1 be (Dante?bmf| n $^ THE DRAMATIC WORKS AND LYRICS OF BEN JONSON [selected] With an Essay, Biographical and Critical, BY JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. LONDON: Walter Scott, l\ Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row, AND NEWCASTLE- ON-TYNE, 1886. CONTENTS. Introduction PAGE vii Epicoene ; or, The Silent Woman The Alchemist Catiline : His Conspiracy . Volpone ; or, The Fox Pjartholomew Fair . The Hue and Cry after Cupid i'^Qsocea T 245 267 293 iv CONTENTS. X^ttcs anb ©ccastonal ipteces* PAGK Echo's Song .... 333 The Kiss ..... 334 Hesper's Song to Cynthia . 334 Horace, his Drinking Song 335 Song— To Celia .... 335 Song— To Celia .... 336 That Women are but Men's Shadows 337 For Charis ..... 337 Begging another Kiss, on colour of mending the former ..... 338 A Song 339 Inviting a Friend to Supper 340 To Penshurst .... 341 To William Camden 344 On Lord Bacon's Birthday . 344 To John Donne . . . k 345 CONTENTS. To Francis Beaumont .... On the Portrait of Shakespeare To the IMemory of my Beloved Master, William Shakespeare, and what he hath left us . An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, a Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel .... Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke The True Measure of Life . On my First Daughter On My First Son An Ode— To Himself Ode ... PAGE 347 349 350 350 351 351 352 353 ^ 3ntro&uction, N the reign of Henry VIII. a member of the Border family of Johnston emigrated from Annan- dale to Carlisle. He became a servant of the English king, and was, according to the language of that time, a gentleman ; that is to say, one who could prove his right to bear coat armour. His son suffered religious persecution in the reign of Queen Mary, lost his estates, and adopted the profession of Protestant minister. He had married in England ; and one month after his decease his widow bore a son, whom she christened Benjamin. This boy, who subsequently spelled his family name Jonson, is the subject of the present volume. We know him as Rare Ben Jonson, one of the brightest ornaments of English literature in the age of Elizabeth, James, and Charles I. The widow Jonson, not long after her INTRODUCTION. son's birth, made a second marriage, this time with a master mason or bricklayer. We do not know his name. But he seems to have been a worthy man ; for he put his little step-son, Benjamin, to school, providing for the first stage of a training which was destined to produce one of the wisest scholars and most learned poets whom English annals can boast. William Camden, the great antiquary, was at this time second master of Westminster School. It seems that he had been a friend of Ben Jonson's deceased father, or at all events that he was interested in the boy's family. Owing to this illustrious man's kindness, the little Ben was admitted to that noble nursery of English youth ; and the future of his life was fixed on the day when he entered Westminster. In after years he ad- dressed the patron of his boyhood in verses which bear all the marks of sincere gratitude — " Camden ! most reverend head, to whom I owe All that I am in arts, all that I know." Ben was an apt pupil, and well repaid the generosity of his protector. He was gifted with a prodigious memory, and with a peculiar aptitude for appropriating all the stores of knowledge opened to him, and for vivifying these in his own brain by the mental force of one to whom the past was equally real with the present of human nature. In person he was an ungainly lad ; big-boned, of large stature, but clumsy in his gait, not quite INTRODUCTION, healthy, and with features somewhat repellant in their harsh and saturnine force of expression. During the years he spent at Westminster we must imagine him absorbing all the new learning of the Greeks and Romans which England had derived from Italian humanism, drinking in knowledge at every sense, and, after books were cast aside, indulging his leisure in studying the humours of the town which lay around him. The main point to notice in the accomplished man of letters, Rare Ben, as his printed works declare him to us, is the blending of vast and precisely assimilated eru- dition with the most acutely realistic sense of men and women as he saw them in the world of actual experience. His boyhood stamped this double character upon the dramatist. Westminster made him what he was to be, no less surely than the water-meadows by the shores of Avon and the deer-park of Charlcote created Shakespeare. This raw observant boy, his head crammed with Tacitus and Livy, Aristophanes and Thucydides, sallied forth from the class-room, when the hours of study were over, into the slums of suburban London, lounged around the water-stairs of the Thames, threaded the purlieus of Cheapside and Smithfield, drank with 'prentices and boxed with^ porters, learned the slang of the streets, and picked up insensibly that inexhaustible repertory of con- temporary manners which makes his comedies our most prolific source of information on the life of London in the sixteenth century'. What became of him when he left Westminster is uncertain. Tradition of some value reports that he matriculated at Cambridge. But we have no record of his residence there ; and his own state- ments make it more than probable that he did not profit by any course of reading at the University. It is at any rate certain that the degrees which both Oxford and Cambridge afterwards conferred on him were honorary, due not to his studies but to the admiration which his plays inspired. On the whole we may assume that he went straight from school into the office of his step-father, the builder or bricklayer. How he was employed there, whether as a clerk or as an actual apprentice to the trade, cannot now be decided. But when he became famous, his enemies often taunted him with having been a mason ; and on this fact of his early manhood the legend has been based of a marvellous workman, who studied Juvenal and Horace while carrying his hod up ladders or plastering walls with mortar. However he may have entered into his step- father's trade, the occupation proved distasteful to him. He felt called to be a scholar and a poet ; and there was, moreover, something of the Bohemian in his nature which ill brooked life- long devotion to handicraft. In order to break the chains of business which seemed to bind him down, Jonson ran away and joined an English force in the Low Countries. One exploit of his canipaign there has been handed down to us through his own lips. He says that he fought^ in single combat with a champion of the enemy in the face of both INTRODUCTION. xi camps, killed his man, and stripped him of his armour. That he should have done so is quite consistent with what we know about his char- acter, with his intense thirst for distinction, his personal courage, and something arrogant in his self-assertion. Perhaps it was in the Low Countries, like others after him, that he learned to drink deep and to swear. Certainly, when he returned from military service, he was not unaccomplished in these arts. When he was about twenty years of age, that is to say probably in the year 1592, he married an English wife. He tells us that she was " a shrew, yet honest." By this wife he had several children, all of whom he survived. He was not in any eminent degree a domestic man. Talking to his friend Drummond at Hawthornden in 1619, he mentioned that he had lived five years apart from his family, and he told several stories, which do not bear repetition, arguing no great fidelity to the marriage tie on his own part. Yet he was attached to his children. For two of them he wrote elegiac verses which we still possess ; and he narrated the singular circumstance of his eldest son's ghost appearing to him at the moment when the boy died of plague in London. From his plays it is clear that Jonson never felt the finer charms of womanhood ; for we cannot find in any of them a female character to match the least attractive of Shakespeare's. If we seek truly to comprehend the man, we must conceive of him as one in whom the natural instincts were partially INTRODUCTION. controlled by a strong will and sound intellect, who regarded matrimony as a useful institution, and who felt strongly toward his offspring, but in whom the ideal sentiment of love, the worship of woman, was absent. This will enable us not only to pene- trate his biography, but also to judge his attitude as a dramatic artist with correctness. He took to writing for the stage soon after his return from the Low Countries and his marriage, apparently with the object of gaining a livelihood. Nothing proves that he felt a real vocation for this branch of literature. But it was the readiest for a man of his breeding to engage in. His predeces- sors, Greene, Peele, Lodge, Nash, and Marlowe, had been scholars, more or less accomplished. They had created the profession of educated play- wrights ; and the greatest of them, Marlowe, had determined the style of drama which we call Elizabethan. Shakespeare was content to follow in Marlowe's wake, and to render perfect what that ill-starred pioneer had left rough-hewn. Classical traditions, in spite of Sidney and the courtiers, were abandoned ; and the English people declared itself with unanimous and enthusiastic instinct for the romantic drama. When Jonson then joined the company of playwrights and actors — for it appears that, like most of his contemporaries, he acted on the stage — he found himself at first com- pelled to adopt the prevailing fashion. His years of apprenticeship to the dramatic craft were spent in furbishing up old plays, collaborating with com- rades in the production of new ones, and studying INTRODUCTION. xiii his trade in the romantic school. From that epoch of his life nothing remains to us. But we know, from the still existing titles of some pieces, that he must have employed his pen in the concoction of sensational dramas calculated for the public taste. The Additions he furnished so late as 1601 to Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, which I should have liked to print among the specimens of his work, prove with what energy he could command the purest romantic style. Doubts have been cast upon his authorship of those striking scenes ; and yet the external evidence in favour of it is too strong to be resisted. Until the scenes in question can be assigned with any show of certainty to some named author of the time, Jonson, and only Jonson, claims them. And in tracing the evolution of his genius they have a capital importance, for they show that, when he deserted the romantic manner for his own style, which he did in 1598, he must have done this on deliberate choice. Jonson worked in the way I have described for the theatrical manager and money-lender, Henslow, between 1593 and 1598. In the autumn of the latter year he had a duel with one of Henslow's actors, Gabriel Spencer. They fought in Hogsden Fields, and Jonson was so unlucky as to kill his antagonist. He was thrown into prison, and narrowly escaped hanging. Indeed, it is now proved by a document brought recently to light that he was tried and convicted of felony, that he pleaded guilty, claimed benefit of clergy, and was set at large with the letter T branded on his left INTRODUCTION, thumb. The peril he then ran seems to have made a deep impression on his conscience ; for when he quitted Newgate he had changed his religion, having been converted to Catholicism by a priest. Three years later he recanted Popery, and rejoined the Church of England. On this occasion, in order to demonstrate his sincerity, he took the sacrament, and signalised his zeal by draining the communion cup of all the wine which it contained. The anec- dote is from his own life ; and instead of being any evidence of a ribald disposition, we must take it as he meant it, to indicate a firm conviction. Any- how he died faithful to Protestantism, and there is nothing to show that his changes of religion were influenced, as Dryden's may have been, by a sense of interest. Indeed, he suffered in 1603 for his Papistical opinions, just as his father under Mary had suffered for the Protestant cause, and his reconversion brought him no special advancement. The duel with Gabriel Spencer caused a breach between Jonson and his employer, Henslow. This, which at the moment may have seemed to him a disaster, was the occasion of his first eminent success as playwright. Shakespeare, who belonged to the acting company which then divided London with Henslow's, accepted a comedy from Jonson's pen, and put it on the stage. The play was Every Maji 171 Ms Humour. Here Jonson displayed his own peculiar manner for the first time. The pro- logue sounds a note of defiance to romantic play- wrights, repeating the tone of Sidney's attack on them in his Defence of Poetry. Romance, adapted INTRODUCTION. to the stage by Marlowe's predecessors, by ^Marlowe himself, and by Shakespeare, now in the morning of his glory, neglected classical rules of art. To time and space the romantic muse had proved herself indifferent. Upon the narrow room of a wooden theatre in the suburbs, with somewhat less than three hours for " the traffic of the stage," she represented the lives of heroes from their cradle to the grave, and the catastrophes of empires under the " drums and tramplings of three conquests." Romantic poets calmly ignored the unities of Aristotelian tradition. For them a story translated into action v.-as the main point ; and the conditions of the English theatres, devoid of scenery, dependent upon vivid movement in the players for effect, and on keen imaginative sympathies in the audience for approval, assisted them to such a point that the magnificent artistic licences of Pericles and A Winter^ s Tale were ren- dered possible. Against all this Jonson, the West- minster scholar, the bluff rebellious personage who had killed his two men in single combat, and who felt pugnaciously inclined to challenge all the world, rebelled. He declared himself for unity of action, unity of time, unity of place, and unity of subject. He produced a masterpiece which preserved these decencies of art, and which borrowed something from the Latin classics. At the same time he took pains to prove that the follies of the town might be acutely seized and vividly presented in accordance with the stricter rules of drama, and that comedy might be made to serve a moral purpose by xvi INTRODUCTION. delineating foibles common to humanity. Every Man in his Htwiotir was the highly original work which demonstrated his divergence from the style in vogue and the soundness of his method. It was to the credit of Shakespeare that he recognised its merit, had it acted, and took part himself in the performance. This comedy had a great success. It started Jonson upon a cycle of plays, in which he strove to delineate the humours of society, or, in other words, to portray the peculiarities of character which make men and women laughable. Humour he conceived to be something dependent upon the physical constitution of the individual, which pro- vokes a habit, constitutes a ruling foible, and diverts the action of its subject into courses which move mirth. In seizing these ruling follies by observation of the motley London crowd, he was eminently happy. His comedies form an inex- haustible Hogarthian picture-gallery of sixteenth- century oddities. But he was too profound a student of human nature to stop here. He knew the point at which eccentricity shades off into vice, and discerned the subtle links whereby crime is connected with moral weakness. Therefore, in the noblest of his plays, dominant passions tower above the undergrowth of humours. Lust, hunger for gold, jealousy, brutal egotism, vulgar ambition, control and sway the multiform kaleidoscope of minor aberrations brought before our notice in bewildering profusion. It was granted to him by nature in no small measure to preserve right INTRODUCTION. xvii relations between the criminal, the vicious, the pas- sionate, and the merely foolish ; so that a steady study of his work is equal to a lesson in ethics. Each figment of his brain assumes its proper dis- tance and perspective ; each is endowed with specific vitality. As in a bas-relief, the larger per- sons of his art stand prominently forward, the lesser retreat into the background ; but all alike are firmly outlined, unmistakable in individuality. This robust power of characterisation and of main- taining the gradations of dramatic interest is Jonson's highest quality. But it has a correspond- ing defect. There is no atmosphere, nothing unexpected, nothing unforeseen, no overshadowing mystery of fate, no delicate revealing of complexi- ties of character, in his stupendous craftsmanship. The romantic poets, whom he despised, created human beings more realistically natural in their mingled good and evil, than these vigorously con- ceived and Titanically projected creatures of his understanding. Though we retire from his theatre, overwhelmed by the man's prodigious inventive and delineative force, we feel that we have been, after all, at a marionette show, where the puppets are moved by wires. The satiric impulse was strong in Jonson. He felt called upon to lash the errors and the vices of his age ; and he boasted that he took Horace for his model. Yet he had neither the irony nor the urbanity of the Augustan poet. His blows fell as hard upon the backs of people he chastised, as his translations from smooth Latin verse fall harsh b xviii INTRODUCTION. upon our modern ears. Three comedies, composed between 1598 and 1600 — Every Man out of his Humour^ The Case is Altered^ and Cynthids Revels — roused society against him. Whole classes, like the courtiers, the play-goers, the actors, bad poets, and fashionable fribblers, felt themselves attacked. Being men of flesh and blood, some of them turned in the dust, and stung Jonson. He was lampooned in verses and caricatured upon the stage. To bear these reprisals calmly, though he had provoked them, was not in his nature. And in 1601 he summoned all his strength to give the foes, whose wrath he had aroused, a thorough drubbing. For this purpose he selected two assailants — Tom Dekker, with whom he had previously worked upon a romantic tragedy, and John Marston, who afterwards professed himself his pupil and ad- mirer. They were to be nailed up, like wild-cats on a keeper's back-door, to v^arn the common fry of scribblers that Ben Jonson was Apollo's darling. The outcome of this literaiy squabble was a rare and singular production of his pen, called The Poetaster. The scene of the play is laid in Rome at the time of Augustus, but the main characters are persons of Jonson's day presented under thin disguises. Much of its gall and venom has doubtless grown stale ; but enough of curious quaintness and fine invention remains to furnish forth quotations which may still be read with pleasure. Instead of crushing his antagonists by this " comical satire," as he would have called it, The Poetaster only brought down INTRODUCTION, xix double fury on its author's head. At this point, Jonson took a manly resolution, and one that confirms our respect for the essential goodness of his nature. He published a dialogue in verse setting forth his case, and apologising where he thought apology was due. In the course of this self-vindication, he acknowledged that the Comic Muse had not been favourable to his satiric bent of mind, and proclaimed his intention of courting her severer Tragic sister. Sejarms, produced in 1603, two years after The Poetaster, was Jonson's next venture on the public stage. It was brought out by Shakespeare's company, Shakespeare acting in it, and Shakespeare contributing (if an old tradition be correct) some passages to the play. When Jonson gave this tragedy to the press, he carefully omitted the additions, and bade his readers take note that he had done so. But who had helped him, he did not say ; only remarking that he would not "defraud so happy a genius of his right by my loathed usurpation." Sejamts proved that Jonson's conception of tragedy differed no less from the romantic ideal than his conception of comedy. It is a laboured, carefully-sententious transcript from classical authorities, so composed as to preserve a semblance of unity in time and place and action, and furnished with choruses after the manner of Seneca. Probably the author fondly imagined that it approached nearer to the type of a " high and lofty " tragedy than the Anto?iy and Citopatra which Shakespeare, so XX INTRODUCTION, genially, and yet apparently so carelessly, evolved from North's translation of Plutarch. Posterity thinks otherwise, and condemns Sejanus as one of Jonson's meritorious failures. The accession of James I. to the English throne in 1604 opened a new era for our poet. James loved nothing better than splendid shows, and he prized nothing more than erudition. So learned a bard as Jonson was sure of his patronage. But when it was discovered that this scholar-poet held within the vast mines of his intellect an inexhaustible vein of fancy, specially adapted for Masque and Pageant, his fortune was assured. From the specimens of his art previously given to the world, no one could have predicted that Jonson had it in him to furnish forth motives and lyrics for those gorgeous court-toys, resembling our panto- mimes and ballets, which then had the name of Masque. Yet so it was. Every year, until his genius sank in dotage, Jonson wrote libretti of rarest quality and most curious variety, for the court and noble folk of England. To dwell upon them here in detail would be to transcend the limits of an essay which has to deal with the main current of a great dramatist's life-work. It must suffice to mention that the peculiar aptitudes he displayed in composing Masques and entertain- ments, brought him into favour with the royal family, and made him personally acquainted with the chief members of the aristocracy. He was appointed Laureate, with an annual stipend, and in due course with a butt of Canary wine. James INTRODUCTION, wished to dub him knight ; but, unlike artists of the present age, he laughingly put by the honour. He frequented the houses of the great, and spent many months of each year on visits to their country-seats, complimenting them with poems, and receiving from them in return the honoraria of timely presents. Lord Pembroke, for example, sent him each year ^20 to buy books with. In this commerce with royalty and nobility I find that Jonson always maintained the dignified attitude of a self-respecting man. He never condescended to flattery. When he praised, he chose the point on which his patron deserved commendation. He dared to tell a pedant king that his manner of reciting verses was atrocious. He told the Prince of Wales, before the Court, that his favourite architect was an arch-scoundrel. This excursion into the particulars of Jonson's connection with the Court was necessary, because it forms a special feature in his biography, and distinguishes him from eveiy poet of his time. Meanwhile, Jonson did not neglect the public stage. Strangely enough, we next find him collaborating with Chapman and his old adversary, Marston, in a comedy called Eastward Ho / Some allusions in this play were thought to reflect upon the Scots. So precarious w^as the existence of a playwright in those days, and so vigorous was the censorship, that these three poor fellows met together in jail, with the prospect of having their noses and ears cut off. Chapman and Marston had been sent to prison. Jonson, hearing of their INTRODUCTION, mischance, joined them of his own free will. The circumstance has to be dwelt on, since it illustrates the generous and reckless nature of the man. All three were eventually liberated ; and Jonson gave a supper party on the occasion. No less personages than Camden and Selden took their share in it ; which proves, I think, that Jonson's peril had been considerable. His old mother was also there. She showed the company a paper of poison, which she had meant to mix with her son's drink, in the event of his being sentenced ; and " since she was no churl," it had been her purpose to quaff the goblet with him. Whether she truly so intended, or whether the supper inspired her with bravado, cannot now be estimated. But at this point of Jonson's domestic history the good woman disappears. Between the years 1609 and 161 5 Jonson put forth all his strength, and produced the best work of his lifetime. That decade saw the appearance in rapid succession of Volpofie, The Silent Woman^ The Alchemist^ Catiline^ and Bartholomew Fair. Volpone is a comedy, less of humours than of character and manners. With grimmest satire it exposes the master vice of cupidity, that accursed hunger after gold which debases human nature below the brutes, supersedes domestic affection, obliterates the sense of honour, and swallows up such powerful passions even as jealousy. The construction of the mighty plot is masterly ; the interest never flags ; the art of Volpo?te throughout is burning and intense. Yet we rise from its INTRODUCTION, xxiii perusal with the feelioig that wickedness so un- mitigated, cynicism so crude, characters so utterly abandoned to evil, are not human. True perhaps in detail, piece by piece, and personage by person- age, these component parts exceed the truth when brought thus into combination. The Silefit Woman shifts the scene from satire to humour, from comedy to farce. While Volp07ie is written in blank verse of highly sustained quality. The Silent Womafi is in prose. Dryden esteemed this play not only as the most perfect of Jonson's works, but also as the most admirably constructed specimen of modern dramatic art. Coleridge reckoned it the most entertaining of its author's comedies. That The Silent Womafi observes the rules of classical propriety, that the unities are maintained without sacrifice of ease and probability, that the threads of its simple but varied intrigue are skilfully twined into one knot, which is cut at last by a single dis- covery no less ingenious than unexpected, forms perhaps the slightest merit of this masterpiece. From beginning to ending, it provokes mirth, and the mirth increases as the situation deepens. The characters, moreover, are portrayed with inimitable freshness and vivacity. None of them are so bad as to stir loathing ; some are so foolish, others so eccentric, as to affect us with a lively sense of the ridiculous. Jonson conceived the character of a perverse old man, who spites his nephew. Morose has this weakness, that he cannot endure noise. His hfe is spent in preserving himself from the least disturbance. Y'et he thinks of marriage, as the best means of disinheriting Dauphine. The young man casts a bait to catch his uncle in his own wiles. He introduces a boy dressed up in woman's clothes into the neighbourhood, who pre- tends to be almost incapable of speech. So rare a prodigy attracts Morose's notice. He marries Epicoene ; but when the ceremony is completed, she finds her voice, welcomes all her noisiest acquaintances to a wedding feast, and drives her unfortunate bridegroom to distraction. The slow degrees whereby Morose is reduced to grant his nephew a fair allowance and the reversion of the estate, and the final discovery of Epicoene's real sex, constitute the plot and denouement of the comedy. In The Alchejuist we return from farce to the graver ground of satire ; but the satire is not so caustic as in Volpotie. Jonson has here chosen for his theme the gullibility of human nature. His alchemist is a vulgar sharper who, aided by con- federates, works upon the avarice and vanity of dupes. Blinded by their own greed, the lawyer's clerk, the petty shopman, the county squireen, the sanctimonious Puritan, and the blustering city knight, fall into the meshes of his coarse- spun net. Imposture practising on folly is so universal a feature of human society that, although alchemy has ceased to delude the world, this largely-planned and powerfully-executed comedy remains an allegory of the deepest moral significance. Bartholomew Fair does not take the same high rank in art. Yet to my mind it is of Jonson's works the one which I could least INTRODUCTION. afford to spare. It is a pure farce of the broadest and most genial humour, photographically true to the London life which Jonson had observed from boyhood. With strong Hogarthian brush he dashed upon his canvas a motley crowd of the knaves, fools, hawkers, sharpers, showmen, cooks, bum-bailiffs, costermongers, silly women, designing men, loose-livers, lovers, sim.pletons, onlookers, cockneys, and country folk of all descriptions, who were v^-ont to jostle together when the Bartlemas fair was held in Smithfield. From the midst of this rabble emerges into clear prominence the inimitable portrait of the Puritan, Rabbi Busy. This I hope to detach from its surroundings, and to present it to the readers of my selections. Catiline^ like Sejajius^ is a Roman tragedy, studied with minute care from the original texts of Sallust and Cicero. In spite of long-winded orations, tedious monologues, and dry choruses, it has more sustained interest than Seja7tusj and its characterisation is masterly. The whole play is stretched out with robust and Roman touches ; and the colouring is sombre, in harmony with the grim subject. The first act, which I purpose to include in the specimens of Jonson's dramatic work, can easily be separated from the rest. It presents a vivid picture of the various passions which move conspirators against social order, according to their several characters and temperaments. At the same time, a comparison of these scenes with the opening of Volpone will enable students to under- stand how Jonson treated the tragic as different INTRODUCTION, from the comic style of metre and of diction. Like Milton, he held that tragedy should abound in weighty sentences ; and he clearly aimed at loftier imageiy and more laboured elocution than befitted the comic Muse. After 1614 Jonson's powers declined in vigour. The Devil is a?i Ass^ which was produced in 1616, already shows some signs of failing inspiration. It is based upon the old Italian fable of Belphegor, and tends to prove that human craft and folly can teach the imps of darkness something in their own line. The special foible here selected is that mania for speculation which in another century possessed France and England at the time of the South Sea Bubble. Dryden called the last come- dies of Ben Jonson his " dotages ; " and this name must be given to The Staple of News (1625), The New hm (1629), The Magnetic Lady (1632), and The Tale of a Tub (1633). To bestow criticism upon each of these pieces, in the narrow room alloweIermaid, and Fullers description of the " wit-combats " between Jonson and Shakespeare, the one moving like a stately galleon under press of sail, the other shifting like a lighter and more nimble craft, have bequeathed lively pictures of the intellectual atmosphere of those Bohemian meetings. Herrick, writing with rapture of that society, describes the " lyric feasts " — " Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad ; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the frolic winc.'^ Beaumont, meditating in absence on the vivid life of those convivial meetings, exclaims : *' What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have heen So nimble and so full of subtle flame As if that every one from whom they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Ofhisdulllife." After making experience of many such places of resort, Jonson finally settled down in the Old Devil Tavern at Temple Bar. In this house a club-room, INTRODUCTION. called the Apollo, was reserved for his set. He wrote laws in terse Latin to regulate the conduct of its members ; and here, among the most distin- guished men of intellect and fashion whom the town could show, it often happened that some youth of promise came forward, requesting to be " Sealed of the Tribe of Ben." Such candidates for his favour and intimacy, when they were approved, Jonson called his sons. And not a few of the best writers of the day felt honoured by this designation. Though powerfully built, Jonson had never been a wholly healthy man. He suffered from scorbutic affections, inherited probably from his ancestors, and was subject to fits of abstraction bordering upon melancholy. Drummond significantly records of him that he was "oppressed with phantasy, which hath ever mastered his reason ; a general disease in many poets." Now that years increased, and sedentary habits grew upon him, these physical dis- abilities became more irksome. About 162& he was stricken with paralysis. Between this date and 1637, when he died, his state of health gradu- ally weakened. Dropsy was added to the palsy. His huge overgrown body, which he humorously compared to the Tun of Heidelberg, could scarcely be moved from the apartment where he dwelt, and at last he took to his bed. On the death of his royal master James, the court seemed for a while to have forgotten' him, and the city of London, whom he served in the capacity of chronologcr, withdrew their pension. Destitution, as well as sickness, threatened his declining age. Yet Jonson INTRODUCTION. xxxi had too lastingly impressed the finer spirits of that epoch by the manliness of his character, the vast- ness of his learning, and the rarity of his genius to be long neglected. Noble friends, among whom the Duke of Newcastle deserves to be com- memorated, bestowed pains on his comfort. Charles I. increased his Laureate's salary, and forced the city to renew their annual payments. After 1635 he wrote but little, unless we refer the prose notes called Discoveries to that period. But there is no reason to believe that his end, though irksome through manifold diseases, was either for- lorn or unhappy. His death was greeted with a chorus of elegiac and panegyrical versee, poured forth by the best poets of the moment ; and he found an honourable resting place in Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. Money was collected to defray the expenses of a solemn monument. The disorders of the Great Rebellion interrupted this scheme ; and the marble tablet inscribed with the famous words, " O Rare Ben Jonson ! " is due to the piety of a friend. Sir John Young, of Great Milton, Oxfordshire. When we review Ben Jonson's position among the poets of his age, the first thing which strikes us is the length of his career as a man of letters. He conquered fame in 159S, while Queen Elizabeth was yet alive, and Shakespeare had but recently begun to reap his laurels. He lived through the reign of James I., contributing more than any other poet to form the literary tone of that king's period. He was still a power in the world of learning and INTRODUCTION. fine letters in the year when John Hampden refused to pay King Charles's ship-money. From his con- temporaries he stood forth with singular distinct- ness. Of Shakespeare we know what is tantamount to nothing. Of Beaumont, of Fletcher, of Chapman, of Massinger, of Ford, of Webster, how very little can we say we know ! But Jonson manifested his individuality in so many ways that it is easy to form a tolerably accurate conception of the man. Unlike the most illustrious of his brother play- wrights, he was one of the ripest scholars of an age which produced great students ; in fact, he divides with Milton the honour of being the most learned among English poets. This distinction gave him a certain pre-eminence in literary circles, of which he was perhaps too conscious. He formed a high uncompromising ideal of the poet's vocation, felt himself bound to assert its dignity in his works, and from the first attempted to strike out a way of art different from that of his contemporaries. The independence which marked his personal character and his theory of poetry, expressed itself at times in arrogance and satire ; but the poems addressed to individuals, who might have been accounted rivals, exonerate him from the charge of envy and malig- nity. That he rated his own powers and achieve- ments highly, cannot be denied ; yet he was not illiberal of praise to others. In his dealings with great folk, he showed a manly frankness, proclaim- ing his belief that " poets were rarer births than kings," and boasting with sincerity that he esteemed no man for the name of a lord. " Of all styles he INTRODUCTION. loved most to be named honest," and honesty seems to have formed the basis of his character. It is not easy to determine Jonson's place among the poets of his age, partly because of his stubborn opposition to their leading impulses, and partly because we suspect him to have followed a delib- erately adopted theory rather than his natural bent of genius. If he really penned the Additions to Jeronymo, who was more capable of commanding the romantic drama than Ben Jonson ? To say that he was not the author of those thrilling scenes, costs nothing ; but it contradicts the only direct evidence we have upon the subject. We must, therefore, accept them, in spite of their divergence from his well-known style, as specimens of what he could achieve in the romantic manner. Yet from the moment when Eve?y Ma?t m His Humour first saw the light in 159S, until 1633, w^hen the last of Jonson's " dotages " was coldly received by court and public, he sustained a wholly different dramatic style. The specific marks of this style were sound sense rather than imagination, robust logic instead of fancy, a vigorous yet somewhat pedestrian march of blank verse, prose eminent for terse pregnancy and pith — much to impress us with the sense of power and sterling wisdom, little to fascinate us by vague unexpected charm or subtle beauty. Jon- son's plays have been compared to substantial edifices from which the scaffolding has not been taken down. There is something cumbrous in their solidity, unfinished in their decorative details. We detect in them the hand of a craftsman working by c xxxiv INTRODUCTION. rule, not following the suasion of instinct. More- over, they are overweighted with ponderous erudi- tion. It is true that Jonson gambols beneath loads of learning which would crush another playwright's back. Nothing in the most recondite classical and medieval sources comes amiss to him. He carries libraries as lightly as an elephant his howdar. But while we watch his "gigantic sport," and wonder, we feel that contemporary critics were not wrong in blaming him for indiscriminate use of antique texts, and in professing a distaste for his laboured translations. He was not merely a comic and tragic drama- tist. Among his papers at his death was found a half-completed pastoral. This fragment, en- titled The Sad Shepherd^ proves that he could blow the rustic pipe ; but he breathed upon it with the lungs of a cultured Polyphemus. How different is his touch to the far laxer yet more moving manner of Fletcher ! The specimens of his lyrics and occasional verses which I have selected, show that in these departments of poetry he attained to rare excellence. Yet they miss the fragrance of Beaumont's or of Fletcher's muse, the intensity of Webster's, the magic of Shakespeare's ; and the very best of them, " Drink to me only with thine eyes," is a supremely successful adaptation of fragments chosen for free translation from the prose of Philostratus. Jonson again was not only a poet. He was also a great critic, a writer of majestic prose, and a philosophical observer of human ng^ture. The INTRODUCTION. xxxv lofty Dedication of Volpone to the Sister Uni- versivies and the Discoveries^ in which he di- gested some of his ripest thoughts on men and art and statecraft, will repay persual by all who care to study the development of English style in prose. They show that the first half of the seven- teenth century, so rich in works of creative genius, was not deficient in reflection upon the principles of life and art. Unfortunately, the larger bulk of Jonson's critical essays perished in a fire which destroyed his library at some uncertain date between 1619 and 1625. If I were bound to offer in one sentence a definition of Ben Jonson's genius, I should be inclined to call him a poet of the understanding and of judgment, in whom vast erudition was combined with rarely acute faculties for studying and reproducing the distinctive marks of personal character, and who had overlaid a lively imagina- tive faculty with deliberately conceived ideals of the literary art. Fire of the imagination and fancy smouldered in the man without emerging into luminosity. He struggled under the weight of his encumbered memory ; and haughtily submitted to the fetters of a self-prescribed rule. Yet it was this central heat of a naturally poetic temperament which gave warmth and glow to his best work, even when we recognise it to be clumsy, and leel bound to acknowledge that it bears the aspect rather of constructive ability than of genial inspira- tion. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. Epicoene; or, tbc Silent Moman* DRAMATIS PERSONS Morose, a gentleman that loves no noise. Sir Dauphine Eugenie, a Knight, his Nephew. Ned Clerimont, a Gentleman, his Friend. Truewdt, another Friend. Sir John Daw, a Knight. Sir Amorous La-Foole, a Knight also. Thomas Otter, a Land and Sea Captain, Cutbeard, a Barber. Mute, one o/Morose's Servants. Parson. Page to Clerimont. Epicoene, supposed the Silent Woman. Lady Haughty, \ Ladies Lady Centaure, - Collegi- Mistress Dol. Mavis, ) ates. Mistress Otter, the \ Captain's Wife. ( Pre- Mistress Trusty, Lady t tenders Haughty's Woman. ) Pages, Servants, etc. Scene — London. EPICCENE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN. ACT I. Scene I. — A Room in Clerimont's House. Enter Clerimont, malcing himself ready, followed hy his Page. Cler. Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy? Page. Yes, sir. Cler. Let me liear it. Page. You shall, sir ; but i'faith let nobody else. Cler. Why, I pray ? Page. It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir ; besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of, whose lady is the argument of it ; where now I am the welcomest thing under a man that comes there. Cler. I think ; and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you. Page; Ko, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentle- women play with me, and throw me on the bed, and THE SILENT WOMAN. carry me in to my lady : and she kisses me with her oil'd face, and puts a peruke on my head ; and asks me an I will wear her gown ? and I say no : and then she hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent ! and lets me go. Cler. No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when the entrance is so easy to you well, sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing, sir. [Page sings. Still to be neat, still to be drest — Enter Truewit. True. Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and never feels it ! What between his mistress abroad and his ingle at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle ; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or condemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for it. Cler. Why, what should a man do ? True. Why, nothing ; or that which, when 'tis done, is as idle. Hearken after the next horse-race, or hunting-match, lay wagers, praise Pu])py, or Peppercorn, White-foot, Franklin ; swear upon Whitemane's party ; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you ; visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the character of every bowler or better on the green. These be the things wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and 1 for company. Cler. Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are considerations, when we come to have gray heads and weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk THE SILENT WOMAN. members. "We'll think on 'em then ; then we'll pray and fast. True. Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil ! CUr, Why, then 'tis time enough. True. Yes ; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his business the last day. 0, Clerimont, this time, because it is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and misery indeed ! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing the matter still. Cler. Nay, thou'lt not leave now Trut. See but our common disease ! with what justice can we complain, that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give our affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never do it to ourselves ? nor hear, nor regard ourselves ? Cler. Fob ! thou hast read Plutarch's morals, now, or some such tedious fellow; and it shews so vilely with thee ! 'fore God, 'twill spoil thy wit utterly. Talk to me of pins, and feathers, and ladies, and rushes, and such things : and leave this Stoicity alone, till thou mak'st sermons. True,. Well, sir ; if it will not take, I have learn'd to lose as little of my kindness as I can ; I'll do good to no man against his will, certainly. When were you at the college ? CUr. What college? True. As if you knew not ! Cler. No, faith, I came but from court yesterday. True. Why, is it not arrived there yet, the news ? A new foundation, sir, here in the town, of ladies, that call themselves the collegiates, an order between THE SILENT WOMAN. courtiers and country-madams, that live from their husbands ; and give entertainment to all the wits, and braveries of the time, as they call them : cry down, or up, what they like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with most masculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority ; and every day gain to their college some new probationer. Cler. Who is the president ? True. The grave and youthful matron, the lady Haughty. Cler. A pox of her autumnal face, her pieced beauty ! there's no man can be admitted till she be ready, now-a-days, till she has painted, and perfumed, and wash'd, and scour'd, but the boy, here ; and him she wipes her oil'd lips upon, like a sponge. I have made a song (I pray thee hear it) on the subject. [Page sings. Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd : Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Trve. And I am clearly on the other side : I love a good dressing before any beauty o' the world. 0, a woman is then like a delicate garden ; nor is there one kind of it ; she may vary every hour ; take often counsel of her glass, and choose the best. If she have good ears, shew them ; good hair, lay it out ; good THE SILENT WOMAN. legs, wear short clothes ; a good hand, discover it often ; practice any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye- brows ; paint, and profess it. CUr. How 1 publicly ? Trxie. The doing of it, not the manner : that must be private. Many things that seem foul in the doing, do please done. A lady should, indeed, study her face, when we thinks she sleeps ; nor, when the doors are shut, should men be enquiring ; all is sacred within, then. Is it for us to see their perukes put on, their false teeth, their complexion, their eye-brows, their nails ? You see gilders will not work, but inclosed. They must not discover how little serves, with the help of art, to adorn a great deal. How long did the canvas hang afore Aldgate ? "Were the people suffered to see the city's Love and Charity, while they were rude stone, before they were painted and burnish'd ? No ; no more should servants approach their mistresses, but when they are complete and finish'd. Cler. Well said, my Truewit. True, And a wise lady will keep a guard always upon the place, that she may do things securely. I once fol- lowed a rude fellow into a chamber, where the poor madam, for haste, and troubled, snatch'd at her peruke to cover her baldness ; and put it on the wrong way. Cler. prodigy ! True. And the unconscionable knave held her in com- pliment an hour with that reverst face, when I still look'd when she should talk from the t'other side. Cler. "Why, thou shouldst have relieved her. True. No, faith, I let her alone, as we'll let this argu- ment, if you please, and pass to another. When saw you Dauphiue Eugenie ? Cler. Not these three days. Shall we go to him this morning I he ia very melancholy, I hear. THE SILENT WOMAN. True. Sick of the uncle, is he ? I met that stiff piece of formality, his uncle, yesterday, with a huge turban of night-caps on his head, buckled over his ears. CUr. 0, that's his custom when he walks abroad. He can endure no noise, man. True. So I have heard. But is the disease so ridicu- lous in him as it is made ? They say he has been upon divers treaties with the fish-wives and orange-women ; and articles propounded between them : marry, the chimney-sweepers will not be drawn in. Cler. No, nor the broom-men : they stand out stiffly. He cannot endure a costard-monger, he swoons if he hear one. True. Methinks a smith should be ominous. Gler. Or any hammer-man. A brasier is not suffer'd to dwell in the parish, nor an armourer. He would have hang'd a pewterer's prentice once upon a Shrove- tuesday's riot, for being of that trade, when the rest were quit. True. A trumpet should fright him terribly, or the hautboys. Cler. Out of his senses. The waights of the city have a pension of him not to come near that ward. This youth practised on him one night like the bell-man ; and never left till he had brought him down to the door with a long sword ; and there left him flourishing with the air. Facje. Why, sir, he hath chosen a street to lie in so narrow at both ends, that it will receive no coaches, nor carts, nor any of these common noises : and therefore we that love him, devise to bring him in such as we may, now and then, for his exercise, to breathe him. He would grow resty else in his ease : his virtue would rust without action. I entreated a bearward, one day, to come down with the dogs of some four parishes that way, and I thank him he did ; and cried his games under master Morose's window : till he was sent crying away, with his head made a most hleeding spectacle to the multitude. And, another time, a fencer marching to his prize, had his drum most tragically run through, for taking that street in his way at my request. True. A good wag ! How does he for the bells ? Cler. 0, in the Queen's time, he was wont to go out of town every Saturday at ten o'clock, or on holy day eves. But now, by reason of the sickness, the perpetuity of ringing has made him devise a room, with double walls and treble ceilings ; the windows close shut and caulk'd : and there he lives by candle-light. He turn'd away a man, last week, for having a pair of new shoes that creak'd. And this fellow waits on him now in tennis-court socks, or slippers soled with wool : and they talk each to other in a trunk. See, who comes here 1 Enter Sir Dauphixe Eugenie. Daup. How now ! what ail yon, sirs ? dumb ? True. Struck into stone, almost, I am here, with tales o' thine uncle. There was never such a prodigy heard of. Daup. I would you would once lose this subject, my masters, for my sake. They are such as you are, that have brought me into that predicament I am with him. True. How is that ? Daup. Marry, that he will disinherit me ; no more. He thinks, I and my company are authors of all the ridiculous Acts and Monuments are told of him. True. 'Slid, I would be the author of more to vex him; that purpose deserves it ; it gives thee law of plaguing him. I'll tell thee what I would do. I would make a false almanack, get it printed ; and then have him lo THE SILENT WOMAN. drawn out on a coronation day to the Tower-wharf, and kill him with the noise of the ordnance. Disinherit thee ! he cannot, man. Art not thou next of blood, and his sister's son ? Laup. Ay, but he will thrust me out of it, he vows, and marry. True. How ! that's a more portent. Can he endure no noise, and will venture on a wife ? Cler. Yes : why, thou art a stranger, it seems, to his best trick, yet. He has employed a fellow this half-year all over England to hearken him out a dumb woman ; be she of any form, or any quality, so she be able to bear children : her silence is dowry enough, he says. True. But I trust to God he has found none. Cler. No ; but he has heard of one that's lodged in the next street to him, who is exceedingly soft-spoken ; thrifty of her speech ; that spends but six words a day. And her he's about now, and shall have her. True. Is't possible ! who is his agent in the business? Cler. Marry, a barber, one Cutbeard ; an honest fellow, one that tells Dauphine all here. True. Why you oppress me with wonder : a woman, and a barber, and love no noise ! Cler. Yes, faith. The fellow trims him silently, and has not the knack with his sheers or his fingers : and that continence in a barber he thinks so eminent a virtue, as it has made him chief of his counseh True. Is the barber to be seen, or the wench ? Cler. Yes, that they are. True. I prithee, Dauphine, let's go thither. Daup. I have some business now : I cannot, i' faith. True. You shall have no business shall make you neglect this, sir : we'll make her talk, believe it ; or, if she will not, we can give out at least so much as shall interrupt the treaty ; we will break it. Thou art bound THE SILENT WOMAN, n in conscience, when he suspects thee without cause, to torment him. Daup. Not I, by any means. I'll give no suffrage to't. He shall never have that plea against me, that I opposed the least phant'sy of his. Let it lie upon my stars to be guilty, I'll be innocent. True. Yes, and be poor, and beg ; do, innocent : when some groom of his has got him an heir, or this barber, if he himself cannot. Innocent ! — I prithee, Ned, where lies she ? let him be innocent still. Cler. Why, right over against the barber's ; in the house where sir John Daw lies. Trtie. You do not mean to confound me ! Cler. Why? True. Does he that would marry her know so much ? Cler. I cannot tell. Trm. 'Twere enough of imputation to her with him. Cler. Why? True. The only talking sir in the town ! Jack Daw I and he teach her not to speak ! — God be wi' you. I have some business, too. Cler. Will you not go thither, then ? Trv^ Not with the danger to meet Daw, for mine ears. Cler. Why, I thought you two had been upon very good terms. True. Yes, of keeping distance. Cler. They say, he is a very good scholar. True. Ay, and he says it iirst. A pox on him, a fellow that pretends only to learning, buys titles, and nothing else of books in him ! Cler. The world reports him to be very learned. True. I am sorry the world should so conspire to belie him. Cler. Good faith, I have heard very good things come from him. 12 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. You may ; there's none so desperately ignorant to deny that : would they were his own ! God be wi' you, gentlemen. \Exit hastihj. Cler. This is very abrupt ! Daup. Come, you are a strange, open man, to tell everything thus. Cler. Why, believe it, Dauphine, Truewit's a very honest fellow. Daup. I think no other : but this frank nature of his is not for secrets. Cler. Nay, then, you are mistaken. Dauphine : I know where he has been well trusted, and discharged the trust very truly, and heartily. Daup. I contend not, Ned ; but with the fewer a business is carried, it is ever the safer. Now we are alone, if you'll go tliither, I am for you. Cler. When were you there ? Daup. Last niglit : and such a Decameron of sport fallen out ! Boccace never thought of the like. Daw does nothing but court her ; and the wrong way. He would lie with her, and praises her modesty ; desires that she would talk and be free, and commends her silence in verses ; which he reads, and swears are the best that ever man made. Then rails at his fortunes, stamps, and mutines, why he is not made a counsellor, and call'd to affairs of state. Cler. I prithee let's go. I would fain partake this. — Some water, boy. [Exit Page. Daup. We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one that came thither to him, sir La-Foole. Cler. 0, that's a precious mannikin ! Daup. Do you know him ? Cler. Ay, and he will know you too, if e'er he saw you but once, though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He is one of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in a masque, and put her out. He does give plays, and suppers, and invites his guests to them, aloud, out of his window, as they ride by in coaches. He has a lodfjing in the Strand for the purpose : or to watch when ladies are gone to the china-houses, or the Exchange, that he may meet them by chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred pounds* worth of toys, to be laugh'd at. He is never without a spare banquet, or sweet-meats in his chamber, for their women to alight at, and come up to for a bait. Daup. Excellent ! he was a fine youth last night ; but now he is much finer ! what is his Christian name ? I have forgot. Re-enter Page. Cler. Sir Amorous La-Foole. Page, The gentleman is here below that owns that name. Cler. 'Heart, he's come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life. Daup. Like enough : prithee, let's have him up. Cler. Boy, marshal him. Page. With a truncheon, sir ? Cler. Away, I beseech you. [Exit Page.] — I'll make him tell us his pedigree now ; and what meat he has to dinner ; and who are his guests ; and the whole course of his fortunes ; with a breath. Enter Sir Amorous La-Foole. La-F. 'Save, dear sir Dauphine ! honoured master Clerimont ! 14 THE SILENT WOMAN, Cler. Sir Amorous ! you have very mucli honested my lodging with your presence. La-F. Good faith, it is a fine lodging : almost as delicate a lodging as mine. Cler. Not so, sir. La-F. Excuse me, sir, if it were in the Strand, I assure you. I am come, master Clerimont, to entreat you to wait upon two or three ladies, to dinner, to-day. Cler. How, sir ! wait upon them ? did you ever see me carry dishes ? La-F. No, sir, dispense with me ; I meant, to bear them company. Cler. 0, that I will, sir : the doubtfulness of your phrase, believe it, sir, would breed you a quarrel once an hour, with the terrible boys, if you should but keep them fellowship a day. La-F. It should be extremely against my w^ill, sir, if I contested with any man. Cler. I believe it, sir. Where hold you your feast ? La-F, At Tom Otter's, sir. Daup. Tom Otter ! what's he ? La-F. Captain Otter, sir ; he is a kind of gamester, but he has had command both by sea and by land. Daup. 0, then he is animal amphihium ? La-F. Ay, sir : his wife was the rich china-woman, that the courtiers visited so often ; that gave the rare entertainment. She commands all at home. Cler. Then she is captain Otter. La-F. You say very well, sir ; she is my kinswoman, a La-Foole by the mother-side, and will invite any great ladies for my sake. Daup. Not of the La-Fooles of Essex ? La-F. No, sir, the La-Fooles of London. Cler. Now, he's in. [Aside, La-F. They all come out of our house, the La-Fooles THE SILENT WOMAN, 15 of the north, the La-Fooles of the west, the La-Fooles of the east and south — we are as ancient a family as any is in Europe — but I myself am descended lineally of the French La-Fooles — and, we do bear for our coat yellow, or or, checker'd azure, and guh-s, and some three or four colours more, which is a very noted coat, aud has, sometimes, been solemnly worn by divers nobility of our house — but let that go, antiquity is not respected now. — I had a brace of fat does sent me, gentlemen, and half-a- dozen of pheasants, a dozen or two of godwits, and some other fowl, which I would have eaten, while they are good, and in good company : — there will be a great lady or two, my lady Haughty, my lady Centaure, mistress Dol Mavis — and they come o' purpose to see the silent gentlewoman, mistress Epiccene, that honest sir John Daw has promised to bring thither — and then, mistress Trusty, my lady's woman, will be there too, and this honourable knight, sir Dauphine, with yourself, master Clerimont — and we'll be very merry, and have fiddlers, and dance. — I have been a rnad wag in my time, and have spent some crowns since I was a page in court, to my lord Lofty, and after, my lady's gentleman-usher, who got me knighted in Ireland, since it pleased my elder brother to die. — I had as fair a gold jerkin on that day, as any worn in the island voyage, or at Cadiz, none dispraised ; and I came over in it hither, show'd myself to my friends in court, and after went down to my tenants in the country, and surveyed my lands, let new leases, took their money, spent it in the eye o' the land here, upon ladies : — and now I can take up at my pleasure. Daup. Can you take up ladies, sir ? Cler. 0, let him breathe, he has not recover'd. Daup. Would I were your half in that commodity ! La-F. No, air, excuse me : I meant money, which i6 THE SILENT WOMAN. can take up any thing. I have another guest or two, to invite, and say as much to, gentlemen. I'll take my leave abruptly, in hope you will not fail Your servant. \Exit. Dawp. We will not fail you, sir precious La-Foole ; but she shall, that your ladies come to see, if I have credit afore sir Daw. CUr. Did you ever hear such a wind-sucker, as this ? Baup. Or such a rook as the other, that will betray his mistress to be seen ! Come, 'tis time we prevented it. CUr. Go. \Exe,unt. ACT II. Scene I. — A Room in Morose's House. Enter Morose, with a tube in his hand, followed by Mute. Mor. Cannot I, yet, find out a more compendious method, than by this trunk, to save my servants the labour of speech, and mine ears the discords of sounds ? Let me see : all discourses but my own afflict me ; they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome. Is it not pos- sible, that thou shouldst answer me by signs, and I apprehend thee, fellow ? Speak not, though I question you. You have taken the ring off from the street door, as I bade you ? answer me not by speech, but by silence ; unless it be otherwise [Mute makes a leg.] — very good. And you have fastened on a thick quilt, or flock-bed, on the outside of the door ; that if they knock with their daggers, or with brick-bats, they can make no noise ? — But with your leg, your answer, unless it be otherwise [makes a leg]. — Very good. This is not only fit modesty in a servant, but good state and discretion in a master. And you have been with Cutbeard the barber, to have THE SILENT WOMAN. 17 him come to me ? \maJ:cs a leg."] — Good. And, he will come presently ? Answer me not but with your leg, unless it be otherwise, shake your head, or shrug [makes a leg]. So ! Your Italian and Spaniard are wise in these : and it is a frugal and comely gravity. How long will it be ere Cutbeard come ? Stay ; if an hour, hold up your whole hand ; if half an hour, two fingers ; if a quarter, one ; [holds up a finger hent.] — Good : half a quarter ? tis well. And have you given him a key, to come in without knocking ? [;inakes aleg.] — good. And, is the lock oil'd, and the liinges, to-day ? [makes a leg.] — good. And the quilting of the stairs no where worn out and bare? [makes a leg.] — Yery good. I see, by much doctrine, and impulsion, it may be effected ; stand by. The Turk, in this divine discipline, is admirable, exceeding all the potentates of the earth ; still waited on by mutes ; and all his commands so executed ; yea, even in the war, as I have heard, and in his marches, most of his charges and directions given by signs, and with silence : an exquisite art ! and I am heartily ashamed, and angry oftentimes, that the princes of Christendom should suffer a barbarian to transcend them in so high a point of felicity. I will practise it here- after. [A horn winded within.] — How now ? oh ! oh ! what villain, what prodigy of mankind is that ? look. [Exit LtuTE.] — [Horn again.] — Oh ? cut his throat, cut his throat ! what murderer, hell-hound, devil can this be? Re-enter Mute. Mute. It is a post from the court Mor. Out, rogue ! and must thou blow thy horn too ? Mute. Alas, it is a post from the court, sir, that says, he must speak with you, pain of death Mor. Pain of thy life, be silent ! ...2... 1 8 THE SILENT WOMAN. Enter Truewit with a post-horn, atidahalter in his hand. True. By your leave, sir ; — I am a stranger here : — Is your name master Morose ? is your name master Morose ? Fishes ! Pythagoreans all ! This is strange. What say you, sir ? nothing ! Has Harpocrates been here with his club, among you ? Well, sir, I will believe you to be the man at tliis time : I will venture upon you, sir. Your friends at court commend them to you, sir Mor. men 1 manners ! was there ever such an impudence ? True. And are extremely solicitous for you, sir. 3Ior. Whose knave are you ? True. Mine own knave, and your compeer, sir. Mor. Fetch me my sword True. You shall taste the one half of my dagger, if you do, groom ; and you the other, if you stir, sir : Be patient, I charge you, in the king's name, and hear me without insurrection. They say, you are to marry ; to marry ; do you mark, sir ? Mor. How then, rude companion ! True. Marry, your friends do wonder, sir, the Thames being so near, wherein you may drown, so handsomely ; or London Bridge, at a low fall, with a fine leap, to hurry you down the stream ; or, such a delicate steeple in the town, as Bow, to vault from ; or, a braver height, as Paul's : Or, if you affected to do it nearer home, and a shorter way, an excellent garret-window into the street ; or, a beam in the said garret, with this halter [shows him the halter] — whicli they have sent, and desire that you would sooner commit your grave head to this knot, than to the wedlock noose ; or, take a little sub- limate, and go out of the world like a rat ; or a fly, as one said, with a straw in your arse : any way, rather than follow this goblin Matrimony. Alas, sir, do you THE SILENT WOMAN. 19 ever think to find a chaste wife in these times ? now, when there are so many masques, plays, Puritan preach- ings, mad folks, and other strange sights to be seen daily, private and public I If you bad lived in king Etheldred's time, sir, or Edward the Confessor, you might, perbaps, have found one in some cold country hamlet, then, a dull frosty wencb, would have been con- tented with one man : now, they will as soon be pleased with one leg, or one eye. I'll tell you, sir, the monstrous hazards you sball run with a wife. Mor. Good sir, have I ever cozen'd any friends of yours of tbeir land ? bought their possessions ? taken forfeit of their mortgage ? begg'd a reversion from them ? bastarded tbeir issue 1 What have I done, tbat may deserve this ? True. Nothing, sir, that I know, but your itch of marriage. Mor. Why, if I had made an assassinate upon your father, vitiated your mother, ravished your sisters True. I would kill you, sir, I would kill you, if you had. Mor. Why, you do more in this, sir : it were a ven- geance centuple, for all facinorous acts that could be named, to do that you do. True. Alas, sir, I am but a messenger : I but tell you, what you must hear. It seems your friends are careful after your soul's health, sir, and would have you know the danger : (but you may do your pleasure for all them, I persuade not, sir). If, after you are married, your wife do run away with a vaultcr, or the Frenchman that walks upon ropes, or him that dances tlie jig, or a fencer for his skill at his weapon ; why it is not their fault, they have discharged their consciences ; when you know what may happen. iSay, suffer valiantly, sir, for I must tell you all the perils that you are obnoxious to. If she be fair, young and vegetous, no sweetmeats 20 THE SILENT WOMAN. ever drew more flies ; all the yellow donWets and great roses in the town will be there. If foul and crooked, she'll be with them, and buy those doublets and roses, sir. If rich, and that you marry her dowry, not her, she'll reign in your house as imperious as a widow. If noble, all her kindred will be your tyrants. If fruitful, as proud as ]\Iay, and humorous as April ; she must have her doctors, her midwives, her nurses, her longings every hour ; tliough it be for the dearest morsel of man. If learned, there was never such a parrot ; all your patrimony will be too little for the guests that must be invited to hear her speak Latin and Greek ; and you must lie with her in those languages too, if you will please her. If precise, you must feast all the silenced bretheu, once in three days ; salute the sisters ; enter- tain the whole family, or wood of them ; and hear long- winded exercises, singings and catechisings, which you are not given to, and yet must give for ; to please the zealous matron your wife, who for the holy cause, will cozen you over and above. You begin to sweat, sir ! but this is not half, i'faith : you may do your pleasure, notwithstanding, as I said before : I come not to per- suade you. [Mute is stealiny awaj/.] — Upon my faith, master serving-man, if you do stir, I will beat you. Mor. 0, what is my sin ! what is my sin ! True. Then, if you love j'our wife, or rather dote on her, sir ; 0, how she'll torture you, and take pleasure in your torments ! you shall lie with her but when she lists ; she will not hurt her beauty, her complexion ; or it must be for that jewel, or that pearl, when she does: every half hour's pleasure must be bought anew, and with the same pain and charge you woo'd her at first. Then you must keep what servants she please ; what company she will ; that friend must not visit you with- out her license ; and him she loves most, she will seem THE SILENT WOMAN. 21 to hate eagerliest, to decline your jealousy ; or, feign to be jealous of you first ; and for that cause go live with her she-friend, or cousin at the college, that can instruct her in all the mysteries of writing letters, corrupting servants, taming spies ; where she must have that rich gown for such a great day ; a new one for the next ; a richer for the third ; be served in silver ; have the chamber fill'd with a succession of grooms, footmen, ushers, and other messengers ; besides embroiderers, jewellers, tire- women, sempsters, feathermen, perfumers; whilst she feels not how the land drops away, nor the acres melt ; nor foresees the change, when the mercer has your woods for her velvets ; never weighs what her pride costs, sir ; so she may kiss a page, or a smooth chin, that has the despair of a beard : be a stateswoman, know all the news, what was done at Salisbury, what at the Bath, what at court, what in progress ; or, so she may censure poets, and authors, and styles, and compare them ; Daniel with Spenser, Jonson with the t'other youth, and so forth : or be thought cunning in controversies, or the very knots of divinity : and have often in her mouth the state of the question ; and then skip to the mathematics, and demonstration ; and answer in religion to one, in state to another, in bawdry to a third, Mor. 0, ! True. All this is very true, sir. And then her going in disguise to that conjurer, and this cunning woman : where the first question is, how soon you shall die ? next, if her present servant love her ? next, if she shall have a new servant ? and how majy ? which of her family would make the best bawd, male or female % what precedence she shall have by her next match ? and sets down the answers, and believes them above the scriptures. Kay, perhaps she'll study the art. 22 THE SILENT WOMAN. Mor. Gentle sir, have you done ? have you had your pleasure of me ? I'll think of these things. True. Yes, sir : and then comes reeking home of rapour and sweat, with going a foot, and lies in a month of a new face, all oil and birdlime ; and rises in asses' milk, and is cleansed with a new fucus ; God be wi' you, sir. One thing more, which 1 had almost forgot. This too, with whom you are to marry, may have made a conveyance of her virginity afore hand, as your wise widows do of their states, before they marry, in trust to some friend, sir : Who can tell ? Or if she have not done it yet, she may do, upon tlie wedding-day, or the night before, and antedate you cuckold. The like has been heard of in nature. 'Tis no devised, impossible thing, sir. God be wi' you : I'll be bold to leave this rope with you, sir, for a remembrance. — Farewell, Mute ! {Exit. Mor. Come, have me to my chamber: but first shut the door. [Truewit winds the ho7'n without.] 0, shut the door, shut the door ! is ho come again ? Enter Cutbeard. Cut. 'Tis I, sir, your barber. 3for. 0, Cutbeard, Cutbeard, Cutbeard ! here has been a cut-throat with me : help me in to my bed, and give me physic with thy counsel. [Exeunt. Scene II. — A Boom in Sir John Daw's House. Enter Daw, Clerimont, DAurniKE, and Epiccene. Daw. Nay, an she will, let her refuse at her own charges ; 'tis nothing to me, gentlemen : but she will not be invited to the like feasts or guests every day. Cler. 0, by no means, she may not refuse to stay at home, if you love your reputation : 'Slight, your are invited thither o' purpose to be seen, and laughed at by THE SILENT WOMAN. the lady of the college, and her shadows. This trumpeter hath proclaim' d you. [Aside to Epi. Baup. You shall not go ; let him be laugh'd at in your stead, for not bringing you : and put liim to his extemporal faculty of fooling and talking loud, to satisfy the company. [Aside to Epi. Cler. He will suspect us ; talk aloud. — 'Pray, mis- tress Epicoene, let's see your verses ; we have sir John Daw's leave ; do not conceal your servant's merit, and yonr own glories. Lpi. They'll prove my servant's glories, if you have his leave so soon. Daup. His vain-glories, lady ! Daw. Shew them, shew them, mistress ; I dare own them. £pi. Judge you, what glories. Daw. Nay, I'll read them myself too : an author must recite his own works. It is a madrigal of Modesty. Modest and Fair, for fair and good are near Neighbours, howler. — Daup. Very good. Cler. Ay, is't not ? Daw. No noble virtue, ever was alone^ But turn in one. Daup. Excellent ! Cler. That again, I pray, sir John. Daup. It has something iu't like rare wit and sense. Cler. Peace. Daw. No noble virtue ever was alone, But two in one. Then, when I praise siveet modesty, I praise Bri'jht beauty s rays : And having praised both beauty and modesty, I have praised thee. M THE SILENT WOMAN. Daup. Admirable ! Cler. How it chimes, and cries tink in the close, divinely ! Daup. A.J, 'tis Seneca. Cler. No, I think 'tis Plutarch. Daw. The dor on Plutarch and Seneca ! I hate it : they are mine own imaginations, by that light. I wonder those fellows have such credit with gentlemen. Cler. They are very grave authors. Daw. Grave asses ! mere essayists : a few loose sentences, and that's all. A man would talk so, his whole age : I do utter as good things every hour, if they were collected and observed, as either of them. Daup. Indeed, sir Jolm ! Cler. He must needs ; living among the wits and braveries too. Daup. Ay, and being president of them, as he is. Daw. There's Aristotle, a mere common-place fellow ; Plato, a discourser ; Thucydides and Livy, tedious and dry ; Tacitus, an entire knot : sometimes worth the untying, very seldom. Cler. What do you think of the poets, sir John ? Daw. Not worthy to be named for authors. Homer, an old tedious, prolix ass, talks of curriers, and chines of beef ; Virgil of dunging of land, and bees ; Horace, of I know not what. Cler. I think so. Daw. And so, Pindarus, Lycophron, Anacreon, Catullus, Seneca the tragedian, Lucan, Propertius, Tibullus, Martial, Juvenal, Ausonius, Statius, Politian, Valerius Flaccus, and the rest Cler. What a sack full of their names he has got ! Daup. And how he pours them out 1 Politian with Valerius Flaccus ! Cler. Was not the character right of him ? THE SILENT WOMAN. Daup. As could be made, i'faith. Daw. And Persius, a crabbed coxcomb, not to be endured. Daup. Why, whom do you account for authors, sir John Daw ? Daw. Syntagma juris civilis ; Corpus juris civilis ; Corpus juris canonici ; the king of Spain's bible Daup. Is the king of Spain's bible an author ? Cler. Yes, and Syntagma. Daup. What was that Syntagma, sir ? Daw. A civil lawyer, a Spaniard. Daup. Sure, Corpus was a Dutchman. Cler. Ay, both the Corpuses, I knew 'em : they were very corpulent authors. Daw. And then there's Yatablus, Pomponatins, Symancha : the other are not to be received, within the thought of a scholar. Daup. Tore God, you have a simple learned servant, lady, — in titles. [Aside. Cler. I wonder that he is not called to the helm, and made a counsellor. ■Daup. He is one extraordinary. Cler. Nay, but in ordinary : to say truth, the state wants such. Daup. Why that will follow. Cler. I muse a mistress can be so silent to the dotes of such a servant. Davj. 'Tis her virtue, sir. I have written somewhat of her silence too. Daup. In verse, sir John ? Cler. What else? Daup. Why, how can you justify your own being of a poet, that so slight all the old poets ? Daw. Why, every man that writes in verse is not a poet ; you have of the wits that write verses, and yet 26 THE SILENT WOMAN. are no poets : the)'- are poets that live by it, the poor fellows that live by it. Daup. Why, would not you live by your verses, sir John ? Cler. No, 'twere pity he should. A knight live by his verses ! he did not make them to that end, I hope. Daup. And yet the noble Sidney lives by his, and the noble family not ashamed. Cler. Ay, he profest himself ; but sir John Daw has more caution : he'll not hinder his own rising in the state so much. Do you think he will ? Your verses, good sir John, and no poems. Daw. Silence in woman, it like speech in man ; Deny't who can. Daup. Not I, believe it : your reason, sir. Daio. Nor ist a tale, That female vice should he a virtue male, Or masculine vice a female virtue T)e : You shall it see Provd with increase ; I Icnow to speah, and she to hold her peace. Do you conceive me, gentlemen ? Daup. No, faith ; how mean you with increase, sir John ? Daw. Why, with increase is, when I court her for the common cause of mankind, and she says nothing, but consentire vidctur ; and in time is gravida. Daup. Then this is a ballad of procreation ? Cler. A madrigal of procreation ; you mistake. Epi. 'Pray give me ray verses again, servant. Daw. If you'll ask them aloud, you shall. [ Walks aside loith the papers. Enter Tettewit with his horn. Cler. See, here's Truewit again ! — Where hast thou THE SILENT WOMAN. 27 been, in the name of madness, thus accoutred with thy horn ? True. Where the sound of it might have pierced your senses with gladness, had you been in ear-reach of it. Dauphine, fall down and worship me ; I have forbid the banns, lads : I have been with thy virtuous uncle, and have broke the match. Daup. You have not, I hope. Time. Yes, faith ; an thou shouldst hope otherwise, I should repent me : this horn got me entrance ; kiss it. I had no other way to get in, but by feigning to be a post ; but when I got in once, I proved none, but rather the contrary, turn'd him into a post, or a stone, or what is stiffer, with thundering into him the incom- modities of a wife, and the miseries of marriage. If ever Gorgon were seen in the sliape of a woman, he hath seen her in my description : I have put him off o' that scent for ever. — "Wliy do you not aitplaud and adore me, sirs ? why stand you mute ? are you stupid ? You are not worthy of tlie benefit. Daup. iDid not I tell you ? Mischief ! Cler. I would you had placed this benefit somewhere else. True. Why so ? Cler. 'Slight, you have done the most inconsiderate, rash, weak thing, that ever man did to his friend. Daup. Friend ! if the most malicious enemy I have, had studied to inflict an injury upon me, it could not be a greater. True. Wherein, for God's sake ? Gentlemen, come to yourselves again. Daup. But I presaged thus much afore to you. Cler. Would my lips had been solder'd when I spake on't ! Slight, what moved you to be thus impertinent ? True. My masters, do not put on this strange face to 28 THE SILENT WOMAN, pay my courtesy : off with this vizor. Have good turns dono you, and thank' em this way ! Daup. 'Fore heaven, you have undone me. That which I have plotted for, and been maturing now these four months, you have Ijlasted in a minute : Now I am lost, I may speak. This gentlewoman was lodged here by me o' purpose, and, to be put upon my uncle, hath profest this obstinate silence for my sake ; being my entire friend, and one that for the requital of such a fortune as to marry him, would liave made me very ample conditions ; where now, all my hopes are utterly miscarried by this unlucky accident. Cler. Thus 'tis when a man will be ignorantly offi- cious, do services, aud not know his why : I wonder what courteous itch possest you. You never did absurder part in your life, nor a greater trespass to friendship or humanity. Dauix Faith, you may forgive it best ; 'twas your cause principally. Cler. I know it ; would it had not. Enter Cutbeard, Daup. How now, Cutbeard ! what news ? Cut. The best, the happiest that ever was, sir. There has been a mad gentleman with your uncle this morn- ing, [seeing Truewit.] — I think this be the gentleman — that has almost talk'd him out of his wits, with threatening hiin from marriage Daup. On, I prithee. Cut. And your uncle, sir, he thinks 'twas doiie by your procurement; therefore he will see the party you wot of presently ; and if he like her, he says, and that she be so inclining to dumb as I have told him, he swears he will marry her to-day, instantly, and not defer it a minute longer. THE SILENT WOMAN. 29 Bobwp. Excellent ! beyond our expectation ! True. Beyond our expectation ! By this light, I knew it would be thus, Daup. Nay, sweet Truewit, forgive me. True. No, I was ignorantly officious, irnpertinent ; this was the absurd, vjeak part. Cler. "Wilt thou ascribe that to merit now, was mere fortune ! True. Fortune ! mere providence. Fortune had not a finger in't. I saw it must necessarily iu nature fall out so : my genius is never false to me in these things. Shew me how it could be otherwise, Daup. Nay, gentlemen, contend not ; 'tis well now. Trv^. Alas, I let him go on with inconsiderate, and rash, and wliat he pleased. Cler. Away, thou strange justifiier of thyself, to be wiser than thou wert, by the event ! Trv^.. Event ! by this light, thou shalt never persuade me, but I foresaw it as well as the stars themselves. Daup. Nay, gentlemen, 'tis well now. Do you two entertain sir John Daw with discourse, while I send her away with instructions. True. I'll be acquainted with her first, by your favour. Cler. Master Truewit, lady, a friend of ours. True. I am sorry I have not known you sooner, lad}', to celebrate this rare virtue of your silence. [Exeunt Daup., Epi., and CutbeaPvD. Cler. Faith, and you had come sooner, you should have seen and heard her well celebrated in sir John Daw's madricrals. True, {advances to Daw.] Jack Daw, God save you f wlien saw you La-Foole ? Davj. Not since last night, master Truewit. 30 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. That's a miracle ! I thought you two had been inseparable. Daw. He's gone to invite his guests. True. 'Odao ! 'tis true ! What a false memory have I towards that man! I am one: I met him even now, upon tlmt he calls his delicate fine black horse, rid into foam, with posting from place to place, and person to person, to give them the cue Chr. Lest they should forget ? True. Yes : There was never poor captain took more pains at a muster to show men, than he, at this meal, to show friends. Daw. It is his quarter-feast, sir. CJer, What ! do you say so, sir John ? True. Nay, Jack Daw will not be out, at the best friends he has, to the talent of his wit: Wliere's his mistress, to hear and applaud him ? is she gone 1 Daxo. Is mistress Epicoene gone ? Clcr. Gone afore, with sir Dauphine, I warrant, to the place. True. Gone afore ! that were a manifest injury, a disgrace and a half; to refuse him at such a festival-time at this, being a bravery, and a wit too ! Chr. Tut, he'll swallow it like cream : he's better read in Jure civili, than to esteem anything a disgrace, is ofler'd him from a mistress. Daw. Nay, let her e'en go ; she shall sit alone, and be dumb in her chamber a week together, for John Daw, I wan ant her. Does she refuse me % Cler. No, sir, do not take it so to heart ; she does not refuse you, but a little neglects you. Good faith, Truewit, you are to blame, to put it into his head, that she does refuse him. Trvs. Sir, she does refuse him palpably, however you THE SILENT WOMAN. 31 mince it. An I were as he, I would swear to speak ne'er a word to her to-day for't. Daw. By this light, no more I will not. Tru^. Nor to any body else, sir. Daw. Nay, I will not say so, gentlemen. Chr. It had been an excellent happy condition for the company, if you could have drawn him to it. \_Aside. Daw. I'll be very melancholy, i'faith. Clcr. As a dog, if I were as you, sir John. True. Or a snail, or a hog-louse; I would roll myself up for this day ; in troth, they should not unwind me. Daw. By this pick-tooth, so I will. Cler. 'Tis well done : He begins already to be angry with his teeth. Daw. Will you go, gentlemen ? Cler. Kay, you must walk alone, if you be right melancholy, sir John. True. Yes, sir, we'll dog you, we'll follow von afar oflF. {Exit Daw. Cler. "Was there ever such a two yards of knighthood measured out by time, to be sold to laughter ? True. A mere talking mole, hang him ! no mushroom was ever so fresh. A fellow so utterly nothing, as he knows not what he would be. Cler. Let's follow him : but first let's go to Dauphine, he's hovering about the house to hear what news. Trae. Content. \ExiLent. Scene III. — A Boom in Morose's House. Enter MoKOSE and Mute, followed by Cutbeard with Epiccexe. Mor. Welcome, Cutbeard ! draw near with your fair pharge : and in her ear softly entreat her to unmask. 32 THE SILENT WOMAN. [Epi. takes ojf her masTc.l — So ! Is the door shut ? [Mute makes a leg.] — Enough. Now, Cutbeard, with the same discipliue I use to my family, I will question you. As I conceive, Cutbeard, this gentlewoman is she you have provided, and brought, in hope she will fit me in the place and person of a wife ? Answer me not but with your leg, unless it be otherwise : [Cut. makes a leg.] — Verj'' well done, Cutbeard. I conceive besides, Cutbeard, you have been pre-acquainted with her birth, education, and qualities, or else you would not prefer her to my acceptance, in the weighty consequence of marriage, [makes a leg.] — This I conceive, Cutbeard. Ansv»er me not but with your leg, unless it be other- wise, [bows again.] — Very well done, Cutbeard. Give aside now a little, and leave me to examine her condition, and aptitude to my affection, [goes about her and views her.] — She is exceeding fair, and of a special good favour ; a sweet composition or harmony of limbs ; her temper of beauty has the true height of my blood. The knave hath exceedingly well fitted me without : I will now try her within. — Come near, fair gentlewoman ; let not my beliaviour seem rude, though unto you, being rare, it may haply appear strange. (Epiocene citrtslcs.] Nay, lady, you may speak, though Cutbeard and my man might not ; for of all sounds, only the sweet voice of a fair lady has the just length of mine ears. I beseech you, say, lady ; out of the first fire of meeting eyes, they saj', love is stricken : do you feel any such motion suddenly shot into you, from any part you see in me ? ha, lady ? [Epi. curtsies.] — Alas, lady, these answers by silent curtsies from you are too courtless and simple. I have ever had my breeding in court ; and she that shall be my wife, must be accomplished with courtly and audacious ornaments. Can you speak, lady 1 THE SILENT WOMAN. 33 E'p,. \8oftly.'\ Judge you, forsooth. Mor. What say you, lady ? Speak out, I beseech you. Epi. Judge you, forsooth. Mor. On my judgment, a divine softness ! But can you naturally, lady, as I enjoin these by doctrine and industry, refer yourself to the search of my judgment, and, not taking pleasure in your tongue, which is a woman's chiefest pleasure, think it plausible to answer me by silent gestures, so long as my speeches jump right with what you conceive ? [Epi. cn.irt8xes.'\ — Excellent ! divine ! if it were possible she should hold out thus ! — Peace, Cutbeard, thou art made for ever, as thou hast made me, if this felicity have lasting: but I will try her further. Dear lady, I am courtly, I tell you, and I must have mine ears banquetted with pleasant and witty conferences, pretty girds, scoffs, and dalliance in her that I mean to choose for my bed-phere. The ladies in court think it a most desperate impair to their quickness of wit, and good carriage, if they cannot give occasion for man to court 'em ; and when an amorous discourse is set on foot, minister as good matter to continue it, as himself: And do you alone so much differ from all them, that what they, with so much circumstance, affect and toil for, to seem learn'd, to seem judicious, to seem sharp and conceited, j'ou can bury in yourself with silence, and rather trust your graces to the fair conscience of virtue, than to the world's or your own proclamation 1 Epi. [softly. ] I should be sorry else. Mor. What say you, lady ? good lady, speak out. Epi. I should be sorry else. Mor. That sorrow doth fill me with gladness. O Morose, thou art happy above mankind ! pray that thou niayest contain thyself. I will only put her to it once more, and it shall be with the utmost touch and test of ...3... 34 THE SILENT WOMAN. their sex. But hear me, fair lady ; I do also love to see her whom I shall choose for my heifer, to be the first and principal in all fashions, precede all the dames at court by a fortnight, have council of tailors, lineners, lace-women, embroiderers j and sit with them sometimes twice a day upon French intelligences, and then come forth varied like nature, or oftener than she, and better by the help of art, her emulous servant. This do I affect : and how will you be able, lady, with this frugality of speech, to give the manifold but necessary instructions, for that bodice, these sleeves, those skirts, this cut, that stitch, this embroidery, that lace, this wire, those knots, that ruff, those roses, this girdle, that fan, the t'other scarf, these gloves ? Ha ! what say you, lady ? E'pi. [softly. "X I'll leave it to you, sir. Mor. How, lady ? pray you rise a note. Epi. I leave it to wisdom and you, sir. Mor. Admirable creature I I will trouble you no more : I will not sin against so sweet a simplicity. Let me now be bold to print on those divine lips the seal of being mine. — Cutbeard, I give thee the lease of thy house free ; thank me not but with thy leg. [Cutbeard shakes his head.] — I know what thou wouldst say, she's poor, and her friends deceased. She has brought a wealthy dowry in her silence, Cutbeard ; and in respect of her poverty, Cutbeard, I shall have her more loving and obedient, Cutbeard. Go thy ways, and get me a minister presently, with a soft low voice, to marry us ; and pray him he will not be impertinent, but brief as he can ; away: softly, Cutbeard. [Exit Cut.]— Sirrah, conduct your mistress into the dining-room, your now mistress. [Exit Mute, followed hy Epi.] — my felicity! how shall I be revenged on mine insolent kinsman, and his plots to fright me from marrying ! This THE SILENT WOMAN. 35 night I will get an heir, and thrust liim out of my blood, like a stranger. He would be knighted, forsooth, and thought by that means to reign over me ; his title must do it : No, kinsman, I will now make you bring me the tenth lord's and the sixteenth lady's letter, kinsman ; and it shall do you no good, kinsman. Your knighthood itself shall come on its knees, and it shall be rejected ; it shall be sued for its fees to execution, and not be redeem'd ; it shall cheat at the twelve-penny ordinary, it knighthood, for its diet, all the term- time, and tells tales for it in the vacation to the hostess ; or it knighthood shall do worse, take sanctuary in Cole-harbour, and fast. It shall fright all it friends with borrowing letters ; and when one of the fourscore hath brought it knighthood ten shillings, it knighthood shall go to the Cranes, or the Bear at the Bridgefoot, and be drunk in fear ; it shall not have money to discharge one tavern-reckoning, to invite the old creditors to forbear it knighthood, or the new, that should be, to trust it knighthood. It shall be the tenth name in the bond to take up the commodity of pipkins and stone-jugs : and the part thereof shall not furnish it knighthood forth for the attempting of a baker's widow, a brown baker's widow. It shall give it knighthood's name for a stallion, to all gamesome citizens wives, and be refused, when the master of a dancing-school, or how do you call him, the worst reveller in the town is taken : it shall want clothes, and by reason of that, wit, to fool to lawyers. It shall not have hope to repair itself by Constantinople, Ireland, or Virginia ; but the best and last fortune to it knighthood shall be to make Dol Tear-sheet, or Kate Common a lady, and so it knighthood may eat. 36 THE SILENT WOMAN. Scene IY. — A Lane, near Morose's House. Enter Tkuewit, Dauphine, and Cleeimont. True. Are you sure he is not gone by ? Daup. No, I staid in the shop ever since. Cler, But he may take the other end of the lane. Daup. No, I told him I would be here at this end : I appointed him hither. True. What a barbarian it is to stay then ! Daup. Yonder he comes. Cler. And his charge left behind him, which is a very good sign, Dauphine. Enter Cutbeard. Daup. How now, Cutbeard ! succeeds it, or no ? Cut. Past imagination, sir, omnia secunda ; you could not have pray'd to have had it so weU. Saltat senex, as it is in tlie proverb ; he does triumph in his felicity, admires the party ! he has given me the lease of my house too ! and I am now going for a silent minister to marry them, and away. True. 'Slight! get one of the silenced ministers; a zealous brotiier would torment him purely. Cut. Gum jjrivilegio, sir. Daup. 0, by no means ; let's do nothing to hinder it now : when 'tis done and finished, I am for you, for any device of vexation. Cut. And that shall be within this half hour, upon my dexterity, gentlemen. Contrive what you can in the mean time, bonis avibus. [Exit. Cler. How the slave doth Latin it ! True. It would be made a jest to posterity, sirs, this day's mirth, if ye will. Cler. Beslirew his heart that will not, I pronounce. Daup. And for my part. What is it ? THE SILENT WOMAN. 37 True. To translate all La-Foole's conipan}'', and his feast thither, to-day, to celebrate tins hride-ale. Daiip. Ay, marry ; but how will't be done ? True. I'll undertake the directing of all the lad}- guests thither, and then the meat must follow. Cler. For God's sake, let's effect it ; it will be an excellent comedy of affliction, so many several noises. Daup. But are they not at the other place, already, think you. True. I'll warrant you for the college-honours : one of their faces has not the priming colour laid on yet, nor the other her smock sleek'd. Cler. 0, but they'll rise earlier than ordinary to a feast. True. Best go see, and assure ourselves. Cler. Who knows the house ? True. I'll lead you : Were you never there yet ? Daup. ISTot I. aer. Nor I. Trtbe. Where have tou lived then ? not know Tom Otter ! Cler. No : for God's sake, what is he ? True. An excellent animal, equal with your Daw or La-Foole, if not transcendent ; and does Latin it as much as your barber : He is his wife's subject; he calls her princess, and at such times as these follows her up and down the house like a page, with his hat otf, partly for heat, partly for reverence. At this instant he is marshalling of his bull, bear, and horse. Daup. What be those, in the name of Sphynx ? True. Why, sir, he has been a great man at the Bcar- garden in his time ; and from that subtle sport has ta'en the witty denomination of his chief carousing cups. One he calls his bull, another his bear, another his horse. And then he has his lesser glasses, that he calls his deer 38 THE SILENT WOMAN. and his ape ; and several degrees of them too ; and never is well, nor thinks any entertainment perfect, till these be brought out, and set on the cupboard. Cler. For God's love 1 — we should miss this, if we should not go. True. Nay, he has a thousand things as good, that will speak him all day. He will rail on his wife, with certain common places, behind her back ; and to her face Daup. No more of him. Let's go see him, I petition you. \_Exeunt. ACT III. Scene I. — A Room in Otter's House. Enter Captain Otter with his ciqis, and Mistress Otter. Ott. Nay, good princess, hear vae pauca verba. Mrs. Ott. By that light, I'll have you chain'd up, with your bull-dogs and bear-dogs, if you be not civil the sooner. I'll send you to kennel, i'faith. You were best bait me with your bull, bear, and horse. Never a time that the courtiers or collegiates come to the house, but you make it a Shrove-tuesday ! I would have you get your Whitsuntide velvet cap, and your staff in your hand, to entertain them : yes, in troth, do. Ott. Not so, princess, neither ; but under correction, sweet princess, give me leave. These things I am known to the courtiers by : It is reported to them for my humour, and they receive it so, and do expect it. Tom Otter's bull, bear, and horse is known all over England, in rcrum natura. Mrs. Ott. 'Fore me, I will na-ture tbem over to Paris- garden, and na-ture you thither too, if you pronounce THE SILENT WOMAN. 59 them again. Is a bear a fit beast, or a bull, to mix in society with great ladies ? think in your discretion, in good policy. Ott. The horse then, good princess. Mrs. Ott. "Well, I am contented for the horse ; they love to be well horsed, I know : I love it myself. Ott. And it is a delicate fine horse this : Poetariim Pegasus. Under correction, princess, Jupiter did turn himself into a.—taurus, or bull, under correction, good princess. Enter Trfewit, Clerimont, and Daitphine, behind. Mrs. Ott. By my integrity, I'll send you over to the Bank-side ; I'll commit you to the master of the Garden, if I hear but a syllable more. Must my house or my roof be polluted with the scent of bears and bulls, when it is perfumed for great ladies ? Is this according to the instrument, when I married you ? that I would be princess, and reign in mine own house ; and you would be my subject, and obey me ? What did you bring me, should make you thus peremptory ? do I allow you your half-crown a-day, to spend where you will, among your gamesters, to vex and torment me at such times as these ? Who gives you your maintenance, I pray you ? who allows you your horse-meat and man's meat ? your three suits of apparel a-year ? your four pair of stockings, one silk, three worsted ? your clean linen, your bands and cuffs, when I can get you to wear them ? — 'tis marie you have them on now. — Who graces you with courtiers or great personages, to speak to you out of their coaches, and come home to your liouse ? Were you ever so much as look'd upon by a lord or a lady, before I married you, but on the Easter or Whitsun-holidays? and then out at the banqueting-house window, when Ned Whiting or George Stone were at the stake ? 40 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. For God's sake, let's go stave her off him. Mrs. Ott. Answer me to that. And did not I take you up from thence, in an old greasy buff-doublet, with points, and green velvet sleeves, out at the elbows ? you forget this. True. She'll worry him, if we help not in time. [They come for ivard. Mrs. Ott. 0, here are some of the gallants ! Go to, behave yourself distinctly, and with good morality ; or, I protest, I'll take away your exhibition. True. By your leave, fair mistress Otter, I'll be bold to enter these gentlemen in your acquaintance. Mrs. Ott. It shall not be obnoxious, or difficil, sir. True. How does my noble captain? is the bull, bear, and horse in reruvi natura still ? Ott. Sir, sic visum superis. Mrs. Ott. I would you would but intimate them, do. Go your ways in, and get toasts and butter made for the woodcocks : that's a fit province for j'ou. [Drives him off. Cler. Alas, what a tyranny is this poor fellow married to. True. 0, but the sport will be anon, when we get him loose. Daup. Dares he ever speak ? True. No Anabaptist ever rail'd with the like license : but mark her language in the mean time, I beseech you. Mrs. Ott. Gentlemen, you are very aptly come. My cousin, sir Amorous, will be here briefl}'. True. In good time, lady. Was not sir John Daw here, to ask for him, and the company ? Mrs. Ott. I cannot assure you, master True wit. Here was a very melancholy knight in a ruff, that demanded my subject for somebody, a gentleman, I think. THE SILENT WOMAN. 41 Cler. Ay, that was he, lady. Mrs. OIL But he departed straight, I can resolve you. Daup. What an excellent choice phrase this lady expresses in. True. 0, sir, she is the only authentical courtier, tl:at is not naturally bred one, in the city. Mrs. Ott. You have taken that report upon trust, gentlemen. True. Xo, I assure you, the court governs it so, lady, in your behall". Mrs. Ott. I am the servant of the court and courtiers, sir. True. They are rather your idolaters. Mrs. Ott. Not so, sir. Enter Cittbeard. Daup. How now, Cutbeard ! any cross ? Cut. no, sir, omnia bene. 'Twas never better on the hinges ; all's sure. I have so pleased him with a curate, that he's gone to't almost with the delight he hopes for soon. Daup. What is he for a vicar ? Cut. One that has catch'd a cold, sir, and can scarce be heard six inches off; as if he spoke out of a bulrush that were not pick'd, or his throat were full of pith : a fine quick fellow, and an excellent barber of prayers. I came to tell you, sir, that you might omnem movcre lapklem, as they say, Idc ready with your vexation. Daup. Gramercy, honest Cutbeard ! be thereabouts with thy key, to let us in. Cut. I will not fail you, sir ; ad mnnnm. {Exit. True. Well, I'll go watch my coaclies. Cler. Do ; and we'll send Daw to you, if you meet him not. {Exit Tkuewit. Mrs. Ott. Is master Truewit gone I 42 THE SILENT WOMAN. Daup. Yes, lady, there is some unfortunate business fallen out. Mrs. Ott. So I adjudged by the physiognomy of the fellow that came in ; and I had a dream last night too of the new pageant, and my lady mayoress, which is always very ominous to me. I told it my lady Haughty t'other day, when her honour came hither to see some China stuffs ; and she expounded it out of Artemidorus, and I have found it since very true. It has done me many affronts. Clcr. Your dream, lady ? Mrs- Ott. Yes, sir, any thing I do but dream of the city. It staiu'd me a damask table-cloth, cost me eighteen pound, at one time ; and burnt me a black satin gown, as I stood by the fire, at my lady Centaure's chamber in the college, another time. A third time, at the lords' masque, it dropt all my wire and my ruff with wax candle, that I could not go up to the banquet. A fourth time, as I was taking coach to go to Ware, to meet a friend, it dash'd me a new suit all over (a crimson satin doublet, and black velvet skirts) with a brewer's - horse, that I was fain to go in and shift me, and kept my chamber a leash of days for the anguish of it. Daiqj. These were dire mischances, lady. Clcr. I would not dwell in the city, an 'twere so fatal to me. Mrs. Ott. Yes, sir ; but I do take advice of my doctor to dream of it as little as I can. Daup. You do well, mistress Otter, Enter Sir John Daw, and is taken aside by Clerimont. Mrs. Ott. Will it please you to enter the house farther, gentlemen ? Daup. And your favour, lady : but we stay to speak THE SILENT WOMAN. 43 with a knight, sir John Daw, who is here come. We shall follow you, lady. Mrs. Ott. At your own time, sir. It is my cousin sir Amorous his feast Daup. I know it, lady. Mrs. Ott. And mine together. But it is for his honour, and therefore I take no name of it, more than of the place. Daup. You are a bounteous kinswoman. Mrs. Ott. Your servant, sir. {Exit. Clcr. [coming forward with Daw.] "Why, do you not know it, sir John Daw ? Daio. Xo, I am a rook if I do. Cler. I'll tell you, then ; she's married by this time. And, whereas you were put in the head, that she was gone with sir Dauphine, I assure you, sir Dauphine has been the noblest, honestest friend to you, that ever gentleman of your quality could boast of. He has dis- cover'd the whole plot, and made your mistress so acknowledging, and indeed so ashamed of her injury to you, that she desires you to forgive her, and but grace her wedding with your presence to-day — She is to be married to a very good fortune, she says, his uncle, old Morose ; and she will'd me in private to tell you, that she shall be able to do you more favours, and with more security now than before. Daw. Did she say so, i'faith ? Clcr. Wliy, what do you think of me, sir John ? Ask sir Dauphine. Daw. Nay, I believe you. — Good sir Dauphine, did she desire me to forgive her ? Daup. I assure you, sir John, she did. Daw. Nay, then, I do with all my heart, and I'll be jovial. Cler. Yes, for look you, sir, this was the injury to 44 THE SILENT WOMAN. j'ou. La-Foole intended this feast to honour her bridal day, and made you the property to invite the collfcre ladies, and promise to bring her ; and then at the time she would have appear'd, as his friend, to have given you the dor. Whereas now, sir Dauphine has brought her to a feeling of it, with this kind of satisfaction, that you shall bring all the ladies to the place where she is, and be very jovial ; and there, she will have a dinner, which shall be in your name : and so disappoint La-Foole, to make you good again, and, as it were, a saver in the main. Daw. As I am a knight, I honour her ; and forgive her heartily. Cler. About it then presently. Truewit has gone before to confront the coaches, and to acquaint you with so much, if he meet you. Join with him, and 'tis well, Enter Sir Amoeous La-Foole. See ; here comes your antagonist ; but take you no notice, but be very jovial. La-F, Are the ladies come, sir John Daw, and your mistress ? \Exit Daw.] — Sir Dauphine ! you are exceed- ing welcome, and honest master Clerimont. AVhere's my cousin ? did you see no coUegiates, gentlemen ? Davp. CoUegiates ! do you not hear, sir Amorous, how you are abused ? La-F. How, sir ! Cler. "Will you speak so kindly to sir John Daw, that has done you such an affront ? La-F. Wlierein, gentlemen ? let me be a suitor to you to know, I beseech you. Cler. Why, sir, his mistress is married to-day to sir Dauphine's uncle, your cousin's neighbour, and he has diverted all the ladies, and all your company thither, to THE SILENT WOMAN. 45 frustrate your provision, and stick a disgrace upon you. He was here now to have enticed us away from you too : but we told him his own, I think. La-F. Has sir John Daw wrong'd me so inhumanly ? Bern]). He has done it, sir Amorous, most maliciously and treacherously : but if you'll be ruled by us, yuu shall quit him, i'faith. La-F. Good gentlemen, I'll make one, believe it. How, I pray ? Baup. Marry, sir, get me your pheasants, and your god wits, and your best meat, and dish it in silver dishes of your cousin's presently ; and say nothing, but clap me a clean towel about you, like a sewer ; and, bare- headed, march afore it with a good confidence ('tis but over the way, hard by), and we'll second you, where you shall set it on the board, and bid them welcome to't, which shall shew 'tis yours, and disgrace his preparation utterly : and for your cousin, whereas she should be troubled here at home with care of making and giving welcome, she shall transfer all that labour thither, and be a principal guest herself ; sit rank'd with the college- honours, and be honour'd, and have her health drunk as often, as bare, and as loud as the best of them. Lu-F. I'll go tell her presently. It shall be done, that's resolved. \Ed'At. Cler. I thought he would not hear it out, but 'twould take him. Daup. "Well, there be guests and meat now; how shall we do for music ? Cler. The smell of the venison, going through the street, will invite one noise of fiddlers or other. Daup. I would it would call the trumpeters hither ! Cler. Faith, there is hope; they have intelligence of all feasts. There's good correspondence betwixt them and the Loudou cooks : 'tis twenty to one but we have them. . Daup. 'Twill be a most solemn day for my uncle, and an excellent fit of mirth for us. Cler. Ay, if we can hold up the emulation betwixt Foole and Daw, and never bring them to expostulate. Daup. Tut, flatter them both, as Truewit says, and you may take their understandings in a purse-net. They'll believe themselves to be just such men as we make them, neither more nor less. They have nothing, not the use of their senses, but by tradition. Ee-enter La-Foole, like a Sewer. Cler. See ! sir Amorous has his towel on already. Have you persuaded your cousin 1 La-F. Yes, 'tis very feasible : she'll do anything, she says, rather than the La-Fooles shall be disgraced. Daup. She is a noble kinswoman. It will be such a pestling device, sir Amorous ; it will pound all your enemy's practices to powder, and blow him up with his own mine, his own train. La-F. Nay, we'll give fire, I warrant you. Cler. But you must carry it privately, without any noise, and take no notice by any means Ee-enter Captain Otter. Ott. Gentlemen, my princess says you shall have all her silver dishes, festinate : and she's gone to alter her tire a little, and go with you Cler. And yourself too, captain Otter ? Daup. By any means, sir. Ott. Yes," sir, I do mean it : but I would entreat my cousin sir Amorous, and you, gentlemen, to be suitors to my princess, that I may carry my bull and my bear, as well as my horse. THE SILENT WOMAN. 47 Gler. That you shall do, captain Otter. La-F. My cousin will never consent, gentlemen. Daup. She must consent, sir Amorous, to reason. La-F. Why, she says they are no decorum among ladies. Ott. But they are decora, and that's better, sir. Cler. Ay, she must hear argument. Did not Pasiphae, who was a queen, love a bull ? and was not Calisto, the mother of Areas, turn'd into a bear, and made a star, mistress Ursula, in the heavens ? Ott. lord ! that I could have said as much ! I will have these stories painted in the Bear-garden, ex Ovidii metamorphosi. Daup. "Where is your princess, captain ? pray, be our leader. Ott. That I shall, sir. Cler. Ilake haste, good sir Amorous. [Exeunt. Scene II. — A room in Morose's House. Enter Morose, Epiccene, Parson, and Cutbeard. Mor. Sir, there's an angel for yourself, and a brace of angels for your cold. Muse not at this manage of my bounty. It is fit we should thank fortune, double to nature, for any benefit she confers upon us ; besides, it is your imperfection, but my solace. Par. [speaks as having a cold.] I thank your worship ; so it is mine, now. Mor. What says he, Cutbeard ? Cut. He says prcesto, sir, whensoever your worship needs him, he can be ready with the like. He got this cold with sitting up late, and singing catches with cloth- workers. Mor. No more, I thank him. 48 THE SILENT WOMAN. Tar. God keep your worship, and give you much joy witli your fair spouse ! — uh ! uh ! uh ! Mor. 0, ! stay, Cutbeard ! let Inm give me five shillings of my money back. As it is bounty to rewarO benelits, so it is equity to mulct injuries. I will hav( it. What says he ? Cler. He cannot change it, sir Mor, It must be changed. Cut. Cough again. [Aside to Parson. 3Ior. What says he ? Cut. He will cough out the rest, sir. Far. Uh, uh, uh^! Mor. Away, away with hiui ! stop his mouth ! away ! I forgive it. [Exit Cut. thrusting out the Par. E2n. Fie, master Morose, that you will use this violence to a man of the church. Mor. How ! Ujn. It does not become your gravity, or breeding, as you pretend, in court, to have offer'd this outrage on a waterman, or any more boisterous creature, much lesson a man of his civil coat. Mor. You can speak then ! Epi. Yes, sir. Mor. Speak out, I mean. JSpi. Ay, sir. Why, did you think you had married R statue, or a motion only ? one of the French puppets, with the eyes turn'd with a wire ? or some innocent out of the hospital, that would stand with her hands thus, and a plaise mouth, and look upon you 1 Mor. immodesty ! a manifest woman ! What, Cut- beard ! £J2}i. Nay never quarrel with Cutbeard, sir ; it is too late now. I confess it doth bate somewhat of the modesty I had, when I writ simply maid : but I hope I THE SILENT WOMAN. 49 shall make it a stock still competent to tlie estate and dignity of your wife, Mor. She can talk ! Epi. Yes, indeed, sir. Enter Mute. J/br. What sirrah ! None of ray knaves there ! where is this impostor Cutbeard ? [Mute makes signs. Epi. Speak to him, fellow, speak to him! I'll have none of this coacted, unnatural dumbness in ray house, in a family where I govern. [Exit Mute. Mor. She is my regent already ! I have married a Penthesilea, a Semiramis ; sold my liberty to a distaff. Enter True wit. True. Where's master Morose ? Mor. Is he come again ! Lord have mercy upon me ! True. I wish you all joy, mistress Epiccene, with your grave and honourable match. Epi. I return you the thanks, master True wit, so friendly a wish deserves. Mor. She has acquaintance, too ! True. God save you, sir, and give you all contentment in your fair choice, here ! Before, I was the bird of night to you, the owl ; but now I am the messenger of peace, a dove, and bring you the glad wishes of many friends to the celebration of this good hour. Mor. Wliat hour, sir ? True. Your marriage hour, sir. I commend your resolution, that, notwithstanding all the dangers I laid afore you, in the voice of a night-crow, would yet go on, and be yourself. It shews you are a man constant to your own ends, and upright to your purposes, that would not be put off with left-handed cries. ...4... so THE SILENT WOMAN. Mor, How should you arrive at the kuowledge of so much ? True. Why, did you ever hope, sir, committing the secrecy of it to a barber, that less than the whole town should know it ? you might as well have told it the con- duit, or the bake-house, or the infantry that follow the court, and with more security. Could your gravity forget so old and noted a remnant, as, lijypis et ton- soribus notum ? Well, sir, forgive it yourself now, the fault, and be communicable with your friends. Here will be three or four fashionable ladies from the college to visit you presently, and their train of minions and followers. Mor. Bar my doors ! bar my doors ! Where are all my eaters ? my mouths, now ? Enter Servants. Bar up my doors, you varlets ! Ein. He is a varlet that stirs to such an office. Let them stand open. I would see him that dares move his eyes toward it. Shall I have a barricade made against my friends, to be barr'd of any pleasure they can bring in to me with their honourable visitation ! [^Exeunt Ser. Mor. Amazonian im])udence ! True. Nay, faith, in this, sir, she speaks but reason ; and, methinks, is more continent than you. Would you go to bed so presently, sir, afore noon ? a man of your head and liair should owe more to that reverend ceremony, and not mount the marriage-bed like a town- bull, or a mountain-goat; but stay the due season ; and ascend it then with religion and fear. Those delights are to be steeped in the humour and silence of the night ; and give the day to other open pleasures, and jollities of feasting, of music, of revels, of discourse : we'll have all, sir, that may make your Hymen high and happy. THE SILENT WOMAN, 51 Mor. my torment, my torment ! True. Nay if you endure the first half hour, sir, so tediously, and with this irksomeness ; what comfort or hope can this fair gentlewoman make to herself hereafter, in the consideration of so many years as are to come Mor. Of my affliction. Good sir, depart, and let her do it alone. True. I have done, sir. Mor. That cursed barber. True. Yes, faith, cursed wretch indeed, sir. Mor. I have married his cittern, that's common to all men. Some plague above the plague True. All Egypt's ten plagues. Mor. Revenge me on him ! True. 'Tis very well, sir. If you laid on a curse or two more, I'll assure you he'll bear them. As, that he may get the pox with seeking to cure it, sir ; or, tliat while he is curling another man's hair, his own may drop off; or, for burning some male-bawd's lock, he may have his brain beat out with the curling iron. Mor. No, let the wretch live wretched. May he get the itch, and his shop so lousy, as no man dare come at him, nor he come at no man ! True. Ay, and if he would swallow all his balls for pills, let not them purge him, Mor Let his warming-pan be ever cold. Ti-ue. A perpetual frost underneath it, sir. Mor. Let him never hope to see fire again. True. But in hell, sir. Mor. His chairs be always empty, his scissors rust, and his combs mould in their cases. True. Very dreadful that ! And may he lose the invention, sir, of carving lanterns in paper. Mor. Let there be no bawd carted that year; to 52 THE SILENT WOMAN. employ a bason of his : but let birn be glad to eat bis sponge for bread. True. And drink lotium to it, and much good do him. Mor. Or, for want of bread True. Eat ear-wax, sir. I'll help you. Or, draw his own teeth, and add them to the lute-string. Mor. No, beat the old ones to powder, and make bread of them. True. Yes, make meal of the mill-stones. Mor. May all the botches and burns that he has cured on others break out upon him. True. And he now forget the cure of them in himself, sir ; or, if he do remember it, let him have scraped all bis linen into lint for't, and have not a rag left him for to set up with. Mor. Let hiin never set up again, but have the gout in his hands for ever ! — Now, no more, sir. True. 0, that last was too high set ; you might go less with him, i'faith, and be revenged enough ; as, that he be never able to new-paint his pole Mor. Good sir, no more, I forgot myself. True. Or, want credit to take up with a comb- maker Mor. No more, sir. True. Or, having broken his glass in a former despair, fall now into a much greater, of ever getting another Mor. I beseech you, no more. True. Or, that he never be trusted with trimming of any but chimney-sweepers Mor. Sir True. Or, may he cut a collier's throat with his razor, by chance-medley, and yet be hanged for't. Mor. I will forgive him, ratlier than hear any more. I beseech you, sir. THE SILENT WOMAN. 53 Enter Daw, introduc'mg Lady HAroHTY, Centauiie, Mavis, and Trusty. Daw. This way, madam. Mor. 0, the sea breaks in upon me ! another flood ! an inundation ! I shall be overwhelmed with noise. It beats already at my shores. I feel an earthquake in my self for't. Daw. 'Give you joy, mistress. Mor. Has she servants too ! Daw. I have brought some ladies here to see and know you. My lady Haughty — [as he jJ'rcscnts them severally, En. kisses them.] this is my lady Centaure — mistress Dol Mavis — mistress Trusty, my lady Haughty's woman. Where's your husband ? let's see him : can he endure no noise ? let me come to him. Mor. What nomenclator is this ! True. Sir John Daw, sir, your wife's servant, this. Mor. A Daw, and her servant ! O, 'tis decreed, 'tis decreed of me, an she have such servants. [Going. True. Nay, sir, you must kiss the ladies ; you must not go away, now : they come toward you to seek you out. Ba^i. V faith, master Morose, would you steal a marriage thus, in the midst of so many friends, and not acquaint us ? Well, I'll kiss you, notwithstanding the justice of my quarrel : you shall give me leave, mistress, to use a becoming familiarity with your husband. Ej)i. Your ladyship does me an honour in it, to let me know he is so worthy your favour : as you have done both him and me grace to visit so unprepared a pair to entertain you, Mor. Compliment ! compliment ! Ejn. But I must lay the burden of tliat upon my servant here. 54 THE SILENT WOMAN, Eau. It s]iall not need, mistress Morose ; we will all bear, rather than one shall be opprest. Mor. I know it : and you will teach her the faculty, if she be to learn it. [ WalJcs aside ivJiile the rest talk ajmrt. Haw. Is this the silent woman ? Cen. Nay, she has found her tongue since she was married, master Truewit says. Eau. O, master Truewit ! 'save you. "What kind of creature is your bride here ? she speaks, methinks ! True. Yes, madam, believe it, she is a gentlewoman of very absolute behaviour, and of a good race. Eau. And Jack Daw told us she could not speak ! True. So it was carried in plot, madam, to put her upon this old fellow, by sir Dauphine, his nephew, and one or two more of us : but she is a woman of an excel- lent assurance, and an extraordinary happy wit and tongue. You shall see her make rare sport with Daw ere night. Eau. And he brought us to laugh at her ! True. That falls out often, madam, that he that thinks himself the master-wit, is the master-fool. I assure your ladyship, ye cannot laugh at her. Eau. ISTo, we'll have her to the college : An she have wit, she shall be one of us, shall she not, Centaure ? we'll make her a collegiate. Cen. Yes, faith, madam, and Mavis and she will set up a side. True. Believe it, madam, and mistress Mavis she will sustain her part. Mav. I'll tell you that, when I have talk'd with her, and tried her. Eau. Use her very civilly. Mavis. Mav. So I will, madam, [ Whispers her. THE SILENT WOMAN. 55 Mor, Blessed minute ! that they would whisper thus ever ! [Aside. True. In the mean time, madam, would but your ladyship help to vex him a little : you know his disease, talk to him about the wedding ceremonies, or call for your gloves, or ITau. Let me alone. Centaure, help me. — Master bridegroom, where are you ? Mor. 0, it was too miraculously good to last ! [Aside. Hau. "We see no ensigns of a wedding here ; no character of a bride-ale : where be our scarves and our gloves ? I pray you, give them us. Let us know your bride's colours, and yours at least. Cen, Alas, madam, he has provided none. Mar. Had I known your ladyship's painter, I would. Hau. He has given it you, Centaure, i'faith. But do you hear, master Morose ? a jest will not absolve you in this manner. You that have suck'd the milk of the court, and from thence have been brought up to the very strong meats and wine of it ; been a courtier from the biggen to the nightcap, as we may say, and you to offend in such a high point of ceremony as this, and let your nuptials want all marks of solemnity ! How much plate have you lost to-day (if you had but regarded your profit), what gifts, what friends, through your mere rusticity ? Mor. Madam Hau. Pardon me, sir, I must insinuate your errors to you ; no gloves ? no garters 1 no scarves ? no epithalamium ? no masque ? Daw. Yes, madam, I'll make an epithalamium, I promise my mistress ; I have begun it already : will your ladyship hear it ? Hau. Ay, good Jack Daw. 56 THE SILENT WOMAN. Mor. "Will it please your ladyship command a chamber, and be private with your friend ? you shall have your choice of rooms to retire to after : my whole house is yours. I know it hath been your ladyship's errand into the city at other times, however now you have been unhappily diverted upon me ; but I shall be loth to break any honourable custom of your ladyship's. And therefore, good madam Epi. Come, you are a rude bridegroom, to entertain ladies of honour in tliis fashion. Ccn. He is a rude groom indeed. True. By that light you deserve to be grafted, and have your horns reach from one side of the island to the other. — Do not mistake me, sir ; I but speak this to give the ladies some heart again, not for any malice to you. Mor. Is this your bravo, ladies ? TriLe. As God [shall] help me, if you utter such another word, I'll take mistress bride in, and begin to you in a very sad cup ; do you see ? Go to, know your friends, and such as love you. Enter Clerimont, folloived by a number of Musicians. Cler. By your leave, ladies. Do you want any music ? I have brought you variety of noises. Play, sirs, all of you. [Aside to the Musicians, who strike up altogether.'] Mor. O, a plot, a plot, a plot, a plot, upon me ! this day I shall be their anvil to work on, they will grate me asunder. 'Tis worse than the noise of a saw. CJer. No, they are hair, rosin, and guts : I can give you the receipt. True. Peace, boys ! Cler. Play ! I say. THE SILENT WOMAN. 57 True. Peace, rascals ! You see who's your friend now, sir : take courage, put on a martyr's resolution. Mock down all their atternptings with patience : 'tis but a day, and I would suffer heroically. Should an ass exceed me in fortitude ? no. You betray your iufirmity with your hanging dull ears, and make them insult : bear up bravely, and constantly. [La-Foole passes over the stage as a Sewer, follov-ed hy Servants carrying dishes, and Mistress Otter.] — Look you here, sir, what honour is done you unexpected, b}' your nephew ; a wedding- dinner come, and a knight-sewer before it, for the more reputation : and fine mistress Otter, your neighbour, in the rump or tail of it. Mor. Is that Gorgon, that Medusa come ! hide me, hide me. True. I warrant you, sir, she will not transform you. Look upon her with a good courage. Pray you enter- tain her, and conduct your guests in. No ! — Mistress bride, will you entreat in the ladies ? your bridegroom is so shame-faced, here. Epi. Will it please your ladyship, madam ? Hau. "With the benefit of your company, mistress. Epi. Servant, pray you perform your duties. Daw. And glad to be commanded, mistress. Cen. How like you her wit, Mavis? Mav. Very prettily, absolutely well. Mrs. Ott. 'Tis my place. Mav. You shall pardon me, mistress Otter. Mrs. Ott. Why, I am a collegiate. Mav. But not in ordinary. Mrs. Ott. But I am. Mav. We'll dispute that within. {Exeunt Ladies. Cler. Would this had lasted a little longer. True. And that they had sent for the heralds. 58 THE SILENT WOMAN. Enter Captain Otter. — Captain Otter ! what news ? Ott. I have brought my bull, bear, and horse, in private, and yonder are the trumpeters without, and the drum, gentlemen. \Tli& drum and trumpets sound within. Mor. 0, 0, ! Ott, And we will have a rouse in each of them, anon, for hold Britons, i'faith. VThey sound again. Mor. 0, O, \ [Exit hoMily. Omnes. Follow, follow, follow ! [Exeicnt. ACT IV. Scene I. — A Eoom in Morose's House. Enter Truewit anid Clerimont. True, Was there ever poor bridegroom so tormented? or man, indeed ? Cler. I have not read of the like in the chronicles of the land. True. Sure, he cannot but go to a place of rest, after all this purgatory. Cler. He may presume it, I think. True. The spitting, the coughing, the laughter, the sneezing, the farting, dancing, noise of the music, and her masculine and loud commanding, and urging the whole family, makes him think he has married a fury. Cler. And she carries it up bravely. True. Ay, she takes any occasion to speak : that's the height on't. Cler. And how soberly Dauphine labours to satisfy him, that it was none of his plot ! THE SILENT WOMAN, 59 True. And has almost brought him to the faith, in the article. Here he comes. — Enter Sir DAurHiNE. "Where is he now ? what's become of him, Dauphine ? Daup, 0, hold me up a little, I shall go away in the jest else. He has got on his whole nest of night-caps, and loek'd himself up in the top of the house, as high as ever he can climb from the noise. I peep'd in at a cranny, and saw him sitting over a cross-beam of the roof, like him on the saddler's horse in Fleet-street, upright : and he will sleep there. Cler. But where are your collegiates ? Daup. Withdrawn with the bride in private. True. 0, they are instructing her in the college- grammar. If she have grace with them, she knows all their secrets instantly. Cler. Methinks the lady Haughty looks well to-day, for all my dispraise of her in the morning. I think, I shall come about to thee again, Truewit. True. Believe it, I told you right. "Women ought to repair the losses time and years have made in their features, with dressings. And an intelligent woman, if she know by herself the least defect, will be most curious to hide it : and it becomes her. If she be short, let lier sit much, lest, when she stands, she be thought to sit. If she have an ill foot, let her wear her gown the longer, and her shoe the thinner. If a fat hand, and scald nails, let her carve the less, and act in gloves. If a sour breath, let her never discourse fasting, and always talk at her distance. If she have black and rugged teeth, let her offer the less at laughter, especially if siie laugh wide and open. Cler. 6, you shall have some women, when they laugh, you would think they brayed, it is so rude and 6o THE SILENT WOMAN. True. Ay, and others, that will stalk in their gait like an estrich, and take huge strides. I cannot endure such a sight. I love measure in the feet, and number in the voice : they are gentlenesses, that oftentimes draw no less than the face. Daup. How earnest thou to study these creatures so exactly? I would tliou wouldst make me a proficient. True. Yes, but you must leave to live in your chamber, then, a month together upon Amadis de Gaul, or Don Quixote, as you are wont ; and come abroad where the matter is frequent, to court, to tiltings, public shows and feasts, to plays, and churcli sometimes : thither they come to shew their new tires too, to see, and to be seen. In these places a man shall find wliom to love, whom to play w-itli, whom to touch once, whom to hold ever. The variety arrests his judgment. A wench to please a man comes not down dropping from the ceiling, as he lies on his back droning a tobacco-pipe. He must go where she is. BaiLfp. Yes, and be never the nearer. True. Out, heretic ! That diflB.dence makes thee worthy it should be so. Cler. He says true to you, Dauphine. Daup. Why? True. A man should not doubt to overcome any woman. Think he can vanquish them, and he shall : for though they deny, their desire is to be tempted. Penelope herself cannot hold out long. Ostend, you saw, was taken at last. You must persever, and holcl to your purpose. They would solicit us, but that they are afraid. Howsoever, they wish in their hearts we should solicit them. Praise them, flatter them, you shall never want eloquence or trust : even the chastest delight to feel themselves that way rubb'd. AVith praises you must THE SILENT WOMAN. 6i mix kisses too : if they take them, they'll take more — though they strive, they would be overcome. Gler. 0, but a man must beware of force. True. It is to them an acceptable violence, and has oft-times the place of the greatest courtesy. She that might have been forced, and you let her go free without touching, though then she seem to thank you, will ever hate you after ; and glad in the face, is assuredly sad at the heart. Cler. But all women are not to be taken all ways. True. 'Tis true ; no more than all birds, or all fishes. If you appear learned to an ignorant wench, or jocund to a sad, or witty to a foolish, why she presently begins to mistrust herself. You must approach them in their own height, their own line ; for the contrary makes many, that fear to commit themselves to noble and worthy fellows, run into the embraces of a rascal. If she love wit, give verses, though you borrow them of a friend, or buy them, to have good. If valour, talk of your sword, and be frequent in the mention of quarrels, though you be staunch in fighting. If activity, be seen on your barbary often, or leaping over stools, for the credit of your back. If she love good clothes or dressing, have your learned council about you every morning, your French tailor, barber, linener, etc. Let your powder, your glass, and your comb be your dearest acquaintance. Take more care for the ornament of your head, than the safety ; and wish the commonwealth rather troubled, than a hair about you. That will take her. Then, if she be covetous and craving, do you promise any thing, and perform sparingly ; so shall you keep her in appetite still. Seem as you would give, but be like a barren field, that yields little ; or unlucky dice to foolish and hoping gamesters. Let your gifts be slight and dainty, rather tlian precious. Let cunning be above 62 THE SILENT WOMAN. cost. Give cherries at time of year, or apricots ; and say, they were sent you out of the country, though you bought them in Cheapside. Admire her tires : like her in all fashions ; compare her in every habit to some deity ; invent excellent dreams to flatter her, and riddles ; or, if she be a great one, perform always the second jDarts to her : like what she likes, praise whom she praises, and fail not to make the household and servants yours, yea the whole family, and salute them by their names, ('tis but light cost, if you can purchase them so,) and make her physician your pensioner, and her chief woman. Nor will it be out of your gain to make love to her too, so she follow, not usher her lady's pleasure. All blabbing is taken away, when she comes to be a part of the crime. Daup. On what courtly lap hast thou late slept, to come forth so sudden and absolute a courtling ? True. Good faith, I should rather question you, that are so hearkening after these mysteries. I begin to suspect your diligence, Dauphine. Speak, art thou in love in earnest ? Daup. Yes, by my troth, am I ; 'twere ill dissembling before thee. True. With which of them, I prithee ? Daup. ^Yith all the collegiates. Cler. Out on thee ! We'll keep you at home, believe it, in the stable, an you be such a stallion. True. No ; I like him well. Men should love wisely, and all women ; some one for the face, and let her please the eye ; another for the skin, and let her please the touch ; a third for the voice, and let her please the ear ; and where the objects mix, let the senses so too. Thou would'st think it strange, if I should make them all in love with thee afore night ! Daup. I would say, thou hadst the best philtre in the THE SILENT WOMAN. world, and couldst do more than madam Medea, or doctor Foreman. True. If I do not, let me play the mountebank for my meat, while I live, and the bawd for my drink. Baup. So be it, I say. Enter Otter, with Jiis three Ciqjs, Daw, and La-Foole. Ott. lord, gentlemen, how my knights and I have mist you here ! Cler, "Why, captain, what service, what service ? Ott, To see me bring up my bull, bear, and horse to fight. Daiv. Yes, faith, the captain says we shull be his dogs to bait them. Daup. A good employment. True. Come on, let's see you course, then. La-F. I am afraid my cousin will be offended, if she come. OIL Be afraid of nothing. — Gentlemen, I have placed the drum and the trumpets, and one to give them the sign when you are ready. Here's my bull for myself, and my bear for sir John Daw, and my horse for sir Amorous. Isow set your foot to mine, and yours to his, and La-F. Pray God my cousin come not. Ott. St. George, and St. Andrew, fear no cousins. Come, sound, sound ! [Drum and trumpets sowid.] Et rauco strejmerunt cornua cantu. [They drink. True. Well said, caiitain, i'faith ; well fought at the bull. Cler. Well held at the bear. True. Low, low ! captain. Daup. 0, the horse has kick'd off his dog already. La-F. I cannot drink it, as I am a knight. True. Ods so ! off with his spurs, somebody. La-F. It goes against my conscience. My cousin will be angry with it. Baxo. I have done mine. True. You fought high and fair, sir John. CUr. At the head. Daup. Like an excellent bear-dog. Cler. You take no notice of the business, I hope ? Daw. Not a word, sir : you see we are jovial. Ott. Sir Amorous, you must not equivocate. It must be pull'd down, for all my cousin. Cler. 'Sfoot, if you take not your drink, they'll think you are discontented with something ; you'll betray all, if you take the least notice. La-F. Not I ; I'll both drink and talk then. Ott. You must pull the horse on his knees, sir Amorous ; fear no cousins. Jacte est alea. True. O, now he's in his vein, and bold. The least hint given hiin of his wife now, will make him rail desperately. Cler. Speak to him of her. True. Do you, and I'll fetch her to the hearing of it. [Exit. Daup. Captain He-Otter, your She-Otter is coming, your wife. Ott. Wife ! buz ? tUivilitium ! There's no such thing in nature. I confess, gentlemen, I have a cook, a laundress, a house-drudge, that serves my necessary turns, and goes under that title ; but he's an ass that will be so uxorious to tie his affections to one circle. Come, the name dulls appetite. Here, replenish again ; another bout. [Fills the cups again.] Wives are nasty, sluttish animals. Daup. 0, captain. Ott. As ever the eartli bare, tribus verbis. — Where's Master True wit ? THE SILENT WOMAN. Daw. He's slipt aside, sir. Cler. But you must drink and be jovial. Daw. Yes, give it riie. La-F. And me too. Daw. Let's be jovial. La-F. As jovial as you will. Ott. Agreed. Now you shall have the bear, cousin, ind sir John Daw the horse, and I'll have the bull still. Sound, Tritons of the Thames ! \^Drum, and trumpets sound again.] Xvnc est hibendum, nunc 2)cde libero 3Ior. [above.] Villains, murderers, sons of the earth, and traitors, what do you there ? Cler. 0, now the trumpets have waked him, we shall have his company. Ott. A wife is a scurvy clogdogdo, an unlucky thing, a very foresaid bear-whelp, without any good fashion or breeding, mala bestia. Be-enter Truewit behind, with Mistress Otter. Daup. Why did you marry one then, captain ? Ott. A pox ! 1 married with six theusand pound, I. I was in love with that. I have not kissed my Fury these forty weeks. Cler. The more to blame you, captain. True. Nay, mistress Otter, hear him a little first. Ott. She has a breath worse than my grandmother's, profecto. Mrs. Ott. treacherous liar ! kiss me, sweet master Truewit, and prove him a slandering knave. True. I'll rather believe you, lady. Ott. And she has a peruke that's like a pound of hemp, made up in shoe-threads. Mrs. Ott. viper, mandrake ! Ott. A most vile face ! and yet she spends me forty pound a year in mercury and hogs-bones. All her teeth ' ...5.., 66 THE SILENT WOMAN. were made in the Black-friars, both her e.ye-brows in the Strand, and her hair in Silver-street. Every part of the town owns a piece of her. Mrs. Ott. [comes forward.] I cannot hold. Ott. She takes herself asunder still when she goes to bed, into some twenty boxes ; and about next day noon is put together again, like a great German clock : and so comes forth, and rings a tedious larum to the whole house, and then is quiet again for an hour, but for her quarters. — Have you done me right, gentlemen ? 3frs. Ott. [falls U2:)on Mm and heats him.] No, sir, I'll do you right with my quarters, with my quarters. Ott. 0, hold, good princess. True. Sound, sound ! [Druin and trumpets sound. Gler. A battle, a battle ! Mrs. Ott. You notorious stinkardly bearward, does my breath smell ? Ott. Under correction, dear princess. — Look to my bear and my horse, gentlemen. Mrs. Ott. Do I want teeth, and eyebrows, thou bull- dog? True. Sound, sound still. {They sound again. Ott. No, I protest, under correction Mrs.' Ott. Ay, now you are under correction, you pro- test : but you did not protest before correction, sir. Thou Judas, to offer to betray thy princess ! I'll make thee an example [BeaU him. Enter Mokose with his long sword. Mor, I will have no such examples in my house, lady Otter. Mrs. Ott. Ah ! [Mrs. Otter, Daw, and La-Foole run off. Mor. Mistress Mary Ambree, your examples are dan- gerous. — Rogues, hell-hounds, Stentors ! out of my doors, you sons of noise and tumult, becijot on an ill May-day, or when the cralley-foist is afloat to Westminster ! [Drives out the mitsicians.] A trumpeter could not be conceived but then. Daup. What ails you, sir ? Mor. They have rent my roof, walls, and all my windows asunder, with their braz^^n throats. [Exit. True. Best follow him, Dauphine. Daup. So I will. [Exit. Cler. Where's Daw and La-Foole ? Ott. They are both run awaj', sir. Good gentlemen, help to pacify my princess, and speak to the great ladies for me. I^Tow must I go lie with the bears this fort- night, and keep out of the way, till ray peace be made, for this scandal she has taken. Did you not see my bull-head, gentlemen ? Cler. Is't not on, captain ? True. No ; but he may make a new one, by that is on. Ott. 0, here it is. An you come over, gentlemen, and ask for Tom Otter, we'll go down to Ratclilf, and have a course i'faith, for all these disasters. There is bona spes left. True. Away, captain, get off while you are well. [^ici^OXTER. Cler. I am glad we are rid of him. Tru^e. You had never been, unless we had put his wife upon him. His humour is as tedious at last, as it was ridiculous at first. [Exeunt. Scene II. — A long open Gallery in the same. Enter Lady Haughty, Mistress Otter, Mavis, Daw, La-Foole, Centaure, and Epic(exe. Rau. We wonder'd why you shriek'd so, mistress Otter. 68 THE SILENT WOMAN. Mrs. Ott. lord, madam, he came down with a huge long naked weapon in both his hands, and look'd so dreadfully ! sure he's beside himself. Mav. Why, what made you there, mistress Oitter ? J\[rs. Ott. Alas, mistress Mavis, I was chastising my subject, and thought nothing of him. Daw. Faith, mistress, you must do so too : learn to chastise. Mistress Otter corrects her husband so, he dares not speak but under correction. La-F. And with his hat off to her : 'twould do you good to see. Hau. In sadness, 'tis good and mature counsel ; prac- tise it. Morose. I'll call you Morose still now, as I call Centaure and Mavis ; we four will be all one. Cen. And you'll come to the college, and live with us ? Hau. Make him give milk and honey. Mav. Look how you manage him at first, you shall have him ever after. Cen. Let him allow you your coach, and four horses, your woman, your chamber-maid, your page, your gentleman-usher, your French cook, and four grooms. Hmo. And go with us to Bedlam, to the china-houses, and to the Exchange. Oen. It will open the gate to your fame. Hau. Here's Centaure has immortalised herself, with taming of her wild male. Mav. Ay, she has done the miracle of the kingdom. Enter Clerimont a'tid Truewit. Exii. But, ladies, do you count it lawful to have such plurality of servants, and do them all graces ? Hau. Wliy not ? why should women deny their fa- vours to men ? are they the poorer or the worse ? Daw. Is the Thames the less for tlie dyers' water, mistress ? La-F. Or a torch for lii^hting many torches ? True. Well said, La-Foole ; ^Yhat a new one he has got ! Cen. They are empty losses women fear in this kind. Hau, Besides, ladies should be mindful of the approach of age, and let no time want his due use. The best of our days pass first. Mav. "\Ve are rivers, that cannot be call'd back, madam : she that now excludes her lovers, may live to lie a forsaken beldame, in a frozen bed. Cen. 'Tis true, Mavis : and who will wait on us to coach then ? or write, or tell us the news then, make anagrams of our names, and invite us to the Cockpit, and kiss our hands all the play-time, and draw their weapons for our honours ? Hau. Not one. Daw. Nay, my mistress is not altogether unintelligent of these things ; here be in presence have tasted of her favours. Cler. What a neighing hobby-horse is this ! Epi. But not with intent to boast them again, ser- vant. — And have you those excellent receipts, madam, to keep yourselves from bearing of children ? Hau. yes, Morose : how should we maintain our 3'outh and beauty else ? !Many births of a woman make her old, as many crops make the earth barren. Enter Morose and Daufhine. Mor, my cursed angel, that instructed me to this fate ! Daup. Why, sir ? Mor. That I should be seduced by so foolish a devil as . a barber will make ! Daup. I would I had been worthy, sir, to have 70 THE SILENT WOMAN. partaken your counsel ; you should never have trusted it to such a minister, Mor. Would I could redeem it with the loss of an eye, nephew, a hand, or any other member. Baujp. Marry, God forbid, sir, that you should geld yourself, to anger your wife. Mor. So it would rid me of her ! — and, that I did supererogatory penance in a belfr}', at Westminster-hall, in the Cockpit, at the fall of a stag, the Tower-wharf — what place is there else ? — London-bridge, Paris-garden, Billiusgate, when the noises are at their height, and loudest. Nay, I would sit out a play, that were nothing bat fights at sea, drum, trumpet, and target. Daup. I hope there shall be no such need, sir. Take patience, good uncle. This is but a day, and 'tis well worn too now. Mor. 0, 'twill be so for ever, nephew, I foresee it, for ever. Strife and tumult are the dowry that comes with a wife. True. I told you so, sir, and you would not believe me. Mor. Alas, do not rub those wounds, master Truewit, to blood again : 'twas my negligence. Add not affliction to affliction. I have perceived the effect of it too late, in madam Otter. Epi. How do you, sir ? Mor. Did you ever hear a more unnecessary question ? as if she did not see ! Why, I do as you see, empress, empress. Epi. You are not well, sir ; you look very ill : something has distemper'd you. Mor. horrible, monstrous impertinencies ! would not one of these have served, do you think, sir ? would not one of these have served 1 THE SILENT WOMAN. H True. Yes, sir ; but these are but notes of female kindness, sir ; certain tokens that she has a voice, sir. Mor. 0, is it so ! Come, an't be no otherwise What say you ? Epi. How do you feel yourself, sir ? Mor. Again that ! True. Nay, look you, sir, you would be friends with your wife upon unconscionable terms ; her silence. Ejpi. They say you are run mad, sir. Mor. Not for love, I assure yon, of you ; do you see ? Eipi. lord, gentlemen ! lay hold on him, for God's sake. "What shall I do ? who's his phy&ician, can you tell, that knows the state of his body best, that I might send for him ? Good sir, speak ; I'll send for one of my doctors else. Mor. "What, to poison me, that I might die intestate, and leave you possest of all ! Ejpi. Lord, how idly he talks, and how his eyes sparkle ! he looks green about the temples ! do you see what blue spots he has ! Cler. Ay, tis melancholy. Ej^. Gentlemen, for Heaven's sake, counsel me. La- dies ; — servant, you have read Pliny and Paracelsus ; ne'er a word now to comfort a poor gentlewoman ? Ay me, what fortune had I, to marry a distracted man ! Daw. I'll tell you, mistress True. How rarely she holds it up ! \As'kU to Cler. Mor. What mean you, gentlemen ? Eyi. What will you tell me, servant ? Daw, The disease in Greek is called (xavia, in Latin, insania, furor, vel ecstasis melanchoUca, that is, egrcssio, when a man ex melanchoUco evadit fanaticus. Mor. Shall I have a lecture read upon me alive ? Daw. But he may be but ^;7irc7Jchct^ yet, mistress ; KQ^ phrenctis is only delirium^ or so. - THE SILENT WOMAN. Epi. Ay, that is for the disease, servant ; but what is this to the cure ? We are sure enough of the disease. 3Tor. Let me go, Tme. Why, we'll entreat her to hold her peace, sir. Mor. no, labour not to stop her. She is like a conduit-pipe, that will gush out with more force when she opens again, Hau. I'll tell you, Morose, you must talk divinity to him altogether, or moral philosophy. La-F. Ay, and there's an excellent book of moral philosophy, madam, of Reynard the Fox, and all the beasts, called Doni's Philosoi)hy. Ccn. There is, indeed, sir Amorous La-Foole. Mor. O misery ! La-F. I have read it, my lady Centaure, all over, to my cousin here. Mrs. Ott. Ay, and 'tis a very good book as any is, of the moderns. Daw. Tut, he must have Seneca read to him, and Plutarch, and the ancients ; the moderns are not for this disease. Cler. Why, you discommended them too, to-day, sir John. Davj. Ay, in some cases : but in these they are best, and Aristotle's ethics. Mav. Say you so, sir John ? I think you are deceived; you took it upon trust. Hau. Where's Trusty, my woman ? I'll end this dif- ference. I prithee. Otter, call her. Her father and mother were both mad, when they put her to me. Mor. I think so. — Nay, gentlemen, I am tame. This is but an exercise, I know, a marriage ceremony, which I must endure, Hau. And one of them, I know not which, was cured THE SILENT WOMAN, ■with the Sick Man's Salve, and the other with Green's Groat's-worth of Wit. True. A very cheap cure, madam. Enter Tpxsty. JJau. Ay, 'tis very feasible. Mrs. Ott. My lady call'd for you, mistress Trusty : 3''ou must decide a controversy. Hau. 0, Trusty, which was it you said, your fatlier, or your mother, that was cured with the Sick Man's Salve ? Triis. My mother, madam, with the Salve. True. Then it was the sick woman's salve ? Trv.-s. And my father with the Groat's-worth of "Wit. But there was other means used : we had a preacher that would preach folk asleep still ; and so they were pre- scribed to go to church, by an old woman that was their physician, thrice a-week Epi. To sleep ? Trus. Yes, forsooth : and every night they read themselves asleep on those books. Epi. Good faith, it stands with great reason. I would I knew where to procure those books. Mor. Oh ! La-F. I can help you with one of them, mistress Morose, the Groat's-worth of ^Yit. Epi. But I shall dibfurnish you, sir Amorous : can you spare it ? La-F. yes, for a week, or so ; I'll read it myself to him. Epi. No, I must do that, sir; that must be my office. Mor. Oh, oh ! Epi. Sure he would do well enough, if he could sleep. Mor. No, I should do well enough, if you could sleep. ,. 74 THE SILENT WOAIAN. Have I no friend that will make her drunk, or give her a little laudanum, or opium ? True. Why, sir, she talks ten times worse in her sleep. Mor. How ! Clcr. Do you know that, sir ? never ceases all night. True. And snores like a porpoise. Mor. redeem me, fate ; redeem me, fate ! For how many causes may a man be divorced, nephew? Daup. I know not, truly, sir. True. Some divine must resolve you in that, sir, or canon-lawyer. Mor. I will not rest, I will not think of any other hope or comfort, till I know. {Exit wlLli Dattphine. CUr. Alas, poor man ! True. You'll make him mad indeed, ladies, if you pursue this. Hau. No, we'll let him breathe now, a quarter of an hour or so. CUr, By my faith, a large truce ! Hau. Is that his keeper, that is gone with him ? Daw. It is his nephew, madam. La-F. Sir Dauphine Eugenie. Cen. He looks like a very pitiful knight Daxo. As can be. This marriage has put liira out of all. La-F, He has not a penny in his purse, madam. Daw. He is ready to cry all this day. La-F. A very sliark ; he set me in the nick t'other night at Primero. True. How these swabbers talk ! Cler. Ay, Otter's wine has swell'd their humours above a spring-tide. THE SILENT WOMAN. 75 Eau. Good Morose, let's go in again. I like your couches exceeding well ; we'll go lie and talk there. \Exeunt Hatj. Cen. May. Trus. La-Foole, and Daw. Eipi. {following them.] I wait on you, madam. True, [stopping her.] 'Slight, I will have them as silent as signs, and their post too, ere I have done. Do you hear, lady-bride ? I pray thee now, as thou art a noble wench, continue this discourse of Dauphine within ; but praise him exceedingly : magnify him with all the height of affection thou canst ; — I have some purpose in't : and but beat off these two rooks, Jack Daw and bis fellow, with any discontentment, hither, and I'll honour thee for ever. EpL I was about it here. It angered me to the soul, to hear them begin to talk so malepert. True. Pray thee perform it, and thou winn'st me an idolater to thee everlasting. Epi. "Will you go in and hear me do't ? True. No, I'll stay here. Drive them out of your company, 'tis all I ask ; which cannot be any way better done, than by extolling Dauphine, whom they have so slighted. Epi. I warrant you : you shall expect one of them presently. [Exit. Cler. "What a cast of kestrils are these, to hawk after ladies, thus ! True. Ay, and strike at such an eagle as Dauphine. Cler. He will be mad when we tell him. Here he comes. Re-enter Dauphine. Cler. sir, you are welcome. True. Where's thine uncle? Daup. Run out of doors in his night-caps, to talk with a casuist about his divorce. It works admirably. 76 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. Thou wouldst have said so, an tliou haclst been here ! The ladies have laugh'd at thee most comically, since thou went'st, Dauphiue. Cler. And ask'd, il thou wert thine uncle's keeper. True. And the brace of baboons answer'd, Yes ; and said thou wert a pitiful poor fellow, and didst live upon posts, and hadst nothing but three suits of apparel, and some few benevolences that the lords gave thee to fool to them, and swagger. Daiqj. Let me not live, I'll beat them : I'll bind them both to grand-madam's bed-posts, and have them baited with monkies. True. Thou shalt not need, they shall be beaten to thy hand, Dauphine. I have an execution to servo upon them, I warrant thee, shall serve ; trust my plot. Baiip. Ay, you have many plots ! so you had one to make all the wenches in love with me. Tme. Why, if I do it not yet afore night, as near as 'tis, and that tliey do not every one invite thee, and be ready to scratch for thee, take the mortgage of my wit. CUr. 'Fore God, I'll be his witness thou shalt have it, Dauphine : thou shalt be his fool for ever, if thou dost not. True. Agreed. Perhaps 'twill be the better estate. Do you observe this gallery, or rather lobby, indeed ? Here are a couple of studies, at each end one : here will I act such a tragi-comedy between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, Daw and La-Foole which of them comes out first, will I seize on ; — you two shall be the chorus behind the arras, and whip out between the acts and speak — If I do not make them keep the peace for this remnant of the day, if not of the year. I have failed once 1 hear Daw coming : hide, \they withdraw\ and do not laugh, for God's sake. THE SILENT WOMAN. 77 Re-enter Daw. Bavj. "Which is the way into the garden, trow ? True. 0, Jack Daw ! I am glad I have met with you. In good faith, I must have this matter go no further between you : I must have it taken up. Baxv. "What matter, sir ? between whom ? True. Come, you disguise it : sir Amorous and you. If you love me, Jack, you shall make use of your philosophy now, for this once, and deliver me your sword. This is not the weddiug the Centaurs were at, though there be a she one here. {^TaJccilns sworcl.'\ The bride has entreated me I will see no blood shed at her bridal : you saw her whisper me erewhile. Daw. As I hope to finish Tacitus, I intend no muider. True. Do you not wait for sir Amorous ? Baw. Kot I, by my knighthood. True.. And your scholarship too. Daw. And my scholarship too. True. Go to, then I return you your sword, and ask you mercy ; but put it not up, for you will be assaulted. I understood that you had apprehended it, and walked here to brave him ; and that you had held your life contemptible, in regard of your honour. Baic. Xo, no ; no such thing, I assure you. He and I parted now, as good friends as could be. True. Trust not you to that visor. I saw him since dinner with another face : I have known many men iu my time vex'd with losses, with deaths, and with abuses; but so offended a wight as sir Amorous, did I never see or read of. For taking away his guests, sir, to-day, that's the cause ; and he declares it behind your back with such threatenings and contempts He said tq DaLiphine, you were the anant'st ass Daw. Ay, he may say his pleasure. 78 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. And swears you are so protested a coward, that he knows you will never do him any manly or single right ; and therefore he will take his course. Daw. I'll give him any satisfaction sir — but fighting. True. Ay, sir : but who knows what satisfaction he'll take : blood he thirsts for, and blood he will have ; and whereabouts on you he will have it, who knows but himself ! Daw. I pray you, master Truewit, be you a mediator. True. "Well, sir, conceal yourscdf then in this study till I return. [Puts him into the stiuly.] Nay, you must be content to be lock'd in ; for, for mine own reputation, I would not have you seen to receive a public disgrace, while I have the matter in managing. Ods so, here he comes ; keep your breath close, that he do not hear you sigh. In good faith, sir Amorous, he is not this way ; I pray you be merciful, do not murder him? he is a Christian, as good as you : you are arm'd as if you sought revenge on all his race. Good Dauphine, get him away from this place. I never knew a man's choler so high, but he would speak to his friends, he would hear reason. — Jack Daw, Jack! Daw. [within.] Is he gone, master Truewit ? True. Ay ; did you hear him ? Daw. lord ! yes. True. What a quick ear fear has ! Daw. [comes out of the closet.] But is he so arm'd, as you say ? True. Arm'd ! did you ever see a fellow set out to take possession ? Daiv, Ay, sir. True. That may give you some light to conceive of him ; but 'tis nothing to the principal. Some false THE SILENT WOMAN. 79 brother in the house has furnish'd him strangely ; or, if it were out of the house, it was Tom Otter. Daxc. Indeed, he's a captain, and his wife is his kinswoman. True. He has got some body's old two-hand sword, to mow you off at the knees ; and that sword hath spawn'd such a dagger !— But then he is so hung with pikes, halberds, petronels, calivers and muskets, that he looks like a justice of peace's hall ; a man of two thousand a-year is not cess'd at so many weapons as he has on. There was never fencer challenged at so many several foils. You would think he meant to murder all St. Pulchre's parish. If he could but victual himself for half a-year in his breeches, he is sufficiently arm'd to over-run a country. Daw. Good lord ! what means he, sir ? I pray you, master Truewit, be you a mediator. True. "Well, I'll try if he will be appeased with a leg or an arm ; if not you must die once. Daw. I would be loth to lose my right arm, for writing madrigals. True. Why, if he will be satisfied with a thumb or a little finger, all's one to me; You must think, I'll do my best. [Shuts him up again. Daw. Good sir, do. [Clerimont and Dauphine come forward. Cler. What hast thou done ? True. He will let me do nothing, he does all afore ; he ofiers his left arm. Gler. His left wing for a Jack Daw. Daup. Take it by all means. True. How ! maim a man for ever, for a jest ? Wliat a conscience hast thou ! Daup. 'Tis no loss to him ; he has no employment for 8o THE SILENT WOMAN, his arms, but to eat spoon-meat. Beside, as good maim his body as his reputation. True. He is a scholar and a wit, and yet he does not think so. Bat he loses no reputation with us ; for we all resolved him an ass before. To your places again. Cler. I pray thee, let be me in at the other a little. True. Look, you'll spoil all ; these be ever your tricks. Cler. No, but I could hit of some things that thou wilt miss, and thou wilt say are good ones. True. I warrant you. I pray forbear, I'll leave it off, else. Daiq). Come away, Clerimont. [i)AUP. and Cler. wUhdraiu as before. Enter La-Foole. T7'ue. Sir Amorous ! Za-F. Master Truewit. True. Whither were you going ? Za-F. Down into the court to make water. True. By no means, sir ; you shall rather tempt your breeches. Za-F. Why, sir ? True. Enter here, if you love your life. [Opening the door of the other study, Za-F. Why ? why ? True. Question till your throat be cut, do : dally till the enraged soul find you. Za-F. Who is that ? True. Daw it is : will you in ? Za-F. Ay, ay, I'll in : what's the matter ? True. Nay, if he had been cool enough to tell us that, there had been some hope to atone you ; but he seems so implacably enraged ! Za-F. 'Slight, let him rage ! I'll hide myself, THE SILENT WOMAN. Si Tnie. Do, good sir. But what have you done to him within, that should provoke him thus ? You have broke some jest upon him afore the ladies. La-F. Not I, never in my life, broke jest upon any man. The bride was praising sir Dauphine, and he went away in snull", and I followed liini ; unless he took offence at me in his drink erewhile, that I would not pledge all the horse full. True. By my faith, and that may be ; you remember well: but he walks the round up and down, through every room o' the house, with a towel in his hantl, crying, Where's La-Foole ? Who saw La-Foole ? And when Dauphine and I demanded the cause, we can force no answer from him, but — revenge, hoio sweet art thou! I u'ill strangle him in this towel — whicli leads us to conjecture that the main cause of his fury is, for bringing your meat to-day, with a towel about you, to liis discredit. La-F. Like enough. Whj^ an he be angry for that, I'll stay here till his anger be blown over. True. A good becoming resolution, sir ; if you can put it on o' the sudden. La-F. Yes, I can put it on : or, I'll away into the country presently. True. How will you go out of the house, sir ? he knows you are in the house, and he'll watch this se'ennight, but he'll have you : he'll outwait a serjeant for yon. La-F. "Why, then I'll stay here. Tnie. You must think how to victual yourself in time then. La-F. Why, sweet master Truewit, will you entreat my cousin Otter to send me a cold venison pasty, 4 bottle or two of wine, and a chamber-pot ? ...G... 82 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. A stool wore bettor, sir, of sir Ajax his iuvention. La-F. Ay, that will be better, indeed ; and a pallat to lie ou. True. 0, I would not advise you to sleep by any means. La-F. Would you not, sir ? Why, then I will not. True. Yet, there's another fear La-F. Is there ! what is't ? True. No, he cannot break open this door with his foot, sure. La-F. I'll set my back against it, sir. I have a good back. True. But then if he should batter. La-F. Batter ! if he dare, I'll have an action of battery against him. Tru^. Cast you the worst. He has sent for powder already, and what he will do with it, no man knows : perhaps blow up the corner of the house where he suspects you are. Here he comes ; in quickly. [Thrusts in La-Foole and shuts the. door.] — I protest, sir John Daw, he is not this way : what will you do ? Before God, you shall hang no petard here : I'll die rather. Will you not take my word ? I never knew one but would be satisfied. — Sir Amorous [speaks through the key 7iole], there's no standing out : he has made a petard of an old brass pot, to force your door. Think upon some satisfaction, or terms to offer him. La-F. [within.] Sir, I'll give him any satisfaction : I dare give any terms. True. You'll leave it to me, then ? La-F. Ay, sir : I'll stand to any conditions. True, [beckoning forward Cler. and Dauph.] How now, what think you, sirs ? were't not a difficult tiling ^9 determine which of these two fear'd most ? THE SILENT WOMAN. Z2> Cler. Yes, but this fears the bravest : the other a wbiniling dastard, Jack Daw ! But La-Foole, a brave heroic coward ! aud is afraid in a great look and a stout accent ; I like him rarely. True. Had it not been pity these two should have been concealed ? CUr. Shall I make a motion ? True. Briefly : for I must strike while 'tis hot. Cler. Shall I go fetch the ladies to the catastrophe ? Trv^. Umph ! ay, by my troth, Daup. By no mortal means. Let them continue in the state of ignorance, and err still ; think them wits and fine fellows, as they have done. 'Twere sin to reform them. True. Well, I will have them fetch'd, now I think on't, for a private purpose of mine : do, Olerimont, fetch them, and discourse to them all that's past, and bring them into the gallery here. Daup. This is thy extreme vanity, now : thou think'st thou wert undone, if every jest thou mak'st were not published. True. Thou shalt see how unjust thou art presently. Olerimont, say it was Danphine's plot. \^Exit Cleri- MONT.] Trust me not, if the whole drift be not for thy good. There is a carpet in the next room, put it on, with this scarf over thy face, and a cushion on thy head, and be ready when I call Amorous. Away ! \^Exit Daup.] John Daw ! [Goes to Daw's closet and brings him out. Daw. "What good news, sir ? 2'rue. Faith, I have followed and argued with him hard for you. I told liim you were a knight, and a scholar, aud that you knew fortitude did consist magis ■patiendo quam faciendo, magis ferendo quaraftrlcndQ. J)a%o. It doth so indeedj sir. 84 THE SILENT WOMAN. True. And that you would suffer, I told him : so at first he demanded by my troth, iu my conceit, too much. Daw. What was it, sir ? True. Your upper lip, aud six of your fore-teeth. Daw. 'Twas unreasonable. True,. Nay, I told him j)lainly, you could not spare them all. So after lon^ argument j)ro el con. as you know, I brought him down to your two butter-teeth, and them he would have. Daw. 0, did you so ? Why, he shall have them. True. But he shall not, sir, by your leave. The conclusion is this, sir : because j^ou shall be very good friends hereafter, and this never to be remembered or upbraided ; besides, that he may not boast he has done any such thing to you in his own person ; he is to come liere in disguise, give you five kicks iu private, sir, take your sword from you, and lock you up in that study during pleasure : which will be but a little while, we'll get it released presently. Daw. Five kicks ! he shall have six, sir, to be friends. True. Believe me, you shall not over-shoot yourself, to send him that word by me. Daw. Deliver it, sir; he shall have it with all my heart, to be friends. Tnie. Friends ! Nay, and he should not be so, and heartily too, upon these terms, he shall have me to enemy while I live. Come, sir, bear it bravely. Daw. lord, sir, 'tis nothing. Ti'ue. True : what's six kicks to a man thit reads Seneca ? Daw. I have had a hundred, sir. True. Sir Amorous 1 THE SILENT WOMAN. 85 Ee- enter Datjphine, disguised. No speaking one to another, or rehearsing old matters. Daw. [as Daup. kicks Jiim.] One, two, three, four, live. I protest, sir Amorous, you shall liave six. True. Nay, I told yon, you should not talk. Come, give him six, an he will needs. [Dauphine kids him again.] — Your sword, [takes his sword.} Kow return to your safe custody ; you shall presently meet afore the ladies, and be the dearest friends one to another. [Puts Daw into the study.'] — Give me the scarf now, thou shalt beat the other bare-faced. Stand l)y : [Dauphine retires, and Truewit goes to the other closet, and releases La-Foole.] — Sir Amorous ! La-F. "What's here ! A sword ? True. I cannot help it, without I should take the quarrel upon myself. Here he has sent 3'ou his sword La-F. I'll receive none on't. Triie. And he wills you to fasten it against a wall, and break your head in some few several places against the hilts. La-F. I will not : tell him roundly. I cannot endure to shed my own blood. True. Will you not ? La-F. No. I'll beat it against a fair flat wall, if that will satisfy him : if not, he shall beat it himself, for Amorous. True. Why, this is strange starting off, when a man undertakes for you ! I oti'er'd him another condition ; will you stand to that ? La-F. Ay, what is't ? Triie. That you will be beaten in private. La-F. Yes, I am content, at the blunt. 86 THE SILENT WOMAN. Enter, above, Haughty, Centaure, Mavis, ^Mistress Otter, Epiccene, and Trusty. True. Then you must submit yourself to be hood- winked in this scarf, and be led to him, where he will take your sword from you, and make you bear a blow over the mouth, gules, and tweaks by the nose sans nomhre. La-F. I am content But why must I be blinded ? True, That's for your good, sir ; because, if he should grow insolent ujion this, and publish it hereafter to your disgrace (wliich I hope he will not do), you might swear safely, and protest, he never beat you, to your knowledge. La-F. 0, I conceive. True. I do not doubt but you'll be perfect good friends upon't, and not dare to utter an ill thought one of another in future. La-F. Not I, as God help me, of him. True. Nor he of you, sir. If he should, \hinds his eyes.] — Come, sir. [leads him forward.] — All hid, sir John ! Enter Dauphine, and tweaks him by the nose. La-F. Oh, sir John, sir John ! Oh, o-o-o-o-o-Oh ■ True. Good sir John, leave tweaking, you'll blow his nose off. — 'Tis sir John's pleasure, you should retire into the study. [Puts him up again.] — Why, now you are friends. All bitterness between you, I hope, is buried ; you shall come forth by and by, Damon and Pythias upon't, and embrace with all the rankness of friendship that can be. — I trust, we shall have them tamer in their language hereafter. Dauphine, I worship thee. — God's will, the ladies have surprised us 1 THE SILENT WOMAN. S7 Enter Haughty, Centaitrk, Matir, Mistress Otter, Epiccene, and Trusty, behind. Hau. Centaure, how our judgments were imposed on by these adulterate knights ! Cen. Nay, madam, Mavis was more deceived than we ; 'twas her commendation utter'd them in tlie college. Alav. I commended but their wits, madam, and their braveries. I never look'd toward their valours. Hau. Sir Dauphine is valiant, and a wit too, it seems. Mav. And a bravery too. HaAL Was this his project ? Mrs. Ott. So master Clerimont intimates, madam. Hau. Good Morose, when you come to the college, will you bring him with you ? he seems a very perfect gentleman. Epi. He is so, madam, believe it. Cen. But when will you come, Morose ? Epi. Three or four days hence, madam, when I have got me a coach and horses. Hau. No, to-morrow, good Morose ; Centaure shall send you her coach. Mav. Yes faith, do, and bring sir Dauphine with you. Hau. She has promised that. Mavis, Mav. He is a very worthy gentleman in his exteriors, madam. HaAL. Ay, he shows he is judicial in his clothes. Cen. And yet not so superlatively neat as some, madam, that have their faces set in a brake. Hau. Ay, and have every hair in form. Mav. That wear purer linen than ourselves, and profess more neatness than the French hermaphrodite ! Epi. Ay, ladies, they, what they tell one of us, have 88 THE SILENT WOMAN. told a tliou.s:ind ; and are the only tliieves of our fame, that think to take us with that jierfume, or with that lace, and laugh at us unconscionably when they have done. Han. But sir Daujjliine's carelessness becomes him. Cen. I could love a man for such a nose. Mav, Or such a lew. Cen. He has an exceeding good eye, madam, Mav. And a very good lock. Cen. Good ]\lorose, bring him to my chamber fiist. Mrs. Ott. Please your honours to meet at my house, madam. True. See how they eye thee, man ! they are taken, I warrant thee. [Haughty comes forward. Hau. You have unbraced our brace of knights here, master Trnewit. True. Not I, madam ; it was Sir Dauphine's ingine : who, if we have disfurnish'd your ladyship of any guard or service by it, is able to make the place good again in himself. Hau. There is no suspicion of that, sir. Cen. God so, Mavis, Haughty is kissing. Mav. Let us go too, and take part. [They come forward. Hau. But I am glad of the fortune (beside the dis- covery of two such empty caskets) to gain the knowledge of so rich a mine of virtue as sir Dauphine. Cen. AVe would be all glad to style him of our friend- ship, and see him at the college. Mav. He cannot mix with a sweeter society, I'll prophesy ; and I liope he himself will think so. Hanp. I .should be rude to imagiue otherwise, lady. Tme. Did not I tell thee, Dauphine ! Why, all their actions are governed by crude ojdnion, without reason or cause ; they know not why they do any thing ; but, THE SILENT WOMAN. 89 as they are inform'd, believe, judcre, praise, condemn, iove, liate, and in emulation one of another, do all these things alike. Only they have a natural inclination sways them generally to the worst, when they are left to themselves. But pursue it, now thou hast them. Ha\L Shall we go in again, Morose ? Epi, Yes, madam. Cen. We'll entreat sir Danphine's company. . True. Stay, good madam, the interview of the two friends, Pylades and Orestes ; I'll fetch them out to you straight. HoAi. Will you, master Truewit ? Daxip. Ay, but noble ladies, do not confess in your countenance, or outward bearing to them, any discovery of their follies, that we may see how they will bear up again, with what assurance and erection. Hau. We will not, sir Dauphine. Cen. Mav. Upon our honours, sir Dauphine. True, [gop.s to the first closet.'] Sir Amorous, sir Amorous ! The ladies are here. La-F. [-within.] Are they ? True. Yes ; but slip out by and by, as their backs are turn'd, and meet sir John here, as by chance, when I call you. [Goes to the other.]. — Jack Daw. Daw. [trithin.] What sa}' you, sir ? Tru£. Whip out behind me suddenly, and no anger in your looks to your adversary. Now, now ! [La-Foole and Daw slip out of their respective closets, and salute each other. La-F. Noble sir John Daw, where have you been ! Law. To seek you, sir Amorous. La-F. Me ! I honour you. Baiv. I prevent you, sir. C'hr. Tliey have forgot their rajners. True. 0, they meet in peace, man. 90 THE SILENT WOMAN. Daup. Where's your sword, sir John? Cler. And yours, sir Amorous ? Daw. Mine ! my boy had it forth to mend the handle, e'en now. La-F. And my gold handle was broke too, and my boy had it forth. Daup. Indeed, sir ! — How their excuses meet ! Cler. What a consent there is in the handles ! True. Nay, there is so in the points too, I warrant you. Enter Morose, with the two stoords, drawn in his hands. Mrs. Ott. me ! madam, he comes again, the mad- man ! Away ! [Ladies, Daw, and La-Foole, run off. Mor. "What make these naked weapons here, gentle- men ? True. sir ! here hath like to have been murder since you went ; a couple of knights fallen out about the bride's favours ! We were fain to take away their weapons ; your house had been begg'd by this time else. Mor. For what ? Cler. For manslaughter, sir, as being accessary. Mor. And for her favours ? True. Ay, sir, heretofore, not present — Clerimont, carry them their swords now. They have done all the hurt they will do. {Exit Cler. loith the tivo sioords. Daup. Have you spoke with the lawyer, sir ? Mor. no ! there is such a noise in the court, that the}'^ have frighted me home with more violence than I went ! such speaking and counter-speaking, with their several voices of citations, appellations, allega- tions, certificates, attachments, intergatoiies, references, THE SILENT WOMAN. 9I convictions, and afflictions indeed, among the doctors and proctors, that the noise here is silence to't, a kind of calm midnight ! True. Why, sir, if you would l)e resolved indeed, I can bring you hither a very sufficient lawyer, and a learned divine, that shall enquire into every least scruple for you. Mor. Can you, master Truewit ? Triie. Yes, and are very sober, grave persons, that will despatch it in a chamber, with a whisper or two. Mor. Good sir, shall I hope this benefit from you, and trust myself into your hands ? True. Alas, sir ! your nephew and I have been ashamed and oft-times mad, since you went, to think how you are abused. Go in, good sir, and lock your- self up till we call you : we'll tell you more anon, sir. Mor. Do your pleasure with me, gentlemen ; I believe in you, and that deserves no delusion. {Exii. True. You shall find none, sir; — but heap'd, heap'd plenty of vexation. Daup. "What wilt thou do now, "Wit ? True. Recover me hither Otter and the barber, if you can, by any means, presently. Daup. Why ? to what purpose ? True. 0, I'll make the d^epost divine, and gravest lawyer, out of them two for him i)aup. Thou canst not, man : these are waking dreams. True. Do not fear me. Clap but a civil gown with a welt on the one, and a canonical cloke with sleeves on the other, and give them a few terms in their mouths, if there come not forth as able a doctor and com]dete a parson, for this turn, as may be wish'd, trust not my election ; and I hope, without wronging the dignity of either profession, since they are but persons put on, and 92 THE SILENT WOMAN. for mirth's sake, to torment bim. The barber smatters Latin, I remember. Daup. Yes, and Otter too. True. Well then, if I make them not -wrangle out this case to bis no comfort, let me be thought a Jack Daw or La-Foole or anything worse. Go you to your ladies, but first send for them. Daup. I will. [Exeunt. ACT Y. Scene I. — A Room in AIorose's House. Enter La-Foole, Clerimont, and Daw. La-F. Where had you our swords, master Clerimont ? Gler. Why, Dauphine took tliem from the madman, La-F. And he took them from our boys, I warrant you. Cler. Very like, sir. La-F. Thank you, good master Clerimont. Sir John Daw and I are both beholden to you. Cler. Would 1 knew how to make you so, gentlemen ! Daw. Sir Amorous and I are your servants, sir. Enter Mavis. Mav. Gentlemen, have any of you a pen and ink ? I would fain write out a riddle in Italian, for sir Dauphine to translate. Cler. Not I, in troth, lady ; I am no scrivener. Daw. I can furnish you, 1 think, lady, {Eo:eunt Daw and Mavis. Cler. He has it in the haft of a knife, I believe. La-F. No, he has his box of instruments. Cler. Like a surgeon ! La-F. For the mathematics : his square, his com- THE SILENT WOMAN. 93 passes, his brass pens, and black-lead, to draw maps of every place and person where he comes. Cler. How, maps of persons ! La-F. Yes, sir, of Nomentack when he was here, and of the prince of Moldavia, and of his mistress, mistress Epiccene. Ee-enter Daw. Cler. Away ! he hath not found out her latitude, I hope. La-F. You are a pleasant gentleman, sir. Cler. Faith, now we are in private, let's wanton it a little, and talk waggishly.— Sir John, I am telling sir Amorous here, tliat you two govern the ladies wherever you come ; you carry the feminine gender atore you. Daw. They shall rather carry us afore them, if they will, sir. Cler. iN'ay, I believe that they do, withal — but that you are t!ie prime men in their affectionsi and direct all their actions Daw. Not I ; sir Amorous is. La-F. I protest, sir John is. Daw. As I hope to rise iu the state, sir Amorous, you Lave the person. La-F. Sir John, you have the person, and the dis- course too. Daw. Not I, sir, I have no discourse — and then you liave activity beside. La-F. I protest, sir John, you come as high from Tripoly as I do, every whit : and lift as many join'd stools, and leap over them, if you would use it. Cler. ^Vell, agree on't togetlier, knights ; for between you, you divide the kingdom or commonwealth of ladies' affections : I see it, and can perceive a little how 94 THE SILENT WOMAN. they observe you, aud fear you, indeed, You could tell stranore stories, my masters, if you would, I kuow. Daw. Faith, we have seen somewhat, sir. La-F. That we have velvet petticoats, and wrought smocks, or so. Daw. Ay, and Cler. Nay, out with it, sir John ; do not envy your friend the pleasure of hearing, when you have had the delight of tasting. Daw. Why — a — Do you speak, sir Amorous. La-F. No, do you, sir John Daw. Daw. V faith, you shall. La-F. r faith, you slialL Dau\ Why, we have been La-F. In the great bed at "Ware together in our time. On, sir Jo!ni. Daw. Nay, do you, sir Amorous. Cler. And these ladies with you, knights ? La-F. No, excuse us, sir. Daw. We must not wound reputation. La-F. No matter — they were these, or others. Our bath cost us fifteen pound when we came liome. Cler. Do you hear, sir John '{ You shall tell me but one thing truly, as you love me. Daio. If I can, I will, sir. Cler. You lay in the same house with the bride here ? Daw. Yes, and conversed with her hourly, sir. Cler. And what humour is she of ? Is she coming and open, free ? Daw. 0, exceeding open, sir, I was her servant, and sir Amorous was to be. CUr. Come, you have both had favours from her : I know, and have heard so much. Dtain. Face. Good master Kastril ! Is this your sister ? Kas. Ay, sir. Please you to kuss her, and be proud to know her. Face. I shall be proud to know you, lady. [Kisses Jicr. Dame P. Brother, He calls me lady too. Kas. Ay, peace : I heard it. [Takes her aside. Face. The count is come. Sub. Where is he ? Face. At the door. Siib. Why, you must entertain him. 198 THE ALCHEMIST. Face. WJiat will you do With these the while ? Sub. Why, have them up, and shew tliem Some fustian book, or the dark glass. Face. Fore God, She is a delicate dab-chick ! I must have her. {Exit. Sub. Must you ! ay, if your fortune will, you must. — Come, sir, the captain will come to us presently : I'll have you to my chamber of demonstrations, Where I will shew you both the grammar, and logic. And rhetoric of quarrelling ; my whole method Drawn out in tables ; and my instrument, That hath the several scales upon't, shall make you Able to quarrel at a straw's-breadth by moonlight. And, lady, I'll have you look in a glass, Some half an hour, but to clear your eyesight. Against you see your fortune ; which is greater. Than I may judge upon the sudden, trust me. [Exit, followed by East, and Dame P. He-enter Face. Face. Where are you, doctor ? Sub. [within.] I'll come to you presently. Face. I will have this same widow, now I have seen her, On any composition. He-enter Subtle. Sub. What do you say ? Face. Have you disposed of them. Sub. I have sent them up. Face. Subtle, in troth, I needs must have this widow. Sub. Is that the matter? Face. Nay, but licar me. THE ALCHEMIST. 199 Suh. Go to. If you rebel once, Dol shall know it all : Therefore be quiet, and obey your chance. Face. Nay, thou art so violent now — Do but conceive, Thou art old, and canst not serve Sul. Who cannot ? I ? 'Slight, I will serve her with thee, for a Face. Nay, But understand : I'll give you composition. Sub. I will not treat with thee ; what ! sell my fortune 1 'Tis better than my birth-right. Do not murmur : Win her, and carry her. If you grumble, Dol Knows it directly. Face. Well, sir, I am silent. Will you go help to fetch in Don in state ? \_Exit. Sub. I follow you, sir : we must keep Face in awe, Or he will overlook us like a tyrant. FcC-enter Face, introducing SuPwLY disguised as a Spaniard. Brain of a tailor ! who comes here ? Don John ! Sur. Seiiores, beso las manos a vuestras mercedes. Sitb. Would you had stoop'd a little, and kist our anos ! Face. Peace, Subtle. Sub. Stab me ; I shall never hold, man. He looks in that deep ruff like a head in a platter, Serv'd in by a short cloke upon two trestles. [down Face. Or, what do you say to a collar of brawn, cut Beneath the souse, and wriggled with a knife ? Sub. 'Slud, he does look too fat to be a Spaniard. Face. Perhaps some Fleming or some Hollander got him In d' Alva's time ; count Egmont's bastard. 200 THE ALCHEMIST. Suh. Don, Your scurvy, yellow, Madrid face is welcome. I Sur. Gratia. 1 Sub. He speaks out of a fortification. 1 Pray God he have no squibs in those deep sets. | Sur. Po7' dios, senores, muy linda casa ! Sub. What says he ? Face. Praises the house, I think ; I know no more hut's action. I Sub. Yes, tlie casa, 1 My precious Diego, will prove fair enough To cozen you in. Do you mark ? you shall Be cozen'd, Diego. Face Cozen'd, do vou see, 1 My worthy Donzel, cozen'd. | Sur. Fntiendo. 1 Sub. Do you intend it ? so do we, dear Don. 1 Have you brought pistolets, or portagues, 1 My solemn Don ? — Dost thou feel any ? | Face [Feels 7iis pockets.] Full. Sub. You shall be emptied, Don, pumped and drawn Dry, as they say. Fa^e. Milked, in troth, sweet Don. Sub. See all the monsters ; the great lion of all, Don. Sur. Con Ucencia, se puede ver a esta senora 1 Sub. What talks he now ? Face. Of the sennora. Sub. 0, Don, That is the lioness, which you shall see Also, my Don. I Face. 'Slid, Subtle, how shall we do % Sub. For what ? Face, Why Dol's employ'd, you know. Sub. That's true. 'Fore heaven, I know not : he must stay, that's all. 1 THE ALCHEMIST. 201 Face. Stay ! that he must not by no meaus. Sub. No ! why ? Face, Unless you'll mar all. 'Slight, he will suspect it: And then he will not pay, not half so well. This is a travelled punk-master, and does know All the delays : a notable hot rascal, And looks already rampant. Buh. 'Sdeath, and Mammon Must not be troubled. Face. Mammon ! in no case. Sub. What shall we do then ? Face. Think : you must be sudden. Sur. Entiendo que la senora es tan hermosa, que codicio tan verla, como la bien aventuranza de mi vida. Face. Mi vida! 'Slid, Subtle, he puts me in mind o' the widow. What dost thou say to draw her to it, ha ! And tell her 'tis her fortune ? all our venture Now lies upon't. It is but one man more. Which of us chance to have her : and beside, There is no maidenhead to be fear'd or lost. What dost thou think on't, Subtle ? Sub. Who, I ? why Face. The credit of our house too is engaged. Sub. You made me an offer for my share erewhile. What wilt thou give me, i' faith ? Face. 0, by that light I'll not buy now : You know your doom to me. E'en take your lot, obey your chance, sir ; win her, And wear her out, for me. Sub. 'Slight, I'll not work her then. Face. It is the common cause ; therefore bethink you. Dol else must know it, as you said. Sub. I care not. THE ALCHEMIST. Sur. Seiiores, porque se tarda tanto ? Sub. Faith, I am not fit, I am old. Face. That's now no reason, sir. iStir. Puede ser de hazer burla de mi amor ? Face. You hear the Don too ? by this air, I call, And loose the hinges : Dol ! Sub. A plague of hell Face. Will you then do ? Sub. You are a terrible rogue ! I'll think of this : will you, sir, call the widow ? Face. Yes, and I'll take her too with all her faults, Now I do think on't better. Sub. With all my heart, sir ; Am I discharged o' the lot ? Face. As you please. Sub. Hands. {They take hands. Face. Remember now, that upon any change, You never claim her. Sub. Much good joy, and health to you, sir. Marry a whore ! fate, let me wed a witch first. Sur, Tor estas honradas barbas Sub. He swears by his beard. Dispatch, and call the brother too. [Exit Face. Sur. Tengo duda, sefiores, que no me hagan alguna trayclon. Sub. How, issue on ? yes, prsesto, sennor. Please you Enthratha the chambrata, worthy don : Where if you please the fates, in your bathada, You shall be soked, and stroked, and tubb'd, and rubb'd, And scrubb'd, and fubb'd, dear don, before you go. You shall in faith, my scurvy baboon don. Be curried, claw'd, and flaw'd, and taw'd, indeed. I will the heartlier go about it now. And make the widow a punk so much the sooner. THE ALCHEMIST. To be revenged on this impetuous Face : The quickly doiug of it, is the grace. [Exeunt Sub. and Surly. SCENE II. — Another Room in the same. Enter Face, Kastril, and Dame Pliant. Face. Come, lady : I knew the Doctor would not leave, Till he had found the very nick of her fortune. Kas. To be a countess, say you, a Spanish countess, sir? Dame P. Why, is that better than an English countess 1 Face. Better ! 'Slight, make you that a question, lady ? Kas. Nay, slie is a fool, captain, you must pardon her. Face. Ask from your courtier, to your inns-of-court- man. To your mere milliner ; they will tell you all. Your Spanish gennet is the best horse ; your Spanish Stoup is the best garb : your Spanish beard Is the best cut ; your Spanish ruffs are the best Wear ; your Spanish pavin the best dance ; Your Spanish titillation in a glove The best perfume : and for your Spanish pike, And Spanish blade, let your poor captain speak — Here comes the doctor. Enter Subtle, with a 'paijcr. Suh. My most honour'd lady. For so I am now to style you, having found By this my scheme, you are to undergo An honourable fortune, very shortly. What will you say now, if some 204 THE ALCHEMIST, Face. I have told her all, sir ; And her right worshipful brother here, that she shall be A countess : do not delay them, sir : a Spanish countess. Siih. Still, my scarce-worshipful captain, you can keep No secret ! Well, since he has told you, madam, Do you forgive him, and I do. lias. She shall do that, sir : I'll look to't, 'tis my charge. SiCb. Well then : nought rests But that she fit her love now to her fortune. Dame P. Truly I shall never brook a Spaniard. Sub. No ! Dame P. Never since eighty-eight could I abide them, And that was some three years afore I was born, in truth. Sub. Come, you must love him, or be miserable ; Choose which you will. Face. By this good rush, persuade her, She will cry strawberries else within this twelvemonth. Sub. Nay, shads and mackarel, which is worse. Face. Indeed, sir ? Kas. Ods lid, you shall love him, or I'll kick you. Dame P. Why, I'll do as you will have me, brother. Ka^. Do, Or by this hand I'll maul you. Face, Nay, good sir, Be not so fierce. Sub. No, my enraged child ; She will be ruled. What, when she comes to taste The pleasures of a countess ! to be courted Face. And kiss'd, and rufiled ! Sub. Ay, behind the hangings. THE ALCHEMIST. 205 Face. And then come fortli in pomp ! Suh. And know her state ! Face. Of keeping all the idolaters of the chamber Barer to her, than at their prayers ! Suh. Is serv'd Upon the knee ! Face. And has her pages, ushers, Footmen, and coaches Buh. Her six mares Face. Nay, eight ! Sx(b. To hurry her through London, to the Exchange, Bethlem, the china-houses Face. Yes, and have The citizens gape at her, and praise her tires, And my lord's goose-turd bauds, that ride with her. Kas. Most brave ! By this hand, you are not my suster If you refuse. Dame P. I will not refuse, brother. Enter Srr.LY. Sur. Que es esto, sehores, que no venga ? FMa tardanza me mxita ! Face. It is the count come : The doctor knew he would be here, by his art. Sub. En gallanta madama, Don ! gaUantissima ! Sur. For todos los dioses, la mas acabada hermosiira, que he visto en mi vida ! Face. Is't not a gallant language that they speak ? Kas. An admirable language ! Is't not Frencli ? Face. Ko, Spanish, sir. Kas. It goes like law-French, And that, they say, is the courtliest language. Face. List, sir. 2o6 THE ALCHEMIST. Sur. El sol ha 'perd'd'y su lumbre, con el esplandor que trae esla dama ! Vcdgame dios ! Face. He admires your sister. Kas. Must not she make curt'sy ? Sub. Ods will, she must go to him, man, and kiss him ! It is the Spanish fashion, for the women To make first court. Face. 'Tis true he tells you, sir : His art knows all. Sur. Porgue no se acude ? Kas. He speaks to her, I think. Face. That he does, sir. Sur. For el amor de dios, que es esto que se tarda ? Kas. Nay, see : she will not understand him ! gull, Noddy. Dame P. "What say you, brother ? Kas. Ass, my suster. Go kuss him, as the cunning man would hare you ; I'll thrust a pin in your buttocks else. Face. no, sir, Sur. Senora mia, mi jjcrsona esta muy indigna de allegar a tanta hermosura. Face. Does he not use her bravely ? Kas. Bravely, i'faith ! Face. Nay, he will use her better. Kas. Do you think so ? Sur. Senora, si sera servida entremonos. {Exit with Dame Pliant. Kas. Where does he carry her ? Face. Into the garden, sir ; Take you no thought : I must interpret for her. Sub. Give Dol the word. [Aside to Face, who goes out.] — Come, my fierce child, advance, We'll to our quarrelling lesson again. THE ALCHEMIST. 207 Kas. Agreed. I love a Spanish boy with all my heart. Sub. Xay, and by this means, sir, you shall be brother To a great count. Kas. Ay, I knew that at first. This match will advance the house of the Kastrils. SiLh. 'Prav God your sister prove but pliant ! Kas. Why, Her name is so, by her other husband. Sub. How ! Kas. The widow Pliant. Knew you not that ? Suh. No faith, sir ; Yet, by erection of her figure, I guest it. Come, let's go practise. Kas. Yes, but do you think, doctor, I e'er shall quarrel well ? Sub. I warrant you. {Exeimt. SCENE lU.— Another Boom in the same. Enter DoL in lierfit of raving, followed by Mammox. Dol. For after A lexanders death Mam. Good lady Dol. That Perdiccas and A7itigo7ius were slain, TJic two that stood, Seleuc', and Ftolomee Mam. Madam. Dol. Made up the two legs, and the fourth least, That wo.s Gog-north, and Egypt-south : ivhich after Wets caU'd Gog-iron-leg, and South-iron-Ug Mam. Lady Dol. And then Gog-horned. So was Egypt, too: Then Egypt-clay-leg, and Gog-day -leg Mam. Sweet madam. 2o8 THE ALCHEMIST. Dol. And last Gog-dust, and Egypt-dust, which fall In the last link of the fourth chain. And these Be stars in story, which none see, or look at Mam. What shall I do. Dol. For, as he says, except We call the rabbins, and the heathen Greeks Mam. Dear lady. Dol. To come from Salem, and from Athens, And teach the people of Great Britain Unter Face, hastily, in his Servant's Dress. Face. What's the matter, sir ? Dol. To speak the tongue of Eher, and Javan Mam. 0, She's in her fit. Dol. We shall know nothing Face. Death, sir, We are undone ! Dol. Where then a learned linguist Shall see tlie ancient used communion Of vowels and consonants Face. My master will hear ! Dol. A wisdom, tvhich Pythagoras held most high Mam. Sweet honourable lady 1 Dol. To comprise All sounds of voices, in few marks of letters Face. Nay, you must never hope to lay her now. [ They all speak together Dol. And so we may arrive hy Talmud skill. And profane Greek, to raise the building up Of Helens house against the Ismadite, King of Thogarma, and his habergions Brimfitony, blue, an/l fiery ; and the force Of king Abaddon, and the beast of Cittim : THE ALCHEMIST. 209 Which rdbhi David Kimchi, OnJcelos, And Ahen Ezra do interpret Rome. Face. How did you put her into't ? Ma.rn. Alas ! I talk'd Of a fifth monarchy I would erect, "With the philosopher's stone, by chance, and she Falls on the other four straight. Face. Out of Broughton ! I told you so. 'Slid, stop her mouth. Mam. Is't best ? Face, She'll never leave else. If the old man hear her, TVe are but faeces, ashes. Sub. [TFithin.] What's to do there ? Face. 0, we are lost ! Now she hears him , she is quiet. Enter Subtle, they run different ways. Mam. Where shall I hide me ! Sub. How ! what sight is here ? Close deeds of darkness, and that shun the light ! Bring him again. Who is he ? What, my son ! 0, I have lived too long. Mam. Nay, good, dear father. There was no unchaste purpose. Suh. Not ! and flee me, When I come in ? Mam. That was my error. Sub. Error ! [marvel, Guilt, guilt, my son : give it the right name. No If I found check in our great work within. When such affairs as these were managing ! Mam. Why, have you so ? Sub. It has stood still this half hour : And all the rest of our less works gone back. 2IO THE ALCHEMIST. Where is the instrument of wickedness, My lewd false drudge ? Mam. Nay, good sir, blame not him ; Believe me, 'twas against his will or knowledge : I saw her by chance. Buh. Will you commit more sin, To excuse a varlet ? Mam. By my hope, 'tis true, sir. StCb. Nay, then I wonder less, if you, for whom The blessing was prepared, would so tempt heaven. And lose your fortunes. Mam. Why, sir ? Suh. This will retard The work, a month at least. Mam. Why, if it do, What remedy ? But think it not, good father : Our purposes were honest. SiLb. As they were, So the reward will prove. — [^4 loud explosion toithin.] How now ! ah me ! God, and all saints be good to us. — Re-Enter Face. What's that ? Face. 0, sir, we are defeated ! all the works Are flown infumo, every glass is burst : Furnace, and all rent down ! as if a bolt Of thunder had been driven through the house. Retorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt-heads, All struck in shivers ! [Subtle /«Z/s doion as in a swoon. Help, good sir ! alas. Coldness, and death invades him. Nay, sir Mammon, Do the fair offices of a man ! you stand, As you were readier to depart than he. [Knocking within. THE ALCHEMIST. 211 "Who's there ? my lord her brother is come. Mam. Ha, Lungs ! Face. His coach is at the door. Avoid his sight, For he's as furious as his sister's mad. Mam. Alas ! Face. My brain is quite undone with the fume, sir, I ne'er must hope to be mine own man again. Mam. Is all lost, Lungs ? will nothing be preserv'd Of all our cost ? Face. Faith, very little, sir ; A peck of coals or so, which is cold comfort, sir. Mam. my voluptuous mind ! I am justly punish'd. Face. And so am I, sir. Mara. Cast from all my hopes Face. Nay, certainties, sir. Mam. By mine own base affections. Sub. [Seeming to come to himself. ] 0, the curst fruits of vice and lust ! Mam. Good father, It was my sin. Forgive it. Sub. Hangs my roof Over us still, and will not fall, justice Upon us, for this wicked man ! Face. Kay, look, sir. You grieve him now with staying in his sight : Good sir, the nobleman will come too, and take you, And that may breed a tragedy. Mam. I'll go. Face. Ay, and repent at home, sir. It may be, For some good penance you may have it yet ; A hundred pound to the box at Bethlem Mam. Yes. Face. For the restoring such as — have their wits. Mam. I'll do't. Face. I'll send one to you to receive it. 212 THE ALCHEMIST. Mam. Do. Is no projection left ? Face. All flown, or stinks, sir. [think'st thou ? Mam. Will nought be sav'd that's good for med'cine, Face. I cannot tell, sir. There will be perhaps, Something about the scraping of the shards. Will cure the itch, — though not your itch of mind, sir. [Aside. It shall be saved for you, and sent home. Good sir, This way, for fear the lord should meet you. {Exit Mammon. Sub. {Raising his 'head.'\ Face I Face. Ay. Suh. Is he gone ? Face. Yes, and as heavily As all the gold he hoped for were in's blood. Let us be light though. Suh. {Leaping up.'] Ay, as balls, and bound And hit our heads against the roof for joy : There's so much of our care now cast away. Face. Now to our don. Suh. Yes, your young widow by this time Is made a countess. Face ; she has been in travail Of a young heir for you. Face. Good sir. Suh. Off with your case, And greet her kindly, as a bridegroom should, After these common hazards. Face. Very well, sir. Will you go fetch don Diego off, the while ? Suh. And fetch him over too, if you'll be pleased, sir: Would Dol were in her place, to pick his pockets now ! F'dce. Why, you can do't as well, if you would set to't. I pray you prove your virtues. Suh. For your sake, sir. {ExeurU, THE ALCHEMIST. 213 SCENE IV. — AnotJier Boom in the same. Rater Surly a7id Dame Pliant. Sur. Lady, you see into what hands you are fall'n ; 'Mongst what a nest of villains ! and how near Your honour was t'have catch'd a certain clap, Through your credulity, had I but been So punctually forward, as place, time, And other circumstances would have made a man ; For you're a handsome woman : would you were wise too ! I am a gentleman come here disguised, Only to find the knaveries of this citadel ; And where I might have wrong'd your honour, and have not, I claim some interest in your love. You are, They say, a widow, rich ; and I'm a batchelor. Worth nought : your fortunes may make me a man, As mine have preserv'd you a woman. Think upon it, And whether I have deserv'd you or no. Dame P. I will, sir. Sur. And for these household-rogues, let me alone To treat with them. Enter Subtle. Suh. How doth my noble Diego, And my dear madam countess ? hath the count Been courteous, lady ? liberal, and open ? Donzel, methinks you look melancholic, After your coitum, and scurvy : truly, I do not like the dulness of your eye ; It hath a heavy cast, 'tis upsee Dutch, And says you are a lumpish whore-master. Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. \_Atterapts to pick them. 214 THE ALCHEMIST. Sur. {Throws open his cloak.] "Will you, don bawd and pick-purse ? [strikes him down.] how now ! reel you ? Stand up, sir, you shall find, since I am so heavy, I'll give you equal weight. Sub. Help ! murder ! Sur. 'No, sir. There's no such thing intended : a good cart, And a clean whip shall ease you of that fear. I am the Spanish don tJiat should be cozen'd, Do you see, cozen'dl Where's your captain Face, That parcel broker, and whole-bawd, all rascal ! Enter Face, in his uniform. Face. How, Surly ! Sur. 0, make your approach, good captain. I have found from whence your copper rings and spoons Come, now, wherewith you cheat abroad in taverns. 'Twas here you learn'd t' anoint your boot with brim- stone, Then rub men's gold on't for a kind of touch, And say 'twas naught, when you had changed the colour. That you might have't for nothing. And this doctor, Your sooty, smoky-bearded compeer, he Will close you so much gold, in a bolt's-head, And, on a turn, convey in the stead another W^ith sublimed mercury, that shall burst in the heat, And fly out all infumo ! Then weeps Mammon ; Then swoons his worship. [Face slips out.] Or, he is the Faustus, That casteth figures and can conjure, cures Plagues, piles, and pox, by the ephemerides, And holds intelligence with all the bawds And midwives of three shires : while you send in— THE ALCHEMIST, 215 Captain — what ! is he gone ? — damsels with child, Wives that are barren, or the waiting-maid With the green sickness. \_Se%zes Subtle as lie is retiriwj. Nay, sir, you must tarry, Though he be scaped ; and answer by the ears, sir. Re-enter Face, with Kastril. Face. Why, now's the time, if ever you will quarrel Well, as they say, and be a true-born child : The doctor and your sister both are abused. Kas. Where is he ? wliich is he ? he is a slave, Whate'er he is, and the son of a whore. — Are you The man, sir, I would know? Sur. I should be loth, sir. To confess so much. Kas. Then you lie in your throat. Sur. How ! Face. \to Kasteil.] A very errant rogue, sir, and a cheater, Employ'd here by another conjurer That does not love the doctor, and would cross him. If he knew how. Sur. Sir, you are abused. Kas. You lie : And 'tis no matter. Face. Well said, sir ! He is The impudent'st rascal Sur. You are indeed : Will you hear me, sir ? Face. By no means : bid him be gone. Kas. Begone, sir, quickly. Sur. This 's strange ! — Lady, do you inform your brother. Face. There is not such a foist in all the town, The doctor iiad him presently ; and finds yet, 2i6 THE ALCHEMIST, The Spanish count will come here. — Bear up, Subtle. {Aside. Suh. Yes, sir, he must appear within this hour. Face. And yet this rogue would come iu a disguise, By the temptation of another spirit, To trouble our art, though he could not hurt it ! Kas. Ay, I know — Away, [to his Sister.] you talk like a foolish mautber. Sur. Sir, all is truth she says. Fccce. Do not believe him, sir. He is the lying'st swabber ! Come your ways, sir. Sur. You are valiant out of company ! Kas. Yes, how then, sir ? Enter Drugger, with a piece of damask. Face. Nay, here's an honest fellow, too, that knows him. And all his tricks. Make good what I say, Abel, This cheater would have cozen'd thee o' the widow. — [Aside to Drug. He owes this honest Drugger here, seven pound. He has had on him, in twopenny' orths of tobacco. Drug. Yes, sir. And he has damn'd himself three terms to pay me. Face. And what does he owe for lotium ? Drug. Thirty shillings, sir ; And for six syringes. Sur. Hydra of villainy ! Face. Nay, sir, you must quarrel him out o' the house. Kas. I will : — Sir, if you get not out o' doors, you lie ; And you are a pimp. Sur. Why, this is madness, sir, Not valour in you ; I must laugh at this. ■Da 7HE ALCHEMIST. 217 Kas. It is my humour : you are a pimp and a trig. And an Amadis de Gaul, or a Don Quixote. Drug. Or a knight 0' the curious coxcomb, do you see ? Enter Ananias. Ana. Peace to the household ! Kas. I'll keep peace for no man. Ana. Casting of dollars is concluded lawful. Kas. Is he the constable ? Suh. Peace, Ananias. Face. No, sir. Kas. Then you are an otter, and a shad, a whit, A very tim. Sur. You'll hear me, sir ? Kas. I will not. Ana. What is the motive 1 Sub. Zeal in the young gentleman, Against his Spanish slops. Alia. They are profane, Lewd, superstitious, and idolatrous breeches. Sur. New rascals ! Kas. Will you begone, sir 1 Ana. Avoid, Sathan ! Thou art not of the light : That ruflf of pride About thy neck, betrays thee ; and is the same "With that which the unclean birds, in seventy-seven, Were seen to prank it with on divers coasts : Thou look'st like anti-christ, in that lewd hat Sur. I must give way. Kas, Be gone, sir. Sur, But I'll take A course with you Ana. Depart, proud Spanish fiend 1 Sur. Captain and Doctor. 2i'8 THE ALCHEMIST. Ana, Child of perdition ! Kas. Hence, sir ! \Ex\t SuELT. Did I not quarrel bravely ? Face. Yes, indeed, sir. Kas. Nay, an I give ray mind to't, I shall do't. Face. 0, you must follow, sir, and threaten him tame : He'll turn again else. Kas. I'll re-turn him then. \Exit. [Subtle tahes Ananias aside. Face. Drugger, this rogue prevented us for thee : "We had determin'd that thou should'st have come In a Spanish suit, and have carried her so : and he, A brokerly slave ! goes, puts it on himself. Hast brought the damask ? Drug. Yes, sir. Face. Thou must borrow A Spanish suit : hast thou no credit with the players ! Drug. Yes, sir ; did you never see me play the Fool ? Face. I know not, Nab : — Thou shalt, if I can help it. — [Aside. Hieronimo's old cloak, ruff, and hat will serve ; I'll tell thee more when thou bring'st 'em. [Exit Drugger. Ana. Sir, I know The Spaniard hates the brethren, and hath spies Upon their actions : and that this was one I make no scruple. — But the holy synod Have been in prayer and meditation for it ; And 'tis reveal'd no less to them than me, That casting of money is most lawful. Sub. True, But here I cannot do it ; if the house Shou'd chcincc to be suspected, all would out. And we be lock'd up in the Tower for ever, THE ALCHEMIST. 219 To make gold there for the state, never come out ; And then are you defeated. Ana. I will tell This to the elders and the weaker brethren, That the whole company of the separation May join in humble prayer again. Sv^. And fasting. Ana. Yea, for some fitter place. The peace of mind Rest with these walls ! {Ejcit. Sub. Thanks, courteous Ananias. Face. "What did he come for ? Sub. About casting dollars, Presently out of hand. And so I told him, A Spanish minister came here to spy, Against the faithful Face. I conceive. Come, Subtle, Thou art so down upon the least disaster ! How wouldst thou ha' done, if I had not help't tiiee out? Sub. I thank thee. Face, for the angry boy, i' faith. FcLce, Who would have look'd it should have been that rascal. Surly ? he had dyed his beard and all. "Well, sir. Here's damask come to make you a suit. Sub. Where's Drugger ? Face. He is gone to borrow me a Spanish habit ; I'll be the count, now. Sub, But Where's the widow ? Face. Within, with my lord's sister : madam Dol Is entertaining her. Sub. By your favour, Face, Now she is honest, I will stand again. Face. You will not ofi'er it. Sub. Why? Face. Stand to your word. Or — here comes Dol, she knows Sub. You are tyrannous still. Enter Dol, hastily. Face. Strict for my right. — How now, Dol. Hast [thou] told her, The Spanish count will come ? Dol. Yes ; but another is come, You little look'd for ! Face. Who is that ? Dol. Your master ; Tlie master of the house. Sub. How, Dol ! Face. She lies, This is some trick. Come, leave your quiblins, Dorothy. Dol. Look out and see. [Face goes to the window. Sub. Art thou in earnest ? Dol. 'Slight. Forty o' the neighbours are about him, talking. Face. 'Tis he, by this good day. Dol. 'Twill prove ill day For some on us. Face. We are undone, and taken. Dol. Lost, I'm afraid. Sub. You said he would not come, While there died one a week within the liberties. Face. No : 'twas within the walls. Sub. Was't so ! cry you mercy. I thought the liberties. What shall we do now, Face ? Face. Be silent : not a word, if he call or knock. I'll into mine old shape again and meet him, Of Jeremy, the butler. In the mean time, Do you two pack up all the goods and purchase. That we can carry in the two trunks. I'll keep him Off for to-day, if I cannot longer : and then At night, I'll ship you both away to Ratcliff, THE ALCHEMIST, 221 Where we will meet to-morrow, and there we'll share. Let Mammon's brass and pewter keep the cellar ; We'll have another time for that. But, Dol, 'Prythee go heat a little water quickly ; Subtle must shave me : all my captain's beard Must off, to make me appear smooth Jeremy. You'll do it ? Sub. Yes, I'll shave you, as well as I can. Face. And not cut my throat, but trim me ? Suh. You shall see, sir. lUxewd. ACT y. ScEXE I. — Before Lovewit's Door. Enter Lovewit, loith several of the Neighbours. Love. Has there been such resort, say you ? 1 Nci. Daily, sir. 2 Nei. And nightly, too. 3 Nei. Ay, some as brave as lords. 4 iVeJ. Ladies and gentlewomen. 5 JS^ei. Citizens' wives. 1 Nei. And knights. 6 iVei. In coaches. 2 Nei. Yes, and oyster women. 1 Nei. Beside other gallants. 3 N^ei. Sailors' wives. 4 Kei Tobacco men. 5 Nei. Another Pimlico ! Love. What should my knave advance, To draw this com]iany ? lie hung out no banners Of a strange calf with five legs to be seen, Or a huge lobster with sis claws ? 6 N'cL No, sir. 3 Nei. We had gone in then, sir. 222 THE ALCHEMIST. Love. He has no gift OF teaching in the nose that e'er I knew of. You saw no bills set up that promised cure Of ague, or the tooth-ach ? 2 Nei. No such thing, sir. Love. Nor heard a drum struck for baboons or puppets ? 5 Nei. Neither, sir. Love. "What device should he bring forth now ? I love a teeming wit as I love my nourishment : 'Pra}^ God he have not kept such open house, That he hath sold my hangings, and my bedding ! I left him nothing else. If he have eat them, A plague o' the moth, say I ! Sure he has got Some bawdy pictures to call all this ging ! The friar and the nun ; or the new motion Of the knight's courser covering the parson's mare ; The boy of six year old with the great thing : Or't may be, he has the fleas that run at tilt Upon a table, or some dog to dance. When saw you him ? 1 Nei. Who, sir, Jeremy ? 2 Net. Jeremy Butler ? Wo saw him not this month. Love. How ! 4 Nei. Not these five weeks, sir. 6 Nei. These six weeks at the least. Love. You amaze me, neighbours ! 5 Nei. Sure, if your worship know not where he is, He's slipt away. 6 Nei. Pray God, he be not made away. Love. Ha ! it's no time to question, then. \Knocks at the Door. 6 Nei. About Some three weeks since, I heard a doleful cry. As I sat up a mending my wife's stockings. THE ALCHEMIST. Love. 'Tis strange that none will answer ! Didst thou hear A cry, sayst thou ? 6 Nei. Yes, sir, like unto a man That had been strangled an hour, and could not speak. 2 Nei. I heard it too, just this day three weeks, at two o'clock Next morning. Love. These be miracles, or you make them so ! A man an hour strangled, and could not speak, And both you heard him cry ? 3 Nei. Yes, downward, sir. Love. Thou art a wise fellow. Give me thy hand, I pray thee, "What trade art thou on ? 3 Nei. A smith, an't please your worship. Love. A smith ! then lend me thy help to get this door open. 3 Nei. That I will presently, sir, but fetch my tools \_Exit, 1 Nei. Sir, best to knock again, afore you break it. Love. {Knocks again.] I will. Enter Face, in his butler's livery. Face. What mean you, sir ? 1, 2, 4 Nei. 0, here's Jeremy ! Face. Good sir, come from the door. Love. Why, what's the matter ? Face. Yet farther, you are too near yet. Love. In the name of wonder, What means the fellow ! Face. The house, sir, has been visited. Love. What, with the plague? stand thou then farther. Face. No. sir, I had it not. 224 THE ALCHEMIST. Love. Who had it then ? I left None else but thee in the house. Face. Yes, sir, my fellow, The cat that kept the buttery, had it on her A week before I spied it ; but I got her Convoy'd away in the nigrht : and so I shut The house up for a month Love. How ! Face. Purposing then, sir, T'have burnt rose-vinecrar, treacle, and tar, [known it ; And have made it sweet, that you shou'd ne'er have Because I knew the news would but afflict you, sir. Love. Breathe less, and farther off! "Why this is stranger : The neighbours tell me all here that the doors Have still been open Face. How, sir ! Love. Gallants, men and women, And of all sorts, tag-rag, been seen to flock here In threaves, these ten weeks, as to a second Hogsden, In days of Pimlico and Eye-bright. Face^ Sir, Their wisdoms will not say so. Love. To-day they speak Of coaches and gallants : one in a French hood "Went in, they tell me ; and another was seen In a velvet gown at the window : divers more Pass in and out. Face. They did pass through the doors then, Or walls, I assure their eye-sights, and their spectacles; For here, sir, are the keys, and here have been, In this my pocket, now above twenty days ; And for before, I kept the fort alone there. But that 'tis yet not deep in the a?fternoon, I should believe my neighbours had seen double THE ALCHEMIST. 225 Through the hlack pot, and made these apparitions ! For, on my faith to your worship, for these three weeks And upwards the door has not been open'd. Love. Strange ! 1 iVei. Good faith, I think I saw a coach. 2 Nei. And I too, I'd have been sworn. Love.. Do you but think it now ? And but one coach ? 4 Nei. "We cannot tell, sir : Jeremy Is a very honest fellow. Face. Did you see me at all ? 1 Ne%. No ; that we are sure on. 2 Nei. I'll be sworn o' that. Love. Fine rogues to have your testimonies built on ! Re-enter Third Neighbour, with his Tools. 3 iVei. Is Jeremy come ! 1 Nei. 0, yes ; you may leave your tools ; "We were deceived, he says. 2 Nei. He has had the keys ; And the door has been shut these three weeks. 3 Nei. Like enough. Love. Peace and get hence, you changelings. Enter Stjely aTid Mammon. Face. Surly come ! And Mammon made acquainted ! they'll tell all. How shall I beat them off? what shall I do ? Nothing's more wretched than a guilty conscience. [As-\de. Sur. No, sir, he was a great physician. This, It was no bawdy house, but a mere chancel 1 You knew the lord and his sister. Mam. Nay, good Surly . .►.15. « 226 THE ALCHEMIST, Sur. The happy word, Be rich Mam. Play not the tyrant. Sur. Should he to-day pronounced to all your friends. And where be your andirons now ? and your brass pots, That should have been golden flagons, and great wedges ? Mam. Let me but breathe. "What, they have shut their doors, Methinks ! Sur. Ay, now 'tis holiday with them. Mam. Rogues, [He and Surly Tcnoek. Cozeners, impostors, bawds ! Face, What mean you, sir ? Mam. To enter if we can. Face. Another man's house ! Here is the owner, sir : turn you to him, And speak your business. Mam. Are you, sir, the owner ? Love. Yes, sir. Mam, And are those knaves within your cheaters ? Love. "What knaves, what cheaters ? Mam. Subtle and his Lungs. Face: The gentleman is distracted, sir ! No lungs, Nor lights have been seen here these tliree weeks, sir, Within these doors, upon my word. Sur, Your word, Groom arrogant ! Face. Yes, sir, I am the housekeeper. And know the keys have not been out of my hands. Sur. This is a new Face. Face, You do mistake the house, sir : What sign was't at ? Sur. You rascal ! this is one Of the confederacy. Come, let's get oflBcers, And force the door. THE ALCHEMIST. 227 Zow. Tray you stay, gentlemen. Bur. No, sir, we'll come with warrant. Mam. Ay, and then We shall have your doors open. {Exeunt Mam. and Sur. Love. What means this ? Face. I cannot tell, sir. 1 Nex. These are two of the gallants That we do think we saw. Face. Two of the fools ! Yoa talk as idly as they. Good faith, sir, I think the moon has crazed 'em all. — me, FMer Kastril, The angry boy come too ! He'll make a noise, And ne'er away till he have betray'd lis all. [Aside. Kas. \}:nx)ching.'\ What, rogues, bawds, slaves, you'll open the door, anon ! Punk, cockatrice, my suster ! By this light I'll fetch the marshal to you. You are a whore To keep your castle Face. Who would you speak with, sir ? Kas. The bawdy doctor, and the cozening captain. And puss my suster. Love. This is something sure. Face. Upon my trust, the doors were never open, sir. Kas. I have heard all their tricks told me twice over, V>y the fat knight and the lean gentleman. Love. Here comes another. Enter Ananias and Tribulation. Face. Ananias too ! And his pastor ! Tri. [beating at tTie door.] The doors are shut against us. 228 THE ALCHEMIST. Ana. Come forth, you seed of sulphur, sons of fire ! Your stench it is broke forth ; abomination Is in the house. Kas. Ay, my suster's there. Ana. The place, It is become a cage of unclean birds. Kas. Yes, I will fetch the scavenger, and the constable. Tri. You shall do well. Ana. We'll join to weed them out. [sister ! Kas. You will not come then, punk devise, my Ana. Call her not sister : she's a harlot verily, Kas. I'll raise the street. Love. Good gentleman, a word. Ana. Satan avoid, and hinder not our zeal ! \Exucnt Ana., Tkib., and Kas. Love. The world's turn'd Bethlem. Face. These are all broke loose, Out of St. Katherine's, where they use to keep The better sort of mad-folks. 1 Nei. All these persons "We saw go in and out here. 2 Nei. Yes, indeed, sir. 3 Nei. These were the parties. FaM. Peace, you drunkards ! Sir, T wonder at it : please you to give me leave To touch the door, I'll try an the lock be chang'd. Love. It mazes me ! Face. {Goes to the door.l Good faith, sir, I believe There's no such thing : 'tis all deceptio visus — Would I could get him away. [Aside. Lap. [vnthin.] Master captain ! master doctor ! Love. Who's that ? Face. Our clerk within, that I forgot ?[i4«c?«.] I know not, sir. THE ALCHEMIST. 229 Day, {witMn.^ For God's sake, when will her grace be at leisure ? Face. Ha! Illusions, some spirit o' the air ! — His gag is melted, And now he sets out the throat. \_A6idc. Dap. \icith'm.'\ I am almost stifled Fcux. Would you were altogether. [Aside. Love. 'Tis in the house. Ha ! list. Face. Believe it, sir, in the air. Love. Peace, you. Dap, [within.] Mine aunt's grace does not use me well. Sub. [iviihin.] You fool, Peace, you'll mar all. Face, [speaks through the Tcey-hoU, while Lovewit advances to the door unobserved.] Or you will else, you rogue. Love. 0, is it so ? then you converse with spirits ! — Come, sir. No more of your tricks, good Jeremy, The truth, the shortest way. Face. Dismiss this rabble, sir. — "VYhat shall I do ? I am catch'd. [Aside. Love. Good neighbours, I thank you all. You may depart. [Exuent Neigh- bours.] — Come, sir. You know that I am an indulgent master ; And therefore conceal nothing. "What's your medicine, To draw so many several sorts of wild fowl ? Face. Sir, you were wont to affect mirth and wit — But here's no place to talk on't in the street. Give me but leave to make the best of my fortune, And only pardon me the abuse of your house ; It's all I beg. I'll help you to a widow, In recompence, that you shall give me thanks for, 230 THE ALCHEMIST, Will make you seven years younger, and a rich one. 'Tis but your putting on a Spanish cloak : I have her within. You need not fear the house ; It was not visited. Love. But by me, who came Sooner than you expected Face. It is true, sir. 'Pray you forgive me. Love. Well : let's see your widow. \ExQ.U'nZ. Scene II. — A Room in the same. Enter Subtle, leading in Dappee, with hid cyea bound as hefoxe. Sub. How ! have you eaten your gag ? Dap. Yes faith, it crumbled Away in my mouth. Sub. You have spoil'd all, then. Lap. No ! I hope my aunt of Fairy will forgive me. Sub. Your aunt's a gracious lady ; but in troth You were to blame. Lap. The fume did overcome me, And I did do't to stay my stomach. Tray you So satisfy her grace. L7iter Face, in his uniform. Here comes the captain. Face. How now ! is his mouth down ? Sub. Ay, he has spoken ! Face. A pox, I heard him, and you too. —He's undone, then. — I have been fain to say, the house is haunted With spirits, to keep churl back. Sub. Aud hast thou done it f THE ALCHEMIST. 231 Face. Sure, for this night. Sub. "Why, then triumph and sing Of Face so famous, the precious king Of present wits. Face. Did you not hear the coil About the door ? Sub. Yes, and I dwindled with it. FoA^e. Shew him his aunt, and let him be dispatch'd : I'll send her to you. {Esiit Face. Sub. "Well, sir, your aunt her grace "Will give you audience presently, on my suit. And the captain's word that you did not eat your gag In any contempt of her highness. \JJnhinds his eyes. Dap. Not I, in troth, sir. Enter Dol, like the Queen of Fairy. Sub. Here she is come. Down o' your knees and wriggle : She has a stately presence, [Dapper kneels, aiid shuffles towards her. ] Good ! Yet nearer, And bid, God save you ! Dap. Madam ! Sub. And your aunt. Dap. And my most gracious aunt, God save your graoe. Dol. Nephew, we thought to have been angry with you; But that sweet face of yours hath turn'd the tide, And made it flow with joy, that ebb'd of love. Arise, and touch our velvet gown. Sub. The skirts, And kiss 'em. So ! Dol. Let me now stroke that head. Much, nephew, shalt thou win, much shalt thou spend, MiLch shalt thou yice away, much shalt thou lend. 232 THE ALCHEMIST. Suh. Ay, much ! indeed. \_Aside.'\ Why do you not thank her grace ? Dap. I cannot speak for joy. Suh. See the kind wretch 1 Your grace's kinsman right, Dol. Give me the bird. Here is your fly in a purse, about your neck, cousin ; Wear it, and feed it about this day sev'n-night, On your right wrist Suh. Open a vein with a pin, And let it suck but once a week ; till then, You must not look on't. Dol. No : and kinsman, Bear yourself worthy of the blood you come on. Suh. Her grace would have you eat no more Woolsack pies, Nor Dagger frumety. Dol. Nor break his fast In Heaven and Hell. Suh. She's with you every where ! Nor play with costarmongers, at mum-chance, tray-trip. God make you rich ; (when as your aunt has done it) ; But keep The gallant'st company, and the best games Dap. Yes, sir. Suh. Gleek and primero : and what you get, be true to us. Dap. By this hand, I will. SiiJ). You may bring a thousand pound Before to-morrow night, if but three thousand Be stirring, an you will. Dap. I swear I will then. Suh. Your fly will learn you all games. Face. [within.'[ Have you done there ? Suh. Your grace will command him no more duties ? THE ALCHEMIST, 233 Bol. No: But come, and see me often. I may chance To leave him three or four hundred chests of treasure, And some twelve thousand acres of fairy laud, If he game well and comely with good gamesters. Sub. There's a kind aunt ! kiss her departing part. — But you must sell your forty mark a year, now. Dap. Ay, sir, I mean. aS'wS. Or, give 't away ; pox on't ! Bap, I'll give 't mine aunt: I'll go and fetch the writings. \Ex,it. Sub. 'Tis well— away ! Re-enter Face. Face, Whore's Subtle ? Sub. Here : what news ? Face. Drugger is at the door, go take his suit, And bid him fetch a parson, presently ; Say, he shall marry the widow. Thou shalt spend A hundred pound by the service ! {Exit Subtle. ] Now, queen Dol, Have you pack'd up all ? Dol. Yes. Face. And how do you like The lady Pliant ? Dol. A good dull innocent. Re-enter Subtle. Sub. Here's your Hieronimo's cloak and hat. Face. Give me them. Sub. And the ruff too ? Face. Yes ; I'll come to you presently, {Exit, Sub. Now he is gone about his project, Dol, I told you of, for tlie widow. 234 THE ALCHEMIST. Dol. 'Tis direct Against our articles. 8iLb. Well, we will fit him, wench. Hast thou gull'd her of her jewels or her bracelets \ Dol. No ; but I will do't. Sub. Soon at night, my Dolly, When we are shipp'd, and all our goods aboard, Eastward for Katcliff : we will turn our course To Brainford, westward, if thou sayst the word, And take our leaves of this o'er-weening rascal, This peremptory Face. Dol. Content, I'm weary of him. Sub. Thou'st cause, when the slave will run a wiving, Dol, Against the instrument that was drawn between us. Dol. I'll pluck his bird as bare as I can. Sub. Yes, tell her, She must by any means address some present To the cunning man, make him amends for wronging His art with her suspicion ; send a ring Or chain of pearl ; she will be tortured else Extremely in her sleep, say, and have strange things Come to her. Wilt thou ? Dol. Yes. Sub. My fine flitter-mouse, My bird o' the night ! we'll tickle it at the Pigeons, When we have all, and may unlock the trunks, And say, this's mine, and thine : and thine, and mine. [They kiss. Be-enter Face. Face. What now ! a billing ? Sub. Yes, a little exalted In the good passage of our stock-affairs. THE ALCHEMIST. 235 Face. Drug£;er has brought his parson ; take him in, Subtle, And send Nab back again to wash his face. Sub. I will : and shave himself. [Exit. Face. If you can get him. JDol. You are hot upon it, Face, whate'er it is ! Face. A trick that Dol shall spend ten pound a month by. Ee-enter Subtle. Is he gone ? Suh. The chaplain waits you in the hall , sir. Face. I'll go bestow him. \_ExLt. Dol. He'll now marry her, instantly. Sub. He cannot yet, he is not ready. Dear Dol, Cozen her of all thou canst. To deceive him Is no deceit, but justice, that would break Such an inextricable tie as ours was. Dol. Let me alone to fit him. Re-enter Face. Face. Come, my ventureis, You have pack'd up all ? where be the trunks ? bring forth. Sub. Here. Face. Let us see them. Where's the money ? Sub. Here, In this. Face. Mammon's ten pound ; eight score before : The brethren's money, this. Drugger's and Dapper's. What paper's that ? Dol. The jewel of the waiting-maid's, That stole it from her lady, to know certain Face. If she should have precedence of her mistress ? Dol. Ybs. 236 THE ALCHEMIST. Face. What box is tliat ? Suh. The fish-wives' rings, I think. And the ale-wives' single-money. Is't not, Dol ? Bol. Yes ; and the whistle that the sailor's wife Brought you to know an her husband were with Ward. Face. We'll wet it to-morrow ; and our silver-beakers, And tavern cups. Where be the French petticoats, And girdles and hangers ? Suh. Here, in the trunk, And the bolts of lawn. Faj:,e. Is Drugger's damask there, And the tobacco ? Sub. Yes. Face. Give me the keys. Dol. Why you the keys ? Bub. No matter, Dol ; because We shall not open them before he comes. Face. 'Tis true, you shall not open them, indeed ; Nor have them forth, do you see ? not forth, Dol, Bol. No ! Face. No, my smock rampant. The right is, my master Knows all, has pardon'd me, and he will keep them ; Doctor, 'tis true — you look — for all your figures : I sent for him indeed. Wherefore, good partners. Both he and she be satisfied ; for here Determines the indenture tripartite 'Twixt Subtle, Dol, and Face. All I can do Is to help you over the wall, o' the back-side. Or lend you a sheet to save your velvet gown, Dol. Here will be officers presently, bethink you Of some course suddenly to 'scape the dock : For thither you will come else. {Lovd knocking. ] Hark you, thunder. Sub. You are a precious fiend 1 THE ALCHEMIST, 237 0^. \_wxthoui,'\ Open the door. Face. Dol, I am sorry for thee, i' faith ; but hear'st thou? It shall go hard but I will place thee somewhere : Thou sbalt have my letter to mistress Amo Bol. Hang you ! Face. Or madam Cfesarean. Bol. Pox upon you, rogue, Would I had but time to beat thee ! Face. Subtle, Let's know where you set up next ; I will send you A customer now and then, for old acquaintance : "What new course have you ? Sxib. Rogue, I'll hang myself ; That I may walk a greater devil than thou, And haunt thee in the flock-bed and the buttery. {Exeunt. Scene III. — An outer Eoom in the same. Enter Lotewit in the Spanish dress, with the Parson. [Lotul knocking at the door.] Love. What do you mean, my masters I Mam. [with&ut. ] Open your door. Cheaters, bawds, conjurers. Offi. [withovt.] Or we will break it open. Love. What warrant have you ? Ojfi. [icithout.] Warrant enough, sir, doubt not, If you'll not open it. Love. Is there an officer, there ? Offi. [u'ithmct.] Yes, two or three for failing. Love. Have but patience, And I will open it straight. 238 THE ALCHEMIST. Elder Face, as hutler. Face. Sir, have you done ? Is it a marriage ? perfect % Love. Yes, my brain. rsir. Face. Off with your ruff and cloak then ; be yourself, | Sur. \wit}iout.'\ Down with the door. Kas. [icdthout.'] 'Slight, ding it open. Love. [opening the door.] Hold, Hold, gentlemen, what means this violence ? 1 Mammon, Surly, Kastril, Ananias, Trieulation, and Officers, rush in. Mam . Where is this collier ? Sur. And my captain Face ? Mam These day owls. Sur. That are birding in men's purses. Mam . Madam suppository. Kas. Doxy, my suster. Ana. Locusts, Of the foul pit. Tri. Profane as Bel and the dragon. Ana. Worse than the grasshoppers, Egypt. or the lice of Love. Good gentlemen, hear me. Arc you officers, And cannot staj' this violence ? lOffi . Keep the peace. Love. Gentlemen, what is the matter seek? 2 whom do j'-ou Mam The chemical co;^cner. Sur. And the captain pander.. Kas. The nun my suster. Mam Madam Rabbi. Ana. Scorpions, And caterpillars. THE ALCHEMIST. 239 Love.. Fewer at once, I pray you. 2 Offi.. One after another, gentlemen, I charge you, By virtue of my staff. Ana. They are the vessels Of pride, lust, and the cart. Love. Good zeal, lie still A little while. Tri. Peace, deacon Ananias. [open ; Love. The house is mine here, and the doors arc If there be any such persons as you seek for, Use your authority, search on o' God's name. I am but newly come to town, and finding This tumult 'bout my door, to tell you true, It somewhat mazed me ; till my man, here, fearing My more displeasure, told me he had done Somewhat an insolent part, let out my house (Belike, presuming on my known aversion From any air o' the town while there was sickness) To a doctor and a captain : who, what they are Or where they be, he knows not. Mam. Are they gone ? Love. You may go in and search, sir. [Mammox, Ana., and Trib. go m.] Here, I find The empty walls worse than I left them, smoak'd. A few crack'd pots, and glasses, and a furnace : The ceiling fill'd with poesies of the candle, And madam with a dildo writ o' tlie walls : Only one gentlewoman, 1 met here. That is within, that said she was a widow Kas, Ay, that's my suster ; I'll go thump her. Where is she ? \Gocs in. Love. And should have married a Spanish count, but he, "When he came to't, neglected her so grossly. That I, a widower, am gone through with her. 240 THE ALCHEMIST. SuT. How ! have I lost her then ! Love. Were you the don, sir % Good faith, now, she does blame you extremely, and says You swore, and told her you had taken the pains To dye your beard, and umbre o'er your face. Borrowed a suit, and ruff, all for her love ; And then did nothing. What an oversight, A nd want of putting forward, sir, was this I Well fare an old harquebuzier, yet, Could prime his powder, and give fire, and hit, All in a twinkling ! Re-enter Mammon. Mam. The whole nest are fled ! Love. What sort of birds were they 1 Mam, A kind of choughs, Or thievish daws, sir, that have pick'd my purse Of eight score and ten pounds within these five weeks, Besides my first materials ; and my goods. That lie in the cellar, which I am glad they have left, I may have home yet. Love. Think you so, sir ? Mam. Ay. Love. By order of law, sir, but not otherwise. Mam. Not mine own stuff ! Love. Sir, I can take no knowledge That they are yours, but by public means. If you can bring certificate that you were gull'd of them, Or any formal writ out of a court, That you did cozen your self, I will not hold them Mam. I'll rather loose them. Love. That you shall not, sir, By me, in troth : upon these terms, they are yours. What I should they have been, sir, turn'd into gold, all I THE ALCHEMIST. 241 Mam. No, I cannot tell — It may be they should — What then ? Love. What a great loss in hope have you sustaiu'd ! Mam. Not I, the common- wealth has. Face. Ay, he would have built The new city ; and made a ditch about it Of silver, should have run with cream from Hogsden ; That, every Sunday, in Moor-fields, the younkers, And tits and tom-boys should have fed on, gratis. Mam. I will go mount a turnip-cart, and preach The end of the world, within these two months. Suily, What ! in a dream ? Sur. Must I needs cheat myself, With that same foolish vice of honesty ! Come, let us go and hearken out the rogues : That Face I'll mark for mine, if e'er I meet him. Face. If I can hear of him, sir, I'll bring you word. Unto your lodging ; for in troth, they were strangers To me, I thought them honest as my self, sir. {Exeunt Mam. and Sue. Re-enter Ananias and Tkibulation. Tri. 'Tis well, the saints shall not lose all yet. Go, And get some carts Love. For what, my zealous friends ? Atul. To bear away the portion of the righteous Out of this den of thieves. Love. What is that portion ? Ana. The goods sometimes the orphan's, that the brethren Bought with their silver pence. Love. What, those in the cellar, The knight Sir Mammon claims ? Ann. I do defy. The wicked Mammon, so do all the brethren, ...16... 242 THE ALCHEMIST Thou profane man ! 1 ask thee with what conscience Thou canst advance that idol against us, That have the seal % were not the shillings number'd, That made the pounds ; were not the ]>ounds told out, Upon the second day of the fourth week, In the eighth month, upon the table dormant, The 5'ear of the last patience of the saints, Six hundred and ten ? Love. Mine earnest vehement botcher. And deacon also, I cannot dispute with you : But if you get you not away the sooner, I shall confute you with a cudgel. Ana. Sir ! Tri. Be patient, Ananias. Ana. I am strong. And will stand up, well girt, against an host That threaten Gad in exile. Love. I shall send you To Amsterdam to your cellar. Ana I will pray there, Against thy house : may dogs defile thy walls, And wasps and hornets breed beneath thy roof, This seat of falsehood, and this cave of cozenage ! [Exeunt Ana. and Trie. JEnter Deugger. Love. Another too ? Drug. Not I, sir, I am no brother. Love, [beats him.] Away, you Harry Nicholas ! do you talk ? [Exit Drug. Face. No, this was Abel Drugger. Good sir, go, [To the Parson. And satisfy him ; tell him all is done : He staid too long a washing of his face. The doctor, he shall hear of him at West-chester ; THE ALCHEMIST. 243 And of the captain, tell him, at Yarmouth, or Some good port-town else, lying lor a wind. \Ex'd Parsnu. If you can get oft" the angry child, now, sir Enter Kastril, dragging in his sister. Kas. Come on, you ewe, you have match'd most sweetly, have you not ? Did not I say, t would never have you tupp'd But by a dubb'd boy, to make you a lady-tom ? 'Slight, you are a mammet ! 0, I could touse you, now. Death, num' you marry, with a pox ! Love. You lie, boy ; As sound as you ; and I'm aforehand with you. Kas. Anon ! Love. Come, will you quarrel? I will feize you, sirrah ; Why do you not buckle to your tools ? Kas. Od's light, This is a fine old boy as e'er I saw ! Love. What, do you change your copy now? proceed. Here stands my dove : stoop at her, if you dare. Kas. 'Slight, I must love him ! I cannot choose, i' faith, An I should be hang'd for't ! Suster, I protest, I honour thee for this match. Love. 0, do you so, sir ? Kas. Yes, an thou canst take tobacco and drink, old boy, I'll give her five hundred pound more to her marriage, Than her own state. Love. Fill a pipe full, Jeremy. Face. Yes ; but go in and take it, sir. Love. We will — • I will be ruled by thee in anything, Jeremy. 244 THE ALCHEMIST. Kas. 'Slight, thou art not hide-bound, thou art a jovy boy ! Come, let us in, I pray thee, and take our whifFs. Love. Whitf in with your sister, brother boy. [Exeunt Kas. and Dame P. ] That master. That had received such happiness by a servant, In such a widow, and with so much wealth, Were very ungrateful, if he would not be A little indulgent to that servant's wit, And help his fortune, though with some small strain Of his own candour. [adva7idng.] — Therefore, gentle- men, And hind spectators, if I have outstript An old man's gravity, or strict canon, think What a young wife and a good brain may do ; Stretch age's truth sometimes, and crack it too. Speak for thy self, knave. Face. So I will, sir. [advancing to the front of the stage.] Gentlemen, My part a little fell in this last scene. Yet 'twas decorum. And though I am clean Got off from Subtle, Surly, Mammon, Dol, Hot Ananias, Dapper, Drugger, all With whom I traded : yet I p>ut my self On you, that are my country : and this pelf, Which I have got, if you do quit me, rests To feast you often, and invite new guests. [Exeunt. THE FIRST ACT OF Catiline: IIM0 Conapirac?. CATILINE: HIS CONSPIRACY. SCENE I. — A room in Catiline's House. The Ghost of Stlla rises. Dost thou not feel me ^ Rof/ie? not yet ! is night So heavy on thee, a)id ??iy iveight so light ? Can Syllas ghost arise luithin thy zaalls, Less threatening than an earthquake, the quick falls Of thee and thine? Shake not the frighted heads Of thy steep towejs, or shrink to their first beds ■ Or, as their rtiin the large 7 y be r fills. Make that swell tip, and drown thy seven proud hills ? What sleep is this doth seize thee so like death. And is not it / 'ivake,feel her in my breath : Behold, I come, setit/rom the Stygian sound. As a dire vapour that had cleft the ground. To ingender with the night, and blast the day ; Or like a pestilence that should display Infection through the world : which thus I do. — [The curtain draws, and Catiline is discovered in liis study. Pluto be at thy counsels, and into Thy darker bosom enter Syllas spirit ! 248 CATILINE. All that tvas mine^ and bad, thy breast inherit, Alas, hozv weak is that for Catiline ! Did I but say — vain voice ! — all that 7vas mine ? — All that the Gracchi, Cinna, Marius wouldy What noiu, had I a body again, I could, Co)?iino- from hell, what fiends would wish should be, And Hannibal could not have wished to see. Think thou, and practise. Let the long-hid seeds Of treason in thee, now shoot forth in deeds Ranker than hoj-ror ; and thy former facts Not fall in mention, but to urge new cuts. Conscience of them provoke thee on to more : Be still thy incests, murders, rapes, before Thy sense ; thy forcing first a vestal nun ; Thy parricide, late, on thine otvn only son. After his mother^ to make empty way For thy last wicked nuptials ; worse than they, 7 hat blaze that act of thy incestuous life, Which got thee at once a daughter and a wife. I leave the slaughters that thou didst for me. Of senators , for which, I hid for thee Thy murder of thy brother, being so bi'ibed. And writ him in the list of my proscribed After thy fact, to save thy little shame ; Thy iticest tuith thy sister, I not name : These are too light ; fate will have thee inirsue Deeds, after which no mischief can be new ; The ruin of thy country : Thou wert built For such a work, and born for no less guilt. What though defeated once thotist been, and knotun. Tempt it again : That is thy act, or none. What all the several ills that visit earth. Brought forth by night with a sinister birth, Plagues, famine, fire, could not reach unto. The swo}'d, nor surfeits ; let thy fury do : CA TILINE. 249 Make all past ^ present, fuftire ill thine own ; And conqtier all example in thy one. Nor let thy thought find any vacant time To hate an old, but still a fresher crime Drown the remembrance ; let not i?iischief cease^ But while it is in punishing, increase, Conscience and care die in thee ; and be free Not heaven itself from thy impiety : Let night grow blacker with thy plots, and day, At shewing but thy head forth, start away From this half -sphere ; and leave Rcmes blinded walls To embrace lusts, hatreds, slaughte-rs, funerals, Attd not recover sight till their oi.vn flames Do light them to their ruins i All the na?nes Of thy confederates too be tto less great In hell than here : that when we would repeat Our strengths in }?mster, we may name you all, And furies uponyou for furies call ! Whilst what you do may strike them into fears. Or make them grieve, and wish your mischief theirs. [Sinks. Catiline rises and comes forward. Cat. It is decreed : nor shall thy fate, Rome, Resist my vow. Though hills were set on hills, And seas met seas to guard thee, I would through ; Ay, plough up rocks, steep as the Alps, in dust, And lave the Tyrrhene waters into clouds, But I would reach thy head, thy head, proud city ! The ills that I have done cannot be safe But by attempting greater ; and I feel A spirit within me chides my sluggish hamls. And says, they have been innocent too long. Was I a man bred great as Rome herself, One form'd for all her honours, all her glories, 250 CATILINE, Equal to all her titles ; that could stand Close up with Atlas, and sustain her name As strong as he doth heaven ! and was I, Of all her brood, mark'd out for the repulse By her no-voice, wlien I stood candidate To be commander in the Pontic war ! I will hereafter call her step-dame ever. If she can lose her nature, I can lose My piety, and in her stony entrails Dig me a seat ; Avhere I will live again, The labour of her womb, and be a burden Weightier than all the prodigies and monsters That she hath teem'd with, since she first knew Mars — Enter Aukelia Orestilla. Who's there ? Aur. 'Tis I. Cat. Aurelia ? Aur. Yes. Cat Appear, And break like day, my beauty, to this circle : Upbraid thy Phoebus, tliat he is so long In mounting to that point, which should give thee Thy proper splendour. Wherefore frowns my sweet ? Have I too long been absent from these lips, This cheek, these eyes? \Kis8C8 the.)n.'\ What is my trespass, speak ? Aur. It seems you know, that can accuse your self. Cat. I will redeem it. Aur. Still you say so. When ? Cat. When Orestilla, by lier bearing well Tliese my retirements, and stol'n times for thought, Siiall give their effects leave to call her queen Of all the world, in place of humbled Rome. Aur. You court we now. CATILINE. 251 Ccd. As I would always, love, By this ambrosiac kiss, and this of nectar, Wouldst thou but hear as gladly as I speak. Could my Aurelia think I meant her less, When, wooing her, I first removed a wife, And then a son, to make my bed and house Spacious and fit to embrace her ? these were deeds Not to have begun with, but to end with more And greater : He that, building, stays at one Floor, or the second, hath erected none. 'Twas how to raise thee I was meditating, To make some act of mine answer thy love ; That love, that, when my state was now quite sunk, Came with thy wealth and weigh'd it up again, And made my emergent fortune once more look Above the main ; which now shall hit the stars, And stick my Orestilla there amongst them, If any tempest can but make the billow, And any billow can but lift her greatness. But I must pray my love, she will put on Like habits with myself; I have to do With many men, and many natures : Some That must be blown and sooth'd ; as Lentulus, Whom I have heav'd with magnifying his blood. And a vain dream out of the Sybil's books, That a third man of that great family Whereof he is descended, the Cornelii, Should be a king in Rome : which I have hired The flattering augurs to interpret Him, Cinna and Sylla dead. Then bold Cethegus, Whose valour I have turn'd into his poison, And praised so into daring, as he would Go on upon the gods, kiss lightning, wrest The engine from the Cyclops, and give tire At face of a full cloud, and stand his ire, 252 CATILINE, When I would bid him move. Others there are, Whom envy to the state draws, and puts on For contumelies received (and such are sure ones), As Curius, and the forenamed Lentulus, Both which have been degraded in the senate, And must have their disgraces still new rubb'd, To make them smart, and labour of revenge. Others whom mere ambition fires, and dole Of provinces abroad, which they have feign'd To their crude hopes, and I as amply promised : These, Lecca, Vargunteius, Bestia, Autronius. Some whom their wants oppress, as the idle captains Of Sylla's troops ; and divers Roman knights. The profuse wasters of their patrimonies, So threaten'd with their debts, as they will now Run any desperate fortune for a change. These, for a time, we must relieve, Aurelia, And make our house their safeguard : like for those That fear the law, or stand within her gripe, For any act past or to come ; such will. From their own crimes, be factious, as from ours. Some more there be, slight airlings, will be won With dogs and horses, or perhaps a whore ; Which must be had : and if they venture lives For us, Aurelia, we must hazard honours A little. Get thee store and change of women. As I have boys ; and give them time and place, And all connivance : be thy self, too, courtly ; And entertain and feast, sit up, and revel ; Call all the great, the fair, and spirited dames Of Rome about thee ; and begin a fashion Of freedom and community : some will thank thee, Though the sour senate frown, whose heads must ache In fear and feeling too. We must not spare Or cost or modesty : It can but shew CATILINE. 253 Like one of Juno's or of Jove's disguise, In either thee or me : and will as soon, When things succeed, be thrown by, or let fall, As is a veil put off, a visor changed, Or the scene sliifted in our theatres — \Noise within. Who's that ? It is the voice of Lentulus. Aur. Or of Cethegus. Cat. In, my fair Aurelia, And think upon these arts : they must not see How far you're trusted with these privacies, Though on their shouldeis, necks and heads yon rise. [Exit Aurelia. Enter Lentulus, in discourse with Cethegus. Lent. It is, methinks, a morning full of fate ! It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it ! She is not rosy-finger'd, but swoll'n black ; Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, And her sick head is bound about with clouds, As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day ! It does not look as it would have a hail Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns. Cet. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus ; our coming Is not for salutation, we have business. Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus ! Where's Autrouius? Cet. Is he not come ? Cat. Not here. Cet. Nor Vargunteius ? Cat. Neither. Cet. A fire in their beds and bosoms, That so will serve their sloth rather than virtue ! Tiiey are no Romans, — and at such high need As now ! 254 CATILINE. Len. Both they, Longiiius, Lecca, Curius, Fulvius, Gabinus, gave me word, last night, By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here, And early. Get. Yes ; as you, had I not call'd you. Come, we all sleep, and are mere dormice ; flies A little less than dead : more dulness hangs On us than on the morn. We are spirit-bound In ribs of ice, our whole bloods are one stone, And honour cannot thaw us, nor our wants. Though they burn hot as fevers to our states. Cat. I muse they would be tardy at an hour Of so great purpose. Cet. If the gods had call'd Them to a purpose, they would just have come With the same tortoise speed ; that are thus slow* To such an action, which the gods will envy, As asking no less means than all their powers, Conjoiu'd, to effect ! I would have seen Rome burn By this time, and her ashes in an urn ; The kingdom of the senate rent asunder, And the degenerate talking gown run frighted Out of the air of Italy. Cat. Spirit of men ! Thou heart of our great enterprise ! how much I love these voices in thee ! Cct. 0, the days Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword took leave To act all that it would ! Cat. And was familiar With entrails, as our augurs. Get. Sons kill'd fathers, Brothers their brothers. Cat. And had price and praise. All hate had license given it, all rage reins. CATILINE. 255 Cet. Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd him- self To seem more huge ; whilst to his stained thighs The gore he drew flow'd up, and carried down Whole heaps of limbs and bodies through his arch. No age was spared, no sex. Cat. Nay, no degree. Cet. Not infants in the porch of life were free. The sick, the old, that could but hope a day Longer by nature's bounty, not let stay, Virgins, and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, All died. Cat. 'Twas crime enough, that they had lives : To strike but only those that could do hurt, "Was dull and poor : some fell to make the number, As some the prey. Cet. The rugged Charon fainted, And ask'd a navy, rather than a boat, To ferry over the sad world that came : Tlie maws and dens of beasts could not receive The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; And e'en the graves were fiU'd with men yet livin?, AYliose flight and fear had mix'd them with the dead. Cat. And this shall be again, and more, and more, Now Lentulus, the third Cornelius, Is to stand up in Rome. Lent. Nay, urge not that Is so uncertain. Cat. How! Lent. I mean, not clear'd, And therefore not to be reflected on. Cat. The Sybil's leaves uncertain ! or the comments Of our grave, deep, divining men not clear. Lent. All propliecies, you know, sutfer the torture. 2S6 CATILINE, Cat. But this alreadj'' hatli confess'd, without : And so been weigh'd, examined and compared, As 'twere malicious ignorance in him Would faint in the belief. Lent. Do you believe it ? Gat. Do I love Lentulus, or pray to see it ? Lent. The augurs all are constant I am meant. Gat. They had lost their science else. Lent. They count from Cinna. Gat. And Sylla next, and so make you the third ; All that can say the sun is risen, must think it. Lent. Men mark me more of late, as I come forth. Gat. Why, what can they do less ? Cinna and Sylla Are set and gone ; and we must turn our eyes On him that is, and shines. Noble Cethegus, But view him with me here 1 he looks already As if he shook a sceptre o'er tlie senate, And the awed purple dropp'd their rods and axes : The statues melt again, and household gods In groans confess the travail of the city ; The very walls sweat blood before the change, And stones start out to ruin ere it comes. Get. But he, and we, and all are idle still. Lent. I am your creature, Sergius ; and whate'er The great Cornelian name shall win to be, It is not augury nor the Sybil's books, But Catiline that makes it. Gat. I am a shadow To honour'd Lentulus, and Cethegus here, Who are the heirs of Mars. Get. By Mars himself, Cataline is more my parent ; for whose virtue Earth cannot make a shadow great enough, [they are. Though envy should come too. \No\se within.] 0, here Now we shall talk more, though we yet do nothing. CATILINE. 257 Enter Autronius, Yargunteiijs, Loxgixus, Curius, Lecca, Bestia, Fulvius, Gabinius, etc. ciml Servants. Aut. Hail, Lucius Catiline, Var. Hail, noble Sergius. Lon. Hail, Publius Lentulus. Cur. Hail, the third Cornelius. Lee. Caius Cethegus, hail. Ctt. Hail, sloth and words, Instead of men and spirits ! Mrs. Lit. No, I'll not make me unready for it : I can be hypocrite enough, though I were never so strait- laced. Lit. You say true, you have been bred in the family, and brought up to't. Our mother is a most elect hypo- crite, and has maintained us all this seven year with it, like gentlefolks. Mrs. Lit. Ay, let her alone, John, she is not a wise wilful widow for nothing ; nor a sanctified sister for a song. And let me alone too, I have somewhat of the mother in me, you shall see ; fetch her, fetch her — \Ex,it LiTTLEWiT.] Ah ! ah ! \Secms to swoon. Re-enter Littlewit loith Dame Purecraft. Pure. Now, the blaze of the beauteous discipline, fright away tliis evil from our house ! how now, Win- the-fight, cliild ! how do you ? sweet child, speak to me. 3Irs. Lit. Yes, forsooth. Pure. Look up, sweet Win-the-fight, and suffer not the enemy to enter you at this door, remember that your education has been with the purest : "What polluted one was it, that named first the unclean beast, pig, to you, child ? Mrs. Lit. Uh, uh ! Lit. Not I, on my sincerity, mother? she loncred above three hours ere she would let me know it. — Who was it, Win ? Mrs. Lit. A profane black thing with a beard, Jolm. Pure. 0, resist it, Win-the-fight, it is the tempter, the wicked tempter, you may know it by the fleshly motion of pig ; be strong against it, and its foul tempta- BAR THOLOME W FA IR. 297 tions, in these assaults, whereby it broacheth flesh and blood, as it were on the weaker side ; and pray against its carnal provocations ; good child, sweet child, pray. Lit. Good mother, I pray you, that she may eat some pig, and her belly full too ; and do not you cast away your own child, and perhaps one of mine, with your tale of the tempter. How do you do. Win, are you not sick ? Mrs. Lit. Yes, a great deal, John, uh, uh ! Pure. What shall we do? Call our zealous brother Busy hither, for his faithful fortification in this charge of the adversary. [Eo:it Littlewit.] Child, my dear child, you shall eat pig ; be comforted, my sweet child. Mrs. Lit. Ay, but in the Fair, mother. Pure. I mean in the Fair, if it can be any way made or found lawful. — Pic-entcr Little wit. Where is our brother Busy ? will he not come ? Look up, child. Lit. Presently, mother, as soon as he has cleansed his beard. I found him fast by the teeth in the cold-turkey pie in the cupboard, with a great white loaf on his left hand, and a glass of malmsey on his right. Pure. Slander not the brethren, wicked one. Lit. Here he is now, purified, mother. Enter Zeal-of-the-land Busy. Pure. brother Busy ! your help here, to edify and raise us up in a scruple : my daughter Win-the-fight is visited with a natural disease of women, called a longing to eat pig. Lit. Ay sir, a Bartholomew pig ; and in the Fair. Pure. And I would be satisfied from you, religiously- wise, whether a widow of the sanctified assembly, or a 298 BARTHOLOME W FAIR. widow's daughter, may commit the act without offence to the weaker sisters. Busy. Verily, for the disease of longing, it is a disease, a carnal disease, or appetite, incident to women ; and as it is carnal and incident, it is natural, very natural : now pig, it is a meat, and a meat that is nourishing and may be longed for, and so consequently eaten ; it may be eaten ; very exceeding well eaten ; but in the Fair, and as a Bartholomew pig, it cannot be eaten ; for the very calling it a Bartholomew pig, and to eat it so, is a spice of idolatry, and you make the Fair no better than one of the high-places. This, I take it, is the state of the question : a high-place. Lit. Ay, but in state of necessity, place should give place, master Busy. I have a conceit left yet. Pure. Good brother Zeal-of-the-land, think to make it as lawful as you can. Lit. Yes, sir, and as soon as you can ; for it must be, sir : you see the danger my little wife is in, sir. Pure. Truly, I do love my child dearly, and I would not have her miscarry, or hazard her first-fruits, if it might be otherwise. Bus. Surely, it may be otherwise, but it is subject to construction, subject, and hath a face of offence with the weak, a great face, a foul face ; but that face may have a veil put over it, and be shadowed as it were ; it may be eaten, and in the Fair, I take it, in a booth, the tents of the wicked : the place is not much, not very much, we may be religious in the midst of the profane, so it be eaten with a reformed mouth, with sobriety and humbleness ; not gorged in with gluttony or greediness, there's the fear : for, should she go there, as taking pride in the place, or delight in the unclean dressing, to feed the vanity of the eye, or lust of the palate, it were not well, it were not fit, it were abominable, and not good. BARTHOLOME W FAIR. 299 Lit. Nay, I knew that afore, and told her on't ; but courage, Win, we'll be humble enough, we'll seek out the homeliest booth in the Fair, that's certain ; rather than fail, we'll eat it on the ground. Pure. Ay, and I'll go with you myself, "VVin-the-fight, and my brother Zeal-of-the-land shall go with us too, for our better consolation. Mrs. Lit. Uh, uh ! Lit. Ay, and Solomon too, "Win, the more the merrier. Win, we'll leave Rabbi Busy in a booth. \^Aside to Mrs. Lit.] — Solomon ! my cloak. Enter Solomon with the cloak. Sol. Here, sir. Bus. In the way of comfort to the weak, I will go and eat. I will eat exceedingly, and prophesy ; there may be a good use made of it too, now I think on't: by the public eating of swine's flesh, to profess our hate and loathing of Judaism, whereof the brethren stand tax'd. I will therefore eat, yea, I will eat exceedingly. L\t. Good, i'faith, I will eat heartily too, because I will be no Jew, I could never away with that stiff- necked generation : and truly, I hope my little one will be like me, that cries for pig so in the mother's belly. Bus. Very likely, exceeding likely, very exceeding likely. {Exeunt. SCENE II. [The Puritans enter Smithfield and walk up between the booths.] iS^fer Rabbi Busy, Dame Pueecraft, John Littlewit, and Mrs. Littlewit. Busy. So, walk on in the middle way, fore-right, turn neither to the right hand nor to the left ; let not your 300 BARTHOLOME W FAIR. eyes be drawn aside with vanity, nor your ear with noises. Qiiar. 0, I know him by that start. Lcath. What do you lack, what do you buy, mistress? a fine hobby-horse, to make your son a tilter ? a drum to make him a soldier ? a fiddle to make him a reveller ? what is't you lack ? little dogs for your daughters ? or babies, male or female ? Busy. Look not toward them, hearken not ; the place is Smithfield, or the field of smiths, the grove of hobby- horses and trinkets, the wares are the wares of devils, and the whole Fair is the shop of Satan : they are hooks and baits, very baits, that are hung out on every side, to catch you, and to hold you, as it were, by the gills, and by the nostrils, as the fisher doth ; therefore you must not look nor turn toward them. — The heathen man could stop his ears with wax against the harlot of the sea ; do you the like with your fingers against the bells of the beast. Wimo. What flashes come from him ! Quar. 0, he has those of his oven ; a notable hot baker 'twas when he plied the peel ; he is leading his flock into the Fair now. JVinw. Rather driving them to the pens, for he will let them look upon nothing. Enter Knockem and W hit from Ursula's booth. Knock. Gentlewomen, the weather's hot ; whither walk you ? have a care of your fine velvet caps, the Fair is dusty. Take a sweet delicate booth, with boughs, here in the way, and cool yourselves in the shade ; you and your friends. The best pig and bottle- ale in the Fair, sir. Old Ursula is cook, there you may read ; [Points to the sign, a 2^i9's Jiead, with a large writing under it.] the pig's head speaks it. Poor soul, BARTHOLOME W FAIR. 301 she has had a string-halt, the maryhinchco ; but she's prettily amended. Whit. A delicate show-pig, little mistress, with shweet sauce, and crackling, like de bay-leaf i' de fire, la ! tou shalt ha' de clean side o' de table-clot, and di glass vash'd with phatersh of dame Annesh Cleare. Lit. [Gazing at the inscription.] This is fine verily. Bere be the best pigs, and she does roast them as well as ever she did, the pig's head says. Knock. Excellent, excellent, mistress ; with fire o' juniper and rosemary branches ! the oracle of the pig's head, that, sir. Pure. Son, were you not warn'd of the vanity of the eye ? have you forgot the wholesome admonition so soon ? Lit. Good mother, how shall we find a pig, if we do not look about for't : will it run off o' the spit, into our mouths, think you, as in Lubberland, and cry, wee, wee! Busy. No, but your mother, religiously-wise, con- ceiveth it may offer itself by other means to the sense, as by way of steam, which I think it doth here in this place — huh, huh — yes, it doth. [He scents after it like a hound.] And it were a sin of obstinacy, great obstinacy, high and horrible obstinacy, to decline or resist the good titillation of the famelic sense, which is the smell. Therefore be bold — huh, huh, huh — follow the scent: enter the tents of the unclean, for once, and satisfy your wife's frailty. Let your frail wife be satisfied ; your zealous mother, and my suffering self, will also be satisfied. Lit. Come, Win, as good winny here as go farther, and see nothing. Busy. We scape so much of the other vanities, by our early entering. 302 BARTHOLOME W FAIR, Pure. It is an edifying consideration. Mrs. Lit. This is scurvy, that we must come into the Fair, and not look on't. Lit. Win, have j^atience, Win, I'll tell you more anon. \_Exeunt into tJie booth, Littlewit, Mrs. Littlewit, Busy, and Purecraft. Knock. Mooncalf, entertain within there, the best pig in the booth, a pork-like pig. These are Banbury-bloods, o' the sincere stud, come a pig-hunting. Whit, wait, Whit, look to your charge. Eo:it Whit. Busy, [within.] A pig prepare presently, let a pig be prepared to us. [The Puritans enter Ursula's booth. SCENE III. [Brother Zeal-of-the-Land Busy protests against the Idols of the Fair, throws down the stalls of Toymen and Ginger-bread- Sellers, and is sent of): to the stocks.] Enter Littlewit /ro?n Ursula's booth, followed by M.ra. Littlewit. Lit. Do you hear. Win, Win ? Mrs. Lit. What say you, John ? Lit. While they are paying the reckoning, Win, I'll tell you a thing, Win ; we shall never see any sights ia the Fair, Win, except you long still. Win : good Win, sweet Win, long to see some hobby-horses, and some drums, and rattles, and dogs, and fine devices. Win. The bull with the five legs, Win ; and the great hog. Now you have begun with pig, you may long for any thing, Win, and so for my motion, Win. Mrs. Lit. But we shall not eat of the bull and the hog, John ; how shall I long then ? Lit. yes. Win : you may long to see, as well as to BARTHOLOME W FAIR. 303 taste, "Win : how did the pothecary's wife, "Win, that longed to see the atiatomy, Win ? or the lady, Win, that desired to spit in the great lawyer's mouth, after an eloquent pleading ? I assure you, they longed, Win ; good Win, go in, and long. \Exeunt Littlewit and Mrs. Littlewit. Trash. I think we are rid of our new customer, brother Leatherhead, we shall hear no more of him. Leath. All the better ; let's pack up all and begone, before he find us. Trash. Stay a little, yonder comes a company ; it may be we may take some more money. Enter Knockem and Busy. Knock. Sir, I will take your counsel, and cut my hair, and leave vapours : I see that tobacco, and bottle-ale, and pig, and Whit, and very Ursla herself, is all vanity. Busy. Only pig was not comprehended in my admoni- tion, the rest were : for long hair, it is an ensign of pride, a banner ; and the world is full of those banners, very full of banners. And bottle-ale is a drink of Satan's, a diet-drink of Satan's, devised to pull us up, and make us swell in this latter age of vanity ; as the smoke of tobacco, to keep us in mist and error : but the fleshly woman, which you call Ursla, is above all to be avoided, having the marks upon her of the three enemies of man ; the world, as being in the Fair ; the devil, as being in the fire ; and the flesh, as being herselt Enter Mrs. Purecraft. Pure. Brother Zeal-of-the-land ! what shall we do ? my daughter Win-the-fight is fallen into her fit of longing again. BiLsy, For more pig ! there is no more, is there ? 304 BA R THOLOME W FAIR. Pure. To see some sights in the Fair. Busy. Sister, let her fly the impurity of the place swiftly, lest she partake of the pitch thereof. Thou art the seat of the beast, Smithfield, and I will leave thee ! Idoltary peepeth out on every side of thee. [Goes forward. Knock. An excellent right hypocrite ! now his belly is full, he falls a railing and kicking, the jade. A very good vapour ! I'll in, and joy Ursla, with telling how her pig works ; two and a half he eat to his share ; and he has drunk a pailfull. He eats with his eyes, as well as his teeth. [Exit. Leath. What do you lack, gentlemen ? what is't you buy ? rattles, drums, babies Busy. Peace, with thy apocryphal wares, thou profane publican ; thy bells, thy dragons, and thy Tobie's dogs. Thy hobby-horse is an idol, a very idol, a fierce and rank idol ; and thou, the Nebuchadnezzar, the proud Nebuchadnezzar of the Fair, that sett'st it up, for children to fall down to, and worship. Leath. Cry you mercy, sir ; will you buy a fiddle to fill up your noise ? Re-enter Littlewit and his Wife. Lit. Look, Win, do, look a God's name, and save your longing. Here be fine sights. Pure. Ay, child, so you hate them, as our brother Zeal does, you may look on them. Leath. Or what do you say to a drum, sir ? Biisy. It is the broken belly of the beast, and thy bellows there are his lungs, and these pipes are his throat, those feathers are of his tail, and thy rattles the gnashing of his teeth. Tras?i. And what's my ginger-bread, I pray you ? Busij. The provender that pricks him up. Hence with thy basket of popery, thy uest of images, and whole legend of ginger-work. Leath. Sir, if you be not quiet the quicklier, I'll have you clapp'd fairly by the heels, for disturbing the Fair. Busy. The sin of the Fair provokes me, I cannot be silent. Pure. Good brother Zeal ! Lcath. Sir, I'll make you silent, believe it. Lit. I'd give a shilling you could, i'faith, friend. [Aside to Leatheriiead. Leath. Sir, give me your shilling, I'll give you my shop, if I do not ; and I'll leave it in pawn with you in the mean time. Lit. A match, i'faith ; but do it quickly then. [Exit Leatherhead. Busy, [to Mrs. Purecraft]. Hinder me not, woman. I was moved in spirit, to be here this day, in this Fair, this wicked and foul Fair ; and fitter may it be called a Foul than a Fair ; to protest against the abuses of it, the foul abuses of it, in regard of the afflicted saints, that are troubled, very much troubled, exceedingly troubled, with the opening of the merchandise of Babylon again, and the peeping of popery upon the stalls here, here, in the high places. See you not Goldylocks, the purple strumpet there, in her yellow gown and green sleeves ? the profane pipes, the tinkling timbrels? a shop of relicks ! [Atterripts to seize the toys. Lit. Pray you forbear, I am put in trust with them. Busy. And this idolatrous grove of images, this flasket of idols, which I will pull down [Overthrous the ginger-hread basket. Trash. my ware, my ware ! God bless it ! Busy. In my zeal, and glory to be thus exercised, ...20... 3o6 BARTHOLOMEW FAIR. Re-enter Leatherhead, witli Bristle, Haggise, and other Officers. Lcath. Here he is, pray j'ou lay hold on his zeal ; we cannot sell a whistle for him in tune. Stop his noise first. Busy. Thou canst not ; 'tis a sanctified noise : I will make a loud and most strong noise, till I have daunted the profane enemy. And for this cause Leath. Sir, here's no man afraid of you, or your cause. You shall swear it in the stocks, sir. Busy. I will thrust myself into the stocks, upon the pikes of the land. {They seize him. Leath. Carry him away. Pure. What do you mean, wicked men ? Busy. Let them alone, I fear them not. \_Exeunt Officers with Busy, followed hy Dame PURECKAFT. ] SCENE IV. [Rabbi Busy is pnt into the stocks, and finds singular com- panions in adversity. [As they open the stocks, Waspe puts his shoe on his hand, and slips it in for Ids leg. Wasp)e. I shall put a trick upon your Welsh diligence perhaps. {Aside. Bri. Put in your leg, sir, [To Busy. Quar. What, rabbi Busy ! is he come? B^isy. I do obey thee ; the lion may roar, but he cannot bite. I am glad to be thus separated from the heathen of the laud, and put apart in the stocks, for the holy cause, Waspe. What are you, sir ? BARTHOLOMEW FAIR, 307 Busy. One that rejoiceth in his affliction, and sitteth here to prophesy the destruction of fairs and May -games, wakes and Whitson-ales, and doth sigh and groan for the reformation of these abuses. JFaspe. [to Overdo.] And do you sigh and groan too, or rejoice in your affliction ? Over. I do not feel it, I do not think of it, it is a thing without rae : Adam, thou art above these batteries, these contumelies. In te manca ruit fortuna, as thy friend Horace says ; thou art one. Quern neque pauper ies, neque mors, ncque vincula, terrent. And therefore, as another friend of thine says, I think it be thy friend Persius, Nan te qucesiveris extra. Quar. What's here ! a stoic in the stocks ? the fool is turn'd philosopher. Busy. Friend, I will leave to communicate my spirit with you, if I hear any more of those superstitious relics, those lists of Latin, the very rags of Rome, and patches of popery. Waspe. Nay, an you begin to quarrel, gentlemen, I'll leave you. I have paid for quarrelling too lately : look you, a device, but shifting in a hand for a foot. God be wi' you. {Slips out his hand. Busy. "Wilt thou then leave thy brethren in tribula- tion ? Waspe, For this once, sir. [Exit, running. Busy. Thou art a halting neutral ; stay him there, stop him, that will not endure the heat of persecution ? Bri. How now, what's the matter 1 Busy. He is fled, he is fled, and dares not sit it out. Bri. What, has he made an escape ! which way ? follow, neighbour Haggise. [Bxeunt Haggise and Watch. 3o8 BAR THOLOME IV FAIR. Enter Dame Purecraft. Pure. me, in the stocks ! have the wicked prevail'd ? Busy. Peace, religious sister, it is my calling, comfort yourself; an extraordinary calling, and done for ray better standing, my surer standing, hereafter. SCENE V. [Rabbi Busy, unexpectedly delivered from the stocks, blunders into a booth where Mr. Littlewit's Interlude of Hero and Leander is being played. Ou this occasion also he displays his zeal, which is subdued by arguments.] Rabbi Busy mshes in. Busy. Down with Dagon ! down with Dagon ! 'tis I, I will no longer endure your profanations. Leath. What mean you, sir ? Busy. I will remove Dagon there, I say, that idol, that heathenish idol, that remains, as I may say, a beam, a very beam, — not a beam of the sun, nor a beam of the moon, nor the beam of a balance, neither a house-beam, nor a weaver's beam, but a beam in the eye, in the eye of the brethren ; a very great beam, an exceeding great beam ; such as are your stage-players, rimers, and morrice-dancers, who have walked hand in hand, in contempt of the brethren, and the cause ; and been born out by instruments of no mean countenance. Leath. Sir, I present nothing but what is licensed by authority. Busy. Thou art all license, even licentiousness itself, Shimei ! Leath. I have the master of the revels' hand for't, sir. Busy. The master of the rebels' hand thou hast. Satan's ! hold thy peace, thy scurrility, shut up thy mouth, thy profession is damnable, and in pleading for BARTHOLOME W FAIR. 309 it thou dost plead for Baal. I have long opened my mouth wide, and gaped ; I liave gaped as the oyster for the tide, after thy destruction : but cannot compass it by suit or dispute ; so that I look for a bickering, ere long, and then a battle. Knock. Good Banbury vapours ! Cokes. Friend, you'd have an ill match on't, if you bicker with him here ; thougli he be no man of the fist, he has friends that will to cuffs for him. Xumps, will not you take our side ? Edg. Sir, it shall not need ; in my mind he offers him a fairer course, to end it by disputation : hast thou nothing to say for thyself, in defence of thy quality ? Lcatli. Faith, sir, I am not well-studied in these con- troversies, between the hypocrites and us. But here's one of ray motion, puppet Dionysius, shall undertake him, and I'll venture the cause on't. Cokes. Who, my houby-horse ! will he dispute with him ? Leath. Yes, sir, and make a hobby-ass of him, 1 hope. Cokes. That's excellent ! indeed he looks like the best scholar of them all. Come, sir, you must be as good as our word now. Busy. I will not fear to make my spirit and gifts known : assist me zeal, fill me, fill me, that is, make me full! Winw. "What a desperate, profane wretch is this ! is there any ignorance or impudence like his, to call his zeal to fill hini against a puppet ? Qiiar. I know no fitter match than a puppet to commit with an hypocrite ! [calling. Busy. First, I say unto thee, idol, thou hast no Dion. You lie, I am call'd Dionysius. Leath. The motion says, you lie, he is call'd Dionysius in the matter, and to that calling he answers. no BAR THOL OME IV FAIR. BtLsy. I mean no vocation, idol, no present lawful calling. Dion. Is yours a lawful calling ? Lcath. The motion asketh, if yours be a lawful calling. Busy, Yes, mine is of the spirit. Dion. Then idol is a laivful calling. Death. He says, then idol is a lawful calling ; for you call'd him idol, and your calling is of the spirit. Cokes. Well disputed, hobby-horse. Busy. Take not part with the wicked, young gallant : he neigheth and hinnieth ; all is but hinuying sophistry. I call him idol again ; yet, I say, his calling, his profession is profane, it is profane, idol. Dion. It is not profane. Death. It is not profane, he says. Busy. It is profane. Dion. It is not profane. Bnsy. It is profane. Dion. It is not profane. Death. Well said, confute him with Not, still. You cannot bear him down with your base noise, sir. Busy. Nor lie me, with his treble creeking, though he creek like the chariot wheels of Satan ; I am zealous for the cause Death. As a dog for a bone. Busy. And I say, it is profane, as being the page of Pride, and the waiting- woman of Vanity. Dion. Yea! what say yi.u to your tire-women, then? Death. Good. Dion. Or feather -77iakers in the Friers, that are of your faction of faith ? are 7iot they with their perukes, and their piiffs, their fans, and their huffs, as niuch pages of Pride, and waiters upon Vanity? IVhat say you, what say you, ivhat say you ? Busy. I will not answer for them. BARTHOLOME IV FAIR. 3 1 1 Dion. Because you cannot, because you cannot. Is a bugle-maker a lawful calling ? or the confect-jnakers ? such you have there ; or your French fashioner? you ivould have ail the sin within yourselves, would you not, xvould you not ? Busy. No, Dagon. Dio7t. What then, Dagonet ? is a puppet worse than these ? Busy. Yes, and my main argument against you is, that you are an abouiiuation ; for the male, among you, puttcth on the apparel of the female, and the female of the male. Dion. You lie, you lie, yoic lie abominably. Cokes. Good, by my troth, he has given him the lie thrice. Dio7t. It is your old stale argument against th^ players, but it will not hold against the puppets ; Jor we have neither male nor female amongst ns. And that thou may st see, if thou zuilt, like a malicious purblind zeal as thou art. [ Takes up his garment. Fd^. By my faith, there he has answer'd you, friend, a plain demonstration. Dion. Nay, Pll ptove, against eer a Rabbin of them ally that my standing is as lawful as his ; thai I speak by inspiration, as well as he ; that I have as little to do with learning as he ; and do scorn her helps as much as he. Busy. I am confuted, the cause hath failed me. Dion. Then be co fiver ted, be converted. Leath. Be converted, I pray you, and let the play go on ! Busy. Let it go on ; for I am changed, and will become a beholder with you. From "THE MASQUES." ^bc Ibue anJ) Cr? after (Tupib. THE HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. [The worthy custom of honouring worthy marriages, ^vith these noble solemnities, hath of late years advanced itself fre- quently with us ; to the reputation no less of our court, than nobles ; expressing besides (through the difficulties of expense and travel, with the cheerfulnessof undertaking) a most real affection in the personaters, to those, for whose sake they would sustiiin these persons. It behoves then us, that are trusted with a part of their Jionour in these celebrations, to do nothing in them beneath the dignity of either. With this proposed part of judgment, I adventure to give that abroad, which in my first conception I intended honourably fit : and, though it hath labour'd since, under censure, I, that know truth to be always of one stature, and so like a rule, as who bends it tlie least way, must needs do an injury to the right, cannot but smile at their tyrannous ignorance, that will offer to slight me (in these things being an artificer) and give themselves a peremptory license to judge who have never touched so much as to the bark, or utter shell of any knowledge. But their daring dwell with them. They have found a place to pour out their follies ; and I a seat, to sleep out the passage.] THE HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID, The scene to tliis Masque was a high, steep, red clilF, tidvaucing itself into the clouds, hguring the place, froiu whence (as I have been, not fabulously, informed) the lionourable family of the Radclitfs first took tlioir name, a cUvo rubro, and is to be written with tliat ortho- graphy ; as I have observed out of master Camden, in his mention cf the euvls of Sussex. This cliif was also a note of height, greatness, and antiquity. Before wliich, on the two sides, were erected two pilasters, charged with spoils and trophies of Love and his mother, consecrate to marriage : amongst which, were old and young persons figured, bound with roses, the wedding garments, rocks and spindles, hearts transfixed with arrows, others flaming, virgins' girdles, garlands, and worlds of such like : all wrought round and bold : and over head two personages, Triumph and Victory, in Hying postures, and twice so big as the life, in i)lace of the arch, and holding a garland of myrtle for the key. All which, with the pillars, seemed to be of burnished gold, and embossed out of the metal. Beyond the clitf was seen 3i6 THE HUE AND CRY. nothing but clouds, thick and obscure ; till on the sudden, with a solemn music, a bright sky breaking forth, there were discovered first two doves,* then two swans * with silver geers, drawing forth a triumphant chariot ; in which Venus sat, crowned with her star, and beneath her the three Graces, or Charites, Aglaia, Thalia, Euphrosyne, all attired according to their antique figures. These, from their chariot, alighted on the top of the cliff, and descending by certain abrupt and winding passages, Venus having left her star only flaming in her seat, came to the earth, the Graces throwing garlands all the way, and began to speak. Veil. It is no common cause, ye will conceive, My lovely Graces, makes your goddess leave Her state in heaven, to-night, to visit earth. Love late is fled away, my eldest biith, Cupid, whom I did joy to call my son ; And whom long absent, Venus is undone. S]-»y, if you can, his footsteps on this green ; For here, as I am told, he late hath been. With divers of his brethren, f lending light From their best flames, to gild a glorious night ; Which I not grudge at, being done for her, Whose honours, to my own, I still prefer. But he not yet returning, I'm in fear. Some gentle Grace, or innocent Beauty here. Be taken with him : or he hath surprised A second Psyche, and lives here disguised. Find ye no track of his stray'd feet ? * Both doves and swans were sacred to this goddess, and as well with the one as the other, her chariot is induced by Ovid, lib. 10 and 11 Metamor. t Alhiding to the Loves (the torch-bearers) in the Queen's Masque before. THE HUE AND CRY. 317 1 Gra. Not I. 2 Gra. Xor I. 3 Gra. Nor I. Ven. Stay, nymphs, we then will try A nearer way. Look all these ladies* eyes, And see if there he not concealed lies ; Or in their bosoms, 'twixt their swelling breasts ; The wag affects to make himself such nests : Perchance he hath got some simple heart, to liide His subtle shape in ; 1 will have him cry'd, And all his virtues told ! that, when they'd know What sprite he is, she soon may let him go, That guards him now ; and think herself right blest, To be so timely rid of such a guest. Begin, soft Graces, and proclaim reward To her that brings him in. Speak to be heard. 1 Grace. Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy,* Almost naked, wanton, blind ; Cruel now, and then as kind ? If he be amongst ye, say ? He is Venus' runaway. 2 Grace. She that will but now discover "Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kiss. How, or where herself would wish : But, who brings him to his motlier, Shall have that kiss, and another. 3 Grace-. He hath marks about him plenty : You shall know him among twenty. * In this Love, I express Cupid, as he is Veneris filiii'?, and owner of the following qualities, ascribed him by the antique and later poets. All his body is a tire, And his breath a flame entire, That being shot, like lightning, in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. 1 Grace. At his sight, the sun hath turn'd,* Neptune in the waters burn'd ; Hell hath felt a greater heat ; t Jove himself forsook his seat : From the centre to the sky, Are his trophies reared high. % 2 Grace. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip, Over liver, lights, and heart, But not stay in any part ; And, if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself, in kisses. 3 Grace. He doth bear a golden bow. And a quiver, hanging low. Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts ; where, if lie have Any head more sharp than other. With that flrst he strikes his mother. 1 Grace. Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food ; And his baths their warmest blood : ^ See Lucian. Dial. Deor. t And Claud, in raptu Prosevp. j Such was the power ascrih'd him, by all the ancients : whereof there is extant an elegant Greek epigram. Phil. Poe, wherein he makes all the other deities despoiled by him, of their ensigns ; Jove of hia thunder, Phnpbus of his arrows, Hercules of his club, etc. THE HUE AND CRY. 319 Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to Reason. 2 Grace. Trust him not ; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. All his practice is deceit ; Every gift it is a bait ; K'ot a kiss but poison bears ; And most treason in his tears. 3 Grace. Idle minutes are his reign ; Then, the straggler makes his gain, By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think them joys ; 'Tis the ambition of the elf, To have all childish as himself. 1 Grace. If by these ye please to know him. Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 2 Grace. Though ye had a will to hide him, Kow, we hope, ye'll not abide him. 3 Grace. Since you hear his falser play ; And that he's Venus' runaway. At thiSy from behind the trophies, CuPiD discovered himself, and came forth armed ; attended with truelvc boys, most antickly attired, that i-epresen^ed the Sports, and pretty Lightnesses that accompany Lo2>e, under the titles of Joci and Ristis ; and are said to wait on Venus as she is Prafect of Marriage.* * Which Herat, consents to, Car. lib. 1. ode 2, Erycina ridens, Qnam Jocus circura volat, et Cupido. 320 THE HUE AND CR V. Cup. Come, my little jocund Sports, Come away ; the time now sorts With your pastime : this same night Is Cupid's day. Advance your light. With your revel fill the room, That our triumphs be not dumb. Wherewith they fell into a subtle capricious dance, to as odd a vmsic, each of them bea7-ing tivo torches, and ftodding with their antic faces, with other variety of ridiculous gesture, which gave much occasion of mirth and delight to the spectators. The dance ended^ Cupid zvejtt forward. Cup. Well done, anticks ! now my bow, And my quiver bear to show ; That these beauties, here, may know, By what arms this feat was done, That hath so much honour won Unto Venus and her son. At which, his mother apprehended him : and ciirlinghim in, with the Graces, began to demand. Ven. What feat, what honour is it that you boast, My little straggler ? I had given you lost, With all your games, here. Cup. Mother ! Ven. Yes, sir, she. What might your glorious cause of triumph be ? Have you shot Minerva* or the Thespian dames ? Heat aged Ops again, f with youthful flames ? * She urges these as miracles, becauses Pallas, and the Muses, are most contrary to Cupid. See Luc. Dial. Ven. et t Rhea, the mother of the jjods, whom Lucian. in that place, makes to have fallen franticly in love by Cupid's means, witli Atys. So of the Moon, with Endymion, Hercules, etc. THE HUE AND CRY. 321 Or have you made the colder Moon to visit Once more, a sheepcote ? Say, what conquest is it Can make you hope such a renown to win ? Is there a second Hercules brought to spin ? Or, for some new disguise, leaves Jove his thunder ? Cwp. Nor that, nor those, and yet no less a wonder * \Ee espies Hymex. Which to tell, I may not stay : Hymen's presence bids away ; 'Tis, already, at his night, He can give you further light. You, my Sports, may here abide, Till I call to light the bride. [Sl'qisfrom her. Enter HYiiEX. Hy. Venus, is this a time to quit your car ? To stoop to earth, to leave alone your star, Without your influence, and, on such a night t Which should be crown'd with your most cheering sight. As you were ignorant of what were done By Cupid's hand, your all-triumphing son ? Look on this state ; and if you yet not know, What crown there shines, wliose sceptre here doth grow ; Think on thy loved ^Eneas, and what name, Maro, the golden trumpet of his fame, Gave him, read thou in this. A prince that draws By example more, than others do by laws :+ * Here Hyraen, the ?od of marriage, entered ; and was so induced here, as you have described in my Hymen.^i. t When she is nuptiis praefecta, with Juno, Suadela, Diana, and Jupiter himself. Paus. in Messeniac. et Phit. in Piolilem. X /Eneas, the son of Venus, Yii-oil makes throughout, the most exquisite pattern of piety, justice, prudence, and all other princely virtues, with whom (in Way of that excellence) I confer my .sovereign, applying in his description his own word usurpe(l of that poet, Parcere subjectis, et debellare superboa. ...21... 322 THE HUE AND CRY. That is so just to his great act, and thought, To do, not what kings may, but what kings ought. Who, out of piety, unto peace is vow'd, To spare his subjects, yet to quell the proud ; And dares esteem it the first I'oititude, To have his passions, foes at home, subdued. That was reserv'd, until the Parcse spun Their whitest wool ; and then his thread begun, "Which thread, when treason would have burst,* a soul To-day renown'd, and added to my roil,t Opposed ; and, by that act, to his name did bring The honour to be saver of his king. This king whose worth, if gods for virtue love, Should Venus with the same affections move, As her ^neas ; and no less endear Her love to his safety, than when she did cheer, After a tempest,+ long-afflicted Troy, Upon the Lybian shore ; and brought them joy. Ven. I love, and know his virtues, and do boast Mine own renown, when I renown him most. My Cupid's absence I forgive, and praise. That me to such a present grace could raise. His champion shall, hereafter, be my care : But speak his bride, and what her virtues are. Ey. She is a noble virgin, styled, The Maid Of the Red-cliff, and hath her dowry weigh'd No less in virtue, blood, and form, than gold ; Thence, where my pillar's rear'd, you may behold, Fill'd with love's trophies, doth she take her name. * In that monstrous conspiracy of E. Gowry, t Titulo tunc crescere posses, Nunc per te titulus. t Virg. ^neid. lib. 1. THE HUE AND CRY. 323 Those pillars did uxorious Vulcan frame,* Against this day, and underneath that hill, He, and his Cyclopes, are forging still Some strange and curious piece, to adorn the night, And give these graced nuptials greater light. HereY\]-LChl^ presented himself, as overhearing Hymen, attired in a cassock girt to him, with bare arms, his hair and beard rough ; his hat of bitie, and ending in a cone ; iji his hand a hammer aitd tongs, as couiing from the forge. Vul. Which I have done ; the hest of all my life ; And have my end, if it but please my wife, And she commend it, to the labour'd worth. Cleave, solid rock ! and bring the wonder forth. At which, ivith a loud and full music, the cliff parted in the fnidst, and discovered an illustrious concave, filled with an ample and glistering light, in which an artificial sphere was made of silver, eighteen feet in the diameter, that turned perpetually : the coluri were heightetted with gold ; so were the arctic and antarctic circles, the tropics, the equinoctial, the meridian and horizon ; only the zodiac was of fnire gold : in which the masquers, under the characters of the twelve signs, were placed, answering them in mimber ; whose offices, luith the whole frame, as it turrted, Vtilcan went fonvard to describe. * The ancient poets, whensoever they would intend any thino: to be done ■vrith ereat mastery, or excellent art, made Vulcan the artificer, as Horn, n ^. in the forging of Achilles's armour, and Virg. for ^neas, ^neid. 8. He is also said to be the god of tire and light. Sometime taken for the purest beam : and by Orph. in Hym. celebrated for the sun and moon. But more especially by Eurip. in Troad. he is made Facifer in Nuptiis. AVhich present office we give him here, as being Calor Natura>, and Prreses Luminis. See Plat, in CratyL For his description, read Pausan. in Eliac. 324 THE HUE AND CRY. It is a sphere, I've formed round and even, In due proportion to the sphere of heaven, "With all his lines and circles ; that compose The perfect'st form, and aptly do disclose The heaven of marriage : which I title it : Within whose zodiac, I have made to sit, In order of the signs, twelve sacred powers, That are presiding at all nuptial hours : The first, in Aries* place, respecteth pride Of youth, and beauty ; graces in the bride. In Taurus, he loves strength and manliness ; The virtues which the bridegroom should profess. In Gemini, that noble power is shown, That twins their hearts, and doth of two make one. In Cancer, he that bids the wife give way With backward yielding to her husband's sway. In Leo, he that doth instil the heat Into the man : which from the following seat Is temper'd so, as he that looks from thence Sees yet they keep a Yirgin innocence. In Libra's room, rules he that doth supply All happy beds with sweet equality. The Scorpion's place he fills, that makes the jars. And stings in wedlock ; little strifes and wars : Which he, in th' Archer's throne, doth soon remove, By making, with his shafts, new wounds of love. And those the follower with more heat inspires, As, in the Goat, the sun renews his fires. THE HUE AND CRY. In wet Aquarius' stead, reigns he that showers Fertility upon the genial bowers. Last, in the Fislies place, sits he doth say, In married joys, all should be dumb as they. And this hath Yulcan for his Venus done, To grace the chaster triumph of her son. Van. And for this gift, will I to heaven return, And vow for ever, that my lamp shall burn "With pure and chastest fire ; or never shine,* But when it mixeth with thy sphere and mine. Here Venus rehirned to her chariot^ with the Graces ; ijuhile Vulcan^ calling out the priests of Hymen, who were the musicians^ was interrupted by PYKACMON.f Vul. Sing, then, ye priests. Pyrac. Stay, Vulcan, shall not these Come forth and dance ? Vul, Yes, my Pyracmon, please The eyes of these spectators with our art.+ * As Catul. hath it in nup. Jul. et Manl. without Hymen, which is marriage, Nil potest Venus, fama quod bona comprobet, etc t One of the Cyclops, of whom, with the other two, Brontea and Steropes, see Virg. /Kneid. Ferrum exercebant vasto Cyclopes in antro, Brontesque, Steropesque et nudus membra Pyracmon, etc. t As when Horn. Iliad. S , makes Thetis for her son Achilles, to visit Vulcan's house, he feigns that Vulcan had made twenty tripods, or stools with golden wheels, to move of themselves miraculously, and go out and return fitly. To which the inven- tion of our dance alludes, and is in the poet a most elegant place, and worthy the tenth reading. 326 THE HUE AND CRY. Pyrac. Come here then, Brontes, bear a Cy clop's part, And Steropes, both with your sledges stand, And strike a time unto them as they land ; And as they forwards come, still guide their paces, In musical and sweet proportion'd graces ; While I upon the work and frame attend, And Hymen's priests forth, at their seasons, send To chaunt their hymns ; and make this square admire Our great artificer, the god of fire. Here the musicians^ attired in yellozu, with wreaths of majyoj-am, and veils like Hymen s priests, sung the first staff of the follozulng Eplthalamlon: which, because it was sung in pieces between the dances, shewed to be so many several songs ; but was made to be read an entire poeiti. After the song, they came {descending in an oblique motion) from the Zodiac^ and daticed their first dance ; then music interposed, {but varied with voices, only keeping the sajne chorus) they danced their secomi dame. So after, their third and fourth dances, which were all full of elegancy and curious device. And thus it e tided. * * The two latter dances were made by master Thomas Giles, the two first by master Hier. Heme : who, in the persons of the two Cyclopes, beat a time to them with their hammers. The tunes were master Alphonso Ferrabosco's. The device and act of the scene master Inigo Jones's, with addition of the trophies. For the invention of the whole, and the verses, Assertor qui dicat esse meos, imponet plaglario pudorem. The attire of the masquers throughout was most graceful and noble ; partaking of the best both ancient and later figure. The colours carnation and silver, enriched both with embroidery and lace. The dressing of their heads, feathers andjewels ; and so excellently ordered to the rest of the habit, as all would suffer under any description, after the shew. Their performance of THE HUE AND CRY. y^i EPITHALAMfON. Up, youths and virgins, up, and praise The god, whose nights outshine his days ; Hymen, whose hallowed rites Could never boast of brighter lights ; Whose bands pass liberty. Two of your troop, that with the morn were free, Are now waged to his war. And what they are. If you'll perfection see, Yourselves must be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! Wliat joy or honours can compare With holy nuptials, when they are Made out of equal parts Of years of states, of hands, of hearts ? When in the happy choice. The spouse and spoused have the foremost voice ! Such, glad of Hymen's war. Live what they are, And long perfection see : And such ours be, Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! The solemn state of this one night Were lit to last an age's light ; all, so magnificent and illustrious, that nothing can add to the seal of it, but the subscription of their names : — The Duke of Lenox, Lord of ^yALDE^', Earl of ARiNDELL, Lord Hay, Earl of Pembroke, Lord Saxkre, Earl of Montgomery, Sir Ro. Riche, Lord D'AUBIGNY, Sir Jo. Kennethie, Master Erskine. 328 THE HUE AND CRY. But there are rights behind Have less of state, but more of kind : Love's wealthy crop of kisses, And fruitful harvest of his mother's blissus. Sound then to Hj'men's war ; That what these arc, Who will perfection see, May haste to be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished sta: ! Love's commonwealth consists of toys ; His council are tliose antic boys, Games, Laughter, Sports, Delights, That triumph with him on these nights : To whom we must give way, For now their reign begins, and lasts till day. They sweeten Hymen's war, And, in that jar. Make all, that married be. Perfection see. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star 1 Why stays the bridegroom to invade Her, that would be a matron made ? Good-night, whilst yet we may Good-night, to you, a virgin, say : To-morrow rise the same Your mother is,* and use a nobler name. Speed well in Hymen's war, That, what you are, By your perfection, we And all may see. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! * A wife or matron : which is a name of more dignity than Virgin. D. Heins. in Nup. Ottonis Heiirnii, Cras matri similis tiup redibis. THE HUE AND CRY, 329 To-night is Venus' vigil kept. This night no bridegroom ever slept ; And if the fair bride do, The mairied say, 'tis his fault too. Wake then, and let your lights Wake too ; for they'll tell nothing of your nights But, that in Hymen's war, You perfect are. And such perfection, we Do pray should be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! That, ere the rosy-finger'd morn Behold nine moons, there may be born A babe, t'uphold the fame Of Ratcliffe's blood, and Eamsey's name : That may, in his great seed, "Wear the long honours of his father's deed. Such fruits of Hymen's war Most perfect are : And all perfection, we Wish you should see. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star ! -^ %^xice a]i5 ©cca^ional pieces* LYRICS AND OCCASIONAL PIECES, ECHO'S SONG. (From Cynthia's Revels.) Slow, slow, fresli fount, keep time witli my snlt toar? Yet, slower, yet ; faintly, gentle springs : List to the heavy part the music bears, Woe weeps out her division, when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers, Fall grief in sliowers. Our beauties are not ours ; 0, I could still. Like melting snow upon some cragrry ]iill^ Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a wither'd dalTodil. 334 LYRICS. THE KISS. (From Cynthia's Revels.) 0, THAT joy so soon should waste ! Or so sweet a bliss As a kiss Might not for ever last ! So sugar'd, so melting, so soft, so delicious, The dew that lies on roses, When the morn herself discloses, Is not so precious. rather than I would it smother, Were I to taste such another ; It should he my wishing That I might die with kissing. HESPER'S SONG TO CYNTHIA. (From Cynthia's Revels.) Qtteen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep : Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heav'n to clear, wlien day did close : Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. L YRTCS. 335 Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever : Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright. HORACE, HIS DRINKING SONG, (From the Poetaster. ) Swell me a bowl with lusty wine. Till I may see the plump Lyreus swim Above the brim : I drink as I would write In flowing measure filled with flame and sprite. SONG.— TO CELIA. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine : But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath. Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breatho, And sent'st it back to mti : Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. 336 L YRICS. SONG.— TO CELT A. Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, the sports of love ; Time will not be ours for ever : He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain. Suns that set, may rise again ; But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why sliould we defer our joys ? Fame and rumour are but toys. Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies ; Or his easier ears beguile, 80 removed by our wile ? 'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal. But the sweet theft to reveal : To be taken, to be seen, These liave crimes accounted been. Kiss me, sweet ; the wary lover Can you favours keep, and cover, When the common courting jay All your bounties will betray. Kiss again : no creature comes. Kiss, and score up wealtliy sums On my lips thus liardly sundred, While you breathe. First give a hundred, Then a thousand, then another Hundred, then unto the other Add a thousand, and so more : Till you equal with the store. All the grass that Eumney yields, Or the sauds iu Chelsea iields. LYRICS. 337 Or the drops in silver Thames, Or the stars that gild his streams, In the silent Summer-nights, When youths ply their stolen delights ; That the curious may not know How to tell 'em as they flow, And the envious, when they find What their number is, be pined. THAT WOaiEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADOWS. Follow a shadow, it still flies you, Seem to fly it, it will pursue : So court a mistress, she denies you ; Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styl'd but the shadows of us men ? At morn and even shades are longest ; At noon they are or short, or none : So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say are not women truly, then, Styl'd but the shadows of us men ? FOR CHARTS. HER TRIUMPH. See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dovo, And well the car Love guideth. A8 she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty ; ...22... 33^ LYRICS. And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, [ride. Through swords, through seas, whither she Would Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth ! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth ! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her : And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it ? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? Have you felt the wool of the bever ? Or swan's down ever ? Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar ? Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? so white I so soft ! so sweet is she ! BEGGING ANOTHER KISS, ON COLOUR OF MENDING THE FORMER. For Love's sake, kiss me once again, I long, and should not beg in vain, Here's none to spy, or see ; LYRICS. 339 Why do you doubt or stay ? I'll taste as lightly as the bee, That doth but touch his flower, and flies a way. Once more, and, faith, I will be gone, Can he that loves ask less than one ? Kay, you may err in this, And all your bounty wrong : This could be call'd but half a kiss ; What we're but once to do, we should do long. I will but mend the last, and tell Where, how, it would have relish'd well ; Join lip to lip, and try : Each suck the other's breath, And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Let who will think us dead, or wish our death. A SOXG. Oh do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing ; Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being. Oh be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill mc ; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me. Oh do not steep them in thy tears. For so will sorrow stay me ; Xor spread them as distract witli fears ; Mine own enough betray me. 340 LYRICS. INYITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER. To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company : Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast, With those that come ; whose grace may make that seem Something, which else would hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate. An olive, capers, or some better sallad Ushering the mutton : with a short-legg'd hen, If we can get her full of eggs, and then, Limons, and wine for sauce : to these, a coney Is not to be despair'd of for our money ; And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come : Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there ; and god wit if we can ; Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe'er, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us, Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat ; And I'll profess no verses to repeat : To this if aught appear, which I not know of, That will the pastry, not my paper, show of, Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be ; But that which most doth take my muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine, Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine : Of which had Horace or Anacreon tasted, Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted. LYRICS. 341 Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Lutlier's beer, to this I sing. Of this we will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by ; Nor shall our cups make any guilty men : But at our parting, we will be, as when We innocently met. No simple word, That shall be utter'd at our mirthful board. Shall make us sad. next morning ; or affright The liberty, that we'll enjoy to-night. TO PENSHURST. Thou art not, Pexshuest, built to envious shov.- Of touch or marble ; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold : Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told ; Or stair, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water ; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport ; Thy mount, to which thy Dryads do resort. Where Pan and Bacchus their liigh feasts have made. Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade ; That taller tree, which of a nut was set. At his great birth, where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames ; And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke The lighter fauns, to reach thy lady's oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast there, That never fails to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, 342 LYRICS. Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kiue, and calves do feed ; The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies ; and the tops Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydneys copp's, To crown thy open table, doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side The painted partridge lies in ev'ry field, And for thy mess is willing to be kill'd. And if the high-swoln Medway fail thy dish. Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute lish, Fat aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As loth the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously at first themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers. Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry, with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come ; The blushing apricot, and woolly peach Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan ; There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down But all come in, the farmer and the clown ; And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake. Some nuts, some apples ; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them ; or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands ; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum, or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) LYRICS. 343 Add to thy free provisions, far above The need of such ? whose liberal board doth flow, With all that hospitality doth know ! "Where comes no guest, but is allowed to eat, Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat : Where the same beer and bread, and self-same wine, Tiiat is his lordship's, shall be also mine. And I not fain to sit (as some this day, At great men's tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups ; nor standing by, A waiter, doth my gluttony envy : But gives me what I call, and lets me eat. He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat ; Thy tables hoard not up for the next day, Kor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery ; all is there ; As if thou then wert mine, or I reign'd here : There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. That found king James, when hunting late, tliis way, With his brave son, the prince ; they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame, To entertain them ; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sudden chear Didst thou then make 'em ! and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady, then ! who therein reap'd The just reward of her high huswitry ; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh. When she was far ; and not a room, but drest, As if it had expected such a guest ! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste witkal. His children thy great lord may call his own : 344 LYRICS. A fortune, in this age, but rarely known. They are, and have been taught religion ; thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morn, and even, tliey are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts, The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else. May say, their lords have built> but thy lord dwells. TO WILLIAM CAMDEN. Camden ! most reverend head, to whom I owe All that I am in arts, all that I know ; (How nothing's that ?) to whom my country owes The great renown, and name w'herewith she goes ! Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave, ]\[ore high, more holy, that she more would crave. What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things ! What sight in searching the most antique springs ! What weight, and what authority in thy speech ! Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teacli. Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty, Which conquers all, be once o'ercome by thee. Many of thine, this better could, than I ; But for their powers, accept my piety. ON LORD BACON'S BIRTHDAY. Hail, happy Genius of this ancient pile ! How comes it all things so about thee smile ? The fire, tlie wine, the men ! and in the midst Thou stand'st as if some mystery thou didst ! LYRICS, 345 Pardou, I read it in tliy face, the day For whose returns, and many, all these pray ; And so do I. This is the sixtieth year, Since Bacon, and thy lord was born, and here ; Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal, Fame and foundation of the English weal. What then his father was, that since is he, Now with a title more to the degree ; England's high Chancellor : the destin'd heir, In his soft cradle, to his father's chair : "Whose even thread the fates spin round and full. Out of their choicest and their whitest wool. 'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be known. For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine own. Give me a deep-crown'd bowl, that I may sing, In raising him, the wisdom of my king. TO JOHN DONNE. Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse, Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse ; Whose every work, of thy most early wit, Came forth example, and remains so, yet ; Longer a knowing than most wits do live. And which no' aifection praise enough can give ! To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life. Which might with half mankind maintain a strife All which I meant to praise, and yet I would ; But leave, because I cannot as I should 1 -^ 346 LYRICS, TO FKANCIS BEAUMONT. How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy Muse, That unto me dost such religion use ! How I do fear mj^self, that am not worth The least indulfjeiit thought thy pen drops forth ! At once thou mak'st me happy, and uninak'st ; And giving largely to me, more tliou tak'st ! What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves ? What art is thine, that so tliy ft-iend decei^ves ? When even there, wliere most thou praisest me, For writing better, I must envy thee. ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. TO THE READER. This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut. Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to aut-do the life : O could he but have drawn his wit As well in brass, as lie has hit His face ; the print would then suipasa All that was ever writ in brass : But sinice he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture, but his book. L YRICS. 347 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTEK, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. To draw no envy, Shakespeaee, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these way^ Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore, Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more i But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin : Soul of the age ! The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage ! My SuAKESPEAiiE rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further off, to make thee room : Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excusus, I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses : For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or'Marlow's mighty line. 348 LYRICS. And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I will not seek For names : but call forth thund'ring Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead. To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime. When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! Nature herself was proud of his designs. And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines ! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Keat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; But antiquated and deserted lie. As they were not of nature's family. Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion : and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same. And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; For a good poet's made, as well as born. And such v.-ert thou ! Look how the father's face LYRICS. 349 Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well torned, and true filed lines ; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James ! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there ! Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, "Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night. And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. AN EPITAPH OX SALATHIEL VKYY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL. Weep with me, all you that read This little story : And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature. As heaven and nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen When fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel ; And did act, what now we moan, Old men so duly, 350 LYRICS, As, sooth, the Parcse thought him one, He play'd so truly. So, by error to his fate They all consented ; But viewing him since, alas, too late ! They have repented ; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him ; But being so much too good for earth. Heaven vows to keep him. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. Underneath this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; Death ! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear : A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall and die that night ; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures, life may perfect be. LYRICS. 351 ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER. Here lies, to each her parents ruth, Mary, the daughter of their youth ; Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due, It makes the father less to rue. At six months end she parted hence With safety of her innocence ; Whose soul heaven's Queen, whose name she bears In comfort of her mother's tears, Hath placed amongst her virgin-train : Where while that, severed, doth remain, This grave partakes the fleshly birth ; Which cover lightly, gentle earth ! 0'^ MY FIRST SOK. Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy : Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. 0, could I lose all father, now ! for why, Will man lament the state he should envy ? To have so soon 'scaped world's, and flesh's rage, And, if no other misery, yet age ! Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here doth lie 15en Jonson his best piece of poetry : For whose sake henceforth all his vows be suc'n, As what ho loves may never like too much. 352 LYRICS, AN ODE.— TO HIMSELF. Wheee dost Thou earless lie Buried in ease and sloth ] Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die ; And this security, It is the common moth. That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both : Are all the Aonian springs Dried up ? lies Thespia waste % Doth Clarius' harp want strings. That not a nymph now sings ; Or droop they as disgrac'd, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pics defac'd ? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause ; Let this thought quicken thee : Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause, 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry And think it poesy ? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. LYRICS. 353 Then take in hand thy lyre, Strike in thy proper strain, With Japhet's line, aspire Sol's chariot for new fire, To give the world again : Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And since our dainty age Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page, To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. THE JTJST INDIGNATION THE AUTHOR TOOK AT THE VULGAR CENSURE OF HIS PLAY, "THE NEW INN," BY SOME MALICIOUS SPECTATORS, BEGAT THIS FOLLOWING ODE (to himself). Come leave the loathed stage. And the more loathsome age ; Where pride and impudence, in faction knit, Usurp the chair of wit ! Indicting and arraigning every day, Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; They were not made for thee, less thou for them. ...23... 354 LYRICS, Say that thou pour'st them wheat, And they will acorns eat ; 'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste On such as have no taste ! To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, Whose appetites are dead ! No, give them grains their fill, Husks, draff to drink and swill : If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not, their palate's with the swine. No doubt some mouldy tale. Like Pericles, and stale As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish — Scraps, out of every dish Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub, May keep up the Play-club ; There, sweepings do as well As the best-order'd meal ; For who the relish of these guests will fit. Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit. And much good do't you then : Brave plush and velvet-men. Can feed on orts ; and, safe in your stage-clothes, Dare quit, upon your oaths, The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers, Of larding your large ears With their foul comic socks. Wrought upon twenty blocks ; Which, if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch 'd enough. The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff. — LYRICS. 35S Leave tluDgs so prostitute And take the Alcaic lute ; Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre ; Warm thee by Pindar's tire : And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat. As cuiious fools, and envious of thy strain, May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy king, His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men : They may, blood-shaken then, Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers As they shall cry, " Like ours, In sound of peace or wars. No harp e'er hit the stars. In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign ; And raising Charles his chariot 'bore his Wain." ^ Printed by Walter Scott, Fdling, Neicca-stle-on-TyTie, ®tj^ (&antet:bnvxj |^jcr^t^> In SHILLING Monthly Volumes. With Introductory Notices by William Sharp, Mathilde Blind, Walter Lewin, John HOGBEN, A. J. Symington, Joseph Skipsey, Eva Hope, John Richmond, Ernest Rhy'S, Percy E. Pinkerton, Mrs. Garden, Dean Carrington, Dr. J. Bradshaw, Frederick Cooper, Hon. Roden Noel, J. Addington Symonds, Eric Mackay, G. Willis Cooke, Eric S. Robertson, Wm. TiREBucK, Stuart J. Reid, Mrs. Freiligrath Kroeker, J. LoGiE Robertson, M.A., etc. Cloth, Red Edges ■ Cloth, Uncut Edges ■ ■ Is. - Is. Red Roan, Gilt Edges 2s. 6d. Silk Plmh, Gilt Edges 4s. 6d. VOLU^IES ALREADY ISSUED. CHRISTIAN YEAR. SHAKESPEARE: COLERIDGE. Songs, Poems, & Sonnets LONGFELLOW. EMERSON. CAMPBELL. SONNETS OF THIS SHELLEY. CENTURY. WORDSWORTH. WHITMAN. BLAKE SCOTT (2 Vols.) WHITTIER. PRAED. POE. HOGG. CHATTERTON. GOLDSMITH. BURNS (2 Vols.) ERIC MACKAYS MARLOWE. LOVE LETTERS, etc KEATS. SPENSSR. HERBERT. CHILDREN OF THE VICTOR HUGO. POETS. COWPER. BEN JONSON. Extracts from Opinions of the Press. " Well printed on good paper, and uicely hownHi."— Athenaeum. "Handy volumes, tastefully bound, and well finished in every respect."— PoZi Mall Gazette. " The introductorj[ sketch is one of the best we have read on the subject. Blake is too little kno^vu." — Shejji^ld Independent. " Paper, printing, and binding being all that cau be desired by the most fastidious."— Ox/ord Guardian. London : WALTER SCOTT, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row The Camelot Classics, New Comprehensive Edition of tlie Leading Prose Writers. Edited by ERNEST RHYS. In SHILLING Monthly Volumes, Crown Svo ; each Volume containing about 400 pages, clearly printed on good paper, and strongly botind in Cloth. VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED. ROMANCE OP KING ARTHUR. By Sir THOMAS MALORY. Edited by Ernest Rhys. WALDEN. By henry david thoreau. With Introductory Note by Will H. Dircks. CONFESSIONS OP AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, by thomas de quincey. With Introduction by William Shar?. LANDOR'S CONVERSATIONS. With Introduction by Havelock EluS. PLUTARCH'S LIVES. With Introduction by Bernard J. Snell, JI.A., B.Sc. Sir T. Browne's RELIGIO MEDICI, Etc. With Introduction by John Addington Symonds. ESSAYS AND LETTERS OP PERCY BYS6HE SHELLEY. With Introduction by Ernest Rhys. PROSE WRITINGS OP SWIPT. With Introduction by Walter Lewin. MY STUDY WINDOWS, by james RUSSELL LOWELL. With Introduction by Richard Garnett, LL.D. The Series is issued in two styles of Binding— Red Cloth, Cut Edges ; and Dark Blue Cloth, Uncut Edges. Either Style, Is. Zbc Canterbury Ipoet^* THE CHILDREN OF THE POETS; AN ANTHOLOGY, FJ^OAf ENGLISH AND AMERICAN WRITERS OF THREE CENTURIES, EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION, By eric ROBERTSON, M.A. This Volume contains contributions by Lord Tennyson, William Bell Scott, Robert Browning, Jas. Russell Lowell, George Macdonald, Algernon Charles Swinburne, Theodore Watts, Austin Dobson, Hon. Roden Noel, Edmund Gosse, Robert Louis Stevenson, etc., etc. London : Walter Scott, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row. Naiu Ready, in Crown 8vo, Cloth , 250 pages. Price 3J. dd. CAROLS FROM THE COAL-FIELDS: AND OTHER SONGS AND BALLADS. By JOSEPH SKIPSEY, ,NS, Blake, Poe, Shelley, and Canterbury Poets Series. With an Introduction by R. Spence Watson, LL.D. Editor of Burns, Blake, Poe, Shelley, and others in the Canterbury Poets Series. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. The real life pieces are more sustained and decided than almost anything of the same class I know. — Oct. 29, 1S78. Dante Q. Rossetti. It is as easy to distinguish real poetry from spurious poetry as it is easy to distinguish a real daisy from an artificial one. Mr. Skipsey, who is— or until lately was— a pitman of Percy Main, near North Shields, has written a volume of undoubtedly genuine poetry.— The Athenaeum, 16th November 1878. Mr. Skipsey's songs are distinguished by the trill of the sky- lark. — Edinburgh Daily Revieiv. The language, always fervid, rises at times to absolute passion. — Sunday Times, 26th January 1879. " The Violet and the Rose " resembles one of Heme's lyrics in the condensation of its symbolic thought. — Newcastle Daily Chronicle, 12th December 1878. The style is singularly nervous, clean cut, and chaste. . . . " The Thistle and the Nettle " is a dehghtful rustic idyll, told with charming simplicity and humour. We believe him to be one of Nature's poets, and gifted with the exceptionally graceful Eowers of expression and thougat.— Dundee Advertiser^ Decem- er 1878. Mr. Skipsey may fearlessly ask that these lyrics should be judged on their merits, apart from any consideration of the conditions under which they were produced. There is true poetry in many of these lyrics— grace of form, passion and earnestness. . . . The volume contahis good honest work in no stinted quantity.— TAe Scotsman, 25th October 1878. London ; Walter Scoxt, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row. ^ PllllliHI B 000 002 427 3 i1 ^