■tiiP-^Miffli LfBRARY "W'VER.^fTY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE K, -i ■ >?viM.^ r ' ^c'lr^r'^ 7^ ^^W*^" ^^'-'^ W^^. /^-^i I'rom ALLliVN MS. ot Orlando Fiirioso (sir />. .'7^) THE PLAYS & POEMS OF ROBERT GREENE EDITED WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES By J. CHURTON COLLINS, Litt.D. (professor of ENGLISH LITEKATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF BIRMINGHAM) VOL I GENERAL INTRODUCTION. ALPHONSUS. A LOOKING GLASSE. ORLANDO FURIOSO. APPENDIX TO ORLANDO FURIOSO (THE ALLEYN MS.) NOTES TO PLAYS OXFORD AT THE CLARENDON PRESS MDCCCCV V.I C.2- OXFORD PRINTED AT THE CLARENDON PRESS BY HORACE HART, M.A. PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY TO FREDERICK JAMES FURNIVALL PH.D., D.LITT. THESE VOLUMES ARE RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED PREFACE When the Delegates of the Clarendon Press entrusted me with the preparation of an edition of Greene's Plays and Poems I determined to spare no pains to make it, so far at least as the text was concerned, a final one. And the method adopted was this. Each play was transcribed literally from the oldest Quarto extant : thus the Looking Glasse was copied from the Quarto of 1594, Orlando and Frier Bacon and Frier Bongay from the Quartos of the same year, AlpJionsus from the Quarto of 1599, James IV from that of 1597, and TJie Pinner from that of 1599. And to the text of these Quartos my text scrupulously adheres, except where the reading of some of the later Quartos either makes sense of nonsense or presents a reading which is obviously and strikingly preferable ; but rigid con- servatism has been my rule. I have very rarely admitted conjectures into the text even where corruption cried for them. Where words necessary for the completion either of the sense or of the metre have been supplied they have been placed within brackets, and the same system has been adopted in supplying the acts and scenes when they are not marked, as is nearly always the case, in the original Quartos. In an Appendix to Orlando Fnrioso I havegiven a complete transcript of the very remarkable fragment which is preserved among the Alleyn Manuscripts at Dulwich College, a section of which has been reproduced in collo- type. It consists of a large portion of the original part of Orlando transcribed by the copyist of the theatre for Alleyn, with certain additions in Allcyn's own hand- writing. Dyce's transcript, though fairly accurate, is habitually incorrect in the spelling, and has some, and those viii PREFACE not unimportant, omissions. Grosart follows Dyce closely, and had evidently not made an independent copy. The interest of this MS. is very great. It is not merely the only important manuscript we have belonging to so early a period of the Elizabethan drama, but when we compare it with the text of the Quarto we see either how greatly the stage copies were altered when a play was printed, or how greatly the printed copies must have varied from the stage copies and presumably, therefore, from the author's manuscript. And let me here express my thanks to the authorities of Dulwich College for their kindness in permitting me to have a transcript of it, and for allowing a portion of it to be collotyped. For being enabled to make some important additions to the variants in the text of the Looking Glasse I have to thank Mr. Augustine Birrell, who, with Mr. Godfrey Locker Lampson's permission, placed at my disposal the very remarkable Quarto in the collection of the late Mr. Locker Lampson which I have described in the Introduction to that play (vol. i. p. 14a). For permission to transcribe another interesting manuscript I am indebted to the authorities of Sion College. This is the prose romance on which the Pinner of Wakefield was founded, the most important part of which I have given in an Appendix to the Introduction to the play. Though it has been published before, first by an editor signing himself N. W. and secondly by Thoms, who followed him, neither transcript is accurate, and in both the spelling has been modernized. All the miscellaneous poems have been transcribed from the original novels, and where more than one edition of the novel exists the texts have, when possible, been collated. I have arranged them according to the chronological order in which the novels appeared in their first edition. The Maidens Dreame has been printed from an independent transcript taken from the original Quarto in Lambeth Library, neither Reardon's transcript, published for the Shakespeare Society, nor Dyce's being quite accurate. I have thought it desirable not only to collate such passages PREFACE ix in the Plays and Poems as appeared in extract in England's Parnassiis with the extracts there printed, but to give a transcript of them in an Appendix to the Poems, so that the reader can make, if he pleases, the comparison for himself. I have spared no pains to ascertain whether anything in verse from Greene's pen exists either in print or in manu- script which has not been included in the editions of Dyce and Grosart. But I have discovered nothing, and no trace of anything. And I own I am not sorry, for we have too much of Greene's work already. I have met with several anonymous productions in verse, particularly in threnody and in celebration of public events, which may have been, or may have had assistance from, his pen; but I have left them where I found them. If it could be established that they are Greene's they are not worth printing ; as there is nothing to connect them with him, they are not worth discussing. The Notes have purposely been made as full as possible, for they have been designed to illustrate generally the characteristics, especially as they pertain to diction, allusion, imagery, and sentiment, of the early Elizabethan drama. My debt to my predecessors is no small one, and I hasten to acknowledge it. Had Dyce, instead of modernizing his text both in spelling and in inflection, adhered faithfully to the original, had he been thorough in collation, had he been less sparing in his elucidatory notes, had he properly investigated the sources of the plots, any other edition of Greene's Plays and Poems would have been a work of supererogation. There is scarcely a page in the present edition, as the critical apparatus sufficiently testifies, in which his hand is not seen. The lists of the dramatis personae have been adapted from him : all the obvious and many of the happiest corrections of the text are due to his vigilance and acumen. Much, and very much, which when it came into his hands was unintelligible and desperate, he elucidated with hnal certainty. As a textual critic he had few equals. His learning was without pedantry, and his X PREFACE judgement and taste were as sober and fine as his erudition was exact and extensive. The first biographer of Greene, he laid the foundation, and much more than the foundation, for every future biography. Nor can any student of Greene mention Dr. Grosart's name without gratitude. His judgement was, unhappily, not equal to his enthusiasm, his scholarship to his ambition, or his accuracy to his diligence, but by his reprint of Greene's novels and prose miscellanies, and of the works of Nash, Harvey, and others, he greatly lio-htened the labours of sounder and more sober scholars. Dr. Adolphus Ward has unfortunately not extended his work on Greene beyond a single play. With some of the views expressed in his Prolegomena I have not been able to agree, but from his notes I have sometimes profited, as the acknowledgements in my own notes show. It remains for me to express my thanks to those who have in various ways and in different degrees assisted me. To those whom I have already thanked I must add the names of his Grace the Duke of Devonshire and Mr. Huth for their kindness in allowing me access to the Quartos in their possession and for permitting photographs to be taken of the title-pages. My particular obligations to those who have assisted me with information are recorded, and I hope scrupulously, in the Introductions and Notes where they occur. But I should like to express my thanks generally to Mr. J. C. Smith, not only for the immense assistance he has been to me in regulating the text and properly arranging the critical apparatus, but for two or three excellent conjectures; and to Miss Marian Edwardes for the help she has afforded in the work of transcription and in the record of the variants, as well as for the assistance she has given me in correcting the proofs. To my friend Mr. P. A. Daniel I am indebted for more than I have been able specifically to express. Some of the proofs were read by him, and were seldom returned without most valuable suggestions. Whenever I have been at a loss for an illustration, or have needed an elucidatory quotation or verbal parallel, I have rarely consulted him PREFACE XI in vain. But all who know Mr. Daniel know well what the privilege of his friendship means to any student of the Elizabethan drama. But I owe most to my assistants — for that is the only name which can in justice be applied to them — at the Clarendon Press. Whatever slips and errors may be detected in this work in its final form, I can only say that they will be nothing to those from which my vigilant guards have saved me. Nor is this all. With a con- sideration and kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my thanks, they have relieved me from much mechanical drudgery which fell properly to my lot by taking it on themselves. Of the historical interest and importance of the writer on whom more time and trouble have been bestowed than one cares to remember there can be no question. And that consideration will, I hope, justify what would otherwise seem to be, and what I half fear really is, as the Greek proverb puts it — 'EttI Trj (paKj) fxvpov. CONTENTS VOLUME I PAGE Facsimile of a portion of the Alleyn MS. of Orlando FuRioso Frontispiece PREFACE vii GENERAL INTRODUCTION I INTRODUCTION TO ALPHONSVS 7© ALPHONSVS KING OF ARRAGON ^^ INTRODUCTION TO LOOKING GLASSE . . .137 A LOOKING GLASSE I43 INTRODUCTION TO ORLANDO FVRIOSO . . .215 ORLANDO FVRIOSO 221 THE ALLEYN MS 266 NOTES :— ALPHONSVS 279 LOOKING GLASSE 290 ORLANDO FVRIOSO 304 VOLUME II INTRODUCTION TO FRIER BACON . . . . i FRIER BACON AND FRIER BONGAY .... 15 INTRODUCTION TO lAMES IV 79 lAMES THE FOVRTH 87 INTRODUCTION TO THE PINNER 159 THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD 181 INTRODUCTION TO A MAIDENS DREAME. . . 219 A MAIDENS DREAME 221 POEMS FROM THE NOVELS 235 NOTES:— FRIER BACON 325 lAMES THE FOVRTH 349 THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD 367 A MAIDENS DREAME 378 POEMS FROM THE NOVELS 381 APPENDIX: ENGLAND'S PARNASSUS . . . .398 GLOSSARIAL INDEX 407 INDEX 411 GENERAL INTRODUCTION The materials for a life of Greene are apparently very ample ; but these materials are illusory and perplexing, and the task of a biographer who is scrupulous is an unusually difficult one. He has to distinguish between truth and fiction where they have been mingled in what is professedly autobiography ; between what is apocryphal and what is authentic in tradition ; between what rests on mere inference or conjecture on the part of memorialists and com- mentators, and what is certain. These difficulties are increased by the fact that as the poet's names, Christian and surname alike, are exceedingly common among his contemporaries ; the inquirer soon finds himself involved in such a labyrinth of Robert Greenes that identification becomes difficult in the extreme. Between 1530 and 1592 there were at least eight Robert Greenes within thecity of Nor- wich, and at least six others within the county of Norfolk ; and it is highly probable that further inspection of the Norwich Registers and Archives would discover more. On the Registers of the Stationers' Company in London there are within those dates four Robert Greenes ; and I have met with the name more than once in Church Registers in London. In 1594 one Robert Greene a saddler, possibly an emigrant from the Greenes who pursued this occupation in Norwich, was living in the Savoy \ How this con- fusion of names has misled Greene's biographers we shall presently see. The first who wove the scattered notices of Greene into a for- mal biography was Dyce, in his edition of Greene's Plays and Poems which appeared in 1831. This he revised and expanded in a second edition published in 186 1. In the same year appeared Cooper's notice of him in his Athenae Cantabrigienses, but Cooper added nothing to Dyce. Thirteen years afterwards, in 1874, appeared \V. Bernhardi's Robert Greenes Leben und Schriften^ eine ' A licence was granted him on 4lh of October, 1494, to marry Isabelle Moyle. COLLINS. I g 2 GENERAL INTRODUCTION historisch-kritische Skizze, but this, on the biographical side, is a somewhat superficial compilation from Dyce, and contributed nothing new to our knowledge of Greene. But in 1878 a very remarkable contribution to Greene's biography was made by a Russian scholar, Professor Storozhenko of Moscow, an English translation of which, by Mr. E. A. B. Hodgetts, was inserted in the first volume of Dr. Grosart's edition of Greene's complete works. This added much — though nothing of great importance — to what Dyce had accumulated. It is seriously defective in point of accuracy — some of its inaccuracies are corrected by Dr. Grosart in a critical Introduction — and still more seriously defective in not sufficiently discriminating between what is palpably fiction and what is fact in Greene's semi-autobiographical novels. It still how- ever remains the fullest account which exists of Greene's career and character. Dr. Ingleby, in his General Introduction to the Shake- speare Allusum Books, has thrown much useful light on our author's relations with his contemporaries, and so also has Dr. Grosart in his editions of the collected works of Nash and Harvey. Simpson, in his School of Shakespeare (1878), has indulged in theories which may interest those who find pleasure in ingenious speculation, but are hardly likely to find much favour with students whose aim is certainty and truth. Mr. Bullen's article in the Dictionary of National Biography is a fairly satisfactory epitome of such facts as had up to 1890 been ascertained ; and if to this be added the notice in the first volume of Mr. Fleay's Chronicle of the English Drama ( 1 89 1 ), which throws some new but doubtful light on the chronology of Greene's plays and his relations with Lodge, we may be said to have completed the review of what has been contributed to a biography of Greene. Before proceeding to the facts of Greene's life, to his actual biography, it may be well to try and ascertain how far he has himself assisted us by his own confessions ; in other words, in what way and to what extent the novels which are assumed to be autobiographical really are so. That they have been pressed too far by some of his biographers will be clear from a very cursory examination of them. Theyare fourin number, The Mourning Gar- ment, Never too late, with the second part of Francesco's Fortunes, and the Groatsivorth of Witte bought with a Million of RepeTitance. In the first. Rabbi Bilessi, an old and pious man of large fortune and a Burgomaster of his native city, has two sons, Sophonos and AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ELEMENT IN NOVELS 3 Philador. Sophonos is a handsome and attractive youth, but unenterprising and prudent, ' who preferred the ohve before the sword and peace before wars, and therefore, giving himself to merchandize,' has no desire to leave home or his father's side. Philador, the younger son, is all culture and accomplishments, a poet, a student, and a gallant, ' an adamant to every eye for his beauty, a syren to every ear for his eloquence.' Being anxious to travel, he persuades his father, though much against the old man's will, to allow him to do so. He sets out, and after various adventures finds himself in a boarding-house kept by three beautiful sisters who are courtesans. With the youngest of these sisters he becomes infatuated. After some days of revelling, gambling, and wantonness they reduce him to absolute beggary and then turn him adrift, calling up the servants of the house to thrust him into the street. Ashamed and forlorn he makes his way back to his old father, who, in spite of the protests of his elder son, receives the repentant prodigal home again and forgives him. The hero of Never too late is one Francesco, ' a gentleman of an ancient house; a man whose parentage though it were worshipful yet it was not indued with much wealth ' ; he is a scholar, ' nursed up in the Universities,' and a poet. He was so generally loved of the citizens — he lived at Caerbranck (Brancaster in Norfolk ?) — 'that the richest merchant or gravest Burgomaster would not refuse to grant him his daughter in marriage, hoping more of his ensuing fortunes than of his present substance.' Francesco falls in love with the beautiful daughter of a gentleman named Fregoso, who dwelt not far from Caerbranck. But her churlish father opposes the match. However, the lovers manage to correspond — for Isabel returns Francesco's love — and finally she makes her escape from the close custody in which her father keeps her, and the lovers fly to Dunecastrum (Doncaster?) where they are married. As soon as Fregoso hears of his daughter's flight he posts after her, but arrives too late to prevent their union. However, he accuses Francesco of having stolen certain plate from him, and persuades the Mayor to arrest him and throw him into prison. But the Mayor, convinced of his innocence and seeing through the real motives of Fregoso's action, releases him. Francesco supports himself and his wife by turning his University education to account and teaching in a school. Seven cloudless and prosperous years pass, during which Fregoso is reconciled and B 2 4 GENERAL INTRODUCTION a boy is born to the happy married lovers. At the end of that time business calls Francesco to Troynovant, ' where, after he was arrived, knowing that he should make his abode there for the space of some nine weeks, he hired him a chamber, earnestly endeavouring to make speedie despatch of his affaires that he might the sooner enjoy the sight of his desired Isabel, for did he see any woman beautiful he viewed her with a sigh, thinking how far his wife did surpasse her in excellence : were the modesty of any woman well noted it greeved him hee was not at home with his Isabel who did excell them all in vertues.' But unhappily Francesco happened one day to be looking out of his window ' when he espied a young gentlewoman who looked out at a case- ment right opposite against his prospect, who fixed her eyes upon him with such cunning and artificial glances as she shewed in them a chaste disdaine and yet a modest desire.' This was Infida. Gradually Francesco becomes infatuated with her, and the struggle between the pure love which draws him to his angelic wife and the frenzied passion which binds him to this cruel but irresistible syren is depicted with terrible intensity and vividness. For more than three years, in spite of Isabel's pathetic appeals to him to return to her and their child, he remains in this ignoble bondage. ' For no reason could divert him from his damned intent, so had he drowned himself in the dregges of lust, insomuch that he counted it no sinne to offend with so faire a saint, alluding to the saying of the holy father Consuetudo peccandi toHii sensum peccati.' At last Infida, having succeeded in reducing him to his last penny, laugh- ingly bids him to return to his wife and reflect at leisure on the dif- ference between 'painted sepulcres with rotten bones ' and 'honest saints with the purity of nature and the excellence of virtue.' In the second part Francesco, driven out in poverty, falls in with a company of players, who ' persuaded him to try his wit in writing of Comedies, Tragedies or Pastorals.' This he does, and succeeds ' in writing a Comedy which so generally pleased all the audience that happie were those actors in short time that could get anie of his works, he grew so exquisite in that facultie.' As his purse was now well-lined, Infida tries to lure him back to her, but in vain. The narrative then breaks off to recount the fortunes of his deserted wife, and what follows is practically an adapted repetition of the story of Susanna which Greene had already told in his AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ELEMENT IN NOVELS 5 Mirrour of Modesty. An interesting touch in the sequel Hnks Francesco with Greene. In the Repentance, addressing his wife, he says, ' Oh my dear wife, whose company and sight I have refrained these sixe yeares.' In the novel he represents Francesco hearing of the virtuous Isabel's vindication of her chastity and triumph over the diabolical plot against her from a gentleman in a tavern, who in telling the story added that the lady 'was married to a gentleman of ripe wit, good parentage, and well skilled in the liberal sciences, but an unthrift and one that had not beene with his wife for sixe years.' The tale of Francesco and Isabel con- cludes with what no doubt poor Greene himself pined for, the happy reunion of the repentant husband and the wronged wife. Whatever may be the proportion of fiction, we may safely presume that Never too late and Fra7icescds Fortunes stand in the same relation to the facts of Greene's life as Amelia to the facts of Fielding's and Fendennis to the facts of Thackeray's. The last novel is the Groatsworth of Witte, the hero of which is one Roberto. And here we must not forget that Greene practically identifies himself with Roberto, and that not simply by the admission that Roberto's life 'in most part agreed with his own,' but by the introduction throughout the narrative of unmistakable autobiographical details. The plot is this. In a city, situated in an island bound by the Ocean, made rich by merchandize and populous by long space, there dwelt ' an old new made Gentleman of no small credit, exceeding wealth and large conscience,' and his name was Gorinius. He had been the architect of his own fortunes, had acquired his wealth by usury, and had been the ruin of many poor men and women. But he held a high position in the city, ' for he boare office in his parish, and sate as formally in his fox-furd gowne as if he had beene a very upright dealing Burges : he was religious too, never without a booke at his belt, and a bolt in his mouth ready to shoote through his sinfuU neighbour.' He was in his eighty-eighth year, and being cruelly afflicted with gout and not far from his death was anxious to settle his affairs. He had two sons, the eldest was Roberto, the youngest Lucanio ; and these sons he calls before him, informing them that it is his intention to leave the whole of his property to the youngest, cutting off Roberto the eldest ' with an olde Groate, being the stock I first began with, wherewith I wish him to buy a groate's worth of wit.' The reason for this unjust disposition of his property is explained. Roberto, 6 GENERAL INTRODUCTION ' this foole my eldest son, hath been brought up in the Universitie, and therefore accounts that in riches is no virtue. But you my Sonne (laying then his hand on the yonger's head), have thou another spirit, for without wealth life is a death ; what is gentry if wealth be wanting but base servile beggcrie. . . . Come my Lucanio, and let me give thee good counsel before my death. As for you Sir,' turning to Roberto, 'your bookes are your counsellors, and therefore to them I bequeath you. Ah Lucanio my onely comfort, because I hope you wilt as thy father be a gatherer, let me bless thee before I die.' What had offended the old man is then explained. 'Roberto being come from the Academie to visit his father, there was a great feast provided, where for table talke Roberto, knowing his father and most of the companie to be execrable usurers, invayed mightily against that abhorred vice, insomuch that he urged teares from divers of their eyes, and compunction in some of their hearts. Dinner being past hee comes to his father requesting him to take no offence at his liberal speech, seeing what he had uttered was truth. Angrie, sonne, saide he, no by my honesty, and that is somewhat I may say to you, but use it still and if thou canst persuade any of my neighbours from lending uppon usurie I should have the more customers : to which when Roberto would have replied he shut himselfe up into his studie, & fell to telling over his money.' This was Roberto's offence. We learn incidentally that Roberto was married and had a child. Shortly afterwards the old man dies, and Lucanio enters on his inheritance. Roberto broods over the wrong which had been done him ; ' pondering how little was left to him grew into an inward con- tempt of his father's unequal legacie and determinate resolution to work Lucanio all possible injurie.' This was not difficult, for Lucanio was ' of condition simple, shamefast and flexible to anie counsaile.' Roberto begins by advising his brother to enjoy his wealth, to go into society where he will be flattered and caressed. ' Besides which I had almost forgot and then had all the rest been nothing, you are a man by nature furnished with all exquisite proportion worthy the love of any courtly Ladie be she never so amorous ; you have wealth to maintain her. . . . Lucanio lacketh nothing to delight a wife nor anything but a wife to delight him.' Lucanio responds only too readily to this appeal, ' Faith, Brother Roberto, and yee say the worde lets go seeke a wife while it is hot, both of us together. He pay well and I dare turn you loose to say AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ELEMENT IN NOVELS 7 as well as anie of them all.' Now Roberto was acquainted with a courtesan ' who kept her Hospital which was in the Suburbes of the cittie pleasantly seated, and made more delectable by a pleasant Garden wherein it was scituate.' And her name was Lamilia, 'for so wee call the curtezan.' 'No sooner come they within ken but mistresse Lamilia like a cunning angler made readie her chaunge of baytes that she might effect Lucanio's bane, and to begin, shee discovered from her window her beauteous inticing face.' Roberto introduces Lucanio to her, and the simple youth is at once fascinated by her. But his bashfulness and modesty keep him tongue-tied. Roberto, however, smoothes the way for him, and his passion soon finds voice. First he presents her with a ring 'wherein was apointed a diamond of wonderful worth, which she accepting with a love conge returned him with a silke riband.' After this 'Diomedis et Glauci permutatio' all goes smoothly. He becomes her slave. Chess, cards and dice follow, and he loses all he has with him and goes home to provide himself with more money. Roberto now proposes to divide the spoil with Lamilia. But Lamilia treats him precisely as Infida had treated Francesco. She rejects the proposal with scorn. 'No poore pennilesse Poet, thou art beguilde in me, and yet I wonder how thou couldest, thou hast been so often beguilde. But it fareth with licentious men as with the chased bore in the streame, who being greatly refreshed with swimming never feeleth any smart until he perish recurelessly wounded with his owne weapons. Faithlesse Roberto, thou hast attempted to betray thy brother, irreligiously forsaken thy wife, deservedly beene in thy fathers eie an abject : thinkest thou Lamilia so loose to consort with one so lewd ? No, hypocrite, the sweete Gentleman thy brother I will till death love and thee while I live loathe. This share Lamilia gives thee, other gettest thou none.' She keeps her promise and tells Lucanio ' the whole deceit of his brother, and never rested intimating malitious arguments till Lucanio utterly refused Roberto for his brother and for ever forbad him of his house.' Roberto accordingly wanders forth after rending his hair, cursing his destiny and breaking out into tirades against enticing courtesans. While he is thus soliloquizing and sadly sighing out ' Heu, patior telis vulnera facta meis ' he is overheard by a gentleman on the other side of the hedge. This gentleman accosts him, enters into conversation, and informs him that he is a player. This Roberto 8 GENERAL INTRODUCTION can hardly believe, as the gentleman is so well dressed. The gentleman replies that his outward appearance does not belie him, for that he was exceedingly well-to-do. There was a time when he was fain to carry his playing fardle on foot-back, but that it was otherwise now, for his share in playing apparel would not be sold for two hundred pounds. Roberto expresses his surprise, for ' it seems to me your voice is nothing gracious.' To this the gentleman replies, ' I mislike your judgment ; why I am as famous for Delphrigus and the king of Fairies as ever was any of my time. The twelve labours of Hercules have I terribly thundered on the stage, and plaied three scenes of the devill in the highway to heaven. Nay more, quoth the player, I can serve to make a prettie speech, for I was a countrie author, passing at a morall, for it was I that pende the Moral of mans wit, the Dialogue of Dives, and for seaven yeeres space was absolute interpreter of the puppets. But now my Almanacke is out of date. The people make no estimation Of Morrals teaching education.' He then proposes that Roberto should write plays for him, and promises, if he will do so, to pay him well. ' Roberto, perceiving no remedie, thought best to respect his present necessity, to trie his wit, and went with him willingly, who lodged him at the townes end in a house of retaile.' Meanwhile Lucanio, utterly ruined by Lamilia, with whom he had lived for two years, his lands sold, his jewels pawned, his money wasted, had been cast off by his rapa- cious mistress. In abject poverty and bordering on starvation he had come to the last extremity. Roberto hearing of this seeks him out, not so much because he pitied him as because he thought he could ' use him as a proppertie.' ' Being of simple nature hee served but for a blocke to whet Roberto's wit on ; which the poore foole perceiving he forsooke all other hopes of life and fell to be a notorious Pandar: in which detested course he continued till death.' What follows being obviously, as we know from other sources, pure autobiography, must be transcribed in detail : — • But Roberto now famozed for an Arch-plaimaking poet, his purse like the sea sometime sweld, anon like the same sea fell to a lowe ebbe : yet seldom he wanted, his labours were so well esteemed. Marr)', this rule he kept, whatever he fingered aforehand was the certaine meanes to unbinde a bargaine, and being asked why he so sleightly dealt with them that did him good. It becomes me, saith hee, to be contrary to the worlde, for commonly when vulgar men receive earnest they doe perform, when I am paid anything aforehand I breake AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ELEMENT IN NOVELS 9 my promise. He had shift of lodgings, where in every place his Hostesse writ up tlie wofull remembrance of him his laundresse and his boy; for they were ever his in household, besides retainers in sundry other places. His companie were lightly the lewdest persons in the land, apt for pilferie, perjurie, forgerie, or any villanie. Of these he knew the castes to cog at cards, coosen at dice : by these he learned the legerdeniaines of nips, foysters, connicatchers, crosbyters, lifts, high Lawyers, and all the rabble of that uncleane generation of vipers : and pithelie could he paint out tiieir whole courses of craft. So cunning he was in all crafts as nothing rested in him almost butcraftinesse. How often the Gentlewoman his wife laboured vainely to recall him, is lamentable to note : but as one given over to all lewdness he communicated her sorrowful lines among his loose truls that jested at her bootlesse laments. If he could any way get credit on scores he would then brag his creditors carried stones, comparing everie round circle to a groning O, procured by a painful burden. The shameful end of sundry his consorts, deservedly punished for their amisse, wrought no compunc- tion in his heart: of which one, brother to aBrothell he kept, was trust under a tree as round as a Ball.' All this, it is needless to say, serves to identify Roberto with Greene completely. The last sentence is obviously an allusion to Ball, who was hanged at Tyburn, and whose sister was Greene's mistress and the mother of his son Fortunatus. After recording a disreputable incident in which some of his companions were engaged, and recording the fates of three of them\ the narra- tive continues : — ' Roberto, every day acquainted with these examples, was, notwithstanding, nothing bettered but rather hardened in wickedness. At last was that place justified, God warneth men by dreams and visions in the night and by known examples in the day, but if he returne not hee comes upon him with judgment that shall be felt. For now when the number of deceites caused Roberto bee hateful almost to all men, his immeasurable drinking had made him the perfect image of the dropsie, and the loathesome scourge of Lust tyrannized in his bones. Living in extre,ime poverty and having nothing to pay but chalke, which now his Host accepted not for currant, this miserable man lay comfoitlessely languishing, having but one groat left, (the just proportion of his father's Legacie) whicli looking on he cried : O now it is too late, too late to buy witte with thee : and therefore will I see if I can sell to careless youth what I negligently forgot to buy.' At this point the narrative breaks off and Greene speaks in his own person. The incidents in these novels have so much in common, and are * The text of The Groatsworth is frequently very corrupt, and it is quite clear that something must have dropped out here — the sentence runs, ' One of them for murther was worthily executed : the other never since pros]:iered, the third sitting not long after upon a lustie horse the beast suddenly died under him. God amend the man.' lo GENERAL INTRODUCTION often so identical with what we know to have been facts in Greene's life, that it is difficult not to believe them to be autobiographical. But where autobiography begins and where autobiography ends it is of course impossible to say. We are certainly not warranted in supposing that all which they record should be woven into his life as a portion of it. This, however, is certain, at every step in in- vestigation we seem to be on the trace of analogies to characters and incidents in these novels. In the prosperous alderman bearing Greene's name it seems no great violation of probability to suppose that we may have the original of Rabbi Bilessi, of Fregoso, and of Gorinius ; that the adventures of Picador may be an episode in his own life ; that the story of Francesco and Isabel in all its details, as well as the story of Roberto in all its details, may be transcripts of his own experience. But it would be uncritical to assume this, and in attempting to trace his career I shall not draw on these novels, but leave the reader to form his own conclusions on the relation of what is recorded in them to the actual facts of Greene's life. II He has himself told us that he was born and bred in Norwich \ and that his parents were for their gravity and honest life well known and esteemed amongst their neighbours ^ On the date of his birth and the history of his family and parents no light has hitherto been thrown. Families of the name of Greene were numerous in Norwich, and some of them had held distinguished places among the citizens. Alderman Robert Greene, a prosper- ous grocer, was Mayor in 1529, was connected with the Guild of St. Mary, and apparently lived in St. Peter Mancroft, in the church of which there is a tablet to his memory ^. His son Thomas, who succeeded to his father's business, taking up his freedom in 1543, was among the aldermen serving in 1558. He was sheriff in 1555 and Mayor in 1571 \ He lived in 'a grand house' over against the church of St. Michael at Thorn. In or before 1579 * ' In the citie of Norwich where I was born and bred,' Repentance, Works, xii. 171. ' R. Greene Norderuensis' signature to Maidens Dreatn , Id. xiv. 300. ' R. Greene,' signature to Dedication oi Euphucs Shadow. ' Robert Greene iVb^/- ciensis,^ and reference in the same dedication to ' the native citie of my birth.' ^ Repentance. ' For these facts see Blomefield's History of Norwich, vol. i. 219, iv. 154, and 15, where a copy of the inscription on the tablet is given. * Blomefield, i. 377, 278, 359. GREENE'S PARENTAGE ii he removed from this house \ and it became the town residence of Sir Nicholas Bacon. The Will of this Thomas, dated June 1 6, 1575, was proved by his son Robert Nov. 25, 1581 ^ He left two sons, the said Robert and John. The greater part of his property he leaves to his son Robert, whom he makes his sole executor. Neither of these sons took up their freedom, and were consequently not engaged in trade. Robert, in all probability, became an attorney-at-law, and was the father of George Greene and John Greene, who were respectively admitted to Caius College, Cam- bridge, as sons of Robert Greene, attorney-at-law— George on July I, 1609, aged 16 years, and John admitted to the Scholars' table Nov. 4, 16 1 7. The first became B. A. 1611-12, and was admitted to Lincoln's Inn, June 21, 1610 ; the second became B.A. in 1621-2 and M.A. in 1625 ^ and entered the Church. But there were two other families of the name of Greene, both of which resided in Tombland. One is represented by Robert Greene, first a cordwainer and then an innkeeper, the other by Robert Greene a saddler. On Oct. 16, 1587, Robert Greene, cordwainer, was licensed to keep the inn called the Queen's Head in Tomb- land, and he appears also to have had another inn called the White Horse ; for in the neighbouring church of St. Martin at Palace was interred in October, 1591, a ' Robert Greene de le White Horse,' presumably of course the Robert Greene of the Queen's Head *. The Will of this Robert Greene, who is described as an innholder, dated June 22, 1591, and proved on October 23 the same year, is extant ^ He left three sons and one daughter, William, Martin, John, and Anne. With one exception, that of John, the births of these children are recorded in the Register of St. George, Tombland : — ' Willus filius Robti Grene, inholder xviii" Mali 15S4 bnptizat. fuit. Martin Grene filius Robti Grene, inholder viii Julii 15SS baptizat. fuit. Anna Grene filia Robti Grene xxiii" July 1577.' That Robert Greene the innkeeper was not identical with Robert Greene the saddler, of whom we must now give some account, is proved conclusively by two of the baptismal entries. * Blomefiekl, iv. 137. ^ Episcopal Consistorial Court Register, 1580-82, fol. 335. ' Venn, Caius College Admissions , vol. i. * Register of St. George Tombland, p. 16. The entry is ' Robtus Grene de la White horse sepult . . . October 1591.' ' Episcopal Consistorial Court of Nonuich, Register of St . Andrew' s, fol. 247. 12 GENERAL INTRODUCTION On April 6th, 1583, Henry Grene, son of Robert Grene 'in- holder,' was baptized : on October 20th of the same year Mary Grene, daughter of Robert Grene 'sadler,' was baptized. As these Robert Greenes were contemporary at least as far as 1591, when Robert the innkeeper died, it is not possible to distin- guish them when they are not distinguished in the entries, un- less we are to suppose that when the title of innkeeper is not entered the Robert Greene meant is the saddler. But this will not always apply. Thus in 1579 we find these entries : — 'Tobias Grene filius Robti Grene v° April 1579 baptizat. fuit. Susanna Grene filia Robti Grene baptizat. fuit xviii Maii 1579,' where obviously these cannot be the children of the same parents ; and the same occurs in two other entries : — ' Robtus Grene fuit baptizat. xxv° Augusti 1580. Tobias Grene filius Robti Grene xviii Septembris 1580 baptizat. fuit.' But another entry enables us to identify Tobias with tolerable probability as the son of the saddler. In the Court Books we find Tobias Grene, ' sadler,' transferring certain tenements to one Titus Oates in a document dated January 16 14, thus showing that the Robert Greene born in 1580 was the son of the inn- keeper. But the entry which most concerns us is the following : — 'Robtus Grene filius Robti Grene xj Julii 1558 baptizatus fuit,' for there can be very little doubt that this is the entry of the poet's baptism. He was matriculated at St. John's College, Cambridge, on the 26th of November 1575, when, if he was born in 1558, he would be in his eighteenth year. The average age at which students were matriculated in the sixteenth century appears to have been between sixteen and seventeen \ but it was often between seventeen and eighteen, at which age Lyly, Daniel, William Harrison, and almost certainly Spenser, were matriculated. He was entered as a Sizar '^j which shows that his parents were not opulent. The terms in which he speaks of them clearly indicate that they were not of much social importance, and it is observable that he never in his title-pages or elsev/here signs * Marlowe was matriculated in his seventeenth year, Peele, Anthony Bacon, Ascham, and Nash in their sixteenth, Lyly, Samuel Daniel, William Harrison, and almost certainly Spenser, in their eighteenth. * Registry of the University , kindly communicated by the Registrary. GREENE'S PARENTAGE 13 himself 'Gentleman,' as Lodge and Nash do^ In the Dedicatory Epistle of Fhilomela to the Lady Fitzwaters he appears to imply that he and his family had been among the retainers of her husband ^ It now remains to determine if possible whether the poet, that is presumably the Robert Greene baptized in 1558, was the son of the innkeeper or the saddler. There are two pre- sumptions that he was the son of the saddler ; the first is based on the evidence of the Register. Toby was plainly a family name with the saddler, as we have already seen, and as will be seen directly from his Will. Now in the Register we find an Alice Grene baptized August 1556, then a Robert Grene baptized 1558, then Toby baptized in 1561 (dying the same year in June), then an Anne baptized July 1577 and presumably the Anne mentioned in Robert the saddler's Will, then another Toby who took the place of the dead Toby, next a Susanna baptized May 1579. And here first comes in the ambiguity with the innkeeper's family, for in August and September 1580 are baptized a Robert and another Toby (the second Toby having presumably died in infancy). The presumption is then, though stress must not be laid on it, that the children entered from 1556 to 1580 were the children of the saddler. The second presumption is based on the innkeeper's Will, which, being made in 1591, shows that either the poet was not his son or that he was disinherited ; but this does not apply to the Will ^ of the saddler to which we now come. It is dated 40th of Elizabeth, and was proved 17th December 1599. He leave a wife Jane, a daughter Anne ' now wife of Arthur Rylaye,' an unmarried son Toby, and two grandchildren. It may be added that there was another Robert Greene a yeoman, who lived at Horsham St. Faith, almost two miles from Norwich, whose Will was proved in 1591. He left two sons, John and Henry, and several daughters. What his connexion with the poet, if any, may have been there is now no means of knowing. To sum up : it is impossible to speak with certainty, but it ^ Nothing can be inferred from Eliote's verses Au K. Greene Gentilhome, prefixed to Pcrimedes, Works, vii. lo. ^ 'I am borne (born) his,' Works, xi. 109. ^ Court of the Archdeacon of Norwich, Register Bastard, fol. 339. He leaves to his wife Jane his tenement and appurtenances in St. George Tombland for her life, then to his son Tobie, together with some trilling legacies. 14 GENERAL INTRODUCTION seems at least probable that Robert Greene the poet was the son of Robert Greene, the saddler in Norwich, and Jane his wife, and that he was baptized, the second child of his parents, July nth, 1558. He tells us in the Repe7itance that his ' father had care to have mee in my Nonage brought up at school, that I might through the studie of good letters grow to be a friend to myself,' &c. The school referred to would presumably be the Free Grammar School at Norwich, which was then attached to the Great Hospital and under the con- trol of the Mayor and Court of Aldermen. It provided free education 'for fourscore and ten scholars,' and Ordinances issued on April 2nd, 1566, and accepted June 14th, 1566, enacted that a Register should be kept. If this Register was kept all traces of it have vanished, and though the names of the Head Masters have been preserved, the names of the scholars have not. If Greene's name was entered it has disappeared with the rest. The late Head Master tells me that there is no tra- dition that Greene was at the School, and what is certainly curious is this, that though there were exhibitions to Corpus Christi College and to Caius College, Cambridge, there were none to St. John's '. Whether Greene was educated at the Grammar School must therefore remain doubtful. The boy was father to the man, and before he left for Cambridge his characteristic vices had, according to his own account, begun to display themselves. 'As early prickes the tree that will prove a thorne, so even in my first yeares I began to followe the frettings of mine owne desires and neyther to listen to the wholesome advertisements of my parents nor bee rulde by the careful corrections of my Maisterl' Residence at Cambridge at the time when Greene entered it was Httle likely either to improve his morals or correct defects in his education. He arrived at a time when the reaction against the restrictions imposed on the students by the regulations of Whitgift and his coadjutors appears to have been at its height. William Soone might pronounce 'that the way of life ^ All this from information kindly contributed by the Rev.O. W.Tancock, late Head Master of Norwich Grammar School. It may be added that the Head Masters between 1556 and 1599 were 'Mr.' Bache, Walter Hall, and Stephen Lambert. Gi-eat Hospital Rolls. ^ Repentance. EARLY LIFE AND EDUCATION 15 in these Colleges is the most pleasant and liberal, and if I might have my choice I should prefer it to a kingdom ' ; but about a year and a half after Greene's arrival, riot, luxury, and insubordination had reached such a pitch that we find the authorities complaining that ' if some remedy be not speed- ily provided, the University which hath been from the begyning a collection and society of a multitude of all sorts of ages and professyng to godliness, modesty, virtue and learning, and a ne- cessary storehouse to the realm of the same, shall become rather a storehouse for a staple of prodigall, wastfull, ryotous, unlerned and insufficient persons '.' Extravagance in dress, drunkenness, insubordination, and rudeness to superiors and strangers, are fre- quent complaints made against the undergraduates. Harrison complains bitterly of the slander into which gentlemen or rich men's sons brought the University. ' For standing upon their repu- tation and liberty they ruffle and roist it out, exceeding in apparel and bantling riotous companie which draweth them from their books into another trade 2.' And the plebeian and poor scholars aped the gentlemen. One of Greene's friends at St. John's, Nash, made himself so notorious in this way that his name became proverbial, and ' a verie Nash ' passed into a synonym, says Gabriel Harvey, for ' everie untoward scholar ^.' Giordano Bruno's account of Oxford and its students is well known, and certainly there was nothing to choose between the Universities at this time. In the studies prescribed for degrees there was little to attract a youth with liberal tastes. In the Logic schools the arid dialectics of Ramus — the abhorrence of Bacon — dominated. In Theology, the only subject in which a student could obtain popular distinction, the old barren Scholasticism blended with the new dreary polemics engendered in the religious controversies succeeding the Reformation. The study of Physics was in its infancy. Polite Literature was practically unrepresented. Lec- tures were announced, and perhaps delivered, on the Institutes of Quintilian and the oratorical treatises of Cicero, but no one attended them ^ Of the indifference of the University to the study of Humanity we have a striking illustration in the ' Cooper, Annals, ii. 360-1. ' ¥\in\\\a.\Ys Harrison s England, part i. 77-78. ' .See liass Mullinger, History of the University of Cambridge, vol. ii. 369- 439, and Cooper's Annals, passim, vol. ii. i6 GENERAL INTRODUCTION fact that both Whitgift and Haddon were unacquainted with Greek. The consequence of all this was that an undergraduate who had a taste for letters had to take his education into his own hands, and to ignore the lectures of the Professors became an established custom in the Colleges. But there was much intellectual ac- tivity among the students themselves, and the College to which Nash and Greene belonged had been particularly distinguished in this respect. In the address which Nash prefixed to his friend's Menaphon he thus speaks of St. John's College : — 'That most famous and fortunate nurse of all learning, Saint Johns in Cam- bridge, that at that time was a Universitie within itself, shining so far above all other Houses, Halls and Hospitalls whatsoever that no College in the towne was able to compare with a tythe of her students, having, as I have heard grave men of credite report, more candles light in it everie Winter morning before fowre of the clock than the fowre of the clocke bell gave stroakes ; till shee, as a pittying mother put too her helping hande, and sent from her fruitful wombe sufficient scholars both to support her owne weale as also to supplie all other inferiour foundations defects.* He then goes on to speak of the accomplished men who had been the glory of that institution, such as Cheke, Watson, Ascham, and Grindal, and to lament ' the abject abbreviations of the Arts/ complaining that the liberal studies which had been pursued and represented by these illustrious scholars had again relapsed into the old trivialities, that the time which should be employed on Aristotle was now employed on Epitomes and on ' refuse Philosophy,' and that the Universities were more bent on turning out ^ Divinitie dunces ' than men of culture. It is not surprising then that Greene and his friends should have gone their own way. They were no doubt loose and dissipated, but their works show that their time could not altogether have been wasted. It would be absurd to speak of either Greene or Marlowe as scholars. Of Greek they probably knew little or nothing ; and in one of the few passages in which Greene ventures on a Greek phrase he lays himself open to the suspicion of having mistaken the future middle for the infinitive mood ^. His Latin composition in verse and prose, though very far from being flawless, is respectable ^ and is sometimes in single ' 'Iknowfaciliusest/^co/iiyfrerajquam^i/^TycrtTat,' Address to Gentlemen Scholars in Mourning Garment, Works, ix. 125. ^ His worst copy of verses, which is full of false quantities, is in Orlando Furioso, his best are the Elegiacs in Tullies Love. See too the .Sapphics in the same treatise, which would be tolerable except for the last stanza. For his UNIVERSITY LIFE AND TRAVELS 17 lines and sentences not far from a classical standard. No details of Greene's Cambridge life have been preserved, and there is nothing about him in the College archives either at St. John's or at Claret He was admitted to the degree of B. A. in 1578 ^. His acquaintances at Cambridge, or, to borrow his own expression, the 'wags as lewd as himself,' persuaded him on taking his degree to visit Italy and Spain. This appears to have been opposed by his father, or perhaps he set out without his father's knowledge. In any case he resorted, he tells us, to 'cunning sleights' for procuring the necessary funds from his father and from friends, and in this he was aided by his mother, who secretly supplied him with money. The elder Greene may well have been alarmed at the step his son was taking. To allow a young man to visit Italy except under the strictest surveillance was, in the opinion of the moralists of those times, to secure his destruction. It was to send him to graduate in the Devil's school, to initiate him in atheism and in every species of immorality. Harrison ^, speaking of the education of English professors, says, ' One thing only I mistake in them, and that is their usual going into Italic from whence verie few without special grace do return goode men.' ' Suffer not thy sons,' says Lord Burleigh, ' to pass the Alps, for they shall learn nothing there but pride, blasphemy and atheism ^' The passage in Ascham is well known, and not less emphatic are the protests and warnings of Nash and Hall. In these travels all that was worst in him was developed, and he saw, he tells us, and ' practized such villainy as is abominable to declare.' From the Dedication of one of his tracts^ we learn that he visited not only Italy and Spain, but France, Ger- many, Poland, and Denmark. Reminiscences of these travels have undoubtedly supplied him with some of the local colouring of many of his fictions. Such, for example, would be the account given by the Palmer in Never too late of France, Germany, and Italy, and touches in the description of Arcadia in Menaphoji. Latin prose see the Epistle of Lentulus in TuIIies Love and the Dialogue inserted in Planetomachia, but perhaps they were not original. ' From information kindly given by Mr. Bass Mullinger, Librarian of St. John's, and from the Rev. the Master of Clare College. * University Register, date of month and day not recorded. ' Furnivall's Harrison, pnrt i. 8i. * hurleit^h's Advices to his Son. " Pierce Pennilesse, Works, ii. 52. COLLINS. I • P i8 GENERAL INTRODUCTION He returned to England thoroughly demoralized, ' learned in all the villanies under heaven,' but the date of his return cannot now be ascertained. Nor is it possible to settle the date of the remark- able experience which he had in St. Andrew's church at Norwich, but as he describes himself as ' being new come from Italy ' it probably occurred not long after his arrival in England. It is best told in his own words. Speaking of the hardened and desperate state in which he was, how from habitual libertinism he had grown to habitual drunkenness, and from drunkenness to profanity and blasphemy, he goes on to say : — • ' Yet let me confess a truth , that even once and yet but once I felt a fear and horror in my conscience, and then the terrors of God's judgements did manifestly teach me that my life was bad, that by sinne I deserved damnation, and that such was the greatness of my sinne that I deserved no redemption. And this inward motion I received in Saint Andrew's Church in the Cittie of Norwich at a Lecture or Sermon then preached by a godly learned man whose doctrine and the maner of whose teaching I liked wonderful well : yea, (in my conscience) such was his singleness of heart and zeal in his doctrine that he might have converted the most monster of the world. . . At this Sermon the terror of God's judgement did manifestly teach me that my exercises were damnable and that I should bee wipte out of the booke of life, if I did not speedily repent my looseness of life and reforme my misdemeanors. At this sermon the said learned man, who doubtless was the child of God, did beate downe sinne in such pithie and persuasive manner that I began to call unto mind the danger of my soule and the prejudice that at length would befall mee for those grosse sinnes which with greediness I daily committed : in so much as sighing I said in myself, " Lord have mercie upon mee, and send me grace to amend and become a naw mani."' There can be little doubt that the preacher whose sermon had this effect on Greene was John More, a man of remarkable accom- plishments and eloquence who was known as the Apostle of Norwich. He had been a fellow of Christ's College, and on leaving Cambridge had been appointed minister of St. Andrew's some- where about 157 1, and he held this office till his death in Jan. 1591-22. The effect of this sermon, as we shall presently see, soon wore off, but it is at least not improbable that it may have borne some fruit. For we find entered on the Stationers' Registers, March 20, 1 580-1, under Greene's name a ballad with the follow- ing title : — ' Youthe seeing all his wais so troublesome, abandoning Virtue and Learning to Vice recalleth his former Follies with an Inward Repentance.' This ballad was either not published or has not come down to us. ^Repentance. ^ See Cooper's Athcnae Cantabrigienses, vol. ii. 11 7-1 18. RETURN TO ENGLAND. ALLEGED ORDINATION 19 He had now begun his career as a writer, for on the 3rd of October 1580 was entered on the Stationers' Registers the first part of MajuilUa \ but it was not pubhshed till nearly three years after- wards. Meanwhile (1583) Greene had proceeded to the degree of M.A., and had migrated from Saint John's to Clare Hall, for what reason does not appear. It would seem that he resided at Clare Hall, for the Dedication to the second part of Mamillia (not published till after his death, but licensed on Sept. 6, 1583) is dated 'from my Studie in Clare Hall the vij of Julie,' pre- sumably July 1583, though no year is given ^ The title of student of Physic which he afterwards (1585) appended to his name on the title-page of Planetomachia has, doubtless, no reference to his pursuits at Cambridge. We have now to examine a singular tradition that Greene entered the Church. Sir Harris Nicholas discovered among the Lansdowne manuscripts (982, art. 102, fol. 187), under the head of 'Additions to ]\Ir. Wood's Report of Mr, Robert Green, an eminent poet who died about 1592,' a reference to a document in Rymer's Foedera, from which it appears that a Robert Grene was in 1576 one of the Queen's Chaplains, and that he was pre- sented by Elizabeth to the rectory of Walkington in the diocese of York. The passage in Rymer, which is to be found in the Fxdera, vol. xv. p. 765, has been translated by Dyce. This, Hunter thinks, is corroborated by the connexion of some of Greene's early patrons and friends with Yorkshire ^ But this supposition may be rejected without reserve^ for in 1576 Greene was an undergraduate at Cambridge and was within less than a year from his matriculation \ This, however, is not the only hypothesis which connects Greene with the Church. Octavius Gilchrist, in his Examination of Beti Jonson^s Enmity towards Shakespeare, P- 22, states, though without citing his authority, that a Robert Greene * ' 3rd October, 1580. Thomas Woodcock, Lycensed unto him Mattilia, A lookinge Glasse for ye ladies of England^ Maitilia is of course only a slip of the pen, as the second title shows, Stationers' Register^ Arber Transcript, ii. 378. ^ ' Master Ponsonbye, Licensed to him under Master Watkins hande a booke entituled Mamilia^ the Seconde parte of the Tiyitinphe of Pallas, &c.', Stat. Regist., Arber, ii. 428. ' See Collectanea Hunteriana, vol. iii. p. 360. They are iu manuscript, and are deposited in the British Museum. * i.e. Nov. 1575, while the document appointing Greene to the rectory ol Walkington is signed ' tricesimo primo die Augusti.' C 2 20 GENERAL INTRODUCTION was presented to the vicarage of ToUesbury in Essex on June 19, 1584, and that he resigned it in the following year. Gilchrist's authority was Newcourt's Repertorium, vol. ii. p. 602, and the entry runs as follows : — 'ToUesbury. Rob, Grene cl. 19 Jun. 1584. per mort. Searle. Earth. Moody, cl. 17 Feb. 1585. per resign. Grene.' Ingleby, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Fleay, and others, have assumed that the identification of the poet with this Greene has been satis- factorily established. Dyce more cautiously expresses no opinion. For my own part, I confess that I am very far from being con- vinced, and am strongly inclined to doubt the identification. The arguments urged in favour of it are these. We do not know where Greene was at and about the time in question, but we do know that he was engaged on moral and religious works, e. g. publishing MamilUa, The Mirrour of Afodesiy, Arbasto'^, such works as would be becoming to a clergyman. Secondly is alleged the evidence afforded by two manuscript notes on the title-page of a quarto of The Pinner of Wakefield. The first runs : — 'Written by a minister who acted the piner's pt in it himselfe. Teste \V. Shakespeare.' the second, ' Ed. Juby saith it was made by Ro. Greene.' This, it must be admitted, does not go far. It is in the first place a loose assertion on the part of some anonymous person, who makes at the same time a statement which is both highly im- probable and confirmed by nothing which we know about Greene, and Juby's statement appears not to be a confirmation but a correction of the former. In any case it is hopelessly ambiguous and totally valueless as evidence. There is still less to be said for the passage brought by Dr. Grosart to support this supposition from Martifie Mar-Sixius. In this pamphlet the author is inveighing generally against the degradation of popular literature : — ' We live in a printing age wherein there is no man either so vainely or factiously or filthily * Possibly to this period may belong the translation of a Funeral Sermon by Pope Gregory XIII, and the Exhortation and fruitful Admonition to vertuous parents and modest Matrons to the bringing up of their children in godly education and household discipline, by R. G. Printed for Nich. Linge, 1584, 8°. See Dyce, Greene , p. 81. ALLEGED ORDINATION 21 disposed but there are crept out all sorts of unauthorised authors to fill and fit his humour ... I loath to speake it, every red-nosed rimester is an author^ every drunken man's dream is a book,' &c. In what follows he may possibly be referring to Greene, but there is not the smallest reason for supposing that he was referring to Greene in 'every red-nosed rimester^' (not 'minister' as Grosart and Storozhenko misquote it). When we remember the scandalously lax way in which Church patronage was bestowed — that benefices were conferred by patrons on their bakers, cooks, and horse-keepers, that some beneficed ministers were neither priests nor deacons, that laymen were frequently presented to livings, and even made prebendaries and archdeacons ^ — it is of course quite possible that Greene may have held this benefice and again rejoined the laity, without his year's residence as a clergyman being known to his contemporaries in London. But this is hardly likely. It would almost certainly have come to the ears of Gabriel Harvey or of some of Greene's numerous assailants ; but in the voluminous controversial literature of which Greene was the subject not the faintest reference to his having been in the Church has been found. Nor is this all. Greene has been so communicative abouthimself, andespeciallyaboutwhat layon his conscience, that he would hardly have been silent about a circumstance which so greatly aggravated some of his most characteristic vices, profanity and blasphemy. There is really nothing to support this supposition beyond the coin- cidence in the names, and when weremember how common thename of Robert Greene was at that time, the coincidence can hardly outweigh the probabilities of the contrary conclusion. The period immediately succeeding his taking the M.A. degree was not a very fruitful one. Between that date and what we must assume to be the year of his marriage, 1585, he produced or published, in addition to the works which have been mentioned, only the First Part of the Tritameron of Love ^ Greene's Carde of Fancie, Morando the Tritameron of Love {First Part), and Planetomachia. Meanwhile the good impressions which had been made by the sermon in St. Andrew's Church had quite worn off. He had met again his old companions, whether in Norwich, or Cambridge, or ' See Mar Hue Mar-Sixtus, 1591, Epistle Dedicatorie. " For this almost incredible state of things see P'urnivall's Harrison, part i, pp. 26 seqq. with the references. 22 GENERAL INTRODUCTION London does not appear. Seeing him in a solemn humour they had asked the cause of his sadness. He had explained to them that he had awakened to a sense of the wickedness of his life, and told them of the effect which the sermon had made on him. Upon that they fell upon him ' in a jeasting manner,' calling him ' Puritan and Precisian ' with other such ' scoffing terms ^' The effect of this was to shame him out of his virtue and to drive him to his old courses again. ' I fell again,' he adds, ' with the Dog to my olde vomit, and put my wicked life in practise and that so throughly as ever I did before.' At the close probably of 1584 or the early part of 1585 ^, he married a gentleman's daughter of good account : — * But for as much as she would persuade me from my wilful wicked- ness, after I had a child by her I cast her off, having spent up the marriage money which I obtained by her. Then left I her at six or seven, who went into Lincolneshire and I to London.' Of this lady, beyond the fact that her name seems to have been Dorothy, and that she was virtuous and religious, nothing further is known. Nor has it been ascertained where the marriage took place ; probability points to Norwich ; it is hardly likely to have taken place in London ^ To speculate on the causes of their estrangement would be vain. Men of Greene's temper and wnth his habits are hardly likely to be happy in married life. I have already pointed out the unde- sirableness of deducing his autobiography from his novels, and if we may suspect the influence of an Infida or a Lamiliawe are not ' See the vivid account he gives in the Repentance. The whole thing reminds us of Steele and the effect on his companions of the Christian Hero. ^ This is deduced from what he says in the Repentance: — ' My deare Wife whose company and sight I have refrained these six yeares.' As this was written in 1592, and as he tells us that he lived with his wife 'for a while and had a child by her,' if we assume that he lived with her for about a year, this would make the date the date conjectured in the text. Of course he may have married much earlier : it all depends on what period is indicated by the words ' for a while.' ^ Collier found, or professed to have found, the following entry in the Register of St. Bartholomew the Less: — 'The xvjth day of Februarie 1586 was maryed : Wilde, otherwise — Grene unto Elizabeth Taylor ' {Memoirs of the Principal Actors in the Plays of Shake- speare, Intr. p. xxi). Dyce seems to think that this may be the record of Greene's marriage. But his wife's name seems to have been Dorothy as he calls her ' Doll,' though ' Doll ' may of course only have been a pet name. But there is no record that Greene was ever known as ' Wilde,' and the date involves difficulties. EARLY LIFE IN LONDON 23 authorized to assume it. This, however, seems quite clear, that the memory of his wife ever afterwards haunted him. The same beautiful, pure, and long-suffering figure appears and reappears among the women of his novels and plays, the uncomplaining victim of man's selfishness and cruelty. Such is Isabel in Never too late, Eellaria in Pandosto, Philomela in The Lady Fitzivaters Nightingale, Barmenissa in Penelope's Web, Sephestia in Menaphon, Mariana in Perimedes, Theodora in Greene's Vision, and Dorothea in James IV. On arriving in London he set to work, and produced between 1586 and 1590 the Second Part of Tritameron, Penelope^s Web, Euphues, his censure to Philautus, Alcida, Greetie's Metamorphosis, Perimedes the Blacksmith, Orpharion, Pandosto or Dorastus and Faumia, The Spanish Masquerado, Menaphon, and Tullies Love. He was now one of the most popular writers of his time, and he tells us in the Rcpentajice that he was 'in favour with such as were of honorable and good calling.' This is borne out by the dedications to his pieces and the recommendatory verses prefixed to them. Among his patrons were Lady Margaret Derby, Ferdinand Stanley, afterwards fifth Earl of Derby, the Earl and Countess of Cumberland, the Earls of Leicester, Arundel, and Essex, Robert Carey, Earl of Monmouth, Lord and Lady Fitzwater, of whom, judging from an expression in the dedication to Philomela, his family had been retainers, and the highly respectable Thomas Burnaby. He was on intimate terms with Roger Portington, a gentleman of very good family in Norfolk ^ Among the men of letters of that time he could number among his intimate acquaintances Watson and Nash, old Johnians, Lodge, whom he seems to have met in 1589, Robert Lee, an actor and dramatist, and he was doubtless well acquainted with Marlowe and Peele. But unhappily though he knew how to get a friend, he had not, he tells us, the gift or reason how to keep one, and he was very soon to estrange almost all who had been intimate with him. Up to this time he had expressed no compunction for his occupation as a writer of what he calls amorous pamphlets, nor has he expressed any dissatisfaction with his career. We have many glimpses of the wild and riotous life which he was leading. He had formed a connexion with a notorious thief and cut-throat ' Professor Storozhenko has collected some interesting information about Greene's patrons and acquaintances. See Grosart edit., vol. i. 20-28. 24 GENERAL INTRODUCTION named Ball, who with the aid of his gang of desperadoes protected him from arrests for debt^. This Ball's sister he kept as his mistress, and she bore him a child whom he named, with bitter irony perhaps, Fortunatus ^ Chased from one haunt of squalid profligacy to another, from the Bankside to Shoreditch, and from Shoreditch to Southwark, he made shift to keep out of prison, now by pawning his sword and cloak, and now by 'yarking up some pamphlet,' which his friend Nash says he could do 'in a day and a night as well as in seven yeare.' Nash tells us how he once saw him in a tavern make an apparitor eat his own citation, 'wax and all very handsomely served between two dishes^.' One of his haunts was the Red Lattise in Tormoyle Street*, where he appears to have been on very pleasant terms with the hostess ^ There is always a discrepancy hard to reconcile between Greene as he lived and Greene as he appears in his writings, and the discrepancy becomes the more remarkable as we proceed". In 1589 appeared the Spanish Masquerado, In ^ Harvey's Foiire Letters, p. 10. Harvey was the bitterest of Greene's enemies, but his statements are corroborated by other testimony. ' This poor child's burial is entered on the Register of St. Leonard's, Shore- ditch. ' 159,^. Fortunatus Grene was buried the same day,' i.e. 12th of August. ^ Strange Newes, sigil E. 4. * Id., sig. C. 3. ° See Greene's Newes both from Heaven and Hell, p. 2, where his ghost is represented as speaking of ' a potte of that liquor that I was wont to drink with my hostesse at the Red Lattise in Tormoyle Street.' " Harvey gives the following lively picture of poor Greene's life : — • ' I was altogether unacquainted with the man and never once saluted him by name : but who in London hath not heard of his dissolute and licentious living, liis fonde disguisinge of a Master of Arte with ruffianly haire, unseemely apparell, and more unseemelye Company ; his vaineglorious and Thrasonicall bravinge : his piperly Extemporizing and Tarletonizing : his apish counterfeiting of every ridiculous and absurd toy : his fine coosening of Juglers and finer jugling with cooseners : hys villainous cogging and foisting: his monstrous swearinge and horrible forswearing : his impious profaning of sacred Textes : his other scandalous and blasphemous ravinge : his riotous and outragious surfeitinge ; his continuall shifting of lodginges : his plausible musteringe and banquetinge of roysterly acquaintaunce at his first comminge : his beggarly departing in every hostisses debt : his infamous resorting to the Banckeside, Shoreditch, Southwarke and other filthy hauntes : his obscure lurkinge in basest Comers : his pawning of his sword, cloake and what not when money came short : his impudent pamphletting, phantasticall interluding and desperate libelling when other coosening shifts failed : his imployinge of Ball, (surnamed cuttinge Ball) till he was intercepted at Tiborne to leavy a crew of his trustiest companions to guarde him in daunger of arrestes : his keping of the Aforesaid Balls sister, a sorry ragged queane, of whome hee had his base Sonne In/or- 'THE COBLER OF CANTERBURY' 25 this he struck a new note. ' Hitherto Gentlemen,' he says in the address to the Gentlemen Readers, ' I have writte of loves. . . now lest I might be thought to tie myself wholly to amorous conceits I have ventured to discover my conscience in Religion.' It was inspired by the defeat of the Spanish Armada in the preceding year. The same gravity is conspicuous in a treatise published shortly afterwards in 1590, and dedicated to the Lord ]\Iayor and Sheriffs of London, entitled The Royal Exchange. And now a great change passed over his writings. Up to this time he had adopted for his motto either the full line from Horace 0?fine tulit piuictum qui miscuit utile dulci, a contraction 0>?ifie iulit or utile dulci, which will be found on the title-pages of most of his novels and pamphlets. He was now to adopt another, Sero sed ^m^ — and this was to be the symbol of a new life as a writer. In 1590 appeared a collection of witty but licentious tales entitled 'The Cobler of Canterbury or an Invective against Tarleton's Newes out of Purgatorie. A merrier jest than a Clownes jigge and fitter for Gentlemen's Humours. Published with the cost of a Dickar of Cowe-hides.' In the Cobler's ' Epistle to the Reader ' the purport of the book is described. It contains : ' The tales that were told in the barge between Billingsgate and Graves- end : imitating herein old father Chaucer who with the like method set out his Canterbury Tales. But as there must be admitted no Compare between a cup of Darby ale and a dish of durtie water, so Sir Jeffrey Chaucer is so high above my reach that I take Noli altum sapere for a warning and onlie look at him with reverence. Here is a gallimaufrie of all sorts.' It is a collec- tion of six stories which almost rival the most indecent tales of Boccaccio in indecency, but it must be added would do no discredit to him in raciness and wit ^ This book was, it seems, attributed to Greene, and that it was attributed to him was probably due to the tunatus Greene : his forsaking of his owne wife too honest for such a husband : particulars are infinite : his contemning of Superiours, deriding of other and defying of all good order. . . They that have seene much more than I have heard ; (for so I am credibly informed) can relate straunge and almost incredible Comedies of his monstrous disposition, wherewith I am not to infect the aire or defde this paper.' Second Letter, Works, i. pp. 168-169. * The only known original copy of this is in the Malone Collection in the Bodleian at Oxford. But it has been reprinted and edited by Mr. Frederic Ouvry, London, 1862. 26 GENERAL INTRODUCTION Epistle Dedicatory, 'Robin Good Fellowes Epistle,' Robin being the name by which Greene was known among his boon companions. Good Fellow no doubt being added \ That Greene should have taken exception to this imputation is not surprising. Whatever his life had been, he had never prostituted his pen to coarseness and licentiousness. His writings had been Puritanic in their scrupulous abstinence from anything approaching profanity and impurity. He was greatly hurt at the wrong which had been done him and his reputation. And this wrong had a further effect. It led him to reflect on the absence of any serious purpose in his own writings. The only difference after all between the Cobbler's tales and his own was that they pandered to the amusement of the vulgar, and his to the amusement of more refined readers. His conscience reproached him for the abuse of the talents which had been entrusted to him. He w^ould henceforth direct them to nobler uses. If he amused he would instruct; he would turn what the errors and vices of his life had taught him to the profit of his fellow countrymen. All this he embodied in the form of a protest, an apology, and a declaration in a pamphlet, entitled Greene's Vision^. It is very probable that these serious reflections and * Cf. ' Greene who had in both Academies ta'en Degree of Master, yet could never gaine To be call'd more than Robin.' Heywood, Hierarchic of the Blessed Atigels, edit. 1635, p. 206. Nash calls Greene a Goodfellow — ' a Goodftllowe hee was,' Strange Nerves, sig. E. 4. ^ This was published with a false announcement on the title-page that it was ' Written at the instant of his death,' after his death in 1592. It was written, as internal evidence shows, in 1590, before the publication of The Mourning Garment and Never too late, both published in 1590. He says on p. 274, Works, vol. xii : ' Onelie this I must end my Nunquani Sera est, and for that I crave pardon ' (that is, he must finish one of those amorous pamphlets which he now intended to abandon), ' but for all these follies that 1 may with the Ninivites shew in sackcloth my harty repentance, looke as speedily as the presse will serve for my Mourning Garment, a weede that I know is of so plaine a cut that it will please the gravest eie.' The opening sentence also shows that it must have been written directly after the appearance of the Cobler of Catitcr- hury, to which it is a reply. It would be very interesting to be able to determine whether the Address to the Gentlemen Readers was written, as it may have been, by himself at the instant of his death, or whether it was written in 1590 under the stress of a severe illness when he thought himself on the point of death, or whether, finally, it was a forgery of the publisher. No doubt this Vision was left among the many papers which Chettle tells us were in sundry booksellers' hands (Address to Gentlemen Readers in Kind-harts Dream), and then hurried out immediately after his death. It is a proof, I am sorry to say, of the careless- 'GREENE'S VISION' 27 this determination to devote himself to nobler duties were induced by a fever, which he appears to have contracted about this time and which kept him in the country \ In this interesting work he tells how sad the imputation of having been the author of the Cobler of Canterbun^ had made him, and how in his depression he began 'to call to remembrance what fond and wanton lines had past his pen, how he had bent his course to a wrong shore, sowing his seed in the sand, and so reaping nothing but thorns and thistles.' He then, he says, turned to his standishand wrote the Ode 'Of the vanity of wanton writings ^' The composition of this brings home to him the enormity of the offence he had com- mitted in not realizing the seriousness of life's responsibilities, ' that wee were born to profit our Countrie, not only to please ourselves.' Then follows a fervent prayer to God, expressing his remorse for his vicious life and frivolous writings. Falling asleep he has a vision in which he sees two aged men, the one is Chaucer and the other is Gower, both of whom are described in verse, parodying seriously the verse descriptions in the Cohler of Ca?iterbury. On com- plaining to Chaucer of the grievance which was depressing him, namely the fact that he had been represented as the author of ' a booke called the Cobler of Canterburie, a merrie worke made by some madde fellow containing plesant tales, a little tainted with scurilitie such reverend Chaucer as you yourself set forth in 3'our journey to Canterbury.' Chaucer replies in effect that no great wrong had been done him. ' Knowest thou not, Greene, that the waters that flow from Parnassus Founte, are not types to any particular operation ? That there are Nine Muses amongst whom as there is a Clio to write grave matters so there is a Thalia to endite pleasant conceits.' And the merry old poet goes on to tell him that there was nothing to be ashamed of in writing wanton stories, that remorse for such things was absurd. 'Therefore, resolve thyself, thou hast done schoUer-like in setting forth thy pamphlets and shalt have perpetual fame which is learnings due for thy endeavour.' Upon that Gower rose up 'with a sowre countenance ' and rebuked Chaucer for expressing such opinions. ness of Greene's editors and biographers that they have taken the date of this piece for granted, and not seen that so far from it being his last piece it is the first piece which initiates the period of repentance. ' See Latin verses at end of the Addre-ss to A/cida, Works, i.\. 9. » See the Ode. 28 GENERAL INTRODUCTION A dialogue then ensues in which Gower contends that Greene was right in repenting his amorous pamphlets, while Chaucer main- tains the opposite opinion. Two excellent stories — the relevance of which to the context is not very apparent— are then told by Chaucer and Gower, the one being humorous, the other serious. These related, Gower turns to Greene and exhorts him to discon- tinue his idle works and address himself to serious subjects : — ' Give thyself to write either of humanitie and as TuUie did ... or else of moral virtue, or els penne something of natural philosophic.' Greene then replies, and thus expresses his palinode : — • My pamphlets have passed the presse and some have given them praise, but the gravest sort whose mouths are the trumpets of true report have spoken hardlie of my labours. For which if sorrow may make amendes, I hope to acquite some part of my misse with penaunce, and in token (Father Gower), that what my tongue speaketh my heart thinketh: I will begin from henceforth to hate all such follies and to write of matters of some import ; either Moral to discover the active course of virtue, how man should direct his life to the perfect felicity, or else to discourse as a Naturalist of the perfection that Nature hath planted in her creatures, thereby to manifest the excellent glory of the maker : or some Political Axiomes or Acanonicall preceptes that may both generally and parti- cularly profit the Commonwealth. Henceforth Father Gower farewell the insight I had into loves secrets : let Venus rest in her spheare I will be no Astronomer to her influence. Let affection die & perish as a vapour that vanisheth in the aire, my yeares grow towards the grave, and I have had bouts enough with fancy. They which heede Greene for a patron of love and a second Ovid shall now thinke him a Timon of such lineaments and a Diogenes that will barke at every amourous pen. Onely this. Father Gower, I must end my Nimqiiain sera est — and for that I crave pardon : but for all these follies that I may with the Ninivites shew in sackcloth my harty repentance : looke as speedily as the press will serve for my mourning garment.' Solomon then appears, and, as the wisest of men, expresses his approval of Greene's decision, encouraging and confirming it with an appropriate speech. In the concluding paragraph Greene promises his readers that as they ' had the blossomes of his wanton fancies, so they shall have the fruites of his better labours.' And he kept his promise. In 1590 appeared his Mourning Garment. Both in the Dedication and in the Address to the Gentlemen scholars he emphatically announces his repentance and his determination 'to turn his wanton works to effective labours,' and compares himself with the Ninivites who after the ' threatenings of Jonas had made a jarre in their eares had turned their finest send- all to sackcloth.' In the same year appeared his Never too late. It is curious that in this work he adopts his old motto Onme tulit PROMISES REPENTANCE 29 functum, probably because it was written before his reformation. But as it is an essentially moral tale sent, as the title-page announces, 'as a Powder of Experience to all youthful gentlemen to roote out the infectious follies that over-reaching conceits foster in the spring time of their youth ' he does not apologize for it. This was immediately succeeded by the second part, Francesco's Fortunes, which would not, he says, have been written if it had not been promised at the end of the First Part. In the title-pages he sub- stitutes his new motto sero sed serio for his old one. In the follow- ing year 1591 he published his Farewell to Follie, which he had announced his intention of writing in the concluding paragraph of Never too late. It was to follow, he said, Fra?icescds Fortiuies — ' and then adieu to all amourous pamphlets.' The Dedication repeats what he had said before. His works, he says, have been accounted follies, and follies are the fruit of youth. But years had now bitten him with experience ; age was growing on him bidding him petere graviora. The present work was an ultimum vale to all youthful vanities, it was the last he ever meant to publish of such superficial labours, it was to conclude his ' amour- ous pamphlets.' But he did not keep his word. He had long had by him in manuscript a story which he had written at the request of a great lady, 'a Countesse in this land,' its theme the approval of woman's chastity. He had long been anxious to dedicate something to Lady Fitzwater, to whose husband he was under obligations. He could think of nothing more appropriate than a story delineating the character and celebrating the virtues of a para- gon of her sex. He had then determined to revise and complete his novel, and present it publicly to his patroness, 'knowing service done to the wife is gratified in the husband.' But in the Address to the Gentlemen Readers he says he is ashamed of himself for having broken the promises so solemnly made in his Mournmg Garment and in his Farewell to Follie. His only excuse is that the work was written before his vow, and ' published upon duty to so honour- able and beautiful a Lady.' He had assuredly no reason to be ashamed of it, for it is one of the most pleasing of his novels. We need not suspect the sincerity of his desire to atone for his follies and vices by turning his experience to the profit of others. That he did not employ his pen, as he at first intended, in didactic treatises is hardly matter for regret. Of all modes of influence 30 GENERAL INTRODUCTION moral precepts and dissertations are the most futile. But men may be warned where they will not be counselled, and Greene now addressed himself to a really useful work. In his later novels he had opened the eyes of young men to the arts of those bad women who had contributed so much to make shipwreck of his own life. He now went on to expose in a series of singularly interesting pamphlets a not less fruitful source of misery and ruin to the youth of those times. The motives which induced him to undertake this exposure are sufficiently indicated by the motto which he prefixed to these pamphlets — tiascimur pro patria. They are five in number : — A Notable Discovery of Coosenage now daily practised by sundry lewd persons called Connie-Catchers and Crosse- Inters, '59i ; The Second Fart of Conny- Catching Contaynifig the discovery of certaine ivondrous coosenages either superficially past over or titterlie untaught in the first, 1591; The Third and last Fart of Connie-Catching, With the new devised knavish Art of Foole- iaking, 1592 ; A Disputation betweene a Hee Conny- Catcher and a Shee Conny-Catclur, Discovering the Secret Villanies of alluring Strumpets, 1592 ; The Blacke Bookes Messenger, Laying open the Life atid Death of Ned Browne one of the most notable Cut-purses^ Cross-biters and Conny- Catchers that ever lived in England, 1592. In the preface to the first he tells us that he associated with the scoundrels whose ways and characters he describes ' not as a companion, but as a spie to have an insight into their knaveries ' ; and it is appropriately dedicated to those members of the commun- ity who would be especially likely to fall victims to the arts of these pests and curses of society, namely to the young gentlemen, mer- chants, apprentices, farmers, and plain countrymen. It is a com- plete exposure of the methods of fleecing and robbing the unwary. There are, he begins by saying, three several parties requisite for the art of Cony-Catching ; the ' Setter,' whose part is to draw the intended victim, the Cony, to drink with him, the Verser, an accomplice whose services are necessary if the Cony is suspicious, and who makes use of the information which the ' Setter ' has obtained in conversation ; and thirdly, there is the 'Barnachle,' who comes in as a stranger to the ' Setter ' and ' Verser ' and encourages the Cony to take a hand at cards. This leads to an account of the various methods of cheating. Greene then proceeds to the art of * Cross-biting,' which is levying blackmail by representing some courtesan to be the wife or sister of the ' Cross-biter,' one of the CONNY-CATCHING PAMPHLETS 31 most lucrative branches of villainy in those days. The second part unveils the methods and devices of ' Priggars ' (horse-stealers), of ' Gripes ' and ' Bawkers ' (cheaters at Bowles), of ' Nips ' and * Foists,' men who steal purses by cutting them and men who steal them by dexterity of hand ; of ' Lifts ' — ' the Lift is he that stealeth or powleth any plate, juells, boultes of satten, velvet or such parcels from any place by a slight conveyance under his cloke or so secretly that it may not be espyed,' with their accomplices the ' Marker,' who is ' the receiver of the Lifts luggage,' and the ' Santar,' who comes rapidly up with a pretended message for the ' Marker ' and receiving the stolen goods hurries away. We are then initiated into the methods of the 'Courber,' 'he that with a curbe or hooke does pull out of a windowe any loose linnen cloth, apparell or house-hold stuff,' called comprehensively ' snappinges,' with his accomplice the 'Warpe,' who 'hath a long cloak to cover whatsoever he gets,' and who is at hand to make off with what the 'Courber' can bring down. Lastly comes the ' Discoverie of the Black Art,' that is lock picking, the artists of this accomplishment being the ' Charme,' 'he that doth the feate,' and the 'Stand' 'he that watcheth,' i.e. takes care that no one is observing the operations of his chief. All this is illustrated with very pleasant stories. The 'Thirde Part ' is supplementary to the other two, being derived, Greene tells us at the beginning, from notes furnished by a Justice of the Peace whose acquaintance with the inhabitants of Rascaldom must have been almost as extensive as Greene's. This is made up of stories and anecdotes told, it must be owned, with a gusto and raciness which savours sometimes more of sympathy than satire. The ' Disputation between a Hee and a Shee Conny- Catcher,' or 'A Disputation between Lawrence a Foist and faire Nan a Traffique whether a [Harlot] or a Theefe is most pre- juditiall,' is simply inimitable. It is plainly a literal transcript from life, the humour of it ghastly enough — being the more effective, as it is obviously neither intended nor perceived by the writer. The dialogue is carried on in bed. That each is at the head of their respective professions is indisputable. Lawrence in a self-complacent review of his life has congratulated himself that his title to supremacy in villainy is not likely to be questioned, liut Nan disputes it. Women are infinitely more mischievous and pernicious than men, and surely the palm belongs to the one 32 GENERAL INTRODUCTION who can be proved to have done most evil to individuals and society. I give the conclusion : — 'Why then Lawrence what say you to me. Have I not proved that in foysting and nipping we excel you, that there is none so great inconvenience in the Commonwealth as grows from [us] first for the corrupting of youth, infect- ing of age, for breeding of brawles whereof ensues murther, in so much that the ruin of many men comes from us, and the fall of many youths of good hope, if they were not reduced by us doo proclaime at Tyborne that wee be the meanes of their miserie : you men theeves touch the bodie and wealth, but we ruine the soule and endanger that wliich is more precious than the worldes treasures : you make worlc only for the gallowes, we both for the gallowes and the divel, I and for the Surgin too, that some live like loathesome ladzars and die with the French Marbles. Whereupon I conclude that I have wonne the supper. Law. I confesse it, Nan, for thou hast tolde mee such wonderous villanies as I thought never could have been in women, I meane of your profession : why you are Crocodiles when you weepe, Basilisks when you smile, Serpents when you devise, and divel's cheefest broakers to bring the world to distruction. And so Nan lets sit downe to our meate and be merry '.' A more vivid and graphic picture of that side of the London life of those times could not possibly be given. The Conversion of an English courtesan which follows the Dialogue was, Greene assures us, not a fiction but a truth, telling the story 'of one that yet lives not now in another form repentant -.' The last of this series— T/z^ Blacke Bookes J/m^i'/^^r— purports to be the Confessions of one Ned Browne, ' One of the most notable Cut-purses, Cross-biters and Conny-Catchers that ever lived in England.' This scoundrel was a man of gentlemanlike appearance who alternated between London, where he plied his calling, and the Low Countries, where he spent his money. After a life on the model of Lawrence's in the Dialogue, he was finally hanged, for robbing a church, from a window near Arx (Aix-la- Chapelle ?) in France. And these confessions he is supposed to have made in a defiant and impenitent spirit just before he was turned, or rather turned himself off. They are evidently imaginary, though no doubt founded on fact, and may be compared with 1 Works, vol. X. 235. ' No one has, I think, noticed that this dialogue was reprinted with some omissions and alterations under another title, Theeves falling out, True Men come by their Goods, or The Belman wanted a Clapper. A Disputation between a Hee Foyst and a Shee Foyst. For the names Lawrence and Nan are substituted Stephen and Kate. Another preface takes the place of the old one, signed also R. G. The alterations principally consist in omitting the Latin quotations and mythological allusions, while the Merry Talc not far from Fetter Lane, &c. which closes the old edition is omitted. It appeared, I believe, iirst in 1615, and was reprinted in 1621 and 1637. CONNY-CATCHING PAMPHLETS 33 Swift's Last speech and dying words of Ebenezer EUision \ Greene tells us in the Preface that he had intended to add to Browne's Confessions the Repetiiance of another Conny-Catcher who had lately been executed at Newgate. But on reconsideration he had resolved to defer the publication of the second, as being more important because the man had died 'penitent and passionate,' w'hereas Browne had died ' resolute and desperate.' He hoped, he said, to make out of the Newgate felon's Repentance an edifying work which would be worth the regard of every honest person, which parents might present to their children, and masters to their servants". It is no wonder that these pamphlets of Greene struck terror into the scoundrels with whom they declared war, and whose villainies they so mercilessly exposed. For he was constantly threatening to divulge their names, and place the rope round their necks by putting the ofificers of the law on their tracks. He frequently gives their initials, and even leaves a blank with ' I will not betray his name.' On one occasion, in giving an account of their meeting-places, he boldiy says that a favourite haunt was the house of Lawrence Pickering, 'a man that hath been if he be not still a notable foist, though a man of good calling and well allied, being brother-in-law to Bull the hangman.' Greene certainly went in danger of his life. The woman whom he had designated Nan had sworn to carry about with her ' a Ham- borough knife ' and stab hint as soon as she had an opportunity. Her companions had solemnly sworn to dispatch him. On one occasion some fourteen or fifteen of them surrounded the St. John's Head tavern in Ludgate where he seems to have been at supper, and he would have been assassinated had it not been for some citizens and apprentices taking his part. As it was, a gentleman who was with him was severely wounded, and matters were not quiet till two or three of them had been carried off to the ' There is, it may be noted, a very curious parallel between Greene's war and methods of warfare with the criminal classes of Elizabethan London and Swift's war with the same class in Dublin. Browne's supposed Confessions and Elliston's are exactly analo!:,'ous, and had, it appears, the same salutary effect in striking terror into these desperadoes. See Scott's Stvift, vol. vii. 47-54. * See Epistle to the Reader. But with regard to Ned Browne, Greene either changed his mind or forgot his design, for though Browne begins his confession impenitently and defiantly enough, yet he ends by moralizing on his career and giving very excellent advice. ' COLLINS. I jy 34 GENERAL INTRODUCTION counter \ But Greene was not to be intimidated. 'Let them do what they dare with their bilbowe blades,' he writes, ' I feare them not.' If we are to beheve him, his writings had already had a most salutary effect, and the numbers of these malefactors had been perceptibly decreasing, 'wasting away,' he puts it, 'about London and Tyburn ^.' He now determined to carry the war to closer quarters. He announced that it was his intention to publish The Blacke Booke, which, in addition to giving particulars about other branches of scoundreldom, such as robbing and fleec- ing in the suburbs, at fairs and in the assize towns, would specify the houses which received stolen goods. And this, he said, would be succeeded by a ' Beed-roll or Catalogue of all the names of the Foysts, Nyps, Lifts, and Priggars in and about London.' He had been told that he dare not do this : they would soon see, they threatened, whether he would keep his word or not. Nor were his enemies without advocates who could ply a pen almost as skilfully as himself. In the Second Part of Comiy-Catching he says that they had got a scholar, whose name he knew though he will not divulge it, to make an 'invective' against him. The invective to which he refers is probably a pamphlet which came out in 1592 signed Cuthbert Conny-Catcher, and is entitled The Defence of Co?i7iy -Catching'^. It is written with some humour and by no means spitefully, and it gives one particular about Greene which, if it be true, as it probably is, is not to his credit. 'Aske the Queens Players' — so runs the passage — 'if you sold them not Orlaftdo Fiaioso for twenty nobles, and when they were in the country sold the same play to the Lord Admirals men for as much more. Was not this plaine Conny-Catching, Maister R. G. ?■" The Blacke Booke, it may be added, was never finished, as Greene's last illness surprised him before he could complete the manuscript ^ It was the first thing, he added, which he meant to publish after his recovery*. ^ For the account of this see the Disputation, Works, x. 236. - Id. * It is printed in volume xi of Dr. Grosart's edition of Greene's Works. * Greene's Works, vol. xi. 75-76. * Pref. to The Blacke Bookes Messenger, Works, xi. 5. * Imitations of Greene's Conny-Catching pamphlets became common. There is no reason for attributing to him, Nihil Alwnchance His Discovery of the Art of cheating or playing of false dice, in the Malone Collection. It has neither Greene's name nor his motto attached to it. 'A MAIDENS DREAM' AND EARLY SATIRES 35 Greene's extraordinary versatility and rapidity in composition are illustrated by a poem which he composed at the end of 1591. On Nov. 20 died Sir Christopher Hatton, and immediately afterwards Greene hurried out his Maidefis Dream, a frigid and inflated eulogy dedicated to his memory, and inscribed to the wife of Sir Christopher's nephew, the Lady Elizabeth Hatton. His object in writing it he has himself described. It was to curry favour with her father, and so he has, he says, taken this opportunity to honour him in a manner likely to be acceptable to him by showing duty to him in his daughter. In February 1592 he edited for his friend Lodge, who had left England in August 1591, and had recently assisted him in writing the Looking-glasse for London and England, a novel entitled Euphues Shadotv. Before leaving England Lodge had entrusted this duty to his friend, and had moreover authorized liim to dedicate the work to some appropriate patron. He chose Lord Fitzwater, the husband of the lady to whom he inscribed his own Philomela. As this volume appeared under somewhat sus- picious circumstances. Collier is inclined to think that Greene himself was the author of Euphues Shadoiv, and that he took advantage of Lodge's absence to use his name, thinking that a work under Lodge's signature would be likely to sell better than one under his own. But there is surely no ground either on external or on internal evidence for doubting wha,t Greene asserts ^ He was certainly at this time a more popular author than Lodge. While he was engaged with his Conny-Catching pamphlets he had been engaged also on another brochure, which brought into the field an enemy far more formidable than any of those who had sought his life, and which was to originate the most famous literary controversy of those times. This was A Quippe for an Upstart Courtier, or A quaint dispute between Velvet breeches and Cloth breeches, which was entered on the Stationers' Registers July 20, 1592, and published soon afterwards. In its general purport it was simply a satire on the luxury and extravagance of the age, involving as it did the oppression of the poorer classes'^. * For Collier's supposition and the very unsatisfactory arguments adduced in favour of it see Ili^t. of E^iglish Dramatic Poetry, vol. iii. 149 note, and Bibliographical Catalogue, vol. i. 264. * The popularity of this pamphlet was extraordinary ; it went through several D 2 36 GENERAL INTRODUCTION But the sting lay not in this. Greene made it the occasion for revenging himself and his circle on three brothers who had always stood contemptuously aloof from them and had recently insulted them : these were the Harveys. The eldest is known to fame. This was Gabriel, the friend of Sidney and Spenser, an accom- plished scholar, a respectable poet in spite of intolerable pedantry, and at that time a Fellow of Trinity Hall. The second, Richard, had gone into the Church, where he was rector of Chislehurst, and was well known both as a divine and as a student of astrology ; and the third, John, had practised as a physician in Norwich but had recently died. The second brother, Richard, who according to Nash was 'a notable ruffian with his pen,' had contributed two pamphlets to the Martin Marprelate Controversy, Plaine Percival, the Peace-maker of England, and a Theological Discourse of the Lamb of God a7id his enemies. In the first he had spoken contemptuously of a pamphlet attributed to Lyly \ and in the second he had spoken still more contemptuously of Greene and his friends, calling them ' piperly make-plaies and make-bates,' and intimating that if they dared to answer him he would— so Nash translates his threats — ' make a bloudie day in Poules Church-yard and splinter their pens till they straddled again as wide as a paire of compasses V This it was which, according to Nash ^, brought Greene into the field. What Greene actually wrote cannot now be ascertained, for the passage which gave particular offence, though certainly published, was immediately suppressed. It consisted only, if Nash is to be credited ^, of seven or eight lines. That it was a libellous attack on the father of the Harveys we know from Christopher Bird's letter dated Aug. 29, 1592 \ and from the fact that Gabriel Harvey had commenced legal proceedings before Greene died. The nature of the attack on Richard may be gathered from an allusion in Nash'': — 'it was not for nothing, brother Richard, editions in English. In 1621 it was translated into Dutch and published at Leyden, where, Prof. Storozhenko says, it went through several editions also : and he says that it was translated into French. Dr. Grosart notes that he cannot trace any French translation, nor have I been more successful. ' Pappe with a Hatchet. * Have with you to Saffron Waldeii, sig. V. 2. ' Strange N'ewes, sig. C. 2, 3. * Strange Newes, Works, ii. 197. '•" Given in Harvey's Fotire Letters^ &c., Works, ii. 159-16 1. * Strange Newes, Works, ii. 200. ATTACK ON THE HARVEYS 37 that Greene told you you kist your parishioners' wives with holy kisses,' &c. To this charge it may be added Harvey again refers in the nineteenth of the Sonnets appended to the Foure Letters, in a passage which will leave the suspicious a little doubtful as to whether there was not some ground for the charge : — ' Yet fie on lies and fie on false appeales, No minister in England lesse affectes Those wanton kisses that lewd folly steales Than he whom onely Ribaldry suspectes.' And we judge also that their dead brother was not spared. The suppression of the passage Harvey attributes to Greene's fear of the consequences, adding that he offered ten or, rather than fail, twenty shillings to the printer to cancel it '. But Nash attributes it to the influence of Greene's physician, who, though he had no sympathy with the * fraternitie of fooles,' was unwilling to have a brother-doctor held up to ridicule ^ In this miserable affair Greene had probably more provocation than appears. Of one thing we may be quite sure, that it was not, as Nash implies, the sarcasm of Richard and that sarcasm alone which irritated Greene. To borrow a word which did not exist in those days, the Harveys were snobs. Of Gabriel's anxiety to push himself among the aristocracy, to conceal his plebeian origin, and to treat his equals with contempt and insolence there can be no doubt. With all his faults there was nothing of this weakness in Greene, who had himself sprung from the people. He had probably seen through Harvey in the old days at Cambridge, and what now found expression had long been awaiting it ^. Hatred is importunate, but contempt can be patient. Ill We now come to the important but most difficult question of Greene's connexion with the drama and the stage. In what- ever year Marlowe's Tamburlaine appeared — and it was almost ' Foure Letters, Works, ii. 162. ^ Strange A^ewes, Works, ii. 210. ^ Spenser indeed praises Harvey for his self-dependence : — 'And as one careless of suspicion, Ne fawnest for the favour of the <^real.' — Sonnet to Harvey. 1)Ut Harvey's whole career refutes this, and Spenser was tarred with the same brush. 38 GENERAL INTRODUCTION certainly in 1587 — it initiated the history of our Romantic drama. Between about 1560 and about 1587 that drama had been slowly evolving itself, its stages being marked by such plays as Gorboduc and Jocasta, Tancred and Gismund, by Promos and Cassandra with its remarkable preface, by The Arraignmefit of Paris, The Misfortu7ies of Arthur, and the earliest of Lyly's comedies. The 'Theatre' in Shoreditch had been built by Burbage in 1576, and the erection of the ' Curtain ' followed almost simultaneously, while the inn-yards of the Bell Savage, the Bell, the Cross Keys, the Bull, and ' the playhouse ' near St. Paul's were frequently crowded with enthusiastic spectators. Several companies of actors had been formed and were in regular employment. The Queen's men were acting at the 'Theatre,' the Earl of Oxford's men at the 'Curtain.' The Earl of Leicester's men were about to resolve themselves into the famous guild known as Lord Strange's Com- pany. Marlowe, Peele, Lyly, Lodge, Nash, and most probably Shakespeare, were in London eager to turn their hands to anything which would bring them fame and money. The astonishing popularity of Tamhirlaine was at once an indication of what was likely to be the most profitable walk in literature, and a model for those who aspired to enter on it. We may assume with safety that no extant play of Greene's preceded the appear- ance of Tamburlaine, and that it was as a disciple and imitator of Marlowe that he began his career as a dramatist. But at what date he began to write for the theatres can only be a matter of precarious inference. It is not a little remarkable that we have no certain evidence that he was engaged in dramatic composition before 1592. The earliest unambiguous reference to a play of his is the entry of Friar Bacon and Friar Butigay in Henslowe's Diary on Feb. 19, 1 59 1-2, and the only unambiguous allusion of his own to his work as a dramatist is to be found in the Groatsivorth of Witte and in the Repentatice written just before his death. The most garrulous and communicative of men, he never once in his voluminous prose writings refers, except in the two pieces just mentioned, to the fact of his having written plays, unless the two enigmatical passages which I shall examine presently be construed in this sense. Nor is this all. Before 1592 his contemporaries and friends are equally silent about his work as a playwright. In the commendatory verses prefixed to his various novels no DATE OF CONNEXION WITH THE STAGE 39 allusion is made to his plays. 'G. B.' in the verses prefixed to Alcida (1588) describes him as, ' Rhetor bonus atque poeta, Qui sua cum prosis carmina iuncta dedit,' while the writer signing himself Alci — refers again to the mingled prose and verse in his novels ', coupling him with Lyly — alter Tullms Angloruni — as a poet. Eliote in the verses prefixed to Perwiedes (1588) is equally silent about his work as a drama- tist ; and what is most remarkable, Nash in his address in Men- apkon, though he praises Peele as a dramatist, says no word at all about Greene in this capacity. Thomas Brabine, in his verses prefixed to the same work, contrasts him as the author of Menaphon with the author of plays. Equally silent are Watson, 'G. B.' Burnely and Rainsford in the verses prefixed to Tullies Love (1589), and Sidney and Hake in the verses prefixed to Never too late (1590). In some cases, it may be justly suggested, the writers are only concerning themselves with the particular work which they are eulogizing, but in many cases they are certamly speaking of Greene's gen- eral position in literature. What applies to these writers applies to all Greene's contemporaries. Allusions to his prose writings are common, allusions to his plays before 1592 there are, so far as I can discover, none. It would seem probable from this strange silence, especially on the part of professed eulogists, either that he had made no impression as a dramatist and that praise on this score would be therefore impertinent, or that he cared more for fame as a novelist than for fame as a dramatic poet. It is curious that Peele, in his Prologue to the Ho7ioi(r of the Garter (1593), should not mention him, though he mentions Marlowe, and still more singular that the author of Greenes Funeralls (1594) should be wholly silent about his dramatic works, though he specifies so many of his novels. I am myself inclined to think that he began to write for the stage not long after the appearance of Ta77iburlai?ie, that his first play was Alpkonsus'^, which was at once an imitation of Marlowe's play and an attempt to rival it, and that it was a failure. But this is only conjecture : let us see what may be advanced in support of it. There can 1 ' Alter Tullius Anylorum nunc vivens Lillius, ilium Consc/ary that Mahomet's 'head,' presumably head-dress, was a consj)icuous feature. In an Inventory of the apparel and property belonging,' to the AdniiraTs men there is mentioned 'Old Mahomets head'; it is in reference to a revival of Peele's play. See I'leay, History of the Stage, p. 114. * The description of .Silvestro's Ladie in the Second Part of The Tritameron of Love : Bradanent's Dittie, and Melissa's Dittie in J'erimedes. 44 GENERAL INTRODUCTION ' The Historie of Job.' Judging from internal evidence I should be inclined to place Orlando Fiirioso in the third place among his extant plays. The appearance of Harington's Ariosto in 1591, as I have shown in the Introduction, almost certainly suggested it. The opening scene with its couplet refrain reminds us closely of the opening scene in the Looking-Glasse, while the blank verse is slightly freer in movement and has certainly a greater variety in the pauses. The remaining plays present a remarkable contrast to those of the first group, and show how immensely and rapidly Greene improved as a dramatist. Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay probably succeeded Orlando, and was in all likelihood written in 1591, and to the same year we may assign with some confidence yawf.y IV of Scotland, undoubtedly Greene's masterpiece. If he wrote the Pinner of Wakefield, the versification places it beyond doubt that it must have been the last of his extant plays. The order of his plays is, as I said before, purely conjectural, and it may be well, perhaps, if I sum up what is certainly known. We know from Henslowe's Diary that Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay was acted, and was not a new play, Feb. 19, 1591-2 ; that Orlando Furioso was acted, and was not a new play, on the 21st of the same month in the same year ; that on the 8th of March in the same year the Looking-Glasse was acted, and was not a new play ; that George a gren (presumably the Pinner of Wakefield), was acted, and was not a new play, on Dec. 29, 1593. With regard to Jatnes IV, the earliest reference to it is its entrance on the Stationers' Registers on the 15th of May 1594- Of Alphonsus all we know is that it was printed in 1599. The rest is mere conjecture. Nothing therefore can be more slender or unsatis- factory than the evidence which assigns these dramas to Greene. It rests purely on the ascription of them to him with no other testimony, neither his own nor that of any contemporary beside the publisher to support it, on the title-pages of the quartos '. At the beginning of September 1592 it became apparent that Greene's days were numbered, and dismal and tragical indeed * The only exceptions are the Looking-Glassc, which is ascribed to Thomas Lodge and Robert Greene in the entry in the Stationers' Registers, and Orlando Furioso, which the author of a Defence of Cowiy- Catching (1592) accuses Greene of having sold twice. Allot, it is needless to say, took the title-pages of the Quartos as his authority. LAST DRAMAS. CLOSING DAYS 45 was the closing scene. His end came somewhat suddenly. A month before he was at supper with Nash, Will Monox and others, and partook too plentifully, it seems, of Rhenish wine and pickled herrings. The result was a surfeit and a serious illness. Though he showed no appearance of distress to his friends, his doublet being of a most costly and sumptuous kind, and his cloak, ' with sleeves of a grave goose-turd greene,' equally imposing, yet he seems to have been even then in extreme poverty. He was living with a shoemaker and his wife, one Isam near the Dowgate, or possibly when his illness became serious he sought shelter with them, it is not quite clear which. If the letter to his wife appended to the Repentance be genuine, we know from his own admission that had it not been for the kindness of these people in taking him in he would have died in the streets. None of his friends, not even Nash, visited him during his month's illness, though they appear to have been aware both of his sick- ness and his distress ^ His only companions were his host and hostess, the wretched mother of his natural son, and one Mrs. Appleby. The horrible account which Harvey gives of the filth and squalor of his surroundings, of his sordid mistress, of his having to pawn all he had, and of his being reduced to beg for a pot of Malmsey is, according to Nash, exaggerated, but there is only too much reason to believe that it was substantially true ; in any case Nash was not in a position to contradict it ". Of one thing there can be no doubt, that though indebted to Isam for board and bed he had to borrow money from him too ^. In this forlorn and wretched state he was thrown into the same panic which the sermon at Norwich had thrown him into some years before, but under more alarming conditions — for then he was in health, now he was at the point of death. Not long before his illness he had so shocked some friends in Aldersgate Street by his profane and impious conversation, that though they were of his own fraternity they had wished themselves out of his com- pany. Of Hell, he had said, he had no fear, for if he went there he should find lietter men than himself, and as for the judgements ' Harvey says he ' could not get any of his old acquaintances to comfort or tend him in his extremity,' J'oiire J.ctlcrs, Works, i. 176. ^ Harvey visited the house and had an interview with Mrs. Isam ; and bitterly hostile thouf^h he is to Greene, there is no reason to doubt the truth of his state- ments. Nash never saw him at all. ^ Foure Letters, Works, ii. 171. 46 GENERAL INTRODUCTION of God, if he had not more fear for the judges of a worldly bench he should long since have been making merry with other men's money bags ^. He now remembered these words, and was reflect- ing sadly on them and on his other follies when he happened to take up * the booke of Resolution I' The book he refers to was a religious work very popular at that time, entitled A book of Christia?i Exercise appertaining to Resolution, that is, shoiving how we should resolve ourselves to become Christians, by R. P. It was written by Father Parsons. This truly appalling work, which might have shaken the nerves of a much less sensitive sinner than Greene, was written with the object of ' inducing ' men to become Christians. If however for the word ' inducing ' them to become we substituted 'scaring' them into, it gives us a much better idea of its purport and effect. Indeed it was so alarming to men's consciences and ' dwelt so largely on God's justice and so briefly on his mercy,' that Parsons himself tells us that people were afraid to read it, finding it afflicting, and so he deemed it expedient to issue a second part which should deal with the less painful aspects of Christian exercise '. The work is written with great eloquence, and it is easy to understand its effect on a man of Greene's temperament and in his position. Such a terror he says struck 'into my conscience that for very anguish of mind my teeth beat in my head, my looks waxed pale and wan, and fetching a deep sigh I cried unto God and said, if all this be true, oh, what shall become of me?' Then he turned to the more comforting passages which reminded the sinner that if the justice of God was great yet His mercy was great also, and he became calmer. We learn from the Address to The Groatsworth of Witte that though he was not sanguine he had not abandoned all hope of recovery. It is not unlikely that the first part of the Groats- 7vorth of Witte — the story of Roberto — had been begun before his illness, and that he now added only the conclusion, in which he speaks in his own person and addresses his brother poets, and that he then proceeded to write the Repe?itance. One of the bitterest forms which his remorse took was the recollection of his conduct to his wife. He wrote her a letter telling her how grievously he had been punished, lamenting that * R epentance. * Id. ^ See the remarkable preface to The Second Fart of the Christian Exercise appertaining to Resolution, 1562. DEATH 47 she was not with him that she might witness his inward woe, and recommending their child, who appears to have been with him, to her careful protection \ On the night before he died a friend called, and told him that his wife was well, and that she had 'sent her commendations,' possibly in answer to the letter, which gratified him greatly, and he wrote her the following letter : — ' Sweet wife, as ever there was any good will or friendship between thee and mee see this bearer, my Host, satisfied of his debt. I owe him tenne pound, and but for him I had perished in the streets. Forget and forgive my wrongs done unto thee, and Ahiiighty God have mercie on my soule. Farewell till we meete in Heaven, for on Earth thou shalt never see me more. This 2. of September, 1592, written by thy dying husband, Robert Greene".' His last hours were spent, as much of his time before had been spent, in fervent prayer, and the next day, September 3, he 1 This letter is printed at the end of The Groatsivorth of IVitte, and runs thus: 'The remembrance of many wrongs offered thee, and thy vnreprooued vertues adde greater sorrow to my miserable state then I can vtter or thou conceiue. Neyther is it lessened by consideration of thy absence (though shame would let mee hardly behold thy face), but exceedingly aggrauated for that I cannot (as I ought) to thy owne selfc reconcile myselfe, that thou mightest witnesse my inward woe at this instant, that haue made thee a wofull wife for so long a time. But equal heauen hath denied that comfort, giuing, at my last neede, like succour as I haue sought all my life : being in this extremitie as voyde of helpe as thou hast beene of hope. Reason would that after so long waste, I should not send thee a childe to bring thee greater charge : but consider hee is the fruite of thy wombe, in whose face regard not the fathers faults so much as thy owne perfections. Hee is yet Greene, and may grow strait, if he be carefully tended : otherwise apt enough (I feare me) to follow his fathers folly. That I have offended thee highly, I knowe ; that thou canst foigette my iniuries, I hardly beleeue : yet perswade I my selfe, if thou saw my wretched estate, thou couldest not but lament it : nay, certainely I know thou wouldest. All my wrongs muster themselues about me ; euery euill at once plagues me. For my contempt of God I am contemned of men ; for my swearing and forswearing no man will btleeue me; for my gluttony I suffer hunger; for my drunkenness, thirst; for my adulterie, vlcerous sores. Thus God hath cast mee downc, that I might bee humbled, and punished me for example of others sinne; and although he suffers me in this world to perish without succour, yet trust I in the world to come to find mercy, by tlie merits of my Sauiour, to whom 1 com- mend this and commit my soule. Thy repentant husband for his disloyaltie, RoHERT Greene.' ' I give the version of the letter as it appears in the Repentance. In Harvey's Foure Letters li runs thus: ' Doll, I charge thee, bythe loue of our youth and by my soules rest, that thou wilte see this man paide ; for if hee and his wife had not soccoured me, I had died in the strcetes. Robert Greene.' This appears to be Harvey's recollection of the substance of the letter. 48 GENERAL INTRODUCTION breathed his last. Gabriel Harvey has recorded a most pathetic incident in a very brutal way. Just before he died poor Greene — perhaps it was a touch of irony, perhaps a touch of very pardonable vanity — had asked Mrs. Isam to crown him as he lay dead with a garland of bays. This she did, 'for shee loved him derely.' And so, says the stupid pedant who tells the story to ridicule it, 'a tenth Muse honoured him more being dead than all the nine honoured him alive ^.' On the following day, September 4, he was buried in the New Churchyard near Bedlam ^ the cost of his winding sheet, which was four shillings, and his burial, which was six shillings and fourpence, being defrayed by the poor people who had befriended him. On hearing of his death Gabriel Harvey, who was about to com- mence an action against him for defamation of character, hurried off to the lodgings which had been occupied by poor Greene, to collect particulars of his last days and death. His base object was to collect materials for an attack on his memory. This attack he soon afterwards published in his Foure letters and certaine sonnets especially touching Robert Greene atid other parties by him abused, which appeared a few weeks after Greene's death. Before the end of the year-'' Henry Chettle edited and published The ^ For all this see Gabriel Harvey, Foure Letters, Works, i. 17 1-3. ^ This burying-ground was, Stowe tells us, given by Sir Thomas Rowe in 1569. Stowe describes it as ' parting the Hospital of Eethlem from the Moor- field.' Maitland's map of 1754 shows it at the north-west end of Old Eethlem, the site of the present Liverpool Street. In 1S63 the North London Railway showed in the Book of Refer- ence deposited at the Board of Trade that they would compulsorily buy the land from the Cor- poration of London, to which Sir Thomas Rowe presented it, for part of the site of the Broad Street Railway Station ; so that the exact site where the remains of poor Greene so long re- posed is now occupied by the forecourt and offices of the Broad Street terminus of the North London Railway. This little plan will make it clear. The Burial Register of this cemetery appears to be lost or hopelessly mislaid, for after the most careful search in all likely quarters I can find no traces of it. For the interesting informa- tion in this note I am indebted to Mr. R.T. Lister, the accomplished and courteous Librarian of the Board of Trade. ' It was entered on the Stationers' Registers, Sept. 20. HARVEY'S ATTACK ON GREENE'S MEMORY 49 Groatsworth of Witte bought tvith a Million of Repoitance, and Cuthbert Burby The Repe}itance of Robert Greene, Maister of Arts. Of The Groatsworth no copy of the original edition is known to be in existence, but there is no reason to beheve that the edition of 1596, the earliest we have, differed in any respect from the first. About one part of this work a controversy soon rose. Marlowe was by no means pleased with the liberty which had been taken with his character, and Shakespeare appears to have taken, and very naturally taken, exception to the cruel attack which had been made on him^. What Peele thought, or what 'young Juvenal,' whether Nash or Lodge, thought of the passages refer- ring to them we have no means of knowing. In any case Chettle found it expedient to apologize to Shakespeare, or to the person, whoever he was, satirized as the ' upstart crowe.' And this he did in his Kind-harts Dname., published in the following year, and did very handsomely. With regard to Marlowe, after observing that he had no desire to make his acquaintance though he rever- enced his learning, he assures him that he had struck out a passage or some passages in which he thought Greene had written in irritability, or which in any case, even if justified, would be ' intol- lerable.' He then goes on to say that every word in the pamphlet was Greene's, not his nor Nash's as some had asserted ; that he had indeed written it out in a legible hand for the printer 'as Greene's hand was none of the best,' and that he had struck out words but not added a single one. There is no reason to doubt the truth of what Chettle says, for, though he was a poor man, he had the reputation of being both respectable and honest. Why Greene should have attempted to rally Peele ' 'There is an upstart crowe beautified with our feathers that with liis Tyger's heart wrapt in a player'' s hide supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a blank verse as the best of you ; and being an absolute fohannes fac iolmn is in his owne conceit the onely Shake-scene in a countrie.' It is not of course absolutely certain that this reference is to ShakesjDeare, but as probability, as Bishop Jiutler says, is the guide of life, so it must be the guide in otherwise insoluble literary or historical problems, and probability points undoubtedly to Shakesj)eare. The passage still remains obscure, for it seems impossible to determine certainly whether the reference is to plagiarism in composition or to reputation as an actor: perhaps it has a double reference; the passage in Chettle's apology supports both views. The author of Greenes Funcra/ls, sig. C, appears how- ever to support the first interpretation : — 'Greene gave the ground to all that work upon him, Nay more, the men that so eclipst his fame I'lirloynde his plumes ; can they deny the same ? * COLLINS. I E 50 GENERAL INTRODUCTION and Marlowe against Shakespeare is by no means clear. There is no evidence to show that he was ever on friendly terms with Marlowe. The source of the quotation may point to Shake- speare's recensions of The First Fart of the Contention and The True Tragedy of Richard, Duke of York. But this is mere speculation : Greene had certainly been jealous of Marlowe, and perhaps he was now jealous of Shakespeare who was coming into prominence \ Meanwhile (1593) Nash had come into the field against Gabriel Harvey, and the Foure Letters and certaiti Softnets were answered in Strange JVezves, of the interceptijig of Certaine Let- ters, &c "'' But Nash is plainly more anxious to fight his own battle tlian to fight Greene's. If he does not exactly leave his old friend in the lurch, his defence is so lukewarm that it might as well have not been attempted. He had already in the pre- ceding year angrily disclaimed all share in the composition of the Groatszvorth, which he had called ' a scald triviall and lying pamphlet ^.' His object in Strange Newes is evidently to make the best of poor Greene without denying his infirmities, and to show that he was neither responsible for his conduct nor on intimate terms with him. 'What Greene was let some other answer for him as much as I have done. I had no tuition over him.' ' Nor was I,' he says in another place, * Greene's com- panion any more than for a carouse or two.' The utmost he says for him is that he had more virtues than vices, and had always behaved as a gentleman when he had been in his com- pany : but he is careful to add ' Something there was which I have heard not seene, that hee had not that regard to his credit which had been requisite he should *.' The truth is that Nash, who in 1592 was the guest of Archbishop Whitgift at Croydon, had, as the official antagonist of Martin Marprelate, to be careful about his social reputation, and was anxious not to be associated too closely with a Bohemian like Greene ^. Of the authenticity of the Groatsworth there can be no ques- tion, but on the authenticity of the Repetitance some doubts have 1 On all this see Dr. Ingleby's Introduction to The Groatsworth and Kind- harts Dreame. Shakespeare Allusion Books, part i. ^ Nash's Works (Grosart), ii. ' Epistle prefixed to Pierce Penniless Supplication, &c., Works, ii. 7. * Foure Letters Confuted, Works, ii. 2S3. * Ingleby, Introduction to Shakespeare Allusion Books, part i, p. xliv. AUTHENTICITY OF THE 'REPENTANCE' 51 very naturally been thrown. The circumstances under which it appeared are certainly pregnant with suspicion. There is no indication in the Groats7v07-th either that he had written this autobiography or that he intended to write it. Chettle, who ap- pears to have had the handling of his papers, says nothing about it, indeed he distinctly states that the Groatsworth was Greene's last book\ There was every temptation to hurry out such a pub- lication, for Greene, being a very popular writer, his wretched death was much talked about. The sole sponsor for the work was Cuthbert Burby^ at that time a young and struggling publisher who was naturally anxious to seize this opportunity for bringing himself into prominence, nor does he give any particulars as to how it came into his possession. It bears a suspiciously close resemblance to the Confessions of Ned Broivne published by Greene not long before ^ On the other hand, we * Address to the Readers in Gfoatsworth. ^ He was apprenticed to William Wright for eight years in Dec. 1583, Arber's Transcripts of Stat. Regis/., ii. 127, and he took up his freedom on Jan. 13, 1592, Id. vol. ii. 710 ; the first work registered by him for publication being on May 1, 1592, Id. Inde.x, vol. v. ^ Compare the following passages : ' My parents who for their gravitie and honest life were well knowne and esteemed amongst their neighbours,' Kepcnt. ' Knowe therefore that my parents were honest, of good reporte and no little esteeme amongst their neighbours,' J\i^ed Browne. ' But as out of one self same clod of clay there sprouts both stinking weedes and delightful flowers, so from honest parents often grow most dishonest children: for my father had care to have me in my nonage brought up at schoole that I might, &c.,' Repent. '{My parents) sought of good nature and education would have served to have m(* made an honest man, but as one self same ground brings forth flowers and thistles so of a sound stock proved an untoward syon, and of a vertuous father a most vicious sonne. It bootes little to rehearse the sinnes of my nonage, ' Ned Broivne. ' Young yet in yeares though old in wickedness, I began to resolve that there was nothing bad in that was profitable. Whereu,pon I grew so rooted in all mischief that I had as great a delight in wickedness as sundrie hath in godliness,' Repent. ' For when I came to eighteen years old what sinne was it that I would not commit with greediness. Why I held them excellent qualities, and accounted him unworthy to live that could not or durst not live by such damnable practises,' Ned Browne. ' Nor let them haunt the companie of harlots whose throats are smooth as oyl, but their feet lead the steps unto death and destruction, for they like .Syrens with their swcete inchaunting notes soothed me up in all kind of ungodliness,' Repent. ' Beware of whores, for they be Syrens that drawe men on to destruction, their sweet words are inchantments, their eyes allure and their beauties bewitch,' Ned Brow7ie. * So that Ijy their foolish persuasion the good and wholesome lesson I had learnt went quite out of my remembrance, and I fel agaiue with the dog to my olde E 2 52 GENERAL INTRODUCTION know from Chettle in the Address to his Kind-harts Dreame that Greene had left many papers in the hands of the booksellers. The words are important : — ' About three months since died Mr. Robert Greene leaving many papers in sundry Booke- sellers' hands, among other his Groatsworth of Wiiie.' The Re- pe7itatice appeared before the Kind-harts Dreame, but Chettle says not a word impugning its authenticity, though it would have been quite easy for him to do so both in his Address and in the speech which he places in Greene's mouth. Again, the letter to Greene's wife, written on the night before his death, does not appear in the Groatsivorth, but in The Repentance. The ver- sion which Gabriel Harvey gives in his Firste Letter he tells us he had himself seen, for it was shown to him by Mrs. Isam in Greene's autograph, and this version is plainly an abstract from memory of the letter which appears in The Repentance. Again, Burby is quite likely to have negotiated for Greene's papers, as he had not long before published the Thirde Fart of Conny Catch- ing. It was accepted as genuine by the author of Greenes Funeralls, 1594, who has translated into English sapphics the prayer given at the end, and by T. B., the translator of The French Academy (1596), who refers to it and quotes an anecdote from it \ Nor was its authenticity questioned, so far as we know, by any one in those times. Again, the internal evidence seems conclusive in favour of its substantial genuineness. The particulars about Greene's life are not likely to have been invented, and are amply corroborated by other testimony ; its diction, its tone, its style generally, have all the characteristics of Greene's ac- knowledged writings. Beyond belief in its substantial authen- ticity it would not perhaps be prudent to go. It is not very likely that it came from Greene's pen in the exact form in which we have it now; it was no doubt either compiled from his papers or taken down from his dictation to undergo afterwards the process of 'editing.' We have already noticed the curious resemblance that it bears to the Confessions of Ned Browne, and vomit,' Rcpetit. ' So given over by God into a reprobate sense I had no feeling of goodnes, but with the dog fell to my olde vomit,' Ned Browne. ^ The following is the entry in the Stationers' Registers : 'John Danter. Entred for his Copie under th^e] [h]andes of Master Watkins and Master Stirrop, a booke entituled The Repentance of a Cony Catcher, with the life and death (t/" [blank] Monrton and A^ed Brozvne, twoo itotabte Cony catchers, the one latelie executed atTyborne, the other at Aix in Bf ranee.' NASH'S DEFENCE OF GREENE 53 it will be remembered that Greene had in preparation the con- fessions of another malefactor, which he intended to publish separately. The second confession never appeared, though it seems to have been written \ and I am half inclined to think that The Repe7tta7ice may have been interpolated with passages taken from that work. But this is conjecture. The latter part describing poor Greene's last hours has all the marks of genuine- ness, and was probably derived from the women who attended him. Harvey had no doubt been greatly provoked by Greene, but his conduct in attacking a dead man was generally reprobated. Nash, in spite of his lukewarmness in defending Greene's character, flamed out on this point in honest indignation, * Out upon thee for an arrant dog-killer — strike a man when he is dead ! ' adding in a well-known quotation, ' So hares may pull dead lions by the beard ■.' ' There is no glory gained by break- ing a dead man's skull.' ^ Adversus mortuos belbim suscipere inhumanum est,' writes and quotes Chettle ^ Still more indignant is Meres * : — ' As Achilles tortured the deade bodie of Hector, and as Antonius and his wife Fulvia tormented the lifeless corps of Cicero, so Gabriel Harvie hath showed the same inhumanitie to Greene that lies full low in his grave.' Harvey no doubt remembered, though he should have forgotten, that the grave had been no barrier to the calumny of Greene, who, in attacking the Harveys had made no distinction between the dead and the living. In appearance, Greene was comely and attractive. Chettle describes him as * of face amiable, of body well-proportioned.' He wore his hair longer than was at that time considered to be consistent with propriety ', and he seems to have prided himself on his beard, which his friend Nash describes as 'a jollie long red peake like the spire of a steeple,' adding that * hee cherished it continually without cutting, whereat a man might hang a Jewell it was so sharpe and pendant ^' He dressed richly and fash- ionably '', which gave academic Harvey a handle for commenting ' Cited by Dyce, Account of Greene, p. 2 (one vol. edit.). - Strange A'eives, Works, ii. 198. ' Kind-harts Dreame {Shakespeare Allusion Books, p. 60). * Wits Treasury, fol. 286. ° So I larvcy speaks of his ' ruffianly hair,' and Chettle of his attire, ' after the habit of a scholler-like {,'entl«man onely his haire was somewhat long.' '' Strange Newes, Works, ii. 220. ' Id. pp. 221-2. 54 GENERAL INTRODUCTION on his ' unseemly apparell.' For his braving and roistering manners our only authority is his enemy Harvey. Both Chettle and Nash have spoken of his gentlemanlike manners'. His habits were extremely convivial ; he was what was called in those days a ' good fellow,' ' of singular pleasance the very sup- porter,' to borrow Chettle's expression. Nash tells us that he ' made no account of winning credit by his works ; ... his only care was to have a spell in his purse to conjure up a good cup of wine with at all times.' That he was the monster of iniquity de- picted by his enemies and depicted by himself is refuted by his writings. Measured by a Puritan standard as he has measured himself, or measured by the moral standard of the present day, his life might no doubt be represented to be all that he and his enemies have represented it. But a man, to be judged fairly, must be judged by the standards of his time. That standard has been indicated by Nash : — ' Debt and deadly sinne,' he bluntly says, ' who is not subject to ? with any notorious crime I never knew him tainted I' He was a man of sensitive conscience with a strong tendency perhaps to religious hypo- chondria, like Bunyan. The Groatsworth of Witte and The Re- pefiiance remind us closely of Grace Abounding. The contrast between the looseness of his life and the purity of his writings, between his unfeigned desire to serve the cause of Virtue and to promote the welfare of his fellow citizens, and his lapses to the very last into lawlessness and profligacy, were simply the struggle in a very weak man of two equally undisciplined natures. Of what was the best in him he was not the master : of what was worst in him he was not the slave. And he acted and fared as such men, in different degrees and under different conditions, will always act and fare. IV Greene's services to English Literature were great. If he was not the father of the English novel, he carried it much further than it had been carried before. Many of his novels are overloaded with ornament, stagnate in prolix discussions, and ' Nash, who had no reason to praise him, says : ' He might have writ another Galatxo of manners, for his manners every time I came in his company,' Strange N'e-wes, Works, ii. 283. ^ Id. p. 220. GREENE'S POEMS 55 are little better than tedious moral dissertations. But the best are really interesting, and the best of all is Fandosto. The first and second parts of Never too late^ and a Groats7vorth of Witte have high merit. They are not, it is true, remarkable for their subtle or even vivid delineation of character : they strike no deep chords, they have no profound reflections ; but they are transcripts from life and are full of beauty and pathos. Greene followed Sannazzaro in interspersing prose with poetry ; and it is in his prose writings that all his non-dramatic poetry is, with the exception of his Maidens Di-eame, to be found. Greene's best lyrics are not equal to the best lyrics of Lodge and Barnfield. In spontaneity and grace Rosalynda's Madrigal is incomparably superior to Menaphon's song. In finish and felicity of expression Menaphon's picture of the maid with the dallying locks must yield to Rosader's picture of Rosalynda ; and, charming as Greene's octosyllabics always are, they have not the charm of Barnfield's ' Nightingale's Lament.' But Greene's ordin- ary level is, I venture to think, far above the ordinary level of both those poets. For one poem which we pause over in theirs, there are half a dozen which we pause over in his. He has moreover much more variety. What could be more exquisite, simple though it be even to homeliness, than Sephestia's song in Menaphon ? The tranquil beauty of the song beginning ' Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ' in the Faretvell to Follie and of Barmenissa's song in Fenc/opes IVeb fascinates at once and for ever. His fancy sketches are delightful. The pictures of Diana and her bathing nymphs invaded by Cupid in the little poem entitled ' Radagon in Dianam,' the picture of the journeying Palmer in Never too late, of Phillis in the valley in Fullies Love, of ' The God that hateth sleepe Clad in armour all of fire Hande in hande with Queene Desire,' in the Palmer's Ode, are finished cameos of rare beauty. Not less charming are the love poems ; and among them is one real gem — the song in Fandosto, 'Ah, were she pitiful as she is faire.' The powerful 'Sonnetto' in Menapho7i beginning 'What thing is love ' reminds us closely of the still more powerful hundred and twenty-ninth sonnet of Shakespeare, and perhaps suggested it. 56 GENERAL INTRODUCTION Like most of the erotic poetry of the Renaissance Greene's poems owe as a rule more to art than to nature. Some of them are studies from the Itahan, others from the French. Occasionally they appear to have derived their colouring and their imagery from the Apocryphal books of the Bible. In Menaphon's Eclogue there is indeed, as in Spenser's marriage songs, an oriental gor- geousness. But the element predominating in them is Classicism, and Classicism of the Italian and French type. They remind us sometimes of Bembo and Sannazzaro, and sometimes of Desportes and Ronsard. Greene's plays have all the appearance of having been com- posed carelessly, and with great rapidity, and in addition to this they have plainly been printed from stage copies, in which the original manuscript was no doubt submitted to all those out- rages on the part of managers and actors so common, or rather so habitual, in those times ^ The only play in which he has done himself justice as a dramatic artist is Jariies IV\ and this with Orlando and The Pinner is the play which has suffered most from corruption. It is the only play in which we can study Greene's method of dramatic composition by comparison of the raw material with the artistic fabric. And it certainly gives us a very favourable idea of Greene's skill, and even genius, as a play- wright, and justifies us in believing that he might and ought to have attained a much higher rank among the artists of the drama. To the composition of his plays Greene brought the same qualities which are conspicuous in his novels and his poems — the same sympathetic insight into certain types of character and certain phases of life ; the same faculty of pictorial as dis- tinguished from dramatic representation ; the same refined pathos ; the same mingled artificiality and simplicity ; the same ornate and fluent eloquence of style. But he brought little else. Such qualities never have sufficed and never could suffice to produce dramas of the first order. In Greene's hands they have sufficed to produce two dramas, Friar Bacon atid Friar Bimgay andyames IV of Scotland, which are among the most pleasing productions of Elizabethan genius : and it would not perhaps be going too far to ^ The probable relation of the texts, as we have them now, to the original texts may be seen by comparing the AUeyn MS. with the printed copy, and when we think that this applies not to Greene only but to all his contemporaries, we may judge of our position generally with respect to original texts. CHARACTERISTICS AS A DRAMATIST 57 add a third — assuming that Greene wrote it — the Pimier of Wake- field. His tragedies Alphonsus and Orlando Furioso may be dis- missed as almost beneath criticism ; they are redeemed from absolute contempt by little more than a few passages of rhetorical merit. Nor is \\\q. Looking-Glasse entitled to higher praise. Had this group of dramas perished it would have been no loss to our Literature, but it would have been some loss to our students of dramatic history. Greene's true position among dramatists was indicated by Elizabethan critics. About his tragedies Meres is silent, but he ranks him among the best ' Comedians ' of his age. It is not too much to say that the author of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay and o^ Jaines IV of Scotland stands in the same relation to Romantic Comedy as the author of Tamburlaine and Edward II stands to Romantic Tragedy and History. If, historically speak- ing, it is only a step from Edivard II to Henry V, it is, historically speaking, only a step from Friar Bacon and Friar Bimgay and James IV to The Tivo Gentlemen of Verona and to As you like it. We have only to glance at the condition of Comedy before it came into Greene's hands to see how great was the revolution accomplished by him. On the popular .stage it had scarcely cast off the trammels of the old barbarism. It still clung to the old stanzas or lumbering rhymes as in the Sir Clyomon and Sir Claf?iydes, Da??ion and Pythias, and The Fare Triumphs of Love and Fortune ; or if, as in The Knack to knozv a Knave and in The Taming of a Shrew, it employed blank verse, it was blank verse often hardly distinguishable from prose. It still clung to the old buffoonery, as in Kemp's Merriments of the Af en of Gotham. It still remained unilluminated by romance or poetry. In the theatre of the Classical school^ on the other hand, it was as yet little more than an academic epideixis in prose, as it was with Lyiy, or a mere version from the Italian as it had been with Gascoigne. We open Greene's Comedies, and we are in the world of Shakespeare ; we are with the sisters of Olivia and Imogen, with the brethren of Touchstone and Florizel, in the homes of Phebe and Perdita. We breathe the same atmos- phere, we listen to the same language. It was Greene who first brought comedy into contact with the blithe bright life of Elizabethan England, into contact with poetry, into contact with romance. He took it out into the woods and 58 GENERAL INTRODUCTION the fields and gave it all the charm of the idyll ; he filled it with incident and adventure and gave it all the interest of the Novel. A freshness as of the morning pervades these delightful medleys. Turn where we will — to the loves of Lacy and Margaret at merry Fressingfield ; to the wizard Friar and his magic cell at Oxford ; to the wretched Miles and his dismal catastrophe ; to Oberon with his fairies and antics revelling round him ; to Dorothea and Nano in the forest ; to the waggeries of Slipper and Miles — everywhere we find the same light and happy touch, the same free joyous spontaneity. His serious scenes are often admirable. What could be more touching than Margaret's vindication of Lacy when the prince threatens him in Friar Bacofi, or the reconciliation of James and Dorothea at the close of Jaines IV7 The scene, again, in the second Act of the same play when Eustace meets Ida, or, in another vein, the scene between James, the Bishop of St. Andrews, and Ateukin, and the scene where Dorothea receives proof of her husband's treachery, are all excellent. Greene's plots are too loosely constructed, his characters as a rule too sketchy, and his range too limited to entitle him to a high place among dramatists. And yet as we read these medleys, and compare them with such plays as Miicedortis, the Faire Fm??i, the two plays the Doivnfall and Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and The Old Wives Tale, we feel not only the immense superiority of Greene, but how closely we are standing to the Romantic Comedies and Tragi-comedies of Shakespeare. In Greene's women, in Margaret, for example, in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, and in Ida and Dorothea \n fames IV, we see in outline the women most characteristic of Shakespeare's Romantic Comedy, while Slipper, Nano, and Miles are undoubtedly the immediate prototypes of Launce, of Launcelot, and of Touch- stone. In style he was undoubtedly one of Shakespeare's masters. Could any one who compares the versification and diction of Greene's medleys fail to be struck with the similarity between them and the earlier comedies of Shakespeare, a similarity to be found in no equal degree in any other plays preceding or contemporary with the Master's earlier works. It seems to me indeed that Shakespeare owes as much in Romantic Comedy to Greene as he owed to Marlowe in history and tragedy. In the rhymed couplets and in the blank verse of his earlier comedies the direct influence of Greene is quite unmistakable. Nor is TESTIMONIES TO GREENE'S POPULARITY 59 this all. On the prose dialogue of Greene and Lyly there can be no doubt that he modelled tliat of his earlier plays. There are many testimonies, both in his own and in the succeeding generation, to the eminence and popularity of Greened He is not indeed mentioned by Peele in the Ad Maece?tatem Prologiis prefixed to The Honour of the Garten- (1593), though a place is found for Marlowe, and for poets like Fraunce, Phaer, and Watson ; nor is he found in the Epistle Dedicatory to Sir Robe7-t Cotton in Camden's Re?naines (1605), where Marlowe is also omitted, though Daniel, Campion, Drayton, Chapman, and Marston are included ; and what is certainly very strange^ there is no reference to him either in The Pilgrimage to Parnassus or in The Returne. But the author of Greenes Funeralls speaks of him with enthusiastic admiration, and pays a just tribute to the moral tendency of his writings. Meres in his Palladis Tamia (1598) ranks him among the poets who are the glory of England (see Mere's Works, ed. 1598, fol. 282). In Efiglands Parnassus ih&re are no less than thirty-two quotations derived, or purporting to be derived, from his writings '^. There is a testimony to his popularity in Samuel Rowland's Tis merrie when Gossips meet (1602), where in a conference between a Gentleman and a Prentice, the Gentleman asks, ' Can'st help me to all Greene's books in one volume : but I will have them, every one, not any wanting,' the Prentice replying that he had 'most of them but I lack Cofiny- Catching and some half dozen others ' — a proof that some of Greene's writings had already become scarce. In Ben Jonson's reference to him in Every Man Out of his Humour (ic^gg) (II. i), — ' Fast. She does observe as pure a phrase and use as choice figures in her ordinary conferences, as any be in the Arcadia. Car. Or rather in Greene's works whence she may steal with more security.' — Dyce sees an insinuation that Greene had gone out of fashion, adding however that there is ample testimony that he had not : perhaps Jonson was only referring to the volumin- ousness of Greene's writings. In The Silent IVoman (lY. 11) he ^ .See Shakespeare Society's Papers, vol. i. pp. 84-S5. ' Of these, however, three belong to Spenser. Allot, the editor of that Anthology is, it may be observed, a most misleading guide. He quotes, for example, two passages from Greene's Mcnaphon, assigning one to Lodge and another to ' \-.. O.' But t'ne frequency with which he quotes Greene is conclusive proof of the importance attached by him to Greene's writings. 6o GENERAL INTRODUCTION certainly implies that the Groatsworth was still popular. Overbury in his Characters gives emphatic witness to his popularity (he is probably referring to his novels), for in his * Character of a Cham- bermaid ' he says : ' she reads Greene's works over and over ' {Characters, edit. Rimbault, p. loi). Taylor the Water Poet, in \\\% Praise of HemJ)-seed (\Work?,, ed. 1630, p. 72), gives him a place among the most distinguished of English poets. In the well-known passage in Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels, published in 1635, where he contrasts the honour done to poets by the Romans in adding dignity to their names with the vulgar and derogatory curtailments of their names by the English, instancing Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and many more of their most distin- guished contemporaries, he also instances Greene : — 'Greene, who had in both Academies ta'en Degree of master, yet could never gaine To be call'd more than Robin, who had he Profess 'd aught but the muse, serv'd and been free, After a seven years Prenticeship might have, With credit too, gone Robert to his grave '.' And lastly, Anthony Wood describes him as the 'author of several things which were pleasing to men and women of his time,' adding that they ' made much sport and were valued among scholars, but since they have been mostly sold on ballads-mongers' stalls.' During the latter half of the seventeenth century, like Marlowe, Lyly, and all the predecessors of Shakespeare, he fell entirely into oblivion till the revival in the nineteenth century of an interest in our early dramatists. V It now remains to say a few words about the plays which have been popularly attributed to Greene. In one of Malone's quartos oi Mucedorus, that of 1668, he has written, ' This piece I have lately discovered was written by Robert Greene ; ' but he does not show in what way he had discovered it. This, however, he presumably explains — for he gives no other account of his alleged discovery — in his Life of Shakespeare : ' Chettle,' he says, 'in a miscellaneous piece consisting of prose and verse, entitled England's Mourning Garment, shadows Marlowe the poet under the name of Musaeus, because he had translated the poem of Hero and Leander, attri- buted to Musaeus, and Robert Greene under the name of Musidore, ^ Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels, lib. iv. edit. 1635, p. 206. DRAMAS ATTRIBUTED TO GREENE 6i from having been the author of Mucedoms \' Malone could not have been aware that Etigla?id''s Mournifig Garment was written to celebrate the death of Elizabeth, and must consequently have been produced eleven years after Greene's death and ten years after Marlowe's. The Musaeus who is spoken of was probably Chapman, and the Musidore probably Lodge. To Malone's base- less hypothesis, and to that baseless hypothesis alone, is to be attributed the assignation of ilfucedorus to Greene, who was doubtless as innocent of its composition as Shakespeare was. It would be idle to discuss the subject further; no scene or passage in Mucedorus has any trace of Greene's hand in it^. But a better case has been made out for Greene's claim to another play. In 1594 was printed The First Part of the Tragical raig?ie of Selimus, someti?fie Emperor of the Turkes and grandfather to him that now raigneth. Wherein is showne how hee ynost cruelly raised tvarres against his oivne father Bajazet and prevailing therein in the end caused him to be poysoned. Also 7vith the ftmrdering of his two brethren Corcut and Acomat. This was reissued in 1638 with a fresh title-page, in which was inserted after the title of the play 'written by T. G.' These initials Langbaine filled in thus — ' Thomas Goffe, author of The Paging Turh, and The Courageous Tirk.^ But Goffe, having been born in 1591, was only three years of age when the first edition of the play was printed. This play Dr. Grosart has so confidently assigned to Greene that he has included it in his edition of Greene's works. I by no means share in Dr. Grosart's confidence, and in discussing his arguments I am at the same time explaining my reasons for not including Selimus among Greene's works. Dr. Grosart's argu- ments are twofold ; he adduces external evidence in favour of his contention, and internal. His external evidence begins weakly with an hypothesis, namely that the initials 'T. G.' on the title-page of the 1638 quarto may be an unlucky misprint for ' R. (}.' — that argument may pass for what it is worth. Next he points out that Robert Allot, whom he unluckily confounds with Robert Allot the publisher^ has in ^ See Boswell's edition of Malone, 1821, vol. ii. p. 251. * For the question of Alucedoriis see Wagner, fahrbuch, vol. x. 1876, and vol. xiv. 1879; Simpson's Paper, Sofne Plays attributed to Shakespeare, in New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874. Mr. Fleay's English Drama, vol. ii. p. 49 seqq. 62 GENERAL INTRODUCTION his Englands Parfiassus assigned to Greene ' two passages ' (as a matter of fact he has assigned to him six passages), one consisting of seven and the other of five hnes, which are found in Selimus, thereby showing that Allot supposed that Greene was the author of Selimus. Allot, it is shown, was well acquainted with Greene's writings, as he takes no fewer than ' thirty-nine ' quotations from them : he was a contemporary of Greene, and was probably acquainted with Greene's friends, and must therefore have had access to the best information. This would undoubtedly be a very strong presumption in favour of the theory if Allot could be depended upon, but he cannot. He has in many cases, where it is possible for us to detect him, mis-assigned his quotations. He has, for example, attributed Gaunt's dying speeches in Shake- speare's Richard II io Drayton, as well as the opening lines of ^^QXisex's Alot/ier Hubberd's Tale and two passages from Spenser's VirgiFs Gnat to Greene. It is therefore impossible to allow very much weight to Allot's authority ; unsupported by cor- roboration it is almost worthless. Dr. Grosart's next piece of evidence is that Thomas Creede, the publisher of Selimus, was also the publisher of James IV and A/phonsus, and that he published the three with the same device on the title-page. But unfortunately for Dr. Grosart, Thomas Creede was a regular publisher of plays, and published many others with the same device. The fact that he published fames IV and Alphonsus with Greene's name, and published Seli??ms as anonymous, seems to be a very strong presumption that the play was not Greene's, for Greene's name at that time was a name to conjure with. The internal evidence adduced by Dr. Grosart is even less satisfactory than the external. He quotes the following lines, and tells us that this passage alone would have 'determined my assigning Selimus to Greene ' : — * The sweet content that country life affords Passeth the royal pleasures of a king ; For there our joys are interlaced with fears, But here no fear nor care is harboured But a sweet calm of a most quiet state.' ' Every one,' he says, ' who knows Greene, knows that over and over he returns on anything of his that caught on, sometimes abridging and sometimes expanding, as in this of " sweet content," ' and he then places side by side with it the well-known verses in AUTHORSHIP OF 'SELIMUS' 63 the Farewell to Follie 'Sweet are the thoughts.' But such sentiments are simply commonplaces with the Elizabethan poets, and are no more peculiar to Greene than the letters of the alphabet which form his name. His next argument is derived from the fact that at the close of Alphonsus he promises to conclude his hero's life in a second part, and that as he did not do so, he probably wrote Selimus instead. Hypothesis, it may be sub- mitted, is not argument. Next Dr. Grosart points out that both Selimus and Alpho?isus ' develop themselves on Eastern and Turkish ground,' and ' that the character-names of Alphotisus are echoed in Selinuis ; that the plot unfolds itself along the same lines; that Greene's "repentant note" is heard in such a passage as lines 235, 444 ; that there is a blending of rhyme and blank verse, couplet and alternate rhyming old-fashioned stanza form.' The first argument has no weight at all. Plays on these oriental subjects were common. We know of Peele's extraordinarily popular play, not now extant, The Turkish Mahomet and Hireti the Faire Greek. We have Preston's Cambyses, we have Soliman atid Persida, and in Mr. Fleay's lists will be found the titles of many plays dealing presumably with oriental subjects. That the plot unfolds itself along the same lines is probably to be explained by the fact that the plot could not well unfold itself on any other lines. That the ' repentant note ' is heard is preposterous ^ ; that the plays resemble each other in metrical structure is untrue. The greater part of Selimus is in rhyme, and many portions of it in alternate rhymes and in rhymed stanzas, even the stanza royal being used. Indeed it seems perfectly clear that the play was originally one of the old-fashioned rhymed plays, and that it had been re-cast and interpolated with blank verse in consequence of the popularity of Marlowe's innovations. In Alphonsus the per- ^ Dr. Grosart finds these lines in Selivtus, spoken of course dramatically : — 'Now Selimus consider who thou art. Long hast thou marched in disj^uisd attire, But now unmask thyself and jjlay thy part And manifest the heat of thy desire. Nourish the coals of thine ambitious fire, And think that then thy empire is most sure When men for fear thy tyrany endure. Think that to thee there is no worst reproach Than filial duly in so iiigh a place,' and in this we arc to see one of Greene's ' autobiographic' touches! 64 GENERAL INTRODUCTION centage of rhymes, many of which appear to be accidental, is very small indeed, and there are no rhymed stanzas at all. Ur. Grosart next points out that in both plays are found ' semi- parodyings of Marlowe.' Considering that Alphonsus is a servile and Selimus in some slight degree an imitation of Marlowe's Tamburlaine, the circumstance is not very striking. Next Dr. Grosart gives a list of verbal coincidences to be found in passages in Selimus and in passages in Greene's acknowledged writings — and to this he attaches great importance. Of these there is not one which might not be found in the writings of Greene's con- temporaries, indeed the majority of them are ordinary Elizabethan words and phrases, such as ' armestrong,' ' forged,' ' gentles,' 'gratulate,' 'harbinger,' ' misconsters,' ' negromancy,' ' overslipt,' ' ought ' for owed — that is, nine out of the twelve he gives. The presumptions in favour of the author of Locrine having been the author of Selimus are infinitely more cogent than the arguments adduced in favour of Greene having been the author of Selimus : or, to put it in other words, if Greene was the author of Selimus, he must have been, according to Dr. Grosart's reasoning, the author of Locrine, and it would be most illogical to assign one to him and not assign the other. Take first the parallels to be found in the two plays : — ' Ah cruel tyrant and unmerciful, More bloodie than the Anthropophagi That fill their hungry stomachs with mens flesh.' Selimus, 1347-9. ' Or where the bloodie Anthropophagi With greedie jaws devour the wandering wights.' Locrine, iii. v. 'Even as the great Aegyptian crocodile, Wanting his praie, with artificial tears And fained plaints his subtill tongue doth file T' entrap the silly wandering traveller And move him to advance his footing neare, That when he is in danger of his clawes He may devour him with his famished jawes.' — Scl. 375-S2. * High on a bank by Nilus boisterous streames Tearfully sate the Aegyptian crocodile, Dreadfully grindmg in her sharp long teeth The broken bowels, &c.' — Loc. iii. Prol. * Send out thy furies from thy firie hall, The pitiless Erynnis arm'd with whippes, And all the damnd monsters of black hell.' — Sel. 1248-50. AUTHORSHIP OF 'SELIMUS' 65 ' Come fierce Erynnis, horrible with snakes, Come ugly furies, armed with your whippes.' — Loc. iii. vi, ' Avernus jaws and loathesome Tsenarus.' — Set. 1 244. * And I will post to hell-mouth TKnarus.' — Loc. * If Selimus were once your emperor I'de dart abroad the thunderbolts of warre And mow their hartlesse squadrons to the ground.' Sel. 418-21. ' How bravely this young Briton Albanact Darteth abroad the thunderbolts of war. Moving the massy squadrons off the ground.' — Loc. ii. v. ' When Briareus arm'd with a hundred hands Flung forth a hundred mountains at great Jove, And when the monstrous giant Monichus Hurl'd mount Oiimpus at great Mars, his targe, And darted cedars at Minerva's shield.' — Sel. 2434-8. * As when Briareus arm'd with a hundred hands Flung forth a hundred mountains at great Jove, As when the monstrous giant Monichus Hurl'd mount Olympus at great Maris targe And shot huge cedars at Minerva's shield.' — Loc. ii. v. 'But thou canst better use thy bragging blade Than thou canst rule thy overflowing tongue.' — Sel. 2467-8. ' And but thou better use thy bragging blade Than thou dost rule thy overflowing tongue.' — Loc. ii. iv. * Chiefe patronesse of Rhamus golden gates.' — Sel. 608. *If she that rules faire Rhamnus' golden gate.' — Loc. ii. i. 'Now sit I like the arme-strong son of Jove.' — Sel, 1599. 'The arme-strong offspring of the doubled night Stout Hercules.' — Loc. iii. iv. So again in Locrine, iii. i : — ' The arme-strong Hercules.' ' Whose lasting praise Mounteth to highest heaven with golden wings.' — Sel. 1968. 'The Trojan's glory flies with golden wings.' — Z^enser's VirgiPs Gnat (st. iv) — 'Wherefore ye sisters, which the glorie bee Of the Pierian streams, fayre Naiades, Go too: and, dauncing all in companie, Adorne that God.' while the expression ' silly flie ' is also in Spenser's Visions of the World's Vanitie, iv. 5. The passage — ' I know full oft you haue in Authors red The higher tree the sooner is his fall, And they which first do flourish and beare sway, Upon the sudden vanish cleane away.' (59-62.) ^ The Looking-Glasse, written in conjunction with Lodge, may have preceded it. See General Introduction. INTRODUCTION 71 looks like a reminiscence of The Riiines of Tivie, The Visions of the World's Vcviitie, and The Ritines of Rotne, while Greene's appeal to Virgil : ' O Virgil, Virgil, wert thou now aliue,' may be compared with the appeal to the same poet, Ruines of Rone, xxv. g-ii — 'Or that at least I could, with pencil fine, Fashion the pourtraicts of these palaces, By pateme of great Virgil's spirit diuine.' It would also seem that Greene's Prologue is an answer to Spenser's despairing view of the prospects of poetry, Spenser's Calliope deplores the absence of heroes and heroic material ; Greene finds in his theme, Alphonsus, exactly what Spenser's Calliope requires. Spenser's Calliope threatens to remain silent for ever because the degeneracy of the age affords no worthy theme ; Greene's Calliope, finding a worthy theme in Alphonsus, resolves to break her long silence and renew her strains. The greater part of Spenser's volume, as the very title implies, had been inspired by Melpomene; and in Greene Melpomene is represented as vocal, and as taunting Calliope with silence. Again, A Maidens Dreame, which appeared at the end of 1 591, is not only in the same metre as The Ruines of Time, but, in some respects (as a comparative study will show) recalls it and other poems in Spenser's volume, at times rather closely. All this may, of course, be mere coincidence, and is far from affording conclusive proof that Spenser's volume influenced Greene in composing the Prologue \o AIpJionsus,h\iX. it affords at least a fair degree of presumptive evidence that Greene was acquainted with these poems of Spenser, and had them in his mind. But assuming that these parallels are reminiscences of Spenser's poems, we must of course remember that, however probable, it does not necessarily follow that Greene had derived them from the printed volume. Some, if not all, of Spenser's poems had been written, and were apparently in circulation, long before their appearance in 1591. This is clear not merely from internal evidence, but from the Printer's Address to the Reader prefixed to the volume of 1591. He had, he says, 'got into' his 'hands such small poems of the same Author's as I heard were disperst abroad in sundrie hands : and not easie to bee come by, by himself, some of them hauing bene diuerslie imbeziled and purloyned from him since his departure ouer sea. Of the which I haue by good meanes gathered together these few parcels present.' And that Spenser's poems were current in literary circles at a period long prior to their publication is proved probably by Marlowe's in- corporation at the end of the fourth Act of the second part of Tambitr- laine of the simile of the almond-tree in Faerie (2tieetie, I. vii. st. 32, and certainly by Abraham Fraunce's citation of a portion of the thirty- fifth stanza of the fourth canto of the second book in his Arcadian Rhetoricke (1588). See too the passage in scene vii of Peele's David 72 ALPHONSVS and Bethsabe, ' As when the sun attird in glistering robe,' which is taken from Faerie Queene, I. v. st. 2. That it was Greene's earliest attempt at dramatic composition seems to me in the highest degree probable from internal evidence. It is impossible not to suppose that Greene is speaking of himself when he put these lines in the mouth of Venu^, especially when we read them in the light of what he says in the prefaces to his Mourning Garment and Farewell to Follie — 'And this my hand, which vsed for to pen The praise of loue and Cupids peerles power, Will now begin to treat of bloudie Mars, Of doughtie deeds and valiant victories.' (37-40.) He evidently intended to enter the field against Marlowe, to fight him, so to speak, with his own weapons. Alphonsus is an extravagant imitation of the two parts of Tambtirlaific, such as might be expected from a mere tiro in dramatic composition. The career of Alphonsus, his conquests, his partition of those conquests, his marriage with Iphigina at the climax of his success, his character, his language — in all this we have Tamburlaine — and Tamburlaine crudely — over again. Amurack is partly Tamburlaine and partly Bajazet. Albinius and Laelius revolt from Flaminius and join Alphonsus as partners in his fortunes, just as Theridamas in Marlowe revolts from Persia to cast in his lot with Tamburlaine. Laelius, Miles, and Albinius are invested by Alphonsus with the crowns of Naples, Milan, and Arragon, just as Theridamas, Techelles, and Usumcasane are invested by Tamburlaine with the crowns of Argier, Fez, and Morocco. And just as Tamburlaine will not crown Zenocrate ' vntil with greater honours I be graced,' so Alphonsus reserves no realm for himself except the vast realm which, still unconquered, he is determined to subdue. Parallels in detail are very numerous. Among the most striking are Alphonsus., iv. iii. (1481-2)— ' Alph. I clap vp Fortune in a cage of gold. To make her tume her wheele as I thinke best.' First part Tamburlaine, i. ii — • ' Tamb. I hold the fates bound fast in iron chain, And with my hand turn Fortune's wheel about' The words of Albinius when he receives the crown of Arragon, Alphons. iii. i (766-9) — ' Thou King of heauen, which by thy power diuine, Dost see the secrets of each liuers heart, Beare record now with what vnwilling mind, I do receiue the Crovvne of Aragon.' INTRODUCTION 73 compared with the words of Amyras when he steps into the chariot of his father Tamburlaine, and receives the crown (second part Tambuj'- laine, v. 3) — ' Heauens witness me with what a broken heart And damned spirit I ascend this seat.' Alphons. iii. ii (S36-9) — ' You, Baiazet, go poste away apace To Siria, Scythia, and Albania, To Babylon, with Mesopotamia, Asia, Armenia, and all other lands.' Tamburl. i. i — ' We here do crown thee monarch of the East, Emperor of Asia and Persia, Great lord of Media and Armenia, Duke of Africa and Albania, Mesopotamia, and of Parthia.' In the third Act of AlpJiotisus kvcrnxz.!^?, blasphemous defiance of Mahomet has its exact counterpart in Tamburlaine's speech against the prophet in the first scene of the fifth Act of Marlowe's play (second part), just as the speech of Alphonsus to Iphigina beginning, ' Nay, virgin, stay,' in the fifth Act of Alphonsus is plainly imitated from Tamburlaine's speech to Zenocrate beginning ' Disdain's Zenocrate,' in the second scene of the first Act of Tamburlaine (first part). The play is not so much a drama as a phantasmagorical medley. To truth to nature and life it makes no pretence. No character is conceived with any reality, no character is even faintly discriminated. What merits it has are purely of the epical and rhetorical order. It is just the kind of drama which the author of such works as Greene had hitherto produced might, with Tainbnrlatne and with the popular dramas of that School before him as models, have been expected to concoct. But the chief argument for this being the earliest of Greene's dramas, or at least of his extant dramas, is derived from the versification. In Orlando, and more particularly in James IV and in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, Greene had learned to give variety to his blank verse by the employment of light and weak endings, of tribrachs, anapaests, and dactyls, by the introduction of Alexandrines and lines of eleven syllables, and by varying the pauses. But he had not learned this secret when he wrote Alphonsus. His earliest extant attempt at blank verse is to be found in the second part of the Tritameron of Love, 1587 (Works, iii. 123), where the lines never, with one exception, vary from ten syllables and the end-stopped scheme. The next specimen is in I'crimedes, 1588 (Works, vii. 79-80), and the blank verse here differs in no respect from the preceding. Nor is there any advance in AlpJionsus, where it is marked by the same 74 ALPHONSVS intolerable monotony ; and remains, in Nash's phrase, the same 'drumming decasyllabon.' The play contains upwards of nineteen hundred lines, but there is not, with one ambiguous exception, a single Alexandrine in it ; and the deviations from the strictly decasyllabic metre where they cannot be explained by slurring would not amount to more than three. The cadence is scarcely ever varied by any of the expedients which Marlowe employed for harmonizing heroic blank verse. All Greene seems to have caught from Marlowe in the way of metrical variation is the occasional introduction of rhyming couplets. Another argument in support of my contention that it is the earliest of his extant dramas is afforded by the stiffness and cumbrousness of the style and composition, as compared with that of his other plays. Thus we have the habitual insertion of ' for ' before the infinitive mood, an archaism which occurs no less than fifty-eight times in the course of the play. In his other plays this is used very sparingly : it only occurs, for example, three times in Orlando Furioso and eight times in Friar Baco7i and Friar Bungay. Again, the play teems with awkward inversions, such as ' troubled been,' 'closely ouerthwart vs stand,' ' must wonder needs,' 'needs I must,' 'I banished am,' 'Medea absent is.' The forms ' whereas ' and ' whenas ' are as a rule used for the simple 'where' and 'when.' The forms 'greenish' and 'hardish' are used for ' green ' and ' hard,' just as ' to becommen ' is used for ' to become.' The blank verse throughout has evidently been composed with difficulty, and these licences are employed to facilitate its composition. No one indeed who compares the diction, style, and versification of this play with those of the others, could doubt for a moment that it must, with the possible exception of The Looking-Glasse written in conjunction with Lodge, have preceded them. It seems to me, therefore, in a high degree probable that Alphonsus was written not earlier than the beginning of 1591, and that it is not only the earliest of Greene's extant dramas, but that it was his first attempt at dramatic composition ^ If Mr. Fleay be correct ' Professor Storozhenko and others have assumed that Greene began his dramatic career in 1587, and that Alphonsits appeared in that year. This is deduced from a garbled misrepresentation, as Dr. Grosart has well pointed out, of a passage in the preface to Penelope s IVeh and from a somewhat ambiguous passage in the preface to Perimcdes 1588, which runs : ' I keepe my old course to palter vp something in Prose, vsing my old poesie still, Omne tulit punctuiii , although lately two Gentlemen Poets made two mad men of Rome beate it out of their paper bucklers and had it in derision for that I could not make my verses iet vpon the stage in tragical buskins, euerie word filling the mouth like the faburden of Bo. Bell, daring God out of heauen with that atheist Tam- burlan or blaspheming with the mad preest of the sonne, but kt me rather openly pocket vp the asse at Diogenes' hand than wantonly set out such impious instances of intolerable poetrie : such mad and scoffing poets that have prophetical spirits as bred of Merlin's race, if there be anie in England that set the end of scoUarisra in an English blanck verse.' What this passage INTRODUCTION 75 in his conjecture that ' Mahomet's Poo,' in Peek's Farewell, is a reference to this play, then it must have been written earlier ; but on this point see General Introduction. It may be objected to the late period assigned to the composition of Aip/ionsus that Tamburlaine was produced in or about 1587, and that it was rather late to be parodying the play in 1591. But it must be remembered that Tamburlaine, ever since its first appearance, had been a stock piece on the stage, as it long continued to be, and that it was not printed till the autumn of 1590, when additional prominence was thus given to it. Alphonsus has, \\\i&Ja7nes IV of Scotland, so little relation to historical fact that it is scarcely possible to identify the Alphonsus who gives it its title. There can, however, be little doubt that Greene's hero, so far as he corresponds to reality, is Alphonso the First of Naples and the Fifth of Arragon (1385-1454), though Greene was quite capable of con- founding him, as perhaps he did, with Alphonso I, King of Arragon and Navarre, surnamed El Batallador, who died in 1134. But the latter king had no association with Naples, the conquest of which was a central incident in the career of Alphonso V, and is a central seems to mean is surely not that Greene had been derided for having attempted to make his verses jet upon the stage in tragical buskins, but that he had never attempted to do so ; he is taunted not with failure in what he had attempted, but for never having attempted at all. There is not the smallest evidence for assuming that Greene had written for the stage before 1591. In his novels and pamphlets before that date he is constantly referring to his writings, but he never mentions any dramas. In the Dedication, for instance, prefixed to his Mourning Garment, in referring to his works he says not a word about any writings lor the stage. Had Greene produced anything for the stage, Nash in his Address prefixed to Menaphoti (1589) could hardly have failed to refer to the fact; on the contrary, he exalts Greene's writings not produced for the stage over the writings in blank verse produced for the stage : so also does Thomas Brabine in the Commendatory Verses prefixed to Menaphon — ' Come forth, ye wits, that vaunt the pompe of speach And striue to thunder from a stage mans throate. View Menaphon, a note beyond your reach.' To the same effect also are Upchear's Verses. Equally silent as to any dramatic production are all the writers of Commendatory Verses. See particularly John Eliote's French Sonnet, prefixed to J'enmcdes (1588), and the Latin verses of G. B. prefixed to Alcida (1588), who speaking of Greene's relation to his predecessors in literature, says — ' Grenus adest tandem, rhetor bonus atque foeta. Qui sua cum prosis carmina iuncta dedit.' Everything, indeed, points to the conclusion that up to 1590 or 1591 there was rivalry between Greene and his clifjue, who courted pojndarity as writers of prose fiction and lyrical and pastoral poetry, and Marlowe and his School, who courted popularity by blank-verse plays ; that Greene was taunted because he did not write for the stage ; and that he retorted by ridiculing those who did. Greene afterwards, finding that plays were more pojiular than novels, joined the dramatists, and began by parodying the most popular of contemporary plays. 76 INTRODUCTION TO ALPHONSVS incident in Greene's play. All Greene wanted was a hero in whom he could find, or whom he could transform into, an analogy to Marlowe's Tamburlaine, and him he found in Alphonso V. It is not at all unlikely that he consulted the Memoirs of Alphonso V by Barthlemy Fazio, printed in 1560 and again in 1563, Bartholoniaei Facii De Rebus G est is ab Alphonso P?-imo Neapolitanorum Rege Comnientarioru7n Libri decet/i, the opening paragraph of which work bears some resemblance to Greene's Prologue by Venus — ' Etsi nonnullos viros haec aetas tulit qui, praestanti ingenio atque doctrina praediti, turn ad alia quaeque turn ad res gestas scribendas peridonei existimari possunt, fuerantque, et nostra et patrum nostrorum memoria, aliquot populi ac principes clari qui magna ac laudabilia facinora gessere, ea tamen est apud plerosque nouarum rerum negligentia vt perpauci ad scribendam historiam sese conferant. Sunt enim qui cum legerint aut Alexandri aut Caesaris aut populi Romani facta, haec noua ac recentia non multum delectent. Namque ita se res habet, vt quae nobis notioi a et familiariora sunt haec in minore pretio nescio quomodo habeamus.' He may also have consulted, though this is not likely, a little work by Albertus Timannus, printed in i'^'] "3,, De Alfonso Rege Aragojium et Neapolis Oratio. But Greene's Alphonsus bears the same relation to the Alphonsus of Fazio and Timann as the Alexander of the Alexandreis bears to the Alexander of Plutarch, of Arrian, and of Quintus Curtius. His narrative is pure fiction, wreathed round a framework of fact so slender that when discovered it is scarcely discernible. Beyond the fact that Alphonso conquered Naples and had relations with Milan and with the Turks, there is nothing in the incidents or in the characters which corresponds with reality. The text of the Quarto, of which there are two copies, one in the Duke of Devonshire's Library and one which belonged to Dyce, now in the Dyce and Forster Library at South Kensington, is remarkably free from corruptions. THE COMICALL HiSTORIE OF ALPHONSVS King of Aragon As it hath hene stindrle times Acted Made by R. G. =r So in ^ LONDON Brinted* by Thomas Creede - 15-99 1 (DRAMATIS PERSONAE Carinus, the rightful heir to the crown of Arragon. Alphonsus, his son. Flaminius, King of Arragon. Belinus, King of Naples. Duke of Milan, Albinius. Fabius. Laelius. Miles. Amurack, the Great Turk. Arcastus, Kitig of the Moors. Claramont, King of Barbary. Crocon, King of Arabia. Faustus, King of Babylon. Baiazet. Two Priests of Mahomet. Provost^ Soldiers, latiissaries, ^r. Fausta, wife to Amurack. Iphigina, her daughter. Medea, an enchantress. Mahomet {speaking from the brazen head). Venus. The Nine Muses.) ' Not in Q, adapted from Dyce» THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF ALPHONSVS KING OF ARRAGON ACT I. (Prologue.) After you haue sounded thrise, let Veiius be let downe from the top of the Stage, and when she is downe, say : Poets are scarce, when Goddesses themselues Are forst to leaue their high and stately seates, Placed on the top of high Olympus Mount, To seeke them out, to pen their Champions praise. The time hath bene when Homers sugred Muse 5 Did make each Eccho to repeate his verse, That euery coward that durst crack a speare, And Tilt and Turney for his Ladies sake. Was painted out in colours of such price As might become the proudest Potentate. 10 But now a dayes so yrksome idless' slights. And cursed charmes haue witch'd each students mind, That death it is to any of them all. If that their hands to penning you do call : Oh Virgil, Virgil, wert thou now aliue, 15 Whose painfull pen in stout Augustus dayes, Did daigne to let the base and silly fly To scape away without thy praise of her. I do not doubt but long or ere this time, Alphonsus fame vnto the heauens should clime : 20 Alphonsus fame, that man of loue his seed. Sprung from the loines of the immortall Gods, Whose sire, although he habit on the Earth, For the Quartos see Introduction, p. 76. Both are cited as Q : S. A', is Dyce's Quarto in the South Kensington Museum II idless' iJyce: Idels Q 17 fly Dyce : flea Q So THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act I May claime a portion in the fierie Pole, As well as any one what ere he be. 25 But, setting by Alphotisiis power diuine, What Man aliue, or now amongst the ghoasts, Could counteruaile his courage and his strength ? But thou art dead, yea, Virgil, thou art gon, And all his acts drownd in obliuion. 30 And all his acts drownd in obliuion ? No, Venus, no, though Poets proue vnkind, And loth to stand in penning of his deeds, Yet rather then they shall be cleane forgot, I, which was wont to follow Cupids games 35 Will put in vre Mineruaes sacred Art ; And this my hand, which vsed for to pen The praise of loue and Cupids peerles power, Will now begin to treat of bloudie Mars, Of doughtie deeds and valiant victories. 40 Enter Melpomine, Clio, Errato, with their sisters, playing all vpon sundrie Instruments, Calliope onely excepted, who cotnniing last, hangeth downe the head, and plaies Jiot of her Instnunent. But see whereas the stately Muses come. Whose harmony doth very far surpasse The heauenly Musick of Appolloes pipe ! But what meanes this? Melpoinine her selfe With all her Sisters sound their Instruments, 45 Onely excepted faire Calliope, Who, comming last and hanging downe her head. Doth plainly shewe by outward actions What secret sorrow doth torment her heart. Stands aside. Mel. Calliope, thou which so oft didst crake to How that such clients clustred to thy Court By thick and threefold, as not any one Of all thy sisters might compare with thee : Where be thy schoUers now become, I troe? Where are they vanisht in such suddain sort, 55 That, while as we do play vpon our strings, 31 Ofn. Dyce Prol.] ALPHONSVS, king OF ARRAGON 8[ You stand still lazing, and haue nought to do? Clio. j\Ielpo)nine, make you a why of that ? I know full oft you haue (in) Authors red, The higher tree the sooner is his fall, 60 And they which first do flourish and beare sway, Vpon the sudden vanish cleane away. Cal. jMocke on apace ; my backe is broad enough To beare your flouts, as many as they be. That yeare is rare that nere feeles winters stormes : 65 That tree is fertile which nere wanteth frute; And that same Muse hath heaped well in store Which neuer wanteth clients at her doore. But yet, my sisters, when the surgent seas Haue ebde their fill, their wanes do rise againe 70 And fill their bankes vp to the very brimmes : And when my pipe hath easd her selfe a while, Such store of suters shall my seate frequent, That you shall see my schollers be not spent. Errato. Spent (quoth you) sister? then we were to blame, 75 If we should say your schollers all were spent : But pray now tell me when your painfull pen Will rest enough? Mel. When husbandmen sheere hogs. Ven. (^coming forward'). Afelpo)m?ie, Errato, and the rest, 80 From thickest shrubs dame Venus did espie The mortall hatred which you ioyntly beare Vnto your sister high Calliope. What, do you thinke if that the tree do bend. It followes therefore that it needs must breake? 85 And since her pipe a little while doth rest, It neuer shall be able for to sound? Yes, Muses, yes, if that she wil vouchsafe To entertaine Dame Venus in her schoole, And further me with her instructions, 90 She shall haue schollers which wil daine to be In any other Muses Companie. Calliope. Most sacred Vefius, do you doubt of that? Calliope would thinke her three times blest 59 in Dyce 64 flours ? Q {SA') 75 too Q COLLINS. I Q 82 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act I For to receiue a Goddes in her schoole, 95 Especially so high an one as you, Which rules the earth, and guides the heauens too. Ven. Then sound your pipes, and let vs bend our steps Vnto the top of high Parnassus hill. And there togither do our best deuoyr 100 For to describe AlpJionsus warlike fame : And, in the maner of a Comedie, Set downe his noble valour presently. Calli. As Venus wils, so bids Calliope. Melpo. And as you bid, your sisters do agree. 105 Exeunt. (Scene I. Near Naples.') Enter Carinus the Father, and Alphonsus his sonne. Carinus. My noble sonne, since first I did recount The noble acts your predecessors did In Aragon, against their warlike foes, I neuer yet could see thee ioy at all, But hanging downe thy head as malcontent, no Thy youthfull dayes in mourning haue bene spent. Tell me, Alphonsus, what might be the cause That makes thee thus to pine away with care ? Hath old Carinus done thee any offence In reckning vp these stories vnto thee? 115 What, nere a word but Mumme ? Alphonsus, speake, Vnles your Fathers fatall day you seeke. Alphon. Although, deare father, I haue often vowde Nere to vnfold the secrets of my heart To any man or woman, who some ere 120 Dwels vnderneath the circle of the skie : Yet do your words so coniure me, deare sire, That needs I must fulfil that you require. Then so it is : amongst the famous tales Which you rehearst done by our sires in warre, 125 When as you came vnto your fathers daies, With sobbing notes, with sighs and blubbring teares, And much ado, at length you thus began : 99 Fernassus Q S. D. Clarinus Q_ 110 malcontent ; Q Sc. I] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 83 ' Next to Alphonsus should my father come For to possesse the Diadem by right 130 Of AragoJi, but that the wicked wretch His yonger brother, with aspiring mind, By secret treason robd him of his hfe, And me his sonne of that which was my due.' These words, my sire, did so torment my mind, 135 As had I bene with Ixion in hell. The rauening bird could neuer plague me worse : For euer since my mind hath troubled bene Which way I might reuenge this traiterous fact, And that recouer which is ours by right. 140 Cart. Ah, my A/phonsus, neuer thinke on that. In vain it is to striue against the streame ; The Crowne is lost, and now in hucksters hands, And all our hope is cast into the dust : Bridle these thoughts, and learne the same of me, — 145 A quiet life doth passe an Emperie. Alphon. Yet, noble father, ere Carinus brood Shall brooke his foe for to vsurpe his seate, Heele die the death with honour in the fiel^, And so his life and sorrowes briefly end. '150 But did I know my froward fate were such As I should faile in this my iust attempt. This sword, deare father, should the Author te To make an end of this my Tragedie. Therefore, sweet sire, remaine you here a while, 155 And let me walke my Fortune for to trie : I do not doubt but ere the time be long, lie quite his cost, or else my selfe will die. Cari. My noble sonne, since that thy mind is such For to reuenge thy fathers foule abuse, ' 160 As that my words may not a whit preuaile To stay thy iourney, go with happie fate, And soone returne vnto thy fathers Cell, With such a traine as Julius dcsar came To noble Rome, when as he had atchieu'd 165 The mightie Monarch of the triple world. 105 atchiu d Q G 2 84 . THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act I Meane time Carinus in this sillie groue Will spend his daies with praiers and orisons, To mightie loue, to further thine intent : Farewell, deare Sonne, Alphofisus, fare you well. 170 Exit. Alphon. And is he gone ? then hie, Alphonsus, hie, To trie thy fortune where thy fates do call : A noble mind disdaines to hide his head. And let his foes triumph in his ouerthrow. Enter Albinius. (Alphonsus make as though thou goest out.) Albinius say : Albi. What loytring fellow haue we spied here? 175 Presume not, villaine, further for to go, Vnles you do at length the same repent. Alphonsus conies towards Albinius. Alphon. 'Villain' saist thou? nay, 'vilain' in thy throat: What knowst thou, skipiack, whom thou vilain calst? Albi. A common vassall I do villaine call. 180 Alphon. That shall thou soone approoue, persuade thy self. Or else He die, or thou shalt die for me. Albi. What, do I dreame, or do my dazeling eies Deceiue me? 1st Alphonsus that I see? Doth now Medea vse her wonted charmes 185 For to delude Albinius fantasie? Or doth black Pluto, King of darke Auerne, Seeke (for) to flout me with his counterfait? His bodie like to Alphonsus framed is ; His face resembles much Alphonsus hewe ; 190 His noble mind declares him for no les(s.) Tis he indeed. Wo worth Albinius, Whose babling tong hath causde his owne annoy. Why doth not loue send from the glittring skies His Thunderbolts to chastice this offence? 195 168 orison Dyce : horizons Q S. D. Alphonsus . . . out not ital., as part of text Q 188 for coitj. Dyce Sc. I] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 85 Why doth dame Terra cease with greedie iawes To swallow vp Albinius presently? What, shall I flie and hide my trayterous head, From stout Alphonsus whom I so misusde? Or shall I yeeld ? Tush, yeelding is in vaine : 200 Nor can I flie, but he will follow me. Then cast thy selfe downe at his graces feete, Confesse thy fault, and readie make thy brest To entertaine thy well deserued death. Albinius kneeles downe. Alph. What newes, my friend? why are you so blanke, 205 That earst before did vaunt it to the skies? AM. Pardon, deare Lord ! Albinius pardon craues For this offence, which, by the heauens I vowe, Vnwittingly I did vnto your grace ; For had I knowne A/phonsus had bene here, a 10 Ere that my tongue had spoke so trayterously, This hand should make my very soule to die. Alphon. Rise vp, my friend, thy pardon soon is got : Albinius rises vp. But, prithie, tell me what the cause might be. That in such sort thou erst vpbraidest me? 215 AM. Most mightie Prince, since first your fathers sire Did yeeld his ghost vnto the sisters three, And olde Carinus forced was to flie His natiue soyle and royall Diadem, I, for because I seemed to complaine 220 Against their treason, shortly was forewarnd Nere more to haunt the bounds of Aragon, On paine of death ; then like a man forlorne, I sought about to find some resting place. And at the length did happe vpon this shore, 335 Where shewing forth my cruell banishment, By King Belinus I am succoured. But now, my Lord, to answere your demaund : It happens so, that the vsurping King Of Aragon, makes warre vpon this land 230 205 you (now) Grosart after Dyce 213 S. D. inserted after 215 Q 86 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act I For certaine tribute which he claymeth heere : Wherefore Belinus sent me round about His Countrey for to gather vp (his) men For to withstand this most iniurious foe ; Which being done, returning with the King, 235 Dispightfully I did so taunt your grace, Imagining you had some souldier bene, The which, for feare, had sneaked from the campe. Alpho7i. Inough, Albinius, I do know thy mind : But may it be that these thy happie newes 240 Should be of truth, or haue you forged them ? AIM. The gods forbid that ere Albinius tongue Should once be found to forge a fayned tale, Especially vnto his soueraigne Lord : But if Alphotisus thinke that I do faine, 245 Stay here a while, and you shall plainely see My words be true, when as you do perceiue Our royall armie march before your face; The which, ift please my Noble Lord to stay, He hasten on with all the speed I may. 250 Alphon. Make haste, Albinius, if you loue my life: But yet beware, when as your Armie comes. You do not make as though you do me know, For I a while a souldier base will be, Vntill I finde time more conuenient 255 To shew, Albinius, what is mine intent. Albi. What ere Alphonsus fittest doth esteeme, Albinius for his profit best will deeme. Exit' Alplion. Now do I see both Gods and fortune too Do ioyne their powers to raise Alphonsus fame : 260 For in this broyle I do not greatly doubt But that I shall my Couzens courage tame. But see whereas £eli?ius Armie comes, And he him selfe, vnlesse I gesse awrie : Who ere it be, I do not passe a pinne, 265 Alphonsus meanes his souldier for to be. {He stands aside.) 233 his om.Q 259 to Q Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 87 (Scene II. Tlie Camp ^Belinus.) Enter Belinus King of Naples, Albinius, Fabius, 7>mrching with their souldiers (^and make a standy. Belt. Thus farre, my Lords, wee trained haue our Campe For to encounter haughtie Arragon, Who with a mightie power of straghng mates Hath trayterously assayled this our land, 370 And burning Townes, and sacking Cities faire, Doth play the diuell where some ere he comes. Now, as we are informed of our Scoutes, He marcheth on vnto our cheefest Seate, Naples, I meane, that Citie of renowne, 375 For to begirt it with his bands about : And so at length, the which high loue forbid, To sacke the same, as earst he other did. If which should happe, Belinus were vndone, His countrey spoyld, and all his subiects slaine. 280 Wherefore your Soueraigne thinketh it most meet For to preuent the furie of the foe, And Naples succour, that distressed Towne, By entring in, ere Aragon doth come. With all our men, which will sufficient be 385 For to withstand their cruell batterie. Alhi. The sillie serpent, found by Country swaine, And cut in pieces by his furious blowes, Yet if her head do scape away vntoucht, As many write, it very stranglye goes 290 To fetch an herbe, with which in litle time Her battered corpes againe she doth conioyne : But if by chance the ploughmans sturdie staffe Do happe to hit vpon the Serpents head, And bruse the same, though all the rest be sound, 295 Yet doth the Sillie Serpent lie for dead, Nor can the rest of all her body serue To finde a salue which may her life preserue. Euen so, my Lord, if Naples once be lost, Which is the head of all your graces land, 300 280 subiects Dyce : subiect Q 289 her Dj'ce : his Q 88 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act I Easie it were for the malicious foe To get the other Cities in their hand : But if from them that Naples Towne be free, I do not doubt but safe the rest shall bee. And therefore, Mightie King, I thinke it best, 305 To succour Naples rather than the rest. Beli. Tis brauely spoken; by my Crovvne I sweare, I like thy counsell, and will follow it. Point toward Alphonsus. But harke, Albinius, dost thou know the man, That doth so closely ouerthwart vs stand? 310 AIM. Not I, my Lord, nor neuer saw him yet. Beli. Then, prithee, goe, and aske him presently. What countrey man he is, and why he comes Into this place? perhaps he is some one. That is sent hither as a secret spie 315 To heare and see in secret what we do. Albinius and Fabius go toward Alphonsus. AIM. My friend, what art thou, that so like a spie Dost sneake about Belinus royall Campe ? Alpho7i. I am a man. FaM. A man ? we know the same : 320 But prithee, tell me, and set scoffing by, What country man thou art, and why you come, That we may soone resolue the King thereof? Alphon. Why, say, I am a souldier. FaM. Of whose band? ^2:; Alphon. Of his that will most wages to me giue. FaM. But will you be Content to serue Belinus in his wars ? Alphon. I, if he'll reward me as I do deserue. And grant what ere I winne, it shall be mine 330 Incontinent. AIM. Beleeue me, sir, your seruice costly is : But stay a while, and I will bring you word What King Belinus sayes vnto the same. 327, 328 But . . . wars as in Dyce, one line in Q 329 he'll Dyce {zvho also gives a separate line to I) : he will Q 330, 331 And . . . incontinent as in r>yce, one line in Q Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 89 (Albinius ^0 towards Belinus.) Beli. What newes, Albinius ? who is that we see ? 335 AM. It is, my Lord, a souldier that you see, Who faine would serue your grace in these your warres, But that, I feare, his seruice is too deare. Beli. Too deare, why so ? what doth the souldier craue ? Albi. He craues, my Lord, all things that with his sword 340 He doth obtaine, what euer that they be Beli. Content, my friend ; if thou wilt succour me. What ere you get, that challenge as thine owne, Belinus giues it franckly vnto thee. Although it be the Crowne of Aragon. 345 Come on, therefore, and let vs hie apace To Naples Towne, whereas by this I know Our foes haue pitcht their tents against our walles. Alphon. March on, my Lord, for I will follow you, And do not doubt but, ere the time be long, 350 I shall obtaine the Crowne of Aragon. Exeufit. ACT II. OF THE HISTORIE OF ALPHONSVS. £"«/^;- Belinus, Albinius, Fabius, Alphonsus, with the souldier; as soone as they are in, strike vp alariein a while, a?id then enter Venus. ho?isus thanklesse for to be, Laeiius sit downe, and Miles sit by him. And that receiue the which your swords haue wonne. Sit downe Laelius and Miles. First, for because thou, Laelitis, in these broyles, By martiall might, didst proude Belinus chase 720 From troupe to troupe, from side to side about, And neuer ceast from this thy swift pursute Vntill thou hadst obtain'd his royall Crowne, Therefore, I say. He do thee nought but right, And giue thee that (the) which thou well, hast wonne. 725 Set the Crowne o?i his head. Here doth Alpho7isus Crowne thee, Laelius, King Of Naples Towne, with all dominions That earst belonged to our trayterous foe, That proud Belinus, in his regiment. Sound trumpets and Drummes. Miles, thy share the Millaine Dukedome is, 730 For, well I wot, thy sword deseru'd no lesse; Set the Crowne on his head. The which Alphonsus frankly giueth thee. In presence of his warlike men at armes ; And if that any stomacke this my deed, Alphonsus can reuenge thy wrong with speed. 735 Sound Trufupets and Drummes. 715 lest that conj. Walker : but lest co7ij. Dycc 725 the conj. Walker Sc. I] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON iot Now to AlMnius, which in all my toyles I haue both faithfull, yea, and friendly found : Since that the gods and friendly Fates assigne This present time to me to recompence The sundry pleasures thou hast done to me, 740 Sit downe by them, and on thy faithfull head Take the Crowne from thy owne head. Receiue the Crowne of peerlesse Aragon. AIM. Pardon, deare Lord, Albi?iius at this time ; It ill becomes me for to weare a Crowne When as my Lord is destitute him selfe. 745 Why, high Alphoiisus, if I should receiue This Crowne of you, the which high loue forbid, Where would your selfe obtaine a Diadem? Naples is gone, Millaine possessed is. And nought is left for you but Aragon. 750 Alphon. And nought is left for me but Aragon} Yes, surely, yes, my Fates have so decreed, That Aragon should be too base a thing For to obtaine Alphonsns for her King. What, heare you not how that our scatter'd foes, 755 Belhms, Fabius, and the Millaine Duke, Are fled for succour to the Turkish Court? And thinke you not that Amnrack their King, Will, with the mightiest power of all his land, Seeke to reuenge Belinus ouerthrow? 76a Then doubt I not but, ere these broyles do end, Alphonsus shall possesse the Diadem That Anmrack now weares vpon his head. Sit downe therefore, and that receiue of mee The which the Fates appointed vnto thee. 765 AM. Thou King of heauen, which by thy power diuine Dost see the secrets of each liuers heart, Beare record now with what vnwilling mind I do receiue the Crowne of Aragon. Albinius sit downe by Laelius and Miles ; Alphonsus set the Crowne on his head, and say — Alphon. Arise, Albinius, King of Aragon, 770 Crowned by me, who, till my gasping ghost 102 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act III Do part asunder from my breathlesse corpes, Will be thy shield against all men aliue That for thy Kingdome any way do striue. Sotmd Trumpets and Drunimes. Now since we haue, in such an happie houre, 775 Confirmd three Kings, come, let vs march with speed Into the Citie, for to celebrate With mirth and ioy this blisfuU festiuall. Exeunt oinnes. (Scene II. Palace ^ Amurath at Constantinople.) Enter Amurack the great Turke, Belinus, Fabius, Arcastus King of Moores, Claramount King of Barber)^, Baiazet a Lord, with their traine. Amu. Welcome, Belitius, to thy cosens Court, Whose late arriuall in such posting pace 780 Doth bring both ioy and sorrow to vs all : Sorrow, because the Fates haue bene so false, To let Alphonsus driue thee from thy land, And ioy, since that now mightie Mahomet Hath giuen me cause to recompence at full 785 The sundry pleasures I receiu'd of thee. Therefore, Belinus, do but aske and haue, For Amurack doth grant what ere you craue. Beli. Thou second Sun, which with thy glimsing beames Doest clarifie each corner of the earth, 790 Belinus comes not, as earst Mydas did To mightie Bacchus, to desire of him That what so ere at any time he toucht Might turned be to gold incontinent. Nor do I come as luppiter did erst 795 Vnto the Pallace of Amphitrion, For any fond or foule concupiscence, Which I do beare to Akumenaes hew. But as poore Saturne, forst by mightie loue To flie his Countrey, banisht and forlorne, 800 Did craue the aide of Troos, King of Troy, So comes Belinus to high Amurack : And if he can but once your aide obtaine, Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 103 He turnes with speed to Naples backe againe, Amu. My aide, Belinus ? do you doubt of that ? 805 If all the men at armes of Africa, Of Asia likewise, will sufficient be To presse the pompe of that vsurping mate, Assure thy selfe, thy Kingdome shal be thine, If Mahomet say I vnto the same : , 810 For were I sure to vanquish all our foes, And find such spoiles in ransacking their Tents As neuer any Keisar did obtaine, Yet would I not set foote forth of this land. If Mahomet our iourney did withstand. 815 Beli. Nor would Belinus, for King Croesus' trash, Wish Amurack (so) to displease the Gods, In pleasuring me in such a trifling toy. Then, mightie Monarch, if it be thy will. Get their consents, and then the act fulfill. 820 Attiu. You counsel well ; therefore, Belinus, haste. And, Claramount, go beare him companie. With King Arcastus, to the Citie walles : Then bend with speed vnto the darksome groue. Where Mahotnet this many a hundred yeare 825 Hath prophesied vnto our auncesters. Tell to his Priests that Amurack your King Is now selecting all his men at armes To set vpon that proud Alphonsus' troupe. The cause you know, and can enforme him well, 830 That makes me take these bloudie broyles in hand : And say, that I desire their sacred God, That Mahomet which ruleth all the skies. To send me word, and that most speedely, Which of vs shall obtaine the victory. 835 Exeunt omnes, prceter Baiazet and Amurack. You, Baiazet, go poste away apace To Siria, Scythia, and Albania, To Babylon, with Mesopotatnia, Asia, Armenia, and all other lands Which owe their homage to high Amurack : 840 817 so co)iJ. Dycc 830 hiin Q : them Dyce I04 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act III Charge all their Kings with expedition To gather vp the cheefest men at armes Which now remaine in their dominions, And on the twentie(th) day of the same month, To come and wait on Amurack their King, 845 At his chiefe citie Cotistantinople. Tell them, moreouer, that who so doth faile, Nought else but death from prison shall him baile. Exit Baiazet. As soone as he is gone, sound musicke within. What heauenly Musicke soundeth in my eare ? Peace, Amurack, and hearken to the same. 850 Sound musicke, hearken Amurack, and fall a sleepe. Enter Medea, Fausta the Empresse, Iphigina her daughter. Medea. Now haue our charmes fulfild our minds full well ; High Amurack is lulled fast a sleepe. And doubt I not but, ere he wakes againe. You shall perceiue Medea did not gibe. When as she put this practise in your mind : 855 Sit, worthie Fausta, at thy spowse his feete. Fausta a7td Iphigina sit downe at Amuracks/^^/^. Iphigina, sit thou on the other side : What ere you see, be not agast thereat, But beare in mind what Amurack doth chat, Medea do ceremonies belonging to coniuring, and say. Thou which wert wont in Agamemnons dayes 860 To vtter forth Apolloes Oracles At sacred Delphos, Calchas I do meane, I charge thee come; all hngring set aside, Vnles the pennance you thereof abide. I coniure thee by Plutoes loathsome lake, 865 By all the hags which harbour in the same, By stinking Stix, and filthie Flegeton, To come with speed, and truly to fulfill That which Medea to thee streight shall will. Rise Calchas ip, in a white surplice and a Cardifials Myter, and say. Cal. Thou wretched witch, when wilt thou make an end 870 844 twentieth Dyce : twentie Q S.D. surplice'\ Cirples Q Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 105 Of troubling vs with these thy cursed Charmes? What meanst thou thus to call me from my graue? Shall nere my ghost obtaine his quiet rest? Me. Yes, Calchas^ yes, your rest doth now approch ; Medea meanes to trouble thee no more, 875 When as thou hast fulfild her mind this once. Go, get thee hence to Fluto backe againe, And there enquire of the Destinies How Atnurack shall speed in these his warres : Peruse their bookes, and marke what is decreed 8S0 By loue himselfe, and all his fellow Gods : And when thou knowst the certaintie thereof. By fleshlesse visions shewe it presently To Amuracke, in paine of penaltie. Cal. Forst by thy charme, though with vnwilling Minde, SS5 I hast to hell, the certaintie to finde. Calchas sinke downe where you came vp. Me. Now, peerles Princes, I must needs be gon; My hastie businesse calls me from this place. There resteth nought, but that you beare in minde What A7nu7'acke in this his fit doth say : 890 For marke, what dreaming, Madam, he doth prate, Assure your selfe, that that shalbe his fate. Fail. Though very loth to let thee so depart, Farewell, Medea, easer of my hart. Exit Medea. Sound Ifisirumenis within : Amurack as it were in a dreatne, say. Amu. What, Amurack, doest thou begin to nod ? 895 Is this the care that thou hast of thy warres ? As when thou shouldst be prancing of thy steed. To egge thy souldiers forward in thy warres, Thou sittest moping by the fireside ? See where thy Viceroies grouell on the ground ; 900 Looke where Belinus breatheth forth his ghost ; Behold by millions how thy men do fall Before Alphonsus, like to sillie sheepe. And canst thou stand still lazing in this sort? No, proud Alphonsus, Atnurack doth flie 905 To quaile thy courage, and that speedilie. 887 Princes Q : princess Dyce io6 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act III Sound Instrtitnents a while within, and then Amuracke say. And doest thou think, thou proud iniurious God, Mahound I meane, since thy vaine prophesies Led Amurack into this dolefull case, To haue his Princely feete in irons clapt, 910 Which erst the proudest kings were forst to kisse, That thou shalt scape vnpunisht for the same? No, no, as soone as by the helpe of loue I scape this bondage, downe go all thy groues, Thy alters tumble round about the streets, 915 And whereas erst we sacrifisde to thee, Now all the Turks thy mortall foes shall bee. Sound Instruments a while within, Amuracke say. Behold the lemme and lewel of mine age, See where she comes, whose heauenly niaiestie Doth far surpasse the braue and gorgeous pace 920 Which Cytherea, daughter vnto loue, Did put in vre when as she had obtaind The golden Apple at the shepheards hands. See, worthie Fausta, where A/phofisus stands, Whose valiant courage could not daunted be 925 With all the men at armes of Affrica ; See now he stands, as one that lately sawe Aledusd's head, or Gorgons hoarie hue. Sound Instruments a while withijt, Amurack say. And can it be that it may happen so? Can Fortune proue so friendly vnto me 930 As that Alphonsus loues Iphigina ? The match is made, the wedding is decreed. Sound trumpets, ho ! strike drums for mirth and glee : And three times welcome sonne in lawe to mee. Fausta rise vp as it were in afurie, wake Amuracke, a^td say. Fau. Fie, Amurack, what wicked words be these? 935 How canst thou looke thy Fausta in her face, Whom thou hast wronged in this shamefuU sort? And are the vowes so solemnely you sware 933 ho ! Ed. : haw Q Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 107 Vnto Belinus, my most friendly neece, Now washt so clearly from thy traiterous heart ? 940 Is all the rancor which you earst did beare Vnto Alphonsus worne so out of mind, As, where thou shouldest pursue him to (the) death. You seeke to giue our daughter to his hands? The Gods forbid that such a hainous deed 945 With my consent should euer be decreed : And rather then thou shouldst it bring to passe, If all the armie of Amazones Will be sufficient to withhold the same, Assure thy selfe that Fausta meanes to fight 950 'Gainst Ainiiracke, for to maintaine the right. Iphi. Yea, mother, say, — which Mahomet forbid, — That in this conflict you should haue the foyle, Ere that Alphonsus should be cald my spowse, This heart, this hand, yea, and this blade, should be 955 A readier meanes to finish that decree. Amuracke rise in a rage frofn thy chaire. Amu. What threatning words thus thunder in mine eares? Or who are they amongst the mortall troupes, That dares presume to vse such threats to me? The prowdest Kings and Keisers of the land 960 Are glad to feed me in my fantasie : And shall I suffer, then, each pratling dame For to vpbraide me in this spightfull sort ? No, by the heauens, first will I lose my Crowne, My wife, my children, yea, my hfe and all : 965 And therefore, Fausta., thou which Amuracke Did tender erst, as the apple of mine eye, Auoyd my Court, and if thou lou'st thy life, Approach not nigh vnto my regiment. As for this carping gyrle Iphigina, 970 Take her with thee to beare thee company, And in my land, I recde, be scene no more, For if you do, you both shall die therefore. Exit Amurack. Fau. Nay, then, T see, tis time to looke about, 943 the sugg. Dyce 064 loose Q, 967 Did Dycc : Didst Q io8 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act III Delay is dangerous, and procureth harme: 975 The wanton colt is tamed in his youth : Wounds must be cured when they be fresh and greene ; And plurisies, when they begin to breed, With little care are driuen away with speed. Had Fausta then, when Amiiracke begunne 980 With spightfuU speeches to controll and checke, Sought to preuent it by her martiall force, This banishment had neuer hapt to me. But the Echinus, fearing to be goard, Doth keepe her younglings in her paunch so long, 985 Till, when their prickes be waxen long and sharpe, They put their damme at length to double paine : And I, because I loathed the broyles of Mars, Bridled my thoughts, and pressed downe my rage; In recompence of which my good intent 990 I have receiu'd this wofull banishment. Wofull, said I ? nay, happie I did meane. If that be happie which doth set one free : For by this meanes I do not doubt ere long But Fausta shall with ease reuenge her wrong. 995 Come, daughter, come : my minde foretelleth me That Amiiracke shall soone requited be. (^Exetmt.^ (Scene III. A GroueJ) {Enter Fausta with Iphigina ;) Medea meete her and say. Me. Fausta, what meanes this sudden flight of yours? Why do you leaue your husbands princely Court, And all alone passe through these thickest groues, 1000 More fit to harbour brutish sauadge beasts Then to receiue so high a Queene as you? Although your credit would not stay your steps From bending them into these darkish dennes, Yet should the daunger, which is imminent 1005 979 care Dyce : ease Q 997, 8 Between these lines Q has only this S, D. : ' Make as though you were a going out, Medea meete her and say.' Sc.III] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 109 To euery one which passeth by these pathes, Keepe you at home with fay re Iphigina. What foohsh toy hath tickled you to this? I greatly feare some hap hath hit amis. Fan. No toy, Medea, tickled Fausta's head, loio Nor foolish fancie ledde me to these groues. But earnest businesse egges my trembling steps To passe all dangers, what so ere they be. I banisht am, Medea, I, which erst AVas Empresse ouer all the triple world, 10 15 Am banisht now from pallace and from pompe. But if the Gods be fauourers to me. Ere twentie dayes I will reuenged be. Me. I thought as much, when first from thickest leaues I saw you trudging in such posting pace. 1020 But to the purpose: what may be the cause Of this (so) strange and sudden banishment? Fau. The cause, aske you ? a simple cause, God wot : 'Twas neither treason, nor yet felonie, But for because I blamde his foolishnes. 1025 Me. I heare you say so, but I greatly feare. Ere that your tale be brought vnto an end, Youle proue your selfe the author of the same. But pray, be briefe, what follie did your spowse ? And how will you reuenge your wrong on him ? 1030 Fau. What follie, quoth you ? such as neuer yet Was heard or scene, since Phoebus first gan shine. You know how he was gathering in all haste His men at armes, to set vpon the troupe Of proude Alphotisus ; yea, you well do know 1035 How you and I did do the best we could To make him shew vs in his drowsie dreame What afterward should happen in his warres. Much talke he had, which now I have forgot. But at the length, this surely was decreed, 1040 How that Alpho7isus and Iphigina Should be conioynd in Imioes sacred rites. Which when I heard, as one that did despise That such a traytor should be sonne to me, 1022 so covj. Walker and Dyce no THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act III I did rebuke my husband Amuracke: 1045 And since my words could take no better place, My sword with helpe of all Amazones Shall make him soone repent his foolishnes. Me. This is the cause, then, of your banishment ? And now you go vnto Amazone 1050 To gather all your maydens in array. To set vpon the mightie Amuracke ? Oh foolish Queene, what meant you by this talke ? Those pratling speeches haue vndone you all. Do you disdaine to haue that mightie Prince, 1055 I meane Alphotisus, counted for your sonne ? I tell you, Fausta, he is borne to be The ruler of a mightie Monarchic. I must confesse the powers of Amuracke Be great; his confines stretch both far and neare; 1060 Yet are they not the third part of the lands Which shall be ruled by Alphonsus hands : And yet you daine to call him sonne in law. But when you see his sharpe and cutting sword Piercing the heart of this your gallant gyrle, 1065 Youle curse the houre wherein you did denay To ioyne Alphonsus with Iphigina. Fau. The Gods forbid that ere it happen so. Me. Nay, neuer pray, for it must happen so. Fau. And is there, then, no remedie for it? 1070 Me. No, none but one, and that you have forsworn. Fau. As though an oath can bridle so my minde As that I dare not breake a thousand oathes For to eschew the danger imminent. Speak e, good Medea, tell that way to me, 1075 And I will do it, what so ere it be. Me. Then, as already you haue well decreed, Packe to your countrey, and in readinesse Select the armie of Amazones : When you haue done, march with your female troupe 1080 To Naples Towne, to succour Amuracke : And so, by marriage of Iphigina, You soone shall driue the danger cleane away. Iphigi. So shall we soone eschew Caribdis lake, Sc.III] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON iii And headlong fall to Sy/iaes greedie gulph, 1085 I vowd before, and now do vow againe, Before I wedde Alphonsus, He be slaine. Me. In vaine it is, to striue against the streame ; Fates must be followed, and the Gods decree Must needs take place in euery kinde of cause. 1090 Therefore, faire maide, bridle these brutish thoughts, And learne to follow what the fates assigne. When Saturjie heard that Iuppitcr his sonne Should driue him headlong from his heauenly seat Downe to the bottome of the darke Auerne, 1095 He did command his mother presently To do to death the young and guiltlesse childe : But what of that? the mother loathd in heart For to commit so vile a massacre ; Yea, loue did liue, and, as the fates did say, 1100 From heauenly seate draue Safu?-?te cleane away. What did auaile the Castle all of Steele, The which Acrisius caused to be made To keepe his daughter Danae clogged in ? She was with childe for all her Castles force; 1105 And by that childe Acrisius., her sire. Was after slaine, so did the fates require. A thousand examples I could bring hereof; But Marble stones (do) need no colouring. And that which euery one doth know for truth mo Needs no examples to confirme the same. That which the fates appoint must happen so, Though heauenly loue and all the Gods say no. Fau. Iphigina, she say(e)th nought but truth ; Fates must be followed in their iust decrees: 11 15 And therefore, setting all delayes aside, Come let vs wend vnto Amazone, And gather vp our forces out of hand. Iphi. Since Fausta wils, and fates do so command, Iphigina will neuer it withstand. 1120 Exeunt onines. 1095 Anarne Q 1108 A thousand Q : Thousand sugg. Dyce 1109 do need sugg.Dyce: need Dyce: needs Q: ^«£ryneedeth 1114 sayeth Z>yi:<; : sayth Q 112 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act IV ACT IV. (Prologve.) Enter Venus. Thus haue you scene how Amuracke himselfe, Fausta his wife, and euery other King Which hold their scepters at the Tiirke his hands, Are now in amies, entending to destroy, And bring to nought, the Prince of Aragon. 1125 Charmes haue been vsde by wise Medeas art. To know before what afterward shall hap ; And King Belinus with high Claramounf, loynd to Arcastus, which with Princely pompe Doth rule and gouerne all the warlike Moores, 11 30 Are sent as Legats to god Mahomet, To know his counsell in these high affaires. MaJioiind, prouokte by Atnurackes discourse, Which, as you heard, he in his dreame did vse. Denies to play the Prophet any more; 1135 But, by the long intreatie of his Priests, He prophesies in such a craftie sort As that the hearers needs must laugh for sport. Yet poore Belinus, with his fellow Kings, Did giue such credence to that forged tale 1140 As that they lost their dearest Hues thereby. And Amuracke became a prisoner Vnto Alphonsus, as straight shall appeare. Exit Venus. (Scene I. Temple of Mahomet.) Let there be a brazen Head set in the middle of the place behind the Stage, out of the which cast flames of fire, drums rumble within : Enter two Priests. I. Pr. My fellow Priest of Mahou?ids holy house, What can you iudge of these strange miracles 11^5 Which daily happen in this sacred seate? Drums rumble within. Harke what a rumbling ratleth in our eares. Act III Q 1123 holds Q 1129 Arcastus Dyce : Alphonsus Q 1144 Priest Dyce : Priests Q Sc. I] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 113 Cast flames of fire forth of the brazen head. See flakes of fire proceeding from the mouth Of Afahomet, that God of peereles power. Nor can I tell, with all the wit I haue, 1150 What Mahomet by these his signes doth craue. 2. Pr. Thrise ten times PJioelms with his golden beames Hath compassed the circle of the skie, Thrise ten times Ceres hath her workemen hir'd, And fild her barnes with frutefuU crops of Corne, 11 55 Since first in Priesthood I did lead my life : Yet in this time I neuer heard before Such feareful sounds, nor saw such wondrous sights ; Nor can I tell, with all the wit I haue. What Mahomet by these his signes doth craue. 1160 Speake out of the brazen Head. Ma. You cannot tell, nor will you seeke to know : Oh peruerse Priest (s), how carelesse are you waxt, As when my foes approach vnto my gates, You stand still talking of ' I cannot tell ' : Go, packe you hence, and meete the Turkish Kings 1165 Which now are drawing to my Temple ward : Tell them from me, God Mahomet is dispos'd To prophesie no more to Amtiracke^ Since that his tongue is waxen now so free, As that it needs must chat and raile at me. 1/70 Kneele downe both. I. Pr. Oh Mahomet, if all the solemne prayers Which from our childhood we haue offered thee. Can make thee call this sentence backe againe. Bring not thy Priest(s) into this dangerous state: For w^hen the Turke doth heare of this repulse, 1175 We shall be sure to die the death therefore. Ma. {speaking out of the Brazen Head). Thou say est truth, go call the Princes in : He prophesie vnto them for this once, But in such wise as they shall neither boast, Nor you be hurt in any kinde of wise. 1180 1162, 74 Priests £)yce : Priest Q , COLLINS. I I 114 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act IV Enter Belinus, Claramount, Arcastus, go both the Priests to meet them ; the first say. 1. Pr. You Kings of Turkic, Mahomet our God, By sacred science hauing notice that You were sent Legats from high Atnurache Vnto this place, commaunded vs, his Priests, That we should cause you make as mickle speed 1185 As well you might, to heare for certaintie Of that shall happen to your King and ye. Beli. For that intent we came into this place ; And sithens that the mightie Mahomet Is now at leisure for to tell the same, 1190 Let vs make haste and take time while we may. For mickle daunger hapneth through delay. 2. Pri. Truth, worthy King, and therfore you your selfe, With your companions, kneele before this place, And listen well what Mahomet doth say. 1195 Kneele all downe before the brasen head. Beli. As you do will, we ioyntly will obey. Ma. {speaking out of the Brazen Head). Princes of Ttirkie, and Embassadors Of Amuracke to mightie Mahomet, I needs must muse that you, which erst haue bene The readiest souldiers of the triple world, 1200 Are now become so slacke in your affaires. As, when you should with bloudie blade in hand Be hacking helmes in thickest of your foes, You stand still loytering in the Turkish soyle. What, know you not, how that it is decreed 1205 By all the gods, and chiefly by my selfe. That you with triumph should all Crowned bee? Make haste (then) Kings, least when the fates do see How carelesly you do neglect their words. They call a Counsell, and force Mahomet 1210 Against his will some other things to set. Send Fahius backe to Amuracke againe, To haste him forwards in his enterprise ; S. D. them Ed. : him Q 1208 then conj. Dyce : repeat haste or read y& Kings, coiij. IValker 1209 carlesly Q Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 115 And march you on, with all the troupes you haue, To Naples ward, to conquer Aragon. 12 15 For if you stay, both you and all your men Must needs be sent downe straight to Lymbo den. 2. Pri. Muse not, braue Kings, at Ma hornets discourse, For marke what he forth of that mouth doth say, Assure your selues it needs must happen so. 1220 Therfore make hast, go mount you on your steeds. And set vpon Alphonsiis presently : So shall you reape great honor for your paine, And scape the scourge which els the Fates ordaine. Rise all vp. Beli. Then, proud Alphonsus, looke thou to thy Crowne : 1225 Belitms comes, in glittring armor clad. All readie prest for to reuenge the wrong Which not long since you offred vnto him ; And since we haue God Mahound on our side. The victorie must needs to vs betide. 1230 Cla. Worthie Belifius, set such threats away. And let vs haste as fast as horse can trot To set vpon presumptuous Arago}i. You Fabius, hast, as Mahound did commaund, To Amnracke with all the speed you may. 1235 Fabi. With willing mind I hasten oh my way. Exit Fabius. Beli. And thinking long till that we be in fight, Belinus hastes to quaile Alphonsus might. Exeunt omnes. {Scene II.) Strike vp alaru7n a while. Enter Carinus. Carl. No sooner had God Phoebus brightsome beames Begun to diue within the Westerne seas, 1240 And darksome Nox had spred about the earth Her blackish mantle, but a drowsie sleepe Did take possession of Carinus sence, And Morpheus shewd me strange disguised shapes. Me thought I saw Alphonsus, my deare sonne, 1245 1220 selues Dyce : selfe Q 1244 Morpheus Dyce : Morphei Q I 2 ii6 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act IV Plast in a throane all glittering cleare with gold, Bedeckt with diamonds, pearles and precious stones, Which shind so cleare, and glittered all so bright, Hyperio7i5 coach that well be termd it might. Aboue his head a canapie was set, 1250 Not deckt with plumes, as other Princes vse, But all beset with heads of conquered kings, Enstald with Crowns, which made a gallant shew, And strooke a terror to the viewers harts. Vnder his feete lay grouelling on the ground 1255 Thousand of Princes, which he in his warres By martiall might did conquer and bring lowe : Some lay as dead as either stock or stone, Some other tumbled, wounded to the death ; But most of them, as to their soueraigne king, 1260 Did offer duly homage vnto him. As thus I stood beholding of this pompe, Me thought Alphonsus did espie me out, And, at a trice, he leaning throane alone, Came to imbrace me in his blessed armes. 1265 Then noyse of drums and sound of trumpets shrill Did wake Carinus from this pleasant dreame. Something, I know, is now foreshewne by this : The Gods forfend that ought should hap amis. Carinus walke vp and downe. E?iter the Duke of Millain in Pilgrims apparell, and say. Du. This is the chance of fickle Fortunes wheele; 1270 A Prince at morne, a Pilgrim ere it be night : I, which erewhile did daine for to possesse The proudest pallace of the westerne world. Would now be glad a cottage for to finde To hide my head; so Fortune hath assignde. 1275 Thrise Hesperus with pompe and peerelesse pride Hath heau'd his head forth of the Easterne Seas, Thrise Cynthia^ with Phoebus borrowed beames. Hath shewn her bewtie throgh the darkish clowdes. Since that I, wretched Duke, haue tasted ought, ij8o Or drunke a drop of any kinde of drinke. 1249 coach Zy^^: couch Q 1280 Duke Dyce: Dulce Q Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 117 Instead of beds set forth with Ibonie, The greenish grasse hath bene my resting place, And for my pillow stuffed t with downe, The hardish hillockes haue sufficed my turne. 1285 Thus I, which erst had all things at my will, A life more hard then death do follow still. Cari. {aside). Me thinks I heare, not very far from hence. Some wofull wight lamenting his mischance: He go and see if that I can espie 1290 Him where he sits, or ouerheare his talke. Du. Oh Millaine, Millaine, litle dost thou thinke, How that thy Duke is now in such distresse; For if thou didst, I soone should be releast Forth of this greedie gulph of miserie. 1295 Ca. {aside). The Millaine Duke : I thought as much before, When first I glaunst mine eyes vpon his face : This is the man which was the onely cause That I was forst to flie from Arago/i. High loue be prais'd, which hath allotted me 1300 So fit a time to quite that iniurie. — Pilgrime, God speed. Du. Welcome, graue sir, to me. Cari. IMe thought as now I heard you for to speak Of Millaine land: pray, do you know the same? 1305 {Du.') I, aged father, I haue cause to know Both Millaine land and all the parts thereof. Cari. Why then, I doubt not but you can resolue Me of a question that I shall demaund. Du. I, that I can, what euer that it be. 1310 Cari. Then, to be briefe, not twentie winters past, When these my lims, which withered are with age, Were in the prime and spring of all their youth, I still desirous, as young gallants be. To see the fashions of Arabia, _ 131 5 My natiue soyle, and in this pilgrims weed, Began to trauell through vnkenned lands. Much ground I past, and many soyles I saw; But when my feete in Millaine land I set, 1284 soft with downe conj. Walker : Query with soft downe 1306 DuK. Dyce: Ca. Q ii8 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act IV Such sumptuous triumphs daily there I saw 1320 As neuer in my life I found the like. I pray, good sir, what might the occasion bee, That made the Millains make such mirth and glee? Du. This solemne ioy wherof you now do speak, Was not solemnized, my friend, in vaine; 1325 For at that time there came into the land The happiest tidings that they ere did heare ; For newes was brought vpon that solemne day Vnto our Court, that Ferdinattdiis proud Was slaine himselfe, Carimis and his sonne 1330 Were banisht both for euer from Aragon ; And for these happie newes that ioy was made. Cart. But what, I pray, did afterward become Of old Caritms with his banisht sonne? What, heare you nothing of them all this while? 1335 Du. Yes, too too much, the Millam Duke may say. Alphonsiis first by secret meanes did get To be a souldier in Belimis warres. Wherein he did behaue himselfe so well As that he got the Crowne of Aragon ; 1340 "Which being got, he dispossest also The King Belinus which had fostered him. As for Cariniis he is dead and gone : I would his sonne were his companion. Cari. A blister build upon that traytors tongue ! 1345 But, for thy friendship which thou shewedst me, Take that of me, I frankly giue it thee. \Stab him. Now will I haste to Naples with all speed, To see if Fortune will so fauour me To view Alphonsus in his happie state. 1350 Exit Carinus. (Scene III.) Enter Amuracke, Crocon Ki7ig of Arabia, Faustus, King of Babilon, Fabius, with the Turkes Ganesaries. Amu. Fabius, come hither : what is that thou sayest ? What did god Mahound prophecie to vs ? Why do our Viceroyes wend vnto the warres Sc.IlI] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 119 Before their King had notice of the same? What, do they thinke to play bob foole with me? 1355 Or are they waxt so froHcke now of late, Since that they had the leading of our bands, As that they thinke that mightie Amuracke Dares do no other then to soothe them vp? Why speakest thou not? what fond or franticke fit 1360 Did make those carelesse Kings to venture it ? Fa. Pardon, deare Lord ; no franticke fit at all, No frolicke vaine, nor no presumptuous mind. Did make your Viceroies take these wars in hand ; But forst they were by Alahounds prophecie 1365 To do the same, or else resolue to die. Amu. So, sir, I heare you, but can scarce beleeue That Mahotnet would charge them go before. Against AlJ>honsi/s with so small a troupe. Whose number farre exceeds King Xerxes troupe. 1370 Fa. Yes, Noble Lord, and more then that, hee said That, ere that you, with these your warlike men, Should come to bring your succour to the field, Belimis, Claramount, and Arcastus too Should all be crownd with crownes of beaten gold, 1375 And borne with triumphes round about their tents. A77m. With triumph, man ? did Mahound tell them so ? Prouost, go Carrie Fabius presently, Vnto the Marshalsie ; there let him rest, Clapt sure and safe in fetters all of Steele, 1380 Till Amuracke discharge him from the same. For be he sure, vnles it happen so As he did say Mahound did prophesie. By this my hand forthwith the slaue shall die. Lay hold of Fabius, and make as though you carrie him oictj Enter a ( messenger") sotildier and say. Mess. Stay, Prouost, stay, let Fabius alone : 1385 More fitteth now that euery lustie lad Be buckling on his helmet, then to stand In carrying souldiers to the Marshalsie. 1367 scarce Dyce : scare Q 1376 triumphes Q : triumph Dyce 1395 T20 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act IV Amu. Why, what art thou, that darest once presume For to gainsay that Amuracke did bid ? 1390 Messen. I am, my Lord, the wretcheds(t) man aliue, Borne vnderneath the Planet of mishap; Erewhile, a souldier of Belinus band, But now — Amu. What now? Mess. The mirror of mishap ; Whose Captaine is slaine, and all his armie dead, Onely excepted me, vnhappie wretch. Amu. What newes is this? and is Belinus slaine? Is this the Crowne which Mahomet did say 1400 He should with triumph weare vpon his head? Is this the honour which that cursed god Did prophesie should happen to them all? Oh Daedalus^ and wert thou now aliue. To fasten wings vpon high Amuracke, 1405 Mahound should know, and that for certaintie, That Turkish Kings can brooke no iniurie. Fabi. Tush, tush, my Lord, I wonder what you meane, Thus to exclaime against high Mahomet: He lay my life that, ere this day be past, 1410 You shall perceiue these tidings all be waste. Amu. We shall perceiue, accursed Fabius} Suffice it not that thou hast bene the man That first didst beate those babies in my braine, But that, to helpe me forward in my greefe, 1415 Thou seekest to confirme so fowle a lie. stab him. Go, get thee hence, and tell thy trayterous King What gift you had, which did such tidings bring. — And now, my Lords, since nothing else will serue, Buckle your helmes, clap on your steeled coates, 1420 Mount on your Steeds, take Launces in your hands ; For Amuracke doth meane this very day Proude Mahomet with weapons to assay. Messen. Mercie, high Monarch; it is no time now 1389 divided into two lines Q 1391 in two lines Q : wretched'st Byce : wretcheds Q 1397 Captain is Q captain's Dj'ce 1408 i2uo lines in Q 1411 these jz/^g-. D^ce : his Q 1424 it is Dj'ce : 'tis Q Sc. Ill] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 121 To spend the day in such vaine threatenings 1425 Against our god, the mightie Mahomet-. More fitteth thee to place thy men at armes In battle 'ray for to withstand your foes, Which now are drawing towards you with speed. Sound driDiuncs within. Hark how their drummes with dub a dub do come ! 1430 To armes, high Lord, and set these trifles by, That you may set vpon them valiantly. Amu. And do they come? you Kings of Turkie{-\^\-\d.y, Now is the time in which your warlike armes Must raise your names aboue the starrie skies : 1435 Call to your minde your predecessors acts, Whose martiall might, this many a hundred yeare, Did keepe those fearefuU dogs in dread and awe, And let your weapons shew Alphonsus plaine, That though that they be clapped vp in clay, 1440 Yet there be branches sprung vp from those trees, In Turkish land, which brooke no iniuries. Besides the same, remember with your selues What foes we haue ; not mightie Tajuberlaitte, Nor souldiers trained vp amongst the warres, 1445 But fearefull boors, pickt from their rurall flocke, Which, till this time, were wholly ignorant What weapons ment, or bloudie Alars doth craue. More would I say, but horses that be free Do need no spurs, and souldiers which themselues 1450 Long and desire to buckle with the foe Do need no words to egge them to the same. Enter Alphonsus, with a Canapie carried over him by three Lords, hailing over each corner a Kings head, crowned; with him, Albinius, Laelius, Miles, with Crowncs on their heads, and their Souldiers. Besides the same, behold whereas our foes Are marching towards vs most speedilie. Courage, my Lords, ours is the victorie. 1455 Alph. Thou Pagan dog, how darst thou be so bold 1425 threatenings TTyt^ ; threatnings ^ 1433 X^viii conj. Dycc 1446 boors Dyce : bodies Q 122 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act IV To set thy foote within AlpJwnsus land? What, art thou come to view thy wretched Kings, Whose traiterous heads bedecke my tent so well ? Or else, thou hearing that on top thereof 1460 There is a place left vacant, art thou come To haue thy head possesse the highest seate? If it be so, lie downe, and this my sword Shall presently that honor thee affoord. If not, pack hence, or by the heauens I vow, 1465 Both thou and thine shall verie soone perceiue That he that seekes to moue my patience Must yeeld his life to me for recompence. Amu. Why, proud Alphonsus, thinkst thou Amnracke, Whose mightie force doth terrifie the Gods, 1470 Can ere be found to turne his heeles, and flie Away for feare from such a boy as thou ? No no, although that Mars this mickle while Hath fortified thy weake and feeble arme, And Fortune oft hath viewd with friendly face 1475 Thy armies marching victors from the field. Yet at the presence of high Aviuracke Fortiinc shall change, and Mars, that God of might, Shall succour me, and leaue Alphonsus quight. Alphon. Pagan, I say thou greatly art deceiu'd : 1480 I clap vp Fortune in a cage of gold, To make her turne her wheele as I thinke best ; And as for Mars whom you do say will change. He moping sits behind the kitchin doore, Prest at commaund of euery SkuUians mouth, 1485 Who dares not stir, nor once to moue a whit. For feare Alpho7isus then should stomack it. Amu, Blasphemous dog, I wonder that the earth Doth cease from renting vnderneath thy feete. To swallow vp that cankred corpes of thine. 1490 I muse that loue can bridle so his ire As, when he heares his brother so misusde, He can refraine from sending thunderbolts By thick and threefold, to reuenge his wrong. 1459 bedeck . . . tent Dyce : bedeckt . . . tents Q 1468 me Dyce : thee Q 1490 that Dyce : those Q Sc. Ill] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 123 Mars fight for me, and Fortune be my guide; 1495 And He be victor, what some ere betide. AIM. Pray loud enough, lest that you pray in vain : Perhaps God Mars and Fortune is a sleepe. {Afnu.^ And Mars lies slumbring on his downie bed, Yet do not think but that the power we haue, 1500 Without the helpe of those celestiall Gods, Will be sufficient, yea, with small ado, Alphonsiis stragling armie to subdue. Lae. You had need as then to call for Mahomet^ With hellish hags (for) to performe the same. 1505 Fait. High Amurack, I wonder what you meane, That when you may, with little toyle or none, Compell these dogs to keepe their toongs in peace, You let them stand still barking in this sort : Beleeue me, soueraigne, I do blush to see 1510 These beggers brats to chat so frolikelie. Alphon. How now, sir boy? let Amurack himselfe, Or any he, the proudest of you all. But offer once for to vnsheath his sword, If that he dares, for all the power you haue. 1515 A?7iu. What, darst thou vs? my selfe will venter it. To armes, my mates. Amuracke draw thy sword: Alphonsus and all the other Kings draw theirs : strike vp alarum : flie Amuracke and his companie. Follow Alphonsus and his companie. ACT V. (Prologve.) Strike vp Alartim. Enter Venus. Fearce is the fight, and bloudie is the broyle. No sooner had the roaring cannon shot Spit forth the venome of their fiered panch, 1520 And with their pellets sent such troupes of soules Downe to the bottome of the darke Aiierne, 1499-1503 Amu. Dyce, given io Albinius in Q 1505 for /lyce 124 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [ActV As that it couered all the Stigian fields ; But, on a sudden, all the men at armes. Which mounted were on lustie coursers backes, 1525 Did rush togither with so great a noyse As that I thought the giants one time more Did scale the heauens, as erst they did before. Long time dame Fortune tempred so her wheele As that there was no vantage to be scene 1530 On any side, but equall was the gaine. But at the length, so God and Fates decreed, Alphojisus was the victor of the field, And Amuracke became his prisoner ; Who so remaind, vntill his daughter came, 1535 And by her marying, did his pardon frame. Exit Venus. (Scene I. A Battle-field.^ Strike vp alarum: file Amuracke, /(^//t'w Alphonsus, and take him prisoner: Carrie him in. Strike vp alarum : file Crocon and Faustus. Enter Fausta and Iphigina, luith their ar/nie, and nieete them, and say. Fan. You Turkish Kings, what sudden flight is this? What meanes the men, which for their valiant prowes Were dreaded erst clean e through the triple world, Thus cowardly to turne their backes and flie? 1540 What froward fortune hapned on your side? I hope your King in safetie doth abide? Cro. I, noble madam, Amnrack doth Hue, And long I hope he shall enioy his life ; But yet I feare, vnles more succour come, 1545 We shall both lose our King and soueraigne. Fan. How so. King Crocon ? dost thou speak in iest, To proue if Fausta would lament his death? Or else hath anything hapt him amis? Speake quickly, Crocon, what the cause might be, 1550 That thou dost vtter forth these words to me. Cro. Then, worthie Fausta, know that Amuracke Our mightie King, and your approued spowse, Prickt with desire of euerlasting fame. As he was pressing in the thickest rankes 1555 Sell] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 125 Of Aragonians, was, with much adoo, At length tooke prisoner by Alphonsies hands. So that, vnles you succour soone do bring, You lose your spowse, and we shall want our King. Iphi. Oh haples hap, oh dire and cruell fate ! 1560 What iniurie hath Amuracke, my sire. Done to the Gods, which now I know are wrath, Although vniustly and without a cause ? For well I wot, not any other King, Which now doth Hue, or since the world begun 1565 Did sway a scepter, had a greater care To please the Gods then mightie Amuracke. And for to quite our fathers great good will, Seeke they thus basely all his fame to spill? Fail. Iphigitia, leaue off these wofull tunes : 1570 It is not words can cure and ease this wound. But warlike swords ; not teares, but sturdie speares. High Amuracke is prisoner to our foes. What then ? thinke you ithat our Amazottes, loynd with the forces of the Turkish troupe, 1575 Are not sufficient for to set him free? Yes, daughter, yes, I meane not for to sleepe Vntill he is free, or we him company keepe. — March on, my mates. Exeimt omnes. (Scene II. Another part of the field.) Strike vp alarum: flic A\-^\yons\is, follow Iphigina, and say, Iphi. How now, Alphonsus ! you which neuer yet 1580 Could meete your equall in the feates of armes, How haps it now that in such sudden sort You flie the presence of a sillie maide ? What, haue you found mine arme of such a force As that you thinke your bodie ouerweake 1585 For to withstand the furie of my blowes? Or do you else disdaine to fight Avith mc, For staining of your high nobilitie ? Alp. No, daintie dame, I wold not haue thee think That euer thou or any other wight 1590 1559 loose Q 126 THE COMICALL HISTORIE OF [Act V Shall Hue to see Alphonsus flie the field From any King or Keisar who some ere : First will I die in thickest of my fo, Before I will disbase mine honour so. Nor do I scorne, thou goddes, for to staine 1595 My prowes with thee, although it be a shame For knights to combat with the female sect. But loue, sweete mouse, hath so benumbed my wit, That though I would, I must refraine from it. Iphi. I thought as much when first I came to wars ; 1600 Your noble acts were fitter to be writ Within the Tables of dame Venus son, Then in God Mars his warlike registers. When as your Lords are hacking helmes abroad, And make their speares to shiuer in the aire, 1605 Your mind is busied in fond Cupids toyes : Come on, i' faith, He teach you for to know We came to fight, and not to loue, I trow. Alph. Nay, virgin, stay. And if thou wilt vouchsafe To entertaine Alphotisus simple sute, 1610 Thou shalt ere long be Monarch of the world : All christned Kings, with all your Pagan dogs, Shall bend their knees vnto Iphigina : The Indian soyle shall be thine at command. Where euery step thou settest on the ground 1615 Shall be teceiued on the golden mines : Rich Pacfolus, that riuer of account, Which doth descend from top of Tmohis Mount, Shall be thine owne, and all the world beside, If you will graunt to be Alphonsus bride. 1620 Iphi. Alphonsus bride ? nay, villain, do not thinke That fame or riches can so rule my thoughts As for to make me loue and fancie him Whom I do hate, and in such sort despise. As, if my death could bring to passe his baine, 1625 I would not long from Plutoes port remaine. Alph. Nay then, proud pecock, since thou art so stout As that intreatie will not moue thy minde For to consent to be my wedded spowse, 1602 sun Q 1618 ImoXv^ Dyce: Tiuole Q Sc. Ill] ALPHONSVS, KING OF ARRAGON 127 Thou shalt, in spite of Gods and Fortune too, 1630 Serue high AlJ>honsus as a concubine. Jphi. He rather die then euer that shall hap. Alpho)i. And thou shalt die vnles it come to pass. Alphonsus and Iphiginayi>/^/. Iphigina_^/«?y /nse and his Alarum against Usurers, his Catharos and his Euphues' Shadow, the first two of which are as ' b)ting' as anything of Nash's. It may he added, too, that Greene probably saw in him the characteristics which he afterwards dis- played in the Fig for lifomus and Wit's Misery and the World's A/adness, and warned him of the dangers to which his satirical disposition would expose him. That Meres called Nasii a young Juvenal is not very much in point, for the 7'al- ladis Tamia did not apj^ear till 1.59^^- Malone and Dyce have very pertinently observed that as Nash was accused at the time of having written (ireene's pamphlet, a charge which he indignantly repudiated, it seems quite clear that contemporaries could not have sujiposed that the reference was to Nash. The strongest argument against Lodge has not, I think, been noticed by any one — it occurs just afterwards in the Groatsivorth — ' I return again to you three knowing that my miscrie to you is no newes.^ Lodge could iiardly liave heard of Greene's misery. Still, Ijalance of probability seems to me on the wliole in favour of the allusion being to Lodge. (Greene was not in a condition to discriminate nicely, and may have forgotten that Lodge was abroad. 140 LOOKING GLASSE left hand iniquities. As great a desolation as lerusalem hath London deserued. Whateuer of lerusalem I haue written was but to lend her a Looking glasse. Now enter I into my true teares, my teares for London.' He then enters into an account of the prevalent vices and follies, giving, it may be noted, usury a prominent place, while he apostrophizes London at intervals. ' London, thy house (except thou repent) for thy disdayne shall be left desolate vnto thee. . . . Purblind London, neyther canst thou see that God sees thee, nor see into thyselfe. Howe long will thou clowde his earthly prospect with the misty night of thy mounting iniquities?' Like the play it concludes with prayers for London and its people, the last words being ' Mercy, Mercy, O graunt vs heauenly Father, for thy mercy.' Ltictus inonumenta maneiunt. The work had particular point. There was a visitation of the plague so severe that from July to December, 1592, the theatres were closed, while the deaths from the epidemic averaged, from April 28 to December 22 in the following year, more than forty a week ^. What parts of the drama are to be assigned to Greene, and what to Lodge, can only be conjectured. Portions of it have undoubtedly been taken from his Alarum against Usurers published in 1584. Thus the third scene of the first act, where the Usurer, Thrasybulus, and Alcon figure, is evidently based on the following passage : — * One priuate practice they haue in deliuerie of the commoditie to make the condition of the Obligation thus :— The condition, &c., is this, that if the Vi-ithin bound T. C. his heires, executors or assignees doe well and truely pay or cause to be paid to the aboue named M. S. the sum of 40 pounds of lawful money of England at his own dwelling house, situated and being in Colman St., which he the said T. C. standeth indebted to him for, if so be that the said M. S. or S. his wife be in life. . . . Now in this condition the casual mart bringeth it out of tlie compasse of the statute. Thus by collusions M. Scrapepenie gathers vp his money. ' Others work by statute and recognisaunce, making their debtor to discharge in their bookes of account the receipt of so much money, where indeede they had nothing but dead commoditie to their workes by lines ; as if such a one line thus long ; you shall giue mee, during his or her life, ten pounds a year for 30 pounds, and be bound to the performance of that statute. Other some deale in this sorte ; they will picke out among the refuse commoditie some prettie quantitie of ware which they will deliuer out with some money : this sum may be 40 pound, of which he will haue you receiue 10 pound readie money and 30 pounds in commoditie, all this for a yeare : your bond must be recognisaunce. Now what thinke you by all computation your commoditie will arise vnto ? Truely I myself knew him that receiued the like, and may boldly auouch this — that of that thirtie pounds commo- ditie there could by no broker be more made than foure nobles : the commoditie was lute stringes; and was not this, thinke you, more than abhominablevsurie? Naie common losses, and the reasonablest is for 36 pound for three months, accounted a good penie worth, if there be made in ready money 20 pounds ; * Fleay, History of the Stage, p. 94. INTRODUCTION 141 naye passing good if they make 25 pounds; and I haue knowen of forlie but fifteene pound and tenne shillings.' Again, the third scene of the second act, where the judge enters with the Usurer, is based on the following passage : — ' Why then, quoth the merchant, the matter standeth thus, if so be you will seale me an estatute for my mony, no sooner shall you haue done it, but you shal haue the mony, all your bonds in and a defesance to : this that I offer is reasonable, and to morrow, if you will, I will doe it. Agreed, quoth the gentleman, and so takes his leaue. The next morrowe, according to promise, the gentleman sealeth the assurance, acknowledging an estatute before some one iustice of the bench, and comming to his merchant's house for his money is delaied for that day, and in fine his absolute answere is this, that without a suretie he promised him none. He takes witnesse of his friend (as he tearmeth him) a prety peece of witnesse : when he seeth no remedie he demaundeth his bonds, and he witholdeth them ; he craues his defeacance, and cannot haue it. Thus is the poore gentleman brought into a notable mischiefe, first of being cousoned of his mony, next deluded by his estatute, without defeasance (for if the defeasance be not deliuered the same time or dale the statute is, it is nothing auailable) ; thirdly, by his bonds detaining, which may be recouered against him, and continue in full force ; and the Vsurer that playes all this vsurie will yet be counted an honest and well dealing man. But flatter them who list for me, I rather wish their soules health then their good countenances, tho I know they will storme at me for opening their secrets, yet tiuth shall countenaunce mee, since I seek my countries commoditie.' It may be added that the old proverb, ' he is not wise that is not wise for himself,' is quoted twice by Lodge in Rosalyndc. These scenes, then, may be assigned with some pi'obability to Lodge, and the other scenes in prose with equal probability to Greene. I should be inclined also to assign to Lodge, because of their general resemblance to his style and rhythm, the speeches of the prophets Oseas and Jonas. There can be little doubt that the scenes in which marine technicology and incidents are introduced belong to him, namely, the second scene of the third act, and the first scene of the fourth act. The song in the third scene of the fourth act bears his sign manual ; and as the second scene of the fifth act is little more than the versification of a passage in the Alarum against Usiorrs, that may be presumably, though not certainly, assigned to him. ]5ut all this is mere conjecture. What is quite clear is this, that there is very little resemblance between the blank verse of this play and the blank \crse of Lodge's Marius and Sulla, which is much heavier and far more monotonous. This is perhaps to be explained by the fact that Marius and Sulla was probably composed before the appearance of Tambur- laine. Of this play there are five Quartos, all of which have been collated. The first is that of 1594 in the Duke of Devonshire's library. On that Quarto my text is based, and the text never deviates from it 142 LOOKING GLASSE except when necessary, every deviation being scrupulously noted, and that Quarto is cited as Q I. The second is that of 1598, one copy being in the Bodleian and another in the British Museum, and that is cited as Q 2. The third is that of 1602, which is in the British Museum, cited as O 3. The fourth is that of 16 17, of which one copy is in the Bodleian and another in the British Museum, and this is cited as Q 4 ^ What is cited as Q 5 requires a more particular description. It is a Quarto which was formerly in the possession of Heber, being stamped Bibliotheca Heberiana, and is now in the possession of Mr. Godfrey Locker Lampson. The title-page is unfortunately wanting, but has been supplied in MS. with the date, presumably conjectural, 1598, thus: — 'A Looking Glasse for London and England Tn Com. Geo . . . By . . . Smythers Thos Lodge and Robert Green 1598.' On the last page are written on the right margin, in handwriting plainly of the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century, the following lines : — ' Thou famous Citty London cheif of all Theis blest vnited nations do containe, More sinne in thee then in nin'vay remaines.' In this Quarto there are many important variants which are not to be found either in the two Quartos dated 1598 or in any of the others, so that it is probably an edition printed at some other date— a hitherto unrecorded Quarto. It was apparently unknown to Dyce, whose corrections in-some cases it anticipates. It was inspected by Grosart, but with one exception he has not noted its variants, which it will be seen are sometimes remarkable. It appears to have been some actor's copy, for several stage directions have been inserted in MS., though they are not important. The word 'fflorish' is written, for example, before the opening scene, and at the end of several of the other scenes, while the word 'cleare' is, as a rule, added in the margin where the ' exits ' and ' exeunts ' are marked, and these directions are sometimes supplied where they are wanting in the text. Lines 491-5, including the stage direction, are crossed out, the words ' thunder' and ' lightning' being written as stage directions on the left and right margins respec- tively. In the scene, again, where the original has ' Enter the Clowne and his crew of ruffians,' the words ' the Clowne ' are altered into ' I Ruffian,' and ' Smith ' into ' Clowne,' while ' i Clowne ' is altered into ' 2 Ruf.' There are also some important manuscript corrections of the text which I have recorded in their proper places. ^ In Bod. Q 4 11. 2220 to end are in MS. //V^- Looking Glafse For LONDON AND England. Made by ThomM L»dge Gentleman, andi Robtrt Greene. InjArtthm Aiaaijler. LONDON Printed by Tliomas Creedc,and are to be foJd by William Barlcy,at hiS ihop in Gratious ftrcct?. LOOKING GlafTe, for London and Englandcr Made by Thomas Lodge In i^tlihui iMAgtHtr. LONDON Printed by Thomas Crecde,and are to be foldc by William Barley, at his (hop ill Gratioiis ftrcctc. (DRAMATIS PERSONAE^ Rasni, King of Nineueh, King of Cilicia. King of Crete, King of Paphlagonia, Thrasibulus, a young gentleman, reduced to pouerty. Alcon, a poor 7nan. Radagon, ) , . ^ > his sons, Clesiphon, J Vsurer, ludge. Lawyer, Smith. Clown, his man. First Ruffian. Second Ruffian, Gouernor of loppa. Master of a Ship. First Searcher. Second Searcher, A man in deuil's attire. Magi, Merchants, Sailors, Lords, Attendants, &c. Remilia, sister to Rasni. Aluida, wife to the King of Paphlagonia, Samia, wife to Aleon. Smith's Wife, Ladies. An Angel. An Euil Angel. OSEAS. Ion AS.) ' Adapted from Dyce. The Qq contain no list of Dramatis Personae. A LOOKING GLASSE FOR LONDON AND ENGLAND MADE BY THOMAS LODGE GENTLEMAN, AND ROBERT GREENE (ACT I.) (Scene I.) Enter Rasni King of Ninhiie, with three Kings of Cilicia, Creete, and Paphlagoniaj/r^w the onerthrmv of leroboam, Kifig of Jerusalem. {J^asni.y So pace ye on, tryumphant warriours ; Make Venus Lemmon, armd in al his pomp, Bash at the brightnesse of your hardy lookes. For you, the Viceroyes and the CauaHres, That wait on Rasnis royall mightinesse, 5 Boast, pettie kings, and glory in your fates, That stars haue made your fortunes cUme so high, To give attend on Rasnis excellence. Am I not he that rules great Niniuie, Rounded with Lycus siluer flowing streams, lo Whose Citie large Diametri containes, Euen three daies iournies length from wall to wall. Two hundreth gates carued out of burnisht brasse. As glorious as the portoyle of the Sunne, And for to decke heauens battlements with pride, 15 Six hundreth Towers that toplesse touch the cloudes? This Citie is the footestoole of your King ; A hundreth Lords do honour at my feete ; My scepter straineth both the poralels ; And now to enlarge the highnesse of my power 30 I haue made ludeas Monarch flee the field, And beat proud leroboam from his holds, Winning from Cades to Samaria. J' or the Quartos see pp. 141, 142. S. D. Rasni ^27,4: Rasin Q\ and so passifii C\\\c\n. Dyce : Cicilia Qq and so at I. 28 belozv, but cf. II. 4 and IV 2 1 Rasni add. Dyce 4 you om. Qs and] are iJyce : and Qi, 8 excellency Q4. 10 I-ycus Dyce: Lycas Qq passim IG hundred Qi^ and so passim COLLINS. I L 146 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act I Great Jewries God, that foilde stout Benhadad Could not rebate the strength that Rasni brought, 35 For be he God in heauen, yet, Viceroyes, know, Rasni is God on earth and none but he. Cilicia. If louely shape, feature by natures skill Passing in beautie faire Endymions, That Luna wrapt within her snowy brests, 30 Or that sweet boy that wrought bright Venus bane, Transformde vnto a purple Hiacynth, If beautie Nunpareile in excellence. May make a king match with the Gods in gree, Rasni is God on earth, and none but hee. 35 Greet. If martial lookes, wrapt in a cloud of wars, More fierce than Mauors lightneth fro his eyes Sparkling reuenge and dyre disparagement : If doughtie deeds more haughte then any done, Seald with the smile of fortune and of fate, 40 Matchlesse to manage Lance and Curtelex : If such high actions, grac'd with victories, May make a king match with the Gods in gree, Rasni is God on earth, and none but hee. Paphlag. If Pallas wealth, — 45 Rasni. Viceroyes, inough ; peace, Paphlagon, no more. See wheres my sister faire Remilia, Fairer then was the virgin Danae That waits on Venus with a golden show. She that hath stolne the wealth of Rasnis lookes, 50 And tide his thoughts within her louely lockes. She that is lou'd, and loue vnto your King, See where she comes to gratulate my fame. Enters Radagon with Remilia sister to Rasni, Aluida wife to Paph- lagon and other Ladies : bring a globe seated in a ship. Remilia. Victorious Monarch, second vnto loue, Mars upon earth, and Neptune on the Seas, 55 24 Benhadab Qq 32 Hyacinth Q\ 37 Mauors Dyce : Mars Qq 39 haughte Dyce : haughtie Qq 43 the om. (?5 46 peace om. ^2345 Parhlagonia Q^ 48 Danae Dyce : Dania ^124: Diana Q^ 5 49 That Venus wait on with a golden shower sugg^. IValkcr 50 stole (P5 Rasnes Qi 2 3 and so passim S. D. Alvia Qi 2 2, and so I. 133, but cf. II. i : bring Q\ 2 : bringing ^345 54 lone ^5 Sc. I] LONDON AND ENGLAND 147 Whose frowne strows all the Ocean with a calme, Whose smile drawes Flora to display her pride, Whose eye holds wanton Venus at a gaze, Rasni the Regent of great Niniuie, For thou hast foyld proud leroboams force, 60 And like the mustering breath of Aeolus, That ouerturnes the pines of Libanon, Hast scattered lury and her vpstart groomes, Winning from Cades to Samaria, Remilia greets thee with a kinde salute, 65 And for a present to thy mightinesse Giues thee a globe folded within a ship, As King on earth and Lord of all the Seas, With such a welcome vnto Niniuie As may thy sisters humble loue afford. 70 Rasni. Sister ! The title fits not thy degree ; A higher state of honour shall be thine. The louely Trull that Mercury intrapt Within the curious pleasure of his tongue. And she that basht the Sun-god with her eyes, 75 Faire Semele, the choyce of Venus maides. Were not so beautious as Remilia. Then, sweeting, sister shall not serue the turne. But Rasnis wife, his Lemmon and his loue. Thou shalt like luno wed thyselfe to loue, So And fold me in the riches of thy faire. Remilia shall be Rasnis Paramour. For why, if I be Mars for warlike deeds, And thou bright Venus for thy cleare aspect. Why should not from our loynes issue a Sonne 85 That might be Lord of royall soueraintie. Of twentie worlds, if twentie worlds might be? What saist, Remilia, art thou Rasnis wife? Remilia. My heart doth swell with fauour of thy thoughts ; The loue of Rasni maketh me as proud 90 As luno when she wore heauens Diademe. 56 strows Dyce: stroyes Qq 01 mustering] blustering sugg. J)ycc 62 pines] Princes Q^ Lebanon Qc, (53 lewry (?3 64 C.ide Q?, 65 king Qi, 73 lonely (?5 84 thou] though Q2 4 84-85 Between these lines Q^ inserts Why should not from our royall Soucraignlie? L 2 148 . A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act I Thy sister borne was for thy wife by loue. Had I the riches nature locketh vp To decke her darling beautie when she smiles, Rasni should prancke him in the pride of all. 95 Rasni. Remilias loue is farre more either prisde Then leroboams or the worlds subdue. Lordings, He haue my wedding sumptuous, Made glorious with the treasures of the world. He fetch from Albia shelues of Margarites, 100 And strip the Indies of their Diamonds, And Tyre shall yield me tribute of her gold, To make Remilias wedding glorious. He send for all the Damosell Queenes that liue Within the reach of Rasnis Gouernment, 105 To wait as hand-maides on Remilia, That her attendant traine may passe the troupe That gloried Venus at her wedding day. Greet. Oh my Lord, not sister to thy loue : Tis incest and too fowle a fact for Kings. no Nature allowes no limits to such lust. Rad. Presumptuous Viceroy, darst thou check thy Lord, Or twit him with the lawes that nature lowes? Is not great Rasni aboue natures reach, God vpon earth, and all his will is law? 115 Greet. Oh flatter not, for hatefull is his choice, And sisters loue will blemish all his worth. Rad. Doth not the brightnesse of his maiestie Shadow his deeds from being counted faults? Rasni. Well hast thou answered with him, Radagon ; 120 I like thee for thy learned Sophistrie. But thou of Greet that countercheckst thy King, Packe hence in exile, tRadagon the Crowne,t Be thou Vicegerent of his royaltie, And faile me not in what my thoughts may please, 125 For from a beggar haue I brought thee vp, 92 by loue] my loue Qi and Dye e 96 either] richer stigg. Dyce : higher sugg. Daniel 98 wedding Z^j^e : weddings Qq 106 on] to ^2345 113 lowes] loues Q2 3 45 and Dyee 117 sister Q^ 120 with him, Radagon Dyee : within Radon Qq 121 Sophristri ()i 2 3 123 give Radagon, (>2 4 5 the] thy Q,2 I \ 124 thou Dyee : thee Qq Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 149 And gracst thee with the honour of a Crowne. Ye quondam king, what feed ye on delaies? Greet. Better no king than Viceroy vnder him That hath no vertue to maintaine his Crowne. 130 Rasni. Remilia, what faire dames be those that wait Attendant on thy matchlesse royaltie ? Remilia. Tis Aluida, the faire wife to the King of Paphlagonia. Rasni. Trust me, she is faire : — th'ast, Paphlagon, a lewell. To fold thee in so bright a sweetings armes. 135 Rad. Like you her, my Lord ? Rasni. What if I do, Radagon ? Rad. Why, then she is yours, my Lord, for mariage Makes no exception, where Rasni doth command. Paphla. Ill doest thou counsel him to fancy wiues. 140 Rad. Wife or not wife, what so he likes is his. Rasni. Well answered, Radagon ; thou art for me : Feed thou mine humour, and be still a king. Lords, go in tryumph of my happie loues. And, for to feast vs after all our broyles, T45 Frolicke and reuell it in Niniuie. Whatsoeuer befitteth your conceited thoughts, Or good or ill, loue or not loue, my boyes, Li loue or what may satisfie your lust, Act it, my Lords, for no man dare say no. 150 Diuisum imperiiun cum loue nunc teneo. Exeunt. (Scene IL) Enters brought in by an Angell Oseas the Prophet., and set downe oner the Stage in a Thrfl7te. Angell. Amaze not, man of God, if in the spirit Th'art brought from lewry vnto Niniuie. So was Elias wrapt within a storme. And set vpon Mount Carmell by the Lord. 155 For thou hast preacht long to the stubborne lewes, Whose flintie hearts haue felt no sweet remorse, 128 Quandam Qq 131 Remilias Q, ^ to Clowne, corr. in MS. Q^ at 207, but at 218 to I. Clozvne, at 266 not assigned : Clowne' s first three speeches to Smith, corr. in MS. Q^, thereafter not assigned. See notes 187-210 Mutilated in the Devonshire copy of Qi Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 151 Clowne. ' Paltry Smith ! ' why, you Incarnatiue knaue, what are you that you speak pettie treason against the smiths trade ? 1 9° First Ruffimi. Why, slaue, I am a gentleman of Niniuie. Cloivne. A gentleman ! good sir, I remember you well and al your progenitars : your father bare office in our towne ; an honest man he was, and in great discredit in the parish, for they bestow- ed two squiers liuings on him, the one was on working dayes, 195 and then he kept the towne stage, and on holidaies they made him the Sextens man, for he whipt dogs out of the church. Alas I sir, your father, why, sir, mee-thinks I see the Gentleman still. A proper youth he was, faith, aged some forty and ten, his beard Rats colour, halfe blacke halfe white, his nose was in the highest de- .ioo gree of noses, it was nose Autetn glorificam, so set with Rubies that after his death it should haue bin nailed up in Copper-smiths hall for a monument. Well, sir, I was beholding to your good father, for he was the first man that euer instructed me in the mysterie of a pot of Ale. 205 Seco7id Ruf. Well said. Smith, that crost him ouer the thumbs. First Ruffian. Villaine, were it not that we go to be merry, my ra- pier should presendy quit thy opproprious termes, ( Cloivne. > O Peter, Peter, put vp thy sword, I prithie heartily, into thy scabbard; hold inyourrapier, forthoughlhauenotalongreacher, I 210 haue a short hitter. Nay then, gentlemen, stay me, for my choller begins to rise against him, for marke the words, 'a paltry Smith.' Oh horible sentence ! thou hast in these words, I will stand to it, libelled against all the sound horses, whole horses, sore horses, Coursers, Curtails, lades, Cuts, Hackneies, and Mares. Where- 215 upon my friend, in their defence, I giue thee this curse, — shalt not be worth a horse of thine owne this seuen yeare. First Ruffian. I prithie. Smith, is your occupation so excellent? < Clowne. > ' A paltry Smith !' Why, ile stand to it, a Smith is Lord of the foure elements; for our yron is made of the earth, our 220 bellowes blow out aire, our flore holdes fire, and our forge water. Nay sir, we reade in the Chronicles, that there was a God of our occupation. 189 pettie ow. ^35 193 propjenitors Qi 199 forty Z'jtv; : foure Qq 206 thati thou hast (?4 212 the words of ^2 345 215 Cuts] Colts Q^ 21tJ thee ow. Q^ thou shalt (22 3 4 5 218 /. Clowne Qq 21'J :imilh Qi 152 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act I First Ruffian. I, but he was a Cuckold. (^Clowne.y That was the reason, sir, he cald your father cousin. 225 ' Paltry smith ' ! Why in this one word thou hast defaced their worshipfull occupation. First Ruffian. As how ? < Clowne. > Marrie sir, I will stand to it, that a Smith in his kinde is a Phisition, a Surgion and a Barber. For let a Horse take a cold, or 230 be troubled with the bots, and we straight giue him a potion or a purgation, in such phisicall maner that he mends straight : if he haue outward diseases, as the spauin, splent, ring-bone, wind- gall or fashion, or, sir, a galled backe, we let him blood and clap a plaister to him with a pestilence, that mends him with a verie 235 vengeance : now if his mane grow out of order, and he haue any rebellious haires, we straight to our sheeres and trim him with what cut it please vs, picke his eares and make him neat. Marry, I, indeed, sir, we are slouings for one thing, we neuer vse musk-balls to wash him with, and the reason is, sir, because 240 he can wooe without kissing. First Ruffian. Well, sirrha, leaue off these praises of a Smyth, and bring vs to the best Ale in the Towne. ( Clowne. ) Now, sir, I haue a feate aboue all the Smythes in Niniuie, for, sir, I am a Philosopher that can dispute of the nature 245 of Ale ; for marke you, sir, a pot of Ale consists of foure parts, Imprimus the Ale, the Toast, the Ginger, and the Nutmeg. First Rttffian. Excellent. < Clowne. ) The Ale is a restoratiue, bread is a binder, marke you, sir, two excellent points in phisicke; the Ginger, oh ware of that, 250 the philosophers haue written of the nature of Ginger, tis ex- pullsitiue in two degrees ; you shal here the sentence of Galen, " It will make a man belch, cough, and fart, And is a great comfort to the hart," — a proper poesie, I promise you ; but now to the noble vertue of the Nutmeg ; it is, saith one Ballad, I think an English 255 Roman was the authour, an vnderlayer to the braines, for when the Ale gives a buffet to the head, oh, the Nutmeg, that keepes him for a while in temper. Thus you see the discription of the 224-239 Mutilated in the Devonshire copy of Qi 233 spauin Dyce : spuing (?i 2 3: spauing ^4: spiuing ^5 splent] splene Qs, ring-bone] king-bone Q^ 239 I ovi. Qs slouens ^2345 241 wooe (?3 : woe Qi 2 : woo Q4 247 Imprimis Q^ 249 Ale is a] a om. ^5 2o2 here] heue Q^ 253 And it is Q-, 258 for a wliile Q2Z4' for while Qi Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 153 vertue of a pot of Ale ; now, sir, to put my phisical precepts in practise, follow me : but afore I step any further — 260 First Ruffian. Whats the matter now? {Clowne.) Why, seeing I haue prouided the Ale, who is the pur- uaior for the wenches ? For, masters, take this of me, a cup of Ale without a wench, why, alasse, tis like an egge without salt, or a red herring without mustard. 265 {First Ruffiafi.) Lead vs to the Ale, weele haue wenches inough I warrant thee. Oseas. Iniquitie seekes out companions still, And mortall men are armed to do ill : London, looke on, this matter nips thee neere ; . 270 Leaue off thy ryot, pride and sumptuous cheere : Spend lesse at boord, and spare not at the doore, But aide the infant, and releeue the poore : Else seeking mercy, being mercilesse. Thou be adiudged to endlesse heauinesse. 275 (Scene IIL> Enters the Vsurer, a yoong Gentleman (Thrasibulus), and a poore Man (A Icon). Vstirer. Come on, I am euery day troubled with these needie com- panions : what newes with you ? what wind brings you hither ? Thras. Sir, I hope, how far soeuer you make it off, you remember too well for me, that this is the day therein I should pay you mony that I tooke vp of you alate in a commoditie. 280 Ale. And, sir, sirreuerence of your manhood and genterie, I haue brought home such mony as you lent me. Vsurer. You, yoong gentleman, is my mony readie ? Thras. Truly, sir, this time was so short, the commoditie so bad, and the promise of friends so broken, that I could not prouide 285 it against the day ; wherefore I am come to intreat you to 2.59-266 Mutilated in the Devonshire copy of Qi 268 out] our Qs, 278 infant] Infants Q^ S.D. Enter Q^ 276 these] those Qt \ 27b 'Jht-as.'] Gent. Qq, and so throughotit this scene. But cf. IV. 5 278, 292 sir ^w. Q^ 279 whercm ^^5, 281 Alc^\ I'oore man Qq; else- where in this scene Poore. But cf. IV.t^ 285 promise of men ^5 154 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act I stand my friend and to fauour me with a longer time, and I wil make you sufficient consideration. Vsurer. Is the winde in that door? If thou hast my mony, so it is, I will not defer a day, an houre, a minute, but take 290 the forfeyt of the bond. Thras. I pray you, sir, consider that my losse was great by the commoditie I tooke vp ; you knowe, sir, I borrowed of you fortie pounds, whereof I had ten pounds in money, and thirty pounds in Lute strings, which when I came to sell againe, I could get 295 but fine poundes for them, so had I, sir, but fifteene poundes for my fortie. In consideration of this ill bargaine, I pray you, sir, giue me a month longer. Vsurer. I answered thee afore, not a minute ; what haue I to do how thy bargain proued ? I haue thy hand set to my 300 booke that thou receiuedst fortie pounds of me in mony. Thras. I, sir, it was your deuise that, to colour the Statute, but your conscience knowes what I had. Ale. Friend, thou speakest Hebrew to him when thou talkest to him of conscience, for he hath as much conscience about the 305 forfeyt of an Obligation, as my blinde Mare, God blesse her, hath ouer a manger of Oates. Thras. Then there is no fauour, sir? Vsurer. Come to morrow to mee, and see how I will vse thee. Thras. No, couetous Caterpillar, know, that I haue made extreame 310 shift rather than I would fall into the hands of such a rauening panthar ; and therefore here is thy mony and deliuer me the recognisance of my lands. Vsurer. What a spight is this ! hath sped of his Crownes ! If he had mist but one halfe houre, what a goodly Farme had 315 I gotten for fortie pounds ! Well, tis my cursed fortune. Oh, haue I no shift to make him forfeit his recognisance ? Thras. Come, sir, will you dispatch and tell your mony ? Strikes 4 a clocke. Vsurer. Stay, what is this a clocke ? foure: let me see — ' to be paid between the houres of three and foure in the afternoone ' : this 320 goes right for me ; you, sir, heare you not the clocke, and haue you not a counterpaine of your obligation ? The houre is past, it was to be paid betweene three and foure ; and now the clocke 291-299 Mutilated in the Devonshire copy of Qi 302 it] that ^4 : deuice Q2 3 312 thy om. Q^ 316 I] A ^5 Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 155 hath strooken foure, I will receiue none, He stand to the forfeyt of the recognizance. 325 Thras. Why, sir, I hope you do but iest ; why, tis but foure, and will you for a minute take forfeyt of my bond ? If it were so, sir, I was here before foure. Vsurer. Why didst thou not tender thy mony then? if I offer thee iniury take the law of me ; complaine to the ludge, I will receiue 330 no mony. Ale. Well, sir, I hope you will stand my good maister for my Cow. I borrowed thirtie shillings on her, and for that I haue paid you 18 pence a weeke, and for her meate you haue had her milke, and I tell you, sir, she giues a goodly suppe : now, sir, 335 here is your mony. Vsurer. Hang, beggarly knaue, commest to me for a cow ? Did I not bind her bought and sold for a peny, and was not thy day to haue paid yesterday ? Thou getst no Cow at my hand. 340 Ale. No Cow, sir ! alasse that word ' no Cow,' goes as cold to my heart as a draught of small drinke in a frostie morning. No Cow, sir! why, alasse, alasse M(aister) Vsurer, what shall become of me, my wife, and my poore childe ? Vsurer. Thou getst no Cow of me, knaue ! I cannot stand prating 345 with you, I must be gone. Ale. Nay, but heare you, M(aister> Vsurer: 'no Cow,' why, sir, heres your thirtie shillings : I have paid you 18 pence a weeke, and therefore there is reason I should haue my Cow. Vsurer. Why pratest thou ? Haue I not answered thee thy day is 350 broken ? Ale. Why, sir, alasse, my Cow is a Common-wealth to me ; for first sir, she allowes me, my wife and Sonne, for to banket our selues withal, Butter, Cheese, Whay, Curds, Creame, sod milk, raw-milke, sower-milke, sweete-milke, and butter-milke : besides 355 sir, she saued me euery yeare a peny in Almanackes, for she was as good to me as a Prognostication; if she had but set vp her tayle and haue gallapt about the meade, my little boy was able to say, ' Oh, father, there will be a storme ' ; her verie taile was a kalender to me : and now to loose my cow ! alas, 360 M (Scene L> Enters Remilia (a«^ Aluida), ivlth a traine ^Ladies z« all royaltie. RetJiilia. Faire Queenes, yet handmaids vnto Rasnis loue, Tell me, is not my state as glorious As lunoes pomp, when, tyred with heauens despoile, Clad in her vestments, spotted all with starres, She crost the siluer path vnto her loue? 410 Is not Remilia far more beautious, Richt with the pride of natures excellence, Then Venus in the brightest of her shine ? My haires, surpasse they not Apollos locks ? Are not my Tresses curled with such art 415 As loue delights to hide him in their faire ? Doth not mine eyne shine like the morning lampe That tels Aurora when her loue will come ? Haue I not stolne the beautie of the heauens, And plac'st it on the feature of my face ? 420 Can any Goddessc make compare with me, Or match her with the faire Remilia? Alui. The beauties that proud Paris saw from Troy Mustring in Ida for the golden ball. Were not so gorgious as Remilia. 425 406 Queene Q2 7, 5 : Queen ^4, and Dyce : handmaid Dyce 407 as] so Q2 I 5 411 Remilias Q^ 412 Richt] Rich Q2 345 excellcncie (?5 417 cync] eye (32 5 418 Aurora Q-;, : Anrera Qi 4 : Aurora ()2 420 plac'st Qi : placest Qz : plaste Qi : plac'd ^4 423 from (^2 3 4 5 : 'fure sug'g. Dyce: fro ^i 158 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act II Remilia. I haue trickt my tramels vp with richest balme, And made my perfumes of the purest Myrre : The pretious drugs that Aegypts wealth affoords, The costly paintings fetcht fro curious Tyre, Haue mended in my face what nature mist. 430 Am I not the earths wonder in my lookes? Alui. The wonder of the earth and pride of heauen. Hemilia. Looke, Aluida, a haire stands not amisse ; For womens locks are tramels of conceit, Which do intangle loue for all his wiles. 435 Alui. Madam, vnlesse you coy it trick and trim, And plaie the ciuill wanton ere you yeeld. Smiting disdaine of pleasures with your tongue, Patting your princely Rasni on the cheeke, When he presumes to kisse without consent, 440 You marre the market, beautie nought auailes. You must be proud, for pleasures hardly got Are sweete, if once attainde. Re7nilia. Faire Aluida, Thy counsell makes Remilia passing wise. 445 Suppose that thou weart Rasnis mightinesse. And I Remilia, Prince of Excellence. Alui. I would be maister then of loue and thee. Reniil. 'Of loue and me.' Proud and disdainful King, Dar'st thou presume to touch a Deitie, 450 Before she grace thee with a yeelding smile ? Alui. Tut, my Remilia, be not thou so coy, Say nay, and take it. Remilia. Carelesse and vnkinde, Talkes Rasni to Remilia in such sort 455 As if I did enioye a humane form ? Looke on thy Loue, behold mine eyes diuine. And dar'st thou twit me with a woman's fault? Ah, Rasni, thou art rash to iudge of me. I tell thee. Flora oft hath woode my lips, 460 To lend a Rose to beautifie her spring ; The sea-Nymphs fetch their lillies from my cheeks. 426 richest] riches Qi 4 429 paintings (^24 431 lookes] dayes Q^ 436 coy and tricke it trim Q\ 456 'l] he ^2 4 5 461 To Q2 : The Qi Sc. I] LONDON AND ENGLAND 159 Then thou vnkind, — and hereon would I weepe. Alui. And here would Aluida resign her charge, For were I but in thought Th' assirian King, 465 I needs must quite thy teares with kisses sweete. And craue a pardon with a friendly touch. You know it, Madam, though I teach it not. The touch I meane, you smile when as you think it. Remi. How am I pleas'd to heare thy pritty prate, 470 According to the humor of my minde ! Ah, Nymphs, who fairer then Remilia? The gentle winds have woode me with their sighes, The frowning aire hath cleerde when I did smile, And when I tract vpon the tender grasse, 475 Loue that makes warme the center of the earth Lift vp his crest to kisse Remilias foote. luno still entertaines her amorous loue With new delights, for feare he looke on me. The Phoenix feathers are become my Fanne, 480 For I am beauties Phoenix in this world. Shut close these Curtaines straight and shadow me, For feare Apollo spie me in his walkes. And scorne all eyes, to see Remilias eyes. Nymphs, Eunuchs, sing, for Mauors draweth nigh. 485 Hide me in Closure, let him long to looke. For were a Goddesse fairer then am I, lie scale the heauens to pull her from the place. They draw the Curtaines and Musicke plates. Alui. Beleeue me, tho she say that she is fairest, I think my penny siluer by her leaue. 490 Enter Rasni (^and Radagon) with his Lords in pomp., who make a ward about iiiinj with hint the Magi in great pompe. Rasni. Magi, for loue of Rasni, by your Art, By Magicke frame an Arbour out of hand, 4G4 I Aluida (25 469 it Dyce : il (?i 2 : ill ^345 470 Mow] Now Q-^ 475 tract] trac'd (23 5 tender om. (?2 3 4 5 482 straight] strif^lit (?2 4 485 Eunuchs Dycc : Knancks Q\ 235: Knanckcs Q\ 48(5 Hide Dyce: Hid Qq 488 the place] her place Ql 48'J the fairest ^5 4^1 your] our ^2 4 i6o A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act II For faire Remilia to desport her in. Meane-while, I will bethinke me on further pomp. Exit. The Magi with their rods beate the ground, and from vnder the same riseth a braue Arbottrj the King returncth ift afi other sute, while the Trumpettes sounde. Rasni. Blest be ye, men of Art, that grace me thus, 495 And blessed be this day where Himen hies, To ioyne in vnion pride of heauen and earth. Lightning and thunder wherewith Remilia is strooken. What wondrous threatning noyse is this I heare ? What flashing lightnings trouble our delights ? When I draw neare Remilias royall Tent, 500 I, waking, dreame of sorrow and mishap. Rad. Dread not, O King, at ordinary chance, These are but common exalations, Drawne from the Earth, in substance bote and drie, Or moist and thicke, or Meteors combust, 505 Matters and causes incident to time, Inkindled in the firie region first. Tut, be not now a Romane Augurer, Approach the Tent, looke on Remilia. Rasni. Thou hast confirmd my doubts, kinde Radagon. 510 Now ope, ye foldes, where Queene of fauour sits. Carrying a Net within her curled loqks, Wherein the Graces are entangled oft : Ope like th' imperiall gates where Phoebus sits, When as he meanes to wooe his Clitia. S'S Nocturnall Cares, ye blemishers of blisse, Cloud not mine eyes whilst I behold her face. Remilia, my delight — she answereth not. He drawes the Curtai?tes and Jindes her stroken with Thunder, blacke. How pale ! as if bereau'd in fatall meedes, The balmy breath hath left her bosom quite; 520 494 On further pomp I will bethink me Dyce further] surth a Q2 : such a (?.^ 4 5 S. D. t/ieir'] her Q^ 495 men Q4: man Qi 23 501 and] or Q2 4 503 exalitalions (?2 4 507 Inkindling (2^4 Enkindlinfr Q^ e, 515 wooe] wed Q^ 516 Nectemall Q/^ 518 Remilia] is add. Q^ S. D. : strooken blacke with thunder (^3 5 Sc I] LONDON AND ENGLAND i6i My Hesperus by cloudie death is blent. Villaines, away, fetch Sirropes of the Inde, Fetch Balsomo, the kind preserue of Ufe, Fetch wine of Greece, fetch oiles, fetch herbes, fetch all To fetch her life, or I will faint and die. 525 They bring in all these and offer ; nought prctcailes. Herbes, Oyles of Inde, alasse, there nought preuailes. Shut are the day-bright eyes, that made me see, Lockt are the lems of joy in dens of death. Yet triumph I on fate, and he on her. Malicious mistresse of inconstancie, 530 Damd be thy name, that hast obscur'd my ioy. Kings, Viceroyes, Princes, reare a royall tombe For my Remilia, beare her from my sight. Whilst I in teares weepe for Remilia. They beare her out. Rad. What maketh Rasni moodie ? Losse of one ? 535 As if no more were left so faire as she ? Behold a daintie minion for the nonce, Faire Aluida, the Paphlagonian Queene ; Wooe her, and leaue this weeping for the dead. Rasni. What, wooe my subiects wife that honoreth me ? 540 Rad. Tut, Kings this meutn tuuni should not know. Is she not faire ? Is not her husband hence ? Hold, take her at the hands of Radagon. A prittie peate to driue your mourne away. Rasni. She smiles on me, I see she is mine owne. 545 Wilt thou be Rasnis royall Paramour? Rad. She blushing yeelds consent, make no dispute : The King is sad, and must be gladded straight. Let Paphlagonian King go mourne meane-while. He thrusts the King out, and so they Exetcnt, Oseas. Pride hath his iudgement : London, lookc about ; 550 Tis not inough in show to be deuout. 521 blent] bent Q2 345 522 of] from (^4 524 fetch herbes] fetch om. Qe, 532 Viceroy ^2 3 4 S. D. thrusts Q^ : thrust Q\ 2 3 COLLINS. I M i62 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act II A Furie now from heauen to lands vnknowne Hath made the Prophet speake, not to his owne. Flie, wantons, flie this pride and vaine attire, The stales to set your tender hearts on fire. 555 Be faithfuU in the promise you haue past, Else God will plague and punish at the last. When lust is hid in shroude of wretched life, When craft doth dwell in bed of married wife, Marke but the Prophets, t we that shortly showes, t 560 ' After death exspect for many woes.' (Scene II. > Enters the poore man (Alcon) and the Gentletnan (Thrasibulus), with their Lawier. Thras. I need not, sir, discourse vnto you the dutie of Lawiers in tendering the right cause of their Clients, nor the conscience you are tied vnto by higher command. Therefore suffise, the Vsurer hath done me wrong ; you know the Case, and, good sir, 565 I haue strained my selfe to giue you your fees. Laivier. Sir, if I should any way neglect so manifest a truth, I were to be accused of open periury, for the case is euident. Ale. And truly sir, for my case, if you helpe me not for my matter, why, sir, I and my wife are quite vndone ; I want my mease .570 of milke when I goe to my worke, and my boy his bread and butter when he goes to schoole. — M(aister) Lawier, pitie me, for surely, sir, I was faine to laie my wiues best gowne to pawne for your fees : when I lookt vpon it, sir, and saw how hansomly it was daubed with statute lace, and what a faire mockado 575 Cape it had, and then thought how hansomely it became my wife, truly, sir, my heart is made of butter, it melts at the least persecution, I fell on weeping; but when I thought on the words the Vsurer gaue me, 'no Cow,' then, sir, I would haue stript her into her smocke, but I would make 580 him deliuer my Cow ere I had done : therefore, good M(aister) Lawier, stand my friend. 554 wantons] wanton (52 3 4 5 5.55 stales C. E. Doble ; scales Qq and Dyce 560 Prophet's woe, siigg. J. C. Smith. See notes Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 165 Lawier. Trust me, father, I will do for thee as much as for my selfe. Ale. Are you married, sir ? Lawier. I, marry, am I, father. 583 Ale. Then goods Benison Hght on you and your good wife, and send her that she be neuer troubled with my wiues disease. Lawier. ^\^ly, whats thy wiues disease ? Ale. Truly, sir, she hath two open faults, and one priuie fault. Sir, the first is, she is too eloquent for a poore man, 590 and hath her words of Art, for she will call me Rascall, Rogue, Runnagate, Varlet, Vagabond, Slaue, Knaue. Why, alasse sir, and these be but holi-day tearmes, but if you heard her working-day words, in faith, sir, they be ratlers like thunder, sir ; for after the dew followes a storme, for then am I sure 595 either to be well buffetted, my face scratcht, or my head broken, and therefore good M(aister) Lawyer, on my knees I ask it, let me not go home again to my wife, with this word, ' no Cow ' : for then shee will exercise her two faults vpon me with all extremitie. 600 Lawier. Feare not, man. But what is thy wiues [)rluy fault? Ale. Truly, sir, thats a thing of nothing ; alasse, she indeed, sirreue- rence of your mastership, doth vse to breake winde in her sleepe. Oh, sir, here comes the ludge, and the old Caitife the Vsurer. Enters the ludge, the Vsurer, atid his Attendants. Vsurer. Sir, here is fortie Angels for you, and if at any time you 605 want a hundreth pound or two, tis readie at your command, or the feeding of three or foure fat bullocks : whereas these needie slaues can reward with nothing but a cap and a knee ; and therefore I pray you, sir, fauour my case. Ludge. Feare not, sir, He do what I can for you. 610 Vsurer. What, maister Lawier, what make you here? mine aduersary for these Clients? Lawier. So it chanceth now, sir. Vsurer. I know you know the old Prouerbe, ' He is not wise, that is not wise for himselfe.' I would not be disgracst in this 615 action ; therefore here is twentie Angels ; say nothing in the matter, and what you say, say to no purpose, for the ludge is my friend. .'J'Jl her] the Q\ 592 Slaue and knaue Q^ 598 word] words Ql 615 would] should (25 017 and] oi Byce M 2 i64 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act II Lawter. Let me alone, He fit your purpose. Judge. Come, where are these fellovves that are the plaintifes? 620 what can they say against this honest Citizen our neighbour, a man of good report amongst all men? Aic. Truly, M(aister) ludge, he is a man much spoken off; marry, euery mans cries are against him, and especially we ; and therefore I think we haue brought our Lawier to 625 touch him with as much law as will fetch his landes and my Cowe, with a pestilence. Thras. Sir, I am the other plaintife, and this is my Councellour : I beseech your honour be fauourable to me in equitie. ludge. OhjSignor Mizaldo,what can you say in this Gentlemans behalfe ? 630 Lazvier. Faith, sir, as yet little good. Sir, tell you your owne case to the ludge, for I haue so many matters in my head, that I haue almost forgotten it. Thras. Is the winde in that doore ? Why then, my Lord^ thus. I tooke vp of this cursed Vsurer, for so I may well 635 tearme him, a commoditie of fortie poundes, whereof I receiued ten pounde in mony, and thirtie pound in Lute-strings, whereof I could by great friendship make but fiue pounds : for the assurance of this badde commoditie bound him my land in recognisance : I came at my day 640 and tendred him his mony, and he would not take it : for the redresse of my open wrong I craue but iustice. Judge. What say you to this, sir ? Vsurcf. That first he had no Lute-strings of me ; for looke you, sir, I haue his owne hand to my booke for the receit of fortie pound. 645 Thras. That was, sir, but a deuise of him to colour the Statute. Judge. Well, he hath thine owne hand, and we can craue no more in law. But now, sir, he sales his money was tendred at the day and houre. Vsurer. This is manifest contrary, sir, and on that I will depose ; 650 for here is the obligation, ' to be paide betweene three and foure in the after-noone,' and the clocke strooke foure before he of- fered it, and the words be ' betweene three and foure,' therefore to be tendred before foure. Thras. Sir, I was there before foure, and he held me with brabling till 655 628 the other] another (25 631 yet om. ^4 you om. Qz 5 642 wrongs (?5 648 saies] sayeth ^4 tendred (^234 tended ()i Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 165 the clock strooke, and then for the breach of a minute he refused my money, and kept the recognisance of my land for so small a trififle. — Good Signor Mizaldo, speak what is law ; you haue your fee, you haue heard what the case is, and therefore do me iustice and right ; I am a yoong Gentleman and speake for my patrimony. 660 Lawier. Faith sir, the Case is altered; you told me it before in an other maner : the law goes quite against you, and therefore you must pleade to the ludge for fauour. Thras. O execrable bribery ! Ale. Faith, sir ludge, I pray you let me be the Gentlemans Coun- 665 sellour, for I can say thus much in his defence, that the Vsurers Clocke is the swiftest Clock in all the Towne : tis, sir, like a womans tongue, it goes euer halfe an houre before the time ; for when we were gone from him, other Clocks in the Towne strooke foure. 670 ludge. Hold thy prating, fellow : — and you, yoong Gentleman, this is my ward : looke better another time both to your bargains and to the paiments ; for I must giue flat sentence against you, that for default of tendering the mony betweene the houres you haue forfeited your recognisance, and he to 675 haue the land. Thras. O inspeakeable iniustice ! Ale. O monstrous, miserable, moth-eaten ludge ! Judge. Now you, fellow, what haue you to say for your matter? Ale. Maister Lawier, I laid my wiues gowne to pawne for your fees : 680 I pray you, to this geere. Lawier. Alasse, poore man, thy matter is out of my head, and therefore, I pray thee, tell it thy selfe. Ale. I hold my cap to a noble, that the Vsurer hath giuen him some gold, and he, chawing it in his mouth, hath got the tooth- 685 ache that he cannot speake. ludge. Well, sirrha, I must be short, and therefore say on. Ale. Maister ludge, I borrowed of this man thirtie shillings, for which I left him in pawne my good Cow; the bargaine was, he should haue eighteene pence a weeke and the Cows 690 milk for vsurie. Now, sir, as soone as I had gotten the mony, 657 kept Qif and Dyce : keepe ^1235. 658 trifflc] trifle (?2 3 4 669 were] are Q^ 679 for] to Q^ 685 chawing] chewing (?2 3 .) 5 688 M. Maister Judge Qizy. O Maister Judge Q^ i66 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act II I brought it him, and broke but a day, and for that he refused his mony and keepes my Cow, sir. ludge. Why, thou hast giuen sentence against thy selfe, for in breaking thy day thou hast lost thy Cow. 695 Ale. Master Lawier, now for my ten shiUings. Lawier. Faith, poore man, thy Case is so bad I shall but speak against thee. Ale. Twere good then I shud haue my ten shillings again. Lawier. Tis my fee, fellow, for coming : wouldst thou haue me 700 come for nothing ? Ale. Why, then am I like to goe home, not onely with no Cow, but no gowne : this geere goes hard. ludge. Well, you haue heard what fauour I can shew you : I must do iustice. Come, M(aister) Mizaldo, and you, sir, go home with 705 me to dinner. ^/(r.Why,but,M(aister)Iugde,noCow!and,Mid of Paphlagonia, zvith c///e;- attendants Qq : corr. Dyce 758 his] this ^5 760 obiect ^4: otrict ^1235 768 thou ojh. Q4. 774 hands (25 7S4 the add. Dyce Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 169 Clomne. Dead ! nay, I thinke I am aliue yet, and wil drink a ful pot ere night : but heare ye, if ye be the wench that fild vs 790 drink, why, so, do your office, and giue vs a fresh pot ; or if you be the Tapsters wife, why, so, wash the glasse cleane. Alui. He is so drunke, my Lord, theres no talking with him. Cloume. Drunke ! nay then, wench, I am not drunke : thart a shitten queane to call me drunke : I tell thee I am not drunke, I am a 795 Smith, I. Enter the Smith, the Clownes Maister. Lord. Sir, here comes one perhaps that can tell. Smith. God saue you, master. J^asni. Smith, canst thou tell me how this man came dead ? Smith. May it please your highnesse, my man here and a crue 800 of them went to the Ale-house, and came out so drunke that one of them kild another ; and now, sir, I am faine to leaue my shop and come to fetch him home. Ras7ii. Some of you carry away the dead bodie : drunken men must haue their fits ; and, sirrha Smith, hence with thy man. 805 Smith. Sirrha you, rise, come go with me. Clowne. If we shall haue a pot of Ale, lets haue it ; heres mony ; hold, Tapster, take my purse. Smith. Come then with me, the pot stands full in the house. Clowne. I am for you, lets go, thart an honest Tapster : weele 810 drinke sixe pots ere we part. Exeunt. Ras7ii. Beautious, more bright then beautie in mine eyes, Tell me, faire sweeting, wants thou any thing Conteind within the threefold circle of the world, That may make Aluida Hue full content? 815 Alui. Nothing, my Lord ; for all my thoughts are pleasde. When as mine eye surfets with Rasnis sight. Enters the King of Paphlagonia, Afaie-content. Rnsni. Locke how thy husband haunts our royall Courts, How still his sight breeds melancholy stormes. 796 I om. ^234 S. D. Enters Qk, 801 to om. Q4 812 eye ^5 813 wantsj want'st /J}>re 813, 814 /)}/<:€ stigg. wants't thou aught contain'd Within, &c. 818 Courts] court Dyce I70 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act II Oh, Aluida, I am passing passionate, 820 And vext with wrath and anger to the death. Mars, when he held faire Venus on his knee, And saw the limping Smith come from his forge, Had not more deeper furrowes in his brow Than Rasni hath to see this Paphlagon. 825 Alui. Content thee, sweet, ile saliie thy sorow straight ; Rest but the ease of all thy thoughts on me, And if I make not Rasni blyth againe, Then say that womens fancies haue no shifts. Paphla. Shamst thou not, Rasni, though thou beest a King, 830 To shroude adultry in thy royall seate ? Art thou arch-ruler of great Niniuie, Who shouldst excell in vertue as in state, And wrongst thy friend by keeping backe his wife ? Haue I not battail'd in thy troupes full oft, 835 Gainst Aegypt, lury, and proud Babylon, Spending my blood to purchase thy renowne, And is the guerdon of my chiualrie Ended in this abusing of my wife ? Restore her me, or I will from thy Courts, 840 And make discourse of thy adulterous deeds. Rasni. Why, take her, Paphlagon, exclaime not, man ; For I do prise mine honour more then loue. Faire Aluida, go with thy husband home. Alui. How dare I go, sham'd with so deep misdeed ? 845 Reuenge will broile within my husbands brest, And when he hath me in the Court at home, Then Aluida shall feele reuenge for all. Rasni. What saist thou. King of Paphlagon, to this ? Thou hearest the doubt thy wife doth stand vpon. 850 If she hath done amisse, it is my fault ; I prithie, pardon and forget (it) all. Paphla. If that I meant not, Rasni, to forgiue. And quite forget the follies that are past, I would not vouch her presence in my Courts ; 855 820 passing ^234: passion Q\ 824 furrowes] sorrowes ^2345 838 And is this the guerdon ^3 5 840 Courts] court Qi and Dyce 851 hath] have (?2 3 4 852 it add. Dyce 855 vouch] vouchsafe ^234 Courts] court Dyce Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 171 But she shall be my Queene, my loue, my life, And Aluida vnto her Paphlagon, And lou'd, and more beloued then before. Rasni. What saist thou, Aluida, to this? Alui. That, will he sweare it to my Lord the King, 860 And in a full carouse of Greekish wine Drinke downe the malice of his deepe reuenge, I will go home and loue him new againe. Rasni. What answeres Paphlagon ? Paphla. That what she hath requested I wil do. 865 Alui. Go, damosell, fetch me that sweete wine That stands within thy Closet on the shelfe, Powre it into a standing bovvle of gold. But, on thy life, taste not before the King. Make hast. Why is great Rasni melancholy thus? 870 If promise be not kept, hate all for me. Here is the wine, my Lord : first make him sweare. Paphla. By Niniuies great Gods, and Niniuies great King, My thoughts shall neuer be to wrong my wife, And thereon heres a full carowse to her. 8 75 Alui. And thereon, Rasni, heres a kisse for thee. Now maist thou freely fold thine Aluida. Paphla. Oh, I am dead ! obstructions of my breath. The poison is of wondrous sharpe effect. Cursed be all adultrous queenes, say I ! 880 And cursing so poore Paphlagon doth die. ' iDies.^ Alui. Now, haue I not salued the sorrowes of my Lord? Haue I not rid a riuall of thy loues ? What saist thou, Rasni, to thy Paramour? Rasni. That for this deed ile decke my Aluida 885 In Sendall and in costly tSussapinet, Bordred with Pearle and India Diamond. Ile cause great Eol perfume all his windes With richest myrre and curious Amber greece. Come, louely minion, paragon for faire, 890 858 belov'd Qi 860 will he] he will (?4 866 Go] But (25 (and) add. Dyce 867 thy] the Qi 5 : my (^4 873 By om. Qs 878 obstruction's oi Dyce: obstructions ?,io^ sugg. /. C. Smith 880 queenes] qucanes Q\ : queans Dyce 886 See notes 887 Diamonds Q-, 888 windes] wines ^4 889 myrre] mnske Q^ 172 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act m Come, follow me, sweet goddesse of mine eye, And taste the pleasures Rasni will prouide. Exeunt. Oseas. Where whordome raines, there murther followes fast, As falling leaues before the winter blast. A wicked life, trainde vp in endlesse crime, 895 Hath no regard vnto the latter time, When Letchers shall be punisht for their lust, When Princes plagu'd because they are vniust. Foresee in time, the warning bell doth towle; Subdue the flesh, by praier to saue the soule. 900 London, behold the cause of others wracke, And see the sword of iustice at thy backe. Deferre not off, to morrow is too late ; By night he comes perhaps to iudge thy state. (Scene L> Enter lonas Solus. Jonas. From forth the depth of my imprisoned soule 905 Steale you, my sighes, testifie my paine ; Conuey on wings of mine immortall tone, My zealous praiers vnto the starrie throne. Ah, mercifull and iust, thou dreadfuU God, Where is thine arme to laie reuengefuU stroakes 910 Vpon the heads of our rebellious race? Loe, Israeli, once that flourisht like the vine, Is barraine laide, the beautifuU encrease ' Is wholly blent, and irreligious zeale Incampeth there where vertue was inthroan'd. 915 Ah-lasse the while, the widow wants reliefe, The fatherlesse is wrongd by naked need, Deuotion sleepes in sinders of Contempt, Hypocrisie infects the holie Priest. 896 regard] reward ^234 902 see] set (?2 3 4 5 at] on ^5 006 to add. Dyce 907 mine] my Qi 910 thine] thy (^5 Sc.I] LONDON AND ENGLAND 173 Aye me, for this ! woe me, for these misdeeds ! 920 Alone I walke to thinke vpon the world. And sigh to see thy Prophets so contem'd, Ah-lasse, contem'd by cursed Israeli. Yet, lonas, rest content, tis Israels sinne That causeth this ; then muse no more thereon, 925 But pray amends, and mend thy owne amisse. An Angell wppeareth to lonas. Angel. Amithais sonne, I charge thee muse no more : I AM hath power to pardon and correct; To thee pertains to do the Lords command. Go girt thy loines, and hast thee quickly hence ; 930 To Niniuie, that mightie Citie, wend. And say this message from the Lord of hoasts. Preach vnto them these tidings from thy God; — ' Behold thy wickednesse hath tempted me, And pierced through the ninefold orbes of heauen : 935 Repent, or else thy iudgement is at hand.' This said, the Angell vanisheth. lonas. Prostrate I lye before the Lord of hostes, With humble eares intending his behest : Ah, honoured be lehouahs great command ! Then lonas must to Niniuie repaire, 940 Commanded as the Prophet of the Lord. Great dangers on this iourney do awaight. But dangers none where heauens direct the course. What should I deeme? I see, yea, sighing see. How Israeli sinne(s), yet knowes the way of truth, 945 And thereby growes the by-word of the world. How then should (jod in iudgement be so strict Gainst those who neuer heard or knew his power, To threaten vtter ruine of them all ? Should I report this iudgement of my God, 950 I should incite them more to follow sinne. And publish to the world my countries blame. 920 woe] woes Q^ 922, 3 contemn'd Qi 3 4 027 Amittai's Dyce Amithias (25 S28 I am (^^i 'J38 intending] aUcnding (^35 942 do] to ^2 3 4 174 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act III It may not be, my conscience tels me no. Ah, lonas, wilt thou prove rebelHous then ? Consider ere thou fall what errour is. 955 My minde misgiues : to loppa will I flee, And for a while to Tharsus shape my course, Vntill the Lord vnfret his angry browes. Enter certaine Merchants of Tharsus, a Maister and some Sailers. M(^aister.) Come on, braue merchants; now the wind doth serue, And sweetly blowes a gale of West Southwest. 960 Our yardes a crossfe, our anchors on the pike. What, shall we hence and take this merry gale? Mer. Sailers, conuey our budgets strait aboord, And we will recompence your paines at last. If once in safetie we may Tharsus see, 965 Maister, weele feast these merry mates and thee. M{aistery. Meanwhile conteht your selues with silly cates; Our beds are boordes, our feasts are full of mirth : We vse no pompe, we are the Lords of see ; When Princes swet in care, we swincke of glee. 970 Orions shoulders and the pointers serue To be our load-stars m. the lingering night ; The beauties of Arcturus we behold ; And though the Sailer is no booke-man held. He knowes more Art then euer booke-men read. 975 Sailer. By heauens, well said in honour of our trade ! Lets see the proudest scholler steer his course Or shift his tides as silly sailers do ; Then wil we yeeld them praise, else neuer none. Mer. Well spoken, fellow, in thine owne behalfe. 980 But let vs hence ; wind tarries none, you wot, And tide and time let slip is hardly got. Mi^aister^. March to the hauen, merchants ; I follow you. (^Exeunt Merchants.) lonas. Now doth occasion further my desires ; I finde companions fit to aide my flight. 985 956 flie Q^ 960 of J at ^2 3 4 and Dyce 963 our] your (?5 966 Maister Qi: M. ^i 2 4 971 Oiious (2i 3 4 973 Acturus Q^ 975 booke-man ^4 977 steer Dyce : stir Qq 981 none] not (25 983 IJ 116^3 4 Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 175 Staie, sir, I pray, and heare a word or two. M{aistery. Say on, good friend, but briefly, if you please; My passengers by this time are aboord. Jonas. "Wliether pretend you to imbarke your selues ? AI(^aister). To Tharsus, sir, and here in loppa hauen 990 Our ship is prest and readie to depart. Jonas. May I haue passage for my mony then? M^aister). What not for mony? pay ten siluerHngs, You are a welcome guest, if so you please. Jonas. Hold, take thy hire ; I follow thee, my friend. 995 M{atster'). Where is your budget? let me beare it, sir. Jonas. iTo one in peace,t who saile as I do now, Put trust in him who succoureth euery want. Exeunt. Ose. When Prophets new inspirde, presume to force And tie the power of heauen to their conceits, 1000 '\\Tien feare, promotion, pride, or simony, Ambition, subtill craft, their thoughts disguise V\'oe to the flocke whereas the shepheards foule! For, lo, the Lord at vnawares shall plague The carelesse guide, because his flocks do stray. 1005 The axe alreadie to the tree is set : Beware to tempt the Lord, ye men of art. (Scene IL) Enter Alcon, Thrasibulas, Samia, Clesiphon a lad. Clcsi. Mother, some meat, or else I die for want. Samia. Ah, litle boy, how glad thy mother would Supply thy wants, but naked need denies : loio Thy fathers slender portion in this world By vsury and false deceit is lost : No charitie within this Citie bides ; All for themselues, and none to help the poore. Clesi. Father, shall Clesiphon haue no reliefe ? 1015 l'!t5 thy I thine ^5 I] lie Ql 5 !i97 sailes Qs and Dycc, ivho suspects a lacuna [Go on in peace sugg.J. C. Smitli]. See notes lOUl pride of Q^ lOOa foule] fold ^2 3 4 5 1013 this] the C?5 ' 176 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IK Ale. Faith, my boy, I must be flat with thee, we must feed vpon prouerbes now; as 'Necessitie hath no law,' ' A Charles feast is better than none at all ' ; for other remedies haue we none, except thy brother Radagon helpe vs. 1020 Sa>?ua. Is this thy slender care to helpe our childe? Hath nature armde thee to no more remorse? Ah, cruell man, vnkind and pittilesse ! Come, Clesiphon, my boy, ile beg for thee. CksL Oh, how my mothers mourning moueth me ! 1025 A/c. Nay, you shall paie mee interest for getting the boye, wife, before you carry him hence. Ah-lasse, woman, what can Alcon do more? Ile plucke the belly out of my heart for thee, sweete Samia; be not so waspish. Samia. Ah, silly man, I know thy want is great, 1030 And foolish I to craue where nothing is. Haste, Alcon, haste, make haste vnto our Sonne, Who, since he is in fauour of the King, May helpe this haplesse Gentleman and vs For to regaine our goods from tyrants hands. 1035 Thras. Haue patience, Samia, waight your weale from heauen : The Gods haue raisde your sonne, I hope, for this. To succour innocents in their distresse. Enters Radagon Solus. Lo, where he comes from the imperial Court; Go, let vs prostrate vs before his feete. 1040 Ale. Nay, by my troth, ile neuer aske my sonne blessing; che trow, cha taught him his lesson to know his father. What, sonne Radagon, yfaith, boy, how doest thee? Rad. Villaine, disturbe me not; I cannot stay. 1044 Ale. Tut, sonne, ile helpe you of that disease quickly, for I can hold thee : aske thy mother, knaue, what cunning I haue to ease a woman when a qualme of kindnesse comes too neare her stomacke. Let me but claspe mine armes about her bodie and saie my praiers in her bosome, and she shall be healed presently. 1050 1031 foolishly I do ()2 3 4 1037 The] Tho Qi 1038 innocents om. Qi 1047 comes (23 : come ^124 1050 presently om. Qi 5 Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 177 Rad. Traitor vnto my Princely Maiestie, How dar'st thou laie thy hands vpon a King? Samia. No traitor, Radagon, but true is he : What, hath promotion bleared thus thine eye, To scorne thy father when he visits thee ? 1055 Ah-lasse, my sonne, behold with ruthfull eyes Thy parents robd of all their worldly weale By subtle meanes of vsurie and guile : The ludges eares are deaffe and shut vp close ; All mercie sleepes: then be thou in these plundges 1060 A patron to thy mother in her paines : Behold thy brother almost dead for foode : Oh, succour vs, that first did succour thee. Rad. ^^^lat, succour me ! false callet, hence auant ! Old dotard, pack ! moue not my patience : 1065 I know you not, Kings neuer looke so low. Samia. You know vs not ! Oh, Radagon, you know That, knowing vs, you know your parents then ; Thou knowst this wombe first brought thee forth to light; I know these paps did foster thee, my sonne. 1070 Ale. And I know he hath had many a peece of bread and cheese at my hands, as proud as he is ; that know I. Thras. I waight no hope of succours in this place, Where children hold their fathers in disgrace. Rad. Dare you enforce the furrowes of reuenge 1075 Within the browes of royall Radagon ? Villaine, auant ! hence, beggers, with your brats ! Marshall, why whip you not these rogues away, That thus disturbe our royall Maiestie? Clesi. Mother, I see it is a wondrous thing, 1080 From base estate for to become a King : For why, meethinke, my brother in these fits Hath got a kingdome, and hath lost his wits. Rad. Yet more contempt before my royaltie? Slaues, fetch out tortures worse than Tityus plagues, 1085 And teare their toongs from their blasphemous heads. 1054 hath om. Q^ 10.''.7 all om. Qs 1061 in] to ^2 .^ 4 5 1078 whip ye you Q2 : whip ye Q4 1083 and] but Djfce 1085 Tityus Dyce : Titius ^123: Tirius ^4 COLLINS. I N 178 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act III Thras. He get me gone, tho woe begon with griefe : ■ No hope remaines : — come, Alcon, let vs wend. {Exit Thras.) Rad. Twere best you did, for feare you catch your bane. Samia. Nay, Traitor, I wil haunt thee to the death. 1090 Vngratious sonne, vntoward and peruerse, He fill the heauens with ecchoes of thy pride. And ring in euery eare thy small regard. That doest despite thy parents in their wants ; And breathing forth my soule before thy feete, 1095 My curses still shall haunt thy hatefull head. And being dead, my ghost shall thee pursue. Enter Rasni King of Assiria, attended on by his Magi a?td Kings. RasnL How now, what meane these outcries in our Court, Where nought should sound but harmonies of heauen ? What maketh Radagon so passionate? 1100 Samia. Justice, O King, iustice against my sonne. Rasni. Thy sonne ! what sonne ? Samia. This cursed Radagon. Rad. Dread Monarch, this is but a lunacie. Which griefe and want hath brought the woman to. 1105 What, doth this passion hold you euerie Moone ? Samia. Oh, polliticke in sinne and wickednesse, Too impudent for to delude thy Prince ! Oh Rasni, this same wombe first brought him foorth ; This is his father, worne with care and age, 11 10 This is his brother, poore vnhappie lad. And I his mother, though contemn'd by him. With tedious toyle we got our litle good. And brought him vp to schoole with mickle charge : Lord, how we ioy'd to see his towardnesse ! 11 15 And to our selues we oft in silence said, This youth when we are old may succour vs. But now preferd and lifted vp by thee, We quite destroyd by cursed vsurie, 1088 Exit Thras. add. Dyce 1096 haunt] daunt ^5 S. D. Magi] Soothsayers Qq 1099 should] shall Q^ 1109 first om. ^234 Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 179 He scorneth me, his father, and this childe. 1120 Clesi. He plaies the Serpent right, describ'd in Aesopes tale, That sought the Fosters death that lately gaue him life. Ale. Nay, and please your Maiesti-ship, for proofe he was my childe, search the parish booke : the Clarke wil sweare it, his godfathers and godmothers can witnesse it : it cost me fortie pence in ale and cakes on the wiues at his Christning. Hence, proud King ! thou shalt neuer more haue my blessing. He takes him apart. Rasni. Say sooth in secret, Radagon, Is this thy father? 1130 Rad. Mightie King, he is ; I blushing tell it to your Maiestie. Rasni. \\Tiy dost thou then contemne him and his friends? Rad. Because he is a base and abiect swaine, My mother and her brat both beggarly, 11 35 Vnmeete to be alHed vnto a King. Should I, that looke on Rasnis countenance. And march amidst his royall equipage, Embase my selfe to speake to such as they ? Twere impious so to impaire the loue 1140 That mightie Rasni beares to Radagon. I would your grace would quit them from your sight, That dare presume to looke on loues compare. Rasni. I like thy pride, I praise thy pollicie ; Such should they be that wait vpon my Court. 1145 Let me alone to answere, Radagon. Villaines, seditious traitors as you be. That scandalize the honour of a King, Depart my Court, you stales in impudence, Vnlesse you would be parted from your limmes, 1150 Too base for to intitle father-hood To Rasnis friend, to Rasnis fauourite. Rad. Hence, begging scold ! hence, caitiue clogd with yeares ! On paine of death, reuisit not the Court. Was I conceiu'd by such a scuruie trull, 11 55 Or brought to light by such a lump of dirt? 1133 Why] Thy Q\ 1147 Villaine (224 1149 stalles Q4, in] of C>3 4 5 1151 Too/. C. Smith : So Qq N 2 i8o A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act III Go, Lossell, trot it to the cart and spade ! Thou art vnmeete to looke vpon a King, Much lesse to be the father of a King. Ak. You may see, wife, what a goodly peece of worke you haue made : haue I taught you Arsmetry, as additiori multiplicarmn, the rule of three, and all for the begetting of a boy, and to be banished for my labour? O pittifuU hearing ! Come, Clesiphon, follow me. Clesi. Brother, beware: I oft haue heard it told, 1165 That sonnes who do their fathers scorne, shall beg when they be old. Exeunt Alcon. Clesiphon. Rad. Hence, bastard boy, for feare you taste the whip. Samia. Oh all you heauens, and you etemall powers, That sway the sword of iustice in your hands, (If mothers curses for her sonnes contempt 11 70 May fill the ballance of your furie full,) Powre doune the tempest of your direfull plagues Vpon the head of cursed Radagon. Vpon this praier she departeth, and aflame of fire appeareth from beneath, and Radagon is swallowed. So you are iust : now triumph, Samia. Exit Samia. Rasni. What exorcising charme, or hatefull hag, 11 75 Hath rauished the pride of my delight? What tortuous planets, or maleuolent Conspiring power, repining destenie. Hath made the concaue of the earth vnclose, And shut in ruptures louely Radagon? 11 80 If I be Lord-commander of the cloudes, King of the earth, and Soueraigne of the seas, What daring Saturne from his fierie denne Doth dart these furious flames amidst my Court? I am not chiefe, there is more great then I: 1185 What, greater then Th'assirian Satrapos? 1161 taught Qi : tought Qi 24 1166 £xe( Qi 3: £xii Q2 4 1170 for] of ^2 34 1177 tortuous] torturous ^4: malouolent ^i 1184 flambes (^5 1186 Satropos Q^ : Sairopos ^5 Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND i8i It may not be, and yet I feare there is, That hath bereft me of my Radagon. Magus. Monarch and Potentate of all our Prouinces, Muse not so much vpon this accident, 1190 WTiich is indeed nothing miraculous. The hill of Scicely, dread Soueraigne, Sometime on sodaine doth euacuate ^^^lole flakes of fire, and spues out from below The smoakie brands that Vulcans bellowes driue : 1 195 ^^^lether by windes inclosed in the earth, Or fracture of the earth by riuers force, Such chances as was this are often seene ; Whole Cities suncke, whole Countries drowned quite. Then muse not at the losse of Radagon, 1200 But frolicke with the dalliance of your loue. Let cloathes of purple, set with studdes of gold. Embellished with all the pride of earth, Be spred for Aluida to sit vpon. Then thou, like Mars courting the queene of loue, 1205 Maist driue away this melancholy fit. Rasni. The proofe is good and philosophicall ; And more, thy counsaile plausible and sweete. Come, Lords, though Rasni wants his Radagon, Earth will repaie him many Radagons, 12 10 And Aluida with pleasant lookes reuiue The heart that droupes for want of Radagon. Exeunt. Oseas. When disobedience raigneth in the childe, And Princes eares by flattery be beguilde ; When lawes do passe by fauour, not by truth; 12 15 When falshood swarmeth both in old and youth ; When gold is made a God to wrong the poore, And charitie exilde from rich mens doore ; When men by wit do labour to disproue The plagues for sinne, sent doune by God aboue ; 1220 Where great mens eares are stopt to good aduice, And apt to heare those tales that feed their vice ; 1189 Magus] Soothsaier Qq 1195 Vulneus Qq 1205 courting] coveting ^5 1214 be] are ^5 1221 stopt] stop Q\ i82 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act III Woe to the land ! for from the East shall rise A lambe of peace, the scourge of vanities ; The iudge of truth, the patron of the iust, 1225 Who soone will laie presumption in the dust. And giue the humble poore their hearts desire, And doome the worldlings to eternall fire. Repent, all you that heare, for feare of plagues, O London, this and more doth swarme in thee ! 1230 Repent, repent, for why the Lord doth see. With trembling pray, and mend what is amisse ; The swoord of iustice drawne alreadie is. (Scene IIL) Enter the Clowne and the Smiths wife. Clowne. Why, but heare you, mistresse : you know a womans eies 1235 are like a paire of pattens, fit to saue shooleather in sommer, and to keepe away the cold in winter ; so you may like your husband with the one eye, because you are married, and me with the other, because I am your man. Alasse, alasse ! 1240 think, mistresse, what a thing loue is : why, it is like to an ostry fagot, that, once set on fire, is as hardly quenched as the bird Crocodile driuen out of her neast. Wife. Why, Adam, cannot a woman winke but she must sleep? 1245 and can she not loue but she must crie it out at the Crosse ? Know, Adam, I loue thee as my selfe, now that we are to- gether in secret. CA?a'«(?.Mistresse,thesewordsofyoursareliketo a Fox taile placed in a Gentlewomans Fanne, which, as it is light, so it giueth Ufe. 1250 Oh, these words are as sweete as a lilly ! whereupon, offering a borachio of kisses to your vnseemly personage, I entertaine you vpon further acquaintance. Wife. Alasse, my husband comes. (^Enter Smith.) Clowne. Strike up the drum, and say no words but mum. 1255 Smith. Sirrha you, and you, huswife, well taken togither ! I haue long suspected you, and now I am glad I haue found you togither. S.D. Enters Qs 1244 Why] Thy Qi 1248 Mis. Qi 2 ^ to om. ^234 1250 sweete as lily (?5 Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 183 Clowne. Truly, sir, and I am glad that I may do you any way pleasure, either in helping you or my mistresse. Smith. Boy here, and knaue, you shall know it straight; I wil 1260 haue you both before the Magistrate, and there haue you surely punished. Cloivne. ^^^ly, then, maister, you are iealous ? Smith. lelous, knaue ! how can I be but iealous, to see you euer so familiar togither? Thou art not only content to drinke 1265 away my goods, but to abuse my wife. Clowne. Two good quallities, drunkennesse and leachery : but, Maister, are you iealous? Smith. I, knaue, and thou shalt know it ere I passe, for I will beswindge thee while the roape will hold. 1270 Wife. My good husband, abuse him not, for he neuer proffered you any wrong. Smith. Nay, whore, thy part shall not be behinde. Clowne. Why, suppose, maister, I haue offended you, is it lawfull for the maister to beate the seruant for all offences? 1275 Smith. I, marry, is it, knaue. Clowne. Then, maister, wil I proue by logicke, that seeing all sinnes are to receiue correction, the maister is to be corrected of the man. And, sir, I pray you, what greater sinne is then iealousie? tis like a mad dog that for anger bites himselfe. 1280 Therefore that I may doe my dutie to you, good maister, and to make a white sonne of you, I will so beswinge iealousie out of you, as you shall loue me the better while you Hue. Smith. What, beate thy maister, knaue? Clowne. What, beat thy man, knaue? And I, maister, and double 1285 beate you, because you are a man of credite ; and therfore haue at you the fairest for fortie pence. {Beats the Smith.) Smith. Alasse, wife, help, helpe ! my man kils me. Wife. Nay, euen as you haue baked, so brue ; iealousie must be driuen out by extremities. 1290 Clowne. And that will I do, mistresse. Smith. Hold thy hand, Adam; and not only I forgiue and forget all, but I will giue thee a good Farme to Hue on. 1260 here] heare G.^ a7id Dyce 1262 seuerely Q^ 1269 Yea Q\ 1270 the] this ^2 3 4 and Dyce Vll^o seruants ^5 1282 so om. Qi 1287 you, ^2 3 4 for] of (^3 4 1 84 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV Clowne. Begone, Peasant, out of the compasse of my further wrath, for I am a corrector of vice; and at night I wil bring 1295 home my mistresse. Siniih. Euen when you please, good Adam. Clowne, When I please, — marke the words— tis a lease paroll, to haue and to hold. Thou shalt be mine for euer : and so lets go to the Ale-house. 1300 Exeunt. Oseas. Where seruants against masters do rebell, The Common-weale may be accounted hell. For if the feete the head shall hold in scorne, The Cities state will fall and be forlorne. This error, London, waiteth on thy state. 1305 Seruants, amend, and, maisters, leaue to hate. Let loue abound, and vertue raigne in all ; So God will hold his hand that threatneth thrall. (ACT IV.) (Scene I.) Enter the Merchants of Tharsus, the M(aister) of the ship, some Sailers, wet from the Sea, with them the Gouernour of loppa. Gouer. What strange encounters met you on the sea, That thus your Barke is battered by the flouds, 1310 And you returne thus sea-wrackt as I see? Mer. Most mightie Gouernor, the chance is strange. The tidings full of wonder and amaze. Which, better than we, our Maister can report. Gouer. Maister, discourse vs all the accident. 13 15 M{aister}. The faire Triones with their glimmering light Smil'd at the foote of cleare Bootes wain, And in the north, distinguishing the houres. The Load-starre of our course dispearst his cleare, 1298 the] thy Q2 4 5 1299 mine] mv Q^ 1301 a-rainst Dyce : gainst Qq IV. i. S. D. Thrasus (?5 zvet'from Sea Qi 1314, 5 Maister Ql and 5: M. Qi 2 4 1317 Bootes wain Dyce: Rootes a raine Qq 1318 north Dyce: wrath Qq Sc. IJ LONDON AND ENGLAND 1S5 When to the seas with bhthfull westerne blasts 1320 We saild amaine, and let the bowling flie. Scarce had we gone ten leagues from sight of land, But, lo, an hoast of blacke and sable cloudes Gan to eclips Lucinas siluer face ; And, with a hurling noyse from foorth the South, 1325 A gust of winde did reare the billowes vp. Then scantled we our sailes with speedie hands, And tooke our drablers from our bonnets straight. And seuered our bonnets from the courses : Our topsailes vp, we trusse our spritsailes in; 1330 But vainly striue they that resist the heauens. For, loe, the waues incence them more and more, Mounting with hideous roarings from the depth Our Barke is battered by incountring stormes, And welny stemd by breaking of the flouds. 1335 The steers-man, pale and carefull, holds his helme, "WTierein the trust of life and safetie laie : Till all at once (a mortall tale to tell) Our sailes were split by Bisas bitter blast. Our rudder broke, and we bereft of hope. 1340 There might you see, with pale and gastly lookes. The dead in thought, and dolefull merchants lift Their eyes and hands vnto their Countries Gods. The goods we cast in bowels of the sea, A sacrifice to swage proud Neptunes ire. 1345 Onely alone a man of Israeli, A passenger, did vnder hatches lie. And slept secure, when we for succour praide : Him I awoke, and said, ' Why slumberest thou ? Arise and pray, and call vpon thy God; 1350 He will perhaps in pitie looke on vs.' Then caste we lots to know by whose amisse Our mischiefe come, according to the guise; And, loe, the lot did vnto lonas fall. The Israelite of whom I told you last. 1355 Then question we his Country and his name ; Who answered vs, ' I am an 1 Icbrue borne, 1326 reare] raise ^2 3 4 5 1329 the] our Q2 5 1330 trust ^34 1342 lifts Qq V6i)'6 came Qi^and Dyce 1356 questiond Ql 1 86 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV Who feare the Lord of heauen, who made the sea, And fled from him, for which we all are plagu'd : So, to asswage the furie of my God, 1360 Take me and cast my carkasse in the sea; Then shall this stormy winde and billow cease.' The heauens they know, the Hebrues God can tell, ' How loth we were to execute his will : But when no Oares nor labour might suffice, 1365 We heaued the haplesse lonas ouer-boord. So ceast the storme, and calmed all the sea. And we by strength of oares recouered shoare. Gouer. A wonderous chance of mighty consequence ! Mer. Ah, honored be the God that wrought the same! 1370 For we haue vowd, that saw his wonderous workes, To cast away prophaned Paganisme, And count the Hebrues God the onely God. To him this offering of the purest gold, This Mirrhe and Cascia, freely I do yeeld. i375 M{aister^. And on his altars fume these Turkic clothes. This gossampine and gold ile sacrifice. Sailer. To him my heart and thoughts I will addict. Then suffer vs, most mightie Gouernour, Within your Temples to do sacrifice. 138° Goner. You men of Tharsus, follow me. Who sacrifice vnto the God of heauen Are welcome friends to loppais Gouernor. Exeunt : a sacrifice. Oseas. If warned once the Ethnicks thus repent, And at the first their errour do lament, 1385 What senslesse beasts, deuoured in their sinne. Are they whom long perswations cannot winne ! Beware, ye westerne Cities, where the word Is daily preached both at church and boord. Where maiestie the Gospell doth maintaine, 139° Where Preachers for your good themselues do paine, 1376 inmt Dyce: perfume Qq 1377 Cassampine ^35 1379 most om. (?3 5 1382 the] your (2^3 45 1383 Are/. C. Smith: And Qq Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 187 To dally long and still protract the time ; The Lord is iust, and you but dust and slime : Presume not far, delaie not to amend ; Who suffereth long, will punish in the end. 1395 Cast thy account, 6 London, in this case, Then iudge what cause thou hast to call for grace. (Scene IL> lonas the Prophet cast out of the Whales belly vpon the Stage. lonas. Lord of the light, thou maker of the world, Behold, thy hands of mercy reares me vp. Loe, from the hidious bowels of this fish 1400 Thou hast returnd me to the wished aire. Loe, here, apparant witnesse of thy power, The proud Leuiathan that scoures the seas, And from his nosthrils showres out stormy flouds, Whose backe resists the tempest of the winde, 1405 Whose presence makes the scaly troopes to shake, With humble t stresse t of his broad opened chappes Hath lent me harbour in the raging flouds. Thus, though my sin hath drawne me down to death, Thy mercy hath restored me to life. 1410 Bow ye, my knees ; and you, my bashfuU eyes, Weepe so for griefe as you to water would. In trouble. Lord, I called vnto thee ; Out of the belly of the deepest hell I cride, and thou didst heare my voice, O God ! 14 15 Tis thou hadst cast me downe into the deepe ; The seas and flouds did compasse me about ; I thought I had bene cast from out thy sight; The weeds were wrapt about my wretched head; I went vnto the bottome of the hilles : • 1420 But thou, O Lord my God, hast brought me vp. On thee I thought when as my soule did faint : My praiers did prease before thy mercy scate. 1890 rear Dyce 1407 humble stresse] humble stretch srigsi^. Dyce: sim])le stretche Grosart. For the punctuation see notes 1416 hadstj hast i2\ 1419 my] tby Qi 1 88 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV Then will I paie my vowes vnto the Lord, For why saluation commeth from his throane. 1425 The Angell appeareth. Angell. lonas, arise, get thee to Niniuie, And preach to them the preachings that I bad : Haste thee to see the will of heauen perform'd. Depart Angell. Jonas. lehouah, I am prest to do thy will. What coast is this, and where am I arriu'd? 1430 Behold sweete Lycus streaming in his boundes, Bearing the walles of haughtie Niniuie, Wheras three hundered towres do tempt the heauen. Faire are thy walles, pride of Assiria; But, lo, thy sinnes haue pierced through the cloudes. 1435 Here will I enter boldly, since I know My God commands, whose power no power resists. Exit. Oseas. You Prophets, learne by lonas how to Hue, Repent your sinnes, whilst he doth warning giue. Who knowes his maisters will and doth it not, 1440 Shall suffer many stripes, full well I wot. (Scene HL) Enter Aluida in rich attire, with the King of Cilicia, and her Ladies. Aliii. Ladies, go sit you downe amidst this bowre, And let the Eunickes plaie you all a sleepe : Put garlands made of Roses on your heads. And plaie the wantons whilst I talke a while. 1445 Lady. Thou beautifuU of all the world, we will. (Ladies) enter the bowers. Ahii. King of Cilicia, kind and curtious. Like to thy selfe, because a louely King, S. D. A7t Angell ^5 S. D. The Angel departs Ql 1429 prest Q\: Priest C^i 2 3 5 1433 towres Qi, : towns Qi 2 3 1434 thy] the Q2 3 4 5 of proud (^3 5 S. D. and om. Qi 2 4 1437 command (25 1446 Thou] Tho Q2 4 S. D. Enters C>4 1447 Cilicias ^2 3 4 5 Sc.III] LONDON AND ENGLAND 189 Come, laie thee downe vpon thy mistresse knee, And I will sing and talke of loue to thee. 1450 Cilicia. Most gratious Paragon of excellence, It fits not such an abiect Prince as I To talke with Rasnis Paramour and loue. Aliii. To talke, sweet friend ? Who wold not talke with thee ? Oh, be not coy ! art thou not only faire ? 145 5 Come, twine thine armes about this snow white neck, A loue-nest for the great Assirian King. Blushing I tell thee, faire Cilician Prince, None but thy selfe can merit such a grace. Cilicia. Madam, I hope you mean not for to mock me. 1460 Al. No, King, faire King, my meaning is to yoke thee. Heare me but sing of loue, then by my sighes. My teares, my glauncing lookes, my changed cheare, Thou shalt perceiue how I do hold thee deare. Cilicia. Sing, ALadam, if you please, but loue in iest. 1465 Alui. Nay, I will loue, and sigh at euery rest. S07lg. Beazitie, alasse, where 7vast thou borfie, Thus to hold thy selfe in scorne? Wlien as Bcautie kist to wooe thee, Tho2c by Beaiitie doest vndo mee. 1470 Heigho, despise me not I I ajtd thou in sooth are one, Fairer thou, I fairer none: Wafitofi thou, and wilt thou, ivanfon, Yeeld a cruell heart to plant on ? 1475 Do me right, and do me reason ; Crueltie is cursed treason. Heigho, I loue ! heigho, I loue ! < Heigho I aftd yet he eies me not ! Cilicia. Madam, your song is passing passionate. 1480 Alui. And wilt thou not then pitie my estate ? 1451^1;^. Cilicia] King Cili., K. Ci, or King Qq 1466 rest] icst (25 The Song Qi 1475 pant Grosart iQo A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV Cilicia. Aske loue of them who pitie may impart. Alui. I aske of thee, sweet ; thou hast stole my hart. Cilicia. Your loue is fixed on a greater King. Alui. Tut, womens loue, it is a fickle thing. 1485 I loue my Rasni for my dignitie, I loue Cilician King for his sweete eye. I loue my Rasni since he rules the world, But more I loue this kingly litle world. Embrace him. How sweete he lookes ! Oh, were I Cinthias Pheere, 1490 And thou Endimion, I should hold thee deere : Thus should mine armes be spred about thy necke. Embrace his necke. Thus would I kisse my loue at etiery becke. Kisse. Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleepe; And if thou wakest not soone, thus would I weepe. 1495 And thus, and thus, and thus : thus much I loue thee. Kisse him. Cilicia. For all these vowes, beshrow me if I proue ye : My faith vnto my King shall not be falc'd. Alui. Good Lord, how men are coy when they are crau'd ! Cilicia. Madam, behold, our King approacheth nie. 1500 Alui. Thou art Endimion, then, no more : heigho, for him I die. Faints. Point at the King of Cilicia. Enter Rasni, with his Kings \and\ Lords {and Magi). {Rasni.') What ailes the Center of my happinesse, Whereon depends the heauen of rhy delight ? Thine eyes the motors to command my world, Thy hands the axier to maintaine my world, 1505 Thy smiles the prime and Spring-tide of my world, 1486 my] Vx^Dyce 1489 S. D. She imbraceth him Qi 1490 Cithias (52 345 1492 S. D. She embraceth his necke Qi 1493 S. D. She kisselh him Q-x, 1496 S. D. She kisseth him againe Qi 1497 ye Dyce : you Qq 1498 falc'd] fale'd Q^, 1501 S. D. She faints and points Qi : Points Q4. 1504 motors] metors Q^ : meteors Q4 my] the ^4 Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 191 Thy frownes the winter to afflict the world, Thou Queene of nie, I King of all the world. She riseth as out of a traunce. Alui. Ah feeble eyes, lift vp and looke on him. Is Rasni here? then droupe no more, poore hart. 15 10 Oh, how I fainted when I wanted thee ! ^jubrace him. How faine am I, now I may looke on thee ! How glorious is my Rasni ! how diuine ! Eunukes, play himmes to praise his deitie : He is my loue, and I his luno am. 1515 Hasni. Sun-bright as is the eye of sommers day, When as he sutes his pennons all in gold To wooe his Leda in a swanlike shape ; Seemely as Galatea for thy white ; Rose-coloured lilly, louely, wanton, kinde, 1520 Be thou the laborinth to tangle loue. Whilst I command the crowne from Venus crest, And pull Orions girdle from his loines, Enchast with Carbunckles and Diamonds, To beautifie faire Aluida my loue. 1525 Play, Eunukes, sing in honour of her name ; Yet looke not, slaues, vpon her wooing eyne. For she is faire Lucina to your King, But fierce Medusa to your baser eie. Aiui. What if I slept, where should my pillow be? 1530 Rasni. Within my bosome, Nimph, not on my knee. Sleepe like the smiling puritie of heauen. When mildest wind is loath to blend the peace; Meane-while thy balme shall from thy breath arise, And while these closures of thy lampes be shut, 1535 My soule may haue his peace from fancies warre. This is my Morne, and I her Cephalus. Wake not too soone, sweete Nimph, my loue is wonne : Catiues, why stale your straines? why tempt you me? l.';08 S. D. She embraceth him Qi 1512 may om. Qz 5 V.)Y1 his pennons Milford : Spenori Qq 151'.) Galatea Dycc: Galbocea or (ialljocia Qq 1523 Orions J)yce: Onoris Qq 1534 my halm Dycc: blame (?2 4 5 1535 whilej when (25 1537 Morne Dyce : Morane Qq 1539 Catnies Qq 192 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV Enter the Priests of the sunne, with the miters on their heads, carrying Jire in their hands. Priest. All haile vnto Th'assirian deitie. 1540 Rasni. Priests, why presume you to disturbe my peace? Priest. Rasni, the destinies disturbe thy peace. Behold, amidst the addittes of our Gods, Our mightie Gods, the patrons of our warre, The ghosts of dead men howling walke about, 1545 Crying, Vac, Vae, wo to this Citie, woe ! The statues of our Gods are throwne downe. And streames of blood our altars do distaine. Aliii. Ah-lasse, my Lord, what tidings do I hear? Shall I be slaine? 1550 She starteth. Rasni. Who tempteth Aluida? Go, breake me vp the brazen doores of dreames, And binde me cursed Morpheus in a chaine, And fetter all the fancies of the night. Because they do disturbe my Aluida. 1555 A ha7idfrom out a cloud, threatneth a burning sword. Cilicia. Behold, dread Prince, a burning sword from heauen, Which by a threatning arme is brandished. Rasni. What, am I threatned then amidst my throane? Sages ! you Magi ! speake ; what meaneth this ? Magi. These are but clammy exhalations, 1560 Or retrograde coniunctions of the starres, Or oppositions of the greater lights, Or radiations finding matter fit. That in the starrie Spheare kindled be; Matters betokening dangers to thy foes, 1565 But peace and honour to my Lord the King. Rasni. Then frolicke, Viceroies, Kings and potentates ; Driue all vaine fancies from your feeble mindes. Priests, go and pray, whilst I prepare my feast, Where Aluida and I, in pearle and gold, 1570 1545 ghosts ()4 : ghost Q\ 2 : ghoast Qi 1546 Ve, Ve, Qq this] the Q<^ 1547 statutes Qq 1552 doores] walles ^235: wals Q\ 1553 binde] blinde Q^y 5 me] the Enters one clad in diuels attire alone. {Diuell. ) Longer liues a merry man then a sad, and because I meane 1585 to make my selfe pleasant this night, I haue put my selfe into this attire, to make a Clowne afraid that passeth this way : for of late there haue appeared many strange apparitions, to the great fear and terror of the Citizens. Oh, here my yoong maister comes. Enters Clowne and the Smith's wife. Cloivne. Feare not, mistresse, ile bring you safe home : if my maister 1590 frowne, then will I stampe and stare : and if all be not well then, why then to morrow morne put out mine eyes cleane with fortie pound. Wife. Oh but, Adam, I am afraid to walke so late because of the spirits that appeare in the Citie. i595 Clowne. What, are you afraid of spirits ? Armde as I am, with Ale and Nutmegs, turne me loose to all the diuels in hell. Wife. Alasse, Adam, Adam ! the diuell, the diuell ! Clowne. The diuell, mistresse! flie you for your safeguard; (^Exit. 1.577 warning profits ^5 1579 on] one Qq 1589 S. D. C/owm-] Afiam Qq, and so at 1590, 1596, 1599 the Smith's wife] his Mistresse Qq 1593 pounds ^5 COLLINS. I O 194 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV S. Wife.) let me alone ; the diuell and I will deale well inough ; 1600 if he haue any honestie at all in him, He either win him with a smooth tale, or else with a toste and a cup of Ale. The Diuell sings here. Diuell. Oh., oh, oh, oh, faine 7t>ould I bee. If that 7tiy ktngdotne fulfilled I might see ! Oh, oh, oh, oh! 1605 Clowne. Surely this is a merry diuell, and I beleeue he is one of Lucifers Minstrels ; hath a sweete voice ; now surely, surely, he may sing to a paire of Tongs and a Bag-pipe. Diuell. Oh, thou art he that I seeke for. Clowne. Spritus sa7itus\ — Away from me, Satan ! I haue nothing to 1610 do with thee. Diuell. Oh, villaine, thou art mine. Clowne. Nominus patrus ! — -I blesse me from thee, and I coniure thee to tell me who thou art ! Diuell. I am the spirit of the dead man that was slaine in thy 16 15 Company when we were drunke togither at the Ale. Cloivne. By my troth, sir, I cry you mercy ; your face is so changed that I had quite forgotten you : well, maister diuell, we haue tost ouer many a pot of Ale togither. Diuell. And therefore must thou go with me to hell. 1620 Cloivne {aside^. I haue a pollicie to shift him, for I know he comes out of a hote place, and I know my selfe the Smith and the diuel hath a drie tooth in his head : therefore will I leaue him a sleepe and runne my way. Diuell. Come, art thou readie? 1625 Clowne. Faith, sir, my old friend, and now good man diuell, you know you and I haue been tossing many a good cup of Ale : your nose is growne verie rich : what say you, will you take a pot of Ale now at my hands ? Hell is like a Smiths forge, full of water, and yet euer athirst. 1630 Diuell. No Ale, villaine ; spirits cannot drinke : come get vp on my backe, that I may carrie thee. Clowne. You know I am a Smith, sir : let me looke whether you be well shod or no ; for if you want a shoe, a remoue, or the clinching of a naile, I am at your command. 1635 1610 Spiritus Qe, atid so at 1639 1^20 thou must ^4 1630 athirst Dyce : a thrust Qq 1631 spirits] a spirit ^5 Sc. V] LONDON AND ENGLAND 195 Diuell. Thou hast neuer a shoe fit for me. Clowne. ^^'hy sir, we shooe horned beasts as well as you. {Aside. ) Oh good Lord! let me sit downe and laugh; hath neuer a clouen foote ; a diuell, quoth he ! He vse spritus santus nor nommus patrus no more to him ; I warrant you He do more good vpon him 1640 with my cudgell : now will I sit me downe and become lustice of peace to the diuell. Diuell. Come, art thou readie? Clowne. I am readie, and with this cudgell I will coniure thee. {Beats him.) Diuell. Oh hold thy hand, thou kilst me, thou kilst me ! 1645 {Exit:} Clcnime. Then may I count my selfe, I thinke, a tall man, that am able to kill a diuell. Now who dare deale with me in the parish? or what wench in Niniuie will not loue me, when they say, 'There goes he that beate the diuell.' {Exit.) (Scene V.) Enters Thrasibulus. Thras. Loathed is the life that now inforc'd I leade ; 1650 But since necessitie will haue it so, (Necessitie it doth command the Gods), Through euerie coast and corner now I prie, To pilfer what I can to buy me meate. Here haue I got a cloake not ouer old, 1655 "Which will affoord some litle sustenance : Now will I to the broaking Vsurer, To make exchange of ware for readie come. {Enter Alcon, Samia and Clesiphon.) Ale. Wife, bid the Trumpets sound, a prize, a prize ! mark the posie : I cut this from a newmarried wife, by the helpe of 1660 a home thombe and a knife, sixe shillings foure pence. Samia. The better lucke ours : but what haue we here, cast apparell ? Come away, man, the Vsurer is neare : this is dead ware, let it not bide on our hands. 2'hras. {aside). Here are my partners in my pouertie, J665 1638 he hath ^5 1617 dares Q^ 1652 it Qq : that sugg. Dyce O 2 196 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act IV Inforc'd to seeke their fortunes as I do. Ah-lasse, that fewe men should possesse the wealth, And many soules be forc'd to beg or steale ! Alcon, well met. Ale. Fellow begger, whither now? 1670 Thras. To the Vsurer, to get gold on commoditie. Ale. And I to the same place, to get a vent for my villany. See where the olde crust comes: let vs salute him. (^«/^r Vsurer.) God speede, Sir : may a man abuse your patience vpon a pawne ? Vsurer. Friend, let me see it. 1675 Ale. Eeee signiifn, a faire doublet and hose, new bought out of the pilferers shop, (and) a hansome cloake. Vsurer. How were they gotten ? Thras. How catch the fisher-men fish? M(aister) take them as you thinke them worth : we leaue all to your conscience. 1680 Vsurer. Honest men, toward men, good men, my friends, like to proue good members, vse me, command me ; I will maintaine your credits. There's mony : now spend not your time in idlenesse ; bring me commoditie ; I have crownes for you : there is two shillings for thee, and six shillings for thee. 1685 Ale. A bargaine. Now, Samia, haue at it for a new smocke ! Come, let vs to the spring of the best liquor : whilest this lastes, tril-lill. Vsurer. Good fellowes, propper fellowes, my companions, farwell : I haue a pot for you. 1690 Samia {aside). If he could spare it. Enter to them lonas. {lonas. ) Repent ye, men of Niniuie, repent ! The day of horror and of torment comes, When greedie hearts shall glutted be with fire, When as corruption vailde shall be vnmaskt, 1695 When briberies shall be repaide with bane, When whoredomes shall be recompenc'd in hell, When riot shall with rigor be rewarded, When as neglect of truth, contempt of God, Disdaine of poore men, fatherlesse and sicke, 1700 1672 get vent (23 1673 lets ^4 1677 and add. Dyce 1679 Master (^5 1693 The day of iudgement comes ^2 34 5 1695 cor- ruptions ^5 Sc. VJ LONDON AND ENGLAND 197 Shall be rewarded with a bitter plague. Repent, ye men of Niniuie, repent ! The Lord hath spoke, and I do crie it out. There are as yet but fortie daies remaining, And then shall Niniuie be ouer throwne. 1705 Repent, ye men of Niniuie, repent. There are as yet but fortie daies remaining. And then shall Niniuie be ouerthrowne. Exit. Vsurer. Confus'd in thought, oh, whither shall I wend? Exit. Thras. My conscience cries that I haue done amisse. 1710 Exit. Ale. Oh God of heauen, gainst thee haue I offended. Exit. Samia. Asham'd of my misdeeds, where shal I hide me? Exit. Cksi. Father, methinks this word 'repent' is good, He that punisheth disobedience Doth hold a scourge for euery priuie fault. 1715 Exit. Oseas. Looke, London, look ; with inward eies behold What lessons the euents do here vnfold. Sinne growne to pride to misery is thrall ; The warning bell is rung, beware to fall. Ye worldly men, whom wealth doth lift on hie, 1720 Beware and feare, for worldly men must die. The time shall come, where least suspect remaines, The sword shall light vpon the wisest braines. The head that deemes to ouer-top the skie. Shall perish in his humaine pollicie. 1725 I>o, I haue said, when I haue said the truth, When will is law, when folly guideth youth, When shew of zeale is prankt in robes of zeale, When Ministers powle the pride of common-weale, AVhen law is made a laborinth of strife, 1730 When honour yeelds him friend to wicked life, 1714 punisheth ^5 : punish (^i 2 34: doth punish Dyce 1716 with] and ^5 172'J the pride om. Q^ 1730 labyrinth ^4 198 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act V When Princes heare by others eares their follie, When vsury is most accounted hoHe, If these shall hap, as would to God they might not, The plague is neare : I speake, although I write not. 1735 Enters the Angel. Angell. Oseas. Oseas. Lord. An. Now hath thine eies perus'd these hainous sins, HatefuU vnto the mightie Lord of hostes. The time is come, their sinnes are waxen ripe, 1740 And though the Lord forewarnes, yet they repent not : Custome of sinne hath hardned all their hearts. Now comes reuenge, armed with mightie plagues. To punish all that liue in Niniuie ; For God is iust as he is mercifuU, 1745 And doubtlesse plagues all such as scorne repent. Thou shalt not see the desolation That falles vnto these cursed Niniuites, But shalt returne to great lerusalem. And preach vnto the people of thy God, 1750 What mightie plagues are incident to sinne, Vnlesse repentance mittigate his ire. Wrapt in the spirit, as thou wert hither brought. He seate thee in ludeas prouinces. Feare not, Oseas, then to preach the word. 1755 Oseas. The will of the Lord be done. Oseas taken away. (ACT v.) (Scene I.) Enters Rasni with his Viceroyes (^and Magi), Aluida and her Ladies, to a banquet. Rasni. So, Viceroyes, you haue pleasde me passing well; These curious cates are gratious in mine eye. But these Borachios of the richest wine 1734 shall] shoiild ^245 they] it Go 1748 these] the Qz Act V. Sc. I. S. D. her otn. Q^ 1759 Borachious or Borachins Q^ Sc. I] LONDON AND ENGLAND 199 Make me to thinke how blythsome we will be. 1760 Seate thee, faire luno, in the royall throne, And I will serue thee (but) to see thy face. That feeding on the beautie of thy lookes. My stomacke and mine eyes may both be fild. Come, Lordings, seate you, fellow mates at feest, 1765 And frolicke, wags ; this is a day of glee : This banquet is for brightsome Aluida. He haue them skinck my standing bowles with wine, And no man drinke but quaffe a whole carouse Vnto the health of beautious Aluida. 177° For who so riseth from this feast not drunke, As I am Rasni, Niniuies great King, Shall die the death as traitor to my selfe, For that he scornes the health of Aluida. Cilicia. That will I neuer do, my L ; i775 Therefore with fauour, fortune to your grace, Carowse vnto the health of Aluida. Rasni. Gramercy, Lording, here I take thy pledge. And, Creete, to thee a bowle of Greekish wine, Here to the health of Aluida. 1780 Creete. Let come, my Lord. Jack scincker, fil it full A pledge vnto the health of heauenly Aluida. Rasni. Vassals attendant on our royall feasts, Drinke you, I say, vnto my louers health : Let none that is in Rasnis royall Court 1785 Go this night safe and sober to his bed. Enters the Clowne. Cloivne. This way he is, and here will I speake with him. Lord. Fellow, whither pressest thou ? C/owne. I presse no bodie, sir ; I am going to speake with a friend of mine. 179° Lord. Why, slaue, here is none but the King and his Viceroyes. ClowTie. The King ! marry, sir, he is the man I would speake withall. L^ord. Why, calst him a friend of thine? Clowne. I, marry do I, sir ; for if he be not my friend, ile make him my friend ere he and I passe. i795 1762 but add. Dyce 1768 skinckt Qi 3 with] of ^2 3 4 1769 whole] full ^2 3 5 1775 Lord Co 200 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act V Lord. Away, vassaile, begone ! thou speake vnto the King ! Clowne. I, marry, will I, sir; and if he were a King of veluet, I will talke to him. Rasni. Whats the matter there ? what noyce is that ? Cloivne. A boone, my Liege, a boone, my Liege. 1800 Rasni. What is it that great Rasni will not graunt, This day, vnto the meanest of his land, In honour of his beautious Aluida ? Come hither, swaine ; what is it that thou crauest ? Clowne. Faith, sir, nothing, but to speake a few sentences to your 1805 worship. Rasni. Say, what is it? Clowne. I am sure, sir, you haue heard of the spirits that walke in the Citie here. Rastii. I, what of that? 1810 Clowne. Truly, sir, I haue an oration to tel you of one of them ; and this is it. Alui. Why goest not forward with thy tale? Clowne. Faith, mistresse, I feele an imperfection in my voyce, a disease that often troubles me; but, alasse, easily mended; 1815 a cup of Ale or a cup of wine will serue the turne. Alui. Fill him a bowle, and let him want no drinke. C/(?7W/^.Oh,whatapretiouswordwasthat,'Andlethimwantnodrinke.' (^Drinke giuen to Clowne.) Well, Sir, now ile tel you foorth my tale. Sir, as I was commingalongst the port royal of Niniuie, there appeared to me a great diuell, and as ^820 hard fauoured a diuell as euer I saw : nay,sir,he wasacuckoldly diuell, for he had homes on his head. This diuell, markeyounow,presseth vponme,and,sir,indeed, I charged him with my pike staffe, but when that would not serue, I came vpon him with sprytiis santus, — why it had bene able to haue put Lucifer out of his wits : when I saw my 1825 charme would not serue, I was in such a perplexetie, that sixe peny-worthofluniper would not haue made the place sweeteagaine. Alui. Why, fellow, weart thou so afraid ? Clowne. Oh, mistresse, had you been there and seene, his very sight had made you shift a cleane smocke. I promise you, though I 1830 1807 what otn. Qz 1810 I] Yea (?4 1812 this it is Qt, 1816 a bowle of wine Q^ 1820 royal Dyce: ryuale ^124: ryualt (?3 5 1824 that] y« ^i Sc. I] LONDON AND ENGLAND 201 were a man, and counted a tall fellow, yet my Landresse calde me slouenly knaue the next day. Rasni. A pleasaunt slaue. Forward, sirrha, on with thy tale. Chwne. Faith, sir, but I remember a word that my mistresse your bed-fellow spoake. 1835 Rasni. What was that, fellow ? Clowfie. Oh, sir, a word of comfort, a pretious word — 'And let him want no drinke.' Ras?n. Her word is lawe ; and thou shalt want no drinke. {Drink gtuen to Clowne.) Clowne. Then, sir, this diuell came vpon me and would not be 1840 perswaded, but he would needs carry me to hell. I proffered him a cup of Ale, thinking because he came out of so hotte a place that he was thirstie; but the diuell was not drie, and therfore the more sorie was I. Well, there was no remedie but I must with him to hell: and at last I cast mine eye aside j if you knew 1845 what I spied you would laugh, sir; I lookt from top to toe, and he had no clouen feete. Then I ruffled vp my haire, and set my cap on the one side, and, sir, grew to be a Justice of peace to the diuel. At last in a great fume, as I am very choUoricke, and sometimes so hotte in my fustian fumes that no 1850 man can abide within twentie yards of me, I start vp, and so bombasted the diuell, that, sir, he cried out, and ranne away. Alui. This pleasant knaue hath made me laugh my fill. Rasni, now Aluida begins her quaffe. And drinkes a full carouse vnto her King. 1855 Rastii. A pledge, my loue, as hartie as great loue Drunke when his luno heau'd a bowle to him. Frolicke, my Lords ; let all the standerds walke ; Ply it till euery man hath tane his load. How now, sirrha, what cheere? we haue no words of you. i860 Clowne. Truly, sir, I was in a broune study about my mistresse. Alui. About me ? for what ? Cloivne. Truly, mistresse, to thinke what a golden sentence you did speake : all the philosophers in the world could not haue said more : — ' What, come, let him want no drinke.' Oh wise speech ! 1865 1833 goe forwards Q4 1836 that] this ^4 1889 not wante drinke Q^ 1840 this] the Q^ 184'2 out of] from (^34 1844 was] is (^5 1850 fuslian JJyce : fastin (?i 2 3 : lusten Q^ 1856 bardie Qi 1858 Lords Dyce : Lord Q^ 1860 what] how Qi 202 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act V Alui. Villaines, why skinck you not vnto this fellow ? He makes me blyth and merry in my thoughts. Heard you not that the king hath giuen command, That all be drunke this day within his Court In quafifing to the health of Aluida? 1870 {Drink giuen to Clowne.) Enters lonas. lonas. Repent, repent, ye men of Niniuie, repent, The Lord hath spoke, and I do crie it out. There are as yet but fortie daies remaining, And then shall Niniuie be ouerthrowne. Repent, ye men of Niniuie, repent ! 1875 Jiastii. What fellow is this, that thus disturbes our feasts With outcries and alarams to repent ? C/owne. Oh sir, tis one goodman lonas that is come from lericho; and surely I thinke he hath scene some spirit by the way, and is fallen out of his wits, for he neuer leaues crying night nor day. My maister heard him, and he shut vp his shop, gaue me my Indenture, and he and his wife do nothing but fast and pray. lonas. Repent, ye men of Niniuie, repent ! Rasni. Come hither, fellow : what art, and from whence commest thou? lonas. Rasni, I am a Prophet of the Lord, 1885 Sent hither by the mightie God of hostes, To cry destruction to the Niniuites. Niniuie, thou harlot of the world, 1 raise thy neighbours round about thy boundes, To come and see thy filthinesse and sinne. 1890 Thus saith the Lord, the mightie God of hostes : Your King loues chambering and wantonnesse, Whoredome and murther do distaine his Court, He fauoureth couetous and drunken men. Behold, therefore, all like a strumpet foule, 1895 Thou shalt be iudg'd and punisht for thy crime : The foe shall pierce the gates with iron rampes. The fire shall quite consume thee from aboue, The houses shall be burnt, the Infants slaine. And women shall behold their husbands die. 1900 1872 spoke Dyce : spoken Qq 1877 alarums Q\ 1889 thy boundes] the world ^5 1591 hosts Z>j<:^ : hoste Qq 1897 foes Q^ Sc. I] LONDON AND ENGLAND 203 Thine eldest sister is Samaria, And Sodome on thy right hand seated is. Repent, ye men of Niniuie, repent ! The Lord hath spoke, and I do crie it out, There are as yet but fortie daies remaining, 1905 And then shall Niniuie be ouerthrowne. Exit offei-ed. Rasni. Staie, Prophet, staie. lonas. Disturbe not him that sent me ; Let me performe the message of the Lord. Exit. Rasni. My soule is buried in the hell of thoughts. Ah, Aluida, I looke on thee with shame. 1910 My Lords on sodeine fixe their eyes on ground, As if dismayd to looke vpon the heauens. Hence, Magi, who haue flattered me in sinne. Exeunt Magi. Horror of minde, disturbance of my soule, Makes me agast for Niniuies mishap. 191 5 Lords, see proclaim'd, yea, see it straight proclaim'd, That man and beast, the woman and her childe, For fortie daies in sacke and ashes fast : Perhaps the Lord will yeeld and pittie vs. Beare hence these wretched blandishments of sinne, 1920 And bring me sackcloth to attire your King. { Taking off Ids cro7un and robe. ) Away with pompe ! my soule is full of woe. In pittie looke on Niniuie, O God. Exit a man. Alui. Assaild with shame, with horror ouerborne, To sorrowes sold, all guiltie of our sinne, • 1925 Come, Ladies, come, let vs prepare to pray. Ah-lasse, how dare we looke on heauenly light, That haue dispisde the maker of the same ? How may we hope for mercie from aboue, That still dispise the warnings from aboue ? 1930 1901 Samaria /. C. Smith : Lamana (7^. See notes 1002 thy] the Qi~, 1913 S. D. Exet. His Sages Qq 11)17 om. Q^ ; «,/ Enter the Vsurer Solus, -with a halter in one hand, a dagger in the other. Vsurer. Groning in conscience, burdened with my crimes, The hell of sorrow hauntes me vp and downe. Tread where I list, mee-thinkes the bleeding ghostes Of those whom my corruption brought to nought 1940 Uo serue for stumbling blocks before my steppes. The fatherlesse and widow wrongd by me. The poore oppressed by my vsurie, Mee-thinkes I see their hands reard vp to heauen. To crie for vengeance of my couetousnesse. 1945 Where so I walke, all sigh and shunne my way; Thus am I made a monster of the world : Hell gapes for me, heauen will not hold my soule. You mountaines, shroude me from the God of truth : Mee-thinkes I see him sit to iudge the earth ; 1950 See how he blots me out of the booke of life ! Oh burthen more than ^tna that I beare ! Couer me, hilles, and shroude me from the Lord; Swallow me, Lycus, shield me from the Lord. In life no peace : each murmuring that I heare, 1955 Mee-thinkes the sentence of damnation soundes, ' Die reprobate, and hie thee hence to hell.' The euill Angell tempteih him, offering the knife and rope. WTiat fiend is this that temptes me to the death? What, is my death the harbour of my rest? Then let me die : what second charge is this ? i960 1940 noughts Qq : cf. 2062 and 2072 1946 all Dyce : Ik Qg 1952 Aetna Q^ : Atna ^123 Sell] LONDON AND ENGLAND 205 Mee-thinks I heare a voice amidst mine eares, That bids me staie, and tels me that the Lord Is merciful! to those that do repent. May I repent? Oh thou, my doubtfull soule, Thou maist repent, the ludge is mercifull. 1965 Hence, tooles of wrath, stales of temptation ! For I will pray and sigh vnto the Lord ; In sackcloth will I sigh, and fasting pray : O Lord, in rigor looke not on my sinnes ! He sits him downe in sack-cloathes, his hands and eyes reared to heauen. Etiters Aluida with her Ladies, with dispersed lockes. Alui. Come, mournfuU dames, laie off your broydred locks, 1970 And on your shoulders spred dispersed haires : Let voice of musicke cease where sorrow dwels : Cloathed in sackcloaths, sigh your sinnes with me, Bemone your pride, bewaile your lawlesse lusts, With fasting mortifie your pampered loines : 1975 Oh, thinke vpon the horrour of your sinnes, Think, think, with me, the burthen of your blames ! Woe to thy pompe, false beautie, fading floure, Blasted by age, by sicknesse, and by death! Woe to our painted cheekes, our curious oyles, 1980 Our rich array, that fostered vs in sinne ! Woe to our idle thoughts that wound our soules ! Oh, would to God all nations might receiue A good example by our grieuous fall ! Ladies. You that are planted there where pleasure dwels, 1985 And thinkes your pompe as great as Niniuies, May fall for sinne as Niniuie doth now. Alui. Mourne, mourne, let moane be all your melodie. And pray with me, and I will pray for all. O Lord of heauen, forgiue vs our misdeeds. 1990 Ladies. O Lord of heauen, forgiue us our misdeeds. Vsurer. O Lord of light, forgiue me my misdeeds. 1961 Methings (Pi : Methinke Qz 1969 S. D. dispersed Q\ : dis- piearsed Qi : dispiersed Q2 : dispearscd Q},. Jnd so 1971 loc/ces Qi : lookes Qi 3 : looks Q4 1970 hrovclred Qi : brodred ()i 2 4 1978 false nyce : fale Qi 2 : ffll Q3 : fall Q^ 5 1984 fals Q^ 1990 Q^ prefix Lord 2o6 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act V Enters Rasni, the King of Assiria, with his nobles in sackcloath. Cilicia. Be not so ouercome with griefe, O King, Least you endanger life by sorrowing so. Rasni. King of Cilicia, should I cease my griefe, 1995 Where as my swarming sinnes afflict my soule ? Vaine man, know this, my burthen greater is. Then euery priuate subiect in my land. My life hath bene a loadstarre vnto them, To guide them in the laborinth of blame : 2000 Thus I haue taught them for to do amisse ; Then must I weepe, my friend, for their amisse. The fall of Niniuie is wrought by me : I haue maintaind this Citie in her shame ; I haue contemn'd the warnings from aboue ; 2005 I haue vpholden incest, rape, and spoyle ; Tis I that wrought the sinne must weepe the sinne. Oh had I teares like to the siluer streames That from the Alpine Mountains sweetly streame, Or had I sighes, the treasures of remorse, 2010 As plentifuU as Aeolus hath blasts, I then would tempt the heauens with my laments, And pierce the throane of mercy by my sighes. Cilicia. Heauens are propitious vnto faithful praiers. Rastii. But after we repent, we must lament, 2015 Least that a worser mischiefe doth befall. Oh, pray : perhaps the Lord will pitie vs. Oh God of truth, both mercifull and iust, Behold repentant men with pitious eyes. We waile the life that we haue led before. 2020 O, pardon. Lord ! O, pitie Niniuie ! Omnes. O, pardon. Lord ! O, pitie Niniuie ! Rasni. Let not the Infants dallying on the teat, For fathers sinnes in iudgement be opprest ! Cilicia. Let not the painfull mothers big with childe, 2025 The innocents, be punisht for our sinne ! Rasni. O, pardon. Lord ! O, pitie Niniuie ! 1992 S. D. Kitig] Kings Qq 1993 so om. Qi 5 2000 labyrinth Qa, 2007 the . . . the] thy . . . thy ^234 2014 prepitious Q\ 2 faithful] fearful Eiig. Parnass. 2015 after we repenil after our repent Q^ 2023 teat Qi 5 : tent ^124 2027 O, pitiej O, om. ^5 Sc. Ill] LONDON AND ENGLAND 207 Omnes. O, pardon, Lord ! O, pitie Niniuie ! Jiasni. O Lord of heauen, the virgins weepe to thee ; The couetous man sore sorie for his sinne, 2030 The Prince and poore, all pray before thy throane ; And wilt thou then be wroth with Niniuie ? Cilicia. Giue truce to praier, O King, and rest a space. Rasni. Giue truce to praiers, when times require no truce? No, Princes, no. Let all our subiects hie 2035 Vnto our temples, where on humbled knees I will expect some mercie from aboue. Enter the temple Omnes. (Scene IIL) Enters lonas, Solus. lonas. This is the day wherein the Lord hath said That Niniuie shall quite be cuerthrowne. This is the day of horror and mishap, 2040 Fatall vnto the cursed Niniuites. These stately Towers shall in thy watery bounds, Swift flowing Lycus, find their burials : These pallaces, the pride of Assurs Kings, Shall be the bowers of desolation, ■ 2045 Where as the soUitary bird shall sing, And Tygers traine their yoong ones to their nest. O all ye nations bounded by the West, Ye happy lies where Prophets do abound, Ye Cities famous in the westerne world, 2050 Make Niniuie a president for you. Leaue leaud desires, leaue couetous delights, Flie vsurie, let whoredome be exilde, Least you with Niniuie be ouerthrowne. Loe, how the sunnes inflamed torch preuailes, 2055 Scorching the parched furrowes of the earth ! Here will I sit me downe and fixe mine eye 2030 sore sorie C. E. Doble and Dcii^hton : soric sorie Qi 2 : sorie Qt, : sorry ^4 2034 praier Qe, requires Q^ .S. D. £n/er lonas a/one Q^ 2042 v.atery om. Qs 2044 These] The Qs 20D2 lewd Q^ 2o8 A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act V Vpon the ruines of yon wretched towne ; And lo, a pleasant shade, a spreading vine, To shelter lonas in this sunny heate ! 2060 What meanes my God ? the day is done and spent. Lord, shall my Prophesie be brought to nought? When falles the fire ? when will the iudge be wroth ? I pray thee. Lord, remember what I said. When I was yet within my country land. 2065 lehouah is too mercifull, I feare. O, let me flie before a Prophet fault ! For thou art mercifull, the Lord my God, Full of compassion and of sufferance. And doest repent in taking punishment. 2070 Why staies thy hand? O Lord, first take my life. Before my Prophesie be brought to noughts. Ah, he is wroth : behold, the gladsome vine That did defend me from the sunny heate. Is withered quite, and swallowed by a Serpent. 2075 A Serpent deuoureth the vine. '^Qi^ furious Phlegon triumphs on my browes. And heate preuailes, and I am faint in heart. Enters the Angell. Angell. Art thou so angry, lonas? tell me why. lonas. lehouah, I with burning heate am plungde, And shadowed only by a silly vine ; 2080 Behold, a Serpent hath deuoured it : And lo, the sunne, incenst by Easterne winde, Afflicts me with Canicular aspect. Would God that I might die, for, well I wot, Twere better I were dead then rest aliue. 3085 Angell. lonas, art thou so angry for the vine ? lonas. Yea, I am angry to the death, my God. Angell. Thou hast compassion, lonas, on a vine, On which thou neuer labour didst bestow ; Thou neuer gauest it life or power to grow, 2090 2059 pleasant] spreading ^5 2061 om. Qc^ 2069 and of] and Q2 3 5 2072 nought Dyce 2077 am] do ^5 2083 Canicular Dyce : Cariculer Qq 2086 lonas om. Q^ Sc. IV] LONDON AND ENGLAND 209 But sodeinly it sprung, and sodeinly dide : And should not I haue great compassion On Niniuie the Citie of the world, Wherein there are a hundred thousand soules, And twentie thousand infants that ne wot 2095 The right hand from the left, beside much cattle ? Oh, lonas, looke into their Temples now, And see the true contrition of their King, The subiects teares, the sinners true remorse. Then from the Lord proclaime a mercie day, 2100 For he is pitifuU as he is iust Exit Angelus. Jonas. I go, my God, to finish thy command. Oh, who can tell the wonders of my God, Or talke his praises with a feruent toong? He bringeth downe to hell, and Hfts to heauen ; 2105 He drawes the yoake of bondage from the iust. And lookes vpon the Heathen with pitious eyes : To him all praise and honour be ascribed. Oh, who can tell the wonders of my God? He makes the infant to proclaime his truth, 21 10 The Asse to speake to saue the Prophets life, The earth and sea to yeeld increase for man. Who can describe the compasse of his power, Or testifie in termes his endlesse might? My rauisht spright, oh, whither doest thou wend? 21 15 Go and proclaime the mercy of my God; Relieue the carefuU hearted Niniuites ; And, as thou weart the messenger of death, Go bring glad tydings of recouered grace. {Exit.) (Scene IV. > Enters Clowne Solus, with a bottle of beere in one slop, and a great peece of beefe iti an other. { Clowne.) Well, good-man lonas, I would you had neuer come from 2120 lury to this Country; you haue made me looke likea leane rib of roast 2093 world] Lord (22 345 20;t6 besides (^2 2115 spright] spring (?5 Scene IV. S. D. Clowne] Adam Qq and so throughout this scene slop'] shop Q2 COLUMS. I p 2IO A LOOKING GLASSE FOR [Act V beefe, or like the picture of lent painted vpon a read-herings cob. Alasse, maisters, we are commanded by the proclamation to fast and pray : by my troth, I could prettely so-so away with praying ; but for fasting, why, tis so contrary to my nature, that I had 2123 rather suffer a short hanging then a long fasting. Marke me, the words be these, ' Thou shalt take no maner of foode for so many daies.' I had as leeue he should haue said, ' Thou shalt hang thy selfe for so many daies.' And yet, in faith, I need not find fault with the proclamation, for I haue a buttry and 2130 a pantry and a kitchen about me ; for proofe, ecce signiim I this right slop is my pantry, behold a manchet {Draws it out") ; this place is my kitchin, for, loe, a peece of beefe {Draws it out). Oh, let me repeat that sweet word againe : 'For, loe, a peece of beef.' This is my buttry, for see, see, my friends, to my great 2135 ioy, a bottle of beere {Draws it otif). Thus, alasse, I make shift to weare out this fasting; I driue away the time; but there go searchers about to seeke if any man breakes the kings command. O, here they be, in with your victuals, Adam. {Puts them back itito his slops.) Enters two Searchers. First Searcher. How duly the men of Niniuie keep the proclama- 2140 tion ! how are they armde to repentance ! We have searcht through the whole Citie and haue not as yet found one that breaks the fast. Sec. Sear. The signe of the more grace : but staie, here sits one, mee-thinkes, at his praiers ; let vs see who it is. 2145 First Sear. Tis Adam, the Smithes man. How now, Adam ? Clowne. Trouble me not ; ' Thou shalt take no maner of foode, but fast and pray.' First Sear. How deuoutly he sits at his orysons ! but staie, mee- thinkes I feele a smell of some meate or bread about him. 2150 Sec. Sear. So thinkes me too. You, sirrah, what victuals haue you about you ? Clowne. Victuals ! Oh horrible blasphemie ! Hinder me not of my praier, nor driue me not into a chollor. Victailes ! why, hardst thounotthe sentence, 'Thou shalttake no foode, but fast and pray'? 2125 so om. Qi 2139 S. D. Enter Qi 2140 i Searcher Qq 2141 as yet 6 I, these Dyce prints as part of I. 255 250 Then win these siigg. Dyce 260 And] Ay sugg. Dyce 271 at once Dyce suspects Sc. I] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 231 Man. They deeme, my Lord, your Honor Hues at peace, As one thats newter in these mutinies, And couets to rest equall frends to both ; Neither enuious to Prince Mandricard, 375 Nor wishing ill vnto Marsilius, That you may safely passe where ere you please, With frendly salutations from them both. Sac. I, so they gesse, but leuell farre awrie ; For if they knew the secrets of my thoughts, 280 Mine Embleme sorteth to another sense, — I weare not these as one resolud to peace, But blue and red as enemie to both ; Blue, as hating King Marsilius, And red, as in reuenge to Mandricard; 385 Foe vnto both, frend onely to my selfe, And to the crowne, for thats the golden marke Which makes my thoughts dreame on a Diademe. Seest not thou all men presage I shall be king? Marsilius sends to me for peace ; 290 IMandrecard puts of his cap, ten mile of: Two things more, and then I cannot mis the crowne. Man. O, what be those, my good Lord? Sacr. First must I get the loue of faire Angelica. Now am I full of amorous conceits, 295 Not that I doubt to haue what I desire, But how I might best with mine honor woo : Write, or intreate, — fie, that fitteth not ; Send by Ambassadors, — no, thats too base ; Flatly command,— I, thats for Sacrepant : 300 Say thou art Sacrepant, and art in loue, And who in Affricke dare say the Countie nay? O Angelica, fairer than Chloris when in al her pride Bright Mayas Sonne intrapt her in the net Wherewith Vulcan intangled the God of warre ! 305 Man. Your honor is so far in contemplation of Angelica As you haue forgot the second in attaining to the Crowne. •274 friend Q2 and Dycc 289 Seest thou not Qi: See'st not all men stig;.;. Dyce '2'Jl Mandricard aj/rfr/ r?//. 2(jo />jw 292 Two thirif^s more as part of I. 291 Dyce 294 First must as one separate lin,: Dyic 302 And who au3 O Angelica as separate lines Dyce 302 Affricke] Ai'lrica Q2 and Dyce 300,7 Dyce prints as prose 232 THE HISTORIE OF [Act I Sac. Thats to be done by poyson, prowesse, or anie meanes of treacherie, to put to death the traitrous Orlando. — But who is this comes here ? Stand close. 310 Enter Orgalio, Orlando's Page. Org. I am sent on imbassage to the right mightie and magnificent, alias, the right proud and pontificall, the Countie Sacrepant ; For Marsilius and Orlando, knowing him to be as full of prowesse as policie, and fearing least in leaning to the other faction hee might greatly preiudice them, they seeke first to hold the candle before the diuell, and knowing hym to be a Thrasonicall mad-cap, they haue sent mee a Gnathonicall companion, to giue him lettice fit for his lips. Now, sir, knowing his astronomical humors, as one that gazeth so high at the starres as he neuer looketh on the pauement in the streetes — but, whist ! Lupus est in fabula. Sac. Sirra, thou that ruminatest to thy selfe a catalogue of priuie conspiracies, what art thou ? Org. God saue your Maiestie ! 325 Sac. My Maiestie ! Come hether^ my well nutrimented knaue : whom takest me to bee ? Org. The mightie Mandricard of Mexico. Sacr. I hold these salutations as omynous ; for saluting mee by that which I am not, hee presageth what I shall be ; for so did the Lacedemonians by Agathocles, who of a base potter wore the kingly Diadem. — But why deemest thou me to be the mightie Mandricard of Mexico ? Org. Marie, sir, — Sacr. Stay there: wert thou neuer in France? 335 Org. Yes, if it please your Maiestie. Sacr. So it seemes, for there they salute their King by the name of Sir, Mounsier : — but forward. Org. Such sparkes of peerlesse Maiestie 340 From those looks flames, like lightning from the East, As either Mandricard, or else some greater Prince, — Sac. Methinks these salutations makes my thoghts To be heroicall. — But say, to whom art thou sent? Org. To the Countie Sacrepant. 345 Sacr. Why, I am he. 308-310 That's . . . poison, Prowess . . . treachery, To . . . Orlando. — Bnt . . . close Dyce as verse 327 thou before me add. Qz 3i3 makes] make Djfce Sell] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 233 Org. It pleaseth your Maiestie to iest. Sacr. \Vhat ere I seeme, I tell thee I am he. Org. Then may it please your honor, the Emperor Marsilius, together with his daughter Angelica and Orlando, entreateth your Excellencie to dine with them. Sacr. Is Angelica there? Org. There, my good Lord. Sacr. Sirra. Man. My Lord? 355 Sacr. Villaine, Angelica sends for me : See that thou entertaine that happie messenger, And bring him in with thee. Exeunt omttes. {Scene II. Before the walls of Rodamajifs Castle.') Enter Orlando, the Duke of Aquitaine, the Countie Rossilion ivith Sotddiers. Orl. Princes of France, the sparkling light of fame, Whose glories brighter than the burnisht gates 360 From whence Latonas lordly Sonne doth march. When, mounted on his coach tinseld with flames, He triumphs in the beautie of the heauens ; This is the place where Rodamant lies hid : Here lyes he, like the theefe of Thessaly, 365 Which scuds abroad and searcheth for his pray, And, being gotten, straight he gallops home, As one that dares not breake a speare in field. But trust me, Princes, I haue girt his fort, And I will sacke it, or on this Castle wall 370 He write my resolution with my blood : — Therefore, drum, sound a parle. Sou/id a Parle, and one comes vpon the walls. Sol. Who is 't that troubleth our sleepes ? Orl. Why, sluggard, seest thou not Lycaons Son, The hardie plough-swaine vnto mightie loue, 375 Hath traede his silucr furrowes in the heauens, And, turning home his ouer-watched teeme, Giues leaue vnto Apollos Chariot? I tell thee, sluggard, sleep is farre vnfit 357 Sec that Dyce prints as pari of I. 356 360 glories] glory's Dyce S. D. Sound a Park om. Q2 37a is 't Q2 : is Qi 374 Lycanos Q2 234 THE HISTORIE OF [Act I For such as still haue hammering in their heads 380 But onely hope of honor and reuenge : These cald me forth to rouse thy master vp. Tell him from me, false coward as he is, That Orlando, the Countie Palatine, Is come this morning, with a band of French, 385 To play him hunts-vp with a poynt of warre : He be his minstrell with my drum and fife ; Bid him come forth, and dance it if he dare, Let Fortune throw her fauors where she list. Sol. French-man, between halfe sleeping and awake, 390 Although the mystic vayle straind ouer Cynthia Hinders my sight from noting all thy crue, Yet, for I know thee and thy stragling groomes Can in conceit build Castles in the skie. But in your actions like the stammering Greeke 395 Which breathes his courage bootlesse in the aire, I wish thee well, Orlando, get thee gone, Say that a Centynell did suffer thee ; For if the Round or Court of Card should heare Thou or thy men were braying at the walls, 400 Charles welth, the welth of all his Westerne Mynes, Found in the mountaines of Transalpine France, Might not pay ransome to the King for thee. OrL Braue Centynell, if nature hath inchast A sympathie of courage to thy tale, 405 And, like the champion of Andromache, Thou, or thy master, dare come out the gates, Maugre the watch, the round, or Court of gard, I will attend to abide the coward here. If not, but still the crauin sleepes secure, 410 Pitching his gard within a trench of stones, Tell him his walls shall serue him for no proofe, But as the Sonne of Saturne in his wrath Pasht all the mountaines at Typheus head, And topsie turuie turnd the bottome vp, 415 So shall the Castle of proud Rodamant. — And so, braue Lords of France, lets to the fight. Exeunt onmes. 404 hath] had Qi 414 Typhoeus' Z^K^i Sc. Ill] ORLA^IDO FVRIOSO 235 (Scene III.) Alanems. Rodamant and Brandem art _/?!?>. Efiier Orlando with his coate. Orl. The Foxe is scapde, but heres his case : I wish him nere ; twas time for him to trudge. {Enter /he Duke of Aquitain.) How now, my Lord of Aquitaine ! 420 Aquit. My Lord, the Court of gard is put vnto the sword And all the watch that thought themselues so sure^ So that not one within the Castle breaths. Orl. Come, then, lets post amaine to finde out Rodamant, And then in triumph march vnto Marsilius. 425 Exeunt, (ACT IL Scene L Near the Castle of Marsilius.) Enter Medor and Angelica. Ang. I meruaile, Medor, what my father meanes To enter league with Countie Sacrepant? Med. Madam, the King your fathers wise inough ; He knowes the Countie, (like to Cassius,) Sits sadly dumping, ayming Caesars death, 430 Yet crying Aue to his Maiestie. But, Madame, marke awhile, and you shall see Your father shake him off from secrecie. Ang. So much I gesse \ for when he wild I should Giue Entertainment to the doating Earle, 435 His speache was ended with a frowning smile. Med. Madame, see where he comes : He be gone. Exit Medor. Enter Sacrepant and his man. Sac. How fares my faire Angelica ? Ang. Well, that my Lord so frendly is in league, As honor wills him, with Marsilius. 440 Sac. Angelica, shal I haue a word or two with thee? Ang. What pleaseth my Lord for to command. Sac. Then know, my loue, I cannot paint my grief, 421 My Lord IJycc prints as separate line 433 off from secrecie] from society su^. Dyce 437 lie] 1 will Dya 236 THE HISTORIE OF [Act 11 Nor tell a tale of Venus and her sonne, Reporting such a Catalogue of toyes : 445 It fits not Sacrepant to be effiminate. Onely giue leaue, my faire Angelica, To say, the Countie is in loue with thee. A^ig. Pardon, My Lord ; my loues are ouer-past : So firmly is Orlando printed in my thoughts, 450 As loue hath left no place for anie else. Sac. Why, ouer-weening Damsel, seest thou not Thy lawlesse loue vnto this stragling mate Hath fild our Affrick Regions full of bloud ? And wilt thou still perseuer in thy loue? 455 Tush, leaue the Palatine, and goe with mee. Ang. Braue Countie, know, where sacred Loue vnites, The Knot of Gordion at the Shrine of loue Was neuer halfe so hard or intricate As be the bands which louely Venus ties. , 460 Sweete is my loue ; and, for I loue, my Lord, Seek not vnlesse, as Alesander did, To cut the plough-swaines traces with thy sword. Or slice the slender fillets of my life : Or else, my Lord, Orlando must be mine. 4^5 Sac. Stand I on loue? Stoop I to Venus lure. That neuer yet did feare the God of warre? Shall men report that Countie Sacrepant Held louers paines for pining passions ? Shall such a syren offer me more wrong 47° Than they did to the Prince of Ithaca? No ; as he his eares, so, Countie, stop thine eye. Goe to your needle, Ladie, and your clouts; Goe to such milk sops as are fit for loue : I will employ my busie braines for warre. 475 Ang. Let not, my Lord, deniall breed offence : Loue doth allow her fauors but to one. Nor can there sit within the sacred shrine Of Venus more than one installed hart. Orlando is the Gentleman I loue, 480 And more than he may not inioy my loue. 450 So firmly is] So firm 's sugg. Dyce 465 Or] For siigg. Dyce 472 he om. Qi 476 Lord Dyce: Lords Qq Sc. I] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 237 Sac. Damsell, be gone : fancie hath taken leaue ; Where I tooke hurt, there haue I heald my selfe, As those that wiili Achilles lance were wounded, Fetcht helpe at selfe same pointed speare. 485 Beautie can braue, and beautie hath repulse ; And, Beautie, get ye gone to your Orlando. Exii Angelica. Mafi. My Lord, hath loue amated him whose thoughts Haue euer been heroycall and braue ? Stand you in dumpes, like to the Mirmydon 490 Trapt in the tresses of Polixena, Who, amid the glorie of his chiualrie, Sat daunted with a maid of Asia ? Sac. Thinkst thou my thoghts are lunacies of loue? No, they are brands fierd in Plutoes forge, 495 Where sits Tisiphone tempring in flames Those torches that doo set on fire Reuenge. I loud the Dame ; but braud by her repulse, Hate calls me on to quittance all my ills ; Which first must come by offring preiudice 500 Vnto Orlando her beloued Loue. Man. O, how may that be brought to passe, my Lord ? Sac. Thus. Thou seest that Medor and Angelica Are still so secret in their priuate walkes. As that they trace the shadie lawndes, 505 And thickest shadowed groues, Which well may breed suspition of some loue. Now, than the French no Nation vnder heauen Is sooner tatcht with sting of iealozie. Man. And what of that, my Lord? 510 Sac. Hard by, for solace, in a secret Groue, The Countie once a day failes not to walke : There solemnly he ruminates his loue. Vpon those shrubs that compasse in the spring. And on those trees that border in those walkes, 515 He slily haue engraun on euerie barke The names of Medor and Angelica. Hard by. He haue some roundelaycs hung vp, 48r) deadly-pointed J■M.v.^^ Dyce 487 K^ne] home Q2 492 amid] mid Dyce 4'J6 Tsiplione Qq : corr. Dycc 238 THE HISTORIE OF [Act II Wherein shal be some posies of their loues, Fraughted so full of fierie passions 520 As that the Countie shall perceiue by proofe Medor hath won his faire Angelica. Man. Is this all, my Lord? Sac. No; For thou like to a shepheard shalt bee cloathd, With staffe and bottle, like some countrey swaine 525 That tends his flockes feeding vpon these downes. Here see thou buzze into the Counties eares That thou hast often seene within these woods Base Medor sporting with Angelica ; And when he heares a shepheards simple tale, 530 He will not thinke tis faind. Then either a madding mood will end his loue, Or worse betyde him through fond iealozie. Man. Excellent, My Lord : see how I will playe the Shepheard. Sac. And marke thou how I play the caruer : 535 Therefore begone, and make thee readie straight. Exit his man. Sacrepant hangs vp the Roundelayes on the trees, and then goes out, and his man enters like a shepheard. Shep. Thus all alone, and like a shepheards swain, As Paris, when Oenone loud him well, Forgat he was the Sonne of Priamus, All clad in gray, sate piping on a reed; 540 So I transformed to this Country shape. Haunting these groues to worke my masters will. To plague the Palatine with iealozie, And to conceipt him with some deepe extreame. — Here comes the man vnto his wonted walke. 545 Enter Orlando and his Page Orgalio. Orl. Orgalio, goe see a Centernell be placde, And bid the Souldiers keep a Court of gard. So to hold watch till secret here alone I meditate vpon the thoughts of loue. Org. I will, my Lord. ceo Exit Orgalio. Orl. Faire Queene of loue, thou mistres of delight, 524 No Dycc prints as separate line 527 eares Qi : eates Qi 535 I will play Qi {Bodl.) 539 Forgot Q2 542 Haunt in 'sitgg. Dyce Sc. I] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 239 Thou gladsome lamp that waitst on Phoebes traine, Spredding thy kindnes through the iarring Orbes, That in their vnion praise thy lasting powres ; Thou that hast staid the fierie Phlegons course, 555 And madest the Coach-man of the glorious waine To droop, in view of Daphnes excellence ; Faire pride of morne, sweete beautie of the Eeuen, Looke on Orlando languishing in loue. Sweete solitarie groues, whereas the Nymphes 560 With pleasance laugh to see the Satyres play, Witnes Orlandos faith vnto his loue. Tread she these lawnds, kinde Flora, boast thy pride. Seeke she for shades, spread. Cedars, for her sake. Faire Flora, make her couch amidst thy flowres. 565 Sweet Christall springs, wash ye with roses When she longs to drinke. Ah, thought, my heauen ! Ah, heauen, that knowes my thought ! Smile, ioy in her that my content hath wrought. Shep. The heauen of loue is but a pleasant helle, 570 Where none but foolish wise imprisned dwell. Orl. Orlando, what contrarious thoghts be these, That flocke with doubtfuU motions in thy minde? Heaun smiles, and trees do boast their summers pride. What ! Venus writes her triumphs here beside. 575 Shep. Yet when thine eie hath seen, thy hart shal rue The tragick chance that shortly shall ensue. Orlando readeth. Orl. Angelica : — Ah, sweete and heauenly name, Life to my life, and essence to my ioy ! But, soft ! this Gordion knot together co-vnites 580 A Medor partner in her peerlesse loue. Vnkinde, and wil she bend her thoughts to change .'' Her name, her writing ! Ah foolish and vnkinde ! No name of hers, vnles the brookes relent To hcare her name, and Rhodanus vouchsafe 585 564 shades] shade Dyce after Alleyn M.S. 566-8 Sweet crystal sj^rinj^s, Wash ye with roses when she longs to drink. Ah, thoufjht, my heaven! ah, heaven that knows my thought! Dyce 574 summer Dyce after Alleyn M.S. 580 ]5ut, soft! Dyce prints as separate litte bb'6 Ah om. Dyce after Alleyn A/S. 240 THE HISTORIE OF [Act II To raise his moystned lockes from out the reedes, And flow with cahiie alongst his turning bounds : No name of hers, vnles Zephyrus blow Her dignities alongst Ardenia woods, Where all the world for wonders doo await. 590 And yet her name ! for why Angelica ; But, mixt with Medor, not Angelica. Onely by me was loud Angelica, Onely for me must Hue Angelica. I finde her drift : perhaps the modest pledge 595 Of my content hath with a secret smile And sweet disguise restraind her fancie thus. Figuring Orlando vnder Medors name ; Fine drift, faire Nymph ! Orlando hopes no lesse. He spyes the Roundelayes. Yet more ! are Muses masking in these trees, 600 Framing their ditties in conceited lines. Making a Goddesse, in despite of me. That haue no other but Angelica ? Shep. Poore haples man, these thoughts containe thy hell ! Orlando r cades this roundelay. Angelica is Ladie of his hart, 605 Angelica is substance of his ioy, Angelica is medcine of his smart, Angelica hath healed his annoy. Ori. Ah, false Angelica ! what, haue we more ? Another. Let groues, let rockes, let woods, let watrie springs, 610 The Cedar, Cypresse, Laurell, and the Pine, Ioy in the notes of loue that Medor sings Of those sweet lookes, Angelica, of thine. Then, Medor, in Angelica take delight, Early, at morne, at noone, at euen and night. 615 Orl. What, dares Medor court my Venus ? What may Orlando deeme ? Aetna, forsake the bounds of Sicily, For now in me thy restlesse flames appeare. 588 Zephyrus] the Zephyr Dyce after Alleyn MS. 604 thy Q2 : the Qi Sc. I] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 241 Refusd, contemnd, disdaind ! what worse than these? — 620 Orgalio ! Org. My Lord? Or/. Boy, view these trees carued with true loue knots, The inscription Medor and Angelica : And read these verses hung vp of their loues : 625 Now tell me, boy, what dost thou thinke? Org. By my troth, my Lord, I thinko Angelica is a woman. Or/. And what of that ? Org. Therefore vnconstant, mutable, hauing their loues hanging in their ey-lids ; that as they are got with a looke, so they are lost againe with a wink. But heres a Shepheard ; it may be he can tell vs news. Or/. What messenger hath Ate sent abroad With idle lookes to listen my laments ? Sirra, who wronged happy Nature so, 635 To spoyle these trees with this Angelica? Yet in her name, Orlando, they are blest. S/ie/>. I am a shepheard swaine, thou wandring knight. That watch my flockes, not one that follow loue. Or/. As follow loue ! why darest thou dispraise my heauen, 640 Or once disgrace or preiudice her name? Is not Angelica the Queene of loue, Deckt with the compound wreath of Adons flowrs? She is. Then speake, thou peasant, what is he that dares 645 Attempt to court my Queene of loue. Or I shall send thy soule to Charons charge. S/ie/f. Braue Knight, since feare of death inforceth still To greater mindes submission and relent, Know that this Medor, whose vnhappie name 650 Is mixed with the faire Angelicas, Is euen that Medor that inioyes her loue. Yon caue beares witnes of their kind content ; Yon medowes talke the actions of their ioy ; Our shcpheards in their songs of solace sing, 655 Angelica doth none but Medor loue. Or/. Angelica doth none but Medor loue ! 040 why o/n. Dyce after Alleyn MS. 644-6 She ... he Tliat . . . love as two lines Dyce COLLINS. I K. 242 THE HISTORIE OF [Act II Shall Medor, then, possesse Orlandos loue? Daintie and gladsome beames of my delight ; Delicious browes, why smiles your heauen for those 660 That, wandring make you proue Orlandos foes ? Lend me your plaints, you sweet Arcadian Nimphs, That wont to waile your new departed loues ; Thou weeping floud, leaue Orpheus waile for me ; And, Titans Neeces, gather all in one 665 Those fluent springs of your lamenting teares, And let them flow alongst my faintfuU lookes. Shep. Now is the fire, late smothered in suspect, Kindled, and burnes within his angrie brest : Now haue I done the will of Sacrepant. 670 Orl. Foemineum seruile genus, crudele, superbum : Discurteous women, Natures fairest ill, The woe of man, that first created cursse. Base female sex, sprung from blacke Ates loynes. Proud, and disdainfull, cruell, and uniust : 675 Whose words are shaded with inchanting wills, Worse than Medusa mateth all our mindes; And in their harts sits shameles trecherie. Turning a truthles vile circumference. O could my furie paint their furies forth ! 680 For hel 's no hell, compared to their harts, Too simple diuels to conceale their arts ; Borne to be plagues vnto the thoughts of men, Brought for eternall pestilence to the world. Oh femminile ingegno, di tutti mali sede, 6S5 Come ti volgi e muti facilmente, Contrario oggetto proprio della fede ! Oh infelice, oh miser chi ti crede ! Importune, superbe, dispettose, Prive d'amor, di fede e di consiglio, 690 660 browes] bowers Q2. 661 That, wounding you, prove poor Orlando's foes Dyce 663 waile] sing Dyce after Alleyjt MS. 667 flow alongst] stream along Dyce after AUeynMS, 676 are shaded] o'er-shaded j//^^. Dyce 681 hel's Qi: hels Q\ 685-692 O Femmenelle in genio, de toute malle sede, Comete, vulge, mute, fachilmente, Contrario, zeto, propria de la fede ! O infelice, miserate, crede ! Importuna, superbia, dispetoze, Preua de more, de fede, de consilia, Sc. I] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 243 Temerarie, crudeli, inique, ingrate, Per pestilenzia eterna al niondo nate. Villaine, what art thou that foUowest me ? Org. Alas, my Lord, I am your seruant, OrgaHo. Orl. No, villaine, thou art Medor; that ranst away with Angelica. 696 Org. No, by my troth, my Lord, I am Orgalio ; aske all these people else. Orl. Art thou Orgalio ? tell me where Medor is. Org. My Lord, looke where he sits. 700 Orl. What, sits he here, and braues me too ? Shep. No, truly, Sir, I am not he. Orl. Yes, villaine. He drawes Mm iit by the leg. Org. Help, help, my Lord of Aquitaine ! Enter Duke of Aquitaine and sott Idlers. Org. O, my Lord of Aquitaine, the Count Orlando is run mad, and taking of a shepheard by the heeles, rends him as one would teare a Larke ! See where he comes, with a leg on his necke. Enter Orlando with a leg. Orl. Villaine, prouide me straight a Lions skin. Thou seest I now am mightie Hercules; 710 Looke wheres my massie club vpon my necke. I must to hell, to seeke for Medor and Angelica, Or else I dye. You that are the rest, get you quickly away ; Prouide ye horses all of burnisht gold, 715 Saddles of corke, because He haue them light ; For Charlemaine the Great is vp in amies. And Arthur with a crue of Britons comes To seeke for Medor and Angelica. So he beateth them all in before him, juanet Orgalio. Enter Marsilius. Org. Ah, my Lord, Orlando — 720 Mar. Orlando ! what of Orlando ? Org. He, my Lord, runs madding through the woods, Timmorare, crinkle, ineque, int;rate, I'ar ijcstclenze eternal mondc nale Qq 695 with [my] Angelica Z'jre 696-7 Dyce prints as verse 712 To . , . Anfjelica as separate line Dyce K 2 244 THE HISTORIE OF [Act II Like mad Orestes in his greatest rage. Step but aside into the bordring groue, There shall you see ingrauen on euerie tree 725 The lawlesse loue of Medor and Angelica. O, see, my Lord, not any shrub but beares The cursed stampe that wrought the Counties rage. If thou beest mightie king Marsilius, For whom the Countie would aduenture life, 730 Reuenge it on the false Angelica. Mar. Trust me, Orgalio, Theseus in his rage Did neuer more reuenge his wrongd Hyppolitus Than I will on the false Angelica. Goe to my Court, and drag me Medor forth ; 735 Teare from his brest the daring villaines hart. Next take that base and damnd adulteresse, — (I scorn to title her with daughters name ;) Put her in rags, and, like some shepheardesse, Exile her from my kingdome presently. 740 Delay not, good Orgalio, see it done. ^^.^ Orgalio. Enter a Souldier, with Mandricard disguised. How now, my frend ! what fellow hast thou there ? Soul. He sayes, my Lord, that hee is seruant vnto Man- dricard. Mar. To Mandricard? 745 It fits me not to sway the Diademe, Or rule the wealthy Realmes of Barbaric, To staine my thoughts with any cowardise. — Thy master braude me to my teeth, He backt the Prince of Cuba for my foe ; 750 For which nor he nor his shall scape my hands. No, souldier, thinke me resolute as hee. Ma7i. It greeues me much that Princes disagree, Sith blacke repentance followeth afterward : But leauing that, pardon me, gracious Lord. 755 Mar. For thou intreatst, and newly art arriud, And yet thy sword is not imbrewd in blood ; Vpon conditions, I will pardon thee, — That thou shalt neuer tell thy master, Mandricard, 743 That . . . Mandricard as separate line Dyce 746 to] who sugg. Dyce 747 Or] And sugg. Dyce 749 proudly or boldly braved sugg. Dyce Sc. I] ORLANDO FVRIOSO H5 Nor anie fellow soldier of the canipe, 760 That King Marsilius licenst thee depart : He shall not thinke I am so much his frend, That he or one of his shall scape my hand. Ma?i. I swear, my Lord, and vow to keep my word. Mar. Then take my banderoll of red ; 765 Mine, and none but mine, shall honor thee, And safe conduct thee to port Carthagene. Man. But say, my Lord, if Mandricard were here. What fauor should he finde, or life or death ? Mar. I tell thee, frend, it fits not for a king 770 To prize his wrath before his curtesie. Were Mandricard, the King of Mexico, In prison here, and craude but libertie, So little hate hangs in Marsilius breast, As one intreatie should quite race it out. 775 But this concernes not thee, therefore farewell. Exit Marsilius. Man. Thankes, and good fortune fall to such a king, As couets to be counted curteous. Blush, Mandricard ; the honor of thy foe disgraceth thee ; Thou wrongest him that wisheth thee but well ; 780 Thou bringest store of men from Mexico To battaile him that scornes to iniure thee, Pawning his colours for thy warrantize. Backe to thy ships, and hie thee to thy home ; Bouge not a foote to aid Prince Rodamant ; 785 But frendly gratulate these fauors found. And meditate on nought but to be frends. Exif. Enter Angelica like a poore woman. An. Thus causeles banisht from thy natiue home, Here sit, Angelica, and rest a while, For to bewaile the fortunes of thy loue. 865 Enter Rodamant and Brandemart, with Souldiers. Roda. This way she went, and far she cannot be. Brand. See where she is, my Lord : speak as if you knew her not. jRo. Faire shepherdesse, for so thy sitting seemes, Or Nymph, for lesse thy beauty cannot be, 870 What, feede you sheepe vpon these downes? Ange. Daughter I am vnto a bordering swaine, That tend my flocks within these shady groues. Roda. Fond gyrle, thou liest ; thou art Angelica. Brand. I, thou art shee that wrongd the Palatine. 875 Ange. For I am knowne, albeit I am disguisde, Yet dare I turne the lie into thy throte, Sith thou reportst I wrongd the Palatine. Brafid. Nay, then, thou shalt be vsed according to thy deserts. — Come, bring her to our Tents. 880 Roda. But stay, what Drum is this ? Enter Orlando with a Drum, and Souldiers with spits and dripping pans. Br. Now see, Angelica, the fruits of all your loue. Orl. Souldiers, this is the Citie of great Babilon, Where proud Darius was rebated from : Play but the men, and I will lay my head, 885 Weele sacke and raze it ere the sunne be set. Cloivfie. Yea, and scatch it too. — March faire, fellow frying-pan. Orl. Orgalio, knowest thou the cause of my laughter? 862 He] I will Dyce 867-8 See ... if You ... not as verse Dyce you] yee Q2 875 art] are Qq 879-80 Nay . . . according To . . . tents Dyce as verse 879 according] accordingly sugg. Dyce 883 Soldiers a.f separate tine Dyce Sell] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 249 Org. No, by my troth, nor no wise-man else. 890 Orl. ^Vhy, sirra, to thinke that if the enemie were fled ere we come, weele not leaue one of our own souldiers aliue, for wee two will kill them with our fists. Rafe. Fo, come, lets goe home againe : heele set probatum est vpon my head peece anon. 895 Orl. No, no, thou shalt not be hurt, — nor thee. Backe, souldiers ; looke where the enemie is. Tom. Captaine, they haue a woman amongst them. Orl. And what of that ? To7}i. Why, strike you downe the men, and then let me alone to thrust in the woman. 901 Orl. No, I am challenged the single fight. — Syrra, ist you challenge me the Combate ? Brand. Franticke Companion, lunatick and wood, Get thee hence, or else I vow by heauen, 905 Thy madnes shall not priuiledge thy life. Orl. I tell thee, villaine, Medor wrongd me so, Sith thou art come his Champion to the field, lie learne thee know I am the Palatine. Alaritni : they fight j Orlando /{'z7/j Brandemart ; a7id all the rest flie, but Angelica. Org. Looke, my Lord, heres one kild. 910 Orl Who kild him? Org. You, my Lord, I thinke. Orl. I ! No, no, I see who kild him. He goeth to Angelica, and knowes her not. Come hither, gentle Sir, whose prowesse hath performde such an act : thinke not the curteous Palatine will hinder that thine Honour hath atchieude. — Orgalio, fetch me a sword, that presently this squire may be dubd a Knight. Atige. Thankes, gentle Fortune, that sendes mee such good hap, ■ Rather to die by him I loue so deare. Than liue and see my Lord thus lunaticke. 930 Org. Here, my Lord. Orl. If thou beest come of Lancelots worthy line, welcome thou art. Kncele downe, sir Knight; rise vp, sir Knight; 892 weele] we will Qz 022-3 Welcome thou art as separate line Dyce 250 THE HISTORIE OF [Act III Here, take this sword, and hie thee to the fight. 925 Exit Angelica. Now tell me, Orgalio, what dost thou thinke? Will not this Knight proue a valiant Squire ? Org. He cannot chuse, being of your making. Orl. But wheres Angelica now? Org. Faith, I cannot tell. 930 Orl. Villaine, find her out, Or else the torments that Ixion feeles, The rolling stone, the tubs of the Belides — Villaine, wilt thou finde her out. Org. Alas, my Lord, I know not where she is. 935 Orl. Run to Charlemaine, spare for no cost ; Tell him, Orlando sent for Angelica. Org. Faith, He fetch you such an Angelica as you neuer saw before. Exit Orgalio. Orl. As though that Sagittarius in his pride 940 Could take braue Laeda from stout lupiter ! And yet, forsooth, Medor, base Medor durst Attempt to reue Orlando of his loue. Sirra, you that are the messenger of loue. You that can sweep it through the milke white path 945 That leads vnto the Senate house of Mars, Fetch me my shield temperd of purest Steele, My helme forgd by the Cyclops for Anchises Sonne, And see if I dare not combat for Angelica. Enter Orgalio, with the Clowne drest lyke Angelica. Org. Come away, and take heed you laugh not. 950 CI. No, I warrant you ; but I thinke I had best go backe and shaue my beard. Org. Tush, that will not be seene. CI. Well, you will giue me the halfe crowne ye promist me ? Org. Doubt not of that, man. 955 CI. Sirra, didst not see me serue the fellow a fine tricke, when we came ouer the market place ? Org. Why, how was that? 934 wilt thou not find Q2 and Dyce 937 Sends Q2 948 My helm as separate tine Dyce 949 not otn. Dyce after Alleyn MS. 958 how] what Q2 Sell] ORLANDO FVRIOSO 251 CI. Why, hee comes to me and said, Gentlewoman, wilt please you take a pint or a quart ? No Gentlewoman, said I, but your frend and Doritie. 561 Org. Excellent ! Come, see where my Lord is. — IMy Lord, here is Angelica. Orl. j\Ias, thou saist true, tis she indeed. — How fares the faire Angelica ? 965 CI. Well, I thanke you hartely. Oil. Why, art thou not that same Angelica, Whose hiew as bright as faire Erythea That darkes Canopus with her siluer hiew? CI. Yes, forsooth. 9-0 Orl, Are not these the beauteous cheekes, Wherein the Lillie and the natiue Rose Sits equall suted with a blushing red ? CI. He makes a garden plot in my face. Orl. Are not, my dere, those radient eyes, 975 Whereout proud Phoebus flasheth out his beames? CI. Yes, yes, with squibs and crackers brauely. Orl. You are Angelica ? CI. Yes, marry, am I. Orl. Wheres your sweet hart Medor ? 980 CI. Orgalio, giue me eighteen pence, and let me go. Orl. Speake, strumpet, speake. CI. Marry, sir, he is drinking a pint or a quart. OrL Why, strumpet, worse than Mars his trothlesse loue, 9S4 Falser than faithles Cressida ! strumpet, thou shalt not scape. CI. Come, come, you doo not vse me like a gentlewoman : And if I be not for you, I am for another. Orl. Are you? that will I trie. He bcaicth him out. Exeunt ovines.