of his own--to a proper man--I know
not of what university he is.
ACADEMICO.
Signior Immerito, they say, hath bidden fairest for it.
AMORETTO.
I know not his name; but he is a grave, discreet man, I warrant him:
indeed, he wants utterance in some measure.
ACADEMICO.
Nay, methinks he hath very good utterance for his gravity, for he came
hither very grave; but, I think, he will return light enough, when he
is rid of the heavy element he carries about him. [_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
Faith, sir, you must pardon me: it is my ordinary custom to be too
studious; my mistress hath told me of it often, and I find it to hurt
my ordinary discourse: but say, sweet sir, do ye affect the most
gentlemanlike game of hunting?
ACADEMICO.
How say you to the crafty gull? he would fain get me abroad to make
sport with me in their hunters' terms, which we scholars are not
acquainted with. [_Aside_.] Sir, I have loved this kind of sport; but
now I begin to hate it, for it hath been my luck always to beat the
bush, while another killed the hare.
AMORETTO.
Hunters' luck, hunters' luck, sir; but there was a fault in your hounds,
that did spend well.
ACADEMICO.
Sir, I have had worse luck always at hunting the fox.
AMORETTO.
What, sir, do you mean at the unkennelling, untapezing, or earthing of
the fox?
ACADEMICO.
I mean, earthing, if you term it so;--for I never found yellow earth
enough to cover the old fox your father. [_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
Good faith, sir, there is an excellent skill in blowing for the terriers;
it is a word that we hunters use. When the fox is earthed, you must blow
one long, two short; the second wind, one long, two short. Now, sir, in
blowing, every long containeth seven quavers, one short containeth three
quavers.
ACADEMICO.
Sir, might I find any favour in my suit, I would wind the horn, wherein
your boon[87] deserts should be sounded with so many minims, so many
quavers.
AMORETTO.
Sweet sir, I would I could confer this or any kindness upon you:--I
wonder, the boy comes not away with my hobby. Now, sir, as I was
proceeding--when you blow the death of your fox in the field or covert,
then must you sound three notes with three winds, and recheat, mark you,
sir, upon the same with three winds.
ACADEMICO.
I pray you, sir.
AMORETTO.
Now, sir, when you come to your stately gate, as you sounded the recheat
before, so now you must sound the relief three times.
ACADEMICO.
Relief, call you it? it were good, every patron would find the horn.
[_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
O sir, but your relief is your sweetest note: that is, sir, when your
hounds hunt after a game unknown; and then you must sound one long and
six short; the second wind, two short and one long; the third wind, one
long and two short.
ACADEMICO.
True, sir, it is a very good trade nowadays to be a villain; I am the
hound that hunts after a game unknown, and blows the villain.
[_Aside_.]
AMORETTO.
Sir, I will bless your ears with a very pretty story: my father, out of
his own cost and charges, keeps an open table for all kind of dogs.
ACADEMICO.
And he keeps one more by thee. [_Aside_.]
AMORETTO.
He hath your greyhound, your mongrel, your mastiff, your levrier, your
spaniel, your kennets, terriers, butchers' dogs, bloodhounds,
dunghill-dogs, trundle-tails, prick-eared curs, small ladies' puppies,
raches,[88] and bastards.
ACADEMICO.
What a bawdy knave hath he to his father, that keeps his Rachel, hath
his bastards, and lets his sons be plain ladies' puppies to bewray a
lady's chamber. [_Aside_.]
AMORETTO.
It was my pleasure, two days ago, to take a gallant leash of greyhounds;
and into my father's park I went, accompanied with two or three noblemen
of my near acquaintance, desiring to show them some of the sport. I
caused the keeper to sever the rascal deer from the bucks of the first
head. Now, sir, a buck the first year is a fawn, the second year a
pricket, the third year a sorel, the fourth year a sore, the fifth a
buck of the first head, the sixth year a complete buck; as likewise your
hart is the first year a calf, the second year a brocket, the third year
a spade, the fourth year a stag, the fifth year a great stag, the sixth
year a hart; as likewise the roebuck is the first year a kid, the second
year a girl, the third year a hemuse: and these are your special beasts
for chase, or, as we huntsmen call it, for venery.
ACADEMICO.
If chaste be taken for venery, thou art a more special beast than any in
thy father's forest. [_Aside_.] Sir, I am sorry I have been so
troublesome to you.
AMORETTO.
I know this was the readiest way to chase away the scholar, by getting
him into a subject he cannot talk of for his life. [_Aside_.] Sir, I
will borrow so much time of you as to finish this my begun story. Now,
sir, after much travel we singled a buck; I rode that same time upon a
roan gelding, and stood to intercept from the thicket; the buck broke
gallantly; my great swift being disadvantaged in his slip was at the
first behind; marry, presently coted and outstripped them, when as the
hart presently descended to the river, and being in the water, proffered
and reproffered, and proffered again: and, at last, he upstarted at the
other side of the water, which we call soil of the hart, and there other
huntsmen met him with an adauntreley;[89] we followed in hard chase for
the space of eight hours; thrice our hounds were at default, and then we
cried _A slain_! straight, _So ho_; through good reclaiming my faulty
hounds found their game again, and so went through the wood with gallant
noise of music, resembling so many _viols de gambo_. At last the hart
laid him down, and the hounds seized upon him; he groaned, and wept, and
died. In good faith, it made me weep too, to think of Actaeon's fortune,
which my Ovid speaks of--
[_He reads Ovid_.
_Militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido_.
ACADEMICO.
Sir, can you put me in any hope of obtaining my suit?
AMORETTO.
In good faith, sir, if I did not love you as my soul, I would not make
you acquainted with the mysteries of my art.
ACADEMICO.
Nay, I will not die of a discourse yet, if I can choose.
[_Exit unperceived_.
AMORETTO.
So, sir, when we had rewarded our dogs with the small guts, and the
lights, and the blood, the huntsmen hallooed, _So ho! Venué_, a coupler;
and so coupled the dogs, and then returned homeward. Another company of
hounds, that lay at advantage, had their couples cast off, and we might
hear the huntsmen cry, _Horse, decouple, avant_; but straight we heard
him cry, _Le amond_, and by that I knew that they had the hare, and on
foot; and by and by I might see sore and resore, prick and reprick.
What, is he gone! ha, ha, ha, ha! these scholars are the simplest
creatures!
ACTUS II., SCAENA 6.
_Enter Amoretto's_ PAGE.
PAGE.
I wonder what is become of that Ovid _de arte amandi_.[90] My master, he
that for the practice of his discourse is wont to court his hobby abroad
and at home, in his chamber makes a set speech to his greyhound,
desiring that most fair and amiable dog to grace his company in a
stately galliard; and if the dog, seeing him practise his lusty points,
as his cross-point back-caper, chance to bewray the room, he presently
doft's his cap, most solemnly makes a low leg to his ladyship, taking it
for the greatest favour in the world that she would vouchsafe to leave
her civet-box or her sweet glove behind her.
[_Enter_ AMORETTO, _reading Ovid_.]
Not a word more. Sir, an't please you, your hobby will meet you at the
lane's end.
AMORETTO.
What, Jack? i'faith, I cannot but vent unto thee a most witty jest of
mine.
PAGE.
I hope my master will not break wind. [_Aside_.] Will't please you, sir,
to bless mine ears with the discourse of it?
AMORETTO.
Good faith, the boy begins to have an elegant smack of my style. Why,
then, thus it was, Jack, a scurvy mere Cambridge scholar, I know not
how to define him--
PAGE.
Nay, master, let me define a mere scholar. I heard a courtier once
define a mere scholar to be _animal scabiosum_, that is, a living
creature that is troubled with the itch; or, a mere scholar is a
creature that can strike fire in the morning at his tinder-box, put on
a pair of lined slippers, sit rheuming[91] till dinner, and then go to
his meat when the bell rings: one that hath a peculiar gift in a cough,
and a licence to spit. Or, if you will have him defined by negatives, he
is one that cannot make a good leg; one that cannot eat a mess of broth
cleanly; one that cannot ride a horse without spur-galling; one that
cannot salute a woman, and look on her directly; one that cannot--
AMORETTO.
Enough, Jack; I can stay no longer; I am so great in childbirth with
this jest. Sirrah, this predicable, this saucy groom, because, when I
was in Cambridge, and lay in a trundlebed under my tutor, I was content,
in discreet humility, to give him some place at the table; and because I
invited the hungry slave sometimes to my chamber, to the canvassing of a
turkey-pie or a piece of venison which my lady grandmother sent me, he
thought himself therefore eternally possessed of my love, and came
hither to take acquaintance of me; and thought his old familiarity did
continue, and would bear him out in a matter of weight. I could not tell
how to rid myself better of the troublesome burr than by getting him
into the discourse of hunting; and then tormenting him a while with our
words of art, the poor scorpion became speechless, and suddenly
vanished![92] These clerks are simple fellows, simple fellows.
[_He reads Ovid_.]
PAGE.
Simple, indeed, they are; for they want your courtly composition of a
fool and of a knave. [_Aside_.] Good faith, sir, a most absolute jest;
but, methinks, it might have been followed a little further.
AMORETTO.
As how, my little knave?
PAGE.
Why thus, sir; had you invited him to dinner at your table, and have put
the carving of a capon upon him, you should have seen him handle the
knife so foolishly, then run through a jury of faces, then wagging his
head and showing his teeth in familiarity, venture upon it with the same
method that he was wont to untruss an apple-pie, or tyrannise an egg and
butter: then would I have applied him all dinner-time with clean
trenchers, clean trenchers; and still when he had a good bit of meat, I
would have taken it from him by giving him a clean trencher, and so have
served him in kindness.
AMORETTO.
Well said, subtle Jack; put me in mind, when I return again, that I may
make my lady mother laugh at the scholar. I'll to my game; for you,
Jack, I would have you employ your time, till my coming, in watching
what hour of the day my hawk mutes. [_Exit_.
PAGE.
Is not this an excellent office, to be apothecary to his worship's hawk,
to sit scouting on the wall how the physic works? And is not my master
an absolute villain, that loves his hawk, his hobby, and his greyhound,
more than any mortal creature? Do but dispraise a feather of his hawk's
train, and he writhes his mouth, and swears (for he can do that only
with a good grace) that you are the most shallow-brained fellow that
lives. Do but say his horse stales with a good presence, and he's your
bondslave. When he returns, I'll tell twenty admirable lies of his hawk;
and then I shall be his little rogue and his white villain for a whole
week after. Well, let others complain; but I think there is no felicity
to the serving of a fool.
ACTUS III., SCAENA 1.
SIR RADERIC, RECORDER, PAGE, SIGNIOR IMMERITO.
SIR RADERIC.
Signior Immerito, you remember my caution for the tithes, and my promise
for farming my tithes at such a rate?
IMMERITO.
Ay, and please your worship, sir.
SIR RADERIC.
You must put in security for the performance of it, in such sort as I
and Master Recorder shall like of.
IMMERITO.
I will, an't please your worship.
SIR RADERIC.
And because I will be sure that I have conferred this kindness upon a
sufficient man, I have desired Master Recorder to take examination of
you.
PAGE.
My master, it seems, takes him for a thief; but he hath small reason for
it. As for learning, it's plain he never stole any; and for the living,
he knows himself how he comes by it; for let him but eat a mess of
furmenty this seven year, and yet he shall never be able to recover
himself. Alas, poor sheep, that hath fallen into the hands of such a
fox! [_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
Good Master Recorder, take your place by me, and make trial of his
gifts: is the clerk there to record his examination? O, the page shall
serve the turn.
PAGE.
Trial of his gifts! never had any gifts a better trial: why, Immerito's
gifts have appeared in as many colours as the rainbow; first, to Master
Amoretto, in colour of the satin suit he wears: to my lady, in the
similitude of a loose gown: to my master, in the likeness of a silver
basin and ewer: to us pages, in the semblance of new suits and points.
So Master Amoretto plays the gull in a piece of a parsonage; my master
adorns his cupboard with a piece of a parsonage; my mistress, upon good
days, puts on a piece of a parsonage; and we pages play at blowpoint for
a piece of a parsonage: I think here's trial enough for one man's gifts.
[_Aside_.
RECORDER.
Forasmuch as nature hath done her part in making you a handsome likely
man--
PAGE.
He is a handsome young man indeed, and hath a proper gelded parsonage.[93]
[_Aside_.
RECORDER.
In the next place, some art is requisite for the perfection of nature:
for the trial whereof, at the request of my worshipful friend, I will in
some sort propound questions fit to be resolved by one of your
profession. Say, what is a person that was never at the university?
IMMERITO.
A person that was never in the university is a living creature that can
eat a tithe-pig.
RECORDER.
Very well answered; but you should have added--and must be officious to
his patron. Write down that answer to show his learning in logic.
SIR RADERIC.
Yea, boy, write that down. Very learnedly, in good faith. I pray now,
let me ask you one question that I remember: whether is the masculine
gender or the feminine more worthy?
IMMERITO.
The feminine, sir.
SIR RADERIC.
The right answer, the right answer. In good faith, I have been of that
mind always. Write, boy, that to show he is a grammarian.
PAGE.
No marvel my master be against the grammar; for he hath always made
false Latin in the genders. [_Aside_.
RECORDER.
What university are you of?
IMMERITO.
Of none.
SIR RADERIC.
He tells truth; to tell truth is an excellent virtue. Boy, make two
heads, one for his learning, another for his virtues; and refer this to
the head of his virtues, not of his learning.
PAGE.
What, half a mess of good qualities referred to an ass' head?
[_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
Now, Master Recorder, if it please you, I will examine him in an author
that will sound him to the depth--a book of astronomy, otherwise called
an almanac.
RECORDER.
Very good, Sir Raderic; it were to be wished that there were no other
book of humanity, then there would not be such busy, state-frying
fellows as are nowadays. Proceed, good sir.
SIR RADERIC.
What is the dominical letter?
IMMERITO.
C, sir, and please your worship.
SIR RADERIC.
A very good answer, a very good answer, the very answer of the book.
Write down that, and refer it to his skill in philosophy.
PAGE.
C the dominical letter? It is true: Craft and Cunning do so domineer;
yet, rather C and D are dominical letters, that is, crafty duncery.
[_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
How many days hath September?
IMMERITO.
April, June, and November, February hath twenty-eight alone; and all
the rest hath thirty and one.
SIR RADERIC.
Very learnedly, in good faith, he hath also a smack in poetry. Write
down that, boy, to show his learning in poetry. How many miles from
Waltham to London?
IMMERITO.
Twelve, sir.
SIR RADERIC,
How many from Newmarket to Grantham?
IMMERITO.
Ten, sir.
PAGE.
Without doubt, he hath been some carrier's horse. [_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
How call you him that is cunning in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and the cypher?
IMMERITO.
A good arithmetician.
SIR RADERIC.
Write down that answer of his, to show his learning in arithmetic.
PAGE.
He must needs be a good arithmetician, that counted money so lately.
[_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
When is the new moon?
IMMERITO.
The last quarter the fifth day, at two of the clock and thirty-eight
minutes in the morning.
SIR RADERIC.
Write that down. How call you him that is weatherwise?
IMMERITO.
A good astronomer.
SIR RADERIC.
Sirrah boy, write him down for a good astronomer.
PAGE.
Ass colit ass-tra. [_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
What day of the month lights the Queen's day on?
IMMERITO.
The seventeenth of November.[94]
SIR RADERIC.
Boy, refer this to his virtues, and write him down a good subject.
PAGE.
Faith, he were an excellent subject for two or three good wits: he would
make a fine ass for an ape to ride upon. [_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
And these shall suffice for the parts of his learning. Now it remains to
try whether you be a man of good utterance, that is, whether you can ask
for the strayed heifer with the white face, as also chide the boys in
the belfry, and bid the sexton whip out the dogs. Let me hear your
voice.
IMMERITO.
If any man or woman--
SIR RADERIC.
That's too high.
IMMERITO.
If any man or woman--
SIR RADERIC.
That's too low.
IMMERITO.
If any man or woman can tell any tidings of a horse with four feet, two
ears, that did stray about the seventh hour, three minutes in the
forenoon the fifth day--
PAGE.
A book of[95] a horse, just as it were the eclipse of the moon.
[_Aside_.
SIR RADERIC.
Boy, write him down for a good utterance. Master Recorder, I think he
hath been examined sufficiently.
RECORDER.
Ay, Sir Raderic, 'tis so; we have tried him very throughly.
PAGE.
Ay, we have taken an inventory of his good parts, and prized them
accordingly.
SIR RADERIC.
Signior Immerito, forasmuch as we have made a double trial of thee--the
one of your learning, the other of your erudition--it is expedient also,
in the next place, to give you a few exhortations, considering the
greatest clerks are not the wisest men. This is therefore, first, to
exhort you to abstain from controversies; secondly, not to gird at men
of worship, such as myself, but to use yourself discreetly; thirdly, not
to speak when any man or woman coughs--do so, and in so doing, I will
persevere to be your worshipful friend and loving patron.
IMMERITO.
I thank your worship, you have been the deficient cause of my preferment.
SIR RADERIC.
Lead Immerito into my son, and let him despatch him; and remember--my
tithes to be reserved, paying twelvepence a year. I am going to
Moorfields to speak with an unthrift I should meet at the Middle-Temple
about a purchase; when you have done, follow us.
[_Exeunt_ IMMERITO _and the_ PAGE.
ACTUS III., SCAENA 2.
SIR RADERIC _and_ RECORDER.
SIR RADERIC.
Hark you, Master Recorder: I have fleshed my prodigal boy notably,
notably, in letting him deal for this living; that hath done him much
good, much good, I assure you.
RECORDER.
You do well, Sir Raderic, to bestow your living upon such an one as will
be content to share, and on Sunday to say nothing; whereas your proud
university princox thinks he is a man of such merit the world cannot
sufficiently endow him with preferment. An unthankful viper, an
unthankful viper, that will sting the man that revived him.
Why, is't not strange to see a ragged clerk
Some stamel weaver or some butcher's son,
That scrubb'd a-late within a sleeveless gown,
When the commencement, like a morris-dance,
Hath put a bell or two about his legs,
Created him a sweet clean gentleman;
How then he 'gins to follow fashions:
He, whose thin sire dwells in a smoky roof,
Must take tobacco, and must wear a lock;
His thirsty dad drinks in a wooden bowl,
But his sweet self is serv'd in silver plate.
His hungry sire will scrape you twenty legs
For one good Christmas meal on New-Year's day,
But his maw must be capon-cramm'd each day;
He must ere long be triple-beneficed,
Else with his tongue he'll thunderbolt the world,
And shake each peasant by his deaf man's ear.
But, had the world no wiser men than I,
We'd pen the prating parrots in a cage.
A chair, a candle, and a tinder-box,
A thacked[96] chamber and a ragged gown,
Should be their lands and whole possessions;
Knights, lords, and lawyers should be lodg'd and dwell
Within those over-stately heaps of stone,
Which doating sires in old age did erect.
Well, it were to be wished, that never a scholar in England might have
above forty pound a year.
SIR RADERIC.
Faith, Master Recorder, if it went by wishing, there should never an one
of them all have above twenty a year--a good stipend, a good stipend,
Master Recorder. I in the meantime, howsoever I hate them all deadly,
yet I am fain to give them good words. O, they are pestilent fellows,
they speak nothing but bodkins, and piss vinegar. Well, do what I can
in outward kindness to them, yet they do nothing but bewray my house:
as there was one that made a couple of knavish verses on my country
chimney, now in the time of my sojourning here at London; and it was
thus--
Sir Raderic keeps no chimney cavalier,
That takes tobacco above once a year.
And another made a couple of verses on my daughter, that learns to play
on the _viol-de-gambo_--
Her _viol-de-gambo_ is her best content;
For 'twixt her legs she holds her instrument.
Very knavish, very knavish, if you look into it, Master Recorder. Nay,
they have played many a knavish trick beside with me. Well, 'tis a
shame, indeed, there should be any such privilege for proud beggars as
Cambridge and Oxford are. But let them go; and if ever they light in my
hands, if I do not plague them, let me never return home again to see
my wife's waiting-maid!
RECORDER.
This scorn of knights is too egregious:
But how should these young colts prove amblers,
When the old, heavy, galled jades do trot?
There shall you see a puny boy start up,
And make a theme against common lawyers;
Then the old, unwieldy camels 'gin to dance,
This fiddling boy playing a fit of mirth;
The greybeards scrub, and laugh, and cry, _Good, good!
To them again, boy; scourge the barbarians_.
But we may give the losers leave to talk;
We have the coin, then tell them laugh for me.
Yet knights and lawyers hope to see the day,
When we may share here their possessions,
And make indentures of their chaffer'd skins,
Dice of their bones to throw in merriment.
SIR RADERIC.
O, good faith, Master Recorder, if I could see that day once?
RECORDER.
Well, remember another day what I say: scholars are pryed into of late,
and are found to be busy fellows, disturbers of the peace. I'll say no
more; guess at my meaning. I smell a rat.
SIR RADERIC.
I hope at length England will be wise enough, I hope so, i'faith; then
an old knight may have his wench in a corner without any satires or
epigrams. But the day is far spent, Master Recorder; and I fear by this
time the unthrift is arrived at the place appointed in Moorfields. Let
us hasten to him. [_He looks on his watch_.
RECORDER.
Indeed, this day's subject transported us too late: [but] I think we
shall not come much too late.
[_Exeunt_.
ACTUS III., SCAENA 3.
_Enter_ AMORETTO, _and his Page_, IMMERITO _booted_.
AMORETTO.
Master Immerito, deliver this letter to the poser in my father's name.
Marry, withal some sprinkling, some sprinkling; _verbum sapienti sat
est_. Farewell, Master Immerito.
IMMERITO.
I thank your worship most heartily.
PAGE.
Is it not a shame to see this old dunce learning his induction at these
years? But let him go, I lose nothing by him; for I'll be sworn, but for
the booty of selling the parsonage, I should have gone in mine old
clothes this Christmas. A dunce, I see, is a neighbour-like brute beast:
a man may live by him. [_Aside_.
[_AMORETTO seems to make verse_.
AMORETTO.
A pox on it, my muse is not so witty as she was wont to be: ---- _Her
nose is like_ ---- not yet; plague on these mathematics! they have
spoiled my brain in making a verse.
PAGE.
Hang me, if he hath any more mathematics than will serve to count the
clock, or tell the meridian hour by rumbling of his paunch.
[_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
_Her nose is like_ ----
PAGE.
A cobbler's shoeing-horn.
AMORETTO.
_Her nose is like a beauteous maribone_. [_Aside_.
PAGE.
Marry, a sweet snotty mistress! [_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
Faith, I do not like it yet. Ass as I was, to read a piece of Aristotle
in Greek yesternight; it hath put me out of my English vein quite.
PAGE.
O monstrous lie! let me be a point-trusser, while I live, if he
understands any tongue but English. [_Aside_.
AMORETTO.
Sirrah boy, remember me when I come in Paul's Churchyard to buy a
Ronsard and [a] Dubartas in French, and Aretine in Italian; and our
hardest writers in Spanish; they will sharpen my wits gallantly. I do
relish these tongues in some sort. O, now I do remember, I hear a
report of a poet newly come out in Hebrew; it is a pretty harsh tongue,
and telleth[97] a gentleman traveller: but come, let's haste after my
father; the fields are fitter to heavenly meditations.
[_Exit_.
PAGE.
My masters, I could wish your presence at an admirable jest: why
presently this great linguist my master will march through Paul's
Churchyard, come to a bookbinder's shop, and with a big Italian look and
a Spanish face ask for these books in Spanish and Italian; then, turning
(through his ignorance) the wrong end of the book upward, use action on
this unknown tongue after this sort: First, look on the title, and
wrinkle his brow; next make as though he read the first page, and bite
's lip;[98] then with his nail score the margent, as though there were
some notable conceit; and, lastly, when he thinks he hath gulled the
standers-by sufficiently, throws the book away in a rage, swearing that
he could never find books of a true print since he was last in
Joadna;[99] inquire after the next mart, and so departs. And so must I;
for by this time his contemplation is arrived at his mistress's nose
end; he is as glad as if he had taken Ostend.[100] By this time he
begins to spit, and cry, Boy, carry my cloak: and now I go to attend on
his worship.
[_Exit_.
ACTUS III., SCAENA 4.
_Enter_ INGENIOSO, FUROR, PHANTASMA.
INGENIOSO.
Come, lads; this wine whets your resolution in our design: it's a needy
world with subtle spirits; and there's a gentlemanlike kind of begging,
that may beseem poets in this age.
FUROR.
Now by the wing of nimble Mercury,
By my Thalia's silver-sounding harp,
By that celestial fire within my brain,
That gives a living genius to my lines,
Howe'er my dulled intellectual
Capers less nimbly than it did afore;
Yet will I play a hunts-up to my muse,
And make her mount from out her sluggish nest.
As high as is the highest sphere in heaven.
Awake, you paltry trulls of Helicon,
Or, by this light, I'll swagger with you straight:
You grandsire Phoebus, with your lovely eye,
The firmament's eternal vagabond,
The heaven's promoter, that doth peep and pry
Into the acts of mortal tennis-balls,
Inspire me straight with some rare delicies,[101]
Or I'll dismount thee from thy radiant coach,
And make thee poor[102] Cutchy here on earth.
PHANTASMA.
_Currus auriga paterni_.
INGENIOSO.
Nay, prythee, good Furor, do not rove in rhymes before thy time; thou
hast a very terrible, roaring muse, nothing but squibs and fine jerks:
quiet thyself a while, and hear thy charge.
PHANTASMA.
_Huc ades, haec animo concipe dicta tuo_.
INGENIOSO.
Let us on to our device, our plot, our project. That old Sir Raderic,
that new printed compendium of all iniquity, that hath not aired his
country chimney once in three winters; he that loves to live in an old
corner here at London, and affect an old wench in a nook; one that loves
to live in a narrow room, that he may with more facility in the dark
light upon his wife's waiting-maid; one that loves alike a short sermon
and a long play; one that goes to a play, to a whore, to his bed, in
circle: good for nothing in the world but to sweat ni
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