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 " What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life." 
 
 Master Francis Beaumont to Ben Jonson. 
 
 " Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? '' 
 
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 LONDON 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITKFRIAKS
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 NERO. Edited by HERBERT p. HORNE . . . . i 
 THE Two ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON. Edited by 
 
 HAVELOCK ELLIS 93 
 
 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. Edited by ARTHUR SYMONS. 209 
 
 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. Edited by ARTHUR SYMONS . 269 
 
 WOMAN is A WEATHERCOCK. .Edited by A. WILSON 
 
 VERITY 337 
 
 AMENDS FOR LADIES. Edited by A. WILSON VERITY . . 413 
 
 2081367
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HY," said Charles Lamb in one 
 of the notes to his Extracts from 
 the Gar rick Plays, " why do we go 
 on with ever-new editions of Ford 
 and Massinger, and the thrice- 
 reprinted selections of Dodsley ? What we want 
 is as many volumes more as these latter consist of, 
 filled with plays of which we know comparatively 
 nothing." Lamb was speaking of The Two Angry 
 Women of Abington, one of the plays contained in 
 this volume, a volume in which we have attempted 
 to do what he thought so desirable. It was an- 
 nounced in the prospectus to the Mermaid Series, 
 that a feature would be made of plays by little- 
 known writers which, although often so admirable, 
 are now almost inaccessible. Of the plays con- 
 tained in the present volume, Nero, The Parliament 
 of Bees and Humour out of BreatJi are given for the 
 first time with a modernised text, and none of the 
 plays here included have hitherto been accessible 
 in any form but that of a limited and costly
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 reprint. No attempt has been made in this 
 selection to obtain unity of manner or subject. 
 In the picturesque tragedy of the refined and 
 scholarly poet who wrote Nero, in the homely 
 comedy of " burly Porter," the delicate aerial, 
 music of Day, the wanton and boisterous mirth 
 of Field, we approach the great Elizabethan stage 
 from four widely distant points, and are enabled to 
 appreciate something of its freedom, breadth and 
 variety. Volumes like the present, we may hope, 
 are storehouses of scattered treasures ; delightful 
 things neglected only because they are scattered. 
 
 H. E.
 
 Nero.
 
 F the author of The Tragedy of Nero 
 nothing has been handed down to us ; 
 of the play itself only what is contained 
 in two anonymous quartos, and in a 
 manuscript which, excepting a few notes 
 of parallel passages from the Classics, 
 and very many emendations of the 
 printed text, yields us no further light. The title-page of the 
 earlier quarto runs thus : " THE TRAGEDY OF NERO, Newly 
 Written. Imprinted at London by Augustine Mathewes, 
 and lohn Norton, for Thomas I ones and are to bee sold at 
 the blacke Rauen in the Strand. 1624." Though the text 
 is very corrupt, it is not, perhaps, more full of mistakes than 
 is usual in the early editions of the dramatists. The title- 
 page of the second quarto varies from the first as follows : 
 "THE TRAGEDY OF NERO. Newly written. LONDON Printed 
 by Aug. Mathewes, for Thomas lones. and are to be sold at 
 his shoppe in Saint Dtinstanes Churchyard, in Fleete-street. 
 1633." Many obvious mistakes in the earlier edition have 
 here been corrected, yet for the most part it puts into worse 
 confusion those which are not obvious. The spelling, also, 
 throughout is more modern. On the whole the chief value 
 .of this second quarto lies in the fact that the play was 
 sufficiently popular at that time to call forth a second edi- 
 tion. The manuscript is contained in a folio volume of early 
 seventeenth-century plays among the Egerton MSS. in the 
 British Museum. It is numbered 1994, and was purchased 
 in 1865, at Lord Charlemont's sale. The present Tragedy 
 the twelfth of the fifteen plays in the volume, commences 
 on leaf 245 and continues to leaf 267. Leaves 262 to 264 
 are misplaced and should have been inserted between leaves 
 
 B 2
 
 4 NERO. 
 
 258 and 259. Whenever it is otherwise imperfect the reader 
 will find it so stated in the notes. 
 
 Generally when the manuscript differs from the quartos I 
 have preferred its reading to theirs ; though not invariably) 
 for it is by no means free from errors. Judging from the 
 character of the manuscript, it appears to be a volume of 
 transcripts made for stage use : if this conjecture be true, 
 it is more than probable that the play was acted. The few 
 notes, moreover, in the margin, mentioned above, would 
 lead one to suppose that this transcript was made directly 
 from the author's own copy, for they are not of the kind that 
 a copyist would be likely to insert ; they will be found at 
 length in the notes to the present text. From these three 
 original sources I have derived my text, and have only 
 ventured on emendations when the context left no doubt of 
 their correctness. But I must by no means omit to acknow- 
 ledge the entirely free use I have made of the previous 
 labours of Mr. Bullen in his " Collection of Old English 
 Plays." Unfortunately the manuscript was not known to 
 him until his text had past the press. Those of his notes 
 which I have merely transcribed, will be found marked 
 with his name. 
 
 It has been suggested that the expression "Newly written," 
 which occurs on the title-page of both the quartos, was in'r 
 tended to distinguish it from an earlier play entitled : 
 " THE Tragedie of Claudius Tiberius Nero, Romes 
 greatest Tyrant. Truly represented out of the purest Records 
 of those times" which had been published in 1607. This 
 play, we are told, was written by a " young Scholler," the 
 son of " an Academian," " especially inward with Cornelius 
 Tacitus." But unfortunately this suggestion is of no value, for 
 the play treats not of the life of Nero, but of Tiberius ; and 
 therefore by " Newly written " we must understand, not 
 "written anew," but " recently written," that is in 1624. It 
 would seem that Mr. Bullen had the author of this tragedy 
 of Tiberius in his mind when he said, " I am inclined to 
 think that the tragedy of Nero was the first and last attempt 
 of some young student, steeped in classical learning and 
 attracted by the strange fascination of the ' Annals,' of 
 one who, failing to gain a hearing at first, never courted the 
 breath of popularity again." For my part, I must confess, 
 I have been unable to discover anything to warrant this
 
 NERO. 
 
 5 
 
 opinion. All that we can with certainty conjecture is that 
 the author of Nero was a man read, not only in the classics, 
 but also in the literature of his own country, and that he 
 was unaccustomed to write for the stage. 
 
 In one of the copies of this play in the British Museum a 
 contemporary reader has written in a quaint seventeenth- 
 century hand, at the end of the tragedy, the word "in- 
 different" ; and this is precisely the conclusion that a critic 
 of to-day would form on reading the play quickly through 
 in order to gain some estimate of its worth as a whole. As 
 a whole it is indifferent ; it is far, indeed, from being worth- 
 less, yet it is in no sense a faultless play. Still, if we come 
 to look at it in detail, and disentangle particular passages, 
 we find in it lines more splendid than many other plays of 
 authors not so careless can show to us. We find in it de- 
 scriptions like this of the sacrilege of Nero, of how he 
 robbed the altars and 
 
 " The antique goblets of adored rust 
 And sacred gifts of kings and people sold." 
 
 But we of this nineteenth century are, alas ! too often con- 
 tent to judge of a work of art by fragments, and this is quite 
 an impossible way to judge of a work of art, no matter 
 whether it be a piece of architecture, a picture, or a play. 
 If we had a fine instinct for the conditions of art we 
 should not do so, but we have not ; for we are a very remark- 
 able people, but not an artistic people. And therefore it 
 will be best to say plainly at once that this tragedy of Nero 
 does not fulfil the larger unities which so stern a form of 
 art as a drama insists upon. Yet despite this, it has for us, 
 I think, a peculiar value in that it is sufficiently fine to be 
 read with interest and enjoyed, and yet not sufficiently the 
 work of a master to withhold us from the consideration 
 of certain points that elsewhere we might be unwilling to 
 criticise ; things which in a play hedged about by a greater 
 name, either we should not so clearly see, or else we should 
 not dare to call in question. For genius has something 
 of the odour of the sanctuary, of the smell of the incense 
 that forbids us to look too nearly into the mysteries of the 
 Blessed Sacrament. 
 But lest I should exceed the scope of a mere Introduction, I
 
 6 JfERO. 
 
 must content myself with touching upon only two of the 
 many thoughts here suggested. And for the first of these. 
 It is this, that in the present play we see, as we cannot do in 
 a play of Shakespeare's or Fletcher's where the brilliancy of 
 their imagination blinds everything, what was common to 
 .the entire age of Elizabeth, and died only with Milton. For 
 Marlowe, and for those who came after him, there was a new, 
 an unexplored wealth of language. Common thoughts of 
 common things were yet to be expressed in literary 
 English as we now know it ; and a phrase which to us is 
 vernacular, and a thing of everyday, fell upon their ears with 
 the delight and surprise that now only a turn or image can 
 give. The whole land drank of this abundant spirit and gave 
 thanks. It touched not only those who were striving to 
 found a literature which should endure, but through it the 
 Clerk of the Pells was enabled to fill his Majesty's accounts 
 with as much human interest as Francis, Lord St. Albans, 
 mingled with the grave style of his state letters. Arid so 
 from this arose the superb sense of resource and mastery 
 which remains to us in the generous life and vigour still 
 saturating everything they wrote. No wonder then these 
 Elizabethans exulted in their gift, and searched all heaven 
 and earth for that whereby they might use it. No wonder, 
 also, that they exceeded the limit of that gift and marred its 
 .beauty by a delight in conceits, scorning the severe restraint 
 and perfection of form which had been the chief distinction 
 of the Classics. 
 
 But to pass on. Perhaps what is now in my mind to say 
 finally amounts to the consideration of how far it is needful 
 that a historical drama should be satisfactory from the 
 historical standpoint. Let us first see how our author uses 
 history. We find him well acquainted not only with Suetonius' 
 Life of Nero, but with Tacitus also, and Dion Cassius. 
 In. the incidents of his play he follows these writers very 
 closely ; he is careful, also, to preserve the historical order 
 of the events he is dramatising ; and all the considerable 
 persons mentioned by his authorities are to be found among 
 the characters. But we shall perhaps get more quickly to 
 the heart of the matter in hand by noticing where he differs 
 from the histories. The events set forth in this tragedy are, 
 historically, scattered over a period of some four years. The 
 fires at Rome occurred some time before the death of
 
 NERO. 7 
 
 Poppsea, who died A.D. 65, and the revolt of Julius Vindex 
 did not take place till A.D. 68 ; whereas, in the play, the 
 impression received is one of quick succession. Such a 
 divergence from history cannot but insinuate an air of in- 
 completeness, a sense that the matter proposed has only 
 been partially mastered. On the other hand similar diverg- 
 ence from what actually took place, is sometimes introduced 
 with added effect, for example in the fifth scene of the fourth 
 act. Suetonius tells us that Nero killed Poppasa with a kick 
 when she was in sorry health (gr&vida et aegrd), because she 
 found fault with him for returning late in the evening from 
 driving his chariot. Instead of which, our author makes a 
 young man participating in the conspiracy of Piso the cause 
 of the quarrel, and so increases the interest and the incident, 
 bringing out the wantonness of Popptea, and the selfish cruelty 
 of the Emperor. 
 
 These, however, are inconsiderable when compared with 
 the last act and its treatment of the history there set forth. 
 It is by far the weakest part of the play, and almost unworthy 
 of the previous four parts. Yet in the most inadequate passage 
 of all, the last speech of Nero : 
 
 " Oh ! Rome, farewell ! Farewell you theatres 
 Where I so oft with popular applause 
 In song and action " 
 
 yet here, where we should have desired the finest touches and 
 have found the weakest, has our author struck upon the most 
 remarkable trait in the death, and perhaps, also, in the life of 
 Nero, upon his huge, barbaric lust of art, and his intense belief 
 in his own powers as an artist. But except for this, perhaps 
 accidental, gleam of insight, the entire act is heavy, wanting 
 in incident, and what is more serious, wanting in a sense of 
 conclusion. How different is that description of Suetonius, 
 of the flight of the Emperor to the villa of Phaon, some four 
 miles out of the city. As he was, with bare feet and only a 
 faded cloak thrown over his tunic, and holding a linen cloth 
 before his face, Nero mounted a horse, and rode ofif with no 
 more than four of his followers, amongst whom was Sporus. 
 Suddenly he is afraid because the earth quakes, and a flash of 
 lightning is driven down before him. He hears from a neigh- 
 bouring camp the noise of the soldiers crying for his destruc- 
 tion, and for the well-being of Galba. One by the way asks
 
 8 NERO. 
 
 " What news in the city of Nero ? " and another, coming out of 
 Rome, answers, " Already they pursue him." Anon his 
 horse starts at the smell of a dead body lying in the road ; 
 and in the hurry of the moment he uncovers his face, and is 
 recognised and saluted by one whom he had thrust from the 
 Praetorian bands. 
 
 When he had come to the by-way where he should leave 
 the high-road, quitting the horses and making his way be- 
 tween bushes and briars, and with difficulty over a bed of 
 rushes, though not without a cloak being spread under 
 his feet, he reached the wall at the back of the villa. 
 There Phaon urged him to hide himself in a cave from which 
 sand had been dug, but he answered he would not go, still 
 living, below ground. Whilst a secret way into the villa was 
 being made, he plucked out the thorns sticking in his cloak, 
 for it had been torn by the briars. At last he was admited, 
 and creeping upon his hands and knees through a small open- 
 ing made for him in the wall, he went into a room for slaves 
 which was near at hand, and lay down on a bed furnished 
 with a very small mattress, over which was thrown an old 
 coverlet. Meanwhile, being distressed by both hunger and 
 thirst, he refused some stale bread which had been offered 
 him, but drank a little tepid water. 
 
 Then those who were about him having besought him to 
 escape the' shameful death which was coming upon him, he 
 ordered a small pit to be dug before his eyes, according to 
 the measure of his body, and paved with pieces of marble if 
 any could be found near at hand ; and water, also, and wood 
 to be made ready for immediate use when he should be dead, 
 weeping at everything that was done, and saying repeatedly, 
 " How great an artist is lost in me ! " During the delay 
 letters were brought by a post of Phaon's ; he snatched at 
 them, and read that he had been judged an enemy to the 
 senate, and was to be sought out that he might be punished 
 according to the custom of their forefathers. He asked what 
 the punishment might be, and when he learned that the neck 
 of the naked man was put into a forked whipping-post, and 
 his body flogged to death with rods, in a moment of terror 
 he clutched at two daggers which he carried about with him, 
 but having tried the point of each he put them up again, 
 pleading that the hour when he should kill himself, was not 
 yet come. And now he calls upon Sporus to weep and beat
 
 NERO. 9 
 
 his breast, and now he prays someone to kill himself that 
 thereby courage might be lent him to do likewise, the while 
 he was upbraiding his own want of resolution thus : " Dis- 
 honourably, despicably do I live on. This does not become 
 Nero, it does not become him ; thou oughtest to have courage 
 in matters such as these. Up ! man, bestir thyself." 
 
 And now the .horsemen were approaching who had been 
 commanded to take him alive. But he hearing them and 
 repeating with a trembling voice this verse out of Homer, 
 
 " Methinks about mine ears the sound of running horses beat," 
 
 drove a sword into his throat, being helped to the deed by 
 Epaphroditus, his secretary. 
 
 Here, if anywhere in the story of Nero, was a fortunate 
 occasion for the writer of plays ; such an end to such a life 
 should surely have proved a subject made to his hand. 
 
 These then seem to me the most suggestive of the 
 thoughts which this play of Nero calls up in us, but to follow 
 them out here may not be ; but rather like Prospero, having 
 summoned " some vanity of mine art " before your eyes, I am 
 fain to dismiss all with a brief reflection. It is but this : 
 
 History seeks to show us men and events as they really 
 were ; while the end of great dramatic writing is not merely 
 to hold the mirror up to Nature, but looking upon Nature to 
 distinguish between what is transitory and what is abiding, 
 what is accidental and what is essential, and so, choosing 
 those qualities and traits of men and women which are the 
 more lasting and precious for our warning and example, 
 and heightening their various passions and circumstances, 
 to mould all into a work of art. If this is so, there would 
 seem to be between History and Dramatic writing a radical 
 contradiction. To say that it is vain that an artist should 
 attempt to hide this contradiction would be an absurdity ; 
 for whatever is possible for Art, that also is lawful. Still the 
 question remains, has any writer completely overcome what 
 would seem to be an insuperable objection ? 
 
 HERBERT P. HORNE.
 
 NERO CESAR, Emperor. 
 
 TlGELLINUS SOPHONIUS. 
 
 EPAPHRODITUS, a Freedman, Secretary to NERO. 
 
 NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 NEOPHILUS. 
 
 Lucius Piso, Chief of the Conspirators. 
 
 FLAVIUS SOEVINUS, a Senator. 
 
 MILICHUS, his Freedman. 
 
 SUBRIUS FLAVIUS, Tribune of a Praetorian Cohort. 
 
 M. ANNJEUS LUCANUS, Poet. 
 
 L. ANN^EUS SENECA, Philosopher. 
 
 C. PETRONIUS ARBITER, Writer. 
 
 ANTONIUS HONORATUS. 
 
 ANN^US CORNUTUS, Philosopher. 
 
 A Young Man. 
 
 A Man. 
 
 Friends of SENECA. 
 
 Friend of GALBA. 
 
 Romans. 
 
 Physician, Guards, Messengers, Attendants, etc. 
 
 POPPJEA SABINA, Wife of NERO. 
 
 ENANTHE. 
 
 A Woman. 
 
 SCENE Chiefly in ROME.
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. A Gallery in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter PETRONIUS ARBITER and ANTONIUS HONORATUS. 
 
 ET. Tush, take the wench 
 . I showed thee now, or else some 
 
 other seek. 
 What ! can your choler no way be 
 
 allayed 
 
 But with imperial stuff? [give ? 
 
 Will you more titles 1 unto Caesar 
 Ant. Great are thy fortunes, Nero, great thy power, 
 Thy empire limited with Nature's bounds ; 
 Upon thy ground the sun doth set and rise; 
 The day and night are thine, 
 Nor can the planets, wander where they will, 
 See that proud earth that fears not Caesar's name : 
 Yet nothing of all this I envy thee 
 But her, to whom the world unforced obeys, 
 Whose eye's more worth than all it looks upon ; 
 In whom all beauties Nature hath enclosed 
 That through the wide earth or heaven are disposed. 
 
 1 The title, I suppose, of " Cuckold." Bullen.
 
 12 NERO. [ACT i. 
 
 Pet. Indeed she steals and robs each part o' th' world 
 With borrowed beauties to inflame thine eye ; 
 The sea to fetch her pearl is dived into, 
 The diamond rocks are cut to make her shine, 
 To plume her pride the birds do naked sing ; 
 When my Enanthe, in a homely gown 
 
 Ant. Homely, i' faith ! 
 
 Pet. Ay ! homely in her gown, 
 
 But look upon her face and that's set out 
 With no sale grace, no .veiled shadows help. 
 Fool, that had'st rather with false lights and dark 
 Beguiled be than see the ware thou buyest ! 
 
 POPP^EA enters royally attended, and passes over the slage 
 in state. 
 
 Ant. Great queen, whom Nature made to be her 
 
 glory, 
 
 Fortune got eyes and came to be thy servant, 
 Honour is proud to be thy title ! Though 
 Thy beauties do draw up my soul, yet still 
 So bright, so glorious is thy majesty 
 That it beats down again my climbing thoughts. 
 
 Pet. Why, true ! 
 
 Another of thy blindnesses thou seest, 
 Such one to love thou dar'st not speak unto. 
 Give me a wench that will be easily had, 
 Not wooed with, cost, and being sent for comes ; 
 And when I have her folded in my arms 
 Then Cleopatra she, or Lucrece is ; 
 I'll give her any title. 
 
 Ant. Yet not so much her greatness and estate 
 My hopes dishearten as her chastity. 
 
 Pet. Chastity, fool ! a word not known in courts. 
 Well it may lodge in mean and country homes 
 Where poverty and labour keeps them down, 
 Short sleeps and hands made hard with Tuscan wool ; 
 But never comes to great men's palaces
 
 SCENE I.] NERO. 13 
 
 Where ease and riches stirring thoughts beget, 
 Provoking meats and surfeit wines inflame ; 
 Where all their setting forth's but to be wooed, 
 And wooed they would not be but to be won. 
 Will one man serve Poppaea ? Nay, thou shall 
 Make her as soon contented with an eye. 
 
 Enter NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 Nim. [Aside.] Whilst Nero in the streets his pageants 
 
 shows, 
 
 I to his fair wife's chambers sent for am. 
 Yon gracious stars that smiled on my birth, 
 And thou bright star more powerful than them all, 
 Whose favouring smiles have made me what I am, 
 Thou shall my God, my fate, my fortune be. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. How saucily yon fellow- 
 Enters Ihe Empress 1 chamber. 
 
 Pet. Ay ! and her loo. Anlonius, knowesl ihou him ? 
 
 Ant. Whal ? know Ihe only favourite of the court ? 
 Indeed, not many days ago thou mighlest 
 Have not unlawfully asked that question. 
 
 Pet. Why is he raised ? 
 
 Ant. That have I sought in him, 
 
 Bui never piece of good deserl could find. 
 He is Nimphidia's son, Ihe freedwoman. 
 Which baseness lo shake off he nolhing halh 
 Bui his own pride. 
 
 Pet. You remember when Gallus, Celsus, 
 And olhers loo, though now forgotlen, weie 
 Greal in Poppaea's eyes ? 
 
 Ant. I do, and did interpret it in them 
 An honourable favour ihey bare virtue, 
 Or parls like virlue. 
 
 Pet. The cause is one of Iheirs and ihis man's grace. 
 I once was greal in wavering smiles of courl ; 
 I fell because I knew. Since have I given 
 My time to my own pleasures, and would now
 
 14 NERO. [ACT i. 
 
 Advise thee, too, to mean and safe delights : 
 
 The thigh's as soft the sheep's back covereth 
 
 As that with crimson and with gold adorned. 
 
 Yet, 'cause I see that thy restrained desires 
 
 Cannot their own way choose, come thou with me ; 
 
 Perhaps I'll show thee means of remedy. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. ^4 Street in Rome. 
 Shouts within. Enter two Romans meeting. 
 
 ist Rom. Whither so fast, man ? Whither so fast ? 
 znd Rom. Whither ! but where your ears do lead you, 
 To Nero's triumphs and the shouts you hear. 
 
 \st Rom. Why? comes he crowned with Parthian over- 
 throw 
 And brings he Vologeses l with him chained ? 
 
 2nd Rom. Parthian overthrow? Why, he comes 
 
 crowned 
 For victories which never Roman won ; 
 
 ' * 
 
 For having Greece in her own arts overthrown, 
 In singing, dancing, horse-race, stage-playing. 
 Never Oh, Rome had never such a prince ! 
 
 isf Rom. Yet, I have heard, our ancestors were 
 
 crowned 
 For other victories. 
 
 2nd Rom. None of our ancestors were e'er like him. 
 
 \Within^\ Nero Apollo ! Nero Hercules! 2 
 
 ist Rom. Hark how th' applauding shouts do cleave 
 
 the air ! 
 This idle talk will make me lose the sight. 
 
 Enter 3rd Roman. 
 yd Rom. Whither go you ? All's done i' th' Capitol, 
 
 1 King of Parthia ; vide Tacitus, Ann. XII. 14 and 50. 
 
 2 Compare Dion Cassius, H T, 20 (ed. Bekker). Bullen.
 
 SCENE II.] NERO. 15 
 
 And Nero, having there his tables hung 
 And garlands up, is to the palace gone. 
 
 Enter 4th Roman. 
 
 4/7* Rom. 'Twas beyond wonder ; I shall never see, 
 Nay, I'll ne'er look to see the like of this : 
 Eighteen hundred and eight crowns 
 For several victories, and the place set down 
 Where, and in what, and whom he overcame. 
 
 yd Rom. That was set down i' th' tables that were 
 
 borne 
 Upon the soldiers' spears. 
 
 ist Rom. O made, and sometimes used for other ends ! 
 
 2nd Rom. But did he win them all with singing? 
 
 yd Rom. Faith, all with singing and with stage-play- 
 
 isf Rom. So many crowns got with a song ! [ing. 
 
 4//z Rom. But did you mark the Greek musicians 
 Behind his chariot, hanging down their heads, 
 Shamed and o'ercome in their professions ? 
 Oh, Rome was never honoured so before ! 
 
 yd Rom. But what was he that rode i' th' chariot with 
 him ? 
 
 %th Rom. That was Diodorus, the minstrel, that he 
 favours. 
 
 yd Rom. Was there ever such a prince ! 
 
 znd Rom. O Nero Augustus, the true Augustus ! 
 
 yd Rom. Nay, had you seen him as he rode along 
 With an Olympic crown upon his head 
 And with a Pythian on his arm, 1 you would have thought, 
 Looking on one, he had Apollo been, 
 On th' other, Hercules. 
 
 2nd Rom. I have heard my father oft repeat the 
 
 triumphs 
 
 Which in Augustus Cassar's times were shown 
 Upon his victory o'er the Illyrians ; 
 But it seems it was "not like to this. 
 
 1 Vide Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 25.
 
 1 6 NERO. [ACT i 
 
 yd and tfh Rom. Pish ! it could not be like this. 
 
 2nd, 3rd, and $th Rom. O Nero Apollo ! Nero 
 Hercules ! \Exeunt 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Roman. 
 
 i st Rom. Whether Augustus' triumph greater was 
 I cannot tell ; his triumph's cause, I know, 
 Was greater far, and far more honourable. 
 What are we people, or our flattering voices 
 That always shame and foolish things applaud, 
 Having no spark of soul ; all ears and eyes, 
 Pleased with vain shows, deluded by our senses, 
 Still enemies to wisdom and to goodness ? \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. A Room in the Golden House of 
 NERO. 
 
 Enter NERO, POPP^EA, NIMPHIDIUS, TIGELLINUS, 
 EPAPHRODITUS, NEOPHILUS, and others. 
 
 Nero. Now, fair Poppsea, see thy Nero shine 
 In bright Achaia's spoils, and Rome in him. 
 The Capitol hath other trophies seen 
 Than it was wont ; not spoils with blood bedewed 
 Or the unhappy obsequies ' of death, 
 But such as Caesar's cunning, not his force, 
 Hath wrung from Greece too bragging of her ai t. 
 
 Tig. And of this strife the glory's all your own, 
 Your tribunes cannot share this praise with you : 
 Here your centurions have no part at all ; 
 Bootless your armies and your eagles were ; 
 No navies helped to bring away this conquest. 
 
 Nim. Even Fortune's self, Fortune 1 the queen of 
 
 kingdoms, 
 
 That war's grim valour graceth with her deeds, 
 Will claim no portion in this victory. 
 
 1 The MS. reads "e.ruvi'cs," Latin, exuere, to put off.
 
 SCENE III.] NERO. i; 
 
 Nero. Not Bacchus l drawn from Nysa down with tigers 
 Curbing with viny reins their wilful heads, 
 Whilst some do gape upon his ivy Thyrse, 
 Some on the dangling grapes that crown his head, 
 All praise his beauty and continuing youth, 
 So struck amazed India with wonder 
 As Nero's glories did the Greekish towns, 
 Elis, and Pisa, and the rich Mycenae, 
 Junonian Argos, and yet Corinth proud 
 Of her two seas ; all which o'ercome did yield 
 To me their praise and prizes of their games. 
 
 Pop. Yet in your Greekish journey, we did hear, 
 Sparta and Athens, the two eyes of Greece, 
 Neither beheld your person nor your skill ; 
 Whether because they did afford no games, 
 Or for their too much gravity 
 
 Nero. Why, what 
 
 Should I have seen in them, but in the one 
 Hunger, black pottage, and men hot to die, 
 Thereby to rid themselves of misery ; 
 And what in th' other, but short capes, long beards, 
 Much wrangling in things needless to be known, 
 Wisdom in words, and only austere faces ? 
 I will not be Agesilaus nor Solon. 
 Nero was there where he might honour win, 
 And honour hath he won, and brought from Greece 
 Those spoils which never Roman could obtain, 
 Spoils won by wit and trophies of his skill. 
 
 Nim. What a thing he makes it to be a minstrel ! 
 
 Pop. I praise your wit, my lord, that choose such safe 
 Honours, safe spoils, won without dust or blood. 
 
 Nero. What, mock ye me, Poppsea ? 
 
 Pop. Nay, in good faith, my lord. I speak in earnest. 
 I hate that heady and adventurous crew 
 That go to lose their own to purchase but 
 The breath of others and the common voice : 
 
 1 See Virgil, /En. VI. 805-6. Sullen. 
 Nero. C
 
 1 8 A 7 ERO. [ACT I. 
 
 Them that will lose their hearing for a sound, 
 
 That by death only seek to get a living, 
 
 Make scars their beauty and count loss of limbs 
 
 The commendation of a proper man, 
 
 And so go halting to immortality ; 
 
 Such fools I love worse than they do their lives. 
 
 Nero. But now, Poppaea, having laid apart 
 Our boastful spoils and ornaments of triumph, 
 Come we like Jove from Phlegra 
 
 Pop. O giantlike comparison ! 
 
 Nero. When after all his fires and murthering darts, 
 He comes to bath himself in Juno's eyes. 
 But thou, than wrangling Juno far more fair 
 Staining the evening beauty of the sky, 
 Or the day's brightness, shalt make glad thy Caesar, 
 Shalt make him proud such beauties to enjoy. 
 
 [Exeunt all except NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 Nim. Such beauties to enjoy were happiness 
 And a reward sufficient in itself, 
 Although no other end were aimed at ; 
 But I have other : 'tis not Poppaea's arms 
 Nor the short pleasures of a wanton bed 
 That can extinguish mine aspiring thirst 
 To Nero's crown. By her love I must climb ; 
 Her bed is but a step unto his throne. 
 Already wise men laugh at him and hate him ; 
 The people, though his minstrelsy doth please them, 
 They fear his cruelty, hate his executions, 
 Which his need still must force him to increase. 
 The multitude which cannot one thing long 
 Like or dislike, being cloyed with vanity, 
 Will hate their own delights ; though wisdom do not, 
 Even weariness at length will give them eyes. 
 Thus I, by Nero's and Poppsea's favour 
 Raised to the envious height of second place, 
 May gain the first. Hate must strike Nero down, 
 Love make Nimphidius' way unto a crown. {Exit.
 
 SCENE IV.] NERO. 19 
 
 SCENE IV. A Room hi SCJEVINUS' House. 
 Enter SENECA, SCJEVINUS, LUCAN, and FLAVIUS. 
 
 Sccev. His first beginning was his father's death ; 
 His brother's poisoning and wife's bloody end 
 Came next ; his mother's murther closed up all. 
 Yet hitherto he was but wicked when 
 The guilt of greater evils took away the shame 
 Of lesser, and did headlong thrust him forth 
 To be the scorn and laughter of the world. 
 Then first an emperor came upon the stage 
 And sung to please car-men and candle-sellers, 
 And learnt to act, to dance, to be a fencer, 
 And in despite o' the majesty of princes 
 He fell to wrestling, and was soiled with dust, 
 And tumbled on the earth with servile hands. 
 
 Sen. He sometimes trained was in better studies, 
 And had a childhood promised other hopes : 
 High fortunes like strong wines do try their vessels. 
 Was not the race and theatre big enough 
 To have enclosed thy follies here at home ? 
 Oh, could not Rome and Italy contain 
 Thy shame, but thou must cross the seas to show it ? 
 
 Sccev. And make them that were wont to see our 
 
 consuls 
 
 With conquering eagles waving in the field, 
 Instead of that, behold an emperor dancing, 
 Playing o' th' stage ; and what else but to name 
 Were infamy. 
 
 Luc. O Mummius ! l O Flaminius ! 2 
 
 You whom your virtues have not made more famous 
 Than Nero's vices, you went o'er to Greece 
 
 1 Lucius Mummius, the destroyer of Corinth; vide Vellieus 
 Paterculus, i. 13. 
 
 2 T. Quintius Flaminius, or Flamininus, the conqueror of Philip 
 of Macedon, is here meant. Vide Livy, book XXXIII. ; and com- 
 pare Cicero, Pro Murena, 14, 31, where Flamininus and Mummius 
 are spoken of together.
 
 20 NERO. [ACT i. 
 
 But t'other wars, and brought home other conquests. 
 You Corinth and Mycense overthrew, 
 And Perseus' self, the great Achilles' race, 
 O'ercame, having Minerva's stained temples 
 And your slain ancestors of Troy revenged. 
 
 Sen. They strove with kings and kinglike adversaries, 
 Were even in their enemies made happy, 
 The Macedonian courage tried of old 
 And the new greatness of the Syrian power : 
 But he, for Phillip and Antiochus, 
 Hath found more easy enemies to deal with, 
 Turpnus, 1 Pammenes, 2 and a rout of fiddlers. 
 
 Sccev. Withal, the begging minstrels by the way 
 He took along with him and forced to strive 
 That he might overcome, imagining 
 Himself immortal by such victories. 
 
 Flav. The men he carried over were enough 
 T'have put the Parthian to his second flight, 
 Or the proud Indian taught the Roman yoke. 
 
 Sccev. But they were Nero's men, like Nero armed 
 With lutes, and harps, and pipes, and fiddle-cases, 
 Soldiers to th' shadow trained and not the field. 
 
 Flav. Therefore they brought spoils of such soldiers 
 worthy. 
 
 Luc. But to throw down the walls 3 and gates of Rome 
 To make an entrance for an hobby-horse, 
 To vaunt to th' people his ridiculous spoils, 
 To come with laurel and with olives crowned 
 For having been the worst of all the singers, 
 Is beyond patience. 
 
 Sccev. Ay, and anger too, 
 
 Had you but seen him in his chariot ride, 
 That chariot in which Augustus late 
 His triumphs o'er so many nations showed, 
 
 1 Vide Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 20. Sullen. 
 
 2 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XVI. i^.Bullen. 
 
 3 Vide Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 25, and also for the allusions in the 
 following speech of Scsevinus.
 
 SCENE IV.] NERO. 21 
 
 And with him in the same a minstrel placed 
 
 The while the people, running by his side, 
 
 ' Hail thou Olympic Conqueror,' did cry, 
 
 ' O hail thou Parthian ! ' and did fill the sky 
 
 With shame, and voices heaven would not have heard. 
 
 Sen. I saw't but turned away my eyes and ears, 
 Angry they should be privy to such sights. 
 Why do I stand relating of the story 
 Which in the doing had enough to grieve me ? 
 Tell on an end the tale, you whom it pleaseth ! 
 Me mine own sorrow stops from further speaking : 
 Nero, my love doth make thy fault and my grief greater. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sccev. I do commend in Seneca this passion ; 
 And yet methinks our country's misery 
 Doth at our hands crave something more than tears. 
 
 Luc. Pity, though't doth a kind affection show, 
 If it end there, our weakness makes us know. 
 
 Flav. Let children weep and men seek remedy. 
 
 Sccev. Stoutly, and like a soldier, Flavius ! 
 Yet to seek remedy to a prince's ill 
 Seldom but it doth the physician kill. 
 
 Flav. And if it do, Soevinus, it shall take 
 But a devoted soul from Flavius, 
 Which to my country and the gods of Rome 
 Already sacred is and given away. 
 Death is no stranger unto me, I have 
 The doubtful hazard in twelve battles thrown ; 
 My chance was life. 
 
 Luc. Why do we go to fight in Brittany 
 And end our lives under another sun, 
 Seek causeless dangers out ? The German might 
 Enjoy his woods and his own ales drink, 
 Yet we walk safely in the streets of Rome : 
 Bonduca 1 hinders not but we might live : 
 Whom we do hurt them we call enemies, 
 
 1 Boadicea; vide Tacitus, XIV. 31-37.
 
 22 NERO. [ACT i. 
 
 And those our lords that spoil and murder us. 
 Nothing is hard to them that dare to die. 
 
 Sccev. This noble resolution in you, lords, 
 Heartens me to disclose some thoughts that I 
 The matter is of weight and dangerous. 
 It is 
 
 Luc. I see you fear us, Scsevinus. 
 
 Sccev. Nay, nay, although the thing be full of fear. 
 
 Flav. Tell it to faithful ears what e'er it be. 
 
 Sccev. Faith, let it go, it will but trouble us, 
 Be hurtful to the speaker and the hearer. 1 
 
 Luc. If our long friendship or the opinion 
 
 Sccev. \Aside.~\ Why should I fear to tell them ? 
 Why ? Is he not a parricide, a player ? 
 \Aloud.~\ Nay, Lucan, is he not thine enemy? 
 Hate not the heavens, as well as men, to see 
 That condemned head ? And you, O righteous gods, 
 Whither soe'er you now are fled and will 
 No more look down upon th' oppressed earth ; 
 O severe anger of the highest gods ! 
 And thou, stern power to whom the Greeks assign 
 Scourges, and swords to punish proud men's wrongs, 
 If you be more than names found out to awe us 
 And that we do not vainly build you altars, 
 Aid that just arm that's bent to execute 
 What you should do 
 
 Luc. Stay, you're carried too much away, Scsevinus. 
 
 Sccev. Why, what will you say for him ? Hath 2 he not 
 Sought to suppress your poem, to bereave 
 That honour every tongue in duty paid it ? 
 Nay, what can you say for him, hath he not 
 Broached his own wife's, a chaste wife's, breast and torn 
 With Scythian hands his mother's bowels up ? 
 The inhospitable Caucasus is mild ; 
 
 1 Ought not this speech be spoken by Lucan, and the following 
 now put down to Lucan, by Flavius ? 
 
 2 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XV. ^.
 
 SCENE IV.] NERO. 23 
 
 The Moor, that in the boiling desert seeks 
 With blood of strangers to imbrue his jaws, 
 Upbraids the Roman now with barbarousness. 
 
 Luc. You are too earnest 
 I neither can, nor will I speak for him, 
 And though he sought my learned pains to wrong, 
 I hate him not for that, my verse shall live 
 When Nero's body shall be thrown in Tiber, 
 And times to come shall bless those wicked arms. 1 
 I love th' unnatural wounds from whence did flow 
 Another Cirrha, a new Helicon. 
 I hate him that he is Rome's enemy, 
 An enemy to virtue, sits on high 
 To shame the seat ; and in that hate my life 
 And blood I'll mingle on the earth with yours. 
 
 Flav. My deeds, Scasvinus, shall speak my consent. 
 
 Sc&v. 'Tis answered as I looked for, noble poet, 
 Worthy the double laurel. Flavius, 
 Good luck, I see, doth virtuous meanings aid, 
 And therefore have the heavens forborne their duties 
 To grace our swords with glorious blood of tyrants. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 1 The wars which Lucan celebrated.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 SCENE \.-The Garden of NERO'S Palace. 
 
 Enter PETRONIUS. 
 
 ; ET. Here waits Poppaea her Nimphidius' 
 
 coming, 
 And hath this garden and green walks 
 
 chose out 
 To bless them with more pleasures than 
 
 their own. 
 
 Not only arras hangings and silk beds 
 Are guilty of the faults we blame them for : 
 Somewhat these arbours and yon trees do know, 
 Whilst your kind shades you to these night sports 
 
 show. 
 
 Night sports ? Faith, they are done in open day 
 And the sun seeth and envieth their play. 
 Hither have I love-sick Antonius brought 
 And thrust him on occasion so long sought ; 
 Showed him the empress in a thicket by, 
 Her love's approach waiting with greedy eye ; 
 And told him, if he ever meant to prove 
 The doubtful issue of his hopeful love, 
 This is the place and time wherein to try it ; 
 Women will hear the suit that will deny it. 
 The suit's not hard that she comes for to take ; 
 Who, hot in lust of men, doth difference make ?
 
 SCENE I.] NERO. 25 
 
 At last forth, willing, to her did he pace : 
 Arm him, Priapus, with thy powerful mace. 
 But see, they coming are ; how they agree 
 Here will I harken ; shroud me, gentle tree. 
 
 [Hides himself. 
 
 Enter POPP^EA and ANTONIUS. 
 
 Ant. Seek not to grieve that heart which is thine 
 
 own. 
 
 In love's sweet fires let heat of rage burn out ; 
 These brows could never yet to wrinkle learn, 
 Nor anger out of such fair eyes look forth. 
 
 Pop. You may solicit your presumptuous suits, 
 You duty may, and shame too, lay aside, 
 Disturb my privacy, and I forsooth 
 Must be afeared even to be angry at you ! 
 
 Ant. What shame is't to be mastered by such beauty ? 
 Who but to serve you comes, how wants he duty ? 
 Or if it be a shame, the shame is yours, 
 The fault is only in your eyes, they drew me ; 
 'Cause you were lovely therefore did I love. 
 Oh ! if to love you anger you so much, 
 You should not have such cheeks nor lips to touch, 
 You should not have your snow nor coral spied. 
 If you but look on us in vain you chide ; 
 We must not see your face, nor hear your speech : 
 Now, whilst you Love forbid, you Love do teach. 
 
 Pet. He doth better than I thought he would. [Aside. 
 
 Pop. I will not learn my beauty's worth of you ; 
 I know you neither are the first nor greatest 
 Whom it hath moved : he whom the world obeys 
 Is feared with anger of my threatening eyes. 
 It is for you afar off to adore it, 
 And not to reach at it with saucy hands. 
 Fear is the love that's due to gods and princes. 
 
 Pet. All this is but to edge his appetite. [Aside. 
 
 Ant. Oh ! do not see thy fair in that false glass
 
 26 NERO. [ACT n. 
 
 Of outward difference ; look into my heart, 
 There shalt thou see thyself enthroned set 
 In greater majesty than all the pomp 
 Of Rome or Nero. 'Tis not the crouching awe 
 And ceremony with which we flatter princes 
 That can to Love's true duties be compared. 
 
 Pop. Sir, let me go or I'll make known your love 
 To them that shall requite it but with hate. 
 
 Pet. \Aside.~\ On ! on ! Thou hast the goal, the fort is 
 
 beaten : 
 Women are won when they begin to threaten. 
 
 Ant. Your nobleness doth warrant me from that, 
 Nor need you others' help to punish me 
 Who by your forehead am condemned or free. 
 They that to be revenged do bend their mind 
 Seek always recompence in that same kind 
 The wrong was done them ; love was mine offence, 
 In that revenge, in that seek recompence. 
 
 Pop. Further to answer will still cause replies, 
 And those as ill do please me as yourself. 
 If you'll an answer take that's brief and true, 
 I hate myself if I be loved of you. \_Exit. 
 
 Pet. What, gone ? But she will come again sure. No ! 
 It passeth clean my cunning, all my rules ; 
 For women's wantonness there is no rule. 
 To take her in the itching of her lust, 
 A proper young man putting forth himself ! 
 Why, fate ! there's fate and hidden providence 
 In cod-piece matters. 1 
 
 Ant. O unhappy man ! 
 
 What comfort have I now, Petronius ? 
 
 Pet. Counsel yourself, I'll teach no more but learn. 
 
 1 In the MS., against this passage, is written in the margin the 
 following quotation : 
 
 Fatu est in partibus illis 
 Quas sinus abscondit. 
 
 The passage is from Juvenal, IX. 32-33, and runs thus : 
 Fata regunt homines ; fatum est et partibus illis 
 Quas sinus abscor.dit.
 
 SCENE II.] NERO. 27 
 
 Ant. This comfort yet, he shall not so escape 
 Who causeth my disgrace, Nimphidius, 
 Whom had I here Well, for my true-heart's love, 
 I see she hates me. And shall I love one 
 That hates me, and bestows what I deserve 
 Upon my rival ? No, farewell Poppaea, 
 Farewell Poppaea and farewell all love ; 
 Yet thus much shall it still prevail in me 
 That I will hate Nimphidius for thee. 
 
 Pet. Farewell to her, to my Enanthe welcome, 
 Who now will to my burning kisses stoop, 
 Now with an easy cruelty deny 
 That which she, rather than the asker, would 
 Have forced from her than begin 1 herself. 
 Their loves that list upon great ladies set, 
 I still will love the wench that I can get. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. A Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter NERO, TIGELLINUS, EPAPHRODITUS, and 
 NEOPHILUS. 
 
 Nero. Tigellinus, said the villain Proculus ' 
 I was thrown down in running ? 
 
 Tig. My lord, he said that you were crowned for that 
 You could not do. 
 
 Nero. For that I could not do ? 
 
 Why, Elis saw me do't, and do't to th' wonder 
 Of all the judges and the lookers on ; 
 And yet to see A villain ! Could not do't ? 
 
 1 The 4tos read "begins," the MS. "beginnes." I adopt Mr. 
 Bullen's emendation. 
 
 - Proculus has been put here, by a slip of the memory, for 
 Plautus : see note p. 29. Tacitus in the Annals mentions two 
 persons of the name of Proculus, Cervarius Proculus, XV. 50, and 
 Volusius Proculus, XV. 51 and 57, but it cannot be either of these.
 
 28 NERO. [ACT 11. 
 
 Who did it better ? I warrant you he said 
 I from my chariot fell against my will. 
 
 Tig. He said, my lord, you were thrown out of it, 
 All crushed, and maimed, and almost bruised to death. 
 
 Nero. Malicious rogue ! when I fell willingly 
 To show of purpose with what little hurt 
 Might a good driver bear a forced fall. 
 How say'st thou, Tigellinus ? I am sure 
 Thou hast in driving as much skill as he. 
 
 Tig. My lord, you greater cunning showed in falling 
 Than had you sat. 
 
 Nero. I know I did. I bruised in my fall ? 
 Hurt ? I protest, I felt no grief in it. 
 Go, Tigellinus, fetch the villain's head ; 
 This makes me see his heart in other things. 
 Fetch me his head ; he ne'er shall speak again ! 
 
 [Exit TIGELLINUS. 
 
 What do we princes differ from the dirt 
 And baseness of the common multitude 
 If to the scorn of each malicious tongue 
 We subject are ? For that I had no skill, 1 
 Not he that his far-famed daughter set 
 A prize to victory, and had been crowned 
 With thirteen suitors' deaths till he at length 
 By fate of gods and servants' treason fell, 
 Shoulder-pieced Pelops, glorying in his spoils, 
 Could with more skill his coupled horses guide. 
 Even as a barque that through the moving flood 
 Her linen wings and the forced air do bear ; 
 The billows foam, she smoothly cuts them through : 
 So past my burning axle-tree along, 
 The people follow with their eyes and voice, 
 And now the wind doth see itself outrun 
 And the clouds wonder to be left behind, 
 Whilst the void air is filled with shouts and triumphs, 
 
 1 i.e. " As for his saying that I had no skill." Bullen.
 
 SCENE II.] NERO. 39 
 
 And Nero's name doth beat the brazen sky ; l 
 Jupiter envying, loath doth hear my praise : 
 Then their green bows and crowns of olive wreaths, 
 The conqueror's praise, they give me as my due ; 
 And yet this rogue saith, No, we have no skill. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. My lord, the stage and all the furniture 
 Nero. I have no skill to drive a chariot ! 
 Had he but robbed me, broke my treasury : 
 The Red Sea's mine, mine are the Indian stones, 
 The world's mine own ; then cannot I be robbed ? 
 But spitefully to undermine my fame, 
 To take away my art ! he would my life 
 As well, no doubt, could he tell how. 
 
 Re-enter TIGELLINUS, with PROCULUS' head. 
 
 Neoph. My lord, 
 Tigellinus is back come with Proculus' head. [Strikes him. 
 
 Nero. I cry thee mercy, good Neophilus ; 
 Give him five hundred sesterces for amends. 
 Hast brought him, Tigellinus ? 
 
 Tig. Here's his head, my lord. 
 
 Nero. His tongue had been enough. 
 
 Tig. I did as you commanded me, my lord. 
 
 Nero. Thou told'st not me, though, he had such a 
 
 nose ! - 
 
 Now are you quiet and have quieted me : 
 This 'tis to be commander of the world. 
 Let them extol weak pity that do need it, 
 Let men cry to have law and justice done 
 And tell their griefs to heaven that hears them not : 
 
 1 From here to the end of Piso's speech, " So done it names the 
 action," line 10, p. 35, in the next Scene, is wanting in the MS. 
 
 2 Dion Cassius, E B. 14", reports this brutal gibe of Nero's ; 
 Rubellius Plautus was the luckless \\ctirn. Bullen. Vide Tacitus, 
 Ann. XIV. 57.
 
 30 NERO. [ACT n. 
 
 Kings must upon the people's headless corses 
 
 Walk to security and ease of mind. 
 
 Why, what have we to do with th' airy names 
 
 That old age and philosophers found out, 
 
 Of justice and ne'er certain equity ? 
 
 The gods revenge themselves and so will we : 
 
 Where right is scant, authority's o'erthrown ; 
 
 We have a high prerogative above it. 
 
 Slaves may do what is right, we what we please : 
 
 The people will repine and think it ill, 
 
 But they must bear, and praise too, what we will. 
 
 Enter CoRNUxus. 1 
 
 Neoph. My lord, Cornutus whom you sent for's come. 
 
 Nero. Welcome, good Cornutus. 
 Are all things ready for the stage, 
 As I gave charge ? 
 
 Corn. They only stay your coming. 
 
 Nero. Cornutus, I must act to-day Orestes. 
 
 Corn. \Aside.~\ You have done that already, and too 
 truly. 
 
 Nero. And when our scene is done, I mean besides 
 To read some compositions of mine own, 
 Which, for the great opinion I myself 
 And Rome in general of thy judgment hath, 
 Before I publish them, I'll show them thee. 
 
 Corn. My lord, my disabilities 
 
 Nero. I know thy modesty : 
 I'll only show thee now my work's beginning. 
 Go see, Epaphroditus, 
 Music made ready ; I will sing to-day. 
 
 \Exit EPAPHRODITUS. 
 Cornutus, I pray thee come near 
 And let me hear thy judgment in my pains. 
 
 1 Annaeus Cornutus was the master of Persius and a Stoic philo- 
 sopher and a tragic poet. The incidents of this Scene with Cornutus 
 are very closely taken from Dion Cassius.
 
 SCENE ii.] NERO. 31 
 
 I would have thee more familiar, good Cornutus ; 
 Nero doth prize desert, and more esteems 
 Them that in knowledge second him, than power. 
 Mark with what style and state my work begins. 
 
 Corn. Might not my interruption offend, 
 What's your work's name, my lord; what write you of? 
 Nero. I mean to write the deeds of all the Romans. 
 Corn. Of all the Romans ! a huge argument. 
 Nero. I have not yet bethought me of a title. [Reads. 
 " You enthral powers which the wide fortunes doom 
 Of empire-crowned seven-mountain-seated Rome 
 Full blown, inspire me with Machlgean 1 rage 
 That I may bellow out Rome's prentisage ; 
 As when the Maenades do fill their drums 2 
 And crooked horns with Mimallonean hums 
 And Evion do ingeminate a round, 
 Which reparable Echo doth resound." 
 How dost thou like our muse's pains, Cornutus ? 
 
 Corn. The verses have more in them than I see : 
 Your work, my lord, I doubt will be too long. 
 Nero. Too long ? 
 Tig. Too long? 
 
 Corn. Ay, if you write the deeds of all the Romans. 
 How many books think you t' include it in ? 
 
 Nero. I think to write about four hundred books. 
 Corn. Four hundred ! Why, my lord, they'll ne'er be 
 
 read. 3 
 
 Nero. Ah? 
 
 Tig. Why, he whom you esteem so much, Chrysippus, 
 Wrote many more. 
 
 1 Machlrean, a word coined from yudxAos (i.e. libidinosus). 
 Bullen. 
 
 2 This and the next three lines are imitated from Persius, i. 99-102. 
 These four lines are said to be taken from a poem of Nero's called 
 "BacchK." The Bacchantes are called Mimallones, from Mimas, 
 a mountain in Ionia ; Bassareus, an epithet of Bacchus, from the 
 fox's skin in which he is represented : by the "vitulus," Pentheus is 
 intended ; and the other images are quite as far-fetched. Persius' 
 contempt of these verses, i. 104-106, is quite borne out by Tacitus, 
 Ann. XIV. 16, and Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 52. 
 
 3 Vide DionCassius, H B. 29. Bullen.
 
 32 NERO. [ACT 11. 
 
 Corn. But they were profitable to common life, 
 And did men honesty and wisdom teach. 
 
 Nero. Tigellinus ! [Exeunt NERO and TIGELLINUS. 
 
 Corn. See with what earnestness he craved my judge- 
 ment, 
 And now he freely hath it, how it likes him. 
 
 Neoph. The prince is angry, and his fall is near ; 
 Let us begone lest we partake his ruins. 
 
 [Exeunt all except CORNUTUS. 
 
 Corn. What should I do at court ? I cannot lie. 
 Why didst thou call me, Nero, from my book ? 
 Didst thou for flattery of Cornutus look ? 
 No, let those purple fellows that stand by thee, 
 That admire show and things that thou canst give, 
 Leave to please truth and virtue, to please thee. 
 Nero, there is nothing in thy power Cornutus 
 Doth wish or fear. 
 
 Re-enter TIGELLINUS. 
 
 Tig. 'Tis Nero's pleasure that you straight depart 
 To Gyaros, 1 and there remain confined : 
 Thus he out of his princely clemency, 
 Hath death, your due, turned but to banishment. 
 
 Corn. Why, Tigellinus ? 
 
 Tig. I have done : upon your peril go or stay. [Exit. 
 
 Corn. And why should death, or banishment be due 
 -For speaking that which was required, my thought ? 
 Oh, why do princes love to be deceived, 
 And even do force abuses on themselves ? 
 Their ears are so with pleasing speech beguiled 
 That truth they malice, flattery truth account, 
 And their own soul and understanding lost, 
 Go, what they are, to seek in other men. 
 Alas ! weak prince, how hast thou punished me 
 To banish me from thee ? Oh, let me go 
 
 1 An island in the /Egcean Sea, to the east of Delos. The 
 Romans were accustomed to send their most illustrious exiles there. 
 Vide Tacitus, Ann. IV. 30.
 
 SCENE III.] NERO. 33 
 
 And dwell in Taurus, dwell in Ethiope, 
 
 So that I do not dwell at Rome with thee. 
 
 The farther still I go from hence, I know, 
 
 The farther I leave shame and vice behind. 
 
 Where can I go but I shall see thee, sun ; 
 
 And heaven will be as near me still as here ? 
 
 Can they so far a knowing soul exile 
 
 That her own roof she sees not o'er her head ? [xtf. 
 
 SCENE III. A Room in SC/EVINUS' House. 
 
 Enter Piso, SC^EVINUS, LUCAN, and FLAVIUS. 
 
 Piso. Noble gentlemen, what thanks, what recom- 
 pense 
 
 Shall he give you that give to him the world? 
 One life to them that must so many venture, 
 And that the worst of all, is too mean pay ; 
 Yet can I give no more. Take that, bestow it 
 Upon your service. 
 
 Luc. O Piso, that vouchsafest 
 
 To grace our headless party with thy name, 
 Whom having our conductor, we need not 
 Have feared to go against the well tried valour 
 Of Julius or stayedness of Augustus, 
 Much less the shame and womanhood of Nero. 
 When we had once given out that our pretences 
 Were all for thee, our end to make thee prince, 
 They thronging came to give their names, men, women, 
 Gentlemen, people, soldiers, senators ; 1 
 The camp and city grew ashamed that Nero 
 And Piso should be offered them together. 
 
 Sccev. We seek not now as in the happy days 
 O' th' commonwealth they did, for liberty ; 
 
 1 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XV. $>. 
 Nero.
 
 34 NERO. [ACT II. 
 
 you dear ashes, Cassius and Brutus, 
 
 That was with you entombed, there let it rest. 
 We are contented with the galling yoke 
 If they will only leave us necks to bear it : 
 We seek no longer freedom, we seek life ; 
 At least, not to be murdered ; let us die 
 On enemies' swords. Shall we, whom neither 
 The Median bow, nor Macedonian spear, 
 Nor the fierce Gaul, nor painted Briton could 
 Subdue, lay down our necks to tyrant's axe ? 
 Why do we talk of virtue that obey 
 Weakness and vice ? 
 
 Piso. Have patience, good Scsevinus. 
 
 Luc. Weakness and servile government we hitherto 
 Obeyed have, which, that we may no longer, 
 We have our lives and fortunes now set up, 
 And have our cause with Piso's credit strengthened. 
 
 Flav. Which makes it doubtful whether love to him, 
 Or Nero's hatred, hath drawn more to us. 
 
 Piso. I see the good things you have of me, lords. 
 Let's now proceed to th' purpose of our meeting : 
 
 1 pray you take your places. 
 Let's have some paper brought. 
 
 Scav. Who's within ? 
 
 Enter MILICHUS. 
 Mil. My lord? 
 Scav. Some ink and paper. 
 
 [Exit MILICHUS and re-enter with 
 
 ink and paper. 
 
 Flav. Who's that, Soevinus ? 
 Sccev. It is my freedman, Milichus. 
 Luc. Is he trusty ? 
 
 Scav. Ay, for as great matters as we are about. 
 Piso. And those are great ones. 
 Luc. I ask not that we mean to need his trust ; 
 Gain hath great sovereignty o'er servile minds.
 
 SCENE in.] NERO. 35 
 
 Scav. Oh, but my benefits have bound him to 'me. 
 I from a bondman have his state not only 
 Advanced to freedom, but to wealth and credit. 
 
 Piso. Milichus, wait i' th' next chamber till we call 
 
 [MILICHUS retires. 
 
 The thing determined on, our meeting now, 1 
 Is of the means and place, due circumstance 
 As to the doing of things, 'tis required ; 
 So done it names the action. 
 
 Mil. [Aside] I wonder 
 
 What makes this new resort to haunt our house ? 
 When wonted Lucius 2 Piso to come hither, 
 Or Lucan, when so oft as now of late ? 
 
 Piso. And since the field and open show of arms 
 Dislike you, and that for the general good 
 You mean to end all stirs in end of him; 
 That, as the ground, must first be thought upon. 
 
 Mil. [Aside] Besides, this coming cannot be for form 
 Or visitation ; they go aside 
 And have long conferences by themselves. 
 
 Luc. Piso, his coming to your house at JBaiae 3 
 To bathe and banquet will fit means afford, 
 Amidst his cups to end his hated life : 
 Let him die drunk that ne'er lived soberly. 
 
 Piso. Oh, be it far that I should stain my table 
 And gods of hospitality with blood ! 
 Let not our cause, now innocent, be soiled 
 With such a plot, nor Piso's name made hateful. 
 What place can better fit our action 
 Than his own house, that boundless envied heap 
 Built with the spoils and blood of citizens, 
 That hath taken up the city, left no room 
 For Rome to stand on ? Romans, get you gone 
 
 1 i.e. " Since now we have mat here, it is required that the thing 
 to be determined on," etc. 
 
 2 Both the 4tos and the MS. read " Lucius" instead of "Caius 
 Vidi Tacitus, Ann. XV. 48. 
 
 3 See Tacitus. Ann. XV. 52. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 NERO. [ACT n. 
 
 And dwell at Veil, if that Veii too 
 This house o'errun not. 1 
 
 Luc. But 'twill be hard to do it in his house, 
 And harder to escape, being done. 
 
 Piso. Not so : 
 
 Rufus, the captain of the guard, 's with us, 
 And divers others o' th' praetorian band 
 Already made ; 2 many, though unacquainted 
 With our intents, have had disgrace and Wrongs 
 Which grieve them still ; most will be glad of change, 
 And even they that loved him best, when once 
 They see him gone, will smile o' th' coming times, 
 Let go things past and look to their own safety : 
 Besides th' astonishment and fear will be 
 So great, so sudden, that 'twill hinder them 
 From doing anything. 
 
 Mil. \_Aside\ No private business can concern them 
 Their countenances are troubled and look sad, [all ; 
 
 Doubt and importance in their face is read. 
 
 Luc. Yet still I think it were 
 Safer t' attempt him private and alone. 
 
 Flav. But 'twill not carry that opinion with it ; 
 'Twill seem more foul, and come from private malice. 
 Brutus and they, to right the common cause, 
 Did choose a public place. 
 
 Sccev. Our deed is honest, why should it seek corners ? 
 
 1 Against this passage, in the margin of the MS. is written : 
 
 Veias migrat. colen . . . 
 
 Si non et veias occupat ilia domus. 
 
 It is misquoted from Suetonius. Peihaps it will be as well to give 
 the context, Vit. Ner. 39 : 
 
 " Mirum, et vel preecipue notabile inter haec fuerit, nihil eum 
 patientius, quam maledicta et convincia hominum, talisse ; neque in 
 ullos leniorem, quam qui se dictis aut carminibus lacessissent exsti- 
 tisse. Multa Grace Latineque proscripta aut vulgata sunt, sicut 
 ilia : 
 
 " Roma domus fiet : Veios migrate, Quirites, 
 Si non et Veios occupat ista domus." 
 
 2 i.e. "And he (Rufus) has already made divers others of the 
 Praetorian band with us. " Compare Tacitus, Ann. XV. 50.
 
 SCENE III.] NERO. 
 
 'Tis for the public done, let them behold it ; 
 
 Let me have them as witness of my truth 
 
 And love of th' commonwealth. The danger's greater, 
 
 So is the glory. Why should our pale counsels 
 
 Tend whither fear, rather than virtue, calls them ? 
 
 I do not like these cold considerings: 
 
 First let our thoughts look up to what is honest, 
 
 Next to what's safe. If danger may deter us, 
 
 Nothing that's great or good shall e'er be done ; 
 
 And when we first gave hands upon this deed, 
 
 To th' common safety we our own gave up. 
 
 Let no man venture on a prince's death, 
 
 How bad soever, with belief to 'scape ; 
 
 Despair must be our hope, fame our reward. 
 
 To make the general liking to concur 
 
 With others' were even to strike him in his shame, 
 
 Or, as he thinks, his glory, on the stage, 
 
 And so to truly make a tragedy 
 
 When all the people cannot choose but clap 
 
 So sweet a close ; and 'twill not Caesar be 
 
 That will be slain, a Roman prince ; 
 
 'Twill be Alcmseon or blind (Edipus. 
 
 Mil. [Aside] And if it be of public matters, 'tis not 
 Like to be talk or idle fault-finding, 
 On which the cowardly only spend their wisdom : 
 These are all men of action and of spirit, 
 And dare perform what they determine on. 
 
 Luc. What think you of Poppaea, Tigellinus, 
 And th' other odious instruments of court ? 
 Were it not best at once to rid them all ? 
 
 Scav. In Caesar's ruin Anthony was spared ; 
 Let not our cause with needless blood be stained. 
 One only moved, the change will not appear ; 
 When too much license given to the sword, 
 Though against ill, will make even good men fear. 
 Besides, things settled, you at pleasure may 
 By law and public judgment have them rid. 
 
 37
 
 38 NERO. [ACT n. 
 
 Mil \Aside\ And if it be but talk o' th' state 'tis treason. 
 Like it they cannot, that they cannot do ; 
 If seek to mend it and remove the prince, 
 That's highest treason : change his counsellors, 
 That's alteration of the government, 
 The common cloak that treason's muffled in : 
 If laying force aside, to seek by suit 
 And fair petition t' have the state reformed, 
 That's tutoring the prince and takes away 
 Th' one his person, this his sovereignty. 
 Barely in private talk to show dislike 
 Of what is done is dangerous, therefore the action 
 Mislike you, 'cause the doer likes you not 
 Men are not fit to live i' th' state they hate. 
 
 Piso. Though we would all have that employment 
 
 sought, 
 
 Yet, since your worthy forwardness, Scsevinus, 
 Prevents us and so nobly begs for danger, 
 Be this the chosen hand to do the deed ; 
 The fortune of the empire speed your sword. 
 
 Scav. Virtue and heaven speed it, O you home-born 
 Gods of our country, Romulus and Vesta, 
 That Tuscan Tiber and Rome's towers defend, 
 Forbid not yet at length a happy end 
 To former evils ; let this hand revenge 
 The wrcnged world ; enough we new have suffered 
 
 [Exeunt all except MILICHUS. 
 
 Mil. [Coming forward]. Tush, all this long consulting' s 
 
 more than words, 
 
 It ends not there ; they've some attempt, some plot 
 Against the state : well, I'll observe it farther, 
 And if I find it, make my profit of it. [Exit.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 Enter POPP/EA. 
 
 t OP. I looked Nimphidius would have 
 
 come e'er this. 
 
 Makes he no greater haste to our 
 embraces, * 
 
 j, Or doth the easiness abate his edge, 
 
 Or seem vve not as fair still as we did ? 
 K Or is he so with Nero's playing won 
 That he before Poppaea doth prefer it ? 
 Or doth he think to have occasion still, 
 Still to have time to wait on our stol'n meetings? 
 
 [Enter NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 But see, his presence now doth end those doubts. 
 What is't, Nimphidius, hath so long detained you? 
 
 AY;//. Faith, lady, causes strong enough, 
 High walls, barred doors, and guards of armed men. 
 
 Pop. Were you imprisoned then, as you were going 
 To the theatre ? 
 
 Nim. Not in my going, lady, 
 
 But in the theatre I was imprisoned. 
 For after he was once upon the stage 
 The gates were more severely looked into 
 Than at a town besieged ; no man, no cause 
 Was current, no, nor passant. At other sights
 
 40 NERO. [ACT in. 
 
 The strife is only to get in, but here 
 
 The stir was all in getting out again. 
 
 Had we not been kept to it so, I think, 
 
 'Twould ne'er have been so tedious ; though I know 
 
 'Twas hard to judge whether his doing of it 
 
 Were more absurd than 'twas for him to do it. 
 
 But when we once were forced to be spectators, 
 
 Compelled to that which should have been a pleasure, 
 
 We could no longer bear the tediousness ; 
 
 No pain so irksome as a forced delight. 
 
 Some fell down dead, or seemed at least to do so, 
 
 Under that colour to be carried forth. 
 
 Then death first pleasured men, the shape all fear 
 
 Was put on gladly ; some climbed o'er the walls 
 
 And so, by falling, caught in earnest that 
 
 Which th' other did dissemble. There were women 
 
 That, being not able to entreat the guard 
 
 To let them pass the gates, were brought to bed 
 
 Amidst the throngs of men, and made Lucina 
 
 Blush to see that unwonted company. 1 
 
 Pop. If 'twere so straightly kept how gat you forth ? 
 
 Nim. Faith, lady, I came pretending haste 
 In place and countenance, told them I was sent 
 For things by th' prince forgot about the scene, 
 Which both my credit made them to believe, 
 And Nero newly whispered me before. 
 Thus did I pass the gates ; the danger, lady, 
 I have not yet escaped. 
 
 Pop. What danger mean you ? 
 
 Nim. The danger of his anger when he knows 
 How I thus shrank away ; for there stood knaves 
 That put down in their tables all that stirred, 
 And marked in each their cheerfulness or sadness. 
 
 Pop. I warrant I'll excuse you ; but I pray 
 Let's be a little better for your sight. 
 
 1 Compare Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 23 ; and Tacitus, Ann. XVI 5. 
 Bullen.
 
 SCENE n.] 
 
 NERO. 
 
 How did our princely husband act Orestes ? 
 Did he not wish again his mother living? 
 Her death would add great life unto his part 
 But come, I pray ; the story of your sight. 
 
 Nim. Oh, do not drive me to those hateful pains. 
 Lady, I was too much in seeing vexed ; 
 Let it not be redoubled in the telling. 
 I now am well and hear, my ears set free ; 
 Oh, be merciful, do not bring me back 
 Unto my prison ; at least free yourself. 
 It will not pass away, but stay the time ; 
 Wreak out the hours in length. Oh, give me leave, 
 As one that wearied with the toil at sea 
 And now on wished shore hath firmed his foot ; 
 He looks about and glads his thoughts and eyes 
 With sight o' th' green-clothed ground and leafy trees, 
 Of flowers that beg more than the looking on, 
 And likes these other waters' narrow shores : 
 So let me lay my weariness in these arms, 
 Nothing but kisses to this mouth discourse, 
 My thoughts be compassed in those circled eyes, 
 Eyes on no object look but on these cheeks ; 
 Blessed be my hands with touching such round breasts 
 Whiter and softer than the down of swans : 
 Let me of thee and of thy beauty's glory 
 An endless tell, but never wearying story. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. Another Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter NERO, EPAPHRODITUS, and NEOPHILUS. 
 
 Nero. Come, sirs, i'faith, how did you like my acting ? 
 What ? was't not as you looked for? 
 
 Epaph. Yes, my lord, and much beyond. 
 Nero. Did I not do it to the life ?
 
 42 NERO. [ACT III. 
 
 Epaph. The very doing never was so lively 
 As was this counterfeiting. 
 
 Nero. And when I came 
 
 To th' point of Agripp l Clytaemnestra's death, 
 
 Did it not move the feeling auditory ? 
 
 Epaph. They had been stones whom that could not 
 have moved. 
 
 Nero. Did not my voice hold out well to the end, 
 And served me afterwards afresh to sing with ? 
 
 Neoph. We know Apollo cannot match your voice. 
 
 Epaph. By Jove ! I think you are the god himself 
 Come from above to show your hidden arts 
 And fill us men with wonder of your skill. 
 
 Nero. Nay, faith, speak truly, do not flatter me ; 
 I know you need not ; flattery's but where 
 Desert is mean. 
 
 Epaph. I swear by thee, Caesar, 
 
 Than whom no power of heaven I honour more, 
 No mortal voice can pass or equal thine. 
 
 Nero. They tell of Orpheus, when he took his lute 
 And moved the noble ivory with his touch, 
 Hebrus stood still, Pangaeus bowed his head, 
 Ossa then first shook off his snow and came 
 To listen to the movings of his song ; 
 The gentle poplar took the bay along, 
 And called the pine down from the mountain seat ; 
 The virgin bay, although the arts she hates 
 O' th' delphic god, was with his voice o'ercome : 
 He his twice-lost Eurydice bewails 
 And Proserpine's vain gifts, and makes the shores 
 And hollow caves of forests, now untreed, 
 Bear his griefs company, and all things teacheth 
 His lost love's name ; then water, air, and ground, 
 " Eurydice, Eurydice," resound. 2 
 
 1 Both Tacitus, Ann. XIV. 10, and Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 34., tell 
 us how Nero was haunted by the remembrance of his mother, 
 Agrippina's murder. 
 
 2 Compare the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, Virgil, Geor. IV.
 
 SCENE II.] NERO. 
 
 These are bold tales, of which the Greeks have store ; 
 
 But if he could from hell once more return 
 
 And would compare his hand and voice with mine, 
 
 Ay, though himself were judge, he then should see 
 
 How much the Latin stains 1 the Thracian lyre. 
 
 I oft have walked by Tiber's flow'ry banks 
 
 And heard the swan sing her own epitaph ; 
 
 When she heard me she held her peace and died. 
 
 Let others raise from earthly things their praise ; 
 
 Heaven hath stood still to hear my happy airs, 
 
 And ceased th' eternal music of the spheres 
 
 To mark my voice and mend their tunes by mine. 
 
 Neoph. O divine voice ! 
 
 Epaph. Happy are they that hear it 
 
 Enter TIGELLINUS. 
 
 Nero. But here comes Tigellinus ; come, thy bill. 
 Are there so many ? I see I have enemies. 
 
 Epaph. Hath he put Caius in ? I saw him frown. 
 
 Neoph. And in the midst o' th' Emperor's action 
 Gallus laughed out, and as, I think, in scorn. 
 
 Nero. Vespasian too asleep ! was he so drowsy ? 
 Well, he shall sleep the iron sleep of death. 2 
 And did Thrasea look so sourly on us ? 
 
 Tig. He never smiled, my lord, nor would vouchsafe 
 With one applaause to grace your action. 
 
 Nero. Our action needed not be graced by him : 
 He's our old enemy and still maligns us. 
 'Twill have an end, nay it shall have an end ! 
 Why, I have been too pitiful, too remiss ; 
 My easiness is laughed at and contemned : 
 But I will change it ; not as heretofore 
 By singling out them, one by one, to death, 
 Each common man can such revenges have ; 
 A prince's anger must lay desolate 
 
 1 i.e. Casts a slur upon. 
 
 2 Compare Tacitus, Ann. XVI. $.Bullen. 
 
 43
 
 44 NERO. [ACT in. 
 
 Cities, kingdoms consume, root up mankind. 
 Oh, could I live to see the general end, 
 Behold the world enwrapped in funeral flames, 
 Whenas the sun shall lend his beams to burn 
 What he before brought forth, and water serve 
 Not to extinguish but to nurse the fire ; 
 Then, like the salamander, 1 bathing me 
 In the last ashes of all mortal things, 
 Let me give up this breath. Priam was happy, 
 Happy indeed ; he saw his Troy burnt 
 And Ilion lie in heaps, whilst thy pure streams, 
 Divine Scamander, did run Phrygian blood, 
 And heard the pleasant cries of Trojan mothers. 
 Could I see Rome so ! 
 
 Tig. Your majesty may easily, 
 Without this trouble to your sacred mind. 2 
 
 Nero. What may I easily do ? kill him, or thee ? 
 How may I rid you all ? Where is the man 
 That will all others end and last himself? 
 Oh, that I had thy thunder in my hand, 
 Thou idle rover, I'd not shoot at trees 
 And spend in woods my unregarded vengeance ; 
 I'd shiver them down upon their guilty roofs 
 And fill the streets with bloody burials. 
 But 'tis not heaven can give me what I seek ; 
 To you, you hated kingdoms of the night, 
 You severe powers that not like those above, 
 Will with fair words or children's cries be won, 
 That have a style beyond that heaven is proud of, 
 Deriving not from art a maker's name 
 But in destruction power and terror show, 
 To you I fly for succour ; you whose dwellings 
 For torments are belied, must give me ease. 
 Furies, lend me your fires ! No, they are here ; 
 They must be other fires, material brands 
 That must the burning of my heat allay. 
 
 1 Vide Sir T. Browne's "Vulgar Errors," Book III., Chap. XIV. 
 
 2 Compare Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 38. 
 
 '
 
 SCENE III.] NERO. 
 
 45 
 
 I bring to you no rude unpractised hands, 
 
 Already do they reek with mothers' blood ; 
 
 Tush, that's but innocent to what now I mean. 
 
 Alas, what evil could those years commit ! 
 
 The world in this shall see my settled wit. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. A Street in Rome. 
 
 Enter SENECA and PETRONIUS. 
 
 Sen. Petronius, you were at the theatre? 
 
 Pet. Seneca, I was and saw your kingly pupil 
 In ministrel's habit stand before the judges, 
 Bowing those hands which the world's sceptre hold, 
 And with great awe and reverence beseeching 
 Indifferent hearing and an equal doom : 
 Then Caesar doubted first to be o'erborne, 
 And so he joined himself to th' other singers 
 And straightly all the laws o' th' stage observed, 
 As not, though weary, to sit down, not spit, 
 Not wipe his sweat off but with what he wore. 1 
 Mean time how would he eye his adversaries ; 
 How he would seek t'have all they did disgraced, 
 Traduce them privily, openly rail at them ; 
 And them he could not conquer so, he would 
 Corrupt with money to do worse than he. 
 This was his singing part ; his acting now. 
 
 Sen. Nay, come end here for I have heard enough ; 
 I have a fiddler heard him, let me not 
 See him a player, nor the fearful voice 
 
 Of Rome's great monach now command in jest, 
 
 Our prince be Agamemnon in a play ! 
 
 Pet. Why, Seneca, 'tis better in play 2 
 Be Agamemnon than himself indeed. 
 
 1 Compare Tacitus, Ann. XVI. a,. Sullen. 
 
 2 Charles Lamb quotes this speech in his " Specimens."
 
 46 NERO. [ACT in. 
 
 How oft, with danger of the field beset, 
 
 Or with home's mutinies would he unbe 
 
 Himself; or, over cruel altars 1 weeping, 
 
 Wish that with putting off a vizard he 
 
 Might his true inward sorrow lay aside : 
 
 The shows of things are better than themselves. 
 
 How doth it stir this airy part in us 
 
 To hear our poets tell imagined fights 
 
 And the strange blows that feigned courage gives ! 
 
 When I Achilles hear upon the stage 
 
 Speak honour and the greatness of his soul, 
 
 Methinks, I too could on a Phrygian spear 
 
 Run boldly and make tales for after times ; 
 
 But when we come to act it in the deed 
 
 Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears 
 
 Of th' other world sit on the proudest brow, 
 
 And boasting valour looseth his red cheek. 
 
 Enter two Romans. 
 
 isf Rom. Fire, fire ! help, we burn ! 
 
 znd Rom. Fire, water ! fire, help ! fire ! 
 
 Sen. Fire ! Where ? 
 
 Pet. Where ? what fire ? 
 
 ist Rom. O round about, here, there, on every side 
 The girdling flame doth with unkind embraces 
 Compass the city. 
 
 Pet. How came this fire ? by whom ? 
 
 Sen. Was't chanced or purposed ? 
 
 Pet. Why is't not quenched ? 
 
 ist Rom. Alas, there are many there with weapons, 
 And whether it be for prey or by command 
 They hinder, nay, they throw on fire-brands. 
 
 Enter ANTON ms. 
 
 Ant. The fire increaseth and will not be stayed, 
 But like a stream- that tumbling from a hill, 
 
 1 The MS. reads "waters." 
 
 8 The simile is from Virgil, /En. II. 304-308. Sullen
 
 SCENE in.] NERO. 47 
 
 O'erwhelms the fields, o'ervvhelms the hopeful toil 
 O' th' husbandman, and headlong bears the woods ; 
 The unweeting shepherd on a rock afar 
 Amazed hears the fearful noise ; so here 
 Danger and terror strive which shall exceed. 
 Some cry and yet are well ; some are killed silent ; 
 Some kindly run to help their neighbour's house, 
 The whilst their own's afire ; 1 some save their goods 
 And leave their dearer pledges in the flame : 
 One takes his little sons with trembling hands ; 
 T'other his house-god saves, which could not him ; 
 All bann the doer, and with wishes kill 
 Their absent murderer. 
 
 Pet. What, are the Gauls returned ? 
 
 Doth Brennus brandish fire-brands again ? 
 
 Sen. What can heaven now unto our suff rings add ? 
 
 Enter another Roman. 
 
 ^rd Rom. 2 Oh, all goes down, Rome falleth to the 
 The wind's aloft, the conquering flame turns all [root; 
 Into itself, nor do the gods escape ; 
 Alcides burns, Jupiter Stator burns ; 
 The altar now is made a sacrifice, 
 And Vesta mourns to see her virgin fires 
 Mingle with profane ashes. 
 
 Sen. Heaven, hast thou set this end to Roman great- 
 ness? 
 
 Were the world's spoils for this to Rome divided 
 To make but our fires bigger ? 
 You gods, whose anger made us great, grant yet 
 Some change in misery ! We beg not now 
 To have our consuls tread on Asian kings, 
 Or spurn the quivered Susa at their feet ; 
 This we have had before : we beg to live, 
 At least not thus to die. Let Cannae come, 
 
 1 Compare Dion Cassius, E B. it>.BuIlen. 
 
 2 This line, in the MS., is spoken by Seneca.
 
 NERO. 
 
 [ACT in. 
 
 Let Allia's waters turn again to blood ; 
 To these will any miseries be light. 
 
 Pet. "Why with false auguries have we been deceived ? 
 Why was our empire told us should endure 
 With sun and moon in time, in brightness pass them, 
 And that one end should be for th' world and it ? 
 What, can celestial godheads double too ? 
 
 Sen. O Rome, the envy late 
 But now the pity of the world ! the Getes, 
 The men of Colchis at thy sufferings grieve ; 
 The shaggy dweller in the Scythian rocks, 
 The Mosch l condemned to perpetual snows 
 That never wept at kindred's burials, 
 Suffers with thee and feels his heart to soften. 
 Oh, should the Parthian hear these miseries 
 He would, his bow and native hate apart, 
 Sit down with us and lend an enemy's tear 
 To grace the funeral fires of ending Rome. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE I V. The House of MAECENAS : the Street 
 below. 
 
 Soft music. Enter NERO above with a timbrel. 
 
 Nero. Ay ! now my Troy looks beauteous in her flames ; 
 The Tyrrhene seas are bright with Roman fires, 
 Whilst the amazed mariner afar, 
 Gazing on th' unknown light, wonders what star 
 Heaven hath begot to ease the aged moon. 
 When Pyrrhus, striding o'er the cinders, stood 
 On ground where Troy late was, and with his eye 
 Measured the height of what he had thrown down, 
 
 1 The 4tos read " most," and in the MS. there is a blank ; so I 
 have followed Mr. Bullen's reading, who adds : " A tribe named 
 the ' Moschi ' (of whom mention is made in Herodotus), dwelt a 
 little to the south of the Colchians."
 
 SCENE IV.] NERO. 
 
 49 
 
 A city great in people and in power, 
 
 Walls built with hands of gods, he now forgives 
 
 The ten-years' siege and thinks his wounds well healed, 
 
 Bathed in the blood of Priam's fifty sons. 
 
 Yet am not I appeased ; I must see more 
 
 Than towers and columns tumble to the ground : 
 
 'Twas not the high-built walls and guiltless stones 
 
 That Nero did provoke ; themselves must be the wood 
 
 To feed this fire or quench it with their blood. 
 
 Enter a Woman with a burnt child. 
 
 Worn. O my dear infant ! O my child, my child ! 
 Unhappy comfort of my nine months' pains ; 
 And did I bear thee only for the fire ? 
 Was I to that end made a mother ? 
 
 Nero. J Ay, now begins the scene that I would have. 
 
 Enter a Man bearing a dead body. 
 
 Man. O father, speak yet ! No, the merciless blow 
 Hath all bereft, speech, motion, sense, and life. 
 
 Worn. O beauteous innocence, whiteness ill blacked, 
 How to be made a coal could'st thou deserve ? 
 
 Man. O rev'rend wrinkles, well becoming paleness, 
 Why hath death now life's colours given thee 
 And mocked thee with the beauties of fresh youth ? 
 
 Worn. Why wert thou given me to be ta'en away 
 So soon, or could not heaven tell how to punish 
 But first by blessing me ? 
 
 Man. Why were thy years 
 
 Lengthened so long to be cut off untimely ? 
 
 Nero. Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies 
 With cries and pity; with your blood, men's eyes. 2 
 
 Worn. Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses 
 And arms that wont to wreath about my neck ? 
 
 1 This line is omitted in the MS., and in place of it the man 
 completes the unfinished blank verse of the last line of the woman s 
 speech by beginning with the word " Speak." 
 
 2 i.e. "And fill men's eyes with the sight of your blood." 
 Nero. 
 
 B
 
 50 NERO. [ACT in. 
 
 Man. Where are thy counsels, where thy good 
 
 examples, 
 And that kind roughness of a father's anger? 
 
 Worn. Whom have I now to lean my old age on ? 
 Who J will abide those weary wayward years, 
 A burthen even to more than to the feelers ? 
 
 Man. Who shall I now have to set right my youth ? 
 Where shall I fetch so true and sound advice, 
 Proceeding from a free and open heart ? 
 [ Within^} Gods, if ye be not fled from heaven, help us ! 
 
 Nero. I like this music well ; they like not mine. 
 Now in the tears of all men let me sing, 
 And make it doubtful to the gods above 
 Whether the earth be pleased or do complain. [Sings. 
 
 Man. But may the man that all this blood hath shed 
 Never bequeath to th' earth an old grey head ; 
 Let him untimely be cut off before, 
 And leave a corse like this all wounds and gore ; 
 Be there no friends at hand, no standers by 
 In love or pity moved to close that eye : 
 Oh, let him die, the hate and wished of all, 
 And not a tear to grace his funeral ! [Exit. 
 
 Worn. Heaven, you will hear that which the world 
 
 doth scorn, 
 
 The prayers of misery and souls forlorn : 
 Your anger waxeth by delaying stronger ; 
 Oh, now for mercy, me despised no longer ! 
 Let him that makes so many mothers childless, 
 Make his unhappy in her fruitfulness ; 
 Let him no issue leave to bear his name, 
 Or son to right a father's wronged fame : 
 Our flames to quit, be righteous in your ire, 
 And when he dies let him want funeral fire. [Exit. 
 
 1 This and the following line I have supplied from the MS. The 
 meaning would seem to be, "Who will abide those weary wayward 
 years which are even a greater burden to those that soothe them 
 than to those that endure them?" The second and third lines of the 
 following speech of the man have likewise been supplied from the MS.
 
 SCENE V.] NERO. 51 
 
 Nero. Let Heaven do what it will, this I have done ; 
 Already do you feel my fury's weight. 
 Eome is become a grave of her late greatness ; 
 Her clouds of smoke have ta'en away the day, 
 Her flames the night. 
 Now, unrelenting eyes, what crave you more ? 
 
 Enter NEOPHILUS. 
 
 Neoph, Oh, save yourself, my lord ; your palace burns. 
 Nero. My palace ! how ? what traitorous hand ? 
 
 Enter TIGELLINUS. 
 
 Tig. Oh, fly, my lord, and save yourself betimes. 
 The wind doth beat the fire upon your house ; 
 The eating flame devours your double gates ; 
 Your pillars fall, your golden roofs do melt ; 
 Your antique tables and Greek imagery 
 The fire besets; and the smoke, you see, 
 Doth choke my speech : Oh, fly and save your life. 
 
 Nero. Heaven, thou dost strive. I see, for victory. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. A Street in Rome. 
 
 Enter NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 Nim. See how fate works unto their purposed end, 
 And without all self-industry will raise 
 Whom they determine to make great and happy ! 
 Nero thrusts down himself, I stir him not ; 
 He runs unto destruction, studies ways 
 To compass danger and attain the hate 
 Of all. Be his own wishes on his head, 
 Nor Rome with fire more than revenges burn ! 
 Let me stand still, or lie, or sleep, I rise. 
 Poppaea some new favour will seek out
 
 52 NERO. [ACT in. 
 
 My wakings to salute ; I cannot stir 
 
 But messages of new preferment meet me. 
 
 Now she hath made me captain of the guard, 
 
 So well I bear me in these night alarms 
 
 That she imagined I was made for arms. 
 
 I now command the soldier, he the city : 
 
 If any chance do turn the prince aside, 
 
 As many hatreds, mischiefs threaten him, 
 
 Ours is his wife, his state and throne is ours : 
 
 He's next in right that hath the strongest powers. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE VI. ~ A Room in SC/EVINUS' House. 
 
 Enter SCVEVINUS and MILICHUS. 
 
 Sceev. O Troy, and O ye souls of our forefathers 
 Which in your country's fires were offered up, 
 How near your nephews l to your fortunes came. 
 Yet they were Grecian hands began your flame ; 
 But that our temples and our houses smoke, 
 Our marble buildings turn to be our tombs, 
 Burnt bones and spurned-at corses fill the streets, 
 Not Pyrrhus, nor thou, Hannibal, art author; 
 Sad Rome is ruined by a Roman hand. 2 
 But if to Nero's end this only way 
 Heaven's justice hath chosen out, and people's love 
 Could not but by these feebling ills be moved, 
 We do not then at all complain ; our harms 
 On this condition please us ; let us die 
 And cloy the Parthian with revenge and pity. 
 
 1 Nephews : Latin, nepotes, descendants. 
 
 2 On the torn margin of the MS. is written against this passage 
 the following fragment of a quotation : 
 
 . . . . venture 
 . . . Ham pituro 
 
 i 
 . . iam. etc.
 
 SCENE vi.J NERO. 53 
 
 Mil. [Aside.] My master hath sealed up his testament ; 
 Those bondrnen which he liketh best, set free ; 
 Given money, and more liberally than he used. 
 And now, as if a farewell to the world 
 Were meant, a sumptuous banquet hath he made ; 
 Yet not with countenance that feasters use, 
 But cheers his friends the whilst himself looks sad. 
 
 Sccev. I have from Fortune's temple ta'en this sword ; 
 May it be fortunate, and now at least, 
 Since it could not prevent, punish the evil. 
 To Rome it had been better done before, 
 But though less helping now they'll praise it more. 
 Great sovereign of all mortal actions, 
 Whom only wretched men and poets blame, 
 Speed thou the weapon which I have from thee. 
 ' Twas not amid thy temple's monuments 
 In vain reposed ; somewhat I know't hath done : 
 Oh, with new honours let it be laid up ! 
 Strike boldly, arm ; so many powerful prayers 
 Of dead and living hover over thee. 
 
 Mil. [Asidf.] And though sometimes with talk imper- 
 tinent 
 
 And idle fancies he would feign a mirth, 
 Yet it is easy seen somewhat is here 
 The which he dares not let his face make show of. 
 
 Sccev. Long want of use hath made it dull and blunt : 
 See, Milichus, this weapon better edged. 1 
 
 Mil. Sharp'ning of swords ! What ! must we then have 
 
 blows ? 
 
 Or means my master, Cato-like, to exempt 
 Himself from power of Fates, and, cloyed with life, 
 Give the gods back their unregarded gift ? 
 [Aside.'] But he hath neither Cato's mind nor cause ; 
 A man given o'er to pleasure and soft ease, 
 Which makes me still to doubt how in affairs 
 Of princes he dares meddle or desires. 
 
 1 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XV. 54, for this and other incidents in this 
 Scene.
 
 54 NERO. [ACT m. 
 
 Sc&v. We shall have blows on both sides, Milichus. 
 Provide me store of cloths to bind up wounds. 
 What an't be hurt for hurt ; death is the worst ! 
 The gods sure keep it hid from us that live, 
 How sweet death is, because we should go on 
 And be their bails. There are about the house 
 Some stones that will stanch blood : see them sought out. 
 This world I see hath no felicity : 
 I'll try the other. 
 
 Mil. \_AsideJ\ Nero's life is sought ; 
 The sword's prepared against another's breast, 
 The help for his. 1 It can be no private foe ; 
 For then 'twere best to make it known, and call 
 His troops of bond and freedmen to his aid. 
 Besides, his counsellors, Seneca 
 And Lucan, are no managers of quarrels, 
 High spirits soaring still at great attempts, 2 
 And such whose wisdoms to their other wrongs 
 Distaste the baseness of the government. 
 
 Sccev. Methinks I see him struggling on the ground, 
 Hear his unmanly outcries and lost prayers 
 Made to the gods which turn their head? away. 
 Nero, this day must end the world's desires, 
 And headlong send thee to unquenched fires. [Exit. 
 
 Mil. Why do I further idly stand debating ? 
 My proofs are but too many and too frequent, 
 And princes' ears still to suspicions open. 
 Who ever, being but accused, was quit ? 
 For states are wise and cut off ills that may be : 
 Mean men must die that others may sleep sound. 
 Chiefly that rule whose weakness, apt to fears 
 And bad deserts of all men, makes them know 
 There's none but is in heart what he's accused. 3 [Exit. 
 
 1 i.e. For Scaevinus' life. 
 
 2 This and the two following lines are supplied from the MS. 
 
 3 i.e. "It is those princes chiefly that rule whose weakness (that 
 is, being quick to suspect cause of fears and the bad deserts of all men) 
 makes them know," etc.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter NERO, POPP^EA, NIMPHIDIUS, TIGELLINUS, 
 NEOPHILUS, and EPAPHRODITUS. 
 
 This kiss, sweet love, I force 
 from thee, and this ; 
 And of such spoils and victories be 
 
 more proud 
 
 Than if I had the fierce Pannonian 
 Or gray-eyed German ten times over- 
 
 come. 
 
 Let Julius go and fight at end o' th' world, 
 And conquer from the wild inhabitants 
 Their cold and poverty, whilst Nero here 
 Makes other wars, wars where the conquered gains, 
 Where to o'ercome is to be prisoner. 
 
 willingly I'll give my freedom up 
 And put on my own chains ; 
 
 1 am in love with my captivity. 
 
 Such Venus is, when on the sandy shore 
 Of Xanthus or on Ida's pleasant green 
 She leads the dance; her, the nymphs all a-row 
 And smiling Graces, do accompany. 
 If Bacchus could his straggling minion 
 Grace with a glorious wreath of shining stars, 
 Why should not heaven my Poppaea crown ? 
 The northern team shall move into a round, 
 New constellations rise to honour thee ;
 
 56 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 The earth shall woo thy favours, and the sea 
 Lay his rich shells and treasures at thy feet. 
 For thee Hydaspes shall throw up his gold, 
 Panchaia breathe the rich delightful smells ; 
 The Seres and the feathered man of Ind 
 Shall their fine arts and curious labours bring ; 
 And where the sun's not known, Poppaea's name 
 Shall midst their feasts and barbarous pomp be sung. 
 
 Pop. Ay, now I am worthy to be queen o' th' world, 
 Fairer than Venus or than Bacchus' love ; 
 But you'll anon unto your cut-boy Sporus, 
 Your new-made woman, to whom now, I hear, 
 You are wedded to. 1 
 
 Nero. I wedded ? 
 
 Pop. Ay ! you wedded. 
 
 Did you not hear the words o' th' Auspices ? 
 Was not the boy in bride-like garments drest ? 
 Marriage books sealed as 'twere for issue to 
 Be had between you ? solemn feasts prepared, 
 While all the court with " God give you joy" sounds? 
 It had been good Domitius, your father, 
 Had ne'er had other wife. 
 
 Enter MILICHUS. 
 
 Nero. You're froward, fool ; you're still so bitter. Who's 
 that? 
 
 Nim. One that it seems, my lord, doth come in haste. 
 
 Nero. Yet in his face he sends his tale before him. 
 Bad news thou tellest ! 
 
 Mil. 'Tis bad I tell, but good that I can tell it. 
 Therefore your majesty will pardon me 
 If I offend your ears to save your life. 
 
 Nero. Why ? is my life endangered ? 
 How ends the circumstance? thou wrack'st my thoughts. 
 
 Mil. My lord, your life's conspired against. 
 
 Nero. By whom ? 
 
 1 Vide Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 28. Bullen.
 
 SCENE I.] NERO. 57 
 
 Mil. I must be of the world excused in this, 
 If the great duty to your majesty 
 Makes me all other lesser to neglect. 
 
 Nero. Th'art a tedious fellow. 
 
 Tig. Speak, by whom ? 
 
 Mil. By my master. 
 
 Nerj. Who's thy master ? 
 
 Mil. Scaevinus. 
 
 Pop. Scaevinus ? why should he conspire, 
 Unless he think that likeness in conditions 
 May make him, too, worthy o' th' empire thought ? 
 
 Nero. Who are else in it ? 
 
 Mil. I think Natalis, Subrius Flavius, 
 Lucan, Seneca, and Lucius Piso, 
 Asper, and Quintianus. 1 
 
 Nero. Ha' done, 
 
 Thou'lt reckon all Rome anon ; and so thou may'st, 
 They're villains all, I'll not trust one of them. 
 Oh, that the Romans had all but one neck ! 
 
 Pop. Piso's sly creeping into men's affections 
 And popular arts have given long cause of doubt, 
 And th' others' late observed discontents, 
 Risen from misinterpreted disgraces, 
 May make us credit this relation. 
 
 Nero. Where are they ? come they not upon us yet ? 
 See my guard doubled, see the gates shut up ! 
 Why, they'll surprise us in our court anon. 
 
 Mil. Not so, my lord ; they are at Piso's house 
 And think themselves yet safe and undescried. 
 
 Nero. Let's thither then, 
 And take them in this false security. 
 
 Tig. 'Twere better first to publish them traitors. 
 Nim. That were to make them so 
 And force them all upon their enmities. 
 Now without stir or hazard they'll be ta'en, 
 And boldly trial dare and law demand ; 
 
 1 Compare Tacitus, Ann. XV. 49 and 50.
 
 58 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 Besides, this accusation may be forged 
 By malice or mistaking. 
 
 Pop. What likes you do, Nimphidius, out of hand ; 
 Two ways distract when either would prevail. 
 If they, suspecting but this fellow's absence, 
 Should try the city and attempt their friends, 
 How dangerous might Piso's favour be ? 
 
 Nim. Ay, to himself. 'Twould make the matter clear 
 Which now upon one servant's credit stands. 
 The city's favour keeps within the bounds 
 Of profit, they'll love none to hurt themselves ; 
 Honour and friendship they hear others name, 
 Themselves do neither feel nor know the same. 
 To put them yet, though needless, in some fear 
 We'll keep their streets with armed companies ; 
 Then, if they stir, they see their wives and houses 
 Prepared a prey to th' greedy soldier. 
 
 Pop. Let us be quick then, you to Piso's house, 
 While I and Tigellinus further sift 
 This fellow's knowledge. 
 
 Nero. Look to the gates and walls o' th' city ; look 
 The river be well kept ; have watches set 
 In every passage and in every way. 
 
 [Exeunt all except NERO. 
 
 But who shall watch these watches ? ' What if they 
 Begin and play the traitors first ? Oh, where shall I 
 Seek faith, or them that I may wisely trust ? 
 The city favours the conspirators ; 
 The senate in disgrace and fear hath lived ; 
 The camp why, most are soldiers that he named ; 
 Besides, he knows not all, and like a fool, 
 I interrupted him, else had he named 
 Those that stood by me. O security ! 
 Which we so much seek after, yet art still 
 
 1 Against this passage, in the margin of the MS. is written : 
 " Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Juvenal." It is from the 6th 
 Satire, lines 347 8.
 
 SCENE ii.] NERO. 59 
 
 To courts a stranger, and dost rather choose 
 
 The smoky reeds and sedgy cottages, 
 
 Than the proud roofs and wanton courts of kings. 
 
 O sweet despised joys of poverty, 
 
 A happiness unknown unto the gods ! 
 
 Would I had rather in poor Gabii 1 
 
 Or Ulubrae, a ragged magistrate, 
 
 Sat as a judge of measures and o r corn 
 
 Than the adored monarch of the world. 
 
 Mother, thou didst deservedly in this, 
 
 That from a private and sure state didst raise 
 
 My fortunes to this slippery hill of greatness 
 
 Where I can neither stand nor fall with life. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. A Room in SCEVINUS' House. 
 
 Enter Piso, LUCAN, SC^EVINUS and FLAVIUS. 
 
 Flav. But since we are discovered, what remains 
 But put our lives upon our hands ? These swords 
 Shall try us traitors or true citizens. 
 
 Sccev. And what should make this hazard doubt success? 
 Stout men are oft with sudden onsets daunted : 
 What shall this stage-player be ? 
 
 Liu. It is not now 
 
 Augustus' gravity and Tiberius' craft, 
 But Tigellinus and Chrysogonus, 
 Eunuchs and women that we go against. 
 
 Sccev. This for thy own sake, this for ours we beg, 
 That thou wilt suffer him to be o'ercome ; 
 Why should'st thou keep so many vowed swords 
 From such a hated throat ? 
 
 Flav. Or shall we fear 
 
 To trust unto the gods so good a cause ? 
 
 1 Our author is imitating Juvenal, X. 99-102. Bulkn.
 
 60 NERO. [ACT IV. 
 
 Luc. By this we may ourselves heaven's favour pro- 
 Because all nobleness and worth on earth [raise, 
 
 We see's on our side. Here the Fabii's sons, 
 Here the Corvdni are, and take that part 
 Their noble fathers would if now they lived. 
 There's not a soul that claims nobility, 
 Either by his or his forefather's merit, 
 But is with us ; with us the gallant youth 
 Whom passed dangers or hot blood makes bold ; 
 Staid men suppressed their wisdom or their faith 
 To whom our counsels we have not revealed, 
 And while our party seeking to disgrace 
 They traitors call us, each man treason praiseth 
 And hateth faith when Piso is a traitor. 
 
 Scav. And not adventure what by stoutness can 
 Befall us worse than will by cowardice : 
 If both the people and the soldier failed us 
 Yet shall we die worthy at least ourselves, 
 Worthy our ancestors. O Piso, think, 
 Think on that day when in the Parthian field 
 Thou cried'st to the flying legions to turn 
 And look death in the face ; he was not grim, 
 But fair and lovely when he came in arms. 
 Oh, why there died we not on Syrian swords ? 
 Were we reserved to prisons and to chains ? 
 Behold the gallows is in every street ; 
 And even now they come to clap on irons. 
 Must Piso's head be showed upon a pole ? 
 Those members torn, rather than Roman-like, 
 And Piso-like, with weapons in our hands, 1 
 Fighting in throng of enemies to die ? 
 And that it shall not be a civil war 
 Nero prevents, whose cruelty hath left 
 Few citizens ; we are not Romans now 
 But Moors, and Jews, and utmost Spaniards, 
 And Asia's refuse that do fill the city. 
 
 1 This line is omitted in the MS.
 
 SCENE II.] NERO. 6 1 
 
 Piso. Part of us are already tak'n ; the rest 
 Amazed and seeking holes. Our hidden ends 
 You see laid open ; court and city armed 
 And for fear joining to the part they fear. 
 Why should we move desperate and hopeless arms 
 And vainly spill that noble blood that should 
 Crystal Euphrates and the Median fields, 1 
 Not Tiber colour ? And the more you show 
 Your loves and readiness to loose your lives, 
 The lother I am to adventure them. 
 Yet am I proud you would for me have died ; 
 But live and keep yourselves for worthier ends. 
 No mother but my own shall weep my death, 
 Nor will I make, by overthrowing us, 
 Heaven guilty of more faults ; yet from the hopes 
 Your own good wishes rather than the thing 
 Do make you see, this comfort I receive 
 Of death unforced. 2 O friends, I would not die : 
 When I can live no longer, 'tis my glory 
 That free and willing I give up this breath, 
 Leaving such courages as yours untried. 
 But to be long in talk of dying would 
 Show a relenting and a doubtful mind : 
 By this you shall my quiet thoughts intend ; 
 I blame not earth nor heaven for my end. [Dies. 
 
 Luc. Oh, that this noble courage had been shown 
 Rather on enemies' breasts than on thy own. 
 
 Scav. But sacred and inviolate be thy will, 
 And let it lead and teach us. 
 This sword I could more willingly have thrust 
 Through Nero's breast ; that Fortune hath denied me, 
 It now shall through Scsevinus. {Exeunt. 
 
 1 The MS. reads: " Silver colour on the Median fields;" the 
 4tos, " Christall Rubes and the Median fields." 
 
 2 Compare Tacitus, Ann. XV. 59, for allusions in this and the 
 above speech.
 
 62 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 SCENE III. A Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter TIGELLINUS. 
 
 What multitudes of villains are here gotten 
 
 In a conspiracy which, Hydra-like, 
 
 Still in the cutting off increaseth more. 
 
 The more we take, the more are still appeached, 1 
 
 And every man brings in a new company. 
 
 I wonder what we shall do with them all ! 
 
 The prisons cannot hold more than they have, 
 
 The jails are full, the holes with gallants stink : 
 
 Straw and gold shine together. Zounds ! I think, 
 
 'Twere best to shut the gates o' th' city up 
 
 And make it all one jail ; for this I am sure, 
 
 There's not an honest man within the walls. 
 
 And though the guilty do exceed the free, 
 
 Yet through a base and fatal cowardice 
 
 They all assist in taking one another, 
 
 And by their own hands are to prison led. 
 
 There's no condition, nor degree of men, 
 
 But here are met ; men of the sword and gown, 
 
 Plebeians, senators, and women too ; 
 
 Ladies that might have slain him with their eyes, 
 
 Would use their hands ; philosophers, 
 
 And politicians. Politicians ? 
 
 Their plot was laid too short. Poets would now 
 
 Not only write but be the arguments 
 
 Of tragedies. The emperor's much pleased 
 
 That some have named Seneca ; and I 
 
 Will have Petronius. 2 One promise of pardon 
 
 Or fear of torture will accusers find. [Exit. 
 
 1 Impeached. 
 
 - Compare Tacitus, Ann. XVI. 18.
 
 SCENE IV.] NERO. 63 
 
 SCENE IV. A Prison in Rome. 
 Enter NIMPHIDIUS, LUCAN, and SCVEVINUS, with a Guard. 
 
 Nim. Though Piso's suddenness and guilty hand 
 Prevented hath the death he should have had, 
 Yet you abide it must. 
 
 Luc. Oh, may the earth lie lightly on his corse ! 
 Sprinkle his ashes with your flowers and tears ; 
 The love and dainty 1 of mankind is gone ! 
 
 Sccev. What only now we can, we'll follow thee 
 That way thou lead'st and wait on thee in death, 
 Which we had done had not these hindered us. 
 
 Nim. Nay, other ends your grievous crimes await, 
 Ends which the law and your deserts impose. 
 
 Sc&v. Why, what have we deserved ? 
 
 Nim. That punishment that traitors unto princes, 
 And enemies to the state they live in, merit. 
 
 Sccev. If by the state this government you mean, 
 I justly am an enemy unto it : 
 That's but to Nero, you, and Tigellinus. 
 That glorious world that even beguiles the wise, 
 Being looked into, includes but three or four 
 Corrupted men which were they all removed, 
 'Twould for the common state much better be. 
 
 Nim. Why, what can you i' th' government mislike, 
 Unless it grieve you that the world's in peace 
 Or that our armies conquer without blood ? 
 Hath not his power with foreign visitations 
 And stranger's honour more acknowledged been 
 Than any was before him ? Hath not he 
 Disposed of frontier kingdoms with success, 
 Given away crowns, whom he set up prevailing ? - 
 The rival seat of the Arsacidae, 
 
 1 A term of endearment ; "darling." 
 
 2 i.e. Hath he not given away crowns, and are not those whom he 
 set up in such kingdoms prevailing ?
 
 64 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 That thought their brightness equal unto ours, 
 Is it not crowned by him, by him doth reign ? 
 If we have any war, it's beyond Rhine 
 And Euphrates, and such whose different chances 
 Have rather served for pleasure and discourse 
 Than troubled us at home. The city hath 
 Increased in wealth, with building been adorned, 
 The arts have flourished, and the Muses sung ; 
 And that his justice and well tempered reign 
 Have the best judges pleased, the powers divine, 
 Their blessings and so long prosperity 
 Of th' empire under him, enough declare. 
 
 Sccev. You freed the state from wars abroad, but 
 
 'twas 
 
 To spoil at home more safely and divert 
 The Parthian enmity on us, and yet 
 The glory rather and the spoils of war 
 Have wanting been, the loss and charge we have. 
 Your peace is full of cruelty and wrong ; 
 Laws taught to speak to present purposes ; 
 Wealth, and fair houses dangerous faults become; 
 Much blood i' th' city and no common deaths, 
 But gentlemen and consulary houses. 
 On Csesar's own house look ; hath that been free ? 
 Hath he not shed the blood he calls divine ? 
 Hath not that nearness which should love beget, 
 Always on him been cause of hate and fear ? 
 Virtue and power suspected and kept down ? 
 They whose great ancestors this empire made, 
 Distrusted in the government thereof? 
 A happy state where Decius is a traitor, 
 Narcissus 1 true ! nor only was't unsafe 
 T' offend the prince ; his freedmen worse were feared, 
 Whose wrongs with such insulting pride were heard 
 That even the faulty it made innocent. 
 
 1 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XI. 33 and 38. By Becius, I suppose is 
 meant Decius Mus.
 
 SCENE IV.] NERO. 65 
 
 If we complained, that was itself a crime, 
 
 Ay, though it were to Caesar's benefit ; 
 
 Our writings pried into, false guiltiness, 
 
 Thinking each taxing pointed out itself ; 
 
 Our private whisperings listened after ; nay, 
 
 Our thoughts were forced out of us and punished; 
 
 And had it been in you to have ta'en away 
 
 Our understanding as you did our speech, 
 
 You would have made us thought this honest too. 
 
 Nim. Can malice narrow eyes ? 
 See anything yet more it can traduce 1 
 
 Scaev. His long-continued taxes I forbear, 
 In which he chiefly showed himself a prince ; 
 His robbing altars, 1 sale of holy things, 
 The antique goblets of adored rust" 
 And sacred gifts of kings and people sold. 
 Nor was the spoil more odious than the use 
 They were employed in ; spent on shame and lust, 
 Which still have been so endless in their change, 
 And made us know a divers servitude. 
 But that he hath been suffered so long, 
 And prospered, as you. say, for that to thee, 
 O heaven ! I turn myself to thee'and cry, "No god 
 Hath care of us ! " Yet have we our revenge, 
 As much as earth may be revenged on heaven : 
 This divine honour Nero shall usurp; 
 And -prayers and feasts arid adoration have 
 As well as Jupiter. 
 
 Mm* Away, blaspheming tongue, 
 
 Be ever silent for thy bitterness. [Exeunt, 
 
 1 Compare Tacitus, Ann. XV. 45 ; Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 32. 
 Sullen. 
 
 Nero.
 
 66 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 SCENE V. A Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter NERO, POPP^EA, TIGELLINUS, FLAVIUS, NEOPHILUS, 
 EPAPHRODITUS, and Guard with a Young Man. 
 
 Nero. What could cause thee, 
 Forgetful of my benefits and thy oath, 
 To seek my life ? 
 
 Flav. Nero, I hated thee ; 
 Nor was there any of thy soldiers 
 More faithful, whilst thou faith deserv'dst, than I. 
 Together did I leave 1 to be a subject, 
 And thou a prince. Caesar was now become 
 A player on the stage, a waggoner, 
 A burner of our houses and of us, 
 A parricide of wife and mother. 
 
 Tig, Villain ! dost know where and of whom thou 
 speak'st ? 
 
 Nero. Have you but one death for him ? Let it be 
 A feeling one, Tigellinus. Be't thy charge, 
 And let me see thee witty in't. 
 
 Tig, Come, sirrah ! 
 
 We'll see how stoutly you'll stretch out your neck. 
 
 Flav. Would thou durst strike as stoutly ! 
 
 [Exeunt TIGELLINUS and FLAVIUS. 
 
 Nero. And what's he there ? 
 
 Epaph. One that in whisp'ring I o'erheard 
 What pity 'twas, my lord, that Piso died. 
 
 Nero. And why was't pity, sirrah, Piso died ? 
 
 Young M, My lord, 'twas pity he deserved to die. 
 
 Pop. \Aside^\ How much this youth my Otho doth 
 
 resemble ; 
 
 Otho my first, my best love who is now, 
 Under pretext of governing, exiled 
 To Lusitania, honourably banished. 3 
 
 1 Cease. 
 
 2 I have here followed Mr. Bullen's suggestion as to the arrange- 
 ment of this and the following line, since it seems warranted by the 
 MS. 3 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XIII. 46.
 
 SCENE V.] NERO. 67 
 
 Nero. Well, if you be so passionate, 
 I'll make you spend your pity on your prince 
 And good men, not on traitors. 
 
 Young M. The gods forbid my prince should pity 
 
 need. 
 
 Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stir 
 O' th' frail and weak condition of our kind, 
 Somewhat his greatness, than whom yesterday 
 The world, but Csesar, could show nothing higher : 
 Besides, some virtues and some worth he had, 
 That might excuse my pity to an end 
 So cruel and unripe. 
 
 Pop. [Aside.] I know not how this stranger moves my 
 
 mind. 
 
 His face, methinks, is not like other mens', 
 Nor do they speak thus. Oh, his words invade 
 My weakened senses, and overcome my heart. 
 
 Nero. Your pity shows your favour and your will, 
 Which side you are inclined to, had you power : 
 You can but pity, else you'd Csesar fear ; 
 Your ill affection then shall punished be. 
 Take him to execution ; he shall die 
 That the death pities of mine enemy. 
 
 Young M. This benefit at least 
 Sad death shall give, to free me from the power 
 Of such a government ; and if I die 
 For pitying human chance and Piso's end, 
 There will be some, too, that will pity mine. 
 
 Pop. [Aside.] Oh, what a dauntless look, what spark- 
 ling eyes, 
 
 Threat'ning in suffering ! Sure some noble blood 
 Is hid in rags ; fear argues a base spirit ; 
 .In him what courage and contempt of death ! 
 And shall I suffer one I love to die ? 
 [Aloud] He shall not die. Hands off this man! 
 
 Away! 
 Nero, thou shalt not kill this guiltless man. 
 
 F 2
 
 68 NERO. [ACT IV. 
 
 Nero. He guiltless, strumpet ! 
 
 [Strikes POPP/EA, who falls. 
 She is in love with the smooth face of the boy. 
 
 Neoph. Alas, my lord, you have slain her. 
 
 Epaph. Help, help, she dies ! 
 
 Nero, Poppaea, Poppaea, speak ; I am not angry ; 
 I did not mean to hurt thee ; speak, sweet love ! 
 
 Neoph. She's dead,- my lord. 
 
 Nero. Fetch her again, she shall not die : 
 I'll break the iron gates of hell 
 And loose the imprisoned shadows of the deep, 
 And force from death this far too worthy prey. 
 She is not dead : 
 
 The crimson red that like the morning shows, 
 When from her windows, all with roses strewed, 
 She peepeth forth, forsakes not yet her cheeks ; 
 Her breath, that like a honey-suckle smelt, 
 Twining about the prickling eglantine, 
 Yet moves her lips ; those quick and piercing eyes 
 That did in beauty challenge heaven's eyes, 
 Yet shine as they were wont ! Oh, no, they do not ; 
 See how they grow obscure ! Oh, see, they close 
 And cease to take or give light to the world. 
 What stars soe'er you are assured to grace 
 The firmament (for, lo ! the twinkling fires 
 Together throng, and that clear milky space, 
 Of storms, and Pleiades, and thunder void, 
 Prepares your room), do not with wry aspect 
 Look on your Nero, who in blood shall mourn 
 Your luckless fate, and many a breathing soul 
 Send after you to wait upon their queen. 
 This shall begin ; the rest shall follow after, 
 And fill the streets with outcries and with slaughter. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 SCENE VI.] NERO. 69 
 
 SCENE VI. A Room in SENECA'S Villa. 
 
 Enter SENECA with two of his Friends. 
 
 Sen. What means your mourning, this ungrateful 
 
 sorrow ? 
 
 Where are your precepts of philosophy, 
 Where our prepared resolution 
 So many years fore-studied against danger ? 
 To whom is Nero's cruelty unknown, 
 Or what remained after his mother's blood, 
 But his instructor's death ? Leave, leave those tears ; 
 Death from me nothing takes but what's a burthen, 
 A clog to that free spark of heavenly fire : 
 But that in Seneca the which you loved, 
 Which you admired, doth and shall still remain, 
 Secure of death, untouched of the grave. 
 
 \st Friend. We'll not belie our tears, we wail not 
 
 thee; 
 
 It is ourselves and our own loss we grieve : 
 To thee what loss in such a change can be, 
 Virtue is paid her due by death alone. 
 To our own losses do we give these tears, 
 That lose thy love, thy boundless knowledge lose, 
 Lose the unpatterned sample of thy virtue, 
 Lose whatsoe'er may praise or sorrow move : 
 In all these losses yet of this we glory, 
 That 'tis thy happiness that makes us sorry. 
 
 2nd Friend. If there be any place for ghosts of good 
 
 men, 
 
 If, as we have been long taught, great men's souls 
 Consume not with their bodies, thou shalt see, 
 Looking from out the dwellings of the air, 
 True duties to thy memory performed ; 
 Not in the outward pomp of funeral, 
 But in remembrance of thy deeds and words, 
 The oft recalling of thy many virtues :
 
 70 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 The tomb that shall th' eternal relics keep 
 Of Seneca shall be his hearers' hearts. 
 
 Sen. Be not afraid, my soul ; go cheerfully 
 To thy own heaven from whence at first let down. 
 Thou loathly this imprisoning flesh put'dst on ; 
 Now, lifted up, thou ravished shalt behold 
 The truth of things at which we wonder here, 
 And foolishly do wrangle on beneath ; 
 And like a god, shalt walk the spacious air, 
 And see what even to conceit J 's denied. 
 Great soul o' th' world, that through the parts diffused 
 Of this vast All, guid'st that thou dost inform ; 
 You blessed minds, that from the. spheres you move 
 Look on men's actions not with idle eyes, 
 And gods we go to, aid me in this strife 
 And combat of my flesh that, ending, I 
 May still show Seneca, and myself die. \_Excunt. 
 
 SCENE VII. A Room in a Villa at Cum a. 
 
 Enter ANTONIUS and ENANTHE. 
 
 Ant. Sure this message of the prince's, 
 So grievous and unlocked for, will appal 
 Petronius much. 
 
 Enan. Will not death any man ? 
 
 Ant. It will ; but him so much the more 
 That, having lived to his pleasure, shall forego 
 So delicate a life. I do not marvel 
 That Seneca and such sour fellows can 
 Leave that they never tasted, but when we 
 That have the nectar of thy kisses felt, 
 That drinks away the troubles of this life 
 And but one banquet makes of forty years, 
 Must come to leave this But soft, here he is. 
 
 1 Imagination.
 
 SCENE VII.] NERO. 71 
 
 Enter PETRONIUS and a Centurion. 
 
 Pet. Leave me a while, centurion, to my friends ; 
 Let me my farewell take, and thou shalt see 
 Nero's commandment quickly obeyed in me. 
 
 [Exit Centurion. 
 
 Come, let us drink and dash the posts with wine ! 
 Here throw your flowers ; fill me a swelling bowl 
 Such as Maecenas or my Lucan drank 
 On Virgil's birthday. 
 
 Enan. What means, Petronius, this unseasonable 
 And causeless mirth ? Why, comes not from the prince 
 This man to you a messenger of death ? 
 
 [They bring wine. 
 
 Pet. Here, fair Enanthe, whose plump, ruddy cheek 
 Exceeds the grape that makes this- here, my girl ! 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 And think'st thou death a matter of such horror ? 
 Why, he must have this pretty dimpling chin, 
 And will peck out those eyes that now so wound. 
 
 Enan. Why, it is not th' extremest of all ills ? 
 
 Pet. It is indeed the last and end of ills : 
 The gods, before they'd let us taste death's joys, 
 Placed us i' th' toils and sorrows of this world, 
 Because we should perceive th' amends and thank them ; 
 Death, the grim knave, but leads you to the door 
 Where, entered once, all curious pleasures come 
 To meet and welcome you. 
 A troop of beauteous ladies, from whose eyes 
 Love thousand arrows, thousand graces shoots, 
 Put forth their fair hands to you and invite 
 To their green arbours and close shadowed walks, 
 Whence banished is the roughness of our years : 
 Only the west wind blows, 'tis ever spring 
 And ever summer. There the laden boughs 
 Offer their tempting burdens to your hand, 
 Doubtful your eye or taste inviting more.
 
 72 NERO. [ACT iv. 
 
 There every man his own desires enjoys; 
 
 Fair Lucrece lies by lusty Tarquin's side, 
 
 And woos him now again to ravish her. 
 
 Nor us, though Roman, Lais will refuse ; 
 
 To Corinth any man may go l : no mask, 
 
 No envious garment doth those beauties hide, 
 
 Which nature made so moving to be spied. 
 
 But in bright crystal, which doth supply all, 
 
 And white transparent veils they are attired, 
 
 Through which the pure snow underneath doth shine j 
 
 Can it be snow from whence such flames arise ? 
 
 Mingled with that fair company shall we 
 
 On banks of violets and of hyacinths 
 
 Of Love's devising, sit and gently sport ; 
 
 And all the while melodious music hear 
 
 And poets' songs that music far exceed ; 
 
 The old Anacreon crowned with smiling flowers, 
 
 And amorous Sappho on her Lesbian lute 
 
 Beauty's sweet scars and Cupid's godhead sing. 2 
 
 Ant. What ! be not ravished with thy fancies ; do not 
 Court nothing, or make love unto our fears ! 
 
 Pet. Is't nothing that I say ? 
 
 Ant. But empty words. 
 
 Pet. Why, thou requir'st some instance of the eye ! 
 Wilt thou go with me then, and see that world 
 Which either will return thy old delights, 
 Or square thy appetites anew to theirs ? 
 
 Ant. Nay, I had rather far believe thee here ; 
 Others' ambition such discoveries seek. 
 Faith, I am satisfied with the base delights 
 Of common men. A wench, a house I have, 
 And of my own a garden : I'll not change 
 For all your walks and ladies and rare fruits. 
 
 Pet. Your pleasures must of force resign to these ; 
 
 1 Compare Horace, Epist. I. 17. 36. Bullen. 
 
 2 Compare this description of Paradise with the description in the 
 Koran, Chap. LV. and LVI.
 
 SCENE vii.] NERO. 73 
 
 In vain you shun the sword, in vain the sea, 
 
 In vain is Nero feared or flattered : 
 
 Hither you must and leave your purchased houses, 
 
 Your new made garden and your black-browed wife, 
 
 And of the trees thou hast so quaintly set, 
 
 Not one but the displeasant cypress shall 
 
 Go with thee. 1 
 
 Ant. Faith 'tis true, we must at -length.; 
 
 But yet, Petronius, while we may awhile 
 We would enjoy them ; those we have we're sure of, 
 When that you talk of 's doubtful and to come. 
 
 Pet. Perhaps thou think'st to live yet twenty years, 
 Which may, unlocked for, be cut off, as mine ; 
 If not, to endless time compared, is nothing. 
 What you endure must, even endure now ; 
 Nor stay not to be last at table set. 
 Each best day of our life at first doth <go, 
 To them succeeds diseased age and woe ; 
 Now die your pleasures, and the days you pray 
 Your rhymes and loves and jests will take away. 2 
 And therefore, my sweet, thou wilt go with me, 
 And not live here to what thou wouldst not see. 
 
 Enan. Would you have me then kill myself, and die, 
 And go I know not to what places there ? 
 
 Pet. What places dost thou fear ? 
 Th' ill-favoured lake they tell thee, thou must pass, 
 And the black frogs that croak about the brim ? 
 
 Enan. Oh, pardon her, though death affrights a 
 
 woman 
 
 Whose pleasures though you timely here divine, 
 The pains we know and see. 
 
 Pet. The pain is life's ; death rids that pain away. 
 Come boldly, there's no danger in this ford ; 
 Children pass through it. If it be a pain, 
 You have this comfort that you past it are. 
 
 1 Compare Horace, Od. II. 14. 21-4. Mullen. 
 
 2 i.e. Old age and woe will take away your rhymes and loves, etc.
 
 74 
 
 NERO. 
 
 Enan. Yet all, as well as I, are loth to die. 
 
 Pet. Judge them by deed, you see them do't apace, 
 
 Enan. Ay, but 'tis lothly and against their wills. 
 
 Pet. Yet know you not that any, being dead, 
 Repented them and would have lived again. 
 They then their errors saw and foolish prayers, 
 But you are blinded in the love of life : 
 Death is but sweet to them that do approach. 
 To me, as one that ta'en with Delphic rage, 
 When the divining god his breast doth fill, 
 He sees what others cannot standing by, 
 It seems a beauteous and a pleasant thing. 
 Where is my death's physician ? 
 
 Enter Physician. 
 
 Phy. Here, my lord. 
 
 Pet. Art ready ? 
 Phy. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Pet. And I for thee : 
 
 Nero, my end shall mock thy tyranny. \Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in the Golden House of NERO. 
 
 Enter NERO, NIMPHIDIUS, TIGELLINUS, NEOPHILUS, 
 EPAPHRODITUS and other Attendants. 
 
 ERO. Enough is wept, Poppasa, for thy 
 
 death, 
 
 Enough is bled ; so many tears of others 
 Wailing their losses have wiped mine 
 
 away. 
 
 Who in the common funeral of the world 
 Can mourn on death ? 
 
 Tig. Besides, your majesty this benefit 
 In this deserved punishment shall reap, 
 From all attempts hereafter to be freed. 
 Conspiracy is now for ever dashed, 
 Tumult suppressed, rebellion out of heart; 
 In Piso's death danger itself did die. 
 
 Nim. Piso that thought to climb by bowing down, 
 By giving a way to thrive, and raising others 
 To become great himself, hath now by death 
 Given quiet to your thoughts and fear to theirs 
 That shall from treason their advancement plot ; 
 Those dangerous heads that his ambition leaned on, 
 And they by it crept up, and from their meanness 
 Thought in this stir to rise aloft, are off. 
 Now peace and safety wait upon your throne ; 
 Security hath walled your state about ; 
 There is no place for fear left.
 
 76 NERO. [ACT v. 
 
 Nero. Why, I never feared them. 
 
 Nim. That was your fault : 
 
 Your majesty might give us leave to blame 
 Your dangerous courage and that noble soul 
 Too prodigal of itself. 1 
 
 Nero. A prince's mind knows neither fear nor hope : 
 The beams of royal majesty are such 
 As all eyes with it are amazed and weakened, 
 But it with nothing. I at first contemned 
 Their weak devices and faint enterprise. 
 Why thought they against him to have prevailed 
 Whose childhood was from Messalina's spite 
 By dragons 2 that the earth gave up, preserved ? 
 Such guard my cradle had, for fate had then 
 Pointed me out to be what now I am. 
 Should all the legions of the provinces, 
 In one united, against me conspire, 
 I could disperse them with one angry eye ; 
 My brow's a host of men. Come, Tigellinus, 
 Let's turn this bloody banquet Piso meant us, 
 Into a merry feast ; we'll drink and challenge 
 Fortune. Who's that Neophilus ? 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Neoph. A courier from beyond the Alps, my lord. 
 
 Nero. News of some German victory, belike, 
 Or Britain overthrown. 
 
 Neoph. The letters come from France. 
 
 Nim. Why smiles your majesty ? 
 
 Nero. Do I smile ? I should be afraid ; 
 There's one in arms against me, Nimphidius. 
 
 Nim. What, armed against your majesty? 
 
 Nero. Our lieutenant of the province, Julius Vindex. 
 
 Tig. Who, that giddy Frenchman ? 
 
 1 Compare Horace, Ocl. I. 12. 37-8. 
 
 2 Vide Tacitus, Ann. XI. 11 ; Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 6. Sullen.
 
 SCENE I.] NERO. 77 
 
 Nim. His province is disarmed, my lord ; he hath 
 No legion nor a soldier under him. 
 
 Epaph. One that by blood and rapine would repair 
 His state consumed in vanities and lust. 
 
 Enter another Messenger. 
 
 Tig. He will not find out three to follow him. 
 
 Nim. More news, my lord. 
 
 Nero. Is it of Vindex that thou hast to say ? 
 
 Mess. Vindex is up, and with him France in arms ; 
 The noblemen and people throng to th' cause ; 
 Money and armour cities do confer ; 
 The country doth send in provision ; 
 Young men bring bodies, old men lead them forth ; 
 Ladies do coin their jewels into pay ; 
 The sickle now is framed into a sword, 
 And drawing horses are to manage l taught : 
 France nothing doth but war and fury breathe. 
 
 Nero. All this fierce talk's but " Vindex doth rebel " ; 
 And I will hang him. . 
 
 Tig. How long came you forth after the former 
 messenger? 
 
 Mess. Four days ; but by the benefit of sea 
 And weather I arrived with him. 
 
 Nim. How strong was Vindex at your setting forth ? 
 
 Mess. He was esteemed a hundred thousand. 
 
 Tig. Men enough. 
 
 j\'im. And soldiers few enough : 
 Tumultuary troops, undisciplined, 
 Untrained in service, to waste victuals good ; 
 But when they come to look on war's black wounds, 
 And but afar off see the face of death 
 
 Nero. It falls out for my empty coffers well, 
 The spoil of such a large and goodly province 
 Enriched with trade and long enjoyed peace. 
 
 1 Here, "to submit to the bridle;" compare his horses "are 
 taught their manage," As You Like It, I. I.
 
 78 NERO. [ACT v. 
 
 Tig. What order will your majesty have taken 
 For levying forces to suppress this stir ? 
 
 Nero. What order should we take ? We'll laugh and 
 
 drink. 
 
 Think'st thou 'tis fit my pleasures be disturbed 
 When any Frenchman lists to break his neck ! 
 They have not heard of Piso's fortune yet ; 
 Let that tale fight with them. What order needs ! 
 
 Nim. Your majesty shall find 
 This French heat quickly of itself grow cold. 
 
 Nero. Come away : 
 Nothing can come that this night's sport can stay. 
 
 \Exeunt NERO, NIMPHIDIUS, TIGELLINUS, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 Neoph. What makes, I wonder, him so confident 
 In this revolt now grown unto a war, 
 And ensigns in the field ; when in the other, 
 Being but the plot of a conspiracy, 
 He showed himself so wretchedly dismayed ? 
 
 Epaph. Fajth, the right nature of a coward to slight 
 Dangers that seem far off. Piso was here, 
 Ready to enter at the presence-door 
 And drag him out of his abused chair ; 
 And then he trembled. Vindex is in France, 
 And many woods and seas and hills between. 
 
 Neoph. 'Twas strange that Piso was so soon suppressed. 
 
 Epaph. Strange ? strange indeed ; for had he but come 
 
 up 
 
 And ta'en the court in that affright and stir 
 While unresolved for whom or what to do 
 Each only other had in jealousy, 
 While as appalled majesty not yet 
 Had time to set the countenance, 
 
 Neoph. He would 
 
 Have hazarded the royal seat. 
 
 Epaph. Nay, had it without hazard ; all the court 
 Had for him been and those disclosed their love
 
 SCENE i.] NERO. 79 
 
 And favour in the cause, which now to hide 
 And colour their good meanings, ready were 
 To show their forwardness against it most. 
 
 Neoph. But for a stranger with a naked province, 
 Without allies or friends i' th' state, to challenge 
 A prince upheld with thirty legions, 
 Royal in four descents of ancestors, 
 And fourteen years continuance of reign, 
 Why it is 
 
 Enter NERO, NIMPHIDIUS, and TIGELLINUS. 
 
 Nero. Galba and Spain? What? Spain and Galba 
 too ? \Exeunt NERO and NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 Epaph. I pray thee, Tigellinus, what fury's this ? 
 What strange event, what accident hath thus 
 O'ercast your countenances? 
 
 Tig. Down we were set at table and began 
 With sparkling bowls to chase our fears away, 
 And mirth and pleasure looked out of our eyes ; 
 When, lo, a breathless messenger arrives 
 And tells how Vindex and the powers of France 
 Have Sergius l Galba chosen emperor, 
 With what applause the legions him receive ; 
 That Spain's revolted, Portingale hath joined ; 
 As much suspected is of Germany. 
 But Nero, not abiding out the end, 
 O'erthrew the tables, dashed against the ground 
 The cup which he so much, you know, esteemed ; 2 
 Teareth his hair and with incensed rage 
 Curseth false men and gods the lookers on. 
 
 Neoph. His rage, we saw, was wild and desperate. 
 
 Epaph. Oh, you unsearched wisdoms which do laugh 
 At our securities and fears alike, 
 
 1 This is a mistake : our author is following Suetonius, Vit. Gal. 4. 
 Sergius Galba was an orator who lived before the time of Cicero ; 
 it should be Servius. 
 
 2 Compare Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 47.
 
 8o NERO: [ACT v. 
 
 And plan : to show our weakness and your power, 
 Make us contemn the harms which surest strike ; 
 When you our glories and our pride undo, 
 Our overthrow you make ridiculous too. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. A Street in Rome, 
 
 Enter NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 Nim. Slow moving counsels and the sliding year 
 Have brought me to the long-foreseen destruction 
 Of this misled young man. His state is shaken 
 And I will push it on ; revolted France, 
 Nor the conjured provinces of Spain, 
 Nor his own guilt shall like to me oppress him. J 
 I to his easy yielding fears proclaim 
 New German mutinies and all the world 
 Rousing itself in hate of Nero's name ; 
 I his distracted counsels do disperse 
 With fresh despairs ; I animate the senate 
 And the people, to engage them past recall 
 In prejudice of Nero : and in brief 
 Perish he must, the fates and I resolve it. 
 Which to effect, I presently will go 
 Proclaim a donative in Galba's name. 
 
 Enter ANTONIUS. 
 
 Ant. [Aside.] Vender's Nimphidius, our commander, 
 
 now: 
 I with respect must speak and smooth my brow. 
 
 \AloudJ] Captain, all hail ! 
 
 Nim. Antonius, well met. 
 Your place of tribune in this anarchy 
 
 1 The 4tos and MS. read " plain." . 
 
 2 i.e. Neither France, Spain, nor bis own guilt, shall oppress 
 him as much as Nimphidius.
 
 SCENE ii.] NERO. 8 1 
 
 Ant. This anarchy, my lord ? Is Nero dead ? 
 
 Nim. This anarchy, this yet un stilted time 
 While Galba is unseized of the empire 
 Which Nero hath forsook. 
 
 Ant. Hath Nero then resigned the empire ? 
 
 Nim. In effect he hath, for he is fled to Egypt. 
 
 Ant. My lord, you tell strange news to me. 
 
 Nim. But nothing strange to me, 
 Who every moment knew of his despairs. 
 The couriers came so fast with fresh alarms 
 Of new revolts that he, unable quite 
 To bear his fears which he had long concealed, 
 Is now revolted from himself and fled. 
 
 Ant. Thrust with report and rumours from his seat ! 
 My lord, I know the emperor depends on you l 
 As you determine. 
 
 Nim. There.it lies Antonius. 
 
 What should we do ? It boots not to rely 
 On Nero's sinking fortunes ; and to sit 
 Securely looking on, were to receive 
 An emperor from Spain : which how disgraceful 
 It were to us who, if we weigh ourselves, 
 The most material accessions are 
 Of all the Roman empire. Which disgrace 
 To cover we must join ourselves betimes, 
 And thereby seem to have created Galba. 
 Therefore I'll straight proclaim a donative 
 Of thirty thousand sesterces a man. 
 
 Ant. I think so great a gift was never heard of. 
 Galba, they say, is frugally inclined : 
 Will he avow so great a gift as this ? 
 
 Nim. Howe'er he like of it he -must avow it, 
 If by our promise he be once engaged ; 
 And since the soldiers' care belongs to me, 
 I will have care of them and of their good. 
 
 1 i.e. The place of Emperor proceeds from you. 
 Nero. G
 
 82 NERO. [ACT v. 
 
 Let them thank me if I through this occasion 
 
 Procure for them so great a donative. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. So you be thanked it skills not 1 who prevails, 
 Galba or Nero, traitor to them both ! 
 You give it out that Nero's fled to Egypt, 
 Who, with the fright of your reports amazed, 
 By our device doth lurk for better news, 
 Whilst you inevitably do betray him. 
 Works he all this for Galba then ? Not so : 
 I have long seen his climbing to the empire 
 By secret practices of gracious women, 
 And other instruments of the late court. 
 That was his love to her that me refused ; 
 And now by this he would gain the soldiers' favour. 
 Now is the time to quit Poppsea's scorn 
 And his rivallity. I'll straight reveal 
 His treacheries to Galba's agents here, [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. A Room in PHAON'S Villa.- 
 
 Enter TIGELLINUS with the Guard. 
 
 Tig. You see what issue things do sort unto ; 
 Yet may we hope not only impunity, 3 
 But with our fellows part o' th' gift proclaimed. 
 
 Guard. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter NERO. 
 
 Nero. Whither go you ? stay, my friends ; 
 Tis Cassar calls you ; stay, my loving friends. 
 Tig. We were his slaves, his footstools, and must 
 crouch, 
 
 1 i.e. It matters not. 
 
 2 In locating this and some of the other scenes, I have followed 
 the historians, since there is nothing in our dramatist to show where 
 they take place. 
 
 3 Freedom from punishment.
 
 SCENE III.] NERO. 83 
 
 But now, with such observance to his feet ; 
 It is his misery that calls us friends. 
 
 Nero. And moves you not the misery of a prince ? 
 
 stay, my friends ! stay, harken to the voice 
 Which once you knew ! 
 
 Tig. Hark to the people's cries, 
 
 Hark to the streets that " Galba, Galba," ring. 
 Nero. The people may forsake me without blame, 
 
 1 did them wrong to make you rich and great, 
 I took their houses to bestow on you ; 
 Treason in them hath name of liberty : 
 
 Your fault hath no excuse, you are my fault 
 And the excuse of others' treachery. 
 
 Tig. Shall we with staying seem his tyrannies 
 T' uphold, as if we were in love with them ? 
 We are excused, unless we stay too long, 
 As forced ministers and a part of wrong. 
 
 [Exeunt all except NERO 
 
 Nero. Oh, now I see the vizard from my face, 
 So lovely and so fearful, is fall'n off; 
 That vizard, shadow, nothing, majesty 
 Which, like a child acquainted with his fears, 
 Whilom men trembled at and now contemn. 
 Nero forsaken is of all the world, 
 The world of truth. Oh, fall some vengeance down 
 Equal unto their falsehoods and my wrongs ! 
 Might I ascend the chariot of the sun 
 And like another Phaeton consume 
 In flames of all the world, a pile of death 
 Worthy the state and greatness I have lost ! 
 Or were I now but lord of my own fires 
 Wherein false Rome yet once again might smoke 
 And perish, all unpitied of her gods, 
 That all things in their last destruction might 
 Perform a funeral honour to their lord ! 
 O Jove ! dissolve with Caesar Caesar's world ; 
 Or you whom Nero rather should invoke,
 
 84 NERO. [ACT v. 
 
 Black chaos and you fearful shapes beneath, 
 That with a long and not vain envy have 
 Sought to' destroy this work of th' other gods, 
 Now let your darkness cease the spoils of day, 
 And the world's first contention end your strife. 
 
 Enter two Romans. 
 
 ist Rom. Though others, bound with greater benefits, 
 Have left your changed fortunes and do run 
 Whither new hopes do call them, yet come we. 
 
 Nero. Oh, welcome ! come you to adversity ! 
 Welcome, true friends. Why, there is faith on earth 
 Of thousand servants, friends and followers, 
 Ye two are left. Your countenance, methinks, 
 Gives comfort and new hopes. 
 
 2nd Rom. Do not deceive your thoughts : 
 
 My lord, we bring no comfort ; would we could. 
 But the last duty to perform and best 
 We ever shall, a free death to persuade, 
 To cut off hopes of fiercer cruelty, 
 And scorn more cruel to a worthy soul. 
 
 \st Rom. The Senate have decreed you're punishable 
 After the fashion of our ancestors, 
 Which is, your neck being locked in a fork, 
 You must be naked whipped and scourged to death. 1 
 
 Nero. The Senate thus decreed ? they, that so oft 
 My virtues flattered have, and gifts of mind, 5 
 My government preferred to ancient times, 
 And challenged Numa to compare with n.e ? 
 Have they so horrible an end sought out ? 
 No, here I bear that shall prevent such shame ; 
 This hand shall yet from that deliver me, 
 And faithful be alone unto his lord. 
 Alas, how sharp and terrible is death ! 
 Oh, must I die, must now my senses close ; 
 
 1 Compare Suetonius, Vit. Ner. 49. 
 
 2 The MS. reads "wit."
 
 SCENE III.] NERO. 85 
 
 For ever die, and ne'er return again, 
 Never more see the sun, nor heaven, nor earth ? 
 Whither go I ? What shall I be anon ? 
 What horrid journey wand'rest thou, my soul, 
 Under th' earth in dark, damp, dusky vaults ? 
 Or shall I now to nothing be resolved ? 
 My fears become my hopes; Oh, would I might. 
 Methinks, I see the boiling Phlegethon 
 And the dull people feared of them we fear, 
 The dread and terror of the gods themselves ; 
 The furies armed with links, with whips, with snakes, 
 And my own furies far more mad than they, 
 My mother and those troops of slaughtered friends. 
 And now the judge is brought unto the throne, 
 That will not leave 1 unto authority, 
 Nor favour the oppressions of the great ! 
 
 ist Rom. These are the idle terrors of the night, 
 Which wise men, though they teach, do not believe, 
 To curb our pleasures feigned, and aid the weak ; 
 
 2nd Rom. Death's wrongful defamation, which would 
 
 make 
 
 Us shun this happy haven of our rest, 
 This end of evils, as some fearful harm ; 
 
 \st Rom. Shadows and fond imaginations, 
 Which now, you see, on earth but children fear. 
 
 2nd Rom. Why should our faults fear punishment 
 
 from them ? 
 
 What do the actions of this life concern 
 The other world, with which is no commerce ? 
 
 isf Rom. Would heaven and stars necessity compel 
 Us to do that which after it would punish ? 
 
 2nd Rom. Let us not after our lives' end believe 
 More than we felt before it. 
 
 Nero. If any words had made me confident, 
 And boldly do for hearing others speak 
 Boldly, these might. But will you by example 
 
 1 Be sparing. 2 i.e. Compel us from necessity to Jo that, etc.
 
 86 NERO. [ACT V. 
 
 Teach me the truth of your opinion 
 And make me see that you believe yourselves ? 
 Will you by dying teach me to bear death 
 With courage ? 
 
 ist Rom. No necessity of death 
 
 Hangs o'er our heads, no dangers threaten us, 
 Nor Senate's sharp decree, nor Galba's arms. 
 
 znd Rom. Is this the thanks, then, thou dost pay our 
 
 love ? 
 
 Die basely and as such a life deserved ! 
 Reserve thyself to punishment, and scorn 
 Of Rome and of thy laughing enemies ! 
 
 [Exeunt the two Romans. 
 
 Nero. They hate me 'cause I would but live. What 
 
 was't 
 
 You loved, kind friends, and came to see my death ? 
 Let me endure all torture and reproach 
 That earth or Galba's anger can inflict, 
 .Yet hell and Rhadamant l are more pitiless. 
 
 Re-enter the ist Roman. 
 
 \st Rom. Though not deserved, yet once again I come 
 To warn thee to take pity on thyself. 
 The troops by the Senate sent descend the hill 
 And come. 
 
 Nero. To take me and to whip me unto death ! 
 Oh, whither shall I fly ? 
 
 \st Rom. Thou hast no choice. 
 
 Nero. Oh, whither must I fly ? Hard is his hap 
 Who from death only must by death escape ! 
 Where are they yet ? Oh, may not I a little 
 Bethink myself ? 
 
 \st Rom. They are at hand ; hark, thou may'st hear 
 the noise. 
 
 Nero. O Rome, farewell ! Farewell, you theatres 
 
 1 Rhadamanthus, one of the judges of Hell who obliged the dead 
 to confess their crimes.
 
 SCENE III.] 
 
 NERO. 
 
 87 
 
 Where I so oft with popular applause 
 
 In song and action -Oh, they come, I die. 
 
 \Falls on his sword. 
 
 ist Rom. So base an end all just commiseration 
 Doth take away : yet what we do now spurn, 
 The morning sun saw fearful to the world. 
 
 Enter Friend of GALBA, ANTONIUS and others, with 
 NIMPHIDIUS bound. 
 
 Fr. of Gal. You both shall die together, traitors both ! 
 He to the commonwealth and thou to him, 
 And worse to a good prince. What ! is he dead ? 
 Hath fear encouraged him and made him thus 
 Prevent our punishment ? Then die with him : 
 Fall thy aspiring at thy master's feet. 
 
 [Kills NIMPHIDIUS. 
 
 Ant. Who, though he justly perished, yet by thee 
 Deserved it not ; nor ended there thy treason, 
 But even thought o' th' empire thou conceiv'st. 
 Galba's disgrace is in receiving that 
 Which the son of Nimphidia could hope. 
 
 ist Rom. Thus great bad men above them find a rod : 
 People, depart and say there is a God. {Exeunt.
 
 HENRY PORTER. 
 
 Lent unto the company the 30 of Maye 1598 l to bye ) 
 a boocke 2 called Love prevented the some of fower pondes [ 
 dd. to Tnomas Dowton, Mr. Porter 
 
 Lent unto the company the 18 of Aguste 1598 to bye ) 
 a Booke called Hoote Anger soon cowld of Mr. Porter, I 
 Mr Chenttell and bengemen Johnson in full payment, the f 
 some of J 
 
 Lent unto Thomas Dowton the 22 of Desember 1598 
 to bye a boocke of Harey Porter called the 2 pte of the 
 2 angrey We men of Abengton 
 
 Lent unto Harry Porter at the request of the company 
 in earnest of his booke called ij merey women of abington 
 the some of fortye shellings and for the resayte of that 
 money he gave me his faythfull promise that I should 
 have alle his bookes which he writte ether him selfe or 
 with any other which some was dd. the 28th of febreary 
 
 of 
 
 of 
 
 Lent Harey Porter the 15 of Maye 1599 the some 
 
 iiij 
 
 xl 
 
 Lent unto Harey Cheattell the 4 of March I598[~9] in \ 
 earneste of his boocke which Harey Porter and he is a ( 
 writtinge the some of called the Spencers. ) 
 
 Lent Harey Porter the II of Aprell 1599 the some) 
 of / 
 
 Lent Hary Porter the 1 6 of Aprell 1599 the some) 
 of 
 
 Lent Harey Porter the 5 of Maye 1599 the some) 
 
 S d 
 ii vj 
 
 s d 
 xij 3 
 
 s d 
 ij vj 
 
 s d 
 ii vj 
 
 Be it knowne unto all men that I Henry Porter do owe unto 
 Phillip Henchlowe the some of x s of lawfull money of England 
 which I did borrowe of hym the 26 of Maye a. dom. 1599. 
 
 Henry Porter. 4 
 
 1 An earlier entry concerning Porter and Nash has been proved to be one of 
 the forgeries to which Collier gave currency. 
 
 2 Book in these entries means play. 
 
 3 This entry is struck through, the money having been repaid. 
 
 4 This entry is in Porter's own handwriting.
 
 90 HENRY PORTER. 
 
 HE foregoing extracts, extending over 
 the brief period of a single year- from 
 the Diary of Henslowe, the well-known 
 theatrical manager, contain all the definite 
 information which has reached us con- 
 cerning Henry Porter. They show that 
 he was a dramatist of reputation who 
 wrote at least four plays, besides the 
 one comedy that has come down to us ; that he colla- 
 borated with Ben Jonson and Chettle, perhaps the only 
 playwrights of his time, except Shakespeare, with whom he 
 had much in common ; and that like many other dis- 
 tinguished and even popular dramatists of the day he was 
 frequently in need of money. It has been conjectured, on 
 account of his evident familiarity with Oxford and its neigh- 
 bourhood, if not on account of the special and peculiar 
 melody of his blank verse, that the dramatist was identical 
 with a bachelor of music of the same name mentioned by 
 Wood. One solitary reference by a contemporary, which 
 had escaped all previous seekers, has been found (and kindly 
 communicated to me) by Mr. Bullen in the unique copy of 
 Weever's Epigrams (1599), in the Bodleian Library. Weever 
 writes " Ad Henricum Porter " : 
 
 " Porter, I durst not mell with sacred writ, 
 Nor woe the mistress 'fore I win the maid ; 
 For my young years are tasked ; it's yet unfit, 
 For youth as eld is never half so staid. 
 Thyself which hath the sum of Art and Wit 
 Thus much I know unto me would have said ; 
 Thy silver bell could not so sweetly sing 
 If that too soon thou hadst begun her ring." 
 
 This feeble production proves that, as we should be in- 
 clined to judge from internal evidence, Porter was at the 
 period of his dramatic activity a man of mature age. Hence- 
 forth he is no more seen ; it cannot even be asserted that he 
 lived into the seventeenth century. 
 
 The Two Angry Women of Abinglon was published in 
 1599. At that time the gradual invasion of Italian literature 
 had culminated in the developed English drama as we all
 
 HENRY PORTER. 91 
 
 know it. Marlowe and Greene and Peele, filled with the new 
 wine of Italy, had run their short and brilliant Dyonisiac 
 course and fallen dead by the wayside. But Shakespeare 
 and Chapman and Webster were following more leisurely 
 and soberly in the same path, and in less than ten years 
 English literature had been revolutionised. Even the robust 
 author of Bartholomew Fair, with whom Porter collaborated, 
 and whose massive English temperament must have attracted 
 him, had gulped down prodigiously the Mermaid wine of 
 Italy. In this Italianised England, now producing dramas, 
 often of wonderful power, nearly every day, almost the only 
 dramatist of any eminence, so far as we can tell, who was 
 absolutely unaffected by the rush of the stream that sur- 
 rounded him was Henry Porter. This is the first impression 
 that his play gives, as well as the last that remains, and this 
 is alone enough to interest us and mark the strength of the 
 man's individuality. 
 
 In French literature there are some writers who seem to 
 be peculiarly free from all exotic influence, and who thus 
 embody what is most native and aboriginal in the nation 
 from whose heart they spring ; we say that they reveal the 
 Gallic spirit. In the same way certain writers seem to 
 represent the special unadulterated characteristics of the 
 English people, and embody what, for want of a better 
 word, we may call the Anglo-Saxon spirit. Such are John 
 Heywood in his Interludes, and the author of Gammer 
 Gurtoris Needle. More distinguished but far less exclusive 
 representatives of the hearty and ponderous Anglo-Saxon 
 spirit are Chaucer and Ben Jonson, Landor and Browning. 
 Porter ranks high among the few pure-blooded men of this 
 Anglo-Saxon breed. 
 
 His instrument is a double-bass; his style is grave and 
 broad, finely modulated, indeed, and adroit, ennobling the 
 comic theme with tones of solemnity which would befit classic 
 tragedy, yet springing always from within, not from any 
 artificial and outward impulsion ; just as Jan Steen's broad 
 comedy, by force of its vivacity and truth, sometimes reaches 
 classical grace and simplicity. Porter is certainly a skilful 
 and conscious artist. He uses blank verse and couplets, 
 frequently intermixed and with remarkably harmonious 
 effect, sometimes beginning a speech in blank verse and
 
 92 HENRY PORTER. 
 
 gradually passing over into couplets with no awkward 
 transition. 
 
 " Father, when first I heard ye name a husband, 
 At that same very time my spirits quickened. 
 Despair before had killed them, they were dead : 
 Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 
 I was persuaded I should never marry ; 
 And sitting sewing thus upon the ground, 
 I fell in trance of meditation ; 
 But coming to myself, ' O Lord, said I, 
 Shall it be so ? Must I unmarried die ? ' 
 And being angry, father, farther said 
 ' Now, by Saint Anne, I will not die a maid ! " 
 
 His deep and modulated voice, lifted into no sudden 
 fervours or exaltations, expresses the frank and conscious 
 homeliness, the warm-blooded humanity, the English liearti- 
 ness of the man. His manner is one with his matter. The 
 quarrels of two neighbouring housewives, word combats that 
 are the mere overflow of their own hot blood, the disso- 
 nance resolved at latt in the marriage of their two children 
 that is the whole story of The Two Angry Women of 
 Abington. If the interest never rises it is always sustained ; 
 all the persons are well characterised ; the two neigh- 
 bours, Barnes and Goursey, slow of speech, incapable of 
 anger ; their two sons, Frank and Philip, united by warm- 
 hearted friendship ; the serving-men with their various 
 humours ; the tender and pitiful Lady Smith ; Mall, the 
 wholesome, robust English girl, quick-witted, yet loving 
 and sincere, with a brave openness quite unlike the 
 sophisticated innocence which delighted a later generation 
 in Congreve's Prue. Many golden galleons of our drama lie 
 sunken at the bottom of the sea, few that we would more 
 gladly recover than the stout oak-built ships of Harry Porter. 
 
 H. E.
 
 THE TWO cA^G'KJ 
 OF
 
 HE Pleasant Historic of the two angrie 
 women of Abington was published in 
 1599, " as played by the Right Honour- 
 able the Earl of Nottingham, Lord 
 High Admiral, his servants." Another 
 edition followed in the same year. After 
 this it appears to have been entirely 
 neglected until Lamb pronounced that it was no whit inferior 
 to Shakespeare's early comedies. It was edited by Dyce for 
 the Percy Society, and included in Hazlitt's reprint of 
 Dodsley's Old Plays. In the present edition an attempt has 
 been made for the first time to introduce the customary 
 division* into acts and scenes.
 
 GENTLEMEN, I come to ye like one that lacks and would 
 borrow, but was loth to ask, lest he should be denied : I 
 would ask, but I would ask to obtain ; O, would I knew that 
 manner of asking ! To beg were base ; and to couch low, 
 and to carry an humble show of entreaty, were too dog-like, 
 that fawns on his master to get a bone from his trencher : 
 out, cur ! I cannot abide it ; to put on the shape and habit 
 of this new world's new-found beggars, mis-termed soldiers, 
 as thus : " Sweet gentlemen, let a poor scholar implore and 
 exerate that you would make him rich in the possession of a 
 mite of your favours, to keep him a true man in wit, and to 
 pay for his lodging among the Muses ! so God him help, he 
 is driven to a most low estate ! 'tis not unknown what service 
 of words he hath been at ; he lost his limbs in a late conflict 
 of flout ; a brave repulse and a hot assault it was, he doth 
 protest, as ever he saw, since he knew what the report of a 
 
 volley of jests were; he shall . therefore desire you" A 
 
 plague upon it, each beadle disdained would whip him from 
 your company. Well, gentlemen, I cannot tell how to get 
 your favours better than by desert : then the worse luck, or 
 the worse wit, or somewhat, for I shall not now deserve it 
 Well, then, I commit myself to my fortunes and your con- 
 tents ; contented to die, if your severe judgments shall judge 
 me to be stung to death with the adder's hiss.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Master GOURSEY. 
 
 Master BARNES. 
 
 FRANCIS GOURSEY. 
 
 PHILIP BARNES. 
 
 SIR RALPH SMITH. 
 
 DICK COOMES, ) Servants to Master 
 
 HODGE, ) Goursey. 
 
 NICHOLAS, alias ) Servant to Master 
 
 PROVERBS, \ Barnes. 
 WILL, Servant to Sir Ralph Smith. 
 Boy. 
 Other Servants. 
 
 Mistress GOURSEY. 
 Mistress BARNES. 
 MALL BARNES. 
 Lady SMITH. 
 
 SCENE ABINGTON and the Neighbourhood.
 
 WOMEN 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. Master BARNES'S House. 
 
 Enter Master GOURSEY and his Wife, and Master 
 BARNES and his Wife, with their two Sons, FRANCIS 
 and PHILIP, and their two Servants. 
 
 AST. GOUR. Good Master Barnes, 
 
 this entertain of yours, 
 So full of courtesy and rich delight, 
 Makes me misdoubt my poor ability 
 In quittance of this friendly courtesy. 
 Mast. Bar. O Master Goursey, 
 neighbour-amity 
 
 Is such a jewel of high-reckoned worth, 
 As for the attain of it what would not I 
 Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts ! 
 
 Mast. Gour. Kind sir, near-dwelling amity indeed 
 Offers the heart's inquiry better view 
 Than love that's seated in a farther soil : 
 As prospectives, 1 the nearer that they be, 
 
 1 Prospects, views, scenes in sight; a meaning of the word 
 which is found in much later writers. Dyce. 
 
 Nero. H
 
 98 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT i. 
 
 Yield better judgment to the judging eye ; 
 Things seen far off are lessened in the eye, 
 When their true shape is seen being hard by. 
 
 Mast. Bar. True, sir, 'tis so ; and truly I esteem 
 Mere l amity, familiar neighbourhood, 
 The cousin-german unto wedded love. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Ay, sir, there's surely some alliance 'twixt 
 
 them, 
 
 For they have both the offspring from the heart : 
 Within the heart's-blood-ocean still are found 
 Jewels of amity and gems of love. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Ay, Master Goursey, I have in my time 
 Seen many shipwrecks of true honesty ; 
 But incident such dangers ever are 
 To them that without compass sail so far : 
 Why, what need men to swim, when they may wade ? 
 But leave this talk, enough of this is said : 
 And, Master Goursey, in good faith, sir, welcome ; 
 And, Mistress Goursey, I am much in debt 
 Unto your kindness that would visit me. 
 
 Mis. Gour. O Master Barnes, you put me but in 
 
 mind 
 
 Of that which I should say ; 'tis we that are 
 Indebted to your kindness for this cheer : 
 Which debt that we may repay, I pray let's have 
 Sometimes your company at our homely house. 
 
 Mis. Bar. That, Mistress Goursey, you shall surely 
 
 have; 
 
 He will be a bold guest, I warrant ye, 
 And bolder too with you than I would have him. 
 
 Mis. Gour. How, do you mean he will be bold with 
 me ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. Why, he will trouble you at home, for- 
 sooth, 
 Often call in, and ask ye how ye do ; 
 
 1 Pure.
 
 SCENE i.] OF AB ING TON. 99 
 
 And sit and chat with you all day till night, 
 And all night too, if he might have his will. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Ay, wife., indeed I thank her for her 
 
 kindness ; 
 She hath made me much good cheer passing that way. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Passing well-done of her, she is a kind 
 
 wench. 
 
 I thank ye, Mistress Goursey, for my husband ; 
 And if it hap your husband come our way 
 A-hunting or such ordinary sports, 
 I'll do as much for yours as you for mine. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Pray do, forsooth. God's Lord, what 
 
 means the woman ? 
 
 She speaks it scornfully : faith, I care not ; 
 Things are well-spoken, if they be well-taken. [Aside. 
 What, Mistress Barnes, is it not time to part ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. What's a-clock, sirrah ? 
 
 Nich. 'Tis but new-struck one. 
 
 Mast. Gour. I have some business in the town by three. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Till then let's walk into the orchard, sir. 
 What, can you play at tables ? l 
 
 Mast. Gour. Yes, I can. 
 
 Mast. Bar. What, .shall we have a game ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. And if you please. 
 
 Mast. Bar. I'faith, content ; we'll spend an hour so. 
 Sirrah, fetch the tables. 1 
 
 Nich. I will, sir. \. Exit - 
 
 Phil. Sirrah Frank, whilst they are playing here, 
 We'll to the green to bowls. 
 
 Fran. Philip, content. Coomes, come hither, sirrah : 
 When our fathers part, call us upon the green. 
 Philip, come, a rubber, and so leave. 
 
 Phil. Come on. [Exeunt PHILIP and FRANCIS. 
 
 i Backgammon. The audience were to suppose that the stage 
 now represented an orchard ; for be it remembered **tAewasnO 
 movable painted scenery in the theatres at the time when th 
 
 was produced. Dyce. 
 
 11 2
 
 ioo THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT I. 
 
 Coomes. 'Sblood, I do not like the humour of these 
 springals ; they'll spend all their father's good at gaming. 
 But let them trovvl the bowls upon the green. I'll trowl 
 the bowls in the buttery by the leave of God and Master 
 Barnes : an his men be good fellows, so it is ; if they be 
 not, let them go snick up. 1 [Exit. 
 
 Enter NICHOLAS with the tables. 
 
 Mast. Bar. So, set them down. 
 .Mistress Goursey, how do you like this game? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Well, sir. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Can ye play at it ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. A little, sir. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Faith, so can my wife. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, then, Master Barnes, and if you 
 
 please, 
 
 Our wives shall try the quarrel 'twixt us two, 
 And we'll look on. 
 
 Mast. Bar. I am content. What, woman, will you 
 play ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. I care not greatly. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Nor I, but that I think she'll play me false. 
 
 Mast. Gour. I'll see she shall not, 
 
 Mis. Bar. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see ; 
 You, of all men, shall not mark her hand ; 
 She hath such close conveyance in her play. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Is she so cunning grown ? Come, come, 
 let's see. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Yea, Mistress Barnes, will ye not house 
 
 your jests, 
 
 But let them roam abroad so carelessly ? 
 Faith, if your jealous tongue utter another, 
 I'll cross ye with a jest, an ye were my mother. 
 Come, shall we play ? [Aside. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, what shall we play a game ? 
 
 1 i.e. Let them go and be hanged. The expression "snick up" 
 still survives, with reference to a noose, in nautical language.
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 101 
 
 Mis. Gour. A pound a game. 
 Mast. Gour. How, wife? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Faith, husband, not a farthing less. 
 
 J/tfj/. Gour. It is too much ; a shilling were good game. 
 
 Mis. Gour. No, we'll be ill-huswives once ; 
 You have been oft ill husbands : let's alone. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Wife, will you play so much ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. I would be loth to be so frank a gamester 
 As Mistress Goursey is ; and yet for once 
 I'll play a pound a game as well as she. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Go to, you'll have your will. 
 
 {Offers to go from them. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Come, there's my stake. 
 
 Mis. Gour. And there's mine. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Throw for the dice. Ill luck ! then they 
 are yours. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Master Goursey, who says that gaming's 
 
 bad, 
 When such good angels 1 walk 'twixt every cast? 
 
 Mast. Gour. This is not noble sport, but royal play. 
 
 Mast. Bar. It must be so, where royals l walk so fast. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Play right, I pray. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, so I do. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Where stands your man ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. In his right place. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Good faith, I think ye play me foul an ace. 
 
 Mast. Bar. No, wife, she plays ye true. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Peace, husband, peace ; I'll not be judged 
 by you. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Husband, Master Barnes, pray, both go 
 
 walk ! 
 We cannot play if standers-by do talk. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Well, to your game ; we will not trouble 
 ve [Goes from them. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Where stands your man now ? 
 
 1 Gold coins. They give occasion to innumerable puns in our 
 early dramas.
 
 102 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT i. 
 
 - Mis. Bar. Doth he not stand right ? 
 
 Mis. Gaur. It stands between the points. 
 
 Mis. Bar. And that's my spite. 
 But yet methinks the dice runs much uneven, 
 That I throw but deuce-ace and you eleven. 
 
 Mis. Gour. And yet you see that I cast down the hill. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, I beshrew ye, 'tis not with my will. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Do ye beshrew me ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. No, I beshrew the dice, 
 That turn you up more at once than me at twice. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Well, you shall see them turn for you anon. 
 
 Mis. Bar. But I care not for them, when your game 
 is done. 
 
 Mis. Gour. My game ! what game ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. Your game, your game at tables. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Welt, mistress, well ; I have read ^Esop's 
 
 fables, 
 And know your moral meaning well enough. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Lo, you'll be angry now ! here's good stuff. 
 
 Mast. Gour. How now, woman? who hath won the 
 game? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Nobody yet. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Your wife's the fairest for't. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, in your eye. 
 
 Mis. Gour. How do you mean ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. He holds you fairer for't than I. 
 
 Mis. Gour. For what, forsooth ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. Good gamester, for your game. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Well, try it out ; 'tis all but in the bearing. 1 
 
 Mis. Bar. Nay, if it come to bearing, she'll be best. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, you're as good a bearer as the rest. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Nay, that's not so ; you bear one man too 
 many. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Better do so than bear not any. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Beshrew me, but my wife's jests grow too 
 bitter ; 
 
 1 A term of the game.
 
 SCENE r.] OF ABINGTON ,03 
 
 Plainer speeches for her were more fitter : 
 
 Malice lies embowelled in her tongue, 
 
 And new hatched hate makes every jest a wrong. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Look ye, mistress, now I hit ye. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Why, ay, you never use to miss a blot, 1 
 Especially when it stands so fair to hit. 
 
 Mis. Gour. How mean ye, Mistress Barnes ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. That Mistress Goursey's in the hitting vein. 
 
 Mis. Gour. I hit your man. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, ay, my man, my man ; but, had I 
 
 known, 
 I would have had my man stood nearer home. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, had ye kept your man in his right 
 
 place, 
 I should not then have hit him with an ace. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Right, by the Lord ! a plague upon the 
 bones ! 
 
 Mis. Gour. And a hot mischief on the curser too ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. How now, wife ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. Why, what's the matter, woman ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. It is no matter ; I am 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, you are 
 
 Mis. Gour. What am I ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. Why, that's as you will be ever. 
 
 Mis. Gour. That's every day as good as Barnes's wife. 
 
 Mis. Bar. And better too : then, what needs all this 
 
 trouble ? 
 A single horse is worse than that bears double. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Wife, go to, have regard to what you say ; 
 Let not your words pass forth the verge of reason, 
 But keep within the bounds of modesty ; 
 For ill-report doth like a bailiff stand, 
 To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue, 
 And makes it forfeit into folly's hands. 
 Well, wife, you know it is no honest part 
 
 1 Another term of the game.
 
 104 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT I. 
 
 To entertain such guests with jests and wrongs : 
 What will the neighbouring country vulgar say, 
 When as they hear that you fell out at dinner ? 
 Forsooth, they'll call it a pot-quarrel straight; 
 The best they'll name it is a woman's jangling. 
 Go to, be ruled, be ruled. 
 
 Mis. Bar. God's Lord, be ruled, be ruled ! 
 What, think ye I have such a baby's wit, 
 To have a rod's correction for my tongue ? 
 School infancy ! I am of age to speak, 
 And I know when to speak : shall I be chid 
 For such a 
 
 Mis. Gour. What-a ? nay, mistress, speak it out ; 
 I scorn your stopped compares : compare not me 
 To any but your equals, Mistress Barnes. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Peace, wife, be quiet. 
 
 Mast. Bar. O, persuade, persuade ! 
 Wife, Mistress Goursey, shall I win your thoughts 
 To composition of some kind effects ? 
 Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife, 
 And come shake hands with Mistress Goursey here. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Shall I shake hands ? let her go shake her 
 
 heels ; 
 
 She gets nor hands nor friendship at my hands : 
 And so, sir, while I live, I will take heed 
 What guests I bid again unto my house. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Impatient woman, will you be so stiff 
 In this absurdness ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. I am impatient now I speak ; 
 But, sir, I'll tell you more another time : 
 Go to, I will not take it as I have done. [Exit. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Nay, she might stay ; I will not long be 
 
 here 
 
 To trouble her. Well, Master Barnes, 
 I am sorry that it was our haps to-day 
 To have our pleasures parted with this fray : 
 I am sorry too for all that is amiss,
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 105 
 
 Especially that you are moved in this ; 
 
 But be not so, 'tis but a woman's jar : 
 
 Their tongues are weapons, words their blows of war j 
 
 'Twas but a while we buffeted, you saw, 
 
 And each of us was willing to withdraw ; 
 
 There was no harm nor bloodshed, you did see : 
 
 Tush, fear us not, for we shall well agree. 
 
 I take my leave, sir. Come, kind-hearted man, 
 
 That speaks his wife so fair ay, now and then ; 
 
 I know you would not for an hundred pound 
 
 That I should hear your voice's churlish sound ; 
 
 I know you have a far more milder tune 
 
 Than " Peace, be quiet, wife ; " but I have done. 
 
 Will ye go home ? the door directs the way ; 
 
 But, if you will not, my duty is to stay. \_Exit. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Ha, ha ! why, here's a right woman, is 
 
 there not ? 
 They both have dined, yet see what stomachs they have ! 
 
 Mast. Gour. Well, Master Barnes, we cannot do withal : l 
 Let us be friends still 
 
 Mast. Bar. O Master Goursey, the mettle of our 
 
 minds, 
 
 Having the temper of true reason in them, 
 Affords a better edge of argument 
 For the maintain of our familiar loves 
 Than the soft leaden wit of women can ; 
 Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour-love 
 I do impart myself to Master Goursey. 
 
 Mast. Gour. And with exchange of love I do receive it : 
 Then here we'll part, partners of two cursed wives. 
 
 Mast. Bar. O, where shall we find a man so blessed 
 
 that is not ? 
 
 But come ; your business and my home-affairs 
 Makes me deliver that unfriendly word 
 'Mohgst friends farewell. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Twenty farewells, sir. 
 
 1 i.e. We cannot help it.
 
 io6 THE TWO' ANGRY WOMEN. [ACT I. 
 
 Mast. Bar. But hark ye, Master Goursey ; 
 Look ye persuade at home, as I will do : 
 What, man ! we must not always have them foes. 
 
 Mast. Gour. If I can help it. 
 
 Mast. Bar. God help, God help ! 
 Women are even untoward creatures still. \_Exetint. 
 
 SCENE II. Outside Master BARNES'S House. 
 
 Enter PHILIP, FRANCIS, and Boy,/?w// bowling. 
 
 Phil. Come on, Frank Goursey : you have had good 
 
 luck 
 To win the game. 
 
 Fran. Why, tell me, is't not good, 
 That never played before upon your green ? 
 
 Phil. 'Tis good, but th'at it cost me ten good crowns ; 
 That makes it worse. 
 
 Fran. Let it not grieve thee, man ; come o'er to us ; 
 We will devise some game to make you win 
 Your money back again, sweet Philip. 
 
 Phil. And that shall be ere long, and if I live : 
 But tell me, Francis, what good horses have ye, 
 To hunt this summer ? 
 
 Fran. Two or three jades, or so. 
 
 Phil Be they but jades ? 
 
 Fran. No, faith ; my wag-string here 
 Did founder one the last time that he rid 
 The best grey nag that ever I laid my leg over, 
 
 Boy. You mean the flea-bitten. 
 
 Fran. Good sir, the same. 
 
 Boy. And was the same the best that e'er you rid on ? 
 
 Fran. Ay, was it, sir. 
 
 Boy. 1' faith, it was not, sir. 
 
 Fran. No ! where had I one so good ? 
 
 Boy. One of my colour, and a better too.
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 107 
 
 Fran. One of your colour ? I ne'er remember him ; 
 One of that colour ! 
 
 Boy. Or of that complexion. 
 
 Fran. What's that ye call complexion in a horse ? 
 
 Boy. The colour, sir. 
 
 Fran. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will 
 
 Boy. Nay, good sir, hold your hands ! 
 
 Fran. What, shall we have it ? 
 
 Boy. Why, sir, I cannot paint. 
 
 Fran. Well, then, I can ; 
 And I shall find a pencil for ye, sir. 
 
 Boy. Then I must find the table, 1 if you do. 
 
 Fran. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchin ! 
 
 Boy. Look how you chafe ! you would be angry more, 
 If I should tell it you. 
 
 Fran. Go to, I'll anger ye, and if you do not. 
 
 Boy. Why, sir, the horse that I do mean 
 Hath a leg both straight and clean, 
 That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flaw, 
 But is the best that ever ye saw ; 
 A pretty rising knee O knee ! 
 It is as round as round may be ; 
 The full flank makes the buttock round : 
 This palfrey standeth on no ground, 
 When as my master's on her back, 
 If that he once do say but, tack : 
 And if he prick her, you shall see 
 Her gallop amain, she is so free ; 
 And if he give her but a nod, 
 She thinks it is a riding-rod ; 
 And if he'll have her softly go, 
 Then she trips it like a doe ; 
 She comes so easy with the rein, 
 A twine-thread turns her back again ; 
 And truly I did ne'er see yet 
 A horse play proudlier on the bit : 
 
 1 Writing tablet.
 
 io8 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT i. 
 
 My master with good managing 
 
 Brought her first unto the ring ; i 
 
 He likewise taught her to corvet, 
 
 To run, and suddenly to set ; 
 
 She's cunning in the wild-goose race, 
 
 Nay, she's apt to every pace ; 
 
 And to prove her colour good, 
 
 A flea, enamoured of her blood, 
 
 Digged for channels in her neck, 
 
 And there made many a crimson speck : 
 
 I think there's none that use to ride 
 
 But can her pleasant trot abide ; 
 
 She goes so even upon the way, 
 
 She will not stumble in a day ; 
 
 And when my master 
 
 Fran. What do I ? 
 
 Boy. Nay, nothing, sir. 
 
 Phil. O, fie, Frank, fie ! 
 Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, 
 I must needs say ; persuade him first to speak, 
 Then chide him for it ! Tell me, pretty wag, 
 Where stands this prancer, in what inn or stable ? 
 Or hath thy master put her out to run, 
 Then in. what field, what champion," feeds this courser, 
 This well-paced, bonny steed that thou so praisest? 
 
 Boy. Faith, sir, I think 
 
 Fran. Villain, what do ye think ? 
 
 Boy. I think that you, sir, have been asked by many, 
 But yet I never heard that ye told any. 
 
 Phil. Well, boy, then I will add one more to many, 
 And ask thy master where this jennet feeds. 
 Come, Frank, tell me nay, prythee, tell me, Frank, 
 My good horse-master, tell me by this light, 
 
 1 i.e. Taught her to tread the ring, to perform various move- 
 ments in different directions within a ring marked out on a piece 
 of ground. Dyce. 
 
 2 A form of " campaign."
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 109 
 
 I will not steal her from thee ; if I do, 
 Let me be held a felon to thy love. 
 
 Fran. No, Philip, no. 
 
 Phil. What, wilt thou wear a point ' but with one tag ? 
 Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag. 
 
 Enter COOMES. 
 
 Coomes. 'Swounds, where be these timber-turners, these 
 trowl-the-bowls, these green-men, these 
 
 Fran. What, what, sir? 
 
 Coomes. These bowlers, sir. 
 
 Fran. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers ? 
 
 Coomes. Why, I say they cannot be saved. 
 
 Fran. Your reason, sir ? 
 
 Coomes. Because they throw away their souls at every 
 mark. 
 
 Fran. Their souls ! how mean ye ? 
 
 Phil. Sirrah, he means the soul of the bowl. 
 
 Fran. Lord, how his wit holds bias like a bowl ! 
 
 Coomes. Well, which is the bias ? 
 
 Fran. This next to you. 
 
 Coomes. Nay, turn it this way, then the bowl goes true. 
 
 Boy. Rub, rub ! 
 
 Coomes. Why rub ? 
 
 Boy. Why, you overcast the mark, and miss the way. 
 
 Coomes. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play. 
 
 Phil. Dick Coomes, methinks thou art very pleasant : 
 Where got'st thou this merry humour? 
 
 Coomes. In your father's cellar, the merriest place in 
 th' house. 
 
 Phil. Then you have been carousing hard ? 
 
 Coomes. Yes, faith, 'tis our custom, when your father's 
 men and we meet. 
 
 Phil. Thou art very welcome thither, Dick. 
 
 Coomes. By God, I thank ye, sir, I thank ye, sir: by 
 
 1 Points were the tagged laces used to attach the hose or breeches 
 to the doublet.
 
 no THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT I. 
 
 God, I have a quart of wine for ye. sir, in any place of 
 the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkshire 
 fight better for ye than I will do, if you have any quarrel 
 on hand : you shall have the maidenhead of my new 
 sword ; I paid a quarter's wages for't, by Jesus. 
 
 Phil. O, this meat-failer Dick ! 
 How well't has made the apparel of his wit, 
 And brought it into fashion of an honour ! 
 Prythee, Dick Coomes, but tell me how thou dost ? 
 
 Coomes. Faith, sir, like a poor man of service. 
 
 Phil. Or servingman. 
 
 Coomes. Indeed, so called by the vulgar. 
 
 Phil. Why, where the devil hadst thou that word ? 
 
 Coomes. O, sir, you have the most eloquent ale in all 
 the world ; our blunt soil affords none such. 
 
 Fran. Philip, leave talking with this drunken fool. 
 Say, sirrah, where's my father 1 
 
 Coomes. " Marry, I thank ye for my very good cheer, 
 O Lord, it is not so much worth. You see I am bold 
 with ye. Indeed, you are not so bold as welcome ; I 
 pray ye, come oft'ner. Truly, I shall trouble ye." All 
 these ceremonies are despatched between them, and they 
 are gone. 
 
 Fran. Are they so ? 
 
 Coomes. Ay, before God, are they. 
 
 Fran. And wherefore came not you to call me then ? 
 
 Coomes. Because I was loth to change my game. 
 
 Ft an. What game ? 
 
 Coomes. You were at one sort of bowls as I was at 
 another. 
 
 Phil. Sirrah, he means the butt'ry bowls of beer. 
 
 Coomes. By God, sir, we tickled it. 
 
 Fran. Why, what a swearing keeps this drunken ass ? 
 Canst thou not say but swear at every word ? 
 
 Phil. Peace, do not mar his humour, prythee, Frank. 
 
 Coomes. Let him alone ; he's a springal ; ' he knows 
 not what belongs to an oath. 
 
 1 Lively fellow.
 
 SCENE II.] OF ABINGTON. in 
 
 Fran. Sirrah, be quiet, or I do protest 
 
 Coomes. Come, come, what do you protest ? 
 Fran. By heaven, to crack your crown. 
 Coomes. To crack my crown ! I lay ye a crown of that, 
 lay it down, an ye dare ; nay, 'sblood, I'll venture a 
 quarter's wages of that. Crack my crown, quotha ! 
 Fran. Will ye not yet be quiet ? will ye urge me ? 
 Coomes. Urge ye, with a pox ! who urges ye ? You 
 might have said so much to a clown, or one that had 
 not been o'er the sea to see fashions : I have, I tell ye 
 true ; and I know what belongs to a man. Crack my 
 crown, an ye can. 
 
 Fran. An I can, ye rascal ! 
 
 Phil. Hold, hair-brain, hold ! dost thou not see he's 
 
 drunk? 
 
 Coomes. Nay, let him come : though he be my master's 
 son, I am my master's man, and a man is a man in 
 any ground of England. 
 Come an he dares, a comes upon his death : 
 I will not budge an inch, no, 'sblood, will I not. 
 Fran. Will ye not ? 
 
 Phil. Stay, prythee, Frank. Coomes, dost thou hear ? 
 Coomes. Hear me no hears : stand away, I'll trust 
 none of you all. If I have my back against a cartwheel, 
 I would not care if the devil came. 
 Phil. Why, ye fool. I am your friend. 
 Coomes. Fool on your face ! I have a wife. 
 Fran. She's a whore, then. 
 Coomes. She's as honest as Nan Lawson. 
 Phil. What's she? 
 Coomes. One of his whores. 
 Phil. Why, hath he so many ? 
 
 Coomes. Ay, as many as there be churches in London. 
 Phil. Why, that's a hundred and nine. 
 Boy. Faith, he lies a hundred. 
 Phil. Then thou art a witness to nine. 
 Boy. No, by God, I'll be witness to none.
 
 H2 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT I. 
 
 Coomes. Now do I stand like the George at Colebrook. 
 
 Boy, No, thou stand'st like the Bull at St. Alban's. 
 
 Coomes. Boy, ye lie the Horns. 1 
 
 Boy. The bull's bitten ; see, how he butts ! 
 
 Phil. Coomes, Coomes, put up ; my friend and thou 
 art friends. 
 
 Coomes. I'll hear him say so first. 
 
 Phil. Frank, prythee, do ; be friends, and tell him so. 
 
 Fran. Go to, I am. 
 
 Boy. Put up, sir \ an ye be a man, put up. 
 
 Coomes. I am easily persuaded, boy. 
 
 Phil. Ah, ye mad slave ! 
 
 Coomes. Come, come, a couple of whoremasters I 
 found ye, and so I leave ye. [Exit. 
 
 Phil. Lo, Frank, dost thou not see he's drunk, 
 That twits thee with thy disposition ? 
 
 Fran. What disposition ? 
 
 Phil. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson. 
 
 Fran. Nay, then 
 
 Phil. Go to, ye wag, 'tis well : 
 If ever ye get a wife, i' faith I'll tell. 
 Sirrah, at home we have a servingman ; 
 He is not humoured bluntly as Coomes is, 
 Yet his condition 3 makes me often merry : 
 I'll tell thee, sirrah, he's a fine neat fellow, 
 A spruce slave ; I warrant ye, he will have 
 His crewel garters cross about the knee, 
 His woollen hose as white as th' driven snow, 
 His shoes dry-leather neat, and tied with reel ribbons, 
 A nosegay bound with laces in his hat 
 Bridelaces, 4 sir and his hat all green, 
 Green coverlet for such a grass-green wit. 
 
 1 These are the names of taverns. Sheathe your sword. 
 
 3 i.e. Quality, disposition. 
 
 4 Fringed strings of silk or worsted, given to the friends who 
 attended the bridal party to bind up the rosemary sprigs they 
 carried, and after the ceremony worn as ornaments on the hat, or 
 twisted in the hair.
 
 SCENE II.] 
 
 OF ABINGTON. 
 
 '13 
 
 " The goose that grazeth on the green," quoth he, 
 " May I eat on, when you shall buried be ! " 
 All proverbs in his speech, he's proverbs all. 
 
 Fran. Why speaks he proverbs ? 
 
 Phil. Because he would speak truth, 
 And proverbs, you'll confess, are old-said sooth. 
 
 Fran. I like this well, and one day I will see him : 
 But shall we part ? 
 
 Phil. Not yet, I'll bring ye somewhat on your way, 
 And as we go, between your boy and you 
 I'll know where that brave prancer stands at livery. 
 
 Fran. Come, come, you shall not. 
 
 Phil. I' faith, I will. {Exeunt. 
 
 Nero.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. Master BARNES'S Garden. 
 
 Enter Master BARNES and his Wife. 
 
 AST. BAR. Wife, in my mind to-day 
 
 you were to blame, 
 Although my patience did not blame ye 
 
 for it : 
 
 Methought the rules of love and neigh- 
 bourhood 
 
 Did not direct your thoughts ; all indiscreet 
 
 Were your proceedings in the entertain 
 
 Of them that I invited to my house. 
 
 Nay, stay, I do not chide, but counsel, wife, 
 
 And in the mildest manner that I may : 
 
 You need not view me with a servant's eye, 
 
 Whose vassal senses tremble at the look 
 
 Of his displeased master. O my wife, 
 
 You are myself! when self sees fault in self, 
 
 Self is sin-obstinate, if self amend not : 
 
 Indeed, I saw a fault in thee myself, 
 
 And it hath set a foil upon thy fame, 
 
 Not as the foil doth, grace the diamond. 
 
 Mis. Bar. What fault, sir, did you see in me to-day ? 
 Mast. Bar. O, do not set the organ of thy voice 
 
 On such a grunting key of discontent ! 
 
 Do not deform the beauty of thy tongue 
 
 With such misshapen answers. Rough wrathful words 
 
 Are bastards got by rashness in the thoughts :
 
 SC. I.] TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON. 1,5 
 
 Fair demeanours are virtue's nuptial babes, 
 The offspring of the well-instructed soul ; 
 O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife ! 
 So seem not barren of good courtesy. 
 
 Mis. Bar. So have ye done ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Ay, and I had done well, 
 If you would do what I advise for well. 
 
 Mis. Bar. What's that ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Which is, that you would be good friends 
 With Mistress Goursey. 
 
 Mis. Bar. With Mistress Goursey ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. Ay, sweet wife. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Not so, sweet husband. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Could you but show me any grounded 
 cause. 
 
 Mis. Bar. The grounded cause I ground, because I 
 will not. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Your will hath little reason, then, I think. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Yes, sir, my reason equalleth my will. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Let's hear your reason, for your will is great. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Why, for I will not. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Is all your reason " for I will not," wife ? 
 Now, by my soul, I held ye for more wise, 
 Discreet, and of more temp'rature in sense, 
 Than in a sullen humour to affect 
 That woman's will-born, common scholar phrase : 
 Oft have I heard a timely-married girl, 
 That newly left to call her mother mam, 
 Her father dad : but yesterday come from 
 " That's my good girl, God send thee a good husband ! " 
 And now being taught to speak the name of husband, 
 Will, when she would be wanton in her will, 
 If her husband asked her why, say " for I will." 
 Have I chid men for an unmanly choice, 
 That would not fit their years ? have I seen thee 
 Pupil such green young things, and with thy counsel 
 Tutor their wits ? and art thou now infected
 
 n6 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT u. 
 
 With this disease of imperfection ? 
 
 I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame. 
 
 Mis. Bar. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. O black-mouthed rage, thy breath is 
 
 boisterous, 
 
 And thou mak'st virtue shake at this high storm ! 
 She is of good report ; I know thou know'st it. 
 
 Mis. Bar. She is not, nor I know not, but I know 
 That thou dost love her, therefore think'st her so ; 
 Thou bear'st with her because she bears with thee. 
 Thou may'st be ashamed to stand in her defence : 
 She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man 
 To stand in her defence against thy wife.- 
 If I catch her in my walk, now, by Cock's * bones, 
 I'll scratch out both her eyes. 
 
 Mast. Bar. O God ! 
 
 Mis. Bar. Nay, never say " O God " for the matter : 
 Thou art the cause ; thou bad'st her to my house, 
 Only to blear the eyes of Goursey, did'st not ? 
 But I will send him word, I warrant thee, 
 And ere I sleep too, trust upon it, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Methinks this is a mighty fault in her ; 
 I could be angry with her : O, if I be so, 
 I shall but put a link unto a torch, 
 And so give greater light to see her fault. 
 I'll rather smother it in melancholy : 
 Nay, wisdom bids me shun that passion ; 
 Then I will study for a remedy. 
 I have a daughter, now, Heaven invocate 
 She be not of like spirit as her mother ! 
 If so, she'll be a plagae unto her husband, 
 If that he be not patient and discreet, 
 For that I hold the ease of all such trouble. 
 Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, 
 For I would see how she would demean herself 
 In that estate ; it may be, ill enough, 
 
 1 A corruption of "God's."
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 117 
 
 And, so God shall help me, well-remembered now ! 
 
 Frank Goursey is his father's son and heir : 
 
 A youth that in my heart I have good hope on ; 
 
 My senses say a match, my soul applauds 
 
 The motion : O, but his lands are great, 
 
 He will look high ; why, I will strain myself 
 
 To make her dowry equal with his land. 
 
 Good faith, an 'twere a match, 'twould be a means 
 
 To make their mothers friends. I'll call my daughter, 
 
 To see how she's disposed to marriage. 
 
 Mall, where are ye ? 
 
 Enter MALL. 
 
 Mall. Father, here I am. 
 Mast. Bar. Where is your mother ? 
 Mall. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she 
 Went walking both together to the garden. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Dost thou hear me, girl ? I must dispute 
 
 with thee. 
 
 Mall. Father, the question then must not be hard, 
 For I am very weak in argument. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Well, this it is ; I say 'tis good to marry. 
 
 Mall. And this say I, 'tis not good to marry. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Were it not good, then all men would not 
 
 marry ; 
 But now they do. 
 
 Mall. Marry, not all ; but it is good to marry. 
 Mast. Bar. It is both good and bad ; how can this be ? 
 Mall. Why, it is good to them that marry well ; 
 To them that marry ill, no greater hell. 
 
 Mast. Bar. If thou might marry well, wouldst thou 
 
 agree ? 
 
 Mall. I cannot tell ; Heaven must appoint for me. 
 Mast. Bar. Wench, I am studying for thy good 
 
 indeed. 
 
 Mall. My hopes and duty wish your thoughts good 
 speed.
 
 ii8 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Mast. Bar. But tell me, wench, hast thou a mind to 
 marry ? 
 
 Mall. This question is too hard for bashfulness ; 
 And, father, now ye pose my modesty. 
 I am a maid, and when ye ask me thus, 
 I, like a maid, must blush, look pale and wan, 
 And then look red again ; for we change colour, 
 As our thoughts change. With true-faced passion 
 Of modest maidenhead I could adorn me, 
 And to your question make a sober courtsey, 
 And with close-clipped civility be silent ; 
 Or else say " No, forsooth," or " Ay, forsooth." 
 If I said, " No, forsooth," I lied forsooth : 
 To lie upon myself were deadly sin, 
 Therefore I will speak truth and shame the devil. 
 Father, when first I heard ye name a husband, 
 At that same very time my spirits quickened. 
 Despair before had killed them, they were dead : 
 Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 
 I was persuaded I should never marry ; 
 And sitting sewing thus upon the ground, 
 I fell in trance of meditation ; 
 But coming to myself, " O Lord," said J, 
 " Shall it be so ? must 1 unmarried die ? " 
 And, being angry, father, farther said 
 " Now, by Saint Anne, I will not die a maid ! " 
 Good faith, before I came to this ripe growth, 
 I did accuse the labouring time of sloth ; 
 Methought the year did run but slow about, 
 For I thought each year ten I was without. 
 Being fourteen and toward the tother year, 
 Good Lord, thought I, fifteen will ne'er be here ! 
 For I have heard my mother say that then 
 Pretty maids were fit for handsome men : 
 Fifteen past, sixteen, and seventeen too, 
 What, thought I, will not this husband do ? 
 Will no man marry me ? have men forsworn
 
 SCENE i.J OF ABINGTON. 119 
 
 Such beauty and such youth ? shall youth be worn 
 As rich men's gowns, more with age than use ? 
 Why, then I let restrained fancy loose, 
 And bad it gaze for pleasure ; then love swore me 
 To do whate'er my mother did before me ; 
 Yet, in good faith, I have been very loth, 
 But now it lies in you to save my oath : 
 If I shall have a husband, get him quickly, 
 For maids that wear cork shoes may step awry. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Believe me, wench, I do not reprehend 
 
 thee, 
 
 But for this pleasant answer do commend thee. 
 I must confess, love doth thee mighty wrong, 
 But I will see thee have thy right ere long ; 
 I know a young man, whom I hold most fit 
 To have thee both for living and for wit : 
 I will go write about it presently. 
 
 Mall. Good father, do. [Exit BARNES. 
 
 O God, methinks I should 
 
 Wife it as fine as any woman could ! 
 
 I could carry a port to be obeyed, 
 
 Carry a mastering eye upon my maid, 
 
 With " Minion, do your business, or I'll make ye," 
 
 And to all house-authority betake me. 
 
 O God ! would I were married ! By my troth, 
 
 But if I be not, I swear I'll keep my oath. 
 
 Enter Mistress BARNES. 
 Mis. Bar. How now, minion, where have you been 
 
 gadding ? 
 
 Mall. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him. 
 Mis. Bar. Your father ! and what said he to ye, I 
 
 pray? 
 
 Mall. Nothing, forsooth. 
 Mis. Bar. Nothing ! that cannot be ; something he 
 
 said. 
 Mall. "Ay, something that as good as nothing was.
 
 120 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Mis. Bar, Come, let me hear that something-nothing, 
 
 then. 
 
 Mall. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother. 
 Mis. Bar. A husband ! that was something ; but what 
 
 husband ? 
 Mall. Nay, faith, I know not, mother : would I 
 
 did! 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, " would ye did ! " i' faith, are ye so 
 
 hasty ? 
 
 Mail. Hasty, mother ! why, how old am I ? 
 Mis. Bar. Too young to marry. 
 
 Mall. Nay, by the mass, ye lie. 
 
 Mother, how old were you when you did marry ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. How old soe'er I was, yet you shall 
 
 tarry. 
 
 Mall. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, hark ! 
 The priest forgets that e'er he was a clerk : 
 When you were at my years, I'll hold my life, 
 Your mind was to change maidenhead for wife. 
 Pardon me, mother, I am of your mind, 
 And, by my troth, I take it but by kind. 1 
 
 Mis. Bar. Do ye hear, daughter ? you shall stay my 
 
 leisure. 
 Mall. Do you hear, mother? would you stay from 
 
 pleasure, 
 
 When ye have mind to it ? Go to, there's no wrong 
 Like this, to let maids lie alone so long : 
 Lying alone they muse but in their beds, 
 How they might lose their long-kept maidenheads. 
 This is the cause there is so many scapes, 
 For women that are wise will not lead apes 
 In hell 2 : I tell ye, mother, I say true ; 
 Therefore come husband : maidenhead adieu ! [Exit. 
 
 1 i.e. Nature. 
 
 2 " For 'tis an old proverb, and you know it well, 
 
 That women dying maids, lead apes in hell." 
 
 The London Prodigal, 1. ii. 27-8.
 
 SCENE I.] OF ABINGTON. 121 
 
 Mis, Bar. Well, lusty guts, I mean to make ye stay, 
 And set some rubs in your mind's smoothest way. 
 
 Enter PHILIP. 
 
 Phil. Mother 
 
 Mis, Bar, How now, sirrah ; where have you been 
 walking ? 
 
 Phil. Over the meads, half-way to Milton, mother, 
 To bear my friend, Frank Goursey, company. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Where's your blue coat, 1 your sword and 
 
 buckler, sir? 
 
 Get you such- like habit for a serving-man, 
 If you will wait upon the brat of Goursey. 
 
 Phil. Mother, that you are moved, this makes me 
 
 wonder ; 
 
 When I departed, I did leave ye friends : 
 What undigested jar hath since betided ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. Such as almost doth choke thy mother, boy, 
 And stifles her with the conceit of it ; 
 I am abused, my son, by Goursey's wife. 
 
 Phil. By Mistress Goursey. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Mistress Flirt yea, foul strumpet, 
 Light-a-love, short-heels ! Mistress Goursey 
 Call her again, and thou wert better no. 
 
 Phil. O my dear mother, have some patience ! 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, sir, have patience, and see your father 
 To rifle up the treasure of my love, 
 And play the spendthrift upon such an harlot ! 
 This same will make me have patience, will it not? 
 
 Phil. This same is women's most impatience : 
 Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say, 
 That you have found my father temperate, 
 And ever free from such affections. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, till my too much love did glut his 
 
 thoughts, 
 And make him seek for change. 
 
 1 The common dress of serving-men.
 
 122 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Phil. O, change your mind ! 
 My father bears more cordial love to you. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Goursey's 
 
 wife, 
 Not me. 
 
 Phil. Now I swear, mother, you are much to blame ; 
 I durst be sworn he loves you as his soul. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Wilt thou be pampered by affection ? 
 Will nature teach thee such vile perjury ? 
 Wilt thou be sworn, ay, forsworn, careless boy ? 
 And if thou swear't, I say he loves me not. 
 
 Phil. Mother, he loves ye but too well, I swear, 
 Unless ye knew much better how to use him. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Doth he so, sir ? thou unnatural boy ! 
 " Too well," sayest thou ? that word shall cost thee 
 
 somewhat : 
 
 O monstrous ! have I brought thee up to this ? 
 " Too well ! " O unkind, wicked, and degenerate, 
 Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother ? 
 Well, God will plague thee for't, I warrant thee: 
 Out on thee, villain ! fie upon thee, wretch ! 
 Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say ! 
 
 Phil. This air is pleasant, and doth please me well, 
 And here I will stay. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Wilt thou, stubborn villain ? 
 
 Re-enter Master BARNES. 
 
 Mast. Bar. How now, what's the matter ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. Thou sett'st thy son to scoff and mock at 
 
 me : 
 
 Is't not sufficient I am wronged of thee, 
 But he must be an agent to abuse me ? 
 Must I be subject to my cradle too ? 
 O God, O God, amend it ! [Exit. 
 
 Mast. -Bar. Why, how now, Philip? is this true, my 
 son ? 
 
 Phil. Dear father, she is much impatient :
 
 SCENE I.] OF AB1NGTON. I2 3 
 
 Ne'er let that hand assist me in my need, 
 
 If I more said than that she thought amiss 
 
 To think that you were so licentious given ; 
 
 And thus much more, when she inferred it more, 
 
 I swore an oath you loved her but too well : 
 
 In that as guilty I do hold myself. 
 
 Now that I come to more considerate trial, 
 
 I know my fault : I should have borne with her : 
 
 Blame me for rashness, then, not for want of duty. 
 
 Mast. Bar. I do absolve thee ; and come hither, 
 
 Philip : 
 
 I have writ a letter unto Master Goursey, 
 And I will tell thee the contents thereof; 
 But tell me first, think'st thou Frank Goursey loves thee ? 
 
 Phil. If that a man devoted to a man, 
 Loyal, religious in love's hallowed vows 
 If that a man that is sole laboursome 
 To work his own thoughts to his friend's delight, 
 May purchase good opinion with his friend, 
 Then I may say, I have done this so well, 
 That I may think Frank Goursey loves me well. 
 
 Mast. Bar. ; Tis well; and I am much deceived in 
 
 him, 
 And if he be not sober, wise, and valiant. 
 
 Phil. I hope my father takes me for thus wise, 
 I will not glue myself in love to one 
 That hath not some desert of virtue in him : 
 Whate'er you think of him, believe me, father, 
 He will be answerable to your thoughts 
 In any quality commendable. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Thou cheer'st my hopes in him ; and, in 
 
 good faith, 
 
 Thou'st made my love complete unto thy friend : 
 Philip, I love him, and I love him so, 
 I could afford him a good wife, I kno>v. 
 
 Phil. Father, a wife ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. Philip, a wife.
 
 124 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Phii. I lay my life my sister ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. Ay, in good faith. 
 
 Phil. Then, father, he shall have her ; he shall, I 
 swear. 
 
 Mast. Bar. How can'st thou say so, knowing not his 
 mind? 
 
 Phil. All's one for that ; I will go to him straight. 
 Father, if you would seek this seven-years'-day, 
 You could not find a fitter match for her ; 
 And he shall have her, I swear he shall ; 
 He were as good be hanged, as once deny ! her. 
 I' faith, I'll to him. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Hairbrain, hairbrain, stay ! 
 As yet we do not know his father's mind : 
 Why, what will Master Goursey say, my son, 
 If we should motion it without his knowledge ? 
 Go to, he's a wise and discreet gentleman, 
 And that expects from me all honest parts ; 
 Nor shall he fail his expectation ; 
 First I do mean to make him privy to it : 
 Philip, this letter is to that effect. 
 
 Phil. Father, for God's sake, send it quickly, then : 
 I'll call your man. What Hugh ! where's Hugh, there, 
 ho? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Philip, if this would prove a match, 
 It were the only means that could be found 
 To make thy mother friends with Mistress Goursey. 
 
 Phil. How, a match ! I'll warrant ye, a match. 
 My sister's fair, Frank Goursey he is rich ; 
 Her dowry, too, will be sufficient ; 
 Frank's young, and youth is apt to love ; 
 And, by my troth, my sister's maidenhead 
 Stands like a game at tennis : if the ball 
 Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. How now, where's Hugh ? 
 
 1 Refuse.
 
 SCENE I.] OF ABINGTON. 125 
 
 Enter NICHOLAS. 
 
 Phil. Why, what doth this proverbial with us ? 
 Why, where's Hugh ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Peace, peace. 
 
 Phil. Where's Hugh, I say ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Be not so hasty, Philip. 
 
 Phil. Father, let me alone ; 
 I do it but to make myself some sport. 
 This formal fool, your man, speaks nought but proverbs, 
 And speak men what they can to him, he'll answer 
 With some rhyme-rotten sentence or old saying, 
 Such spokes as th' ancient of the parish use, 
 With, " Neighbour, 'tis an old proverb and a true, 
 Goose giblets are good meat, old sack better than new ; " 
 Then says another, " Neighbour, that is true : " 
 And when each man hath drunk his gallon round 
 A penny pot, for that's the old man's gallon 
 Then doth he lick his lips, and stroke his beard, 
 That's glued together with his slavering drops 
 Of yeasty ale, and when he scarce can trim 
 His gouty fingers, thus he'll fillip it, 
 And with a rotten hem, say, "Ay, my hearts, 
 Merry go sorry ! cock and pie, my hearts " ! 
 But then their saving penny proverb comes, 
 And that is this, " They that will to the wine, 
 By'r Lady 1 mistress shall lay their penny to mine." 
 This was one of this penny-father's 2 bastards, 
 For, on my life, he was never begot 
 Without the consent of some great proverb-monger. 
 
 Mast. Bar. O, ye are a wag. 
 
 Phh. Well, now unto my business. 
 'Swounds, will that mouth, that's made of old-said saws 
 And nothing else, say nothing to us now ? 
 
 Nick. O Master Philip, forbear; you must not leap 
 over the stile, before you come at it ; haste makes waste ; 
 
 1 i.e. By our lady. 2 Miser's.
 
 126 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 soft fire makes sweet malt ; not too fast for falling ; 
 there's no haste to hang true men. 
 
 Phil. Father, we ha't, ye see, we ha't. Now will I see 
 if my memory will serve for some proverbs too. O a 
 painted cloth were as well worth a shilling as a thief 
 worth a halter ; well, after my hearty commendations, as 
 I was at the making hereof, so it is, that I hope as you 
 speed, so you're sure ; a swift horse will tire, but he that 
 trots easily will endure. You have most learnedly 
 proverbed it, commending the virtue of patience or for- 
 bearance, but yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance. 
 
 Nich. I promise ye, Master Philip, you have spoken 
 as true as steel. 
 
 Phil. Father, there's a proverb well applied. 
 
 Nich. And it seemeth unto me, ay, it seems to me, 
 that you, Master Philip, mock me : do you not know, qui 
 mocat mocabitur ? mock age, and see how it will prosper. 
 
 Phil. Why ye whoreson proverb-book bound up in 
 
 folio, 
 
 Have ye no other sense to answer me 
 But every word a proverb ? no other English ? 
 Well, I'll fulfil a proverb on thee straight. 
 
 Nich. What is it, sir ? 
 
 Phil. I'll fetch my fist from thine ear. 
 
 Nich. Bear witness, he threatens me ! 
 
 Phil. That same is the coward's common proverb. 
 But come, come, sirrah, tell me where Hugh is. 
 
 Nich. I may an I will ; I need not, except I list ; you 
 shall not command me, you give me neither meat, drink, 
 nor wages ; I am your father's man, and a man's a man, 
 an a have but a hose on his head ; do not misuse me so, 
 do not ; for though he that is bound must obey, yet he 
 that will not tarry, may run away so he may. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Peace, Nick, I'll see he shall use thee 
 
 well ; 
 
 Go to, peace, sirrah : here, Nick, take this letter, 
 Carry it to him to whom it is directed.
 
 SCENE I.] OF ABINGTON. 127 
 
 Nick. To whom is it ? 
 
 Mast, Bar. Why, read it : canst thou read ? 
 
 Nich. Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Why, dost thou not use it ? 
 
 Nich. Forsooth, as use makes perfectness, so seldom 
 seen is soon forgotten. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Well-said : but go : it is to Master Goursey. 
 
 Phil. Now, sir, what proverb have ye to deliver a 
 letter ? 
 
 Nich. What need you to care ? who speaks to you ? 
 you may speak when ye are spoken to, and keep 
 your wind to cool your pottage. Well, well, you are my 
 master's son, and you look for his land ; but they that 
 hope for dead men's shoes may hap go barefoot : take 
 heed, as soon goes the young sheep to the pot as the old. 
 I pray God save my master's life, for seldom comes the 
 better ! 
 
 Phil. O, he hath given it me ! Farewell, Proverbs. 
 
 Nich. Farewell, frost. 1 
 
 Phil. Shall I fling an old shoe after ye ? 
 
 Nich. No ; you should say, God send fair weather after 
 me ! 
 
 Phil. I mean for good luck. 
 
 Nich. A good luck on ye ! [Exit. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Alas, poor fool ! he uses all his wit 
 Philip, in faith this mirth hath cheered thought, 
 And cosened it of his right play of passion. 
 Go after Nick, and when thou think'st he's there, 
 Go in and urge to that which I have writ : 
 I'll in these meadows make a circling walk, 
 And in my meditation conjure so, 
 As that same fiend of thought, self-eating anger, 
 Shall by my spells of reason vanish quite : 
 Away, and let me hear from thee to-night. 
 
 Phil. To-night! yes, that you shall: but hark ye, father; 
 
 1 See Hazlitt's Proverbs, 1869, p. 128.
 
 128 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Look that you my sister waking keep, 
 
 For Frank, I swear, shall kiss her, ere I sleep. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. Inside Master GOURSEY'S House. 
 
 Enter FRANCIS and Boy. 
 
 Fran. I am very dry with walking o'er the green. 
 Butler, some beer ! Sirrah, call the butler. 
 
 Boy. Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give 
 the butler a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he 
 hath got a horse's disease, namely the staggers ; to-night 
 he's a good huswife, he reels all that he wrought to-day ; 
 and he were good now to play at dice, for he casts l ex- 
 cellent well. 
 
 Fran. How mean'st thou ? is he drunk ? 
 
 Boy. I cannot tell ; but I am sure he hath more liquor 
 in him than a whole dicker ~ of hides ; he's soaked 
 thoroughly, i' faith: 
 
 Fran. Well, go and call him ; bid him bring me drink. 
 
 Boy. I will, sir. {Exit. 
 
 Fran. My mother pouts, and will look merrily 
 Neither upon my father nor on me : 
 He says she fell out with Mistress Barnes to-day ; 
 Then I am sure they'll not be quickly friends. 
 Good Lord, what kind of creatures women are ! 
 Their love is lightly 3 won and lightly lost ; 
 And then their hate is deadly and extreme : 
 He that doth take a wife betakes himself 
 To all the cares and troubles of the world. 
 Now her disquietness doth grieve my father, 
 Grieves me, and troubles all the house besides. 
 What, shall I have some drink ? \Horn sounded within] 
 How now ? a horn ! 
 
 1 Vomits. Ten. 3 Easily.
 
 SCENE ii.] OF AB1NGTON. 129 
 
 Belike the drunken knave is fall'n asleep, 
 And now the boy doth wake him with his horn. 
 
 Re-enter Boy. 
 How now, sirrah, where's the butler ? 
 
 Boy. Marry, sir, where he was even now, asleep ; but 
 I waked him, and when he waked he thought he was in 
 Master Barnes's buttery, for he stretched himself thus, 
 and yawning, said, " Nick, honest Nick, fill a fresh bowl 
 of ale ; stand to it, Nick, an thou beest a man of God's 
 making, stand to it ; " and then I winded my horn, and 
 he's horn-mad. 
 
 Enter HODGE. 
 
 Hod. Boy, hey ! ho, boy ! an thou beest a man, draw 
 O, here's a blessed moonshine, God be thanked ! 
 Boy, is not this goodly weather for barley ? 
 
 Boy. Spoken like a right malstter, Hodge; but dost 
 thou hear? thou art not drunk ? 
 
 Hod. No, I scorn that, i' faith. 
 
 Boy. But thy fellow Dick Coomes is mightily drunk. 
 
 Hod. Drunk ! a plague on it, when a man cannot carry 
 his drink well ! 'sblood, I'll stand to it. 
 
 Boy. Hold, man ; see, an thou canst stand first. 
 
 Hod. Drunk ! he's a beast, an he be drunk ; there's 
 no man that is a sober man will be drunk ; he's a boy 
 an he be drunk. 
 
 Boy. No, he's a man as thou art. 
 
 Hod. Thus 'tis, when a man will not be ruled by his 
 friends : I bad him keep under the lee, but he kept down 
 the weather two bows ; I told him he would be taken 
 with a planet, but the wisest of us all may fall. 
 
 Boy. True, Hodge. [Boy trips him. 
 
 Hod. Whoop ! lend me thy hand, Dick, I am fallen 
 into a well ; lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else. 
 
 Boy. Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge. 
 
 Hod. A rope on it ! 
 
 Nero. K
 
 130 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Boy. Ay, there is a rope on it ; but where art thou, 
 Hodge ? 
 
 Hod. In a well ; I prithee, draw up. 
 
 Boy. Come, give up thy body ; wind up, hoist ! 
 
 Hod. I am over head and ears. 
 
 Boy. In all, Hodge, in all. 
 
 Fran. How loathsome is this beast-man's shape to me, 
 This mould of reason so unreasonable ! 
 Sirrah, why dost thou trip him down, seeing he's drunk ? 
 
 Boy. Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheap. 
 
 Fran. How mean ye ? 
 
 Boy. Why, they say that, when anything hath a fall, it 
 is cheap ; and so of drunkards. 
 
 Fran. Go to, help him up : \Knocking without} but, 
 hark, who knocks ? [Boy goes to the door and returns. 
 
 Boy. Sir, here's one of Master Barnes's men with a 
 letter to my old master. 
 
 Fran. Which of them is it ? 
 
 Boy. They call him Nicholas, sir. 
 
 Fran. Go, call him in. [Exit Boy. 
 
 Enter C DOMES. 
 
 Coomes. By your leave, ho ! How now, young master, 
 how is't ? 
 
 Fran. Look ye, sirrah, where your fellow lies ; 
 He's in a fine taking, is he not ? 
 
 Coomes. Whoop, Hodge ! where art thou, man, where 
 art thou ? 
 
 Hod. O, in a well. 
 
 Coomes. In a well, man ! nay, then, thou art deep in 
 understanding. 
 
 Fran. Ay, once to-day you were almost so, sir. 
 
 Coomes. Who, I ! go to, young master, I do not like 
 this humour in ye, I tell ye true ; give every man his due, 
 and give him no more : say I was in such a case ! go to, 
 'tis the greatest indignation that can be offered to a man ; 
 and, but a man's more godlier given, you were able to
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 131 
 
 make him swear out his heart-blood. What, though that 
 honest Hodge have cut his finger here, or, as some say, 
 cut a feather : what, though he be mump, misled, blind, 
 or as it were 'tis no consequent to me : you know I 
 have drunk all the alehouses in Abington dry, and laid 
 the taps on the tables, when I had done : 'sblood, I'll 
 challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leap up to 
 the chin in a barrel of beer, and if I cannot drink it down 
 to my foot, ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst 
 of the house, and then turn a good turn on the toe on it, 
 let me be counted nobody, a pingler, 1 nay, let me be 
 bound to drink nothing but small-beer seven years after 
 and I had as lief be hanged. 
 
 Enter NICHOLAS. 
 
 Fran. Peace, sir, I must speak with one. Nicholas, I 
 think, your name is. 
 
 Nich. True as the skin between your brows. 
 
 Fran. Well, how doth thy master ? 
 
 Nich. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better. 
 
 Fran. Where is the letter he hath sent me ? 
 
 Nich. Ecce signum ! here it is. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis right as Philip said, 'tis a fine fool \Aside\- 
 This letter is directed to my father ; 
 I'll carry it to him. Dick Coomes, make him drink. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Coomes. Ay, I'll make him drunk, an he will. 
 
 Nich. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merry and 
 wise. 
 
 Coomes. Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; 
 but as thou art Nicholas and a boon companion, ten 
 times welcome. Nicholas, give me thy hand : shall we 
 be merry? an we shall, say but -we shall, and let the first 
 word stand. 
 
 Nich. Indeed, as long lives the merry man as the sad ; 
 an ounce of debt will not pay a pound of care. 
 
 1 Bungler. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT 11. 
 
 Coomes. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ounce 
 of debt. 
 
 Nich. Well, 'tis a good horse never stumbles : but who 
 lies here? 
 
 Coomes. 'Tis our Hodge, and I think he lies asleep : 
 you made him drunk at your house to-day ; but I'll 
 pepper some of you for't. 
 
 Nich. Ay, Richard, I know you'll put a man over the 
 shoes, and if you can ; but he's a fool will take more 
 than will do him good. 
 
 Coomes. 'Sblood, ye shall take more than will do ye 
 good, or I'll make ye clap under the table. 
 
 Nich. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbear 
 drink, so have I patience to endure drink : I'll do as 
 company doth ; for when a man doth to Rome come, he 
 must do as there is done. 
 
 Coomes. Ha, my resolved Nick, froligozene ! Fill the 
 pot, hostess ; 'swouns, you whore ! Harry Hook's a 
 rascal. Help me, but carry my fellow Hodge in, and 
 we'll carouse it, i' faith. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. Before Master GOURSEY'S House. 
 
 Enter PHILIP. 
 
 Phil. By this, I think, the letter is delivered, 
 And -'twill be shortly time that I step in, 
 And woo their favours for my sister's fortune : 
 And yet I need not ; she may do as well, 
 But yet not better, as the case doth stand 
 Between our mothers ; it may make them friends ; 
 Nay, I would swear that she would do as well, 
 Were she a stranger to one quality; 
 But they are so acquainted, they'll ne'er part. 
 Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush 
 The boldest face of man that e'er man saw ;
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. I33 
 
 He that hath best opinion of his wit, 
 
 And hath his brainpan fraught with bitter jests, 
 
 Or of his own, or stol'n, or howsoever, 
 
 Let him stand ne'er so high in his own conceit, 
 
 Her wit's a sun that melts him down like butter, 
 
 And makes him sit at table pancake-wise, 
 
 Flat, flat, God knows, and ne'er a word to say ; 
 
 Yet she'll not leave him then, but like a tyrant 
 
 She'll persecute the poor wit-beaten man, 
 
 And so bebang him with dry bobs l and scoffs, 
 
 When he is down, most coward-like, good faith, 
 
 As I have pitied the poor patient. 
 
 There came a farmer's son a-wooing to her, 
 
 A proper man : well-landed too he was, 
 
 A man that for his wit need not to ask 
 
 What time a year 'twere good to sow his oats, 
 
 Nor yet his barley ; no, nor when to reap, 
 
 To plough his fallows, or to fell his trees, 
 
 Well-experienced thus each kind of way ; 
 
 After a two months' labour at the most 
 
 And yet 'twas well he held it out so long 
 
 He left his love, she had so laced his lips 
 
 He could say nothing to her but " God be with ye ! " 
 
 Why she, when men have dined and call for cheese, 
 
 Will straight maintain jests bitter to disgest ; 2 
 
 And then some one will fall to argument, 
 
 Who if he over-master her with reason, 
 
 Then she'll begin to buffet him with mocks. 
 
 Well, I do doubt Francis hath so much spleen, 
 
 They'll ne'er agree ; but I will moderate. 
 
 By this time it is time, I think, to enter : 
 
 This is the house ; shall I knock ? no ; I will not. 
 
 Nor wait, while one comes out to answer me : 
 
 I'll in, and let them be as bold with us. {Exit. 
 
 1 Taunts. 2 A form of " digest."
 
 134 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 SCENE IV.--A Room in Master GOURSEY'S House. 
 Enter Master GOURSEY, reading a letter. 
 
 Mast, Gour. "If that they like, her dowry shall be 
 
 equal 
 
 To your son's wealth or possibility : 
 It is a means to make our wives good friends, 
 And to continue friendship 'twixt us two." 
 Tis so, indeed : I like this motion, 
 And it hath my consent, because my wife 
 Is sore infected and heart-sick with hate ; 
 And I have sought the Galen of advice, 
 Which only tells me this same potion 
 To be most sovereign for her sickness' cure. 
 
 Enter FRANCIS and PHILIP. 
 
 Here comes my son, conferring with his friend. 
 Francis, how do you like your friend's discourse ? 
 I know he is persuading to this motion. 
 
 Fran. Father, as matter that befits a friend, 
 But yet not me, that am too young to marry. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Nay, if thy mind be forward with thy 
 
 years, 
 
 The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy, 
 This match is answerable to thy birth ; 
 Her blood and portion give each other grace ; 
 These indented lines promise a sum, 
 And I do like the value : if it hap 
 Thy liking to accord to my consent, 
 It is a match. Wilt thou go see the maid ? ' 
 
 Fran. Ne'er trust me, father, the shackles of mar- 
 riage, 
 
 Which I do see in others, seem so severe, 
 I dare not put my youngling liberty 
 Under the awe of that instruction ; 
 And yet I grant the limits of free youth 
 Going astray are often restrained by that. 

 
 SCENE iv.] OF ABINGTON. 135 
 
 But Mistress Wedlock, to my scholar-thoughts, 
 Will be too cursed, I fear : O, should she snip 
 My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad, 
 And swear, when I did marry, I was mad ! 
 
 Mast, Go:ir. But, boy, let my experience teach thee 
 
 this 
 
 Yet, in good faith, thou speak'st not much amiss 
 When first thy mother's fame to me did come, 
 Thy grand sire thus then came to me his son, 
 And even my words to thee to me he said, 
 And as to me thou say'st to him I said, 
 But iu a greater huff and hotter blood, 
 I tell ye, on youth's tip-toes then I stood 
 Says he (good faith, this was his very say), 
 " When I was young, I was but reason's fool, 
 And went to wedding as to wisdom's school ; 
 It taught me much, and much I did forget, 
 But, beaten much, by it I got some wit ; 
 Though I was shackled from an often scout, 
 Yet I would wanton it, when I was out; 
 'Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet, 
 Restrained liberty attained is sweet." 
 Thus said my father to thy father, son, 
 And thou mayst do this too, as I have done. 
 
 Phil. In faith, good counsel, Frank : what say'st thou 
 to it? 
 
 Fran. Philip, what should I say ? 
 
 Phil. Why, either ay or no. 
 
 Fran. O, but which rather ? 
 
 Phil. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father. 
 
 Fran. That's ay then. Ay. O, should it fall out ill, 
 Then I, for I am guilty of that ill ! 
 I'll not be guilty. No. 
 
 Phil What, backward gone ! 
 
 Fran. Philip, no whit backward ; that is, on. 
 
 Phil. On, then. 
 
 Fran. O, stay !
 
 136 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 Phil. Tush, there is no good luck in this delay. 
 Come, come ; late-comers, man, are shent. 1 
 
 Fran. Heigho, I fear I shall repent ! 
 Well, which way, Philip ? 
 
 Phil. Why, this way. 
 
 Fran, Canst thou tell, 
 
 And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell ? 
 But which way, father ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. That way. 
 
 Fran. Ay, you know, 
 You found the way to sorrow long ago. 
 Father, God be wi' ye : you have sent your son 
 To seek on earth an earthly day of doom, 
 Where I shall be adjudged, alack the ruth, 
 To penance for the follies of my youth ! 
 Well, I must go ; but, by my troth, my mind 
 Is not capable to love in that kind. 
 O, I have looked upon this mould of men, 
 As I have done upon a lion's den ! 
 Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, 
 Yet wished me no acquaintance with his paw : 
 And must I now be grated with them ? well, 
 Yet I may hap to prove a Daniel ; 
 And, if I do, sure it would make me laugh, 
 To be among wild beasts and yet be safe. 
 Is there a remedy to abate their rage ? 
 Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. 
 Ay, but how catch them? marry, in your hand 
 Carry me forth a burning firebrand, 
 For with his sparkling shine, old rumour says, 
 A firebrand the swiftest runner frays : 
 This I may do ; but, if it prove not so, 
 Then man goes out to seek his adjunct woe. 
 Philip, away ! and, father, now adieu ! 
 In quest of sorrow I am sent by you. 
 
 Mast. Gonr. Return, the messenger of joy, my son. 
 
 1 Ruined.
 
 SCENE iv.] OF ABINGTON iyi 
 
 Fran. Seldom in this world such a work is done. 
 
 Phil. Nay, nay, make haste, it will be quickly night. 
 
 Fran. Why, is it not good to woo by candle-light ? 
 
 Phil. But, if we make not haste, they'll be abed. 
 
 Fran. The better, candles out and curtains spread. 
 
 [Exeunt FRANCIS and PHILIP 
 
 Mast. Gour. I know, though that my son's years be 
 
 not many, 
 
 Yet he hath wit to woo as well as any. 
 Here comes my wife : I am glad my boy is gone, 
 
 Enter Mistress GOURSEY. 
 
 Ere she came hither. How now, wife ? how is't ? 
 What, are ye yet in charity and love 
 With Mistress Barnes? 
 
 Mis. Gour. With Mistress Barnes ! why Mistress 
 Barnes, I pray ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. Because she is your neighbour and 
 
 Mis. Gour. And what ? 
 
 And a jealous, slandering, spiteful quean she is, 
 One that would blur my reputation 
 With her opprobrious malice, if she could ; 
 She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame : 
 'Tis known that I have lived in honest name 
 All my lifetime, and been your right true wife. 
 
 Mast. Gour. I entertain no other thought, my wife, 
 And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 
 
 Mis. Gour. And my behaviour is as sound as it ; 
 But her ill-speeches seeks to rot my credit, 
 And eat it with the worm of hate and malice. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Why, then, preserve it you by patience. 
 
 Mis. Gour. By patience ! would ye have me shame 
 
 myself, 
 
 And cosen myself to bear her injuries ? 
 Not while her eyes be open will I yield 
 A word, a letter, a syllable's value,
 
 138 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT n. 
 
 But equal and make even her wrongs to me 
 To her again. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to 
 
 blame. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Am I to blame, sir? pray, what letter's 
 this ? [Snatches the letter. 
 
 Mast. Gour. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, 
 Rudely to snatch it from me. Give it me. 
 
 Mis. Gour. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 
 Mast. Gour. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you. 
 Mis. Gour. No, no, it shall not need : I am a scholar 
 Good enough to read a letter, sir. 
 
 Mast. Gour. God's passion, if she know but the con- 
 tents, 
 She'll seek to cross this match ! she shall not read it. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Wife, give it me ; come, come, give it me. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it. 
 Mast. Gour. What, will you move me to impatience, 
 
 then? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Tut, tell me not of your impatience ; 
 But since you talk, sir, of impatience, 
 You shall not have the letter, by this light, 
 Till I have read it ; soul, I'll burn it first ! 
 
 Mast. Gour. Go to, ye move me, wife ; give me the 
 
 letter ; 
 In troth, I shall grow angry, if you do not. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Grow to the house-top with your anger, sir ! 
 Ne'er tell me, I care not thus much for it. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Well, I can bear enough, but not too 
 
 much. 
 
 Come, give it me ; 'twere best you be persuaded ; 
 By God ye make me swear now God forgive me ! 
 Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it ; 
 Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Heart me no hearts ! you shall not have it, 
 sir,
 
 SCENE iv.] OF ABINGTON. 
 
 139 
 
 No, you shall not ; ne'er look so big, 
 
 I will not be afraid at your great looks ; 
 
 You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Shall I not have it ? in troth, I'll try 
 
 that: 
 
 Minion, I'll ha' 't ; shall I not ha' 't ? I am loth- 
 Go to, take pausement, be advised 
 In faith, I will ; and stand not long upon it 
 A woman of your years ! I am ashamed 
 A couple of so long continuance 
 Should thus God's foot I cry God heart'ly mercy ! 
 Go to, ye vex me ; and I'll vex ye for it ; 
 Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad 
 To tender it on your knees ; hear ye, I will, I will. 
 What, worse and worse stomach ! true faith, 
 Shall I be crossed by you in my old age ? 
 And where I should have greatest comfort, too, 
 A nurse of you ? nurse in the devil's name ! 
 Go to, mistress ; by God's precious deer, 
 If ye delay 
 
 Mis. Gour. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit 
 Are you in, husband ! so enraged, so moved, 
 And for so slight a cause, to read a letter ! 
 Did this letter, love, contain my death, 
 Should you deny my sight of it, I would not 
 Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, 
 But willingly yield me a patient 
 Unto the doom that your displeasure gave. 
 Here is the letter ; not for that your incensement 
 
 [Gives back the letter. 
 
 Makes me make offer of it, but your health, 
 Which anger, I do fear, hath crazed, 
 And viper-like hath sucked away the blood 
 That wont was to be cheerful in this cheek : 
 How pale ye look ! 
 
 Mast. Gour. Pale ! Can ye blame me for it ? I tell 
 you true,
 
 HO THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT II. 
 
 An easy matter could not thus have moved me. 
 
 Well, this resignment and so forth but, woman, 
 
 This fortnight shall I not forget ye for it. 
 
 Ha, ha, I see that roughness can do somewhat ! 
 
 I did not think, good faith, I could have set 
 
 So sour a face upon it, and to her, 
 
 My bed-embracer, my right bosom friend. 
 
 I would not that she should have seen the letter 
 
 As poor a man as I am by my troth, 
 
 For twenty pound : well, I am glad I have it. [Aside. 
 
 Ha, here's ado about a thing of nothing ! 
 
 What, stomach, ha ! 'tis happy you're come down. [Exit. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Well, crafty fox, I'll hunt ye, by my troth, 
 Deal ye so closely ! Well, I see his drift : 
 He would not let me see the letter, lest 
 That I should cross the match ; and I will cross it. 
 Dick Coomes ! 
 
 Enter COOMES. 
 
 Coomes. Forsooth. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Come hither, Dick ; thou art a man I love, 
 And one whom I have much in my regard. 
 
 Coomes. I thank ye for it, mistress, I thank ye for it. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Nay, here's my hand, I will do very much 
 For thee, if e'er thou stand's! in need of me ; 
 Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, 
 Money, apparel 
 
 Coomes. And sword and bucklers ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant 
 
 Dick, 
 So thou wilt use but this in my defence. 
 
 [Pointing to his sword. 
 
 Coomes. This ! no, faith, I have no mind to this ; 
 break my head, if this break not, if we come to any tough 
 play. Nay, mistress, I had a sword, ay, the flower of 
 Smithfield for a sword, a right fox, 1 i' faith ; with that, an 
 a man had come over with a smooth and a sharp stroke, 
 1 A familiar term for the old English broadsword.
 
 SCENE iv.] OF ABINGTON. 141 
 
 it would have cried twang, and then, when I had doubled 
 my point, traced my ground, and had carried my buckler 
 before me like a garden-butt, and then come in with a 
 cross blow, and over the pick * of his buckler two ells 
 long, it would have cried twang, twang, metal, metal : 
 but a dog hath his day ; 'tis gone, and there are few good 
 ones made now. I see by this dearth of good swords, 
 that dearth of sword-and-buckler fight begins to grow out : 
 I am sorry for it ; I shall never see good manhood again, 
 if it be once gone ; this poking fight of rapier and dagger 
 will come up then ; then a man, a tall 2 man, and a good 
 sword-and-buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or a 
 coney ; then a boy will be as good as a man, unless the 
 Lord show mercy unto us ; well, I had as lief be hanged 
 as live to see that day. Well, mistress, what shall I do ? 
 what shall I do ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, this, brave Dick. Thou knowest 
 
 that Barnes's wife 
 
 And I am foes : now, man 3 me to her house ; 
 And though it be dark, Dick, yet we'll have no light, 
 Lest that thy master should prevent our journey 
 By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, 
 And if that she and I do fall to words, 
 Set in thy foot and quarrel with her men, 
 Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, 
 And make as though thou struckest at a man, 
 And hit her, an thou canst, a plague upon her !- 
 She hath misused me, Dick : wilt thou do this ? 
 
 Coomes. Yes, mistress, I will strike her men ; but God 
 forbid that e'er Dick Coomes should be seen to strike a 
 woman ! 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, she is mankind; 4 therefore thou 
 mayest strike her. 
 
 Coomes. Mankind ! nay, an she have any part of a 
 man, I'll strike her, I warrant. 
 
 1 The sharp point in the centre of the buckler. 
 
 - i.e. Brave. 3 Attend. 4 i.e. Manlike, masculine.
 
 142 TWO ANGR Y WOMEN OF ABINGTON. [ACT II. 
 
 Mis. Gour. That's my good Dick, that's my sweet 
 Dick! 
 
 Coomes. 'Swouns, who would not be a man of valour 
 to have such words of a gentlewoman ! one of their 
 words are more to me than twenty of these russet-coats, 
 cheese-cakes, and butter-makers. Well, I thank God, I 
 am none of these cowards; well, an a man have any 
 virtue in him, I see he shall be regarded. \_Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Art thou resolved, Dick ? wilt thou do this 
 
 for me ? 
 
 And if thou wilt, here is an earnest-penny 
 Of that rich guerdon I do mean to give thee. 
 
 \Gives money. 
 
 Coomes. An angel, 1 mistress ! let me see. Stand you 
 on my left hand, and let the angel lie on my buckler on 
 my right hand, for fear of losing. Now, here stand I to 
 be tempted. They say, every man hath two spirits 
 attending on him, either good or bad ; now, I say, a man 
 hath no other spirits but either his wealth or his wife : 
 now, which is the better of them ? Why, that is as they 
 are used ; for use neither of them well, and they are both 
 nought. But this is a miracle to me, that gold that is 
 heavy hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth 
 soonest fall, considering that light things aspire, and 
 heavy things soonest go down : but leave these con- 
 siderations to Sir John ; " they become a black-coat better 
 than a blue. Well, mistress, I had no mind to-day to 
 quarrel ; but a woman is made to be a man's seducer ; 
 you say, quarrel ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Ay. 
 
 Coomes. There speaks an angel : is it good ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Ay. 
 
 Coomes. Then, I cannot do amiss ; the good angel goes 
 with me. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 The value of the angel was from 6s. 8d. to 10.?. 
 
 * i.e. The parson : the title " Sir" was applied to clergymen.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. In the Forest. 
 
 Enter Sir RALPH SMITH, Lady SMITH, WILL, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 IR RALPH. Come on, my hearts : 
 
 i' faith, it is ill luck 
 
 To hunt all day, and not kill anything. 
 What sayest thou, lady ? art thou 
 
 weary yet ? 
 
 L. Smith. I must not say so, sir. 
 Sir Ralph. Although thou art ! 
 Will. And can you blame her, to be forth so long, 
 And see no better sport ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. Good faith, 'twas very hard. 
 L. Smith. No, 'twas not ill, 
 Because, you know, it is not good to kill 
 Sir Ralph. Yes, venison, lady. 
 L. Smith. No, indeed, nor them ; 
 Life is as dear in deer as 'tis in men. 
 Sir Ralph. But they are killed for sport. 
 L. Smith. But that's bad play, 
 Wh:n they are made to sport their lives away. 
 Sir Ralph. 'Tis fine to see them run. 
 L. Smith. What, out of breath ? 
 They run but ill that run themselves to death.
 
 144 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT m. 
 
 Sir Ralph, They might make, then, less haste, and 
 
 keep their wind. 
 L. Smith. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death 
 
 behind. 
 Sir Ralph. Then, 'twere as good for them at first to 
 
 stay, 
 As to run long, and run their lives away. 
 
 L. Smith. Ay, but the stoutest of you all that's here 
 Would run from death and nimbly scud for fear. 
 Now, by my troth, I pity these poor elves. 1 
 
 Sir Ralph. Well, they have made us but bad sport to- 
 day. 
 L. Smith. Yes, 'twas my sport to see them 'scape 
 
 away. 
 
 Will. I wish that I had been at one buck's fall. 
 L. Smith. Out, thou wood-tyrant ! thou art worst of 
 
 all. 
 
 Will. A wood-man, 2 lady, but no tyrant I, 
 L. Smith. Yes, tyrant-like thou lov'st to see lives die. 
 Sir Ralph. Lady, no more : I do not like this luck, 
 To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. 
 Well, it is late ; but yet I swear I will 
 Stay here all night, but I a buck will kill. 
 
 L. Smith. All night ! nay, good Sir Ralph Smith, do 
 
 not so. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Content ye, lady. Will, go fetch my bow : 
 A bevy 3 of fair roes I saw to-day 
 Down by the groves, and there I'll take my stand, 
 And shoot at one God send a lucky hand ! 
 
 L. Smith. Will ye not, then, Sir Ralph, go home with 
 
 me ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. No, but my men shall bear thee com- 
 pany. 
 
 1 A line appears to be lost here, probably ending wi.h "selves,' 
 as the whole dialogue is in rhyme. Hazlitt. 
 
 ' Forester. 
 
 3 Herd. The fat of the roe and the roe-buck was called bevy- 
 grease.
 
 SCENE ii. J OF ABINGTON. 145 
 
 Sirs, man her home. Will, bid the huntsmen couple, 
 And bid them well reward their hounds to-night. 
 Lady, farewell. Will, haste ye with the bow ; 
 I'll stay for thee here by the grove below. 
 
 Will. I will ; but 'twill be dark, I shall not see : 
 How shall I see ye, then ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. Why, halloo to me, and I will answer 
 thee. 
 
 Will. Enough, I will. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Farewell. [Ex. 
 
 L. Smith. How willingly dost thou consent to go 
 To fetch thy master that same killing bow ! 
 
 Will. Guilty of death I willing am in this, 
 Because 'twas our ill-haps to-day to miss : 
 To hunt, and not to kill, is hunter's sorrow. . 
 Come, lady, we'll have venison ere to-morrow. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \\ Outside Master BARNES'S House. 
 
 Enter PHILIP and FRANCIS. 
 
 Phil. Come, Frank, now are we hard by the house : 
 But how now? Sad ? 
 
 Fran. No, to study how to woo thy sister. 
 
 Phil. How, man ? how to woo her ! why, no matter 
 
 how; 
 
 I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woo. 
 Thy cheek's not subject to a childish blush, 
 Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit ; 
 I know thy oratory can unfold 
 A quick invention, plausible discourse, 
 And set such painted beauty on thy tongue, 
 As it shall ravish every maiden sense ; 
 For, Frank, thou art not like the russet youth 
 
 Nero.
 
 146 7 HE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 I told thee of, that went to woo a wench, 
 
 And being full stuffed up with fallow wit 
 
 And meadow-matter, asked the pretty maid 
 
 How they sold corn last market-day with them, 
 
 Saying, " Indeed, 'twas very dear with us." 
 
 And, do ye hear, ye had not need be so, 
 
 For she will, Francis, throughly try your wit ; 
 
 Sirrah, she'll bow the metal of your wits, 
 
 And, if they crack, she will not hold ye current ; 
 
 Nay, she will weigh your wit, as men weigh angels, 1 
 
 And, if it lack a grain, she will not change with ye. 
 
 I cannot speak it but in passion, 
 
 She is a wicked wench to make a jest ; 
 
 Ah me, how full of flouts and mocks she is .! 
 
 Fran. Some aqua-vita reason to recover 
 This sick discourser ! Sound 2 not, prythee, Philip. 
 Tush, tush, I do not think her as thou saycst :" 
 Perhaps she is opinion's darling, Philip,- 
 Wise in repute, the crow's bird. O my friend, 
 Some judgments slave themselves to small desert, 
 And wondernise the birth of common wit, 
 When their own strangeness do but make that strange, 
 And their ill errors do but make that good : 
 And why should men debase to make that good ? 
 Perhaps such admiration wins her wit. 
 
 Phil. Well, I am glad to hear this bold prepare 
 For this encounter. Forward, hardy Frank ! 
 Yonder's the window with the candle in't ; 
 Belike she's putting on her night attire : 
 I told ye, Frank, 'twas late. Well, I will call her, 
 Marry, softly, that my mother may not hear. 
 Mall, sister Mall !. 
 
 MALI, appears at the window. 
 Mall. How now, who's there ? 
 Phil. Tis T. 
 
 1 Meaning the coins so named. 2 Swoon.
 
 SCENE II.] OF ABINGTON. I47 
 
 Mall. Tis I ! Who I ? I, quoth the dog, or what ? 
 A Christcross row I ? * 
 
 Phil. No, sweet pinkany. 2 
 
 Mall. O, is't you, wild-oats ? 
 
 Phil. Ay, forsooth, wanton. 
 
 Mall. Well said, scapethrift. 
 
 Fran. Philip, be these your usual best salutes ? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Phil. Is this the harmless chiding of that dove? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Fran. Dove ! One of those that draw the queen of 
 love ? [Aside. 
 
 Mall. How now ? who's that, brother ? who's that with 
 ye? 
 
 Phil. A gentleman, my friend. 
 
 Mall. By'r lady, he hath a pure wit. 
 
 Fran. How means your holy judgment ? 
 
 Mall. O, well put-in, sir ! 
 
 Fran. Up, you would say. 
 
 Mall. Well climbed, gentleman ! 
 I pray, sir, tell me, do you cart the queen of love ? 
 
 Fran. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, 
 And a fit place for gentle love to lie. 
 
 Mall. Ay, but methinks you speak without the book, 
 To place a four-wheel waggon in my look : 
 Where will you have room to have the coachman sit ? 
 
 Fran. Nay, that were but small manners, and not 
 
 fit: 
 
 His duty is before you bare to stand, 
 Having a lusty whipstock in his hand. 
 
 Mall. The place is void ; will you provide me one ? 
 
 Fran. And if you please, I will supply the room. 
 
 Mall. But are ye cunning in the carman's lash ? 
 And can ye whistle well ? 
 
 1 i.e. An " I " of the Christ-cross row or alphabet. 
 
 2 A term of endearment, supposed to have been originally applied 
 to half-shut, peeping eyes. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 Fran. Yes, I can well direct the coach of love. 
 
 Mall. Ah, cruel carter ! would you whip a dove ? 
 
 Phil. Hark ye, sister 
 
 Mall. Nay, but hark ye, brother ; 
 Whose white boy 1 is that same? know ye his mother? 
 
 Phil. He is a gentleman of a good house. 
 
 Mall. Why, is his house of gold ? 
 Is it not made of lime and stone like this ? 
 
 Phil. I mean he's well-descended. 
 
 Mall. God be thanked ! 
 Did he descend some steeple or some ladder ? . 
 
 Phil. Well, you will still be cross ; I tell ye, sister 
 This gentleman, by all your friends' consent 
 Must be your husband. 
 
 Mall. Nay, not all, some sing another note ; 
 My mother will say no, I hold a groat. 
 But I thought 'twas somewhat, he would be a carter ; 
 He hath been whipping lately some blind bear, 
 And now he would ferk 2 the blind boy here with us. 
 
 Phil. Well, do you hear, you, sister, mistress that 
 
 would have 
 
 You that do long for somewhat, I know what 
 My father told me go to, I'll tell all, 
 If ye be cross do you hear me ? I have laboured 
 A year's work in this afternoon for ye : 
 Come from your cloister, votary, chaste nun, 
 Come down and kiss Frank Goursey's mother's son. 
 
 Mall. Kiss him, 'I pray? 
 
 Phil. Go to, stale maidenhead 3 ! come down, I say, 
 You seventeen and upward, come, come down ; 
 You'll stay till twenty else for your wedding gown. 
 
 Mall. Nun, votary, stale maidenhead, seventeen and 
 
 upward ! 
 Here be names ! what, nothing else ? 
 
 Fran. Yes, or a fair-built steeple without bells. 
 Mall. Steeple \ good people, nay, another cast. 
 
 1 A term of endearment. - Urge on. 3 Old maid.
 
 SCENE II.] OF ABINGTON. 149 
 
 Fran. Ay, or a well-made ship without a mast. 
 
 Mall. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of four. 
 
 Fran. Why, then, ye are a boat without an oar. 
 
 Mall. O well rowed wit ! but what's your fare, I pray ? 
 
 Fran. Your fair self must be my fairest pay. 
 
 Mall. Nay, an you be so dear, I'll choose another. 
 
 Fran. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no 
 further. [Aside. 
 
 Phil. Peace, Francis. Hark ye, sister, this I say : 
 You know my mind ; or answer ay or nay. 
 Your wit and judgment hath resolved 1 his mind, 
 And he foresees what after he shall find : 
 If such discretion, then, shall govern you, 
 Vow love to him, he'll do the like to you. 
 
 Mall. Vow love ! who would not love such a comely 
 
 feature, 
 
 Nor high nor low, but of the middle stature ? 
 A middle man, that's the best size indeed ; 
 I like him well : love grant us well to speed ! 
 
 Fran. And let me see a woman of that tallness, 
 So slender and of such a middle smallness, 
 So old enough, and in each part so fit, 
 So fair, so kind, endued with so much wit, 
 Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, 
 'Twere pity to keep love and her asunder ; 
 Therefore go up, my joy, call down my bliss ; 
 Bid her come seal the bargain with a kiss. 
 
 Mall. Frank, Frank, I come through dangers, death, 
 
 and harms, 
 To make love's patent with my seal of arms. 
 
 Phil. But, sister, softly, lest my mother hear. 
 
 Mall. Hush, then; mum, mouse in cheese, cat is 
 near. \Exit MALL. 
 
 Fran. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, 
 That I have wooed and won in so small while. 
 
 Phil. Francis, indeed my sister, I dare say, 
 1 Satisfied.
 
 i5o THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 Was not determined to say thee nay ; 
 For this same tother thing, called maidenhead, 
 Hangs by so small a hair or spider's thread, 
 And worn so too with time, it must needs fall, 
 And, like a well-lured hawk, she knows her call. 
 
 Re-enter MALL. 
 
 Mall. Whist, brother, whist ! my mother heard me 
 
 tread, 
 
 And asked, " Who's there ? " I would not answer her, 
 She called, " A light ! " and up she's gone to seek me : 
 There when she finds me not, she'll hither come ; 
 Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. 
 Francis, my love's lease I do let to thee, 
 Date of my life and thine : what sayest thou to me ? 
 The ent'ring, fine, or income thou must pay, 
 Are kisses and embraces every day ; 
 And quarterly I must receive my rent ; 
 You know my mind ? 
 
 Fran. I guess at thy intent : 
 Thou shall not miss a minute of thy time. 
 
 Mall. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am only thine. 
 Brother, bear witness. 
 
 Phil. Do ye deliver this as your deed ? 
 
 Mall. I do, I do. 
 
 Phil. God send ye both good speed ! 
 God's Lord, my mother ! Stand aside, 
 And closely too, lest that you be espied. 
 
 Enter Mistress BAFNES. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Who's there ? 
 
 Phil. Mother, 'tis I. 
 
 Mis. Bar. You disobedient ruffian, careless wretch, 
 That said your father loved me but too well ! 
 I'll think on't, when thou think'st I have forgot it : 
 Who's with thee else ? How now, minion ? you !
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 151 
 
 With whom ? with him ! Why, what make you here, 
 s i r > {Discovers FRANCIS and MALL. 
 
 And thus late too? what, hath. your mother sent ye 
 To cut my throat, that here you be in wait ? 
 Come from him, mistress, and let go his hand. 
 Will ye not, sir ? 
 
 Fran. Stay, Mistress Barnes, or mother what ye will ; 
 She is my wife, and here she shall be still. 
 
 Mis. Bar. How, sir ? your wife ! wouldst thou my 
 
 daughter have ? 
 
 I'll rather have her married to her grave. 1 
 Go to ; be gone, and quickly, or I swear 
 I'll have my men beat ye for staying here. 
 
 Phil. Beat him, mother ! as I am true man, 
 They were better beat the devil and his dam. 
 
 Mis. Bar. What, wilt thou take his part ? 
 
 Phil. To do him good, 
 An 'twere to wade hitherto up in blood. 
 
 Fran. God-a-mercy, Philip ! But, mother, hear me. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Call'st thou me mother ? no, thy mother's 
 
 name 
 
 Carries about with it reproach and shame. 
 Give me my daughter : ere that she shall wed 
 A strumpet's son, and have her so misled, 
 I'll marry her to a carter ; come, I say, 
 Give me her from thee. 
 
 Fran. Mother, not to-day, 
 Nor yet to-morrow, till my life's last morrow 
 Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow : 
 Here I have borrowed love, I'll not denay 2 it. 
 Thy wedding night's my day, then I'll repay it. 
 Till then she'll trust me. Wench, is't not so ? 
 And if it be, say " ay," if not, say " no." 
 
 1 A recollection perhaps of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, act 
 
 ii. sc. 5 
 
 " I would the fool were married to her grave ! 
 
 - i.e. Deny.
 
 152 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 Mall. Mother, good mother, hear me ! O good God, 
 Now we are even, what, would you make us odd ? 
 Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ, 
 To give me leave once to do what I list. 
 I am as you were, when you were a maid ; 
 Guess by yourself how long you would have stayed, 
 Might you have had your will : as good begin 
 At first as last, it saves us from much sin ; 
 Lying alone, we muse on things and things, 
 And in our minds one thought another brings : 
 This maid's life, mother, is an idle life, 
 Therefore I'll be, ay, I will be a wife ; 
 And, mother, do not mistrust my age or power, 
 I am sufficient, I lack ne'er an hour ; 
 I had both wit to grant, when he did woo me, 
 And strength to bear whate'er he can do to me. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Well, bold-face, but I mean to make ye stay. 
 Go to, come from him, or I'll make ye come : 
 Will ye not come ? 
 
 Phil. Mother, I pray, forbear ; 
 This match is for my sister. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Villain, 'tis not ; 
 Nor she shall not be so matched now. 
 
 Phil. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate 
 Shall not rule us ! we'll end all this debate 
 By this begun device. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, end what you begun ! Villains, thieves, 
 Give me my daughter ! will ye rob me of her? 
 Help, help ! they'll rob me here, they'll rob me here ! 
 
 Enter Master BARNES, NICHOLAS and Boy. 
 
 Mast. Bar. How now ? what outcry's here ? why, how 
 
 now, woman? 
 Mis. Bar. Why, Goursey's son, confederate with this 
 
 boy, 
 
 This wretch unnatural and undutiful, 
 Seeks hence to steal my daughter : will you suffer it ?
 
 SCENE II.] OF ABINGTON. 153 
 
 Shall he, that's son to my arch-enemy, 
 Enjoy her ? Have I brought her up to this ? 
 
 God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. I am sorry she knows it. \Aside^\ Hark 
 
 ye, wife, 
 
 Let reason moderate your rage a little. 
 If you examine but his birth and living, 
 His wit and good behaviour, you will say, 
 Though that ill-hate make your opinion bad, 
 He doth deserve as good a wife as she. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy 
 
 her? 
 Mast. Bar. Ay, so that thy mind would agree with 
 
 mine. 
 
 Mis. Bar. My mind shall ne'er agree to this agree- 
 ment. 
 
 Enter Mistress GOURSEY and COOMES. 
 
 Mast. Bar. And yet it shall go forward : but who's 
 
 here ? 
 
 What, Mistress Goursey ! how knew she of this ? 
 Phil. Frank, thy mother ! 
 Fran. 'Sowns, where ? a plague upon it ! 
 
 1 think the devil is set to cross this match. 
 
 Mis. Gour. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and 
 
 yonder's th' light : 
 
 Let us go near. How now ? methinks I see 
 My son stand hand in hand with Barnes's daughter. 
 Why, how now, sirrah ? is this time of night 
 For you to be abroad ? what have we here ? 
 I hope that love hath not thus coupled you. 
 
 Fran. Love, by my troth, mother, love : she loves me, 
 And I love her ; then we must needs agree. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Ay, but I'll keep her sure enough from 
 thee. 
 
 Mis Gour. It shall no need, I'll keep him safe enough ; 
 Be sure he shall not graft in such a stock.
 
 154 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT HI. 
 
 Mis. Bar. What stock, forsooth ? as good a stock as 
 
 thine : 
 I do not mean that he shall graft in mine. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Nor shall he, mistress. Hark, boy ; th'art 
 
 but mad 
 To love the branch that hath a root so bad. 
 
 Fran. Then, mother, I will graft a pippin on a crab. 
 
 Mis. Gour. It will not prove well. 
 
 Fran. But I will prove my skill. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Sir, but you shall not. 
 
 Fran. Mothers both, I will. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Hark, Philip : send away thy sister 
 
 straight ; 
 
 Let Francis meet her where thou shalt appoint ; 
 Let them go several l to shun suspicion, 
 And bid. them go to Oxford both this night ; 
 There to-morrow say that we will meet them, 
 And there determine 6f their marriage. [Aside. 
 
 Phil. I will : though it be very late and dark, 
 My sister will endure it for a husband. [Aside. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Well, then, at Carfax,'- boy, I mean to 
 meet them. [Aside: 
 
 Phil. Enough. [Exit Master BARNES. 
 
 Would they would begin to chide ! 
 For I would have them brawling, that meanwhile 
 They may steal hence, to meet where I appoint it. [Aside. 
 What, mother, will you let this match go forward ? 
 Or, Mistress Goursey, will you first agree ? 
 Mis. Gour. Shall I agree first ? 
 Phil. Ay, why not ? come, come. 
 Mis. Gour. Come from her, son, and if thou lov'st thy 
 
 mother. 
 Mis. Bar, With the like spell, daughter, I conjure 
 
 thee. 
 Mis. Gour. Francis, by fair means let me win thee 
 
 from her, 
 1 Separately. 2 A well-known part of Oxford.
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 155 
 
 And I will gild my blessing, gentle son, 
 With store of angels. I would not have thee 
 Check thy good fortune by this cos'ning choice : 
 O, do not thrall thy happy liberty 
 In such a bondage ! if thou'lt needs be bound, 
 Be then to better worth ; this worthless choice 
 Is not fit for thee. 
 Mis. Bar. Is't not fit for him ? wherefore is't not 
 
 fit? 
 
 Is he too brave 1 a gentleman, I pray ? 
 No, 'tis not fit ; she shall not fit his turn : 
 If she were wise, she would be fitter for 
 Three times his better. Minion, go in, or I'll make 
 
 ye; 
 
 I'll keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye. 
 Mis. Gout: Come, Francis, come from her. 
 Fran. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from 
 
 love, 
 
 That like an ill-companion would infect 
 The infant mind of our affection : 
 Within this cradle shall this minute's babe 
 Be laid to rest ; and thus I'll hug my joy. 
 Mis. Gour. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou self-willed 
 
 boy? 
 Nay, then, perforce I'll part ye, since ye will not. 
 
 Coomes. Do ye hear, mistress ? pray ye give me leave 
 to talk two or three cold words with my young master. 
 Hark ye, sir, ye are my master's son, and so forth ; and 
 indeed I bear ye some good-will, partly for his sake, 
 and partly for your own ; and I do hope you do the 
 like to me, I should be sorry else. I must needs say 
 ye are a young man ; and for mine own part, I have 
 seen the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and 
 the experience that I have, I thank God I have travelled 
 for it. 
 
 Fran. Why, how far have ye travelled for it ? 
 
 1 i.e. Fine.
 
 156 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 Boy. From my master's house to the ale-house. 
 
 Coomes. How, sir? 
 
 Boy. So, sir. 
 
 Coomes. Go to. I pray, correct your boy ; 'twas ne'er 
 a good world, since a boy would face a man so. 
 
 Fran. Go to. Forward, man. 
 
 Coomes. Well, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to 
 marry without my mistress' consent. 
 
 Fran. And why ? 
 
 Coomes. Nay, there's ne'er a why but there is a where- 
 fore ; I have known some have done the like, and they 
 have danced a galliard l at beggars'-bush 2 for it. 
 
 Boy. At beggars'-bush ! Hear him no more, master ; 
 he doth bedaub ye with his dirty speech. -Do ye hear, 
 sir? how far stands beggars'-bush from your father's 
 house, sir ? Why, thou whoreson refuge 3 of a tailor, 
 that wert 'prentice to a tailor half an age, and because, if 
 'thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst prove but a 
 botcher, thou leapst from the shop-board to a blue 
 coat, doth it become thee to use thy terms so ? well, 
 thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees 
 under a page, sew up your lubber lips, or 'tis not your 
 sword and buckler shall keep my poniard from your 
 breast. 
 
 Coomes. Do ye hear, sir ? this is your boy. 
 
 Fran. How then ? 
 
 Coomes. You must breech him for it. 
 
 Fran. Must I ? how, if I will not ? 
 
 Coomes. Why, then, 'tis a fine world, when boys keep 
 boys, and know not how to use them. 
 
 Fran. Boy, ye rascal ! 
 
 Mis. Gour. Strike him, an thou darest. 
 
 1 Described by Sir John Davies in his Orchestra as "a gallant 
 dance . . . with lofty turns and capriols in the air." 
 
 - A common proverbial expression : " Beggars'-bush being a tree 
 notoriously known, on the left-hand of the London road, from 
 Huntingdon to Caxton." Hazlitt's Proverbs. 
 
 a i.e. Refuse.
 
 SCENE II.] OF ABINGTON. 157 
 
 Coomes. Strike me? alas, he were better strike his 
 father ! 'Sowns, go to, put up your bodkin. 1 
 
 Fran. Mother, stand by ; I'll teach that rascal 
 
 Coomes. Go to, give me good words, or by God's 
 dines, 2 I'll buckle ye for all your bird-spit. 
 
 Fran. Will you so, sir ? 
 
 Phil. Stay, Frank, this pitch of frenzy will defile thee ; 
 Meddle not with it : thy unreproved valour 
 Should be high-minded ; couch it not so low. 
 Dost hear me ? take occasion to slip hence, 
 But secretly, let not thy mother see thee : 
 At the back-side there is a coney-green; 3 
 Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. 
 
 : [Aside. 
 
 Fran. Enough, I will [Aside.] Mother, you do me 
 
 wrong 
 
 To be so peremptory in your command, 
 And see that rascal to abuse me so. 
 
 Coomes. Rascal ! take that and take all ! Do ye hear, 
 sir ? I do not mean to pocket up this wrong. 
 
 Boy. I know why that is. 
 
 Coomes. Why ? 
 
 Boy, Because you have ne'er a pocket. 
 
 Coomes. A whip, sirrah', a whip ! But, sir, provide 
 your tools against to-morrow morning; 'tis somewhat 
 dark now, indeed : you know Dawson's close, between 
 the hedge and the pond ; 'tis good even ground ; I'll 
 meet you there ; an I do not, call me cut ; 4 an you be a 
 man, show yourself a man ; we'll have a bout or two ; 
 and so we'll part for that present. 
 
 Fran. Well, sir, well. 
 
 Nich. Boy, have they appointed to fight? 
 
 Boy. Ay, Nicholas ; wilt not thoa go see the fray ? 
 
 1 A common term for a small dagger, bjt here seemingly used in 
 contempt. 
 
 2 The origin of this corrupted oath is, I believe, unknown. Dyce. 
 
 3 Rabbit-burrow. 
 
 4 i.e. Call me horse. A term of content.
 
 i $8 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 Nich. No, indeed ; even as they brew, so let them 
 bake. I will not thrust ray hand into the flame, an I 
 need not ; 'tis not good to have an oar in another man's 
 boat ; little said is soon amended, and in little meddling 
 cometh great rest ; 'tis good sleeping in a whole skin ; so 
 a man might come home by Weeping-Cross ; l no, by lady, 
 a friend 'is not so soon gotten as lost ; blessed are the 
 peace-makers ; they that strike with the sword, shall be 
 beaten with the scabbard. 
 
 Phil. Well-said, Proverbs : ne'er another to that pur- 
 pose? 
 
 Nich. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is 
 a good reed. 2 
 
 Phii. Why to me, take heed ? 
 
 Nich. For happy is he whom other men's harms do 
 make to beware. 
 
 Phil. O, beware, Frank ! Slip away, Mall, you know 
 what I told ye. I'll hold our mothers both in talk 
 meanwhile. [&?&.] Mother and Mistress Goursey, me- 
 thinks you should not stand in hatred so hard with one 
 another. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a 
 
 harlot, 
 That robs me of my right, vile boy ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. That title I return unto thy teeth, 
 
 \Exeunl FRANCIS and MALL. 
 And spit the name of harlot in thy face. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Well, 'tis not time of night to hold out 
 
 chat 
 
 With such a scold as thou art ; therefore now 
 Think that I hate thee, as I do the devil. 
 
 Mis. Gour. The devil take thee, if thou dost not, 
 wretch ! 
 
 Mis. Bar. Out upon thee, strumpet ! 
 
 1 A not uncommon proverbial expression. Nares mentions three 
 places which still retain the name one between Oxford and Ban- 
 bury, another close to Stafford, the third near Shrewsbury. Dyce. 
 
 2 i.e. Counsel.
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 
 
 159 
 
 Mis. Gour. Out upon thee, harlot ! 
 
 Mis. Bar. Well, I will find a time to be revenged : 
 Meantime I'll keep my daughter from thy son. 
 Where are ye, minion ? how now, are ye gone ? 
 
 Phil. She went in, mother. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Francis, where are ye ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. He is not here. O, then, they slipped 
 
 away, 
 And both together ! 
 
 Phil. I'll assure ye, no : 
 My sister she went in into the house. 
 
 Mis. Bar. But then she'll out again at the back 
 
 door, 
 
 And meet with him : but I will search about 
 All these same fields and paths near to my house ; 
 They are not far, I am sure, if I make haste. [Exit. 
 
 Mis. Gour. O God, how went he hence, I did not see 
 
 him? 
 
 It was when Barnes's wife did scold with me : 
 A plague on her ! Dick, why didst not thou look to 
 him? 
 
 Coomes. What should I look for him ? no, no, 
 I look not for him while : to-morrow morning. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Come, go with me to help me look him 
 
 out. 
 
 Alas ! I have nor light, nor link, nor torch ! 
 Though it be dark, I will take any pains 
 To cross this match. I prithee, Dick, away. 
 
 Coomes. Mistress, because I brought ye out, I'll bring 
 ye home ; but, if I should follow, so he might have the 
 law on his side. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Come, 'tis no matter; prythee, go with 
 me. \Exeunt Mis. GOURSEY and COOMES. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Philip, thy mother's gone to seek thy 
 
 sister, 
 And in a rage, i'faith : but who comes here ? 
 
 > i.e. Till.
 
 160 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT in. 
 
 Phil. Old Master Goursey, as I think, 'tis he. 
 Mast. Bar. 'Tis so, indeed. 
 
 Enter Master GOURSEY and HODGE. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Who's there ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. A friend of yours. 
 
 Mast. Gour. What, Master Barnes ! did ye not see 
 my wife ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Yes, sir, I saw her; she was here even 
 now. 
 
 Mast. Gour. I doubted that ; that made me come 
 
 unto you : 
 But whither is she gone ? 
 
 Phil. To seek your son, who slipped away from her 
 To meet with Mall my sister in a place, 
 Where I appointed ; and my mother too 
 Seeks for my sister ; so they both are gone : 
 My mother hath a torch ; marry, your wife 
 Goes darkling up and down, and Coomes before her. 
 
 Mast. Gour. I thought that knave was with her ; but 
 
 'tis well : 
 
 I pray God, they may come by ne'er a light, 
 But both be led a dark dance in the night ! 
 
 Hod. Why, is my fellow, Dick, in the dark with my 
 mistress ? I pray God, they be honest, for there may be 
 much knavery in the dark : faith, if I were there, I would 
 have some knavery with them. {Aside.~\ Good master, 
 will ye carry the torch yourself, and give me leave to 
 play at blindman-buff with my mistress. 
 
 Phil. On that condition thou wilt do thy best 
 To keep thy mistress and thy fellow, Dick, 
 Both from my sister and thy master's son, 
 I will entreat thy master let thee go. 
 
 Hod. O, ay, I warrant ye, I'll have fine tricks to 
 cosen them. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Well, sir, then, go jour wajs ; I give you 
 leave.
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 161 
 
 Hod. O brave ! but whereabout are they ? 
 
 Phil. About our coney-green they surely are, 
 If thou canst find them. 
 
 Hod. O let me alone to grope for cunnies. [Exit. 
 
 Phil. Well, now will I to Frank and to my sister. 
 Stand you two hearkening near the coney-green ; 
 But sure your light in you must not be seen; 
 Or else let Nicholas stand afar off with it, 
 And as his life keep it from Mistress Goursey. 
 Shall this be done ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Philip, it shall. 
 
 Phil. God be with ye ! I'll be gone. [Exit. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Come on, Master Goursey : this same is a 
 
 means 
 To make our wives friends, if they resist not. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Tut, sir, howsoever, it shall go fonvard. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Come, then, let's do as Philip hath advised. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Nero.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. In the Warren. 
 
 Enter MALL. 
 
 ALI . Here is the place where Philip 
 bade me stay, 
 
 Till Francis came ; but wherefore did 
 my brother 
 
 Appoint it here? why in the coney- 
 He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye. [burrow ? 
 Well, here I'll set me down under this tree, 
 And think upon the matter all alone. 
 Good Lord, what pretty things these conies are ! 
 How finely they do feed till they be fat, 
 And then what a sweet meat a coney is ! 
 And what smooth skins they have, both black and 
 
 gray! 
 
 They say they run more in the night than day : 
 What is the reason? mark; why in the light 
 They see more passengers than in the night ; 
 For harmful men many a hay l do set, 
 And laugh to" see them tumble in the net ; 
 And they put ferrets in the holes fie, fie ! 
 And they go up and down where conies lie ; 
 And they lie still, they have so little wit : 
 
 1 A net for catching rabbits usually stretched before their holes. 
 Dyce.
 
 SC. I.] TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON. 163 
 
 I marvel the warrener will suffer it ; 
 Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves 
 Do give consent to catch these pretty elves. 
 How if the warrener should spy me here ? 
 He would take me for a coney, I dare swear. 
 But when that Francis comes, what will he say ? 
 " Look, boy, there lies a coney in my way ! " 
 But, soft, a light ! who's that ? soul, my mother ! 
 Nay, then, all-hid : l i'faith, she shall not see me ; 
 I'll play bo-peep with her behind this tree. 
 
 Enter Mistress BARNES. 
 
 Mis. Bar. I marvel where this wench doth hide her- 
 self 
 So closely ; I have searched in many a bush. 
 
 Mall. Belike my mother took me for a thrush. [Aside. 
 Mis. Bar. She's hid in this same warren, I'll lay 
 
 money. 
 Mall. Close as a rabbit-sucker 2 from an old coney. 
 
 \Aside. 
 Mis. Bar. O God, I would to God that I could find 
 
 her! 
 I would keep her from her love's toys yet. 
 
 Mall. Ay, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Mis. Bar. What a vile girl 'tis, that would hav't so 
 
 young ! 
 
 Mall. A murrain take that dissembling tongue ! 
 Ere your calf's teeth 3 were out, you thought it long. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Mis. Bar. But, minion, yet I'll keep you from the 
 
 man. 
 
 Mall. To save a lie, mother, say, if you can. [Aside. 
 Mis. Bar. Well, now to look for her. 
 
 1 The game of hide and seek. 2 A sucking, or young rabbit. 
 3 First teeth. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 Mall. Ay, there's the spite : 
 What trick shall I now have to 'scape her light ? \Aside. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Who's there ? what, minion, is it you ? 
 Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to ! 
 But I am glad I found her, though I was afraid. \Aside. 
 Come on your ways ; you are a handsome maid ! 
 Why steal you forth a-doors so late at night ? 
 Why, whither go ye ? come, stand still, I say. 
 
 Mall. No, indeed, mother ! this is my best way. 
 
 Mis. Bar. 'Tis not the best way ; stand by me, I tell 
 ye. 
 
 Mall. No ; you would catch me, mother. O, I smell 
 
 ye! 
 
 Mis. .Bar. Will ye not stand still ? 
 Mall. No, by lady, no. 
 Mis. Bar. But I will make ye, 
 Mall. Nay, then, trip-and-go. 
 Mis. Bar. Mistress, I'll make ye weary, ere I have 
 
 done. 
 
 Mall. Faith, mother, then, I'll try how you can run. 
 Mis. Bar. Will ye? 
 Mall. Yes, faith. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter FRANCIS and Boy. 
 
 Fran. Mall, sweet-heart, Mall ! what, not a word ? 
 
 Boy. A little farther, master ; call again. 
 
 Fran. Why, Mall ! I prythee, speak ; why, Mall, I say ! 
 I know thou art not far, if .thou wilt speak ; 
 Why, Mall ! 
 
 But now I see she's in her merry vein, 
 To make me call, and put me to more pain. 
 Well, I must bear with her ; she'll bear with me : 
 But I will call, lest that it be not so. 
 What, Mall ! what, Mall, I say ! Boy, we are right ? 
 Have we not missed the way this same dark night ? 
 
 Boy. Mass, it may be so : as I am true man, 
 I have not seen a coney since I came ;
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 165 
 
 Yet at the coney-burrow we should meet. 
 But, hark ! I hear the trampling of some feet. 
 
 Fran, It may be so, then ; therefore, let's lie close. 
 
 Enter Mistress GOURSEY and COOMES. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Where art thou, Dick ? 
 
 Coomes. Where am I, quoth-a ! marry, I may be where 
 anybody will say I am ! either in France or at Rome, or 
 at Jerusalem, they may say I am, for I am not able to 
 disprove them, because I cannot tell where I am. 
 
 Mis. Gour. O, what a blindfold walk have we had, 
 
 Dick, 
 To seek my son ! and yet I cannot find him. 
 
 Coomes. Why, then, mistress, let's go home. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, 'tis so dark we shall not find the 
 way. 
 
 Fran. I pray God, ye may not, mother, till it be day ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Coomes. 'Sblood, take heed, mistress, here's a tree. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Lead thou the way, and let me hold by 
 thee. 
 
 Boy. Dick Coomes, what difference is there between a 
 blind man and he that cannot see ? 
 
 Fran. Peace, a pox on thee ! 
 
 Coomes. Swounds, somebody spake. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Dick, look about ; 
 It may be here we may find them out. 
 
 Coomes. I see the glimpse of somebody here. 
 An ye be a sprite, I'll fray the bugbear. 
 There a-goes, mistress. 
 
 Mis. Gour. O, sir, have I spied you ? 
 
 Fran. A plague on the boy ! t'was he that descried me. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter PHILIP. 
 
 Phil. How like a beauteous lady masked in black 
 Looks that same large circumference of Heaven !
 
 1 66 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 The sky, that was so fair three hours ago, 
 
 Is in three hours become an Ethiop ; 
 
 And being angry at her beauteous change, 
 
 She will not have one of those pearled stars 
 
 To blab her sable metamorphosis : 
 
 'Tis very dark. I did appoint my sister 
 
 To meet me at the coney-burrow below, 
 
 And Francis too ; but neither can I see. 
 
 Belike my mother happened on that place, 
 
 And frayed them from it, and they both are now 
 
 Wand'ring about the fields : how shall I find them ? 
 
 It is so dark, I scarce can see my hand : 
 
 Why, then, I'll halloo for them no, not so ; 
 
 So will his voice betray him to our mothers, 
 
 And if he answer, bring them where he is. 
 
 What shall I then do ? it must not be so 
 
 'Sblood, it must be so ; how else, I pray ? 
 
 Shall I stand gaping here all night till day,- 
 
 And then be ne'er the near ? 1 So ho, so ho ! 
 
 Enter WILL. 
 
 Will, So ho ! I come : where are ye ? where art thou ? 
 here ! 
 
 Phil. How now, Frank, where hast thou been ? 
 
 Will. Frank! what Frank ? sblood, is Sir Ralph mad? 
 [Aside.~\ Here's the bow. 
 
 Phil. I have not been much private with that voice : 
 Methinks Frank Goursey's talk and his doth tell me 
 I am mistaken ; especially by his bow ; 
 Frank had no bow. Well 1 will leave this fellow, 
 And halloo somewhat farther in the fields. [Aside. 
 
 Dost thou hear, fellow ? I perceive by thee 
 That we are both mistaken : I took thee 
 For one thou art not ; likewise thou took'st me 
 For Sir Ralph Smith, but sure I am not he : 
 
 1 i.e. Nearer.
 
 SCENE ii. J op AB1NGTON. 167 
 
 And so, farewell ; I must go seek my friend 
 
 Soho! [Exit. 
 
 Will. So ho, so ho ! nay, then, Sir Ralph, so whore ! 
 For a whore she was sure, if you had her here 
 So late. Now, you are Sir Ralph Smith, I know ! 
 Well do ye counterfeit and change your voice, 
 But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis ? 
 Belike that Francis cosened him of his wench, 
 And he conceals himself to find her out ; 
 Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go, 
 And help him ring his peal of so ho, so ho ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. Another part of the Warren. 
 
 Enter FRANCIS. 
 
 Fran. A plague on Coomes ! a plague upon the boy ! 
 A plague, too not on my mother for an hundred 
 
 pound ! 
 
 Twas time to run ; and yet I had not thought 
 My mother could have followed me so close; 
 Her legs with age I thought had foundered ; 
 She made me quite run through a quickset hedge, 
 Or she had taken me. Well, I may say, 
 I have run through the briars for a wench ; 
 And yet I have her not the worse luck mine. 
 Methought I heard one halloo hereabout ; 
 I judge it Philip ; O, the slave will laugh, 
 Whenas he hears how that my mother scared me ! 
 Well, here I'll stand until I hear him halloo, 
 And then I'll answer him ; he is not far. 
 
 Enter Sir RALPH SMITH. 
 
 Sir Ralph. My man is hallooing for me up and down, 
 And yet I cannot meet with him. So ho !
 
 i68 THE. TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT IV. 
 
 Fran. So ho ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. Why, what a pox, wert thou so near me, 
 
 man, 
 And would 'st not speak ? 
 
 Fran. 'Sblood, ye're very hot. 
 
 Sir Ralph. No, sir, I am cold enough with staying 
 
 here 
 For such a knave as you. 
 
 Fran. Knave ! how now, Philip ? 
 Art mad, art mad ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. Why, art thou not my man, 
 That went to fetch my bow ? 
 
 Fran. Indeed, a bow 
 
 Might shoot me ten bows down the weather so : 
 I your man ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. What art thou, then ? 
 
 Fran. A man : but what's thy name ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. Some call me Ralph. 
 
 Fran. Then, honest Ralph, farewell. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Well said, familiar Will ! Plain Ralph, i'faith. 
 [PHILIP and WILL shout within. 
 
 Fran. There calls my man. 
 
 Sir Ralph. But there goes mine away ; 
 And yet I'll hear what this next call will say, 
 And here I'll tarry, till he call again. [Retires. 
 
 Enter WILL. 
 
 Will. So ho ! 
 
 Fran. So ho ! where art thou, Philip ? 
 Will. 'Sblood, Philip ! 
 
 But now he called me Francis : this is fine. \_Aside. 
 
 Fran. Why studies! thou ? I prythee, tell me, Philip, 
 Where the wench is. 
 
 Will. Even now he asked me (Francis) for the wench, 
 And now he asks me (Philip) for the wench. [Aside. 
 Well, Sir Ralph, I must needs tell ye now,
 
 SCENE ii.] OF ABINGTON. 169 
 
 It is not for your credit to be forth 
 So late a-wenching in this order. 
 
 Fran. What's this ? so late a-wenching doth he say ? 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Indeed 'tis true I am thus late a-wenching, 
 But I am forced to wench without a wench. 
 
 Will. Why, then, you might have ta'en your bow at 
 
 first, 
 
 And gone and killed a buck, and not have been 
 So long a-drabbing, and be ne'er the near. 1 
 
 Fran. Swounds, what a puzzle am I in this night ! 
 But yet I'll put this fellow farther question. [Aside. 
 
 Dost thou hear, man ? I am not Sir Ralph Smith, 
 As thou dost think I am ; but I did meet him, 
 Even as thou sayest, in pursuit of a wench. 
 I met the wench too, and she asked for thee, 
 Saying 'twas thou that wert her love, her dear, 
 And that Sir Ralph was not an honest knight 
 To train her thither, and to use her so. 
 
 Will. 'Sblood, my wench ! swounds, were he ten Sir 
 Ralphs 
 
 Fran. Nay, 'tis true, look to it ; and so, farewell. [Exit 
 
 Will. Indeed, I do love Nan our dairymaid : 
 And hath he trained her forth to that intent, 
 Or for another? I carry his crossbow, 
 And he doth cross me, shooting in my bow. 
 What shall I do ? [Exit. 
 
 Enter PHILIP. 
 Phil. So ho ! 
 
 Sir Ralph [Advancing]. So ho ! 
 Phil. Francis, art thou there ? 
 Sir Ralph. No, here's no Francis. Art thou Will, my 
 
 man? 
 
 Phil. Will Fool your man, Will Goose your man ! 
 My back, sir, scorns to wear your livery. 
 1 i.e. Nearer.
 
 i?o THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv, 
 
 Sir Ralph. Nay, sir, I moved but such a question to 
 
 you, 
 
 And it hath not disparaged you, I hope ; 
 'Twas but mistaking ; such a night as this 
 May well deceive a man. God be w'ye, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Phil. God's will, 'tis Sir Ralph Smith, a virtuous 
 
 knight ! 
 
 How gently entertains he my hard answer ! 
 Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly : 
 I cry him mercy. Well, but all this while 
 I cannot find a Francis. Francis, ho ! 
 
 Re-enter WILL. 
 
 Will. Francis, ho ! O, you call Francis now ! 
 How have ye used my Nan ? come, tell me, how. 
 Phil. Thy Nan ! what Nan ? 
 Will. Ay, what Nan, now ! say, do you not seek a 
 
 wench ? 
 
 Phil. Yes, I do. 
 Will. Then, sir, that is she. 
 Phil. Art not thou-he I met withal before? 
 Will. Yes, sir ; and you did counterfeit before, 
 And said to me you were not Sir Ralph Smith. 
 
 Phil. No more I am not. I met Sir Ralph Smith ; 
 Even now he asked me, if I saw his man, 
 Will. O, fine ! 
 
 Phil. Why, sirrah, thou art much deceived in me : 
 Good faith, I am not he thou think'st I am. 
 Will. What are ye, then ? 
 
 Phil. Why, one that seeks one Francis and a wench. 
 Will. And Francis seeks one Philip and a wench. 
 Phil. How canst thou tell ? 
 Will. I met him seeking Philip and a wench. 
 As I was seeking Sir Ralph and a wench. 
 
 Phil. Why, then, I know the matter : we met cross, 
 And so we missed ; now here we find our loss.
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. , 7 , 
 
 Well, if thou wilt, we two will keep together, 
 And so we shall meet right with one or other. 
 
 Will. I am content : but, do you hear me, sir ? 
 Did not Sir Ralph Smith ask ye for a wench ? 
 
 Phil. No, I promise thee, nor did he look 
 For any but thyself, as I could guess. 
 
 Will. Why, this is strange : but come, sir, let's away : 
 I fear that we shall walk here, till't be day. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \\\.Open Fields. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. O God, I have run so far into the wind, that I 
 have run myself out of wind ! They say a man is near 
 his end, when he lacks breath; and I am at the end of 
 my race, for I can run no farther ; then here I be in my 
 breath-bed, not in my death-bed. {Exit. 
 
 Enter COOMES. 
 
 Coomes. They say men moil and toil for a poor living ; 
 so I moil and toil, and am living, I thank God; in good 
 time be it spoken. It had been better for me my 
 mistress's angel had been light, for then perhaps it had 
 not led me into this darkness. Well, the devil never 
 blesses a man better, when he purses up angels by owl- 
 light. I ran through a hedge to take the boy, but I 
 stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. [Falls.} 'Swounds, 
 a plague on that clod, that molehill, that ditch, or what 
 the devil so e'er it were, for a man cannot see what it 
 was ! Well, I would not, for the price of my sword and 
 buckler, anybody should see me in this taking, for it 
 would make me but cut off their legs for laughing at me. 
 Well, down I am, and down I mean to be, because I 
 am weary ; but to tumble down thus, it was no part of
 
 172 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT IV. 
 
 my meaning : then, since I am down, here I'll rest me, 
 and no man shall remove me. 
 
 Enter HODGE. 
 
 Hod. O, I have sport in coney, i'faith ! I have almost 
 burst myself with laughing at Mistress Barnes. She was 
 following of her daughter; and I, hearing her, put on 
 my fellow Dick's sword - and - buckler voice and his 
 swounds and sblood words, and led her such a dance 
 in the dark as it passes. 1 " Here she is," quoth I. 
 "Where?" quoth she. "Here," quoth I. O, it 
 hath been a brave here-and-there night ! but, O, what 
 a soft-natured thing the dirt is ! how it would endure 
 my hard treading, and kiss my feet for acquaintance ! 
 and how courteous and mannerly were the clods to 
 make me stumble only of purpose to entreat me lie 
 down and rest me ! But now, an I could find my 
 fellow Dick, I would play the knave with him honestly, 
 i'faith. Well, I will grope in the dark for him, or I'll 
 poke with my staff, like a blind man, to prevent a ditch. 
 [He stumbles on DICK COOMES. 
 
 Coomes. Who's that, with a pox ? 
 
 Hod. Who art thou, with a pestilence ? . 
 
 Coomes. Why, I am Dick Coomes. 
 
 Hod. What, have I found thee, Dick ? nay, then, I am 
 for ye, Dick. [Aside.'] Where are ye, Dick ? 
 
 Coomes. What can I tell, where I am ? 
 
 Hod. Can ye not tell ? come, come, ye wait on your 
 mistress well ! come on your ways ; I have sought you 
 till I am weary, and called ye, till I am hoarse : good 
 Lord, what a jaunt I have had this night, heigho ! 
 
 Coomes. Is't you, mistress, that came over me ? 
 'Sblood, 'twere a good deed to come over you for 
 this night's work. I cannot afford all this pains for an 
 angel : I tell ye true ; a kiss were not cast away upon a 
 good fellow, that hath deserved more that way than a 
 1 i.e. Excels.
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. 173 
 
 kiss, if your kindness would afford it him : what, shall I 
 have't, mistress ? 
 
 Hod. Fie, fie, I must not kiss my man. 
 
 Coomes. Nay, nay, ne'er stand; shall I, shall I? 
 nobody sees : say but I shall, and I'll smack it soundly, 
 i'faith. 
 
 Hod. Away, bawdy man ! in truth, I'll tell your 
 master. 
 
 Coomes. My master ! go to, ne'er tell me of my 
 master : he may pray for them that may, he is past it : 
 and for mine own part, I can do somewhat that way, I 
 thank God ; I am not now to learn, and 'tis your part to 
 have your wh&le desire. 
 
 Hod. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you : would you 
 tempt your mistress to lewdness ? 
 
 Coomes. To lewdness ! no, by my troth, there's no 
 such matter in't, it is for kindness ; and, by my troth, if 
 you like my gentle offer, you shall have what courteously 
 I can afford ye. 
 
 Hod. Shall I indeed, Dick? I'faith, if I thought 
 nobody would see 
 
 Coomes. Tush, fear not that ; swoons, they must have 
 cats' eyes, then. 
 
 Hod. Then, kiss me, Dick. 
 
 Coomes. A kind wench, i'faith ! {Aside.} Where are 
 ye, mistress ? 
 
 Hod. Here, Dick. O, I am in Lie dark! Dick, go 
 about. 
 
 Coomes. Nay, I'll throw l sure : where are ye ? 
 
 Hod. Here. 
 
 Coomes. A plague on this post ! I would the carpenter 
 had been hanged, that set it up, for me. Where are ye 
 now? 
 
 Hod. Here. 
 
 Coomes. Here ! O, I come. [Exit.} A plague on it, 
 I am in a pond, mistress ! 
 
 1 The second edit, has "grope."
 
 174 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 Hod. Ha, ha ! I have led him into a pond. Where 
 art thou, Dick? 
 
 Coomes [ Withui\. Up to the middle in a pond ! 
 
 Hod. Make a boat of thy buckler, then, and swim out. 
 Are ye so hot, with a pox ? would you kiss my mistress ? 
 cool ye there, then, good Dick Coomes. O, when he 
 comes forth, the skirts of his blue coat will drop like a 
 pent-house ! O, that I could see, and not be seen ; how 
 he would spaniel it, and shake himself, when he comes 
 out of the pond ! But I'll be gone ; for now he'll fight 
 with a fly, if he but buzz in his ear. {Exit. 
 
 Re-enter COOMES. 
 
 Coomes. Here's so-ho-ing with a plague ! so hang, an 
 ye will ; for I have been almost drowned. A pox of your 
 stones, 1 an ye call this kissing ! Ye talk of a drowned 
 rat, but 'twas time to swim like a dog ; I had been served 
 like a drowned cat else. I would he had digged his 
 grave that digged the pond ! my feet were foul indeed, 
 but a less pail than a pond would have served my turn 
 to wash them. A man shall be served thus always 
 when he follows any of these females : but 'tis my kind 
 heart that makes me thus forward in kindness unto 
 them : well, God amend them, and make them thankful 
 to them that would do them pleasure. I am not drunk, 
 I would ye should well know it ; and yet I have druuk 
 more than will do me good, for I might have had a 
 pump set up with as good March beer as this was, and 
 ne'er set up an ale-bush for the matter. Well, I am 
 somewhat in wrath, I must needs say ; and yet I am not 
 more angry than wise, nor more wise than angry ; but 
 I'll fight with the next man I meet, an it be but for 
 luck's sake ; and if he love to see himself hurt, let him 
 bring light with him ; I'll do it by darkling else, by God's 
 dines. Well, here will I walk, whosoever says nay. 
 
 1 The second edit, has "lips."
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. 
 
 175 
 
 Enter NICHOLAS. 
 
 Nick. He that worse may, must hold the candle ; but 
 my master is not so wise as God might have made him. 
 He is gone to seek a hare in a hen's nest, a needle in a 
 bottle of hay, which is as seldom seen as a black swan : 
 he is gone to seek my young mistress ; and I think she 
 is better lost than found, for whosoever hath her hath 
 but a, wet eel by the tail. But they may do as they list ; 
 the law is in their own hands; but an they would be 
 ruled by me, they should set her on the lee-land, and bid 
 the devil split her ; beshrew her fingers, she hath made 
 me watch past mine hour ; but I'll watch her a good 
 turn for it. 
 
 Coomes. How, who's that ? Nicholas ! So, first come, 
 first served; I am for him [Aside.']. How now, Proverb, 
 Proverb ? 'sblood, how now, Proverb ? 
 
 Nich. My name is Nicholas, Richard ; and I know 
 your meaning, and I hope ye mean no harm. I thank 
 ye : I am the better for your asking. 
 
 Coomes. Where have ye been a-whoring thus late, ha ? 
 
 Nich. Master Richard, the good wife would not seek 
 her daughter in the oven, unless she had been there 
 herself: but, good Lord, you are knuckle-deep in dirt ! 
 I warrant, when he was in, he swore Walsirigham, 1 and 
 chafed terrible for the time [Aside,] Look, the water 
 drops from you as fast as hops. 
 
 Coomes. What need'st thou to care, whip-her-jenny, 2 
 tripe-cheeks ? out, you fat ass ! 
 
 Nich. Good words cost nought : ill words corrupt good 
 manners, Richard ; for a hasty man never wants woe. 
 And I had thought you had been my friend ; but I see 
 all is not gold that glitters; there's falsehood in fellow- 
 ship; amicus cert us in re certa cernitur ; time and truth 
 
 1 Perhaps swore by our Lady of Walsingham, in Norfolk. Dyce. 
 
 2 The name of a game at cards, though -used here as a term of 
 reproach.
 
 176 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 tries all ; and 'tis an old proverb, and not so old as true, 
 bought wit is the best ; I can see day at a little hole ; I 
 know your mind as well as though I were within you ; 
 'tis ill halting before a cripple : go to, you seek to 
 quarrel ; but beware of had I wist; l so long goes the 
 pot to the water, at length it comes home broken; I 
 know you are as good a man as ever drew sword, or as 
 was e'er girt in a girdle, or as e'er went on neat's leather, 
 or as one shall see on a summer's day, or as e'er looked 
 man in the face, or as e'er trod on God's earth, or as e'er 
 broke bread or drunk drink ; but he is proper that hath 
 proper conditions; 2 but be not you like the cow, that 
 gives a good sop of milk, and casts it down with her 
 heels ; I speak plainly, for plain-dealing is a jewel, and 
 he that useth it shall die a beggar ; well, that happens in 
 an hour that happens not in seven years ; a man is not 
 so soon whole as hurt ; an you should kill a man, you 
 would kiss his well, I say little, but I think the more. 
 Yet I'll give him good words ; 'tis good to hold the 
 candle before the devil ; yet, by God's dines, I'll take no 
 wrong, if he had a head as big as Brass, 3 or looked as 
 high as Paul's steeple. [Aside. 
 
 Coomes, Sirrah, thou grasshoper, that shalt skip from 
 my sword as from a scythe ; I'll cut thee out in collops 
 and eggs, in steaks, in sliced beef, and fry thee with the 
 fire I shall strike from the pike of thy buckler. 
 
 Nich. Ay, Brag's a good dog ; threatened folks live long. 
 
 Coomes. What say ye, sir ? 
 
 Nich. Why, I say not so much as, How do ye ? 
 
 Coomes. Do ye not so, sir ? 
 
 Nich. No, indeed, whatsoe'er I think ; and thought is 
 free. 
 
 Coomes. You whoreson wafer-cake, by God's dines, I'll 
 crush ye for this ! 
 
 1 i.e. Had I known the consequences : a common proverbial ex- 
 pression of repentance. 
 
 2 Disposition. 
 
 3 Probably a proverbial allusion to the famous Brazen- head.
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. 177 
 
 Nich. Give an inch, and you'll take an ell ; I will not 
 put my finger in a hole, I warrant ye : what, man ! ne'er 
 crow so fast, for a blind man may kill a hare ; I have 
 known when a plain fellow hath hurt a fencer, so I have : 
 what ! a man may be as slow as a snail, but as fierce as 
 a lion, an he be moved ; indeed, I am patient, I must 
 needs say, for patience in adversity brings a man to the 
 Three Cranes in the Vintry. 
 
 Coomes. Do ye hear? set down your torch; draw, 
 fight, I am for ye. 
 
 Nich. And I am for ye too, though it be from this 
 midnight to the next morn. 
 
 Coomes. Where be your tools ? 
 
 Nich. Within a mile of an oak, sir ; he's a proud horse 
 will not carry his own provender, I warrant ye. 
 
 Coomes. Now am I in my quarrelling humour, and now 
 can I say nothing but, zounds, draw ! but I'll untruss, 
 and then have to it [Aside. 
 
 Re-enter severally HODGE and Boy. 
 
 Hod. Who's there ? boy ! honest boy, well-met : where 
 hast thou been ? 
 
 Boy. O Hodge, Dick Coomes hath been as good as a 
 cry of hounds, to make a breathed hare of me ! but did'st 
 thou see my master? 
 
 Hod. I met him even now, and he asked me for thee, 
 and he is gone up and down, whooing like an owl for 
 thee. 
 
 Boy. Owl, ye ass ! 
 
 Hod. Ass ! no, nor glass, for then it had been Owl- 
 glass : * but who's that, boy ? 
 
 Boy. By the mass, 'tis our Coomes and Nicholas ; and 
 it seems they are providing to fight. 
 
 Hod. Then we shall have fine sport, i' jaith. Sirrah, 
 
 1 Owlglass, the hero of a popular German jest-book (" Eulen- 
 spiegel,") which was translated into English at a very early period, 
 was a Saxon buffoon. 
 
 Nero. N
 
 1 78 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 let's stand close, and when they have fought a bout or 
 two, we'll run away with the torch, and leave them to 
 fight darkling, shall we ? 
 
 Boy. Content ; I'll get the torch : stand close. 
 Coomes. So now my back hath room to reach : I do 
 not love to be laced in, when I go to lace a rascal. I 
 pray God, Nicholas prove not a fly : l it would do me 
 good to deal with a good man now, that we might have 
 half-a-dozen good smart strokes. Ha, I have seen the 
 day I could have danced in my fight, one, two, three, 
 four, and five, on the head of him ; six, seven, eight, nine, 
 and ten on the sides of him ; and, if I went so far as 
 fifteen, I warrant I showed him atrickofone-and-twenty; 
 but I have not fought this four days, and I lack a little 
 practice of my ward ; but I shall make a shift : ha, close 
 [Aside], Are ye disposed, sir ? 
 
 Nich. Yes, indeed, I fear no colours : change sides, 
 Richard. 
 
 Coomes. Change the gallows ! I'll see thee hanged first. 
 Nich. Well, I see the fool will not leave his bauble for 
 the Tower of London. 
 
 Coomes. Fool, ye rogue ! nay, then, fall to it. 
 Nich. Good goose, bite not. 
 
 Coomes. 'Sblood, how pursy I am Well, I see exercise 
 is all ! I must practise my weapons oftener ; I must have 
 a goal or two at foot-ball, before I come to my right kind 
 [Aside]. Give me thy hand, Nicholas : thou art a better 
 man than I took thee for, and yet thou a'rt not so good a 
 man as I. 
 
 Nich. You dwell by ill-neighbours, Richard ; that 
 makes ye praise yourself. 
 
 Coomes. Why, I hope thou wilt say I am a man ? 
 Nich. Yes, I'll say so, if I should see ye hanged. 
 Coomes. Hanged, ye rogue ! nay, then, have at ye. 
 [ While they fight, exeunt HODGE and Boy with the torch .] 
 Zounds, the light is gone ! 
 
 1 First 410. "Silly."
 
 SCENE TIL] OF ABINGTON. , 79 
 
 Nich. O Lord, it is as dark as pitch ! 
 
 Coomes. Well, here I'll lie with my buckler thus, lest 
 striking up and down at randall l the rogue might hurt 
 me, for I cannot see to save it, and I hold my peace, lest 
 my voice should bring him where I am. [Stands aside. 
 
 Nich. Tis good to have a cloak for the rain ; a bad 
 shift is better than none at all ; I'll sit here, as if I were 
 as dead as a door-nail. [Stands aside. 
 
 Enter Master BARNES and Master GOURSEY. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Hark ! there's one hallooes. 
 
 Mast. Barnes. And there's another. 
 
 Mast. Gour. And everywhere we come, I hear some 
 
 halloo, 
 And yet it is our haps to meet with none. 
 
 Mast. Bar. I marvel where your Hodge is and my 
 man. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Ay, and our wives ? we cannot meet with 
 
 them, 
 
 Nor with the boy, nor Mall, nor Frank, nor. Philip, 
 Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we ne'er stood still. 
 Well, I am very angry with my wife, 
 And she shall find I am not pleased with her, 
 If we meet ne'er so soon : but 'tis my hope 
 She hath had as blind a journey on't as we ; 
 Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be ! . 
 . Mast. Bar. This is but short-lived envy, 2 Master 
 
 Goursey : 
 But, come, what say ye to my policy ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. I' faith, 'tis good, and we will practise it ; 
 But, sir, it must be handled cunningly, 
 Or all is marred ; our wives have subtle heads, 
 And they will soon perceive a drift device. 
 
 1 Random. 2 i.e. Ill-will. 
 
 X 2
 
 i8o THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 Enter Sir RALPH SMITH. 
 
 Sir Ralph. So ho ! 
 
 Mast. Gour. So ho ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. Who there ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Here's one or two. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Is Will there ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. No, Philip ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. Frank ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. No, no. 
 Was ever man deluded thus like me ? 
 I think some spirit leads me thus amiss, 
 As I have often heard that some have been 
 Thus in the nights. 
 
 But yet this mazes me ; where'er I come, 
 Some asks me still for Frank or Philip, 
 And none of them can tell me where Will is. [Aside. 
 
 Will. So ho! 
 
 Phil. So ho ! 
 
 Hod. So ho ! 
 Boy. So ho ! {They halloo within. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Zounds, now I hear four halloo at the 
 
 least ! 
 
 One had a little voice ; then, that's the wench 
 My man hath lost : well, I will answer all. [Aside. 
 
 So ho ! 
 
 Re-enter HODGE. 
 
 Hod. Whoop, whoop ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. Who's there? Will? 
 
 Hod. No, sir ; honest Hodge : but, I pray ye, sir, did 
 ye not meet with a boy with a torch ? he is run away from 
 me, a plague on him ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. Heyday, from Frank and Philip to a torch, 
 
 And to a boy ! nay, zounds, then hap as 'twill. [Aside. 
 
 \Exeunt Sir RALPH and HODGE severally. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Who goes there ?
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. 181 
 
 Enter WILL. 
 
 Will. Guess here. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Philip ? 
 
 Will. Philip ! no, faith ; my name's Will ill-Will, for 
 I was never worse : I was even now with him, and might 
 have been still, but that I fell into a ditch and lost him, 
 and now I am going up and down to seek him. . 
 
 Mast. Gour. What would'st thou do with him ? 
 
 Will. Why, I would have him go with me to my 
 master's. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Who's thy master ? 
 
 Will. Why, Sir Ralph Smith ; and thither he promised 
 me he would come ; if he keep his word, so 'tis. 
 
 Mast. Bar. What was a doing, when thou first found'st 
 him? 
 
 Will. Why, he hallooed for one Francis, and Francis 
 hallooed for him ; I hallooed for my master, and my 
 master for me; but we* missed still, meeting contrary, 
 Philip and Francis with me and my master, and I and 
 my master with Philip and Frank. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Why, wherefore is Sir Ralph so late 
 abroad ? 
 
 Will. Why, he meant to kill a buck ; I'll say so to 
 save his honesty, but my Nan was his mark [Aside\. 
 And he sent me for his bow, and when I came, I hallooed 
 for him ; but I never saw such luck to miss him ; it hath 
 almost made me mad. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Well, stay with us ; perhaps Sir Ralph and 
 he will come anon : hark ! I do hear one halloo. 
 
 Enter PHILIP. 
 
 Phil. Is this broad waking in a winter's night ? 
 I am broad walking in a winter's night 
 Broad indeed, because I am abroad 
 But these broad fields, methinks, are not so broad 
 That they may keep me forth of narrow ditches.
 
 1 82 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT iv. 
 
 Here's a hard world ! 
 
 For I can hardly keep myself upright in it : 
 
 I am marvellous dutiful but, so ho ! 
 
 Will So ho ! 
 
 Phil Who's there? 
 
 Will Here's Will. 
 . Phil What, Will ! how scap'st thou ? 
 
 Witt. What, sir? 
 
 Phil Nay, not hanging, but drowning : wert thou in a 
 pond or a ditch ? 
 
 Will A pestilence on it ! is't you, Philip ? no, faith, I 
 was but dirty a little : but here's one or two asked for ye. 
 
 Phil Who be they, man ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Philip, 'tis I and Master Goursey. 
 
 Phil Father, O father, I have heard them say 
 The days of ignorance are passed and done ; 
 But I am sure the nights of ignorance 
 Are not yet passed, for this is one of them. 
 But where's my sister ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. Why, we cannot tell. 
 
 Phil Where's Francis ? 
 
 Mast. Gonr. Neither saw we him. 
 
 Phil Why, this is fine. 
 What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you, 
 Nor I nor she, nor you and I, till now, 
 Can meet, could meet, or e'er, I think, shall meet ! . 
 Call ye this wooing ? no, 'tis Christmas sport 
 Of Hob-man-blind, 1 all blind, all seek to catch, 
 All miss but who comes here ? 
 
 Enter FRANCIS and Boy. 
 
 Fran. O, have I catched ye, sir? It was your doing 
 That made me have this pretty dance to-night ; 
 Had not you spoken, my mother had not scared me : 
 But I will swinge ye for it. 
 Phil Keep the king's peace ! 
 
 1 Blind-man's-buff,
 
 SCENE in.] OF ABINGTON. 183 
 
 Fran. How ! art thou become a constable ? 
 Why, Philip, where hast thou been all this while ? 
 
 Phil. Why, where you were not : but, I pray, where's 
 my sister ? 
 
 Fran. Why, man, I saw her not ; but I have sought her, 
 As I should seek 
 
 Phil. A needle, have ye not ? 
 Why you, man, are the needle that she seeks 
 To work withal ! Well, Francis, do you hear? 
 You must not answer so, that you have sought her; 
 But have ye found her? faith, and if you have, 
 God give ye joy of that ye found with her ! 
 
 Fran. I saw her not : how could I find her ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. Why, could ye miss from Master Barnes's 
 
 house , 
 
 Unto his coney-burrow? 
 
 Fran. Whether I could or no, father, I did. 
 
 Phil. Father, I did ! Well, Frank, wilt thou believe 
 
 me? 
 
 Thou dost not know how much this same doth grieve me : 
 Shall it be said thou missed so plain a way, 
 When as so fair a wench did for thee stay ? 
 
 Fran. Zounds, man ! 
 
 Phil. Zounds, man ! and if thou hadst been blind, 
 The coney-burrow thou needest must find. 
 I tell thee, Francis, had it been my case, 
 And I had been a wooer in thy place, 
 I would have laid my head unto the ground, 
 And scented out my wench's way like a hound ; 
 I would have crept upon my knees all night, 
 And have made the flintstones links to give me light ; 
 Nay, man, I would. 
 
 Fran. Good Lord, what you would do ! 
 Well, we shall see one day how you can woo. 
 
 Mast. Goiir. Come, come, we see that we have^ all 
 
 been crossed ; 
 Therefore, let's go, and seek them we have lost. {Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. In the Fields. 
 
 Enier MALL. 
 
 ALL. Am I alone? doth not my mother 
 
 come? 
 Her torch I see not, which I well might 
 
 see, 
 
 If any way she were coming toward me : 
 Why, then, belike she's gone some 
 other way ; 
 
 And may she go, till I bid her to turn ! 
 
 Far shall her way be then, and little fair, 
 
 For she hath hindered me of my good turn ; 
 
 God send her wet and weary ere she turn ! 
 
 I had been at Oxenford, and to-morrow 
 
 Have been released from all my maiden's sorrow, 
 
 And tasted joy, had not my mother been ; 
 
 God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sin ! 
 
 How many maids this night lie in their beds, 
 
 And dream that they have lost their maidenheads ! 
 
 Such dreams, such slumbers I had too enjoyed, 
 
 If waking malice had not them destroyed. 
 
 A starved man with double death doth die, 
 
 To have the meat might save him in his eye, 
 
 And may not have it : so am I tormented, 
 
 To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented.
 
 SC. I.] TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON. 185 
 
 Well, Frank, although them wooedst and quickly won, 
 
 Yet shall my love to thee be never done ; 
 
 I'll run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and 
 
 briars, 
 
 To come to thee, sole lord of my desires : 
 Short wooing is the best, an hour, not years, 
 For long-debating love is full of fears. 
 But hark ! I hear one tread. O, were't my brother, 
 Or Frank, or any man, but not my mother ! 
 
 Enter Sir RALPH SMITH. 
 
 Sir Ralph. O, when will this same year of night have 
 
 end? 
 
 Long-looked for days' sun, when wilt thou ascend ? 
 Let not this thieve-friend, misty veil of night, 
 Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light, 
 Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetis', bed, 
 Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red ; 
 O, stay not long, bright lanthorn of the day, 
 To light my missed-way feet to my right way ! 
 
 Mall. It is a man, his big voice tells me so, 
 Much am I not acquainted with it, though ; 
 And yet mine ear, sound's true distinguisher, 
 Boys * that I have been more familiar 
 With it than now I am : well, I do judge 
 It is no envious fellow, out of grudge ; 
 Therefore I'll plead acquaintance, hire his guiding, 
 And buy of him some place of close abiding, 
 Till that my mother's malice be expired, 
 And we may joy in that is long desired. [Aside.~\ 
 Who's there ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. Are ye a maid? No question, this is 
 
 she 
 
 My man doth miss : faith, since she lights on me, 
 I do not mean till day to let her go ; 
 
 1 Probably " buoys."
 
 1 86 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 For whe'er she is my man's love, I will know. [Aside. 
 Hark ye, my maid, if maid, are ye so light, 
 That you can see to wander in the night ? 
 
 Mall. Hark ye, true man, if true, I tell ye, no ; 
 I cannot see at all which way I go. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Fair maid, is't so ? say, had ye ne'er a 
 fall? 
 
 Mall. Fair man, not so ; no, I had none at all. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Could you not stumble on one man, I 
 pray? 
 
 Mall. No, no such block till now came in my way. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Am I that block, sweet tripe ; then, fall 
 and try. 
 
 Mall. The ground's too hard a feather-bed ; not I ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. Why, how an you had met with such a 
 stump ? 
 
 Mall. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to 
 jump. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Are ye so nimble ? 
 
 Mall. -Nimble as a dee. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Baked in a pie. 
 
 Mall. Of ye. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Good meat, ye know. 
 
 Mall. Ye hunt sometimes ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. I do. 
 
 Mall. What take ye ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. Deer. 
 
 Mali. You'll ne'er strike rascal ? J 
 
 Sir Ralph. Yes, when ye are there. 
 
 Mall. Will ye strike me ? 
 
 Sir^Ralph. Yes : will ye strike again? 
 
 Mall. No, sir : it fits not maids to fight with men. 
 
 Sir Ralph. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might 
 know. 
 
 MalL Why, you may find it, sir, in th' Christcross 
 row. 2 
 
 1 i.e. A deer lean and out of season. 2 i.e. The alphabet.
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 187 
 
 Sir Ralph, Be my schoolmistress, teach me how to 
 spell it. 
 
 Mah. No, faith, I care not greatly, if I tell it ; 
 My name is Mary Barnes. 
 
 Sir Ralph. How, wench ? Mall Barnes ! 
 
 Mall. The very same. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Why, this is strange. 
 
 Mall. I pray, sir, what's your name ? 
 - Sir Ralph. Why, Sir Ralph Smith doth wonder, wench, 
 
 at this ; 
 Why, what's the cause thou art abroad so late ? 
 
 Mall. What, Sir Ralph Smith ! nay, then, I will 
 
 disclose 
 
 All the whole cause to him, in him repose 
 My hopes, my love : God him, I hope, did send 
 Our loves and both our mothers' hates to end. \Aside^\ 
 Gentle Sir Ralph, if you my blush might see, 
 You then would say I am ashamed to be 
 Found, like a wand'ring stray, by such a knight, 
 So far from home at such a time of night : 
 But my excuse is good ; love first by fate 
 Is crossed, controlled, and sundered by fell- hate. 
 Frank Goursey is my love, and he loves me ; 
 But both our mothers hate and disagree ; 
 Our fathers like the match and wish it done ; 
 And so it had, had not our mothers come ; 
 To Oxford w'e concluded both to go ; 
 Going to meet, they came ; we parted so ; 
 My mother followed me, but I ran fast, 
 Thinking who went from hate had need make haste ; 
 Take me she cannot, though she still pursue : 
 But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you ; 
 Be you my orator and plead my right, 
 And get me one good day for this bad night. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Alas, good heart, I pity thy hard hap ! 
 And I'll employ all that I may for thee. 
 Frank Goursey, wench ! I do commend thy choice :
 
 188 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 Now I remember I met one Francis, 
 
 As I did seek my man, then, that was he, 
 
 And Philip too, belike that was thy brother : 
 
 Why, now I find how I did lose myself, 
 
 And wander up and down, mistaking so. 
 
 Give me thy hand, Mall : I will never leave, 
 
 Till I have made your mothers friends again, 
 
 And purchased to ye both your hearts' delight, 
 
 And for this same one bad many a good night. 
 
 'Twill not be long, ere that Aurora will, 
 
 Decked in the glory of a golden sun, 
 
 Open the crystal windows of the east, 
 
 To make the earth enamoured of her face, 
 
 When we shall have clear light to see our way : 
 
 Come ; night being done, expect a happy day. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Mistress BARNES. 
 
 Mis. Bar. O, what a race this peevish girl hath 
 
 led me ! 
 
 How fast I ran, and now how weary I am ! 
 I am "so out of breath I scarce can speak, 
 What shall I do ? ; and cannot overtake her. 
 'Tis late and dark, and I am far from home : 
 May there not thieves lie watching hereabout, 
 Intending mischief unto them they meet ? 
 There may ; and I am much afraid of them, 
 Being alone without all company. 
 I do repent me of my coming forth ; 
 And yet I do not, they had else been married, 
 And that I would not for ten times more labour. 
 But what a winter of cold fear I thole, 1 
 Freezing my heart, lest danger should betide me ! 
 What shall I do to purchase company ? 
 I hear some halloo here about the fields : 
 Then here I'll set my torch upon this hill, 
 
 1 Suffer, old edits, "stole."
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 189 
 
 Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; 
 They that have lost their way, seeing a light, 
 For it may be seen far off in the night, 
 Will come to it. Well, here I'll lie unseen, 
 And look who comes, and choose my company. 
 Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. 
 
 Enter Mistress GOURSEY. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Where am I now ? nay, where was I even 
 
 now? 
 
 Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. 
 I think I am going home : I may as well 
 Be going from home ; 'tis so very dark, 
 I cannot see how to direct a step. 
 I lost my man, pursuing of my son ; 
 My son escaped me too : now, all alone, 
 I am enforced to wander up and down. 
 Barnes's wife's abroad : pray God, that she 
 May have as good a dance, nay, ten times worse ; 
 O, but I fear she hath not ; she hath light 
 To see her way. O, that some bridge would break, 
 That she might fall into some deep-digged ditch, 
 And either break her bones or drown herself ! 
 I would these mischiefs I could wish to her 
 Might light on her ! but, soft ; I see a light : 
 I will go near ; it is comfortable, 
 After this night's sad spirits-dulling darkness. 
 How now? what, is it set to keep itself? 
 
 Mis. Bar. A plague on't, is she there ? \Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. O, how it cheers and quickens up my 
 thoughts ! 
 
 Mis. Bar. O that it were the basilisk's fell eye, 
 To poison thee ! [Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. I care not, if I take it 
 Sure none is here to hinder me 
 And light me home.
 
 igo THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 Mis. Bar. I had rather she were hanged 
 Than I should set it there to do her good. [Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. I' faith, I will. 
 Mis. Bar. I' faith, you shall not, mistress ; 
 I'll venture a burnt finger but I'll have it. . [Aside, 
 
 Mis. Gour. Yet Barnes's wife would chafe, if that she 
 
 knew 
 That I had this good luck to get a light. 
 
 Mis. Bar. And so she doth ; but praise your luck at 
 
 parting. \Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gottr. O, that it were her light, good faith, that 
 
 she 
 
 Might darkling walk about as well as I ! 
 Mis. Bar. O, how this mads me, that she hath her 
 
 wish ! [Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. How I would laugh to see her trot about ! 
 Mis. Bar. O, I could cry for anger and for rage ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 Mis. Gour. But who should set it here, I marvel, a 
 
 God's name. 
 Mis. Bar. One that will have't from you in the devil's 
 
 name. [Aside. 
 
 Mis. Gour. I'll lay my life that it was Barnes's son. 
 Mis. Bar. No, forsooth, it was Barnes's wife. 
 Mis. Gour. A plague upon, her, how she made me 
 
 start ! [Aside. 
 
 Mistress, let go the torch. 
 Mis. Bar. No, but I will. not. 
 Mis. Gour. I'll thrust it in thy face, then. . 
 Mis. Bar. But you shall not. 
 Mis. Gour. Let go, I say. 
 Mis. Bar. Let you go, for 'tis mine. 
 Mis. Gour. But my possession says, it is none of 
 
 thine. 
 
 Mis: Bar. Nay, I have hold too. 
 Mis. Gour. Well, let go thy hold, 
 Or I will spurn thee.
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 191 
 
 Mis. Bar. Do ; I can spurn thee too. 
 Mis. Gour. Canst thou ? 
 'Mis. Bar. Ay, that I can. 
 
 Enter Master GOURSEY and Master BARNES, PHILIP, 
 FRANCIS, COOMES, HODGE, NICHOLAS, and WILL. 
 
 Ma st. Gour. Why, how now, women ? how unlike to 
 
 women 
 Are ye both now I, come, part, corne, part, I say. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Why, what immodesty is this in you ! 
 Come, part, I say ; fie, fie. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Fie, fie ? I say she shall not have my 
 
 torch. 
 
 Give me thy torch, boy : I will run a-tilt, 
 And burn out both her eyes in my encounter. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Give room, and let us have this hot career. 
 Mast. Gour. I say ye shall not : wife, go to, tame your 
 
 thoughts, 
 That are so mad with fury. 
 
 Mast. Bar. And, sweet wife, 
 Temper your, rage with patience ; do not be 
 Subject so much to such misgovern men t. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Shall I not, sir, when such a strumpet 
 
 wrongs me ? 
 Mast, Gour. How, strumpet, Mistress Barnes ! nay, I 
 
 pray, hark ye : 
 
 I oft indeed have heard ye call her so, 
 And I have thought upon it, why ye should 
 Twit her with name of strumpet ; do you know 
 Any hurt by her, that you term her so ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. No, on my life ; rage only makes her say 
 
 so. 
 Mast. Gour. But I would know whence this same rage 
 
 should come ; 
 
 Where's smoke, there's fire ; and my heart misgives 
 My wife's intemperance hath got that name ;- 
 And, Mistress Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly doubt,
 
 192 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 And some great cause begets this doubt in me, 
 Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both. 
 
 Mast. Bar. How, think ye so ? nay, Master Goursey, 
 
 then, 
 
 You run in debt to my opinion, 
 Because you pay not such advised wisdom, 
 As I think due unto my good conceit. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Then still I fear I shall your debtor prove. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Then I arrest you in the name of love ; 
 Not bail, but present answer to my plea ; 
 And in the court of reason we will try, 
 If that good thoughts should believe jealousy. 
 
 Phil. Why, look ye, mother, this is 'long of you. 
 For God's sake, father, hark ! why, these effects 
 Come still from women's malice : part, I pray. 
 Coomes, Will, and Hodge, come all, and help us part 
 
 them ! 
 Father, but hear me speak one word no more. 
 
 Fran. Father, but hear him speak, then use your will. 
 
 Phil. Cry peace between ye for a little while. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Good husband, hear him speak. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Good husband, hear him. 
 
 Coomes. Master, hear him speak ; he's a good wise 
 young stripling for his years, I tell ye, and perhaps may 
 speak wiser than an elder body ; therefore hear him. 
 
 Hod. Master, hear, and make an end ; you may kill 
 one another in jest, and be hanged in earnest. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Come, let us hear him. Then speak 
 quickly, Philip. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Thou shouldst have done ere this ; speak, 
 Philip, speak. 
 
 Mis. Bar. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt your- 
 selves ! 
 
 Good Philip, use some good persuasions 
 To make them friends. 
 
 Phil. Yes, I'll do what I can. 
 Father and Master Goursey, both attend.
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 193 
 
 It is presumption in so young a man 
 
 To teach where he might learn, or to direct, 
 
 Where he hath had direction ; but in duty 
 
 He may persuade as long as his persuase 
 
 Is backed with reason and a rightful suit. 
 
 Physic's first rule is this, as I have learned : 
 
 Kill the effect by cutting off the cause. 
 
 The same effects of ruffian outrages 
 
 Comes by the cause of malice in your wives ; 
 
 Had not they two been foes, you had been friends, 
 
 And we had been at home, and this same war 
 
 In peaceful sleep had ne'er been dreamt upon. 
 
 Mother and Mistress Goursey, to make them friends, 
 
 Is to be friends yourselves : you are the cause, 
 
 And these effects proceed, you know, from you ; 
 
 Your hates gives life unto these killing strifes, 
 
 But die, and if that envy 1 die in you. 
 
 Fathers, yet stay. O, speak ! O, stay a while ! 
 
 Francis, persuade thy mother. Master Goursey, 
 
 If that thy mother will resolve 2 your mind 
 
 That 'tis but mere suspect, not common proof, 
 
 And- if my father swear he's innocent, 
 
 As I durst pawn my soul with him he is, 
 
 And if your wife vow truth and constancy, 
 
 Will you be then persuaded ? 
 
 Mast. Gour. Philip, if thy father will remit 
 The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions 
 May be performed, I banish all my wrath. 
 
 Mast. Bar. And if thy mother will but clear me, Philip, 
 As I am ready to protest I am, 
 Then Master Goursey is my friend again. 
 
 Phil. Hark, mother ; now you hear that your desires 
 May be accomplished ; they will both be friends, 
 If you'll perform these easy articles. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Shall I be friends with such an enemy ? 
 
 Phil. What say you mother, unto my persuase ? 
 
 ' i.e. Ill-will. ' Satisfy. 
 
 New.
 
 194 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 Mis. Bar. I say she is my deadly enemy. 
 
 Phil. Ay, but she will be your friend, if you revolt, 
 
 Mis. Bar. The words I said! what, shall I eat a truth? 
 
 Phil. Why, hark ye, mother. 
 
 Fran. Mother, what say you ? 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, this I say, she slandered my good 
 name. 
 
 Fran. But if she now deny it, 'tis no defame. 
 
 Mis. Gour. What, shall I think her hate will yield so 
 much? 
 
 Fran. Why, doubt it not ; her spirit may be such. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Why, will it be ? 
 
 Phil. Yet stay, I have some hope. 
 Mother, why, mother, why, hear ye : 
 Give me your hand ; it is no more but thus ; 
 'Tis easy labour to shake hands with her : 
 Little breath is spent in speaking of fair words, 
 When wrath hath violent delivery. 
 
 Mast. Bar. What, shall we be resolved ? 
 
 Mis. Bar. O husband, stay I 
 
 Stay, Master Goursey : though your wife doth hate me, 
 And bears unto me malice infinite 
 And endless, yet I will respect your safeties ; 
 I would not have you perish by our means : 
 I must confess that only suspect, 
 And no proof else, hath fed my hate to her. 
 
 Mis. Gour. And, husband, I protest by Heaven and 
 
 earth 
 
 That her suspect is causeless and unjust, 
 And that I ne'er had such a vile intent ; 
 Harm she imagined, where as none was meant 
 Phil. Lo, sir, what would ye more ? 
 Mast. Bar. Yes, Philip, this ; 
 That I confirm him in my innocence 
 By this large universe. 
 
 Mast. Gour. By that I swear, 
 I'll credit none of you, until I hear
 
 SCENE i.] OF ABINGTON. 195 
 
 Friendship concluded straight between them two : 
 
 If I see that they willingly will do, 
 
 Then I'll imagine all suspicion ends ; 
 
 I may be then assured, they being friends. 
 
 Phil. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so. 
 Mis. Bar. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe ? 
 Phil. No : if she yield, will you ? 
 Mis. Bar. It may be, ay. 
 
 Phil. Why, this is well. The other I will try. 
 Come, Mistress Goursey, do you first agree. 
 
 Mis. Goiir. What, shall I yield unto mine enemy ? 
 Phil. Why, if she will, will you ? 
 Mis. Gour. Perhaps I will. 
 
 Phil. Nay, then, I find this goes well forward still. 
 Mother, give me your hand [to Mis. GOURSEY], give me 
 
 yours too 
 
 Be not so loth ; some good thing I must do ; 
 But lay your torches by, I like not them ; 
 Come, come, deliver them unto your men : 
 Give me your hands. So, now, sir, here I stand, 
 Holding two angry women in my hand : 
 And I must please them both ; I could please t'one, 1 
 But it is hard when there is two to one, 
 Especially of women ; but 'tis so, 
 They shall be pleased, whether they will or no. 
 Which will come .first? what, both give back! ha, 
 
 neither ! 
 
 Why, then, yond help that both may come together. 
 So, stand still, stand still but a little while, 
 And see how I your angers will beguile. 
 Well, yet there is no hurt ; why, then, let me 
 Join these two hands, and see how they'll agree : 
 Peace, peace ! they cry ; look how they friendly kiss I 
 Well, all this while there is no harm in this : 
 Are not these twins ? twins should be both alike, 
 If t'one speaks fair, the t'other should not strike : 
 
 1 i.e. The one.
 
 1 96 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 Jesus, the warriors will not offer blows ! 
 
 Why, then, tis strange that you two should be foes. 
 
 O yes, you'll say, your weapons are your tongues ; 
 
 Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs : 
 
 Go to, embrace, and say, if you be friends, 
 
 That here the angry women's quarrel ends. 
 
 Mis. Gour. Then here it ends, if Mistress Barnes say 
 so. 
 
 Mis. Bar. If you say ay, I list not to say no. 
 
 Mast. Gour. If they be friends, by promise we agree. 
 
 Mast. Bar. And may this league of friendship ever be 
 
 Phil. What say'st thou, Frank ? doth not this fall out 
 well? 
 
 Fran. Yes, if my Mall were here, then all were well. 
 
 Re-enter Sir RALPH SMITH with MALL, who stays 
 behind. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Yonder they be, Mall : stay, stand close, 
 
 and stir not 
 Until I call. God save ye, gentlemen ! 
 
 Mast. Bar. What, Sir Ralph Smith ! you are welcome, 
 
 man : 
 We wondered when we heard you were abroad. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Why, sir, how heard ye that I was abroad ? 
 
 Mast. Bar. By your man. 
 
 Sir Ralph. My man ! where is he ? 
 
 Will. Here. 
 
 Sir Ralph. O, ye are a trusty squire ! 
 
 Nich. It had been better, an he had said, a sure card. 
 
 Phil. Why, sir? 
 
 Nich. Because it is the proverb. 
 
 Phil. Away, ye ass ! 
 
 Nich. An ass goes o' four legs ; I go of two, Christ 
 cross. 
 
 Phil. Hold your tongue. 
 
 Nich. And make no more ado. 
 
 Mast. Gour. Go to, no more ado. Gentle Sir Ralph,
 
 SCENE i.] OF AB1NGTON. 197 
 
 Your man is not in fault for missing you, 
 For he mistook by us, and we by him. 
 
 Sir Ralph. And I by you, which now I well perceive. 
 But tell me, gentlemen, what made ye all 
 Be from your beds this night, and why thus late 
 Are your wives walking here about the fields : 
 'Tis strange to see such women of accompt 
 Here ; but I guess some great occasion prompt. 
 
 Mast, Gour. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jar : 
 And jar they did to-day, and so they parted ; 
 We, knowing women's malice let alone 
 Will, canker-like, eat farther in their hearts, 
 Did seek a sudden cure, and thus it was : 
 A match between his daughter and my son ; 
 No sooner motioned but it was agreed, 
 And they no sooner saw but wooed and liked : 
 They have it sought to cross, and crossed it thus. 
 
 Sir Ralph. Fie, Mistress Barnes and Mistress Goursey 
 
 both ; 
 
 The greatest sin wherein your souls may sin, 
 I think, is this, in crossing of true love : 
 Let me persuade ye. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Sir, we are persuaded, 
 And I and Mistress Goursey are both friends ; 
 And, if my daughter were but found again, 
 Who now is missing, she had my consent 
 To be disposed of to her own content. 
 
 Sir Ralph. I do rejoice that what I thought to do, 
 Ere I begin, I find already done : 
 Why, this will please your friends at Abington. 
 Frank, if thou seek'st that way, there thou shall find 
 Her, whom I hold the comfort of thy mind. 
 
 Mall. He shall not seek me ; I will seek him out, 
 Since of my mother's grant I need not doubt. 
 
 Mis. Bar. Thy mother grants, my girl, and she doth 
 
 pray 
 To send unto you both a joyful day !
 
 198 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN [ACT v. 
 
 Hod. Nay, Mistress Barnes, I wish her better : that 
 those joyful days may be turned to joyful nights. 
 
 Coomes. Faith, 'tis a pretty wench, and 'tis pity but she 
 should have him. 
 
 Nich. And, Mistress Mary, when ye go to bed, God 
 send you good rest, and a peck of fleas in your nest, 
 every one as big as Francis ! 
 
 Phil. Well said, wisdom ! God send thee wise children. 
 
 Nich. And you more money. 
 
 Phil. Ay, so wish I. 
 
 Nich. 'Twill be a good while, ere you wish your skin 
 full of eyelet-holes. 
 
 Phil. Frank, hark ye : brother, now your wooing's 
 
 done, 
 
 The next thing now you do is for a son, 
 I prythee ; for i'faith, I should be glad 
 To have myself called nunkle, 1 and thou dad. 
 Well, sister, if that Francis play the man, 
 My mother must be grandam and you mam. 
 To it, Francis to it, sister ! God send ye joy ! 
 'Tis fine to sing, dancey, my own sweet boy ! 
 
 Fran. Well, sir, jest on. 
 
 Phil. Nay, do you jest 2 on. 
 
 Mast. Bar. Well, may she prove a happy wife to him ! 
 
 Mast. Gour. And may he prove as happy unto her ! 
 
 Sir Ralph. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them 
 
 both! " 
 
 Since 'twas my hap thus happily to meet, 
 To be a witness of this sweet contract, 
 I do rejoice ; wherefore, to have this joy 
 Longer present with me, I do request 
 That all of you will be my promised guests : 
 This long night's labour doth desire some rest, 
 Besides this wished end ; therefore, I pray, 
 Let me detain ye but a dinner time : 
 Tell me, I pray, shall I obtain so much ? 
 
 1 A familiar contraction of " mine uncle." - Perform.
 
 I 
 
 SCENE I.] OF ABINGTON. I99 
 
 Mast. Bar. Gentle Sir Ralph, your courtesy is such, 
 As may impose command unto us all ; 
 We will be thankful bold at your request. 
 
 Phil I pray, Sir Ralph, what cheer shall we have ? 
 
 Sir Ralph. I'faith, country fare, mutton and veal, 
 Perchance a duck or goose. 
 
 Mall. O, I am sick ! 
 
 All. How now, Mall? what's the matter? 
 
 Mall Father and mother, if you needs would know, 
 He named a goose, which is my stomach's foe. 
 
 Phil Come, come, she is with child of some odd jest, 
 And now she's sick, till that she bring it forth. 
 
 Mall A jest, quoth you ! well, brother, if it be, 
 I fear 'twill prove an earnest unto me. 
 Goose, said ye, sir ? O, that same very name 
 Hath in it much variety of shame ! 
 Of all the birds that ever yet was seen, 
 I would not have them graze upon this green; 
 I hope they will not, for this crop is poor, 
 And they may pasture upon greater store : 
 But yet 'tis pity that they let them pass, 
 And like a common bite the Muse's grass. 
 Yet this I fear : if Frank and I should kiss, 
 Some creaking goose would chide us with a hiss ; 
 1 mean not that goose that 
 Sings it knows not what ; 
 
 'Tis not that hiss, when one says, " hist, come hither," 
 Nor that same hiss that setteth dogs together, 
 Nor that same hiss that by a fire doth stand, 
 And hisseth T. or F. 1 upon the hand ; 
 But 'tis a hiss, and I'll unlace my coat, 2 
 For I should sound 3 sure, if I heard that note, 
 And then green ginger for the green goose cries, 
 Serves not the turn I turned the white of eyes. 
 
 1 i.e. Traitor or felon. 2 Petticoat. Fr. code. 
 
 3 Swoon.
 
 200 TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF AB1NGTON. [ACT v. 
 
 The rosa-solis * yet that makes me live 
 
 Is favour that these gentlemen may give ; 
 
 But if they be displeased, then pleased am I 
 
 To yield myself a hissing death to die. 
 
 Yet I hope here is none consents to kill, 
 
 But kindly take the favour of good-will. 
 
 If anything be in the pen to 'blame, 
 
 Then here stand I to blush the writer's shame : 
 
 If this be bad, he promises a better ; 
 
 Trust him, and he will prove a right true debtor. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 1 A strong spirituous liquor containing also cinnamon water and 
 eggs. 

 
 JOHN DAY. 
 
 OHN DAY, "sometime Student of Caius 
 College, Cambridge," a "base fellow" 
 and a " rogue" according to Ben Jonson, 
 a good man and a charming writer if the 
 evidence of his own plays may be credited, 
 seems to have come down to posterity in 
 the person of his best work, and of little beside his best. 
 When he began to write for the stage is not known, before 
 1593, some have supposed but we learn from Henslowe's 
 Diary that in the six years from 1598 to 1603 he had a whole 
 or part share in as many as twenty-two plays, only one of 
 which, The Blind Beggar of Bednal Green, has come down 
 to us. These plays were : T in 1598, The Conquest oj Brute, 
 with the first finding of the Bath (Day, assisted by Chettle) ; 
 in 1599, The Tragedy of Merry and The Tragedy of Cox of 
 Collumpton (with Haughton), The Orphan's Tragedy (with 
 Haughton and Chettle) ; in 1600, unassisted, The Italian 
 Tragedy of . . . . [name wanting in the Diary], The Spanish 
 Moor's Tragedy and The Seven Wise Masters (with Dekker 
 and Haughton), The Golden Ass, and Cupid and Psyche 
 (with Dekker and Chettle), The Blind Beggar of Bednal 
 Green (with Chettle) ; in 1601, The Secand Part of the Blind 
 Beggar, and The Third Part (also with Chettle), The Con- 
 quest of the West Indies (with Haughton and Wentworth 
 Smith), The Six Yeomen oj the West, Friar Rush and the 
 Proud Woman of Antwerp, and The Second Part of Tom 
 Dough (all three with Haughton) ; in 1602, unassisted, The 
 Bristol Tragedy ; Merry as may be, The Black Dog of New- 
 gate, The Second Part of the Black Dog, The Unfortunate 
 General (all with Hathway and Wentworth Smith), and The 
 
 1 Bullen, article on Day in the Dictionary of National Biography.
 
 202 JOHN DAY. 
 
 Boast of Billingsgate (with Hath way and others) ; in 1603 
 or earlier, Jane Shore (with Chettle). In 1610, we learn 
 from the Stationers' Register, Day wrote a play called The 
 Mad Pranks of Merry Moll of the Bankside ; in 1619, with 
 Dekker, The Life and Death of Guy of Warwick; again 
 with Dekker, in or before 1623, a " P'rench tragedy" of The 
 Bellman of Paris ; and in 1623, a comedy, Come see a 
 Wonder. Of extant plays, The Isle of Gulls was published 
 in 1606 ; The Travels of the Three English Brothers, Sir 
 Thomas, Sir Anthony, Mr. Robert Shirley (written in con- 
 junction with Rowley and Wilkins), in 1607 ; Law-Tricks, 
 or Who would have thought it, and Humour out of Breath, 
 in 1608 ; The Parliament of Bees, in 1641 ; and The Blind 
 Beggar -in 1659. There is also extant in the British Museum 
 (Sloane MS. 3150) an allegorical prose tract entitled Pere- 
 grinatio Scholastica, first published in Mr. Bullen's collected 
 edition of Day's works in 1881 ; a begging acrostic on the 
 name of Thomas Dowton, an actor ; an undated letter of 
 Day from which we learn of a poem on The Miracles of 
 Christ ; a few autograph lines belonging to some lost 
 historical play : " the rest is silence." J 
 
 It is not a 'pleasant thought that a writer of such dainty 
 and select genius as the author of The Parliament of Bees 
 should have had to labour so hard, on such unworthy mate- 
 rial, for so unthankworthy a public as that which left him to 
 borrow of Henslowe two shillings, or it may be five shillings 
 " in Redy money," as the record quaintly states. That the 
 main part at least of these lost plays was but journeyman's 
 work, work sufficient to the day and the evil thereof, seems 
 evident from the mere titles, a small proportion no doubt of 
 the whole, that have come down to us. Even Mr. Bullen finds 
 it impossible to regret the loss ; and he would be content to 
 spare the Three English Brothers and the Blind Beggar as 
 well. The fact is, Day's range is exceptionally limited, and 
 outside his circle he has no magic. 
 
 In turning over the pages of Lamb's Specimens, it is with 
 something of relief, after so much that is bloody and gloomy, 
 that we come on the two or three brief extracts from The 
 
 1 Two plays, The Return from Parnasms (in three parts) and 
 The Maid's Metamorphosis, have been attributed to Day, but with- 
 out any probability.
 
 JOHN DAY. 203 
 
 Parliament of Bees, by which alone, for so long a space of 
 time, the name of John Day was known to English readers. 
 They are so light and bright, so delicate in the wording and 
 phrasing, so aloof and apart from the commonness of every- 
 day doings, or the sombre action of that little world of the 
 Elizabethan drama. The choicest of Day's work comes with 
 just such a sense of relief to the student who has traversed 
 that country widely. It is a wayside rest, a noontide hour 
 in the cool shadow of the woods. There is something so 
 pleasant about the work, that we find ourselves pardoning 
 its faults and overlooking its shortcomings, almost without 
 thinking about them. Day it is clear if we really consider 
 the matter has but a very slight insight into human nature, 
 only a very faint power of touching or moving us, no power 
 whatever to mould a coherent figure or paint a full-length 
 portrait ; as to plot, he is content with none at all, as in the 
 Bees, or, as in the other three comedies, the plot is of such 
 fantastic and intricate slightness, a very spider's-web of 
 filmy threads, that it is not to be grasped without coming 
 to pieces. His wit is a clear flame, but thin and only 
 intermittent. Day's natural gift in that way is not so rich 
 that it can stand a long draw on its exchequer. The good 
 money becomes used up, and then, instead of putting up the 
 shutters, the bank passes bad currency. All these are 
 serious faults ; they are leaks enough to sink a weightier 
 reputation ; but, somehow, they do no more than temper our 
 delight in Day. The world of his fancy is not the world of 
 our common sunlight ; and life is lived otherwise, and men 
 and women are somewhat other than the men and women 
 of our knowledge, there. It is a land into which the laws of 
 logic can scarcely come ; a land where gentle and petulant 
 figures come and go like figures in a masque, aimlessly 
 enough, yet to measure, always with happy effect, threading 
 the forest paths as we see ourselves in dreams, dreams 
 sleeping or waking, ever on the heels of some pleasing or 
 exciting adventure. The conversation, whenever it is good, 
 is carried on in jests, or in nights of lyrical fancy, somewhat 
 as in Shakespeare's early comedies, somewhat with a sort oi 
 foretaste of the comedies of Congreve. If it is not the talk 
 of real life, it is at least a select rendering of our talk at its 
 brightest and freest, when black care is away, and the brain 
 is quickened and the tongue loosened by some happy
 
 204 JOHN DAY. 
 
 chance, among responsive friends in tune with a blithe 
 mood. It is how we should often like to talk ; and that 
 accord with our likings of things, as apart from our con- 
 sciousness, not always pleasant, of them, is the secret of a 
 certain harmony we seem to feel in those parts of Day's 
 comedies which are least likft life. He steps quite through 
 the ugly surface -of things, freeing us, as we take the step 
 with him, of all the disabilities of our never quite satisfied 
 existence. 
 
 This land of fancy to which Day leads us, is essentially 
 quite as much a land of fancy in the comedies which profess 
 to chronicle the doings of men and women, as in the comedy 
 whose dramatis personae are all bees. In The Isle of Gulls, 
 Law-Tricks and Humour out of Breath, equally as to the 
 spirit of it, very differently as regards the point of execution, 
 Day has painted life as it pleased him to see it in a de- 
 lightful confusion, made up of entanglements, disguises, jests, 
 sudden adventures, good-hearted merriment, a comedy within 
 a comedy. Compared with Humour out of Breath, the two 
 other plays have a certain coarseness of texture compara- 
 tive only, let it be understood ; the action is not so pleasant, 
 nor the wit so spontaneous. They are immensely lively, 
 always entertaining, ravelled up with incomparable agility, 
 full of business, wit and humour ; breaking every now and 
 then into seriousness, and, in the later play particularly, 
 blossoming out quite unexpectedly into a tender and lyrical 
 pathos ; as in that scene where the forsaken countess talks \vith 
 such sweet sadness to her maids as they sit at their sewing 
 a little passage of pure "exquisiteness, reminding one, as now 
 and again Day will remind us, of certain of the loveliest bits 
 of Shakespeare. In another single scene in The Isle of 
 Gulls, the tennis-court scene, we find a quite typical 
 example of Day's special variety of wit, thin and captious 
 indeed, but swift in its interchange of strokes as the tennis- 
 balls, flying to and fro, with sharp and harmless knocks, in 
 repartees deftly delivered and straight to their aim. It is in 
 Humour out of Breath, however, so suggestively named, 
 and so truly, for the little play keeps us breathless at the 
 heels of its breathless actors here, rather than anywhere 
 else outside Tlie Parliament of Bees, that the special note of 
 Day's cheerful genius is heard most clearly. It has his 
 finest polish, the cream of his wit, the pick of his women.
 
 JOHN DAY, 205 
 
 Day's women are singularly charming : they are all of one 
 type, and that no very subtle one, but they are immensely 
 likeable, and in this play we have the very best of them, 
 Florimel, Emilia's sister, Hippolyta's and Violetta's, but the 
 most beautiful and brilliant of her sisters. Emilia, in Law- 
 Tricks, reminds us, by anticipation, of Millimant ; as Miso, in 
 The Isle of Culls, with her "As I am a Lady," seems almost 
 like a faint foreshadowing of the most tragic figure on the 
 English Comic stage, Lady Wishfort. But Florimel, calling 
 up no associations of Congreve or any other, proves- the 
 most delightful of companions. She, like her sisters, is a 
 creature of moods, bright, witty, full of high spirits, very free- 
 spoken, but less free in action than in speech ; a thoroughly 
 English girl, perhaps the ideal of our favourite mettlesome 
 breed. You can see her lips and eyes in a smile, flashing 
 as her saucy words ; and she is good-hearted, capable of 
 strength in love. .Here, as so often elsewhere, Day's in- 
 stinctive sympathy with whatsoever is honest, lovely and of 
 good report, shows itself in unthought-of touches. He 
 cannot conceive a villain ; his fantastic figures and the 
 fantasy of his action have alike a basis of honesty and recti- 
 tude, never intrusive, scarcely visible perhaps, often, but 
 there if we choose to look for it. Just this quality, going out 
 into very homely material, gives to the hasty, irregular, 
 rough and romping play of The Blind Beggar of Bednal 
 Green a saving grace, not of morals, but of art ; for it is a 
 touch of nature. Touches of nature there are, but of another 
 kind, in Humour out of Breath; always, however sincere, 
 however serious, with an after-thought or atmosphere of 
 brightness in or about them : as in Aspero's wooing of 
 Florimel, passing out of jests and quibbles into hearty 
 earnest, earnest from the first perhaps on both sides, 
 though the lady has a dancing wit, and the gentleman goads 
 a sober tongue to curvets. How pretty a touch of nature is 
 this : " I cannot live without him ! " cries Florimel, when 
 her saucy petulance has driven away her lover. "-O that he 
 knew it, lady," suggests the quick-witted little page, at fault 
 for once in a lover's moods ; for, " He does," returns Flori- 
 mel, never at fault ; " he would never have left me else. He 
 does ! " Touches of this sort, true to nature in the more 
 intimate and subtle sense, are not common in Day ; he is 
 not wont to reveal anything new to us in our own hearts, or
 
 2o5 JOHN DAY. 
 
 to go often below the surface. It would be unfair to lay this 
 to his charge, for he does not profess to give us more than 
 we find n him. " Humour out of breath," a world where wit 
 is the all in all- -this is what he gives us ; a world, how 
 delightful to contemplate, where men and women are so 
 careful of their jests, and the measure and harmony of this 
 absorbing play-business, that they will, even (as Polymeter 
 says on some occasion, in another play) " leave at a jest," 
 and turn the conversation after a period of punning. 
 
 I 'have said that the scene of these three comedies is 
 virtually a land of fancy ; in The Parliament of Bees it is not 
 only virtually but formally so. No instinct could have been 
 happier than that which led Day could it have been with 
 any thought of Aristophanes? to turn the "men and 
 women fashioned by his fancy " into bees, and give them a 
 whole play to themselves. That this was an afterthought, 
 only come upon after a large part of what now forms the 
 play was written, seems evident; for, as Mr. Bullen has 
 pointed out, "with the exception of characters i, n, and 12, 
 which were plainly written for the occasion, the masque 
 seems to have been made up of scenes, more or less revised, 
 contributed to [Dekker's] Wonder of a Kingdom, [Samuel 
 Rowley's] Spanish Soldier, and other plays^that have either 
 been lost or where the connection remains yet to be pointed 
 out." There is not even an attempt at anything like a plot ; 
 what we have is a sequence of scenes, sketching, and lightly 
 satirising, the "humours" of the age under this queer dis- 
 guise of the bees. It is doubtful whether Day ever intended 
 it, but in this fantastic masque of his there are all the 
 elements of an heroically comic picture of life ; life seen from 
 the point of view of an outside observer, in all its eager stir 
 and passion, so petty and so vain if one could look down on it 
 from above in all its strenuous littlenesses, its frail strength, 
 its gigantic self-delusions ; petty, all of it, to the Gods, as 
 these tiny creatures, with their insect life of a summer, seem 
 to men. Here is the quack, the braggart, the spendthrift, 
 each with all the passions of a man and just as long as your 
 nail ! But if this view enters at all into Day's scheme, it is 
 suffered to add no bitterness, no touch of spleen, to this 
 sweet and gracious little play, revised, as we know from an 
 earlier manuscript still existing, with such a tender care, not 
 only for the clear polish of the lines, but equally for the pleasant
 
 JOHN DAY. 207 
 
 wholesomeness of the story, the honesty and fair fame of the 
 little personages. Quite the best scene, the sixth, between 
 Arethusa and Ulania concerning Meletus, has gained the 
 most from this revision : it is free now from any speck, and 
 is one of the loveliest pastorals in our language, a little 
 masterpiece of dainty invention, honey-hearted and without 
 a sting ; touching at one point, in the last speech of the poor 
 neglected bee, the last limits of Day's capacity for pensive 
 and tender pathos. Nothing in the play is so bee-like, 
 nothing so human, as this all-golden episode ; though in 
 pastoral loveliness it is touched, I think, by the wood-notes 
 of the final octosyllabics verses of exquisite inappropriate- 
 ness for bees, but with all the smell and freshness of the coun- 
 try in them, a pageant of the delightful things of nature and 
 husbandry, written in rhymes that gambol in pairs like lambs 
 or kids in spring. 
 
 Without The Parliament of Bees we should never have 
 known what Day was capable of. The wit and invention of 
 his comedies of adventure make up, it is true, a very distinct 
 and a very important part of his claim on the attention of 
 posterity ; but these comedies, after all, are very largely 
 written, especially in the best parts of them, in prose, and it 
 is as a poetical craftsman that Day is most himself and 
 most perfect. Such a line as this : 
 
 " Who then shall reap the golden crop you sow?" 
 bears the very sign and seal of Day. Or, again : 
 
 "The windows of my hive, with blossoms dight,- 
 Are porters to let in our comfort, light.' 
 
 Our comfort, light the very cadence of these beautiful 
 words rings of Day, and the meaning equally with the 
 sound. His peculiar vein of fancy conies out typically in 
 those lines where the Plush Bee longs, like Alexander, for 
 " ten worlds "indeed to sell, but to sell "for Alpine hills of 
 silver" so prettily extravagant, so new and unthought-of a 
 phrase. Familiar and quite ordinary ideas, commonplace 
 thoughts, take in his mind an aspect which gives them all the 
 charm of a pleasing novelty a fanciful aspect, very fresh and 
 pleasant, the good cheer of fancy. There is often an airy 
 spring in his moods, lifting his honest commonplaces quite
 
 208 . JOHN DAY. 
 
 off the ground ; transforming them, as frost transforms and 
 transfigures the bare branches of the trees. The very sound 
 of his rhymes is a delight in itself, as in those lines which 
 tell how 
 
 "of the sudden, listening, you shall hear 
 
 A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring 
 
 Actaeon to Diana in the spring. " 
 
 - Instinctive harmony a sense of delicate music in the fall and 
 arrangement of quite common words, entirely without fac- 
 titious aid, as of undue alliteration, or the smallest sacrifice 
 of matter to metre this is his gift ; and it is without any 
 appearance of effort that verse flows after beautiful verse, so 
 easy does it seem for him to " add to golden numbers golden 
 numbers." Easy or not, we know it was not without labour 
 that this play of his became what it is. Day was no trifler, 
 slight, airy, fantastically delicate as his work may be ; it was 
 not a trifler, a workman careless of the things of art, who 
 wrote these lines : " 
 
 1 ' The true Poet indeed doth scorn to gild 
 A coward's tomb with glories, or to build 
 A sumptuous pyramid of golden verse 
 Over the ruins of an ignoble hearse. 
 His lines like his invention are born free, 
 And both live blameless to eternity : 
 He holds his reputation so dear 
 As neither flattering hope nor servile fear 
 Can bribe his pen to temporize with kings : 
 The blacker are their crimes, he louder sings." 
 
 The writer of these splendid lines was no "base fellow " such 
 as Ben Jonson's hasty spleen would have dubbed him, but 
 a poet with an instinctive sense of melody which Jonson 
 never possessed, and an ideal of art as lofty as Jonson's own. 
 His work has no conquering force, no massive energy, no 
 superabundance of life ; these qualities we can get elsewhere, 
 but nowhere save in Day that special charm of fancy and 
 wit and bright invention, "golden murmurs from a golden 
 hive," for which, if there is any saving grace in these things, 
 we can suppose his name will live a little longer yet. 
 
 ARTHUR SY.MONS.
 
 THE 
 
 TAT(LIA{ME&<J OF "BEES. 
 
 Nero.
 
 HE only extant edition of The Parliament 
 of Bees is the quarto of 1641. Mention is 
 made, however, of a quarto of 1607 in 
 Gildon's edition of Langbaine's Dramatick 
 Poets, 1699, in Giles Jacob's Poetical Re- 
 gister, 1719, in the Companion to the Play- 
 house, 1764, and by Charles Lamb in the 
 Extracts from the Garrick Plays. No search has been able 
 to reveal the existence of any copy of this early edition, and 
 it seems probable that no such edition ever existed. Granted 
 an error in the first authority, Gildon, who might, as Mr. 
 Bullen suggests, have confused the date of the Bees with that 
 of the Three English Brothers it is easy to conceive that 
 the later writers may have merely copied his erroneous 
 statement. Besides the quarto of 1641 there is,. however, a 
 contemporary transcript, evidently of earlier date, now pre- 
 served among the Lansdowne MSS. (No. 725) entitled : 
 " An olde Manuscript conteyning the Parliament of Bees, 
 found In a Hollow Tree In a garden at Hibla, .in a strandge 
 Languadge, And now faithfully Translated into Easie English 
 Verse by 
 
 John Day, 
 Cantabrig. 
 
 Ovidius mihi flavus Apollo 
 
 Pocula Castaliis plena ministret aquis." 
 
 The MS. has been carefully collated with the quarto by 
 Mr. Bullen in his edition of Day's Works. Occasionally a 
 reading is superior sometimes so good that one is sorry to
 
 THE PARLIAMENT OP BEES. 211 
 
 lose it, though in its revised form it has certainly gained a 
 finer finish ; often plainly and largely inferior. The MS. 
 contains an address " To the Impartial Reader " not printed 
 in the quarto (this I have given after the dedication) ; and 
 the dedication is different in MS. and in quarto. That of 
 the MS. wishes " To the Noble and right worthie Gentleman 
 Mr. William Augustine Esquier All Earthly Happines & 
 Heavenly Beatitude." It is of sufficient interest to be given 
 in full : 
 
 " Noble Sir, 
 
 The first and last bottom that ever I launched upon 
 the strange (and to me then unknown) sea called Mare 
 Dedicatorium, was bound for Cape Bona Speranza, where 
 your worship was governor. An the most of my lading (at 
 that time being an unknowing venturer) were but feriae 
 nitgae at the best, yet they returned me more than a desired 
 gratuity, which emboldened me to a second adventure, 
 fraught with a more pleasing and vendible commodity ; for, 
 though I want both art and impudence to mountebank, and 
 apish indulgence to over-hug mine own, yet in a modest 
 confidence I presume that with much dross ye shall find 
 some gold, and amongst many pebbles, here and there a 
 pearl, worthy to be worn in the ear of your memory. Sed 
 quo trahor ? I lecture my tutor, and read law-cases to my 
 judge. I will therefore descend from the bench to the bar, 
 hold up my guilty hand, and with Ovid cry 
 
 En hie Judicio Stove Cadove tuo. 1 [sic.] 
 
 Yours in all service, 
 
 JOHN DAY, Cant." 
 
 As for the readings of the MS., all of which, to the most 
 trifling difference, are given by Mr. Bullen, I have used 
 my discretion in selecting those, and only those, which I 
 conceive to be of distinct value and real interest. Among 
 them will be found much that is decidedly worth preserving. 
 I have not, except in a very few instances, duly notified in 
 
 1 Possibly, says Mr. Bullen, a misquotation from the dedication 
 of the Fasti, i. 18-19 : 
 
 " Da mini te placidum, dederis in carmine vires, 
 Ingen'Hm voltu statque caditque tuo." 
 
 P 2
 
 212 
 
 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 
 
 their proper places, introduced a MS. reading into the text 
 whatever might seem to be its relative merit ; even if I had 
 wished to do so I should scarcely have felt justified in so 
 doing, for we are bound to read an author as he wishes him- 
 self to be read, and there is no doubt that the quarto is Day's 
 revised and final text : still, I cannot say that the temptation 
 has been ever very strong. Day was a true artist, and not 
 merely does he usually improve what he alters, but even in 
 those cases where he has omitted something in itself really 
 good, we cannot but feel, often, that his goldsmith's-file has 
 " enriched the work by far more than the weight of the 
 precious metal it has removed.''
 
 To the worthy Gentleman 
 MR. GEORGE BUTLER, 
 
 Professor of the Arts Liberal, and true Patron to 
 
 neglected Poesie, 
 All Health and Happiness. 
 
 Worthy Sir, 
 
 may be thought bold, if not impudent, 
 upon so little acquaintance to make this 
 saucy trespass upon your patience ; but 
 Fame, whose office (like the Nomenclators 
 at Rome) is to take notice and proclaim 
 the name and virtues of every noble per- 
 sonage, has given you out for so ingenuous 
 a professor of the Arts and so bountiful a patron of poor 
 scholars, it has emboldened me to present my Hive of Bees 
 to your favourable protection. And when I remember how 
 Lewis, the eleventh of that name, King of France, took notice 
 and bountifully rewarded a decayed gardener who presented 
 him with a bunch of carrots, I doubt not of their kind and 
 generous entertainment ; upon which assurance I rest ever, 
 
 Yours in all service devote, 
 
 JOHN DAV.
 
 To the Impartial Reader. 
 
 EADER, I prithee be either so careful to 
 understand me or so courteous as not to 
 read me. Old father Seton l told me 
 long ago that Inventio et Judicium were 
 the main grounds Logic was built upon ; 
 and sure I am that they are the two feet 
 that Poetry walks upon. The first of the 
 two I have provided for, though in the 
 latter I request you to be assistant to me, that if my invention 
 chance to prove a heteroclite, in any limb lame or defective, 
 thy judgment like a true grammarian may rectify and set it 
 upright. I observe the same method in my characters (or 
 if you will, colloquies) as Persius did in his satires : bringing 
 in the Bees themselves, speaking themselves, by which 
 the author's invention is more lively expressed, the in- 
 genuous reader's understanding more easily and fully an- 
 swered. I hope I have not committed so many errors as thy 
 generosity would find, and yet I fear more than thy courtesy 
 will mind : to content the judicious I hold it no great 
 miracle, and therefore have some hope on't. But to please 
 all : Hie labor, hoc opus est : and I utterly despair on't.. And 
 so must rest 
 
 Thine as thou usest me, 
 
 Jo. DAY. 
 
 1 "A celebrated logician of his day, whose Dialectics, published 
 in 1572, passed through several editions. Randolph (Hey for 
 Honesty, ii. 5) makes a complimentary allusion to him." Sullen.
 
 THE AUTHOR'S COMMISSION TO HIS BEES. 
 
 ABROAD, my pretty Bees : I hope you'll find 
 
 Neither rough tempest nor commanding wind 
 
 To check your flight. Carry an humble wing ; 
 
 Buzz boldly what I bid, but do not sting 
 
 Your generous patron : wheresoe'er you come 
 
 Feed you on wax, leave them the honey-comb. 
 
 Yet, if you meet a tart antagonist 
 
 Or discontented rugged satirist 
 
 That slights your errand or his Art that penned it, 
 
 Cry tanti : ' bid him kiss his Muse and mend it. 
 
 If then they mew, 2 reply not you, but bring 
 
 Their names to me ; I'll send out wasps shall sting 
 
 Their malice to the quick : if they cap words, 
 
 Tell'em your master is a-twisting cords 
 
 Shall make pride skip. If I must needs take pains, 
 
 'Tshall be to draw blood from detraction's veins : 
 
 Though shrivelled like parchment, Art can make 'em bleed ; 
 
 And what I vow Apollo has decreed. 
 
 Your whole commission in one line's enrolled : 
 
 Be valiantly free, but not too bold. 
 
 JOHN DAY. 
 
 1 Compare Isle of Gulls, Prologue : 
 
 ' ' Detraction he scorns, honours the best : 
 Tanti for hate, thus low to all the rest." 
 
 2 To mew was a very ordinary way of expressing dissatisfaction 
 in an Elizabethan audience.
 
 THE BOOK TO THE READER. 
 
 IN my commission I am charged to greet 
 
 And mildly kiss the hands of all I meet ; 
 
 Which I must do, or never more be seen 
 
 About the fount of sacred Hippocrene. 
 
 Smooth-socked Thalia takes delight to dance 
 
 I' the Schools of Art ; the door of ignorance 
 
 She sets a cross on ; detractors she doth scorn, 
 
 Yet kneels to censure (so it be true born).- 
 
 I had rather fall into a beadle's hands 
 
 That reads, and with his reading understands, 
 
 Than some plush Midas that can read no further 
 
 But "Bees? whose penning? Mew!" This man doth 
 
 murther 
 
 A writer's credit ; and wronged Poesie 
 (Like a rich diamond dropped into the sea) 
 Is by him lost for ever. Quite through read me, 
 Or 'mongst waste paper into pasteboard knead me ; 
 Press me to death, so though your churlish hands 
 Rob me of life I'll save my paper lands 
 For my next heir, who with poetic breath 
 May in sad elegy record my death. 
 If so : I wish my epitaph may be 
 Only three words- " Opinion 1 murdered me." 
 
 LIBER LECTORI CANDIDO. 
 
 1 " Opinion,'' referred to so often by Day, means what we should 
 now call the public taste, or the taste of the "general reader." In 
 the MS. the word was harsher, but carrying much the same weight 
 " Ignorance."
 
 THE 
 
 OF "BEES. 
 
 CHARACTER I. 
 
 PROREX, OR THE MASTER BEE'S CHARACTER. 
 
 A Parliament is held, bills and complaints 
 Referred and heard, with several restraints 
 Of usurped freedom, instituted law, 
 To keep the commonwealth of Bees in awe. 
 
 Speakers : PROREX, ViLLicus, 1 (ECONOMICUS, DICASTES, 
 SPEAKER. 
 
 RO. To us, who warranted by Oberon's 
 
 love 
 Write ourself Master Bee, both field 
 
 and grove, 
 Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery 
 
 meads 
 
 (Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads 
 Of wanton cowslips, 2 daisies in their prime, 
 
 1 Printed " Aulicus " in the edition of 1641. 
 
 2 The MS. , which compresses the first twelve lines into eight, has 
 these pretty lines not represented in the text : 
 
 Whilst the youthful Spring 
 Lies on a bed of roses, wantoning 
 With blushing Flora.
 
 218 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. I. 
 
 Sun-loving marigolds, the blossomed thyme, 
 
 The blue-veined violets, and the damask rose, 
 
 The stately lily, mistress of all those) 
 
 Are allowed and given by Oberon's free arede ' 
 
 Pasture for me and all my swarms to feed. 
 
 Now, that our will and sovereign intent 
 
 May be made known, we call this parliament ; 
 
 And as the wise determiner of power 
 
 Propoitioned time to moments, minutes, hours, 
 
 Weeks, months, years, ages ; - distinguished day from 
 
 night, 
 
 Winter from summer, profundity from height 
 In sublunaries ; as in the course of heaven 
 The bodies metaphysical run even, 
 Zeniths and zones have their apt stations, 
 Planets and stars their constellations 
 With orbs to move in, so divinely made 
 Some spherically move, some retrograde, 
 Yet all keep course ; so shall it be our care 
 That every family have his proper sphere. 
 And, to that purpose, Villicus be groom 
 Of all our lodgings, and provide fit room 
 To lay in wax and honey, both for us 
 And all our household : CEconomicus, 
 Be you our steward, carefully to fit 
 Quotidian diet, and so order it 
 Each may have equal portion ; and, beside 
 Needful provision, carefully provide 
 Store against war and famine : Martio, thee 
 I have found valiant ; thy authority 
 (Being approved for discipline in arms) 
 Shall be to muster up our warlike swarms 
 
 1 An uncommon word. Compare Antony Munday's Downfall of 
 Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, 1601 : 
 
 Now must your honour leave these mourning tunes, 
 And thus by my areed you shall provide. Bullen. 
 
 3 MS. Weeks, months and years.
 
 CH. i.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 219 
 
 Of winged lances ; for, like a peaceful king 
 Although we are, we are loth to use our sting. 
 Speaker, inform us what petitions 
 Our Commons put up at these sessions. 
 
 A Bill preferred against the Humble Bee. 
 
 Speak. A bill preferred against a public wrong, 
 The surly Humble Bee, who hath too long 
 Lived like an outlaw, and will neither pay 
 Honey nor wax, do service nor obey ; 
 But like a felon, couched under a weed, 
 Watches advantage to make boot 1 and feed 
 Upon the top-branch blossoms, and by stealth 
 Makes dangerous inroads on your commonwealth, 
 Robs the day-labourer of his golden prize 
 And sends him weeping home with empty thighs. 
 Thus, like a thief, he flies o'er hill and down, 
 And outlaw-like doth challenge as his own 
 Your highness' due ; nay, piratic 2 detains 
 The waxen fleet sailing upon your plains. 
 
 Pro. A great abuse, which we must have redressed 
 Before it grows too high : on to the rest. 
 
 A Bill preferred against the Wasp. 
 
 Speak. A bill preferred against the Wasp ; a fly 
 Who, merchant-like, under pretence to buy, 
 Makes bold to borrow, and pays too. 
 
 Pro. But when ? 
 
 Speak. Why ad Kahndas Gracas ; never then. 
 
 A Bill against the Hornet. 
 There's the strange Hornet, 3 who doth ever wear 
 A scaly armour and a double spear 
 Couched in his front ; rifles the merchant's packs 
 
 i p ro fi t . 2 MS. Pirate-like. 
 
 3 MS. The highway Hornet.
 
 220 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. I. 
 
 Upon the road ; your honey and your wax 
 
 He doth by stealth transport to some strange shore, 
 
 Makes rich their hives and keeps your own groves poor. 
 
 Pro. I thank your industry, but we'll devise 
 A statute that no such outlandish flies 
 Shall carry such high wing. 
 
 A Bill preferred against the Drone. 
 
 Speak. Yet these alone 
 Do not afflict us, but the lazy Drone, 
 Our native country bee, who, like the snail 
 That bankrupt-like ' makes his own shell his jail 
 All the day long, i'the evening plays the thief; 
 And when the labouring bees have ta'en relief, 
 Be gone to rest, against all right and law 
 Acts burglary, breaks ope their house of straw, 
 And not alone makes pillage of their hives 
 But, butcher-like, bereaves them of their lives. 
 
 Pro. 'Gainst all these outlaws, Martio, be thou 
 Lieutenant-General ; thou know'st well how 
 To hamper such delinquents. Dicastes, thee 
 We make our advocate ; thy office be 
 To moderate each difference and jar 
 In this our civil oeconomic war, 
 And let both plaintiff and defendant be 
 Heard and despatched for conscionable fee. 
 And more, to keep our Anomoi - in awe, 
 Ourself, the chief, will live under a law. 3 
 
 Die. To each desert I'll render lawful weight, 
 The scale of justice shall use no deceit. 
 
 Pro. It loses name and nature if it should. 
 Next, Villicus, thou that frequent' st the wood, 
 
 1 A similar passage occurs in Uekker's Seven Deadfy Sim (Aiba't 
 
 reprint, p. 25). Bullen. 
 
 - 'Av6fj.oi, lawless ones ; or, as the marginal gloss has it, sine lege 
 oiventes. 
 
 3 MS. adds : To shut up all, Dicastes, here we make 
 
 Thee our lawgiver : given should never take.
 
 CH. i.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 221 
 
 Our painful russet bee, we create thee 
 
 Chief bailiff both of fallow-field .and lea. 1 
 
 Appoint each bee his walk ; the meadow-bee 
 
 Shall not encroach upon the upland lea, 
 
 But keep his bound ; if any, with intent 
 
 To wrong our state, fly from our government, 
 
 Hoarding their honey up in rocks or trees, 
 
 Sell or transport it to our enemies ; 
 
 Break down their garners, seize upon their store, 
 
 And in our name divide it 'mongst the poor. 
 
 Only to us reserve our royalties, 
 
 High-ways and wastes ; all other specialties 
 
 We make thee ruler of. 
 
 ViL And I'll impart 
 To all with a free hand and faithful heart. 
 
 Pro. Now break up court, and each one to his toil ; 
 Thrive by your labours, drones live on the spoil ; 
 Fear neither wasp nor hornet ; foreigners 
 Be barred from being intercommoners ; 
 And, having laboured hard from light to light, 
 With golden thighs come singing home at night ; 
 For neither drone, wasp, fly nor humble-bee 
 Shall dare to rob you of your treasury. 2 
 So to your summer harvest ; work and thrive : 
 Bounty's the blessing of the labourer's hive. 3 
 
 1 MS. Fields tilled and fallow, headland summer leas, 
 
 Hillocks and meres, gardens and blossomed trees, 
 Each knows his walk. 
 
 2 These lines follow in the MS. : 
 
 Yet our advice in your field voyage take : 
 Under each gaudy leaf there lurks a snake 
 Who in a golden skin houses a breath 
 So rank, 'twill sting a silly bee to death, 
 Kill life and credit ; this proud buskined actor 
 That smiles and kills, we title th detractor : 
 Beware of him, or your poor inn >cent lives 
 Are not secure abroad nor in yo.tr hives. 
 
 3 MS. has two additional lines : 
 
 All. That blessing, Oberon, we will deserve. 
 Pro. Do, and enjoy it : only the lo'terers starve.
 
 CHARACTER II. 
 
 ELEEMOZYNUS, the HOSPITABLE BEE. 
 
 The author in his russet bee 
 Characters hospitality ; 
 Describes his hive, and for his feasts 
 Appoints fit days and names his guests. 
 
 Speakers : ELEEMOZYNUS, CORDATO. 
 
 OR. Your hive's a rare one ; Rome did 
 
 never raise 
 
 A work of greater wonder. 
 Elee. Spare your praise. 
 "Tis finished, and the cost stands on no 
 
 score ; 
 
 None can for want of payment at my door 
 Curse my foundation, seeing the smoke go 
 Out of those loovers J for whose straw I owe. 2 
 
 1 L'Ouvert, opening in the roof. Compare Spenser's Faerie Queene, 
 lx>ok 6 : 
 
 " Nor lighted was with window or with hover, 
 But with continual candle-light. "- Bttllen. 
 
 2 Here follow some lines in the MS., omitted in the printed copy : 
 
 Cor. It is a sumptuous building : pray, sir, what 
 Mounts the grand sum to ? 
 
 Elee. Pray ne'er question that. 
 
 Cor. Shall not the world take note what you ha' done? 
 
 Elee. No, I launch forth no ship with flag and gun 
 To trumpet and proclaim my gallantry. 
 He that will read my acts of charity 
 Shall find 'em writ in ashes, which the wind 
 Shall scatter ere he spells them : Fate unkind
 
 CH. ii.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 223 
 
 Cor. Why to your hive have ye so many ways ? 
 
 Elee. They answer just the number of seven days. 
 Mondays on such whose fortunes are sunk low 
 By good housekeeping, I'll my alms bestow : 
 On Tuesdays, such as all their life-times wrought 
 Their, country's freedom and her battles fought : 
 On Wednesdays, such as with painful wit 
 Have dived for knowledge in the Sacred Writ : 
 On Thursdays, such as proved unfortunate 
 In council and high offices of state : 
 On Fridays, such as for their conscience' sake 
 Are kept in bonds : on Saturdays I'll make 
 Feasts for poor bees past labour, orphan fry, 
 And widows ground in mills of usury : 
 And Sundays for my tenants and all swains 
 That labour for me on the groves and plains. 
 The windows of my hive, with blossoms dight, 
 Are porters to let in our comfort, light ; 
 In number just three hundred sixty-five, 1 
 'Cause in so many days the sun doth drive 
 His chariot, stuck with beams of burnished gold, 
 About the world, by spherical motion rolled. 
 For my alms shall diurnal progress make 
 With the free sun in his bright zodiac. 
 
 Cor. Some bees set all their tenants on the rack, 
 Not to feed bellies, but to clothe the back. 
 
 Elee. I with their actions hold no sympathy : 
 Such eat the poor up, but the poor eat me. 
 
 Cor. And you'll perform all this ? 
 
 Her wheel may turn, and I that build thus high 
 May by the storms of want be driven to die 
 In some old ruinous beeskep : envy shall not then 
 Spit poison at me ('t has been so 'mongst men : 
 Why not with bees then ?) pinning on my back 
 This card : He that spent thus much now doth lack. 
 
 The word "beeskep" (i.e. beehive) is still used in Yorrkshire 
 according to Mr. Ebsworth, for a hive made of woven straw or 
 wicker-work. 
 
 1 Quarto and MS. Six hundred sixty-five.
 
 224 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. II. 
 
 Elee. Fair and upright 
 As are the strict vows of an anchorite. 
 An alms that by a niggard's hand is served 
 Is mould and gravelly bread ; the hunger-starved 
 May take, but cannot eat : I'll deal none such. 
 Who with free hand shakes out but crumbs gives much. 
 
 Cor. You'll have bad helps in this good course of life : 
 You might do therefore well to take a wife. 
 
 Elee. A wife ? When I should have one hand in heaven 
 To write my happiness, in leaves as even 
 And smooth as porphyry, she'd by the other 
 Pluck me quite down : virtue scarce knows a mother. 
 Pardon, sweet females ; I your sex admire, 
 But dare not sit too near your wanton fire, 
 Fearing your fairer beauties' tempting flame 
 My sound affections might put out of frame. 1 
 
 Cor. Who then shall reap the golden crop you sow ? 
 Tis half a curse to have wealth, and not to know 
 Whom to call heir. 
 
 Elee. My heirs shall be the poor : 
 Bees wanting limbs, such as in days of yore 
 Penned learned canzons,- for no other meed 
 But that in them unlettered bees might read, 
 And, reading, lay up knowledge being alive, 
 Such I'll maintain, and, being dead, my hive, 
 Honey and wax I will bequeath to build 
 A skep, where weekly meetings may be held 
 To read and hear such ancient moral saws 
 As may teach ignorance the use of laws. 
 And these will be a true inheritance, 
 Not to decay ; neither sword, fire, nor chance, 
 Thunder of Jove, nor mundane casualties 
 
 1 The following prosaic interruption, which does not appear in 
 the MS., I have relegated to its proper place as a foot-note : 
 
 In like manner, said Alexander by the daughters of Darius : 
 Nescio quid latentis veneni habet caro fitminea 
 Ut prudentiores citius corrumpat. 
 
 2 Sons;*.
 
 CH. ill.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 
 
 Can ruin the succession of these : 
 Manors, parks, towns, nay kingdoms may be sold, 
 But still the poor stand, like a lord's freehold, 
 Unforfeited : of all law- tricks not one 
 Can throw the poor out of possession. 1 
 Should I lose all my hives and waxen wealth, 
 Out of the poor man's dish I should drink health, 
 Comfort, and blessings ; therefore keep aloof 
 And tempt no further : whilst I live my roof 
 Shall cover naked wretches ; when I die 
 I'll dedicate it to Saint Charity. 
 
 225 
 
 
 CHARACTER III. 
 
 THRASO or POLYPRAGMUS, the PLUSH BEE. 
 Invention here doth character 
 A mere vainglorious reveller, 
 Who scorns his equals, grinds the poor, 
 Haunts only riots and his .' : 
 
 Speakers ; POLYPRAGMUS, Servant. 
 
 OL. The room smells : foh, stand off. 
 
 Yet stay ; d'ye hear 
 O' the saucy sun which, mounted in 
 
 our sphere, 
 Strives to outshine us ? 
 
 1 MS. adds : Till death himself comes : yet then like Hydra's 
 
 breed 
 As one deceases three others will succeed. 
 
 3 So in original. Q 
 
 Nero.
 
 226 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. in. 
 
 Serv. So the poor bees hum. 
 
 Pol. Poor bees ! potguns, 1 illegitimate scum, 
 And bastard flies, taking adulterate shape 
 From reeking dunghills ! If that meddling ape, 
 Zanying my greatness, dares but once presume 
 To vie expense with me, I will consume 
 His whole hive in a month. Say, you that saw 
 His new-raised frame, how is it built ? 
 
 Serv. Of straw 
 
 Dyed in quaint colours ; here and there a row 
 Of Indian bents, 2 which make a handsome show. 
 
 Pol. How ! straw and bents, say'st ? I will have one 
 
 built 
 
 Like Pompey's theatre ; the ceiling gilt 
 And interseamed with pearl, to make it shine 
 Like high Jove's palace : my descent's divine. 
 My great hall I'll have paved with clouds ; which clone, 
 By wondrous skill, an artificial sun 
 Shall roll about, reflecting golden beams, 
 Like Phoebus dancing on the wanton streams. 
 And when 'tis night, just as that sun goes down, 
 I'll have the stars draw up a silver moon 
 In her full height of glory. Overhead 
 A roof of woods and forests I'll have spread, 
 Trees growing downwards, full of fallow-deer ; 
 When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear 
 A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring 
 Actaeon to Diana in the spring, 
 Where all shall see her naked skin ; and there 
 Actseon's hounds shall their own master tear, 
 As emblem of his folly that will keep 
 Hounds to devour and eat him up asleep. 
 All this I'll do that men with praise may crown 
 My fame for turning the world upside-down. 
 And what plush bees sit at this flesh-fly's table ? 
 
 1 Mock guns. - A tough, wiry species of grass.
 
 CH. in.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 227 
 
 Serv. None but poor lame ones and the ragged 
 rabble. 
 
 Pol. My board shall be no manger for scabbed jades 
 To lick up provender ; no bee that trades 
 Sucks honey there. 
 
 Serv. Poor scholars 
 
 Pol. Beg and starve, 
 
 Or steal and hang ; what can such rogues deserve ? 
 Gallows and gibbets, hang 'em. Give me lutes, 
 Viols and clarions ; such music suits. 
 Scholars, like common beadles, lash the times, 
 Whip our abuse, and fetch blood of our crimes. 
 Let him feed hungry scholars, fetch me whores ; 
 They are man's bliss ; the other, kingdoms' sores. 
 We gave in charge to seek the grove for bees 
 Cunning 1 in cookery and rare qualities ; 
 And wanton females that sell sin for gold. 
 
 Serv. Some of all sorts you have. 
 
 Pol. They are stale and old ; 
 I have seen 'em twice. 
 
 Serv. We have multiplied your store 
 Unto a thousand. 
 
 Pol. More ; let me have more 
 Than the Grand Signior ; and my change as rare-- 
 Tall, low, and middle-sized, the brown and fair. 
 I'd give a prince his ransom now to taste 
 Black 2 Cleopatra's cheek, only to waste 
 A richer pearl than that of Antony's, 
 That fame might write up my name and raze his. 
 O that my mother had been Paris' whore 
 And I might live to bum down Troy once more, 
 So that by that brave light I might have ran 
 At barley-brake with my sleek courtesan. 
 Yet talk'st of scholars ? see my face no more ; 
 Let the portcullis down and bolt the door. 
 
 1 So MS. ; quarto has Coming. " MS. Swart. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. in. 
 
 But one such tattered ensign here being spread 
 
 Would draw in numbers : here must no rogue 1 be fed. 
 
 Charge our mechanic bees to make things meet 
 
 To manacle base beggars' hands and feet ; 
 
 And call it Polypragmus' whipping-post, 
 
 Or the beggars' ordinary ; they shall taste my roast. 
 
 And if ye spy a bee that has a look 
 
 Stigmatical, 2 drawn out like a black book 
 
 Full of Greek Tr's, 3 to such I'll give large pay 
 
 To watch and ward for poor bees night and day, 
 
 And lash 'em soundly if they approach my gate : 
 
 Whipcord's my bounty, and the rogues shall ha't. 
 
 The poor are but the earth's dung, fit to lie 
 
 Covered in muck-heaps, not offend our eye. 
 
 Thus in your bosoms Jove his bounty flings. 
 
 Wliat are gold mines but a rich dust for kings 
 
 To scatter with their breath, as chaff with wind ? 
 
 Let me then have gold, bear a king's mind 
 
 And give till my arm aches : who bravely pours 
 
 But into a wench's lap such golden showers, 4 
 
 May be Jove's equal, there his ambition ends 
 
 In obscure rivalship ; but he that spends 
 
 A world of wealth, makes a whole world his debtor, 
 
 And such a noble spender is Jove's better. 
 
 That man I'll be, I'm Alexander's heir 
 
 To one part of his mind : I wish there were 
 
 Ten worlds. 
 
 Serv. How, sir ! to conquer? 5 
 
 Pol. No, to sell 
 For Alpine hills of silver ; I could well 
 
 1 So in MS. ; the quarto has "my rogues;" Mr. Bullen reads, 
 " here shall no rogues." 
 
 2 Used in its original sense of branded. " Stigmatical, that is 
 burnt with an hot iron." Gabriel Han.'ey, quo. by Bullen. 
 
 3 A fanciful resemblance to the gallows was found in the Greek 
 
 4 MS. - who freely pours 
 
 Into his Danae's lap such golden showers. 
 s So in MS. Quarto has, How, for to conquer ?
 
 CH. iv.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 229 
 
 Husband that merchandize, provided I 
 Might at one feast draw all that treasure dry. 
 Who hoards up wealth is base ; who spends it, brave : 
 Earth breeds gold, so I tread but on my slave. 
 Strv. O wonderful ! yet let all wonder pass : 
 He's a great bee, and a vain-glorious ass. 
 
 CHARACTER IV. 
 
 ARMIGER, the FIELD BEE. 
 
 The poet under Armiger 
 Shadows a soldier's character ; 
 His worth, the courtier's coy neglect, 
 His pen doth sparingly detect. 
 
 Speakers : ARMIGER, DON COCADILLIO, PROREX. 
 
 1RM. 1 Is Master Bee at leisure to speak 
 
 Spanish 
 
 With a bee of service ? 
 Coc. No. 
 
 Arm. Smoked pilchard, 1 vanish ! 
 Proud Don with the ochre face, I'd 
 
 but desire 
 
 To meet thee on a breach midst smoke and fire ; 
 And, for tobacco, whizzing gunpowder 
 Out of a brazen pipe that should puff louder 
 
 1 Lines I 8 are not in the MS. 
 
 2 Pilchard was formerly used as a term of contempt.
 
 230 THE PARLIAMENT OF SEES. [CH. IV. 
 
 Than thunder roars. There, though, illiterate daw, 
 Thou ne'er couldst spell, thou shouldst read canon 
 
 law. 
 
 How the jades prance in golden trappings ! Ho ! 
 Is Master Bee at leisure ? 
 
 Coc. What to do ? 
 
 Arm. To hear a soldier speak. 
 
 Coc. I cannot tell, 
 I am no ear-picker. 
 
 Arm. Yet you hear well. 
 Ye're of the Court ? 
 
 Coc. The Master Bee's chief barber. 
 
 Arm. Then, Don, you lied : you are an ear-picker. 
 
 Coc. Well if thou comest to beg a suit at Court, 
 I shall descend so low as to report 
 Thy paper business. 1 
 
 Arm. I beg, proud Don ? 
 I scorn to scribble : my petition 
 Is written on my bosom in red wounds. 
 
 Coc. I am no surgeon, sir : alloone. 2 
 
 Arm. Base hounds ! 
 
 Thou god of gay apparel, what strange looks 
 May suit to do thee service ? Mercers' books 
 Show men's devotions to thee : hell cannot hold 
 A fiend more stately. My acquaintance sold 
 'Cause poor ? Stood now my beaten tailor by me 
 Plaiting of my rich hose, my silk-man nigh me 
 Drawing upon my lordship's courtly calf 
 Pairs of embroidered stockings ; or but half 
 
 1 Mr. Bullen quotes the following apposite lines from Massinger's 
 Great Duke of Florence, Act III. sc. i. 
 
 Gior. Do you not know me ? 
 
 Cal. I tell thee, no : on forfeit of my place 
 I must not know myself, much less my father, 
 But by petition : that petition time too 
 With golden birds that sing to the tune of profit, 
 Or I am deaf. 
 
 2 Begone.
 
 CH. iv.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 231 
 
 A dozen things called creditors ; had my barber 
 Perfumed my lousy thatch (this nitty 1 harbour), 
 These pied-winged butterflies would know me then, 
 But they ne'er landed in the Isle of Man, 
 That such a thing as this, a decoy fly, 
 Should buzz about the ear of royalty ! 
 Such whale-boned-bodied 2 rascals, that owe more 
 To linen-drapers, to new vamp a whore, 
 Than all their race from their grand beldame forth 3 
 To this their reign in clothes were ever worth 
 That such should tickle a commander's ear 
 With flattery, when we must not come near 
 But stand (for want of clothes), tho' we win towns, 
 Amongst almsbasket men ! Such silken clowns, 
 When we with blood deserve, share our reward 
 We held scarce fellow-mates to the black guard. 4 
 Why should a soldier, being the world's right arm, 
 Be cut off by the left ? Infernal charm ! 
 Is the world all ruff and feather ? is desert 
 Bastard ? doth custom cut off his child's part ? 5 
 No difference 'twixt a wild-goose and a swan, 
 A tailor and a true-born gentleman ? 
 So the world thinks, but search the herald's notes, 
 And you shall find much difference in their coats. 
 
 Pro. A field bee speak with me ? Bold Armiger, 
 Welcome ! thy bosom is a register 
 Of thy bold acts : virtue's still poor, I see. 
 
 Arm. Poor? rich. 
 
 Pro. In scars. 
 
 Arm. In wealth, in honesty. 
 Since I first read my A B C of war 
 
 1 Filthy, from nit, or louse. 
 
 2 Men wearing the then fashionable whalebone doublets. 
 
 3 MS. From their great grannam forth. 
 
 4 Originally a jocular name given to the lowest menials of the 
 Court, the carriers of coals and wood, &c., who all followed the 
 Court in its progress, and thus became observed. Nares. 
 
 5 i.e. A child's portion.
 
 232 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. iv. 
 
 In nine set fields I sailed by that bright star : 
 
 Ere I was truncheon high I had the style 
 
 Of beardless captain ; and I all this while 
 
 Drilled under honesty, never pursed dead pay, 
 
 Never made week the longer by a day, 
 
 A soldier dead, his pay did likewise die ; 
 
 And still I served one general, honesty. 
 
 From his own trencher I was daily fed 
 
 With cannon bullets, taught to chew steel and lead, 
 
 Nay, digest iron ; and whene'er I die 
 
 I'll have no epitaph but honesty 
 
 Writ over me. 1 
 
 Pro. I know it, thou black swan. 
 I have seen this bee (in his fate more than man) 
 Write in the field such stories with his sting 
 That our best leaders, reading o'er his writing, 
 Swore 'twas a new philosophy of fighting, 
 His acts were so remarkable. In one field 
 Fought 'gainst the surly wasp (I needs must yield 
 Desert his due), having bruised my filmy wing 
 And in fierce combat blunted my keen sting, 
 Beaten into a tuft of rosemary, 
 This manly bee, armed with true honesty, 
 Three times that day redeemed me, and bestrid 
 My body with colossus thigh 
 
 Arm. I did. 2 
 
 1 The preceding lines read in MS. : 
 
 Was still called captain, mews were all my grace, 
 Another pursed the profit of my place ; 
 Whilst from his trencher I was daily fed 
 With cannon bullets, taught to chew steel and lead, 
 Nay, digest iron ; yet still to close the feast 
 I fed on title, captain was the least, 
 Coarsest court-cake bread, but the history 
 Proves it too dainty and too line for me : 
 I'm honest still though, and whene'er I die, &c. 
 - This is the reading of the MS., adopted by Mr. Bullen in pre- 
 ference to that of the quarto, which gives the speech to Prorex, 
 reading " He did."
 
 CH. v.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 233 
 
 Pro. Whilst all the thunder-bolts that war could throw 
 At me, fell on his head. 1 He cannot now 
 Choose but be honest still, and valiant : still 
 His hive with wax and honeycombs I'll fill, 
 And, in reward of thy bold chivalry, 
 Make thee commander of a colony, 
 Wishing all such as honour discipline 
 To serve him, and make honesty their shrine.' 2 
 
 CHARACTER V. 3 
 
 POETASTER, the POETICAL BEE. 
 
 Here invention aims his drift 
 At poet's wants and patron's thrift ; 
 Servile scorn and ignorant pride 
 Free judgment slightly doth deride. 
 
 1 MS. Arm. Then you did vow 
 
 And swear to make me captain ; then these bees 
 Gave me applauses round about my knees 
 Crying my worth up. 
 
 Pro. So they shall do ; still 
 Thy hive, &c. 
 
 2 These two lines are absent in the MS., which ends : 
 
 Arm. I ask no more ; see your reward be dealt 
 Fairly, for fear my just revenge be felt. 
 
 3 A passage from Mr. Bullen's Introduction to his edition of Day 
 will be of service to the reader in this scene. "In Character 5, as given 
 by the 410, the author's drift is difficult to divine. For a moment the 
 reader is at a loss to see why the additional lines (see note, p. 237), 
 preserved by the MS. and required to make the sense complete, were 
 cancelled in the revised copy. It will be observed that Stuprata of 
 the MS. answers both to Iltriste and Arcthusa of the 410. There is 
 an unpleasant suggestiveness in the name ' Stuprata;' and it would 
 seem that Day had intended at first to represent her as won over
 
 234 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. v. 
 
 Speakers:^ GNATHO, ILTRISTE, POETASTER. 
 
 ] LT. A scholar speak with me ? 
 
 Gna. He says a poet. 
 I think no less, for his apparel shows it ; 
 He's of some standing, his cloth cloak is 
 
 worn 
 
 To a serge. 
 
 lit. He's poor : that proves his high things scorn 
 Mundane felicity, disdains to flatter 
 
 from her lover's side by the solicitations of the Master Bee. So we 
 should gather from the table of arguments in the MS. : 
 ' Stuprata by a willing force, 
 
 Having endured a wished divorce, 
 
 Repents,' &c. 
 
 The continual references in the MS. to her ' sin ' and ' shame ' 
 would be otherwise inexplicable. Her own account, as given by 
 the MS., conflicts with this view; but we could hardly expect 
 her to expose her shame to a stranger. On a revision of the work, 
 Day rightly saw that the least hint of Stuprata's infidelity would 
 have tainted throughout the clear current of the poem. He there- 
 fore determined to change the unfortunate name, and to let Cha- 
 racter 5 stand unconnected with Characters 6 and 8. Of course the 
 author cannot be acquitted of carelessness for leaving Character 5 in 
 so unfinished a state ; but how great has been the gain in the two 
 later characters ! Arethusa's abandonment of her lover is now 
 nothing more than a piece of passing petulance ; the fair fame of the 
 pretty bee is untainted, and the whole of the ugly business is resolved 
 into a lover's quarrel." 
 
 1 The speakers in the MS. are Stuprata, Servant, Poetaster. The 
 scene opens : 
 
 Stupr. A scholar speak with me ? Admit him do it, 
 I have business for him. 
 
 Serv. Business ? he's a poet, 
 A common beadle, one that lashes crimes, 
 Whips one abuse and fetches blood o' the times. 
 Yet [Pye'll] welcome him? 
 
 Stupr. Yes, him, dull ignorance ! 
 
 Serv. With Jack Drum's entertainment ; he shall dance 
 The jig called " Beggar's Bush." 
 
 Stupr. Peace, let thy sin 
 Perish at home : out, spaniel, fetch him in. 
 
 Serv. He's come, &c. 
 
 "Jack Drum's entertainment" was a proverbial expression, of un- 
 known origin, for ill-treatment ; " Beggar's Bush," another proverbial 
 saying, was one of those which depended on a punning allusion to 
 the name of a place. It means to go on the road to ruin.
 
 CH. v.] THE PARLIAMENT OF SEES. 235 
 
 For empty air, or, like crow poets, chatter 
 
 For great men's crumbs. But what's his suit to me ? 
 
 Gna. To beg a dinner : old Dame Charity, 
 Lame of all four, limps out, and sounds a call 
 For all the rogues. 
 
 ///. Out, senseless animal ! 
 Hearing of my retirement and the hate 
 I bear to court attendance and high state, 
 He's come perhaps to write my epitaph. 
 
 Gna. Some lousy ballad ! I cannot choose but laugh 
 At these poor squitter-pulps. 
 
 ///. Thou ignorant elf, 
 
 Should he 'know this he'd make thee hang thyself 
 In strong iambics. 
 
 Gna. What's that, hemp or flax? 
 
 ///. A halter stretch thee : such ill-tutored jacks 
 Poison the fame of patrons : I shall, I doubt me, 
 Be thought Job's wife, I keep such scabs about me. 
 Seal up thy lips, and if you needs must sin, 
 Do't privately : out, spaniel, bring him in. 
 
 Gna. He's come. 
 
 Poet. To you my love presents this book. 
 
 ///. I am unworthy on't, except a hook 
 Hang at each line to choke me. Stay, what name 
 Hast given thy brat ? To the most honoured dame. 1 
 Com'st lying into the world ? be thy leaves torn, 
 Rent and used basely, as thy title's borne. 
 
 Gna. Rare sport ! no marvel if this poet begs 
 For his lame verses, they've nor feet nor legs. 
 
 Poet. Nor thou humanity. 
 
 ///. Go burn this paper sprite. 
 
 Gna. Sir, your dark poetry will come to light. 
 
 1 MS. continues : 
 
 Most honoured dame ? dishonoured hadst thou said 
 I would have been thy patron, hugged and read : 
 Honoured? away, go burn't, out of my sight. 
 Ser. Sir, your dark poetry, &c.
 
 236 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. V. 
 
 Poet. You are not noble thus to wound the heart, 
 Tear and make martyrs of the limbs of art, 
 Before examination. Caesar taught 
 No such court doctrine ; Alexander thought 
 Better of Homer's lofty Iliads 
 And hugged their master. Tho' illiterate jades 
 And spur-galled hackneys l kick at their betters, though 
 Some hide-bound worldlings neither give nor show 
 Countenance to poets, yet the noble spirit 
 Loves virtue for its own sake, and rewards merit 
 Tho' ne'er so meanly habited. No 2 bee 
 That frequents Hibla takes more pains than we 
 Do in our canzons ; yet they live and thrive 
 Richly, when we want wax to store our hive. 
 
 ///. I honour poesie, nor dislike I thee ; 
 Only thy fawning title troubled me. 
 I love your groves, and in your libraries, 
 Amongst quaint odes and passionate elegies, 
 Have read whole volumes of much-injured dames 
 Righted by poets. Assume thy brightest flames 
 And dip thy pen in wormwood juice for me. 
 Canst write a satire ? Tart authority 
 Do call 'em libels : canst write such a one ? 
 
 Poet. I can mix ink and copperas. 
 
 ///. So ; go on. 
 
 Poet. Dare mingle poison with 'em. 
 
 Jit. Do't for me ; 
 Thou hast the theory ? 
 
 Poet. Yes : each line must be 
 A cord to draw blood. 
 
 lit. Good. 
 
 Poet. A lie to dare 
 The stab from him it touches. 
 
 lit. Better, rare. 
 
 1 I have adopted Mr. Bullen's suggesteJ wading, a combination 
 of MS. and quarto. 
 
 2 So the MS. ; the quarto has "nor."
 
 CH. v.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 237 
 
 Poet. Such satires, as you call 'em, must lance wide 
 The wounds of men's corruptions ; ope the side 
 Of vice ; search deep for dead flesh and rank cores. 
 A poet's ink can better cure some sores 
 Than surgeon's balsam. 
 
 ///. Undertake this cure, 
 I'll crown thy pains with gold. 
 
 Poet. I'll do't, be sure ; 
 But I must have the party's character. 
 
 ///. The Master Bee. 
 
 Poet. That thunder doth deter 
 And fright my muse : I will not wade in ills 
 Beyond my depth, nor dare I pluck the quills, 
 Of which I make pens, out of the eagle's claw 
 Know, I am a loyal subject. l 
 
 lit. A jack- daw. 
 
 This baseness follows your profession : 
 You are like common beadles, easily won 
 To whip poor bees to death, scarce worth the striking, 
 But fawn with slavish flattery and throw liking 
 On great drone's vices ; you clap hands at those, 
 Which proves your vices friends and virtues foes ; 
 Where the true poet indeed doth scorn to gild 
 A coward's tomb with glories, or to build 
 A sumptuous pyramid of golden verse 
 
 1 MS. contains the following lines not in the quarto : 
 For know I am ever loyal ; but the cause 
 Of your distaste ? 
 
 Stu. This ; in my prime of youth, 
 When modest love and uncorrupted truth 
 Were my companions, I engaged my heart 
 To a bee enriched with valour and desert 
 Who loved me dearly. But our Master Bee 
 ('Tis pity great ones should love flattery) 
 Wrought by a favourite, divorced our hearts, 
 Neglects my tears, tramples on his deserts, 
 For this I hate him : touch him for this and spare not ; 
 I'll be thy warrant. 
 
 Poet. Pardon me : I dare not. 
 
 Stu. Why here's the shame of your profession : 
 You are like common beadles, &c.
 
 238 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. v. 
 
 Over the ruins of an ignoble hearse. 
 
 His lines like his invention are born free, 
 
 And both live blameless to eternity : 
 
 He holds his reputation so dear 
 
 As neither flattering hope nor servile fear 
 
 Can bribe his pen to temporize with kings ; 
 
 The blacker are their crimes, he louder sings. 1 
 
 Go, go, thou dar'st not, canst not write ; let me 
 
 Invoke the help of sacred poesie. 
 
 May not a woman be a poet ? 
 
 Poet. Yes; 
 
 And learn the art with far more easiness 
 Than any man can do ; for poesie 
 Is but a feigning, feigning is to lie, 
 And women study that art more than men. 
 
 ///. I am not fit to be a poet then, 
 For I should leave off feigning and speak true. 
 Poet. You'll ne'er then make good poet. 
 ///. Very few 
 I think be good. 
 
 Poet. I think so too. 
 ///. Be plain. 
 
 How might I do to hit the master vein 
 Of poesie ? 
 
 Poet. I descend from Persius. 2 
 He taught his pupils to breed poets thus : 
 To have their temples girt and swaddled up 
 With night-caps ; to steal juice from Hebe's cup 
 To steep their barren crowns in ; pilfer clouds 
 From off Parnassus' top ; to build them shrouds 
 Of laurel boughs to keep invention green, 
 Then drink nine healths of sacred Hippocrene 
 To the nine Muses. This, says Persius, 
 
 1 The reading of the MS. adopted by Mr. Bullen. The quarto 
 reads : 
 
 The blacker are his crimes, the ouder sings. 
 
 2 The lines that follow bear no resemblance to anything in 
 Persius. Bnllen.
 
 CH. v.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 239 
 
 Will make a poet : I think cheaper thus, 
 
 Gold, music, wine, tobacco and good cheer 
 Make poets soar aloft and sing out clear. 
 
 ///. Are you born poets ? 
 
 Poet. Yes. 
 
 ///. So die ? 
 
 Poet. Die never. 
 
 ///. My misery's then a poet that lives ever ; 
 For time has lent it such eternity 
 And full succession, it can never die. 
 How many sorts of poets are there ? 
 
 Poet. Two; 
 Great and small poets. 
 
 ///. Great and small ones ? So ; 
 Which do you call the great ? the fat ones ? 
 
 Poet. No; 
 
 But such as have great heads, which emptied forth 
 Fill all the world with wonder at their worth : 
 Proud flies, swoln big with breath and windy praise, 
 Yet merit brakes, and nettles 'stead of bays. 
 Such title cods and lobsters of Art's sea ; 
 The small ones call the shrimps of poesie. 
 The greater number of spawn-feathered bees 
 Fly low like kites, the other mount on trees ; 
 Those peck up dunghill garbage, these drink wine 
 Out of Jove's cup ; those mortal, these divine. 
 
 ///. Who is the best poet ? 
 
 Poet. Emulation ; 
 
 The next, necessity ; but detraction 
 The worst of all. 
 
 ///. Imagine I were one : 
 What should I get by 't ? 
 
 Poet. Why, opinion. 
 
 lit. I've too much of that already ; for 'tis known 
 That in opinion I am overthrown. 
 Opinion is my evidence, judge and jury ; 
 Opinion has betrayed me to the fury
 
 240 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH.VL 
 
 Of vulgar scandal ; partial opinion 
 
 Gapes like a sheriff for execution. 
 
 I wondered still how scholars came undone, 
 
 And now I see 'tis by opinion, 
 
 That foe to worth, sworn enemy to art, 
 
 Patron of ignorance, hangman of desert. 
 
 Ask any man what can betray a poet 
 
 To scandal ? Base opinion shall do it. 
 
 I'll therefore be no poet, no, nor make 
 
 Ten Muses of your nine. My reason take : 
 
 Verses, though freemen born, are bought and sold 
 
 Like slaves ; their makers too, that merit gold, 
 
 Are fed with shales. 1 Whence grows this slight regard ? 
 
 From hence : Opinion gives their reward. 
 
 CHARACTER VI. 
 
 . THE RIVALS. 
 
 Invention labours to discover 
 The pretty passions of a lover ; 
 Showing how in amorous fits 
 Long lost a bee may find her wits. 
 
 Speakers : ARETHUSA, ULANIA. 
 
 RE. Well met, fair beauty ; pray you can 
 
 you tell 
 News of Meletus? 
 
 Ufa. Such a bee doth dwell [friend ? 
 In my father's hive ; but ask you as a 
 1 Husks.
 
 CH. VI.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 241 
 
 Are, Yes; and as one who for his good would 
 
 spend 
 Living and life. 
 
 Ula. Yet not so much as I. 
 
 Are. Why ! do you love him ? ' 
 
 Ula. I'm mine own echo, ay. 
 
 Are. Wherefore ? 
 
 Ula. I know not ; there's some fallacy. 
 For not a village fly nor meadow bee, 
 That traffics daily on the neighbour plain, 
 But will report how all the winged train 
 Have sued to me for love. When we have flown 
 In swarms out to discover fields new blown, 
 Happy was he could find the forward'st tree 
 And cull the choicest blossoms out for me ; 
 Of all their labours they allowed me some 
 And, like my champions, manned me out and home : 
 Yet I loved none of them. Philon, a bee 
 Well skilled in verse and amorous poesie, 
 As we have sat at work, both of one rose, 
 
 1 MS. Slupr. Ay me, a rival ! wherefore do you love him? 
 
 Riv. 'Cause in love's sphere there's no star shines above 
 
 him : 
 
 He is Cupid's altar, and before him lies 
 Ten thousand bleeding hearts as sacrifice. 
 There's a mild majesty throned in his brows ; 
 At each hair of his head, a Cupid grows 
 Whose little fingers (curling golden wire) 
 Make amorous nets to entangle chaste desire ; 
 A pair of suns move in his sphere-like eyes : 
 Were I love's pirate, he should be my prize. 
 Only his person lightens all the room, 
 For where his beauty shines, night dares not come ; 
 His frown would school a tyrant to be meek ; 
 Love's chronicle is painted on his cheek, 
 Where lilies and fresh roses spread so high 
 As death himself to see them fade would die. 
 
 Stupr. For this you love him ? 
 
 Riv. For all this I do, 
 Yet 'tis a wonder that I should do so, 
 Except induced by some strange fallacy, 
 For neither upland fly nor meadow bee 
 That traffic daily on this flowery plain, &r. 
 Nero R
 
 242 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. vi. 
 
 Has hummed sweet canzons both in verse and prose, 
 
 Which I ne'er minded. Astrophel, a bee 
 
 (Although not so poetical as he) 
 
 Yet in his full invention quick and ripe, 
 
 In summer evenings on his well-tuned pipe, 
 
 Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun 
 
 (Our hive being clean swept and our day's work 
 
 done) 
 
 Would play me twenty several tunes ; yet I 
 Nor minded Astrophel nor his melody. 
 Then there's Aminter, 1 for whose love fair Lede 
 (That pretty bee) flies up and down the mead 
 With rivers in her eyes, without deserving 
 Sent me trim acorn cups, 2 of his own carving, 
 To drink May dew and mead in. Yet none of these, 
 
 My hive-born playfellows and neighbour bees, 
 
 Could I affect, until this strange bee came ; 
 
 And him I love with such an ardent flame 
 
 Discretion cannot quench. 
 Are. Alas, good heart ! 
 
 What pains she has ta'en to study o'er my part. 3 
 
 How doth he spend his time ? 
 Ula. Labours and toils, 
 
 Extracts more honey out of barren soils 
 
 Than twenty lazy drones. I have heard my father, 
 
 Steward of the hive, profess that he had rather 
 
 Lose half the swarm than him. If a bee poor or 
 weak 
 
 Grow faint on's way, or by misfortune break 
 
 A wing or leg against a twig ; alive 
 
 Or dead he'll bring into the master's hive 
 
 1 Reading of the MS. ; the quarto has " Amniter." 
 
 - M.S. reading, adopted by Mr. Bullen ; the quarto has "trim 
 acorn boughs." 
 
 3 So in MS. The quarto reads : Now I begin 
 
 To love him, fresh examples ushers sin. 
 
 Mr. Bullen rightly says the reading of the MS. is far preferable ; 
 but he does not adopt it.
 
 CH. vi.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 243 
 
 Him and his burthen. But the other day, 
 
 On the next plain there grew a mortal fray 
 
 Betwixt the wasps and us ; the wind grew high, 
 
 And a rough storm raged so impetuously 
 
 Our bees could scarce keep wing ; then fell such 
 
 rain, 
 
 It made our colony forsake the plain 
 And fly to garrison : yet still he stood, 
 And 'gainst the whole swarm made his party good, 1 
 And at each blow he gave, cried out " his vow, 
 His vow and Arethusa." On each bough 
 And tender blossom he engraves her name 
 With his sharp sting : to Arethusa's fame 
 He consecrates his actions ; all his worth 
 Is only spent to character her forth. 
 On damask roses and the leaves of pines 
 I have seen him write such amorous moving lines 
 In Arethusa's praise, as my poor heart 
 Has, when I read them, envied her desert; 
 And wept and sighed to think that he should be 
 To her so constant, yet not pity me. 2 
 
 1 MS. adds : And backed by a few stragglers home he drives 
 The adverse colony into their hives, 
 And had not our arch-colonel by commands 
 Sheathed up his sword and manacled his hands, 
 He had seized both wax and honey, and set fire 
 Of all their, beeskeps ; forced thus to retire, 
 He bounds his proud steed, and cries, " This I've done 
 In honour of Stuprata, she's alone 
 ThefriMum vivens of my actions ! " on each bough 
 And tender rind he registers his vow 
 Made to that fair, though false one, all his wealth, &c. 
 - Instead of the ensuing lines, MS. reads : 
 
 Slupr. What have I heard ? Relictus, pardon me, 
 
 For I have been by much too cruel to thee. 
 
 Yet if, as she reports, I find thy heart 
 
 A second time contract, for thy desert 
 
 Nature shall work a miracle so strange 
 
 As all the groves shall wonder at my change. 
 
 And though we ne'er see more, yet for thy sake 
 
 And mine own sin, this solemn vow I make : 
 
 Never to love bee more, never to fly 
 
 To summer bower ; the blossomed bravery 
 
 R 2
 
 244 THE PARLIAMENT: OF BEES. [CH. vi. 
 
 Are. Oh! 
 
 Ula. Wherefore sigh you ? 
 
 Are. Amorato, oh ! 
 My marble heart melts. 
 
 Ula. What, sigh and weep you too ? 
 
 Are. Yes, in mere pity that your churlish fate 
 Should for true love make you unfortunate. 
 
 Ula. I thank you. What this Arethusa is 
 I do not know : only my suit is this, 
 If you do know this bee, when you next meet him 
 (He's labouring in that mead), in my name greet him, 
 And tell him that I love him more, far more 
 Than Arethusa can ; nay I adore 
 His memory so, that he shall be my saint ; 
 And when his tender limbs grow weak and faint, 
 I'll do his labour and mine own. The spring, 
 Being dry, grows much unfit for labouring : 
 To prevent famine and a sudden dearth, 
 For his sake I'll befriend the barren earth 
 And make it fruitful with a shower of tears, 
 In which I'll drown his scorn and mine own fears. 
 
 Are. What have I heard ? Amorato, pardon me, 
 For I have been by much too cruel to thee ; 
 Yet if, as she reports, I find thy heart 
 Bequeathed to Arethusa's weak desert, 
 Nature shall work a miracle so strange, 
 All amorous bees shall wonder at my change. 
 
 O' the court shall never tempt me ; to the bare 
 And lawless commons I'll for food repair, 
 Where 'stead of rosebuds and blown eglantine 
 'Mongst burrs and thistles I'll consume and pine. 
 I'll seek him out he's mourning in the grove 
 And either lose my life or win his love.
 
 CHARACTER VII. 
 
 PARSIMONIOUS, the GATHERING BEE. 
 The thrifty bee doth tauntingly deride 
 The prodigal, inveighing 'gainst his pride. 
 
 Speakers: PARSIMONIOUS, ACOLASTES. 
 
 AR. Thou art my kinsman ; yet, had not 
 
 thy mother 
 Been constant to thy father and none 
 
 other, 
 I would have sworn some emperor had 
 
 got thee. 
 
 Aco. Why so he might ; let not opinion sot thee. 
 Par. Suppose all kingdoms in the world were balls, 
 And thou * stood with a racket twixt four walls 
 To toss ad placitum : how wouldst thou play ? 
 
 Aco. Why, as with balls, bandy 2 'em all away ; 
 They gone, play twice as many of the score. 
 
 Par. A tennis-court of kings could do no more ; 
 But, faith, what dost thou think that I now think 
 Of thy this day's expenses ? 
 
 Aco. How ? in drink, 
 Dice, drabs and music ? why, that it was brave ? 
 
 Par. No ; that thou art a proud vain-glorious knave. 
 That teeming womb thy father left so full 
 
 1 " Thou " omitted in quarto. 
 
 2 Bandy, originally a term at tennis, from French bander. Nares.
 
 246 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. vn. 
 
 Of golden issue, thou, like a brainless gull, 
 
 Hast viper-like eat through. Oh here's trim stuff, 
 
 A good man's 'state in garters, rose, and ruff ! 
 
 Aco. How ! one man's 'state ? that beggar's wretched 
 
 poor 
 
 That wears but one man's portion : I'll do more. 
 Had I my will, betwixt my knee and toe 
 I'd hang more pearls and diamonds than grow 
 In both the Indies. Poor Fucus, must my hose 
 Match your old greasy cod-piece ? 
 
 Par. Let's not part foes : 
 I'd have thee live in compass. 
 
 Aco. Fool, I'll be 
 
 Like Phoebus in the zodiac, I am he 
 That would take Phaeton's fall, tho' I set fire 
 On the whole world, to be Heaven's charioteer. 
 Par, Thou'st fired too much already; parks and 
 
 chases 
 
 Have no part left of 'em, save names of places. 
 Thou'st burnt so much, thou'st not one tree to fell 
 To make a fire to warm thee by in hell. 
 Aco. I'll warm me by thy bones then. 
 Par. Stay ' and hold ; 
 
 Want fire till then thy lust will starve with cold : 
 Tis voiced abroad, too, that thy lands are sold. 
 Aco. They are : what then ? 
 Par. And that the money went 
 Towards the " great last proud entertainment. 
 Aco. It's a lie. 
 Par. I thank you. 
 Aco. But suppose it true 
 That I spent millions, what's all that to you ? 
 Had I for every day i' the year a friend, 
 For each hour in that year a mine to spend, 
 I'd waste both Indies, but I'd feast them all. 
 
 1 Quarto, ' ' Say. " 
 
 2 " The " inserted by Mr. Bullen.
 
 CH. vii.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 247 
 
 Par. And starve thyself, still a true prodigal : 
 What should thy stews have then ? 
 
 Aco. Out, lazy drone ; 
 
 Thou enviest bees with stings, 'cause thine is gone. 
 Plate, jewels, treasure, all shall fly. 
 
 Par. They shall ; 
 And then some dunghill give thee burial. 
 
 Aco. No, I'll turn pickled thief. 
 
 Par. What's that? 
 
 Aco. A pirate. 1 
 
 If gold keep house, a-sea or land, I'll hate. 
 As to feed riot I the land did brave, 
 So, scorning land, water shall be my grave. 
 Meanwhile the circle I've begun I'll run, 
 (Should the devil stand 'i the centre) like the sun, 
 In his meridian ; my ascent's divine. 
 The vanity of all mankind is mine. 2 
 In me all prodigals' looseness fresh shall flow ; 
 Borrow and spend, ne'er look back what I owe : 
 Wine, harlots, surfeits, rich embroidered clothes, 
 Strange fashions, all sins sensual, new coined oaths, 
 Shall feed and fill me : I'll feast every sense : 
 Naught shall become me ill, but innocence, 
 
 Par. Farewell ; I spy a wallet at thy back : 
 Who spends all young, ere age comes, all shall lack. 
 
 1 So in MS., substituted by Mr. Bullen for the quarto's "pitcate." 
 
 2 MS. adds : 
 
 Frequent all objects, opportunities, 
 
 Court bad occasion, haunt lewd companies.
 
 CHARACTER VIII. 
 
 INAMORATO, the PASSIONATE BEE. 
 
 In this the poet spends some art 
 To character a lover's heart : 
 And, for a sigh his love let fall, 
 Prepares a solemn funeral. 
 
 Speakers: 1 CHARIOLUS, ARETHUSA. 
 
 HA. Oh, Arethusa, cause of my soul's 
 - moving, 
 Nature, save thee, hath no work worth 
 
 the loving ; 
 
 For, when she fashioned thee, she sum- 
 moned all 
 The Graces and the Virtues cardinal ; 
 Nay, the whole swarm of bees came loaden home, 
 Each bringing thee a rich perfection ; 
 And laid them up with such art in the hive 
 (Thy brain) as, since that, all thy beauties thrive : 
 For being mixt at thy creation, 
 They made thee fair past art or imitation. 
 
 Are. 'Tis he : is not your name Chariolus, 
 Son to our Master Bee ? 
 
 Cha. What art that thus 
 Bluntly salut'st me ? 
 
 Are. One that has to say 
 Somewhat to you from lovely Arethusa. 
 
 1 In the MS. the speakers are Relictus, Stuprata, as in Ch. VI.
 
 CH. vjii.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 249 
 
 Cha. How doth she ? 
 
 Are. Well. 
 
 Cha. Ill-tutored bee, but well ? 
 The word's too sparing for her : more than well, 
 Nay, more than excellent's an epithet 
 Too poor for Arethusa. 
 
 Are. This is right 
 
 As the bee told me. Can she be better well l 
 Than with the Gods ? 
 
 Cha. The Gods ? 
 
 Are. A passing bell 
 
 Proclaimed her death, and the whole swarm of bees 
 Mourned at her hearse in sable liveries. 
 Long she lay sick, yet would not send till death 
 Knocked at life's gate to fetch away her breath ; 
 But just as he came in, Go thou (quoth she) 
 Seek out Chariolus ; greet him from me, 
 And pray him that he would no longer shroud 
 His fair illustrate splendour in a cloud ; 
 For I am gone from the world's vanities 
 Unto the Gods, a pleasing sacrifice : " 
 Yet there I'll wish him well, and say, Good youth, 
 I bequeath nothing to him but my truth. 
 And even as death arrested her, she cried, 
 Oh my Chariolus ! so with a sigh she died. 3 
 
 1 MS. but I'll try him nearer : 
 
 The truer that I find his breast, the dearer 
 Shall my sin cost me : can she be better well, &c. 
 The quarto omits " be " before " better." 
 
 2 MS. For I, quoth she, affrighted at my shame, 
 
 My injury done to honour and your name, 
 Foes with my fault and the world's vanities, 
 Go to the Gods a smiling sacrifice. 
 
 3 MS. I bequeathe to him my once perfect truth 
 
 Freed from incumbrance ; that word spoke, she cried, 
 Pardon my sin, Relictus, sighed and died. 
 
 Rel. Her sin ? her innocence, she was divine 
 And could not err, the sin was only mine, 
 And my unworthiness ; and yet since mortal, why 
 Might she not sin, as well as sigh or die ? 
 For with a sigh she died, &c.
 
 250 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. vni. 
 
 Cha. So, with a sigh, she died. 
 
 Are. What mean you, sir ? 
 I have told him, like a foolish messenger, 
 What I shall first repent. 
 
 Cha. Come, let us divide 
 Sorrows and tears ; for, with a sigh, she died. 
 
 Are. Nay then ; she lives. 
 
 Cha. Tis false ; believe it not 
 I'll have that sigh drawn on a chariot 
 (Made of the bones of lovers who have cried, 
 Beaten their breasts, sighed for their loves and died) 
 Covered with azure-coloured velvet, where 
 The sun of her affections. shall shine clear. 
 In careless manner, 'bout the canopy, 
 Upon the blue, in quaint embroidery, 
 Arethusa and Chariolus shall stand 
 As newly married, joined hand in hand. 1 
 The chariot shall be drawn by milk-white swans, 
 About whose comely necks (as straight as wands), 
 Instead of reins, there shall hang chains of pearl 
 As precious as her faith was. The prime girl 
 That shall attend this chariot shall be Truth, 
 Who, in a robe composed of ruined youth, 
 Shall follow weeping, hanging down the head, 
 As who should say, My sweet companion's dead. 
 Next shall the Graces march, clad in rich sables 
 With correspondent hoods, 'bout which large cables ~ 
 Of pearl and gold, in rich embroidery, 
 Shall hang sad mottoes of my misery. 3 
 
 Are. Oh no ; my misery ! 
 
 Cha. Next these shall go 
 All Arethusa's virtues in a row : 
 Her wisdom first, in plain habiliments, 
 
 1 MS. adds : If any ask how divorced love came tied, 
 
 Tell 'em she wept, sighed for her sins and died. 
 The quarto has " Tables." [tied, 
 
 3 MS. adds : About their waists (MS., masts) gold girdles shall be 
 The studs of pearl she sinned, wept, sighed and died.
 
 CH.VIII.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 251 
 
 As not affecting gaudy ornaments ; 
 
 Next them her chastity, attired in white, 1 
 
 (Whose chaste eye shall her epitaph indite) 
 
 Looking as if it meant to check desire 
 
 And quell the ascension of the Paphian fire ; 
 
 Next these, her beauty, that immortal thing, 
 
 Decked in a robe that signifies the spring, 
 
 The loveliest season of the quartered year ; 
 
 Last shall her virgin modesty appear, 
 
 And that a robe, nor white nor red, shall wear, 
 
 But equally participating both ; 
 
 Call it a maiden blush, and so the cloth 
 
 Shall be her hieroglyphic ; on her eye 
 
 Shall sit discretion who, when any spy 
 
 Would at that casement (like a thief) steal in, 
 
 Shall, like her heart's true porters, keep out sin. c 
 
 These shall be all chief mourners; and, because 
 
 This sigh killed Arethusa, here we'll pause 
 
 And drop a tear, the tribute of her love. 
 
 Next this, because a sigh did kill my dove 
 
 (A good conceit, I pray forget it not), 
 
 At the four corners of this chariot 
 
 I'll have the four winds statued, which shall blow 
 
 And sigh my sorrows out, above, below, 
 
 Into each quarter. Then, sir, on the top, 
 
 Over all these gaudy trim things, I'll set up 
 
 My statue 3 in jet ; my posture this 
 
 Catching at Arethusa, my lost bliss : 
 
 For over me, by geometric pins, 
 
 I'll have her hang betwixt two cherubins, 
 
 1 MS. Next these her chastity, how tired ? in black, 
 
 And 'twill show well, for having 'scaped a wrack, 
 To mourn will show her soul conceives a pride 
 That tears washed out her fault before she died. 
 - MS. adds : For should it enter in immodesty, 
 
 There is no cure for sin but sigh and die. 
 
 3 This should no doubt read " statua," and be pronounced, as the 
 metre demands, in three syllables.
 
 252 
 
 THE PARLIAMENT OF REES. [en. ix. 
 
 As if they had snatched her up from me and earth, 
 In heaven to give her a more glorious birth ; 
 The word this : What should virtue do on earth? 
 This I'll have done ; and when 'tis finished, all 
 That love, come to my poor sigh's funeral. 
 Swell gall, break heart, flow tears like a full tide, 
 For, with a sigh, fair Arethusa died. 
 
 Are. Rather than thus, your faithful flames should 
 
 smother : 
 Forget her thought, and entertain another. 
 
 Cha. Oh, never, never ! with the turtle-dove, 
 A sigh shall bear my soul up to my love. 
 
 CHARACTER IX. 
 
 PHARMACOPOLIS, the QUACKSALVING BEE. 
 
 This satire is the character 
 Of an imposterous quacksalver ; 
 Who, to steal practise and to vent 
 His drugs, would buy a patient. 
 
 Speakers: SENILIS, STEWARD, PHARMACOPOLIS. 
 
 What's he? 
 Stew. The party. 
 Sen. How ? what party, sir ? 
 Stein. A most sweet rogue, an honest 
 
 quacksalver ; 
 
 That sues to beyourhouseholdpothecary. 
 Sen. What sees he in my face, that I should buy
 
 CH. ix.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 253 
 
 His drugs and drenches ? My cheek wears a colour 
 
 As fresh as his, and my veins' channel's fuller 
 
 Of crimson blood, than his ; my well-knit joints 
 
 Are all trussed round, and need no physical points. 
 
 Read the whole alphabet of all my age, 
 
 'Mongst sixty letters shall not find one ache l : 
 
 My blood's not boiled with fevers, nor, though old, 
 
 Is't icicled with cramps, or dropsy cold : 
 
 I am healthful both in body and in wits ; 
 
 Coughs, rheums, catarrhs, gouts, apopletic fits, 
 
 The common sores of age, on me ne'er ran. 
 
 Nor Galenist, nor Paracelsian 
 
 Shall ere read physic lecture out of me : 
 
 I'll be no subject for anatomy. 
 
 Phar. They are two good artists, sir. 
 
 Sen. All that I know : 
 What the Creator did, they in part do : 
 A true- physician's a man-maker too. 
 My kitchen is my doctor ; and my garden, 
 My college, master, chief assistant, warden 
 And pothecary. When they give me pills, 
 They work so gently I'm not choked with bills : 
 Ounce, drachma, dram the mildest of all these 
 Is a far stronger grief than the disease. 
 
 Phar. Were't not for bills, physicians might go make 
 Mustard. 
 
 Sen. I know't ; nor bills nor pills I'll take. 
 I stand on sickness' shore, and see men tossed 
 From one disease to another, at last quite lost ; 
 But on that sea of surfeits where they are drowned 
 I, never hoisting sail, am ever found. 
 
 Phar. How ! ever found? were all our gallants so, 
 Doctors and pothecaries might go sow 
 Dowlas " for saffron-bags, take leave of silk 
 
 1 This is of course, a pun, "ache" being formerly pronounced 
 precisely like the letter " h." 
 
 2 Coarse linen cloth.
 
 254 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. ix. 
 
 And eat green chibbals J and sour butter-milk. 
 Would you know how all physic to confound ? 
 Why, 'tis done thus, keep but your gallants sound. 
 
 Sen. 'Tis their own faults, if they, 'fore springs or 
 
 falls, 
 
 Emptying wine-glasses fill up urinals. 
 Man was made sound at first : if he grows ill, 
 Tis not by course of nature, but free will. 
 Distempers are not ours ; there should be then, 
 Were we ourselves, no physic : men to men 
 Are both diseases' cause and the disease. 
 Thank Fate, I'm sound and free from both of these. 
 
 Phar. Steward, my fifty crowns ; Redde. 
 
 Stew. Not I. 
 
 Phar. I'll give you then a glister. 
 
 Stew. Me, sir ? Why ? 
 
 Phar. I'll tell your master. Sir, tho' you'll take 
 
 none, 
 Let me give your steward a purgation. 
 
 Stew. Why ! I am well. 
 
 Phar. No ; you are too hard bound, 
 And you must cast me up the fifty pound 
 I gave you in bribe-powder. 
 
 Stew. Be patient. 2 
 
 Phar. You'll practise on me then. 
 
 Sen. If this be true, 
 My health I see, is bought and sold by you. 3 
 
 1 Onions. 
 
 - In the MS. the words " patient, . . . then " have been erased 
 and the rhyme has been restored thus : 
 Stffiv. Pray be content 
 For fifty more I'll sell you a patient 
 Far better than my lord. 
 3 The MS. reads from here : 
 
 Who buys me next, a doctor, he in potions 
 
 Drinks me off to a surgeon, who in lotions, 
 
 Barley-broth mash and diets physical, 
 
 Prepares my body for an hospital ; 
 
 Where gammer matron for a treble fee, 
 
 Swears by'r death's-head she'll make as much of me.
 
 CH. x.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 255 
 
 A doctor buys me next, whose mess of potions 
 
 Striking me full of ulcers, oils and lotions 
 
 Bequeath me to a surgeon ; last of all 
 
 He gives me diet in an hospital : 
 
 Then comes the scrivener, and he draws my will ; 
 
 Thus slaves, for gold, their masters sell and kill, 
 
 Nay, nay ; so got, so keep it ; for thy fifty 
 
 Take here a hundred ; we'll not now be thrifty. 
 
 But of such artless empirics I'll beware, 
 
 And learn both when to spend and when to spare. 
 
 CHARACTER X. 
 
 FENERATOR, the USURING BEE. 
 
 In which the poet lineates forth 
 That bounty feeds desert and worth : 
 Checks counterfeits, inveighs 'gainst bribes, 
 And Fenerator's nest describes. 
 
 (Meaning of what I have) as ever mother 
 Did of her child : slid thus from one another 
 Like to a piece at shovel board, by mine own 
 Having lost the game, into the box I am thrown, 
 My grave, a house where I must ever dwell, 
 Thus slaves for gold their masters buy and sell, 
 But of such knaves and empirics I'll beware, 
 And learn both when to spend and when to spare. 
 
 Following Mr. Bullen's suggestion, I have restored what is 
 evidently the proper reading to lines five and six from the end, 
 distorted in the MS. transcript.
 
 256 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. x. 
 
 Speakers: DICASTES, SERVITOR, FENERATOR, IMPOTENS. 
 
 1C. What rings this bell so loud for ? 
 
 Ser. Suitors, great bee, 
 Call for despatch of business. 
 Die. Say what they be. 
 Ser. Wracked fen-bees, aged, lame, 
 
 and such as gasp 
 Under late bondage of the cruel wasp. 
 
 Die. Cheer them with hearty welcomes ; in my chair 
 Seat the bee most in years, let no one dare 
 To send 'em sad hence, will l our janitors 
 Observe them nobly ; for the mariners 
 Are clocks of danger, and do ne'er stand still, 
 But move from one unto another ill : 
 Their dial's hand still points to the line of death, 
 And, though they have wind at will, they oft lose breath. 
 Of all our bees that labour in the mead 
 I love them, for they earn the dearest bread 
 That life can buy ; when the elements make war 
 To ruin all, they're saved by their good star : 
 And, for the galley-slaves, oh love that bee 
 Who suffers only for pure constancy. 
 What suitor's that ? 
 
 fen. A very sorry one. 
 
 Die. What makes thee sorry ? 
 
 fen. Pale affliction : 
 My hive is burnt. 
 
 Die. And why to me dost come ? 
 
 fen. To beg a hundred pound. 
 
 Die. Give him the sum. 2 
 
 fen. Now the gods 
 
 Die. Nay, nay ; kneel not, nor be mistook. 
 Faces are speaking pictures : thine's a book, 
 
 1 i.e. Bid. 
 
 2 MS. fen. To beg some wax and honey. 
 
 Die. Give him some.
 
 CH. x.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 257 
 
 Which, if the proof be truly printed, shows, 
 A page of close dissembling. 
 
 fen. High Heaven knows 
 
 Die. Nay, though thou be'st one, yet the money's thine ; 
 Which I bestow on charity, not her shrine. 
 If thou cheat'st me, thou art cheated ; and hast got 
 (Being liquorish) poison from my gallipot 
 Instead of honey. Thou art not my debtor : 
 I'm ne'er the worse, nor thou (I fear) much better. 
 Who's next ? 
 
 Ser. A one-legged bee. 
 
 Die. O use him well. 
 
 Imp. Cannons defend me ! Gunpowder of hell ! 
 Whom hast thou blown up here ? 
 
 Die. Dost know him, friend ? 
 
 Imp. Yes, for the kingdom's pestilence, a fiend : 
 A moth, takes up all petticoats he meets ; 
 Eats feather-beds, bolsters, pillows, blankets, sheets ; 
 And with sale bills lays shirts and smocks a-bed 
 In linen, close adultery ; and, instead 
 Of clothes, strews lavender so strongly on 'em 
 The owners never more can smell upon 'em. 
 This bee sucks honey from the blooms of sin : 
 Be't ne'er so rank or foul, he crams it in. 
 Most of the timber that his state repairs- 
 He hews out o' the bones of foundered players : 
 They feed on poets' brains, he eats their breath. 
 
 Die. Most strange conception life begot in death ! 
 
 Imp. He's a male polecat ; a mere heart-blood soaker : 
 'Mongst bees the hornet, but with men a broker. 
 
 Die. Well charactered : what scathe hath he done thee ? 
 
 Imp. More than my leg's loss : in one month ate three 
 Of my poor fry, besides my wife : this Jew, 
 Though he will eat no pork, eats bees, 'tis tine. 
 
 Die. He told me, when I asked him why he mourned, 
 His hive, and all he could call his, was burned. 
 
 Imp. He^s burned himself, perhaps, but that's no news ; 
 
 Nero. s
 
 258 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. x. 
 
 For he both keeps and is maintained by the stews. 
 
 He buys their sins, and they pay him large rents 
 
 For a long lane of lousy tenements, 
 
 Built up (instead of mortar, straw and stones) 
 
 With poor- pawn-plaster and starved debtors' bones. 
 
 He may be fired ; his rotten hives are not. 
 
 To this autumn woodfare, alias kingdom's-rot, 
 
 I pawned my weapons, to buy coarse brown bread 
 
 To feed my fry and me. Being forfeited, 
 
 Twice so much money as he lent I gave, 1 
 
 To have mine arms again : the griping slave 
 
 Swore not to save my soul unless I could 
 
 Lay down my stump here, my poor leg of wood, 
 
 And so hop home. 
 
 Die. Unheard of villainy. 
 Ser. And is this true ? 2 
 fen. I dare not say it's a lie. 
 Die. And what say'st thou to this ? 
 Imp. Nothing, but crave 
 Justice against this hypocritical knave, 
 This three-pile-velvet rascal, widows' decayer, 
 The poor fry's beggarer and rich bees' betrayer. 
 Let him have Russian law for all his sins. 
 Die. What's that ? 
 
 Imp. A hundred blows on his bare shins. 
 Fen. Come home and take thine arms. 
 Imp. I'll ha' thy legs : 
 Justice, great bee; 'tis a wronged cripple begs. 
 
 Die. And thou shalt ha't. 1 told thee, goods, ill got, 
 Would as ill thrive ; my gift I alter not, 
 That's yours. But, cunning bee, you played the knave, 
 To crave, not needing : this poor bee must have 
 His request too, else justice lose her chair. 
 Go ; take him in, and on his shins, stript bare, 
 In ready payment give him a hundred strokes. 
 
 1 MS. Twice so much wax as the churl lent I gave, 
 8 So the MS. ; the quarto reads, Is this true ?
 
 CH. xi.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 
 
 2 59 
 
 Imp. Hew down his shanks, as carpenters fell oaks. 
 
 Die. Nor think me partial ; for I offer thee 
 A hundred for a hundred. 
 
 Imp. Just his usury. 1 
 
 Die. A hundred pound, or else a hundred blows : 
 Give him the gold, he shall release you those. 
 
 Fen. Take it, and rot with't. 
 
 /;///. Follow thee thy curse. 
 Would blows might make all brokers thus disburse. 
 
 CHARACTER XI. 
 
 ORERON IN PROGRESSU: ORERON IN PROGRESS. 
 
 Oberon his royal progress makes 
 To Hybla, where he gives and takes 
 Presents and privileges ; bees 
 Of \vorth he crowns with offices. 
 
 Speakers: OBERON, AGRICOLA, PASTORALIS, FLORA, 
 
 VINTAGER. 1 
 
 BER. The session's full : to avoid the heart 
 In this cool shade each take his seat 
 
 Agri. The winged tenants of these lawns, 
 Decked with blooms and downy pawns, 
 Like subjects faithful, just and true, 
 Bring Oberon tribute. 
 Ober. What are you ? 
 
 i MS. But Legem Talionis, use for usury. 
 
 Give him thy wax or take his hundred blows ; 
 
 The greatest winners must at some times lose. 
 8 " Vintager," omitted in quarto, is restore'd from MS. 
 3 Pansies,
 
 260 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. xi. 
 
 Agri. A poor bee that, by Oberon's will, 
 First invented how to till 
 The barren earth, and in it throw 
 Seeds that die before they grow ; 
 And, being well read in nature's book, 
 Devised plough, sickle, scythe and hook 
 To weed the thistles and rank brakes 
 From the good corn : his voyage makes 
 From Thessaly, my native shrine, 
 And to great Oberon, all divine, 
 Submit myself. This wreath of wheat 
 (Ripened by Apollo's heat), 
 My bosom filled with ears of corn, 
 To thee that wert before time born, 
 I freely offer. 
 
 Ober. May thy field, 
 Laden with bounty, profit yield ; 
 May the root prosper, and each ear, 
 Like a teeming female, bear : 
 April deluge and May frosts, 
 Lightnings and mildews fly thy coasts ; 
 As thou in service true shalt be 
 To Oberon's crown and royalty. 
 True bailiff of our husbandry 
 Keep thy place still : the next. 
 
 Past. A bee 
 
 That's keeper of king Oberon's groves, 
 Sheep-reeve of his flocks and droves, 
 His goats, his kids, his ewes and lambs, 
 Steers and heifers, sires and dams, 
 To express homage at the full, 
 Greets Oberon with this fleece of wool. 
 
 Ober. May thy ewes in yeaning thrive, 
 Stock and increase, stand and survive ; 
 May the woodfare, cough and rot 
 Die or living hurt thee not : 
 May the wolf and wily fox
 
 Ctt. xr.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 261 
 
 Live exiled from thy herds and flocks : 
 
 Last, not least, prosper thy grove, 
 
 And live thou blest in Oberon's love, 
 
 As thou in service true shalt be 
 
 To us and our high royalty. 
 
 The next. 
 
 Vint. High steward of thy vines, 
 
 Taster both of grapes and wines, 
 
 In these ripe clusters that present 
 
 Full bounty, on his knees low bent, 
 
 Pays Oberon homage ; and in this bowl 
 
 Brimmed with grape blood, tender toll 
 
 Of all thy vintage. 
 
 Ober. May thy grapes thrive 
 
 In autumn, and the roots survive 
 
 In churlish winter ; may thy fence 
 
 Be proof 'gainst wild boars' violence ; 
 
 As thou in service true shalt be 
 
 To us and our high royalty. 
 A female bee : thy character ? 
 Flo. Flora, Oberon's gardener, 
 (Housewife both of herbs and flowers, 
 To strew thy shrine and trim thy bowers 
 With violets, roses, eglantine, 
 Daffodil and blue columbine) 
 Hath forth the bosom of the spring 
 Plucked this nosegay, which I bring 
 From Eleusis, mine own shrine, 
 To thee a monarch all divine ; 
 And, as true impost of my grove, 
 Present it to great Oberon's love. 
 
 Ober. Honey-dews refresh thy meads, 
 Cowslips spring with golden heads ; 
 July-flowers * and carnations wear 
 Leaves double streaked with maiden-hair ; 
 May thy lilies taller grow, 
 
 1 A common name for flowers of the carnation kind.
 
 262 
 
 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. XII. 
 
 Thy violets fuller sweetness owe ; 
 And, last of all, may Phoebus love 
 To kiss thee and frequent thy grove, 
 As thou in service true shalt be 
 Unto our crown and royalty. 
 Keep all your places : well we know 
 Your loves, and will reward 'em too. 
 
 Agri. In sign that we thy words believe, 
 As well the birthday as the eve 
 We will keep holy : our winged swains 
 Neither for pleasure, nor for gains, 
 Shall dare profane't : so lead away 
 To solemnize this holy day. 1 
 
 CHARACTER XII. 
 
 REXACILLIUM : The HIGH BENCH BAK. 
 
 Oberon in his Star- Chamber sits ; 
 Sends out subpoenas, High Court writs, 
 To the Master Bee ; degradeth some, 
 Frees others : all share legal doom. 
 
 Speakers: OBERON, FAIRIES, MASTER BEE, PROREX, 
 VESPA, HORNET, HUMBLE BEE, Fucus or DRONE. 
 
 BER. Now summon in our master bee 
 With all his swarm, and tell him we 
 Command our homage. 
 
 Fair. He is come. 
 Roomforgreat Prorex there, makeroom. 
 
 1 MS. Ober. Then lead away 
 To celebrate our holiday.
 
 CH. xii.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 263 
 
 Ober. What means this slackness? 
 
 Pro. Royal sir, 
 My care made me a loiterer, 
 To bring in these transgressing bees 
 Who by deceits and fallacies 
 Clothed with a smooth and fair intent, 
 Have wronged me in my government. 
 
 Ober. The manner how ? 
 
 Pro. These wicked three, 
 The wasp, the drone and humble bee, 
 Conspired like traitors ; first, the wasp 
 Sought in his covetous paw to grasp 
 All he could finger ; made the sea 
 Not only his monopoly, 
 
 But with his winged swarms scoured the plains, 
 Robbed and slew our weary swains 
 Coming from work. 1 The humble bee 
 (A fly as tyrannous as he) 
 By a strange, yet legal, stealth 
 Non-suited bees of all their wealth. 2 
 The drone, a bee more merciless, 
 Our needy commons so oppress 
 By hoarding up and poisoning th' earth, 
 Once in three years he'd make a dearth 
 
 1 M S. adds : Ober. Where's Martio 
 
 Our general ? Pro. Confederate too, 
 For 'gainst his tenure of commission 
 The coward stood a looker on, 
 And not alone betrayed their lives 
 But sold their honey, wax and hives, 
 And after all the massacre 
 Yielded himself their prisoner 
 In policy. The humble bee, &c. 
 - MS. adds : Ingrosses honey, wax and straw 
 
 And pays for 't all with tricks in law. 
 If any pleader tax his wrong 
 He gives him fees to hold his tongue, 
 Or, if law's sentence needs must pass, 
 To use the writ Ne noceas. 
 
 Ober. Dicastes' care should hunt such out. 
 
 Fair. Alas, his tongue has got the gout. 
 
 Pro. The drone, a bee, &c.
 
 264 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. xn. 
 
 (A needless one), transporting more 
 To strangers than would feed our poor. 
 At quarter day, if any lacks 
 His rent, he seize both honey and wax, 
 Throwing him out to beg and starve ; 
 For which 
 
 Ober. As they, yourself deserve 
 Due punishment. For servants' sins 
 We count l their masters : Justice wins 
 More honour and shines more complete 
 In virtue, by suppressing great 
 Than hanging poor ones. Yet, because 
 You have been zealous in our laws, 
 Your fault we pardon : for delinquents 
 We have legal punishments. 
 Vespa that pillaged sea and land, 
 Engrossing all into his hand, 
 From all we banish : dead or alive 
 Never shall Vespa come in hive : 
 But like a pirate and a thief 
 Steal and pilfer his relief. 
 Thou hast fed riots, lusts and rapes, 
 And drawn vice in such horrid shapes 
 As very horse flies, had they known 'em, 
 For credit's cause yet would not own 'em. 
 Thy hive's a brothel, housing sin 
 Against the royalty of kin ; 
 None but thyself could them invent : 
 Thou'rt both the sin and president. - 
 
 1 I have admitted into the text the word "count" from the some- 
 what different reading of the MS. ; the quarto reads " commit," to. 
 the metrical ruin of the line. 
 
 2 I have ventured to relegate these lines of the quarto to a foot- 
 note, and to put into the text the reading of the MS., which, saying 
 just the same thing, says it without changing the metre. 
 
 Thou'st made thy hive a brothel, acted sin 
 'Gainst Nature and the royalty of kin ; 
 So base as, but thy self, none could invent : 
 They are all thine own, and thou their president.
 
 CH. xii.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 265 
 
 For which, as thou thy fame hath lost, 
 So be thine arms and titles crossed 
 From forth the roll of heraldry 
 That blazons our true gentry. 1 
 Live ever exiled. Fucus, you 
 That engrossed our honey dew, 
 Bought wax and honey up by the great 
 (Transporting it as slaves do wheat) 
 Your hive (with honey hid in trees 
 And hollow banks) our poor lame bees 
 Shall share ; and, even as Vespa, so, 
 Unpatronized, live banished too. 
 Last, you that by your surly hum 
 Would needs usurp a Praetor's room ; 
 (Your camlet gown, your purple hood, 
 And stately phrase scarce understood 
 Or known from this our Master Bee, 
 Made the ignorant think that you were he 
 And pay you reverence) : for your hate 
 To the poor, and envy to our state, 
 We here degrade, and let you fall 
 To the dunghill, your original. 
 From nettles, hemlocks, docks and weeds 
 (On which your peasant-lineage feeds) 
 Suck your diet : to be short, 
 Ne'er see our face nor haunt our court. 
 
 Pro. And whither must these flies be sent ? 
 
 Ober. To everlasting banishment. 
 Underneath two hanging rocks, 
 Where babbling Echo sits and mocks 
 Poor travellers, there lies a grove 
 With wLom the sun's so out of love 
 
 1 "Ge.itry" is to be read as a trisyllable. The MS. con- 
 tinues : 
 
 Raze Nimrod's castle, make all even, 
 And strive to get a haven in heaven. 
 Tollatur inquam. Fucus, you, &c.
 
 266 THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. [CH. 
 
 He never smiles on't : pale Despair 
 Calls it his monarchal chair. 
 Fruit, half ripe, hang rivelled l and shrunk 
 On broken arms torn from the trunk : 
 The moorish 2 pools stand empty, left 
 By water, stol'n by cunning theft 
 To hollow banks, driven out by snakes, 
 Adders and newts, that man these lakes : 
 The mossy weeds, half sweltered, served 
 As beds for vermin hunger-starved : 
 The woods are yew-trees, rent and broke 
 By whirlwinds ; here and there an oak 
 Half-cleft with thunder : to this grove 
 We banish them. 
 
 All. Some mercy, Jove. 
 
 Ober. You should have cried so in your youth, 
 When Chronos and his daughter Truth 
 Sojourned amongst you, when you spent 
 Whole years in riotous merriment, 
 Thrusting poor bees out of their hives, 
 Seizing both honey, wax and lives : 
 You should have called for mercy when 
 You impaled common blossoms, when, 
 Instead of giving poor bees food, 
 You ate their flesh and drank their blood. 
 All, Be this our warning. 
 Ober. 'Tis too late : 
 Fairies, thrust them to their fate. 
 Now, Prorex, our chief Master Bee 
 And viceroy, thus we lesson thee : 
 Thy preterite 3 errors we forgive, 
 Provided you hereafter live 
 In compass : take again your crown, 
 But make your subjects so your own 
 As you for them may answer. 
 
 1 Wrinkled. 2 i.e. Moorland. 3 Past.
 
 CM. xil.] THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES. 267 
 
 Pro. Sir, 
 
 For this high favour you confer, 
 True loyalty, upon my knee, 
 I promise both for them and me. 
 
 Ober. Rise in our love then ; and, that you 
 What you have promised may pursue, 
 Chaste Latria I bestow 
 On you in marriage ; she'll teach you how 
 To be yourself: fair truth and time 
 Be a watch and constant chime 
 To all your actions. Now adieu. 
 Prorex shall again renew 
 His potent reign ; the massy world, 
 Which in glittering orbs is hurled 
 About the poles, be lord of: we 
 Only reserve our royalty. 
 Field-music? Oberon must away : 
 For us our gentle fairies stay : 
 In the mountains and the rocks 
 We'll hunt the grey and little fox, 
 Who destroy our lambs at feed 
 And spoil the nests where turtles breed 
 If Vespa, Fucus or proud Error 
 Fright thy bees and be a terror 
 To thy groves, "'tis Oberon's will, 
 As out-laws, you them seize and kill. 
 Apollo and the Muses dance : 
 Art has banished ignorance, 
 And chased all flies of rape and stealth 
 From forth our winged commonwealth.
 
 HUMOUR OUT OF
 
 UMOUR OUT OF BREATH was 
 licensed in April, 1608, and printed 
 in quarto in the same year. It is de- 
 scribed on the title-page as " a Comedy 
 divers times lately acted by the children 
 of the King's Revels." A reprint, limited 
 to fifty copies, was published by Mr. 
 Halliwell-Phillipps in 1860, a second reprint is given by 
 Mr. Bullen in his collected edition of Day's Works, 1881. 
 Mr. Bullen suggests that Day may have taken the title of 
 his play from a line in the Comedy of Errors (iv. i. 57) 
 
 " Fie. now you run this humour out of breath."
 
 TO SIGNIOR NO-BODY. 
 WORTHLESS SIR, 
 
 PRESENT you with these my imperfect 
 labours, knowing that what defect in me or 
 neglect in the printer hath left imperfect, 
 judgment in you will wink at, if not think 
 absolute. 1 Being to turn a poor friendless 
 child into the world, yet sufficiently featured too, had it been 
 all of one man's getting (woe to the iniquity of Time the 
 whilst !) my desire is to prefer him to your service : in which, 
 as he shall be sure to get nothing, so likewise my hope is, 
 he shall not lose much ; for your bounty neither makes 
 strangers love you, nor your followers envy you. You are a 
 patron worthy the sisterhood, I mean the poor half dozen, 
 for the three elders they climb above my element : the sun, 
 the moon, and the seven stars, being scarce worthy the 
 survey of their workings. I protest I had rather bestow my 
 pains on your good worship for a brace of angels 2 certain, 
 than stand to the bounty of a better man's purse-bearer, or a 
 very good woman's gentleman-usher : my reason is, I cannot 
 attend : your Bis dat qui cito stands so like a loadstone over 
 your great gate, that I fear 'twill draw all the iron-pated 
 Muse-mongers about the town in a short time to your 
 patronage. For mine own part I had rather be yours vo/ens, 
 than be driven nolens : so till I meet you next at your great 
 Castle in Fish Street I'll neither taste of your bounty, nor be 
 drunk to your health. 
 
 One of your first followers, 
 
 JOHN DAY. 
 
 1 Perfect. 
 
 2 About twenty shillings.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 OCTAVIO, Duke of Venice, usurping Duke of Mantua. 
 
 HIPPOLITO, I his Sons 
 
 FRANCISCO, J 
 
 ANTONIO, banished Duke of Mantua. 
 
 ASPERO, his Son. 
 
 HORTENSIO, Deputy to OCTAV!O,and Guardian of FLORIMEL. 
 
 JULIO, Regent of Mantua for OCTAVIO. 
 
 FLAMINEO, Attendant on the Duke of Venice. 
 
 ASSISTANCE, Servant to HORTENSIO. 
 
 Page to HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO. 
 
 Page to FLORIMEL. 
 
 Boy, Page to ASPERO. 
 
 Lords. 
 
 Messengers. 
 
 FLORIMEL, Daughter of the Duke of Venice. 
 
 HERMIA, j aug hters of the banished Duke of Mantua. 
 LUCIPA, j 
 
 SCENE VENICE and MANTUA and the intervening country.
 
 HUMOUR OUT OF 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 SCENE I. Venice. A n Apartment in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter OCTAVIO, HIPPOLITO, FRANCISCO, FLORIMEL, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 CT. Sons, hopeful buds of fruitful Italy, 
 Having banished war, which like a 
 
 prodigal 
 Kept wasteful revels with our subjects' 
 
 blood ; 
 
 Since proud Antonio our arch-enemy 
 Is in his journey towards the underworld, 
 Or hovers in the shade of banishment ; 
 Let us in peace smile at our victory, 
 And every breast pass his opinion 
 What pastime best becomes a conqueror. 
 
 Fran. What sport but conquest for a conqueror ? 
 Then with our wounds undressed, our steeds still armed, 
 Branded with steel, ere we wipe off the blood 
 Of conquered foes, let's with our shriller bugles 
 Summon the surly landlord of the forest, 
 The. kingly lion, to a bloodly parle ; 
 Combat the hart, the leopard, or the boar, 
 In single or adventurous hardiment J : 
 
 1 Defiance, or act of bravery. Compare with this passage the 
 Arcadia, p. 34 (ed. 1605) : " But the stagge was in the end so 
 
 Ncrj T
 
 274 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT i. 
 
 The spirit of mirth in manly action rests, 
 
 Having quelled men, let's now go conquer beasts. 
 Oct. Manly resolved ; Hippolito's advice ? 
 Hip. Rather like soldiers, and Octavio's sons, 
 
 Let's throw a general challenge through the world 
 
 For a proud tourney, at the which ourselves, 
 
 Consorted with a hundred of our knights, 
 
 Accoutred like so many gods of war, 
 
 Will keep the lists 'gainst all adventurers ; 
 
 Which like the sun's light figured in a star 
 
 Should be a brief epitome of war. 
 
 Oct. Noble and royal ; your opinion, daughter ? 
 Flo. Faith, I shall anger soldiers : I would pour 
 
 Spirit of life, aurum potabile? 
 
 Into the jaws of chap-fallen scholarship, . 
 
 That have, since amorous Ovid was exiled, 
 Lain in a swoon. You've many holds for war, 
 I would once view a garrison for wit : 
 
 'Twere heavenly sport to see a train of scholars 
 Like old trained soldiers skirmish in the schools, 
 Traverse their Ergos and discharge their jests 
 Like peals of small-shot ; were this motion granted 
 My self would be free woman of their hall, 
 And sit as sister at their festival. 
 Oct. Have we not Padua ? 
 Flo. Yes, but the commanders 
 Deal with our graduates, as the general 
 Doth with his soldier gives him place for favour, 
 Not for deserving ; look into't yourself : 
 You have courts for tennis, and methinks 'twere meet 
 
 hotly pursued that (leaving his flight) he was driven to make 
 courage of dispaire, and so turning his head made the hounds 
 (with change of speech) to testifie that he was at a bay : as if from 
 hot pursuite of their enemy they were suddenly come to a pa. ley." 
 Bttllen. 
 
 1 This was the " Universal Medicine of the alchemists, prepared 
 from gold, mercury, etc." Tha full receipt will be found in '1 he 
 Fifth and Last fart of the Last Testament of Friar Basilius Vakn- 
 tinus, London, 1670, pp. 371-377.
 
 SCENE I.) HUMOUR OUt OF BREATH. 275 
 
 Learning should not stand bawling in the street 
 For want of houseroom : oh, 'tis much unfit 
 Courtiers should be all pleasure and small wit. 
 
 Oct. All that you speak is but what we command. 
 
 Flo. But officers, father, cannot understand 
 Their lords at first : were't not a gallant sight 
 To see wit's army royal come from fight, 
 Some crowned with gold, others with wreath of bays ? 
 And whilst they hold their solemn holidays, 
 Music should like a lover court the skies, 
 And from the world wrest wringing plaudities. 
 
 Hip. My sister would make a rare beggar. 
 
 Fran. True, she's parcel J poet, parcel fiddler already ; 
 and they commonly sing three parts in one. 
 
 Oct. Wrong neither art nor music, they are t\vin> 
 Born and begot in heat : your thought of both ? 
 
 Flo. I think, my lord, that music is divine, 
 Whose sacred strains have power to combine 
 The soul and body ; and it reason bears, 
 For it is said that the celestial spheres 
 Dance to Apollo's lyre, whose sprightly fires 
 Have tamed rude beasts, and charmed men's wild 
 
 desires. 
 
 The author was immortal, the first strings 
 Made by a king, therefore an art for kings : 
 The world's a body, every liberal art 
 A needful member, music the soul and heart. 
 
 Oct. Well for her sex hath Florimel discoursed 
 Of heavenly music, and since all conclude 
 It is an art divine, we were too rude 
 Should we reject it; music ! I take great pride 
 To hear soft music and thy shrill- voice chide/' 
 
 1 Part. 
 
 Compare Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, I., iv., 33, 
 
 " Thy small pipe 
 
 Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound." 
 3 Sound ; sometimes used thus by the dramatists, without any un- 
 favourable signification. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 ItUMOUfi OUT OF BREA Tff. [ACT 1. 
 
 Flo. To please your grace, though I want voice and skill, 
 I'll show myself obedient to your will. [Sings. 
 
 Fran. This would have done rare at a scholar's window. 
 How do you like it, father ? 
 
 Oct. Highly, my boys ; I relish all delight, 
 For when the fiery spirit of hot youth 
 Kept house within me, I was all delight : 
 Then could I take my love, no love more fair, 
 By the smooth hand, and gazing in love's air 
 Tell her her beauty beautified the sky, 
 And that the sun stole lustre from her eye. 
 
 Fran. I do admire to hear my princely father 
 Thus merrily discourse of trifling love. 
 
 Oct. Nay more, my boys, when I was at your years, 
 I went a pilgrimage through Italy, 
 To find the shrine of some love-hallowed saint ; 
 Devote to beauty, I would pray for love, 
 Desiring beauty, I would sue for love, 
 Admiring beauty, I would serve for love ; 
 Pray, sue and serve, till beauty granted love. 
 If she denied me, I would swear she granted ; 
 If she did swear that she could never love me, 
 Then would I swear she could not choose but love me : 
 Let her swear ne'er so much, still have I sworn, 
 Till she had said I should not be forsworn. 
 
 Flo. Ay, marry, brothers, here was cunning love ! 
 Learn like good scholars, he'll make you wise in love : 
 He was a man in love ; were you such men, 
 Then were you men indeed, but boys till then. 
 
 Fran. To please my father, I'll in quest of beauty, 
 And never make return till I have found 
 A love so fair, so rich, so honourable, 
 As fits the honour of Octavio's sons. 
 
 Hip. The like (you pleased) vows young Hippolito. 
 
 Oct. Do boys, and I will teach you how to choose 
 
 them. 
 Elect not 'mongst whole troops of courtly dames,
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 277 
 
 For amongst many, some must needs be ill : 
 The seld-seen l Phoenix ever sits alone, 
 Jove courted Danae when she was alone : 
 Alone, my boys, that is the only way, 
 Ladies yield that alone, they else say nay. 
 
 Flo. An expert soldier ; how shall they choose them, 
 father ? 
 
 Oct. If her bright eye dim not the diamond, 
 Say, it is bright, but brighter gems delight you ; 
 If that her breath do not perfume the air, 
 Say, it is sweet, but sweeter sweets content you ; 
 If that her cheek, compared to the lily, 
 Make not the lily black with whiter whiteness, 
 Say, it is lily white, but black to white, 
 When your choice white must have such high exceeds. 
 
 Flo. Father, you do exceed things possible ; 
 Faith, say how many ladies have you seen 
 Much fairer than myself, in all your travel ? 
 
 Oct. Should the crow teach me, then no lady fairer ; 
 If judgment tell me, then a many fairer : 
 Thou art mine own, I must think well of thee, 
 Yet Florimella, many do excel thee. 
 
 Flo. Should the crow teach, I am not all crow black ; 
 Should judgment, I not all perfection lack ; " 
 Though you have seen ladies that dim the day, 
 Yet will I think myself as fair as they. 
 
 Oct. Do, Florimella, and I'll one day get 
 A husband for thee, that shall think thee fair. 
 
 Flo. And time, 'i faith ; that pretty sport would be ; 
 Wive it for them, you shall not husband me. 
 
 Oct. Yet you will take my counsel in your choice ? 
 
 Flo. Yes, if I had not years enough to choose. 
 Would you direct me as you do your sons ? 
 
 1 Seldom seen. 
 
 - This is Mr. Bullen's conjectural emendation (npt adopted by 
 him) of the evidently misprinted line in the original quarto : 
 " Though judgment, I not all perfection black.
 
 278 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT i. 
 
 / 
 
 With " Daughter, take a man with such a nose, 
 With such an eye, with such a colour beard, 
 Thus, big, thus tall, with all his teeth afore ; 
 Thus lipped, thus legged, thus handsome, thus appa- 
 relled." 
 
 Were not this pitiful ? O pitiful ! 
 Now by the soul of soul-commanding love, 
 .1 will not stoop to such obedience : 
 I must be bid to blush when I am kissed, 
 Bid my love welcome, and " I thank you, sir ! " 
 With "no, indeed, I know not what love is, 
 I never heard so much of love before, 
 I pray take heed, nay, fie you go too far ! " 
 With such a rabble of prescriptions l 
 As never maid of a conceiving spirit 
 Will follow them ; yet, brothers, go you on, 
 Take you good counsel, Florimel will none. [Exit. 
 
 Oct. Ay, daughter, ure you so experienced ? 
 An elder woman might have spoken less. 
 Yet by your leave, minion, I'll watch you so, 
 Your " Ay " shall still be governed by my " No." 
 But come, my sons, take pattern of great Jove, 
 Early i' the morning suit yourselves for love. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE " II. The Country between Mantua and Venice. 
 
 Enter ANTONIO with a net, HERMIA and LUCIDA with 
 angles. 
 
 Ant. Go, daughters, with your angles to the brook, 
 And see if any silver-coated fish 
 Will nibble at your worm-embowelled hooks : 
 Deceive the watery subjects, yet the name 
 Of foul deceit, methinks, should fray - them from you. 
 
 1 Directions. - Frighten.
 
 SCENE II.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 279 
 
 Alack, alack, I cannot blame the world, 
 That in the world there is so much deceit, 
 When this poor simple trade must use deceit. 
 But with what conscience can I make this net, 
 Within whose meshes all are caught that come ? 
 They cozen one at once, this cozens many ; 
 I will undo't, it shall not cozen any. 
 But, daughters, go, practise that little sin ; 
 I'll mend this great fault ere the fault begin. 
 O, cozening fortune, how hast thou deceived me, 
 Turning me out of doors to banishment, 
 And made another lord to Mantua, 
 I that was lord now slave to misery. 
 
 Her. Take comfort yet, dear father. 
 
 Ant. Comfort ? no : 
 
 My breast's turned prison, my proud jailor, woe, 
 Locks out all comfort : where's your valiant brother ? 
 
 Her. All discontent, like to a wounded lion 
 He forages the woods, daring proud fortune 
 At her best weapon ; he accounts this smart 
 As a slight hurt, but far off from the heart. 
 
 Ant. How holds his humour ? 
 
 Luc. The same fashion still : 
 
 But somewhat sadder-coloured : death may end 
 But never change him ; see, our words have raised him. 
 
 Enter ASPERO with Boy. 
 
 Ant. Fitly applied, for a l walks like a ghost. 
 Why, how now, son ? 
 
 Asp. Peace. 
 
 Her. Brother, 
 
 Asp. Good now, peace, 
 
 Wake me not, as you love me. 
 
 Luc. What, asleep ? 
 
 Asp. Ay, in a most sweet sleep, blisters o' your tongues 
 for waking me. 
 
 1 He.
 
 280 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT I. 
 
 Ant. Thou forgettest thyself. 
 
 Asp. I should not be a courtier else ; meth ought I 
 was at a strange wedding. 
 
 Ant. Prithee, what wedding ? 
 
 Asp. Of a young lawyer and old Madam Conscience. 
 
 Ant. I scarce believe that. 
 
 Asp. Nor I neither, because it was a dream : but 
 methought the young man doted on the old woman 
 exceedingly. 
 
 Ant. That was miraculous ! Did they live together. 
 
 Asp. In the country they did, and agreed passing well 
 all the long vacation ; and but for two things, he would 
 have carried her up to the term with him. 
 
 Ant. What things were those ? 
 
 Asp. One was, because her gown was of the old 
 fashion ; the other was, 'cause he would not have her by 
 when he took fees. 
 
 Ant. His reason for that ? 
 
 Asp. For fear if a bribe had been offered, she being by, 
 he should have had the bad conscience to take it. 
 
 Ant. His wife and he lived together ? 
 
 Asp. Conscience and the lawyer, as lovingly as men 
 and their wives do, but neither meddle nor make one 
 with another. 
 
 Ant. Man and wife part, that's strange ! 
 
 Asp. O Lord, sir, profit can part the soul and the 
 body, and why not man and wife ? now you have had my 
 dream, father, let me understand yours. 
 
 Ant. How can he dream that never sleeps, my son ? 
 
 Asp. O best of all : why, your whole world doth no- 
 thing but dream : your Machiavel he dreams of state, 
 deposing kings, grounding new monarchies ; the lover he 
 dreams of kisses, amorous embraces : the new-married 
 wife dreams that rid of her young husband she hugs her 
 old love, and likes her dream well enough too ; the 
 country gentlewoman dreams that when her first husband's 
 dead, she marries a knight, and the name of lady sticks
 
 SCENE li.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 281 
 
 so in her mind that she's never at heart's ease till she get 
 her husband dubbed ; the captain he dreams of oppres- 
 sing the soldiers, devising strategies to keep his dream ; 
 and that dream wakes in the pate of Octavio your arch- 
 enemy, who is not content to hurl us into the whirlpool 
 of banishment, but binds weights at our heels, leaden 
 poverty, to sink us to the very depth that we should never 
 rise again. 
 
 Her. Then since all dream, let us dream of revenge. 
 
 Asp. Ay, marry, sister, that were a dream worth 
 dreaming, and I'll sleep out my brains but I'll compass it. 
 
 Ant. Pretty content ; we kill our foes in dreams. 
 
 Asp. 'Uds foot, I'll do it waking then. 
 
 Ant. Aspero ! 
 
 Asp. At council table 
 
 Ant. Hear me. 
 
 Asp. In his duchess' arms ! 'twere base to go dis- 
 guised ; 
 
 No, my revenge shall wear an open brow ; 
 I will not play the coward, kill him first 
 And send my challenge after ; I'll make known 
 My name, and cause of coming; if I thought 
 Grief like a painter had so spoiled my visage 
 He could not know me, on my breast I'd write 
 ' Howe'er I am disfigured through woe, 
 I am the thing was made for Aspero." 
 Speak not, I am as constant as the centre ; 
 Some fortune, good or bad, doth beckon me, 
 And I will run ; bitter revenge tastes sweet : 
 If ne'er on earth, farewell, in heaven we'll meet. 
 Attendance, sirrah ; your low comedy 
 Craves but few actors, we'll break company. 
 
 [Exif with Boy. 
 
 Ant. As many blessings as the sea hath sands, 
 Attend thee in thine honourable journey. 
 Come pretty maids, we have not wrought to-day, 
 Or fish or fast, our need must needs obey. [Exeunt.
 
 282 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT i. 
 
 SCENE III. Venice. The Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO, FRANCISCO, FLORIMEL, and Page meet- 
 ing them. 
 
 Fran. Now, sirrah, what have you been about ? 
 
 Page. About my living, sir. 
 
 Hip. What's that ? feeding ? 
 
 Page. No, sir, looking into the under-officers about the 
 court. 
 
 Hip. Canst get any living out of them ? 
 
 Page. Ay, sir, my betters get good livings out of officers, 
 and why not I ? but to be plain, I have been seeking your 
 good lordship. 
 
 Fran. But your boyship hath so sought us, that we 
 have found you. 
 
 Page. Will you sell your findings, my lord ? 
 
 Hip. They are scarce worth giving. 
 
 Fio. Yes, a box to keep them in, for fear you lose them 
 again. 
 
 Page. An I were a man as I am no woman, I'd 
 pepper your box for that jest. 
 
 Flo. You jest. 
 
 Page. In earnest law I would, madam. 
 
 Fran. Well, sir, no more, here comes our royal 
 father. 
 
 Enter OCTAVIO, HORTENSIO, FLAMINEO, with Attendants. 
 
 Oct. How now, my boys ? provided for your journey ? 
 Beauty conduct you : what, attired like shepherds ? 
 I thought to have seen you mounted on your steeds, 
 Whose fiery stomachs from their nostrils breathe 
 The smoke of courage, and whose wanton mouths 
 Do proudly play upon their iron bits ; 
 And you, instead of these poor weeds, in robes 
 Richer than that which Ariadne wrought, 
 Or Cytherea's airy-moving vestment.
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 283 
 
 Thus should you seem like lovers ; suited thus 
 You'd draw fair ladies' hearts into their eyes, 
 And strike the world dead with astonishment. 
 
 Fran. Father, such cost doth pass your sons' revenues. 
 We take example from immortal Jove, 
 Who like a shepherd would repair to love. 
 
 Oct. And gentle love conduct you both, my sons ; 
 Daughter, go bring them onward in their way. 
 Were we not called back by important business, 
 We would not leave you thus. \Aside\ Hortensio, 
 Is my disguise prepared ? for I unknown 
 Will see how they behave themselves in love. 
 
 Hort. 'Tis done, my lord. 
 
 Oct. Once more, my boys, adieu. 
 
 [Aside.'] He sends you forth that means to follow you, 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Flo. Now, brothers, you must amongst these wenches ; 
 faith, for a wager, which shall get the fairest ? 
 
 Fran. I'll gage a hundred crowns mine proves the fairest. 
 
 Hip. A match, I'll venture twice so much of mine. 
 
 Flo. And I'll lay 'gainst you both, that both your loves, 
 get them when you can, where you can, or how you can, 
 shall not be able to compare with me in beauty. 
 
 Fran, That wager I'll take, for 'tis surely won. 
 
 Hip. 'Las, thou art but a star to beauty's sun. 
 
 Flo. Star me no stars, go you and stare for love ; 
 I'll stay at home, and with my homely beauty 
 Purchase a love, shall think my looks as fair 
 As those fair loves that you shall fetch so far ; 
 But take your course, fate send you both fair luck. 
 
 Fran. How if 't be foul ? 
 
 Flo. Nay, if't be forked, you must bear it off with head 
 and shoulders. 
 
 Fran. O stale, that jest runs o'the lees. 
 
 Flo. You must consider 'tis drawn out of the bottom 
 of my wit. 
 
 Fran. O shallow wit, at the bottom so soon.
 
 284 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT I. 
 
 Flo. Deep enough to lay you in the mire. 
 
 Page. Or else 'tis shallow indeed, for they are foundered 
 already ; but I must play dun, 1 and draw them all out o' 
 the mire. What's o' clock my lord? 
 
 Flo. Which of them dost ask ? thou seest they are two. 
 
 Page. What two are are they, madam ? 
 
 Flo. Why, two fools 
 
 Fran. Is it not past two ? doth it not come somewhat 
 near three, sister ? 
 
 Page. Show perryall 2 and tak't; but come, my lord, 
 you have stood fooling long enough, will you about your 
 business in good earnest ? 
 
 Fran. Indeed we will. 
 
 Flo. And they are deeds you must trust too, for women 
 will respect your words but slightly without deeds. 
 
 Page. Why are women called angels, but because they 
 delight in good deeds ? and love Heaven, but that it will 
 not be won without them ? 
 
 Fran. They shall have deeds. 
 
 Flo. Brother, and good deeds too : 
 They are tongues that men must speak with when they 
 woo. 
 
 Hip. That tongue we'll practise ; sister, to love we 
 leave you. [Exeunt HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO. 
 
 Flo. Lovers, take heed lest cunning love deceive you. 
 
 \Exit unth Page- 
 
 1 "A log of wood was brought into the midst of the room : this 
 is the Dun (the cart-horse), and a cry is raised that he is stuck in 
 the mire. Two of the company then advance, either with or without 
 ropes, to draw him out. After repeated attempts, they find them- 
 selves unable to do it, and call for more assistance. The game 
 continues till all the company take part in it, when Dun is extricated 
 of course ; and the merriment arises from the awkward and affected 
 efforts of the rustics to raise the log, and sundry arch contrivances to 
 let the ends of it fall on one another's toes." Gifford's Jonson, 
 vii., 283. 
 
 2 This is a corruption of "pair-royal" (frequently found in the 
 shortened form "prial"). "A Pair is a pair of any two, as two 
 kings, two queens, &c. A pair-royal is of three, as three kings, 
 three queens, &c." Cotton's Compleat Gamester.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. The Country near Venice. 
 Enter OCTAVIO disguised, HORTENSIO, and FLAMINEO. 
 
 CT. No more; thus suited 1 I'll attend 
 
 -my sons. 
 
 Impute it not to any ruffian vein, 
 But to a father's wakeful providence- 
 Lovers like bees are privileged to taste 
 All buds of beauty ; should they chance 
 Upon some worthless weed I'll hinder it : [to light 2 
 
 The eyes of youth will now and then dwell there 
 Whereas they should not glance ; this doubt I fear. 
 
 Pla. And well advised, my liege ; should they incline 
 To love not fitting their estates and births, 
 You with your present counsel may prevent them. 
 
 Oct. That's my intent ; and further, in my absence 
 I leave my land and daughter to thy charge. 
 The girl is wanton ; if she gad abroad 
 Restrain her, bound 3 her in her chamber door ; 
 My word's thy warrant, let her know so much. 
 Farewell, at home I leave my fear with thee, 
 And follow doubt abroad. 
 Hort. I'll careful be. 
 
 [Exeunt HORTENSIO and FLAMINEO. 
 
 1 Dressed. 
 
 2 Emendation proposed by Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps. The line 
 reads in the quarto, 
 
 " All buds of beauty ; should they light. 
 
 3 Confine.
 
 286 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT li. 
 
 Oct. Now to my business ; I have a strange habit, and 
 must cut out a humour suitable to it, and humours are 
 picked .so near the bone, a man can scarce get humour 
 enough to give a flea his breakfast : but I am a stale 
 ruffian, my habit is brave, and so shall my humour be, 
 and here comes one to give me earnest of it. 
 
 Enter ASPERO and Boy. 
 
 Asp. Send him a letter that I come to kill him. 
 
 Boy. 'Twere great valour, but little policy, my lord. 
 
 Asp. How long have you been a Machiavellian, boy ? 
 
 Boy. Ever since I practised to play the knave, my lord ; 
 
 Asp. Then policy and knavery are somewhat akin ? 
 
 Boy. As near as penury and gentry; a degree and a 
 half removed, no more. 
 
 Asp. How came in the kin 'twixt gentry and penury ? 
 
 Oct. Shall I tell you, sir ? 
 
 Asp. First, tell me what thou art ? 
 
 Oct. Lirne and hair ; plaster of Paris kneaded together 
 with rye-dough and goats' milk ; I am of a hot con- 
 stitution, wonnot freeze. 
 
 Asp. Thy profession ? 
 
 Oct. A fool or a knave, choose you which. 
 
 Boy. Then thou art fit for any gentleman's company. 
 
 Oct. True, boy, for your sweet fool and your fine knave 
 are like a pair of upright shoes, 1 that gentlemen wear so 
 long, now of one foot, then of another, till they leave 
 them never a good sole. 
 
 Asp. That makes your fool and your knave have such 
 bad souls ; but what dost thou seek ? 
 
 Oct. Mine own undoing, sir, service. 
 
 Asp. Indeed service is like the common law, it undoes 
 any one that follows it long. Canst describe service ? 
 
 1 Straight shoes, shoes that will fit either foot. C.f. The Fleire, 
 1615 : " This fellow is like your upright shoe, he will serve either 
 oot." Biillen .
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 287 
 
 Oct. Yes, 'tis a vacant place, filled up with a complete 
 knave, a miserable pander, or an absolute beggar. 
 Asp. Your opinion, boy ? 
 Boy. I say a serving-man is an antecedent. 
 Oct. Because he fits like a cloak-bag ? 
 Boy. He is likewise a nominative case, and goes before 
 his mistress. 
 
 Oct. That's when the verb he goes before, his mistress, 
 and he can agree together. 
 
 Boy. If not, he turns accusative and follows his 
 master. 
 
 Asp. Woo't follow me, fellow ? 
 
 Oct. To a tavern, an thou woo't pay for my ordi- 
 nary. 1 
 
 Asp. My business is more serious, thou dost not know 
 me. 
 
 Oct. Nor myself neither, so long as I have main- 
 tenance. 
 
 Asp. Didst never hear of the wars betwixt Venice and 
 Mantua ? 
 
 Oct. I cut some few of the Mantuans' throats. 
 Asp. And wert not a knave for't ? 
 Oct. No, I was a Venetian commander, a great man. 
 The reason of this question ? 
 
 Asp. Dost know the Duke of Venice ? 
 Oct. I am his right hand. 
 Asp. Woo't do me a message to him ? 
 Oct. What is't ? 
 
 Asp. Tell him I hate him ; my name's Aspero ; he has 
 banished my father, usurps his dukedom, and I come to 
 be revenged. 
 
 Oct. Antonio's son ? 'udsfoot, hast any gold ? 
 Asp. Thy reason ? 
 
 Oct. 'Shalt be revenged. Give me money, I'll be thy 
 snail and score out a silver path to his confusion. 
 
 1 i.e. Pay my score.
 
 283 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT 11. 
 
 Asp. No, my revenge shall be like my father's wrongs, 
 in aperto ; lend me any honest aid. 
 
 Oct. Pox of honesty, it goes a-begging upon crutches ; 
 and can get relief out of few but scholars. I shall not 
 kill him? 
 
 Asp. I'd be thy death first. 
 
 Oct. Yet you say you hate him. 
 
 Asp. Equal with my shame. 
 
 Oct. Make him chew a bullet then. 
 
 Asp. No, though my state with poverty be tainted, 
 Mine acts and honour shall live still acquainted. 
 
 Oct. [Aside] True moulded honour: I admire the 
 
 temper 
 
 Of thy mild patience ; that not all the wrongs 
 I laid upon thee can enforce thy spleen 
 To foul requital : had thy coming ta'en 
 Any base level, it had cost thy life ; 
 But being free, and full of honour, live ; 
 Thy virtues teach me honour ; freely go : 
 A secret friend's worse than an open foe. 
 You are too honest for my attendance ; farewell, sir. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Asp. And thou too knavish for my employment. 
 But here comes more company. 
 
 Enter FLQRIMEL and Page. 
 
 Flo. Boy, let your attendance wait further off; under 
 this shade I mean to take a sleep. 
 
 Page. And may you, madam, like a soldier sleep. 
 
 Flo. How, boy, in alarums ? 
 
 Page. No, lady, but in arms, and you had need of them 
 too ; for see the enemy comes down. Shall I sound a 
 parley ? 
 
 Flo. Peace, wag. 
 
 Page. Peace ! O coward, offer peace and but two to 
 two of them ! 
 
 Flo. Boy, dost thou know what gentleman it is ?
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 2*9 
 
 Page. Gentle madam, no ; but he is a man. 
 
 Flo. Believe me, boy, he is a proper man. 
 
 Page. Man is a proper name to a man, and so he may 
 be a proper man. 
 
 Flo. I love him, he's a very proper man. 
 
 Page. She loves him for his properties, and indeed 
 many women love men only to make properties of them. 
 
 Flo. Pray, gentleman, if no more, tell me where you 
 were born. 
 
 Asp. Fair virgin, if so much, no where, some where, 
 any where, where you would have me. 
 
 Flo. Faith, I would have it. 
 
 Asp. Marry, and you shall have it, lady. 
 
 Flo. What shall I have, sir ? 
 
 Asp. Why, a kiss. 
 
 Flo. Nothing else ? we courtiers count them trifles, not 
 worth taking. 
 
 Asp. Why then, bestow one of me ; I'll take it most 
 thankfully. 
 
 Flo. I will not stand with you for a trifle, sir ; pray 
 where were you born ? 
 
 Asp. In Italy, but never yet in Venice. 
 
 Flo. You may in Venice ; gentle sir, adieu. [Exit. 
 
 Asp. Gentle lady, thrice as much to you. 
 
 Page. Farewell, sweet heart. \Exit. 
 
 Boy. Gad a mercy, bagpudding. 1 
 
 Asp. " You may in Venice ; gentle sir, adieu." This 
 begets wonder. 
 
 Boy. You're not wise then ; what do you take her for ? 
 
 Asp. Some great woman. 
 
 Boy. Some woman great with child. Be ruled ; she's 
 a pink. 2 Board her. 
 
 Asp* But how ? the means ? 
 
 1 " A term of contempt derived from a rustic dish, of which we 
 have no very clear conception, but it was probably like our roly-poly 
 puddings." Wright's Dictionary of Obsolete and Provincial 
 English. 
 
 '* Pink t a small boat, was used as a cant term for a loose woman. 
 Nero. u
 
 2$o HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT il. 
 
 Boy. Make but a shot of flattery at her broadside, and 
 she'll strike sail presently. 
 
 Asp. Flattery? 
 
 Boy. Ay, flattery ; women are like fiddlers ; speak 
 them fair, they'll play of any instrument. 
 
 Asp. Ay, that they can play of. 
 
 Boy. She's a botcher that cannot play a little of all. 
 
 Asp. And too common that will play too much of any ; 
 but come, I'll use means to get her. 
 
 Boy. Nay, you must first have means to give her. 
 
 Asp. Why, in the course of scholarship the genitive 
 case goes before the dative. 
 
 Boy. The grammarians are fools that placed them so ; 
 for in rerum natura the dative goes before the genitive ; 
 you must always give before you can get; lovers are 
 fools, and fools must be liberal. 
 
 Asp. Will not women respect a man for his good 
 parts ? 
 
 Boy. Yes, some few; but all for his good gifts. A 
 gentleman with his good gifts sits at the upper end of the 
 table on a chair 'and a cushion, when a scholar with his 
 good parts will be glad of a joint-stool in the lobby with 
 the chambermaids. 
 
 Asp. I will have good gifts and show myself liberal too, 
 though I beg for't, 
 
 Hoy. I think that will be the end ; for penury has ta'en 
 a lease of your pocket to keep court in this Christmas. 
 
 Asp. Well, howsoe'er, she's fair and courteous ; 
 And courteous fair is a fair gift in ladies : 
 She may be well descended ; if she be, 
 She's fit for love, and why not then for me ? \_Exil. 
 
 Boy. An you be not fitted in Venice 'tis strange, for 
 'tis counted the best flesh-shambles in Italy : but here's no 
 notable coward, that having suffered wrong by a man, 
 seeks to right himself of a woman. [Exit, following.
 
 SCENE li.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 291 
 
 SCENE \\.-The Country between Venice and Mantua. 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO, as Shepherds, 
 OCTAVIO in disguise. 
 
 Oct. Look you sir, I am like an Irish beggar and an 
 English burr, will stick close where I find a good nap ; I 
 must and will dwell with you. 
 
 Fran. What canst do ? 
 
 Oct. Still l aquavits, stamp crabs," and make mustard ; 
 I can do as much as all the men you keep. 
 
 Fran. Prithee, what ? 
 
 Oct. Why undo you, and twenty could dp no more. 
 But business ; come, my wits grow rusty for employment. 
 
 Fran. Canst keep counsel ? 
 
 Oct. My mother was a midwife. 
 
 Hip. Hast any skill in love ? 
 
 Oct. I am one of Cupid's agents; have Ovid's Ars 
 Amandi ad ungues ; know causam, and can apply 
 rcnted'um, and minister effectum to a hair. But why do 
 you ask ? have you traversed an action in love's spiritual 
 court ? 
 
 Fran. Not to dissemble, we have. 
 
 Oct. And without dissembling, you'll never come out 
 of it ; but tell me true, are you in love already ? or have 
 you but desire to be in love ? 
 
 Fran. Indeed I am in love to be in love. 
 
 Hip. And I desire to live in fond desire, 
 And yet I doubt to touch blind fancy's fire. 
 
 Oct. Tis good to doubt, but 'tis not good to fear, 
 Yet still to doubt will at the last prove fear ; 
 Doubt love, 'tis good, but 'tis not good to fear it, 
 Love hurts them most, that least of all come near it 
 
 Fran. Then to doubt love is the next way to love. 
 
 Oct. Doubtless it is. if you misdoubt not love. 
 
 1 i.e. Distil. 
 
 - "Verjuice is made by stamping or pounding the crab apple. 
 Fairholt (Lilly, ii., 274), quoted by Bvlkn. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 -HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT il 
 
 Hip. Doubt and misdoubt, what difference is there 
 here? 
 
 Oct. Yes, much ; when men misdoubt, 'tis said they fear. 
 
 Fran. But is it good in love to be in doubt ? 
 
 Oct. No, not in love, doubt then is jealousy : 
 'Tis good to doubt before you be in love ; 
 Doubt counsels how to shun love's misery. 
 
 Fran. Your doubtful counsel counsels us to love. 
 
 Oct. To equal love, I like experience speak. 
 
 Hip. Experienced lover, you have spoken well. 
 
 Oct. Experience-wanting lovers, truth I tell ; 
 Young wits be wise, in love live constant still, 
 You need nor doubt good hap, nor misdoubt ill. 
 
 Enter LUCIDA and HERMIA with angles. 
 
 And see, your discourse has conjured up beauty in the 
 likeness of two country-maids, but you shall not come in 
 the circles of their arms, if I can keep you out. 
 
 Fran. These are too mean for love; brother, let's 
 leave them. 
 
 Oct. What, speechless ? will you make dumb virgins 
 of them? 
 
 Hip. Oh, we are sons of a great father. 
 
 Oct. So is the sun of Heaven, yet he smiles on the 
 bramble as well as the lily ; kisses the cheek of a beggar 
 as lovingly as a gentlewoman, and 'tis good to imitate 
 him, 'tis good. 
 
 Her. Say, sister, had we not fine sport to-day ? 
 
 Luc. We had, if death may be accounted play. 
 
 Her. Why, 'tis accounted pleasure to kill fish. 
 
 Luc. A pleasure nothing pleasure to the fish. 
 
 Her. Yet fishes were created to be killed. 
 
 Luc. Cruel creation then, to have lives spilled. 
 
 Her. Their bodies being food, maintain our breath. 
 
 Luc. What bodies then have we, to live by death ? 
 
 Her. Come, come, you vainly argue ; it is good.
 
 SCENE IT.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 293 
 
 Luc. What, it is good to kill ? O God, O God ! ' 
 
 Her. If it be sin, then you your self s a sinner. 
 
 Luc. I thank proud fortune for't, my woes' beginner. 
 
 Oct. 'Foot, are ye not ashamed to stand by like idle 
 ciphers, and such places of account void ? and if they 
 had been rich offices, and you poor courtiers, you would 
 have been in them in half the time. 
 
 Fran. Though against stomach 
 
 Oct. Nothing against stomach, an you love me. 
 
 Hip. Fair maids, if so you be, you are well met. 
 
 Her. Shepherds, or be what else you are, well met. 
 
 Fran. 'Tis well, if that well met we be to you. 
 
 Luc. If not to us, you are unto your selves. 
 
 Hip. We did not meet, you saw us come together. 
 
 Her. Whate'er we saw, you met ere you came hither. 
 
 Fran. We did, we met in kindred, we are brothers. 
 
 Luc. So shepherds, we did meet, for we are sisters. 
 
 Hip. Then, sisters, let us brothers husbands be. 
 
 Her. So, brothers, without our leaves, you well may be. 
 
 Fran. Say, we desire to husband it with you, 
 
 Luc. Know we desire no husbands such as you. 
 
 Hip. A shepherd is an honest trade of life. 
 
 Her. Yet shepherd has with honest trade some strife. 1 
 
 Hip. He seldom swears but by his honesty. 
 
 Her. So honest men do too as well as he. 
 
 Fran. But will you trust a shepherd when he vows ? 
 
 Luc. No, never ; if that his oath be that he loves. 
 
 Hip. Yet if I swear, that needs must be mine oath. 
 
 Her. Swear not, for we are misbelievers both. 
 
 Fran. Let us persuade you to believe we love you. 
 
 Luc. First, we entreat you give us time to prove you. 
 
 Hip. Take time, meantime we'll praise ye to our 
 powers. 
 
 Her. O time, sometime shepherds have idle hours. 
 
 Fran. I'll say thy cheek no natural beauty lacks. 
 
 1 The quarto reads, " Yet honest shepherd has with honest trade 
 some strife, " a probable printer's error.
 
 294 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT u. 
 
 Luc. Good, if it had been spoke behind our backs. 
 
 Hip. I'll say this is the Heaven of heavenly graces. 
 
 Her. O Heaven, how they can flatter to our faces. 
 
 {Exeunt HERMIA and LUCIDA. 
 
 Fran. Brother, the last is fairest in my eye. 
 
 Hip. Ay, but the first, brother, is first in beauty. 
 
 Fran. First in your choice, but not in beauty sir. 
 
 Oct. [Aside] Come ye so near as choice : 'tis time for 
 me to stop, for fear the music runs too far out of tune. 
 How now, gallants ? in dumps ? 
 
 Fran. No, but in love. 
 
 Oct. That's a dump, love's nothing but an Italian 
 dump l or a French brawl. 2 
 
 Hip. Methinks 'tis sweeter music. 
 
 Oct. An 'twere in tune, I confess it ; but you take 
 your parts too low, you are treble courtiers, and will never 
 agree with these country minnikins ; 3 the music's too 
 base, never meddle in't. 
 
 Fran. Peace, dotard, peace ; thy sight of love is done, 
 Thou canst not see the glory of love's sun : 
 Spent age with frosty clouds thy sight doth dim, 
 That thou art blind to see, and apt to sin. 
 Oct. Is it accounted sin to speak the truth ? 
 
 Mip. And worse, when age spits poison against youth. 
 
 Oct. They do not fit your callings ; let them go. 
 
 Fran. Yet they are fair : we love ; thou art love's foe. 
 Oct. I am your friend, and wish you from this love. 
 
 Hip. Canst thou heave hills ? then thou my thoughts 
 
 may'st move, 
 But never else. 
 
 Oct. Never ? 
 
 Fran. No, never. 
 
 Oct. Stay. 
 
 1 A slow dance. 
 
 - From branle, the French name for the same dance, which 
 was brought from France about the middle of the l6th century. 
 3 The treble string in a lute.
 
 SCENE II. J HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 
 
 295 
 
 Hip. We are bound for love. 
 
 Oct. Hate. 
 
 Fran. Hinder not our way. 
 
 \Exeunt HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO. 
 
 Oct. Ay, boys ; will eagle's eaglets turn to bastards ? 
 Then must I change my vein, and once more prove, 
 To teach you how to hate as well as love. [Exit, following..
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. The Country near Venice. 
 
 Enter FLORIMEL and Page. 
 
 AGE. Sweet honey candy madam, if it 
 be no forfeit to tell tales out of Cupid's 
 free school, tell what proficient your 
 lover Aspero proves ? 
 
 Flo. Now, so love help me, la, a passing 
 weak one and very unready. 
 Page. The better, for women would have their lovers 
 unready to choose. 
 
 Flo. How ready you are to play the knave ! But to 
 Aspero. 
 
 Page. I do not think but there's good music in him ; 
 your tongue harps so much upon his name. 
 Flo. I shall never forget him. 
 Page. I'faith, lady, then I know what I know. 
 Flo. What do you know, I pray ? 
 Page. Marry, that if you never forget him, you shall 
 ever remember him. Was he never in your chamber ? 
 
 Flo. Yes, but he showed himself the strangest fool. 
 And by my troth, la, I am sorry for't too. I had as good 
 an appetite to maintain discourse but here a comes. 
 \Enter ASPERO.] If ever I choose a man by the fulness 
 of his calf, or a cock by the crowing Look, an the 
 bashful fool do not blush already. 
 
 Page. You may do well to kiss him, and make him 
 bold, madam. 
 
 Flo. Boy, go know what strange gentleman that is ?
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 297 
 
 Asp. 'Slid, what a strange lady's this? Madam, 
 though I seem a stranger to you, I lay with one last 
 night that's well acquainted with you. 
 
 Flo. Acquainted with me ? 
 
 Asp. And knows you, and loves you, and you love 
 him, and have bestowed kind favours of him too. 
 
 Flo. I bestow favours ! what favours ? 
 
 Asp. Though 'twere but a trifle, he took it as kindly as 
 some would have done ; a kiss. 
 
 Flo. Lord, what a while this jest has been a brooding! 
 and it proves but addle, too, now it is hatched. 
 
 Asp. 'Tis a pig of your own sow, madam ; and I hope 
 your wit will bestow the nursing of it. 
 
 Flo. So it had need, I think ; 'tis like to have but a 
 dry nurse of yours. 
 
 Page. O, dry jest ! all the wit in your head will scarce 
 make sippets in't. What ! aground, and such a fair land- 
 ing place ? get ashore, or be ranked among fools for 
 ever. 
 
 Flo. And faith, is't not a pity such a proper man 
 should keep company with a fool ? 
 
 Asp. I keep company with none but you, lady. 
 
 Flo. You keep mine against my will. 
 
 Asp. So do I the fools, I protest ; but take away yours, 
 I'll soon shift away the fools. 
 
 Page. I have not seen a fool so handsomely shifted in 
 Venice. 
 
 Asp. But come, shall the fool and you be friends ? 
 
 Flo. The fool and I ? you're too familiar. 
 
 Asp. Why, I hope a fool may be a lady's familiar at 
 all times. 
 
 Flo. Come, you're too saucy. 
 
 Asp. Indeed, 'tis a fool's part of Joan to be in the 
 sauce afore my lady ; otherwise, I am neither fool nor 
 saucy. 
 
 Flo. Not, proud sir? 
 
 Asp. Not, coy lady ; come, why should your tongue
 
 298 HUMOUR OU7 OF BREATH. [ACT in. 
 
 make so many false fires that never come from your 
 heart ? you love me, I know you love me ; your spirit, 
 your look, your countenance bewrays it. 
 
 Flo. You jest. 
 
 Asp. In earnest you do, and you shall know't in ear- 
 nest too : lend me this jewel. 
 
 Flo. Jewel ? away, you sharking * companion. 
 
 Asp. How? 
 
 Flo. Wandering stravagant, that like a drone flies hum- 
 ming from one land to another ! 
 
 Page. 'Slight, an thou hast any wit, now show her thy 
 sting. 
 
 Flo. And lightest upon every dairy-maid and kitchen- 
 wench. 
 
 Asp. And now and then on a lady's lip, as 
 
 Flo. You did of mine, you would say ; and I am heart- 
 sorry you can say it ; and when by your buzzing flattery 
 you have sucked the smallest favour from them, you 
 presently make wing for another. 
 
 Asp. Marry, buzz. 
 
 Flo. Double the zard, and take the whole meaning for 
 your labour. 
 
 Page. The buzzard's wit's not so bald yet, I trow. 
 
 Asp. A word in your ear, madam ; the buzzard will 
 anger you. 
 
 Flo. With staying, you do. 
 
 Asp. With going, I shall. 
 
 Flo. Away. 
 
 Asp. Ay, away ; never entreat, 'tis too late : if you 
 send after me, I will not come back ; if you write to me, 
 I will not answer ; drown your eyes in tears, I will not 
 wipe them ; break your heart with sighs, I will not pity 
 you : never look, signs cannot move me; if you speak, 
 'tis too late ; if you entreat, 'tis bootless ; if you hang 
 upon me, 'tis needless : I offered love, and you scorned 
 it ; my absence will be your death, and I am proud on't. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 1 Thieving.
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 299 
 
 Flo. Is he gone, boy? 
 
 Page. Yes, faith, madam. 
 
 Flo. Clean out of sight ? 
 
 Page. And out of mind too, or else you have not the 
 mind of a true woman. 
 
 Flo. Thou read'st a false comment, boy; call him 
 again ; yet do not, my heart shall break ere it bend. 
 
 Page. Or else it holds not the true temper of woman- 
 hood; but faith, tell me, madam, do you love him ? 
 
 Flo. As a Welshman doth toasted cheese ; I cannot 
 dine without him ; he's my pillow, I cannot sleep quietly 
 without him ; my rest, I cannot live without him. 
 
 Page. O that he knew it, lady, 
 
 Flo. He does ; he would never have left me else. He 
 does. 
 
 Page. You called him fool, but methinks he proves 
 a physician, has found the disease of your liver by the 
 complexion of your looks ; but see, he returns. 
 
 Re-enter ASPEKO, as meditating. 
 
 Flo. And now, methinks, I loathe him more than I 
 loved him ; go run for Hortensio my guardian, bid him 
 come armed ; there's intent of treason, tell him. 
 
 Page. My lady cannot choose but dance well, she's so 
 full of pretty changes. [Exit. 
 
 Flo. I wonder you dare come in my sight, considering 
 the wrong you did me . 
 
 Asp. I came I confess, but with no intent to see you 
 I protest, and that shall be manifested by the shortness of 
 my stay. 
 
 Flo. Tis too long, an 'twere shorter than 'tis : [Aside] 
 will he not court me ? not ? nor speak to me neither? - 
 Nay, never ask pardon, 'tis too late, we shall ha' you come 
 to my window one o' these mornings with music ; but do 
 not, my patience is too much out of tune ; out of my 
 sight, I hate thee worse than I loathe painting ; I hate 
 thee, out of my sight.
 
 300 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT in. 
 
 Asp. Enough ; will you be a quiet woman yet ? will 
 you speak before my resolve takes strength ? will you ? do 
 but say you are sorry, I ask no mends but a kiss, kindly, 
 come : shall I ha't ? 
 
 Flo. I'll kiss a toad first. 
 
 Asp. You will remember this another time ; a toad ! 
 you will : I know thou lov'st me, and I see the pride of 
 thy humour ; I do, and thou shalt know I do ; half an hour 
 hence we shall have you weeping on your knees, with " O 
 my Aspero, would I had died when I rejected thee ! " but 
 do, weep till I pity thee ; a toad ! I'll make thee creep on 
 thy knees for a kiss. 
 
 Flo. You will ? 
 
 Asp. Thy bare knees ; I will, and go without it too. 
 
 Flo. Out-humoured? O, I would sell my part of 
 immortality. 
 
 Asp. But to touch my hand, thou would'st, I know thou 
 would'st. 
 
 Flo. O, how spleen swells me ! Help, Hortensio ! 
 Creep a 1 my knees ? Hortensio ! 
 
 Enter HORTENSIO and ASSISTANCE. 
 
 Hort. How fares my beauteous charge ? weeping, lady ? 
 The. law shall fetch red water from his veins 
 That hath drawn blood of your eyes ; is this the traitor ? 
 
 Asp. Traitor ! in thy disloyal throat thou liest. 
 
 Page. O monstrous, a wishes you choked, my lord. 
 
 Hort. How ? choked ? 
 
 Page. Ay, choked; for a wishes the traitor in your 
 throat ; and he's a very small traitor that is not able to 
 choke a wiser man than your lordship. 
 
 Hort. Down with him. 
 
 Page. Ay, down with him, if he stick in your throat, 
 and spare not. 
 
 Flo. Do not kill him ; though he deserves death, yet 
 do not kill him, only disweapon him ; so. 
 
 1 On.
 
 SCENE !.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 301 
 
 Hort. But, madam 
 
 Flo. I will not hear him ; keep him ; but keep him 
 safe on your lives ; if he get away or miscarry in prison, 
 as I am heir of Venice, I'll have your heads for't. 
 
 [HORTENSIO and ASSISTANCE bind ASPERO. 
 
 Hort. I warrant you, madam, if irons will hold him. 
 
 Flo. Fie, fie, with a cord ? Here, bind him with my 
 scarf, that will hold ; and yet stand away, I'll do't my- 
 self I cannot trust him with you, lest you should let him 
 sometime 'scape free; besides, you cannot use him 
 according to the quality of his offence, and, because I'll 
 glory in his bondage, my chamber shall be his prison ; let 
 him have neither light, meat nor drink, but what I pro- 
 vide him myself. 
 
 Hort. Your will's a law ; we obey it, madam. 
 
 Asp. She knows me sure ; well, though my joys be 
 
 thrall, 
 My comfort's this, a speedy death ends all. 
 
 [Exeunt ASPERO, HORTENSIO, and ASSISTANCE. 
 
 Flo. O, you are not gone, then. 
 
 Page. Here's a new kind of courting, never seen before, 
 I think. 
 
 Flo. He would anger me. 
 
 Page. Nay, you would take a course to anger him first, 
 I think. 
 
 Flo. Should I have let him go (as I could no other way 
 detain him in modesty), and he had set his love on some 
 other, 'twould have fretted my heart-strings asunder. 
 
 Page. Why did you set him so light then ? 
 
 Flo. Not for any hate, but in pride of my humour. 
 
 Page. Why did you command him close prisoner to 
 your chamber ? 
 
 Flo. That I may feed mine eye with the sight of him, 
 and be sure no other beauty can rob me of his company : 
 I will ha't all, I will not lose an inch of him. And in 
 this I but imitate our Italian dames, who cause their 
 friends to clap their jealous husbands in prison, that if
 
 302 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT ill. 
 
 they have occasion to use them within forty weeks and a 
 day, they may surely know where to find them. [Exit. 
 Page. If I had any knavery in me, as I am all honesty, 
 I could make a notable scene of mirth between these two 
 amorists. [Exit, following. 
 
 SCENE II. The Country between Venice and Mantua. 
 
 Enter ANTONIO with a net. 
 
 Ant. Early sorrow, art got up so soon ? 
 What, ere the sun ascendeth in the East ? 
 O what an early waker art thou grown ! 
 But cease discourse, and close unto thy work ; 
 Under this drooping myrtle will I sit, 
 And work awhile upon my corded net, 
 And, as I work, record my sorrows past, 
 Asking old Time, how long my woes shall last. 
 And first, but stay, alas ! what do I see ? 
 Moist gum, like tears, drop from this mournful tree ; 
 And see, it sticks like birdlime ; 'twill not part ; 
 Sorrow is even such birdlime at my heart. 
 Alas, poor tree, dost thou want company ? 
 Thou dost, I see'f, and I will weep with thee ; 
 Thy sorrows make thee dumb, and so shall mine, 
 It shall be tongueless, and so seem like thine. 
 Thus will I rest my head unto thy baik, 
 Whilst my sighs tell my sorrows ; hark, tree, hark. 
 
 Enter HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO, still as Shepherds. 
 
 Fran. Fie, fie, how heavy -is light love in me ! 
 
 Hip. How slow runs swift desire ! 
 
 Fran. This leaden air, 
 This ponderous feather, merry melancholy. 
 
 Hip. This passion which but in passion 
 Hath not his perfect shape.
 
 SCENE II.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 303 
 
 Fran. And sleepless 1 love 
 Hath in his watch of love o'erslept himself. 
 
 Hip. Then, sleepy wakers, leave this grove; 2 let's 
 
 wander, 
 
 And wait the ascension of beauty's wonder. 
 But stay, a man striving 'twixt life and death ! 
 
 Fran. Nay, then 'tis so, my heavenly love's gone by, 
 And struck him dead with her love-darting eye. 
 
 Hip. If speech-bereaving love will let thee speak, 
 Then, speechless man, speak with the tongue of love, 
 And tell me, if thou saw'st not Cynthia 
 Seeking Endymion in these flowery dales. 
 
 Ant. Dales for Endymion and fair Cynthia fit, 
 But never heavenly goddess blest this grove ; 
 These woods are consecrate to grief, not love. 
 
 Fran. Out, atheist, thou profan'st love's deity ; 
 For, false-reporter, I in them have seen 
 A love that makes a negro of Love's queen ; 
 One that, whenas the sun keeps holiday, 
 Her beauty clads him in his best array. 
 
 Ant. Now truly, shepherd, none such sojourn here; 
 Please you survey the cell, go in and see ; 
 I'm hearsed 3 , and none but sorrow lies with me. 
 
 Enter LUCIDA. 
 Fran. Call you this sorrow's cave ? 
 
 Enter OCTAVIO and whispers with ANTONIO. 
 
 Hip. Rather a cell, 
 
 Where pleasure grows, and none but angels dwell. 
 
 Fran, To what compare shall I compare thee to ? 
 Incomparable beauty's paragon ! 
 
 Hip. I will compare her beauty to the sun, 
 For her bright lustre gives the morning light. 
 
 1 Mr. Bullen's conjecture. The quarto reads "shapeless." 
 - Reading suggested by Mr. Bullen in place of the unintelligible 
 words, " let these grave. " 
 3 Coffined.
 
 304 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT ill. 
 
 Fran. I'll say she is like Cynthia when day's done, 
 Or lady to the mistress of the night. 
 Hip. O speak but to me, and I shall be blest. 
 Fran. One smile would lay my jarring thoughts at rest. 
 
 Enter HERMIA. 
 
 Her. How now, fair sister ? you are hard beset. 
 
 Hip. Nymph ! 
 
 Fran. Goddess ! 
 
 Hip. Saint ! once more, you're both well met. 
 
 Fran. O she is fair. 
 
 Hip. She fairer. 
 
 Fran. Both more fair 
 
 Than rocks of pearl, or the chaste evening air. 
 
 Hip. Say, sweet, intend you not to fish to-day ? 
 
 Her. No, shepherds, now fish do not bite but play. 
 
 Fran. What time, sweet love, keep fishes when they 
 bite? 
 
 Luc. Early i' the morning, or else late at night. 
 
 Hip. Come, will you talk with me till time of fishing ? 
 
 Her. My father, sir, will chide if I be missing. 
 
 Oct. The match is made, they're even upon going. 
 
 Ant. What should we do ? 
 
 Oct. Why, as poor parents and dutiful servants should 
 do, run amongst the bushes and catch flies. 
 
 Ant. Stay, forward daughters, whither are ye going ? 
 
 Her. Father, I think these shepherds come a-wooing. 
 
 Ant. A-wooing, daughters ? ne'er imagine so. 
 What man so mad to marry grief and woe ? [joy. 
 
 Fran. Why, where lives sad grief? here's all speaking 
 
 Hip. O, I would live and die with such annoy. 
 
 Ant. But they are poor, and poverty is despised. 
 Hip. No, they are fair, beauty is highly prized. 
 
 Oct. 'Twill be a match, they are beating the price 
 
 already. 
 
 Ant. They once were fair, sorrow from that hath 
 changed them ;
 
 SCENE II.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 305 
 
 They once knew wealth, but chance hath much estranged 
 them. 
 
 Fran. Have they been fair? what, fairer than they are ? 
 'vhy, tis not possible, this heavenly fair 
 Hath only in itself beauties' exceed, 
 
 then rich, fair, and only selves' exceed ! 
 
 Ant. Come, daughters, and come, shepherds, if you 
 
 please, 
 
 I'll lead you to the lodge of little ease, 
 Where I shall feast you with what cheer I may, 
 Grief shall turn mirth, and keep high holiday. ' 
 
 [Exeunt ANTONIO with HERMIA and LUCIDA. 
 On HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO following, 
 OCTAVIO stays them. 
 Oct. A word with you ; you mean to marry these 
 
 wenches ? 
 
 Hip. and Fran. We do. 
 Oct. And are going to contract yourselves ? 
 Hip. and Fran. We are. 
 Hip. And what say you to this ? 
 Oct. God speed you ; I would have you marry on 
 
 Saint Luke's day.i 
 Fran. Why? 
 
 Oct. Because I would offer 2 at your wedding. 
 Fran. Come, thou'rt all envy, feed upon thy hate, 
 This day our quest of love shall terminate. 
 
 [Exeunt HIPPOLITO and FRANCISCO. 
 Oct. Not if I live ; this malady of love 
 Is grown so strong it will not be driven out. 
 To see the folly of a doating father ! 
 What toil I had to fashion them to love, 
 And how 'tis doubled to misfashion them ! 
 They shall not wed, yet how shall I prevent it ? 
 Fearing the event, I have forethought a means. 
 
 1 St. Luke was jocularly regarded as the patron saint of cuckolds. 
 Horn-fair at Charlton was held on St. Luke's day. 
 
 2 Present myself. 
 
 Nero. X
 
 306 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT in. 
 
 And here it lies ; swaggering becomes not age ; 
 
 Now like the fox, I'll go a pilgrimage. 
 
 Frolic, my boys, I come to mar your sport ; 
 
 Your country music must not play at court. 
 
 But first I'll write back to Hortensio 
 
 For apprehension of young Aspero. 
 
 They have not yet dined, I'll bid myself their guest : 
 
 Religion beg ? a fashion in request. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. Venice. A Chamber in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter ASPERO and Boy. 
 
 Asp. Art sure she hates me, boy ? 
 
 B'oy. More than her death. I have been in her bosom, 1 
 sir ; and this day she intends your execution. 
 
 Asp. My execution ! the reason of her hate ? 
 
 Boy. Her humour ; nothing but a kind of strange cross 
 humour in that you rejected her love. 
 
 Asp. That's not capital. 
 
 Boy. Not to cross a great one's humour ? no treason 
 more : great personages' humours are puritans ; they'll 
 as lief endure the devil as soon as a cross ; and can away 
 with him better. 
 
 Asp. I will submit, ask pardon on my knee. 
 
 Boy. Is your proud humour come down, i' faith, your 
 high humour that would not stoop an inch of the knees ? 
 I'll help't up again, an't be but to uphold the jest. 
 I must bring her as low ere I have done. O base, I 
 would rather lay my neck under the axe of her hate, than 
 my sport under the feet of her humour ; but be coun- 
 selled, I'll teach you to prevent both; and perchance, 
 make her upstart humour stoop gallant, too. 
 
 Asp. I'll hold " thee my best jewel, an thou dost. 
 
 1 Compare Julius C<rsar, v. i. 7 : " Tut, I am in their bosoms." 
 
 2 Wager.
 
 SCENE iv.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 307 
 
 Boy. And pawn me as poor lords do their jewels, too, 
 will you not ? receive l me, you shall counterfeit your- 
 self dead. 
 
 Asp. The life of that jest ? 
 
 Boy It may be, she dissembles all this while ; loves 
 you, and puts on this show of hate of purpose to humble 
 you : she may, and I believe 
 
 Asp. What? 
 
 Boy. That most intelligencers are knaves, and some 
 women dissemblers ; being thought dead (as let me alone 
 to buzz that into the credulous ear of the court) if she 
 have any sparks of love, they'll kindle and flame bright 
 through the cinders of her heart. 
 
 Asp. If not? 
 
 Boy. If not, 'twill be a means for your escape : I'll say 
 you requested, at your death, to be buried at your native 
 city ; and what courtier, if a Christian, can deny that? 
 
 Asp. I am all thine, my humour's thy patient. 
 
 Boy. And if I do not kill it, I am not worthy to be your 
 physician. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE I V.- The same. 
 Enter FLORIMEL and Page. 
 
 Page. Ay, marry, Lady ; why, now you credit your sex ! 
 a woman's honour or humour should be like a ship under 
 sail ; split her keel ere she vail. 2 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Flo. I'll split my heart, ere my humour strike sail. 
 Here comes his page. How now, boy ? how doth your 
 master ? 
 
 Boy. Well, madam, he. 
 Flo. Well? 
 
 r Understand. * Lower the colours. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT n 
 
 Boy. Very well. 
 
 Flo. Where is he ? 
 
 Boy. Where none of your proud sex will ever come, 
 I think : in heaven. 
 
 Flo. Is he dead ? 
 
 Boy. See, madam ; and seeing blush ; and blushing 
 shame, that your ungentle humour should be the death 
 of so good and generous a spirit. 
 
 [Discovers ASPERO lying on a table, and seemingly 
 dead. 
 
 Flo. My Aspero dead ! 
 
 Boy. See, madam, what a mutation. 
 
 Flo. I see too much ; and curse my proud humour that 
 was the cause of it. Aspero, kind soul ; proud sullen 
 Florimel; disdainful humour, that in one minute hast 
 eternally undone me : I would not kiss the living sub- 
 stance, that being dead, dote on thy picture. 1 O, I loved 
 thee ever with my soul ! O let me kiss this shroud of 
 beauty ! I would not accept thee living, that being dead, 
 on my knees adore thee ; could kisses recover thee, I 
 would dwell on thy lips, kneel till my knees grew to the 
 ground, dear, gentle Aspero. 
 She that procured thy death, will die with thee ; 
 And crave no heaven, but still to lie with thee. 
 
 [ASPERO starts up. 
 
 Asp. I take you at your word, lady. Nay, never re- 
 cant, I have witness on't now ; is your proud humour 
 come down ? could you not have said so at first, and 
 saved me a labour of dying ? 
 
 Flo. Lives Aspero ? 
 
 Asp. Live, quotha ? 'sfoot, what man would be so mad 
 to lie in his cold grave alone, and may lie in a warm bed 
 with such a beautiful wife as this will be ? have I ta'en 
 your humour napping, i'faith ? 
 
 Flo. Am I o'erreached ? 
 
 Asp. In your humour, madam, nothing else ; and I am 
 
 as proud on't. 
 
 1 Image.
 
 SCENE iv.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 309 
 
 Flo. Do not flout me; an you do, I shall grow into 
 my humour again. 
 
 Asp. In jest? 
 
 Flo. In earnest I shall, and then I know what I know. 
 
 Asp. You may ; but an you do, I shall die again. 
 
 Flo. In jest ? 
 
 Asp. Nay, in earnest, madam, and then 
 
 Flo. No more ; thou hast driven me clean out of con- 
 ceit with my humour. I love thee, I confess it : 'shall be 
 my husband, I'll live with thee ; thou art my life, and I'll 
 die with thee. 
 
 What more I mean is coated in my look : 
 If thou accept'st it, swear. 
 
 Asp. I kiss the book. 
 
 Flo. Boy, run to the master of my gondola, and will ' 
 him attend me after supper at the garden stairs ; I mean 
 to take the evening air, tell him. 
 
 'Page. It shall be done, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Flo. Nay, if I say the word, it shall be done, Aspero. 
 
 Boy. Look to yourself, my lord ; I lay my life my lady 
 means to steal you away to night. 
 
 Asp. Away? I'll call Hortensio, I'll not be accessory 
 to your felony, madam. 
 
 Enter HORTENSIO with a letter, and ASSISTANCE. 
 
 Flo. The fool comes without calling. 
 
 Ass. \To HORT.] You shall know him by these signs. 
 
 Hort. Good figure, very good figure ; for as the house 
 is found out by the sign, so must this traitor be scented 
 out by the token ; up with the first sign, good Assistance. 
 
 Ass. A proper man without a beard. 
 
 Hort. How, a proper man without a beard ? we shall 
 scarce find that sign in all Venice : for the properness of 
 a man lives altogether in the fashion of his beard ; good 
 Assistance, the next. 
 
 Ass. Fair-spoken and well-conditioned. 
 
 1 Bid.
 
 310 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT in. 
 
 Hort. More strange : you shall have many proper men 
 fair-spoken, but not one amongst twenty well-conditioned : 
 but soft; this should be the house, by the sign; I must 
 pick it out of him by wit. 
 
 Flo. As good say steal, my lord : what marrow-bone of 
 wit is your judgment going to pick now ? 
 
 Hort. I must, like a wise justice of peace, pick treason 
 out of this fellow. 
 
 Flo. Treason ? 
 
 Hort. Ay, treason, madam; know you this hand? 
 
 Flo. My royal father's. 
 
 Hort. Then, whilst you and your father's letters talk 
 together, let me examine this fellow : are you a proper 
 man without a beard ? 
 
 Asp. My properness, sir, contents me ; for my beard, 
 indeed that was bitten the last great frost, and so -were a 
 number of justices of the peace besides. 
 
 Hort. 'Tis rumoured about the court that your name is 
 Aspero. 
 
 Asp. I am called Aspero. 
 
 Hort. Son to the Duke of Mantua that was ? 
 
 Asp. The Duke of Mantua's son that is. 
 
 Hort. Then the Duke of Mantua has a traitor to his 
 son ; lay hands of him, and to close prison with him. 
 
 Flo. Can he be closer than in my custody ? 
 
 Hort. I do not think so, madam ; but your father has 
 imposed the trust upon me. 
 
 Flo. And dare not you trust me ? 
 
 Hort. With my head, if you were my wife ; but not 
 with my profit, if you were my mother : will you along, 
 sir? 
 
 Asp. With all my heart, sir. See what your humour's 
 come to now ! I go, my lord, as willingly as a slave from 
 the galleys : for as I shall have a stronger prison, so I 
 shall be sure of a kinder and a wiser jailor. 
 
 Flo. Do you observe how he flouts you, my lord? 
 That I had been his keeper but one night longer ! But
 
 SCENE IV.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 311 
 
 keep him close : if he escape (though against thy will) as 
 I am a maid 
 
 Hort. A maid against your will. 
 
 Flo, 'shalt pay as dear for't as thou did'st for thy 
 office. 
 
 Hort. If he 'scape, hang me. 
 
 \Exeunt HORTENSIO and ASSISTANCE with ASPERO. 
 
 Flo. I shall see thee hanged, if he do not : treason ! I 
 may thank my peevish humour for't. 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Page. Madam, the gondola is ready. 
 
 Flo. Thou bring'st physic when the patient's dead, 
 boy ; our jest's turned earnest. 
 
 Page. Is a * dead in earnest ? 
 
 Flo. As good, or rather worse ; he's buried quick. 2 
 
 Page. O madam, many a good thing has been buried 
 quick and survived again ; I would be buried quick my- 
 self, an I might choose my grave. 
 
 Flo. He's buried in close prison, boy ; he's known for 
 the Duke of Mantua's son, an by my father's letters 
 attached for a traitor. 
 
 Page. Good gentleman, an I be not sorry for him : 
 who is his keeper ? 
 
 Flo. The testy ass Hortensio. 
 
 Page. 'Udsfoot, let's enlarge 3 him. 
 
 Flo. Not possible, boy. 
 
 Page. Not possible ? 'tis : we'll cozen his keeper. 
 
 Flo. We cannot. 
 
 Page. Cannot ! we can : your father made a lord of 
 him ; but be ruled by me, his daughter shall make a fool 
 of him. You are not the first woman has made a fool of 
 a wiser lord than he is. 
 
 Flo. Shall he be cozened ? 
 
 Page. As palpably as at the lottery. My brains are in 
 labour of the stratagem already. {Exeunt. 
 
 i He 2 Alive. 3 Set him at large.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 SCENE I. The Country between Venice and Mantua. 
 
 Enter ANTONIO, FRANCISCO, HIPPOLITO, HERMIA, 
 LUCIDA, and OCTAVIO disguised. 
 
 NT. Sons of Octavio, if your princely 
 
 thoughts 
 Can stoop to such mean beauty, from 
 
 this hand 
 Receive your wives ; but should the 
 
 duke your father 
 Fran. Fear not, old man, he was the means that 
 
 breathed 
 This spirit into us. 
 
 Hip. Wooed us to this course. 
 But should he prove apostate, deny 
 Love which he first enforced us to profess, 
 So firm are our inseparate affections, 
 To win our loves we'd lose the names of sons. 
 
 Oct. Your father thanks you ; but, hot-sprighted youths, 
 Take counsel from experience, ere ye tie 
 The Gordian knot which none but Heaven can loose. 
 Crave his consent : when an imperial hand 
 Shakes a weak shed, the building cannot stand. 
 
 Fran. Not stand ? it shall : not Jove himself can ruin 
 The ground-works of our love. 
 
 Oct. Not Jove ? 
 
 Hip. Not Jove, 
 
 Should a speak thunder ; then go boldly on, 
 Our love admits no separation.
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 313 
 
 Oct. Then to mine office : in the sight of Heaven 
 Your love is chaste. 
 
 Fran, and Hip. As innocence' white soul. 
 
 Oct. And yours. 
 
 Her. and Luc. And ours. 
 
 Oct. Then lend me all your hands, 
 Whilst thus a father's tongue forbids the banns. 
 
 {Discovers himself. 
 
 Forgetful boys ! but most audacious traitor, 
 That durst in thought consent to wrong thy prince, 
 Out of my sight ; no land that calls me lord 
 Shall bear a weight so hateful as thyself : 
 Live ever banished. If (three days expired) 
 Thou or these lustful strumpets 
 
 Hip. Father ! 
 
 Oct. Boys, 
 
 If you be mine, show't in obedience : 
 If (three days past) you live within my dukedom, 
 Thee as a slave I'll doom unto the galleys, 
 And these thy brats as common prostitutes 
 Shall dry their lustful veins in the burdello. 1 
 Come, boys, to court ; he that first gave you lives, 
 Will to your births provide you equal wives. 
 
 Fran. They have our loves. 
 
 Hip. Our oaths. 
 
 Fran. Our hearts and hands. 
 
 Oct. Tut, lovers' oaths, like toys 2 writ down in sands, 
 Are soon blown o'er ; contracts are common wiles 
 To entangle fools ; Jove himself sits and smiles 
 At lovers' perjuries. 3 Bawds, strumpets, hence! 
 
 1 Ital. bordello, brothel. 
 
 3 Trivial matters. 
 
 3 One of the many allusions to Ovid's lines, Ars Am., 11. 
 
 633-4 : 
 
 Jupiter ex alto perjuna ndet amantum, 
 Et jubet Aeolios irrita ferre notos. 
 
 Shakespeare, as everybody knows, has alluded to this passage of 
 Ovid's in Rom. & Jul. ii. 2. Bullen.
 
 3 H HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT iv. 
 
 My bosom's charged, give way to violence : 
 Come, do not mind them. ' 
 
 \Exeunt ANTONIO, HERMIA, and LUCIDA. 
 
 Fran. How ? not mind them, father ? 
 When in your court you courted us to love 
 You read another lecture : women then 
 Were angels. 
 
 Oct. True, but that Was before angels 
 Had power to make them devils ; they were then 
 Fiends to themselves, and angels unto men. 
 When upon Po thou find'st a coal-black swan, 
 Thou'st found a woman constant to a man. 
 
 Fran. And not afore ? 
 
 Oct. Never afore. 
 
 Hip. Your tongue 
 
 Unspeaks your former speech. 
 
 Oct. It doth ; new themes 
 
 Must have new change of rhetoric ; all streams 
 Flow not one way; when I spake like a lover, 1 
 It was to break you from your soldier's humour ; 
 Having made you lovers, I, like envy, speak 
 To make you hate love ; Art still strives to break 
 Bad to make better. 
 
 Hip. and Fran. You have your wish. 
 
 Oct. Then onward to the court, 
 
 Make use of love as school-boys do of sport. [ Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \\.-Outside ASPERO'S Prison. 
 
 Enter FLORIMEL and Page. 
 
 Flo. Call out the jailor, boy yet do not ; hast got a 
 beard like Hortensio ? 
 
 ' 1 This line reads in the original, " Flow not alike one way ; when 
 I spake like a lover." I have no doubt the wholly unnecessary 
 word " alike : ' has crept in by an error of the press, the compositor s 
 eye having glanced at the word like in the later part of the line.
 
 SCENE ni.J HUMOUR OU1 OF BREATH. 315 
 
 Page. Yes, madam, I have got his hair ; if I could 
 come as easily by his wit ! 
 
 Flo. Would'st rob him of his wit ? 
 
 Page. If I should, he could not hang me for't : 'tis not 
 worth thirteen-pence halfpenny. But what shall I with 
 it? 
 
 Flo. Put it on, boy. 
 
 Page. That shall I, madam. O forward age, I am a 
 man already : how do you .like me, lady ? 
 
 Flo. Very ill, and my plot worse. 
 
 Page. Then leave 't off. If you be grounded in the 
 plot, you will but mar the comedy. 
 
 Flo. I purposed thou, in the habit of Hortensio, 
 should'st under pretence of removing Aspero to a new 
 prison, have freed him out of the old one. 
 
 Page. Tut, I can tell you a trick worth two of that ; 
 madam, your ear : take some care in the managing, and 
 let me alone to prepare it. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. ASPERO'S 
 
 Enter ASPERO and Boy. 
 
 Boy. 'Udsfoot, break prison, my lord, 'tis but swimming 
 the river. 
 
 Asp. Break prison ? 'twere both dishonour to my name, 
 and treason to my love; what benefit were 't for me to 
 free my body, and leave my heart in bondage ? I'll die, 
 ere I'll harbour a disloyal thought. 
 
 Boy. It bears no relish of disloyalty : being in prison, 
 you live as far from love as liberty : being abroad you 
 may by letters, or a thousand means purchase her 
 company, and compass your content. 
 
 Asp. 'Shalt be my lawyer, boy, and counsel me. 
 
 1 Run aground.
 
 316 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH, [ACT iv. 
 
 Boy. I'll look for my fee, then. 
 
 Asp. If thy counsel prospers. 
 
 Boy. That's an exception lawyers never respect ; but 
 come, my lord, leap ; as we have risen together, we'll fall 
 together. 
 
 Enter HORTKNSIO, FLGRIMEL, and Page. 
 
 Asp. Blame me not, love. 
 
 Boy. 'Udsfoot, your jailor, my lord. 
 
 Asp. Am I prevented ? 
 
 Boy. Yes faith, there had been a counsellor's fee cast 
 away now. 
 
 Hort. You have heard his usage, lady, seen his lodging, 
 and if it please you, you both may and shall confer with 
 him. 
 
 Flo. Prithee call him. 
 
 Boy. My lord, your keeper hath brought a lady or two 
 to see you. 
 
 Asp. To see me ? why, am I turned monster ? doth he 
 take money to show me? what doth a take a-piece, 
 trow? 
 
 Flo. Why, how now, gallant, not gone yet ? 
 
 Asp. Not, I thank you, lady, and yet I was near 't. 
 
 Hort. How do you, man ? 
 
 Asp. Musty for want of airing. 
 
 Flo. We'll have you hanged out i' the fresh air one of 
 these mornings. 
 
 Asp. You'd be glad to take me in, then. 
 
 Flo. Yes, when you had hanged abroad a little : but 
 my Lord Hortensio (for I think I must be your lady when 
 all's done) what sport ? I would be merry a-purpose to 
 make him mad : the room's private and fit for any 
 exercise. 
 
 Page. 'Udsfoot, to her ; can a woman offer fairer for't ? 
 
 Hort. Why, shall we go to span-counter, 1 madam ? 
 
 1 A game similar to marbles.
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 317 
 
 Page. To span-counter ! best ask her an she'll go to 
 quoits. 
 
 Flo. No, I love some stirring exercise ; my body's con- 
 ditioned like the sun, it would never be out of motion. 
 
 Hort. I have't, i'faith ; when I was student in Padua, 
 we used a most ingenious pastime. 
 
 Flo. The name, my lord ? 
 
 Hort. I cannot give it a name equal to the merit. 'Tis 
 vulgarly called blindman's-buff. 
 
 Page. Blindman's-buff? ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Hort. Do you laugh at it ? 
 
 Flo. At the happiness of your wit, my lord, that you 
 should hit upon that sport, which of all other I delight in. 
 
 Hort. Will you hear an apology I made in the com- 
 mendation of it ? 
 
 Flo. We'll have the thing itself, first ; and as we like 
 that, we'll hear your apology after. Who shall be hood- 
 winked first? 
 
 Page. Who but the author ? 
 
 Hort. I, I, none shall be blind but I ; help off with my 
 gown, boy, 
 
 Page, What shall we have to blind him ? 
 
 Flo. My scarf : take my scarf, my lord. 
 
 Page. There's a simple favour for you. 
 
 Hort. And most fit, for indeed nothing blinds lovers 
 sooner than ladies' favours. But who shall blind me ? 
 
 Flo. Marry, that will I, my lord ; let me alone to blind 
 you. 
 
 Hort. Good again; for who should blind men but 
 beauteous women ? Come, sweet madam. 
 
 Flo. But how if you take me ? as I know that will be 
 your aim. [Binds her scarf over his eyes. 
 
 Hort. If I take you prisoner, madam, you must either 
 be hood-winked yourself, or give your conqueror a kiss 
 for your ransom. 
 
 Flo. An easy ransom ; I'll not be prisoner long, if a 
 kiss will enlarge me. [They play at blindman's-buff.
 
 318 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. |>CT iv. 
 
 Page. Lord, what scambling l shift has he made for a 
 kiss, and cannot get it neither ; a little higher, so, so, so ; 
 are you blind, my lord ? 
 
 Hort. As a purblind poet r have amongst you, blind 
 harpers. 2 
 
 Flo. Methinks he looks for all the world like god Cupid. 
 
 Page. Take heed of his dart, madam, he comes upon 
 you. 
 
 Flo. He cannot come too fast. O I am taken prisoner. 
 
 Hort. Your ransom's but a kiss. 
 
 Flo. Is that your law of arms ? 
 
 Hort. Yes, madam ; but I'll take it on your lips. 
 
 Flo. My lips, like faithful treasurers, shall see it dis- 
 charged. 
 
 Hort. And here are my honest receivers to take it. 
 [The Page ///ft his slipper to HORTENSIO'S lips ; he 
 kisses it. 
 
 Flo. Am I freed now ? 
 
 Hort. As if you had served seven years for't ; sweet 
 kiss, rare lip ! 
 
 Page. Has she not a sweet breath, my lord ? 
 
 Hort. As perfume. 
 
 Page. And a soft lip ? 
 
 Hort. And smooth as velvet ; I could scarce discern it 
 from velvet : I'd pawn my office for the fellow on't, 
 madam. 
 
 Page. Here. 
 
 Flo. [Aside.'] Here, Aspero, on with this beard and 
 gown : I think he follows me by the scent His hat, so. 
 A narrow miss, i'faith, my lord ! 
 
 Hort. Gone, madam. 
 
 Flo. Even upon going. [Aside.} One of you counter- 
 feit my voice. There, I deceived you, my lord. 
 
 Hort. Have you deceived me, madam ? 
 
 1 Scrambling. 
 
 2 The expression, "As blind as a harper" was a common one. 
 A tract of Martin Parker's is entitled "The Poet's Blind Man's 
 bough, or Have among you my blind Harpers," 1641. Bullen.
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 319 
 
 Flo. Not yet. but I will an you look not the better 
 to't. \A.side.~\ Busy him till you think we are out of the 
 court, and then follow us : you shall find us at the south 
 port. 1 Now or never, my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt FLORIMEL and ASPERO. 
 
 Hort. Why then 'twill never be, lady. 
 
 Boy. Here. 
 
 Hort. Where? 
 
 Boy. Here. 
 
 Hort. 'Scaped again ? 
 
 Page. [Aside.] She's 'scaped indeed, my lord ; you 
 may cast your cap after her, for I see you can do no 
 good upon her. 
 
 Hort. What, have I catched you ? 
 
 Page. Kiss her and let her go. 
 
 Hort. King's truce till I breathe a little. 
 
 Page. [Aside.] And you had need so, for I think you 
 are almost out of breath ; if you be not, you shall be, 
 and that's as good ; but breathe and spare not. 
 
 Re-enter ASPERO in HORTENSIO'S Gown, disguised, with 
 FLORIMEL and ASSISTANCE on the upper stage. 
 
 Asp. Did you ever converse with a more stranger dis- 
 solute, madam ? 
 
 Flo. Peremptory Jack ! 2 Jailor, as you respect yoi 
 office, lay special watch that none of what degree soever 
 have access to him. 
 
 Asp. Without me ? 
 
 Ass. Or your signet. 
 
 Asp. Signet me no signets ; your goldsmith s shop i 
 like your swan's nest, has a whole brood of signets, and 
 all of a feather; and amongst many one may be 1 
 another. Let none enter upon the stage where Aspei 
 plays the madman, without Hortensio. 
 
 I Sle'rm of contempt. Compare Shakespeare, i Henry IV., 
 III., iii., 99 : "The prince is a Jack.
 
 320 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH, [ACT iv. 
 
 Ass. Is he mad, my lord ? 
 
 Asp. As the lord that gave all to his followers, and 
 begged more for himself. 
 
 Flo. If he call for me, tell him I scorn him. 
 
 Asp. If he counterfeit my voice as mad fellows will 
 counterfeit great men's hands, and their tongues too rate 
 him for't, threaten him with the whip. 
 
 Flo. But come not at him. 
 
 Asp. If he call for meat, promise him fair. 
 
 Flo. But give him none. 
 
 Ass. If for light ? 
 
 Flo. He may fire the house, let him have none. 
 
 Asp. If he chafe, laugh. 
 
 Flo. If he rail, sing. 
 
 Asp. If he speak fair, flout him. 
 
 Flo. Do anything to vex him. 
 
 Asp. But nothing to content him ; you hear my charge, 
 as you respect your office, regard it. 
 
 Ass. I warrant you, my lord, let me alone, an we 
 
 knew not how to abuse a prisoner, we were not worthy to 
 
 be a jailor. \Exeunt. 
 
 \Blindmari s-buff is renewed on the lower stage. 
 
 Page. Are you in breath, my lord ? 
 
 Hort. As a brewer's horse, and as long-winded ; Jook 
 to yourself, madam, I come upon you. 
 
 Boy. I am ready -for you, sir. O for a bulrush to run a 
 tilt at' s nose ! 
 
 Page. A fair miss, i' faith. 
 
 Hort. I'll mend it next course, you shall see. 
 
 Page. In the corner of the left hand 'udsfoot, 'ware 
 shins, my lord. 
 
 Hort. Madam? 
 
 Boy. Here. 
 
 Hort. Where ? [Boy throws him down. 
 
 Help me up, madam. 
 
 Boy. O strange ! cannot you get up without help ? 
 here's my glove, but come no nearer, as you love me.
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OU1 OF BREATH. 321 
 
 Hort. I do love you, madam. 
 
 -Boy. O blind love ! 
 
 Hort. True, madam ; your beauty has made me blind. 
 
 Page. Indeed, love's sons like spaniels are all born 
 blind. 
 
 Hort. But they will see. 
 
 Boy. Not till they be nine days old, my lord. 
 
 Hort. But will you give me the fingers that hold this 
 glove, madam? 
 
 Boy. And the whole body to pleasure you, my lord ; 
 but let me go a little. 
 
 Hort. I will not loose you yet, lady. 
 
 Boy. But you shall, my lord ; hist, then keep me still. 
 [He fastens the glove to a post. 
 
 Page. Faith, let go, my lord, for she grows sullen, and 
 you had as good talk to a post, and as good answer 
 'twould make you. [Exeunt Page and Boy. 
 
 Hort. {Before the post]. Nay but, dear madam, do but 
 answer me ; may I presume, upon my knees I beg it, but 
 to take a favour from your sweet lips, shall I ? 'las, I am 
 not the first man that love has blinded. May I presume? 
 I would be loth to offend your mild patience so much as 
 with an unreverend touch : speak : if I shall reap the har- 
 vest of my honest desires, make me blest in proposing the 
 time when ; what, not a word ? are you displeased ? or 
 shall I take your silence for a consent ? shall I ? speak j 
 or if modesty lock in your syllables, seal my assurance 
 with a kiss : not ? neither ? shall I have neither your 
 word nor your bond ? nay, then I must make bold with 
 modesty : by this kiss, madam. [Removes the scarf from 
 his eyes.'] O my hard fortune, have I made suit to a post 
 all this while ? what block but I would have been so 
 senseless ? my excuse is, 'twas but to make my lady sport : 
 and, madam ! how ? lady, madam, boy ! madam, Aspero ! 
 But whist, I have the conceit, 'twas excellent in my lady, 
 and I applaud it ; suppose my lady and her prisoner had 
 an intent of private business in the next room, was it not 
 
 Nero. Y
 
 322 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT iv. 
 
 better in her to blind me, than I should, as gentlemen 
 ushers (cases so standing), have blinded myself? again, I 
 applaud her, and adore my stars that made me rather a 
 blind than a seeing door-keeper : shall I interrupt them ? 
 no : madam ! they have not done yet, sure they have not. 
 What have we here, a bass viol? though I cannot tickle 
 the minnikin within, I'll (though it be somewhat base) 
 give them a song without, and the name of the ditty shall 
 be " The Gentleman Usher's Voluntary." 
 [Sings] Peace, peace, peace, make no noise, 
 
 Pleasure and fear lie sleeping. 
 
 End, end, end your idle toys, 
 
 Jealous eyes will be peeping. 
 Kiss, kiss, and part, though not for hate, for pity ; 
 Ha' done ha' done, ha' done, for I ha' done my ditty. 
 And if you have not done now, too, let me be as base 
 as my fiddle, if I rouse you not : madam, for shame, what 
 do you mean to make of me ? How ? 'sfoot ? what have 
 you made of me already ? all gone ? Jailor ? 
 
 Re-enter ASSISTANCE above. 
 
 Ass. How now, who calls ? 
 
 Hort. Why, saucy knave, 'tis I. 
 
 Ass. You ! what you ? 
 
 Hort. A single U ; I came in double, but I thank them, 
 they are gone out, and left me here a single 
 
 Ass. Fool, and so I leave you. 
 
 Hort. Knave, I am Hortensio; I charge thee let me 
 out. 
 
 Ass. Fool, you lie ; you are Aspero, and I have charge 
 to keep you in. 
 
 Hort. From whom 1 
 
 Ass. From my Lord Hortensio. 
 
 Hort. 'Sfoot, knave, I tell thee I am he ; an thou wilt 
 not believe me, trust thine eyes, come in and see. 
 
 Ass. 'Twill not serve your turn. I like a whole skin
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OU7 OF BREA TH. 323 
 
 better than a pinked ' one : content yourself to-night, and 
 in the morning I'll tell you more. 
 
 Hort. Where's my lady ? send her hither. 
 
 Ass. She's busy with my Lord Hortensio ; but if you 
 have any use for a woman, I'll send you one of the laun- 
 dresses : fare you well, sir, be content, you shall want 
 nothing of anything you have. 
 
 Hort. Hortensio gone out ! and my lady busy with 
 Hortensio? I am gulled, palpably gulled : whilst I like a 
 block stood courting the post, Aspero is in my apparel 
 escaped. Villains ! traitors ! open the door, the duke's 
 abused, his daughter's fled : I proclaim ye all traitors that 
 hinder me in the pursuit. 
 
 Ass. O for a reasonable audience to applaud this scene 
 of merriment : I'll go call my lady and my Lord Hor- 
 tensio. [ x fc 
 
 Hort. Blindtnan's-buff? I have buffed it fairly, and 
 mine own gullery grieves me not half so much as the 
 duke's displeasure. Jailor ! not a word ? Jailor, there's 
 no way to please a knave but fair words and gold : 
 honest kind jailor, here's gold for thee : do but take pity 
 upon me, a miserable coney-catched ~ courtier. Not ? 
 neither fair nor foul ? thou art a degree worse than a 
 woman ; what shall I do ? I can compare my fortune, 
 and my unfortunate self, to nothing so fitly as my bass 
 here; we suffer every fool to play upon us for their 
 pleasure ; and indeed 'twas the intent of our Creator that 
 made fiddles and servitors to nothing but to be played 
 upon, and played upon we shall be, till our heart-strings 
 crack, and then they either cast us aside or hang us up, 
 as worthy no other employment. Well, if I can work my 
 means of escape, so : if not, I must lie by it. [Exit. 
 
 1 Pierced, stabbed. 
 
 2 " A conie-catcher, a name given to deceivers, by a metaphor, 
 taken from those that rob warrens, and conie-grounds, using all 
 means, sleights, and cunning to deceive them, as pitching of haies 
 before their holes, fetching them in by tumblers, &c." Minsheu, 
 quoted by Wrisrht. 
 
 Y 2
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. Venice. The DUKE'S Palace. 
 
 Enter OCTAVIO, FRANCISCO, HIPPOLITO, FLAMINEO, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 CT. My daughter fled ! and with Hor- 
 
 tensio ? 
 
 It bears no formal shape of likelihood ; 
 Her eagle spirit soared too proud a pitch 
 To seize so base a prey; let privy 
 
 search 
 
 Look through the city's bosom till they find her : 
 For gone she is not. 
 
 Fran. Has not Antonio's son 
 
 Sent them by some base practice to their death ? 
 Oct. His breast's too full of honour. 
 
 Enter JULIO. 
 
 Trusty Julio ! 
 
 What weighty business draws thee from thy charge ? 
 Jul. Carne not the cause afore me? the proud 
 
 Mantuans 
 
 Basely revolt, 1 deposed me from the seat 
 And chair of regentship, sending in quest 
 Of proud Antonio their late-banished duke ; 
 Him if they find or Aspero his son, 
 They'll reinstal him in the regiment. 2 
 
 1 i.e. Revolted. 
 
 2 Sovereignty.
 
 SCENE I.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 325 
 
 Enter ASSISTANCE. 
 
 Oct. Him let them seek in the vast shades of death. 
 As for his son 
 
 Ass. He's sure enough, my lord ; he was a mad knave 
 when he came in, but I think I have made a tame fool of 
 him by this time : for a has neither had bread nor water 
 these four and forty hours. 
 
 Oct. More villain thou. 
 
 Ass. My lord, Hortensio was the villain ; he left such 
 command with me ; he's the wheel that turns about, and 
 I, a country Jack, 1 must strike when I am commanded. 
 
 Oct. Although my foe, he's honourably tempered, 
 Yet armed against my life : go call him forth, 
 
 [Exit ASSISTANCE. 
 
 Guard in my safety with a ring of steel, 
 And mark how proudly he'll demean revenge. 
 
 Re-enter ASSISTANCE accompanied by HORTENSIO, 
 bareheaded, with his crowd? 
 
 Ass. Goblins, spirits, furies, fairies ! the prison is 
 haunted ! 
 
 Oct. With a knave, is't not ? 
 
 Ass. Yes, and an old fool, my lord, in the likeness of 
 Hortensio. 
 
 Oct. Villain, where's Aspero ? 
 
 Ass. I know not, my lord : I let him in and my lady 
 to laugh at him ; and, it seems, he consented to treason, 
 and let him out in his apparel. 
 
 Hort. They consented together to cozen me: for 
 taking delight (as my betters may do) in a foolish 
 pastime called blindman's-buff, they stole away my gown, 
 escaped the prison,- and left me in fools' paradise, where 
 what song I have played my viol can witness. They 
 made me a little better than a bawd, my lord. 
 
 Fran. In act ? 
 
 1 A figure striking the bell in old clocks was called a Jack. 
 
 2 Fiddle ; from Welsh crwth.
 
 326 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT v. 
 
 Hort. Not merely in act : sed cogitatione, et id satis esf, 
 ut inquit Suetonius. 
 
 Off. Is he escaped, and Florimel with him ? 
 Hortensio, thy head shall answer it. 
 
 Hort. I pray let my tongue be my head's attorney, 
 and plead my excuse. 
 
 Oct. Urge no excuse : away with him to prison. 
 
 Ass. It shall be done, my lord. 
 
 Oct. Nay, you, sir, too, shall taste of the same sauce.; 
 away with both. 
 Come, my sons, 
 
 Let's levy present arms 'gainst Mantua. 
 Being scarce come home, we must abroad again ; 
 The common good's a careful prince's pain. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \\.Mantna. The DUKE'S Palace. 
 
 Enter ANTONIO, LUCIDA, HERMIA, and Lords. 
 
 Ant. You that in all my banished pilgrimage 
 Would never alienate your natural loves, 
 But in desire to see me reinstalled 
 Have thrust out proud Octavio's substitute 
 And seated me in ancient dignity, 
 I am yours, and ready at your best dispose. 
 
 ist Lord. Your own, my liege ; we, like inferior lights, 
 Take life from your reflection, for like stars 
 Unto the sun, are counsellors to kings : 
 He feeds their orbs with fire, and their shine 
 Contend to make his glory more divine ; 
 And such are we to great Antonio. 
 
 Ant. The veins and arteries of Antonio 
 Through which the blood of greatness flows in us ; 
 Our life, and cause efficient of our state 
 And these our pretty partners in exile.
 
 SCENE II.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. V7 
 
 2nd Lord. We ha' yet performed but the least part of 
 
 duty, 
 
 Your reinstalment : it rests, that with our blood 
 We keep out innovasive l violence. 
 
 Ant. You new create me, and breathe second life 
 Into my dying bosom ; knew my son 
 Of this unlocked for fortune ! but ill fate 
 Has played the traitor, and given up his life 
 To coward treason \A shout within. 
 
 Enter ASPERO and FLORIMEL with Page. 
 
 Asp. 'Udsfoot, what offence have I committed against 
 the state, that these iron-handed plebeians so applaud 
 me for ? 
 
 Flo. Tis a sign they love you. 
 
 Asp I had rather they should hate me ; it makes me 
 suspect my bosom ; for they love none but the mastei 
 of factions, treasons, and innovations. 
 
 Flo Then you do not love the commons. 
 
 Asp Yes, as wise men do their nattering wives, only 
 for show: he popular voice is like a cry of bawling 
 
 hope of Mantua and of u, 
 now are honour's new-beginners, boy, 
 
 that will draw customers. 
 
 to your
 
 328 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT v. 
 
 Ant. Octavio's daughter? 
 
 Asp. Yes, faith ; you are out with the father, and I'll 
 see if I can fall in with the daughter. 
 
 Flo. And am I not a good child to leave my father's 
 love at six and seven, 1 and hazard my honour upon 
 your son's naked promise, and your hopeful acceptance ? 
 
 Asp. She has followed me through much danger. 
 
 Ant. The better welcome ; I love her for't. 
 
 Asp. Like her an you please, I'd have nobody love her 
 but myself. 
 
 Ant. And, lady, though your lather be our foe, 
 The virtuous love betwixt our son and you 
 May ne'ertheless retain his sympathy. 
 
 Flo. Shall ne'ertheless retain his sympathy ! 
 Antonio, know I am love's resolute, 
 Confirmed and grounded in affection : 
 I loved your son, not for he was a prince, 
 But one no better than his present fortunes ; 
 I'll love him still, since I first loved him so, 
 Let father, friends, and all the world say no. 
 
 Asp. There's mettle, father ; how can we choose but 
 get cocking 2 children, when father and mother too are 
 both of the game ? 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mes. To arms, my lord : Octavio cornes in arms, 
 To give a proud assault unto the city. 
 
 Asp. Proud his assault, as proud be our resist ; 
 Vie shot for shot, and stake down life for life ; 
 Our breast's as bold as theirs, our blood as deep : 
 All that we'll lose, or this our gettings keep. 
 
 Her. Come, brother, talk not of devouring war : 
 Say messenger, come not Octavio's sons ? 
 
 Mes. They do, as proudly as the morning sun 
 Beating the azured pavement of the heavens. 
 
 i.e. At sixes and sevens. " Forward.
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 329 
 
 Her. Then fear not, father, my sister and myself 
 Will be your champions, and defend the city. 
 
 Flo. Why, ladies, have you such large interest in our 
 brothers ? 
 
 Her. Princess, we have. Within there: reach our 
 
 shields ; 
 When beauty fights, the God of battles yields. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. Mantua. 
 
 Enter, on the walls, ANTONIO, ASPERO, FLORIMEL, Page, 
 Boy, and Attendants; below, FRANCISCO, HIPPO- 
 LITO, FLAMINEO, and JULIO. 
 
 Flo. They offer parley, let me answer them. 
 Brothers, how now ? who made you soldiers ? 
 Faith, e'en my father, as he made you lovers ? 
 What, hath he changed your shepherds' hooks to swords, 
 Of Amorados made you armed knights ? 
 O seld-seen metamorphosis ! I have known 
 Soldiers turn lovers, but for amorous lovers 
 To re-assume their valour, 'tis a change 
 Like winter thunder, and a thing as strange. 
 
 Fran. Our sister prisoner ? 
 
 Hip. Tell me, Florimel, 
 Dost thou live here enforced, or of free will ? 
 
 Flo. Free will, brothers, mine own free will ; all free in 
 Mantua ; here's free will, i'faith, speak, am I not a free 
 woman ? 
 
 Page. As if you had served for't ; any man may set up 
 under her copy without a protection. 
 
 Fran. Ay, wag, are you there too ? 
 
 Page. Yes, faith, my lord; my lady has had my 
 attendance to a hair.
 
 33 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT v. 
 
 Flo. You lie, boy. 
 
 Page. If not mine, some bodies' else : there's one has 
 
 Asp. What have I done, sirrah ? [done 
 
 Page. Nay, nothing, but what my lady was very well 
 content with. 
 
 Fran. Why, sister, shame you not to set your love 
 On one that is our father's enemy ? 
 
 Flo. Shame? not a whit. But come, your wenches, 
 
 brothers, 
 
 I make no question, I have won my wager, 
 Are they as fair as I ? 
 
 Hip. Leave that to trial. 
 Aspero, make surrender of our sister. 
 
 Asp. And have her in quiet possession ? what do you 
 think me ? 
 
 Fran. We think thee a proud villain, and our foe. 
 
 Flo. By Heaven, they're villains all that think him so. 
 
 Hip. Why, do you love him ? 
 
 Flo. I should curse myself 
 
 If I should hate him. 
 
 Fran. Bring the ladders forth ; 
 
 Bravely assault to separate their lives. . 
 
 [As they are scaling tlie walls, HERMIA and 
 LUCIDA come forward. 
 
 Her. Stand, proud Francisco, 
 
 Page. Stand ! O excellent word in a woman, 
 
 Luc. Hold, Hippolito. 
 
 Page. Hold ! up with that word, and 'tis as good as 
 the other. 
 
 Fran. What nymph or goddess in my Hermia's shape 
 Stands to debar my entrance to the town ? 
 
 Page. Madam, I wonder they enter not. 
 
 Flo. Why, boy, it seems they dare not. [already. 
 
 Page. O cowards, and have two such fair breaches 
 
 Fran. Immortal Pallas, that art more divine 
 In my love's beauty than thou cloth'st thee in, 
 Withdraw thyself, and give our fury limits.
 
 SCENE in.] HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. 331 
 
 Her. I will ; but first, Francisco, take my shield. 
 
 Luc. And mine, as challenge to a single combat. 
 
 Her. Read the conditions, and return your answers. 
 
 Flo. Well done, i'faith, wenches. O that the old gray- 
 beard, my father, were here ! I'd have a bout with him, 
 as I am honourable. 
 
 Fran. What's that ? 
 A shepherd wooing of a country maid, 
 As she sits angling by a river's side ; 
 By them an aged man making a net ? 
 The motto : Sic ! This emblem's moral is 
 The former love I had with Lucida, 
 And this, hope tells me, is fair Lucida. 
 
 Hip. Brother, my shield the like presents to me, 
 But holds far more familiar reference ; 
 Here doth the amorous shepherd kiss the nymph, 
 Which she with a chaste blush consents unto ; 
 And see, a gloomy man, clad like a pilgrim, 
 Comes in, and separates their sweet delights : 
 The motto : Sic ! Ay, so my father came, 
 And banished me from beauteous Hermia; 
 And this, hope tells me, is fair Hermia. 
 
 Fran. The more I look, the more methinks 'tis 
 she. 
 
 Hip. The more I think, the more I find 'tis she. 
 
 Fran. What should I think, to prove it is not she ? 
 
 Flo. Look, think, find, prove, do what you can, 
 These are the wenches that you courted then * : 
 Then, honey bees, lay by your smarting stings, 
 And buzz sweet love into your ladies' ears ; 
 Tell them of kisses, and such pretty things ; 
 These drumming dubadubs love's pleasure fears. 
 
 Fran. O Heaven, O fortune, and most happy stars ! 
 Do I find love, where I expected wars ? 
 
 Hip. I that but now was all for war and death, 
 Am made all love ; war's humour's out of breath. 
 
 1 Spelt "than " in the original, thus obtaining the proper rhyme.
 
 332 HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH. [ACT v. 
 
 Enter, below, OCTAVIO, JULIO, and others. 
 
 Oct. How, my sons love the daughters of my foe ? 
 It cannot be. 
 
 Jul. Then question them yourself. 
 
 Oct. Why, how now, sons? is this your worth in arms? 
 
 Fran. Why, are we not in arms, father ? 
 
 Hip. Yes, and in such arms as no coward but would 
 venture life to march in. 
 
 Oct. Then, boys, you love the daughters of Antonio ? 
 
 Fran. We liked them first. 
 
 Hip. We keep that liking still. 
 
 Oct. And you will love them ? 
 
 Flo. Father, in faith they will. 
 
 Oct. Ay, runaway, are you there ? whom has your lady- 
 ship got to your husband ? 
 
 Flo. One that I stumbled on at blindman's-buff; a 
 proper man, a man every inch of him : and you would 
 say so an you knew but as much as I mean to know ere 
 I have done with him. 
 
 Oct. Is he not son unto Antonio ? 
 
 Asp. Great duke, I am, and prostrate on my knee 
 I beg a peace, which if your spleen deny, 
 I proudly stand, where erst I mildly kneeled, 
 And cast down bold defiance from these walls. 
 
 Oct. No more ; your loves make my proud heart 
 
 ashamed ; 
 
 Your consort's sweet, and I'll not be a mean 
 To make it jar : what my sons like shall stand, 
 By my consent allowed and perfected ; 
 All hate is banished, and revenge lies dead. 
 
 Asp. Then, 'stead of spears, let Hymen's torches flame 
 With hallowed incense ; and the God of spright 
 Swell up your veins with amorous delight : 
 And so shut up our single comedy, 
 With Plautus' phrase : Si placet, plaudite. \_Exeunt.
 
 NATHANIEL FIELD. 
 
 ATHANIEL, or Nat, Field, the actor- 
 dramatist, was born in 1587; his father, 
 curiously enough, was a well - known 
 puritanical preacher. About Field's early 
 life we have but little information. We 
 know, however, that he was one of the 
 "Children of the Queen's Chapel," and it 
 is not improbable that the members of this company received 
 a good education at the expense of the Court ; possibly, too, 
 as Collier suggests, Ben Jonson may have interested himself 
 in the young actor who was afterwards to do so much for the 
 great dramatist's comedies. It is, indeed, in connection with 
 Ben Jonson that Field is first mentioned : he was one of the 
 six "principal comedians" engaged in the production of 
 Cynthia s Revels in 1600, and as his name stands first on the 
 list we may assume that he was the chief player in his 
 troupe. Cynthia's Revels was followed by The Poetaster in 
 1601, and again Field took the first place. In 1606 we hear 
 of him playing, with great success, in Chapman's Bussy 
 d'Ambois, and three years later his name occurs in the list 
 of actors prefixed to Epicana ; moreover, his own first 
 dramatic essay, A Woman is a Weathercock, was, in all 
 probability, produced, or at least written, during that or the 
 next year. There are references in the play (Act i., Sc. ii.) 
 to the disputes which had arisen in connection with the 
 succession to Juliers and Cleeve. From the title-page of the 
 piece we learn that it was "acted before the King at White- 
 hall, and divers times privately at the Whitefriars by the 
 Children of Her Majesty's Revels." Collier thinks that
 
 334 NATHANIEL FIELD. 
 
 P'ield still belonged to this company, although at the time in 
 his 22nd year ; he also suggests that the dramatist acted in 
 his own piece. 
 
 Soon after the Weathercock perhaps in 1612 came jts 
 antidote, the Amends for Ladies; it was brought out at the 
 Blackfriars by " the Prince's Servants and the Lady Eliza- 
 beth's." from which it would seem that Field had left his 
 original company and joined that of the Princess. 
 
 From this point onward we cannot trace Field's history 
 very closely. The Princess Elizabeth married in 1613 the 
 Elector Palatine, and henceforth her players were under the 
 direction of Henslowe and Alleyn, in whose papers we get 
 occasional glimpses of Field. There are, for instance, 
 amongst the Dulwich archives three letters (unfortunately 
 without dates, but probably to be referred to the years 1613 
 and 1614) in which Field applies to his manager for loans of 
 money. From one of these letters, written by Massinger, 
 Field, and Daborne, we gather that the three authors were 
 engaged upon a play for Henslowe ; another is from 
 Daborne and Field, asking for an advance of money upon a 
 piece which they had been commissioned to write ; the 
 third, from Field alone, is of the same begging description. 
 These documents show two things : that Field who, as an 
 actor of great reputation, was doubtless well paid, 1 must have 
 been very improvident, and that he was connected with- 
 Henslowe, and had not yet joined the King's Company, i.e., 
 not during Shakespeare's life. From yet another paper in 
 the Alleyn collection we find that Field received /io for 
 performing in Bartholomew Fair before the king on 
 Nov. 1st, 1614 the piece had been produced only the 
 previous day at the Hope Theatre on the Bankside and in 
 connection with the same play we may remember Ben 
 Jonson's direct eulogy of him. (" Which is your Burbadge 
 now ? . . . . Your best actor, your Field ? " Act v. Sc. ii.) 
 
 From 1614 to 1617, to keep to our dates, Field probably 
 continued to act for Henslowe at the threatre in Paris 
 Garden, and then, somewhere before 1619 or perhaps on the 
 death of Burbadge in that year, he joined the King's 
 Company, as a member of which his name occurs, though 
 
 1 Thus Field could afford not to dedicate his Woman is a 
 Weathercock to any patron, thereby losing, as he says, 40 shillings.
 
 NATHANIEL FIELD. 335 
 
 low down, in the list of actors given in the First Folio of 
 Shakespeare, 1623. Field had certainly retired from the 
 stage before 1625, or he would have been mentioned in the 
 patent granted by Charles I. on his accession ; that he was 
 not amongst the performers who took part in the revival of 
 Webster's Duchess of Malfi in 1623 may point to an even 
 earlier date for his withdrawal from the scenes. Why Field 
 gave up acting so early, or how the last years of his life were 
 spent, we have no means of determining ; he died in 1633 
 on February the 2oth, and was buried in the Church of 
 St. Anne's, Blackfriars. 1 Field married in 1619, and a 
 contemporary epigram, quoted by Collier, speaks of him as 
 an ideal Othello from the domestic as from the dramatic 
 point of view : 
 
 " Field is, in sooth, an actor all men know it, 
 And is the true Othello of the poet. 
 I wonder if 'tis true, as people tell us, 
 That, like the character, he is jealous. 
 If it be so, and many living swear it, 
 It takes no little from the actor's merit, 
 Since, as the Moor is jealous of his wife, 
 Field can display the passion to the life." 
 
 These rather ingenious lines may throw some light on the 
 fierceness with which women are attacked in his two plays. 
 Of the latter I must say a few words. 
 
 A Woman is a Weathercock was acted, as we have seen, 
 somewhere about 1609; his Amends for Ladies somewhere 
 about 1612. Besides writing these two comedies Field was 
 part-author with Massinger of the Fatal Dowry;" his name 
 is signed to six stanzas of commendatory verses prefixed to 
 Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess; and from the already 
 referred-to papers in the Alleyn collection it is quite clear 
 
 i It may be worth while to point out that Field's reputation as a 
 player survived, at the least to the next generation, 
 referred to in Flecknoe's Defence of the Stage (1660 or thereabouts) 
 as having (with Burbadge) been the leading actor of the time. 
 
 * Field's share in this play cannot be determined. Giff 
 suggests that he was responsible for the weaker scenes ; but C 
 as Cunningham says, was extraordinarily jealous of Massinger s 
 reputation and we have no right to father upon Field inferior work 
 of P wnich Massinger (test* The Bashful Lover) was not entirely 
 incapable.
 
 336 NATHANIEL FIELD. 
 
 that he had collaborated with Massinger and Daborne on 
 works which have perished, possibly at the hands of " the 
 execrable cook of the execrable Warburton." Of the plays 
 which have survived and we may remember that they were 
 written when the author was scarcely out of his teens the 
 Amends for Ladies is, I think, the superior ; it is less ex- 
 travagant in the lighter scenes, and less rhetorical where the 
 dramatist would strike a serious note. Both, however, are 
 excellent pieces of work, marked by something of the 
 vigorous and occasionally eccentric characterisation of 
 Field's master, Ben Jonson, singularly clever in the easy 
 manipulation of plot and underplot, and touched throughout 
 with the vivacity and verve of true, though somewhat 
 boisterous, comedy. Field's merits, in fact, are happily hit 
 off in Mr. Swinburne's lines : 
 
 " Field, bright and loud with laughing flower and bird, 
 And keen alternate notes oflaud and gird." 
 
 A. WILSON VERITY.
 
 IS cA WEtATHET^COCK. 
 
 Nero.
 
 WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK 
 was published in 1612, as acted at the 
 Whitefriars by the Children of Her 
 Majesty's Revels. It was edited by 
 Collier, and is included (with Amends for 
 Ladies) in Hazlitt's edition of Dodsley's 
 Old Plays. 
 
 TO ANY WOMAN THAT HATH BEEN NO 
 WEATHERCOCK. 
 
 DID determine not to have dedicated my 
 play to anybody, because forty shillings I 
 care not for ! ' and above few or norie will 
 bestow on these matters, especially falling 
 from so fameless a pen as mine is yet. 
 And now I look up, and find to whom my 
 dedication is, I fear I am as good as my de- 
 termination : notwithstanding, I leave a liberty to any lady 
 or woman, that dares say she hath been no weathercock, to 
 assume the title of patroness to this my book. If she have 
 been constant, and be so, all I will expect from her for my 
 pains is that she will continue so but till my next play be 
 printed, wherein she shall see what amends I have made 'to 
 her and all the sex, 2 and so I end my epistle without a Latin 
 sentence. 3 N. F. 
 
 1 Malone, in his " History of the Stage," quotes this passage to 
 show that suth was, in Field's day, the ordinary price of the dedica- 
 tion of a play. Collier. 
 
 2 i.e. In his second play, the Amends for Ladies, which must have 
 been written by this time, though it was not printed till 1618. 
 
 3 Field seems to have rather piqued himself on his knowledge of 
 Latin : see the following dedication " To the Reader."
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 jEADER, the saleman swears you'll take it 
 very ill, if I say not something to you too. 
 In troth, you are a stranger to me : why- 
 should I write to you ? you never writ to 
 me, nor I think will not answer my epistle. 
 I send a comedy to you here, as good as I 
 could then make ; nor slight my presenta- 
 tion, because it is a play ; for I tell thee, reader, if thou be'st 
 ignorant, a play is not so idle a thing as thou art, but a 
 mirror of men's lives and actions ; nor, be it perfect or im- 
 perfect, true or false, is the vice or virtue of the maker. This 
 is yet, as well as I can, qnalis ego vel Cluvienus. Thou 
 must needs have some other language than thy mother- 
 tongue, for thou think'st it impossible for one to write a play, 
 that did not use a word of Latin, though he had enough in 
 him. I have been vexed with vile plays myself a great while, 
 hearing many ; now I thought to be even with some, and 
 they should hear mine too. Fare thee well : if thou hast 
 anything to say to me, thou know'st where to hear of me for 
 a year or two, and no more, I assure thee. 1 X. F, 
 
 TO HIS LOVED SON, 2 NAT. FIELD, AND HIS 
 WEATHERCOCK WOMAN. 
 
 To many forms, as well as many ways, 
 
 Thy active muse turns like thy acted woman : 
 In which dispraised inconstancy turns praise ; 
 
 Th' addition being, and grace of Homer's seaman, 
 In this life's rough seas tossed, yet still the same : 
 
 So turns thy wit, inconstancy to stay, 
 And stay t' inconstancy. And as swift Fame 
 
 Grows as she goes, in Fame so thrive thy play, 
 And thus to standing turn thy woman's fall : 
 Wit, turned to everything, proves stay in all. 
 
 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 1 This seems to show that Field looked forward to an early with- 
 drawal from the stage. 
 
 - It was not unusual for elder poets to call the younger their sons. 
 Ben Tonson allowed this title to Randolph, Howell, and others. 
 Field also subscribes himself to old Henslowe the manager, you 
 loving son." Collier. 
 
 I* 2
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 COUNT FREDERICK, engaged to BELLAFRONT. 
 
 SIR JOHN WORLDLY. 
 
 SCUDMORE, in love with BELLAFRONT. 
 
 NEVILL, his Friend. 
 
 MASTER STRANGE, a Merchant in love with KATHERINE. 
 
 PENDANT, a Sycophant of Count FREDERICK. 
 
 CAPTAIN POUTS. 
 
 SIR INNOCENT NINNY. 
 
 SIR ABRAHAM NINNY, his Son. 
 
 A Parson. 
 
 A Page. 
 
 A Tailor. 
 
 Servants. 
 
 BELLAFRONT, \ 
 
 KATHERINE, [ Daughters of Sir JOHN WORLDLY. 
 
 LUCID A, 
 
 LADY NINNY, Wife of Sir INNOCENT. 
 
 MISTRESS WAGTAIL, her Gentlewoman. 
 
 SCENE The Neighbourhood of LONDON.
 
 IS zA WEATHERCOCK. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. SCUDMORE'S Bed-chamber. 
 
 Enter SCUDMORE, half-ready} reading a letter. 
 
 CUD. [Reads*] "Whereas you write, 
 
 my fortune and my birth, 
 Made above yours, may be a real cause 
 That I must leave you, know, thou 
 
 worthiest man, 
 
 Thou hast a soul whose plenteous 
 wealth supplies 
 
 All the lean wants blind chance hath dealt to thee. 
 Yet could I think the gods from all their store, 
 Who ne'er knew indigence unto their will, 
 Would out of all their stock of virtue left, 
 Or out of all new graces they can make, 
 Make such another piece as Scudmore is, 
 Then might he justly fear ; but otherwise 
 Sooner the masculine element of fire 
 Shall flame his pyramids clown to the earth ; 
 Sooner her mountains shall swell up to Heaven, 
 
 1 i.e. Half-dressed. 
 
 2 Here, as occasionally throughout the play, Field has written the 
 stage-directions in Latin.
 
 342 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT i. 
 
 Or softest April showers quench fires in hell : 
 Sooner shall stars from this circumference 
 Drop like false fiery exhalation, 
 Than I be false to vows made unto thee, 
 In whom aught near a fault I ne'er could see, 
 But that you doubted once my constancy. 
 
 Yours through the world, and to the end of time. 
 
 Bellafront." 
 Scud. \Speaks as though in ecstasy.] If what I feel I 
 
 could express in words, 
 Methinks I could speak joy enough to men 
 To banish sadness from all love for ever ! 
 
 thou, that reconcil'st the faults of all 
 That frothy sex, and in thy single self 
 Confin'st nay, hast engrossed, virtue enough 
 To frame a spacious world of virtuous women, 
 Hadst thou been the beginning of thy sex, 
 
 1 think the devil in the serpent's skin 
 
 Had wanted cunning to o'ercome thy goodness, 
 
 And all had lived and died in innocency 
 
 The white original creation ! [Knocking within. 
 
 Who's there ? come in. 
 
 Enter NEVILL. 
 
 Nev. What, up already, Scudmore ! Ne'er a wench 
 With thee ? Not e'en thy laundress ? 
 
 Scud. Good morrow, my dear Nevill. 
 
 Nev. What's this ? A letter ? Sure, it is not so 
 A letter written to Hieronimo. 1 
 
 Scud. By Heaven ! you must excuse me. Come, I know, 
 You will not wrong my friendship and your manners 
 To tempt me so. 
 
 Nev. Not for the world, my friend. 
 Farewell, good morrow. \He is about to go out. 
 
 Scud. Nay, sir, neither must you 
 
 1 The references in our old plays to the Spanish Tragedy are 
 almost endless. The " Hieronymus " cloak and hat were especially 
 famous.
 
 sc. I.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 343 
 
 Depart in anger from this friendly hand. 
 I swear I love you better than all men, 
 Equally with all virtue in the world ; 
 Yet this would be a key to lead you to 
 A prize of that importance 
 
 Nev. Worthy friend, 
 
 I leave you not in anger : what d'ye mean ? 
 Nor am I of that inquisitive nature framed 
 To thirst to know your private businesses. 
 Why, they concern not me : if they be ill 
 And dangerous, 'twould grieve me much to know 'em ; 
 If good, they be so, though I know 'em not. 
 Nor would I do your love so gross a wrong 
 To covet to participate affairs 
 Of that near touch, which your assured love 
 Doth think not fit, or dares not trust me with. 
 
 Scud. How sweetly does your friendship play with mine, 
 And with a simple subtlety steals my heart 
 Out of my bosom. By the holiest love 
 That ever made a story, you're a man 
 With all good so replete, that I durst trust you 
 Ev'n with this secret, were it singly mine. 
 
 Neo I do believe you. Farewell, worthy friend. 
 Scud. Nay, look you; this same fashion does 
 
 please me : 
 
 You were not wont to make your visita 
 So short and careless. 
 
 Nev. Tis your jealousy 
 That makes you think so ; for, by my soul, 
 You have given me no distaste by keeping from me 
 All things that might be burthenous, and oppress me. 
 In troth, I am invited to a wedding, 
 And the morn faster goes away from me, 
 Than I go toward it ; and so, good morrow. 
 
 Scud. Good morrow, sir : think I durst show it you. 
 Nev. Now, by my life, I not desire it, sir, 
 Nor ever loved these prying, listening men,
 
 344 A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT i. 
 
 That ask of others' states and passages : 
 Not one among a hundred but proves false, 
 Envious, and slanderous, and will cut that throat 
 He twines his arms about. I love that poet, 
 That gave us reading 1 not to seek ourselves 
 Beyond ourselves. Farewell. 
 
 Scud. You shall not go : 
 I cannot now redeem the fault I have made 
 To such a friend, but in disclosing all. 
 
 Nev. Now, if you love me, do not wrong me so. 
 I see you labour with some serious thing, 
 And think (like fairy's treasure) to reveal it, 
 Will cause it vanish ; and yet to conceal it, 
 Will burst your breast : 'tis so delicious, 
 And so much greater than the continent. 
 
 Scud. O ! you have pierced my entrails with your words, 
 And I must now explain all to your eyes. 
 Read, and he happy in my happiness. 
 
 Nev. Yet think on't : keep thy secret and thy friend 
 Sure and entire. O, give not me the means 
 To become false hereafter ! or thyself 
 A probable reason to distrust thy friend, 
 Though he be ne'er so true. I will not see't. 
 
 Scud. I die, by Heaven, if you deny again. 
 I starve for counsel : take it : look upon it. 
 If you do not, it is an equal plague, 
 As if it had been known and published. 
 For God's sake, read ! but with this caution 
 By this right hand, by this yet unstained sword, 
 Were you my father flowing in these waves, 
 Or a dear son exhausted out of them, 
 Should you betray this soul of all my hopes, 
 Like the two brethren (though love made 'em stars) 
 We must be never more seen both together. 2 
 
 Nev. I read it fearless of the forfeiture ; 
 Yet warn you, be as cautelous not to wound 
 
 1 Counsel. 2 Old copy, "again."
 
 sc. i.j A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 345 
 
 My integrity with doubting likelihoods, 
 From misreport ; but first exquire 1 the truth. 
 
 [NEVILL reads, SCUDMORE now and then looking 
 back? 
 
 Scud. Read, whilst I tell the story of my love, 
 And sound the truth of her heroic spirit, 
 Whom eloquence could never flatter yet, 
 Nor the best tongue of praises reach unto. 
 The maid there named I met once on a green, 
 Near to her father's house : methought she showed 
 For I did look on her, indeed no eye 
 That owed a sensible member, but must dwell 
 A while on such an object : 
 The passing horses and the feeding kine 
 Stood still, and left their journeys and their food : 
 The singing birds were in contention, 
 Which should 'light nearest her ; for her clear eyes 
 Deceived even men, they were so like bright skies. 
 Near, in a rivulet, swam two beauteous swans, 
 Whiter than anything but her neck and hands, 
 Which they left straight to comfort her : a bull 
 Being baiting on the green for the swains' sport, 
 She walking toward it, the vexed savage beast 
 Ceased bellowing, the snarling dogs were mute, 
 And had enough to do to look on her, 
 Whose face brought concord and an end of jars, 
 Though nature made 'em ever to have wars ; 
 Had there been bears and lions, when she spake, 
 They had been charmed too ; for Grecian's lute 
 Was rustic music to her heavenly tongue, 
 Whose sweetness e'en cast slumbers on mine eyes, 
 Soft as content, yet would not let me sleep. 
 
 Nev. "Yours through the world and to the end of time, 
 
 Bellafront." 
 Which Bellafront ? rich Sir John Worldly's daughter ? 
 
 1 An obvious Latinism. 
 
 2 During the following speech Scudmore is m the front of the stage
 
 346 A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT I. 
 
 Scud. She is the food, the sleep, the air I live by. 
 
 Nev. O Heaven ! we speak like gods and do like dogs. 
 
 Scud. What means my 
 
 Nev. This day this Bellafront. the rich heir, 
 Is married unto Count Frederick, 
 And that's the wedding I was going to. 
 
 Scud. I prythee, do not mock me. Married ! 
 
 Nev. It is no matter to be played withal, 
 But even as true, as women all are false. 
 
 Scud. 0, that this stroke, were thunder to my breast ; 
 For, Nevill, thou hast spoke my heart in twain, 
 And with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath 
 Hast ravished me out of a temperate soil, 
 And set me under the red burning zone. 
 
 Nev. For shame ! return thy blood into thy face. 
 Know'st not how slight a thing a woman is ? 
 
 Scud. Yes, and how serious too. Come ! I'll t' the 
 
 Temple : 
 She shall not damn herself for want of counsel. 
 
 Nev. O, prythee, run not thus into the streets ! 
 Come, dress you better : so. Ah ! as thy clothes 
 Are, like thy mind, too much disordered. 
 How strangely is this tide turned ! For a world, 
 I would not but have called here as I went. 
 Collect thy spirits : we will use all means 
 To check this black fate flying toward thee. Come ! 
 If thou miscarriest, 'tis my day of doom. 
 
 Scud. Yes now I'm fine. Married ! It may be so ; 
 But, women, look to't : if she prove untrue, 
 The devil take you all, that are his due ! [Exeunt.
 
 sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 347 
 
 SCENE \\.-ARoomin Sir JOHN WORLDLY'S House. 
 
 Enter Count FREDERICK, a Tailor trussing him ^ 
 
 attended by a Page. 
 
 Count F. Is Sir John Worldly up, boy ? 
 Page. No, my lord. 
 Count F. Is my bride up yet ? 
 Page. No. 
 Count F. No ! and the morn so fair ? 
 
 'Enter PENDANT. 
 
 Pen. Good morrow, my thrice honoured and heroic 
 lord. 
 
 Page. Good morrow, your lord and master, you might 
 say, for brevity sake. [Aside. 
 
 Count F. Thou'st a good tailor, and art very fine. 
 
 Pen. I thank your lordship. 
 
 Page. Ay, you may thank his lordship indeed. [Aside. 
 
 Pen. 'Fore God, this doublet sets in print, my lord ; 
 And the hose excellent ; the pickadel 2 rare. 
 . Page. He'll praise himself in trust with my lord's tailor. 
 For the next St. George's suit. 
 
 Count F. O, good morrow, tailor ; 
 I abhor bills in a morning. 
 
 Pen. Your honour says true : 
 Their knavery will be discerned by daylight ; 
 But thou may'st watch at night with bill in hand, 
 And no man dares find fault with it. 
 
 Tat. A good jest, i' faith. Good morrow to your lord- 
 ship. A very good jest. [Exit. 
 
 Count F. I wonder my invited guests are so tardy. 
 What's o'clock ? 
 
 1 i.e. Tying the points of his hose. 
 
 2 A pickadel, says Nares, " is a piece set round the edge of a 
 garment, whether at the top or bottom, most commonly the collar/' 
 According to Skeat, the word is of Spanish origin, from a root picar 
 = to prick,
 
 348 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT I. 
 
 Pen. Scarce seven, my lord. 
 
 Count F. And what news, Pendant ? 
 What think'st them of my present marriage ? 
 How shows the beauty to thee I shall wed ? 
 
 Pen. Why, to all women like Diana among her nymphs. 
 
 Page. There's all his reading. [Aside. 
 
 Pen. A beauty of that pureness and delight, 
 That none is worthy of her but my lord, 
 My honourable lord. 
 
 Count F. But then her fortune, 
 Matched with her beauty, makes her up a match. 
 
 Pen. By Heaven, unmatchable ! for none fit but lords, 
 And yet for no lord fit but my good lord. 
 
 Count F. And that her sister, then, should love me too, 
 Is it not strange ? 
 
 Pen. Strange ? no, not strange at all. 
 By Cupid, there's no woman in the world 
 But must needs love you, doat, go mad for you. 
 If you vouchsafe reflection, 1 'tis a thing 
 That does it home : thus much reflection 
 Catches 'em up by dozens like wild fowl. 
 
 Page. Now, ye shall taste the means, by which he eats 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Pen. Nature herself, having made you, fell sick 
 In love with her own work, and can no more 
 Make man so lovely, being diseased with love. 
 You are the world's minion of a little man. 
 I'll say no more : I would not be a woman, 
 For all has been got by them. 2 
 
 Count F. Why, man, why ? 
 
 Pen. Heart! I should follow you like a young rank 
 
 whore, 
 
 That runs proud of her love ; pluck you by the sleeve, 
 Whoe'er were with you, in the open street, 
 
 1 i.e. If you bvit glance at them. 
 
 2 i.e. Pendant has to flatter the Count by pretending that women 
 always admire little men. Minion (Fr. Mignon) is defined by 
 Cotgrave to mean "dainty, spruce, neat."
 
 SC. II.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 349 
 
 With the impudency of a drunken oyster-wife ; 
 Put on my fighting waistcoat and the ruff 
 That fears no tearing ; batter down the windows, 
 Where I suspected you might lie all night ; 
 Scratch faces, like a wild-cat of Picked-hatch. 1 
 
 Count F. Pendant, thou'lt make me doat upon myself. 
 
 Pen. Narcissus, by this hand, had far less cause. 
 
 Count F. How know'st thou that ? 
 
 Page. They were all one, my lord. 
 
 Pen. How do I know ? I speak my conscience : 
 His beauties were but shadows to my lord. 
 Why, boy, his presence would enkindle sin 
 And longing thoughts in a devoted nun. 
 
 foot ! O leg ! O hand ! O body ! face ! 
 By Jove, it is a little man of wax. 
 
 Count F. Thou'rt a rare rascal : 'tis not for nothing 
 That men call thee my Commendations. 2 
 
 Page. For nothing ? no j he would be loth it should. 
 
 Enter Captain POUTS. 
 
 Count F. Good morrow, and good welcome, Captain 
 Pouts. 
 
 Pouts. Good morning to your honour, and all joy 
 Spring from this match, and the first year a boy ! 
 
 1 commanded 3 these two verses o' purpose to salute your 
 
 honour. 
 
 Count F- But how haps it, captain, that your intended 
 marriage with my father-in-law's third daughter is not 
 solemnised to-day? 
 
 1 A prostitutes' haunt, generally supposed to have been in Turn- 
 mill Street, Clerkenwell, but which was situated at the back of a 
 turning called Rotten-row, opposite the Charterhouse wall in Goswell 
 Street. See Cunningham's Handbook of London. 
 
 2 Later in the play Pendant acknowledges that he lives " upon 
 commending my lord." 
 
 3 The old copy reads "commend"; the reading in the text is 
 Mr. Hazlitt's correction, and makes excellent sense. Captain Pouts 
 not being a poet himself, has had to order the couplet of some verse- 
 writer.
 
 350 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT i. 
 
 Pen. My lord tells you true, captain ; it would have 
 saved meat. 
 
 Pouts. Faith, I know not. Mistress Kate likes me 
 not ; she says I speak as if I had pudding in my mouth, 
 and I answered her, if I had, it was a white pudding, 1 
 and then I was the better armed for a woman ; for I had 
 a case about me. So one laughed, and the other cried 
 fie : the third said I was a bawdy captain ; and there 
 was all I could get of them. 
 
 Count F. See, boy, if they be up yet : maids are long 
 Hers, I perceive. 
 
 Page. How if they will not admit me, my lord. 
 
 Count F. Why, should they not admit you, my lord, 
 you cannot commit with 'em, my lord. 
 
 Page. Marry, therefore, my lord. \_Exit Page, 
 
 Count F. But what should be the reason of her so 
 sudden alteration ? she listened to thee once, ha ? 
 
 Pen. Have you not heard, my lord, or do ye not 
 know ? 
 
 Count F. Not I, I swear. 
 
 Pen. Then you know nothing that is worth the 
 knowing. 
 
 Pouts. That's certain : he knows you. 
 
 Pen. There's a young merchant, a late suitor, that 
 deals by wholesale, and heir to land, well-descended, of 
 worthy education, beholding to nature. 
 
 Count F. O, 'tis young Strange. 
 
 Pouts. Is't he that looks like an Italian tailor out of the 
 laced wheel ? 2 that wears a bucket on his head ? 
 
 Count F. That is the man : yet believe me, captain, it 
 is a noble sprightly citizen. 
 
 Pouts. Has he money? 
 
 Count F. Infinitely wealthy. 
 
 1 A kind of sausage. 
 
 2 From this passage it should seem that Italian tailors in Field's 
 time wore peculiarly wide and stiff ruffs, like a wheel of lace round 
 their necks. Nothing on the point is to be found in R. Armin's 
 Italian Taylor and his Boy, 1609. Collier.
 
 sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 351 
 
 Pouts. Then, captain, thou art cast. Would I had 
 gone to Cleveland ! l Worldly loves money belter than I 
 love his daughter. I'll to some company in garrison. 
 Good bye. 
 
 Count F. Nay, ye shall dedicate this day to me. 
 We speak but by the way, man : ne'er despair ; 
 I can assure you, she is yet as free as air. 
 
 Pen. And you may kill the merchant with a look : 
 I'd threaten him to death. My honored lord 
 Shall be your friend : go to, I say he shall : 
 You shall have his good word. Shall he, my lord ? 
 
 Count F. 'Sfoot ! he shall have my bond to do him 
 good. 
 
 Pen. La ! 'tis the worthiest lord in Christendom. 
 O captain, for some fourscore brave spirits, once 
 To follow such a lord in some attempt ! 
 
 Pouts. A hundred, sir, were better. 
 
 Enter Sir INNOCENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, Sir ABRAHAM, 
 
 and Mistress WAGTAIL. 
 Count F. Here's more guests. 
 Pouts. Is that man and wife ? 
 Pen. It is Sir Innocent Ninny : that's his lady, 
 And that Sir Abraham, their only son. 
 
 [Count FREDERICK discourses with Sir INNO- 
 CENT and Lady NINNY : ABRAHAM looks 
 about. 
 
 Pouts. But did that little old dried neat's tongue, that 
 eel-skin, get him ? 
 
 Pen. So 'tis said, captain. 
 
 Pouts. Methinks he in his lady should show like a 
 needle in a bottle of hay. 
 
 Pen. One may see by her nose what pottage she 
 
 loves. 
 
 i The disputes about the succession to Juliers and Cleeve, which 
 eventually ted to the Thirty Years War, began m 1609. 
 Englishmen crossed over to the Netherlands, amongst others, as we 
 learn from his Autobiography, Lord Herbert of Cherbury.
 
 352 A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT I. 
 
 Pouts. Is your name Abraham ? Pray, who dwells in 
 your mother's back-side, 1 at the sign of the aqua-vitae 
 bottle ? 
 
 Pen. God's precious ! Save you, Mistress Wagtail. 
 
 \Pulls her by the sleeve. 
 
 Wag. Sweet Master Pendant. 
 
 Abra. Gentlemen, I desire your better acquaintance. 
 You must pardon my father; he's somewhat rude, and 
 my mother grossly brought up, as you may perceive. 
 
 Count F. Young Master Abraham ! cry ye mercy, sir. 
 
 Abra. Your lordship's poor friend, and Sir Abraham 
 
 Ninny. 
 
 The dub-a-dub of honour, piping hot 
 Doth lie upon my worship's shoulder-blade. 
 
 Sir Inn. Indeed, my lord, with much cost and labour 
 we have got him knighted ; ~ and being knighted under 
 favour, my lord, let me tell ye he'll prove a sore knight, 
 as e'er run at ring. He is the one and only Ninny of our 
 house. 
 
 Lady Nin. He has cost us something, ere he came to 
 
 this. 
 Hold up your head, Sir Abraham. 
 
 Abra. Pish, pish, pish, pish ! 
 
 Count F. D'ye hear how 
 Pen. O my lord. 
 
 Pouts. I had well hoped she could not have spoke, she 
 is so fat. 
 
 Count F. Long may'st thou wear thy knighthood ; and 
 
 thy spurs 
 Prick thee to honour on, and prick off curs. 
 
 Abra. Sir Abraham thanks your honour, and I hope 
 your lordship will consider the simplicity of parents : a 
 couple of old fools, my lord, and I pray so take 'em. 
 
 1 "Backyard '" usually, but here the phrase seems to mean rather a 
 house in the rear. Hazlitt. 
 
 2 The indiscriminate creation of Knights by James I., is often 
 alluded to. See The Silent Woman, I. i., and The Alchemist, 
 II. i.
 
 sc. n.l A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 353 
 
 All. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Abra. I must be fain to excuse you here : you'll be 
 needs coming abroad with me. If I had no more wit 
 than you now, we should be finely laughed at. 
 
 Sir Inn. By'r lady, his worship says well : wife, we'll 
 trouble him no longer. With your honour's leave, I'll in 
 and see my old friend Sir John, your father that shall 
 be. 
 
 Lady Nin. I'll in, too, and see if your bride need no 
 dressing. \Exeunt Sir INNOCENT and Lady NINNY. 
 
 Count F. 'Sfoot, as much as a tripe, I think : 
 Haste them, I pray. Captain, what thinkest thou 
 Of such a woman in a long sea-voyage, 
 Where there were a dearth of victuals ? 
 
 Pouts. Venison, my lord, venison. 
 
 Pen. F faith, my lord, such venison as a bear is. 
 
 Pouts. Heart ! she looks like a black bombard 1 with a 
 pint pot waiting upon it. \_Exit Mistress WAGTAIL. 
 
 Count F. What countrymen were your ancestors, Sir 
 Abraham ? 
 
 Abra. Countrymen ! they were no countrymen : I scorn 
 it. They were gentlemen all : my father is a Ninny, and 
 my mother was a Hammer. 
 
 Pouts. You should be a knocker, then, by the mother's 
 side. 
 
 Abra. I pray, my lord, what is yon gentleman ? He 
 looks so like a Saracen that, as I am a Christian, I cannot 
 endure him. 
 
 Count F. Take heed what you say, sir ; he's a soldier. 
 
 Pen. If you cross him, he'll blow you up with gun- 
 powder. 
 
 Abra. In good faith, he looks as if he had had a hand 
 in the treason. 2 I'll take my leave. 
 
 1 Properly a piece of artillery, but often applied to large vessels con- 
 tainin Jiquor. So Trinculo, Tempest, II ii., thinks that the .cloud 
 "yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed 
 liquor." 
 
 2 Gunpowder Plot, Nov. 5, 1605. 
 
 Nero.
 
 354 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT i. 
 
 Count F. Nay, good Sir Abraham, you shall not leave 
 us. 
 
 Pen. My lord shall be your warrant. 
 
 Abra. My lord shall be my warrant ? Troth, I do not 
 see that a lord's warrant is better than any other man's, 
 unless it be to lay one by the heels. I shall stay here, 
 and ha' my head broke, and then I ha' my mends in my 
 own hands : and then my lord's warrant will help me to 
 a plaister, that's all. 
 
 Count F. Come, come ; captain, pray shake the hand 
 of acquaintance with this gentleman : he is in bodily fear 
 of you. 
 
 Pouts. Sir, I use not to bite any man. 
 
 Abra. Indeed, sir, that would show you are no gentle- 
 man. I would you would bid me be covered. I am a 
 knight. I was knighted o' purpose to come a-wooing to 
 Mistress Lucida, the middle sister, Sir John Worldly's 
 second daughter, and she said she would have me, if I 
 could make her a lady, and I can do't now. O, here she 
 comes. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN WORLDLY, STRANGE, KATE, and LUCIDA 
 with a willoui garland. 
 
 . Count F. My bride will never be ready, I think. 
 Here 'are the other sisters. 
 
 Pen. Look you, my lord : there's Lucida wears the 
 willow garland for you, and will so go to church, I hear. 
 And look you, captain, that's the merchant. 
 
 Abra. Now doth the pot of love boil in my bosom : 
 Cupid doth blow the fire ; and 
 I cannot rhyme to bosom ; but I'll go reason with her. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. You'll make her jointure . of that five- 
 hundred, you say, that is your inheritance, Master 
 Strange ? 
 
 Strange. Sir, I will. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Kate, do you love him ? 
 
 Kate. Yes, faith, father, with all my heart.
 
 sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 355 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Take hands : kiss him. Her portion is 
 
 four thousand. 
 Good morrow, my son count : you stay long for your 
 
 bride ; 
 
 But this is the day that sells her, and she 
 Must come forth like my daughter and your wife. 
 I pray, salute this gentleman as your brother ; 
 This morn shall make him so, and though his habit 
 But speak him citizen, I know his worth 
 To be gentle in all parts. Captain ! 
 Pouts. Sir. 
 Sirf. Wor. Captain, I could have been contented 
 
 well, 
 You should have married Kate. 
 
 Kate. So could not Kate. [Aside. 
 
 Sirf. Wor. You have an honourable title. 
 A soldier is a very honourable title : 
 A captain is a commander of soldiers ; 
 But look you, captain ; captains have no money ; 
 Therefore the Worldlys must not match with captains. 
 Pouts. So, sir, so. 
 Sir J. Wor. There are brave wars. 
 Pouts. Where? 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Find .them out, brave captain. 
 Win honour and get money ; by that time 
 I'll get a daughter for my noble captain. 
 Pouts. Good, sir, good. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Honour is honour, but it is no money. 
 This is the tumbler, then, must catch the coney. 
 
 {Looking at STRANGE. 
 Pouts. Thou art an old ' fellow. Are you a merchant, 
 
 sir? 
 
 Strange. I shame not to say yes. Are you a sol< icr, 
 
 sir? 
 
 Abra. A soldier, sir? O God ! Ay, he is a captain. 
 Strange. He may be so, and yet no soldier, sir ; 
 
 1 As we say "an 
 
 A A 2
 
 356 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT I. 
 
 For as many are soldiers, that are no captains, 
 So many are captains, that are no soldiers. 
 
 Pouts. Right, sir : and as many are citizens that are 
 no cuckolds 
 
 Strange. So many are cuckolds that are no citizens. 
 What ail you, sir, with your robustious looks ? 
 
 Pouts. I would be glad to see for my money : I have 
 paid for my standing. 1 
 
 Strange. You are the nobler captain, sir ; 
 For I know many that usurp that name, 
 Whose standings pay for them. 
 Pouts. You are a peddler. 
 Strange. You are a pot-gun. 
 Pouts. Merchant, I would thou hadst an iron tail, 
 Like me. 
 
 Count F. Fie, captain ! You are to blame. 
 Pen. Nay, God's will ! You are to blame indeed, if 
 my lord say so. 
 
 Pouts. My lord's an ass, and you are another. 
 Abra. Sweet Mistress Luce, let you and I withdraw : 
 This is his humour. Send for the constable ! 
 
 Pouts. Sirrah, I'll beat you with a pudding on the 
 'Change. 
 
 Strange. Thou dar'st as well kiss the wide-mouthed 
 
 cannon 
 
 At his discharging, as perform as much 
 As thou dar'st speak ; for, soldier, you shall know, 
 Some can use swords, that wear 'em not for show. 
 
 Kate. Why, captain, though ye be a man of war. you 
 cannot subdue affection. You have no alacrity in your 
 eye, and you speak as if you were in a dream. You are 
 of so melancholy and dull a disposition, that on my 
 conscience you would never get children ; nay, nor on 
 my body neither ; and what a sin were it in me, and a 
 most pregnant sign of concupiscence, to marry a man 
 that wants the mettle of generation, since that is the 
 
 ' i.e. As though they were at some entertainment or show.
 
 SC II.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 357 
 
 blessing ordained for marriage, procreation the only end 
 it. Besides, if I could love you, I shall be here at 
 3me, and you in Cleveland abroad. I among the bold 
 Britons, and you among the hot-shots. 
 
 SirJ. War. No more puffing, captain ,- 
 Leave batteries with your breath : the short is this. 
 This worthy count this morning makes my son, 
 And with that happy marriage this proceeds. 
 Worldly's my name, worldly must be my deeds. 
 
 Pouts. I will pray for civil wars, to cut thy throat 
 Without danger, merchant I will turn pirate, 
 But I'll be revenged on thee. 
 Strange. Do, captain, do : 
 A halter will take up our quarrel then. 
 
 Pouts. 'Swounds ! I'll be revenged upon ye all ! 
 The strange adventure thou art now to make 
 In that small pinnace, is more perilous 
 Than any hazard thou could'st undergo. 
 Remember, a scorned soldier told thee so. [Exit. 
 
 Strange. Go, walk the captain, good Sir Abraham. 
 Abra. Good faith, sir, I had rather walk your horse. 
 I will not meddle with him. I would not keep 
 Him company in his drink for a world. 
 
 Sir/. Wor. But 
 
 What good do you, Sir Abraham, on my daughter ? 
 I could be e'en content, my Lucida 
 Would skip your wit and look upon your wealth, 
 And this one day let Hymen crown ye all. 
 
 Abra. O no, she laughs at me and scorns my suit : 
 For she is wilder and more hard withal, 
 Than beast or bird, or tree, or stony wall. 
 Kate. Ha ! God-a-mercy, old Hieronimo. 1 
 Abra. Yet she might love me for my lovely eyes. 
 Count F. Ay, but perhaps your nose she doth despise. 
 Abra. Yet might she love me for my dimpled chin. 
 
 1 Sir Abraham quotes from The Spanish Tragedy, and Kate 
 detects his plagiarism.
 
 358 A WOMAN fS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT I. 
 
 fen. Ay, but she sees your beard is very thin. 
 
 Abra. Yet might she love me for my proper body. 
 
 Strange. Ay, but she thinks you are an errant noddy. 
 
 Abra. Yet might she love me, 'cause I am an heir. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Ay, but perhaps she doth not like your 
 ware. 
 
 Abra. Yet might she love me in despite of all. 
 
 Luc. Ay, but indeed I cannot love at all. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Well, Luce, respect Sir Abraham, I charge 
 you. 
 
 Luc. Father, my vow is passed : l whilst the earl lives, 
 I ne'er will marry, nor will pine for him. 
 It is not him I love now, but my humour ; 
 But since my sister he hath made his choice, 
 This wreath of willow, that begirds my brows, 
 Shall never cease to be my ornament, 
 'Till he be dead, or I be married to him. 
 
 Pen. Life ! my lord ; you had best marry 'em all three. 
 They'll never be content else. 
 
 Count F. I think so too . 
 
 Sir J. Wor. These are impossibilities. Come, Sir 
 
 Abraham. 
 A little time will wear out this rash vow. 
 
 Abra. Shall I but hope ? 
 
 Luc. O, by no means. I cannot endure these round 
 breeches : I am ready to swoon at them. 
 
 Kate. The hose are comely. 
 
 Luc. And then his left leg : I never see it, but I think 
 on a plum-tree. 
 
 Abra. Indeed, there's reason there should be some 
 difference in my legs, for one cost me twenty pounds 
 more than the other. 
 
 Luc. In troth, both are not worth half the money. 
 
 Count F. I hold my life, one of them was broke, and 
 cost so much the healing. 
 
 1 Made.
 
 SC. II.] A WOMA^IS A WEATHERCOCK. 35$ 
 
 Abra. Right hath your lordship said ; 'twas broke 
 
 indeed 
 At foot-ball in the university. 1 
 
 Pen. I know he is in love by his verse-vein. 
 
 S'range. He cannot hold out on't : you shall hear. 
 
 Abra. Well since I am disdained, off garters blue ! 
 Which signify Sir Abram's love was true ; 
 Off, cypress black ! for thou befits not me ; 
 Thou art not cypress of the cypress-tree, 
 Befitting lovers. Out, green shoe-strings, out ! 
 Wither in pocket, since my Luce doth pout. 
 Gush, eyes ; thump, hand ; swell, heart ; buttons, fly 
 
 open ! 
 
 Thanks, gentle doublet, else my heart had broken. 2 
 Now to thy father's country house at Babram 
 Ride post ; there pine and die, poor, poor Sir Abraro. 
 
 All. O doleful dump ! [Music plays. 
 
 Sir J. War. Nay, you shall stay the wedding. Hark, 
 
 the music ! 
 Your bride is ready. 
 
 Count F. Put spirit in your fingers ! louder still, 
 And the vast air with your enchantments fill. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 The subsequent reference to Babram points to Cambridge. 
 
 2 One is reminded somewhat of the "boots on, boots off, s 
 in the Rehearsal, III. ii.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE \ In front of a Clntrch. 
 
 Enter NEVILL, dressed like a Parson. 
 
 EV. Thus for my friend's sake have I 
 
 taken orders, 
 And with my reason and some hire 
 
 beside 
 
 Won the known priest, that was lo cele- 
 brate 
 
 This marriage, to let me assume his place ; 
 
 And here's the character of his face and beard. 
 
 By this means, when my friend confronts the maid 
 
 At the church-door (where I appointed him 
 
 To meet him like myself; for this strange shape 
 
 He altogether is unwitting of), 
 
 If she (as one vice in that sex alone 
 
 Were a great virtue) to inconstancy past 
 
 Join impudency, and slight him to his face, 
 
 Showing a resolution to this match, 
 
 By this attempt it will be frustrate, 
 
 And so we have more time, though but 'till night, 
 
 To work, to speak with her, or use violence ; 
 
 For both my blood and means are at his service. 
 
 The reason, too, I do this past his knowledge 
 
 Is, that his joy may be the more complete ; 
 
 When being resolved she's married and gone,
 
 sc. I.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 361 
 
 I can resolve him otherwise. Thus I know 
 Good deeds show double that are timely done, 
 And joy that comes past expectation. 
 
 Enter SCUDMORE, in tawny. 
 
 Yonder he comes, dead in his melancholy. 
 
 I'll question him, and see if I can raise 
 
 His spirit from that it restless rests upon : 
 
 He cannot know me. Ho ! good morrow, sir. 
 Scud. Good morrow to no living thing but one,. 
 
 And that is Nevill. O, the vows, the vows, 
 
 The protestations and becoming oaths, 
 
 Which she has uttered to me ! so sweet, so many, 
 
 As if she had been covetous not to leave 
 
 One word for other lovers, which I pitied : 
 
 She said indeed I did deserve 'em all. 
 
 Her lips made swearings sound of piety, 
 
 So sweet and prettily they came from her ; 
 
 And yet this morn she's married to a lord. 
 
 Lord ! lord ! how often has she kissed this hand. 
 
 Lost herself in my eyes, played with my hair, 
 
 And made me (a sin I am not subject to) 
 
 Go away proud, improved by her favours ; 
 
 And yet this morn she's married to a lord 
 
 The bells were ringing as I came along. 
 
 Nev. Yes, sir ; 'tis for the great marriage 'twixt 
 Scud. Pray, hold there ; I know it too-too well. 
 
 The tokens and the letters I have still. 
 
 The dangers I have passed for her dear sake 
 
 By day and night, to satisfy her wishes ! 
 
 That letter I so lately did receive, 
 
 And yet this morn she's married to a lord ! 
 
 O memory, thou blessing to all men, 
 
 Thou art my curse and cause of -misery, 
 
 That tell'st me what I have been in her eyes, 
 
 And what I am ! As it is impossible 
 
 To find one good in the whole world of women 
 
 But how I lose myself and the remembrance
 
 362 A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT II. 
 
 Of my dear friend, who said he would meet me here. 
 What is this priest, that walks before the church ? 
 Why walk you here so early, sir ? 
 
 Nev. I am appointed 
 Here to attend the coming of the brides, 
 Old Sir John Worldly 's daughters. 
 
 Scud. Are there two ? 
 
 Nev. Yes, sir : the eldest marries Count Frederick. 
 
 Scud. O ! 
 
 Nev'. The middlemost wears willow for his sake ; 
 The youngest marries the rich merchant Strange. 
 
 Scud. He is right worthy, and my well-known friend. 
 But, parson, if you marry Bellafront, 
 The horror of thy conscience shall exceed 
 A murderer's. Thou shalt not walk alone, 
 Nor eat nor sleep, but a sad lover's groans 
 And curses shall appear and fright thy soul. 
 I tell thee, priest, they're sights more terrible 
 Than ghosts or sprites, of which old wives tell tales. 
 Thou shalt run mad ! thou shalt be damned indeed ! 
 
 Nev. Now God forfend ! the reason, sir, I pray ? 
 
 Scud. She is contracted, sir nay, married 
 Unto another man, though it want form : 
 And such strange passages and mutual vows, 
 'Twould make your short hair start through your black 
 
 cap 
 Should you but hear it ! 
 
 Nev. Sir, I'll take no notice 
 Of things I do not know : the injured gentleman 
 May bring 'em after into the spiritual court, 
 And have a fair pull on't a poor gentleman 
 (For so I take him by his being deceived) 
 'Gainst a great count and an old wealthy knight. 
 
 Scud. Thou Pancridge * parson ! O, for my friend 
 Nevill ! 
 
 1 i.e. Pancras, a part of the town in very bad repute, as other 
 references show.
 
 sc. I.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 363 
 
 Some wile or other might remove this priest, 
 
 And give us breathing to cross their intent. [Aside. 
 
 Nev. Alas ! my dear friend. {Aside. 
 
 Scud. Sir, do but you refuse to join them. 
 
 Nev. Upon what acquaintance, sir ? 
 They are great persons, and I mean to rise : 
 I hope in time to have three livings, man ; 
 And this were not the way, I take it, sir. 
 
 Scud. Why, look thee \ there is gold. 
 
 Nev. O, by no means. 
 
 Scud. I seldom knew't refused yet by thy coat, 
 But where it would have been a cause of good. 
 
 Nev. But look ye ; you shall see I'm a divine 
 Of conscience quite opposite to a lawyer : 
 I'll give you counsel, sir, without a fee. 
 This way they are to come ; if you dare do't, 
 Challenge her as your own at the church-door : 
 I will not hinder you. {Music plays. 
 
 Scud. O, hark ! they come. 
 Nevill, my friend ! well, I must something do. 
 O, why should music, which joys every part, 
 Strike such sharp killing discords to my heart ! 
 
 Music. Enter Sir JOHN WORLDLY, who meets the Parson, 
 and entertains him ; Count FREDERICK, BELLA- 
 FRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE, LUCIDA with willow ; 
 PENDANT, Sir INNOCENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, 
 Mistress WAGTAIL, Sir ABRAHAM melancholy. The 
 Wedding Party J walk gravely before all. SCUD- 
 MORE stands before them, and a Boy sings to the 
 tuned music. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 They that for worldly wealth do wed, 
 That buy and sell the marriage-bed, 
 
 1 In the old edition of the play the initials W. P. are here given. 
 Collier suggested that they stood for "waits playing," in reference 
 to the attendant musicians, but it is more probable that they mean 
 Wedding Party.
 
 364 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT 1 1 
 
 That come not warmed with the true fire, 
 Resolved to keep this vow entire, 
 
 Too soon find discontent : 
 
 Too soon shall they repent. 
 But, Hymen, these are no such lovers, 
 Which thy burning torch discovers. 
 
 Though they live, then, many a year, 
 Let each day as new appear 
 
 As this first ; and delights 
 
 Make of all bridal nights. 
 16, Hymen ! give consent 
 Blessed are the marriages that ne'er repent. 
 
 Count F. How now ! who's this ? 
 
 Pen. Young Scudmore. 
 
 All. 'Tis young Scudmore ! 
 
 Scud. Canst thou this holy church enter a bride, 
 And not a corse, meeting these eyes of mine ? 
 
 Bel. Yes, by my troth : what are your eyes to me, 
 But grey ones, as. they are to everybody. 
 \To the resf.] The gentleman I do a little know : 
 He's frantic, sure ! 'Forward, a' God's name, there ! 
 
 Luc. Sister, this is not well, and will be worse. 
 
 Scud. O, hold thy thunder fast ! 
 
 Count F. What is the matter ? 
 
 Pen. I'll ask my lord. What is the matter, sir ? 
 
 Sir J. War. Some idle words, my lord, 't may be, 
 
 have passed 
 
 'Twixt Scudmore and my daughter heretofore ; 
 But he has dreamt 'em things of consequence. 
 
 Pen. Pish ! nothing else ? set forward. 
 
 Nev. By your leave. 
 
 Scud. Can there be such a soul in such a shape ? 
 My love is subject of such misery, 
 Such strange impossibilities and misfortune, 
 That men will laugh at me, when I relate 
 The story of it, and conceive I lie.
 
 sc. I.] 4 WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 365 
 
 Why, madam that shall be lady in posse do titles, 
 Honours, and fortunes make you so forgetful ? 
 
 Bel. You are insolent nay, strangely saucy, sir, 
 To wrong me in this public fashion. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Sirrah, go to : there's law. 
 
 Scud. There is, indeed, 
 
 And conscience too : old Worldly, thou hast one ; 
 But for the other, wild Virginia, 1 
 Black Afric, or the shaggy Scythia, 
 Must send it over as a merchandise, 
 Ere thou show any here. 
 
 Pen. My honoured lord. 
 Say but the word, I'll force him from the door. . 
 
 Count F. I say the word : do it. 
 
 Scud. You, my lord's fine fool ! 
 
 Abra. Ay, he, sir ? 
 
 Scud. No ! nor you, my lord's fool's fool. . 
 
 Sir Inn. 'Ware, boy : come back. 
 
 L. Nin. Come back, I say, Sir Abraham. 
 
 Strange. 'Tis such a forward child. 
 
 [ They go into the Church? 
 
 Scud. My passion and my cause of griefs so great, 
 That it hath drowned all worthy parts in me ; 
 As drink makes virtue useless in a man, 
 And with too much kills natural heat in him, 
 Or else I could not stand thus coldly tame, 
 And see them enter, but with my drawn sword 
 Should hale her by the hair unto the altar, 
 And sacrifice her heart to wronged love. 
 
 Kath. On my life, it is so. 3 
 
 irginia about this time are not unfrequent. Staines 
 in CitGallant remarks ( when his fortunes are rather low)- 
 refu-e is Ireland or Virginia." James I. granted a patent on Ap.il 10, 
 i6o6 S , to merits of London and Plymouth for the colomsaUon of 
 
 th r;" le A Tbut Kate, Strange, and Scudmore enter the church. 
 Strange and Kate follow immediately, and leave Scudmore , olus.- 
 
 ^tT The answer to Strange's remark, -Tis such a forward child."
 
 366 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT n 
 
 Strange. Worthy friend, 
 I am exceeding sorry to see this, 
 But cannot help it. 
 
 Scud. I'll follow, and unfold all in the church. 
 Alas ! to what end, since her mind is changed ? 
 Had she been loyal, all the earthly lords 
 Could not have borne her so ! what heinous sin 
 Hath she committed, God should leave her then ? 
 I never dreamt of lying with my mother, 
 Nor wished my father's death, nor hated brothers ; 
 Nor did betray trust, nor loved money better 
 Than an accepted friend no such base thought 
 Nor act unnatural possessed this breast. 
 Why am I thus rewarded ? women ! women ! 
 He's mad, by heaven, that thinks you anything 
 But sensual monsters, and is never wise 
 Nor good, but when he hates you, as I now. 
 I'll not come near one none of your base sex 
 Shall know me from this time ; for all your virtues 
 Are like the buzzes l growing in the fields, 
 So weakly fastened t' ye by Nature's hand 
 That thus much wind blows all away at once. 
 Ye fillers of the world with bastardy, 
 Worse than diseases ye are subject to, 
 Know, I do hate you all : will write against you, 
 And fight against you : I will eat no meat 
 Dressed by a woman, old or young, nor sleep 
 Upon a bed made by their stealthy 2 hands. 
 Yet once m.ore I will see this feminine devil, 
 When I will look her dead, speak her to hell ! 
 I'll watch my time this day to do't, and then 
 I'll be in love with death, and readier still 
 His mortal stroke to take, than he to kill. \Cornets. Exit. 
 Loud music. Re-enter, as from the Church, Sir JOHN 
 WORLDLY, NEVILL, as the Parson ; Count FRKDE- 
 
 1 Gossamers. Hazlit f . 
 
 - Old copy has "still given." Some change is obviously necessary, 
 and "stealthy" may pass. Hazlitt suggests "stallion."
 
 sc. i.] A U'OMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 367 
 
 RICK, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE ; Sir 
 INNOCENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, Sir ABRAHAM ; 
 LUCIDA, Mistress WAGTAIL, and PENDANT. 
 
 Count F. Sweet is the love purchased with difficulty. 
 Bel, Then, this cross accident doth relish 1 ours. 
 Strange. I rather think ours happier, my fair Kate, 
 Where all is smooth, and no rub checks our course. 
 
 Etiter Captain POUTS. 
 Pouts. Are ye married ? 
 Count F. Yes.' 
 
 Pouts. The devil dance at your wedding ! But for you, 
 (To STRANGE) I have something else to say. Let me 
 see : here are reasonable good store of people. Know, 
 all my beloved brethren (I speak it in the face of the 
 congregation), this woman I have lain with ofteuer 
 All How! 
 
 L. Nin. Before God, you are a wicked fellow to speak 
 on't in this manner, if you have. 
 Strange. Lain with her ? 
 
 Pouts. Yes. Good morrow. God give ye joy. [Exit. 
 Sir/. Wor. I am speechless with my.anger. Follow 
 
 him ! 
 
 If it be true, let her be proved a whore : 
 If false, he shall abide the slander dearly. 
 
 Abra. Follow that list : I will not meddle with him. 
 Sir J. Wor. Why speak'st not thou to reconcile those 
 
 looks, 
 That fight stern battles in thy husband's face ? 
 
 Kath. Thou art not so unworthy to believe him. 
 If I did think thou didst, I would not open 
 My lips to satisfy so base a thought, 
 Sprung from the slander of so base a slave. 
 
 Strange. It cannot be ! I'll tell you by to morrow. 
 I am no fool, Kate. I will find some time 
 
 1 (live a relish to.
 
 368 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT n. 
 
 To talk with this same captain . Pouts d'ye call him ? 
 
 I'll be wi' ye to-night. 
 Kath. Sir, you shall not. 
 
 What stain my honour hath received by this 
 
 Base villain, all the world takes notice of. 
 
 Mark what I vow, and if I keep it not, 
 
 May I be so given o'er, to let this rogue 
 
 Perform his slander. Thou that wert ordained, 
 
 And in thy cradle marked to call me wife, 
 
 And in that title made as my defence, 
 
 Yet sufferedst him to go away with life, 
 
 Wounding my honour dead before thy face ; 
 
 Redeem it on his head, and his own way, 
 
 Ev'n by the sword, his long profession, 
 
 And bring it on thy neck out of the field, 
 
 And set it clear amongst the tongues of men, 
 
 That all eyes may discern it slandered, 
 
 Or thou shalt ne'er enjoy me as a wife. 
 
 By this bright sun, thou shalt not ! Nay, I'll think 
 
 As abjectly of thee as any mongrel 
 
 Bred in the city : such a citizen l 
 
 As the plays flout still, and is made the subject 
 
 Of all the stages. Be this true or no, 
 
 'Tis thy best course to fight. 
 - SirJ. Wor. Why, Kate, I say 
 
 Kath. Pray, pardon me : none feels the smart but I. 
 'Tis thy best course to fight : if thou be'st still, 
 And like an honest tradesman eat'st this wrong, 
 O, may thy spirit and thy state so fall, 
 Thy first-born child may come to the hospital. 
 
 Strange. Heaven, I desire thee, hear her last request, 
 And grant it too, if I do slack the first ! 
 By thy assured innocency I swear, 
 Thou hast lost me half the honour I shall win 
 In speaking my intent. Come, let's to dinner. 
 
 1 i.e. Such a man as Massinger applies the term " becco " to ; see 
 The Bondman, II. iii. , and The Picture, V. iii.
 
 sc. i.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 3(9 
 
 Kath. I must not eat nor sleep, but weep, 
 Till it be done. 
 
 Bd. Sister, this resolution is not good : 
 111 thrives that marriage that begins in blood. 
 
 Kath. Sister, inform yourself I have no ladyship 
 To gild my infamy, or keep tongues in awe. 
 If God love innocency, I am sure 
 He shall not lose in this action. 
 
 Strange. Nor is't the other's life. 
 Can give her to the world my perfect wife, 
 But what I do conceive. It is not blood, then, 
 Which she requires, but her good name again ; 
 And I will purchase it ; for, by Heaven, thou art 
 The excellent'st new-fashioned maid in this, 
 That ever ear shall hear a tale told of. 
 
 All. But hear ye. 
 
 Strange. Good people, save your labours, for by 
 
 Heaven 
 
 I'll do it : if I do't not, I shall be pointed at, 
 Proclaimed the grand rich cuckold of the town ; 
 Nay, wittol, 1 even by them are known for both. 
 
 Sir J. IVor. Take your revenge by law. 
 
 Strange. It will be thought 
 Your greatness and our money carries it : 
 For some say some men on the back of law 
 May ride and rule it like a patient ass, 
 And with a golden bridle in the mouth 
 Direct it unto anything they please. 
 Others report it is a spider's web, 
 Made to entangle the poor helpless flies, 
 Whilst the great spiders that did make it first, 
 And rule it, sit i' th' midst secure, and laugh. 
 My law in this shall only be my sword ; 
 But, peradventure, not this month or two. 
 
 Kath. This month or two ? 
 
 Count F. I'll be your second, then. 
 
 1 i.e. Contented cuckold. 
 N,ro. B B
 
 370 A WOMAN IS A W EA THERCOCK. [ACT n. 
 
 Strange. You proffer too much honour, my good lord. 
 
 Pen. And I will be your third. 
 
 Abra. I'll not be fourth or fifth, 
 For the old proverb's good, which long hath been, 
 Says safest 'tis sleeping in a whole skin. 
 
 Luc. God-a-mercy, Nab, I'll ha' thee, an't be but for 
 thy manhood. 
 
 Sir Inn. Wife, my Lady Ninny, do you hear your son ? . 
 He speaks seldom, but when he speaks 
 
 Luc. He speaks proverbs, i' faith. 
 
 L. Nin. O, 'tis a pestilence knight, Mistress Lucida. 
 
 Luc. Ay, and a pocky. 
 
 Kath. This month or two ! D'ye love me ? not before ? 
 It may be I will live so long fame's whore ! - \Exit. 
 
 Sir J. War. What lowering star ruled my nativity ! 
 You'll come to dinner ? 
 
 Strange. Yes. 
 
 Count F. Good morrow, brother. 
 Come, let's be merry in despite of all, 
 And make this day (as't should be) festival. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. This sour thwart beginning may portend 
 Good, and be crowned with a delicious end. 
 
 [Exeunt all but STRANGE. 
 
 Strange. So ; I'll not see you, till my task be done : 
 So much false time I set to my intent, 
 Which instantly I mean to execute, 
 To cut off all means of prevention, 
 Which if they knew my day, they would essay, 
 Now for the merchant's honour. Hit all right : l 
 Kate, your young Strange will lie with you to-night. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mistress WAGTAIL ; the Page, stealing after her, 
 conceals himself. 
 
 Wag. What .a stir is here made about lying with a 
 gentlewoman ! I have been lain with a hundred and a 
 
 1 i.e. If all goes well.
 
 sc. I.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 371 
 
 hundred times, and nothing has come on't ! but hawk, 
 hum ! hawk, hum ! O, O ! Thus have I done for this 
 month or two hawk, hum ! [Coughs and spits. 
 
 Page. Ah ! God's will, are you at it ? You have acted 
 your name too much, sweet Mistress Wagtail. This was 
 wittily, though somewhat knavishly followed on me. 
 
 Wag. Umph ! 0' my conscience, I am peppered. 
 Well, thou tumblest not for nothing, for he dances as 
 well that got thee, and plays as well on the viol, and yet 
 he must not father thee. I have better men. Let me 
 remember them, and here, in my melancholy, choose out 
 one rich enough to reward this my stale virginity, or fit 
 enough to marry my little honesty. Hawk, hawk ! 
 
 [Coughs and spits. 
 
 Page. She has a shrewd reach, I see that. What a 
 casting she keeps. Marry, my comfort is, we shall hear 
 by and by who has given her the casting-bottle. 1 
 
 Wag. Hawk, hawk, hawk ! bitter, bitter ! Pray God, 
 I hurt not the babe. Well, let me see, I'll begin with 
 knights : imprimis, Sir John Do't-well and Sir William 
 Burn- it. 
 
 Page. A hot knight, by my faith ; Do't-well and Burn- 
 it too. 
 
 Wag. For old Sir Innocent Ninny, my master, if I 
 speak my conscience, look ye, I cannot directly accuse 
 him. Much has he been about, but done nothing. 
 Marry, for Sir Abraham, I will not altogether 'quit him. 
 Let me see, there's four knights : now for gentlemen 
 Page. And so she'll come down to the footmen. 
 Wag. Master Love-all, Master Liveby't, and Master 
 Pendant. Hawk, hi'up, hi'up ! 
 
 Page. By this light, I have heard enough. Shall I 
 hold your belly too, fair maid of the fashion ? 
 
 [ Comes forward. 
 
 Wag, What say ye, Jack Sauce ? 
 Page. O fie, ill-mutton ! you are too angry. Why, look 
 1 A bottle for sprinkling perfume. 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT 1 1. 
 
 ye ; I am my lord's page, and you are my lady's gentle- 
 woman : we should agree better ; and I pray, whither are 
 you riding with this burthen in your dosser. 1 
 
 Wag. Why, sir, out of town. I hope 'tis not the first 
 time you have seen a child carried out of town in a dosser 
 for fear of the plague. 
 
 Page. You have answered me, I promise you : but who 
 put it in, I pray ? 
 
 Wag. Not you, sir, I know, by your asking. 
 
 Page. I, alas ! I know that by my talent; for I re- 
 member thus much philosophy of my schoolmasters, ex 
 nihilo nihil fit. But come, setting this duello of wit aside, 
 I have overheard your confession and your casting about 
 for a father, and in troth, in mere charity, came in to 
 relieve you. In the scroll of beasts, horses and asses, 
 that have fed upon this common of yours, you named one 
 Pendant : faith, wench, let him be the father. He is a 
 very handsome gentleman, I can tell you, in my lord's 
 favour. I'll be both secret and your friend to my lord. 
 Let it be him ; he shall either reward thee bountifully, or 
 marry thee. 
 
 Wag. Sir, you speak like an understanding young 
 gentleman, and I acknowledge myself much bound to you 
 for your counsel. 
 
 Pen. [ Within]. Will, Will ! 
 
 Page. My lord hath sent him to call me. Now I hold 
 a wager on't, if thou be'st not a fool, as most waiting 
 women are, thou'it use him in his kind. 
 
 Enter PENDANT. 
 
 Pen. Why, Will, I say ! Go ; my lord calls extremely. 
 
 Page. Did not I say so ? Come, this is but a trick to 
 
 send me off, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 1 ' ' Dosser " is used for a basket generally, but as it means strictly 
 a pannier for the .back (from the Fr. dossier), it is here used very 
 inappropriately with reference to the burden Mrs. Wagtail carries 
 before her. Collier.
 
 sc. I.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 373 
 
 Pen. A notable little rascal. 
 
 Pretty Mistress Wagtail, why do you walk so melancholy? 
 I sent him hence o' purpose Come, shall's do ? 
 
 Wag. Do ! what would you do ? You have done too 
 much already. 
 
 Pen. What's the matter ? 
 
 Wag. I am with child by you. 
 
 Pen. By me ? Why, by me ? A good jest, i' faith. 
 
 Wag. You'll find it, sir, in earnest. 
 
 Pen. Why, do you think I am such an ass to believe 
 nobody has meddled with you but I ? 
 
 Wag. Do you wrong me so much to think otherwise ? 
 Thus 'tis for a poor damsel like myself 
 To yield her honour and her youth to any, 
 Who straight conceives she doth so unto many : 
 And as I have a soul to save, 'tis true. 
 
 Pen. Pray, do not swear. I do not urge you to't. 
 'Swounds, now I am undone ! You walk somewhat 
 round. Sweetheart, has nobody been tampering with you 
 else ? Think on't, for by this light, I am not worth the 
 estate of an apple-wife. I do live upon commending my 
 lord, the Lord of Hosts knows it, and all the world besides. 
 For me to marry thee will undo thee more, 
 And that thou may'st keep me, keep thee in fashion, 
 Sell thee to Englishj French, to Scot, and all, 
 Till I have brought thee to an hospital ; 
 And there I leave you. Ha' you not heard nor read 
 Of some base slave that, wagging his fair head, 
 Does whistling at one end of his shop-walk, 
 Whilst some gay man doth vomit bawdy talk 
 In his wife's ears at the other ? Such a rogue 
 Or worse shall I be ; for, look ye, Mistress Wagtail, I do 
 live like a chameleon upon the air, and not like a mole 
 upon the earth. Land I have none. I pray God send 
 me a grave, when I am dead. 
 
 Wag. It's all one. I'll have you for your qualities. 
 
 Pen. For my good ones, they are altogether unknown,
 
 374 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT n. 
 
 because they have not yet been seen, nor ever will be, for 
 they have no being. In plain terms, as God help me, I 
 have none. 
 
 Wag. How came you by your good clothes ? 
 
 Pen. By undoing tailors ; and then my lord (like a 
 snake) casts a suit every quarter, which I slip into : 
 therefore thou art worse than mad if thou wilt cast away 
 thyself upon me. 
 
 Wag. Why, what 'mends will you make me ? can you 
 give me some sum of money to marry me to some trades- 
 man, as the play says ? 
 
 Pen. No, by my troth. But tell me this, has not Sir 
 Abraham been familiar with you ? 
 
 Wag. Faith, not enough to make up a child. 
 
 Pen. Couldst be content to marry him ? 
 
 Wag. Ay, by my troth, and thank ye, too. 
 
 Pen. Has he but kissed thee ? 
 
 Wag. Yes ; and something more beside that. 
 
 Pen. Nay, an there ha' been any jot of the thing, 
 beside that, I'll warrant thee, lay the child to him 
 
 Stand stiffly to it, leave the rest to me ; 
 
 By that fool thou shalt save thy honesty. [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE \. Before Captain POUTS' House. 
 
 Enter STRANGE, and knocks at a door. 
 
 TRANCE. Lies Captain Pouts here, 
 pray ? 
 
 Enter a Servingman. 
 Ser. Sir, he does. 
 
 Strange. I prythee, tell him here's a 
 gentleman would speak with him. 
 Ser. What may I call your name, sir ? 
 Strange. No matter for my name. 
 Ser. Troth, sir, the captain is somewhat doubtful of 
 strangers ; and being, as most captains are, a little in 
 debt, I know he will not speak with you, unless you send 
 your name. 
 
 Strange. Tell him my name is Strange ; that I am 
 
 come 
 
 About that business he spake of to-day. [Exit Servant. 
 To have sent a formal challenge by a gentleman, 
 He being to choose his time, might peradventure 
 Have made him shift himself the sooner over. 
 
 Enter Captain POUTS above. 
 
 Pouts. Sir, I know your business. You are come to 
 serve a warrant or a citation : I will not speak with you ;
 
 376 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT in. 
 
 and get you gone quickly too, or I may happen send a 
 
 bullet through your mazzard. 1 [Exit. 
 
 Strange. Strange cross ! past expectation ! well, I'll try; 
 
 My other course may speed more happily. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. A Room in Sir JOHN WORLDLY'S House. 
 
 Music. Enter with table-napkins, Count FREDERICK, 
 Sir JOHN WORLDLY, NEVILL, PENDANT, Sir INNO- 
 ' CENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, Sir ABRAHAM. Servants 
 with wine, plate, tobacco, and. pipes. 
 
 Sir. J. War. Sir, had you borne us company to church, 
 You had been the better welcome. 
 
 Count F. Faith, you had ; I must needs say so too. 
 
 Pen. And I must needs say as my lord says. 
 
 Nev. Sir John, I thank you and my honoured lord : 
 But I am sorry for this other news 
 Concerning Mistress Kate and my good friend. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. 'Tis certain true: he keeps his word well 
 
 too! 
 He said he would come to dinner. 
 
 Lady Nin. All we cannot get Mistress Katherine out 
 of her chamber. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. O good old woman, she is top-shackled. 
 
 Lady Nin. 'Tis pestilence sack and cruel claret : 
 knight, stand to me, knight, I say : up, a cold stomach ! 
 give me my aqua-vitae bottle. 
 
 Sir Inn. O Guiniver ! as I am a justice of peace and 
 quorum, 'twere a good deed to commit thee. Fie, fie, 
 fie! 
 
 Abra. Why, alas ! I cannot help this, an I should be 
 hanged : she'll be as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you, my 
 lord, I have seen her so be-piss the rushes, as she has 
 
 1 Head.
 
 -sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 377 
 
 danced at a wedding.. Her belly and that aqua-vitae bottle 
 have almost undone my father. Well, I think in con- 
 science she is not my natural-begotten mother 
 All. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Nev. Well said, my wise Sir Abraham. 1 
 C. Fred. O, this music 
 And good wine is the soul of all the world. 
 
 Sir J. War. Come, will your lordship make one at 
 
 pnmero, 2 
 
 Until your bride come forth ? 
 Nev. You can play well, my lord. 
 Count F. Who, I ? 
 Pen. Who ? my lord ? the only player at primero i' 
 
 the court. 
 
 Abra. I'd rather play at bowls. 
 
 Pen. My lord's for you for that, too : the only bowler 
 in London that is not a churchwarden. 
 
 Nev. Can he fence well, too, Master Pendant ? 
 Pen. Who ? my lord ? the only fencer in Christendom. 
 He'll hit you. 
 
 Abra. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now. 
 Nev. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir ? 
 Pen. Who ? my lord ? the only drunkard i' th' world- 
 drinker, I would say. 
 
 Abra. God-a-mercy for that. 
 
 Nev. I would he heard him. 
 
 Abra. I know a better whoremaster than he. 
 
 Nev. O fie ! no : none so good as my lord. 
 
 Pen. Hardly, by'r Lady, hardly. 
 
 Count F. How now ! who's this ? 
 
 1 This remark, and a question below, in the old copy are given to 
 Luce ; but Lucida is not upon the stage, and could not be there, as 
 Scudmore afterwards enters, pretending to be the bearer of a letter from 
 her. The name of Nevill has been substituted for Luce, and at least 
 there is no impropriety in assigning what is said to him. Two other 
 speeches, attributed to her, obviously belong to Sir Abraham. 
 Collier. 
 
 2 A game at cards.
 
 378 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT IT r. 
 
 Enter SCUDMORE, like a Servingman, with a letter, 
 
 Sir J. Wor. What would you ? 
 
 Scud. I would speak with the Lady Bellafront from 
 the young Lady Lucy. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. You had best send in your letter ; she is 
 withdrawn. 
 
 Scud. My lady gave me charge of the delivery, 
 And I must do't myself, or carry it back. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. A trusty servant. That way leads you to 
 her. 
 
 Count F. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come, 
 Let us to bowls i' th' garden. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scud. Blessed fate ! 
 
 [SCUDMORE passes one door, and enters at the 
 other, where BELLAFRONT sits asleep in a 
 chair, under a taffata canopy. 
 
 Scud. O thou, whose words and actions seemed to me 
 As innocent as this smooth sleep which hath 
 Locked up thy powers ! Would thou had'st slept, when 
 
 first 
 
 Thou sent'st and proffered st me beauty and love ! 
 I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss. 
 Happy's that wretch, in my opinion, 
 That never owned scarce jewels or bright sums : 
 He can lose nothing but his constant wants ; 
 But speakless is his plague, that once had store, 
 And from superfluous state falls to be poor. 
 Such is my hell-bred hap ! could Nature make 
 So fair a superficies to enclose 
 So false a heart ? This is like gilded tombs, 
 Compacted of jet pillars, marble stones, 
 Which hide from 's stinking flesh and rotten bones. 
 Pallas so sat (methinks) in Hector's tent. 
 But time, so precious and so dangerous, 
 Why do I lose thee ? Madam, my lady, madam ! 
 
 Bel. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforced.
 
 sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 379 
 
 Ha ! I had a dream as strange as thou art, fellow. 
 How cam'st thou hither ? what's thy business ? 
 
 Scud. That letter, madam, tells you. 
 
 Bel. Letter? ha! 
 What, dost thou mock me ? here is nothing writ. 
 
 Scud. Can you read anything, then, in this face ? 
 
 Bel. O basilisk ! remove thee from my sight, 
 Or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt ! 
 Ho ! who attends us there ? 
 
 Scud. Stir not a foot, 
 And stop your clamorous acclamations, 
 Or, by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs, 
 I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick ! 
 I know the hazard I do undergo, 
 And whatsoever after becomes of me, 
 I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak 
 And speak I will freely and to bring back 
 Your letters and such things you sent ; and then 
 I'll ne'er see those deceiving eyes again. 
 
 Bel. O, I am sick of my corruption ! 
 For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me. 
 
 Scud. Not speak ! yes, woman, I will roar aloud : 
 Call thee the falsest fair that ever breathed ; 
 Tell thee, that in this marriage thou hast drowned 
 All virtue left to credit thy weak sex, 
 Which being (as 'twere) committed to thy trust, 
 Thou traitorously hast betrayed it thus ! 
 Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts, 
 To allure thee to reflect a beam on me ? 
 Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent, 
 Past human wit, our means of intercourse ? 
 Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself, 
 Perjured and impious ? know, the good thou hast 
 
 lost 
 
 In my opinion, doth outvalue far 
 The airy honours thou art married to. 
 
 Bel. O, peace ! for you speak sharpness to my soul,
 
 380 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT. in. 
 
 More torturous than hell's plagues to the damned. 
 For love's sake, hear me speak ! 
 
 Scud. For love's sake ? no : 
 Love is my surfeit, and is turned in me 
 To a disease. 
 
 Bel. Tyrant ! my knees shall beg, 
 Till they get liberty for my tongue to speak, 
 Drowned, almost, in the rivers of mine eyes. 
 
 Scud. What canst thou say ? art thou not married ? 
 
 Bel. Alas ! I was enforced ; first by the threats 
 Of a severe father, that in his hand 
 Did gripe my fortunes : next to that, the fame 
 Of your neglect and liberal-talking tongue, 
 Which bred my honour an eternal wrong. 
 
 Scud. Pish ! these are painted 1 causes. Till this morn 
 He lived not in this land, that durst accuse 
 My integrity of such an ignorance. 
 But take your letters here, your paper vows, 
 Your picture and your bracelets ; and if ever 
 I build again upon a woman's faith, 
 May sense forsake me ! I will sooner trust 
 Dice or a reconciled enemy : O God ! 
 What an internal joy my heart has felt, 
 Sitting at one of these same idle plays, 
 When I have seen a maid's inconstancy 
 Presented to the life ! how my glad eyes 
 Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks 
 Should tell the company convented there 
 The mistress that I had free of such faults. 
 
 Bel. O, still retain her so ! dear Scudmore, hear me. 
 
 Scud. Retain thee so ? it is impossible ! 
 Art thou not married ? 'tis impossible ! 
 O no ! I do despise thee, and will fly . 
 As far on earth as to the Antipodes, 
 And by some learned magician, whose deep art 
 Can know thy residence on this hemisphere, 
 
 1 Pretended.
 
 sc. II.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 381 
 
 There I'll be placed, my feet just against thine, 
 To express the opposite nature which our hearts 
 Must henceforth hold. 
 
 Bel. O, rather shoot me, friend, 
 Than let me hear thee speak such bitterness ! 
 O, pity me ! redeem me from the hell, 
 That in this marriage I am like to feel ! 
 I'll rather fly to barren wildernesses, 
 And suffer all wants with thee, Scudmore, than 
 Live with all plenty in this husband's arms. 
 Thou shalt perceive I am not such a woman, 
 That is transported with vain dignities. 
 O, thy dear words have knocked at my heart's gates, 
 And entered. They have plucked the devil's vizard 
 (That did deform this face, and blind my soul) 
 Off, and thy Bellafront presents herself, 
 Laved in a bath of contrite virginal tears : 
 Clothed in the original beauty that was thine ! 
 Now, for thy love to God, count this not done : 
 Let time go back, and be as when before it, 
 Or from thy memory rase it for ever ! 
 
 Scud. Ha, ha! heart! was there ever such strange 
 
 creatures framed ? 
 
 Why dost thou speak such foolish, senseless things ? 
 Can thy forsaking him redeem thy fault ? 
 No, I will never mend an ill with worse. 
 Why, thy example will make women false, 
 When they shall hear it, that before were true ; 
 For after ill examples we do fly, 
 But must be vowed to deeds of piety. 
 O woman, woman, woman, woman, woman ! 
 The cause of future and original sin, 
 How happy, (had you not) should we have been ! 
 False, where you kiss, but murdering in your ire ; 
 Love all can woo, know all men you desire : 
 Ungrateful, yet most impudent to crave, 
 Torturous as hell, insatiate as the grave :
 
 382 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT HI. 
 
 Lustful as monkeys, grinning in your ease, 
 
 Whom if we make not idols, we ne'er please : 
 
 More vainly proud than fools, as ignorant ; 
 
 Baser than parasites : witches that enchant 
 
 And make us senseless, to think death or life 
 
 Is yours to give, when only our belief 
 
 Doth make you able to deceive us so : 
 
 Begot by drunkards to breed sin and woe ; 
 
 As many foul diseases hide your veins, 
 
 As there are mischiefs coined in your quick Jjrains : 
 
 Not quick in wit, fit to perform least good, 
 
 But to subvert whole states, shed seas of blood : 
 
 Twice as deceitful as are crocodiles, 
 
 For you portray both ways, with tears and smiles. 
 
 Yet questionless there are as good, as bad. 
 
 Hence ! let me go. 
 
 Bel. Hear me, and thou shalt go. 
 I do confess I do deserve all this, 
 Have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe, 
 But will recover it or pay my life. 
 Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first. 
 I charge thee, Scudmore, thou hard-hearted man, 
 Upon my knees [Kneels. 
 
 Thou most implacable man, since penitence 
 And satisfaction too gets not thy pardon, 
 I charge thee use some means to set me free, 
 
 \Rises again. 
 
 Before the revels of this night have end. 
 Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed ; 
 Or by the memory of Lucretia's knife, 
 Ere morn I'll die a virgin, though a wife. {Exit. 
 
 Scud. Pish ! do : the world will have one mischief less. 
 
 {Exit.
 
 sc. ill.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 383 
 
 SCENE III. A Garden adjoining a Bowling Alley. 
 Enter Sir ABRAHAM NINNY, throwing down his bowl. 
 Abra. Bowl they that list, for I will bowl no more. 
 Cupid, that little bowler, in my breast 
 Rubs at my heart, and will not let me rest. 
 
 {Within: Rub, rub, fly, fly. 1 
 Ay, ay, you may cry " Rub, fly," to your bowls, 
 For you are free : love troubles not your jowls, 
 But from my head to heel, from heel to heart : 
 Behind, before, and roundabout I smart. 
 Then in this arbour, sitting all alone, 
 In doleful ditty let me howl my moan. 
 O boy ! 2 leave pricking, for I vail my bonnet : 3 
 Give me but breath, while I do write a sonnet. 
 
 Enter PENDANT. 
 
 Pen. I have lost my money, and Sir Abraham too. 
 Yonder he sits at his muse, by Heaven, drowned in the 
 ocean of his love. Lord ! how he labours, like a hard- 
 bound poet whose brains had a frost in 'em. Now it 
 comes. 
 
 Abra. " I die, I sigh." 
 
 Pen. What, after you are dead ? very good. 
 
 Abra. " I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel." 
 
 Pen. Good ; because she is hard-hearted. 
 
 Abra. " I die." [ Writes. 
 
 Pen. He has died three times, and come again. 
 
 Abra. " I sigh, thou precious stony jewel. 
 
 Wearing of silk, why art thou still so cruel." [ Writes. 
 
 Pen. O Newington 4 conceit ! 
 And quieting eke. 
 
 1 The exclamations of the bowlers, whom Sir Abraham has just* 
 quitted. Collier, 
 
 2 Cupid. . . - 
 
 3 A translation of the French Avaler le bonnet. . 
 
 aval, i.e. ad vallem, the same root being seen in avalanche. Vail 
 (to lower) occurs in various combinations in old plays. 
 
 4 The theatre at Newington Butts is first mentioned in Henslowe s
 
 384 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT in. 
 
 Abra. " Thy servant Abraham, sends this foolish ditty." 
 
 Pen. You say true, in troth, sir. 
 
 Abra. "Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish dit- 
 Ty unto thee, pity both him and it." [ Writes. 
 
 Pen. " Ty unto thee : " well, if she do not pity both^ 
 'tis pity she should live. 
 
 Abra. " But if thou still wilt poor Sir Abraham frump, 
 Come, grim death, come ! here give thy mortal thump." 
 
 [Reads. 
 
 So ; now I'll read it together. 
 " I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel, 
 O, wherefore wear'st thou silk, yet art so cruel ? 
 To thee thy Ninny sends this foolish dit- 
 Ty, and .... pity both him and it. 1 
 If thou deny, and still Sir Abraham frump, 
 Come, grim death, come ! here give thy mortal thump." 
 Let me see, who shall I get now to set it to a dumpish 
 note. 2 
 
 Pen. In good faith, I do not know ; but nobody that 
 is wise, I am sure of that. It will be an excellent matter 
 sung to the knacking of the tongs. But to my business. 
 God save thee, worthy and right worshipful Sir Abraham ! 
 what, musing and writing ? O, this love will undo us all, 
 and that made me prevent love, and undo myself. But 
 what news of Mistress Lucida? ha! will she not come 
 off, nor cannot you come on, little Abraham ? 
 
 Diary under date of the year 1594, when The J'eivof Mal.'a, Hainld 
 (the old version), Titus Andronicus, Tainburlaine and many other 
 plays were acted there. How long it remained under Henslowe's 
 management we do not know. Apparently in Field's time the theatre 
 was not in good repute. 
 
 1 There is a blank in this line in the old copy. Sir Abraham 
 seems as fastidious as most versifiers, and it will be observed, that in 
 reading over his "sonnet" he makes a variety of alterations. 
 Perhaps the blank was left to show that he could not fill it up to his 
 satisfaction, not liking the line as it stood, when he first committed 
 it to paper 
 
 " Ty unto thee, pity both him and it." Collier. 
 
 ' John Dowland was the favourite composer of the day. His 
 Lachmya seems (as its title would suggest) to have been of a 
 peculiarly " dumpish " nature.
 
 SC. Hi.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 385 
 
 Abra. Faith, I have courted her, and courted her; 
 and she does, as everybody else does, laughs at all I can 
 do or say. 
 
 Pen. Laughs ; why that's a sign she is pleased. Do 
 you not know, when a woman laughs, she's pleased ? 
 
 Abra. Ay, but she laughs most shamefully and most 
 scornfully. 
 
 Pen. Scornfully ! hang her, she's but a bauble. 
 
 Abra. She's the fitter for my turn, sir ; for they will 
 not stick to say, I am a fool, for all I am a knight 1 
 
 Pen. Love has made you witty, little Nab ; but what a 
 mad villain art thou, a striker, a fiftieth part of Hercules, 
 to get one wench with child, and go a-wooing to another. 
 
 Abra. With child ! a good jest, i' faith : whom have I 
 got with child ? 
 
 Pen. Why, Mistress Wagtail is with child, and will be 
 deposed 'tis yours. She is my kinswoman, and I would 
 be loth our house should suffer any disgrace in her; if 
 there be law in England, which there should be, if we 
 may judge by their consciences, or if I have any friends, 
 the wench shall take no wrong. I cannot tell : I think 
 my lord will stick to me. 
 
 Abra. D'ye hear ? talk not to me of friends, law, or 
 conscience : if your kinswoman say she is with child by 
 me, your kinswoman is an errant whore. Od's will, have 
 you nobody to put your gulls upon but knights ? That 
 Wagtail is a whore, and I'll stand to it. 
 
 Pen. Nay, you have stood to it already. But to call 
 my cousin whore ! you have not a mind to have your 
 throat cut, ha' you ? 
 
 Abra. Troth, no great mind, sir. 
 
 Pen. Recant your words, or die. [Draws his sword. 
 
 Abra. Recant? O, base ! out, sword, mine honour ksep: 
 Love, thou hast made a lion of a sheep. 
 
 1 Alluding to the bauble or truncheon, usually with a head 
 carved at the top of it, part of the insignia of the ancient 1 
 fool or jester. Collier. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 C C
 
 386 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT ill. 
 
 Pen. But will you fight in this quarrel ? 
 
 Abra. I am resolved. 
 
 Pen. Heart ! I have pulled an old house over my head : 
 here's like to be a tall 1 fray. I perceive a fool's valianter 
 than a knave at all times. Would I were well rid of him : 
 I had as lief meet Hector, God knows, if he dare fight at 
 all : they are all one to me ; or, to speak more modernly, 
 with one of the roaring boys. 2 [Aside. 
 
 Abra. Have you done your prayers ? 
 
 Pen. Pray give me leave, sir : put up, an't please you. 
 Are you sure my cousin Wagtail is a whore ? 
 
 Abra. With sword in hand I do it not recant. 
 
 Pen. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would 
 venture his blood in a whore's quarrel. But, whore or no 
 whore, she is most desperately in love with you : praises 
 your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth : 
 the fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good 
 parts run over; and to conclude, if the whore have you 
 not, I think the pond at Islington 3 will be her bathing- 
 tub, and give an end to mortal misery. But if she belie 
 
 you pray, put up, sir ; she is an errant whore, and so 
 
 let her go. 
 
 Abra. Does she so love me, say you ? 
 
 Pen. Yes, yes : out of all question, the whore does love 
 you abominable. 
 
 Abra. No more of these foul terms : if she do love me, 
 That goes by fate, I know it by myself. 
 I'll not deny but I have dallied with her. 
 
 Pen. Ay, but hang her, whore ; dallying will get no 
 children. 
 
 1 i.e. In the slang sense. 
 
 " Riotous bullies like the "rangers of Turnbull " (see Ben 
 Jonson's Jordan Knockem in Bartholomew Fair) who are introduced 
 in the Amends for Ladies. 
 
 3 Frequent allusion is made by the old dramatists to the ducking- 
 ponds at Islington. In Ben Jonson's Every Man in His Humour, 
 Master Stephen says, " I shall keep company with none but the 
 archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come ducking to Islington 
 ponds. "
 
 SC. III.] A WOMAN TS A WEATHERCOCK. 387 
 
 Abra. Another " whore," and draw ! Where is the girl? 
 
 Pen. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery ; 
 Upon the rushes sitting all alone, 
 And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan. 
 
 Abra. I know not what to say : fate's above all. 
 Come, let's go overhear her. Be this true, 
 Welcome, my Wagtail : scornful Luce, adieu. \Exit. 
 
 Pen. One way it takes yet. Tis a fool's condition, 
 Whom none can love, out of his penury 
 To catch most greedily at any wench 
 That gives way to his love, or feigns her own 
 First unto him : and so Sir Abraham now, 
 I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish. 
 Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Captain POUTS. 
 
 Pouts. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly 
 the knave, in this last business, but as the parson said that 
 got the wench with child, " 'Tis done now, sir ; it cannot 
 be undone, and my purse or I must smart for it" 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out 
 about twelve to-night. 
 
 Pouts. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it 
 first is the death on't. 1 This night and, noble London, 
 farewell; I will never see thee more, till I be knighted 
 for my virtues. Let me see, when shall I return ? and 
 yet I do not think, but there are a great many dubbed for 
 their virtues; otherwise, how could there be so many 
 poor knights ? " 
 
 Enter STRANGE, like a Soldier, amazedly. 
 
 What art thou ? what's thy news ? 
 
 Strange. 'Zoons ; a man is fain to break open doors, 
 
 1 Perhaps "on us" would be better. 
 
 2 A hit at the indiscriminate creation of knights by James I. 
 
 c c 2
 
 388 A WOMAN IS A WEATHEtiCOCK. [ACT lit. 
 
 ere he can get in to you. I would speak with a general 
 sooner. 
 
 Pouts. Sir, you may : he owes less, peradventure ; or if 
 more, he is more able to pay't. What art ? 
 
 Strange. A soldier ; one that lives upon this buff 
 jerkin : 'twas made of Fortunatus's pouch ; and these are 
 the points I stand upon. I am a soldier. 
 
 Pouts. A counterfeit rogue you are. 
 
 Strange. As true a rogue as thyself. Thou wrong'st 
 me. Send your man away : go to, I have strange and 
 welcome business to impart. The merchant is dead for 
 shame : let's walk into the fields : send away your man. 
 
 Pouts. How? 
 
 Strange. Here is a letter from the lusty Kate, 
 That tells you all : I must not give it you, 
 But upon some conditions. Let us walk, 
 And send away your man. 
 
 Pouts. Go, sirrah, and bespeak supper at the Bear, 1 and 
 provide oars : I'll see Gravesend to-night. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Strange. The gentlewoman will run mad after you 
 then. I'll tell you more : let's walk. \_Exeunt. 
 
 1 A celebrated tavern just below London Bridge whence boats 
 plied to Greenwich and Gravesend. The " Cranes, or the Bear at 
 the Bridgefoot," were to be the taverns at which Sir Dauphine (in 
 the Silent Woman, II. iii.) might " be drunk in fear."
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in NEVILL'S House. 
 Enter SCUDMORE and NEVILL. 
 
 EV. I see great'st spirits can serve to 
 
 their own ends. 
 
 Were you the seeming servingman that 
 passed by? 
 Scud. By my sad heart, I was ; and 
 
 not a tittle 
 Of my relation to thee wrong or feigned. 
 
 Nev. In troth you were to blame to venture so. 
 Mischiefs find us : we need not mischiefs seek. 
 
 Scud. I am not tied to that opinion, 1 
 They are like women, which do always shun 
 Their lovers and pursuers, and do follow 
 With most rank appetites them that do fly : 
 All mischief that I had is but one woman, 
 And that one woman all mischance to me : 
 Who speaks worst of them, then's the best of men. 
 They are like shadows : mischiefs are like them. 
 Death fears me, for in troth I seek him out. 
 The sun is stale to me ; to-morrow morn, 
 As this, 'twill rise : I see no difference, 
 The night doth visit me but in one robe, 
 She brings as many thoughts as she wears stars, 
 
 1 This is the first line of Scudmore's answer ; but in the old copy 
 that and the eighteen lines following it are given to Nevill. Colher,
 
 39c A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT iv. 
 
 When she is pleasant, but no rest at all. 
 
 For what new strange thing should I covet life, then ? 
 
 Is not she false, whom only I thought true ? 
 
 Shall time to show his strength make Scudmore live, 
 
 Till (perish the vicious thought i) I love not thee, 
 
 Or thou, dear friend, remove thy heart from me ? 
 
 Nev. Time is as weak for that, as he is old. 
 Take comfort, and attend this counsel, friend : 
 This match is neither sacred nor is sure ; 
 Close fate annihilates what opinion makes, 
 And since she is resolved this night to die, 
 If you do not redeem her, give the means, 
 Or her blood (credit me) will spring heavier griefs, 
 Sorer and stranger, in thy oppressed heart, 
 Than her false love before. Besides, 'tis you, 
 My Scudmore, that are false, if you will not 
 Consent to let her make vows good, which were 
 But in a possibility to be broke. 1 
 This her repentance casts her vice quite off, 
 And if you leave her now, you take it on. 
 Nay, you incur a bloody mortal sin : 
 You do become an actual murderer. 
 If you neglect her, she will kill herself 
 This night by poison, knife, or other means. 
 God gives you power to cross her desperate will, 
 And if you save not, where you may, you kill. 
 
 Scud. Why, can my noble and wise friend think still 
 That what a woman says her heart doth mean ? 
 Can you believe that she will kill herself? 
 'Tis a full hour since she spake the word, 
 And God forbid, that any woman's mind 
 Should not be changed and changed in a long hour. 
 She is by this time in her lordly arms, 
 And, like pleased Juno clasped by Jupiter, 
 Forgets the plaints of poor mortality : 
 Such state, such pride, as poets show her in, 
 
 1 i.e. Her treachery was not absolutely completed.
 
 sc. i.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 391 
 
 Incensed with Jove's loose 'scapes upon the earth, 
 
 She cast on me at our encountering. 
 
 As cold and heavy as a rock of ice, 
 
 In her love to me, which while I there stayed, 
 
 My bitter and hot words resolved l a little : 
 
 Just as the sun doth ice I softened her, 
 
 And made her drown her fault in her own tears. 
 
 But think you she holds this flexible vein ? 
 
 No, I'm removed, and she's congealed again. 
 
 Nev. How well does Scudmore speak ill for him- 
 
 self ! 
 
 Wit's a disease that fit employment wants ; 
 Therefore we see those happiest in best parts, 
 " But under-born in fortune to their merits," " 
 Grow to a sullen envy, hate, and scorn 
 Of their superiors ; and at last, like winds, 
 Break forth into rebellious civil wars 
 Or private treasons ; none so apt for these 
 As melancholy wits, fettered with need. 
 How free's the rustic swain from these assaults ! 
 He never feels a passion all his life, 
 But when he cannot sleep, or hunger gripes ; 
 And though he want reason, wit, art, nay, sense, 
 Is not so senseless to capitulate, 
 And ask God why he made not him as great 
 As that same foolish lord or that rich knave. 
 His brain with nothing does negotiate, 
 But his hard husbandry, which makes him live. 
 But have we worthy gifts, as judgment, learning, 
 Ingenious sharpness (which wise God indeed 
 Doth seldom give out of His equal hand, 
 But joined with poverty, to make it even 
 With riches, which he clogs with ignorance), 
 We vent our blessing in profane conceits, 
 
 1 ^ Whose fortune does not equal their ^erits This is at least 
 sense, which the old reading " and under born fortunes ur 
 merits " can scarcely claim to be.
 
 392 -A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT IV. 
 
 Foul bawdry, or strong arguments against 
 Ourselves, and stark blindly hold it best 
 Rather to lose a soul than lose a jest. 
 
 Scud. Ill terms my friend this wit in any man ; 
 For that, but seasoned with discretion, 
 Holds him in awe of all these blemishes, 
 Frees him of envy, doth philosophise 
 His spirit, that he makes no difference 
 'Twixt man and man, 'twixt fortunes high and low, 
 But as the thicker they with virtues grow. 
 Freedom and bondage wit can make all one ; 
 So 'twould by being left and being loved, 
 If I had any of it tempered so. 
 But you have spoke all this, condemning me 
 For having wit to speak against myself, 
 But I'll be ruled by you in all. 
 
 Nev. Then thus. 
 
 To-night by promise i do give a masque, 
 As to congratulate the bridal day, 
 In which the count, Pendant, and the wise knight 
 Will be most worthy dancers : sir, you shall 
 Learn but my part, which I will teach you too, 
 As nimbly as the usher did teach me, 
 And follow my further directions. 
 Though I, i' th' morn, were a ' prodigious wight, 
 I'll give thee Bellafront in thine arms to-night. 
 
 Scud. I am your property, my engineer. 
 Prosper your purposes ! shine, thou eye of Heaven, 
 And make thy lowering morn a smiling even ! \Exeunt. 
 
 1 i.e. A prodigious fool. Hazlitt changes to "no prodigious 
 wight."
 
 SC. II.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 393 
 SCENE II. Lambeth Fields. 
 
 Enter Captain POUTS, with a letter, and STRANGE, Jike a 
 
 Soldier. 
 
 Strange. 0, these are Lambeth fields. 
 Pouts. Strange murdered on the wedding-day by you, 
 At his own bride's appointment, for my sake ? 
 Strange. As dead as charity. 
 Pouts. This sounds not well. 
 
 Strange. 'Zoons ! you may say as well I am the man, 
 As doubt he lives. A plague of your belief ! 
 D'ye know this bloody ruff, which she has sent, 
 Lest you should be incredulous, and this ring 
 Which you have seen her wear ? 
 
 Pouts. I know the ring, 
 And I have seen the ruff about his neck. 
 This comes of enforced marriages. Where was't done ? 
 And how escaped you ? 
 
 Strange. Sir, receive it briefly. 
 I am her kinsman, and being newly come 
 Over, and not intending to stay long, 
 Took this day to go se*e my cousin Worldly 
 (For so my name is), where I found all of them 
 So deeply drenched in the bridal cup, 
 That sleep had ta'en possession of their eyes. 
 Bacchus had given them such an overthrow, 
 Their bodies lay like slaughtered carcases ; 
 One here, one there, making such antic faces 
 As drunkenness had mocked at drunkenness. 
 In troth, their postures and their sleep, like death 
 (For theirs was liker death than sober sleep), 
 Remembered me of body-scattered fields, 
 After the bloody battles I have seen. 
 'Twas such a season, to make short my tale, 
 As Fate had said, " Now murders may be done 
 And ne'er revealed." Approaching further, I 
 Lighted upon a chamber, where your love
 
 394 A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT iv. 
 
 Sat by this merchant, cast drunk on the bed ' 
 She weeping and lamenting her mishap, 
 Assured both of my daring and my trust, 
 Fell flat upon the ground, then raised herself, 
 Hung on my neck, then sunk down to my legs, 
 Told all things passed to-day, and never ceased, 
 Till I had ta'en life from that half-dead man 
 Before, whom straight I strangled with this rope. 
 
 Pouts. You have showed some kindness to me : 
 I must love you, sir. What did you with his body ? 
 
 Strange. Having first, 
 By her direction, put on these his clothes, 
 That like the murdered man the safelier 
 I might pass with her, being her husband's shape, 
 If any of the servants had been waked, 
 She showed me to a necessary vault, 
 Within a closet in the chamber too, 
 And there I threw the body. 
 
 Pouts. Whence this blood ? 
 
 Strange. That she herself first let out of his veins ; 
 Wherein she dipped the ruff about his neck, 
 And said, " Go, bear this ensign of my love, 
 To assure him what I dared for his dear sake." 
 
 Pouts. Where is the maid ? 
 
 Strange. Captain, a maid for you ! 
 (But well you know, I hope, she is no maid) 
 But maid or no maid, she is at my mother's, 
 Whence I will bring her whither you'll appoint 
 To-night ; and let this tide convey all hence, 
 For staying will be something perilous. 
 
 Pouts. I will kill two men for you ; till then 
 I owe my life to you, and if ever racks, 
 Strappadoes, wheel, or any torturous engine, 
 Even from the Roman yoke to the Scotch boot, 1 
 Force me discover you or her to law, 
 Pray God the merchant may respire again. 
 
 1 A well-known instrument of torture.
 
 sc. ii. J A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 395 
 
 But what a villain have I been to wrong her ! 
 Did she not tell you how I injured her? 
 
 Strange. She said you challenged her, and publicly 
 Told you had lain with her ; but truth's no wrong. 
 Pouts. Truth ! 'twas more false than hell, and you shall 
 
 see me 
 
 (As well as I can repent of any sin) 
 Ask her forgiveness for wounding of her name, 
 And 'gainst the world recover her lost fame. 
 Kind soul ! would I could weep to make amends ! 
 Why, I did slander her at the church-door. 
 
 Strange. The more base villain thou. [Strikes him. 
 Pouts. Ha ! what's the news ? 
 Strange. Thou unspeakable rascal ! thou, a soldier ! 
 A captain of the suburbs, a poor foist, 1 
 That with thy slops and cat-a-mountain face, 
 Thy bladder-chops and thy robustious words, 
 Fright'st the poor whore, and terribly dost exact 
 A weekly subsidy, twelvepence apiece, 
 Whereon thou liv'st ; and on my conscience, 
 Thou snapp'st besides with cheats and cutpurses. 
 
 Pouts. Heart ! this is some railing poet Why, you 
 
 rogue ! 
 Strange. Thou rogue far worse than rogues thou 
 
 slanderer ! 
 Pouts. Thou worse than slanderous rogues; thou 
 
 murderer ! 
 
 Strange. Tis well-remembered : I will cut thy throat, 
 To appease that merchant's soul, which ne'er will rest 
 Till some revenge be taken on thy tongue. 
 
 Pouts. I'll kill thee first, and in thy vital flood 
 Wash my hands clean of that young merchant's blood. 
 
 [They fight. 
 
 Strange. You fight, as if you had fought afore. 
 I can still hold my sword : come on, sir. 
 
 i A rogue and also a pickpocket. The verb is often used in the 
 sense of "tricking, cheating."
 
 396 A WOMAN IS A WE A THERCOCK. [ACT iv. 
 
 Pouts. 'Zoons ! can you ward so well ? I think you 
 
 are 
 One of the noble science of defence. 
 
 Strange. True, o' th' science of noble defence I am, 
 That fight in safeguard of a virtuous name. 
 
 [ POUTS falls. 
 
 Pouts. O, now I understand you, and you stand over 
 me. My hurts are not mortal, but you have the better. 
 If your name be Worldly, be thankful for your fortune. 
 
 Strange. Give me thy sword, or I will kill thee. 
 
 Pouts. Some wiser than some ! I love my reputation 
 well, yet I am not so valiant an ass but I love my life 
 better. There's my sword. 
 
 Strange. Then get upon my back : come, all shall be 
 
 well. 
 
 I'll carry thee unto a surgeon first, 
 And then unto thy wench. Come, we are friends. 
 
 Pouts. God-a-mercy. 'Zoons ! methinks I see myself 
 in Moorfields, 1 upon a wooden leg, begging threepence. 
 
 Strange. I thank thee, Heaven, for my success in this. 
 To what perfection is my business grown ! 
 Seldom or never is right overthrown. 
 
 [Exit with Captain POUTS on his back. 
 
 Enter PENDANT, and Mistress WAGTAIL, sewing a purse. 
 
 Pen. They say every woman has a springe to catch a 
 woodcock; remember my instructions, and let me see 
 what a paradise thou canst bring this fool into. Fifteen 
 hundred a year, wench, will make us all merry ; but a 
 fool to boot ! why, we shall throw the house out at window. 
 Let me see, there are two things in this foolish, transitory 
 world which should be altogether regarded : profit and 
 pleasure, or pleasure and profit I know not which ,o 
 place first, for indeed they are twins, and were born to- 
 gether. For profit, this marriage (God speed it !) marries 
 
 1 A noted resort of beggars, lepers, and outcasts generally ; see 
 The Alchemist, I., i., end of scene.
 
 Sc. li.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 397 
 
 you to it ; and for pleasure, if I help you not to that as 
 cheap as any man in England, call me cut. 1 And so 
 remember my instructions, for I'll go fetch Sir Abraham. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Wag. Your instructions ! Nay, faith, you shall see I 
 have as fruitful a brain as a belly : you shall hear some 
 additions of my own. My fantasy even kicks like my 
 bastard : well, boy, for I know thou art masculine, 
 neither thy father nor thy mother had any feminine 
 quality but one, and that was to take a good thing when 
 it was proffered. When thou inherit'st land, strange both 
 to thy father and grandfather, and rid'st in a coach, it 
 may be thy father, an old footman, will be running by 
 thy side. But yonder comes the gentle knight and my 
 squire. 
 
 Enter Sir ABRAHAM and PENDANT stealthily. 
 
 Wag. Unfortunate damsel ! why dost thou love 
 Where thou hast sworn it never to reveal ? 
 Maybe he would vouchsafe to look on thee. 
 Because he is a knight, is it thy terror ? 
 Why, peradventure, he is Knighthood's Mirror. 2 
 
 Pen. D'ye hear, Sir Abraham ? 
 
 Abra. Yes, with standing tears. 
 
 Wag. Bevis on Arundel, with Morglay in hand, 
 Near to my knight in prowess doth not stand. 
 They say Sir Bevis slew both boar and dragon, 
 My knight for that can drink up a whole flagon, 
 A thing as famous now amongst our men, 
 As killing monsters was accounted then. 
 Tis not the leg, no, were it twice as good, 
 Throws me into this melancholy mood ; 
 
 proverbial phrase and a term of reproach, "cut" being 
 
 vis of Hampton ; Arunde wash* horse, 
 his sword. See The Picture by Massmger, II., u
 
 398 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT IV. 
 
 Yet let me say and swear, in a cross-garter 
 Paul's never showed to eyes a lovelier quarter. 
 
 A bra. Ay, but all this while she does not name me : 
 she may mean somebody else. 
 
 Pen. Mean somebody else ! you shall hear her name 
 you by and by. 
 
 Wag. Courteous Sir Abraham. 
 
 Pen. La ye there ! 
 
 Wag. O, thy very name, 
 Like to a hatchet, cleaves my heart in twain. 
 When first I saw thee in those little breeches, 
 I laughed for joy, but when I heard thy speeches, 
 I smiled downright, for I was almost frantic, 
 A modern knight should be so like an antic 
 In words and deeds. Those pinken-eyes l of thine, 
 For I shall ne'er be blest to call them mine 
 
 Abra. Say not so, sweetheart. 
 
 Wag. How they did run, not rheumaticly run, 
 But round about the room, one over one ! 
 That wide mouth ? no, small : no, but middle-size, 
 That nose dominical, that head, like wise. 
 
 Pen. Very good : d'ye mark that head likewise ? 
 
 Abra. She has an excellent wit. 
 
 Pen. I'll now in to her, sir : observe what follows. Now, 
 turtle, mourning still for the party? for whom are you 
 working that purse ? 
 
 Abra. For me, I warrant her. [Aside. 
 
 Wag. What news, good cousin ? I hope you have not 
 revealed my love. 
 
 Pen. Yea, faith, I have acquainted the knight with all ; 
 and thou may'st be ashamed to abuse a gentleman so 
 slanderously. He swears he ne'er lay with you. 
 
 Wag. Lie with me ? alas ! no, I say not so, nor no man 
 living ; but there was one night above the rest, that I 
 
 1 Printed " pinkanies " in the old copy. Commonly a term of 
 endearment. The adjective is used in The Virgin Martyr, II. i., 
 in a contemptuous sense, perhaps to mean effeminate " that pink- 
 aa-eye jackanapes boy, her page."
 
 SC. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 399 
 
 dreamt he lay with me ; and did you ne'er hear of a child 
 begot in a dream ? 
 
 Abra. By this light, that very night I dreamt she lay 
 with me. [Aside. 
 
 Pen. Ay, but Sir Abraham is no dreaming knight : in 
 short, he contemns you, he scorns you at his heels. 
 
 Abra. By God, so he lies. . I have the most ado to 
 forbear, but that I would hear a little more. 
 
 Pen. And has sent this halter. You may hang your- 
 self, or you may cut your throat : here's a knife, too. 
 
 Wag. Well, I will love him in despite of all, 
 Howe'er he uses me ! 'tis not the shame 
 Of being examined or the fear of whipping 
 
 Pen. Make as if thou wouldst kill thyself. [Aside. 
 
 Wag. Should move me, would but he vouchsafe 
 
 his love. 
 Bear him this purse, rilled with my latest breath. 
 
 [Blows in it. 
 I loved thee, Abraham Ninny, even in death. 
 
 [Offers to stab herself. 
 
 Abra. Hold ! hold ! thy knight commands thee for to 
 I sent no halter. Poor soul, how it pants ! [hold. 
 
 Take courage, look up. 
 
 Pen. Look, Sir Abraham in person comes to see you. 
 
 Wag. O, let me die, then, in his worship's arms ! 
 
 Abra. Live long and happy to produce thy baby : 
 I am thy knight, and thou shall be my lady. 
 Frown, dad, fret, mother, so my love look cheerly : 
 Thou hast my heart, and thou hast bought it dearly ; 
 And for your pains, if Abraham live t' inherit, 
 He will not be unmindful of your merit. 
 Wear thou this ring, whilst I thy labours task : 
 This purse wear in my cap, anon i' th' masque. 
 
 Wag. O happy woman ! 
 
 Abra. To supper let's, and merry be as may be. 
 
 Pen. Now, God send every wise knight such a lady. 
 
 [JSxetatt,
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in Sir JOHN WORLDLY'S House. 
 Enter BELLAFRONT. 
 
 EL. Titles and state, d'ye call it? O 
 
 content ! 
 Thou art both beauty, means, and all in 
 
 marriage. 
 
 Joy dwells not in the princes' palaces : 
 They that envy 'em do not know' their 
 
 cares. 
 
 Were I the queen of gold, it could not buy 
 An hour's ease for my oppressed heart. 
 O, were this wedlock knot to tie again, 
 Not all the state and glory it contains, 
 Joined with my father's fury, should enforce 
 My rash consent ! but, Scudmore, thou shalt see 
 This false heart (in my death) most true to thee. 
 
 \_Shmvs a knife hanging by her side. 
 My lord, my father, all the company, 
 Did note my sudden sadness now at supper ; 
 Yet came I out, and put on feigned mirth, 
 And mean to sit out this night's revels, too, 
 To avoid all suspect may grow in 'em, 
 Lest my behaviour should my intent reveal : 
 Our griefs, like love, we hardly can conceal. 
 Yon come my sisters. Are the masquers ready ?
 
 SC. I.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 401 
 
 Enter LUCIDA, with her willow garland on, and 
 KATHERINE. 
 
 Luc. They are gone to dress themselves. Master 
 
 Nevill's come. 
 
 I would I had not vowed to live a maid ! 
 I am a little taken with that gentleman, 
 And yet if marriage be so full of ill, 
 Let me be married to my garland still. 
 
 Kath. In troth, thy state is happier much than ours. 
 Were never two like us unfortunate ! 
 
 Luc. Thy case indeed I needs must pity much, 
 Because I think thy virtue slandered ; 
 But for my lady sister, if she reap 
 Sad discontent, 'tis none's but her own fault : 
 I knew the passages 'twixt her and Scudmore. 
 
 Bel. Sister, I wonder you will name a man 
 I think not on : he was no match for me. 
 Why d'ye blame me, that should rather blame 
 Your wandering eye, to love a man loved me ? 
 
 Luc. Well, 'tis too late now to expostulate. 1 
 But, my poor little Kate, where is thy man ? 
 
 Kath. Lost, lost, in troth : to-morrow I shall hear, 
 I make account, he's gone some five-years' voyage, 
 Till this disgrace of ours be overblown ; 
 And for my Captain Pouts, by this time he 
 Is ten mile on the river toward Gravesend. 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN WORLDLY with Servants, with torches and 
 
 cudgels. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Stand you two there. Sirrah, go with me. 
 Why, how now, girls ! here still? what, and your lady- 
 ship? 
 
 Away ! away, I say : go take your places. 
 Some torches for my lady ! You sirrah, 
 
 [Exeunt BELLAFRONT, LUCIDA, and KATE. 
 Is my Lady Ninny awake yet? 
 
 i To discuss the matter. 
 
 O P 
 
 Nero.
 
 402 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK, [ACT v. 
 
 Ser. Yes, sir, she is awake, but she is scant sober : 
 the first thing she called for was her aquavitse bottle. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Who is with her ? 
 
 Ser. The good Sir Innocent and her gentlewoman. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Go, tell 'em I desire their company, 
 The masque stays on 'em, say ; and d'ye hear, 
 The sides of one o' th' chairs must be let out 
 For her great ladyship. 
 
 Ser. Marry, shall it, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Enter NEVILL, Count FREDERICK, PENDANT, and Sir 
 ABRAHAM, in their masquing robes : Sir ABRAHAM 
 gnawing a capon's leg. 
 
 Nev. Soul ! man, leave eating now : look, look ! you 
 have all dropped o' your suit. 
 
 Abra. O sir, I was in love to-day, and could not eat ; 
 but here's one knows the case is altered. Lend me but 
 a handkerchief to wipe my mouth, and I ha' done. 
 
 Nev. Soul ! how this rascal stays with the rest of our 
 things. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. How now, son count ? what, ready, Master 
 Nevill ? 
 
 Nev. All ready, ready ; only we tarry for our vizards 
 and our caps : I " put 'em to a knave to do, because I 
 would have 'em the better done. 
 
 Abra. If you put 'em to a knave, you are like to have 
 'em the worse done. 
 
 Nev. Your wit is most active : I called him knave in 
 regard of his long stay, sir, not his work. 
 
 Abra. But, d'ye hear, Master Nevill ? did you bespeak 
 a vizard with a most terrible countenance for me ? 
 
 Nev. A very devil's face : I fear nothing, but that it 
 will fright the women. 
 
 Abra. I would it would. And a huge moustachios ? 
 
 Nev. A very Turk's. 
 
 Abra. Excellent ! 
 
 Count F. But do you think he will come at all ?
 
 sc. i.] A WOMAN is A WEATHERCOCK: 403 
 
 All. O, there he is. 
 
 Scud. [ Within}. By your leave ! stand back, by your 
 leave ! 
 
 Enter SCUDMORE, like a Vizard-Maker. 
 Nothing can be done to-night, if I enter not. 
 
 2nd Ser. Stand back there, or I'll burn you. 
 
 Scud. 'Twere but a whorish trick, sir. 
 
 3/v/ Ser. O sir, is't you ? Heart ! you will be killed. 
 
 Scud. Marry, God forbid, sir. 
 
 Nev. Pray, forbear ; let me speak to him. 
 O, you use us very well. 
 
 Scud. In good faith, I have been so troubled about 
 this gentleman's scurvy face (I take it), 'tis wonderful. 
 
 Abra. Well, are you fitted now ? 
 
 Nev. Fitted at all points. 
 
 Count F. Where are the caps ? 
 
 Scud. Here, sir. 
 
 Pen. Let me see mine. 
 
 Count F. Come, help me on with mine. 
 
 Abra. This is a rare face to fright the maids i' th' 
 country ! Here now I'll pin my purse. Come, help me 
 on. 
 
 Nev. So, so, away ! mine being on, I'll follow you. 
 
 All. Pray, make haste. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir JOHN WORLDLY, Sir ABRAHAM, 
 Count FREDERICK and PENDANT. 
 
 Nev. So, that door's fast, and they are busied 
 About their charge. On with this robe of mine, 
 This vizard and this cap : help rne a little. 
 
 [They change habits. 
 
 Scud. At first change I must tell her who I am. 
 
 Nev. Right ; 'tis agreed, I (leading of the masque) 
 Should dance with Bellafront. 
 
 Scud. And at the second 
 I come away with her, and leave them dancing, 
 And shall find you at the back door. 
 
 n r> 2
 
 404 A IVOMAA IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT v. 
 
 Nev. The rest, 
 That follows, is digested in my breast. 
 
 Ser. What would you do ? stand back, 
 Unless you can eat torches ! 
 
 Re-enter Count FREDERICK, PENDANT, Sir ABRAHAM, in 
 their masquing robes. 
 
 Count F. Come, come ! away for shame ! 
 
 Scud. 'Tis such a tedious rascal. So ha' wi' ye. 
 
 [Exeunt Masquers. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Thou hast well fitted 'em, though thou 
 mad'st 'em stay. 
 
 Nev. I forbid any man to mend 'em, sir. Good night 
 unto your worship. 
 
 SirJ. Wor. Wilt not stay ? 
 
 Nev. Alas, sir ! I have another to set forth 
 This very night. By your leave, my masters. [Exit. 
 
 2nd Ser. By your leave ! by your leave ! you'll let a 
 man go out ? 
 
 SirJ. Wor. Now, go with me, and let all in that will. 
 [Exit with them, and run in three or four. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Servants setting chairs and stools. Loud music, at 
 which enter Sir JOHN WORLDLY, Sir INNOCENT, 
 NINNY, BELLAFRONT, LUCIDA, KATHERINE, Lady 
 NINNY and Mistress WAGTAIL. They seat them- 
 selves. Lady NINNY offers at 1 two or three chairs, 
 and at last finds the great one ; they point at her and 
 laugh. As soon as she is seated, she drinks from her 
 bottle. The music plays, and the Masquers enter. 
 After one strain SCUDMORE takes BELLAFRONT, who 
 
 1 i.e. Tries,
 
 sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 40$ 
 
 seetns unwilling to dance. Count FREDERICK takes 
 LUCIDA ; PENDANT, KATE ; Sir ABRAHAM, Mistress 
 WAGTAIL : SCUDMORK, as they stand (the others 
 courting too), whispers as follows : 
 
 Scud. I am your Scudmore. {.Soft music. 
 
 Bel Ha!' 
 
 Scud. By Heaven, I am. 
 Be ruled by me in all things. 
 
 Bel. Even to death. 
 
 Abra. 'Sfoot ! Did you not know me by my purse ? 
 
 Wag. I should ne'er have known you by that, for you 
 wear it on your head, and other folks in their pockets. 
 
 Lady Nin. Which is my lord, I pray ? 
 
 Sir J. Wor. The second man : 
 Young Nevill leads. 
 
 Sir Inn. And where's Sir Abraham ? 
 
 SirJ. Wor. He with the terrible visage. 
 
 Lady Nin. Now, out upon him to disfigure himself so : 
 And 'twere not for my bottle, I should swoon. 
 
 [Music ; they dance the second strain, during 
 which SCUDMORE goes away with BELLA- 
 FRONT. 
 
 All the Spectators. Good, very good ! 
 
 [ The other four dance another strain, honour and 
 end. 
 
 Count F. But where's the bride and Nevill ? 
 
 All. Ha! 
 
 Abra. 'Ware tricks ! 
 
 Sir J. Wor. O, there they come : it was their parts to 
 do so. 
 
 Re-enter SCUDMORE unvizarded, BELLAFRONT, with pistols 
 and the right Parson. 
 
 Count F. This Nevill ? This is Scudmore. 
 
 All. How? 
 
 Count F. But here's my lady
 
 406 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT V. 
 
 Scud. No, my gentlewoman. 
 
 Abra. 'Zoons ! treason ! I smell powder. 
 
 Bel. In short, know 
 That I am married to this gentleman, 
 To whom I was contracted long ago. 
 This priest the inviolable knot hath tied. 
 What ease I find being unladified ! \Aside. 
 
 Cottnt F. What riddle's this ? 
 
 Sir Inn. 'Ware the last statute of two husbands. 1 
 
 Scud, and Bel. Pish ! 
 
 Count F. This is the very priest that married me : 
 Is it not, sister ? 
 
 Enter NEVILL, also dressed like a Parson. 
 
 Nev. No. 
 
 Abra. Lord bless us ! here is conjuring ! 
 Lend me your aqua-vitae bottle, good mother. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Heyday ! 
 
 The world's turned upside down. I have heard and seen 
 Two or three benefices to one priest, or more, 
 But two priests to one benefice ne'er before. 
 
 Pen. Married not you the earl ? 
 
 Par. Bona fide, no. 
 
 SirJ. Wor. You did, then ? 
 
 Nev. Yes. 
 
 Count F. I have the privilege, then ? 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Right, you were married first. 
 
 Scud. Sir John, you doat, 
 This is a devil in a parson's coat. 
 
 [NEVILL /#/.$ off his Parson's weeds; and shows 
 a Devil's robe under. 
 
 All. A pretty emblem ! 
 
 Nev. Who married her, or would have caused her 
 
 marry, 
 To any man but this, no better was ; 
 
 1 Technically the statute I James I. c. II, by which bigamy was 
 made a felony.
 
 sc. II. J A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 407 
 
 Let circumstances be examined. 
 
 Yet here's one more : and now I hope you all 
 
 Perceive my marrying not canonical. 
 
 \Slips off his Devil's weeds. 
 
 All. Nevill, whoop ! 
 
 Count F. Heart ! what a deal of knavery a priest's 
 cloak can hide. If it be not one of the honestest, friend- 
 liest cozenages that e'er I saw, I am no lord. 
 
 Kath. Life ! I am not married, then, in earnest. 
 
 Nev. So, Mistress Kate, I kept you for myself. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. It boots not to be angry. 
 
 Sir Inn. and Lady Nin. No, faith, Sir John. 
 
 Enter STRANGE like a Soldier, with Captain POUTS on 
 his back. 
 
 2nd Ser. Whither will you go with your calf on your 
 back, sir? 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Now, more knavery yet ? 
 
 Strange. Prythee, forbear, or I shall do thee mischief. 
 By your leave, here is some sad to your merriment. 
 Know you this captain ? 
 
 AH. Yes, very well. 
 
 Kaih. O sister, here's the villain slandered me. 
 
 Strange. You see he cannot stand to't. 
 
 Abra. Is he hurt in the arm, too ? 
 
 Strange. Yes. 
 
 Abra. Why, then, by God's-lid, thou art a base rogue. 
 I knew I should live to tell thee so. 
 
 Lady Nin. Sir Abraham, I say ! 
 
 All. Heaven is just. 
 
 Pouts. What a rogue are you ! 
 Is this the surgeon you would carry me to ? 
 
 Strange. Confess your slander, and I will, I swear. 
 
 Pouts. Nay, 'tis no matter, I'll cry quittance with you. 
 Forgive me, Mistress Kate, and know, all people, 
 I lied not with her, but belied her once :
 
 408 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT V. 
 
 And to my recantation that same soldier 
 Enforced my hand. 
 
 Strange. Yes, here 'tis, Mistress Kate. 
 
 [ They all look on the paper, 
 
 Pouts. I see now how I am cheated. Love him well. 
 He has redeemed your honour with his sword. 
 
 SirJ. War. But where is Strange, my son ? O, was he 
 
 here, 
 He should be married new to make all sure. 
 
 Kath. O my divining spirit, he's gone to sea ! 
 
 Pouts. This cunning in her is exceeding good. 
 Your son your husband Strange is murdered. 
 
 All. How? 
 
 Strange. Peace, peace ! For Heaven's sake, peace ! 
 Come, sir, I'll carry you to a surgeon. 
 Here's gold to stop thy throat. For God's sake, peace ! 
 
 Pouts. Sirrah, you have brought me to a surgeon 
 
 already : 
 I'll be even with you. 
 
 Kath. Of all men living I could marry thee, 
 Were not my heart given to another man. 
 Sir, you do speak of Strange ? 
 
 Pouts. These women are as crafty as the devil 
 Yes, I did speak of him : Sir John, my lord, 
 Know Strange is murdered by that villain's hand, 
 And by his wife's consent. 
 
 All How? 
 
 SirJ. Wor. God forbid ! 
 
 Pouts. Search presently the closet and the vault, 
 There you shall find his body : 'tis too true. 
 The reason all may guess : her husband, wanting 
 Spirit to do on me what he hath done, 
 In hope to marry her, he hath murdered him. 
 
 Kath. To marry me ! No, villain : I do hate him 
 On this report worse than I do thyself; 
 And may the plagues and tortures of a land 
 Seize me if this be not an innocent hand.
 
 sc. ii.] A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 409 
 
 Sir J. Wor. 'Fore God, 'tis most like truth. Son 
 
 Scudmore, pray 
 
 Look to this fellow : gentlemen, assist. 
 Torches ! some torches ! I'll go search myself. 
 
 Sir Inn. I will assist you. 
 
 Count F. But I pray, sir, how came you unto this 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Poitts. From his mouth. 
 
 Strange. I'll save your labour, and discover all. 
 Thou perjured villain, didst not swear thou wouldst not 
 Discover me ? 
 
 Pouts. I but swore in jest. 
 
 Strange. Nay, but remember, thou didst wish Strange 
 
 living, 
 If ever thou didst tell. 
 
 Pouts. Sir, all is true, 
 And would my punishment would ease my conscience. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. To Newgate with him ! hence ! take her 
 
 along. 
 
 Out, murderers ! whore, thou art no child of mine ! 
 Fetch constable and officers. Away ! 
 
 Strange. Sir, do but hear me speak. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Fetch officers ! 
 
 Pouts. Go fetch a surgeon. 
 
 Strange. Sir, you are then too violent. I will bail her. 
 
 [Discovers himself. 
 
 Kath. O my dear Strange ! 
 
 Sir J. Wor. My son ! 
 
 Scud., Luc., Bel. Brother ! 
 
 All. Young Strange ! 
 
 Pouts. Heart ! I was never sick before : help me now 
 to a surgeon, or I shall swoon instantly. 
 
 \_Two of them lead him. 
 
 Thou wert born a woman-citizen ; fare thee well. 
 And farewell, love and women, ye diseases : 
 My horse and sword shall be my mistresses, 
 My horse I'll court, my sword shall lie with me. \_Exit.
 
 410 A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. [ACT V. 
 
 Strange. The way to cure lust is to bleed, I see. 
 
 Count F. Tell him all, Scudmore, whilst I go a-wooing 
 again. Sir John, will you go along, and my two worship- 
 ful elders, I pray, be your witnesses. Priest, go not you 
 away. Heart ! I have so ruminated on a wife that I 
 must have one this night, or I shall run proud. 
 
 [NEVILL, SCUDMORE, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, 
 and KATHERINE, -whisper on one side. PEN- 
 DANT, Sir ABRAHAM, and WAGTAIL on the 
 other. 
 
 Mistress Lucida, you did once love me ; if you do still, 
 no more words, but give me your hand. Why are ye 
 doubtful ? 
 
 Abra. Ne'er look upon me, Mistress Lucida ; time 
 was, time is, and time's passed. 1 I'll none of you now ; 
 I am otherwise provided. 
 
 Pen. Well spoken, Brazen-head ! now or never, Sir 
 Abraham. 
 
 Abra. Then first, as duty binds, I crave consent 
 Of my two parents dear : if ay, say so ; 
 If not, I'll ha' her whether you will or no. 
 
 Sir Inn. How ? how ? 
 
 Lady Nin. I hope you will not. 
 
 Abra. Ma'am, I am resolved : you have a humour of 
 your aqua-vitae bottle, why should not I have a humour 
 in a wife ? 
 
 Sir J. Wor. An old man were a fitter match for her : 
 He would make much of her. 
 
 Abra. Much on her ? I know not what ye call much 
 making on her, I am sure I have made two on her. 
 
 Pen. And that an old man cannot do, I hope. 
 
 Nev. O thou beyond Lawrence of Lancashire. 2 
 
 1 Referring to the story of Friar Bacon and his Brazen Head. 
 
 2 A boisterous, clownish character in the play of The Lancashire 
 Witches, by Hey wood and Brome. It was not printed until 1634. 
 Either Lawrence was a person who figured in that transaction, and 
 whose name is not recorded, or (which is not impossible) the play 
 was written very long before it was printed. Collier.
 
 sc. n.J A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK. 411 
 
 Sir Inn. Come, come, you shall not. 
 
 Abra. Speak not in vain ; I am too sure to change, 
 For hand and heart are sure : Ecce signum. 
 And this have I done, and never lay with her. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. Nay, then, 'tis too late ; 
 'Tis sure : 'tis vain to cross the will of fate. 
 
 Sir Inn. and Lady Nin. Well, well, God bless you. 
 
 [ABRAHAM and WAGTAIL kneel. 
 
 Abra. Thanks, reverend couple, and God bless withal 
 The little Ninny that herein doth sprawl. 
 Parson, you shall despatch us presently : 
 Lord, how soberly you stand ! 
 
 Parson. Now truly I could ne'er stand drunk in my 
 life. 
 
 Strange. Strange and most fortunate, we must have a 
 new Tuck 1 then. 
 
 Count F. Is it a match ? 
 
 Luc. 'Tis done. 
 
 Cotint F. Then Bacchus squeeze grapes with a plen- 
 teous hand. 
 
 * 
 
 Parson, you'll take some pains with us to-night. 
 Come, brothers, come : fly, willow, to the woods, 
 And, like the sea, for healths let's drink whole floods. 
 
 Strange. I consecrate my deed unto the city, 
 And hope to live myself to see the day 
 It shall be shown to people in a play. 
 
 Scud. And may all true love have like happy end. 
 Women, forgive me ; men, admire my friend. 
 
 Sir J. Wor. On, parson, on ; and, boy, outvoice the 
 
 music. 2 
 
 Ne'er was so much (what cannot heavenly powers ?) 
 Done and undone and done in twelve short hours. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 1 Friar Tuck. 
 
 3 Perhaps the play originally ended with a song by a boy, in 
 which the rest joined chorus. Collier.
 
 AfMENVS FOT{ LA VIES.
 
 [ELD'S second comedy, Amends for 
 Ladies, was published in 1618, as 
 acted at the Blackfriars Theatre, 
 both by the Prince's servants and the 
 Lady Elizabeth's. Another edition 
 appeared in 1639. 
 
 Sir John Loveall's expedient for 
 testing his wife's fidelity may have 
 been borrowed in part from the novel of the " Curioso 
 Impertinente ' in Don Quixote, and Hold's attempt in dis- 
 guise on the Lady Bright is supposed to be taken from a 
 contemporary incident in rea] life.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON JE. 
 
 THE COUNT, Father of Lord FEESIMPLE. 
 
 LORD FEESIMPLE. 
 
 LORD PROUDLY. 
 
 SIR JOHN LOVEALL. 
 
 SUBTLE, his Friend. 
 
 INGEN, in love with Lady HONOUR. 
 
 FRANK, his younger Brother. 
 
 BOLD, in love with Lady BRIGHT. 
 
 WELLTRIED, his Friend. 
 
 SELDOM, a Citizen. 
 
 WHOREBANG, \ 
 
 BOTS ' I Roarers. 
 
 TEARCHAPS, 
 
 SPILLBLOOD, I 
 
 PITTS, ) Serjeants. 
 
 DONNER, ; 
 
 Parson, Page, Drawer, &c. 
 
 LADY HONOUR, a Maid. 
 
 ( Sister of Lord PROUDLY, wife 
 LADY I CT, j of SJr J QHN LovEALLt 
 
 LADY BRIGHT, a Widow. 
 GRACE, Wife of SELDOM. 
 MOLL CUT-PURSE. 
 
 SCEN E LONDON.
 
 FOT{ LEVIES. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in Sir JOHN LOVEALL'S House. 
 
 Enter Lady HONOUR, Lady PERFECT, and Lady 
 BRIGHT. 
 
 ADY HON. A wife the happiest state ? 
 
 It cannot be. 
 L. Per. Yes, such a wife as I, that 
 
 have a man 
 
 As if myself had made him : such a one 
 As I may justly say, I arrt the rib 
 Belonging to his breast. Widow and maid, 
 Your lives compared to mine are miserable, 
 Though wealth and beauty meet in each of you. 
 Poor virgin, all thy sport is thought of love 
 And meditation of a man ; the time 
 And circumstance, ere thou canst fix thy thoughts 
 On one thy fancy will approve. 
 
 L. Hon. That trouble 
 Already may be passed. 
 L. Per. Why,, if it be, 
 The doubt he will not hold his brittle faith, 
 That he is not a compatible choice, 
 
 Nero. E E
 
 4i 8 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT i. 
 
 And so your noble friends will cross the match, 
 Doth make your happiness uncertain still ; 
 Or, say you married him, what he would prove. 
 Can you compare your state, then, to a wife ? 
 
 L. Hon. Nay, all the freedom that a virgin hath 
 Is much to be preferred. Who would endure 
 The humours of so insolent a thing 
 As is a husband ? Which of all the herd 
 Runs not possessed with some notorious vice, 
 Drinking or whoring, fighting, jealousy, 
 Even of a page at twelve or of a groom 
 That rubs horse-heels ? Is it not daily seen, 
 Men take wives but to dress their meat, to wash 
 And starch their linen : for the other matter 
 Of lying with them, that's but when they please : 
 And whatsoe'er the joy be of the bed, 
 The pangs that follow procreation 
 Are hideous, or you wives have gulled your husbands 
 With your loud shriekings and your deathful throes. 
 A wife or widow to a virgin's life ! 
 
 L. Bright. Why should the best of you think ye enjoy 
 The roost 1 and rule, that a free widow doth ? 
 I am mine own commander, and the bliss 
 Of wooers and of each variety 
 Frequents me, as I were a maid. No brother 
 Have I to dice my patrimony away, as you, 
 My maiden-madam, may. No husband's death 
 Stand I in doubt on ; for thanks be to Heaven, 
 If mine were good, the grievous loss of him 
 Is not to come ; if he were bad, he's gone, 
 And I no more embrace my injury. 
 But be yours ill, you nightly clasp your hate ; 
 Or good why, he may die or change his virtue. 
 And thou, though single, hast a bed-fellow 
 As bad as the worst husband thought of one ; 
 And what that is men with their wives do do, 
 
 1 Collier reads "rest."
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 419 
 
 And long expectance till the deed be done. 
 A wife is like a garment used and torn : 
 A maid like one made up, but never worn. 
 
 L. Hon. A widow is a garment worn threadbare, 
 Selling at second-hand, like broker's ware. 
 Bat let us speak of things the present time 
 Makes happy to us, and see what is best. 
 I have a servant then, the crown of men, 
 The fountain of humanity, the prize 
 Of every virtue, moral and divine ; 
 Young, valiant, learned, well-born, rich, and shaped, 
 As if wise Nature, when she fashioned him, 
 Had meant to give him nothing but his form ; 
 Yet all additions are conferred on him. 
 That may delight a woman : this same youth 
 To me hath sacrificed his heart, yet I 
 Have checked his suit, laughed at his worthy service, 
 Made him the exercise of my cruelty, 
 Whilst constant as the sun, for all these clouds, 
 His love goes on. 
 
 Enter INGEN. 
 
 L. Bright. Peace, here's the man you name. 
 
 L. Per. Widow, we'll stand aside. 
 
 Jngen. Good morrow to the glory of our age, 
 The Lady Perfect and the Lady Bright, 
 
 \Meeting Lady PERFECT and Lady BRIGHT.' 
 The virtuous wife and widow ; but to you, 
 The Lady Honour and my mistress, 
 The happiness of your wishes. 
 
 L. Hon. By this light, 
 I never heard one speak so scurvily, 
 Utter such stale wit, and pronounce so ill. 
 " But to you, my Lady Honour and my mistress, 
 The happiness of your wishes ! " 
 
 Ingen. Stop your wit ; 
 
 1 They retire soon afterwards, but the exit is not marked Collier. 
 
 E E 2
 
 420 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT i. 
 
 You would fain show these ladies, what a hand 
 
 You hold over your servant : 't shall not need ; 
 
 I will express your tyranny well enough. 
 
 I have loved this lady since I was a child, 
 
 Since I could construe Amo : now she says 
 
 I do not love her, 'cause I do not weep, 
 
 Lay mine arms o'er my heart, and wear no garters, 
 
 Walk with mine eyes in my hat, sigh and make faces 
 
 For all the poets in the town to laugh at. 
 
 Pox o' this howling love ! 'tis like a dog 
 
 Shut out at midnight. Must love needs be powdered, 
 
 Lie steeped in brine, or will it not keep sweet ? 
 
 Is it like beef in summer ? 
 
 L. Hon. Did you ever 
 Hear one talk fustian like a butcher thus ? 
 
 Ingen. 'Tis foolish, this same telling folks we love : 
 It needs no words, 'twill show itself in deeds ; 
 And did I take you for an entertainer, 
 A lady that will wring one by the finger, 
 Whilst on another's toes she treads, and cries 
 " By gad, I love but one, and you are he," 
 Either of them thinking himself the man, 
 I'd tell you in your ear, ptrt for the business, 
 Which granted or denied, " Madam, God be wi' ye." 
 
 L. Hon. Come, these are daily slanders that you raise 
 On our infirm and unresisting sex : 
 You never met, I'm sure, with such a lady. 
 
 Ingen. O, many, by this light I've seen a chamber 
 Frequented like an office of the law : 
 Clients succeed at midnight one another, 
 Whilst the poor madam hath been so distressed 
 Which of her lovers to show most countenance to, 
 That her dull husband has perceived her wiles. 
 
 L. Hon. Nay, perhaps taught her : many of those hus- 
 bands 
 Are base enough to live upon't. 
 
 Ingen. I have seen another of 'em
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 421 
 
 Cheat, by this light, at cards, and set her women 
 To talk to the gentlemen that played, 
 That, so distracted, they might oversee. 
 
 L. Hon. O, fie upon ye ! I dare swear you lie. 
 
 Ingen. Do not, fair mistress ; you will be forsworn. 
 
 L. Hon. You men are all foul-mouthed : . I warrant, you 
 Talk thus of me and other ladies here 
 Because we keep the city. 
 
 Ingen. O, profane ! 
 That thought would damn me. Will you marry yet ? 
 
 L. Hon. No, I will never marry. 
 
 Ingen. Shall we then 
 
 Couple unlawfully ? for indeed this marrying 
 Is but proclaiming what we mean to do ; 
 Which may be done privately in civil sort, 
 And none the wiser ; and by this white hand, 
 The rack, strappado, or the boiling boot ' 
 Should never force me tell to wrong your honour. 
 
 L. Hon. May I believe this ? 
 
 Ingen. Let it be your creed. 
 
 L. Hon. But if you should prove false ? Nay, ne'er 
 
 unhang 
 
 Your sword, except you mean- to hang yourself. 
 Why, where have you been drinking ? 'sfoot, you talk 
 Like one of these same rambling boys that reign 
 In Turnbull 2 Street. 
 
 Ingen. How do you know ? 
 
 L. Hon. Indeed, my knowledge is but speculative, 
 Not practic there ; I have it by relation 
 From such observers as yourself, dear servant. 
 I must profess I did think well of thee, 
 But get thee from my sight, I never more 
 Will hear or see thee, but will hate thee deadly, 
 
 1 A variation, perhaps, on the " Scotch boot," mentioned in 
 Woman is a Weathercock. 
 
 2 Variously spelt Turnbull and Turnbole, the proper name being 
 Turnmill Street. It was near Clerkemvell Green, and a noted re- 
 sort of thieves, ruffians, etc.
 
 422 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT i. 
 
 As a man- enemy, or a woman turned. 
 Ladies, come forth. 
 
 Re-enter Lady BRIGHT and Lady PERFECT. 
 
 See, sir, what courtesy 
 
 You have done to me : a strange praise of you 
 
 Had newly left my lips just as you entered, 
 
 And how you have deserved it with your carriage ! 
 
 Villain ! thou hast hurt mine honour to these' friends, 
 
 For what can they imagine but some ill 
 
 Hath passed betwixt us by thy broad discourse ? 
 
 Were my case theirs, by virgin chastity,. 
 
 I should condemn them. Hence ! depart my sight ! 
 
 Jngen. Madam, but hear me. O, that these were men, 
 And durst but say or think you ill for this ! 
 I have so good a cause upon my side 
 That I would cut their hearts out of their breasts, 
 And the thoughts out of them that injured you. 
 But I obey your hest, and for my penance 
 Will run a course never to see you more : 
 And now I lose you, may I lose the light, 
 Since in that beauty dwelt my day or night. 
 
 \_Exit INGEN. 
 
 L. Bright. Is this the virtuous youth ? 
 
 L. Per. Your happiness ? 
 
 L. Bright. Wherein you thought your seat so far 'bove 
 ours. 
 
 L. Hon. If one man could be good, this had been he. 
 See, here come all your suitors and your husband ; 
 And, room for laughter ! here's the Lord Feesimple. 
 What gentlewoman does he bring along ? 
 
 Enter Sir JOHN LOVEALL, embracing SUBTLE ; Lord FEE- 
 SIMPLE, with BOLD disguised as a Waiting Gentle- 
 woman, and WELLTRIED. WELLTRIED, Sir JOHN, 
 and SUBTLE, talk with Lady PERFECT. 
 
 L. Fee. One-and-thirty good morrows to the fairest,
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 423 
 
 wisest, richest widow that ever conversation coped 1 
 withal. 
 
 L. Bright. Threescore and two unto tRe wisest lord 
 That ever was trained in university. 
 
 L. Fee. O courteous, bounteous widow ! she has out- 
 bid me thirty-one good morrows at a clap. 
 
 Well. But, my Lord Feesimple, you forget the business 
 imposed on you. 
 
 L. Fee. Gentlewoman, I cry thee mercy ; but 'tis a 
 fault in all lords, not in me only : we do use to swear by 
 our honours, and as we are noble, to despatch such a 
 business for such a gentleman ; and we are bound, even 
 by the same honours we swear by, to forget it in a quarter 
 of an hour, and look as if we had never seen the party 
 when we meet next, especially if none of our gentlemen 
 have been considered. 
 
 Well. Ay, but all yours have, for you keep none, my 
 lord : besides, though it stands with your honour to for- 
 get men's businesses, yet it stands not with your honour 
 if you do not do a woman's. 
 
 L. Fee. Why then, madam, so it is that I request your 
 ladyship to accept into your service this gentlewoman. 
 For her truth and honesty I will be bound ; I have known 
 her too long to be deceived. This is the second time I 
 have seen her. \Aside. 
 
 L. Hon. Why, how now, my lord ! a preferrer of gentle- 
 women to service, like an old knittingwoman ? where hath 
 she dwelt before ? 
 
 L. Fee. She dwelt with young Bold's sister, he that is 
 my corrival 2 in your love. She requested me to advance 
 her to you, for you are a dubbed lady ; so is not she yet. 
 
 Well. But now you talk of young Bold when did you 
 see him, lady? 
 
 L. Bright. Not this month, Master Welltried. 
 I did conjure him to forbear my sight ; 
 Indeed, swore if he came, I'd be denied. 
 
 1 Encountered. - A partner in affection.
 
 424 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT I. 
 
 But 'tis strange you should ask for him : ye two 
 Were wont never to be asunder. 
 
 Well. Faith, madam, we never were together, but 
 We differed on some argument or other ; 
 And doubting lest our discord might at length 
 Breed to some quarrel, I forbear him too. 
 
 L. Fee. He quarrel ? Bold ? hang him, if he durst 
 have quarrelled, the world knows he's within a mile of an 
 oak has put him to't, and soundly. I never cared for him 
 in my life, but to see his sister : he's an ass, pox ! an 
 arrant ass ; for do you think any but an arrant ass would 
 offer to come a-wooing where a lord attempts ? He 
 quarrel ! he dares not quarrel. 
 
 Well. But he dares fight, my lord, upon my know- 
 ledge : 
 
 And rail no more, my lord, behind his back, 
 For if you do, my lord, blood must ensue. \Draws. 
 
 L. Fee. O, O, my honour dies ! I am dead. [Swoons. 
 
 Well. Ud's light, what's the matter ? wring him by the 
 nose. 
 
 L. Bright. A pair of riding spurs, now, were worth 
 gold. 
 
 L. Hon. Pins are as good. Prick him, prick him. 
 
 L. Fee. O, O ! 
 
 L. Per. He's come again, lift him up. 
 
 All. How fares your lordship ? 
 
 L. Fee. O friends, you have wronged my spirit to call 
 
 it back : 
 I was even in Elysium at rest. 
 
 Well. But why, sir, did you swoon ? 
 
 L. Fee. Well, though I die, Master Welltried, before 
 all these I do forgive you, because you were ignorant of 
 my infirmity. O sir ! is't not up yet ? I die again ! Put 
 up, now, whilst I wink, or I do wink for ever. 
 
 Well. Tis up, my lord ; ope your eyes : but I pray, 
 tell me, is this antipathy 'twixt bright steel and you 
 natural, or how grew it.
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 425 
 
 L. Fee, I'll tell you, sir : anything bright and edged 
 works thus strongly with me. Your hilts, now, I can 
 handle as boldly, look you else. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, never blame my lord, Master Welltried, 
 for I know a great many will swoon at the sight of a 
 shoulder of mutton or a quarter of lamb. My lord may 
 be excused, then, for a naked sword. 
 
 Well. This lord and this knight in dog-collars would 
 make a fine brace of beagles. 
 
 L. Hon. But, on my faith, 'twas mightily overseen of 
 your father, not to bring you up to foils or if he had 
 bound you 'prentice to a cutler or an ironmonger. 
 
 L. Fee. Ha, pox ! hang him, old gouty fool ! He 
 never brought me up to any lordly exercise, as fencing, 
 dancing, tumbling and such like ; but, forsooth, I must 
 write and read, and speak languages, and such base 
 qualities, fit for none but gentlemen. Now, sir, would I 
 tell him, " Father, you are a count, I am a lord. A pox 
 o' writing and reading, and languages ! Let me be 
 brought up as I was born." 
 
 Sub. But how, my lord, came you first not to endure 
 the sight of steel ? 
 
 L. Fee. Why, I'll tell you, sir. When I was a child, 
 an infant, an innocent 1; 
 
 L. Hon. 'Twas even now. [Aside. 
 
 L. Fee. I being in the kitchen, in my lord my father's 
 house, the cook was making minced pies : so, sir, I 
 standing by the dresser, there lay a heap of plums. 
 Here was he mincing : what did I, sir, being a notable 
 little witty coxcomb, but popped my hand just under 
 his chopping-knife, to snatch some raisins, and so was 
 cut o'er the hand, and never since could I endure the 
 sight of any edge-tool. 
 
 L. Bright. Indeed, they are not fit for you, my lord. 
 And now you are all so well satisfied in this matter, pray, 
 ladies, how like you this my gentlewoman ? 
 * i.e. A fool.
 
 426 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT i. 
 
 L. Hon. In truth, madam, exceedingly well, I. If 
 you be provided, pray, let me have her. 
 
 Z. Per. It should be my request, but that I am full. 
 
 L. Bright. What can you do ? What's her name, my 
 lord? 
 
 L. Fte. Her name ? I know not. What's her name, 
 Master Welltried ? 
 
 Well. Her name ? 'Slid, tell my lady your name. 
 
 Bold. Mistriss Mary Princox, forsooth. 
 
 L. Bright. Mistress Mary Princox. She has wit, I 
 perceive that already. Methinks she speaks as if she 
 were my lord's brood. 
 
 Bold. Brood, madam? Tis well known I am a 
 gentlewoman. My father was a man of five hundred per 
 annum, and he held something in capile too. 
 
 Well. So does my lord something. 
 
 Z. Fee. Nay, by my troth, what I hold in capite is 
 worth little or nothing. 
 
 Bold. I have had apt breeding, however my misfor- 
 tune now makes me submit myself to service ; but there 
 is no ebb so low but hath his tide again. When our 
 days are at worst, they will mend in spite of the frowning 
 destinies, for we cannot be lower than earth ; and the 
 same blind dame that hath cast her blear eyes hitherto 
 upon my occasions may turn her wheel, and at last wind 
 them up with her white hand to some pinnacle that pros- 
 perously may flourish in the sunshine of promotion. 
 
 Z. Fee. O mouth, full of agility ! I would give twenty 
 marks now to any person that could teach me to convey 
 my tongue (sans stumbling) with such dexterity to such 
 a period. For her truth and her honesty I am bound 
 before, but now I have heard her talk, for her wit I will 
 be bound body and goods. 
 
 L. Bright. Ud's light, I will not leave her for my 
 hood. I never met with one of these eloquent old 
 gentlewomen before. What age are you, Mistress Mary 
 Princox ?
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 427 
 
 Bold. I will not lie, madam. I have numbered fifty- 
 seven summers, and just so many winters have I passed. 
 
 Sub. But they have not passed you ; they lie frozen in 
 your face. 
 
 Bold. Madam, if it shall please you to entertain me, 
 so ; if not, I desire you not to misconstrue my goodwill. 
 There's no harm done ; the door's as big as it was, and 
 your ladyship's own wishes crown your beauty with con- 
 tent. As for these frumping gallants, let them do their 
 worst. It is not in man's power to hurt me. 'Tis well 
 known \ come not to be scoffed. A woman may bear 
 and bear, till her back burst. I am a poor gentle- 
 woman, and since virtue hath nowadays no other com- 
 panion but poverty, I set the hare's head unto the 
 goose giblets, and what I want one way, I hope I shall 
 be enabled to supply the other. 
 
 L. Fee. An't please God, that thou wert not past 
 children. 
 
 L. Bright. Is't even so, my lord ? Nay, good Prin- 
 cox, do not cry. I do entertain you. How do you 
 occupy ? What can you use ? 
 
 Bold. Anything fit to be put into the hands of a 
 gentlewoman. 
 
 L. Bright. What are your qualities ? 
 
 Bold. I can sleep on a low stool. If your ladyship be 
 talking in the same room with any gentleman, I can 
 read on a book, sing love-songs, look up at the loover 
 light, 1 hear and be deaf, see and be blind, be ever dumb 
 to your secrets, swear and equivocate, and whatsoever I 
 spy, say the best. 
 
 L. Bright. O rare crone, how art thou endued ! But 
 why did Master Bold's sister put you away ? 
 
 Bold. I beseech you, madam, to neglect that desire : 
 though I know your ladyship's understanding to be 
 sufficient to partake, or take in, the greatest secret can 
 be imparted, yet 
 
 1 i.e. Skylight.
 
 428 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT i. 
 
 L, Bright. Nay, prythee, tell the cause. Come, here's 
 none but friends. 
 
 Bold. Faith, madam, heigho ! I was (to confess truly) 
 a little foolish in my last service to believe men's oaths, 
 but I hope my example, though prejudicial to myself, 
 will be beneficial to other young gentlewomen in service. 
 My mistress's brother (the gentleman you named even 
 now Master Bold), having often attempted my honour, 
 but .finding it impregnable, vowed love and marriage to 
 me at the last. I, a young thing and raw, being seduced, 
 set my mind upon him, but friends contradicting the 
 match, I fell into a grievous consumption; and upon my 
 first recovery, lest the intended sacred ceremonies of 
 nuptials should succeed, his sister, knowing this, thought 
 it fit in her judgment we should be farther asunder, and 
 so put me out of her service. 
 
 All. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 L. Bright. God-a-mercy for this discovery, i'faith. 
 O man, what art thou when thy cock is up ? 
 Come, will your lordship walk in ? 'tis dinner-time. 
 
 Enter SELDOM, hastily, with papers. 
 
 All. Who's this ? who's this ? 
 
 L. Hon. This is our landlord, Master Seldom, an 
 exceeding wise citizen, a very sufficient understanding 
 man, -and exceeding rich. 
 
 All. Miracles are not ceased. 
 
 L. Bright. Good morrow, landlord. Where have you 
 been sweating ? 
 
 Sel. Good morrow to your honours : thrift is indus- 
 trious. Your ladyship knows we will not stick to sweat 
 for our pleasures ; how much more ought we to sweat 
 for our profits ; I am come from Master Ingen this 
 morning, who is married, or to be married ; and though 
 your ladyship did not honour his nuptials with your 
 presence, he hath by me sent each of you a pair of 
 gloves, and Grace Seldom, my wife, is not forgot. [Exit.
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 429 
 
 All. God give him joy, God give him joy. 
 
 \_Exeunt all but Lady HONOUR, Lady PERFECT, 
 Sir JOHN LOVEALL, and SUBTLE. 
 
 L. Hon. Let all things most impossible change now ! 
 
 perjured man ! oaths are but words, I see. 
 But wherefore should not we, that think we love 
 Upon full merit, that same worth once ceasing, 
 Surcease our love too, and find new desert ? 
 Alas ! we cannot ; love's a pit which, when 
 We fall into, we ne'er get out again : 
 
 And this same horrid news which me assaults. 
 
 1 would forget : love blanches blackest faults. 
 O, what path shall I tread for remedy 
 
 But darkest shades, where love with death doth lie ! 
 
 \A side and exit. 
 
 L. Per. Sir, I have often heard my husband speak 
 Of your acquaintance. 
 
 Sir John. Nay, my virtuous wife, 
 Had it been but acquaintance, this his absence 
 Had not appeared so uncouth : but we two 
 Were school-fellows together, born and nursed, 
 Brought up, and lived since, like the Gemini : 
 Had but one suck : the tavern or the ordinary, 
 Ere I was married, that saw one of us 
 Without the other, said we walked by halves. 
 Where, dear, dear friend, have you been all this while ? 
 
 Sub. O most sweet friend, the world's so vicious, 
 That had I with such familiarity 
 Frequented you, since you were married, 
 Possessed and used your fortunes as before, 
 As in like manner you commanded mine, 
 The depraved thoughts of men would have proclaimed 
 Some scandalous rumours from this love of ours, 
 As saying mine reflected on your lady ; 
 And what a wound had that been to our souls, 
 When only friendship should have been the ground
 
 430 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT I. 
 
 To hurt her honour and your confident peace, 
 Spite of mine own approved integrity ? 
 
 Sir John. Wife, kiss him, bid him welcome: pox o' th' 
 
 world ! 
 
 Come, come, you shall not part from me in haste. 
 I do command thee use this gentleman 
 In all things like myself: if I should die, 
 I would bequeath him in my will to thee. 
 
 L. Per. Sir, you are most welcome, and let scandalous 
 
 tongues 
 
 No more deter you : I dare use you, sir, 
 With all the right belonging to a friend, 
 And what I dare, I dare let all men see. 
 My conscience, rather than men's thoughts, be free. 
 Sir John. Will you look in ? We'll follow you. 
 
 \Exit Lady PERFECT. 
 Now, friend, 
 What think you of this lady ? 
 
 Sub. Why, sweet friend, 
 That you are happy in her : she is fair ; 
 Witty, and virtuous, and was rich to you. 
 Can there be an addition to a wife ? 
 
 Sir John. Yes, constancy ; for 'tis not chastity 
 That lives remote, from all attempters free ; 
 But there 'tis strong and pure, where all that woo 
 It doth resist, and turns them virtuous too. 
 Therefore, dear friend, by this, love's masculine kiss, 
 By all our mutual engagements passed, 
 By all the hopes of amity to come, 
 Be you the settler of my jealous thoughts, 
 And make me kill my fond suspect of her 
 By assurance that she is loyal, otherwise 
 That she is false ; and then, as she's past cure, 
 My soul shall ever after be past care. 
 That you are fittest for this enterprise, 
 You must needs understand ; since, prove she true 
 In this your trial, you (my dearest friend),
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 431 
 
 Whom only rather than the world besides, 
 I would have satisfied of her virtue, shall see ' 
 And best conceal my folly. Prove she weak, 
 Tis better you should know't than any man, 
 Who can reform her, and do me no wrong. 
 Chemical metals, and bright gold itself, 
 By sight are not distinguished, but by the test : 
 Thought makes good wives, but trial makes the best. 
 To the unskilful owner's eyes alike 
 The Bristow 2 sparkles as the diamond, 
 But by a lapidary the truth is found 
 Come, you shall not deny me. 
 
 Sub. Do not wrong 
 So fair a wife, friend, and so virtuous, 
 Whose good name is a theme unto the world : 
 Make not a wound with searching, where was none. 
 Misfortune still such projects doth pursue ; 
 He makes a false wife that suspects a true. 
 Yet since you so importune, give me leave 
 To ruminate awhile, and I will straight 
 Follow, and give you an answer. 
 
 Sir John. You must do it. [Exit. 
 
 Sub. Assure yourself, dear coxcomb, I will do't, 
 Or strangely be denied. All's as I wished ; 
 This was my aim, although I have seemed strange. 
 I know this fellow now to be an ass, 
 A most unworthy husband, though in view 
 He bear himself thus fair ; she knows this too, 
 Therefore the stronger are my hopes to gain her ; 
 And, my dear friend, that will have your wife tried, 
 I'll try her first, then trust her, if I can ; 
 And, as you said most wisely, I hope to be 
 Both touchstone to your wife and lapidary. [Exit. 
 
 1 The old copies read " be," but by changing to "see," and put- 
 ting the full stop after "folly," Mr. Hazlitt has made excellent 
 sense of the lines. 
 
 2 A brilliant stone resembling diamond, found at St. Vincent's 
 Rocks near Bristol, and once much used for cheap jewellery.
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I Inside SELDOM'S Shop. 
 Enter SELDOM and his Wife GRACE. 
 
 IS. SEL. Husband, these gloves are 
 not fit for my wearing ; I'll put 'em 
 into the shop, and sell 'em : you 
 shall give me a plain pair for them. 
 Sel. This is wonderful, wonderful ! 
 this is thy sweet care and judgment 
 in all things : this goodness is not 
 usual in our wives. Well, Grace Seldom, that thou art 
 fair is nothing, that thou art witty is nothing, that thou 
 art a citizen's wife is nothing ; but, Grace, that thou art 
 fair, that thou art wellspoken, and that thou art witty, 
 and that thou art a citizen's wife, and that thou art honest, 
 I say and let any man deny it that can, it is something, 
 it is something ; I say, it is Seldom's something, and for 
 all the sunshine of my joy, mine eyes must rain upon 
 thee. 
 
 Enter MOLL CuTPURSE, 1 with a letter. 
 
 Moll. By your leave, Master Seldom, have you done 
 the hangers I bespake for the knight ? 
 
 .* The " P.oaring Girl," of Middleton and Dekker (in which play 
 she appears to much greater advantage than here), and a well-known 
 character. Her real name was Mary Frith. She was born in 1584, 
 and died somewhere about 1659. She commonly wore man's clothes
 
 SCENE i.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 433 
 
 Mis. Sel. Yes, marry have I, Mistress hie ' and hac, I'll 
 fetch 'em to you. [Exit. 
 
 Moll. Zounds ! does not your husband know my name ? 
 if it had been somebody else, I would have called him 
 cuckoldy slave. 
 
 Mis. Sel. If it had been somebody else, perhaps you 
 might. 
 
 Moll. Well, I may be even with him; all's clear. 
 Pretty rogue, I have longed to know thee this twelve 
 months, and had no other means but this to speak with 
 thee. There's a letter to thee from the party. 
 
 Mis. Sel. What party ? 
 
 Moll. The knight, Sir John Love-all. 
 
 Mis. Sel. Hence, lewd impudent ! 
 I know not what to term thee, man or woman, 
 For, Nature, shaming to acknowledge thee 
 For either, hath produced thee to the world 
 Without a sex : some say thou art a woman, 
 Others a man : and many, thou art both 
 Woman and man, but I think rather neither, 
 Or man and horse, as the old centaurs were feigned. 
 
 Moll. Why, how now, Mistress What-lack-ye ? are you 
 so fine, with a pox ? I have seen a woman look as 
 modestly as you, and speak as sincerely, and follow the 
 friars as zealously, and she has been as sound a jumbler 
 as e'er paid for't : 'tis true, Mistress Fi'penny, I have 
 sworn to leave this letter. 
 
 and was alike bully, thief, bawd, and receiver of stolen goods. She 
 assisted to rob General Fairfax on Hounslow Heath, and in Feb. 
 1611-12, did penance at St. Paul's Cross for some offence of which 
 no record exists. Her notoriety was such that some of the dogs used 
 for baiting bulls and bears in Paris Garden were called after her. At 
 her death she left 20 for the conduit to run with wine on the 
 anticipated restoration of Charles II. Djce in his Middleton, 
 vol. ii., pp. 429-31, gives a sketch of her life, and quotes a number 
 of references to her from contemporary works ; amongst them the 
 supposed allusion in Twelfth Night, I., iii. 137. 
 * i.e. Because she is dressed as a man. 
 
 Nero.
 
 434 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT n. 
 
 Mis. Sel. D'ye hear, you Sword-and-target (to speak in 
 your own key), Mary Ambree, 1 Long Meg, 2 
 Thou that in thyself, methinks, alone 
 Look'st like a rogue and whore under a hedge ; 
 Bawd, take your letter with you, and begone, 
 When next you come, my husband's constable, 
 And Bridewell is hard by : you've a good wit, 
 And can conceive 
 
 Enter SELDOM, with hangers. 
 
 Look you, here are the hangers. 
 
 Moll. Let's see them. 
 Fie, fie ! you have mistook me quite, 
 They are not for my turn. B'w'ye', Mistress Seldom. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Lord PROUDLY. 
 
 Mis. Sel. Here's my Lord Proudly. 
 
 L. Proud. My horse, lackey ! is my sister Honour 
 above ? 
 
 Sel. I think her ladyship, my lord, is not well, and 
 keeps her chamber. 
 
 L. Proud. All's one, I must see her : have the other 
 ladies dined ? 
 
 Mis. Sel. I think not, my lord 
 
 L. Proud. Then I'll take a pipe of tobacco here in your 
 shop, if it be not offensive. I would be loth to be 
 thought to come just at dinner-time. [To his Servant] 
 Gordon \ fill, sirrah. 
 
 1 Often referred to as a typical Virago, e.g., by Ben Jonson, The 
 Silent Woman, IV., i. A ballad entitled " Mary Ambree," is given 
 in Percy's Reliqnes. Possibly she is alluded to in Butler's couplet : 
 
 " A bold Virago, stout and tall 
 As Joan of France, or English Mall." 
 
 Hudibras, Part I., ii. , 367. 
 
 2 Is Long Meg of Westminster, also a masculine lady of great 
 notoriety, and after whom a cannon in Dover Castle, and a large 
 flag-stone in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey are still called. 
 Collier. See post p. 437, respecting a play of this name.
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 435 
 
 Enter Page, with a pipe of tobacco. 
 What said the goldsmith for the money ? 
 
 [SELDOM, having fetched a candle, walks off to 
 the other end of the shop. Lord PROUDLY 
 sits by GRACE. 
 
 Page. He said, my lord, he would lend no man money 
 that he durst not arrest. 
 
 L. Proud. How got that wit into Cheapside, trow? 
 He is a cuckold. Saw you my lady to-day ? What says 
 she ? [ Takes tobacco. 
 
 Page. Marry, my lord, she said her old husband had 
 a great payment to make this morning, and had not left 
 her so much as a jewel. 
 
 L. Proud. A pox of her old cat's chaps ! The teeth 
 Have made a transmigration into hair : [she had 
 
 She hath a bigger beard than I, by this light. 
 
 [ Whispers to GRACE. 
 
 Sel. This custom in us citizens is good : 
 Thus walking off, when men talk with our wives ; 
 It shows us courteous and mannerly. 
 Some count it baseness ; he's a fool that does so. 
 It is the highest point of policy, 
 Especially when we have virtuous wives. 
 
 Mis. Sel. Fie, fie ! you talk uncivilly, my lord. 
 
 L. Proud. Uncivilly, mew, ; can a lord talk uncivilly ? 
 I think you, a finical taffata pipkin, may be proud I'll sit 
 so near it. Uncivilly, mew ! [sure. 
 
 Mis. Sel. Your mother's cat has kittened in your mouth, 
 
 L. Proud. Prythee, but note yon fellow. Does he not 
 walk and look as if he did desire to be a cuckold ? 
 
 Mis. Sel. But you do not look as if you could make 
 him one. Now they have dined, my lord. 
 
 Enter Lord FEESIMPLE and WELLTRIED. 
 L. Fee. God save your lordship. 
 L. Proud. How dost thou, coz ? Hast thou got an 
 
 more wit yet ? 
 
 F F 2
 
 436 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT n. 
 
 L. Fee. No, by my troth, I have 
 But little money with that little wit I have, 
 And the more wit ever the less money ; 
 Yet as little as I have of either, 
 I would give something that I durst but quarrel : 
 I would not be abused thus daily as I am. 
 
 Well. Save you, my lord. 
 
 L. Proud. Good Master Welltried, you can inform me : 
 pray, how ended the quarrel betwixt young Bold and the 
 other gentleman ? 
 
 Well. Why, very fairly my lord ; on honourable terms. 
 Young Bold was injured and did challenge him, fought in 
 the field, and the other gave him satisfaction under his 
 hand. I was Bold's second, and can show it here. 
 
 L. Proiid. 'Tis strange there was no hurt done, yet I 
 The other gentleman far the better man. [hold 
 
 Well. So do not I. 
 
 Z. Proud. Besides, they say the satisfaction that walks 
 in the ordinaries is counterfeit. 
 
 Well. He lies that says so, and I'll make it good. 
 And for I know my friend is out of town, 
 What man soever wrongs him is my foe. 
 I say he had full satisfaction, 
 Nay, that which we may call submission ; 
 That the other sought peace first ; and who denies this, 
 Lord, knight or gentleman : English, French or Scot, 
 I'll fight and prove it on him with my sword. 
 
 L. Fee. No, sweet Master Welltried, let's have no 
 fighting, till (as you have promised) you have rid me from 
 this foolish fear, and taught me to endure to look upon a 
 naked sword. 
 
 Well. Well, and I'll be as good as my word. 
 
 L. Fee. But do you hear, cousin Proudly ? They say 
 my old father must marry your sister Honour, and that he 
 will disinherit me, and entail all his lordships on her and 
 the heir he shall beget on her body. Is't true or not ? 
 
 L. Ptoud. There is such a report.
 
 SCENE i.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 437 
 
 L. Fee. Why, then I pray God he may die an old 
 
 cuckoldy slave. 
 
 O world, what art thou ? where is parent's love ? 
 Can he deny me for his natural child ? 
 Yet see (O fornicator !) old and stiff, 
 Not where he should be, that's my comfort yet 
 As for you, my lord, I will send to you as soon as I dare 
 fight, and look upon steel ; which, Master Welltried, I 
 pray let be with all possible speed. 
 
 L. Proud. What d'ye this afternoon ? 
 
 L. Fee. Faith, I have a great mind to see Long Meg l 
 and the Ship at the Fortune. 
 
 L. Proud. Nay, i' faith, let's up and have a rest at 
 primero. 2 
 
 Well. Agreed, my lord; and toward the evening I'll 
 carry you to the company. 
 
 L. Fee. Well, no more words. 
 
 {Exeunt Lord PROUDLY, Lord FEESIMPLE, and 
 WELLTRIED. 
 
 Mis. Sel. I wonder, sir, you will walk so, and let any- 
 body sit prating to your wife. Were I a man, I'd thrust 
 'em out o' th' shop by the head and shoulders. 
 
 Sel* There was no policy in that, wife ; so should I 
 lose my custom. Let them talk themselves weary, and 
 give thee love-tokens still I lose not by it. 
 
 Thy chastity's impregnable, I know it. 
 
 Had I a dame, whose eyes did swallow youth, 
 
 1 It is tolerably evident that two plays (one called Long Meg, and 
 the other The Skip), and not one with a double title, are here in- 
 tended to be spoken of. This may seem to disprove Malone's 
 assertion (Shakespeare by Boswell, iii. 334), that only one piece was 
 represented on one day. By Henslowe's Diary it appears that Longe 
 Megc of Westminster was performed at Newington in February 1594, 
 and, according to Field, it must have continued for some time popu- 
 lar. Nothing is known of a dramatic piece of that date called The 
 Ship. It may have been only a jig, often given at the conclusion of 
 plays. Collier. 2 A game at cards. 
 
 3 Seldom's theories as given in the following speech remind one 
 of the courtier's Song of the Citizen in the Fatal Dowry, IV. ii. ; 
 possibly the scene in which the song occurs was by Field.
 
 438 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT II. 
 
 Whose unchaste gulf together did take in 
 
 Masters and men, the footboys and their lords, 
 
 Making a gallimaufry l in her blood, 
 
 I would not walk thus then : but, virtuous wife, 
 
 He that in chaste ears pours his ribald talk 
 
 Begets hate to himself, and not consent ; 
 
 And even as dirt, thrown hard against a wall, 
 
 Rebounds and sparkles in the thrower's eyes, 
 
 So ill words, uttered to a virtuous dame, 
 
 Turn and defile the speaker with red shame. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. A Room in Sir JOHN LOVEALL'S House. 
 Enter Sir JOHN LOVEALL and Lady PERFECT. 
 
 Sir John. Zounds ! you're a whore ; though I entreat 
 Before his face, in compliment or so, [him fair 
 
 I not esteem him truly as this rush. 
 There's no such thing as friendship in the world, 
 And he that cannot swear, dissemble, lie, 
 Wants knowledge how to live, and let him die. 
 
 L. Per. Sir, I did think you had esteemed of him, 
 As you made show; therefore I used him well, 
 And yet not so, but that the strictest eye 
 I durst have made a witness of my carriage. [hand, 
 
 Sir John. Plague o' your carriage ! why, he kissed your 
 Looked babies in your eyes, and winked and pinked. 2 
 You thought I had esteemed him ! 'Sblood, you whore, 
 Do not I know that you do know you lie? 
 When didst thou hear me say and mean one thing ? 
 O, I could kick you now, and tear your face, 
 And eat thy breasts like udders. 
 
 L. Per. Sir, you may, 
 But if I know what hath deserved all this, 
 
 1 A dish of several kinds of meat, mixed. Here the term is used 
 metaphorically to signify a jumble. 2 Peeped.
 
 SCENE II.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 439 
 
 I am no woman : 'cause he kissed my hand 
 Unwillingly ? 
 
 Sir John. A little louder, pray. 
 
 L. Per. You are a base fellow, an unworthy man, 
 As e'er poor gentlewoman matched withal. 
 Why should you make such show of love to any 
 Without the truth ? thy beastly mind is like 
 Some decayed tradesman, that doth make his wife 
 Entertain those for gain he not endures. 
 Pish ! swell and burst : I had rather with thy sword 
 Be hewed to pieces, than lead such a life. 
 Out with it, valiant sir : I hold you for 
 A drawer upon women, not on men. 
 I will no more conceal your hollow heart, 
 But e'en report you as you are in truth. [you whore. 
 
 Sir John. This is called marriage. Stop your mouth, 
 
 L. Per. Thy mother was a whore, if I be one. 
 
 Sir John. You know there's company in the house. 
 
 Enter SUBTLE. 
 
 Sweet friend, what, have you writ your letter ? 
 
 Sub. 'Tis done, dear friend : I have made you stay too 
 I fear you'll be benighted. [long ; 
 
 Sir John. Fie ! no, no. 
 
 Madam and sweetest wife, farewell ; God bless us. 
 Make much of Master Subtle here, my friend, [Kisses her. 
 Till my return, which may be even as't happens, 
 According as my business hath success. [Exit. 
 
 Sub. How will you pass the time now, fairest mistress ? 
 
 L. Per. In troth, I know not : wives without their 
 
 husbands, 
 Methinks, are lowering days. 
 
 Sub. Indeed, some wives 
 Are like dead bodies in their husband's absence. 
 
 L. Per. If any wife be, I must needs be so, 
 That have a husband far above all men ; 
 Untainted with the humours others have,
 
 440 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT II. 
 
 A perfect man, and one that loves you truly : 
 You see the charge he left of your good usage. 
 
 Sub. Pish ! he's an ass, I know him ; a stark ass, 
 Of a most barbarous condition, 
 False-hearted to his friend, rough unto you ; 
 A most dissembling and perfidious fellow. 
 I care not if he heard me : this I know, 
 And will make good upon him with my sword, 
 Or any for him for he will not fight. 
 
 L. Per. Fie, servant ! you show small civility 
 And less humanity : d'ye requite 
 My husband's love thus ill ? for what d'ye think 
 Of me, that you will utter to my face 
 Such harsh, unfriendly, slanderous injuries 
 Even of my husband ? Sir, forbear, I pray, 
 My ears or your own tongue : I am no housewife 
 To hear my husband's merit thus depraved. 
 
 Sub. His merit is a halter, by this light. 
 You think he's out of town now ; no such matter : 
 But gone aside, and hath importuned me 
 To try your chastity. 
 
 L, Per. It cannot be. 
 Alas ! he is as free from jealousy, 
 And ever was, as confidence itself. 
 I know he loves me too-too heartily 
 To be suspicious or to prove my truth. 
 
 Sub. If I do feign in ought, ne'er may I purchase 
 The grace I hope for ! and, fair mistress, 
 If you have any spirit, or wit, or sense, 
 You will be even with such a wretched slave. 
 Heaven knows I love you as the air I draw ! 
 Think but how finely you may cuckold him, 
 And safely, too, with me, who will report 
 To him, that you are most invincible, 
 Your chastity not to be subdued by man. 
 
 L. Per. When you know I'm a whore ? 
 
 Sub. A whore ? fie ! no ;
 
 SCENE in.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 441 
 
 That you have been kind, or so : your whore doth live 
 In Pickt-hatch, 1 Turnbull Street 
 
 L. Per. Your whore lives there ! [Aside. 
 
 Well, servant, leave me to myself awhile : 
 Return anon ; but bear this hope away, 
 'T shall be with you, if I at all do stray. [Exit SUBTLE. 
 Why, here's right worldly friendship ! ye're well-met. 
 O men ! what are you ? why is our poor sex 
 Still made the degraded subjects in these plays 
 For vices, folly, and inconstancy : 
 When, were men looked into with such critical eyes 
 Of observation, many would be found 
 So full of gross and base corruption, 
 That none (unless the devil himself turned writer) 
 Could feign so badly to express them truly ? 
 Some wives that had a husband now, like mine, 
 Would yield their honours up to any man : 
 Far be it from my thoughts ! O, let me stand, 
 Thou God of marriage and chastity, 
 An honour to my sex ! no injury 
 Compel the virtue of my breast to yield ! 
 It's not revenge for any wife to stain 
 The nuptial bed, although she be yoked ill. 
 Who falls, because her husband so hath done, 
 Cures not his wound, but in herself makes one. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. A Room in INGEN'S House. 
 
 Enter INGEN, reading a letter ; he sits doum in a chair and 
 stamps with his foot ; a Servant enters. 
 
 Ingen. Who brought this letter ? 
 
 Ser. A little Irish footboy, sir : 
 He stays without for an answer. 
 
 Ingen. Bid him come in. Lord ! 
 
 1 The "Vestals of Pict-hatch," (The Alchemist, II. i.,) are often 
 referred to. See also Merry Wives of Windsor, II. ii., etc.
 
 442 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT n. 
 
 What deep dissemblers are these females all. 
 How far unlike a friend this lady used me, 
 Arid here how like one mad in love she writes. 
 
 Enter Lady HONOUR, like an Irish Footboy, with a dart} 
 
 So bless me, Heaven, but thou art the prettiest boy 
 That e'er ran by a horse ! Hast thou dwelt long 
 With thy fair mistress ? 
 
 L. Hon. I came but this morning, sir. 
 
 Ingen. How fares thy lady, boy ? 
 
 L. Hon. Like to a turtle that hath lost her mate, 
 Drooping she sits ; her grief, sir, cannot speak. 
 Had it a voice articulate, we should know 
 How and for what cause she suffers ; and perhaps 
 But 'tis unlikely give her comfort, sir. 
 Weeping she sits, and all the sound comes from her, 
 Is like the murmur of a silvery brook, 
 Which her tears truly would make there about her, 
 Sat she in any hollow continent. 
 
 Ingen. Believe me, boy, thou hast a passionate tongue, 
 Lively expression, or thy memory 
 Hath carried thy lesson well away. 
 But wherefore mourns thy lady ? 
 
 L. Hon. Sir, you know, 
 And would to God I did not know myself. 
 
 Ingen. Alas ! it cannot be for love to me. 
 When last I saw her, she reviled me, boy, 
 With bitterest words, and wished me never more 
 To approach her sight : and for my marriage now 
 I do sustain it as a penance due 
 To the desert that made her banish me. 
 
 1 It seems to have been the custom to employ the Irish as lackeys 
 or footmen at this period. R. Brathwaite, in his Time's Curtaine 
 Draivne, 1621, speaking of the attendants of a courtier, mentions 
 " two Irish lacquies " as among them. The " dart " which, accord- 
 ing to this play, and Middleton and Rowley's Fairc Quarrel (edit. 
 1622), they carried, was perhaps intended as an indication of the 
 country from which they came, as being part of the accoutrements 
 of the native Irish. Collier.
 
 SCENE in.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 443 
 
 L. Hon. Sir, I dare swear, she did presume no words, 
 Nor dangers had been powerful to restrain 
 Your coming to her, when she gave the charge 
 But are you married truly ? 
 
 Ingen. Why, my boy, 
 Dost think I mock myself? I sent her gloves. 
 
 L. Hon. The gloves she has returned you, sir, by me, 
 And prays you give them to some other lady, 
 That you'll deceive next, and be perjured to. 
 Sure, you have wronged her : sir, she bad me tell you, 
 She ne'er thought goodness dwelt in many men, 
 But what there was of goodness in the world, 
 She thought you had it all ; but now she sees 
 The jewel she esteemed is counterfeit; 
 That you are but a common man yourself 
 A traitor to her and her virtuous love ! 
 That all men are betrayers, and their breasts 
 As full of dangerous gulfs as is the sea, 
 Where any woman, thinking to find harbour, 
 She and her honour are precipitated, 
 And never to be brought with safety off. 
 Alas, my hapless lady desolate ! 
 Distressed, forsaken virgin ! 
 
 Ingen. Sure, this boy 
 Is of an excellent nature who, so newly 
 Ta'en to her service, feels his mistress' grief, 
 As he and they were old familiar friends. 
 Why weep'st thou gentle lad ? 
 
 L. Hon. Who hath one tear, 
 And would not save't from all occasions, 
 From brothers' slaughters and from mothers' deaths, 
 To spend it here for my distressed lady ? 
 But, sir, my lady did command me beg 
 To see your wife, that I may bear to her 
 The sad report. What creature could make you 
 Untie the hand fast pledged unto her ? 
 
 Ingen. Wife, wife, come forth ! now, gentle boy, be judge,
 
 444 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT n. 
 
 Enter FRANK disguised as a Woman and masked. INGEN 
 
 kisses him. 
 
 If such a face as this, being paid with scorn 
 By her I did adore, had not full power 
 To make me marry. 
 
 L. Hon. By the God of love, 
 She's a fair creature, but faith, should be fairer. 
 My lady, gentle mistress, one that thought 
 She had some interest in this gentleman, 
 (Who now is only yours) commanded me 
 To kiss your white hand, and to sigh and weep, 
 And wish you that content she should have had 
 In the fruition of her love you hold. 
 She bad me say, God give you joy, to both ; 
 Yet this withal (if ye were married) : 
 No one her footsteps ever more should meet, 
 Nor see her face but in a winding-sheet. 
 
 Frank. Alas, poor lady ! faith, I pity her, 
 And, but to be i' th' same state, could forego 
 Anything I possess to ease her woe. 
 
 L. Hon. Love's blessing light upon thy gentle soul ! 
 Men rail at women, mistress, but 'tis we 
 Are false and cruel, ten times more unkind ; 
 You are smoother far and of a softer mind. 
 Sir, I have one request more. 
 
 Ingen. Gentle lad, 
 It must be one of a strange quality 
 That I deny thee : both thy form and mind 
 Inform me that thy nurture hath been better, 
 Than to betray thee to this present life. 
 
 L. Hon. 'Tis, that you would vouchsafe to entertain me. 
 My feet do tremble under me to bear 
 My body back unto my uncouth lady, 
 To assure her grief. What heart so hard would owe 
 A tongue to tell so sad a tale to her ? 
 Alas ! I dare not look upon her eyes, 
 Where wronged love sits like the basilisk,
 
 SCENE iv.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 445 
 
 And, sure, would kill me for my dire report : 
 Or rather should not I appear like death, 
 
 [Holding up the dart. 
 
 When every word I spake shot through her heart 
 More mortally than his unsparing dart ? 
 
 Frank. Let me speak for the boy. 
 
 Ingen. To what end, love ? 
 No, I will sue to him to follow me. 
 In troth, I love thy sweet condition, 
 And may live to inform thy lady of thee. 
 Come in ; dry, dry thine eyes, respite thy woe ; 
 The effects of causes crown or overthrow. \_Exennt. 
 
 SCENE IV. Lady HEIGHT'S Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Lord PROUDLY, Lord FEESIMPLE, WELLTRIED, 
 SELDOM, Lady BRIGHT, BOLD still disguised as a 
 Waiting-woman, pinning-in a ruff, Lady PERFECT. 
 
 L. Proudly. 'Slight, what should be become of her? 
 
 you swear 
 
 She passed not forth of doors, and i'th' house she 
 is not ? 
 
 Z. Bright. Did you not see her, Princox ? 
 
 L. Proud. This same bawd 
 
 Has brought her letters from some younger brother, 
 And she is stolen away. 
 
 Bold. Bawd ! I defy you. 
 
 Indeed, your lordship thinks you may make bawds 
 Of whom you please. I'll take my oath upon a book, 
 Since I met her in the necessary house i' th' morning, 
 I ne'er set eye on her. 
 
 Grace. She went not out of doors. 
 
 Z. Proud. Sure, she has an invisible ring, 
 
 Z. Fee. Marry, she's the honester woman, for some of 
 their rings are visible enough, the more shame for them,
 
 446 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT n. 
 
 still say I. Let the pond at Islington 1 be searched : go 
 to, there's more have drowned themselves for love this 
 year than you are aware of. 
 
 L. Proud. Pish ! you are a fool. 
 
 Well. 'Sheart ; call him fool again. 
 
 L. Fee. By this light and I will, as soon as ever you 
 have showed me the Swaggerers. 2 
 
 L. Per. Her clothes are all yonder, my lord. 
 
 Grace. And even those same she had on to-day. 
 
 L. Proud. Madam, where is your husband ? 
 
 Z. Per. Rid into the country. 
 
 L. Fee. O' my conscience, rid into France with your 
 
 All. Away, away ; for shame ! [sister. 
 
 L. Fee. Why, I hope she is not the first lady that has 
 ran away with other women's husbands. 
 
 Well. It may be she's stolen out to see a play. 
 
 L. Proud. Who should go with her, man ? 
 
 L. Bright. Upon my life, you'll hear of her at Master 
 Ingen's house : some love passed betwixt them, and we 
 heard that he was married to-day to another. 
 
 L. Proud. 'Sheart ! I'll go see. [Exit. 
 
 Well. Come to the Swaggerers. 
 
 L. Fee. Mercy upon me ! a man or a Lord now ? 
 
 [Exeunt Lord FEESIMPLE and WELLTRIED. 
 
 All. Here's a coil 3 with a lord and his sister. 
 
 Z. Bright. Princox, hast not thou pinned in that ruff 
 yet? ha ! how thou fumblest ! 
 
 Bold. Troth, madam, I was ne'er brought up to it ; 
 'tis chambermaid's work, and I have ever lived gentle- 
 woman, and been used accordingly. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 See note ante p. 386. 
 
 2 i.e. The " Kings of Turnbull " who appear in the next Act, 
 scene iv. 3 Bother.
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. SUBTLE'S Apartment. 
 Enter Sir JOHN LOVEALL and SUBTLE. 
 
 UB. She's a rare wife, believe it sir: 
 were all such, 
 
 We never should have false inheritors. 
 Sir John. Pish ! friend, there is no 
 woman in the world 
 
 Can hold out in the end, if youth 
 Met in one subject, do assault her aptly ; [shape, wit, 
 For failing once, you must not faint, but try 
 Another way : the paths of women's minds 
 Are crooked and diverse ; they have byways 
 To lead you to the palace of their pleasures, 
 And you must woo discreetly. First, observe 
 The disposition of her you attempt : 
 If she be spriteful and heroical, 
 Possess her that you are valiant, and have spirit : 
 Talk nothing but of beating every man, 
 That is your hindrance ; though you do not do it, 
 Or dare not 'tis no matter. Be she free 
 And of a liberal soul, give bounteously 
 To all the servants ; let your angels 1 fly 
 About the room, although you borrowed 'em. 
 If she be witty, so must your discourse : 
 Get wit, what shift soe'er you make for it, 
 Though't cost you all your land ; and then a song 
 
 1 The gold coins so named.
 
 448 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT in. 
 
 Or two is not amiss, although you buy 'em : 
 There's many in the town will furnish you. 
 
 Sub. But still, I tell you, you must use her roughly. 
 Beat her black and blue, take all her clothes, 
 And give them to some punk 1 : this will be ground 
 For me to work upon. 
 
 Sir John. All this I have done. 
 I have left her now as bare that, should I die, 
 Her fortune, o' my conscience, would be 
 To marry some tobacco-man : she has nothing 
 But an old black-work waistcoat, which would serve 
 Exceeding well to set i' th' shop, and light 
 Pipes for the lousy footmen. And, sweet friend, 
 First here's a jewel to present her ; then, 
 Here is a sonnet writ against myself, 
 Which as thine own thou shalt accost her with. 
 Farewell, and happy success attend thee ! \_Exit. 
 
 Sub. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 \Reads\ " Fairest, still wilt thou be true 
 To man so false to thee ? 
 Did he lend a husband's due, 
 Thou didst owe him loyalty ; 
 But will curses, wants and blows 
 Breed no change in thy white soul ? 
 Be not a fool to thy first vows, 
 Since his first breach doth thy faith control. 
 No beauty else could be so chaste ; 
 Think not thou honour'st woman then, 
 Since by thy conscience all disgraced 
 Are robbed of the dear loves of men. 
 Then grant me my desire, that vow to prove 
 A real husband, his adulterate love." 
 Took ever man more pains to be a cuckold ! 
 O monstrous age, where men themselves we see, 
 Study and pay for their own infamy. \Exit. 
 
 1 Prostitute.
 
 SCENE II.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 449 
 
 SCENE II. -A Room in INGEX'S House. 
 
 Enter INGEN, Lady HONOUR, Lord PROUDLY, FRANK, 
 attired like a Woman: INGEN and Lord PROUDLY, 
 with their swords drawn. 
 
 L. Proud. Give me my sister ! I'll have her forth thy 
 
 heart. 
 
 Ingen. No earthly lord can pull her out of that, 
 Till he have plucked my heart first out. My lord, 
 Were't not inhospitable, I could wrong you here 
 In my own house. I am so full of woe 
 For your lost sister, that by all my joys 
 Hoped for in her, my heart weeps tears of blood : 
 A whiter virgin and a worthier 
 Had ne'er creation ; Leda's swan was black 
 To her virginity and immaculate thoughts. 
 
 L. Proud. Where hast thou hid her? give her me 
 
 again ; 
 
 For, by the God of vengeance, be she lost, 
 The female hate shall spring betwixt our names 
 Shall never die, while one of either house 
 Survives : our children shall, at seven years old, 
 Strike knives in one another. 
 
 Ingen. Let hell gape 
 
 And take me quick, if I know where she is ; 
 But am so charged with sorrow for her loss, 
 Being the cause of it (as no doubt I am), 
 That I had rather fall upon my sword 
 
 \Offering to kill himself. 
 Than breathe a minute longer. 
 Frank O sir ! hold. 
 L. Proud. Thou shall not need : I have a sword to 
 
 ba?he 
 In thy false blood, inhuman murderer. 
 
 L. Hon. Good sir, be pacified : I'll go, I'll run 
 Many a mile to find your sister out. 
 She never was so desperate of grace 
 
 Nero. G G
 
 45o AMENDS FOR LADIES, [ACT in. 
 
 By violence to rob herself of life, 
 
 And so her soul endanger. Comfort, sir ; 
 
 She's but retired somewhere, on my life. 
 
 Ingen. Prythee, let me alone \To FRANK. 
 
 Do I stand to defend that wretched life, 
 That is in doubt of hers ? here, worthy lord, 
 Behold a breast framed of thy sister's love ; 
 Hew it, for thou shalt strike but on a stock, 
 Since she is gone that was the cause it lived. 
 
 L. Proud. Out false dissembler ! art not married ? 
 Ingen. No ; behold it is my younger brother dressed. 
 
 [Plucks off his head tire. 
 
 A man, or woman, that hath gulled the world, 
 Intended for a happier event 
 Than this that followed, that she now is gone. 
 O fond experiments of simple man ! 
 Fool to thy fate, since all thy project, meant 
 But mirth, is now converted unto death. 
 
 L. Hon. O, do not burst me, joy ! that modesty 
 
 [Aside. 
 Would let me show myself to finish all ! 
 
 L. Proud. Nay, then thou hast my sister somewhere, 
 
 villain ! 
 
 'Tis plain now thou wilt steal thy marriage. 
 She is no match for thee, assure thyself. 
 If all the law in England or my friends 
 Can cross it, 't shall not be. 
 
 Ingen. Would 'twere so well, 
 And that I knew the lady to be safe ! 
 Give me no ill-words. Sir, this boy and I 
 Will wander like two pilgrims till we find her. 
 If you do love her as you talk, do so : 
 The love or grief that is expressed in words, 
 Is slight and easy ; 'tis but shallow woe 
 That makes a noise ; deep'st waters stillest go. 1 
 
 1 A different version of this proverb occurs in HeuryVl. Part II., 
 III., i. 53-
 
 SCENE ii.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 451 
 
 I love her better than thy parents did, 
 Which is beyond a brother. 
 
 Z. Proud, Slave ! thou liest 
 
 Ingen. Zounds ! [He is about to strike. 
 
 frank. Kill him ! 
 
 L. Hon. O, hold ! Sir, you dishonour much your 
 
 brother 
 
 To counsel him 'gainst hospitality 
 To strike in his own house. 
 
 Ingen. You, lord insolent, I will fight with you : 
 Take this as a challenge, and set your time. 
 
 Z. Proud. Tomorrow morning, Ingen ; 
 'Tis that I covet, and provoke thee for. 
 
 Frank. Will you not strike him now? 
 
 Ingen. No ; my good boy 
 Is both discreet and just in his advice, 
 Thy glories are to last but for a day : 
 Give me thy hand ; 
 To-morrow morning thou shalt be no lord. 
 
 L. Proud. To-morrow morning thou shalt not be at 
 all. 
 
 Ingen. Pish ! why should you think so ? have not I 
 
 arms, 
 
 A soul as bold as yours, a sword as true ? 
 I do not think your honour in the field, 
 Without your lordship's liveries, will have odds. 
 
 Z. Proud. Farewell, and let's have no excuses, pray. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ingtn. I warrant you. Pray, say your prayers to- 
 night, 
 
 And bring no inkhorn w'ye, to set your hand to 
 A satisfactory recantation. [Exit. 
 
 L. Hon. O wretched maid ! whose sword can I pray 
 
 for? 
 
 But by the other's loss I must find death. 
 O odious brother, if he kill my love !
 
 452 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT in. 
 
 O bloody love, if he should kill my brother ! 
 
 Despair on both sides of my discontent 
 
 Tells me no safety rests but to prevent. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. Lady BRIGHT'S Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Lady BRIGHT and BOLD still disguised as a 
 Woman. 
 
 L. Bright. What's o'clock, Princox ? 
 
 Bold. Bedtime, an't please you, madam. 
 
 L. Bright. Gome, undress me. Would God had 
 made me a man ! 
 
 Bold. Why, madam ? 
 
 L. Bright. Because 
 
 I would have been in bed as soon as they. 
 We are so long unpinning and unlacing. 
 
 Bold. Yet many of us, madam, are quickly undone 
 sometime : but herein we have the advantage of men, 
 though they can be abed sooner than we, it's a great 
 while, when they are abed, ere they can get up. 
 
 L. Bright. Indeed, if they be well-laid, Princox, one 
 cannot get them up in haste. 
 
 Bold. O God ! madam, how mean you that ? I hope 
 you know, ill things taken into a gentlewoman's ears are 
 the quick corrupters of maiden modesty. I would be 
 loth to continue in any service unfit for my virgin estate, 
 or where the world should take any notice of light 
 behaviour in the lady I follow ; for, madam, the main 
 point of chastity in a lady is to build the rock of a good 
 opinion amongst the people by circumstances, and a fair 
 show she must make. Si non caste, tamen caute, madam ; 
 and though wit be a wanton, madam, yet I beseech 
 your ladyship, for your own credit and mine, let the 
 bridle of judgment be always in the chaps of it, to give
 
 SCENE ill.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 453 
 
 it head or restrain it, according as time and place shall 
 be convenient. 
 
 L. Bright. Precise and learned Princox, dost not thou 
 go to Blackfriars ? l 
 
 Bold. Most frequently, madam, unworthy vessel that I 
 am to partake or retain any of the delicious dew that is 
 there distilled. 
 
 L. Bright. But why should'st thou ask me what I 
 meant e'en now ? I tell thee, there's nothing uttered but 
 carries a double sense, one good, one bad ; but if the 
 hearer apply it to the worst, the fault lies in his or her 
 corrupt understanding not in the speaker ; for to answer 
 to your Latin, pravis omnia prava. Believe me, wench, 
 if ill come into my fancy, I will purge it by speech : the 
 less will remain within. A pox of these nice-mouthed 
 creatures ! 1 have seen a narrow pair of lips utter as 
 broad a tale as can be bought for money. Indeed, an ill 
 tale unuttered is like a maggot in a nut, it spoils the 
 whitest kernel. 
 
 Bold. You speak most intelligently, madam. 
 
 L. Bright. Hast not done yet? Thou art an old 
 fumbler, I perceive. Methinks thou dost not do things 
 like a woman. 
 
 Bold. Madam, I do my endeavour, and the best can 
 do no more ; they that could do better, it may be would 
 not, and then 'twere all one. But rather than be a 
 burthen to your ladyship, I protest sincerely, I would beg 
 my bread ; therefore I beseech you, madam, to hold me 
 excused, and let my goodwill stand for the action. 
 
 L. Bright. Let thy goodwill stand for the action ? If 
 goodwill would do it, there's many a lady in this land 
 would be content with her own lord ; and thou can'st 
 not be a burthen to me, without thou lie upon me, and 
 
 1 Compare Act II., i. , "follow the friars." In The Alchemist, 
 I., i., Face is a captain "whom not a Puritan in Blackfriars will 
 trust." That Blackfriars, in spite of the theatre being there, was a 
 common residence of the Puritans many references prove.
 
 454 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT III. 
 
 that were preposterous in thy sex. Take no exceptions 
 at what I say. Remember you said stand even now. 
 There was a word for one of your coat, indeed ! 
 
 Bold. I swear, madam, you are very merry. God 
 send you good luck. Has your ladyship no waters that 
 you use at bedtime ? 
 
 L. Bright. No in troth, Princox. 
 
 Bold. No complexion ? 
 
 L. Bright. None but mine own, I swear. Didst thou 
 ever use any ? 
 
 Bold. No, indeed, madam ; now and then a piece of 
 scarlet, or so ; a little white and red ceruse ; but, in troth, 
 madam, I have an excellent receipt for a nightmask, as 
 ever you heard. 
 
 L. Bright. What is it ? 
 
 Bold. Boar's grease one ounce ; Jordan almonds, 
 blanched and ground, a quartern ; red rose water, half a 
 pint ; mare's urine, newly covered, half a score drops. 
 
 L. Bright. Fogh ! no more of thy medicine, if thou 
 lovest me. Few of our knight-errant, when they meet a 
 lady-errant in a morning, would think her face had lain 
 so plastered all night. Thou hast had some apothecary 
 to thy sweetheart. But, leaving this face-physic (for, by 
 my troth, it may make others have good ones, but it 
 makes me a scurvy one), which of all the gallants in the 
 town wouldst thou make a husband of, if thou mightest 
 have him for thy choosing ? 
 
 Bold. In troth, madam, but you'll say I speak blindly, 
 but let my love stand aside 
 
 L. Bright. I think it not fit, indeed, your love should 
 stand in the middle. 
 
 Bold. I say, Master Bold. O, do but mark him, 
 madam ; his leg, his hand, his body, and all his members 
 stand in print. 1 
 
 L. Bright. Out upon thce, Princox ! No. Methinks 
 
 1 Occurs in much the same sense in A Woman is a Weathercock, 
 I., ii. " this doublet sets in print my lord."
 
 SCENE ill.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 455 
 
 Welltried's a handsome fellow. I like not these starched 
 gallants : masculine faces and masculine gestures please 
 me best. 
 
 Bold. How like you Master Pert ? 
 
 L. Bright. Fie upon him ! when he is in his scarlet 
 clothes, he looks like a man of wax, and I had as lief 
 have a dog o 'wax : I do not think but he lies in a case 
 o' nights. He walks as if he were made of gins ! as if 
 Nature had wrought him in a frame : I have seen him sit 
 discontented a whole play, because one of the purls of 
 his band was fallen out of his reach to order again. 
 
 Bold. Why, Bold, madam, is clean contrary. 
 
 L. Bright. Ay, but that's as ill : each extreme is alike 
 vicious ; his careful carelessness is his study. He spends 
 as much time to make himself slovenly, as the other to 
 be spruce. His garters hang over upon the calves of his 
 legs, his doublet unbuttoned, and his points untrussed ; 2 
 his hair in's eyes like a drunkard, and his hat, worn on 
 the hinder-part of his head, as if he cared more for his 
 memory than his wit, makes him look as if he were 
 distracted. Princox, I would have you lie with me : I do 
 not love to lie alone. 
 
 Bold. With all my heart, madam. 
 
 L. Bright. Are you clean-skinned ? 
 
 Bold. Clean-skinned, madam ? there's a question ! do 
 you think I have the itch ? I am an Englishwoman : I 
 protest, I scorn the motion. 
 
 L. Bright. Nay, prithee, Princox, be not angry : it's a 
 sign of honesty, I can tell you. 
 
 Bold. Faith, madam, I think 'tis but simple honesty 
 that dwells at the sign of the scab. 
 
 L. Bright. Well, well, come to bed, and we'll talk 
 further of all these matters. \Exit. 
 
 Bold. Fortune, I thank thee ; I will owe thee eyes 
 For this good turn ! now is she mine indeed. 
 
 1 A gin is a perpendicular wooden axle with projecting arms. 
 
 2 i.e. With the tagged points of his hose or breeches unlaced.
 
 456 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT in. 
 
 Thou hast given me that success my project hoped. 
 
 Off, false disguise, that hast been true to me, 
 
 And now be Bold, that thou may'st welcome be. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. Inside a Tavern. 
 
 Enter WHOREBANG, BOTS, TEARCHAPS, and SPILLBLOOD 
 with several patches on their faces ; and Drawer. 
 
 Tear. Damn me, we will have more wine, sirrah, or 
 we'll down into the cellar, and drown thee in a butt of 
 Malmsey, and hew all the hogsheads in pieces. 
 
 Whore. Hang him, rogue ! shall he die as honourable 
 as the Duke of Clarence? by this flesh, let's have wine, 
 or I will cut thy head off, and have it roasted and eaten 
 in Pie Corner next Bartholomew-tide. 1 
 
 Draw. Gentlemen, I beseech you consider where you 
 are Turnbul) Street a civil place : do not disturb a 
 number of poor gentlewomen. Master Whorebang, 
 Master Bots, Master Tearchaps, and Master Spillblood, 
 the watch are abroad. 
 
 Spill. The watch ! why, you rogue, are not we kings 
 of Turnbull ? 
 
 Draw. Yes, marry are ye, sir : for my part, if you'll be 
 quiet, I'll have a sign made of ye, and it shall be called 
 the four kings of Turnbull. 
 
 Bots. Will you fetch us wine ? 
 
 Whore. And a whore, sirrah ! 
 
 Draw. Why, what d'ye think of me ? am I an infidel, 
 a Turk, a pagan, a Saracen ? I have been at Bess 
 Turnup's, and she swears all the gentlewomen went to 
 
 1 In allusion to the cooks' shops of this well-known locality and 
 to the special provision they made at the time of Bartholomew Fair. 
 It will be remembered that the Great Fire of London ended at Pie 
 Corner, Smithfield.
 
 SCENE iv.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 457 
 
 see a play at the Fortune, 1 and are not come in yet, and 
 she believes they sup with the players. 
 
 Tear. Damn me, we must kill all those rogues: we 
 shall never keep a whore honest for them. 
 
 Bots. Go your ways, sirrah. We'll have but a gallon 
 apiece, and an ounce of tobacco. 
 
 Draw. I beseech you, let it be but pottles. 2 
 
 Spill. 'Sheart ! you rogue. [Exit Drawer. 
 
 Enter WELLTRIED and Lord FEESIMPLE. 
 Whore. Master Well tried ! welcome as my soul. 
 
 Enter Drawer with wine, plate and tobacco. 
 
 Bots. Noble lad, how dost thou ? 
 
 Spill. As welcome as the tobacco and the wine, boy. 
 
 Tear. Damn me, thou art. 
 
 L. Fee. Bless me (save you gentlemen), they have not 
 one face among 'em ! I could wish myself well from 
 them : I would I had put out something upon my return ; 
 I had as lief be at Barmuthoes. 3 
 
 Well. Pray, welcome this gentleman. 
 
 Spill. Is he valiant ? [Aside. 
 
 Well. Faith, he's a little faulty that way ; somewhat of 
 a bashful and backward nature, yet I have brought him 
 amongst you, because he hath a great desire to be fleshed. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 L. Fee. Yes, faith, sir, I have a great desire to be 
 fleshed ; now Master Welltried said he would bring me to 
 the only flesh-mongers in the town. 
 
 Well. Sir, he cannot endure the sight of steel. [Aside. 
 
 Whore. Not steel? zounds ! 
 
 [Claps his sword over the table. 
 
 1 i.e. The theatre of that name in Golding Lane, Cripplegate. 
 See the volume of Dekker's plays in " The Mermaid Series," for a 
 view and a full account of it. - i.e. Half gallons. 
 
 3 He means that he wishes he had "insured" his return as he 
 would as willingly be at the Bermudas. Collier. The Bermudas 
 (or Streights) was a slang name for parts of the town frequented 
 by bullies and swaggerers such as appear in this scene.
 
 458 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT in. 
 
 L. Fee. Now I am going ! {Faints. 
 
 Bots. Here's to you, sir. I'll fetch you again with a 
 cup of sack. 
 
 L. Fee. I pledge you, sir, and begin to you in a cup of 
 claret. 
 
 Well. Hark you, my lord : what will you say if I make 
 you beat all these out of the room ? [Aside. 
 
 L. Fee. What will I say ? why, I say it is impossible ; 
 'tis not in mortal man. [Aside. 
 
 Well. Well, drink apace : if any brave you, outbrave 
 him ; I'll second you. They are a company of cowards, 
 believe me. [Aside. 
 
 L. Fee. By this light, I would they were else : if I thought 
 so, I would be upon the jack x of one of 'em instantly, 
 that same little " Damn me." But, Master Welltried, if 
 they be not very valiant, or dare not fight, how came they 
 by such cuts and gashes, and such broken faces. [Aside. 
 
 Well. Why, their whores strike 'em with cans and 
 glasses, and quart-pots : if they have nothing by 'em, they 
 strike 'em with the pox, and you know that will lay one's 
 nose as flat as the basket-hilt dagger. [Aside. 
 
 L. Fee. Well, let me alone. [Aside. 
 
 Tear. This bully dares not drink. 
 
 L. Fee. Dare I not, sir ? 
 
 Well. Well said ; speak to him, man. 
 
 L. Fee. You had best try me, sir. 
 
 Spill. We four will drink four healths to four of the 
 seven deadly sins, pride, drunkenness, wrath and lechery. 
 
 L. Fee. I'll pledge 'em, and I thank you ; I know 'em 
 all. Here's one. 
 
 Whore. Which of the sins. 
 
 L. Fee. By my troth even to pride. 
 
 Well. Why, well said ; and in this do not you only 
 pledge your mistress's health, but all the women's in the 
 world. 
 
 1 The jack, properly, is a coat of mail, but it here means a buff 
 jacket or jerkin worn by soldiers or pretended soldiers. Collier.
 
 SCENE iv.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 459 
 
 L. Fee. So : now this little cup to wrath, because he 
 and I are strangers. 
 
 Tear. Brave boy ! damn me, he shall be a roarer. 
 
 L. Fee. Damn me, I will be a roarer, ort shall cost me 
 a fall. 
 
 Bots. The next place that falls, pray, let him have it. 
 
 L. Fee. Well, I have two of my healths to drink yet 
 lechery and drunkenness, which even shall go together. 
 
 Well. Why, how now, my lord, a moralist ? 
 
 Bots. Damn me, art thou a lord ? what virtues hast thou? 
 
 L. Fee. Virtues ? enough to keep e'er a damn-me com- 
 pany in England : methinks you should think it virtue 
 enough to be a lord. 
 
 Whore. Will you not pledge these healths, Master 
 Welltried? we'll have no observers. 1 
 
 Well. Why, Monsieur Whorebang? I am no play- 
 maker, and, for pledging your healths, I love none of the 
 four you drank to so well. 
 
 Spill. Zounds ! you shall pledge me this. 
 
 Well. Shall I ? 
 
 L. Fee. What's the matter ? dost hear, Master Well- 
 tried, use thine own discretion ; if thou wilt not pledge 
 him, say so, and let me see if e'er a damn-me of 'em all 
 will force thee. 
 
 Spill. Puff! will your lordship take any tobacco? you 
 lord with the white face. 
 
 Bots. Heart ! he cannot put it through his nose. 
 
 L. Fee. Faith, you have ne'er a nose to put it through ; 
 d'ye hear ? blow your face, sirrah. 
 
 Tear. You'll pledge me, sir ? 
 
 Well. Indeed, I will not. 
 
 L. Fee. Damn me, he shall not then. 2 
 
 1 i.e. Whorebang is afraid that Welltried and his friend are 
 writers who have come to the tavern merely for the purpose of 
 making notes for a play ; his remark is explained by Welltried's 
 answer. 
 
 2 In both the old copies this remark is erroneously given to Tear- 
 chaps. Collier.
 
 460 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT HI. 
 
 Tear. Lord, use your own words, " damn me " is mine; 
 I am known by it all the town o'er, d'ye hear ? 
 
 L Fee. It is as free for me as you, d'ye hear, Patch ? ' 
 
 Tear. 1 have paid more for't. 
 
 Well. Nay, I'll bear him witness in a truth : his soul 
 lies for't, 2 my lord. 
 
 Spill. Welltried, you are grown proud since you got 
 good clothes and have followed your lord. 
 
 \_Strikes him, and they scuffle. 
 
 Whore. I have known you lousy, Welltried. 
 
 Well. Roarer, you lie. 
 
 \They draw and fight ; throw pots and stools. 
 
 Draw. O Jesu ! 
 
 Whore., Bots, Tear., and Spill. Zounds ! cleave or be 
 cleft: pell-mell : slash arms and legs. 
 
 L. Fee. Heart ! let me alone with 'em. 
 
 \They break off, and exeunt WHOREBANG, BOTS, 
 TEARCHAPS and SPILLBLOOD. 
 
 Well. Why, now thou art a worthy wight, indeed, a 
 Lord of Lorn. 3 
 
 L. Fee, I am a madman : look, is not that one of their 
 
 Well. Fie ! no, my lord. [heads ? 
 
 L. Fee. Damn me, but 'tis ; I would not wish you to 
 cross me a'purpose : if you have anything to say to me, so 
 I am ready. 
 
 Well. O brave lord ! many a roarer thus is made by 
 wine. Come, it is one of their heads, my lord. 
 
 L . Fee. Why so, then, I will have my humour. If you 
 love me, let's go break windows somewhere. 
 
 Well. Drawer, take your plate. For the reckoning 
 there's some of their cloaks : 1 will be no shot-log to such. 
 
 Draw. God's blessing o' your heart for thus ridding 
 the house of them. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 The common name for the domestic fool. 
 
 - i.e. Lies in pawn. 3 The hero of an early heroic ballad. Ha~Jilt.
 
 ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. Lady BRIGHT'S Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Lady BRIGHT undressed, a sword in her hand ; and 
 BOLD in his shirt, as started from bed. 
 
 ADY BRIGHT. Uncivil man! if I 
 
 should take thy life, 
 It were not to be weighed with thy 
 
 attempt 
 Thou hast for ever lost me. 
 
 Bold. Madam, why ? 
 Can love beget loss ? Do I covet you 
 Unlawfully ? Am I an unfit man 
 To make a husband of? Send for a priest ; 
 First consummate the match, and then to bed 
 Without more trouble. 
 L. Bright. No, I will not do't. 
 
 Bold. Why, you confessed to me (as your gentlewoman) 
 I was the man your heart did most affect ; 
 That you did doat upon my mind and body. 
 
 L. Bright. So, by the sacred and inviolate knot 
 Of marriage, I do ; but will not wed thee. 
 
 Bold. Why, yet enjoy me now. Consider, lady, 
 That little but blessed time I was in bed, 
 Although I lay as by my sister's side, 
 The world is apt to censure otherwise : 
 So, 'tis necessity that we marry now. 
 
 L. Bright. Pish ! I regard not at a straw the world. 
 Fame from the tongues of men doth injury
 
 462 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT iv. 
 
 Oftener than justice ; and as conscience 
 
 Only makes guilty persons, not report, 
 
 (For show we clear as springs unto the world, 
 
 If our own knowledge do not make us so, 
 
 That is no satisfaction to ourselves), 
 
 So stand we ne'er so leprous to men's eye, 
 
 It cannot hurt heart-known integrity. 
 
 You have trusted to that fond opinion, 
 
 This is the way to have a widowhood, 
 
 By getting to her bed. Alas ! young man, 
 
 Shouldst thou thyself tell thy companions 
 
 Thou hast dishonoured me (as you men have tongues 
 
 Forked and venomed 'gainst our subject sex) ; 
 
 It should not move me, that know 'tis not so : 
 
 Therefore depart. Truth be my virtuous shield. 
 
 Bold. Few widows would do thus. 
 
 L. Bright All modest would. 
 
 Bold. To be in bed, and in possession 
 Even of the mark I aimed at, and go off 
 Foiled and disgraced ! Come, come, you'll laugh at me 
 Behind my back ; publish I wanted spirit, 
 And mock me to the ladies ; call me child, 
 Say you denied me but to try the heat 
 And zeal of my affection toward you, 
 Then clapped up with a rhyme ; as for example 
 He coldly loves retires for one vain trial, 
 For we are yielding when we make denial. 
 
 L. Bright. Servant, I make no question, from this time 
 You'll hold a more reverent opinion 
 Of some that wear long coats ; and 'tis my pride 
 To assure you that there are amongst us good, 
 And with this continency. If you go away, 
 I'll be so far from thinking it defect, 
 That I will hold you worthiest of men. 
 
 Bold. 'Sheart ! I am Tantalus : my longed-for fruit 
 Bobs at my lips, yet still it shrinks from me. 
 Have not I that, which men say never fails
 
 SCENE i.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 463 
 
 To o'ercome any, opportunity ? 
 
 Come, come ; I am too cold in my assault. 
 
 By all the virtues that yet ever were 
 
 In man or woman, I with reverence 
 
 Do love thee, lady, but will be no fool 
 
 To let occasion slip her foretop from me. 
 
 L. Bright. You will fail this way too. Upon my knees 
 I do desire thee to preserve thy virtues, 
 And with my tears my honour : 'tis as bad 
 To lose our worths to them, or to deceive 
 Who have held worthy opinions of us, 
 As to betray trust. All this I implore 
 For thine own sake, not mine : as for myself, 
 If thou be'st violent, by this stupid night 
 And all the mischiefs her dark womb hath bred, 
 I'll raise the house ; I'll cry a rape. 
 
 Bold. I hope 
 
 You will not hang me : that were murder, lady, 
 A greater sin than lying with me, sure. 
 
 L. Bright. Come, flatter not yourself with argument 
 I will exclaim : the law hangs you, not I ; 
 Or if I did, I had rather far confound 
 The dearest body in the world to me, 
 Than that that body should confound my soul 
 
 Bold. Your soul ? alas ! mistress, are you so fond 
 To think her general destruction 
 Can be procured by such a natural act, 
 Which beasts are born to, and have privilege in ? 
 Fie, fie ! if this could be, far happier 
 Are insensitive ! souls in their creation 
 Than man, the prince of creatures. Think you, Heaven 
 Regards such mortal deeds, or punisheth 
 Those acts for which he hath ordained us? 
 
 L. Bright. You argue like an atheist ; man is never 
 The prince of creatures, as you call him now, 
 But in his reason ; fail that, he is worse 
 
 1 Hazlitt's alteration of the old reading " sensitive."
 
 464 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT iv. 
 
 Than horse or dog, or beast of wilderness ; 
 And 'tis that reason teacheth us to do 
 Our actions unlike them : then, that which you 
 Termed in them a privilege beyond us, 
 The baseness of their being doth express, 
 Compared to ours : horses, bulls and swine 
 Do leap their dams ; because man does not so, 
 Shall we conclude his making l happiless ? 
 
 Bold. You put me down yet will not put me down. 
 I am too gentle : some of you, I have heard, 
 Love not these words, but force ; to have it done, 
 As they sing prick-song, even at the first sight. 
 
 L. Bright. Go to : keep off ; by heaven and earth, I'll 
 call else ! 
 
 Bold. How, if nobody hear you ? 
 
 L. Bright. If they do not, 
 I'll kill you with mine own hand ; never stare : 
 Or failing that, fall on this sword myself. 
 
 Bold. O widow wonderful ! if thou be'st not honest, 
 Now God forgive my mother and my sisters. 
 Think but how finely, madam, undiscovered 
 For ever I might live : all day your gentlewoman 
 To do you service, but all night your man 
 To do you service : newness of the trick, 
 If nothing else, might stir ye. 
 
 L. Bright. 'Tis a stale one, 
 And was done in the Fleet ten years ago. 
 Will you begone ? the door is open for you. 
 
 Bold. Let me but tarry till the morning, madam, 
 To send for clothes. Shall I go naked home? 
 
 L. Bright. 'Tis best time now ; it is but one o'clock, 
 And you may go unseen : I swear, by Heaven, 
 I would spend all the night to sit and talk w'ye, 
 If I durst trust you : I do love you so. 
 My blood forsakes my heart now you depart. 
 
 Bold. 'Sheart ! will you marry me hereafter, then ? 
 
 1 i.e. Mating.
 
 SCENE i.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 465 
 
 L. Bright. No, you are too young, and I am much too 
 
 old; 
 
 Ay, and unworthy, and the world will say 
 We married not for love. Good morrow, servant. [Exit. 
 
 Bold. Why so : these women are the errantest jugglers 
 in the world: the wry-legged fellow is an ass to 'em. 
 Well, I must have this widow, whate'er come on't. 
 Faith, she has turned me out of her service very barely. 
 Hark, what's here ? music ? 
 
 Enter SUBTLE with a paper, and his Boy with a cloak. 
 
 Sub. \_Reads.~] " Rise, lady mistress, rise, 
 The night hath tedious been ; 
 No sleep hath fallen into my eyes, 
 Nor slumbers made me sin. 
 Is not she a saint, then say, 
 Thought of whom keeps sin away ? 
 
 " Rise, madam, rise and give me light, 
 Whom darkness still will cover, 
 And ignorance, darker than night, 
 Till thou smile on thy lover. 
 All want day, till thy beauty rise, 
 For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes ! " ' 
 
 Now sing it, sirrah. [ The song is sung by the Boy. 
 
 Sub. 'Sfoot, who's this ? young Master Bold ! 
 God save you ; you are an early stirrer. 
 
 Bold. You say true, Master Subtle, I have been early up, 
 But, as God help me, I was never the near. 2 
 
 Sub. Where have you been, sir? 
 
 Bold. What's that to you, sir ? at a woman's labour. 
 
 Sub. Very good : I ne'er took you for a man-midwife 
 before. 
 
 Bold. The truth is, I have been up all night at dice 
 
 1 Compare the song in The Fatal Dowry, Act II. 
 
 2 An allusion to the proverb. . T -iazlitt, 
 Nero. H H
 
 466 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT iv. 
 
 and lost my clothes. Good morrow, Master Subtle. 
 Pray God the watch be broke up : I thank you for my 
 music. [Exit. 
 
 Sub. 'Tis palpable, by this air; her husband being 
 abroad, Bold has lain with her, and is now conveyed out 
 of doors. Is this the Lady Perfect, with a pox ? The 
 truth is, her virtuous chastity began to make me make a 
 miracle of her still holding out to me, notwithstanding 
 her husband's most barbarous usage of her ; but now, 
 indeed, 'tis no marvel, since another possesses her. 
 Well, madam, I will go find out your cuckold ; 
 I'll be revenged on you, and tell a tale 
 Shall tickle him. This is a cheat in love 
 Not to be borne : another to beguile 
 Me of the game I played for all this while. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. BOLD'S Lodgings. 
 
 Enter WELLTRIED, and BOLD putting on his doublet ; 
 Lord FEESIMPLE asleep on a bed. 
 
 Well. You see, we made bold with your lodging : 
 indeed, I did assure myself you were fast for this night. 
 
 Bold. But how the devil came this fool in your 
 company ? 
 
 Well. 'Sfoot, man, I carried him last night among the 
 roarers to flesh him : and, by this light, he got drunk, and 
 beat 'em all. 
 
 Bold. Why, then, he can endure the sight of a drawn 
 sword now ? 
 
 Well. O God, sir, I think in my conscience he will eat 
 steel shortly. I know not how his conversion will hold 
 after this sleep ; but, in an hour or two last night, he was 
 grown such a little damnme, that I protest I was afraid of 
 the spirit that I myself had raised in him. But this other
 
 SCENE ii.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 467 
 
 matter of your expulsion thus, mads me to the heart. 
 Were you in bed with her? 
 
 Bold. In bed, by Heaven. 
 
 Well. I'll be hanged, if you were not busy too soon : 
 you should have let her slept first. 
 
 Bold. Zounds ! man, she put her hand to my breasts, 
 and swore I was no maid : now I, being eager to prove 
 her words true, took that hint, and would violently have 
 thrust her hand lower, when her thought, being swifter 
 than my strength, made her no sooner imagine that she 
 was betrayed,' but she leaps out of the bed, whips me 
 down a sword that hung by, and, as if fortitude and 
 justice had met to assist her, spite of all argument, fair or 
 foul, she forced me away. 
 
 Well. But is it possible thou shouldst have no more 
 wit ? wouldst thou come away upon any terms but sure 
 ones, having night, her chamber, and herself naked in 
 thine arms? By that light, if I had a son of fourteen, 
 whom I had helped thus far, that had served me so, I 
 would breech him. 
 
 Bold. 'Sheart ! what would you have me done ? 
 
 Well. Have done ? done ? twice at least. 
 
 Bold. Have played Tarquin, and ravished her ? 
 Well. Pish ! Tarquin was a blockhead : if he had had 
 any wit and could have spoke, Lucrece had never been 
 ravished ; she would have yielded, I warrant thee, and so 
 will any woman. 
 
 Bold. I was such an erroneous heretic to love and 
 women as thou art, till now. 
 
 Well. God's precious ! it makes me mad when I think 
 on't. Was there ever such an absurd trick ! now will 
 she abuse thee horribly, say thou art a faint-hearted 
 fellow, a milksop, and I know not what, as indeed 
 thou art. 
 
 Bold. Zounds ! would you had been in my place. 
 Well. Zounds ! I would I had, I would have so jum- 
 bled her honesty. Wouldst thou be held out at stave's
 
 468 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT iv. 
 
 end with words ? dost thou not know a widow's a weak 
 vessel, and is easily cast, if you close. 
 
 Bold. Welltried, you deal unfriendly. 
 
 Well. By this light, I shall blush to be seen in thy 
 company. 
 
 Bold. Pray, leave my chamber. 
 
 Well. Pox upon your chamber ! 
 I care not for your chamber nor yourself, 
 More than you care for me. 
 
 Bold. 'Sblood ! I as little for you. 
 
 Well. Why, fare you well. 
 
 Bold. Why, fare well. Yet, Welltried, 1 I prythee, 
 
 stay: 
 Thou know'st I love thee. 
 
 Well. 'Sheart ! I love you as well ; 
 But for my spleen or choler, I think I have 
 As much as you. 
 
 Bold. Well, friend, 
 
 This is the business you must do for me. 
 Repair unto the widow, where give out, 
 To-morrow morn I shall be married : 
 Invite her to the wedding. I have a trick 
 To put upon this lord, too, whom I made 
 My instrument to prefer me. 
 
 Well. What shall follow 
 I will not ask, because I mean to see't. 
 The jars 'twixt friends still keeps their friendship sweet. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 L. Fee. [ Waking.} Why, Welltried, you rogue ! what's 
 that ? a vision ? 
 
 Bold. Why, how now, my lord ? whom do you call 
 rogue ? The gentleman you name is my friend. If you 
 were wise, I should be angry. 
 
 L. Fee. Angry with me? why, damn me, sir, an you 
 be, out with your sword. It is not with me, I tell you, as 
 
 1 Hazlitt's correction ; it is less abrupt than the old reading, 
 "Why farewell you. Welltried, I prythee stay."
 
 SCENE II.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 469 
 
 it was yesterday ; I am fleshed, man, I. Have you any- 
 thing to say to me ? 
 
 Bold. Nothing but this : how many do you think you 
 have slain last night ? 
 
 Z. Fee. Why, five ; I never kill less. 
 
 Bold. There were but four. My lord, you had best pro- 
 vide yourself and begone ; three you have slain stark dead. 
 
 L. Fee. You jest ! 
 
 Bold. It is most true. Welltried is fled. 
 
 L. Fee. Why, let the roarers meddle with me another 
 time : as for flying, I scorn it ; I killed 'em like a man. 
 When did you ever see a lord hang for anything ? We 
 may kill whom we list. Marry, my conscience pricks me. 
 Ah ? plague a' this drink ! what things it makes us do ! 
 I do no more remember this now than a puppy-dog. 
 O bloody lord, that art bedaubed with gore ! 
 Vain world, adieu, for I will roar no more. 
 
 Bold. Nay, stay, my lord : I did but try the tenderness 
 of your conscience. All this is nothing so ; but, to 
 sweeten the tale I have for you, I foretold you this 
 feigned mischance. 
 
 L. Fee. It is a tale belonging to the widow. 
 
 Bold. I think you are a witch. 
 
 L. Fee. My grandmother was suspected. 
 
 Bold. The widow has desired you by me to meet her 
 to-morrow at church in some unknown disguise, lest any 
 suspect it ; for, quoth she, 
 
 Long hath he held me fast in his moist hand, 
 Therefore I will be his in nuptial band. 
 
 L. Fee. Bold, I have ever taken you to be my friend. 
 I am very wise now and valiant ; if this be not true, 
 damn me. sir, you are the son of a whore, and you lie, 
 and 1 will make it good with my sword. 
 
 Bold. I am whate'er you please, sir, if it be not true. I 
 will go with you to the church myself. Your disguise I 
 have thought on. The widow is your own. Come, leave 
 your fooling.
 
 o AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT iv. 
 
 L. Fee. [Sings. ,] 
 
 If this be true, thou little boy Bold, 
 
 So true, as thou tell'st to me, 
 To-morrow morn, when I have the widow 
 
 My dear friend shall thou be. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. A Street. 
 
 Enter Lady HONOUR as a Footboy ; SELDOM with PITTS 
 and DONNER, two Serjeants. 
 
 L. Hon. Sir, 'tis most true, and in this shall you be 
 Unlike to other citizens, that arrest 
 To undo gentlemen : your clemency here, 
 Perchance, saves two lives : one from the other's sword, 
 The other from the law's. This morn they fight, 
 And though your debtor be a lord, yet should he 
 Miscarry, certainly your debt were lost. 
 
 Scl. Dost thou serve the Lord Proudly ? 
 
 L. Hon. Sir, I do. 
 
 Sel. Well, such a boy as thou is worth more money 
 Than thy lord owes me. 'Tis not for the debt 
 I do arrest him, but to end this strife, 
 Which both may lose my money and his life. 
 
 Enter Lord PROUDLY, with a riding-rod. 
 
 L. Proud. My horse there ! Zounds ! I would not 
 
 for the world 
 
 He should alight before me in the field ; 
 My name and honour were for ever lost. 
 
 SeL Good morrow to your honour. I do hear 
 Your lordship this fair morning is to fight, 
 And for your honour : did you never see 
 The play where the fat knight, hight Oldcastle, 
 Did tell you truly what his honour was ? ' 
 
 1 This passage has been adduced by Dr. Farmer to show that 
 Falstaff was originally called by Shakespeare Oldcastle, according
 
 SCENE in.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 471 
 
 Z. Proud. Why, how now, good man flatcap, what- 
 
 d'ye-lack ? * 
 Whom do you talk to, sirrah ? 
 
 isf Ssr. We arrest you. 
 
 L. Proud. Arrest me, rogue ? I am a lord, ye curs, 
 A parliament man. 
 
 2nd Set: Sir, we arrest you, though. 
 
 L. Proud. At whose suit ? 
 
 Sel. At mine, sir. 
 
 L. Proud. Why, thou base rogue ! did not I set thee up, 
 Having no stock but thy shop and fair wife ? 
 
 Sel. Into my house with him ! 
 
 L. Hon. Away with him ! away with him ! 
 
 Z. Proud. A plot, a trick, by Heaven ! See, Ingen's 
 
 footboy : 
 
 'Tis by his master's means. O coward slave ! 
 I'll put in bail, or pay the debt. 
 
 Sel. Ay, ay, ay ; we'll talk with you within thrust 
 him in. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter INGEN, looking on his sword, and bending it ; 
 and FRANK. 
 
 Ingen. If I miscarry, Frank, I prythee see 
 All my debts paid : about five hundred pounds 
 Will fully satisfy all men : and my land, 
 And what I else possess, by Nature's right 
 And thy descent, Frank, I make freely thine. 
 
 Frank. I know you do not think I wish you dead 
 For all the benefit : besides, your spirit's 
 
 to the tradition mentioned by Rowe, and supported by Fuller in his 
 " Worthies," and by other authorities. The point is argued at great 
 length in Malone's Shakespeare by Boswell, xvi. 410, et seq., and 
 the decisions of the learned have been various ; but the balance of 
 evidence is undoubtedly in favour of the opinion that Shakespeare 
 made the change, perhaps to avoid the confusion of his very original 
 character with the mere fat buffoon of the old play of Henry V., a 
 point not adverted to in the discussion. Field's testimcny seems 
 tolerably decisive. Collier. 
 
 1 " Flatcap " and " What-d'ye-lack " were cant names for citizens 
 and apprentices.
 
 472 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT iv. 
 
 So opposite to counsel to avert 
 
 Your resolution, that I save my breath, 
 
 Which would be lost in vain, to expire and spend 
 
 Upon your foe, if you fall under him. 
 
 Ingen. Frank, I protest, you shall do injury 
 Upon my foe, and much disturbance too 
 Unto my soul departing, die I here 
 Fairly, and on my single enemy's sword, 
 If you should not let him go off untouched. 
 Now, by the master of thy life and mine, 
 I love thee, boy, beyond any example, 
 As well as thou dost me ; but should I go 
 Thy second to the field, as thou dost mine, 
 And if thine enemy killed thee like a man, 
 I would desire never to see him more, 
 But he should bear himself off with those wounds 
 He had received from thee, from that time safe 
 And without persecution by the law ; 
 For what hap is our foe's might be our own, 
 And no man's judgment sits in justice' place, 
 But weighing other men's as his own case. 
 
 Frank. He has the advantage of you, being a lord ; 
 For should you kill him, you are sure to die, 
 And by some lawyer with a golden tongue, 
 That cries for right (ten angels on his side), 
 Your daring meet him called presumption : 
 But kill he you, he and his noble friends 
 Have such a golden snaffle for the jaws 
 Of man-devouring Pythagorean law, 
 They'll rein her stubborn chaps even to her tail : 
 And (though she have iron teeth to meaner men), 
 So master her, that, who displeased her most, 
 She shall lie under like a tired jade ; 
 For small boats on rough seas are quickly lost, 
 But ships ride safe, and cut the waves that tost. 
 
 Ingen. Follow what may, I am resolved, dear brother. 
 This monster valour, that doth feed on men,
 
 SCENE in.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 473 
 
 Groans in me for my reputation. 
 This charge I give thee, too if I do die, 
 Never to part from the young boy which late 
 I entertained, but love him for my sake. 
 And for my mistress, the Lady Honour, 
 Whom to deceive I have deceived myself, 
 If she be dead, pray God I may give up 
 My life a sacrifice on her brother's sword ; 
 But if thou liv'st to see her, gentle brother : 
 If I be slain, tell her I died, because 
 I had transgressed against her worthy love 
 This sword is not well-mounted ; let's see thine. 
 
 Enter Lady HONOUR as a Footboy. 
 
 L. Hon. Your staying, sir, is in vain, for my Lord 
 Just at his taking horse to meet you here, [Proudly, 
 
 At Seldom's suit (the citizen) was arrested 
 Upon an action of two hundred pounds. 
 I saw it, sir ; 'tis true. 
 
 Ingen. O scurvy lord ! 
 
 It had been a cleanlier shift than this to have had 
 It hindered by command, he being a lord. 
 But I will find him. 
 
 Re-enter Lord PROUDLY. 
 
 L. Proud. You see, valiant sir, I have got loose 
 For all your stratagem. O rogue ! are you there ? 
 
 [Lord PROUDLY stabs Lady HONOUR. 
 
 Ingen. Most ignoble lord ! 
 
 [INGEN stabs Lord PROUDLY in the left arm. 
 
 L. Proud. Coward ! thou didst this, 
 That I might be disabled for the fight, 
 Or that thou mightst have some excuse to shun me, 
 But 'tis my left arm thou hast lighted on. 
 I have no second : here are three of you. 
 If all do murder me, your consciences 
 Will more than hang you, damn you. Come, prepare !
 
 474 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT IV. 
 
 Ingen. Brother, walk off, and take the boy away. 
 Is he hurt much ? 
 
 Frank. Nothing, or very little. 
 
 [Lord PROUDLY thrusts out Lady HONOUR, 
 who is accompanied by FRANK. 
 
 Ingen. I'll bind your wound up first : your loss of 
 May sooner make you faint. [blood 
 
 L. Proud. Ingen, thou art 
 A worthy gentleman : for this courtesy, 
 Go to, I'll save thy life. Come on, sir ! [A pass or two. 
 I'll cut your codpiece point, sir, with this thrust, 
 And then down go your breeches. 
 
 Ingen. Your lordship's merry. [Another pass. 
 
 I had like to have spoiled your cutwork band. 
 
 Re-enter Lady HONOUR, running; FRANK after her ; 
 Lady HONOUR kneels betwixt PROUDLY and INGEN. 
 
 L. Hon. O master, hold your hand ! my lord, hold 
 
 yours, 
 
 Or let your swords meet in this wretched breast ! 
 Yet you are both well ; what blood you have lost, 
 Give it as for the injury you did, 
 And now be friends. 
 
 L. Proud. 'Sheart ! 'tis a loving rogue. 
 
 Ingen. Kind boy, stand up : 'tis for thy wound he 
 My wrong is yet unsatisfied. [bleeds ; 
 
 L. Proud. Hence ! away ! 
 It is a sister's loss that whets my sword. 
 
 L. Hon. O, stay, my lord ! behold your sister here. 
 
 [Discovers herself. 
 
 Bleeding by your hand : servant, see your mistress 
 Turned to thy servant, running by thy horse ; 
 Whose meaning 'twas to have prevented this, 
 But all in vain. 
 
 Frank. O noble lady ! 
 
 Ingen. Most worthy pattern of all womenkind ! 
 
 L. Proud. Ingen, I am satisfied; put up your sword.
 
 SCENE in.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 475 
 
 Sister, you must with me : I have a husband, 
 The Lord Feesimple's father, old, but rich. 
 This gentleman is no match for you : kneel not. 
 That portion of yours I have consumed ! 
 Thus marrying, you shall never come to want. 
 
 L. Hon. O sweet my lord, my brother ! do not force 
 To break my faith, or to a loathed bed. [me 
 
 Ingen. Force you he shall not : brother bear her 
 She is my wife, and thou shalt find my cause [hence, 
 Ten times improved now. 
 
 L. Proud. O, have at you, sir. [A pass. 
 
 L. Hon. Hold, hold, for Heaven's sake ! was e'er 
 
 wretched lady 
 
 Put to this hazard ? Sir, let me speak 
 But one word with him, and I'll go with you, 
 And undergo whatever you command. 
 
 L. Proud. Do't quickly, for I love no whispering, 
 'Tis strange to see you, madam, with a sword ! 
 You should have come hither in your lady's clothes. 
 
 Z. Hon. Well, as you please, my lord : you are 
 Whatsoever before [witness, 
 
 Hath passed betwixt us, thus I do undo. 
 Were not I mad to think thou couldst love me, 
 That wouldst have slain my brother. 
 
 L. Proud. Say'st true, sister ? 
 
 Ingen. O, thou fair creature ! wilt thou be as false 
 As other ladies ? 
 
 L. Hon. Thou art my example. 
 
 I'll kiss thee once : farewell for ever. Come, my lord, 
 Match me, with whom you please a tumbler. [now 
 
 I must do this, else had they fought again. 
 
 L. Proud. Mine own best sister ! Farewell Master 
 Ingen. {Exit with Lady HONOUR. 
 
 Frank. O ancient truth ! to be denied of no man : 
 An eel by the tail's held surer than a woman. [Exeunt.
 
 ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. A Room in Sir JOHN LOVEALL'S House. 
 Enter SUBTLE, with Sir JOHN LOVEALL. 
 
 r UB. She is not to be cast. 
 
 Sir John. It cannot be : 
 Had you a wife, and I were in your case, 
 I would be hanged even at the chamber- 
 door, 
 
 Where I attempted, but I'd lay her flat 
 Sub. Why, tell me truly, would it please you best, 
 To have her remain chaste or conquered ? 
 
 Sir John. O friend, it would do me good at the heart 
 To have her overcome : she does so brag, 
 And stand upon her chastity, forsooth. 
 
 Sub. Why, then, in plain terms, sir, the fort is mine : 
 Your wife has yielded; "up tails" is her song. 
 The deed is done. Come now, be merry, man. 
 
 Sir John. Is the deed done indeed ? Come, come, you 
 Has my wife yielded? is "up tails" her song? [jest. 
 Faith, come to prose : how got you to the matter first, 
 Pish ! you are so bashful now [ha ? 
 
 Sub. Why, by my troth, I'll tell you, because you are 
 my friend ; otherwise you must note, it is a great hurt to 
 the art of whoremastery "to discover ; besides, the skill 
 was never mine o' th' price. 
 Sir John. Very good ; on, sir. 
 
 Sub. At the first she was horrible stiff against me ; 
 then, sir, I took her by the hand, which I kissed.
 
 SCENE i.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 477 
 
 Sir John. Good, sir. 
 
 Sub. And I called her pretty rogue, and I thrust my 
 finger betwixt her breasts, and I made lips. At last I 
 pulled her by the chin to me, and I kissed her. 
 
 Sir John. Hum ! very good. 
 
 Sub. So at the first she kissed very strangely, close 
 and untoward. Then said I to her, think but upon 
 the wrongs, the intolerable wrongs, the rogue your 
 husband does you. 
 
 Sir John. Ay, that was very good : what said she to 
 you then, sir? 
 
 Sub. Nay, I went on. First, quoth I, think how he 
 hath used you left you no means, given all your clothes 
 to his punks 1 ; struck you, turned your grey eyes into 
 black ones, but yet 
 
 Sir John. A pretty conceit ! 
 
 Sub. Quoth I, these things are nothing in the rascal : 
 think but what a base whoremaster the rascal is. 
 
 Sir John. Did you call me rascal so often, are you sure? 
 
 Sub. Yes, and oftener ; for, said I, none comes amiss 
 to the rogue. I have known him, quoth I, do three 
 lousy beggars under hedges in the riding of ten mile, and 
 I swore this too. 
 
 Sir John. 'Twas very well ; but you did lie. On pray. 
 
 Sub. Pish ! one must lie a little. Now, sir, by this 
 time she began to kiss somewhat more openly and 
 familiarly, her resistance began to slacken, and my 
 assault began to stiffen. The more her bulwark decayed, 
 the more my battery fortified. At last, sir, a little 
 fumbling being passed to make the conquest more 
 difficult, she perceiving my artillery mounted, falls me 
 flat upon her back, cries me out aloud 
 " Alas ! I yield. Use me not roughly, friend ; 
 My fort that, like Troy town, ten years hath stood 
 Besieged and shot at, did remain unwon ; 
 Rut now 'tis conquered." So the deed was done. 
 
 1 Loose women.
 
 478 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT V 
 
 Sir John. Then came the hottest service. Forward 
 
 with your tale, sir. 
 Sub. Nay, 
 
 Ccetera quis nesrit ? lassi requievimus ambo : 
 Proveniant medii sic mi hi scepe dies. 1 
 Sir John. Which is as much as to say I am a cuckold 
 in all languages ! But sure, 'tis not so ? it is impossible 
 my wife should yield. 
 
 Sub. Heyday ! even now it was impossible she should 
 hold out, and now it is impossible she should yield. 
 Stay you but here, and be an ear-witness to what follows. 
 I'll fetch your wife. [Aside. ] I know he will not stay. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir John. Good faith, sir, but he will. 
 I do suspect some knavery in this. 
 Here will I hide myself; when thought as gone, 
 If they do ought unfitting, I will call 
 Witness, and straightway sue for a divorce. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter SUBTLE with Lady PERFECT. 
 
 Sub. I knew he would not stay. Now, noble mistress, 
 I claim your promise. 
 
 L. Per. What was that, good servant ? 
 
 Sub. That you would lie with me. 
 
 L. Per. If with any man 
 But, prithee, first consider with thyself, 
 If I should yield to thee, what a load thy conscience 
 Would bear about it ; for I wish quick thunder 
 May strike me, if I yet have lost the truth, 
 Or whiteness of the hand I gave in church : 
 And 'twill not be thy happiness (as thou think'st) 
 That thou alone shouldst make a woman fall, 
 That did resist all else ; but to thy soul 
 A bitter corrosive, that thou didst stain 
 Virtue that else had stood immaculate. 
 Nor speak I this as yielding unto thee, 
 
 1 Ovid, "Amor." lib. i. el. 5, 25-6.
 
 SCENE i.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 479 
 
 'For 'tis not in thy power, wert thou the sweet'st 
 
 Of nature's children and the happiest, 
 
 To conquer me, nor in mine own to yield ; 
 
 And thus it is with every pious wife. 
 
 Thy daily railing at my absent husband 
 
 Makes me endure thee worse ; for let him do 
 
 The most preposterous, ill-relishing things : 
 
 To me they seem good, since my husband does 'em. 
 
 Nor am I to revenge or govern him : 
 
 And thus it should be with all virtuous wives. 
 
 Sub. Pox o' this virtue and this chastity ! 
 Do you not know, fair mistress, a young gentleman 
 About this town called Bold ? Where did he lie 
 Last night, sweet mistress ? O, O ! are you catched ? 
 I saw him slip out of the house this morn, 
 As naked as this truth ; and for this cause 
 I have told your husband that you yielded to me, 
 And he I warrant you will blaze it thoroughly. 
 As good do now, then, as be thought to do. 
 
 L. Per. No, 'twill not be yet. Thou injurious man ! 
 How wilt thou right me in my husband's thoughts, 
 That on a false surmise and spite hast told 
 A tale to breed incurable discontent ? 
 Bold was that old wench that did serve the widow, 
 And thinking by this way to gain her love, 
 Missed of his purpose, and was thus cashiered ; 
 Nor cares she to proclaim it to the world. 
 
 Sub. Zounds ! I have wronged you, mistress, on my 
 knees [Kneels. 
 
 I ask your pardon, and will nevermore 
 Attempt your purity, but neglect all things 
 Till that foul wrong I have bred in your knight 
 I have expelled, and set your loves aright. 
 
 Re-enter Sir JOHN LOVEALL. 
 
 Sir John. Which now is done already. Madam, wife 
 
 {Kneels.
 
 480 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT v. 
 
 Upon my knees with weeping eyes, heaved hands, 
 I ask thy pardon. O sweet, virtuous creature ! 
 I prythee, break my head. 
 
 L. Per. Rise, rise, sir, pray. 
 
 You have done no wrong to me at least, I think so : 
 Heaven hath prevented all my injury. 
 I do forgive, and marry you anew. 
 Come, we are all invited to the weddings : 
 The Lady Honour and the old rich count, 
 Young Bold unto another gentlewoman : 
 We and the widow are invited thither. 
 Embrace and love henceforth more really, 
 Not so like worldlings. 
 
 Sir John. Here then ends all strife. 
 Thus false friends are made true by a true wife. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. A Room in Lord PROUDLY'S House. 
 
 Enter the COUNT, wrapped in furs ; Lady HONOUR, 
 dressed like a Bride / Lord PROUDLY, WELLTRIED, 
 BOLD, leading Lord FEESIMPLE like a Lady masqued ; 
 Sir JOHN LOVEALL, Lady PERFECT, SUBTLE, Lady 
 BRIGHT; to them FRANK, with a letter; SELDOM 
 with his Wife. 
 
 Frank. Health and all joy unto this fair assembly. 
 My brother, who last tide is gone to France, 
 A branch of willow feathering his hat, 
 Bad me salute you, lady, and present you 
 With this same letter written in his blood. 
 He prays no man, for his sake, evermore 
 To credit woman, nor no lady ever 
 To believe man ; so either sex shall rest 
 Uninjured by the other. This is all, 
 And this I have delivered.
 
 SCENE ii.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 481 
 
 L. Proud. Ay, and well. 
 You pronounce rarely, did you never play ? 
 
 Frank. Yes, that I have the fool, as some lords do. 
 
 Well. Set forward there. 
 
 Count. O, O, O ! a pox o' this cold ! 
 
 Well. A cold o' this pox, you might say, I'm afraid. 
 
 L. Hon. How full of ghastly wounds this letter shows. 
 O, O ! [Swoons. 
 
 L. Proud. Look to my sister. 
 
 Bold. 'Sheart ! the lady swoons. 
 
 Z. Per. Strong water there. 
 
 L. Fee. If strong breath would recover her, I am for 
 her. 
 
 Count. Alas, good lady? hum, hum, hum. 
 
 [ Coughs perpetually. 
 
 Sub. He has fetched her again with coughing 
 
 L. Hon. Convey me to my bed ; send for a priest 
 And a physician ; your bride, I fear, 
 Instead of epithalamions shall need 
 A dirge or epitaph. O, lead me in : 
 My body dies for my soul's perjured sin. 
 
 {Exeunt Lady HONOUR, Lady PERFECT, Sir 
 JOHN LOVEALL, SUBTLE, SELDOM and 
 Mistress SELDOM. 
 
 Bold. Hymen comes towards us in a mourning robe. 
 
 Well. I hope, friend, we shall have the better day. 
 
 L. Proud. I'll fetch the parson and physician. [Exit. 
 
 Frank. They are both ready for you. [Exit. 
 
 Well. Madam, this is the gentlewoman 
 AVho, something bashful, does desire your pardon, 
 That she does not unmask. 
 
 L. Bright. Good Master Welltried, 
 I would not buy her face ; and for her manners, 
 If they were worse, they shall not displease me. 
 
 Well. I thank your ladyship. 
 
 L. Fee. Look how the old ass, my father, stands: he 
 looks like the bear in the play ; he has killed the lady 
 
 Nero. I I
 
 482 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT v. 
 
 with his very sight. 1 As God help me, I have the most 
 to do to forbear unmasking me, that I might tell him his 
 own, as can be. 
 
 Bold. Fie ! by no means. The widow comes toward 
 
 Count. O, O, O, O ! [you, 
 
 L. Bright. Servant, God give you joy ; and, gentle- 
 Or lady, as full joy I wish to you : [woman 
 
 Nor doubt that I will hinder you your love, 
 But here am come to do all courtesy 
 To your fair self, and husband that shall be. 
 
 L. Fee. I thank you heartily. 
 
 Well. 'Sheart ! speak smaller, man. 
 
 L. Fee. I thank you heartily. 
 
 Count. You'regoingto this gear too, Master Bold? Urn, 
 
 Bold. Not to your couching gear, [um, um ! 
 
 My lord. Though I be not so old or rich 
 As your lordship, yet I love a young wench as well. 
 
 Well. As well as my lord ? nay by my faith, 
 That you do not love a young wench as well as he : 
 I wonder you will be unmannerly to say so. 
 
 Count. Faith, Master Welltried, troth is I love them well, 
 but they love not me, um, um. You see what ill-luck I 
 have with them, um, um. A pox o' this cold, still say 1. 
 Well. Where got you this cold, my lord ? it can get in 
 nowhere, that I can see, but at your nostrils or eyes ; all 
 other parts are so barricadoed with fur. 
 
 L. Fee. It got 
 
 In at his eyes, and made that birdlime there, 
 Where Cupid's wings do hang entangled. 
 
 Count. Is this your wife, that, um, um, um shall be ? 
 Master Bold, I'll be so bold as kiss her. 
 
 [Lady BRIGHT and BOLD whisper aside. 
 
 L. Fee. Sir, forbear : I have one bold enough to kiss my 
 lips. O old coxcomb ! kiss thine own natural son ; 'tis 
 
 1 This refers, no doubt, to the scene in the old "most pleasant 
 comedy of Mucedorus" 1598, when Amadine is pursued by the bear. 
 Collier.
 
 SCENE II.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 483 
 
 worse than a justice lying with his own daughter. But, 
 Master Welltried, when will the widow break this matter 
 to me ? [ The COUNT sits in a chair, and falls asleep. 
 
 Well. Not till the very close of all : she dissembles it 
 yet, because my lord, your father, is here, and her other 
 suitor Bold. 
 
 L. Fee. That's all one ; he's o' the plot o' my side. 
 
 L. Bright. 'Tis needless, Master Bold; but I will do 
 Anything you require to satisfy you. 
 Why should you doubt I will forbid the banns, 
 For so your friend here told me ? I should rather 
 Doubt that you will not marry. 
 
 Bold. Madam, by Heaven, 
 As fully I am resolved to marry now, 
 And will too, if you do not hinder it, 
 As ever lover was : only because 
 The world has taken notice of some passage 
 ; Twixt you and me, and then to satisfy 
 My sweetheart here, who (poor soul !) is afraid, 
 To have some public disgrace put upon her, 
 I do require some small thing at your hands. 
 
 L. Bright. Well, I will do it ; and this profess besides ; 
 Married, you shall as welcome be to me 
 As mine own brother ; and yourself, fair lady, 
 Even as myself, both to my board and bed. 
 Well. Ah, ah ! how like you that ? 
 
 L. Fee. Now she begins. 
 Abundant thanks unto your widowhood. 
 Zounds ! my father's asleep on's wedding-day : 
 I wondered, where his cough was all this while. 
 Enter INGEN, like a Doctor : a Parson, FRANK, Lord 
 PROUDLY, SELDOM, Mistress SELDOM, Sir JOHN 
 LOVEALL, Lady PERFECT and SUBTLE. 
 
 Ingen. I pray, forbear the chamber : noise does hurt 
 Her sickness I guess rather of the mind [her ; 
 
 Than of her body, for her pulse beats well ;
 
 484 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT v. 
 
 Her vital functions not decayed a whit, 
 But have their natural life and operation. 
 My lord, be cheered, I have an ingredient 
 About me shall make her well, I doubt not. 
 In, master parson : it shall be yours to l pray ; 
 The soul's physician should have still the way. 
 
 {Exit : the Parson shuts the door. 
 
 L. Bright. How cheers she, pray ? 
 
 L. Per. In troth, exceeding ill. 
 
 Mis. Sel. A very weak woman indeed she is, and surely 
 I think cannot 'scape it. 
 
 Sir John. Did you mark how she eyed the physician ? 
 
 L. Per. O God, ay, she is very loth to die. 
 
 Mis. Sel. Ay ; that's ne'er the better sign, I can tell you. 
 
 Sub. And when the parson came to her, she turned 
 Away, and still let the physician hold 
 Her by the hand. 
 
 Bold, But see what thought the bridegroom takes, 
 My conscience knows, now, this is 
 A most preposterous match ; yet for the commodity, 
 We wink at all inconveniency. 
 My lord ! my lord ! 
 
 Count. Um, um, um ! I beshrew you for waking of 
 me ; now shall I have such a fit of coughing, um, um ! 
 
 Bold. O hapless wife, that shall have thee, that either 
 must let thee sleep continually, or be kept waking her- 
 self by the cough. 
 
 L. Bright. You have a proper gentleman to your son, 
 my lord : he were fitter for this young lady than you. 
 
 Well. D'ye mark that again ? 
 
 L. Fee. O sweet widow ! 
 
 Count. He a wife ! he a fool's head of his own. 
 
 L. Fee. No, of my father's. 
 
 Count. What should he do with a um, um ! 
 
 L. Per. What, with a cough ? why, he would spit, and 
 that's more than you can do. 
 
 1 This makes better sense than the old reading " I pray. ; '
 
 SCENE I.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 485 
 
 L. Proud. Your bride, my lord, is dead. 
 
 Count. Many, even God be with her ; grief will not 
 help it : um, um, um ! 
 
 Frank. A most excellent spouse. 
 
 L. Proud. How fares she, master doctor ? 
 Zounds ! what's here ? 
 
 Bold, L. Bright, Well, L. Fee. Heyday ! 
 
 Sir John, Set., Mis. Set., Sub. How now? 
 
 [Looking in at the window. 
 
 L. Fee. Look, look ! the parson joins the doctor's 
 hand and hers : now the doctor kisses her, by this light ! 
 \_All whoop J\ Now goes his gown off. Heyday! he has 
 red breeches on. Zounds ! the physician is got o' the 
 top of her : belike, it is the mother ' she has. Hark ! 
 the bed creaks. 
 
 L. Proud. 'Sheart, the door's fast ! break 'em open 1 
 We are betrayed. 
 
 Frank. No breaking open doors : he that stirs first, 
 
 \_Draws and holds out a pistol. 
 I'll pop a leaden pill into his guts, 
 Shall purge him quite away. No haste, good friends : 
 When they have done what's fit, you shall not need 
 To break the door ; they'll open it themselves. 
 
 [A curtain is drawn and a bed discovered: INGEN 
 with his sword in his hand and a pistol : 
 Lady HONOUR in her petticoat : the Parson. 
 
 L. Proud. Thy blood, base villain, shall answer this. 
 
 [Lord PROUDLY and INGEN sit back to back. 
 I'll dye thy nuptial bed in thy heart's gore. 
 
 Ingen. Come, come, my lord ; 'tis not so easily done. 
 You know it is not. For this my attempt 
 Upon your sister, before God and man 
 She was my wife, and ne : er a bedrid goat 
 Shall have my wench to get diseases on. 
 
 L. Proud. Well may'st thou term her so, that has con- 
 Even with her will to be dishonoured. [sented 
 
 1 An hysterical fit.
 
 486 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT v. 
 
 Ingen. Not so, yet have I lain with her 
 
 Z. Hon. But first, 
 Witness this priest, we both were married. 
 
 Par. True it is, Domine ; 
 Their contract's run into a marriage, 
 And that, my lord, into a carriage. 
 
 L. Proud. I will undo thee, priest. 
 
 Par. It is too late. I am undone 
 Already by wine and tobacco. I defy thee, 
 Thou temporal lord : perdy, thou never shall 
 Keep me in jail, and hence springs my reason : 
 My act is neither felony nor treason. 
 
 L. Fee. Ay, sir ; but you do not know what kindred 
 she may have. 
 
 All. Come, come, there is no remedy. 
 
 L. Per. And weigh't right, 
 In my opinion, my honoured lord, 
 And everybody's else, this is a match, 
 Fitter ten thousand times than your intent. 
 
 All. Most certain 'tis. 
 
 L. Bright. Besides, this gentleman 
 Your brother-in-law's well parted and fair-meaned ; 
 And all this come about (you must conceive) 
 By your own sister's wit, as well as his. 
 
 Ingen. Come, come, 'tis but getting of me knighted, 
 my lord, and I shall become your brother well enough. 
 
 Z. Proud. Brother, your hand. Lords may have pro- 
 But there's a greater Lord will have his will, [jects still, 
 
 Bold. This is despatch. Now, madam, is the time, 
 For I long to be at it. Your hand, sweetheart. 
 
 Z. Fee. Now, boys. [witness 
 
 Z. Bright. My lord and gentlemen, I crave your 
 To what I now shall utter. 'Twixt this gentleman 
 And myself, there have been some love passages 
 Which here I free him, and take this lady * 
 
 1 This is closer to the old copies than Mr. Hazlitt's reading, and 
 the sense seems to me to be equally good. Perhaps with the words 
 " take this lady," she leads Feesimple towards Bold.
 
 SCENE ii.] AMENDS FOR LADIES. 487 
 
 Well La ye ! and pray him take this lady. 
 
 L. I ght. Which with a mother's love I give to him, 
 And wi h all joy may crown their marriage. 
 
 Bold. Nay, madam, yet she is not satisfied. 
 
 \Gives her a ring, which she puts on her thumb. 
 
 L. Bright. Further, before ye all I take this ring, 
 As an asswnpsit, by the virtue of which 
 I bind myself in all my lands and goods, 
 That in his choice I'll be no hindrance ; 
 Or by forbidding banns, or claiming him 
 Myself for mine, but let the match go on 
 Without my check, which he intendeth now : 
 And once again I say, I bind myself. 
 
 Bold. Then, once again I say, widow, thou'rt mine ! 
 Priest, marry us : this match I did intend : 
 Ye all are witnesses; if thou hinder it, 
 Widow, your lands and goods are forfeit mine. 
 
 L. Bright. Ha ! nay, take me too, since there's no 
 Your widow (without goods) sells scurvily. [remedy. 
 
 All. Whoop ! God give you joy. 
 
 Count. 'Slight ! I am cosened of all sides ; I had good 
 hope of the widow myself ; but now I see everybody 
 leaves me, saving, um, urn, um ! [warrant. 
 
 Bold. Troth, my lord, and that will stick by you, I 
 
 L. Bright. But how, sir, shall we salve this gentle- 
 
 Bold. Hang her, whore. [woman ? 
 
 Well. Fie ! you are too uncivil. 
 
 L. Fee. Whore in thy, face, I do defy thy taunts. 
 
 Bold. Nay, hold, fair lady : now I think upon't, 
 The old count has no wife ; let's make a match. 
 
 All. If he be so contented. 
 
 Count. With all my heart. 
 
 Bold. Then kiss your spouse. 
 
 Count. 'Sfoot ! she has a beard. How now ! my son ? 
 
 All. 'Tis the Lord Feesimple. [Lord FEE. unmasks. 
 
 L. Fee. Father, lend me your sword. You and I are 
 made a couple of fine fools, are we not ? If I were not
 
 488 AMENDS FOR LADIES. [ACT v. 
 
 valiant now, and meant to beat 'em all, here would lie a 
 simple disgrace upon us, a Fee-simple one, indeed. 
 Mark now, what I'll say to 'em. D'ye hear me, my 
 masters ? Damn me, ye are all the son of a whore, and 
 ye lie, and I will make it good with my sword. This is 
 called roaring, father. 
 
 Sub. I'll not meddle with you, sir. 
 
 L. Proud. You are my blood. 
 
 Well. And I fleshed you, you know. [now. 
 
 Bold. And I have a charge coming, I must not fight 
 
 L. Fee. Has either of you anything to say to me ? 
 
 Sir John. Not we, sir. 
 
 L. Fee. Then have I something to say to you. 
 Have you anything to say to me ? 
 
 Frank. Yes, marry have I, sir. 
 
 L. Fee. Then I have nothing to say to you, for that's 
 the fashion. Father, if you will come away with your 
 cough, do. Let me see, how many challenges I must 
 get writ. You shall hear on me, believe it. 
 
 L. Proud. Nay, we'll not now part angry: stay the 
 That must attend the weddings. You shall stay, [feasts, 
 
 L. Fee. Why, then, all friends. I thought you would 
 not have had the manners to bid us stay dinner neither. 
 
 Sir John. Then all are friends : and lady-wife, I crown 
 Thy virtues with this wreath, that't may be said, 
 There's a good wife. 
 
 Bold. A widow. 
 
 Jngen. And a maid. 
 
 \They set garlands on the heads of Lady PERFECT, 
 Lady BRIGHT, and Lady HONOUR. 
 
 L. Per. Yet mine is now approved the happiest life, 
 Since each of you hath changed to be a wife. \Exeunt. 
 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
 
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