The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 2, by A. H. Bullen

Preface
Dick of Devonshire
The Lady Mother
The Tragedy of Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt
Captain Underwit
Appendix I.
Appendix II.
Footnotes.

PREFACE.

The plays in this volume are printed for the first time. All are anonymous; but it is absolutely certain that Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt is a masterpiece by Fletcher and Massinger; that Captain Underwit is a comedy of Shirley's; and that the Lady Mother (a piece of no particular merit) is by Glapthorne. I am not at all sure that I am right in ascribing Dick of Devonshire to Heywood. But, whoever may have been the author, I am confident that this well-written play will be welcomed by all. In Appendix I I give an account of the folio volume (Eg. MS. 1,994) from which the two last pieces are taken.

To Mr. ROBERT BOYLE, of St. Petersburg, I offer my sincere thanks for the very interesting note (Appendix II) which he sent me after reading the proof-sheets of Barnavelt. Elsewhere I have expressed my gratitude to Mr. F.G. FLEAY for his valuable help.

The preparation of this volume has been a work of great labour, for everything has been transcribed by my own hand; but the tedious delay in publication has been due in great part to circumstances beyond my control.

INTRODUCTION TO DICK OF DEVONSHIRE.

The play of Dick of Devonshire, now first printed (from Eg. MS., 1994[1]), is distinctly a well-written piece, the work of a practised hand. There is nothing amateurish in the workmanship; the reader is not doomed to soar into extravagances at one moment, and sink into flatnesses at another. Ample opportunities were offered for displays of boisterous riot, but the playwright's even-balanced mind was not to be disturbed. Everywhere there are traces of studious care; and we may be sure that a style at once so equable and strong was not attained without a long apprenticeship. Nor will the reader fail to note the lesson of charitableness and Christian forbearance constantly, yet unobtrusively, inculcated.

The hero of the play, Richard Pike, published, under the title of Three to One, a pamphlet (reprinted in vol. i. of Mr. Arber's valuable English Garner) describing his exploits. There is no date to the pamphlet; but it was no doubt issued very shortly after Pike's return, which took place on April 20, 1626. At the outset the writer apologises for the rudeness of his style, "I know not," he says, "what the court of a king means, nor what the fine phrases of silken courtiers are. A good ship I know, and a poor cabin; and the language of a cannon: and therefore as my breeding has been rough, scorning delicacy; and my present being consisteth altogether upon the soldier (blunt, plain and unpolished), so must my writings be, proceeding from fingers fitter for the pike than the pen." In those days a soldier was never at a loss to express himself, and honest Dick Pike was no exception to the rule. He goes straight to the point, and relates his adventures very vividly in the homeliest language. Returning from an expedition against Algiers "somewhat more acquainted with the world, but little amended in estate," he could not long rest inactive; and soon, "the drum beating up for a new expedition," set out to try his fortunes again. The design was against Cadiz; the fleet, under the command of the Earl of Essex, numbered some 110 sail. There is no need to continue the story, for I have nothing to add to the facts set forth in the pamphlet and the play. If Britannia's Pastorals had been written a few years later, we may be sure that William Browne would have paid a fitting compliment to his fellow-townsman's bravery. But Pike's famous deeds were not forgotten by his countymen; for in a broadside of the late seventeenth century, bearing the title of A Panegyric Poem; or, Tavestock's Encomium,[2] he is thus enthusiastically praised:—

    "Search whether can be found again the like
    For noble prowess for our Tav'stock Pike,
    In whose renowned never-dying name
    Live England's honour and the Spaniard's shame."

There is a curious notice of our hero in a private letter, dated May 19, 1626, of Dr. Meddus to the Rev. Joseph Mead:[3]—"Yesterday being Holy Thursday, one Pyke, a common soldier, left behind the fleet at Cadiz, delivered a challenge to the Duke of Buckingham from the Marquis of ——, brother-in-law to the Conde d'Olivares, in defence of the honour of his sister; affirming, moreover, that he had wronged Olivares, the King of Spain, and the King of England, and therefore he would fight with him in any part of France. This Pike, a Devonshire man, being presented prisoner to the Duke of Medina, he would needs have him fight at rapier or dagger with a Spaniard, supposing he would not stand him two thrusts: but Pyke, by a dexterous sleight, presently disarmed the Spaniard of his rapier without hurting him, and presented it to the Duke," &c.

As to the authorship of the play, though I should be loth to speak with positiveness, I feel bound to put forward a claim for Thomas Heywood. Through all Heywood's writings there runs a vein of generous kindliness: everywhere we see a gentle, benign countenance, radiant with love and sympathy. On laying down one of his plays, the reader is inclined to apply to him Tacitus' judgment of Agricola, "bonum virum facile crederes, magnum libenter." Now, when we open Dick of Devonshire, the naturalness and simplicity of the first scene at once suggest Heywood's hand. In the second scene, the spirited eulogy on Drake—

"That glory of his country and Spayne's terror, That wonder of the land and the seas minyon, Drake, of eternall memory—"

and the fine lines descriptive of the Armada are just such as we might expect from the author of the closing scenes of the second part of If you know not me, you know nobody. Heywood was fond of stirring adventures: he is quite at home on the sea, and delights in nothing more than in describing a sea-fight; witness his Fortunes by Land and Sea, and the two parts of the Fair Maid of the West. But the underplot bears even clearer traces of Heywood's manner. Manuel is one of those characters he loved to draw—a perfect Christian gentleman, incapable of baseness in word or deed. Few situations could be found more touching than the scene (iii. 3), where Manuel defends with passionate earnestness the honour of his absent brother, Henrico, and tries to comfort his heart-broken father. Heywood dealt in extremes: his characters are, as a rule, either faultless gentlemen or abandoned scoundrels. Hence we need not be surprised that Henrico exceeds other villains in ruffianism as much as his brother, the gentle Manuel, surpasses ordinary heroes in virtue. The characters of Henrico's contracted bride, Eleonora, and Catalina, the good wife of a vicious husband, are drawn tenderly and skilfully. Heywood's eyes were oftener dim with tears than radiant with laughter; yet, with all his sympathy for the afflicted and the fallen, he never took a distorted view of society, but preserved untainted to the end a perennial spring of cheerfulness.

I now leave the reader to the enjoyment of this old play, which, whether it be Heywood's or not, certainly deserves the attention of all faithful students of our inexhaustible dramatic literature.

NOTE.—I gratefully acknowledge the assistance that I have received from F.G. Fleay, Esq., in preparing this volume for the press. To ensure as much accuracy as possible, Mr. Fleay has read the proof-sheets throughout.[4] By the same gentleman's kindness I am able to correct the following misprints in the first volume:—

p. 119, 7 from bottom, for "she doth preferd doth see," read "she thus preferd," &c.

p. 274, l. 16, for "whore," read "whore's;" and in the next line, for "sunnes," read "sinnes."

p. 311, l. 12, for "sol-Re-fa-mi," read "sol-Re-me-fa-mi." In l. 19, for "Ra." read "Re."

THE PLAY OF DICKE OF DEVONSHIRE.

The Duke of Macada, | The Duke of Girona, | The Duke of Medina, | Four Grandies. The Marquesse d'Alquevezzes, | Don Pedro Gusman, An ancient Lord. Manuell, | His Sons. Henrico, | Don Fernando, Governor of Cadiz Towne. Teniente, A Justicier. Bustamente, Captaine of Cadiz Castle. Dicke Pike, The Devonshire Soldier. Don John, A Colonel. Buzzano, Servant to Pedro Guzman. Eleonora, Daughter to Fernando. Catelina, Wife to Don John. A Gentlewoman. An English Captaine. Mr. Jewell. Mr. Hill. Secretary. Mr. Woodrow. A Jaylor. Two Fryers. A Guard. English Soldiers. Spanish Soldiers.

(SCENE 1.)

Enter Don Pedro Gusman, Henrico and Manuell, his sons;
Don Fernando and Eleanora, his daughter, and Teniente.

Pedr. Gentlemen, y'have much honourd me to take
Such entertainement, but y'are welcome all.
'Twas my desire to have your company
At parting: heaven knowes when we shall meete againe.

Ten. But how chance, Manuell, your younger brother Is at the Goale before you? What, no Lady To please your eye?

Man. I am not
Yet weary of my freedome. May Henrico
Meete Joy in his Election: yet I know not
One I would sooner chuse to call a sister
Than Eleonora.

Pedr. At my returne from France all things shall bee
Consummate; in meane time let your owne hearts,
Knitt with the strongest tye of love, be merry
In mutuall embraces, and let your prayers
Fill our departing sayles. Our stay will not
Bee long, and the necessity of my affaires
Unwillingly doth take me from you.

Hen. Though I could wish your stay, my duty bidds me Expect the enjoying of my happines Till your returne from France.—Your blessing.

Eleo. How ever heaven dispose of Eleonora,
Pray write me in your thoughts your humblest daughter,
That shall make it a part of her devotions
To pray for you.

Fer. Well, sir, since your designe Pulls you away, may your good Angell guard you.

Fer. Manuell, I hope You will not long breath out of Spanish ayre. Farewell!

Fer. The Captaine of the Castle come to interpret That language to us? What newes?

Bust. Is putting into harbour, and aloud Calls for a Midwife: she is great with gold And longs to be delivered.

Pedr. No he Spanyard Is not a true reioycer at the newes: Be't a good omen to our Journey.

Pedr. May we at our returne meet no worse newes Then now at parting. My noble Don Fernando And Teniente, once more farewell, (my daughter, I hope)

Bust. A soldier's farewell, a fast hand and heart; Good fate to both. [Ex. Pedr. and Man.

Hen. Come, Elinor, let them discourse their Joyes For the safe fleete: in thee all my delights Embarke themselves.

Bust. Tush, lett 'em come; our shippes have brought with them The newes of warre.

Bust. Nay, sir,
'Tis certaine there hath bene great preparation,
If our Intelligence be true to us;
And a mighty Navy threatens the sea.

Fer. What's that to us?
How long hath it bene a voyce they were at sea!
I have ventured to discharge the soldiers
Which to keepe here in pay upon the rumour
Of a great fleete a comming, would both pester
The Towne and be unnecessary charge
To the King our Master.

Fer. 'Tis not probable:
The time of yeare is past, sir, now; more then
The middle of October. Had they meant us
We should have heard their message in loud Cannon
Before this time.

Ten. But Don Fernando and Bustamente, call to mind
The time hath bene, when we supposed too
The season past, they have saluted us
With more then friendly Bulletts; tore the ribbs
Of our Towne up, made every house too hott
For the Inhabitants; had a spoyle of all,
Spight of our hearts.

Fer. One Swallow makes not Summer: because once Our City was their prize, is't of necessity It must be so againe?

Bust. Or were the Navy
Greater, as fame gives out it is the fayrest
That ever danced upon these Seas, why yet
Should we suspect for this Citty?

Ten. If you did dreame it may be as neare truth: I wish the contrary, but know them daring Enemyes.

Fer. The world, we doe acknowledge, cannot boast More resolution then the English hearts Seasond for action.

Fer. How ere
That wilbe necessary; the fort lyes in
The mouth of danger, and it will become
You to discharge that duty, Bustamente.

Ten. I wish all well, and that you had not yet Discharg'd your Companyes, Don Fernando.

Fer. Come, come; putt of your Jelousy,
Drinke downe the remembrance. We forget
Our fleetes arrivall; send your feares away;
Nothing but wine and mirth should crowne this day.

SCENE 2.

1. Our Sherryes merchants, Though few of us be heere, shall soundly pay To the furnishing of this Navy.

2. Nay, I assure you Our shipps wilbe fast bound by Spanish charmes Not to get hence in hast.

1. The Divell allready
Is furling up the sayles; would all the sackes
Which we have bought for England were in Devonshire
Turnd to small Beere, so we were but in Tavistocke
To see it drawne out; were it nere so thin
I'de drink a health to all the Dons in Sherryes
And cry a pox upon 'em.

2. That word heard
By any lowsy Spanish Picardo[8]
Were worth our two neckes. Ile not curse my Diegoes
But wish with all my heart that a faire wind
May with great Bellyes blesse our English sayles
Both out and in; and that the whole fleete may
Be at home delivered of no worse a conquest
Then the last noble voyage made to this Citty,
Though all the wines and merchandize I have here
Were ith' Seas bottome.

2. I nere could tell yet from what roote this huge Large spreading Tree of hate from Spayne to us, From us agayne to Spayne, took the first growth.

1. You shall not loose your longing: then, sir, know
The hate a Spanyard beares an Englishman
Nor naturall is, nor ancient; but as sparkes,
Flying from a flint by beating, beget flames,
Matter being neere to feed and nurse the fire,
So from a tinder at the first kindled[9]
Grew this heartburning twixt these two great Nations.

1. Heare me: any Englishman
That can but read our Chronicles can tell
That many of our Kings and noblest Princes
Have fetcht their best and royallest wives from Spayne,
The very last of all binding both kingdomes
Within one golden ring of love and peace
By the marriage of Queene Mary with that little man
(But mighty monarch) Phillip, son and heire
To Charles the Emperour.

1. Religion
Having but one face then both here and there,
Both Nations seemd as one: Concord, Commerce
And sweete Community were Chaynes of Pearle
About the neckes of eyther. But when England
Threw of the Yoake of Rome, Spayne flew from her;
Spayne was no more a sister nor a neighbour,
But a sworne Enemy. All this did but bring
Dry stickes to kindle fire: now see it burne.

1. Spaines anger never blew hott coales indeed Till in Queene Elizabeths Raigne when (may I call him so) That glory of his Country and Spaynes terror, That wonder of the land and the Seas minyon, Drake, of eternall memory, harrowed th'Indyes.

1. Yes, when his Hands
Nombre de Dios, Cartagena, Hispaniola,
With Cuba and the rest of those faire Sisters,
The mermaydes of those Seas, whose golden strings
Give him his sweetest musicke, when they by Drake
And his brave Ginges[10] were ravishd; when these red apples
Were gather'd and brought hither to be payrd—
Then the Castilian Lyon began to roare.

1. When our shipps
Carrying such firedrakes in them that the huge
Spanish Galleasses, Galleons, Hulkes and Carrackes[11]
Being great with gold, in labour with some fright,
Were all delivered of fine redcheekt Children
At Plymouth, Portsmouth and other English havens
And onely by men midwives: had not Spayne reason
To cry out, oh Diables Ingleses!

1. When we did sett our feete even on their Mynes
And brought their golden fagotts thence, their Ingotts
And silver wedges; when each ship of ours
Was able to spread sayles of silke; the tacklings
Of twisted gold; when every marryner
At his arrivall here had his deepe pockets
Crammd full of Pistoletts; when the poorest ship-boy
Might on the Thames make duckes and drakes with pieces
Of eight fetchd out of Spayne: These were the Bellowes
Which blew the Spanish bonfires of revenge;
These were the times in which they calld our Nation
Borachos,[12] Lutherans and Furias del Inferno.

1. The very name of Drake
Was a Bugbear to fright Children; Nurses still'd
Their little Spanish Nynnyes when they cryde
"Hush! the Drake comes."

1. Why, did not
Spaine fetch gold from the West Indies for us
To spend here merrily? She planted vines,
We eate the Grapes; she playd the Spanish Pavine[13]
Under our windowes, we in our bedds lay laughing
To heare such Mynstrelsy.

2. How then turnd the windes? Why did this beauteous face of love in us Put on so blacke a Visour of hate to them?

1. Oh, sir, doe but looke backe to Eighty Eight,
That Spanish glasse shall tell you, shew each wrinckle.
England that yeare was but a bit pickd out
To be layd on their Kinges Trencher. Who were their Cookes?
Marry, sir, his Grandees and great Dons of Spaine,
A Navy was provided, a royall fleete,
Infinite for the bravery of Admiralls,
Viceadmirall [sic], Generalls, Colonells and Commanders,
Soldiers, and all the warlike furniture
Cost or experience or mans witt could muster
For such a mayne designe.

2. Stay; Eighty Eight,— Thirty eight yeares agoe: much about then Came I into the world.—Well, sir, this fleete?

1. Which made the Sea fish wonder what new kingdome
Was building over theirs, beate downe the Billowes
Before them to gett thither. 'Twas such a Monster
In body, such a wonder in the eyes,
And such a[14] thunder in the eares of Christendome
That the Popes Holynes would needes be Godfather
To this most mighty big limbd Child, and call it
Th'Invincible Armado.

1. These were the Whales,
These were the huge Levyathans of the Sea
Which roaring came with wide and dreadfull Jawes
To swallow up our Kingdom, Shipps & Nation.
The fame of this Armado flew with Terrour
Riding on Envyes wing; the preparation
Was wayted on with wonder, and the approach
Shewd the grim face of horrour: yet gainst all these
Our Country and our Courages were armd.

1. And St. George we cryde,
Albeit, we heard, the Spanish Inquisition
Was aboord every ship with torture, torments,
Whipps strung with wyre, and knives to cutt our throates.
But from the armed winds an hoast brake forth
Which tare their shipps and sav'd ours.—Thus I have read
Two storyes to you; one, why Spayne hates us,
T'other why we love not them.

SCENE 3.

Ten. I did dreame every night of't, and the Ravens With their unlucky throates never leave croaking Some danger to us all.

Ten. Don Fernando, too,
Hath cut our strength off, taken away our swords
Should save our throates. I did preiudicate
Too rashly of the English; now we may
Yield up the Towne.—Sirra, get you up to th'highest Enter Buzzano.
Turret, that lookes three leagues into the Sea,
And tell us what you can discover there.

Buz. Why there are fishes and shipps too in the sea; they were made for that purpose.

Ten. The fellow doates? climbe quickly, sirra, and tell us Whither any bend to this place: there's a fleete Abroad; skud, rascall.

Buz. Ile be hangd first; some wiser then some: mine Eyes into the Sea? I see no reason for't.

Ten. Why stayest thou?—this slave is without sence. Get up and see, and report the truth.

Hen. 'Tis past question, If they were kenn'd this way, that they intend To make another meale of this Citty.

Ten. The first was but a Breakfast: they have shrewd stomakes.
Oh for a lusty storme to bury all
Their hopes in the waves now! one good swelling Gust
Would breake their ribbs in pieces.

Buz. Yes, th'are ships; I know 'em by their foule linen; now I see them plainely; they come, they come, they come!

Buz. If you would peace I might heare what they say; the wind serves to bring every word they speake: they make towards, yes, towards this Citty. A great fleete! stay, stay, look to your selves, Don: they spitt fire allready, and have hung up a thousand flaggs of defyance. They are at the fort, the castle, at the castle: would I were pelted to death with Oranges and Lymons.

Fer. Assured danger, gentlemen, for all our men
Already are in a palsye and doe flye
They know not whither. They are English:
The Citty's allmost desperate.

Fer. In this confusion, when a thousand feares
Present themselves & danger with full face
Lookes on the generall Towne, let me locke up
This Treasure in your armes; &, for you have
At least an equall interest with mee
In Eleonora, in your fathers house
She may hope more security, being of strength;
For this storme cannot last. But in your love
She hath a stronger guard.

Hen. This act of confidence Binds me for ever to Fernando: come, Halfe of my soule, for we two must not bee In life devided. Though the Citty lye At mercy of the Enemy, yet from Don Pedro Gusman's house not all mankind Shall take thee from me.

Fer. Committing this my Jewell to your trust I must unto my charge: my blessing!

Ele. Oh doe not leave me, sir; for without you What safety can I have? you are my father: Pray, stay you with me.

Fer. Oh, my Girle, I cannot, Dare not be so unfaithfull to the trust His maiesty put me in, though I would stay.

Ele. I know not what besides my feare; and that Beggs I may share your fortune, since you may not Take up such safety here as I have.

Fer. Come,
You are to blame: this heaven that now lookes on us
With rugged brow may quickly smile againe
And then I shall revisite my Eleonora.
So, farewell. [Exit.

Hen. Till then with greater care then were the Dragons
Supposd to watch the Golden Apples growing
In the Hesperides, shall Henrico wayte
On his best loved. Oh, my Eleonora,
I would to heaven there were no war but here
To shoote love darts! each smile from this fayre Eye
May take an Army prisoners: let me give
My life up here unto these lipps, and yet
I shall, by the sweetnes of a kisse, take back
The same againe. Oh thou in whom alone
Vertue hath perfect figure, hide not day
In such a Cloud: what feare hath enterd here?
My life is twisted in a Thread with thine;
Were't not defenced, there could nothing come
To make this cheeke looke pale, which at your Eye
Will not fall dead before you.—

Sirra, let all your care and duty bee
Employed to cheere this Lady: pray, be merry.

Hen. Hell on your bawling! not a sillable to affright her, or I shall tune your instrument there.

Buz. Hele breake the head of my instrument! Why, sir, weomen are not affraid to heare of doings.

Buz. When the whole towne is altogether by th'eares you might give me leave to jar a little my selfe:—I have done, sir.

Hen. My best Eleonora, I shall soone returne: In the meane time be owner of this house, The possesour. All danger, sweet, shall dwell Far off: Ile but enquire the state of things In the Citty, and fly back to thee with loves wings. [Exit.

Ele. Since I must be your prisoner let me have
My keepers company, for I am afraid
Some enemy in your absence, like a woolfe
May ceize on me. I know not whither now
I ere shall see my father: doe not you
Ravish yourselfe from me, for at the worst
We may dye here, Henrico; and I had rather
Fall in your eye than in your absence be
Dishonord; if the destinyes have not
Spun out a longer thread, lets dye together.

Hen. Oh doe not racke my soule with these sad accents.
Am I Henrico? there is not any place
Can promise such security as this
To Eleonora. Doe not talke of dying,
Our best dayes are to come: putt on thy quiet,
And be above the reach of a misfortune.
Ile presently wayte on thee, by this kisse.

Buz. Would I might keepe your oath: so please you, lady, Buzzano will sweare too.

Buz. You shall heare a good report of my piece, I warrant you. Take heed you be not sent to heaven with a powder: a company of hott shotts[15] are abroad, I can tell you.

Buz. Why I would gallop or run, for I think long till I be at home in our Castle of comfort. If it please you Ile lead you a hand gallop in the plaine ground, trott up hill with you & racke[16] downewards.

Buz. Both men and women: I travelled thither with an Embassadour. For the men Ile not misse you a haire of their condition; and for the women I know 'em as well as if I had bene in their bellyes.

Buz. As Tygers, when they set on't: no mercy unlesse we aske them forgiveness.

Buz. But not to you; that's onely to men; for lett the women fall downe afore 'em never so often they'le rather fall upon them. Nay, some of them are so spitefull they'le breake their owne backes before they let 'em rise againe.

Ele. Are they not unmercifull in their natures to such as are in their power, their Enemyes as we may be?

Buz. Their enemyes as we may be in their power! I had rather be cramm'd into a cannon and shott against their ships then you should prove a witch & tell true now. The Tartar is not halfe so grim; not a Turke would use us so like Jewes as they will. If it come to that once that they take the Towne You will see Spanish Dons heads cryed up and downe: as they doe our Orenges and Lymons; and the woemens heads shall off, too,—not a maydenhead of gold shall scape 'em.

Ele. It is no valour to use Tyranny
Upon the conquerd: they have been reported
A noble nation; and when last the pride
Of this Citty adornd their victory, by command
Or their brave Generall, no outrage ever
The soldiers durst committ upon our persons:
Though all our wealth ran in full streames upon them
Our honours were preserved, or fame belys them.

Buz. No matter what fame sayes, perhaps I know more than she does; & yet, now you talk of valour, they are not comparable to us.

Buz. Why, valour is but the courage of a man; courage is, as they say, the spirit of a man; and the spirit of a man is the greatnes, as we call it, of his stomake. Now 'tis well knowen to the whole world they feed better and eate more then we: ergo, we have better stomackes then they. But, see! we have talk't our selves at home already, and the point (port?) is open. Will't please you enter, or shall I enter before you? I am your man, madam.

Ele. You know the way best:—whilst abroad they are At fight, twixt hope and feare at home I warre.

(SCENE 1.)

Alarum; as the soft musicke begins a peale of ordnance goes off; then Cornetts sound a Battaile; which ended enter Captaine, Master of a ship, Dick Pike, with musketts.

Cap. Fought bravely, countrymen! Honour all this while
Sate in a Throne of smoake with sparckling eyes
Looking upon your courages & admiring
Your resolutions, and now rewards your sweat
With victory. The castle groanes at heart;
Her strongest ribbs are bruizd with battering Cannons,
And she hath tane into her bowells fire
Enough to melt her.

Ma. My Lord came bravely up to her & shewd a spirit That commands danger; his honorable example Gave us new hearts.

Sol. Faith, give the Spanyards their due; they entertaind us handsomely with hott meat; 'twas no cold welcome.

Pike. But I would not willingly swallow their plums; they would rise shrewdly in a man's stomacke.

Cap. At the third two more: one salutation Came so close that, with the very wind, My hands have almost lost the sense of feeling. Jewell, thou mad'st thy muskett spitt fire bravely.

Ma. And my Devonshire blade, honest Dick Pike, Spard not his Sugar pellets among my Spanyards.

Cap. He did like a soldier, as he that chargd his muskett told me: in this service he hath dischargd 70 bulletts.

Pike. I did my part, sir, and wish I had bene able to have layd 'em on thicker; but I have lynd somebodyes gutts, much good doe 'em with it; some of them have wishd well to me.

Pike. Nowhere; one of my flanckes itches a little; if a piece of lead have crept in to hide it selfe cowardly I am not much in debt for't.

Pike. Search a pudding for plums; let my flesh alone; perhaps it wants souldering. Shall we to't agen: I have halfe a score pills for my Spanyards—better then purging comfitts.

Pike. They have bene speechlesse a good while; I thought they'de yield up the ghost shortly.

Sol. Don Francisco Bustament is carryed aboord our Generalls ship, where he had a soldier like welcome; but he & all his company are put over to Port Reall upon the maine land because they should not succour the Citty.

Pike. 'Tis well they scaped her heart, lying all the fight little more than pistoll shott from 'em; her Starboard still to the fort & at least 200 Musketts playing upon her. I wish'd heartily some of our London roaring Boyes[17] had bene in the heate of't.

Pike. They should have found a difference betwixt the smoake of Tobacco and of a muskett; another manner of noise than dam me & refuse me[18], which they vomitt dayly. It might have done some of 'em good, for by that meanes they might have prayd heartily once in their lives.

Sol. 4000 Bulletts their ordnance & the Hollanders dischargd upon the Castle.

Cap. 'Twas well done of all sides, Bullyes[20]: but, since our forces are landed, let it be your care to looke well to the Ships: and honest Dick of Devonshire be not too carelesse of your hurts; he meanes to fight againe that provides for his recovery soonest. Hold thee, here is something to pay the Surgeon and to wash your wound withall.

Pike. My noble Captaine, I'le have care of my owne and drinke your health with it.

Pike. Why, now am I sorry I have no more hurt, gentlemen; but I tooke it as earnest to receive more if occasion bee. I have but a barrell to bestow among my Dons; while that lasts let 'em come & welcome,—the drinke shalbe spicd to their hands. Their complexions are blacke, they shall want no Balls to wash their faces; if any doe light in their bodies they may chance be scourd all over.

Pike. There will be charges savd then; for my part I am but one, and there are shotts enough.

Pike. Talke not of paying: here's more then a month comes to. Well, if our service be done, & there be any other liquor to be gott, wele drinke no salt water as long as this lasts.

Sol. 2. Come, let's have a dish to our countrymen & let's remember Tavestock.

(SCENE 2.)

Hen. Yet the Citty is safe enough; feare not, Eleonora;
The Bullets make no noyse here: if the Towne
Should yield her strength up to th'invader, thou
Art lockd up like a spirit in a Christall:
Not an enchanted Castle, held up by
Strong charme, is halfe so safe. This house, though now
It carry not the figure & faire shape
Which the first workeman gave it, eating Time
Having devourd the face of't, is within
A Sanctuary, & hath so much cunning
Couchd in the body not a Laborinth
Is so full of Meanders.

Ele. Sir, your presence
Confirmes me in opinion of my safety;
Not of my life so much, for that's a thing
I owe to nature & should one day be
A-weary of it; like to Innes we take
Our houses up, having but here a place
Of Lodging not of dwelling:—but of honour
You give me my assurance, for in such
A time of thicke confusions I much feare
That might be hazarded. And who knowes what
The soldier that hath no lawe but that
Of cruelty and rapine, when like a Bird
Of prey his Tallents are possessd of one
So weake as I am—

Hen. He that durst offend
Thee with a sillable or but fright that bloud
Out of thy Cheekes to seeke another place,
Not daring to be seene there where it now
Is of itselfe sufficient to ravish
A mortall that with just eyes can looke on it,
Had better be a divell. But a haire,
The poorest part of thee & in this excellent
Because 'tis thine, should any dare to ravish
From these his soft companions, which the wind
Would be for ever proud to play withall,
H'had better dig his mothers coffin up
And with his teeth eate what the wormes have left.

Hen. Will defend thee!
Have I a life, a soule that in thy service
I would not wish expird! I doe but borrow
My selfe from thee.

Ele. Rather you put to Interest
And, for that principall you have credited
To Eleonora her heart is paid backe
As the iust Usury.

Hen. You undoe me, sweet, With too much love; if ere I marry thee I feare thou'lt kill me.

Hen. With tendring me too much, my Eleonora; For in my conscience thou'lt extreamely love me, And extreames often kill.

Hen. Yes, but there may; and some say Jealousy Runs from the Sea, a rivolet but deducted From the mayne Channell.

Hen. Have you not heard men have been killd with Joy?
Our griefe doth but contract the heart, & gladnesse
Dilate the same; and soo too much of eyther
Is hott i'th' fourth degree.

Ele. Sir, your discourse
Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not
With that you usd but now: if we can practize
A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't.
—What doe you, Sir?

Hen. What Babyes[22], prety one? Thy owne face, naught else;
I receive that way all this beauty into
My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke
Out at the window. Come, Ile winke againe,
It shall not trouble you:—hence my trayterous thoughts.

Hen. Indeed I am not; all's not well within me.
Why should I be a villaine? Eleonora
Doe not looke on me; turne those eyes away,
They would betray thee to thy sorrow; or
Lett me by parting carry along with me
That which to know undoes thee.

Hen. Vanish, you ugly shapes, & with her presence
Quitt your sharp stings! into what monstrous creature
Feele I myself a-growing! yet I cannot
Force backe the streame, it comes so fast upon me;
I cannot.

Hen. No, I am well againe; thankes, my best love. Come, let us walke and talke; I had a fancy, But 'tis no matter:—Buzzano!

Hen. Lay it up safe; 'tis good for a greene wound But mines a blacke one:—and d'you heare, sirra, Draw up the bridge, give entrance unto none.

Hen. No matter, let none enter; were my father Brought with a whirlwind backe, he finds all shutt Till I have done.

Buz. Well, sir;—madam, all this is that you should not b' afraid: you now see what a kind man he is,—he will suffer none to enter but himselfe. [Exit.

Ele. If all this proceed out of your care of me, how much am I bound to acknowledge you. Sir, methinkes you minde me not.

Hen. Yes, I doe nothing else but thinke of thee, & of my father, too, Don Pedro.

Hen. That then our Joys, which now like flowers nippd
With frost, hang downe the head as if the stalkes
Could not sustaine the toppes, they droope to much;—
At his returne th'art mine.

Hen. That's the ground we build on:
Faith, since allready the foundation's layd,
Let's work upon't. Y'are mine, you say, allready—
Mine by all tearmes of Law, & nothing wanting
But the possession: let's not then expect
Th'uncertainety of a returne from France,
But be all one ymediately.

Hen. Since y'are a Tree reservd for me what now
Should hinder me from climbing? All your apples
I know are ripe allready; 'tis not stealth,
I shall rob nobody.

Ele. Will you enforce mine honour? oh, Henrico,
Where have you left your goodnesse? sure you cannot
Be so ignoble, if you thinke me worthy
To be your wife at least, to turne Eleonora
Into a whore.

Hen. Pish! some hungry Landlords would have rent before
The Quarter day,—I doe no more: by faire meanes
Yield up your fort; the Tenement is mine owne
And I must dwell in't.

Ele. My feares pointed wrong:
You are no enemy, no wolfe; it was
A villaine I disturbed: oh, make me not
Find in your presence that destruction
My thoughts were so affrighted with.

Ele. Your fathers house will prove no castle to mee
If you at home doe wound mee. 'Twas an Angell
Spoke in you lately not my Cheeke should bee
Made pale with feare. Lay not a lasting blush
On my white name:—No haire should perish here
Was vowed even now:—Oh let not a blacke deed,
And by my sworne preserver, be my death
My ever living death. Henrico, call
To mind your holy vowes; thinke on our parents,
Ourselves, our honest names; doe not kill all
With such a murthering piece. You are not long
T'expect, with the consent of men and angells,
That which to take now from me will be losse
A losse of heaven to thee. Oh, do not pawne it
For a poore minutes sin.

Hen. If't be a worke, madam, of so short time, Pray let me beg a minutes privacy; 'Twill be soone done.

Ele. Yes, but the horrour of
So foule a deed shall never: there's layd up
Eternity of wrath in hell for lust:
Oh, 'tis the devill's exercise! Henrico,
You are a man, a man whom I have layd up
Nearest my heart: in you 'twill be a sin
To threaten heaven & dare that Justice throw
Downe Thunder at you. Come, I know you doe
But try my vertue, whether I be proofe
Against anothers Battery: for these teares—

Hen. Nay, then I see you needs will try my strength: My bloud's on fire, I boyle with expectation To meete the pleasure and I will. [He forces her in.

Buz. Helpe? what nightingale was that? did one cry out for helpe? there's no Christian soule in the house but they two & my selfe; and 'twas not mine, I know by the smallnes of the voice; twas some woman cryde out, & therefore can be none but my young Lady,—it was she as sure as I am hungry; he's with her. But why, having one man did she cry out for more? oh, our Spanish ovens are not heated with one Bavyn.[23] Well, I must say nothing; my young Cocke has bene treading. Ile tread softly & see what they doe:—but, see!

Buz. Why, sir, I looke after a voyce that appeard to me even now, crying "helpe,"—a very small one.

Hen. If what thou seest or heard'st be ever muttered by thee Though in thy sleep, villaine, Ile pistol thee.

Buz. Hum, it will not be safe to dreame of a knave shortly. Are you so good at a gun? if you use this too often your birding piece will scarce carry a yard levell.

Ele. Yet dar'st thou live? & doe I live to see
Myselfe the shame of weomen? have I not
Wept teares enough to drowne me? then let fire
Enthrone it selfe within me & beget
Prodigious Cometts, that with flaming haires
May threaten danger to thee!

Hen. Nay, nay, nay, if you be so hott Ile brave you: like wine that's burnt you must be set light by, & then you'le come to a temper. [Exit.

Buz. Sh'has bene at Barleybreake.[24]—Madam I must say nothing: —there is a Pistol and so forth:—but if you have occasion to use me, try mee; if I doe not prove an honester man to you then my Master, would my Cod piece point were broake. I know what I know, and yet Ile tell no tales;—but if ever I come to speake once—I say nothing.

Ele. Oh that I could not breath! how can I have A Joy in life whose honour's in the Grave!

(SCENE 3.)

Pike. The freshnes of this Ayre does well after the saltnes of the Sea. A pleasant Country, too, to looke upon, & would serve well to live upon if a man had it & knew how to place it out of this hott Clymate! I would I had a matter, or a Mannour, indeede, of a 1,000 acres of these woodlands & roome to sett it in Devonshire; I would compare with any prince betweene Tavistoke & Parradice for an Orchard. But I could wish I were not alone here in this Conceit, dreaming of Golden Apples, least they prove bitter fruite. Whether are our land soldiers straggeld, troe? I would faine sett eye on some of them; Ile venture a little farther; Devonshire Dick was never afraid yet.—How now, my hearts? upon a retreat so soone?

1. I, to the shipps; we have our loades here of the best merchandise we can find in this Quarter.

1. As safely as ever you gatherd nutts in England; the Spaniards are all fled.

2. Not soe much as the leg of a Spanyard left to squayle at their owne appletrees. [Exeunt Soldiers.

Pike. Ile have a pull at these pomcitrons for my noble Captaine; & if I had a Porters basket full of 'em I would count them no burthen in requitall of some part of the love he hath shewen me.

(SCENE 4.)

3. Pray God the enemy be not within one musket shott of us behind their hedges; for I am sure I saw an Harquebuse whip ore the way before us but even now. Oh, oh!

Pike. Are you bouncing? Ile no further. Sure these can be no Crowkeepers nor birdscarers from the fruite! what rascalls were my Countrymen to tell me there was no danger!—alas, what's here? 3 of our soldiers slaine! dead, shott through the very bowells! so, is this quite dead too? poore wretches, you have payd for your Capon sauce.

Pike. Here's some life in yt yet: what cheare? how is't, my heart of gold? speake, man, if thou canst; looke this way; I promise thee 'tis an honest man & a true Englishman that speakes to thee. Thou look'st away as if thou didst not trust me: I prithee speake to me any thing, Ile take thy word & thanke the, too. Alas, I feare he's past it; he strives and cannot speake.—'Tis good to shift this ground; they may be charging more hidden villany while I stand prating heere.—He breathes still; come, thou shalt not stay behind for want of leggs or shoulders to beare thee. If there be surgery in our ships to recover the use of thy tongue, thou mayst one day acknowledge a man & a Christian in honest Dicke of Devonshire. Come along;—nay now I feare my honesty is betrayd;—a horseman proudly mounted makes towards me, and 'tis a Don that thinkes himselfe as brave as St. Jaques. What shall I doe? there is no starting; I must stand th'encounter.—Lye still a while & pray if thou canst, while I doe my best to save my owne & the litle breath thou hast left. But I am in that prevented too: his breath's quite gone allready, and all the Christian duty I have now left for thee is to close thy eyes with a short prayer: mayst thou be in heaven, Amen.—Now Don Diego, & Don Thunderbolt, or Don Divell, I defye thee.

Pike. A pox upon thee, Hispaniola! Nay, if you be no better in the Reare then in the Van I shall make no doubt to vanquish, & vanquash you, too, before we part, my doughty Don Diego. [He hath him downe, & disarmes him.

Pike. And take your goods? is that your meaning, Don, it shall be so; your horse and weapons I will take, but no pilferage. I am no pocketeer, no diver into slopps: yet you may please to empty them your selfe, good Don, in recompense of the sweet life I give you; you understand me well. This coyne may passe in England: what is your Donship calld, I pray.

Pike. A knight of Spaine! and I a Squire of Tavestock: well, Don John, I am a little in hast & am unmannerly constreynd to leave your Castilian on foote, while my Devonshire worship shall teach your Spanish Jennett an English gallop. A dios, signior.—

Oh what a tyde of fortunes spight am I
Now to swim through! beare up yet, Jovyall heart,
And while thou knowest heavenly mercy doe not start.
Once more let me embrace you, signior.

2. I say the other is a Spanyard & Don John; & we dare not shoote the one for feare of killing th'other.

Jo. He triumphd in the odds he had of me,
And he shall know that from the Spanish race
Revenge, though nere so bloudy, is not base.
Away with him
A prisoner into th'Citty!

(SCENE 5.)

Enter Don Ferdinando, the Teniente, with attendants; Bustamente brought in with a Guard.

Fer. Francisco Bustamente, late Captaine of the Castle, Stand forth accusd of Treason gainst his Maiesty.

Bust. It is a language I not understand
And but that by the rule of loyalty
Unto my king and country I am made
Attendant to the Law, & in this honourd
Presence, the Governour & Teniente,
Under whose jurisdiction I hold place,
I would not beare nor heare it.

Fer. I'de be glad
You could as easily acquitt your selfe
Of guilt as stand up in your owne defence;
But, Bustamente, when it doth appeare
To law & reason, on which law is grounded,
Your great offence in daring to betray
The Spanish honour unto Infamy,
In yeilding up the fort on such slight cause,
You can no lesse then yeild yourselfe most guilty.

Bust. Farre be it from your thought, my honourd Lord,
To wrest the hazardous fortune of the warre
Into the bloudyer censure of the Law.
Was it my fault that in the first assault
The Canoniers were slayne, whereby our strength,
Our mayne offensive strength, was quite defeated
And our defensive part so much enfeebled
That possibility to subsist was lost,
Or by resistance to preserve one life?
While there was sparke of hope I did maintayne
The fight with fiery resolution
And (give me leave to speake it) like a Sodier.

Ten. To my seeming your resolution Was forwardest to yeild then to repell; You had else stood longer out.

Bust. We stood the losse of most of our best men,
And of our musketiers no lesse then fifty
Fell by the adverse shott; whose bodyes with their armes
Were cast by my directions downe a well
Because their armes should neyther arme our foes
Nor of our losse the sight give them encouragement.

Fer. That pollicy pleades no excuse; you yet
Had men enough, had they bene soldiers,
Fit for a Leaders Justification.
And doe not we know that 6 score at least
Of those base Picaros with which you stuff'd
The fort, to feed, not fight,—unworthy of
The name of Spanyards, much lesse of soldiers—
At once ran all away like sheep together,
Having but ore the walls descryde th'approach
Of th'Enemy? Some of the feare-spurrd villaines
Were overturnd by slaughter in their flight,
Others were taken & are sure to find
Our lawes as sharpe as either Sword or Bullet.
For your part, Bustamente, for that you have
Done heretofore more for your Countryes love,
You shall not doubt of honourable tryall,
Which in the Court of warre shalbe determind,
At Sherris, whitherward you instantly
Shall with a guard be sent.—See't done: away.

1. It was our chance to come unto the rescue
Of this renowned knight, Don John,
Who was his prisoner as he now is ours.
Some few more of his mates we shott & slew
That were (out of their English liquorishness)
Bold to robb orchards of forbidden fruite.

2. It was a fine ambition; they would have thought
Themselves as famous as their Countryman
That putt a girdle[25] round about the world,
Could they have said, at their returne to England,
Unto their Sons, "Looke Boyes; this fruite your father
With his adventurous hands in Spayne did gather."

1. Had you not better have gone home without Lymons to eate Capons with your frends then to stay here without Capons to taste Lymons with us that you call Enemyes?

Pike. Not by noble Enemyes: this on my face
By this proud man, yet not more proud then base;
For, when my hands were in a manner bound,
I having given him life, he gave this wound.

Ten. The more unmanly done:
And though, Don John, by law y'are not accusd,
He being a common Enemy, yet being a man
You in humanity are not excusd.

Fer. Reason & manhood had become you better;
Your honour's wounded deeper then his flesh.
Yet we must quitt your person & committ
The Englishman to prison.

Ten. To prison with him; but let best care be taken For the best surgeons, that his wounds be look'd to.

Pike. Your care is noble, and I yeild best thankes;
And 'tis but need, I tell your Seignioryes,
For I have one hurt more then you have seene,
As basely given & by a baser person:
A Flemming seeing me led a prisoner
Cryde, "Whither doe you lead that English dog,
Kill, kill him!" cryde hee, "he's no Christian;"
And ran me in the bodie with his halbert
At least four inches deepe.

(SCENE 1.)

Cap. Our Generall yet shewd himselfe right noble in offering ransome for poore Captive Pike.

Cap. If any reasonable price would have bene accepted it had bene given Mr. Secretary, I assure you.

Jew. I can testify that at our returne, in our Generalls name & my owne, I made the large offer to the Teniente, who will by no meanes render him. Sure they hold him for some great noble purchace.

Cap. Or perhaps, Mr. Secretary, some remarkable Commonwealths man, a pollitician in Government.

Sec. 'Twere a weake state-body that could not spare such members. Alas, poore Pike, I thinke thy pate holds no more pollicy than a Pollax.

Hill. Who is more expert in any quality then he that hath it at his fingers ends; & if he have more pollicy in his braines then dirt under his nayles Ile nere give 2 groates for a Calves head. But without all question he hath done some excellent piece of villany among the Diegoes, or else they take him for a fatter sheep to kill then he is.

Cap. Well, gentlemen, we all can but condole the losse of him; and though all that we all come hither for be not worth him, yet we must be content to leave him. The fleete is ready, the wind faire, and we must expect him no longer.

Sec. My Countryman, sir: therefore would I have given the price of a hundred of the best Toledoes rather then heare the misse of him at home complayned by his Wife and Children.

Jew. Your tendernes becomes you, sir, but not the time, which wafts us hence to shun a greater danger.

(SCENE 2.)

Pike. The fleete is gone & I have now no hope of liberty; yet I am well refreshd in the care hath bene taken for my cure. But was ever English horse thus Spanish bitted & bossd![26]

Jay. Sir, the care of your keeper, by whom this ease hath been procured, requires remuneration.

Jay. I assure you, the best Surgeons this part of Spaine affoords, through my care taken of you; & you may thanke me.

Pike. What an arrogant rascall's this!—Sir, I thought my thankes herein had chiefly appertaind to the humanity of the Governour, & that your especiall care had bene in providing these necessary shackles to keepe me from running into further danger: these I tooke to be the strong bonds of your frendship.

Jay. Sir, I hope they fitt you as well as if they had bene made for you. Oh, I am so much your servant that I doe wish 'em stronger for your sake.

Pike. A precious rogue! If the Jaylors be so pregnant what is the hangman, troe? By the time my misery hath brought me to climbe to his acquaintance I shall find a frend to the last gaspe. What's here? a Lady? are the weomen so cruell here to insult ore Captive wretches.

Pike. She eyes me wistly; sure she comes not to instruct her selfe in the art of painting by the patternes of my face!

Pike. Yes, I doe heare you say you are the Lady; but let me tell you, madam, that Ladyes, though they should have tenderest sence of honour & all vertuous goodnesse, & so resemble Goddesses as well in soule as feature, doe often prove dissemblers & in their seemely breasts beare cruelty & mischiefe. If you be one of those, oh, be converted; returne from whence you came & know 'tis irreligious, nay divelish to tread & triumph over misery.

Cat. How well he speakes, yet in the sence bewraying
A sence distracted: sure his captivity,
His wounds, & hard entreaty make him franticke!
Pray heare me, sir, & in two words Ile tell you
Enough to win beleeife: I am the Lady
Of the Knight vanquished by you, Don John.

Pike. Y'have said enough, indeed: pitty of heaven,
What new invented cruelty is this!
Was't not enough that by his ruthlesse basenes
I had these wounds inflicted, but I must
Be tortured with his wifes uniust reioycings!
'Twas well his politicke feare, which durst not come
To glory in his handy worke himselfe,
Could send your priviledg'd Ladyship.

Cat. Indeed, you much mistake me; as I live,
As I hope mercy & for after life,
I come for nothing but to offer thankes
Unto your goodnes, by whose manly temper
My lord and husband reassum'd his life;
And aske your Christian pardon for the wrong
Which by your suffering now pleads him guilty.
Good sir, let no mistrust of my iust purpose
Crosse your affection: did you know my love
To honour and to honest actions,
You would not then reiect my gratulations.
And since that deeds doe best declare our meaning,
I pray accept of this,
This money and these clothes and my request
Unto your keeper for best meats and wines
That are agreable to your health and taste.
And, honest frend, thou knowst and darest, I hope,
Believe me I will see thee payd for all.

Jay. Yes, my good Lady.—Loe you, sir, you see
Still how my care provides your good: you may
Suppose the Governours humanity
Takes care for you in this, too.

Pike. Excellent Ladye I doe now beleive Virtue and weomen are growne frends againe.

Jo. What magicall Illusion's this? 'tis she!
Confusion seize your charitable blindnesse!
Are you a prison visiter for this,
To cherish my dishonour for your merit?

Cat. My lord, I hope my Charity workes for your honour, Releiving him whose mercy spard your life.

Jo. But that I'me subiect to the law & know
My blowes are mortall, I would strike thee dead.
Ignoble & degenerate from Spanish bloud,
Darst thou maintaine this to be charity?
Thy strumpett itch & treason to my bed
Thou seekst to act in cherishing this villaine.

Pike. You wound her honour and you robb yourselfe, And me and all good Christians, by this outrage.

Pike. Sir, I may speake; my tongue's unshackled yet,
And, were my hands and feete so, on free ground
I would mayntayne the honour of this Lady
Against an Hoast of such ignoble husbands.

Jo. You are condemnd allready by the Law I make no doubt; and therefore speake your pleasure. —And here come those fore whom my rage is silent.

Fer. Deliver up your prisoner to the Teniente.
I need not, sir, instruct you in your place
To beare him with a guard as is appointed
Unto the publicke tryall held at Sherrys.

Fer. You & the Surgeons out of the Kings pay
Ile see dischargd.—You have, according to the Order,
Conveyd already Bustamente thither
To yeild account for yeilding up the Castle?

Fer. Don John, you likewise in his Maiesties name Stand chargd to make your personall appearance To give in evidence against this prisoner.

Pike. To Sherrys? they say the best sackes there. I meane to take one draught of dying comfort.

Pike. I have a suite, my Lord; to see an Englishman, A merchant, prisoner here, before I goe.

Pike. Oh, Mr. Woodrow, I must now take leave
Of prison fellowship with you. Your fortunes
May call you into England, after payment
Of some few money debts; but I am calld
Unto a further tryall: my debt is life,
Which if they take not by extortion,
I meane by tortures, I shall gladly pay it.

Wo. I have heard, & thought you by what I had heard Free from feares passion: still continue soe, Depending on heavens mercy.

Pike. You doe instruct me well; but, worthy Countryman,
Once more let me give you this to remember,
And tis my last request:—that when your better stars
Shall guide you into England, youle be pleasd
To take my Country Devonshire in your way;
Wheir you may find in Taverstoke (whom I left)
My wife & children, wretched in my misfortunes.
Commend me to them, tell them & my frends
That if I be, as I suspect I shalbe,
At Sherris putt to death, I dyed a Christian soldier,
No way, I hope, offending my iust King
Nor my religion, but the Spanish lawes.

(SCENE 3.)

Man. Dear sir, let me have power to recall
Your graver thoughts out of this violent storme
Of passion that thus oerwhelmes your mind.
Remember what you are, and with what strength,
What more then manly strength, you have outworne
Dangers of Battaile, when your warlike lookes
Have outfac'd horrour.

Pedro. Oh, my son, my son,
Horrour it selfe upon the wings of Death,
Stretcht to the uttermost expansion
Over the wounded body of an Army,
Could never carry an aspect like this,
This murthering spectacle, this field of paper
Stucke all with Basiliskes eyes. Read but this word,
'The ravisht Eleonora!'—does't not seeme
Like a full cloud of bloud ready to burst
And fall upon our heads?

Pedro. What? when I see this meteor hanging ore it?
This prodigy in figure of a man,
Clad all in flames, with an Inscription
Blazing on's head, 'Henrico the Ravisher!'

Pedro. In battailes I have lost, and seene the falls
Of many a right good soldier; but they fell
Like blessed grayne that shott up into honour.
But in this leud exploit I lose a son
And thou a brother, my Emanuell,
And our whole house the glory of her name:
Her beauteous name that never was distayned,
Is by this beastly fact made odious.

Man. I pray, sir, be your selfe and let your Judgement Entertaine reason: From whom came this Letter?

Man. Good;
And by the common poast: you every weeke
Receiving letters from your noble frendes
Yet none of their papers can tell any such tidings.

Man. Why is her father silent? has she no kindred,
No frend, no gentleman of note, no servant
Whom she may trust to bring by word of mouth
Her dismall story.

Man. Some villaine hath filld up a Cup of poyson T'infect the whole house of the Guzman family; And you are greedyest first to take it downe.

Man. Were you a stranger
Armd in the middle of a great Battalion
And thus should dare to taxe him, I would wave
My weapon ore my head to waft you forth
To single combatt: if you would not come,
Had I as many lives as I have hayres,[28]
I'de shoot 'em all away to force my passage
Through such an hoast untill I met the Traytour
To my dear brother.—Pray, doe not thinke so, sir.

Pedro. Not? when it shall be said one of our name
(Oh heaven could I but say he were not my son!)
Was so dishonorable,
So sacrilegious to defile a Temple
Of such a beauty & goodnes as she was!

Man. Because no dropp of honour falls from him
But I bleed with it. Why doe I take his part?
My sight is not so precious as my brother:
If there be any goodnes in one man
He's Lord of that; his vertues are full seas
Which cast up to the shoares of the base world
All bodyes throwne into them: he's no drunkard;
I thinke he nere swore oath; to him a woman
Was worse than any scorpion, till he cast
His eye on Eleonora: and therefore, sir,
I hope it is not so.

Man. I doe not say, sir, that she was not so,
Yet women are strange creatures; but my hope
Is that my brother was not so ignoble.
Good sir, be not too credulous on a Letter:
Who knowes but it was forgd, sent by some foe,
As the most vertuous ever have the most?
I know my Brother lov'd her honour so
As wealth of kingdoms could not him entice
To violate it or his faith to her.
Perhapps it is some queint devise of theirs
To hast your journey homeward out of France,
To terminate their long-desired marriage.

Pedro. The language of her letter speakes no such comfort,
But I will hasten home; &, for you are
So confident as not to thinke his honour
Any way toucht, your good hopes be your guide
Auspiciously to find it to your wish.
Therefore my counsaile is you post before,
And, if you find that such a wrong be done,
Let such provision instantly be
Betwixt you made to hide it from the world
By giving her due nuptiall satisfaction,
That I may heare no noise of't at my comming.
Oh, to preserve the Reputation
Of noble ancestry that nere bore stayne,
Who would not passe through fire or dive the mayne?

(SCENE 4.)

Fer. Cease, Eleonora, cease these needles plaints,
Less usefull than thy helpe of hands was at
The deed of darkness,—oh, the blackest deed
That ever overclouded[29] my felicity!
To speake, or weepe thy sorrow, but allayes
And quenches anger, which we must now cherish
To further iust revenge. How I could wish
But to call backe the strength of Twenty yeares!

Fer. No, Eleonora, that I were so ennabled
With my owne hands to worke out thy wronge
Upon that wretch, that villaine, oh, that Ravisher!
But, though my hands are palsyed with rage,
The Law yet weares a sword in our defence.

Ele. Away, my Lord & Father! see the monster
Approaching towards you! who knowes but now
He purposeth an assassinate on your life,
As he did lately on my Virgin honour?

Hen. What life, what honour meane you? Eleonora, What is the matter? Who hath lost anything?

Hen. Would not the curses of all good ones serve?
So many might perhaps be borne: but, pray,
Tell me what moves you thus? Why stand you soe
Aloofe, my Lord? I doe not love to bee
Usd like a stranger: welcome's all I looke for.

Fer. What boldnesse beyond madnesse gives him languadge!
Nothing but well-bred stuffe! canst see my daughter
And not be strooke with horrour of thy shame
To th' very heart? Is't not enough, thou Traytour,
To my poore Girles dishonour to abuse her,
But thou canst yett putt on a divells visour
To face thy fact & glory in her woe?

Fer. The forreine Enemy which came to the Citty
And twice dancd on the Sea before it, waving
Flaggs of defyance & of fury to it,
Were nor before nor now this second time
So cruell as thou. For when they first were here
Now well nigh 40 yeares since, & marched through
The very heart of this place, trampled on
The bosomes of our stoutest soldiers,
The weomen yet were safe, Ladyes were free
And that by the especial command
Of the then noble Generall: & now being safe
From common danger of our enemyes,
Thou lyon-like hast broake in on a Lambe
And preyd upon her.

Hen. I am enough abusd, & now 'tis time
To speake a litle for my selfe, my Lord.
By all the vowes, the oathes & imprecations
That ere were made, studied, or practised,
As I have a soule, as she & you have soules,
I doe not know, nor can, nor will confesse
Any such thing, for all your Circumventions:
Ile answer all by Law.

Fer. Peace, Eleonora; I have thought the Course.
If you dare justify the accusation
You shall to Sherrys, and then before the Judges
Plead your owne cause.

Fer. There, if you prove the Rape, he shalbe forcd Eyther to satisfy you by marriage Or else to loose his periurd head.

Hen. I am content.
And instantly I will away to Sherrys,
There to appeale to the high Court of Justice:
'Tis time, I thinke, such slanderous accusations
Assayling me; but there I shalbe righted.

Hen. What will become of me in this, I know not:
I have a shrewd guese though of the worst.
Would one have thought the foolish ape would putt
The finger in the eye & tell it daddy!
'Tis a rare guift 'mong many maides of these dayes;
If she speed well she'le bring it to a Custome,
Make her example followed to the spoyle
Of much good sport: but I meane to looke to't.
Now, sir, your newes?

Buz. The most delicious, rare, absolute newes that ere came out of France, sir!

Hen. What's done there? have they forsaken the Divell & all his fashions? banishd their Taylors & Tyrewomen?

Buz. You had a father & a Brother there; & can you first thinke upon the Divell & his Limetwiggs.

Hen. Had, Buzzano? had a father & a Brother there? have I not so, still, Buzzano?

Buz. Nay, you shall give me something by your leave; you shall pay the poast:—good newes for nothing?

Hen. Here, here, Buzzano; speake quickly, crowne me with the felicity of a younger brother: is he dead, man?

Buz. No, he's come home very well, sir; doe you thinke I goe on dead men's errands.

Buz. But he is very weary & very pensive, sir; talkes not at all, but calls for his bed;—pray God your Father be not dead!—and desires when you come in to have you his Bedfellow, for he hath private speech with ye.

Hen, Well, sir, you that are so apt to take money for newes, beware how you reflect one word, sillable or thought concerning Eleonora: you knowe what I meane?

(SCENE 1.)

Buz. Signior, what a buzzing you make, as if you were a fly at Bartholomew-tyde at a Butchers stall: doe you think I am deafe?

Buz. I know not; may be ever since we were borne, for your father used to come home to my mother, & why may not I be a chipp of the same blocke out of which you two were cutt? Mothers are sure of their children, but no man is able to sweare who was his father.

Buz. So am I; my heart is a fiddle; the strings are rozend with ioy that my other young Mr. is come home, & my tongue the sticke that makes the fiddle squeake.

Hen. Come hither, leave your fooling & tell me truely: didst sleepe to night or no?

Buz. Sleepe? Not that I remember: Ile sweare (& my eyes should come out as 2 witnesses) that I nere slept worse; for what with ycur Spanish flyes (the pocky, stinging musquitoes) & what with your skip Jacke fleas, the nap of my sleepe was worne off.

Buz. That's Three:—Now the Beetle[32] of my head beates it into my memory that as you & your brother Manuell lay in the high Bed, & I trondling[33] underneath, I heard one of you talke most stigmatically in his sleepe—most horriferously.

Buz. And then once or twice the sleepy voice cryde out, "Oh it was I that murthered him! this hand killd him!"

Buz. Whose voice was it? Well said, yong Master! make an asse of your fathers man!

Buz. Whose voice? why then, if your windpipe were slitt now and opend, there should the voice be found. I durst at midnight be sworne that the Ghost of your voice appeard before me.

Hen. A cold sweat pearld in dropps all ore my body;
For 'twas my Brothers voice, & were I calld
Before a thousand Judges I must sweare
It could be no mans els.

Hen. So let it worke; thus far my wheeles goe true.
Because a Captaine, leading up his men
In the proud van, has honour above them,
And they his vassailes; must my elder brother
Leave me a slave to the world? & why, forsooth?
Because he gott the start in my mother's belly,
To be before me there. All younger brothers
Must sitt beneath the salt[35] & take what dishes
The elder shoves downe to them. I doe not like
This kind of service: could I, by this tricke,
Of a voice counterfeited & confessing
The murther of my father, trusse up this yonker
And so make my selfe heire & a yonger brother
Of him, 'twere a good dayes worke. Wer't not fine angling?
Hold line and hook: Ile puzzle him.

Buz. So doe those that are hangd: all that travell & are weary doe not sleepe.

Buz. Midwives travell at night & are weary with eating groaning pyes[36], & yet sleepe not: shall I hooke you?

Buz. In old time gentlemen would call to their men & cry, "Come, trusse me": now the word is "Come, hooke me"; for every body now lookes so narrowly to Taylors bills (some for very anger never paying them) that the needle lance knights, in revenge of those prying eyes, put so many hookes & eyes to every hose & dubblet.

Man. Sparkes? oh, sir, all fire,
The soule of complement, courtship & fine language;
Witty & active; lovers of faire Ladyes,
Short naggs & English mastives; proud, fantasticke,
Yet such a pride & such fantasticknes,
It so becomes them, other Nations
(Especially the English) hold themselves
No perfect gentlemen till frenchifyed.

Hen. Tush, England breeds more apes than Barbary.— How chance my father came not home with you?

Man. What part? why I left him at Nancy in Lorraine. No, no, I lye, now I remember me twas at Chaalons in Burgundy.

Hen. Hoyda, a most loving child
That knowes not where he left his father, & yet
Comes but now from him! had you left in France
Your whore behind you, in your Table bookes
You would have sett downe the streets very name,
Yes, and the baudy signe, too.

Man. Hum, you say well, sir.
Now you are up to th'eares in Baudery,
Pray tell me one thing, Brother; (I am sorry
To putt forth such a question) but speake truly;
Have you not in my fathers absence done
A piece of worke (not your best masterpiece)
But such an one as on the house of Guzman
Will plucke a vengeance, & on the good old man
(Our noble father) heape such hills of sorrow
To beate him into his grave?

Man. Pray heaven it prove soe: have not you defac'd That sweet & matchles goodnes, Eleonora, Fernando's daughter?

Man. One with so wide a throat, that uttering it 'Twas heard in France; a letter, sir, informed My father so.

Hen. She's, then, a villanous strumpet so to write, And you an asse, a coxcomb to beleeve it.

Man. Nettled? then let me tell you that I feare
I shall for ever blush when in my hearing
Any names Henrico Guzman for my brother.
In right of vertue & a womans honour
(This deare wrongd Ladies) I dare call thee Villaine.

Hen. Let me see his heart Panting upon my weapons point; then part us. Oh, pray, forbeare the roome.

Fer. Fy, Fy! two Brothers.
Two Eaglets of one noble Aery,
Pecke out each others eyes!—Welcome from France!
How does your honourd father?

Hen. So, so; in Paris!
Hath he 3 bodyes? Lorraine, Burgundy, & Paris!
My Lord, his Highnes putts into your hand
A sword of Justice: draw it forth, I charge you
By the oath made to your king, to smite this Traytour,
The murtherer of my father!

Hen. Oh, intollerable villaine! parricide! Monster of mankind! Spaniards shame!

Hen. Lay hold on him, the murtherer of my father: I have armd proofes against him.

Hen. If you can, sett then Your foote upon my head & drowne me, your worst: Let me have Justice here.

Fer. Well, sir, you shall. Manuell, I can no lesse than lay upon you The hand of my authority. In my Caroach[37] You shall with mee to Sherris, 3 leagues off, Where the Lords sitt to-morrow: there you must answer This most unbrotherly accusation.

Fer. I will be both your guard, sir, and your bayle And make no doubt to free you from this Viper.

Fer. Y'are bound to appeare at Sherris, sir; And you were best not fayle. I have a certaine Daughter there shall meete you. Come.

(SCENE 2.)

Pike. Not very well & yet well enough, considering how the cheating dice of the world run.

Jay. I dare not, though I have a care of you, ease you of one Iron unles I desire such Gyves my selfe.

Pike. Las, if they were all knockt off I'me loaden with Gyves, Shackles, and fetters enough for the arrantest theefe that ever lay in my owne country in Newgate.

Jay. Shackles, gyves, and fetters enough! I see none but these at your heeles, which come on without a shoeing horne.

Pike. Yes, at my heart I weare them—a wife & children (my poore Lambes at home); there's a chaine of sighes and sobbes and sorrow, harder then any Iron; and this chaine is so long it reaches from Sherrys to Tavestock in Devonshire.

Pike. Could I shake those Chaines off I would cutt Capers: poore Dick Pike would dance though Death pip'd to him; yes, and spitt in your Hangman's face.

Jay. Not too much of that nayther: some 2 dayes hence he will give you a choake peare[39] will spoyle your spitting.

Jay. For, let me see, to-day is Sunday; to-morrow the Lords sitt, and then I must have a care—a cruell care—to have your leggs handsome and a new cleane ruff band about your necke, of old rusty iron; 'twill purge your choller.

Pike. I, I, let it, let it: Collers, halters, & hangmen are to me bracelets and frendly companions.

Jay. So hasty? stay my leasure.—(Enter 2 fryers) Two fryers come to prepare you. [Exit.

I. Hayle, Countryman! for we, though fryers in Spaine,
Were born in Ireland.

Pike. Reverend sir, y'are welcome: Too few such visitants, nay none at all, Have I seen in this damnable Limbo.

1. Brother Pike, for so we heare,
Men call you, we are come in pure devotion
And charity to your soule, being thereto bound
By holy orders of our mother Church.

1. To point with our fingers
Out all such rockes, shelves, quicksands, gulfes, & shallowes
Lying in the sea through which you are to passe
In the most dangerous voyage you ere made:
Eyther by our care to sett you safe on land,
Or, if you fly from us your heavenly pilotts,
Sure to be wrackt for ever.

2. Confesse to one of us what rancke and foule impostumes Have bred about your soule.

2. Say;
Will you unlocke the closet of your heart
To one of us? chuse which, & be absolvd
For all your blacke Crimes on a free confession?

Pike. Welcome!
To morrow shall I be in another country,
Where are no Examiners, nor Jayles,
Nor bolts, nor barres, nor irons. I beseech you
Give me a little respite to retire
Into the next roome, & I will instantly
Returne to give you satisfaction.
[Exit.

1. Now I well view his face did not we two
At our last being in Plymouth in disguise,
When there the King of England rode about
To see the soldiers in their musterings
And what their armes were, just before this fleet
Sett out, did we not see him there?

Pike. To one who is in better place
And greater power then you to cure my sicke
Infected part, though maladies as infinite
As the sea sands, the grassy spears on earth,
Or as the dropps of raine & stars in the firmament
Stucke on me he can cleare all, cleanse me throughly.

1. We are sorry for you;
For Countryes sake this Counsaile do I give you:
When y'are before the Lords rule well your tongue,
Be wary how you answer, least they tripp you;
For they know the whole number of your shipps,
Burthen, men & munition, as well
As you in England.

Pike. I will so.—Prepare to dye! An excellent bell & it sounds sweetly. He that prepares to dye rigges a goodly ship; he that is well prepard is ready to launch forth; he that prepares well & dyes well, arrives at a happy haven. Prepare to dye! preparation is the sauce, death the meate, my soule & body the guests; & to this feast will I goe, boldly as a man, humbly as a Christian, & bravely as an Englishman. Oh my Children, my Children! my poore Wife & Children!

Jay. On, on; leave rayling, cursing & lying: had you not run from the Castle the hangman & you had bene "hayle fellow! well met:" On!

All. Crowes pecke thy eyes out, English dog, curre, toad, hell hound! [Exeunt.

Pike. Patience is a good armour, humility a strong headpiece, would I had you all three, I know where.

Jay. To a roome by your selfe: 'tis my office to have a care of my nurse children.

Bust. And now thou seest me acting the part of a slave. Farewell, soldier. I did not hate thee at the first, though there we mett enemyes; and if thou & I take our leaves at the Gallowes, prithee letts part friends. [_A Table out, sword & papers[42]

Pike. Hand in hand, if the Captaine please: noble Bustamente, at the winning of the fort we had a brave breakfast.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter Fernando, bareheaded, talking with the Duke of Macada; Duke Gyron, Medyna, Marquesse d'Alquevezzas; 2 Gen., one with Pikes sword, which is laid on a table; Jaylour, Teniente; Clarke with papers.

Mac. 'Tis the King's pleasure that those fugitives
Which basely left the fort should not be honourd
With a judiciall tryall, but presently
(Both those you have at home & these in Sherrys)
To dye by martiall law.

Mac. My Lords, here's Don Fernando relates to me
Two stories full of wonder; one of his daughter,
Fam'd for her vertues, faire Eleonora,
Accusing Don Henrico, youngest sonne
To noble Pedro Guzman, of a rape;
Another of the same Henrico's, charging
His elder brother Manuell with the murther
Of Pedro Guzman, who went late to France.

Mac. Bustamente,
The King, our master, looking with sharpe eyes,
Upon your trayterous yeilding up the fort,
Putts off your Tryall here; you must abide
Longer imprisonment.

Bust. I have allready quitted
My selfe, my lord, of that which you call Treason,
Which had in any here (he doing the like)
Bene a high point of honour.

Mac. You gave the English
More glory by your base ignoble rendring
That fort up then our Nation gott from them
In all our undertakings.

Mac. Sir, sir, w'have other anviles; Bustamente, Prepare your selfe for death.

Mac. You charge this Gentleman, your elder brother, With murther of your father.

Mac. And hither flyes a ravisht Ladyes voice To charge you with a Rape; the wronged Daughter Of this most noble Gentleman.

Mac. These accusations & the proofes shall meete
Here face to face, in th' afternoone. Meantime
Pray, Don Fernando, let it be your care
To see these gentlemen attended on
By a strong guard.

Med. Because he is a soldier let him have
A soldier's honour; bring him from his prison
Full in the face of the whole Towne of Sherrys,
With drums and musketts.

Med. Let 200 march hither along with him as his guard: where's the Teniente?

Gyr. What makes Don John here? Oh, now I remember: You come against the Englishman.

Lady. Here may we see & heare: poore Englishman!
Sadnes! I cast on thee a noble pitty,
A pitty mixt with sorrow that my Husband
Has drawne him to this misery, to whom
The soldier gave life being at his mercy.

Lady. I visited him in prison,
And did with much adoe win from Don John
This journey, for I vowd to see th'event
How they will deale with him.

Enter 2 drums, Teniente, divers musketts, Fernando with Pike (without band, an Iron about his necke, 2 Chaines manackling his wrists, a great chaine at his heeles); Jaylour, 3 or 4 halberts. A Barre sett out.

Mac. You see how much our Spanish soldiers love you To give this brave attendance; though your Nation Fought us & came to hunt us to our deathes.

Pike. My Lords, this, which in shew is brave attendance
And love to me, is the worldes posture right,
Where one man's falling downe setts up another.
My sorrowes are their triumphes; so in kings courts,
When officers are thrust out of their roomes,
Others leape laughing in while they doe mourne.
I am at your mercy.

Pike. Yes, it Was once mine; and drawes teares from me to think How 'twas forced from me.

Pike. Had I killd one This Barre had nere bene guilty of my pleading Before such Princely Judges: there stands the man.

Pike. Indeed in England my countrymen are good at bidding stand; but I was not now upon a robbery but a defence, sett round with a thousand dangers. He sett upon me; I had him at my feete, sav'd him, and for my labour was after basely hurt by him.

Fer. This was examined by me, my Lords; And Don John, thus accusd, was much ashamd Of his unmanly dealing.

Mac. Much about such a number.—There is a little iland before Plymouth: What strength is that of?

Gyr. True tis a good strong wall, and built so high One with a leape staffe may leape over it.

Mac. Why did not your good navy, being in such bravery, As it tooke Puntall seize Cales?

Pike. Our Generall
Might easily have tane it, for he had
Almost a thousand scaling ladders to sett up;
And without mayme to's army he might loose
A thousand men: but he was loath to robb
An almes-house when he had a richer market
To buy a conquest in.

Pike. Genoa or Lisbon: wherefore should we venture Our lives to catch the wind, or to gett knockes And nothing else. [They consult.

Fer. One of the soldiers, being merry among themselves, is somewhat bold with th'English, and sayes th'are dainty Hennes.

Mac. Sirra, view well these soldiers,
And freely telle us, thinke you these will prove
Such hens as are your English, when next yeare
They land in your owne Country.

Pike. I thinke they will not, My lord, prove hens, but somewhat neere to hens.

Pike. What heart have I to fight when tis beaten flatt
To earth with sad afflictions? can a prisoner
Glory in playing the Fencer? my life's at stake
Allready; can I putt it in for more?
Our army was some 14000 men
Of which more than 12000 had spirits so high
Mine never shall come neere them: would some of them
Were here to feed your expectations!
Yet, silly as I am, having faire pardon
From all your Graces and your Greatnesses,
Ile try if I have strength in this chayned arme
To breake a rapier.

Mac. Knock off all his gyves; And he that has a stomacke for Spaines honour To combate with this Englishman, appeare.

Pike. May he be never calld an Englishman That dares not looke a divell in the face, [One stepps forth. Come he in face of man, come how he can.

Alq. Come, come, one more; looke you, here's a young Cockerell[45] Comes crowing into the pitt. [Another steps in.

Pike. I'me in the Lyon's gripe & to gett from him There's but one way; that's death.

Pike. Ile fight till every Joynt be cutt in pieces
To please such brave spectators; yes Ile fight
While I can stand, be you but pleasd, my Lords,
The noble Dukes here, to allow me choice
Of my owne Country weapon.

Pike. Well: he's welcome.
Here's my old trusty frend: are there no more?
One! what, but one? why, I shall make no play,
No sport before my princely Judges with one.
More sackes to the Mill! come, another! what, no more?

Jay. The soldiers rayle, stampe & stare, and sweare to cutt His throat for all the Jaylors care of him.

Mac. Make proclamation, my lord Fernando, That who soever dares but touch his finger To hurt him, dyes.

Ten. The Duke of Medina this; Duke Gyron this; &, looke you, the Marquesse Alqueveza as much as all the rest.

Alq. Where's any of my men? give him your Cloake, sirra;
Fetch him cleane Band and Cuffs. I embrace thee, Pike;
And hugg thee in my armes: scorne not to weare
A Spanish livery.

Alq. 4 of my gentlemen shall along with him: Ile beare thy charges, soldier, to Madrid, 5 peeces of 8 a day in travell, & Lying still thou shalt have halfe that.

Med. How we honour valour thus our loves epresse: Thou hast a guard of Dukes and Marquesses.

(SCENE 1.)

Ten. The Lords are not yett risen: let us walke & talke. Were not you better yeild to marry her Then yeild to suffer death? know you the law?

Hen. Law! yes; the spiders Cobweb[46], out of which great flyes breake and in which the little are hangd: the Tarriers snaphance[47], limetwiggs, weavers shuttle & blankets in which fooles & wrangling coxcombes are tossd. Doe I know't now or not?

Ten. If of the rape she accuse you 'tis in her choise To have you marry her or to have you hangd[48].

Hen. Hangd, hangd by any meanes! marry her? had I The King of Spaines 7 Kingdomes, Gallicia, Navarre, the 2 Castiles, Leon, Arragon, Valentia, Granada, And Portugall to make up 8, Ide lose them All to be rid of such a piece of flesh.

Ten. What meate will downe your throat, when you scorne pheasant, partridge, woodcocke & coney? Would I had such a dish.

Hen. Woodcocke and coney take to you, my Don Teniente; Ile none; and because you keepe such a wondering why my stomach goes against the wench (albeit I might find better talke, considering what ladder I stand upon) Ile tell you, signior, what kind of wife I must have or none.

Hen. Draw then this curtaine:
Give me a wife that's sound of wind and limbe;
Whose teeth can tell her age; whose hand nere felt
A touch lascivious; whose eyes are balls
Not tossd by her to any but to me;
Whose breath stinkes not of sweatmeates; whose lippes kisse
Onely themselves and mine; whose tongue nere lay
At the signe of the Bell. She must not be a scold,
No, nor a foole to be in love with Bables[50];
No, nor too wise to think I nere saile true
But when she steares the rudder. I'de not have
Her belly a drum, such as they weave points on,
Unles they be taggd with vertue; nor would I have
Her white round breasts 2 sucking bottles to nurse
Any Bastards at them.

Hen. I would not have her tall, because I love not
To dance about a May pole; nor too lowe
(Litle clocks goe seldome true); nor, sir, too fatt
(Slug[51] shipps can keepe no pace); no, nor too leane,
To read Anatomy lectures ore her Carcas.
Nor would I have my wife exceeding faire,
For then she's liquorish meate; & it would mad me
To see whoremasters teeth water at her,
Red haird by no meanes, though she would yeild money
To sell her to some Jew for poyson. No,
My wife shall be a globe terrestriall,
Moving upon no axeltree but mine;
Which globe when I turne round, what land soever
I touch, my wife is with me, still Ime at home.

Hen. No, such a wife in the Moone for me doth tarry: If none such shine here I with none will marry.

Mac. Where are these gentlemen? sett 'em both to a Barre
And opposite, face to face: a Confrontation
May perhaps daunt th'offender & draw from him
More then he'de utter. You accuse your Brother
As murtherer of your father: where's the proofe?

Hen. First, my Lord, heare mee: My brother & I lying in one bed together, And he just under us—

Hen. About midnight I awaking,
And this Buzzano too, my brother in his sleepe
Thus cryde out, "Oh, twas I that murtherd him,
This hand that killd him"!

Mac. All this is but presumption: if this be all
The shott you make against him your bullets stick
In a mud wall, or if they meete resistance
They backe rebound & fly in your owne face.

Hen. Then here I throw my glove & challenge him
To make this good upon him: that at comming home
He first told me my father dyed in France,
Then some hours after that he was not dead
But that he left him in Lorraine at Nancy,
Then at Chaalons in Burgundy, & lastly
He said to Don Fernando he was in Paris.

Hen. Then, when in's chamber we were going to bed,
He suddenly lookd wild, catchd me by the hand
And, falling on his knees, with a pale face
And troubled conscience he confessed he killd him,
Nay, swore he basely murtherd him.

Man. He is my murtherer
For I am none, so lett my Innocence guard me.
I never spake with a distracted voice;
Nere fell to him on my knees; spake of no father,
No murtherd father. He's alive as I am,
And some foule divell stands at the fellowes elbow,
Jogging him to this mischefe. The Villaine belyes me,
And on my knees, my lord, I beg that I
And my white Innocence may tread the path
Beaten out before us by that man, my brother.
Command a case of rapiers to be sent for,
And lett me meete his daring. I know him valiant;
But I am doubly armd, both with a Courage
Fiery as his can be, and with a cause
That spitts his accusation full in the face.

Mac. The combate in this case cannot be granted,
And here's the reason: when a man accuses
A frend, much more a brother, for a fact
So foule as murther (murther of a father),
The Law leapes straight way to the Challenger
To take his part. Say he that doth accuse
Should be decrepitt, lame and weake, or sickly,
The other strong and lusty; thinke you a kingdome
Will hazard so a subject, when the quarrell
Is for a kingdomes right? If y'are so valiant
You then must call the law into the field
But not the man.

Mac. This cannot serve your turne, say he does belye you;
He stakes against your body his owne soule.
Say there is no such murther, yet the Law
Fastens on you; for any man accusd
For killing of his father may be rackd
To draw confession from him. Will you confesse?

Alq. Stand you still at the Barre. You are now another man, sir; your scale turnes.

Ele. As the murtherer
Both of my name and honour. In the hurry,
When the Citty (they said) was ready to be taken,
I being betrothed to this young gentleman,
My father brought me to his father's house,
Telling me their dwelt safety.—There dwelt villany,
Treason, lust, basenes! for this godlesse man
(The storme being ore) came in & forcd from me
The Jewell of my virgin honour.

Fer. I would not have thee thinke (thou graceles wretch)
She, being contracted to thee, loving thee,
Loving thee far more dearly then her selfe,
Would wound her vertue soe, so blott her fame
And bring a scandall on my house & me,
Were not the fact most true.

Hen. Most false by all that ever man can sweare by. We falling out, I told her once I nere Would marry her; & soe she workes this mischiefe.

Gyr. You here stand chargd for ravishing her, & you Must marry her or she may have your life.

Ele. I am not cruell; pay me my first Bond Of marriage, which you seald to, & I free you And shall with Joy run flying to your armes.

Hen. Rackes, Gibbetts, wheeles make sausages of my flesh first! Ile be ty'd to no man's Strumpet.

Med. Don Manuell Guzman ere you taste the tortures, Which you are sure to feele, will you confesse This murther of your father?

Man. O brother your owne Conscience knowes you wrong me:
Ile rather suffer on the Gallow Tree
Then thus be torne in pieces. Canst thou see mee
Thus worryed amongst hangmen? deare Henrico,
For heavens sake, for thine owne sake pitty mee.

Hen. Cunning, cunning, cunning Traytour! In my eare he confesses all again and prayes me To speake to you.

Man. No, no, I cannot. Caytiffe, I spake not soe:
I must not wound my Conscience to lay on it
A guilt it knowes not. Ile not so dishonour
My father, nor my ancestours before me,
Nor my posterity with such an earthquake
To shake our noble house.

Man. Oh stay! for heavens sake spread your mercy! I doe confesse the murther; I killd my father.

Mac. Thy owne tongue is thy Judge; take him away: To-morrow looke to dye: send him a Confessour.

Buz. See't! no, sir, would I had; but when she was in labour I heard her cry out "helpe! helpe!" & the Gamboll being ended she came in like a mad woman, ruffled & crumpled, her haire about her eares; & he all unbrac'd, sweating as if he had bene thrashing; & afterwards he told me, my lords, that he had downe diddled her.

Hen. I now am lost indeed, & on my knee
Beg pardon of that goodnes, that pure Temple
Which my base lust prophand, & will make good
My wrongs to her by marriage.

Ele. He spurnd my mercy when it flew to him And courted him to kisse it; therefore now Ile have his life.

Fer. That life, so had, redeemes Thine & thy fathers infamy. Justice! my Lords.

Mac. You are dismissd: Faire Lady, You shall have Law, your Ravisher shall dye.

Mac. Pray, Don Fernando, follow her & soften Her heart to pitty the poore gentleman: The Crime is not so Capitall.

Mac. That such a noble Spanyard as Don Pedro Should be so cursed in's Children!

Buz. Hee's come, hee's come, my Lord! Don Pedro Gusman is still alive,—see, see!

Pedro. Whilst I meet
A Thunder strikes me dead. Oh, poore, wrongd Lady,
The poyson which the villaine poures on thy honour
Runs more into my veines then all the Venome
He spitts at me or my deare Boy, his brother.
My Lords, your pardon that I am transported
With shame & sorrow thus beyond my selfe,
Not paying to you my duty.

Mac. Conceale your selfe a while; your sons wele send for, And shew them deaths face presently.

Mac. Is your Compassion, Lady, yet awake?
Remember that the scaffold, hangman, sword,
And all the Instruments death playes upon,
Are hither calld by you; 'tis you may stay them.
When at the Barre there stood your Ravisher
You would have savd him, then you made your choyce
To marry him: will you then kill your husband?

Ele. Why did that husband then rather chuse death
Then me to be his bride? is his life mine?
Why, then, because the Law makes me his Judge,
Ile be, like you, not cruell, but reprieve him;
My prisoner shall kisse mercy.

Gen. Our Journey to Madrid the Kinge himselfe
Cutts off, by these his royall letters sent
Upon the wings of speed to all your Graces.
He lay one night since at your house, my Lord
Where, by your noble Wife, he had a wellcome
Fitting his greatnes & your will.

Mac. The King, our Master, writes heere, Englishman, He has lost a subiect by you; yet referres Himselfe to us about you.

Pike. Againe, I stand heere
To lay my own life downe, please his high Maiesty
To take it: for what's lost his fate to fall
Was fortune de la guerre, & at the feete
Of his most royal Maiesty & at yours
(My Princely Lords & Judges) low as th'earth
I throw my wretched selfe & begg his mercy.

Mac. The King further writes heere, That though your Nation came in Thunder hither Yet he holds out to you his Enemy 2 friendly proffers: serve him in his dominions Eyther by land or sea, & thou shalt live Upon a golden pension, such a harvest As thou nere reapst in England.

Pike. His kingly favours
Swell up in such high heapes above my merit,
Could I reare up a thousand lives, they cannot
Reach halfe the way. Ime his, to be his Vassaile,
His Gally Slave, please you to chaine me to the oare;
But, with his highnes pardon & your allowance,
I beg one Boone.

Pike. That I may once more
See my owne Country Chimneys cast out smoake.
I owe my life and service to the King,
(The king of England) let me pay that Bond
Of my allegeance; &, that being payd,
There is another obligation,
One to a woefull Wife & wretched Children
Made wretched by my misery. I therefore beg,
Intreat, emplore, submissively hold up my hands
To have his Kingly pitty & yours to lett me goe.

Mac. Well, since we cannot win you to our service,
We will not weane you from your Countryes love.
The king, our lord, commands us here to give you
A hundred pistoletts to beare you home.

Pike. A royall bounty, which my memory
Shall never loose; no, nor these noble favours
Which from the Lady Marquesse Alquevezze
Raynd plenteously on me.

Pike. Rarely; it is a brave, bounteous, munificent, magnificent Marquezza! the great Turke cannot tast better meat then I have eaten at this ladies Table.

Pike. And for a lodging, if the curtaines about my bed had bene cutt of Sunbeames, I could not lye in a more glorious Chamber.

Mac. You have something, then, to speake of our weomen when y'are in England.

Pike. This Box, with a gold chaine in't for my Wife & some pretty things for my Children, given me by your honourd Lady would else cry out on me. There's a Spanish shirt, richly lacd & seemd, her guift too; & whosoever layes a foul hand upon her linnen in scorne of her bounty, were as good flea[54] the Divells skin over his eares.

Pike. Were it a glasse as deepe to the bottome as a Spanish pike is long, an Englishman shall doe't. Her health, & Don Johns wives too.

Enter Teniente, Henrico, Manuell, Pedro (as a fryer); at another dore Eleonora.

Mac. Your facts are both so foule your hated lives
Cannot be too soone shortned; therefore these Lords
Hold it not fitt to lend you breath till morning,
But now to cutt you off.

Man. We have allready cast up our accounts And sent, we hope, our debts up into heaven.

Ped. Then your confession of the murther stands As you your selfe did sett it downe?

Man. It does;
But on my knees I beg this marginall note
May sticke upon the paper; that no guilt,
But feare of Tortures frighted me to take
That horrid sin upon me. I am as innocent
And free as are the starres from plotting treason
Gainst their first mover.

Pedro. I was then in France When of your fathers murther the report Did fill all Paris.

Hen. Tis blacke, & of my dying; for 'twas I To cheate my brother of my fathers lands, Layd this most hellish plott.

Hen. I'me guilty of all Three; his soul's as white And cleare from murther as this holy man From killing mee.

Pedro. No [know], there's a thing about me
Shall strike thee into dust & make thy tongue
With trembling to proclayme thyselfe a Villaine
More then thou yet hast done:—See, tis my Eye.

Man. But I comforted With the most heavenly apparition Of my deare honourd father.

Fer. Take thou comfort By two more apparitions, of a father And a lost daughter, yet heere found for thee.

Ele. See, sir, I doe; & with my hand reach to him My heart to give him new life.

Mac. Letters shall forthwith fly into Madrid To tell the King the storyes of Two Brothers, Worthy the Courtiers reading. Lovers, take hands: Hymen & gentle faeryes strew your way: Our Sessions turnes into a Bridall day.

Mac. Doe soe, if thou hast iust cause: howsoever, When thy swift ship cutts through the curled mayne, Dance to see England, yet speake well of Spayne.

FINIS.

INTRODUCTION TO THE LADY MOTHER.

The authorship of this anonymous play, now printed for the first time (from Eg. MS. 1994), is not difficult to discover. Any one who has had the patience to read the Plays of Henry Glapthorne cannot fail to be amused by the bland persistence with which certain passages are reproduced in one play after another. Glapthorne's stock of fancies was not very extensive, but he puts himself to considerable pains to make the most of them. In The Lady Mother we find the same ornaments spread out before us, many of them very tawdry at their best. Glapthorne's editor has striven to show that the weak-kneed playwright was a fellow-pupil of John Milton's at St. Paul's. One cannot think of the two names together without calling to mind the "lean and flashy songs" and "scrannel pipes of wretched straw" in Lycidas.

Yet Glapthorne was a man of some parts. He had little enough dramatic power, but he writes occasionally with tenderness and feeling. In his poetical garden rank weeds choke up the flower-beds; but still, if we have patience to pursue the quest, we may pick here and there a musk-rose or a violet that retains its fragrance. He seems to have taken Shirley as his master; but desire in the pupil's case outran performance. It is, indeed, a pitiful fall from the Grateful Servant, a honey-sweet old play, fresh as an idyl of Theocritus, to the paltry faded graces of the Lady's Privilege.

A note at the end of The Lady Mother in the hand-writing of William Blagrave, acting for the Master of the Revels, shows that the play was licensed in October, 1635. From a passage in II., 1, it would seem to have been produced at the Salisbury Court Theatre in Whitefriars. In the same year Glapthorne's comedy of the Hollander, according to the title-page, was being acted at the Cockpit, Drury Lane. His other pieces were produced rather later. I am inclined to think that The Lady Mother, in spite of the wild improbability of the plot and the poorness of much of the comic parts, is our author's best work. In such lines as the following (IV., 1) there is a little flickering of pathos:—

    "Enough, good friend; no more.
    Had a rude Scythian, ignorant of tears,
    Unless the wind enforced them from his eyes,
    Heard this relation, sure he would have wept;
    And yet I cannot. I have lost all sense
    Of pitty with my womanhood, and now
    That once essentiall Mistress of my soule,
    Warme charity, no more inflames my brest
    Then does the glowewormes uneffectuall fire
    The ha[n]d that touches it. Good sir, desist
    The agravation of your sad report; [Weepe.
    Ive to much griefe already."

The "glowewormes uneffectuall fire" is of course pilfered from Hamlet, but it is happily introduced. There is some humour in the scene (I., 2) where the old buck, Sir Geoffrey, who is studying a compliment to his mistress while his hair is being trimmed by his servant before the glass, puts by the importunity of his scatter-brain'd nephew and the blustering captain, who vainly endeavour to bring him to the point and make him disburse. On the whole I am confident that The Lady Mother will be found less tedious than any other of Glapthorne's pieces.

THE LADY MOTHER: A COMEDY.

BY HENRY GLAPTHORNE.

(SCENE 1.)

Bon. What? will it be a match man? Shall I kneele to thee and aske thee blessing, ha?

Tho. Pish! I begin to feare her, she does Dally with her affection: I admire itt.

Bon. Shee and her daughters
Created were for admiration only,
And did my Mistress and her sister not
Obscure their mothers luster fancy could not
Admitt a fuller bewty.

Tho. Tis easier to expresse
Where nimble winds lodge, ore investigate
An eagles passage through the agill ayre
Then to invent a paraphrase to expresse
How much true virtue is indebted to their
Unparaleld perfections.

Bon. Nay[56], but shall I not be acquainted with your designe? when we must marry, faith to save charges of two wedding dinners, lets cast so that one day may yeild us bridegroome,—I to the daughter and thou to the mother.

Tho. She falls off
With such a soddaine ambiguitie,
From the strong heate of her profesd[57] love
That I conceive she intends a regular proofe
Of my untainted Faith.

Grimes. Soe I thinke, too: when I was young the plaine downe-right way serv'd to woe and win a wench; but now woing is gotten, as all things else are, into the fashion; gallantts now court their Mistress with mumps & mows as apes and monke[y]s doe.

Bon. But cannot all your fluent witt interpret
Why she procastinatts your promisd match?
By this light, her daughter would be married tomorrow
If her mother and I had concluded on the Joynture.

Tho. The most evident reason she will give me of this unwellcome protraccon is she has some new employment to put on me, which performd she has ingaged her selfe to certainty of her designing me an answerare [sic].

Grimes. Here comes your Rivall, Mr. Thorowgood,—Alexander the Great, her Ladishipps loving Steward.

Grimes. He was by trade a taylor, sir, and is the tenth part of the bumbast that goes to the setting forth of a man: his dealing consists not much in weight but in the weight of his pressing Iron, under whose tyranny you shall perceave no small shrinking.

Grimes. He has alterd himselfe out of his owne cutt since he was steward; yet, if you saw him in my ladyes Chamber you would take him for some usher of a dancing schoole, as being aptest in sight for a crosse cap.

Grimes. By his cloathes you might deeme him a knight; but yet if you uncase him, you will find his sattin dublett naught but fore sleaves & brest, the back part buckram; his cloake and cape of two sorts; his roses and garters of my ladyes old Cypres: to conclude, sir, he is an ambodexter or a Jack-of-all-sides & will needs mend that which Nature made: he takes much upon him since the old Knight dyed, and does fully intend to run to hell[58] for the lady: he hates all wines and strong drinks—mary, tis but in publique, for in private he will be drunke, no tinker like him.

Lov. Imprimis, her faire haire; no silken sleave
Can be so soft the gentle worm does weave.
It[em], noe Plush or satten sleeke, I vow,
May be compard unto her velvet brow.
It[em], her eyes—two buttons made of iett;
Her lipps gumd taffety that will not frett;
Her cheeks are changeable, as I suppose,—
Carnation and white, lyllie and rose.

Bon. I protest I comend him; he goes through stitch with her like the Master of his trade.

Lov. It[em] her brests two bottomes[59] be of thred, By which love to his laborinth is led. Her belly—

Lov. Her Belly a soft Cushion where no sinner But her true love must dare stick a pin in her.

Lov. Butt to that stuff of stuffs, that without scoff Is Camills haire or else stand further off.

Lov. The totall some of my blest deity Is the magazine of Natures treasury.— Soe, this made up, will I take an occasion to dropp where she may find it. But, stay; here's company.

Lov. She is risen, sir, and early occupied in her occasions spiritual, and domesticke busines.

Lady. Sweet Mr. Bonvil.
The simple entertain[m]ent you receave here
I feare will scare you from us: you're so early
Up, you do not sleepe well.

Tho. I cannot looke on her
But Ime as violent as a high-wrought sea
In my desires; a fury through my eyes
At every glance of hers invades my heart.

Bon. 'Tis his humour, Madam; he is accustomed, though it be in company, to hold a dialogue with his thoughts. Please you, lady, to give his fever libertie; the fit will soon be overpasd.

Tho. She bears her age well, or she is not sped
Far into th'vale of yeares: she has an eye
Piercing as is an Eglets when her damme,
Training[60] her out into the serene air,
Teaches her face the Sunbeames.

Bon. Madam, I fear my friend
Hath falne againe in love; he practises
To himself new speeches; you and he are not
Broke off, I hope.

Lady. O, sir, I value my servant at a higher rate: We two must not easily disagree. Sir Alexander, attend in Mr. Bonvill. My daughter's up by this time, and I would have him give her the first salute. You had best be wary, Bonvill; the young cittizen or the souldier will rob you of her.

Lady. What shall I doe? I can no longer beare
This flame so mortall; I have wearid heaven
With my entreaties and shed teares enough
To extinguish Aetna, but, like water cast
On coales, they ad unto my former heate
A more outragious fervor. I have tried
All modest meanes to give him notice of
My violent love, but he, more dull then earth,
Either conceives them not or else, possessd
With full affection of my daughter, scornes me.

Lady. Thorowgood,
Not clouds of lightning, or the raging bolt
Heavens anger darts at the offending world,
Can with such horrid rigor peirce the earth
As these sad words I must demonstrate to you
Doe my afflicted brest.—Ime lost; my tongue
When I would speake, like to an Isicle
Disturbd by motion of unruly winds
Shakes to pronounce't, yet freezes to my roofe
Faster by th'agitation.

Tho. Your full Judgment
Could not have found an apter instrument
For the performance of what you designe,
Then I experience how much any man
May become passive in obedience
To the intent of woman, in my truth.
Set the abstrusest comment on my faith
Imagination can resolve, my study
Shall mak't as easie as the plainest lines
Which hearty lovers write.

Lady. 'Tis well: Mr. Thoroegood, Weele walke into the Gallery, and there Discourse the rest.

Tim. Your ladiship will vouchsafe to meete The Gent[lemen] in your Coach some two miles hence?

(SCENE 2.)

Suc_. Come, deport your selfe with a more elated countenance: a personage of your rare endowments so dejected! 'tis fitt for groomes, not men magnanimous, to be so bashfull: speake boldly to them, that like cannon shott your breath may batter; you would hardly dare to take in townes and expugne fortresses, that cannot demolish a paltry woman.

Crac. Pox of this Country, it has metamorphisd me. Would I were in my native Citty ayre agen, within the wholesome smell of seacole: the vapor[s] rising from the lands new dunged are more infectious to me then the common sewer ith sicknes time. Ime certaine of my selfe Ime impudent enough and can dissemble as well as ere my Father did to gett his wealth, but this country has tane my edge of quite; but I begin to sound the reason of it.

Crac. Why, here are no Taverns where for my crowne I can have food provocative, besides the gaining of many precious phrase[s] for (from?) divers gallants new frenchefied. Theirs nothing to excite desire but creame and eggs, and they are so common every clowne devoures them. Were each egge at twelve pence, or as deare as lobsters, I could afford to eate them, but I hate all that is vulgar; 'tis most base.

Suc. Pish, tis dificience in your resolution: Suppose your mistress were an enemy You were to encounter in sterne duell.

Crac. 'Tis well my Enemie is a woman; I should feare else to suppose the meeting. Resolution! how can a man have resolution that drinkes nought but ale able to kill a Dutchman? Conduit water is nector to it,

Crac. Suppose! Why here are no wenches halfe so amorous as Citty tripennies[62]: those that are bewtifull the dew is not so cold. I did but begg a curtesie of a chambermaide, and she laughd at me! Ile to the Citty againe, that's certaine; where for my angell I can imbrace pl[enty]. If I stay here a little longer, for want of exercise I shall forget whether a woman be fish or flesh: I have almost don't already.

Sir Geff. Erect that locke a little; theres a hayre
Which, like a foreman of a shop, does strive
To be above his fellowes. Pish! this glasse
Is falsly silverd, maks me look as gray
As if I were 4 score.

Sir Geff. Combe with more circumspection, knave; these perfumes Have a dull odor; there is meale among them, My Mrs. will not scent them.

Crac. Uncle, my friend,
My martiall fellow is deficient
In this ubiquitarie mettall, silver:
You must impart.

Sir Geff. This garter is not well tide, fellow: where
Wert thou brought up? thou knowest not to tie
A rose yet, knave: a little straiter: so,
Now, tis indifferent. Who can say that I
Am old now?

Suc. Death to my reputation! Sir, we are gent[lemen] and deserve regard: Will you not be responsible?

Sir Geff. Alas, good Captaine, I was meditating how to salute my lady this morning. You have bin a traviler: had I best do it in the Italian garbe or with a Spanish gravity? your French mode is grown so common every vintners boy has it as perfect as his anon, anon, sir. Hum, I must consider on it.

Crac. Nay, but uncle, uncle, shall we have answeare concerning this mony, uncle? You must disburse; that is the souldiers phrase. You see this man; regard him.

Suc. Death of vallor! I can hold no longer; I shall rise in wroth against him.

Crac. Dee heare, Uncle? you must furnish him; he wilbe irefull presently, and then a whole bagg will not satisfie him; heele eate your gold in anger and drinke silver in great sack glasses.

Sir Geff. Pox o'this Congee; 't shalbe thus, no thus;
That writhing of my body does become me
Infinitly. Now to begett an active
Complement that, like a matins sung
By virgins, may enchant her amorous ear.
The Spanish Basolas[63] manos sounds, methinks,
As harsh as a Morisco kettledrum;
The French boniour is ordinary as their
Disease: hees not a gent that cannot parlee.
I must invent some new and polite phrases.

Sir Geff. Pish, you disturbe me.—Gratulate her rest, Force an encomium on her huswifry For being up so early.—Bunch, where is my nephew?

Sir Geff. Youde know the nature of it? If it be marle 'tis good to manure land; if clay, to make tobacco pipes.

Sir Geff. O mony, Nephew: Ide thought youde learnd ith Citty How to use mony: here we do imploy it To purchase land and other necessaries.

Suc. Infamy to fame and noble reputation! Old man, dost thou disdaine valour? I tell thee, Catterpillar, I must have mony.

Sir Geff. 'Tis reason good you should; it is fitting to cherish men of armes. There is a treasurer in the county, Captaine, pays souldiers pensions: if any be due to you Ile write my letter, you shall receive it.

Crac. I see a storme a coming. Uncle, I wilbe answerable upon account: my souldier must have mettall.

Sir Geff. Iron and Steele is most convenient for Souldiers; but, since you say it, Nephew, he shall have it: how much must it be?

Suc. A score of Angells shall satisfie for the confrontment you have offred me in being dilatory.

Bunch, let be in light gold; 'twill serve his turn as well as heavier: it may be he is one of those projectors transports it beyond sea.

Sir Geff. Nephew, demeane your selfe with[64] all respect
Toward the gentlewoman you affect.
You must learne with here since the citty
Could spare you none.—Ile to the lady.

Crac. Come away, then: there is indifferent liquor in this house, but that ith towne is most abominable. Weele drinke our owne healths, Captaine.

(SCENE 3.)

Bon. Come, you are wantons both: If I were absent,
You would with as much willingness traduce
My manners to them. What Idiots are wee men
To tender our services to women
Who deride us for our paines!

Cla. Why can you great wise men who esteeme us women
But equall with our parrets or at best
But a degree above them, prating creatures
Devoid of reason, thinke that when we see
A man whose teeth will scarce permitt his tongue
To say,—(he is soe like December come
A woing to the Spring, with all the ensignes
Of youth and bravery as if he meant
To dare his land-lord Death to single rapier)—
We have not so much spleene as will engender
A modest laughter at him?

Clar. My Servant! I do admire that man's impudence, How he dare speake to any woman.

Clar. Yes, but I question whether it be mans or no. They talk of changlings: if there be such things I doubt not but hees one of them.

Clar. Have you then ever seene such another monster?
He was begott surely in the wane of the moone,
When Natures tooles were at laime Vulcans forge
A sharpning, that she was forced to shake this lumpe together.

Bel. Well, we shall see the goodly youth your curiositie has elected, when my brother returnes, I hope.

Clar. I hope soe, too; I marvill where this Cub is, He is not roaring here yet.

Bon. Frend, thou hast lost The absolu[t]st characters deliverd by this lady: Would thou hadst come a little sooner.

Tho. Ladies,
I must desire your pardon for my friend:
I have some busines will a while deprive him
Your sweet companies.

Bel. Sister, lets leave the gentlemen alone, And to our chambers. [_Exeunt Bel. and Clar.

Bon. Grimes, put to the doore and leave us.— Whats the matter? [Exit Grimes.

Tho. Freind,
Ere I begin my story I would wish you
Collect yourselfe, awake your sleeping Spiritts,
Invoake your patience, all thats man about you
To ayd your resolution; for I feare
The newes I bring will like a palsie shake
Your soules indifferenst temper.

Bon. Prethee, what is't which on the soddaine can Be thus disastrous? 'tis beyond my thoughts.

Tho. Nay, slight it not: the dismall ravens noate
Or mandrakes screches, to a long-sick man
Is not so ominous as the heareing of it
Will be to you; 'twill like a frost congeale
Your lively heate,—yet it must out, our frendship
Forbids concealment.

Bon. You have don well before
Your sad relation to repeat that sound;
That holy name whose fervor does excite
A fire within mee sacred as the flame
The vestalls offer: see how it ascends
As if it meant to combat with the sunn
For heats priority! Ime arm'd gainst death,
Could thy words blow it on me.

Bon. The Epitome of virtues, Who like the pretious reliques of a Saint Ought only to be seene, not touchd.

Tho. Yet heare me;
Cease your immoderate prayses: I must tell you
You doe adore an Idoll; her black Soule
Is tainted as an Apple which the Sunn
Has kist to putrifaction; she is
(Her proper appelation sounds so foule
I quake to speake it) a corrupted peice,
A most lascivious prostitute.

Bon. Howes this?
Speake it agen, that if the sacrilege
Thou'st made gainst vertue be but yet sufficient
To yeild thee dead, the iteration of it
May damne thee past the reach of mearcye. Speake it,
While thou hast utterance left; but I conceit
A lie soe monstrous cannot chuse but choake
The vocall powers, or like a canker rott
Thy tung in the delivery.

Tho. Sir, your rage
Cannot inforce a recantacion from me:
I doe pronounce her light as is a leafe
In withered Autumne shaken from the trees
By the rude winds: noe specld serpent weares
More spotts than her pide honor.

Bon. So, no more:
Thy former words incenst me but to rage;
These to a fury which noe sea of teares,
Though shed by queenes or Orphants, shall extinguish;
Nay, should my mother rise from her cold urne
And weepe herself to death againe to save
Thee from perdition, 't should not; were there placd
Twixt thee and mee a host of blasing starrs,
Thus I would through them to thee! [_Draw.

Tho_. Had I knowne
Your passion would have vanquishd reason thus,
You should have met your ruine unadvisd;
Hugd your destruction; taken what the lust
Of other men had left you. But the name
And soule of friendship twixt us I had thought
Would have retain'd this most unmanly rage
Gainst me, for declaration of a truth
By which you might be ransomed from the armes
Of her adulterate honor.

Bon. Yes, kind foole;
Perswade an Indian who has newly div'd
Into the ocean and obtaind a pearle,
To cast it back againe; labour t'induce
Turkes to contemne their Alcoron ere you strive
To make me creditt my Belissia false. [Kneele.
Forgive me, holy love, that I delay
So long to scourge the more than heathnish wrongs
Of this iniurious villaine, whome me thinks—
Blow him hence to hell
With his contagious slander! yet before
Thou doest fall by me as, if heaven have not
Lost all its care of Innocence, thou must doe,
Tell me what Divell urgd thee to detract
From virtue thus, for of thy selfe thou couldst not
(Unlesse with thee shee hath bin vicious) know it
Without some information: whoes the Author
Of this prodigious calumnie?

Tho. Yes, she; that certaine Oracle of truth,
That pretious mine of honor, which before
She would exhaust, or yeild your innocence
A spoyle to vice, chose rather to declare
Her daughter's folly; and with powerfull teares
Besought me, by the love I bore to goodnes,
Which in her estimation had a roome
Higher than Nature, to reveale it to you
And disingage you from her.

Bon. Soe, rest there, [Put up.
Ere thou beest drawne were the whole sex reduced
To one, left only to preserve earths store,
In the defence of women; who,[67] but that
The mothers virtues stands betweene heavens Justice
Would for the daughters unexampled sinne
Be by some soddaine Judgment swept from earth
As creatures too infectious. Gentle freind,
An humor, heavy as my soule was steep'd
In Lethe, seases on me and I feare
My passion will inforce me to transgresse
Manhood; I would not have thee see me weepe;
I prethee leave mee, solitude will suite
Best with my anguish. [_Sitt downe.

Bel. Why have you staid thus long?
Young Crackby and his friend are newly up
And have bin with us. My sister has had
The modest bout with them: 'tis such a wench.
Are you a sleepe? why doe you not looke up?
What muse you on?

Bel. An excellent meditation! What doe you take me for, my Mother and my Sister?

Bon. You alway excepted; tis but melancholly; Prethee bestow a kisse upon me, love; Perchance that will expell it.

Bel. If your cure be wrought soe easily, pittie you should perish for want of physick. [Kiss him.

Bon. She kisses as sheed wont; were she unchast,
Surely her breath would like a Stigian mist
Or some contagious vapor blast me; but
'Tis sweet as Indian balme, and from her lips
Distills[68] a moisture pretious as the Dew
The amorous bounty of the wholesome morne
Throwes on rose buds; her cheeks are fresh and pure
As the chast ayre that circumscribes them, yet
Theres that within her renders her as foule
As the deformed'st Ethiope.

Bon. To admire That such a goodly building as this same Should have such vild stuff in itt.

Bon. Nothing, but only to informe you what You know to well alreadie: Belisia, you are —(I cannot call her whore)—a perjurd woman.

Bel. Defend me innocence! I scarce remember That ever I made oath and therefore wonder How I should breake on.

Bon. Have you not with imprecations beg'd Heavens vengeance if you ere lovd man but me?

Bel. And those same heavens are vouchers[69] I've kept my vowes with that strict purity That I have done my honor.

Bon. I believe thee;
The divell sometimes speaks truth. Intemperate woman,
Thoust made that name a terme convertible
With fury, otherwise I should call thee soe,
How durst thou with this impudence abuse
My honest faith? did I appeare a guest
So infinitly worthles that you thought
The fragments of thy honour good enough
To sate my appetite, what other men
Had with unhallowd hands prophaind? O woman,
Once I had lockd in thy deceiving brest
A treasure wealthier then the Indies both
Can in their glory boast, my faithfull heart,
Which I do justly ravish back from it
Since thou art turnd a strumpet.

Bon. Doe I thinke
When I behold the wanton Sparrows change
Their chirps to billing, they are chast? or see
The Reeking Goate over the mountaine top
Pursue his Female, yet conceit him free
From wild concupiscence? I prithee tell me,
Does not the genius of thy honor dead
Haunt thee with apparitions like a goast
Of one thou'dst murdrd? dost not often come
To thy bed-side and like a fairy pinch
Thy prostituted limbs, then laughing tell thee
'Tis in revenge for myriads of black tortures
Thy lust inflicted on it?

Bel. Have you don?
Give me a little leave then ere my greife
Surround my reason. Witnes, gratious heaven,
Who, were you not offended at some sinn
I have unwittingly comitted, would
Send sacred innocence it selfe to pleade
How much 'tis iniurd in me, that with zeale
Above the love of mothers I have tendred
This misinformd man. Ile not aske the authors
Of this report, I doe forgive them; may
A happier fate direct you to some other
May love you better; and my fate conferr
On me with speed some sudden sepulcher. [Exit.

Bon. I shall grow childish, too; my passions strive For my dead love to keepe my greife alive.

(SCENE 1.)[70]

Gr. Oh, the steward, the steward, my fine Temperat steward, did soe lecture us before my ladie for drinking … at midnight, has gott the key of the wine C[ellar from] Timothie the Butler and is gon downe to make [himself] drunke in pryvate.

Tim. Gent[lemen], Grimes, away, away! I watcht him into t[he Cellar] when I saw him chose forthe one of the b[ottles] of sacke, and hether is retyringe with all exp[edition]. Close, close, and be not seene.

Lov. Soe here I may be private, and privacie is best. I am the Steward and to be druncke in publicke, I say and I sayt, were to give ill examples. Goe to, I, and goe to; tis good to be merry and wise; an inch in quietness is better than an ell of sorrow. Goe to and goe to agen, for I say and I sayt, there is no reason but that the parson may forget that ere he was clerke[71]. My lady has got a cast of her eye since she tooke a survey of my good parts. Goe to and goe to, for I say and I sayt, they are signes of a rising; flesh is frayle and women are but women, more then men but men. I am puft up like a bladder, sweld with the wind[72] of love; for go to and go to, I say and I sayt, this love is a greife, and greife a sorrowe, and sorrows dry. Therefore come forth, thou bottle of affection[73]; I create thee my companion, and thou, cup, shalt be my freind. Why, so now,—goe to and goe to: lets have a health to our Mrss, and first to myne; sweet companion, fill to my kind freind; by thy leave, freind, Ile begin to my companion: health to my Mrs! Soe, now my hands in: companion, fill, and heres a health to my freinds Mrs. Very good, and now I will conclude with yours, my deare companion: stay, you shall pledge me presently, tis yet in a good hand; I will pledge both your Mrss first. Goe to and go to,[74] freind; thou alwayes lookst on me like a dry rascall; give him his liquor; and soe with my Mrs I conclude. What say you, Companion? ha, do you compare your Mrs with myne? howes that? such another word and thou darst, Sirrah! off with your Capp and doe her Reverence! wilt tell me soe? goe to, I say and I sayt; Ile make better languadge come out of that mouth of thine, thou wicked Carkasse. Freind, heres to thee:[75] Ile shake thee, thou empty Rascall, to peeces, and as Hector drew Achilles bout the walls of Troy at his horse tayle, so shalt thou at a doggs tayle be dragd in vild disgrace throughout the towne. Goe to and goe to, I say and I sayt; Ile have the dragd, sirr, ah I[le] have the dragd; perswade me not, good friend; let him yeild me a reason[76] if he can. I, I, he had need to be squeezd; why tis true, this is one, but not to purpose. Oh, would you whisper with me? umh, umh, umh, away, Ile heare no more: why, how now frend? ha, ha, ha, you have got a Cup to much; umh, goe to and goe to, you can hold no more, I see that, at this time; let me ene bring you to your chambers. [Flings away the bottle and sleeps.

Crac. Creditt me, my Captaine carries fortitude enough for a whole legion; twas his advice tooke in[77] the Busse[?], and at Mastricht his courage did conclude Papenhams overthrow.[78]

Suc. Pish, you to farr exemply[fy]. I have bin at some few skermishes, kild halfe a score or soe; but what of yt? men are but men.

Grimes. Sack by this light, the Emperor of liquors! Captaine, here tis well keepe of push of pike yet peirce like shott of Cannon: a Cup of this upon an onslaught, Captain?

Suc. Is beveredge for a Generall: I doe use to drinke it when I am engagd against a squadron or a whole company.

Suc. Ha! Cinielaro[?] an ambuscado! see, whos that lyes there pardue[79]? fort of Mars! my wroth shall eate him up.

Grimes. Soe, soe, now softely letts to him: ha, alreadie[80] dead drunke, as I am vertuous. Assist me gent[lemen]; Timothy, hast thou thy Salvatorie about thee.

Grimes. Quick, quick; make some plasters and clapp em on his face: here, bind this napkin about his hand; who has a garter, lets see, to bind it up?

Suc. Some blood, my sonn of Mercury, were neceseary for consummation of the jest.

Suc. So, so; now set him in the chaires. Hart of valour! he looks like a Mapp oth world. Death, what are these?[83]

Suc. But are they bawdy? come, sir, I see by your simpring it is you that sings, but do not squeake like a French Organ-pipe nor make faces as if you were to sing a Dirge. Your fellowes may goe behind the arras: I love to see Musitions in their postures imitate those ayrey soules that grace our Cittie Theaters, though in their noats they come as short of them as Pan did of Apollo. [Musike.

Grimes. Well, sir, this is indifferent Musicke, trust my judgment. Sing, boy. [A song.

Crac. Now on my life this boy does sing as like the boy[84] at the Whitefryers as ever I heard: how say you Captain?

Mus. By no meanes; the author has sworne to the contrary, least it should grow so wonderous old and turne a Ballad.

Crac. Well said, Captain; the tother health, Captain: heres good wine, good Tobackoe, good everything: had we but a good wench or two twere excellent.

Grimes. Oh, hees fast enough; heele be ready to cast up his accounts the easier when my lady calls him.

Suc. Truths a truth from Infidell or Pagan: I am in trust, and that's beleife, and so it shalbe saved. Pay the Musick? umh, where are they? let me see, how many's of you, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6: good, can any of you daunce?

Suc. So said so don, brave ladd; come, letts have a daunce, some daunce and some play.

Suc. Lively then, my hearts; some country Jigg or soe. Oh those playes that I have seene of youre, with their Jiggs[85] ith tayles of them[86] like your French forces! Death, I am a rorging (roaring?) boy; but, come, stir your shanks nimbly or Ile hough ye. Strike up there!

Suc. With me, my fine treble knave? umh, thou dost tickle minikin as nimbly—

Mus. Come forward there! nay, I told you he was ever bountifull: oh, good Captaine!

Suc. Let me see: I, thou art hart of vallor: thou didst daunce well, thou deservest—, I say no more: and who played?

Suc. You? well sayd; you plaid and you daunc'd, you say good; let me see, halfe a peece or—

Suc. You plaid, you say, and you dauncd: umh, well, why then you that dauncd must pay those that plaid.

Suc. Ever, ever, whilst you live, Jarvice;[87] the dauncers alwayes payes the musike. Wilt breake custome? No, or there a pawne for you. —Mr. Steward. Farewell. [Exit.

Mus. This is your bountifull Captaine! a rope of his bounsing! But stay, lets play to the steward; it may be when he wakes we may worke him to't.

Lov. Umh[88], play a healthe: soe; say, it shall goe rounde: goe to, I say and I sayt, it shall goe round. Umh, where is this fidle? in the ayre? I can perceave nothing. Where is my kinde friend and my fine companion? come, we will be friends again; goe to, we will. Umh, plaistered and bound up? bloody? how comes this? goe too and goe to; if I have done any mischiefe or bene over valiant in my drinke to kill a man or soe, why 'twas in my drinke, not I, and let my drinke be hangd for't; or, I say and I sayt, let um stay till I am drunke againe and then hange me; I care not, I shall not be sensible of it. Oh this sack! it makes a coward a Hector: the Greekes and Troians drinke no other; and that and a wench (for theres the divell out) made um cuffe ten yeares together, till at length when they had bled more than they coulde drinke they grew sober, the contented Cuckold tooke his wife home againe and all were good frends[89]. [Sease Musicke] But stay, the musikes husht; I hope theyle appeare; I doe feale no such paine in my wounds that I had need of musicke to bring me to sleepe. Blesse me whose this? ha[90]!

Grimes. How does your worshipp? Mr. Steward, dee feele your selfe at ease? I am hartely sorry for your misfortune?

Lov. Ha, alive? in the name of drinke what have I don? where did you find me, ha?

Lov. Hang Cupps, my friend excepted; goe to; speake plaine; I was drunke was I?

Lov. Out of the Bawdy-house? I beleave thee; nay, I am a right Lovell I, I look like a shotten herring now for't. Jone's as good as my lady in the darke wee me. I have no more Roe than a goose in me; but on to the mischiefe, on.

Grimes. You beate the Bawd downe with the Chamber dore and bade her keepe that for the Reckoning.

Grimes. Oh, sir, you made such a hole in her bakside[91] you might have turnd— [Blows his nose.

Grimes. Then went Tobackoe pipes to wrack, and oh the black potts sufferd without measure; nay, you swore (and for it paid your twelve pence) that if you were maior youd come disguisd on purpose to confou[nd] 'um.

Grimes. This, sir? Why you kickd one flat-nosd wench that snuffled, and swore she was a puritan.

Grimes. No, sir; you bid the Constable keepe reckoning till it came to a some and you would pay him in totall. So, sir, with the spit in your hand away you runn, and we after yee, where you met with a roaring Captain.

Grimes. Then you stopt and stood a while waving to and froe, as in suspense; at length you fell, with a forward thrust, quite through his heart.

Grimes. You being downe, on fell the Captain like a tyrannicall Dutch man of war that shewes no mercy to the yeelding enemy, and ere we could bring succor gave you these wounds, which being dark we brought you home as privately as possible, sett you to sleepe and here stayd till your waking.

Lov. Yare honest fellowes; goe to and go to, I say and I sait agen, yare honest fellowes and shall not be unrewarded: looke you, theres for you—and be but sylent in't.

Grimes. As is my instrument, Sir. Coods me! what, have they torne away the back of your satteen Doublet? the Canvas is seene.

Lov. Tis well; goe; thanks; goe, Ile see you shortly; you and your Companie shall play at my ladyes wedding. I say no more, goe to; I love you and I thanke you,

Grimes. Even he that has thus begrimd yee, my fine drunken Steward. I can cure you, toe; come, let me be your Surgion.

Grimes. Not if you meet him in the likenes of a bottle of Sack, good Steward.[92]

(SCENE 1.)

Sir Geff. But I beseech you, Madam; what greater accession[93] can you wish then me for husband? I have it here thats sattisfaction for the lustiest widdow twixt this and London. Say, will you love me? Ime in hast and hate demurrs; if you refuse I must seeke out: I have a little moysture and would be loth to hav't dride for want of exercise.—What say you, lady?

Lady. Sir, for your love I thanke you; for your wealth I want it not; but yet I doe not find A disposicon in my selfe to marriage.

Sir Geff. That will not serve my turne; I am no knight
Who weares the spurr of honour without Rowells
To prick a woman forwards: I ride post
To Marriage and resolve at the next stage
To take my Inn up. You have here
Two beautifull young gallants to your daughters:
Since youle not be my wife yet be my mother;
Ile marry any of them, which you please,
And hood her with the bagg [badge?] of honor. Lady,
What say you to this motion.

Lady. My daughters wills are not in my command: If you can purchase either of their hearts, My free consent shall follow.

Sir Geff. Nay, then, they will fall out for me, Madam, I am most fortunate in atcheiving virgins.

Save you, sweet youth, the bewties of your Mrs.
Crowne your desires. Are you a suiter?

Lady. With me, sweet Mr. Bonvill? Sir Geffrey, Pray you vouchsafe your absence; at more leasure We shall discourse.

Bon. I come to aske a question, which the winds;
If I could deafe them, should not heare for feare
Their repercussive Eccho should declare it
To all our infamies.

Bon. Your daughter whom I was a servant to, —I must deliver it in the homeliest phrase— Is she dishonest?

Bon. It cannot be
In reason comprehensible a mother
Should for a stranger blurr her daughters fame,
Were it untruth. I am confirmd; this favor
Transcends requitall: if a man misled
By error gainst the diety, gross enough
For his damnation, owe a gratitude
To his converter, I am engag'd to you
For my delivery from her.

Lady. 'Twas no more
Then what my honor obligd me
And my respect to vertue, which in you
I should have murdred by my silence; but
I have not greife enough left to lament
The memory of her folly: I am growne
Barren of teares by weeping; but the spring
Is not yet quite exhausted. [Weeps.

Bon. Keepe your teares
Lest the full clouds, ambitious that their drops
Should mix with yours, unteeme their big wombd laps
And rayse a suddeine deluge. Gratious madam,
The oftner you reherse her losse the more
You intimate the gaine I have acquird
By your free bounty, which to me appeares
So farr transcending possibility
Of satisfaction that, unles you take
My selfe for payment, I can nere discharge
A debt so waytie.

Bon. To consecrate, with that devotion That holy Hermits immolate[94] theire prayers, My selfe the adorer of your vertues.

Bon. No scrupulous penitent, timerous that each thought
Should be a sinn, does to the priest lay ope
With halfe that verity his troubled soule
That I doe mine. I love you: in that word
Include all ceremony. No sooner had
Your information disingagd my heart
Of honoring your daughter, but amazd
At the immensnesse of the benefit
Your goodness had cast on me, I resolvd
This way to show my gratitude.

Lady. But dare you, Knowing the daughter vicious, entertaine Affection to the mother?

Bon. Dare I when
I have bin long opresd with a disease,
Wish pleasing health? theres vertue enough here
To excite beleife in Moores that only women
Have heavenly soules.

Lady. This is admirable:
Did my intention tend to love, as soone
I should embrace your motion in that kind
As any others, wert but to afford
Some small lustracon for the wrong my daughter
Intended you; nay, to confesse my thought,
I feele a strong propension in my selfe
To yeild to you; but I am loath,[95]—your youth
Will quickly loath me.

Mar. Madam, this Gent[leman]
Desires to have you know him for your son:
Tis he my sister Clariana, with your licence,
Wishes for husband.

Lady. A proper Gent[leman]; Ime happy she has made So iuditious an election.[96] You are very welcome, sir: conduct him in, Sonn.

Bon. Persuade me I can hate
Sleepe after tedious watching, or reiect
The wholesome ayre when I've bin long choakd up
With sicklie foggs: sooner shall—

Lady. Desist from protestations, or employ them Mong those who have no more discretion Then to beleive them.

Lady. You can in Justice now no more appeach Our mutabillities, since you have provd So manifestly [in]constant.

Lady. Are the light faines erected on the tops
Of lofty structures stedfast, which each wind
Rules with its motion? credulous man, I thought
My daughters reall vertues had inspired thee
With so much confidence as not to loose
The estimation of her honor for
My bare assertion, without questioning
The time or any the least circumstance
That might confirm't. I did but this to try
Your constancy: farewell. [Exit.

Bon. What witch had duld my sense
That such a stuped Lethurgie should sease
My intellectuall faculties they could not
Perceive this drift! If she be virtuous,
As no man but an heretick to truth
Would have imagind, how shall I excuse
My slanderous malice? my old fire renewes
And in an instant with its scortching flames
Burnes all suspicon up.

Bon. What Cherubim has left the quire in heaven
And warbles peacefull Anthems to the earth?
It is her voyce, that to all eares speakes health,
Only to mine. Come charitable mist
Hide me, or freindly wherlewind rap me hence,
Or her next accent, like the thunderers, will
Strike me to dust.

Bel. Sir, I come not
With resolution (though my innocence
May justly arme [me]) to declare my truth;
For I am going where your slander cannot
(Had it bin greater) blast me. I desire
This for my past love, that youle retaine
Your wrong opinion to yourselfe, not labour
To possesse others with it, to disgrace
Our yet unspotted family.

Bon. If you want A partner in your greife, take me along That can teach you and all the world true Sorrow.

Bel. Twas not don well to brand my spotles name
With Infamy; but to deride me is
Inhumaine, when I only come to tell you
Ile send my prayers on charities white wings
To heaven for your prosperity.—You greive
For what? for your deliverance from a strumpet?

Bon. No, but that my raving fancy should direct
My trecherous tongue with that detested name
To afflict thy unblemishd purity, Belisea.
I do confes my error was an act
Soe grosse and heathnish that its very sight
Would have inforcd a Crocodile to weepe
Drops as sincere as does the timorous heart
When he ore heares the featherd arrow sing
His funerall Dirge.

Bon. No sismatick, reduc'd to the true faith,
Can more abhorre the Error he has left
Than I do mine. I do beleive thee chast
As the straight palme; as absolute from spots
As the immaculate Ermine, who does choose,
When he is hunted by the frozen Russe,
To meete the toyle ere he defile the white
Of his rich skin. What seas of teares will serve
To expiatt the scandall I have throwne
On holy Innocence?

Bel. Well, I forgive you;
But ere I seale your pardon I in[j]oyne
This as a pennance: you shall now declare
The author of your wrong report.

Bel. Defend me gracious virtue! is this man
Not desperate of remission, that without
Sense of compu[n]ction dares imagine lies
Soe horrible and godlesse? My disgrace
Was wrong sufficient to tempt mercie, yet
Cause twas my owne I pardond it; but this
Inferd toth piety of my guiltless mother
Stops all indulgence.

Bel. Your words will deafe me; I doe renounce my affection to you; when You can speake truth, protest you love agen. [Exit.

Bon. Contempt repaid with scorne; tis my desert; Poyson soone murders a love wounded heart.

(SCENE 2.)

Bel. You may declare your will[97] here are no eares But those I will not banish, were your busines More secret.

Tho. Lady, I come to free
My worthy freind and your owne servant, Bonvill,
From an uniust suspition your conceite
Retaines of him. Your mother did employ me
In the unlucky message that pronouncd you
Empty of honor.

Bel. Ile scarce believ't; he shall not
With all his cunning policie regaine
My good opinion of him. Sir, you cannot
Doe a more pleasing office then to leave me:
I do not love to heare of him.

Bel. Prethe why?
His owne confession does appeach him one
In the conspiracy against my honor.
He sayes my mother was the originall
Of Bonviles slaunder; and how impious
Twere for a child to thinke so, filiall duty
Instructs my knowlidge.

Cla. Be not confident;
Your piety may misleade you. Though your mother,
Shees passion like to us; we had it from her.
Ile say no more; the event will testifie
Whoes in the fault.[98]

Suc. Be not abashd; a little impudence is requisite; Observe me, with what a garbe and gesture martiall I will beseige their fortresses.

Bel. Who sent these fooles to trouble us?—Gent[lemen],
We have some conference will admit no audience
Besides ourselves.
We must desire you to withdraw, or give us
Leave to do soe.

Suc. Men of warr are not soe easily put to a retreat; it suites not with their repute.

Crac. If you knew How many bewtious gentlewomen have sued To have my picture—

Crac. You would regard it with more curiosity. There was a merchants daughter the other day Runn mad at sight of itt.

Suc. Valour deserves regard, myne shall propugne Your bewty gainst all opposers.

Bel. Alasse! mine is so meane, None will contend with it, it needs no champions.

Crac. Most nobly propagatted; my father was a man Well fu[rnish'd] with white and yellow mettall.

Suc. Uncivell!
Noe; what is in other men uncivill
In us is resolution; therefore yeild:
I am invincible, flesh cannot stand
Before me.

Cla. I am not ith humour now
To laugh, or else Ide not dismisse him yet.
Good Mr. Crackby, does your wisdome thinke
That I can love you?

Cla. Well said, impudence.
Goe, get you home toth Cittie; goe solicitt
Some neighbors daughter; match with Nan your Schoolefellow
With whome you usd to walk to Pimblicoe[99]
To eate plumbe cakes and creame,—one of your parish,
Good what-doe-you-lack.

Cla. You shall heare more on't:
When thou art married, if the kind charity
Of other men permitt thee to geet thee children
That call thy wife mother, bring them up
To people shopps and cheat for 18d,
The pretious youth that fathers them.
Walke, walke, you and your Captaine Huff to London,
And tell thy mother how thou has't sped i'th country,
And let her moane thee.

Crac. Captaine, we must give place; these girles are firebrands, And we as straw before them.

Cla. Have you oreheard us? these are the lads will do't, When 20 such as you will be cast off.

Thu. Like a bob'd[100] Hawke.—Mrs, if I mistake not, Your mother does inquire for you.

Thu. Love, is it time, after the services
I have perform'd, to have some salary?
Noe labourer works without his hier; I would
Be satisfied when you determine we
Shall end our hopes in marriage.

Cla. I have lookt for this month in my Calender And find that marriage is prohibited.

Thu. It is not Lent nor Advent;[101] if it were The Court is not so strickt but 'twill dispense With freinds, and graunt a licence.

Cla. Whole be bound With you that theres no hindrance but we may Be lawfully espoused?

Thu. Ime not so barren Of freinds but I shall find security For what will nere be question'd.

Cla. It may be soe; but one who calculated My birth did warne me to abstaine from marriage Til I was twenty.

Cla. You'd scarce catch me,
Though you had Venus apples to seduce
My covetous eyes. Henceforth Ide have you leave
Your love to me.

Cla. Cause it is [un]iust You should mispend affection on her Who is incapeable of it.

Thu. You'd faine wrest
A new expence of complement from me:
If you delight to heare your praise, Ile hire
Some mercenary [poet][102] to comend
In lofty verse your bewty.

Cla. You are merry: My humor is not specious; we must know A further distance.

Thu. This language
Is not accustomd; pray, tell me how
My presence is offensive, and Ile shun you[103]
As I would doe my fate. You are not serious:
My innocence assures me my deserts
Can chalenge no such usage.

Cla. Tis confest; but we
Are like thinne christall glasses that will crack
By touching one another: I coniure thee
By all our past love, from this parting minute
Nere to behold me more. I dare not venter
My frailty with thee.

Thu. What immodesty Has my demeaner uttred you should doubt Ravishing from me?

Cla. Thats not it, but cause
I would not tempt my destinie: thy sight
Would inflame marble, much more me whose heart
Is prompt enough to fly into thy breast
And leave mine empty. But 'tmust not remaine
In that lone habitation, least a curse,
A fearefull one, sease on mee.

Thu. Can there be
Curses more horrid, incident to earth
For its past Sinns, then would depend on you
For such a bold presumption as your breatch
Of faith would be.

Cla. Our tyrant fate has found
Yet uninvented torments to expresse
Our loyall soules. O, Thurston, thou wert never
—Not when our mutuall freindships might have taught
The constant turtles amity—more deare
To me then now. I could, as well as then,
Peruse love's dictats in thy amorous cheeks,
Enioy the pressure of thy modest lipp;
But Ime enioynd by powerfull menaces
T'infring my wonted use and to disclaime
My vowes to thee.

Thu. If this be possible,
What will become of earth? men will no more
Respect Society or strive to save
Humanity alive: henceforth theyle seeke
For lost fidelity on Caves or topps
Of untrodd Rocks, and plight their trothes to beasts;
Commix with them and generate a race
Of creatures, though less rationall, yet more
Indude with truth. O Clariana, can
There be a motive able to convert
This pretious Christall temple, built for purity
And goodnes adoration, to a faine
For Idoll falshoods worship? But I cannot
Labour my wandring Judgment to beleife
Thou speakst thy meaning. If I have not lovd
With that essential perfectnes thy worth
That man could doe, in charity declare
My Ignorant defect, and Ile amend it
With more then zealous industry.

Cla. Tis vaine:
You may as easily penetrate the cloudes
With a soft whisper, as my eares, then which
Noe thunders deafer. Thurston, tis not cause
I have in the intemperate heate of blood
Given up my soule to a new choyce, that breeds
This soddaine mutability: I will
Preserve my affection as inviolate to you
As Anchorites their vowes, and in my grave
Interr my virgin glory. Teares will not
Permitt more conference: fare you well; Ile keepe
My passion up till I have none to weepe. [Exit.

Thu. Shees gon! What vapor which the flattring sunn
Exhales to heaven as to create a starr,
Yet throwst, a fading meteor, to the earth,
Has falne like me? Divinity, that tells
Us there are soules in women, Ile no more
Credit thy dubious Theorems nor thinke
Thy lawes astring us to preserve our faith.
Let the nice Casuists, that dispute each clause
Belongs to conscience with a[l]ternate sense,
Dispense with breach of promise and prescribe
Equivocacons to evade all oathes
Without offending, or shees damnd.

Lov. Well, Companion, at my friends Intreatie I am content to be reconsyld; but have a care, goe to, ha, oh ho, youle[104] … more; why, goe to then … pledge the companion … heeres to thee: what, what!

Thu. Heres one perchance will satisfie me.
Sir, your habit speaks yer understanding:
Please you resolve me one thing which disturbes
The quiet of my conscience.

Lov. Revenge may slumber but can never sleep: He that lets slip an Injury thats done Takes the next course to draw a greater on.

Thu. You counsell well. I pray, in all the volumes
Your learning has perusd, did you ere find
Any conclusion that allowd it lawfull
To breake an oath?

Lov. If she neglect and throw[105] disgrace on thee, Fly't thou as much and be thy scorne as free.

Thu. An Oracle speakes in him; but, pray, tell me Ist lawfull then to breake an oath?

Lov. Though time prolongs, we cannot style it sloath: My vowes are firme; hees damd that breaks an oath.

Thu. Good, good, agen: but the oath I treat on, Is of another kind: tis to a woman.

Thu. Ha, whether did wild fancy lead my apprehension. He minds me not but is in disputation With his owne thoughts.

Lov. Wilt thou pledge me ii cuppes? Why, goe to and goe to, then.
Ha to thee, ha, sirra Grimes!
—When man gainst man conspire to doe evill,
For what Society is a fitt!

Lady. I hope, sir,
Noe occasion offerd in my house
Breedes your distast; I should be sorry if
It be soe, and conceald from me.

Thu. Your goodnes
Is to nice ore me; Ime exceeding well;
Only some erring cogitations
Trouble my braine a little.

Lady. Tis much pitty
Distraction should have roome in you; I would
Not for the love you beare my daughter, have you
Be discont[ent]ed here.

Lady. Surely her breeding Affords her better manners then to iniure A gent[leman] of your deservings?

Thu. Alas, she has not: Twas but an unkindness triviall Mong freinds not worth the nameing.

Lady. It was to much
Wert but an ill looke. If I may so far,
Without immodesty, entreat the knowledge
Of what it was Ile chide her for't. Pray, sir,—
We women are bold suitors; by your looke
It is no meane perplexity her folly
Has cast upon your temper,—pray, disclose it;
And ift be anything the obedience
She owes to me may countermand, she shall
Repent her error.

Thu. Your humanity
Would wrest a secret from me, though my life
Consisted ith concealment: she has abolishd
Her protestations to me, murdred vowes
Which like the blood of Innocents will pull
Cloudes of black vengeance on her, for no cause
I can imagine but her humor; banishd
Me her society and sight for ever.[107]

Lady. Tis above wonder: could I as well rule
Her will as her exterior actions,
She should not thus reject you; but I cannot
Limitt her mind, compell her to affect
Against her liking. If perswations may
Reduse her, Ile endevour it.

Thu. Twilbe needles;
I am resolvd to meet her in revolt,
Hug infidelity with as strong a faith
As she can possible; and if mans mallice
Can passe a womans, my dispight shall winne
Preheminence. I will inquire out one
By nature framd in scorne of bewty, and
In your perfidious daughters presence give her
That heart which she reiected.

Lady. Twere pitty
Your passion should undoe you; you may find
Matches of noble quality: my daughter
In worth's inferior to you, yet I doubt not
But my perswasive oratorie may gaine you
Her forfeited affection.

Thu. Let her reserve it
For them who sue to inioy it; Ile conferr
My fancy on a Negro new reclaim'd
From prostitution; sacrifice my youth
To bedridd age, ere reinthrall my heart
To her insulting bewty.

Lady. Twould be a maime to your discretion
To abjure a certaine and a pleasing good
For an uncertaine harme you would impose
In malice on another. Yo'are a man
In whome the glorious soule of goodnes moves
With such a spacious posture that no woman,
But such a squemish baby as my daughter,
Would be most fortunate to enrich their choyse
With one so much deserving.

Lady. What
I spoake was a contingent supposition
What others might doe, but not argument
I meant to love you.

Thu. But I know you will;
I see a pleasing augury in your looks
Presages mercy; and those eyes, whose lustre
The light (that scornes privation) cannot equall,
Darts beames of comfort on me.

Lady. Twould be rare
Could you perswade me to't, I can find
No such propension in my selfe; beware
Least in this wildnes you ingage your heart
To one cannot accept it.

Thun. Pish!
Ime sure you will: humanity forbids
Refusall of my affection, which shall be
As constant as insep[a]rable heate
To elementall fire.—I'me soddaine, lady,
In my resolve, but firme as fate.

Thu. You are deceivd; I am
Exceeding well yett; all my faculties
Retaine their wonted motion; but Ime like
A new recoverd patient, whose relapse
Admitts no helpe of phisick: in your love
Consists my hope, futurity of health;
And you have too much charity to suffer
Perdition overwhelme me.

Lady. Your confidence
Workes much uppon my lenity; but twould
Occasion scandall; every one would judge
I did supplant my daughter, should I yeild
To your desines.

Thu. Let the censorious world
Fright those with harelipd Calumnie whose guilt
Merritts detraction; your pure innocence
No feind dares vitiatt.

Thu. Ile take you at your word, a holy kisse
Shall seale the contract. [kisse.
Avaunt! stand of! she has poysond me, her lips
Are sault as sulpher, and her breath infects,
Noe scorpions like it.

Thu. Ha, ha, ha!
Those who imagine such prodigious mischiefes
Should be more cunning then to be ore reacht
By puisne[108] cosnage; Have you no more judgement
Then to beleive I lov'd you.

Thu. Can a man
Robd of a Jewell deare to him as breath
Affect the theife, O murdresse?—for that title
Best suites thy impious quality, since thy curse,
Thy cruell curse, imposd uppon my love,
Has massacred two of the faithfulst hearts
Affection ere united. Though your lust
Desir'd smooth youth to sate it, piety
Might have reclamd you for attempting me,
Your daughter's interest.—Ile not rayle
Cause tis unman[ner]ly,[109] untill you find
What 'tis to cause true lovers prove unkind.
[Exit.

Lady. Was I a sleepe? What transitory dreame
Deceivd my sense? did I not here my love
Protest affection? no, it was some feind
Vested in his mortallity, whome hell
Sent to abuse my weaknes.

Lov. She has bin sure tormented with that furie which cla[pt] me on my shoulder. She talkes of Hell, love and affection. Ha, goe to and goe to! the old Knight my Mrs. Goast, I hope does not haunt the house.

Lady. Twas he, Ime certaine on't; I felt his lips,
And they were flesh; they breath'd on mine a warmth
Temperate as westerne kisses which the morne
Weaps liquid drops to purchase. This confirmes
It was no apparition that contemnd
My willingnes, but he, his reall selfe,
Mockt my integrity: he must not passe soe,
To blase abroad my infamy.

Lov. Madam, feare nothing, be not troubled; the Goast meant no harme to you, uppon my life he did not; Goe to and goe to, I say and I sayt, he did not. He did appeare to me—your love, your husband, my old Mr.—here, clapt me on the shoulder, as his old custome was still when he usd to talke with me familiarly.

Lady. But, Sirrah, what familiarity Have you with any of my privasies? Sausie groome, practise your ancient duty.

Lady. O, deare boy,
What haplesse fate exposd thee to the veiw
Of this [sic] sad mothers sorrowes? but I charge thee,
As thou respects thy duty, not to question
The cause of my distemper; my iust feares
Prohibits thee the knowledge of it.

Lov. Nay, Madam, I have don; they say the Divell has no power ore a Drunkard; once more Ile run the hazard.

Y. M. Whoe, what is he? speake,
For heavens sake, speake: were he defensd with clouds
Or circled with unsteadfast boggs, my rage
Should cut a passage to him.

Lady. Thou strait will grow More passionate then I: goe to your chamber, Ile but dispatch these gentlemen. [Exit Mar.

Sir Gef. O here she is.—Lady, I and my Nephew, being your good neighbors and of the worshipfull, I of the Country, he of the Cittie, have long desird a match with your daughters, but they are coy, so childish, so unmannerly; I know not how to terme them: they dispise who worship offers them, they may[110] hereafter doe worse and have worse, madam.

Crac. My uncle tells your ladiship the truth: We are noe peasants[111] or unhonorable To be affronted with indignities.

Lady. 'Twas past my pleasure, good Sir Geffery, you have had such harch entertainement from them: henceforth Ile lay my charge upon them to be more tractable.—Mr. Alexander, goe call my daughters hither.

Lov. She turnes againe.—I shall with all celerity wish them to approach. [Exit.

Sir Gef. Certainly, Madam, I can see no cause
Wherefore at first you might not, without putting
My Knighthood to this trouble, have matched with me
Your selfe; it had been somewhat fitter.

Lady. Minions you might have expresd more kindnes In your behaviour to these Gent[lemen] Whom my strict caire provided for your husbands.

Bel. I hope they cannot blame us, we have usd them With that respect our modesties allowd.

Lady. Your peevish nicenes settle your affections To a more fayre demeaner towards their worth, Or you shall seeke a Mother and a portion.

Lady. You both heare My not to be revoaked intention Respect this knight and his nephew in the way Of marriage, or I shall take another order with you. [Exit.

Cla. Was it you, good knight of the ill favord Countenance, Who procurd us these loving admonitions?

Suc. I do protest unto you, beauteous Lady, You do not cast a favorable aspect.

Crac. Captaine, you doe me palpable affront: She is the election of my understanding.

Sir Geff. Retort not so abstrusly.—Will you disdain
The good of honour, condiscend to me
And youthfull write me, lady, in your stile,
And to each thread of thy sun-daseling h[air]
Ile hang a pearle as orient as the gemmes
The eastern Queenes doe boast of. When thou walk[st],
The country lasses, crownd with gorgeous flo[w]res,
Shall fill each path and dance their rural jigs
In honour of this bewty.

Cla. Hey day, where did you borrow this? Sir, youle beg[one]: I feele the fitt a coming; I shall rayle instantly.

Suc. Pish, I doe but drill her
For you, friend; you shall have her, say your Captaine
Sayes it, whose words doe ventilate destruction
To all who do oppugn what they designe.

Cla. I cannot choose: goe, get you home, antiquity; thinke [of] heaven, say thy prayers often for thy old sinns and let [thy] maid diett thee with warme broathes least some cold appoplexis sease thee before thou art prepard.

Cla. Call her, I care not if she heare me, I councell better than your physician: every night drinke a good cup of muscadine,[113]—you will not have moysture left to ingender spitle to cleanse thy mouth ith morning. Goe, set thy feath[er] right, good mooncalfe[114]: you have your answeare.

Cla. Will you goe?—Sister, I have shakd mine off. What stayes this nifle[115] for?

Crac. Nay, call me what you will, she is my prise, And I will keepe her.—Captaine, to her Captaine.

Suc. Ile rigg you up; although you were a Carack I shall find tackling for you.

Crac. Not kisse a gentleman? a pretty ring this same: I have a mind to it and I must have it.

Bon. She shall not neede. It is my ring the villaine desires soe importunatly: what untuterd slave art thou that darst inforce aught from this gentlewoman.

Bel. O, my Bonvill, so happy a benefit no hand but thine could have administred. Thou save[d]st the Jewell I esteeme next to my honour,—the Ring thou gavest me.

Crac. Nay, if you have more right to her than I, takt I pray you:— would I were off with a faire broken pate.

Suc. My blade
Is of the Bilbo[116] mettle; at its splendor
My foes does vanish.

Suc. Death! now I thinke out, I did breake my blade this morning on foure that did waylay me: Ile goe fetch another, and then I am for you.

Suc. Hold your peace, be wise: that fellow
In the blew garment has a countenance
Presages losse of limme if we encounter.—
Ile meet you presently.

Bon. It shall not serve your turne yet: Ile not blunt My sword upon such stock fish. Grimes, bestow Thy timber on them.

Suc. Take me without a weapon? this cudgell sure Is Crabb tree, it tasts so sourely. [Exeunt.

Bon. Mistrisse, I sent an advocate to plead
My guiltless cause: you, too[117] severe a Judge
Forbad him audience; I am therefore come
Once more to prove my innocence.

Cla. Come, without Ceremony Forgive you her and she shall pardon you Most willingly.

Bel. Noe soule long tir'd with famine, whom kind death
Has new enfranchisd from the loathed flesh,
With happier expedition enters heaven
Then mine thy bosome, Bonvill. Let our loves,
Like plants that by their cutting downe shoot up,
Straiter and taller flourish: we are now
Inseperable.

Cla. Your good fates, though I Repine not at them, makes my unhappy fortunes Appeare farr more disastrous.

Bon. She shall
Crosse ours no more. Belisia, if youle
Be ruld by me you shall away with me;
None but you sister shall be privy to it,
And sheele keepe Councell.

Bon. You shalbe advertisd where she remaines, And certifie us how your mother takes it: When we are married we shall live to thanke you.

Bel. Prethee, poore heart, lament not; we shall meet, And all these stormes blowe over.

Cla. Your tempests past; mine now begins to rise But Ile allay its violence with my eyes.

SCENE 1.

Ma. Run, good sweet Timothy; search the barnes, the stab[les], while I looke in the Chambers. Should she be lost or come to any harme my lady will hang us all. Why dost not fly?

Tim. Hey day, if her feet walke as fast as thy tongue, sh[e's] far enough ere this time. What a stir you make! Were you, as shee is, with your sweet heart, you would [be] pursud, would you? You would be hangd as soone. Al[as], good gentlewoman, heaven speed her!

Tim. No, indeed, will I not.
Her mother may be angry if she please.
The time has bin she would as willingly
Bin at the sport her selfe as now her daughter.
The ge[ntleman] shees gon with is a man,
And see theres no harme d[one], I warrant you.

Lov. Ha, ha, gramercy, Timothy, thou hittst it right. Maudlin, goe to; should Tim here offer as much to you, ha, I beleave you would not lock your selfe up in my ladyes closett; goe to, and goe to.

Lady. Lost, past redemption! I pursue a fier
Which like the giddy Meteors that seduce
With their false light benighted travellers
Allures me to distruction. To curse fate
Were to allow I feard it, and admit
Participation in me of that spiritt
I most detest, a womans.

Lady. Yes, that you depart.— [Exit Alexander.
What can he see in her more worthy love
Then is in me? shees but a picture drawne
By my dimensions, and men sooner fancy
The Substance then the Shaddow. Oh, but shee
Is the true image not of what I am
But what I was, when like the spring I wore
My virgin roses on my cheeks.

Lov. She has coniurd downe my spirit: these are immodest devills that make modest ladyes become strickers[118]. Ile out oth storme, take shelter in the cellar. Goe to and goe to; tis better venter quarriling mongst those hogesheads. [Exit Alexander.

Lady. Noe: were you soe neere? begon againe,— Yet stay.—Maudlin, avoid the Roome, and if you see Mr. Thurston, entreat him hither. Timothy, Find out my son and charge him to delay The execution of my late comaund Till I next speake with him. [Exeunt Mag. and Tim. Clariana, you did what I comanded?

Lady. But thou art ignorant Why with such violence I inioyn[e]d thee To leave thy Thurstons love?

Cla. Were I not sure
Theres nought in him that can be titled ill,
I should have thought your circumspective Judgment
Had spide some error in him, and in care
Of me your child forbidden me his love.
But whatsoer's the cause, though your comaund
Was like perdition welcome, my obedience
Fullfild it truly, without questioning
The reason why or the unlimited power
Of you my mother.

Lady. You did very well.
Now thou shalt know the reason, which before
I doe relate, afford me leave to weepe,
To save thy teares, which at the hearing of it
Will, like the dew on lillies, pearle thy cheekes.
I have beheld thee with a Rivalls eye
In Thurstons love; my penetrable heart,
Like a moist cloud, has opened and receivd
Loves fine bolt into it. Now thou knowst it,
Methinks I see confusion in thy lookes
Prepard to blast me.

Cla. Heaven forbid it I
Should ere conceive the meanest thought of ill
Of you, my parent. Since you love him, here
To heaven and you I give my interest up
And would I could as well commaund his heart
As he might mine, beleive me you should then
Affect you with as true and deare a zeale
As ever I did him: I should be happie
In making you soe.

Lady. Charitable girle,
Forgive thy cruell mother, who must yet
Impose a stronger penance on thy duty:
Thou must go to thy Thurston, and obtaine
His love.

Lady. Not for thy selfe but for thy haplesse mother,
Who am, without it, nothing. Woe him for me,
Use the inchanting musicke of thy voice
On my behalfe, who, though thy Rivall, yet
Remember I'm thy mother; nor canst thou
Consigne thy breath to a more holy use
(Though thou shouldst spend it in religious prayers)
Then to redeeme thy parent. Weepe for me,
And in requitall for each drop thou shedst
I'll pay to heaven a Hecatombe of teares
For thy successe. But take good heede, deare child,
While thou art weeping, thou dost not disclose
That face of thine; for, were he mine by vow,
Loves powerfull Retorick uttered [in?] thyne eyes
Would winn from me.

Thu. I would
Be loth to offend your eyes; when we last met
You chargd me never to behold you more.

Cla. I did indeed, but on mature advice
I have reclaimd that imposition.
You shall behold me dayly, talke with me,
Doe all the acts that love with Innocence
Can suffer, if youle but overrule your will
To graunt me one request.

Thu. You wrong my faith
In questioning my graunt of any thing
You can desire wer't to undoe my selfe
Or combate miseries as yet unheard of,
You[r] least breath may expose me to them.

Cla. Nay, in this theres no danger; if there be A real happines on earth, this way You shall arrive to it.

Cla. There is a lady,
Of such a perfect virtue, grace and sweetnes,
That Nature was to all our sex beside
A niggard, only bountiful to her;
One whose harmonious bewtie may intitule
All hearts its captive: yet she doats on you
With such a masculine fancy that to love her
Is duty in you.

Cla. No, tis one
So farr transcending me, that twere a sinne
Should I deprive you, the most perfect man,
Of her, the perfectest woman. She will weepe
Even at your name; breath miriads of sighes;
Wring her hands thus; demonstrate all the signes
Of a destracted lover; that in pitty,
Though I did love you well, I have transferd
My right to her, and charge you by all ties
That you affect her with the same true zeale
Which you did me, and ift be possible,
Purer and better.

Thu. But I doe scarce
Credit my hearing, or conceive I am
Mortall, for surely, had I bin, your words
Like the decree of heaven had struck me dead.
What strong temptation lay you on my faith!
O, Clariana, let me but decline
Passion, and tell you seriously that this
Is cruel in you, first to scorne my love,
Next to admitt a scruple of beleife,
Though you can be perfidious to your selfe,
That I can be soe. Noe; since you are lost,
Ile like the solitary turtle mourne
Cause I must live without you. But, pray, tell me
What is she you would have me love?

Tho. Ist possible, lady? you much doe wrong
Your innocence in laboring to enforce
That upon him which is my interest. Heaven
Smild at the contract twixt us; quiers of Saints
Receivd our mutuall vowes, and though your Mother
May in her passion seeme to have forgott
Her pretious faith, yet when I shall awake
Her sleeping reason with the memory
Of that has past betwixt us, my strong hope
Tells me I shall induce her to the spheare
Which she has movd from.

Cla. Would heaven you could! How coldly in this cause
Doe I perswade! when I would speake, my heart
Checks its bold orator, my tongue, and tells it
Tis traitorous to its Mr.—Noble Sir, [kneele
I doe conceit you infinitly good,
So pittiful that mercy is in you
Even naturally superlative, (forgive me,
If I offend) you doe in this transgresse
Humanity, to let a lady love you
Without requitall. But I must professe
To heaven and you, that here Ile fix to earth,
Weepe till I am a statue, but Ile gaine
Your pitie for her: pray consider ont.

Thu. Consider ont? wonder has soe engrossd
To its wild use all corners of my heart
That there remaines scarce one poore concave left
To hold consideration. I must either
Love her I hate or see her whome I love
Wilfully perish. See, shee kneeles and weeps,
Prays as she meant to expiate all the sinns
Earth ere committed. One of those pure drops
Does (as my lives blood in a soddaine trance)
Surround my heart. You have prevaild, arise:
At your request I will performe an act,
Which may no story hold least all who love
Hereafter curse the president,—Ile love her.
That deathfull word comes from my torturd soule
As a consent doth from a timorous maid
For an enforcing ravisher.

Cla. I thanke you.
But love her dearely, Thurston, sheele deserv't:
I doe remember, when my Father livd,
How he would praise her goodnes. Think on me
As one that lovd you well, but neer like her;
And, if you please, bestow each day a kisse
Uppon her in my memory. Soe, farewell.—
Sorrows flow high: one griefe succeed another;
I die in piety to redeeme my Mother. [Exit.

Grimes. By your leave, gentlemen: good Mr. Thorowgood, a word or two in private.

Thu. Compeld to love my enemy! what man,
That had but so much spiritt as a mule,
Could suffer this! Lay nice prescriptions,
Ambiguous bookmen, on submissive slaves;
Affright with terror of a wilfull death
Those whom black murders of inhumane sin
Has living damnd; Ime yet in my owne heart
White as a babe, as Innocent as light
From any mortall guilt; and were my soule
Drawn fro this mew[119] of flesh twould quickly streatch
Like a swift Falkon her aspiring wings
And soare at heaven. Nature instructs us Death
Is due to all: how can't be then a Sinn
To die, or he more guilty of offense
That kills himselfe or [than?] he who in his bed
Some shivoring ague murders? Ime resol[v']d;
Ile rather chuse to immolate my life
In Martirdome to virtue then reserve't
Till it be staind with mischiefes.

Thu. Oh, oh, my head, my head!
Stand further of, good nightcrow: if thou comst
As a presaging harbinger of death,
Howlt in thy direfulst and most horrid notes,
And ['t] will be wellcome as choyse musick to me
And Ile adore thee fort, with teares of ioy
Make thy black feathers white.

Thu. I cry you mercy, lady; you are shee
Whom I had vowd to love;—a wild conceite
Had seasd my fancy. Pardon me, I must
Proclaim to heaven and to the world a truth
Which I should study to forget: you are
A Creature so suparlatively bad
That, were the earth as absolute from sinn
As in its first creation, youre sole crimes
Would pull a curse upon it. I should tell you
The specialties wherein you're foule, but dare not
Breath in the same ayre with you; I begin
To feel infection:—fare you well. [Exit.

Lady. Contemnd againe! deprive me of the name And soule of woman! render me a scorne To the most base of our revengefull sex! If I beare this while there be knives or swords, Poyson or ought left to extinguish life That womans spleene can compasse— Alexander! within there!

Goe to my sonn; inioyne him by all rights
Of naturall duty to accomplish that
Which in youre hearing I comanded him.
Beare him this Jewell and this gold, that when
Tis don he may escape; be carefull,
As you expect my favour.

Alex. I shall inculcate your desires unto him. —Her favour! goe to, theres comfort. [Exit.

Lady. My cruelty Never extended to that horrid height, Not to my foes. Who are they?

Tho. Your daughter, The innocent Belisia, and my friend, Her worthy suiter, Bonvill.

Lady. Your freind and my daughter dead and by my meanes!
This cannot be; my daughters sure in the house.
Good sir, unfould this ridle, it begetts
Wonder and terror in me.

Tho. Madam, you know with what a cruel messuage
You sent me to my friend, which provd as false
As your faire daughter virtuous. Why you did it
I will not question, nor upbraid you with
This violation of your faith.

Tho. Yes, since then
A iust mistrust that you would crosse their match
Causd them last night privatly to steale hence
With an intention to have reacht the house
Where Bonvills mother lives; but see the fates
How they dispose of men! crossing the River
That runns beneath your orchard, and ith darke,
Their headstrong horses missing the ford overthrew them
And, which I cannot without true griefe utter,
There drownd them both.
Was it not soe, Grimes?

Grimes. Tis too sad a truth; and I,
After all meanes to save their life was past,
Lookd to my owne and got the shore: their bodies
I feare the violence of the tide has carried
Into the Sea by this time.

Lady. Enough, good friend; no more.
Had a rude Scythian, ignorant of teares,
Unlesse the wind enforcd them from his eyes,
Heard this relation, sure he would have wept;
And yet I cannot. I have lost all sense
Of pitty with my womanhood, and now
That once essentiall Mistress of my soule,
Warme charity, no more inflames my brest
Than does the glowewormes ineffectual fire
The ha[n]d that touches it. Good sir, desist
The agravation of your sad report; [Weepe
Ive to much greife already.

Tho. It becomes you:
You do appeare more glorious in these t[ears]
Then the red morne when she adornes her cheeks
With Nabathean pearls: in such a posture
Stand Phaetons sisters when they doe distill
Their much prisd amber. Madam, but resume
Your banishd reason to you, and consider
How many Iliads of preposterous mischeife
From your intemperate breach of faith to me
Fetch their loathed essence; thinke but on the love,
The holy love I bore you, that we two
—Had you bin constant—might have taught the wor[ld]
Affections primitive purenes; when, from
Your abrogation of it, Bonvills death,
Your daughter['s] losse have luc[k]lessly insu'd.
The streame that, like a Crocodile, did weepe
Ore them whom with an over ravenous kisse
Its moyst lips stifled, will record your fault
In watery characters as lastingly
As iff twere cut in marble. Heaven, forgive you;
Ile pray for you; repent.

Lady. Repent! should I but spend
The weakest accent of my breath in sighes
Or vaine compunction, I should feare I sinnd
Against my will, then which I doe confes
Noe other diety. Passions[120] doe surround
My intellectual powers; only my heart,
Like to a Rocky Island, does advance
Above the foming violence of the waves
Its unmovd head, bids me my fate outdare.
Ills sure prevention is a swift despaire.

([SCENE] 2.)

Alex. Thinke, sir, to whome the Iniury was don,—go to—your Lady Mother, a vertuous lady, I say and I sayt agen, a very vertuous lady. Had I but youth and strength as you have, in what cause should I sooner hazard both then in this?

Y. M. All pious thoughts that lately fild this spheare
Are scatterd with the winds that issu'd from thee,
Which, like the infectious yawning of a hill,
Belching forth death inevitable,
Has distroyd freindship and nature in me.
Thou canst not poyson worse: I can feed now,
Feed and nere burst with mallice. Sing, Syren, sing
And swell me with revenge sweet as the straines
Falls from the Thrasian lyre; charme each sence
With musick of Revenge, let Innocence
In softest tunes like the expiring Swann
Dy singing her owne Epitaph.

Alex. What meane you, sir? are you mad? goe to and goe to; you doe not use me well; I say and I say, you do not. Have I this for my love to you and your good Mother? Why, I might be your Father by my age, which is falne on me in my old Mrs service; he would have used me better.

Y. M. No harme to thee; this was my Fathers once,
My honord Father; this did never view
The glaring Sunn but in a noble cause,
And then returnd home blushing with red spoyles,
Which sung his fame and conquest. Goe, intreat
My Mother be as pleasant as she was
That night my Father got me. I am going, say,
Most cheerfully to finish her comaund.

Alex. Goe, goe to and goe to, I say and I sait; here wilbe some revenge. If the Gent[leman] fall my lady has promist me a farme of 100 pounds a yeare; goe to, then. Now, if her sonn be slayne, heres then this purse of gold and this rich Jewell which she sent to him. By this wee see, whoever has the worst, The fox fares well, but better when hees curst.[121] Goe to and goe to then.

(SCENE 1.)

Lady. Twas[122] here about; these are the poplars, this
The yewe he named. How prettily thees trees
Bow, as each meant to Consecrate a branch
To the drownd lovers! and, methinks, the streame
Pitt[y]ing their herse should want all funerall rights,
Snatches the virgin lillies from his bankes
To strow their watry sepulcher. Who would
Desire an easier wafting to their death
Then through this River? what a pleasing sound
Its liquid fingers, harping on the stones,
Yeilds to th'admiring eare!

Mag. This way she went, Ime sure. She has deliv[er']d
So many strang distractions that I feare
Sheele act some wilfull violence on her selfe
If we prevent it not.

Tho. Come softly; if she heare our footing, her disp[aire May] anticipate our diligence.

Lady. Tempt me not, frailty: I disdaine revolt
From ought the awfull violence of my will
Has once[123] determind. Dost thou tremble, flesh?
Ile cure thy ague instantly: I shall,
Like some insatiate drunkard of the age,
But take a cup to much and next day sleepe
An hower more then ordinary.

Lady. What inhumaine creatures
Are you that rob me of the priviledge
Of wellcome death, which I will run to meet
Spight of your malice!

Tho. Oh decline those thoughts;
Let not the lucid tapers of your soule,
Bright grace and reason, fondly be extinct.
Essentiall virtue, whether art thou fled,
To what unknowne place? wert thou hid mongst ro[cks]
Or horid grots where comfortable light
Hates to dispence its luster, yet my search
Should find thee out, reduce thee to this brest
Once[124] thy lovd Paradice. Pray, madam, pray:
From those faire eyes one penetentiall teare
Would force whole legions of heavens brightest Sa[ints]
If they have power to intercede for earth
To beg for mercy for you.

Lady. These are toyes
Forgd to delude mortality: let me die
And afterwards my uncontroled Ghost
Shall visitt you. I only goe and aske
How my Belisia does enioy her health
Since she exchangd her native ayre of earth
For those dull regions. If I find the clime
Does to our constitutions promise life,
Ile come to you and in those happy shades
Will live in peace eternally.

[[125]Cla. Alas, I feare shees Irrecoverable. Twas Ill don to affright her thus.

Tho. O, dispaire,
Grimme homicide of soules, how thou involvst
More haplesse creatures in distracted Ills
Ore [w]home thou triumpst; but Ile fright thee hence:
No feind shall add a trophy to thy acts
For victory over her.] Deare madam, heare me:
You had a noble husband, while he livd;
And I beleive
That no perswasion cold have forcd you yeild
To vitiation of his honord bed,
Not with a prince. And will you give your soule,
Which heaven in its creation had designd
A bride to faire eternity of blisse,
By vild procurement of hells bawd, despaire,
To prostitution of unnaturall death
And then of woes erelasting which admit
Noe diminution? Can you heare this, Madam,
And does the flintie substance of your heart
Not thaw, like to a hill of Russian Ice
When fires applid to't? Yes, your eyes demonstrate
It[126] melts already.

Cla. Deare Mother, please you walke Into your Chamber: here the wind is cold And may disease your weaknes.

Lady. Let me alone, you trouble me; I feele
A soddaine change; each organ of my soule
Suffers a strong vicissitude; and, though
I do detest a voluntary death,
My Conscience tells me that it is most iust
That the cursd author of such impious ills
Ought not to live.

Tho. O thinke not soe: those words
Retaine affinity with that passion
I hop'd youd left. The greatest of your Sinns
Mercy will smile at, when you doe implore
Its unconsuming grace: the dullest cloud
Will, when you pray, be active as the ayre
In opening to receive that breath to heaven
Thats spent to purge your ills. Why, you may live
To make a faire lustration for your faults
And die a happie Convert.

Y. M. Hell, I will flie no farther; since my hand Is guilt in murder it shall sacrifice Some of my apprehenders.

Con. Sir, we must enter: here he is. I charge you Asist us to lay hold on him.

Lady. Why, how now, Fellowes? what makes you presse in here thus rudely? Whom do you follow?

Con. Madam, Ime sorry my authority
Enforces me to doe it: your sonn iust now
Has slaine one Mr. Thurstone, and the law
Commaunds us apprehend him.

Y. M. Here take my sword:
When I but doe waigh the iustnes of the cause
For which I suffer, though I could escape,
My Conscience would forbid me. Come, Ile goe
Whither you please.

Lady. Stay, officers; all accessaries are
As liable to punishment for murder
As those who act it. I confesse twas I
Enforcd my son to slay that gentleman.
Your warrant extends to take me with him.

Lady. By heaven tis truth!
If you refuse to execute your office
I shall confesse my act unto the Judg
And soe condemne you of partiality.
My Sonn knowes this is truth.

Alex. Who? I? Goe, take the babe from its Mothers teat and taxe him with this crime. I accessary to a murder! goe to.

Con. Why, and goe to, sir, and avoid resistance; You must goe. Will your ladiship walke with us?

Lady. Yes, most willingly. I doe this most abhorrid life despise Since tis to iustice a iust sacrifice.

(SCENE 2.)

Sir Hu. I doe admire this accident: since I have sat Judge I have not knowne any such tryall.

Sir Gef. Tis certaine, sir; but looke you, sir, Ile tell you. You do perceive me sir: as Ime a gentleman I lov'd the lady; but she, out of her pride, I thinke, or else I were to b[lame] to say soe, scornd me. Marke you that, sir? understand you that?

Sir Hu. You question my understanding very much, good Sir Geffe[rey]. But pray you, sir, being here more conversant then I, c[ould] you informe me how this quarrell grew twixt her [and Mr.] Thurston?

Sir Gef. Yes, yes, I can;—but let me see, I have almost forgott; to say truth, I never heard the reason, but as the wisest guess—hum, hum—he should have had her daughter.

Sir Gef. Peace, Nephew, peace, give Justice leave to speake.—As I related, the reason I related, Sir, was as I told you.

Sir Gef. Oh sir, the originall efficient cause,—you understand me? for suspition whispers he had given her a foule blow and would have left her.

Crac. Nay, by my birthright, uncle, the child was not his alone, for I dare sweare I had a hand at least in it. I did endevor fort, did I not, Captaine?

Suc. Yes, there are others to as well as you; yes, she has struck her top sayle to a man of warr; she has bin boarded, sir, I can assure you.

Sir Hu. What impudent slaves are these!—But are you sure the gentlewoman is with child?

Sir Gef. Sure? doe you question it, Sir? Bunch, be ready, Bunch, to write their confessions quickly.

Sir Gef. Noe matter for that, Bunch; with the Judges leave weele here their confession before they come, that we may know the better to state the cause when they doe come. Ist not best, thinke you?

Sir Gef. No matter whether any man speake nor noe: we know he killed the man, and she comanded him, ergo they are guilty; ergoe that must be their confession, scilicet that they are guilty. Write this, Bunch, and then we will perpend, as law and Judgment guides us, whether we will save or condemne. How say you, sir?

Crac. Oh well don, uncle! I knew[128] he would prove what he said, otherwise I would have venturd a sillogisme in Baraly[p]ton to have made it evident.

[Suc.[129] But with your favour, gentlemen; suppose he did unlive Thurston in faire duell?

Suc. The kingdomes lawes! how shall
A Gent[leman] that has a blemish cast
Upon his life, faire reputac[i]on,
Have satisfaction then? allow no duells!
Hel! a man of armes had better live in woods
And combate wolves then among such milke sops.
The kingdomes lawes!

Sir Hu. Tis well, we have waited them. Madam,
I should have bin more fortunate to have scene you
In any place but this; and here,
In any other cause then this, I would use you
As the precedent carridge of your life
Has merited, but cannot: y'are a prisoner
Convict of murder, a most hideous crime
Gainst law and nature.

Sir Gef. Yes, marry is it, and that she shall find ere we have don. Bunch, read their indictments, Bunch. She had as good have married me, I warrant her.

Con. That she confesd it was by her procurement and comaunde her sonn murderd young Thurston.

Lady. Then this:
You shall not need to produce witnesses
Or charge a Iury to designe me guilty
Of Thurstons murder. I confess it to you,
Twas only I that slew him.

Sir Hu. Pray disturbe her not.—How comes it then, Madam, to be affirmd your Sonn did kill him?

Sir Gef. I, lets heare that, how it comes: well remembred, you did even speake before me.

Lady. Pray, Sir,
Let me not be oppresd with noyse; my cause
Beares not so slender waight. For my owne life,
So many reasons forfeit it to death
That 'twere a Sinn, had I a will to live,
To plead to save it; but for this my sonn
I do beseech a hearing.

Lady. Thus then:
Suppose the wrested rigor of your lawes
Uniustly sentenc'd any here to death,
And you enforce on some unwilling man
The present execution of your act,
You will not after cause the instrument
Of your decree, as guilty of his blood,
To suffer as a Homicide: how then
Can your impartiall Judgment
Censure my sonn for this which was my fact?
Thurston the malice of my will wishd dead:
My instigation and severe comaund
Compeld him to atcheiv't, and you will graunt
Noe princes lawes retaine more active force
To ingage a subiect to performe their hests
Then natures does astring a dewtious child
To obey his parent.

Sir Gef. Pish, all this is nothing: there is a flat statute against it,—let me see,—in Anno vigessimo tricessimo, Henerio octavo be it enacted,—what followes, Bunch?

Sir Hu. Nay, good Sir, peace—
Madam, these are but wild evasions
For times protraction; for your paritie,
It cannot hold; since Nature does enforce
Noe child to obey his parent in an act
That is not good and iust.

Lady. Why, this seemd both
To his obedience; but relinquish that
And come to Conscience: does it not comaund
In its strict Canons to exact no more
Then blood for blood, unlesse you doe extort
Worse then an usurer. For Thurstons life
I offer myne, which if it be to meane
To appease your Justice, let it satisfie
Your mercie. Spare my Sonn and I shall goe
As willingly to death as to my rest
After a painfull child birthe. Looke on him!
How fitt the subiect is to invite your pittie!
What Tyrant hand would cut this Cedar up
Ere its full groath (at which it stately head
Would give a shade to heaven), or pluck this Rose
As yet scarce blossomd?

Lady. Mercy wilbe proud
T'infold him gently in her Ivory armes,
And, as she walkes along with him, each word
He speakes sheele greedily catch at with a kisse
From his soft lipps such as the amorous Fawnes
Enforce on the light Satyrs. Let[130] me dy
Who, like the palme, when consious that tis void
Of fruite and moysture, prostratly doe begg
A Charitable headsman.

Sir Hu. So bad a cause
Deserves not to be pleaded thus. Deere madam,
Greife overwhelmes me for you, that your guilt
Has damp'd the eyes of mercy and undone
All intercession. Please you desist:
We must proceed to th'examination
Of the other prisoners.—
Sir Geffrey, we shall need your grave assistance:
Sir Geffrey, be more attentive.

Sir Gef. Tis very necessary. I wilbe sworne she did bewitch me; I thinke I was almost asleepe. But now to yee, I faith; come on, what can you say that Judgment shall not passe against you?

Tho. Noe, scarlett man, I question thy witt,
At least thy Humanity and the Conscience
That dares imagine to destroy this wealth,
To hang this matchless diamond in the eare
Of Ethiope Death. Send him to file thy house,
Strike with his dart thy Children and thy selfe,
Gray bearded miscreant, whose best acts compard
With Thurstons murder (cause this lady did [it])
Are full iniquity.

Sir Hu. Sir, you are fitter for a Jayle, a Bedlam, Then to stand free before us. What? art thou mad, man?

Sir Gef. Yes, what are you, Sir. I aske to, though I know y[ou well] enough. What are you?

Tho. I am one,
To expresse my selfe in my true character,
Soe full of civill reason and iust truth
That to denie my owne peculiar act
I should esteeme as base and black a sinne
As Scythians[132] doe adultery: twas I
That gave this lady councell to invade
That Thurstons life, and out of cowardise,
Feareing my person, set this bold young man
To be his murderer. Ime the principall,
The very source from whence this brooke of bloode
Fetches its spring.

Sir Hu. Still more of the conspiracy! Sir, what say You to these designements?

Suc. Say, sir, you slew the man in equall duell: Twill bring you off, I warrant you.

Sir Gef. Answere, you youth of valour, you that dare See men of credit bleede. Ha!

Y. M. Sir, I am to dy, and should I now speake false
Twould be a maine addicon to the ill
What I alone comitted: for this man,
Howsoere his fury does transport his tongue,
Hees guiltlesse on't: I must confesse my Mother
Did, for some private wrong which he had don,
Wish me to call him to account; but this
Steward did with all violence sollicit
That I should slay him.

Alex. I doe defie thy mallice, thou falce Judge. Goe to; my [Mrs.] I appeal to, she that knowes my vertue and Integrity.

Sir Hu. Away with him toth Jayle: a publique Sessions may [ere] long from thence deliver him to the gallowes.

Sir Hu. Madam, for you and for your Sonn, your crimes
Being soe manifest, I wish you would
Prepare your selves for heaven. Meantime you must remaine
Saffe prissoners untill the Judges sitt,
Who best may give a sentence on your fact.

Sir Hu. Sure your words
Rather proceed from some distraction
Then from similitude of truth. You may
Begon, we do quitt you.

Tho. And Ile quit my selfe
Of what you will not, [of] my hated life.
You have condemnd a lady who may claime
As many slaves to wait on her in death
As the most superstitious Indian prince
(That carries servants to attend ith grave)
Can by's prerogative; nor shall she want
Waiters, while you and I, my reverend Judg,
Are within reach of one another.
[Offers att the Record.

Sir Hu. We doe forgive him; twas his passion.
Tis manly to forbeare infirmities
In noble soules.
Away with the delinquents, officers![133]

Sir Gef.[134] I charge you looke to them: there is some rescue intended, I warrant you.

Con. Sir, yonder are some six or seaven without, Attird like Masquers, that will not be denied Admittance.

Con. [Faith[135]] we know not,
Nor will they tell us, only this they say:
Heareing of the lady Marlowe's condemnation,
They are come
With shew of death to make her more prepard fort.

Sir Hu. We will deny none of her freinds to see her; They can intend noe rescue.

Gri. If in charnell houses, Caves,
Horrid grots and mossie graves,
Where the mandraks hideous howles
Welcome bodies voide of soules,
My power extends, why may not I
Hugg those who are condemd to dy?
Grimme Dispaire, arise and bring
Horror with thee and the king
Of our dull regions; bid the rest
Of your Society be addrest,
As they feare the frowne of chaunce,
To grace this presense with a daunce.

Tim. Death, avaunt! thou hast no power;
This is Hymens happie hower.
Away to the dark shades! hence!
And, grim Dispaire, let Innocence
Triumph, and bring eternall peace
To all your soules and Joys increase.
Smile, smile, sweet ayre, on us that come
To sing Deaths Epicedium.
Extract from roses gentlest winds,
Such odors as young Hymen finds
At sweet Arabian nuptialls; let
The youthfull graces here beget
Soe smooth a peace that every breath
May blesse this marriage of Death.
Feare nothing, lady, whose bright eye
Sing'd Deaths wings as he flew by:
Wee therefore, trust me, only come
To sing Deaths Epicedium. [discover,

Tim. Stay, stay, by your leave Mr. Justice.— Madam,[136] your servant Timothy brings you newes You must not dy. Know you this Gentleman?

Tim. So it appeares, Sir: the gent[leman] never had hurt; hees here, and let him speake for himselfe and this gentlewoman his wife.

Thu. With your leave, reverend father.—To you, Madam,
Whome I must now call Mother, first your pardon
That the conceivd report of my faind death
Has brought you to this triall: next
For this your daughter and your sonn, whose virtues
Redeemd [me] from the death your rage had thought
I should have suffred, he agreeing with me
Consented to appeach himselfe of that
He nere intended, and procurd this man
As his accuser of my murder, which
Was but contrivd to let you see the error
Of your sterne malice; that, acquainted with
The foulenesse of the fact, by the effect
You might repent it and bestow your blessing
On us your Suppliant Children.

Sir Gef. Ha, ha, widdow, are you come of thus, widdow? You may thanke me: I hope youle have me now, widdow.

Lady. This soddaine comfort,
Had I not yet a relique left of greife,
Would like a violent torrent overbeare
The banks of my mortallity. Oh, Thurston,
Whom I respect with a more sacred love
Then was my former; take my blessing with her
And all the wishes that a ioyfull mother
Can to a child devote: had my Belisia
And her deare Bonvill livd, this happy day
Should have beheld a double wedding.

Tho. Madam,
The surplusage of love that's in my breast
Must needs have vent in gratulation
Of your full ioyes. Would you mind your promise,
And make me fortunate in your love!

Lady. Sir, I have vowd,
Since by my meanes my daughter and her love
Perishd unhappily, to seclude my selfe
From mans Society.

Tho. Weele cancell
That obligation quickly.—Lady, I now
Will urge your promise: twas a plot betwixt us
To give them out for drownd, least your pursuite
Should have impeachd their marriage, which is now
Most iustly consummate; and[138] only I
Remaine at your devotion for a wife.

Lady. Take her, And with me a repentance as profound As Anchorites for their sin pay.

Sir Hu. Madam, how blest am I To see you thus past hope recovered, My mirth at your faire wedding shall demonstrate.

Sir Gef. I will daunce too, that[s] certain, though I breake my legs or get the tissick.

Lady. But where's my Steward? hees not hangd I hope: This mirth admits no Tragedy.

Alex. Thanke you, madam,—I, I will goe to and goe to, and there be ere a wench to be got for love or money, rath[er] then plot murder: tis the sweeter sinn of [the two]; besides, theres noe danger of ones cragg; [the] worst is but stand in one sheet for ly[ing] in two: and therefore goe to and goe to, I [say] and I sayt agen.

Sir Gef. Bunch take my cloake, Bunch; it shal [not] be sed, so many weddings and nere a Da[nce]: for soe many good turnes the hangman ha done you, theres one for all, hey!

Sir Gef. Hey, when I was young! but come, we loose [time]: every one his lasse, and stricke up Musick!

Lady. Now, gentlemen, my thanks to all, and since
[I]t is my good hap to escape these ills,
Goe in with me and celebrate this feast
With choyse solemnitie; where our discourse
Shall merrily forgett these harmes, and prove
Theres no Arraingment like to that of love.

FINIS.

This Play, call'd the Lady Moth[er] (the Reformacons observ'd) may be acted. October the xvth, 1635.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TRAGEDY OF SIR JOHN VAN OLDEN BARNAVELT.

I have never met anywhere with the slightest allusion to this fine historical play, now for the first time printed from a MS.[140] in the British Museum (Add. MS. 18,653). It is curious that it should have been left to the present editor to call attention to a piece of such extraordinary interest; for I have no hesitation in predicting that Barnavelt's Tragedy, for its splendid command of fiery dramatic rhetoric, will rank among the masterpieces of English dramatic literature.

On a first rapid inspection I assumed, with most uncritical recklessness, that Chapman was the author. There are not wanting points of general resemblance between Chapman's Byron and the imperious, unbending spirit of the great Advocate as he is here represented; but in diction and versification, the present tragedy is wholly different from any work of Chapman's. When I came to transcribe the piece, I soon became convinced that it was to a great extent the production of Fletcher. There can, I think, be no reasonable doubt about the authorship of such lines as the following:—

    "Barnavelt. My noble Lords, what is't appeares upon me
    So ougly strange you start and fly my companie?
    What plague sore have ye spide, what taynt in honour,
    What ill howre in my life so cleere deserving
    That rancks in this below your fellowships?
    For which of all my cares, of all my watches,
    My services (too many and too mightie
    To find rewards) am I thus recompenced,
    Not lookd on, not saluted, left forgotten
    Like one that came to petition to your honours—
    Over the shoulder slighted?

    Bredero. Mounsieur Barnavelt,
    I am sorry that a man of your great wisdom
    And those rare parts that make ye lov'd and honourd,
    In every Princes Court highly esteemd of,
    Should loose so much in point of good and vertue
    Now in the time you ought to fix your faith fast,
    The credit of your age, carelessly loose it,—
    dare not say ambitiously,—that your best friends
    And those that ever thought on your example
    Dare not with comon safetie now salute ye" (iii. 1).

can belong only to Fletcher. The swelling, accumulative character of the eloquence is another proof; for Fletcher's effects are gained not by a few sharp strokes, but by constant iteration, each succeeding line strengthening the preceding until at last we are fronted by a column of very formidable strength. Let us take another extract from the same scene:—

    "Barnavelt. When I am a Sychophant
    And a base gleaner from an others favour,
    As all you are that halt upon his crutches,—
    Shame take that smoothness and that sleeke subjection!
    I am myself, as great in good as he is,
    As much a master of my Countries fortunes,
    And one to whom (since I am forc'd to speak it,
    Since mine own tongue must be my Advocate)
    This blinded State that plaies at boa-peep with us,
    This wanton State that's weary of hir lovers
    And cryes out 'Give me younger still and fresher'!
    Is bound and so far bound: I found hir naked,
    Floung out a dores and starvd, no friends to pitty hir,
    The marks of all hir miseries upon hir,
    An orphan State that no eye smild upon:
    And then how carefully I undertooke hir,
    How tenderly and lovingly I noursd hir!
    But now she is fatt and faire againe and I foold,
    A new love in hir armes, my doatings scornd at.
    And I must sue to him! be witnes, heaven,
    If this poore life were forfeyt to his mercy,
    At such a rate I hold a scornd subjection
    I would not give a penney to redeeme it.
    I have liv'd ever free, onely depended
    Upon the honestie of my faire Actions,
    Nor am I now to studdy how to die soe."

The whole scene is singularly fine and impressive; it shows us Fletcher at his highest.

But in other passages we find a second hand at work. In the second scene of the third act there is far less exuberance of language and a different style of versification, as may be seen in the following lines:—

    "Orange. My grave Lords,
    That it hath byn my happines to take in,
    And with so little blood, so many Townes
    That were falne off, is a large recompence
    For all my travell; and I would advise
    That (since all now sing the sweet tunes of Concord,
    No Sword unsheathd, the meanes to hurt cut off
    And all their stings pluckd out that would have usd them
    Against the publique peace) we should end here
    And not with labour search for that which will
    Afflict us when 'tis found. Something I know
    That I could wish I nere had understood,
    Which yet if I should speake, as the respect
    And duty that I owe my Country bids me,
    It wilbe thought 'tis rather privat spleene
    Then pious zeale. But that is not the hazard
    Which I would shun: I rather feare the men
    We must offend in this, being great, rich, wise,
    Sided with strong friends, trusted with the guard
    Of places most important, will bring forth
    Rather new births of tumult, should they be
    Calld to their Triall, then appease disorder
    In their just punishment; and in doing Justice
    On three or four that are delinquents, loose
    So many thousand inocents that stand firme
    And faithfull patriots. Let us leave them therefore
    To the scourge of their owne consciences: perhaps
    Th'assurance that they are yet undiscoverd,
    Because not cyted to their answeare, will
    So work with them hereafter to doe well
    That we shall joy we sought no farther in it."

Here we have vigorous writing, staid and grave and unimpassioned, and a more regular metre. In determining questions of authorship I have so often found myself (and others, too) at fault, that I shrink from adopting the dictatorial tone assumed in these matters by learned Germans and a few English scholars. But I think in the present instance we may speak with tolerable certainty. Before my mind had been made up, my good friend, Mr. Fleay, pronounced strongly in favour of Massinger. He is, I think, right; in fact, it is beyond the shadow of a doubt that Massinger wrote the speech quoted above. In all Massinger's work there is admirable ease and dignity; if his words are seldom bathed in tears or steeped in fire, yet he never writes beneath his subject. He had a rare command of an excellent work-a-day dramatic style, clear, vigorous, free from conceit and affectation. But he is apt to grow didactic, and tax the reader's patience; and there is often a want of coherence in his sentences, which amble down the page in a series of loosely-linked clauses. I will not examine scene by scene in detail; for I must frankly confess that I feel myself sometimes at a loss to determine whether a particular passage is by Fletcher or Massinger. Most of the impassioned parts belong, I think, to the former. I would credit Massinger with the admirably conducted trial-scene in the fourth act; but the concluding scene of the play, where Barnavelt is led to execution, I would ascribe, without hesitation, to Fletcher. In the scene (v. 1) where the French ambassador pleads for Barnavelt we recognise Massinger's accustomed temperance and dignity. To the graver writer, too, we must set down Leydenberg's solemn and pathetic soliloquy (iii. 6), when by a voluntary death he is seeking to make amends for his inconstancy and escape from the toils of his persecutors.

There is no difficulty in fixing the date of the present play. Barneveld was executed on May 13, 1619, and the play must have been written immediately afterwards, when all Christendom was ringing with the news of the execution. In the third scene of the first act there is a marginal note signed "G.B." The initials are unquestionably those of Sir George Buc, Master of the Revels from 1610 to 1622.[141] On comparing the note with an autograph letter[142] of Sir George's I find the hand-writing to correspond exactly. The date, therefore, cannot be later than 1622, but the probability is that the play was produced at Michaelmas, 1619.

In our own day the great Advocate's fame, which had been allowed to fall into neglect, has been revived with splendour by Mr. Motley, whose "Life of John of Barneveld" is a monument aere perennius of loving labour, masterful grasp, and rare eloquence. Had the dramatists been in possession of a tithe of the facts brought to light from mouldering state documents by the historian, they would have regarded Barneveld's faults with a milder eye, and shown more unqualified praise for his great and noble qualities. But they are to be commended in that they saw partially through the mists of popular error and prejudice; that they refused to accept a caricature portrait, and proclaimed in unmistakable accents the nobility of the fallen Advocate. Perhaps it is not so strange that this tragedy dropped from sight. Its representation certainly could not have been pleasing to King James; for that murderous, slobbering, detestable villain had been untiring in his efforts to bring about Barneveld's ruin.

Throughout the play there are marks of close political observation. To discover the materials from which the playwrights worked up their solid and elaborate tragedy would require a more extensive investigation than I care to undertake. An account of Barneveld's trial, defence, and execution may be found in the following tracts:—

([Greek: alpha]) "Barnavel's Apologie, or Holland's Mysteria: with marginall Castigations, 1618." The Apology, originally written in Dutch, had been translated into Latin, and thence into English. The Castigations, by "Robert Houlderus, Minister of the Word of God," are remarkable, even in the annals of theological controversy, for gross blackguardism. After indulging in the most loathsome displays of foul brutality, this "Minister of the Word of God" ends with the cheerful prayer,—"That they whom Thou hast predestinated to salvation may alwayes have the upper hand and triumph in the certainty of their salvation: but they whom Thou has created unto confusion, and as vessels of Thy just wrath, may tumble and be thrust headlong thither whereto from all eternitie Thou didst predestinate them, even before they had done any good or evil."

([Greek: beta]) "Newes out of Holland: concerning Barnavelt and his fellow-Prisoners, their Conspiracy against their Native Country with the enemies thereof: The Oration and Propositions made in their behalfe unto the Generall States of the United Provinces at the Hage, by the Ambassadours of the French King," &c., 1619.

([Greek: gamma]) "The Arraignment of John Van Olden Barnavelt, late Advocate of Holland and West Freisland. Containing the articles alleadged against him and the reasons of his execution," &c., 1619.

"This magnificent play is mainly the production of Fletcher and Massinger: it must have been written between May, 1619, and May, 1622, for the King's company acting at Blackfriars. T[homas] Hol[combe] acted a woman's part in it: so did G. Lowin, perhaps a son of John Lowin, unless indeed G. is a miswriting for J., as sometimes happens. It is singular that one has no knowledge whatever of Thomas Holcombe, except as an actor in Fletcher's plays: although so many of the lists of the king's men of that date have come down to us. Mr. Gough who took the part of Leidenberg, is Robert Gough, not Alexander: the latter acted only in Charles I.'s time. Another actor, Michael, is unknown: probably a super."—F.G. FLEAY.

Since the above paragraph was written, I have found in the MS. the names of three more actors, Jo[hn] Rice, Bir[ch], and T[homas] Po[llard]. The following note, for which I am indebted to Mr. Fleay, will be read with interest:—"It is noticeable that a play called the Jeweller of Amsterdam or the Hague, by John Fletcher, Nathaniel Field, and Phillip Massinger, was entered on the Stationers' Books 8th April, 1654, but not printed. This play must have been written between 1617 and 1619, while Field was connected with the King's company, and undoubtedly referred to the murder of John Van Wely, the Jeweller of Amsterdam, by John of Paris, the confidential groom of Prince Maurice, in 1619. It is primâ facie likely that the same authors would be employed on both plays. Field, Daborne, Dekker and Fletcher are the only authors known to have written in conjunction with Massinger; and Dekker and Daborne are out of the question for that company at that date. We are now enabled to fix the date of the 'Fatal Dowry,' by Field and Massinger, as c. 1618."

THE TRAGEDY OF SIR JOHN VAN OLDEN BARNAVELT.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Bar. The Prince of Orange now, all names are lost els! That hees alone the Father of his Cuntrie! Said you not so?

Bar. That to his arme and sword the Provinces owe Their flourishing peace? that hees the armyes soule By which it moves to victorie?

Leid. Nay, more; that without him dispaire and ruyn Had ceazd on all and buried quick our safeties.

Gro. That had not he in act betterd our counsailes
And in his execution set them off,
All we designd had ben but as a tale
Forgot as soone as told.

Leid. And with such zeale
This is deliverd that the Prince beleeves it;
For Greatnes, in her owne worth confident,
Doth never waigh but with a covetous hand
His lightest meritts, and who add to the scale
Seldom offend.

Gro. 'Tis this that swells his pride
Beyond those lymitts his late modestie
Ever observd. This makes him count the Soldier
As his owne creature, and to arrogate
All prosperous proceedings to himself;
Detracts from you and all men, you scarce holding
The second place.

Bar. When I gave him the first:
I robd myself, for it was justly mine.
The labourinthes of pollicie I have trod
To find the clew of safetie, for my Cuntrie
Requird a head more knowing and a courage
As bold as his,—though I must say 'tis great.
His stile of Excellencie was my guift;
Money, the strength and fortune of the war,
The help of England and the aide of Fraance,
I only can call mine: and shall I then,
Now in the sun-set of my daie of honour,
When I should passe with glory to my rest
And raise my Monument from my Cuntries praises,
Sitt downe and with a boorish patience suffer
The harvest that I labourd for to be
Anothers spoile? the peoples thancks and praises,
Which should make faire way for me to my grave,
To have another object? the choice fruites
Of my deepe projects grace anothers Banquet?
No; this ungratefull Cuntry, this base people,
Most base to my deserts, shall first with horrour
Know he that could defeat the Spanish counsailes
And countermyne their dark works, he that made
The State what 'tis, will change it once againe
Ere fall with such dishonour.

Mod. Be advisd, Sir;
I love you as a friend, and as a wise man
Have ever honourd you: be as you were then,
And I am still the same. Had I not heard
Theis last distemperd words, I would have sworne
That in the making up of Barnavelt
Reason had only wrought, passion no hand in't.
But now I find you are lesse then a man,
Lesse then a common man, and end that race
You have so long run strongly like a child,
For such a one old age or honours surfeyts
Againe have made you.

Mod. To you, Sir:
For is't not boyish folly (youthfull heat
I cannot call it) to spume downe what all
His life hath labourd for? Shall Barnavelt
That now should studie how to die, propound
New waies to get a name? or keep a being
A month or two to ruyn whatsoever
The good succes of forty yeeres employment
In the most serious affaires of State
Have raisd up to his memory? And for what?
Glory, the popular applause,—fine purchase
For a gray beard to deale in!

Mod. 'Tis better then to flatter him as you doe.
Be but yourself againe and then consider
What alteration in the State can be
By which you shall not loose. Should you bring in
(As heaven avert the purpose and the thought
Of such a mischief) the old Tirrany
That Spaine hath practisd, do you thinck you should be
Or greater then you are or more secure
From danger? Would you change the goverment,
Make it a Monarchie? Suppose this don
And any man you favourd most set up,
Shall your authoritie by him encrease?
Be not so foolishly seducd; for what
Can hope propose to you in any change
Which ev'n now you posses not?

Mod. I know not what you ayme at.
For thirtie yeeres (onely the name of king
You have not had, and yet your absolute powre
Hath ben as ample) who hath ben employd
In office, goverment, or embassie,
Who raisd to wealth or honour that was not
Brought in by your allowaunce? Who hath held
His place without your lycence? Your estate is
Beyond a privat mans: your Brothers, Sonnes,
Frendes, Famylies, made rich in trust and honours:
Nay, this grave Maurice, this now Prince of Orange,
Whose popularitie you weakely envy,
Was still by you commaunded: for when did he
Enter the feild but 'twas by your allowaunce?
What service undertake which you approv'd not?
What victory was won in which you shard not?
What action of his renownd in which
Your counsaile was forgotten? Yf all this then
Suffice not your ambition but you must
Extend it further, I am sorry that
You give me cause to feare that when you move next
You move to your destruction.

Bar. Yf I fall
I shall not be alone, for in my ruyns
My Enemies shall find their Sepulchers.
Modes-bargen, though in place you are my equall,
The fire of honour, which is dead in you,
Burnes hotly in me, and I will preserve
Each glory I have got, with as much care
As I acheivd it. Read but ore the Stories
Of men most fam'd for courage or for counsaile.
And you shall find that the desire of glory
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
Was the last frailty wise men ere putt of:
Be they my presidents.

Leid. I can do something in the State of Utrecht,
And you shall find the place of Secretarie,
Which you conferd upon me there, shall be,
When you employ me, usefull.

Gro. All I am
You know you may commaund: Ile nere enquire
What 'tis you goe about, but trust your counsailes
As the Auncients did their Oracles.

Mod. Though I speak
Not as a flatterer, but a friend, propound
What may not prejudice the State, and I
Will goe as far as any.

1 Cap. Why, you dare charge a foe i'the head of his troope, And shake you to deliver a petition To a statesman and a frend?

2 Cap. I need not seek him,
He has found me; and, as I am a soldier,
His walking towards me is more terrible
Then any enemies march I ever mett with.

Bar. As I use this I waigh you: you are he
That when your Company was viewd and checkd
For your dead paies,[144] stood on your termes of honour,
Cryde out "I am a Gentleman, a Commaunder,
And shall I be curbd by my lords the States,"
(For thus you said in scorne) "that are but Merchants,
Lawyers, Apothecaries, and Physitians,
Perhaps of worser ranck"? But you shall know, Sir,
They are not such, but Potentates and Princes
From whom you take pay.

Bar. No, Sir; want of dutie:
But I will make that tongue give him the lye
That said soe, drunck or sober; take my word for't.
Your Compaine is cast: you had best complaine
To your Great Generall, and see if he
Can of himself maintaine you,—Come, Modes-bargen.

Leid. I am sorry for you, Captaine, but take comfort: I love a Soldier, and all I can doe To make you what you were, shall labour for you. And so, good morrow, Gentlemen. [Exit.

2 Cap. You are deceivd, Sir, And doe not know his nature that gave promise Of his assistance.

2 Cap. Leidenberck.
One of the Lords, the States, and of great powre too;
I would he were as honest. This is he
That never did man good, and yet no Suitor
Ever departed discontented from him.
Hee'll promise any thing: I have seene him talke
At the Church dore with his hat of to a Begger
Almost an houre togeather, yet when he left him
He gave him not a doyt. He do's profes
To all an outward pitty, but within
The devills more tender: the great plague upon him!
Why thinck I of him? he's no part of that
Must make my peace.

2 Cap. A Bribe to Barnavelts wiffe, or a kind wench For my yong lord his Son, when he has drunck hard. There's no way els to doo't.

1 Cap. I have gold good store
You shall not want that; and if I had thought on't
When I left London, I had fitted you
For a convenient Pagan.

SCAENA 2.

Bar. The States are sitting: all that I can doe
Ile say in little; and in me theis Lords
Promise as much. I am of your belief
In every point you hold touching religion,
And openly I will profes myself
Of the Arminian sect.

Bar. Reverend man
Your loves I am ambitious of. Already
'Tis knowne I favour you, and that hath drawne
Libells against me; but the stinglesse hate
Of those that wryte them I contempne.

Bar. That I confes, too;
But yet we must expect much opposition
Ere your opinions be confirmd. I know
The Prince of Orange a sworne enemie
To your affections: he has vowd to crosse you,
But I will still stand for you. My advice is
That, having won the Burgers to your partie,
Perswade them to enroll new Companies
For their defence against the Insolence
Of the old Soldiers garisond at Utrecht.
Yet practise on them, too, and they may urge this:
That since they have their pay out of that Province,
Justice requires they should be of their partie:
All that is don in Utrecht shalbe practisd
In Roterdam and other Townes I name not.
Farther directions you shall have hereafter,
Till when I leave you.

Mod. Yet let me tell you, where Religion Is made a cloke to our bad purposes They seldom have succes.

Bar. You are too holly:
We live now not with Saincts but wicked men,
And any thriving way we can make use of,
What shape so ere it weares, to crosse their arts,
We must embrace and cherish; and this course
(Carrying a zealous face) will countenaunce
Our other actions. Make the Burgers ours,
Raise Soldiers for our guard, strengthen our side
Against the now unequall opposition
Of this Prince that contemns us;[149] at the worst,
When he shall know there are some Regiments
We may call ours, and that have no dependaunce
Upon his favour, 'twill take from his pride
And make us more respected.

Bre. The Prince is wanting, and this meeting being Touching the oath he is to take, 'twere fitt That we attend him.

Bar. That he may set downe
What he will sweare, prescribing lymitts to us!
We need not add this wind by our observaunce
To sailes too full alredy. Oh, my Lords,
What will you doe? Have we with so much blood
Maintaind our liberties, left the allegeaunce
(How justly now it is no time to argue)
To Spaine, to offer up our slavish necks
To one that only is what we have made him?
For, be but you yourselves, this Prince of Orange
Is but as Barnavelt, a Servant to
Your Lordships and the State; like me maintaind;
The pomp he keepes, at your charge: will you then
Wayt his prowd pleasure, and in that confes,
By daring to doe nothing, that he knowes not—
You have no absolute powre?

Bar. Now to be patient
Were to be treacherous: trust once his counsaile
That never yet hath faild you. Make him know
That any limb of this our reverend Senate
In powre is not beneath him. As we sitt
Ile yeild you further reasons; i'the meane time
Commaund him by the Officers of the Court
Not to presse in untill your Lordships pleasure
Be made knowne to him.

Bar. In this disgrace I have one foote on his neck; Ere long Ile set the other on his head And sinck him to the Center.

SCAENA 3.

Or. I, now methincks I feele the happynes
Of being sproong from such a noble father,
That sacrifizd his honour, life and fortune
For his lov'd Cuntry. Now the blood and kindred
Of Horne and Egmont (Memories great Martires),
That must outlive all Alva's Tirranies
And when their Stories told ev'n shake his ashes,
Methincks through theis vaines now, now at this instant,
I feele their Cuntries losse; I feele[151] too—

Will. All feele sencibly,
And every noble hart laments their miseries,
And every eie, that labours not with mallice,
Sees your great services and through what dangers
You have raisd those noble speritts monuments.

Or. What I have don I look not back to magnifie;
My Cuntry calld me to it. What I shall yet doe,
With all the industrie and strength I have lent me
And grace of heaven to guid, so it but satisfie
The expectation of the State commaunds me
And in my Cuntries eye appeere but lovely,
I shall sitt downe, though old and bruizd yet happie;
Nor can the bitter and bold tounge of mallice,
That never yet spoke well of faire deservings,
With all hir course aspersions floong upon me
Make me forsake my dutie, touch or shake me
Or gaine so much upon me as an anger,
Whilst here I hold me loyall. Yet believe, Gentlemen,
Theis wrongs are neither few nor slight, nor followed
By liberall tongues provokd by want or wine,
For such were to be smild at and so slighted,
But by those men, and shot so neer mine honour
I feare my person too; but, so the State suffer not,
I am as easie to forget.

Will. Too easie;
And that feeds up their mallice to a Monster.
You are the arme oth' war, the Soldiers sperit;
The other but dead stories, you the dooer.

Col. It stands not with the honour you have won, Sir, Still built upon and betterd.

Col. The love the Soldier beares you to give way thus!
To have your actions consturd, scornd and scoffd at
By such malignant soules! you are yourself, Sir,
And master of more mindes that love and honour ye.[152]

Will. Yf you would see it; but take through the mallice The evill intended now, now bent upon ye.

Or. I pray ye, no more; as you love me, no more.
Stupid I never was nor so secure yet
To lead my patience to mine owne betraying:
I shall find time and riper cause.— [Guard at dore.
Now, frends,
Are my Lords the States set yet.

Will. Thou fellow,
Thou sawcy fellow, and you that stand by gaping!
Is the Prince of no more value, no more respect
Then like a Page?

2 Gu. We beseech your Excellencies
To pardon us; our duties are not wanting,
Nor dare we entertaine a thought to crosse ye:
We are placed here on Commaund.

Or. To keepe me out?
Have I lost my place in Councell? are my services
Growne to so poore regards, my worth so bankrupt?
Or am I tainted with dishonest actions,
That I am held unfitt my Cuntries busines?
Who placd ye here?

1 Gu. The body of the Councell; And we beseech your Grace make it not our syn: They gave us strict commaund to stop your passage.

Will. Deny you place? make good the dore against ye? This is unsufferable, most unsufferable.

Col. So far to dare provoke ye! 'tis too monstrous;
And you forget your self, your birth, your honour,
The name of Soldier if you suffer this,
Suffer from these, these things, these—pox upon't!—
These molds of men made noble by your services,
Your daylie sweatts.

1 Cap. It must not be endured thus, The wrong extends to us, we feele it severally.

2 Cap. Your sweet humillitie has made 'em scorne ye
And us, and all the world that serve their uses;
And stick themselves up teachers, masters, princes,
Allmost new gods too, founders of new faithes.
—Weell force your way.

Or. Stay, I commaund ye;
He that puts forward first to this wild action
Has lost my love and is becom mine Enemy,
My mortall enemie. Put up your weapons,
You draw 'em against order, duty, faith;
And let me die ere render such examples.
The men you make so meane, so slight account of,
And in your angers prise, not in your honours,
Are Princes, powerfull Princes, mightie Princes;
That daylie feed more men of your great fashion
And noble ranck, pay and maintaine their fortunes,
Then any monarch Europe has: and for this bountie,
If ye consider truly, Gentlemen,
And honestly, with thankfull harts remember,
You are to pay them back againe your service:
They are your masters, your best masters, noblest,
Those that protect your states, hold up your fortunes;
And for this good you are to sacrifize
Your thancks and duties, not your threats and angers.
I and all Soldiers els that strike with their armes,
And draw from them the meanes of life and honour,
Are doble tyde in faith to observe their pleasures.

Col. A Prince of rare humanitie and temper.
Sir, as you teach us armes, you man our minds, too,
With civill precepts, making us true Soldiers,
Then worthie to receive a trust from others
When we stand masters of our owne discretions.

Enter Barnavelt, Modesbargen, Leidenberch, Grotius
Bredero, Vandort & Hogerbeets.

Or. My noble Lords,
Let it not seeme displeasing to your wisdomes,
I humbly ask in what I have offended,
Or how suspected stand, or with what cryme blotted,
That this day from your fellowship, your councell,
My Cuntries care and where I owe most service,
Like a man perishd in his worth I am exilde.

Bar. Your Grace must know we cannot wait attendaunce, Which happely you looke for.

Bar. Nor what we shall designe for the States comfort
Stay your deliberate crosses. We know you are able,
And every way a wise Prince fitt for counsell;
But I must tell ye, Sir, and tell ye truly,
The Soldier has so blowne ye up, so swelld ye
And those few services you call your owne,
That now our commendations are too light gales,
Too slacke and emptie windes, to move your worthes;
And trumpets of your owne tongue and the Soldiers
Now onely fill your sailes.

Bar. We mix with quiet speritts, staid and temperate,
And those that levell at not great but good ends
Dare hold us their Companions, not their Servants,
And in that ranck be ready to supply us.
Your Grace is growne too haughtie.

Leid. Might it please you
But thinck, Sir, of our honest services
(I dare not terme them equall) and but waigh well,
In which I know your Grace a perfect master,
Your judgment excellent, and then but tell us
And truly (which I know your goodnes will doe)
Why should we seeme so poore, so undertrodden,
And though not trusted with the State and Councell,
Why so unable vallued. Pardon, great Sir,
If those complaine who feele the waight of envy,
If such poore trod on wormes make show to turne againe.
Nor is it we that feele, I hope, nor you, Sir,
That gives the cullour of this difference:
Rumour has many tongues but few speak truth:
We feele not onely,—if we did 'twere happie—
Our Cuntry, Sir, our Cuntrie beares the blow too;
But you were ever noble.

Or. Good my Lords,
Let it be free your Servant, chargd in mallice,
If not fling of his crymes, at least excuse 'em
To you my great correcter. Would to heaven, Sir,
That syn of pride and insolence you speake of,
That pufft up greatnes blowne from others follyes
Were not too neere akin to your great Lordship
And lay not in your bosom, your most deere one.
You taint me, Sir, with syns concerne my manners,—
If I have such Ile studdy to correct 'em;
But, should I taint you, I should charge ye deeper:
The cure of those would make ye shrinck and shake, too,
—Shake of your head.

Or. Who raisd these new religious forces, Sir,
And by what warrant? what assignement had ye
From the States generall? who blew new fires?
Even fires of fowle rebellion, I must tell ye;
The bellowes to it, Religion. You were lov'd yet
But for your ends,—through all the Townes, the Garrisons,
To fright the union of the State, to shake it.
What syns are theis? You may smile with much comfort,
And they that see ye and not looke closely to ye
May crye too er't be long.

Bar. Your Grace has leave, Sir,
And tis right good it be soe.—Follow me home,
And there Ile give ye new directions
How to proceed, and sodainely.

Or. My lords, to what a monster this man's grown You may (if not abusd with dull securitie) See plaine as day.

Or. Spoiles all.
He that dare live to see him work his ends out
Uncrossd and unprevented, that wretched man
Dare live to see his Cuntry shrinck before him.
Consider my best lords, my noblest masters,
How most, most fitt, how just and necessary
A sodaine and a strong prevention.

Bre. We all conceave your Grace and all look through him
And find him what we feare not yet but grieve at.
You shall have new Commission from us all
To take in all those Townes he has thrust his men in:
When you have that, proceed as likes your Excellence.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Bar. I have with danger venturd thus far to you
That you might know by me our plot's discoverd.
But let not that discourage you: though Van Dort
And Bredero, with others, have assented
To force this Towne, stand you still on your Guard,
And on my reputation rest assured
With violence they never dare attempt you;
For that would give the world to understand
Th'united Provinces, that by their concord
So long have held out 'gainst th'opposition
Of all Spaines Governours, their plotts and armyes,
Make way to their most certaine ruyn by
A Civill warre.

Bar. And so at any time we may make our peace, Returning to our first obedience Upon what termes we please.

Mod. That is not certaine;
For, should we tempt them once to bring their forces
Against the Towne and find we give it up
For want of strength to keepe it, the Conditions
To which we must subscribe are in their will
And not our choice or pleasure.

Leid. They stand full and faithfull;
And for the Burgers, they are well affected
To our designes. The Arminians play their parts too,
And thunder in their meetings hell and dampnation
To such as hold against us.

Bar. 'Tis well orderd:
But have you tride by any meanes (it skills not
How much you promise) to wyn the old Soldiers
(The English Companies, in chief, I ayme at)
To stand firme for us?

Leid. We have to that purpose
Imploid Rock-Giles, with some choice Burgers els
That are most popular to the Officers
That doe commaund here in the Collonells absence.
We expect them every mynitt. Yf your Lordship
(For 'tis not fitt, I think, you should be seene)
Will please to stand aside (yet you shalbe
Within the hearing of our Conference)
You shall perceive we will imploy all arts
To make them ours.

R: Giles. With much adoe I have brought 'em: the prowde Shellains[154] Are paid too well, and that makes them forget We are their Masters.

1 Burg. But when we tooke them on,
Famishd allmost for want of entertainement,
Then they cryde out they would do any thing
We would commaund them.

Giles. Is it fitt
That mercenary Soldiers, that for pay
Give up their liberties and are sworne t'expose
Their lyves and fortunes to all dangers, should
Capitulate with their Lords?

1 Cap. I will,
And doe it boldly: We were entertaind
To serve the generall States and not one Province;
To fight as often as the Prince of Orange
Shall lead us forth, and not to stand against him;
To guard this Cuntrie, not to ruyn it;
To beat of foreigne Enemies, not to cherish
Domestique factions. And where you upbraid us
With the poore means we have to feed, not cloath us,
Forgetting at how deere a rate we buy
The triffles we have from you, thus I answeare:—
Noe Cuntrie ere made a defensive war
And gaind by it but you. What privat Gentleman
That onely trailes a pike, that comes from England
Or Fraunce, but brings gold with him which he leaves here
And so enriches you? Where such as serve
The Polander, Bohemian, Dane, or Turck,
Though they come almost naked to their Collours,
Besides their pay (which they contempne) the spoiles
Of armyes overthrowne, of Citties sackd,
Depopulations of wealthie Cuntries,
If he survive the uncertaine chaunce of war,
Returne him home to end his age in plenty
Of wealth and honours.

1 Cap. Where we, poore wretches, covetous of fame onely,
Come hether but as to a Schoole of war
To learne to struggle against cold and hunger,
And with unwearied steps to overcome
A tedious march when the hot Lyons breath
Burnes up the feilds; the glory that we ayme at
Being our obedience to such as doe
Commaund in cheif; to keepe our rancks, to fly
More then the death all mutenies and rebellions.
And would you then, whose wisdomes should correct
Such follies in us, rob us of that litle,
That litle honour that rewards our service,
To bring our necks to the Hangmans Sword or Halter,
Or (should we scape) to brand our foreheads with
The name of Rebells?

Leid. I have heard
So much deliverd by you and so well,
Your actions, too, at all parts answearing
What you have spoken, that I must acknowledge
We all stand far indebted to your service:
And therefore, as unto the worthiest,
The faithfullest and strongest that protect
Us and our Cuntries, we now seek to you,
And would not but such men should be remembred
As principall assistants in the Care
Of a disease which now the State lyes sick of.
I know you love the valiant Prince, and yet
You must graunt him a Servant to the States
As you are, Gentlemen, and therefore will not
Defend that in him which you would not cherish
In cold blood in your selves; for should he be
Disloyall—

1 Cap. We know your oild tongue; and your rethorique
Will hardly work on us that are acquainted
With what faire language your ill purposes
Are ever cloathd, nor ever wilbe won
To undervalue him whose least fam'd service
Scornes to be put in ballance with the best
Of all your Counsailes; and for his faith, O heaven!
It do's as far transcend yours in your praires
As light do's darkness.

Leid. I perceive 'tis true
That such as flatter Servants make them prowd.
Wee'll use a rougher way, and here commaund you
To leave the Towne, and sodainely, if you wish not
To be forced hence.

1 Cap. Your new raisd Companies
Of such as never saw the Enemie
Can hardly make that good: we were placed here
By the allowaunce of the generall States
And of the Prince to keep it to their use.

1 Cap. And while there is Lead
Upon a house, or any Soldier master
But of a doyt: when that is gon, expect
That we will make you sport, or leave our lives
To witness we were faithfull.—Come, Lieutenant,
Let us draw up the Companies; and then
Charge on us when you please.
[Exeunt.

Bar. Oh, I am lost with anger! are we falne
So lowe from what we were, that we dare heare
This from our Servants and not punish it?
Where is the terrour of our names, our powre
That Spaine with feare hath felt in both his Indies?
We are lost for ever, and from freemen growne
Slaves so contemptible as no worthie Prince,
That would have men, not sluggish Beasts, his Servants,
Would ere vouchsafe the owning. Now, my frends,
I call not on your furtherance to preserve
The lustre of my actions; let me with them
Be nere remembred, so this government
Your wives, your lives and liberties be safe:
And therefore, as you would be what you are,
Freemen and masters of what yet is yours,
Rise up against this Tirant, and defend
With rigour what too gentle lenitie
Hath almost lost.

Bar. Ile back to the Hage
And something there Ile doe that shall divert
The torrent that swells towards us, or sinck in it;
And let this Prince of Orange seat him sure,
Or he shall fall when he is most secure.

SCAENA 2.

1 D. W. Here come the Sisters: that's an English Gentlewoman, Let's pray for hir Conversion.

2 D. W. You are wellcom, Lady,
And your comming over hether is most happy;
For here you may behold the generall freedom
We live and traffique in, the ioy of woemen.
No emperious Spanish eye governes our actions,
Nor Italian jealouzie locks up our meetings:
We are ourselves our owne disposers, masters;
And those that you call husbands are our Servants.

3 D. W. Your owne Cuntry breedes ye hansom, maintaines ye brave,
But with a stubborne hand the husbands awe ye:
You speake but what they please, looke where they point ye,
And though ye have some libertie 'tis lymitted.

4 D. W. Which cursse you must shake of. To live is nothing;
To live admird and lookd at,—poore deservings
But to live soe, so free you may commaund, Lady,
Compell, and there raigne Soveraigne.

1 D. W. Do you thinck there's any thing
Our husbands labour for, and not for our ends?
Are we shut out of Counsailes, privacies,
And onely lymitted our household busines?
No, certaine, Lady; we pertake with all,
Or our good men pertake no rest. Why this man
Works theis or theis waies, with or against the State,
We know and give allowaunces.

2 D. W. Why such a Gentleman,
Thus hansom and thus yong, commaunds such a quarter;
Where theis faire Ladies lye; why the Grave's angry
And Mounseiur Barnavelt now discontent,—
Do you thinck it's fitt we should be ignorant?

2 D. W. Or why there's sprung up now a new devotion?
Good Gentlewoman, no. Do you see this fellow?
He is a Scholler and a parlous Scholler,
Or whether he be a Scholler or no 'tis not a doy't matter:
He's a fine talker and a zealous talker;
We can make him thinck what we list, say what we list,
Print what we list and whom we list abuse in't.

Eng.-gentw. Doe they use no modestie Upon my life, some of theis new Arminians, Theis hissing tosts!

Hold. An ignorant strange woman, Whose faith is onely tride by a Coach and foure horses.

3 D. W. Come, you must be as we are and the rest of your Countrywomen; You doe not know the sweet on't.

Eng.-gentw. Indeed, nor will not;
Our Cuntry brings us up to faire Obedience
To know our husbands for our Governours,
So to obey and serve 'em: two heads make monsters;
Nor Dare we thinck of what is don above us,
Nor talk of Graves.

Hold. The Grave shall smart for 't shortly; Goe you and tell him soe, gooddy English woman: You have long tayles and long tongues, but we shall clip 'em.

Vand. The Prince is drawing up to us
And has disarmd all the strong Townes about us
Of our new Soldiers; the English now stand only
And the old Companies.

Eng.-gentw. Now your wisdomes, Ladies,
Your learning also, Sir, your learned prating—
You that dare prick your eares up at great Princes
And doble charge your tongue with new opinions,—
What can you doe? or can theis holly woemen
That you have arm'd against obedience
And made contempners of the fooles their husbands,
Examiners of State,—can they doe any thing?
Can they defy the Prince?

Hold. They shall defie him, And to his face: why doe not ye raise the Burgers And draw up the new Companies?

Leid. Away, good women!
This is no sport for you: goe, cheere your husbands
And bid 'em stand now bravely for their liberties.
Arnam and Roterdam and all about us
Have yeilded him obedience; all the new Companies
Purgd and disarmd. Goe you; talke to the Arminians,
And raise their harts. Good Ladies, no more Councells:
This is no time to puppet in.

Eng.-gentw. And coniure wisely, too; the devill will faile else. [Exeunt Women.

Leid. Would they were all shipt well To th' other part oth' world. Theis stubborne English We onely feare.

Leid. Let's goe and view: Brothers, be strong and valiant; We have lost the Towne els and our freedoms with it. [Exeunt.

SCAENA 3.

1 Cap. Goe, and give this comaund then:
That if any Burgers or Arminian Soldiers
Offer to come upon the Guard, or let in or out
Any without our knowledge, presently
To bend their strength upon 'em.

1 Cap. Do you disperse to the old Companies,
Bid 'em be ready; tell 'em now is the time,
And charge 'em keepe a strong eye ore the Burgers.
Ile up to'th Guard.

SCAENA 4.

Or. None of our frends upon the Portt? Is this the welcom Of such a Towne, so bound in preservation To us and ours?

Leiut. Can ye blame him, Captaine, when such a den of dog whelps
Are fosterd here against him? You will rouse anon:
There are old Companies sure, honest and faithfull,
That are not poysond with this ranck infection.
Now they appeare, Sir.

Or. Three Troope of horse, That will be with ye presently: keepe strong the Port.

SCAENA 5.

Leid. We are undon then; He knowes too well what ground he ventures on. Where are the Arminian Soldiers?

Mess. Arme, arme, and now stand to your ancient freedoms! Three troope of horse, ten Companies of foote Are enterd now the Port.

Mess. The English make a stand upon the new Companies, Ready to charge 'em if they stirr.

Leid. Oh mischief! All our designes are crackt, layed open, ruynd: Let's looke if any cure remaine. O devill!

SCAENA 6.

Eng.-gentw. Fy, doe not run! for shame! body a me, How their feare outstincks their garlick! litle Sir Gregory,

Hold. Out o' my way, good woeman, Out o' my way: I shalbe whipt, and hangd too.

Eng.-gentw. Theis fellowes have strong faithes and notable valours: Ile walk about and see this sport.

SCAENA 7.

Or. Now, Mounseuir Leidenberge you may se openly
The issues of your desperate undertakings,
And your good helpes, myne Heeires; now you must feele too,
And to your greifes, what the deserts of those are
That boldly dare attempt their Cuntries ruyn
And who we serve, how faithfully and honestly
You must and shall confes too: not to blind ends
Hood-winckt with base ambition, such as yours are,
But to the generall good.—Let[164] theis new Companies
March by us through the Market, so to the Guard house,
And there disarme;—wee'll teach ye true obedience;—
Then let 'em quitt the Towne, hansom swag fellowes
And fitt for fowle play.

Or. They wilbe lighter straight, when they are unfurnishd
You put your trust in theis; you have tall defences,—
Treason maintaind with heresie, fitt weapons!
—So now disarme the Towne: wee'll plant new Governours!

Or. Yes, at the Hage, Sir, Till when bethinck you of your acts and answeares, For there before the generall State—Where's Modesbargen?

Or. A guilty feare,
But we shall fright him worsse. Good order take
For the Towne, and what fitt Garrison to leave in't.
We are homeward bound, where we shall make you wellcom,
You have instructed us in what free fashion.
Come, Gentlemen, let's now goe take our rest:
Prowd confidence is but a foole at best.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Vandort. Like a true noble Gentlemen he has borne himself
And a faire fortunate Soldier: I hold the State, Sir,
Most happie in his care, and this torne Cuntry,
Whose wounds smart yet, most bound to his deliveraunce.

Bre. 'Tis certaine his proceedings in this busines,
As in all els, have byn most wise and constant
And waited on with full wingd Expedition:
How many Townes armd with theis new Pretenders,
Stird up and steeld by founders of new doctrines,
The collour to their Cause, hath he (and sodainely)
Disarmd againe and setled in obedience,
And without bloodshed, Lords, without the Sword
And those Calamities that shake a kingdom:
So gently and without noyse he has performd this
As if he had don it in a dreame.

Vand. Most certaine,
He has run through a busines will much add to him
And set his vertues of with greater Lustre:
But that a man so wise as Mounseiur Barnavelt,
So trusted, so rewarded for his Service,
And one that built the ladder to his honour
Of open, honest actions, strong and straight still,
Should now be doubted!

Bred. I know not nor I wish it not, But if he have a fowle hart't has byn hid long, And cunningly that poyson has byn carried.

Vand. But why a father to theis new professions?
Why should he strengthen those opinions
That all true learning much laments and greives at
And sincks the soules sweet union into ruyn?
Why theis, my lords? and why in every Garrison,
Unles he had an end that shot at evill,
Should he so strongly plant theis fire-brands
And through his powre add daylie to their nombers?

Bred. Most sure he is suspected, strongly suspected
But that a man of his great trust and busines
Should sinck or suffer under doubts or whispers
Or loose his honour by an others envy,
Is not faire play nor honest. The Prince of Orange,
Most thinck, affects him not, nor he the Prince.
That either of their angry wills should prove
A lawful act to ruyn one another,
And not a medium of more open Justice,
More equall and more honorable, step in,
Man had no powre to stand nor fall with honour.
If he be falce, honest and upright proofes
Will ripen the Imposture.

Vand. Methincks he beares not in his Countenaunce
The fulnes of that grave and constant sperit,
Nor in his eye appeeres that heat and quicknes
He was wont to move withall.—Salute, and counsell:
Let's leave him to his thoughts.

Bar. My noble Lords, what is't appeeres upon me
So ougly strange you start and fly my Companie?
What plague sore have ye spide, what taynt in honour,
What ill howre in my life so cleere deserving
That rancks in this below your fellowships?
For which of all my cares, of all my watches,
My services (too many and too mightie
To find rewards) am I thus recompenced,
Not lookd on, not saluted, left forgotten
Like one that came to petition to your honours,—
Over the shoulder sleighted?

Bred. Mounseiur Barnavelt,
I am sorry that a man of your great wisdom
And those rare parts that make ye lov'd and honourd,
In every Princes Court highly esteemd of,
Should loose so much in point of good and vertue
Now in the time you ought to fix your faith fast,
The creadit of your age, carelessly loose it,—
I dare not say, ambitiously—that your best frends,
And those that ever thought on your example,
Dare not with comon safetie now salute ye.

Bar. I loose in point of honour! My frends feare me! My age suspected too! now as ye are iust men Unknit this riddle.

Bred. We wish all well; and you that know how dangerous
In men of lesser mark theis foule attempts are
And often have bewaild 'em in the meanest,
I make no doubt will meet your owne fault sodainely
And chide yourself; grow faire againe and flourish
In the same full esteeme ye held and favour.

Bar. And must I heare this sett downe for all my service?
Is this the glorious mark of my deservings?
Taynted and torne in honour must I perish,
And must theis silver curles, ô you unthanckfull,
Theis emblemes of my frostie cares and travells
For you and for the State, fall with disgraces?
Goe, fall before your new Prince! worship him,
Fill all your throates with flattery, cry before him
'Tis he, and onely he, has truly serv'd ye!
Forget me and the peace I have wrought your Cuntry;
Bury my memory, raze out my name,
My forty yeares endeavoures write in dust
That your great Prince may blow 'em into nothing;
And on my Monument (you most forgetfull)
Fling all your scornes, erect an yroon-toothed envy
That she may gnaw the pious stones that hides me.

Vand. Ye are too much mov'd, and now too late ye find, Sir,
How naked and unsafe it is for a long Gowne
To buckle with the violence of an Army.
The Emperour Traian challenging a yong man
And a swift runner to try his speed against him,
The Gentleman made answeare sodainely
It was not safe nor fitt to hold contention
With any man commaunded thirtie legions.
You know the Prince and know his noble nature,
I thinck you know his powre, too: of all your wisdomes
This will not show the least nor prove the meanest
In good mens eyes, I thinck, in all that know ye,
To seeke his love: gentle and faire demeanours
Wyn more then blowes and soften stubborne angers.
Let me perswade ye.

Bar. When I am a Sycophant
And a base gleaner from an others favour,
As all you are that halt upon his crutches.
Shame take that smoothnes and that sleeke subjection!
I am myself, as great in good as he is,
As much a master of my Cuntries fortunes,
And one to whom (since I am forcd to speak it,
Since mine owne tongue must be my Advocate)
This blinded State that plaies at boa-peep with us,
This wanton State that's weary of hir lovers
And cryes out "Give me younger still and fresher!"
Is bound and so far bound: I found hir naked,
Floung out a dores and starvd, no frends to pitty hir,
The marks of all her miseries upon hir,
An orphan State that no eye smild upon:
And then how carefully I undertooke hir,
How tenderly and lovingly I noursd hir!
But now she is fatt and faire againe and I foold,
A new love in hir armes, my doatings scornd at.
And I must sue to him! be witnes, heaven,
If this poore life were forfeyt to his mercy,
At such a rate I hold a scornd subiection
I would not give a penney to redeeme it.
I have liv'd ever free, onely depended
Upon the honestie of my faire Actions,
Nor am I now to studdy how to die soe.

Bar. They are my first and last,
The legacie I leave my friends behind me.
I never knew to flatter, to kneele basely
And beg from him a smile owes me an honour.
Ye are wreatches, poore starv'd wreatches fedd on crumbs
That he flings to ye: from your owne aboundaunce
Wreatched and slavish people ye are becom
That feele the griping yoak and yet bow to it.
What is this man, this Prince, this God ye make now,
But what our hands have molded, wrought to fashion,
And by our constant labours given a life to?
And must we fall before him now, adoare him,
Blow all we can to fill his sailes with greatnes?
Worship the Image we set up ourselves?
Put fate into his hand? into his will
Our lives and fortunes? howle and crye to our owne clay
"Be mercifull, ô Prince?" ô, pittied people!
Base, base, poore patch men! You dare not heare this;
You have sold your eares to slavery; begon and flatter.
When ere your politick Prince putts his hooke into my nose
Here must he put his Sword too.

Son. For certaine perishd. Utrecht is taken in, Modesbargen fled, And Leidenberge a Servant to their pleasures,— A prisoner, Sir.

Son. And, some say, has byn tortured, reveald much,
Even all he knowes. No letters are against ye,
For those he burnt; but they have so much foold him
That his owne tongue—

Son. My goverment of Barghen is disposd of; Their anger now against us all profest, And in your ruyn all must fall.

Bar. A prisoner!
Modesbargen fledd! I am glad he is scapt their fingers.
Now if the devill had but this Leidenberge
I were safe enough. What a dull foole was I,
A stupid foole, to wrap up such a secreat
In a sheepes hart! ô I could teare my flesh now
And beat my leaden braines!

Bar. Art thou my Son? thou lyest;
I never got a Parasite, a Coward.
I seeke the Prince or bend in base submission!
Ile seeke my grave first. Yf I needes must fall
And that the fatall howre is cast of Barnavelt,
Just like a strong demolishd Tower ile totter
And fright the neighbour Cuntries with my murmour.
My ruyns shall reach all: the valiant Soldier,
Whose eies are unacquainted but with anger,
Shall weep for me because I fedd and noursd him;
Princes shall mourne my losse, and this unthanckfull,
Forgetful Cuntry, when I sleepe in ashes,
Shall feele and then confes I was a father.

SCAENA 2.

Or. I am prowd your Lordships
So willingly restore me to that place
From which the envy of the Advocate
Of late hath forcd me. And that you may know,
How ere his mallice live to me, all hatred
Is dead in me to him, I am a Suitour
He may be sent for; for, as Barnavelt is
A member of this body politique,
I honour him, and will not scorne to yeild
A strict accompt of all my Actions to him;
And, though my Enemie, while he continues
A frend to his owne fame and loyall to[167]
The State, I love him and shall greive that he,
When he falls from it must deserve my pitty.

Vand. This disposition in your Excellence
Do's well becom you, but would wrong our iudgements
To call one as a partner to these counsailes
That is suspected, and ev'n then when all
His dark designes and deepest purposes
Are to be sifted.

Bred. It were most unfit, And therefore we entreat your Highnes to[167] Presse it no further.

Or. My good lords, your pardon;
You are your owne disposers.—Gentlemen,
I shall a while entreat ye to forbeare
The troble that you put upon yourselves
In following me. I can need no defence here,
Being left among these whose grave counsailes ever
Have lookd out for my safetie. 'Tis your pleasure
And therefore I embrace it.

Vand. Now, when you please,
Your Excellence may deliver what you have
Observ'd concerning the Arminian faction,
What hopes and heads it had, for without question
It found more favorers, and great ones too,
Then yet we have discoverd.

Or. My grave Lords,
That it hath byn my happines to take in,
And with so litle blood, so many Townes
That were falne of, is a large recompence
For all my travell; and I would advise
That (since[168] all now sing the sweet tunes of Concord,
No Sword unsheathd, the meanes to hurt cut off,
And all their stings pluckd out that would have used them
Against the publique peace) we should end here
And not with labour search for that which will
Afflict us when 'tis found. Something I know
That I could wish I nere had understood,
Which yet if I should speake, as the respect
And duty that I owe my Cuntry binds me,
It wilbe thought 'tis rather privat spleene
Then pious zeale. But that is not the hazard
Which I would shun: I rather feare the men
We must offend in this, being great, rich, wise,
Sided with strong frends, trusted with the guard
Of places most important, will bring forth
Rather new births of tumult, should they be
Calld to their Triall, then appease disorder
In their iust punishment; and in doing Justice
On three or foure that are delinquents, loose
So many thousand inocents that stand firme
And faithfull patriots. Let us leave them therefore
To the scourge of their owne consciences: perhaps
Th'assurance that they are yet undiscoverd,
Because not cyted to their answeare, will
So work with them hereafter to doe well
That we shall ioy we sought no farther in it.

Vand. Such mild proceedings in a Goverment
New setled, whose maine strength had it's dependaunce
Upon the powre of some perticuler men,
Might be given way to, but in ours it were
Unsafe and scandalous: then the Provinces
Have lost their liberties, Justice hir Sword,
And we prepared a way for our owne ruyn
When for respect or favour unto any,
Of what condition soever, we
Palliat seditions and forbeare to call
Treason by hir owne name.

2 Lord. Nor are we to consider who they are
That have offended, but what's the offence
And how it should be punishd, to deter
Others by the example.

Bred. Which we will doe;
And using that united powre which warrants
All we thinck fitt, we doe intreat your Highnes
(For willingly we would not say comaund you),
As you affect the safetie of the State
Or to preserve your owne deserved honours
And never-tainted loyaltie, to make knowne
All such as are suspected.

Or. I obey you;
And though I cannot give up certaine proofes
To point out the delinquents, I will name
The men the generall voice proclaimes for guiltie.
Modesbargens flight assures him one, nor is
The pentionary of Roterdam[169] Grotius,
Free from suspition: from Utrecht I have brought
The Secretarie Leidenberge, who hath
Confest alredy something that will give us
Light to find out the rest. I would end here
And leave out Barnavelt.

Will. 'Twer expedient That something should be practisd to bring in Modesbargen. Out of him the truth of all May be wroong out.

Vand. But with much difficultie to be performd;
For how to force him out of Germanie
(Whether they say hee's fledd) without a war,
At least the breaking of that league we have
Concluded with them, I ingeniously
Confes my ignoraunce.

Or. You are wellcom, Captaine; nay 'tis for your good That you are calld for. You are well acquainted With all the parts of Germanie?

Or. But doe you know the Castle Belonging to Modesbargens Aunt or Cosen,— Which 'tis I know not?

Or. Wee'll make use of it. It is of waight that you must undertake, And does require your secrecie and care.

Or. I beleeve you;
And, to confirme it, with all possible speed
I would have you to post thether: from the Borders
Make choice of any horsemen you thinck fitt,
And, when you come there, devide them into parties
And lodge neere to the Castle. Yf Modesbargen
Come forth to hunt, or if at any time
You find the draw-bridge up, break in upon him
And willing or unwilling force him hether.
You shall have gold to furnish you, and this don
Propose your owne rewards, they shalbe graunted.

Bred. Let him be
Kept safe a while: for Barnavelt, till we have
Some certaine proofes against him, I hold fitt
He have his libertie, but be suspended
From any place or voice in Court untill
His guilt or inocence appeere.

Boy. Indeed I doe not like their Countenaunces; They looke as if they meant you litle good. Pray you, put them away.

Leid. Alas, poore inocent, It is for thee I suffer; for my self I have set up my rest.

Or. Now, Mounseiur Leidenberch,
We send not for you, though your fault deserve it,
To load you with reproofe, but to advise you
To make use of the way we have found out
To save your life and honour. You already,
In free confession of your fault, have made
A part of satisfaction; goe on in it,
And you shall find a faire discovery
Of youre fowle purposes and th'agents in 'em
Will wyn more favour from theyr lordships to you
Then any obstinate deniall can doe.

Leid. All that I know I will deliver to you, And beyond that your Excellence nor their Lordships Will not, I hope, perswade me.

Boy. Then I will be a prisoner, too. For heaven sake
Let me goe with him, for theis naughtie men
Will nere wayt on him well. I am usd to undresse him
When he's to goe to bed, and then read to him
Untill he be a sleepe, and then pray by him:
I will not leave him.

Boy. You are a good Lord,
Indeed I love you for't and will pray for you.
Come, father; now I must goe too, I care not.
While I am with you, you shall have no hurt,
Ile be your warrant.

Or. 'Tis time to rise; And, if your Lordshipps please, we will defer Our other busines to an other sitting.

Vand. In the meane time wee'll use all honest meanes To sound the depth of this Confederacie, In which Heaven's hand direct us and assist us.

SCAENA 3.

2 Cap. Let 'em cutt deep enough,
They will doe no great cure els. I wonder strangely
They carry such a gentle hand on Leidenberch
That any frends come to him.

1 Cap. 'Has confest much, Beleeve it, and so far they feare him not, They would be els more circumspect.

2 Cap. Pray ye, tell me, Is there no further newes of those are fledd,— I meane those fellow Instruments?

1 Cap. None as yet,—
At least divulgd abroad. But certenly
The wise States are not idle, neither at this time
Do's it concerne their safeties. We shall heare shortly
More of theis monsters.

SCAENA 4.

Pro. Not so close, and't like your Lordship, But you may see and speake with him.

Bar. Now, Barnavelt, thou treadst the subtlest path,
The hardest and the thorniest, most concernes thee,
That ere thy carefull course of life run through:
The Master peece is now a foot, which if it speed
And take but that sure hold I ayme it at,
I make no doubt but once more, like a Comet,
To shine out faire and blaze prodigiously
Even to the ruyn of those men that hate me.

Leid. 'Tis a sad one And full of burthen, but I must learne to beare it. How stands your State?

Leid. The heavie hand of heaven is now upon us And we exposd, like bruizd and totterd vessells, To merciles and cruell Seas to sinck us.

Bar. Our Indiscreations are our evill fortunes,
And nothing sincks us but [our] want of providence.
O you delt coldly, Sir, and too too poorely,
Not like a man fitt to stem tides of dangers,
When you gave way to the Prince to enter Utrecht.
There was a blow, a full blow at our fortunes;
And that great indiscreation, that mayne blindnes,
In not providing such a constant Captaine,
One of our owne, to commaund the watch, but suffer
The haughtie English to be masters of it,—
This was not well nor fitting such a wisdom,
Not provident.

Leid. I must confes my errour; The beastly coldnes of the drowsy Burgers Put me past all my aymes.

Bar. O, they are sweet Jewells!
He that would put his confidence in Turnops[173]
And pickled Spratts—Come, yet resume your Courage,
Pluck up that leaden hart and looke upon mee;
Modesbargen's fledd, and what we lockt in him
Too far of from their subtle keys to open,
Yf we stand constant now to one another
And in our soules be true.

Leid. That comes too late, Sir, Too late to be redeemd: as I am unfortunate In all that's gone before, in this—

Leid. Most miserable. I have confessd. Now let your eies shoot through me And if there be a killing anger sinck me.

Bar. How I could cursee thee, foole, despise thee, spurne thee,
But thou art a thing not worthie of mine anger.
A frend! a dog: a whore had byn more secreat,
A common whore a closer Cabinet.
Confest! upon what safety, thou trembling aspyn,
Upon what hope? Is there ought left to buoy us
But our owne confidence? What frends now follow us,
That have the powre to strike of theis misfortunes,
But our owne constant harts? Where were my eies,
My understanding, when I tooke unto me
A fellow of thy falce hart for a frend?
Thy melting mind! foold with a few faire words
Suffer those secreats that concerne thy life,
In the Revealer not to be forgiven too,
To be pluckt from thy childes hart with a promise,
A nod, a smile! thyself and all thy fortunes
Through thy base feare made subject to example!
Nor will the shott stay there, but with full violence
Run through the rancke of frends, disperse and totter
The best and fairest hopes thy fame was built on.

Leid. What have I done, how am I foold and cozend! What shall redeeme me from this Ignoraunce!

Bar. Not any thing thou aymst at, thou art lost: A most unpittied way thou falst.

Leid. Not one hope To bring me of? nothing reservd to cleere me From this cold Ignoraunce?

Bar. But one way left,
But that thy base feare dares not let thee look on;
And that way will I take, though it seeme steepe
And every step stuck with affrights and horrours,
Yet on the end hangs smyling peace and honour,
And I will on.

Bar. Dye uncompelld, and mock their preparations, Their envyes and their Justice.

Bar. Dye willingly,
Dye sodainely and bravely: So will I:
Then let 'em sift our Actions from our ashes.
I looke to-morrow to be drawne before 'em;
And doe you thinck, I, that have satt a Judge
And drawne the thred of life to what length I pleasd,
Will now appeare a Prisoner in the same place?
Tarry for such an ebb? No, Leidenberch:
The narrowest dore of death I would work through first
Ere I turne Slave to stick their gawdy triumphes.

Bar. Dye any way,
Dye in a dreame: he that first gave us honours
Allowes us also safe waies to preserve 'em,
To scape the hands of infamy and tirrany.
We may be our owne Justice: he that loses
His Creadit (deere as life) through doubt or faintness
Is guilty of a doble death, his name dies;
He is onely pious that preserves his heire
His honour when he's dead.

Bar. 'Tis nothing:
Imagination onely makes it monstrous.
When we are sick we endure a hundred fitts,
This is but one; a hundred waies of torture,
And cry and howle, weary of all about us,
Our frends, allyes, our children teadious to us,
Even our best health is but still sufferaunce.
One blow, one short peece of an howre dos this,
And this cures all; maintaines no more phisitians,
Restores our memories, and there's the great cure,
Where, if we stay the fatall Sword of Justice,
It moawes the man downe first, and next his fashion,
His living name, his creadit.

Leid. Give me your hand, Sir;
You have put me in a path I will tread strongly;
Redeeme what I have lost, and that so nobely
The world shall yet confes at least I lovd ye.
How much I smile at now theis peoples mallice!
Dispise their subtle ends, laugh at their Justice!
And what a mightie Prince a constant man is!
How he can set his mind aloft, and looke at
The bussings and the busines of the spightfull,
And crosse when ere he please all their close weavings.
Farwell, my last farwell.

Leid. Our bodies are the earthes, that's their dyvorsse: But our immortall names shall twyn togeather.

SCAENA 5.

Hog. Yes;
That you all know, Grotius, they did at Utrich,
But since they have with more severitie
And scorne of us proceeded. Monsieur Barnavelt
Walkes with a thousand eies and guards upon him,
And has at best a painted libertie;
Th'Appollogie he wroat so poorely raild at,
(For answeard at no part a man can call it)
And all his life and Actions so detracted,
That he, as I am certenly informed,
Lookes every howre for worsse.

Gro. Come, come, they dare not,
Or if they should I will not suffer it;
I that have without dread ever maintaind
The freedom I was borne to, against all
That ever have provoakd me, will not feare
What this old Grave or the new Prince of Orange
Dare undertake beyond this, but will rise up
And if he lay his hands on Barnavelt,
His Court, our Guift, and where the generall States
Our equalls sit ile fry[175] about their eares
And quench it in their blood. What now I speake
Againe ile speake alowd; let who will tell it,
I never will fly from it.

Gro. Back you then to Leyden, Ile keep at Roterdam: there if he fetch me Ile nere repent whatever can fall on me.

SCAENA 6.

Leid. Indeed I will not; goe, I have much to doe; Prethee to bed; I will not waken thee.

Boy. You slept but ill last night, and talkd in your sleep, too; Tumbled and tooke no rest.

Leid. I ever doe soe. Good Boy, to bed; my busines is of waight And must not be deferrd: good night, sweet Boy.

Boy. I cannot tell, but sure a tendernes,
Whether it be with your kind words unto me
Or what it is, has crept about my hart, Sir,
And such a sodaine heavynes withall, too.

Leid. O, my Boy,
Thy teares are dew-drops, sweet as those on roses,
But mine the faint and yron sweatt of sorrow.
Prethee, sweet Child, to bed; good rest dwell with thee,
And heaven returne a blessing: that's my good Boy. [Exit boy.
—How nature rises now and turnes me woman
When most I should be man! Sweet hart, farewell,
Farewell for ever. When we get us children
We then doe give our freedoms up to fortune
And loose that native courage we are borne to.
To dye were nothing,—simply to leave the light;
No more then going to our beds and sleeping;
But to leave all these dearnesses behind us,
These figures of our selves that we call blessings,
Is that which trobles. Can man beget a thing
That shalbe deerer then himself unto him?
—Tush, Leidenberch: thinck what thou art to doe;
Not to play Niobe weeping ore her Children,
Unles that Barnavelt appeere againe
And chide thy dull-cold nature.—He is fast: [Son abed.
Sleepe on, sweet Child, the whilst thy wreatched father
Prepares him to the yron sleepe of death.
Or is death fabled out but terrable
To fright us from it? or rather is there not
Some hid Hesperides, some blessed fruites
Moated about with death. Thou soule of Cato,
And you brave Romaine speritts, famous more
For your true resolutions on yourselves
Then Conquest of the world, behold, and see me
An old man and a gowne man, with as much hast
And gladnes entertaine this steele that meetes me
As ever longing lover did his mistris.
—So, so; yet further; soe.

Leid. He dreames and starts with frightings.
I bleed apace but cannot fall: tis here;
This will make wider roome. Sleep, gentle Child,
And do not looke upon thy bloody father,
Nor more remember him then fitts thy fortune.
—Now shoot your spightes, now clap on all your councells;
Here is a constant frend will not betray me.
I, now I faint; mine eies begin to hunt
For that they have lost for ever, this worldes beutie—
O oh, ô oh! my long sleepe now has ceizd me.

Boy. I heard him groane and cry; I heard him fall sure.
O, there he lyes in his owne blood! ô father,
O my deare father, dead and bequeathd no blessing!
Why did I goe to bed, why was I heavy?
O, I will never sleep againe. The house there!
You that are verteous rise! you that have fathers!
Ho, Master Provost! ô my deerest father.
Some Surgeons, Surgeons!

Ser. What bloody sight is this? 'has killd himself: Dead, stone-cold dead; he needs no art of Surgeons.

Prov. This was a fatall stroak, to me a heavy,
For my remissnes wilbe loaden with it.
Bring in the Boy; ile to the State instantly;
Examine all the wounds and keep the knives;
The Boy fast too,—may be he knowes some circumstance.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Sold. Tis most likely, Sir; For round about the Castle, since the dawning, We have heard the merry noyse of hornes.

Cap. Dispeirce then,
Except some three or foure to watch the Castle
Least he break in againe. What Company
Have ye discoverd that attends him?

Sold. Few, Sir: I do not thinck he has five within the fort now Able to make resistaunce.

Cap. Let 'em be twenty
We are strong enough to fright 'em; and by all meanes
Let those that stay seek by some trick or other
To make the Bridge good, that they draw it not
If he returne upon us.

1 Hunt. The Hare was rotten[178];
You should have heard els such a rore, and seene 'em
Make all hir dobles out with such neat hunting
And run at such a merry rate togeather,
They should have dapled ore your bay with fome, Sir.

Mod. 'Tis very well, and so well I affect it
That I could wish I had nere hunted after
Any delight but this, nor sought more honour.
This is securely safe, drawes on no danger,
Nor is this Chace crost with malignant envy.
How sweatly do I live and laugh upon
The perrills I have past, the plotts and traynes!
And now (methincks) I dare securely looke on
The steepe and desprat follyes my indiscretion
Like a blind careles foole had allmost cast me on.
Here I stand saffe 'gainst all their strengths and Stratagems:
I was a boy, a foole to follow Barnavelt,
To step into his attempts, to wedd my freedom
To his most dangerous faction, a meere Coxcomb;
But I have scapd their clawes.—Have ye found more game?

2 Hunt. Horsemen, and't please ye, Sir, Scowt round about us, and which way still the doggs went They made up within view.

2 Hunt. For certaine they are Soldiers; for if theis are eyes I saw their pistolls.

Mod. No place safe for me! This Prince has long armes, and his kindled anger A thousand eyes—Make hast and raise the Cuntry.

Sold. Yes, that was certaine he that ridd of by us, When we stood close ith' brakes.

Cap. A devill take it! How are we cozend! pox of our goodly providence! If he get home or if the Cuntry know it!

Sold. Make haste, he is yet unmand: we may come time enough
To enter with him. Besides there's this advantage:
They that are left behind, instead of helping
A Boores Cart ore the Bridge, loden with hay,
Have crackt the ax-tree with a trick, and there it stands
And choakes the Bridge from drawing.

Cap. There's some hope yet. Away and clap on spurs: he shall scape hardly If none of us salute him. Mounte, mounte.

Mod. Hell take this hay! 'tis set on purpose here:
Fire it and draw the Bridge: clap faggotts on't
And fire the Cart and all. No Boores come in yet?
Where be your Musketts, Slaves?

Mod. You have sold me, Rogues, betrayd me: fire the Cart, I say, Or heave it into th' Moat.

Hunt. We have not men enough. Will ye goe in? the Cuntry will rise presently, And then you shall see, Sir, how wee'll buckle with 'em.

Cap. Stir not a foote,
For he that do's has mett his preist.—Goe, ceize his body,
But hurt him not. You must along with us, Sir:
We have an easie nag will swym away with ye,—
You ghesse the cause, I am sure. When you are ith' saddle once,
Let your Boores loose; we'll show 'em such a baste.
Do not deiect yourself nor rayle at fortune;
They are no helpes: thincke what you have to answeare.

Mod. Captaine, within this Castle in ready coyne I have a thousand ducketts: doe me one curtesie, It shalbe brought out presently.

Cap. No, I thanck ye,
I know a trick worth ten o'that: ile love ye
And bring ye to those men that love to see ye.
Away, away; and keepe your pistolls spand still:
We may be forced.

SCAENA 2.

Vand. 'Has don it and most desperately,
Nor could strong nature stay his hand,—his owne Child
That slept beside him: which showes him guilty, lords,
More then we suspected.

Or. 'Tis to be feard soe
And therefore, howsoere I movd your lordships
To a mild and sweet proceeding in this busines,
That nothing might be construde in't malitious
And make the world believe our owne ends wrought it,
Now it concernes ye to put on more strictnes
And with seveerer eyes to looke into it:
Ye robb yourselves of your owne rightes els, Justice,
And loose those pious names your Cuntries safeties.
And sodainely this must be don and constantly:
The powrs ye hold els wilbe scornd & laughd at,
And theis unchristian stroakes be laid to your charge.

Bred. Your Grace goes right; but with what generall safetie
(For ther's the mayne point), if we proceed seveerely
May this be don? We all know how much followed
And with what swarmes of love this Mounsieur Barnavelt
Is courted all the Cuntry over. Besides, at Leyden
We heare how Hogerbeets behaves himself,
And how he stirrs the peoples harts against us.
And Grotius has byn heard to say, and openly,
(A man of no meane mark nor to be slighted)
That if we durst imprison Barnavelt
He would fire the Court and State-house, and that Sacrifize
He would make more glorious with your blood and ours, Sir.

Vand. All angers are not armd; the lowdest Channell Runs shallowest, and there betrayes his weaknes: The deep & silent man threatens the danger.

Or. If they had equall powre to man their wills
And hope, to fling their miseries upon us,
I that nere feard an Army in the feild,
A body of most choice and excellent Soldiers
And led by Captaines honourd for experience:
Can I feare them or shake at their poore whispers?
I that have broke the beds of Mutenies
And bowde againe to faire obedience
Those stubborne necks that burst the raynes of order,
Shall I shrinck now and fall, shot with a rumour?
No, my good Lords, those vollyes never fright me;
Yet, not to seeme remisse or sleep secure here,
I have taken order to prevent their angers;
I have sent Patents[182] out for the choicest Companies
Hether to be remov'd: first, Collonell Veres
From Dort; next Sir Charles Morgans, a stowt Company;
And last my Cosens, the Count Ernests Company:
With theis I doubt not to make good our busines;
They shall not find us babes.

Vand. And now proceed when it please you, and what you thinck fit We shall subscribe to all.

SCAENA 3.

Bar. This from the King of Fraunce, of much importance,
And this from Englands Queene, both mightie Princes
And of immortall memories: here the Rewards sett,—
They lou'd me both. The King of Swechland this,
About a Truyce; his bounty, too. What's this?
From the Elector Palatine of Brandenburge,
To doe him faire and acceptable offices:
I did so; a rich iewell and a chaine he sent me.
The Count of Solems, and this from his faire Countess
About compounding of a busines:
I did it and I had their thancks. Count Bentham,
The Archbishop of Cullen, Duke of Brunswick,
Grave Embden: theis from Citties, theis from Provinces;
Petitions theis; theis from the States for places.
Have I held correspondence with theis Princes,
And had their loves, the molding of their busines,
Trusted with their most secreat purposes?
Of every State acquainted with the misteries?
And must I stick here now, stick unreleevd, too?
Must all theis glories vanish into darknes,
And Barnavelt passe with 'em and glide away
Like a spent exhalation? I cannot hold;
I am crackt too deepe alredy. What have I don
I cannot answeare? Foole! remember not
Fame has too many eares and eyes to find thee!
What help, ô miserable man? none left thee.
What constant frends? 'tis now a cryme to know thee
… … … be death.

Bar. Are they so greedy of my blood?—O, pardon me: I know thee now; thou art my honest Servant. What would thy Lady?

Bar. I cannot eate; I am full alredy, tell hir:
Bid hir sitt downe: full, full, too full. [Exit Serv.
My thancks
Poyzd equally with those faire services
I have done the States, I should walk confidently
Upon this high-straind danger. O, this end swayes me,
A heavy bad opinion is fixt here
That pulls me of; and I must downe for ever.

Bar. Please me! what please me?—that I send thee, Girle, To some of my great Masters to beg for me. Didst thou meane so?

Bar. Thou art too charitable
To prostitute thy beutie to releeve me;
With thy soft kisses to redeeme from fetters
The stubborne fortune of thy wretched father.

Bar. Prethee, good Girle, Be not so cruell to thy aged father To somme up all his miseries before him.

Bar. There can be no attonement:
I know the Prince: Vandort is fleshd upon me,
And Bredero, though he be of noble nature,
Dare not step in. Wher's my Son William?
His Goverment is gon, too; and the Soldier,
O, the falce Soldier! What! wouldst thou have a husband?
Goe, marry an English Captaine, and hee'll teach thee
How to defy thy father and his fortune.—
I cannot eate; I have no stomach, Girle.

Bar. No news from Grotius? No flow of frends there? Hoger-beets lye still, too? —Away: ile come anon.

Bar. A gentle Girle: why should not I pray, too?
I had nere more need. When I am sett and gon,
What understanding can they stick up then
To fill the place I bore? None, not a man:
To traffick with Great Princes? none: to deale
With all the trobles of the war? None, certaine, no man:
To bring in daylie treasure? I know no man;
They cannot pick a man made up to serve 'em.
Why should I feare then? doubt, and fly before
Myne owne weake thoughts?—Art thou there, too?

Wife. Fy, fy, Sir:
Why do you suffer theis sad dead retirements
To choake your speritts? You have studied long enough
To serve the uses of those men that scorne ye;
'Tis time you take your ease now.

Bar. Never till now unhappie! Thy fruit there and my fall ripen togeather And fortune gives me heires of my disgraces.

Bar. What will becom of thee, Wiffe,
When I am gon? When they have gorgd their envies
With what I have, what honest hand in pitty
Will powre out to thy wants? What noble eye
Will looke upon my Children strooke with miserie
And say 'you had a father that I honourd;
For his sake be my Brothers and my Sisters.'

Bar. I hope not;
Yet what so confident Sailour that heares the Sea rore,
The winds sing lowd and dreadfull, the day darkend,
But he will cry 'a storme'! downe with his Canvas
And hull, expecting of that horrid feavour?

Son. Plucke up your hart, Sir, fairely And wither not away thus poorely from us; Be now secure: the myst ye feard is vanishd,— Leidenberch's dead.

Son. Killd himself; his owne hand
Most bravely was his Justice; nor left behind him
One peece of paper to dishonour ye.
They are all to seeke now for their Accusations.

Bar. Give me some wyne. I find now, notwithstanding
[Enter Servant with wine.
The opposition of those mindes that hate me,
A wise-man spyns his owne fate and secures it.
Nor can I, that have powre to perswade men dye,
Want living frends to iustifie my Creadit.
Goe in and get me meat now; invyte my frends,
I am determind to be high and merry.
Thou hast lost thy Charge; wee'll have another, Will;
It shall goe hard els. The Prince of Orange now
Will find what frends I have, and of what reckning;
And when he seekes this life, he must make passage
Through thousands more and those he little dreames of.

Bar. He was a weak man, indeed, but he has redeemd it: There be some other I could wish of his mind. Do'st thinck they dare doe any thing now.

Bar. No, Boy, I warrant thee; they make great soundes, But mark what followes. Prethee, let's be merry, I want it much.

Bar. I cannot be above two daies from Councell, I know their wants. How now, what haste?

Wife. He will not be denyde. O, my deare Husband! The cruell Princes Captaine!

Cap. Ope the dore; Wee'll force it els, and all that dare resist us Wee'll put to th'Sword.

Bar. Open the dore: farewell, Wiffe;
Goe to the French Embassadour presently;
There's all my hope. To him make knowne my misery,
Wooe him with teares, with praires: this kisse; be happie.

Bar. Away!—
You Instrument of blood, why doe ye seeke us?
I have knowne the day you have wayted like a suppliant
And those knees bended as I past. Is there no reverence
Belonging to me left now, that like a Ruffian
Rudely ye force my lodgings? No punishment
Due to a cryme of that fowle nature?

Cap. You must pardon me,
I have commission, Sir, for what I offer,
And from those men that are your Masters, too;
At least you'll find 'em soe. You must shift your lodging,
And presently: I have a charge to see ye
Yeild yourself quietly.

Bar. Goe and tell their Lordships
I will attend to-morrow. I know my time
And how to meet their mallice without guards.
This is the Prince, the cruell Prince your Master,
The thirstie Prince of this poore Life.

Bar. I wilbe vext,
And such an anger I will fling amongst 'em
Shall shake the servile soules of these poore wretches
That stick his slight deservings above mine.
I charge ye draw your Guard off and disperce 'em:
I have a powre as full as theirs.

Bar. And am I subiect
That have stood the brunt of all their busines,
And when they slept watcht to secure their slombers,—
Subiect to slights, to scornes, to taynts, to tortures?
To feed one privat mallice am I betrayd?
Myne age, myne honour and my honest dealing
Sold to the hangmans Sword?

Bar. Take me
And glory in my blood, you most ungratefull;
Feed your long bloody hopes and bath your angers
In Barnavelts deservings; share my Services;
Let it be death to pitty me; to speak well of me,
The ruyn of whole famylies. When I am gon
And angry war againe shall ceize your Cuntry,
Too late remember then and cursse your follyes.
—I am ready. Farwell, Son; remember me
But not my fortune; let them cry that shall want me.

SCAENA 4.

Or. 'Twas with discretion and valour followd. You were not noted as you made entraunce Into the Hague?

Or. The better.
Let his being brought in be still conceald, and tell him
If uncompelld he will confes the truth
At Barnavelts Arraignement, that all favour
That I can wyn him shall prepare a way
To quallifie his fault.

Cap. 'Tis Kramis[186]-time,
In which it is a custome with the people
To deck their dores with Garlonds, Bowghes, and flowres
That are most gratious.

[1] Burg. Strew, strew: more Garlonds and more Flowres.
Up with the Bowghes! Sacramant, I will have
My noble frends house, Mounseiur Barnavelts,
As well deckt as his Excellencies Court,
For though they have got him in prison he deserves
As well as any.

[2] Burg. They dare not. People will talke: I hope ere long to see him As great as ever.

[1] Burg. Greater too, I doubt not, And of more powre; his feet upon the necks Of all his Enemies.

Or. I am glad I heard this; And Barnavelt shall feele I will make use oft. Come; follow me. [Exeunt.

Wife. All thancks, kind frends, that a sad house can give ye
Pray you receive; for I rest well assurd,
Though theis sports are unseasonable here,
They testifie your loves; and, if my Lord
Ere live to be himself againe, I know
He will remember it.

2 Burg. To a doyt, my vroa, to thy Lords health and thyne. The Bree[189] for his Excellencie and the Heeres That love him not. Ten hundred thousand blessings To him and thee, my vroa. [Daunce.

SCAENA 5.

Vand. Let him be sent for presently: he shall know, [A Bar brought in. Were he ten times more popular, his frends And flatterers Centuple, the Sword of Justice Shall fall on him as on the meanest man Since he deserves it.

Bar. My dutie to your Highnes and theis Princes
And an increase of wisdome to your Lordships,
For which the world admires you, I wish to you.
Alas, what troble do's a weake old man,
(That is, being out of all imployment, useles)
The bag of his deserts, too, cast behind you,
Impose upon this Senat? My poore life
(Which others envy makes your Instruments
To fight against) will hardly be a Conquest
Worthie such great performers.

Vand. Mounseiur Barnavelt,
'Tis no mans envy that hath brought us hether
To sitt as Judges on you, but your owne.
Your owne late actions they have raisd a war
Against your former merritts, and defeated
What ever then was ranckt for good and great,
For which your Enemies, those that you thought frends,
Triumph, not wee.

Bre. We rather wish you could Acquitt yourself of that for which we have Too evident prooffes, then labour to intrap you.

Bar. I must beleeve and suffer whatsoever Your Lordships charge me with: yet would gladly heare What my faultes are.

Officer reads. First, that the Arminian faction (of which Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt, late Advocate of Holland and West Frizeland and Councellor of State, was without contradiction the head) had resolved and agreed to renounce and break the generallity and unitie of the State.

Secondly, Change and alter the Religion, and to that end, without the
Consent of the Generall States, had raysed up and dispeirsed 3000
Arminian Soldiers.

Fourthly, To massacre the people of the Townes which were their greatest
Enemies or offered resistaunce.

Fiftly, yf that fayled, to take in assistaunce of some forreigne
Potentates, as Spaine or Brabant, delivering unto them Utricht,
Nunweghen, Bergen op Zone, and the Brill—

Bar. And that, with others, this was Barnavelts purpose? For so your Lordships take it.

Bar. Yf you will have them such,
All truth I can bring to dyvert your Lordships
From your determinate opinion that way
Will not remove them. Yet 'tis strange that man
Should labour to devide those Generall States
That had no weak hand in unyting them,—
That Barnavelt (a name you have remembered
When you have thought by whom you were mad happie)—
That Barnavelt (alowd I dare repeat it),
Who, when there was Combustion in the State,
Your Excellence, Grave William and Count Henrie,
Taking instructions for your Commaunds
From one that then ruld all; the Provinces
Refucing to bring in their Contributions
And arguing whether the West Frizelander
And Hollander had powre to raise such Tribut,
When many of the Governours stood ill
Affected to you, all our Garrisons
Not sworne then to the Generall States but others,
Which the promiscuous multitude gladly followed:
When Graves and Vendloe were held by the Spaniard
And Nunweghen with violence assaulted,
Confusion with one greedy gripe being ready
To seaze on all; then when the Sluice was lost
And all in muteny at Midleborough,
Who then rose up or durst step in before me
To doe these Cuntries service? Who then labourd
More then the now suspected Barnavelt
T'appease seditions and compound all Quarrells?
Who pacified the Malcontents? Who taught you
To stand upon your Guards and trust yourselves?
O, you forgettfull, all this I performd
And in the golden fagot of faire Concord
Bound safely up those strengthes which Mutenies,
Corruption and homebred Traitors scatterd.

Vand. This is a point you often choose to treat of, And yet some part of theis good services None will deny you.

Or. But to ingrosse all Would argue me your ward, should I give way too't, And these grave Lords your Schollers.

Bar. In the Art
Of Goverment they scornd not once to be soe,
Nor you to give me hearing: and if ever
'Twer lawful th' unthanckfull men t'upbraid
Unequall benefitts, let it not in me
Be now held glorious if I speake my best.
I have five times in regall Embassies
Byn sent the principall Agent for theis Cuntries,
And for your good have spoken face to face
With mightie Kings: twyce with that virgin Queene,
Our Patronesse of happie memory,
Elizabeth of England; twyce in Fraunce
With that invincible King that worthely
(Though dead) is still'd the Great, Henry the fourth;
Once with the King of Britaine that now is:
Yet let my greatest Enemy name the least
Of theis so high Imployments in which I
Treated without advantage, and returnd not
With proffitt, as with honour, to my Cuntry,
And let me fall beneath the worst aspersion
His mallice can throw on me. Besides Soldiers
So often levied by my meanes for you,
Which to particularize were teadious,
Two millions and five hundred thousand pounds,
For which the Provinces stood bound, I wrought
Freely to be dischargd; the Townes they pawnd
To be deliverd up; and after all
Theis meritorious and prosperous travells
T'unyte theis States, can Barnavelt be suspected
To be the authour to undoe that knot
Which with such toyle he fastend[190].

Or. Pawse, I beseech you,
And while you gather breath to fill the Trumpet
Of your deserts give me leave to deliver
A litle for the States and mine owne honour.
We have heard a glorious Catalogue of your vertues
But not one vice or slip of yours rememberd;
But I will help your memory:—who was he
That gave intelligence of my sodaine comming
To surprize Antwerpe? They that brought the Letters
Were knowne and but from you could have no notice
Of any such design. Who hinderd me
From rescuing of Rheinberch in the last Seige?
Who warranted the yeilding of it up
Without necessitie to the Governour?
Who was the cause no greater powre was sent
Against the Enemie when he past the Rhine
And tooke the Townes of Oldensell, Lingen, Groll?
To thinck of this would give a litle vent
To the windy bladder of your vanitie
Which you have blowne to an unlymitted vastnes.
Your Insolence to me before the Battaile
Of Flaunders I forget[191].—
Call in Modesbargen.

Modesb. O, Mounseiur Barnavelt, do we meet thus?
I am as sorry to behold you there
As know myself a Prisoner. Now you perceive
To what a desperate state your headlong Counsells
And rash designes have brought us: to stand out now
Were to no purpose, for, alas, they have
Too pregnant prooffes against us.

Bar. You that feele
The horrour of fowle guilt in your falce bosom
Confes yourself soe; my strong Inocence
To the death stands constant.

Vand. This is an impudence I never read of.
But now wee'll show thee, miserable man,
Such further prooffes as would call up a blush
Upon the devills cheeke. Looke upon this,
Signd by the Governor, Chauncellor and Counsell
Of Gilderland and Zutphen, who here name thee
The roote and head of the late Schisme.

Bred. And this
Sent from the Lords of Utrecht, where 'tis prov'd
That the new Companies were raisd by you,
And to what purpose.

William. To subvert Religion, To deface Justice and to breake the union And holly League betweene the Provinces.

[Henry.[193] The Proclamations are allowd by you
Sent forth against the Protestants; and here
Your resolution to degrade my Brother
And then dispose of him as you thought fitt.]

Vand. Your plott here to withdraw all the old Soldiers From the Commandement of the States, and wyn them To serve for your ends in a Civill war.

Bred. To raise up Cittizen against Cittizen, Stranger gainst stranger, Soldier against Soldier, And Maiestrates against the Maiestrates.

Or. To waste the Land within that with lesse danger
The forraigne Enemy might make his entraunce.
Yf then this be not treacherie beyond
All presidents of Traitours—

Bar. Give me Leave
Onely to smile, then say all theis are falce,
Your witnesses subornd, your testemonies
And wrytings forgd, and this elaborate forme
Of Justice to delude the world a cover
For future practises: this I affirme
Upon my soule[194]. Now when you please condempne me:
I will not use one sillable for your mercy
To have mine age renewd and once againe
To see a second triumph of my glories.
You rise, and I grow tedious; let me take
My farwell of you yet, and at the place
Where I have oft byn heard; and, as my life
Was ever fertile of good councells for you,
It shall not be in the last moment barren.
Octavius[195], when he did affect the Empire
And strove to tread upon the neck of Rome
And all hir ancient freedoms, tooke that course[196]
That now is practisd on you; for the Catos
And all free sperritts slaine or els proscribd
That durst have stir'd against him, he then sceasd
The absolute rule of all. You can apply this[197]:
And here I prophecie I, that have lyvd
And dye a free man, shall when I am ashes
Be sensible of your groanes and wishes for me;
And when too late you see this Goverment
Changd to a Monarchie[198] youll howle in vaine
And wish you had a Barnavelt againe.
Now lead me where you will: a speedy Sentence:
I am ready for it and 'tis all I ask you.

SCAENA PRIMA.

Wife. Denyde to see my Husband! ô you Tirants!
And (to increase my misery) in vaine
By heaven I kneeld for't, wept and kneeld in vaine
To such as would, while Barnavelt was himself—
But why do I remember that word 'was,'
That never happie word of 'was.'

Serv. Good Madam,
Beare (with your usuall wisdom) what is not
In you to help. The strict guard's kept upon him;
His State ceizd on; my Lord your Son disgracd, too,
And all your frends suspected, may assure you
No price beneath his head must answeare for him.

Serv. I sweare to you I saw him
Not many howres since, and hundreds more;
But yet, as one that's bound to honour him,
I had rather have had assuraunce of his death
Than so to have seen him.

Serv. I have followd him
When every step he made met a Petition,
And these, that are his Judges now, like Clyents
Have wayted on him. The whole Court attended
When he was pleasd to speake, and, with such murmours
As glad Spectators in a Theater
Grace their best Actors with, they ever heard him;
When to have had a sight of him was held
A prosperous omen; when no eye gazd on him
That was not filld with admiration, not
As now with scorne or pitty. His rude Guard,
For proofe that they contempne all such as ayme
Or hope for his release (as if he were
Some prodigie or monster), each night show him
To such as greive his fortune, which must be
To him worse then ten thousand deaths made horrid
With all the actes of Crueltie.

Wife. My good Servant,
He has some frends left yet and powerfull ones
That can doe more then weepe for him as we doe;
Those I will strayt sollicite. In the meane time,
That to his comfort he may know so much,
Endeavour thou to have this simple present
As from thy self sent to him.

Serv. Sir, to desire accesse unto my Lord
Were to ask that I know must be denide,
And therefore I forbeare it; but intreating
What cannot wrong you in the graunt, I hope
To find you curteous.

Serv. This onely:
My Lord, your prisoner, for my service gave me
A poore house with an Orchard in the Cuntry.
The fruites of which he did not scorne to taste of
In th'height of his prosperitie; but of all
That pleasd his pallat there was one faire tree,
On which theis Peares grew, which by his appointment
Were still reservd for him, and as a Rent
Due for my Living I stood bound to tender.
Theis, yf you please, the last I shall pay to him,
I would present him with, by what Attorney
Your goodnes shall prescribe me.

Prov. They are faire Peares, Exceeding faire ones: ile make bold with one, The rest beare to him.

Pro. Home!
This is no place for women. To your Gossips!
This burthen would become a Chamber better.

Prov. You long for't: pray you take it,
You are priviledgd now to beg.—Ha! charmes in't? stay,
Give mee't. I would not for a thousand dollars
This had byn undiscoverd. Pray you goe home;
At night ile see you.

Prov. Make out for the fellow
That came with this device. 'Twas queintly carried:
The stalke pluckt cleanly out, and in the quill
This scroll conveyd. What ere it be the Prince
Shall instantly peruse it.

Prov. I intercepted it in a dish of Peares Brought by a man of Barnavelts, but sent to him From some of better ranck.

Or. See what is written here,— 'You have frends left and therefore, Sir, dispaire not.'

Vand. 'Tis this that feeds his Insolence, theis are they
That, when they should have paid their prairs for him
As for a guilty man, adoarnd his house
In the dispight of us and of our Justice.

Bred. But such shall find their flattering breath but makes The fire, our Cuntries safetie byds us cherish, To burne with greater heate.

Or. The freedom of our goverment, and our honours,
And what we dare doe now lies at the stake.
The better part of all the christian world
Marks our proceedings, and it wilbe said,
Yf having the Conspirators in our powre
We sentence none of them, being convincd, too,
Of fowre and thirtie Articles and each treason,
'Tis don for feare. Then, to affright the rest,
I hold it fitt that Barnavelt, one that has
Most frends and meanes to hurt, and will fall therefore
With greater terror, should receive his Sentence,
Then dye as he deserves. For Modesbargen
And Hogerbeets we shall find fitt time to
Thinck of them hereafter.

Vand. In the meane time 'tis fit we should give hearing To the French Embassadors, who, I know, come now To mediat for him.

Bred. Wayt upon them in: Their Propositions shalbe answeard freely, And by such men as are their frends, not Servants.

Boi[202]. We will plead for him and prevaile, we doubt not.
Take comfort therefore, Madam, and a while,
Since you are not to be admitted here,
Leave us to our endeavors.

Bois. My good Lords,
We are commaunded by the King our Master
(Who ever hath respected your affaires
As the tranquility of his owne kingdoms)
To let you thus far understand his pleasure:
He do's exhort you, as the best foundation
Of your estate, with all care to preserve
The union of your provinces, and wishes
The change that you have made of Maiestrates,
The Advocate and Counsellors of State
In many of your Townes, breed not dissentions
In steed of ceasing them. Touching your Prisoners
That stand accusd of detestable Crymes,
His Counsaile is, if they be culpable,
That you use speedy Justice and with rigour.

Mor. Ever remembring that the greatest Princes
Have sometimes to their glory byn most apt
To pardon what was enterprizd against
Their Goverments, nay their lives; and that the freest
And the best Common-Wealthes, have alwaies usd
To spare the blood of their owne Cittizens,
And that in great offenders—it still being
The principall signe of libertie and freedom
Not easily, but with mature advice,
To touch the lives of Cittizens.

Bois. And the rather
When question is made of such as are
Your officers placed in authoritie,
Of whom the ancientst Mounsieur Barnavelt,
So much commended for so many good
And notable services don for theis Cuntries,
Deserves most serious regard. My Master
And other Kings & Princes your allyes,
Lyving yet witnesses of his great meritts
And with such admiration that they can
Be hardly brought to thinck he should conspire
Against these States, for which yourselves best know
What travayles he hath undergon; and therefore
Once more he do's advice you to use mercy,
Which if you doe, he then shall thinck you merit
The many favours you have tasted from him:
Yf not, he having given you whollsom Counsaile,
Yf you refuce it he must thinck himself
Slighted in his requests; and then, perhaps,
Hereafter you may misse that promptnes in him
Which you have found when your wants most requird it.

Vand. May it please your Highnes in the names of all To make their Lordships answeare.

Or. Willingly;
For I must still be glad to take occasion
To speak how much your Lordships and myself
Ever stand bound to that most Christian King
Whose favours, with all thancks, we must acknowledge
As with all care preserve. Onely we hope
His Maiestie will give us leave to say
We greive that he is misinformd of us
And our proceedings, of which we hereafter
Will give him certaine and unanswerable proofes
To iustefie our Actions, which we will
Make knowne to all the world; till when we wish
He will be pleasd to give way to the States
To finish what they have begon, with Justice
Temperd with mercy; and that your good Lordships
Will give his Grace to understand thus much,
If with the generall voice you doe approve it.

Bred. We will confirme it with our generall Seale, And send our answeare to his Propositions With our respect and duties.

Vand. Yes, here it is. The peoples loves grow daungerous;
In every place the whispers of his rescue;
The lowd and common voice of his deservings
Is floong abroad. Nor doe they handle theis things
By rules of truth and reason, but their owne wills—
Their headstrong hott affections.

Bred. Sit downe then, And now with speedy Justice let's prepare To cutt off this Imposthume.

Bred. Mounseiur Barnavelt,
Will ye confes yet freely your bad practises
And lay those Instruments open to the World,
Those bloody and bold Instruments you wrought by?
Mercy may sleepe awhile but never dyes, Sir.

Bar. I have spoake all I can, and seald that all With all I have to care for now, my Conscience. More I beseech your honours—

Vand. You will give us no more lights: What this world gives you, To morrow thus we take away. Receive it.

Or. Now guard him back againe: by the break of day You shall have order from us.

Vand. Nor shall the desperate act of Leidenberch
Delude what we determind. Let his Coffin
Be therefore hangd up on the publique Gallowes.
Th'Executioners like hungry vultures
Have smelld out their imployment.

Or. Let them have it:
And all that plot against the generall good
Learne from this mans example, great in age,
Greater in wealth and in authoritie,
But matchles in his worldly pollicie,
That there is one above that do's deride
The wisest counsailes that are misaplide.

SCAENA 2.

Har. Now hard and sharpe, for a wager, who shall doe it. Here's a Sword would doe a man's head good to be cut of with it; cures all rhumes, all Catharres, megroomes, verteegoes: presto, be gone!

Ley. You must not carry it, Harlem: you are a pretty fellow and lop the lyne of life well, but weake to Baltazar. Give roome for Leyden: heer's an old Cutter, heer's one has polld more pates and neater then a dicker[204], of your Barbers; they nere need washing after. Do's not thy neck itch now to be scratchd a little with this?

Har. No, in truth do's it not; but if you'll try first, yf I doe not whip your dodipoll as clenly of and set it on againe as handsomely as it stands now, that you may blow your nose and pledge me too Cans after—

Utr. You two imagine now
You are excellent workmen and that you can doe wonders,
And Utrecht but an Asse. Let's feele your Raizors:
Handsawes, meere handsawes! Do you put your knees to'em too,
And take mens necks for timber? You cutt a feather?
Cut butter when your tooles are hot! Looke here, puppies;
Heer's the sword that cutt of Pompeis head.

Utr. Looke on't but come not neere it: the very wind on't
Will borrow a leg or an arme. Heers touch & take, boyes!
And this shall moaw the head of Mounsieur Barnavelt.
Man is but grasse and hay: I have him here
And here I have him. I would undertake with this Sword
To cutt the devills head of, hornes and all,
And give it to a Burger for his breakfast.

Ley. We know you have byn the headman of the parish
A great while, Utricht, and ministerd much Justice,
Nickt many a worthie gamester; and that you, Harlem,
Have shortend many a hanging cause, to your Commendation:
Yet, for all this, who shall trym Monsieur Barnavelt
Must run by fortune. You are proper men both;
But why before me that have studdied the true trick on't
Theis twenty yeeres, and run through all the theorems?

Har. Sit round, then: here are dyce, and ile begin to ye.
Have at your head, Sir John! dewce ace[206]; a doggs-head![207]
The devill turnd this ace up. Farwell, velvet gowne!
Thou hast mist the luckiest hand to scratch thy Coxcomb.

Ley. No, no, Sir. Now for my part. Heigh! fight aloft for the head, boyes. How? Cater-trey[208]?

Ley. 'Tis but a desperat cast, and so hee'l find it, If it fall to me. Cast for your game.

Utr. Have at it:
Stay, let me swing my Sword thrice round first: now,
Now the Graves head … goose giblitts.—
Two sixes, boyes! I knew I should performe it.

Utr. I could not misse it,
I never lost so faire a stake yet. How ile doe it
And in what posture: first, how ile take my leave of him,
With a few teares to draw more money from him;
Then fold up his braunchd[209] gowne, his hat, his doblet,
And like the devill cry 'mine owne! lye there, boyes!'
Then bind his eyes; last stir myself up bravely
And, in the midle of a whollsome praire,
Whip and—hic iacet Barnavelt.—
Come, let's sing our old Song,
And then come view me how I doe my busines.
Boy, come, sing you for me.

SCAENA 3.

2 Cap. Cock all your Musketts, Soldiers, now, And gentlemen be ready to bend your pikes; The prisoner's comming out.

2 Cap. Heaven keep me from such frights. Why are theis Guards Commaunded to make good the Execution, If they intend not death?

2 Cap. What dare not Justice do that's right and honest?
Is he not proov'd a guilty man? What bugs
Should publick safety be afraid to looke on?
Do you hold the United States so tame to feare him,—
Feare him a Traitor, too?

1 Cap. You know hee's much lov'd, And every where they stir in his Compassion.

2 Cap. They'll stir so long till some of 'em will sinck for't, Some of the best I feare that glewd his faction; Their building lyes discoverd and their bases broken.

1 Cap. There is much money laid in every place, too, Hundreds and thousands, that they dare not strike him.

2 Cap. Give loosers leave to play the fooles; 'tis lost all.
Secure yourself he dyes; nor is it wisdom
To go an ace lesse with him: he is monstrous.
—The people hurry now; stand fast, he is comming.

Pro. Make roome before! cleere all theis gaping people And stop their passage.

2 Cap. What thinck you now? dare not theis men do Justice? This is the body of Leidenberg, that killd himself To free his Cause: his shame has found him yet.

Exec. A plaguy, heavy Lubber! Sure this fellow
Has a bushell of plot in's belly, he weighes so massy.
Heigh! now againe! he stincks like a hung poll cat.
This rotten treason has a vengeance savour;
This venison wants pepper and salt abhominably.

Exec. I warrant ye; If ere he run away againe ile swing for him. This would make a rare signe for a Cookes shop, The Christmas pie. [Exeunt Executioners.

1 Cap. Now I am afraid of him. This prologue should portend a fatall Tragedie: Theis examples will make 'em shake.

2 Cap. 'Tis well they have 'em;
Their stubbornenes and pride requires 'em greater.
The Prince strikes iust ith' nick and strikes home nobely:
This new pretending faction had fird all els;
They had floong a generall ruyn on the Cuntry.

1 Burg. Pox o' theis Soldiers? We cannot see our frends hangd in quiet for 'em. Come, come, to th' top oth' hall.

2 Cap. Away, good pilchers![211] Now blow your matches and stand fast: he comes here.

Prov. Cleere all the Skaffold; Let no more into th'Court; we are choakd with people.

Bar. Feareles I will, my lords,
And, what you can inflict, as feareles suffer.
Thus high you raise me, a most glorious kindnes
For all my Cares! For my most faithfull service
For you and for the State thus ye promote me!
I thanck ye, Cuntrymen, most nobely thanck ye.
—Pull of my Gowne. Of what place are ye, frend?

Exec. To tell you true, Sir, I won this place at dyce: we were three appointed.

Bar. Am I becom a generall game? a Rest[212]
For every Slave to pull at? Thanck ye still:
You are growne the noblest in your favours, gentlemen.
—What's that hangs there? what Coffin?

2 Lord. I, the Traitour, the fowle Traitour, Who, though he killd himself to cleere his cause, Justice has found him out and so proclaimd him.

Bar. Are theis the holly praires ye prepare for me—
The comforts to a parting soule? Still I thanck ye,
Most hartely and lovingly I thanck ye.
Will not a single death give satisfaction,
O you most greedy men and most ungratefull,—
The quiet sleep of him you gape to swallow,
But you must trym up death in all his terrors
And add to soules departing frights and feavors?
Hang up a hundred Coffins; I dare view 'em,
And on their heads subscribe a hundred treasons
It shakes not me, thus dare I smile upon 'em
And strongly thus outlooke your fellest Justice.

Bar. I come to dye: bethinck you of your Justice
And with what Sword ye strike, the edge of mallice.
Bethinck ye of the travells I had for ye,
The throaes and grones to bring faire peace amongst ye;
Bethinck ye of the dangers I have plundgd through
And almost gripes of death, to make you glorious.
Thinck when the Cuntry, like a Wildernes,
Brought nothing forth but desolation,
Fire, Sword and Famine; when the earth sweatt under ye
Cold dewes of blood, and Spanish flames hoong ore ye,
And every man stood markt the child of murder
And women wanted wombes to feed theis cruelties;—
Thinck then who stept in to you, gently tooke ye
And bound your bleeding wounds up; from your faces
Wipd of the sweatts of sorrow, fed and nurssd ye;
Who brought the plowgh againe to crowne your plenty;
Your goodly meadowes who protected (Cuntrymen)
From the armd Soldiers furious marches; who
Unbard the Havens that the floating Merchant
Might clap his lynnen wings up to the windes
And back the raging waves to bring you proffit.
Thinck through whose care you are a Nation
And have a name yet left,—a fruitfull Nation
(Would I could say as thanckfull)—bethinck ye of theis things
And then turne back and blush, blush [for] my ruyne.

1 Lord. 'Tis strange how this [man b]rags; 'tis a strange impudence
Not to be pittied in his [case], not sufferd.
You breed the peace, you bring the plowgh againe?
You wipe the fire and blood of from this Cuntry,
And you restore hir to hir former Beuty?
Blush in thine age, bad man; thy grave blush for thee
And scorne to hide that man that holds no Creadit.
Beare witnes all the world that knowes our Trobles
Or ever greiv'd our plagues, what we have sufferd
And, under Heaven, by what armes we have cur'd theis,—
Councells and frends; in which I tell thee (Barnavelt),
And through thy Impudence I here proclaime it,
Thou hadst the least and last share. 'Tis not your face, Sir,
The greatnes of your friends, corruptly purchast,
The Crying up of your manie Services,
Which lookd into wither away like Mushrumps,
Shall scandall us.

2 Lord. Your Romaine end, to make men
Imagine your strong conscience fortifide,
No, nor your ground Religion. Examine all men
Branded with such fowle syns as you now dye for,
And you shall find their first stepp still Religion.
Gowrie in Scotland, 'twas his maine pretention:
Was not he honest, too? his Cuntries father?
Those fyery Speritts next that hatchd in England
That bloody Powder-Plot, and thought like meteors
To have flashd their Cuntryes peace out in a Moment:
Were not their Barrells loden with Religion?
Were not they pious, iust and zealous Subiects?
Humble your soule for shame, and seeke not now, Sir,
To tumble from that happines even Angells
Were throwne from for their pride. Confes, and dye well.

Bar. I come not heather To make myself guilty; yet one fault I must utter, And 'tis a great one.

Bar. My Game's as sure as yours is,
And with more care and inocence I play it.
Take of my doblet; and I prethee, fellow,
Strike without feare.

Bar. Most hartely,
And heer's my hand. I love thee, too: thy physick
Will quickly purge me from the worldes abuses.
When I speak lowdest, strike.

Bar. Farwell, my lords: to all your Counsailes fortune,
Happie succes and proffit; peace to this Cuntry;
And to you all, that I have bredd like children,
Not a more faithfull father but more fortunate.
Doe not I stay too long?

Bar. I have a wiffe, my lords, and wretched children,
Unles it please his Grace to looke upon 'em
And your good honours with your eies of favour.
'Twill be a litle happines in my death
That they partake not with their fathers ruyns.

Bar. Commend my last breath to his Excellence;
Tell him the Sun he shot at is now setting,
Setting this night, that he may rise to morrow,
For ever setting. Now let him raigne alone
And with his rayes give life and light to all men.
May he protect with honour, fight with fortune,
And dye with generall love, an old and good Prince.
My last petition, good Cuntrymen, forget me:
Your memories wound deeper then your mallice,
And I forgive ye all.—A litle stay me.—
Honour and world I fling ye thus behind me,
And thus a naked poore man kneele to heaven:
Be gracious to me, heare me, strengthen me.
I come, I come, ô gracious heaven! now, now,
Now, I present—

1 Lord. Somewhat too much; you have strooke his fingers, too, But we forgive your haste. Draw in the body; And Captaines, we discharge your Companies.

Vand. Make cleere the Court.—Vaine glory, thou art gon! And thus must all build on Ambition.

2 Lord. Farwell, great hart; full low thy strength now lyes: He that would purge ambition this way dies.

INTRODUCTION TO CAPTAIN UNDERWIT.

This anonymous Comedy is printed, for the first time, from Harl. MS.
7,650,—a small quarto of eighty-nine leaves. I have followed Halliwell
(Dictionary of Old Plays) in adopting the title, Captain Underwit.
There is no title-page to the MS.

An editor with plenty of leisure on his hands would find ample opportunities in Captain Underwit for discursive comment. Sometimes I have been obliged to pass over odd phrases and out-of-the-way allusions without a line of explanation; but in the index at the end of the fourth volume I hope to settle some difficulties that at present are left standing.

The date of the play I take to be circ. 1640 or 1642. In I. 1 there is a mention of the "league at Barwick and the late expeditions," where the reference can only be to Charles I.'s march into Scotland in the spring of 1639, and to the so-called Pacification of Berwick. Again, in III. 3, there is an allusion to the Newmarket Cup. Historians of the Turf say that Newmarket races date from 1640; but this statement is incorrect, for in Shirley's Hyde Park (V. 1),—a play licensed in 1632 and printed in 1637,—mention is made of a certain "Bay Tarrall that won the Cup at Newmarket." We find also an allusion to the "great ship" (III. 3), which was built in 1637. Of Mr. Adson's "new ayres" (IV. 1) I know very little. He brought out in 1621 a volume of "Courtly Masquing Ayres," but published nothing later,—although, of course, he may have continued writing long afterwards. Hawkins and Mr. Chappell are altogether silent about Adson's achievements.

Gerard Langbaine tells us that Shirley left at his death some plays in manuscript: I have little doubt, or rather no doubt at all, that Captain Underwit is one of them. In the notes I have pointed out several parallelisms to passages in Shirley's plays; and occasionally we find actual repetitions, word for word. But apart from these strong proofs, it would be plain from internal evidence that the present piece is a domestic comedy of Shirley's, written in close imitation of Ben Jonson. All the characters are old acquaintances. Sir Richard Huntlove, who longs to be among his own tenants and eat his own beef in the country; his lady, who loves the pleasures of the town, balls in the Strand, and masques; Device, the fantastic gallant,—these are well-known figures in Shirley's plays. No other playwright of that day could have given us such exquisite poetry as we find in Captain Underwit. The briskness, too, and cleverness of the dialogue closely recall Shirley; but it must be owned that there are few plays of Shirley's written with such freedom, not to say grossness.

[CAPTAIN UNDERWIT, A COMEDY.]

Un. Come, my man Thomas, and my fathers old man Thomas; reioyce, I say, and triumph: thy Master is honourable.

Un. I am made a Captaine of the traind band,[214] Thomas, and this is my Commission, this very paper hath made me a Captaine.

Tho. Are you a paper Captaine, Sir? I thought more had gone to the makeing up of a Captaine.

Un. They are fooles that thinke so, provided he have the favour of the Livetenant of the County.

Un. The honour of it is more then the thing, Thomas, since I did not bribe the Secretarys steward or what servant else so ever hath the government of his Lordship therein.

Un. Not so much as transitorie wicker bottles to his Deputy Livetenant, no fewell for his winter, no carriages for his summer, no steple sugarloaves to sweeten his neighbours at Christmas, no robbing my brave tennants of their fatt Capons or Chickens to present his worship withall, Thomas.

Tho. I cry your worship mercy, you sold him land the last terme; I had forgott that.

Un. I, that lay convenient for him. I us'd him like a gentleman and tooke litle or nothing; 'twere pitty two or three hundred acres of dirt should make friends fall out: we should have gone to fenceing schools.

Un. Thou saist right, Thomas, it lies betweene both our houses indeed. But now I am thus dignified (I thinke that's a good word) or intituled is better, but tis all one; since I am made a Captaine—

Un. Thou art deceavd; it is by vertue of the Commission,—the Commission is enough to make any man an officer without desert; Thomas, I must thinke how to provide mee of warlike accoutrements to accomodate, which comes of Accomodo[215]: Shakespeare. The first, and the first—

Un. In troth, and it does, Thomas; but take out your table bookes and remember to bring after me into the Country, for I will goe downe with my father in law Sir Richard this morning in the Coach,—let me see—first and formost: a Buff Coate and a paire of breeches.

Tho. First and formost: Item, a Buff Coate fox and a paire of breeches of the same Cloth.

Un. A paire of gray stockins, thick dapple gray stockins, with a belt, to be worne either about my shoulder or about my wast.

Un. An old fox[216] blade made at Hounsloe heath, and then all the Bookes to be bought of warlike discipline, which the learned call Tacticks.

Tho. Ticktacks.[217]—If your worship would take my Counsell, considering the league at Barwick[218] and the late expeditions, wee may find some of these things in the North or else speake with some reform'd Captaine, though he bee a Catholike; and it may bee wee may have them at cheaper rates.

Un. 'Tis true, Thomas: but I must change the lynings of the breeches, for I love to bee cleanly.

Tho. At the harnesse of the Carthorses there are tassells and Bells, too, if you will.

Un. Thou would'st make me a Captaine of a Morris dance. What serve the phifes and Drumms for, prethee?

Tho. But does your worship thinke you shall endure the bouncing of the Gunns? I observed you ever kept a way of at the Musters.

Un. Thou shalt therefore every morne goe a birding about the house to inure me to the report. By that tyme thou hast kild all my pigeons I shall endure the noise well enough.

Tho. But, Sir, you must have a dry Nurse, as many Captaines have. Let me see: I can hire you an old limping decayed Sergeant at Brainford that taught the boyes,—he that had his beard sing'd of at the last Muster: hee'le doe it bravely.

Tho. Alas, twenty pipes[219] of Barmudas a day, six flagons of March[220] beere, a quart of Sack in a weeke, for he scornes meate; and the kitching wench to bring the shirt to him and the only band, for Cuffs he gets none but such as his drunkennes procures him with quarrelling.

Un. No, I shall be bashfull to learne of a stranger, thou sha't goe seeke out Captaine Sackburye.

Tho. He that weares no money in his scarlett hose, and when he is drunke is infected with Counsell?

Un. The very same; you shall find him at his Lodging in Fleetstreet or in the next taverne. Give him this Letter; tell him I desire his Companie this summer in the Country. He shall have a horse of mine, say:—here, give him this gold, too.

Un. Beside, he is very valiant; he beate me twice when he was drunk, but, poore fellow, I ask'd him forgivenes the next day. Make hast, good Thomas, and remember all the Tacticks.

Un. Oh, good Sir Richard, indeed my face is the worst part about mee; and yet it will serve at the Muster.

Do. Serve! With reverence to the title, I have seene a Generall with a worse Countenance. It is a good leading face, and though you have no cut ore the nose or other visible scarre, which I doubt not but you may receave all in good tyme, it is a quarrelling face and fitt for a man of warre.

Un. I thanke you, sweet mistress Dorothy: I will commend you as much when you are in the Countrey.—But doe you resolve to goe downe this morning, Sir?

Sir Rich. By all meanes: is your sister readie? bid the Coachman make hast, and have a care you leave none of your trinketts behind: after a little dialogue with my scrivenour Ile returne, and then to Coach.

Lady. But why this expedition, this posting out of towne as the Aire were infected?

Sir Rich. The[222] truth is, my sweet Ladie, we have no Exchange in the Country, no playes, no Masques, no Lord Maiors day, no gulls nor gallifoists[223]. Not so many Ladies to visit and weare out my Coach wheeles, no dainty Madams in Childbedd to set you a longing when you come home to lie in with the same fashion'd Curtaines and hangings, such curious silver Andirons, Cupbord of plate and pictures. You may goe to Church in the Countrey without a new Satten gowne, and play at penny gleeke[224] with a Justice of peaces wife and the parsons; show your white hand with but one Diamond when you carve and not be asham'd to weare your owne wedding ring with the old poesie. There are no Doctors to make you sick wife; no legends of lies brought home by yong gallants that fill my Dyning roome with fleas and new fashions, that will write verses upon the handle of your fanne and comend the education of your Monkey, which is so like their worships as they were all of one familie. I have no humour to provokeing meates; I will downe and enter into a Christian diett, Madam. There is sport in killing my owne partridge and pheasant; my Trowtes will cost me less than your Lobsters and crayfish drest with amber greece[225], and I may renew my acquaintance with mutton and bold chines of beefe; entertaine my tenants, that would pay for my housekeeping all the yeere and thanke my worship at Christmas, over and above their rents, with Turkies and Beeves of supererogation. You may guesse I have some reason to change the aire, wife, and so I leave you to prepare your selfe: You have my purpose and may expect mee. [Exit.

Lady. However he may pretend, and point at charge
Which makes his stay unpleasant, 'tis his Jelousie
That strikes him into wildnes and dislike
Of all things here: he does not use mee well.
—Where is my sister?

Un. This Wench has a notable witt, if I have any Judgment: I doe not thinke but shee's in love with me. If I thought shee were not given to be with child I would examine her abilities; but these waiting women are so fruitfull, when they have a good turne from a gentleman they have not the vertue of concealment: touch a Chambermaide and take a Child, —everything workes with their soluble bodies.

Un. I know not whome you meane, sir: he that comands the family in chiefe, hath been honor'd with a sword and "rise Sir Richard" (who is but my father in lawe[226] to a[nd?] by a former wife): for Mr. Underwitt, whome to salute you humbled your Cloth a gold Dublet, I ken not the wight.

Un. Upon even tearmes I may call your name to memorie, but if you understand not my addition[227] it is honourable to forgett the best friend I have.

Un. He that was Mr. Underwit is made a Captaine; you may, if you please, take notice of his title.

De. I beg your mercy, noble Captaine, and congratulate your addition of honour. It was Ignorance which, I professe, made me salute you with a wrong preface. Now, Capt., I shall bee proud to march under the ensigne of your favour.

Un. Friend Device, how does thy body? I am thy vassall; servant is for porters, watermen & lacquies, & is no witt neither. You preserve your tropes and your elegancies? What fancies doe adorne to-day? If I were a Constable I might apprehend you for suspition you had robd a pedlar. Does this thatchd cottage head hold still in fashion? What paid you for this dead mans hair? Where's your night rail[228]? The last time I saw you was in Fleetstreet, when at Complement and bare to an other gentleman. I tooke him for a Barber and I thought you by the wide lynnen about your neck [to] have been under correction in the suds[229], sir.

De. Wee are govern'd by the Mode, as waters by the Moone; but there are more changes in th'one than t'other. But does your Comand extend to the Sea or the land service?

De. You are not the first Captaine that has seene no service: 'tis time lost to travell for't when a man may bee a Comander at home. I never traveld myselfe.

De. And yet I understand garbes, from the elevation of your pole to the most humble galosh.

Un. Can your hanches play well in these close cut breeches? they want but a pummell to distinguish 'em from Trouses[230].

De. O sir, there is a perfect geometry in these breeches; you doe not observe the morality of your fancie, nor the gentile play and poize of your Lemon, Orange or Melon: this is gentry. Why, I understand all the curiosities of the Mode to a Mathematicall point, and yet I never travaild in all my life for't.

Un. These are extraordinary parts. Alas, a Captaine has but fifty or a hundred at most to looke after, and all they have not so much witt as your French Lacquey. And what need any travaile to instruct them? I can teach them their motions by word of mouth: when they come to fight, my Countrymen will retreate naturally.

Lady. Now in revenge could I bee rich, but that
I would not be a prisoner to my Chamber.
These superstitions will make women doe
Strange things sometymes.

Sis. I hope he has no suspition of my servants,
That, under the pretence of formall Courtship
To mee, should ayme at his dishonour: there's
One that would weare my livery.

Lady. Device?
Hang him, outside! no, my husband loves
His folly and would have him the state foole,
His garbes are so ridiculous.

Sis. What opinion
(Still with a confidence of your cleere thoughts)
Holdes he of the Knight Sir Francis Courtwell,
That often visits us?

Lady. Sure a Noble one,
If I may aske my Innocence; yet I find
Him very amorous. O my husband loves him;
He is a powerfull man at Court, whose friendship
Is worth preserving. Sister, I confesse
His nobleness and person hath prevaild
With mee to give him still the freest welcome
My modestie and honor would permitt;
But if I thought my husband had a scruple
His visits were not honourable, I
Should soone declare how much I wish his absence.

Un. Your Mistresse and my Lady; I have some Affaires require despatch, ile leave you to 'em. [Exit.

Lady. You come to take your leave as knowing by instinct wee have but halfe an hour to stay.

Sis. Wee are for the Countrey as fast as your Flanders mares will trott, sir.

De. That's a Solecisme till the Court remove;—are you afraid of the small pox?

De. And the greater more genty for a Cavallier. By this glove (a pretty embroidery is't not?) you must not deprive us so soone of your sweet presence. Why, there's a Ball to night in the Strand and tomorrow I had a purpose to waite upon you to the pictures; I ha' bespoke regalias[231] there, too. There will be a new play shortly, a pretty Comedy written by a profest Scholler: he scornes to take money[232] for his witt, as the Poetts doe.

De. You must needs stay and give your opinion. What will become of me when you are gon, Ladie?

Lady. If your devotion catch not cold you may breath your Barbary and visit us, where you may be confident of your welcome.

De. I dare as soone doubt I was Christned. But pray let us visit the Exchange and take a trifle to weare for my sake before you goe. What say, Madam? my owne Coach is at dore, the lyning is very rich and the horses are very well matcht.

De. You invite me to my happines. I can play well o' the kittar; I thinke your musique is but course there; wee'le have a Countrey dance after supper and a song. I can talke loud to a Theorbo[233], too, and thats cald singing. Now, yee shall heare my Ballet.

De. Oh I, the greatest wit lies that way now; a pittifull Complaint of the Ladies when they were banish'd the Towne[234] with their husbands to their Countrey houses, compeld to change the deere delight of Maske and Revells here for Wassail and windie bagpipes; instead of Silken Fairies tripping in the Banquetting Roome, to see the Clownes sell fish in the hall and ride the wild mare, and such Olimpicks, till the ploughman breake his Crupper, at which the Villagers and plumporidge men boile over while the Dairy maid laments the defect of his Chine and he, poore man, disabled for the trick, endeavours to stifle the noise and company with perfume of sweat instead of Rose water.

Lady. 'Tis Sir Francis Courtwell; You cannot choose but know him.—This must bee A favour, Sir, to visit us at parting.

Sir Fr. I came with other expectation, Madam,
Then to heare this: I could receave no newes
So unwelcome. What misfortune doth conclude
The Towne so unhappie?

Lady. 'Tis my husbands pleasure, Affrighted with some Dreame he had last night; For I can guess no other cause.

De. He cannot choose but know me then.—Sir, I kisse your noble hand and shall be stellified in your knowledge.

Sir Fr. What thing's this that looks so like a race Nagg trick'd with ribbands?

Sir Fr. Lady, your faire excuse.—He has, it seemes, Some confidence to prevaile upon your liking That he hath bought so many Bride laces.

Sir Fr. He moves upon some skrues and may be kinsman To the engine that is drawne about with Cakebread, But that his outside's brighter.

De. No, sir; an English Monsier made up by a Scotch taylor that was prentice in France. I shall write my greatest ambition satisfied if you please to lay your Comands upon mee.

Sir Fr. Sweet lady, I beseech you mussell your beagle; I dare not trust my selfe with his folly, and he may deserve more beating then I am willing to bestow at this tyme.

Lady. Still the old businesse;
Indeede you make me blush, but I forgive you
If you will promise to sollicite this
Unwelcome cause no more.

Sir Fr. 'Tis my desire;
I take no pleasure in a pilgrimage.
If you instruct a nearer way, 'tis in
Your will to save your eare the trouble of
My pleading, Madam, if with one soft breath
You say I'me entertain'd; but for one smile
That speakes consent you'le make my life your servant.

Lady. You but pleade
For vanitie: desist, for if I could
(Forgetting honour and my modestie)
Allow your wild desires, it were impossible
That wee should meete more then in thought and shadowes.

Sir Fr. If these shadowes, Madam, be but darke enough,
I shall account it happines to meet you.
But referr that to opportunitie,
Which our kind starrs in pitty will sooner offer
To both our ioyes.

Sir Fr. That word assures my victorie; I never
Heard any wife accuse her husband of
Or cold neglect or Jealousie, but she had
A confirm'd thought within to trick his forehead—
It is but Justice, Madam, to reward him
For his suspitious thoughts.

Lady. D'ee thinke it fitt To punish his suspition yet perswade To act the sinne he feares?

Sir Fr. Custome and nature make it less offence
In women to comitt the deed of pleasure
Then men to doubt their chastity; this flowing
From poison'd natures, that excus'd by fraielty.
Yet I have heard the way to cure the scare
Has bin the deed; at truth the scruples vanish.
I speake not, Madam, with a thought to suffer
A foule breath whisper your white name; for he
That dares traduce it must beleeve me dead,
Or my fame twisted with your honour must not
Have pitty on the Accusers blood.

Device. I will attend you in the Countrey; I take my leave and kiss your ivory hand; Madam, and yours. Sir Francis, your obliged. [Exit.

Sir Fr. You bless me with this promise. —How can you, lady, suffer this impertinent Afflict you thus? [Ex. Lad.

Sis. Alas, my parrat's dead and he supplies the prattle: ith' spring and fall he will save me charge of phisick in purgeing Melancholy.

Sir Fr. If you dare
Accept a servant, Ladie, upon my
Comends, I should present a kinsman t'ee
Who sha'not want a fortune nor, I hope,
A meritt to possesse your faire opinion.

Sis. You doe not say he is hansome all this while, and that's a maine consideration. I wod not have a man so tall as a Mast, that I must clyme the shroudes to kisse him, nor so much a dwarfe that I must use a multiplying glass to know the proportion of his limbes. A great man is a great house with too much garret and his head full of nothing but lumber: if he be too round agen hees only fitt to be hung upp in a Christall glasse. The truth is the man I love must please me at first sight; if he take my eye I may take more tyme to examine his talent.

Sir Fr. Do you but grace him with accesse and aske your owne fancie, Ladie, how you can affect him. Ile not despaire if he were cur'd of modesty, which is the whole fault in his behaviour; but he may passe without contempt.

Un. Come away, Cosen; Sir Richard's come and calls for you; the Coachman is ready to mount. Noble Sir Richard, because you may not loose breath, you may call me a Captaine, please you, a Captaine o' the train'd band.

Un. If you come into the Countrey you shall see me doe as much with my leading staff as another.

Un. If I did 'tis not the first time I ha thrash'd. If I find my Souldiers tractable they shall find me but a reasonable Captaine.

Sir Rich. Sir Francis, I am sorrie the violence of my affaires wonot let me entertaine you to my wishes. Pray honour us with your presence in the Countrey, if you can dispence with your employments, when I shall satisfie for this haste of my departure.

Sir Fr. I shall attend you, Sir, and present a kinsman of mine to this virgin Ladie: he is like to be Master of no narrow fortune. It was my busines at this tyme only to prepare his accesse.

Tho. Not about me, Sir, but he is ready, all but brideling and sadling, at our Inne, Captaine. My master sayes you shalbe troubled with no horse but his.

Tho. What? Truehunt, the black nag with three white feete? he lame? You meane that I ride upon my selfe.

Cap. Hum,—'make hast as you will preserve the reputation of your true friend and servant:'—so, so—Comend me to him, Thomas; I wonot faile to visit him.

Tho. You may demand the Nag, if you ask for Humfrey the Ostler, by the same token he has bin there this foure dayes and had but one peck of provender.

Cap. Enough I wonot faile, I say. Farewell, honest Tom a Lincolne, farewell: comend me to the traind band.

Tho. Pray doe not fall a drinking and forgett it: bu'oy[236], noble Captaine. [Exit.

Cap. Is thy sight perfect?
Thy poring upon statutes and booke cases
Makes me suspecte. But dost thou thinke to bee
A Dominus factotum on the Bench,
And be a Civill Lawyer?

Cap. Tis more then thou hast been this twelvemonth: th'ast
Lost thy Complexion with too much study.
Why, thou shalt be an heire and rule the rost
Of halfe a shire, and thy father would but Dye once;
Come to the Sizes with a band of Janisaries
To equall the Grand Signor, all thy tenants,
That shall at their owne charge make themselves fine
And march like Cavaliers with tilting feathers,
Gaudy as Agamemnons[237] in the play:
After whome thou, like St. George a horseback
Or the high Sheriff, shall make the Cuntrey people
Fall downe in adoration of thy Crooper
And silver stirrup, my right worshipfull.
A pox a buckram and the baggage in't!
Papers defil'd with Court hand and long dashes,
Or Secretarie lines that stradle more
Then Frenchmen and lesse wholsome to the Client.
Is thy head to be fild with Proclamations,
Rejoynders and hard words beyond the Alchemist[238]?
Be ruld, and live like a fine gentleman
That may have haukes and hounds and whores and horses,
And then thou art fitt Companie.

Cou. You talke wildlie;
I wou'd you saw your Errour that place all
Your happinesse upon such course delights.
I should degenerate too much and forfet
My education.

Cap. Education! he has gott a tune:
I doe not thinke but thou wilt leave thy law
And exercise thy talent in composeing
Some treatises against long haire and drinking
That most unchristian weed yclipt tobacco;
Preach to the puisnes[239] of the Inne sobrietie,
And abstinence from shaveing of lewd Baylies
That will come shortlie to your Chamber doores
And there with reverence entreat your worships
Come forth and be arrested,—precious tappoles!
I wo'd not willingly despaire of thee,
For thy Lands sake and cause I am thy Countreyman.
One generous Vagarie, and thou wer't wise,
Would breake somebodies hart within a sennight,
And then th'art Lord of all. Have but the grace
To dine wo' mee at taverne and ile tell
Thy friends there is some hope.

Cap. Thy father's
In Essex: if he live heele purchase Romford;
If he die sooner then the towne's our owne;
Spend but an acre a day and thou maist live
Till all the world be wearie of thee. Betweene
Us two, what thincke you of a wench?

Cap. You meane one wench betweene us two is nothing.
I know a hundred Leverets[240], things that will
Bound like a dancer on the rope and kiss thee
Into thy naturall complexion:
A sinner that shall clime thee like a squirrell.

Cap. Wy, farewell, Countreyman: I may live yet to witnes thy conversion. [Exit.

[SCENE 2.]

Un. And hast thou been carefull of all those things I gave charge to be provided?

Tho. The Captaine wonot faile to be w'ee, sir. He was not at his lodging; and inquiring at the Horne tavern, I heard he had been there with two or three Cittizens that ow'd him mony.

Tho. Tis all one, I thinke, Sir; for when Captaines have not pay, the creditors may pay themselves. Here they said he did mollifie the hart of the haberdashers and dranke himselfe a little mellowe ere they parted, which gave me some hope I might find him ere night at the Divell, where indeed I fetcht him out of the fire and gave him your Letter.

Tho. That was the first word he read; if you did not write it in text he could not have found it out so soone. His eye was no sooner in the inside but his arme flew out with an open mouth and his very fingers cryed "give me the gold"! which presumeing to be weight he put in his hocas pocas, a little dormer under his right skirt; and so takeing his word to come downe and turning over your horse to him, with caution not to be drunk and forgett your worship, I tooke my leave and went about my Inventorie.

Un. Theis things are very right, Thomas. Let me see now the bookes of Martiall discipline.

Tho. This I conceiv'd to have the vertue of Achilles speare: if you bee hurt you need goe no further then the blade for a Surgeon.

Tho. I, Sir, that is a kind of killing which I thought very necessary for a Captaine.

Tho. That I took upon the Stationers word, who had been a pretty Schollar at Paules; for the word Bellarmine, he said, did comprehend warr, weapons and words of defiance. Ill words provoke men to draw their sword, and fighting makes an end of the busines; and all this is controversy. Pray, goe on, Sir.

Tho. Oh, sir, for ticktack. You know it was in my note, which though I doubted at first, yet considering you were newly made a Cap: I conceiv'd it was fitt you should learne to sett and or[d]er your men.

Tho. Not of themselves, Sir, and therefore I provided: please you read on, Sir.

Un. Summa totalis three and twenty poundes nyneteene shillings and sevenpence.—Thou hast undone mee.

Tho. If you doe not like the pennyworths tis but the charges of my selfe and a horse agen to London. I will lose but the three odd pounds 19s and 7d: it may be you doe not understand these Authors: when the Captaine comes he will expound 'em to you.

Un. What a Coxcombe have I to my man! but I dare not be angry with him. Well, carry 'em into my study, Thomas.

Un. My compleat Monsier Device, this is a grace to us. You come to visit your Mistres my Cosen. As if by instinct she had knowledge of your [Enter Ladie and Sister, & Dorothy. approach, she is come to meet you.—Shall I never get opportunitie with that shee waiter! If I gett her with Child my man Thomas shall marry her.

De. Not I, by this white hand. I must acknowledge there are some Ladies in the Court in whose eyes and opinion I am favour'd. I cannot obscure my selfe from their observation; but my heart with contempt of all other endeerement is only devoted to your service.

Sis. Is't not a charge to dresse your selfe with such variety of Ribbands every day?

De. Is that your scruple? Tis the Mode to express our fancie upon every occasion; to shew the turne and present state of our hope or feares in our Affection. Your colours to an understanding Lover carry the interpretation of the hart as plainely as wee express our meaning one to another in Characters. Shall I decipher my Colours to you now? Here is Azure and Peach: Azure is constant, and Peach is love; which signifies my constant Affection.

De. Oh, it saves the trouble of writing, where the Mistres and Servant are learned in this amorous blazon. Yesterday I wore Folimort, Grisdelin and Isabella: Folimort is withered, Grisdelin is absent, and Isabella is beauty, which put together express I did wither or languish for your absent beautie.

De. Yes, Lady: for example, your Follimort is a withred leafe, which doth moralise a decay: your yellow is joy, because—

De. No, your Lemon colour, a pale kind of yellow, is Jealous; your yellow is perfect joy. Your white is Death, your milke white inocence, your black mourning, your orange spitefull, your flesh colour lascivious, your maides blush envied, your red is defiance, your gold is avaritious, your straw plenty, your greene hope, your sea greene inconstant, your violet religious, your willow forsaken.

Sis. We may then comitt a solecisme and be strangely interpreted by such curious expounders in the rash election and wearing of our colours, I p[er]ceave.

De. Your Hierogliphick was the Egiptian wisdome, your Hebrew was the Cabala, your Roman had your Simball or impresse; but they are now obsolete, your embleme trite and conspicuous, your invention of Character and Alphabeticall key tedious and not delightfull, your motto or rebus too open and demonstrative: but the science and curiosity of your Colours in Ribbands is not only instructive but an ornament and the nearest Comentator of Love; for as Love is entertain'd first by the eye, or, to speake more plaine, as the object affected is tooke in first by these opticks which receive the species of the thing colord & beautifide, so it is answerable to nature that in the progresse of our passion we should distinguish by our eye the change or constancy of our affections in apt and significant colours.

De. It is the onely gentile knowledge or philosophie in the world. I will undertake to open any man or womans hart.

De. Tell the most secret imaginations and designes conclude every passion and scruple, if they be carefull to observe the artificiall method of their colours.

De. You say right, Lady: phisiognomy and chiromancy are but trifles; nay, your geomancie meere coniecturall, the execution of your schemes circumstantiall and fallible, but your quaint alamode weare of your fancie more then astrologicall.

De. You say very true, Madam, and comes neere to propheticall if the minds of Ladies and gentlemen were elevated to the just and sublime consideration.

Do. Well, I have read Authors in my dayes and knew the length of the poets in my tyme too, which was an hexameter and which a pentameter, but the wits are not as they have been—right and straite.

Do. Why, because wind is the cause of many things; now if the wind bee not in the right corner tis the ill wind our proverbe speakes of that blowes nobodie good; for when vapors and wind flie into the head it cannot be in two places at one time: and that's the reason your men of most wit doe seldome love a woman.—But here comes my Master and Sir Francis.

Ri. This is a double honour to us, Sir Francis. I shall want language, but not a friendly hart to entertaine you and your noble kinsman. What my exquisite Cavalier Device!—tis to no purpose I see to remove into the Countrey to save charges and be quiet; the whole Citty will come hither if I stay. I have no stomack to my kn't.

Ri. Sister, I present this gentleman; observe and cherish him; he has been i'th Universitie.

Sis. Indeed it is the high way in which some Deliver up their purses. He may clime To scarlet, but that he has too good a face.

Ri. Troth, do not, Sir,—I meane, trouble yourselfe: He is too bashfull to prevaile upon Your spirited mistres!

Ri. More customers? Mr. Engine, welcome; Your presence was unexpected in the Countrey.

En. Twas my ambition with some intents
To serve you, sir. Please you vouchsafe your privacie,
I bring Affaires are worth your entertainement:
I have rid hard.

Fra. He is the inventor of new proiects, cosen, They say, and patents; one that lives like a moth Upon the Common wealth.

Fra. Weele leave my Nephew and your sister, Madam, And take a turne i'th garden.

De.—I doe not like the fancie in his hat; That gules is warre and will be ominous.

Sis. The gentleman's turnd statue! blesse me how
He staires upon me and takes roote, I thinke.
It mooves, and now to earth is fixt agen;
Oh, now it walkes and sadly marches this way.
Is't not a ghost? heele fright me. Oh, sweet sir,
Speake if you can and say who murderd you.
It points at me: my eyes? ungentle eyes
To kill so at first sight! Ile have my lookes
Arraigned for't and small Cupid shall be judg,
Who for your sake will make me blind as he is.

Sis. The man's alive agen and has
A tongue! discretion guide it; he but sent
His soule forth of an arrand; tis returnd,
Now wee shall have some sentences.

Co. Such are the strange varieties in love, Such heates, such desperate coldes,—

Sis. No more winter, and you love me, unlesse you can command the colepits; we have had a hard tyme on't already for want of fuell.

Co. I'me all turnd eares and, Lady, long to heare you,
But pressing to you doubt I am too neare you.
Then I would speake, but cannot; nought affordes
Expression, th'Alphabet's too poore for wordes:
He that knowes Love knowes well that every hower
Love's glad, Love's sad, Love's sweet—

Sis. And sometymes sower. Theis wordes would goe well to a tune; pray letts heare you sing. I doe not thinke but you can make me a ioynture of fower nobles a yeare in Balletts, in lamentable balletts; for your wit I thinke lies tragicall. Did you make the Ladies Downefall[242]. You expresse a passion rarely, but pray leave Your couplets and say something in blanck verse Before you goe.

Co. Before I goe? breath not that killing language:
There is no sunne but in your eyes, and when
I once take leave of those celestiall beames
I meet with darkenes in my habitation;
Where stretch'd on sable ground I downe shall lay
My mournefull body, and with folded Armes
Heare sadder noats uppon the Irish harpe[243]
And drop division with my brinish teares.[244]

Co. But I have found an art to cure this wound,
For I with fancies pencill will so draw
Your picture in the table of my hart,
Your absence shall but like darke shadowes stand
To sett you of and see you, Lady, better
Then Love will lett me when I looke upon you.

Sis. Could this be true and meant, sweet sir, to me,
I should be kinder then the gentlest spring
That warms the world and makes fierce beasts so tame
And trees to swell themselves to cheerefull greene;
More jocund then the proudest quire of birds,
What ere they be that in the woods so wide
Doe sing their merry catches.—Sure he does
But counterfeit.

Co. Oh, now I see that Love Is sweet as flowers in their fragrant birth, Gentle as silke, and kind as Cloudes to Earth?

Sis. One rime more and you undoe my love for ever. Out upon't! pedlars French[245] is a Christian language to this. I had rather you should put me a case out of Litleton. They say you are a pretty Lawyer.

Co. Tenant[246] per la Curtesie d'Engleterre est, hon home prent feme seisie in fee simple ou en fee taile generall, ou seisie come heire de la taile speciall et ad issue per mesme la fame, male ou female, oies ou wife, soit lissue apres mort ou en vie si la feme de aie, la baron tiendra la terre durant sa vie, per la ley dengleterre.

Sis. Nay, here's enough a Conscience! What a Noise this confusion of languages make; tis almost as good as a beare baiting. Harke you, Sir, you are never like to recover me by law.

Sis. Not by tenn thousand, Sir. Confest: but I have no mind to come to issue with a Lawyer; when he should consider my cause at home, heele be at Westminster, teaching men the Statutes. No, no, I wo'not marry a Judge.

Co. Lady, you may be misinform'd: Astraea
Hath not quite left the earth, and the abuses
Of some which shame the calling are but like
Patches of beauty on the shape of lawe
To set the whitenes of.

Sis. Farewell, Sir:
You are in love with a barrd gown, not beauty;
If you will be my learned Counsell, leave it
—This yong thing is a foole or a fine fellow. [Exit.

Co. She kicks and flings out like a Colt unwayed;
Her witt's a better portion then her money;
I would not love her yet, and I could help it.—
My Uncle and his Mistres: Ile not hinder em.

[SCENE 3.]

La. It is no honour, Sir, if arm'd with so
Much eloquence you overcome a woman.
I blush to say I love you now too much;
I wish you would release what your sweet charmes
Won from my tongue; I shall repent my promise.

Fra. Make me not miserable after so much blessing.
Why, Madam, tis on honourable tearmes,
Since not upon the first attempt but after
A tedious seige in to your faire love you give up
What shall enrich us both. It were a sinne
To feare you can retract what both our lipps
Have seal'd, and loose a happines so neare
And so secure. Your husband holds his pleasure
Of early hunting constant, and when he
Pursues the tymerous hare to morrow morne,
Cupid will waite to bring me to Elizium,
Your bed, where every kisse shall new create us.

Fra. Leave that to me:
I weare not worth the name of him that serv'd you
To loose my glorious hope for want of such
A thinne device. In your thought wish me prosper,
And I am fortifide against the power
Of fate to seperate us; and when thou art
Within the amorous circle of my armes,
We will make lawes to love; teach him new motion
Or chaine[247] him with the cordage of his haire,
Like a tame thing, to walke, and watch our pillow
And be our pleasures Centinell.

La. I see
My husband; tis not safe he should observe us:
Be wise and constant. [Exit Lady.

Fra. All that's sweet attend thee.
So I am sailing now to my owne Indies,
And see the happie Coast, too: How my wings
Doe spread to catch the wind which comes to court 'em,
And the green Sea, enamour'd on my barke,
Doth leap to see how Cupid sitts at helme.
And steeres my soule to his new world.

En. Is't not a rare designe? and by such art
And reasons I can name, most beneficiall
To the common wealth, preventing the diseases
Which some unwholsome haire breeds in mens heads,
It will be worth our agitation, Sir;
And you, after the rate of every thousand
Per Annum milk'd out of the comon purse
Into your owne, may easily defaulke
To me a hundred for my first projection.
Did I not love you, Sir, I could make choice
Of other able men that would be glad
To multiplie their money.

Ri. Sir, I thanke you,
But have no mind to thrive upon abuse of
My princes favour nor the peoples curse.
Here is a gentleman, Sir Francis Courtwell,
Perhapps will undertake it.

Fra. Excuse me, Sir, I dare not deale in 'em. If I be not mistaken, Sir, your name Is Engine?

Fra. The proiector generall?
If I may advise you, Sir, you should make your will,
Take some convenient phisick and dye tymely
To save your credit, and an execution:
It is thought else—

Looke to Mr. Engine heere, he faints, and send
To your Ladie for some Cordiall waters presently.

Tho. There is a Soveraigne Well hard by has done Strange cures: please you, ile throw him into that. Ext. [Thomas; carrying away Engine.

Ri. Though I distast his busines I wod not
He should miscarry here; you frighted him.
But come, I thinke tis supper tyme, Sir Francis.
I shall expect youle hunt with me i'th morning;
I have a pack of Doggs sent me will make
The Forrest ring.

Fra. Ile cheerefully attend you, I love the sport; as earlie as you please, Sir.

Ri. I wish wee had all pleasures to delight you, But no thing wants in my true love to serve you.

Within La. I preethe donot rise yet; it is hardly day. Sirra, who bid you call him so earlie? Sir Richard wonot rise yet.

Tho. O Mistres Dority, tis e'ne long of you, for betweene sleepe and awake your remembrance came to me this morning, and Thomas was up presently.

Ri. You must excuse me, wife;
I meane to kill a brace of hares before
You thinke tis day. Come, on with my Bootes, Thomas;
And Dorothy goe you to Sir Francis Chamber,
Tell him the Day growes old and I am readie,
Our horses and the merry hounds expect us.

Ri. You may take
Your ease a bed still, Madam. Ile not loose
One morning that invites so pleasantly,
To heare my Doggs, for a new Maidenhead, I.
Twas for these sports and my excess of charge
I left the towne: besides the Citty foggs
And steame of Brick hills almost stifled me;
This Aire is pure and all my owne.

Tho. My Ladie
Meanes shee would have you gett another heire,
Sir, for your lands; though it be against my Master
The young Captaine, yet she speakes but reason.
And now I talke o'th Captaine, Sir,
Would you had given him Counsell.

Tho. Before he tooke this huffing[248] trade upon him,
To have been a man of peace, I meane a Justice.
Nature has made him fit for both alike.
Hee's now at charge to keepe a Captaine Schoolemaster;
He might have sav'd the qua[r]teridge of his Tutor
If I had been his Clarke: and then the income
That broken heads bring in, and new yeares guifts
From soder'd virgins and their shee provintialls
Whose warren must be licenc'd from our office!

Do. He has been troubled with a fitt o'th stone, Sir, all this night. Sweet gentleman he groanes, And sweates, and cannot—

Tho. I heard my Ladie has an excellent Receit to cure the Stone; she is a peece Of a rare Surgeon.

Ri. Well, away and get the horses readie, sirra, For I shall ride you and your witt together.

Tho. Alas, any foole may ride me, but I would faine see any man ride Mistres Dorothy.

Ri. I am sorry I must leave such a Companion.
But more lament the cause. I wish him health;
My presence cannot serve him. Morrow, wife:
I cannot lose my sport. [Exit.

Do. You shall not doubt me, Madam, and t'assure you
My faith, I have a suit to your Ladiship
Whose grant, were there no other bonds upon me,
Would tye me everlastinglie to silence.

Do. Our Captaine o'th traind band has been offring
To chaffer Maidenheads with me. I must
Confesse I can affect the foole upon
Good tearmes, and could devise a plott to noose
My amorous woodcock, if you privatlie
Assist me and dare trust me with some Jewell
Of price, that is not knowne, which shalbe faithfully
Restor'd Madam.

La. I that dare trust my honour with thee sha'not
Suspect thy faith in any treasure else.
But prethe draw the Curtains close, while I
Expect this friend: I needes must hide my blushes.
Thou maist discover from the Gallory windowe
When they are hors'd. I tremble to consider
What I have promis'd.

Do. Tremble to meet a Ghost! You are more fearefull then a Virgin, Madam. Why this setts me a longing; but ile watch: This is the timerous world of flesh and blood. [Exit.

La. within. Alas!
What doe you meane? retire for heavens sake!
My husband is not gone, I heare his voice yet;
This rashnes will undoe my fame for ever
Should he returne.

Ri. How's this?
"Returne for heavens sake! my husband is not gone:
I heard his voice; this will undoe my fame!"
It was my wife, and this is sure my bed chamber.

Ri. My forehead sweats: Where are you, Madam?
Whome did you talke too or take me for? ha! Asleepe
Alreadie, or doe I dreame? I am all wonder.
Madam,—

La. Helpe, helpe, deare husband, strangle him with one Of my Lute strings; doe, doe, doe.

Ri. If shee be a sleepe she was not us'd to talke thus: She has some hideous dreame. She spake to me, to; Whom should I strangle, sweet hart, with a lute string?

Ri. Tis so, she dreames. What strange Chimeras wee Doe fancie in our sleepe! I were best wake her. Madam, Madam!

La. Sir Richard? Oh you have delivered me From such a dreame I quake to thinke upon't.

Do. Frighted, quoth a! Oh, Madam, the key of the Closet quickly. I must have some Cordiall water for Sir Francis; I feare this fitt will kill him.

La. Nay, sweet hart, you sha'not leave me till I ha told
What a cruell Dreame I had. Methought a king
Of Blackamores was in love with me, and haveing
By flattering Courtship drawne me to his bed chamber,
With my consent or force swore to enjoy mee.
I knew not by what reasons to divert
The Ravisher, but told him that I heard
Thy voice, and bid him if he lov'd his life
Retire, for thou wouldst deere revenge my honour.
But he pursueing me, I cry'd out Murder!
At which sad noise methought I saw thee enter,
But, having nere a sword, I counselld thee
To strangle him with a Lute string, for which cruelty
Of mine, me thought he threw an Arrow at me,
Which, if thou hadst not wak'd me as thou didst,
Would as I slept with my strong feares ha killd me.

Ri. This was the King of Morocco: well, I'me glad I came to take away thy fright.

La. But, sweet, you left me with a resolution To hunt this morning. Have you done already?

Ri. The theeves prevented me. My Stable has been rob'd to night; two geldings And my roane Nagg are vanished.

Ri. Nay, doe not thou vexe:
I have sent hue and cry that may oretake 'em.
But come, Ile leave thee to my glasse,
And visit Sir Francis now shees return'd.—

La. O, wench, I had almost undone my selfe, Come o'tother side, reach me that peticote; Ile tell the storie as I make me ready.

[SCENE 2.]

De. I have traveld in my fancie, Ladie, and with the Muses, and do for my recreation of witt compose some wonders in verse, poeticall essaies, as once upon the report of a heate that was in Egipt.

De. In Countreys I have been
Under the Equinoctiall, where I have seene
The Sunne disperse such a prodigious heat
That made our sive-like skins to raine with sweat.
Men would have given for an Ecclipse their lives,
Or one whisper of Aire; yet each man strives
To throw up grasse, feathers, nay women, too,
To find the wind: all falls like lead, none blew.
The Dogstarre spits new fire till't came to passe
Each eye became his neighbours burning glasse.
Leane men did burne to ashes presentlie,
Fatt men did wast to leane Anatomye;
Young womens heat did gett themselves with child,
For none but they themselves themselves defild;
Old women naturally to witches turne,
And onely rubbing one another burne.
The beasts were bak'd, skin turnd to crust, they say,
And fishes in the River boild away.
Birds in the aire were rosted and not burn'd,
For, as they fell downe, all the way they turn'd.

De. I have seene Larkes in that motion at fire With an Engine of packthread perpendicular.

De. Now you talke of a Shower you shall heare Another coppie of Verses that I made Of a mighty raine which fell once in the Indies.

Sis. That you made? If you will venture your lungs let me heare more impossible stories to passe away the tyme.

_De. Heaven did not weepe, but in its swelling eye
Whole Seas of Rhume and moist Catarrs did lie,
Which so bespauld the lower world, men see
Corne blasted and the fruit of every tree;
Aire was condenst to water gainst their wish,
And all their foule was turn'd to flying Fish;
Like watermen they throng'd to ply a fare,
As though it had been navigable Aire.
Beasts lost the naturall motion of each limbe,
Forgott to goe with practiseing to swime:
A trout now here you would not thinke how soone
Taken and drest for th'Emperour o'the Moone,
The fixed Starres, though to our eyes were missing
Wee knew yet were by their continuall hissing.
Weomen were mermaides sailing with the wind,
The greatest miracle was fish behind:
But men were all kept chast against their wish,
And could comitt but the cold sin of fish.

Sis. And that synne would puzzle all the Civell Lawyers in the kingdome. Sinns of the flesh they are perfect in; they know well enough what belongs to Adultery and simple fornication, but you would much improve and oblige the practise of the Court, if you could bring this sinne of fish under the Commission. But now, I hope, the raine is over we shall have faire weather.

De. Now I can tell you, Lady, what a strange frost was in one part of the world—

Sis. I shall cry out fire if you doe; I had rather have some discourse to keepe me warm still.

Sis. No more Earthquakes, I beseech you. Some frends of myne lost a great deale of land the last terme, and for ought I know tis never like to be recover'd. Why, all these verses you have honourd me to heare were translated out of French.

Sis. And yet you made 'em! Some gentlemen have the faculty to make verses and forgett what language was the Originall: tis Alamode, I confesse, sir.

De. Thers the mischiefe in poetry: a man might have told 200 lies in prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.—But, leaving these rude rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir Richard comended.

De. Is he not a pretty Chrisome[249]? I could not choose but laugh to observe in what rurall deportment he came to salute you, that should have made his address in theis postures.

Sis. Tis enough, sir; I apprehend what you would doe. The truth is, touching that thing in black, I doe not love him.

Sis. Why is't impossible? The man's a pretty indifferent meaning man, but I must have one of a more active spiritt. No, no, the man's a Coward.

Sis. I put him to't, he dares not fight; and he that expects my favour to so high a degree as marriage must be none of my lord Maiors whifflers[250]; he must be valiant in Armes. I am not taken with a ring or Caskanet, as some avaritious Ladies; he that presents me with the sword of his rivall is more welcome then all the silken soft natur'd six hundreds a yeere, that will be baffeld in their best clothes and goe downe into the Country every Vacacon like Atturneys to be beaten against next terme and get damage by it, but I forget some affaires that concerne me. I take my leave. Your deserts upon me are eminent and many, and for all your noble services I—will promise you nothing: you apprehend me?

De. You make mee over happie.—So, so; the matters done. I may write my friends. Hum: well thought upon! I shall leave her joyes without any bound to entertaine me if I first beat this foolish rivall of mine and present her with his sword. She assures me he dares not fight: it shall be so. Thus with one baffling and disarming him I shall secure my Mistresse and get the reputation of a fighting Cavallier, which may save me many a knock hereafter among men of strong faith that shall heare how much honour I have elsewhere taken upon the ticket.

[SCENE 3.]

Un. Stand right to your files, make even your rankes, silence! Front to the right hand. As you were. To the right hand about. By the left hand. As you were. Rankes to the right double. Rankes as you were. Rankes to the left double. Midlemen to the right hand double the front; as you were,—to the left, —double the front; middle-men to the right entire [or[251] by division] double the front; files to the right,—to the left,—to the right hand countermarch,—to the right,—to the left,—wheele about—

Cap. Ran tan: enough,—you must not wast your lunges
Too much at once. March faire and make a Captaine.
When these words of Command are rotten (rooted?) wee
Will sowe some other military seeds.
You beare[252] a braine and memory.

[Cap.[253]] And now you are chose a Captaine for your Countrey
You must give good example to your Soldiers
And cherish nature after exercise:
You must drinke sack, sack is a fortifier.
Come, wee'le to the taverne.

Cap. My costive Countrey man? hee's an Anabaptist: he wonot drinke, and yet kist the Cupp of last night, me thought, when his Mistres— drank to him: wee'le try. How ist, my man of mortall breeding?

Cap. Why, this was spoke like one of us; canst doo't
Agen? thy voice is more authentick, soundes
As I have heard a Cavalliers in taverne,
Or like the merry master of the Dragon,
Small Neptune, that controlls the rich Canaries,
When he Comaunds the Tritons of his cellar
'Skud, and bring wine, you varlotts, with a flavour
For my Nobilitie.' Wee were conspiring
To goe to'th taverne.

Cou. I am not now in London,
Upon a hall day marching with the puisnes,
Twenty on's in a teame, to Westminster
In our torne gownes, embroiderd with Strand dirt,
To heare the Law.

Cap. Is not thy father dead, thou talkst so well? How I was cosend in thee: come away.

_Cap. Let him to Bedlam then; what makes he here? Clean straw and a good whip are held restoratives.

Tho. He walkes and talkes the madliest; twenty midwives
Are nothing to him, he drownes all their noise.
His tongue is twenty ring of Bells, and yett
He seemes so merry.

En. Save you, gentlemen, gallants, Cavalliers. How farre travell you: me thinkes you are very finely accomodated. Are you a Doctor, sir?

En. You say very well. Troth, gentlemen you must pardon me: cry you mercy, your name is Captaine Underwit.

Un. Yes, sir, but my mother came of the Over-muches by the Peake. She broke my father's hart, and Sir Richard buried her: things must be as please the starres.

En. What thinke you of the blazeing starre in Germany? according to Ptolmy tis very strange. Does the race hold at Newmarket for the Cup[254]? When is the Cocking, gentlemen? There are a parcell of rare Jewells to be sold now, and a man had money. I doe meane to build a very fine house next summer and fish ponds. What did you heare of the new play. I am afraid the witts are broke; there be men will make affidavit that [they] have not heard a good jest since Tarleton[255] dyed. Pray, may I crave your name, sir?

En. In your eare; I have a cast of the best Marlins[256] in England, but I am resolv'd to goe no more by water but in my Coach. Did you ever see the great ship?[257]

En. It may be so; she is a good sailer. But ile tell you one thing: I intend to have the best pack of hounds in Europe; Sir Richard loves the sport well. And then if I can but find out the reason of the loadstone I were happie and would write Non Ultra.

Cap. The philosophers stone were better in my opinion. Have you no project to gett that?

Un. What thinke you of the Dromedary that was to be seene at the back side[258] of the Bell.

En. Why then, ile tell you: the strangest beast that ever I saw was an Ostridge that eate up the Iron mynes. But now you talke of birds I saw an Elephant beat a Taylor in the fenceing schoole at his owne weapon.

En. He did out eat him in bread, and that was miraculous. I have seene a Catamountaine[259] once; but all was nothing to the wench that turnd round and thred needles.

En. Now you talke of setling I knew a gentleman, that was borne to a good fortune, sold all his land, went to sea in a Hollander, was taken by the Dunkirke; at seaven yeares end stole away in an English botome; after that saw both the Indies; for all this was taken by a Turks man of warre, put into the Gallies, and for ought I heare by credible report is not setled yet.

En. Now you talke of Musick theres no man in the world loves musick better then I,—ile give you the reason: I have been deafe almost this halfe yeare, and it came with a cold sitting up a primero.

Co. Now you talke of the cold it puts me in mind of the new device of fire for brewing and bakeing. Had you no hand in the project?

Cap. Againe hees startled: come, he shall to taverne with us and confess all. If he do not strip his soule stark naked to us, say I am no fortune teller.—Please you to honour our society: we are going to indulge at the taverne hard by.

En. You shall comand me, sir. Oh the Neats tongues and partargoes that I have eaten at Stillyard, but of all things in the world I do not love a black catt: next a brewers cart, there's nothing will stay a man so much in the night as a Constables. One word before you go, and I beseech you give me your opinion cleerely: was not the Morocco Ambasadour a very fine gentleman for a pagan?

Cap. Yes, surely, and the lead mines in Darbishire hold still for the Allom businesses. But come; will you walke, Sir?

En. I do use to goe a foote sometymes but when I ride; and then I must confesse there is no striving with the streame. You were in London lately: they say the people are more affected to beare baiting then in former tyme.

Cap. There are some a late are drawne like beares to the stake; but for your owne part the gout and the grand pox are all one to you. What price beare[s] meat in the shambles?

En. Flesh rises and falls as it us'd to doe, sir; but a Countrey life is the best when all's done. What thinke you of a bridg from Lion key to Flaunders? You may guess I talke at randum, gentlemen; but you must not interpret all foolish discourse a distemper of the braine: Lords would take it for a Scandalum Magnatum and your Ladies would bee angry too.

Cap. By no meanes, Mr. Engin; that gentleman loves you not. Come, ile bring up the rere. Where's Thomas?

Tho. Ile follow, sir.—I would give my fower marks a yeare that I could talke like that mad gentleman. Hee's here and there and everywhere. How will his tongue run when his Coggs are oild; theile drench him! [Exit.

Fra. Although I mist a happines, I applaud Your nimble wit that securd both our honours. You have an excellent Instrument too o' your gentlewoman.

La. Oh she deliver'd to the life how you
Were troubled with the Stone. At first I did
Beleev't my selfe, and thinke of the sad consequence.
But tyme is pretious now: although our Starres
Have not been yet propitious to our meeting
Ile try my art to night to make 'em shine.
With happie influence on our Loves.

La. Ile not engage Your visit to my chamber, since the first Prov'd so unfortunate, but come to youres.

La. Without witchcraft, sir,
I have a stratageme to delude my husband
And all his jealous waking eyes, a plott
That cannot faile if you dare but expect me.

Fra. I grow immortall with my hopes and fancie
More than the worlds most pretious Empire in
Our first embrace. I should runne back into
An Infant once agen, and by degrees
And tyme grow up to meet so vast a happines.
Ages in expectation spent were poore
And easy sufferings weigh'd against this triumph!
Methinkes I am not man but something of
A more exalted essence: humane nature
Hath not capacity to understand
And owne theis spatious blessings.

La. No more rapture;
But with the confidence of a lover spread
Your equall thoughts, and in your heart and armes
Prepare an entertainement for that guest
That hath no life or name but what you give.
A kisse! and leave our soules to thinke upon
The joyes this night attend us.

[SCENE 1.[260]]

Capt. Come, my Apollos, my Orpheuses or my Bacchus his Minst[rels], which, to leave poeticall expressions, in broader phrase is Taverne fidlers, some of your new tunes, my Masters; doe you heare?

Cap. I, Sir; but they are such phantasticall ayres as it putts a Poet out of his witts to rhime to them; but let mee heare.

Cap. No, no, saveing your presence, your Boyes have nothing, sarreverence,[263] but Love songs, and I hate those monstruously, to make thinges appeare better then they are, and that is but deceptio Visus, which after some embraceings the parties see presently what it is. The Musique Playes.

    The Juice of Spanish squeez'd Grapes is It
    That makes a dull Braine so full of witt;
    The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine
    The grosser witts too, doth much refine.
    Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime,
    Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime.
    The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white,
    Who doth not in them sometimes take delight?
    If with Mimique Gestures you'le keep you from sadnes,
    Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes;
    And then to settle you no hopes in Beer
    But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere.

Cap. But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song. You have beene ill catechiz'd, Boy, for a White Divell is but a poeticall fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke.

Cap. That's true; thats a good Boy, indeed. Underwit, lend mee a Peice to give these harmonious men there. And now begon, my Masters, without noise, for I will have no more fiddle-faddle for my money, no tunes of supererrogation after the Musicall Bill is paid.

[SCENE 2.]

Tho. They are all drunke already, and such Confusion in their heads and tongues, my master kisses the next man and calls him Mistres Dorothy; Mr. Courtwell, possest with the spiritt of defiance to Cupid, is ready to beat him for being in love; my Projector dead drunk in a Chaire, and the Captaine peepeing into his mouth like a tooth drawer and powring downe sack which he feeles not, but his chapps shut againe like a spring lock till he returne with a key to open his teeth, to poure in the next health.

Un. Hee's able to mull the Thames well, for my owne part would Mistresse Dorothy were here to open her files.

Cou. Did you not name a woman. I will have no mention of any thing that's female.

Cap. Is it not hic et hec sack, both for he and she. Stay, is my Countryman gone? come hither, Thomas; do you thinke I am drunke?

Cap. You cannot tell? there's your ignorance. Drink is a vice I am as little given to as another man, for I doe abhorre it in my selfe. I do wonder how any reasonable man can be drunk; therefore every wise man take Counsell and example by me, and he may see very plainely what an odious thing it is; for you must follow your leader, and vertue, which is an Antient—

Cap. I, an Antient old gentlewoman that is growne very poore, and nobodie knowes where she dwells very hard to find her out, especially for a Capt.; you will find it very difficult for a Livetenent. But wee will endeavour the best wee can; you see my courses, I have travel'd to find her out, and I could never yet see her at a baudihouse.

Un. Vertue? she never comes there; why do you thinke she should be there, Captaine?

Cap. Nay, then she is not fit to be a baud, but tell me did you ever see her, or if so did you ever doo't with her?

Un. No, but twas none of my fault; I know not what I may do in time when she understands the wordes of Command.

Tho. He does not meane Mistris Dorothy: but, Captaine, I would faine know the reason why your baudes are so fat still.

Cap. A plaine case: they lie fallow and get hart, then they keepe themselves so in health and so soluble with stewd prunes; and then sipping of sack is a great matter to fatten 'em. But they are as good people as a man shall keepe company withall, and bring up the young gentlewomen so vertuously. I came into one of their houses tother day for a carreere, and I found the baud sick upon her death bed, very religious and much given to repentance for those poore sins she had comitted. When she had taken order for her soule, she told me the young gentlewoman I look'd for was in the next roome; and desiring her upon her blessing to give me content, she turnes herselfe to the wall and gives up the ghost very privatly, because she was loth to trouble us.

Un. By your relation theis appeare to be very good people. What if we went to visit one of these Matrons? I have a great mind—

Cap. Wy, now you speake like an understanding soldier, and one that may come to something in the end. Lett us therefore march on.

Cap. For you know, Thomas, that the Spider and the Bee, the Spider and the Bee, do both—something, but in troth I have forgott what tis.

Cap. Goe? no more but goe? though I be a Captaine, if I be not chosen in this imployment—

Tho. Very right; but wo' not those young gentlewomen you talk'd of give a man something to make a man afraid of pepper upon occasion?

Cap. You will be prating so long till I breake your head for pretending to that which you have not, sirra.

Cap. Nay, take no offence at it, for I meant none to either of you by this sack. Drawer, give me my oath, cannot you drinke without wit? cannot you game without wit?

Cap. Tis no wit to cozen; confederacy and dishonesty will doo't without wit. Ile iustifie it: do not you know the receit of Cozenage? take an ounce of knavery at the least,—and confederacie is but so many knaves put together,—then you must take a very fine young Codling heire and pound him as small as you can.

Cap. Which way? Why, which way you will: is not cozen him enough? thou art a pretty fellow, ile talke with thee. Thy name's Thomas; take heed, I say still, Thomas, of being drunke, for it doth drowne the mortall soule; and yours cannot swim, Thomas,—can it?

Un. D'ee heare, Captaine, for all this I have a great mind to a wench, and a wench I must have if there be one above ground. Oh London, London, thou art full of frank tenements, give me London. Shall we wheele about yet?

Cap. Give you London? Wo'nott Cheapeside serve your turne, or the Exchange?

Tho. I thinke he has eaten and drunke nothing but Monopolies, and too hard to be digested they come up againe.

Tho. Pins, pins, they lay across his throat. I told you he was bewitch'd. Heyday! cards and dice, out with 'em, the Divells a gamester and paies the box soundly—Now, now, now.

Tho. Alas, poore gentleman, something now agen is ready to strangle him; out with em,—hides, hides,—it was the hornes stuck in his gullett.

Tho. Well straind; what a foule stomack he has! open your mouth, Mr. Engine.

Tho. I have, sir, and it has come up full of medium wine; if you have any charity come and helpe me to hold his head; now agen!

Tho. Master, master, tis Shrovetuesday[267] and the prentices are pulling downe Covent Garden; the Brickes come as whole out as if he had swallowed Cherristones. Hey! will you take Tobacco in the Roll? here is a whole shiplading of Bermudas and one little twopenny paper of berrinas, with a superscription 'To my very loving friends the Custome-house.'

Cap. Put up that for a relique, Thomas, and open it upon high dayes to clear the sore eyes of our Spanish Marchants. Thomas, no more, but call the Drawer, an understanding Drawer and one that writes orthographie.

—Sirra, I charge you set a padlock upon that Chamber doore; there is a dangerous fellow must be brought to his purgation. And looke all the goods that he hath vomitted be forthcomeing, while we discreetly goe and enforme the Magistrates.—At your perill, sirra, at your perill seale up the Doore; and do you pay the reckoninge.

Un. Sir Richard is a Justice. There's your money, and yet wee need not pay; the gentleman hath left enough for the Reckoning in the next Roome.

Un. I ha made him fast, you are very welcome, gentlemen. All's paid in the Percullis.

[SCENE 3.]

Sis. Ile walke no further; if you have a secret
To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees
And hedges will not listen. What's the business?
I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.

Cou. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.

Cou. You are
Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle,
And one with whome tis most impossible
I ere should change Affection; theres nothing
To invite me too't, not so much as that
Wee call a seeming reason, upon which
All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it,
My understanding Ladie.

Sis. You thinke I am very dull that you expound
Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator,
Not by the Author, tis so very plaine;
But to despise me most of all the sexe
Is something oversaid. Though I affect
No flattery, I hate uncivill Language.
You do not meane to quarrell, now you have
Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?

Cou. What is there in your face more to attract mee
Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell
Do you thinke I should dote upon your person?
That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.

Sis. By that
I understand all this revenge, because
You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me,
And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I
Should love you now, could not you love agen?

Cou. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.

Cou. I shall be very loath
To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen,
Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie,
Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire
Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory,
Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head,
When my owne Conscience tells me that Bunhill
Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but Higate
Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you;
Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime
Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be,
Whine love unto[268] a tune.

Cou. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.

Cou. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at
By all the world when I shall come at last
To this reward for all my services,
To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely
A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.

Sis. But how
Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate
(I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it.
What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?

Cou. Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.

Cou. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder,
When you are in the Ivie bush, that face
Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes,
So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of
Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't,
With those black patches it does put me in mind
Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me.
How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches;
You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of
Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt
And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.

Sis. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly.

Cou. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape? Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.

Cou. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you. Fare you well, Ladie.—Do you see that Bull?

Cou. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is
Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour,
Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer
To appear still in new rich suites, but lives
Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none.
Like the great Turke he walkes in his Seraglio,
And doth command which concubine best pleases;
When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe,
And makes as he had never knowne the Dun,
White, Red or Brindled Cowe.

Cou. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it.
Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie,
An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather
Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not;
For, if you raile, too, men that know you can
Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and
Tis not my ayme.

Sis. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.

Sis. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope
Your malice should spare me abroad that have
So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame
That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men
Care not whose name you blast with a loose character,
So you maintaine your pride of talke.

Cou. Howe's this?
It is confess'd I have talk'd in my tyme
And talk'd too much, but not too much of you;
For I but seldome thought of such a woman:
For any other—

Sis. Yes, by your own report, and with a lady So much in vertue and in birth above you; And therefore I expect not—

Cou. Stay; this moves me.
I never tooke a pleasure yet to lie
With Ladies fames, or ever thought that sport
Lay in the tongue. Such humours are for men
That live by brothell offices: let me know
Who hath traduc'd me to you thus, he shall
Be knowne no more.

Sis. Ile not be guiltie, sir,
Of any murder; when we meet agen,
And you in better humour, I may tell you.
So farewell, Gondarino,[271] nothing's lost
When you turne Woman Hater. [Exit.

Cou. She has vext me. If we make Matrimony after this rate, The Divell is like to dance at our wedding. Ho!

De. Hee's here,
Alone too, and the place most opportune.
How shall I beginne?—Mr. Courtwell, do you love
Any friend of mine?

Cou. If she be a friend of yours ile take the first Occasion to neglect her for your sake.

Cou. You looke so scurvily; come hither, thou
New Monster, with more feet then a Caterpiller;
What tyme a day ist? you that move upon
So many wheeles, say, Monsier, are you not
A walkeing Clock? I have a mighty mind
To see you tooke a peeces.

De. At your conceite to thinke I was a Clock: I am a watch, I never strike.—Hee's valiant.

De. If you did know the mistery you would applaud 'em. Have you read Livre de blason? What meane you?

Cou. I will bestow 'em, sir, upon some forehorse? They will become a countrey teame rarely.

De. Mor bleu!
Why, you dare fight, it seemes, and I was told
You were no Cavellier, a very dreame [droane?]
A wedg for men to breake their swords upon.
I shall never trust fame agen for your sake.

Cou. For I did ever thinke thou durst not fence
But at a complement; a glittering vapour,
A thing of clothes and fitt for chambermaides
To whet their witts upon, but now resolve
Either to have your skin flead of or fight wo' me
For troubling my present meditations.

De. Why, sir, if you be serious I shall quit
That prejudice you have upon my valour.
Looke you, sir, I can draw, and thus provok'd
I dare chastise you, too. Cause I was merry
I was not bound to feed your spleen eternally
With laughter; yet I am not ignorant
What an advantage, sir, your weapon gives you
In length.

De. Yes, the Canaries,[272] but with quicker tyme Then you, I hope, can follow: thus I begin. Fa, la, la, &c. [Excurrit.

Cou. What a heathen Coward's this? how the rogue tripps like a fairie to the towne with 'em! He has been a footman, sure; I have not aire enough to overtake him, and twill be darke presently. If I loose the sight on him ile search the towne, and if I find him not there, pursue him with hue and cries and after hang him.

[SCENE 4.]

Fra. The sun whose busie eye is still employ'd
A spie upon our actions, tir'd with waiting,
Is drowsie gone to bed, about whose pillow
Night hath hung all her wings and set up tapers
As if the Day were timerous like a Child
And must have lights to sleepe by. Welcome all
The houres that governe pleasure, but be slow
When you have blest me with my wishes. Time
And Love should dwell like twins; make this your bower
And charme the aire to sweetnes and to silence.
Favour me now and you shall change your states;
Time shall be old no more, I will contract
With Destiny, if he will spare his winges
To give him youth and beauty, that we may
Find every minute a fresh child of pleasure.
Love shall be proud to be no more a boy
But grow to perfect strength and bold consistence[273];
For when too Active Lovers meet, so happie
As wee, whose equall flames light to embraces,
Twill be no weight to number many yeares
In our delights and thinke all age a blessing.
But language is to narrow to expresse
What I expect, tis fitt my soule retire
Till she present her selfe; and, if it can
Measure my hop'd for ioyes with thought, prepare
To entertaine the happines.

[SCENE 5.]

Do. I have set already my designe a moveing
To take my Captaine Underwit, who in wine
Was late more feirie upon me. I'th meane tyme
I cannot choose but laugh at the device
Wee have to cheat my Master; sure the Divell
Is a great friend to women that love men,
He doth so furnish us with quaint inventions.
Presently after supper she began
Her fitt othe toothach, and did counterfeit
So naturally; but since she went to bed
She almost rav'd by turnes:—I heare her at it.

Do. Tis I forsooth, I heard you groane and I Have not the hart to sleepe. Shall I watch by you?

_La. Oh, no, no, no; get you to bed, make fast the Chamber; I cannot endure the candle.

La. I, you have your homilies of patience, but if you had my paine twould make you wild. Oh!

La. Oh, there is no rack nor torture like it. What shall I do? I shall never sleepe agen.

La. If you knew what I suffer your head would ake indeed. I must rise and walke in the Chamber; there is no remedy.

La. Oh, no, no, deere life, do not crosse me; and you were in my torment you would rise and trie any thing for a little ease. It cannot be worse; the paine sure came with a cold, and who knowes but an other cold may cure me.

La. So, so, do not troble me; I am now in some little ease; its a heavenly thing to be goeing.

La. Your noise will bring my paine back agen; if you knew what a vexation it were for me to speake, You wo'not put me too't so. If you doe talke I wo'not answere a word more, oh!

Now do I see it is possible that a womans teeth should be as troublesome as her tongue.

Ri. I cannot choose but pitty her, that any woman should hold so much paine in a hollow tooth.

Do.—If my Mr. touched with so much compassion should rise and force me to bed with him, I must not cry out a rape; tis at the worst on my side but fornication in my owne defence.

Ri. The musick at a convocation of Catts upon a witches upsetting is the spheres to this Catterwalling. I will thrust my head into the pillow, as Dametas[274] did in a bush when the beare was a comeing, and then I shanot heare her.

Do. Oh, this is a kind of Purgatory for sins of the flesh. If she should fall asleepe with the tother knight it is not possible I should hold out till morning; that which would fright away an Ague would put me into a feare, I shall ha the toothache indeed with counterfeiting; I have knowne some men caught the stammers so; my gums begin to murmure, there is a feare all over my flesh, she will stay so long, and then—-

Do. Oh, oh!—Ile shift places to shew more distraction; at the worst my noise shall be within his reach; it may give her notice to returne too. [Exit.

[SCENE 6.]

La. I am full of feares, and my owne motion frights me;
This furious love is a strange pilot. Sir,
Where are you? ha! asleepe! can any dulnes
That is not Death possess a gentleman,
So valiant in desires, when he expects
To meete his Mistresse? How I blush to raise him!
Was I not worth thy waking expectation?
Farewell; yet something that [like?] a charme that's fastned
To my poore hart restraines me. Inke and paper!
Ile leave him a short monument of this shame
And my neglected Love. [Writes.
He knowes my hand: farwell, forgetfull Lover.
[Exit.

Fra. What? have I slept? some witchcraft did betray
My eyes to so much darkenes; yet my dreame
Was full of rapture, such as I with all
My wakeing sence would flie to meet. Me thought
I saw a thousand Cupids slide from heaven,
And landing here made this their scene of revells,
Clapping their golden feathers which kept tyme
While their owne feet strook musike to their dance,
As they had trod and touched so many Lutes.
This done, within a Cloud formd like a Throne,
She to whom love had consecrate this night,
My Mistresse, did descend and, comeing toward me,
My soule that ever wakes, angrie to see
My body made a prisoner and so mock'd,
Shook of the chaines of sleepe, least I should loose
Essentiall pleasure for a dreame. Tis happie;
I will not trust my selfe with ease and silence,
But walke and waite her comeing that must bless me.
Forgive me, you bright starres, and do not frowne
That I have not attended as became
One that must live by your kind influence.
Not yet appeard? She did comand I should
With confidence expect her. Ha! what's here?
This Character, was not visible before.
That man's too much compos'd of phleame
Will loose his Mistress for a Dreame. [Reades.
Tis her's, I know't; she has been here, oh fatall!
And finding me asleepe scorn'd to uncharme
My dull and cursed silence. This distracts me:
Have I so long, with so much Art and study,
Labour'd this honour, and obtaind what my
Ambition look'd at, her consent; and when
The tree it selfe bowed downe its golden fruit
And tempted me to gather, must I make
My selfe uncapable and be guilty of
So black, so base a forfeit? I could teare
My eyelids of, that durst let in a Mist
So darke and so destroying, must I sleepe
At such a tyme that the Divell must be over
Watche too! This houre hath blasted such a hope
As the Earth never teemd with nor the spring
Gave up in smileing blosomes to the breath
Of those sweet windes that whisper from the West
A tale of triumph to the yeere. I could
Dissolve with curseing of my Lathargie.
How shall I looke upon her face whose love
And bold adventure I have thus rewarded?
But passion cannot cure my wound; which must
Bleed till I see her, and then either cease,
Blest by her pardon, or dismiss a life
(Though iust) too poore a Sacrifice for her anger.
Where shall I hide my selfe and shame for ever!

Sis. I cannot forgett my carelesse gentleman: his neglect and reproaches have wrought strangely upon me.—Hee's here.

Cou. There is a thing that calls himselfe Device,
One that will break the hart of a post horse
To continue a hand gallop with him; your Alamode,
Your fighting faery feather'd footed servant,—
When saw you him?

Sis. My fighting servant? has he beaten you, sir? Perhapps he thought you were his Rivall; surely I saw him not since yesterday.

Cou. Bu'y, Ladie.— How many mile ist to the next Cutlers? The rogue has pawn'd or sold my sword. [Offers to go forth.

Cou. I abuse a Ladie! tell me the slave Reported it. I hope twill prove this Mounsieur. If ere we meet agen! Who wast?

Sis. You must sitt downe and heare me then while I At a distance thus deliver—

Cou. Can he be a gentleman that dares Wrong so much love and beauty? what's the offence?

Sis. Yet turne your face: alas, it is yourselfe. I have your word to punish him.

Cou. Sweet Ladie,
I am well acquainted with the worthy gentleman,
But will not kill nor strike him, for I know
He has just reason not to love you—you
Of all your sex; he told me so.

Cou. Was in these wordes; suppose you hear him speak it;
Now do you sit—Lady, when I consider you,
The perfect frame of what we can call hansome,
With all your attributes of soule and body,
Where no addition or detraction can
By Cupids nicer Crittick find a fault,
Or Mercury with your eternall flame;
And then consider what a thing I am
To this high Character of you, so low,
So lost to noble merits, I despaire
To love a Mistresse cannot love agen.

Cou. Therefore give me the kinder Chambermaid,
That will returne me love for my two peeces
And give me back twelve pennyworth agen,
Which is as much as I can well receave;
So there is thirty and nyne shillings cleere
Gotten in Love, and much good do her too't;
I thinke it very well bestow'd.

Sis. But if I thinke you worthy, and accept Your service, it destroies this other reason For your despaire. Why, I can praise you, too.

Cou. No, lett it alone I have other reasons Lady
Among my papers. But to love or to be in love
Is to be guld; that's the plaine English of Cupids Latine.
Beside, all reverence to the calling, I
Have vowd never to marry, and you know
Love may bring a Man toot at last, and therefore
My fine Gewgaw do not abuse me.

Sis. Sir, do me but one favour, ile recant
My Love, I wonot have so much as one
Good thought on you; I will neglect you, sir,
Nay and abuse you, too, if you obscure
But for three minutes.

De. Tis Justice I present it to your feete Whose love arm[e]d me to vindicate your honour.

De. This is but the first of my valour in your cause;
If you affect these Monuments ile make
You up an Armorie; meane tyme receave
My Service with this sword: if he provoke me
To fight with him agen, Ile cut his hand of
And bring that wo' me to present the next.

De. He is not worth the nameing; las, this does not
Deserve your knowledge. Only thinke what I
Dare do when your bright name is question[e]d,
And I in tyme may merit to be cald
The darling of your virgin thoughts.

Sis. I pray stay.
My name traduc'd? who was so impudent?
Do me the grace to let me know on whome
Your valour had been exercis'd.

De. Why, the formall thing Courtwell; I would [not] call him
Gentleman; but that I ha baffled him
You need no other witnes but his sword
With that fine holliday hilt, Ladie.

Sis. Looke you, sir, I ha made fast the Doore,
Because I meane before you goe to have
A satisfaction for the base injury
You ha done me.

Sis. Not that I value Courtwell, whome you would
Pretend has been to saucy with my honour;
But, cause I scorne to owne a goodnes should
Depend upon your sword or vindication,
Ile fight with you my selfe in this small vollume
Against your bulke in folio.

Sis. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it.
Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme
A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants
And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants
They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles,
Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes
To the Bankeside and save the Beares a whipping
That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging
A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too.
Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you.

De. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword
In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes
May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave
The Lillies to lament the rude divorce.
But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy,
My rage more nimble then [the] Median shaft
Should flie into his bosome, and your eye
Change anger into smiles to see me fight
And cut him into a ragged staffe.

Cou. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, with running; ile try how you can eate a sword.

De. Some men loves wit, and can without dishonour
Endure a jeast. Why, do you thinke I know not
You were here, and but obscur'd to see my humour.
I came to waite upon you with your sword, I.

De. Dost thinke her witts so limber to believe
I could compell it from thee. Twas a trick,
A meere conceipt of mirth; thou sha't ha mine.
Dost thinke I stand upon a sword? Ile gi' thee
A case of Pistolls when we come to London;
And shoot me when I love thee not. Pox ont,
Thou apprehende'st me well enough.

Sis. I easilie forgive him; I should hate My selfe, if I depended on his pitty.

Cou. Th'art a noble wench. Shall we leave of These jigs and speake our harts in earnest? By These twin lips I love thee extreamely.

Cou. They shall bee mine. Mounsier, For your penance you shall along and witnes.

Cou. The Priest shall tell you; come, we have both dissembled, We do love one another.

Cou. Unless you will denie me i'the church.
I ha vou'd to lie with you to night: Device,
Amble before and find the parson out;
We will bee friends and thou shalt be her father.

[SCENE 2.]

Fra. I confesse it, And not deserve to live for't; yet if you But knew my sufferings—

Fra. This is worse then a whipping now; these Ladies
Have no mercy on a delinquent. I must stand toot.
There is no tyrant to a chamberwoman
Made judg in such a cause; Ide give a Limbe
To be quit now, but, if she choose, I am
A Criple for this world.

Do. He lookes with some compunction for his fault. Troth, Madam, choose an other night and trye Whether he will sleepe agen.

La. My husband is this day resolv'd for London; It is his humour, or els, worse, suspition. Ther's no pretence for him to stay behind.

Do. You have made ill use of your time, Sir Francis; I know not how to helpe you. Seaven yeare hence You may have such an other oportunitie.

La. Watch if my husband come not this way, Dorothy. —Well, sir, though your transgresse deserve no pardon, Yet I am charitable upon Condition—

Fra. Anything, Madam. This shewes exlent in you;
No pennance shall displease so you absolve me.
Bid me to clime some Rock or Pyramide,
Upon whose narrow spire you have advanc'd
My peace, and I will reach it or else fall,
Lost to the world in my attempt.

La. You speake
Gloriously; the condition that assures
Your pardon, 's only this—that you conclude
Here all your loose desires with a resolve
Never to prosecute or hope to enjoy me.

Fra. Call you this Charity? let me rather loose
Your pardon then for ever to be thus forfeited;
Bind me never to see you (and yet that
Were cruelty) then charme me to forgett
That I am man or have a hart, and you
A beauty, which your absence can as well
Make nothing as devide from my adoring.
It is not cure but killing to prescribe
I never must enjoy you. If you have
Resolv'd a Death upon me, let it bee
When we like Lovers have embrac'd—

Fra. Nothing in love
Can be impossible to willing mindes.
Ile tell you, Madam—(sure the Divell has
Forsworne the flesh)—there may be a plot. I have it!
An exelent rare devise, if you but favour it.
Your husband is imediately for London,
I must in modesty ride with him; you
Are left behind.

Do.—What a deale of submission these foolish men Trouble us women with, that are more forward To be friends agen then they are!

Do.—My confederate, I hope, by this time is at gate
Enquiring for Sir Richard very formally
From the old knight, his Master, and good Ladie.
The fellow has witt to manage it.

Fra. My footman shall pretend himselfe the Surgeon
To attend me; is't not rare?
Stand but to'th fate of this, and if it faile
I will sitt downe a Convert and renounce
All wanton hope hereafter. Deerest Madam,
If you did meane before this honour to me,
Let not your loving thoughts freeze in a Minuit.
My genius is a prophet.

(SCENE 3.)

Foo. His name is well knowne in Lincolnsheire neere the fenns: there were his family antient gentlemen before the Conquest; some say ever since the flood.

Foo. But he has now more land then three of the best in the shire, thanke the Duchmen that have drunk up all the water.

Foo. Why not, as well as eate dry land? they are lin'd with butter, Sir, and feare no Dropsie.

She has been absent theis two yeares; the occasion, her dislike and disaffection to a gentleman whome I confesse I did too seveerely urge her to marry. If she have liv'd with you, as my late intelligence hath enformed me, in the nature of a servant, which is beneath my wishes and her condition, I hope upon this knowledge you will with consideration of her quality (she being the onely Child and heire to my fortune) use her like a gentlewoman. And though my yeares have made me unfitt for travell, I do intend, upon returne of your Letters, personally to give you thankes for your respects to my Daughter, whome I shall receave as new blessing from you, and be happie upon any turne presented to expresse my selfe for your favours, your true friend and servant W. Littleland.

My maide Dorothy a Knights Daughter and heire! Doe you know your yong
Mistresse.

Foo. I shall be happie to see her and present her with a Letter & some token from her Ladie Mother.

Ri. Thomas, pray entertaine this footman in the butterie; let him drinke and refresh himselfe, and set the cold chine of Beefe before him: he has ranne hard.

Ri. To my loving Daughter. May not this be a trick? By your favour, Madam. [He opens the Letter.

Captaine, gather you the sence of that Letter while I peruse this. You know Mistress Dorothy.

Un. I have had a great desire to know her, I confess, but she is still like the bottome of the map, terra incognita. I have been a long tyme hovering about the Magellan streights, but have made no new discoveries.

Ri. Ha! this is not counterfeit, I dare trust my owne Judgment; tis a very rich one. I am confirmed, and will scale them up agen. My Ladies woman Sir Walter Littlelands Daughter and heire! What think you now of Mistris Dorothy?

Un. A great deale better than I did; and yet I have lov'd her this halfe yeare in a kind of way. O' my conscience why may not I marry her?

Un. Deere Uncle conseale till I have talk'd with her. Oh for some witchcraft to make all sure.

Un. I vow, Mistris Dorothy, if I were immodest twas the meere impudence of my sack and not my owne disposition; but if you please to accept my love now, by the way of Marriage, I will make you satisfaction like a gentleman in the point of honour.

Un. What care I for a portion or a face! She that has good eyes has good——Give me vertue.

Un. By this Rubie, nay you shall weare it in the broad eye of the world, dost thinke I am in Jeast.

Ri. So, so, the wench inclines. I will hasten my journey that I may appear with more excuse when they are married in my absence.

Cap. Sir, I heare you are for London presentlie; It will concerne you take this gentleman Along w'ee to bee cur'd.

Cap. Oh, sir,
Dangerously; he has purg'd his stomack, but the ill spiritts
Are flowne into his head and spoild his eares.
He was ever troubled with Devices in his head;
I stronglie feare he must have his scull open'd,
His brains are very foule within. I know
And can direct you to an excle'nt Surgeon.

Cap. One that has a rare dexteritie at lanceing
Or opening of a stomack that has crudities;
So neat at separation of a limbe
And quartering of treason.

Cap. He has practised late to mend his hand, and now With the very wind and flourish of his instrument He will strike flatt a projector at twelve score.

Cap. He has lost that sence he saies, unless he counterfeits; It wilbe your securitie to see him Safe in the Surgeons hands. [they whisper.

En.—Into what misery have my Projects flung me!
They shanot know I understand 'em. That
I were quitt with loss of both my eares, although
I cut my haire like a Lay Elder, too,
To shew the naked conyholes! I doe thinke
What cursed Balletts will be made upon me
And sung to divilish tunes at faire and Marketts
To call in cutpurses. In a puppet play,
Were but my storie written by some scholler,
Twould put downe hocas pocas and the tumblers
And draw more audience than the Motion
Of Ninivie[275] or the dainty docile horse[276]
That snorts at Spaine by an instinct of Nature.

[SCENE 4.]

Cou. So, we are fast enough, and now I have thee
Ile tell thee all the fault I find; thou hast
A little too much witt to bee a wife;
It could not be too nimble for a Mistresse.—
Device, there is a part still of your pennance
Behind. You would pretend to be a Poet;
Ile not disgrace the name to call thee one,
But let me have rimes against we go to bed,
Two Anagrams that weigh an ounce, with coment,
And after that in verse your Affidavit
That you do wish us joy, and I discharge you.

Cou. About e'm:
Your double congey and depart with silence. [Exit Device.
Now prethe tell me who reported I
Had wrong'd a Ladie? Wast not thy revenge
To make me angrie?

Sis. Twas, indeed. Now tell me: Why at the first approach seem'd you so modest? You have confidence to spare now.

Cou. Troth I came not With any wooing purpose; only to please My Uncle, and try thy witt; and that converted me.

Tho. Her fathers footman was here; she is a knights daughter And heire, but she does not know it yet.

Tho. A mile ons way to London by this tyme with Sir Richard. I long to see my Master. [Exit.

Cou. If you please, Madam, you may call me Brother:
We have been at 'I John take the Elizabeth'.
A possett and foure naked thighes a bed
To night will bid faire earnest for a boy, too.

La. May then all joyes attend you; if this had Been knowne, it might have staid Sir Richard and Your Uncle one day more.

La. My husband left some letters and a token
Was sent you Mistris Dorothy. You did ill
To obscure your selfe so much; you shall not want
Hereafter all respects that may become you.

De. Oh, Madam, newes, ill newes, an accident Will blast all your mirth: Sir Francis—

De. You guest very neere it, but his shoulder Has sav'd that joynt. A fall from's horse, they say, Hath much endanger'd him.

Un. Mounsier Device, I must entreat a Courtesie; you have wit, and I would have a Masque to entertaine my new father-in-law Sir Walter Littleland. Mistres Dorothy, now my wife, is his onely Daughter and heire.

Do. Who has guld you thus? I am no knights Daughter; You may share your poeticall invention, sir.

Fra. He rid before, but I sent my footman to tell him this misfortune. Oh, Madam!

Fra. Aske me no torturing questions; I desire, Madam, a little conference with you. Ile thanke the rest if they withdraw: oh!

Fra. Tis no dissembling,—Madam; I have had
A fall indeed, a dreadfull fall; I feele it.
I thinke my horse saw the Divell in some hedge:
Ere I had rid three furlongs, gave a start,
Pitcht me of ons back like a barr and broke
A flint with my shoulder, I thinke, which strooke fire too;
There was something like it in my eyes, Ime punish'd.

Fra. Hurt? I ha broke my shoulder feelingly,
And I am of opinion when I doe
Enjoy you, Madam, I shall breake my neck;
That will be next. Ile take this for a warning
And will leave of in tyme.

La. There is a blessing falne upon my blood.
Your only charme had power to make my thoughts
Wicked, and your conversion disinchants me;
May both our lives be such as heaven may not
Grieve to have shew'd this bounty.

Ri. I do not like this stratageme; Sir Francis
Must not heere practise his Court tricks; I wo'not
Enter Surgeon.
Trust my wives surgerie. Hee's come.—How ist,
Noble Sir Francis? Best withdraw; ile see
Him drest my selfe. [They lead out Sir Francis.

Un. Madam and gentlemen, Mistris Dorothy wo'not acknowledge she is a knight's daughter; she sweares she knows no Littleland.

Do. Till it appeare to whom this gemme was meant, Deare Madame, be you treasurer. I confesse I have wealth enough in such a noble husband.

Tho. He pretended Letters to carry two mile of to a kinsman of his Masters, and returne presently. He dranke three or fower beere glasses of sack, and he ran away so lightlie.

Un. Will you have her? she will doe you service, Captaine, in a Low Country[279] Leaguer. Or thou, Thomas? ile give thee a Coppiehold.

Tho. You have one life to come in that lease, yet I thank you: I am free, and that's inheritance; for ought I know she may serve us both.

La. Come you may perswade her to looke high and take it upon her for your credit. The gullery is yet within these walles; let your shame goe no farther. The wench may prove right, she may.

Ri. Wife, I hardly aske thee forgivenes; I had jealous thoughts, but all's right agen.

Ri. No great danger, his blade bone dislocated; the man has put everything in his right place.

Cap. If the rascall have any wit left he will ride quite away with himselfe; tis his best course to fly oversea.

Do. My mother died, I have it by tradition,
As soone as I was borne; my father (but
No knight) is now i'th Indies, a poore Merchant,
That broke for 20,000 pounds.

Do. You were best use me well, now we are married.
I will be sworne you forc'd me to the Church
And thrice compeld me there to say I Dorothy.
The Parsons oath and mine, for ought I know,
May make it halfe a rape.

Ri. There is no remedy;
We can prove no conspiracie. And, because
I have been gulld my selfe, gett her with child,
—My Doe is barren,—at birth of her first baby
Ile give her a hundred peeces.

Un. That's somewhat yet, when charge comes on. Thy hand! a wife can be but a wife: it shall cost me 500 pounds but ile make thee a Ladie in earnest.

Fra. My Surgeon sayes no danger; when you please, I may venture, Sir, to London.

Fra. May all joy thrive upon your Loves. —Then you are cosend of your Mistres, Mounseir?

Do. But your nephew knowes I have met with my match. Some bodie has been put to the sword.

Fra. Preserve your marriage faith: a full increase Of what you wish confirme your happinesse.

FINIS.

APPENDIX I.

The folio volume numbered Eg. MS. 1,994 contains 349 leaves. It was purchased by the British Museum, for the very modest sum of thirty-three pounds, at the sale of Lord Charlemont's library on August 6, 1865. Mr. Warner (of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum), to whom the public are indebted for an excellent catalogue of the Dulwich Collection, thinks that the volume originally belonged to Dulwich College. Towards the end of the XVIIth century Cartwright, the actor, bequeathed to the College a number of MS. plays, which the College authorities in the middle of the last century exchanged (horrendum dictu!) for tomes of controversial divinity. Of all the plays left by the actor only one[280]—and that imperfect—remains. The late Lord Charlemont was a friend of Malone, and it is well known that Malone had many of the Dulwich documents in his possession for years. Mr. Warner's theory is that Malone lent the volume to Lord Charlemont, and that it was never returned. The objection that naturally suggests itself is, "How came so acute a scholar as Malone to fail to draw attention to a Collection of such considerable interest?" And I confess that I am not able to offer any satisfactory answer.

The volume contains in all fifteen plays, written in various hands. One piece has the author's initials attached, but the others have neither name nor initials.

First in order, leaves 1-29, stands Fletcher's Elder Brother. I have compared the MS. with Dyce's text, and find the variations to be few and unimportant. In III. 3 Dyce follows the old copies in reading:—

    What a noise is in this house! my head is broken
    Within a parenthesis: in every corner,
    As if the earth were shaken with some strange colic,
    There are stirs and motions.

As the words "within a parenthesis" were found in all the old copies Dyce did not feel justified in rejecting them, although he had only the most grotesque meaning to assign to them. Theobald rightly saw that "within a parenthesis" was a marginal note, mistaken for a part of the text when the book was sent to press. The MS. gives—

    Sweet heart,
    What noyse is in this house? my head is broken
    In every corner, as the earth were shaken
    With some strange Collick: there are stirs and motions:
    What planet rules this house? Whos there?

In III. 5 the MS. supports Mason's correction "Their blue veins and blush disclose," where Dyce followed the old reading "in blush."—At the end of the play, after the Epilogue, are written the three following Epigrams:—

    A freemans life is like a pilgrimage:
    What's his life then that lives in mariage?
    Tis Sisyphus his toyle that with a stone
    Doth doe what surely for ease must be done.
    His labours journey's endles; 'tis no riddle,
    Since he's but halfe on's way that stands inth' middle.

    Take comfort, Janus; never feare thy head
    Which to the quick belongs, not to the dead.
    Thy wife did lye with one; thou, being dead drunke,
    Then art no Cuckold though she bee a Punke.

    Tis not the state nor soveraintie of Jove
    Could draw thy pure affections from my love:
    Nor is there any Venus in the skyes
    Could from thy lookes withdraw my greedy eyes.

Leaves 30-51 are taken up with Dick of Devonshire. Then follows an unnamed play (leaves 52-73), written in a villainous hand. If I succeed in transcribing this play I shall print it in the third volume, for it seems to be an unpublished play of Heywood's. The next piece, entitled Calisto (leaves 74-95), which is written in the same hand, consists of scenes from Heywood's Golden Age and Silver Age. There are many variations from the printed copies, showing that the most active of the old playwrights found time to revise his works. Here is a song that was omitted in the printed copy. Its proper place in Pearson's Reprint of Heywood is vol. iii. p. 67:—

    Whether they be awake or sleepe,
    With what greate Care ought Virgins keepe,
          With what art and indevor,
    The Jewell which they ought to pryse
    Above the ritchest marchandise,—
          And once lost lost for ever!

    Virginity is a rare gem,
    Rated above a diadem,
          And was despised never:
    'Tis that at which the most men ayme
    And being gott they count their game
          And once lost lost for ever.

Of the charming song "Haile beauteous Dian, Queene of Shades" the MS. gives a far inferior version:—

    Thou Trivia, dost alone excell,
    In heaven when thou dost please to dwell
    Cald Cynthia, Proserpine in Hell:
          But when thou theair art fyred
    And takest thy bugle and thy bowe,
    To chase on Earth the hart or doe,
    Thee for Diana all men knowe,
          Who art mongst us admired:
    Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce,
    So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.

    Off all chast vestalls thou art queene
    Which are, which heretofore have been;
    The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene
          On earth wayte to attend thee;
    And when that thou on huntinge goest,
    In which thou art delighted moest,
    They off their active swiftnes boast,
          For which we all comend thee.
    Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce,
    So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.

We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), Edmond Ironside: The English King. This piece had a second title—A trew Chronicle History called War hath made all friends. It must be confessed that this old play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:—

    Canutus. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards!
    Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred
    Doth come into the pitt with greater grace,
    Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes,
    Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out
    Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight;
    Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke,
    Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself:
    Even soe my bigbond Daines, adrest to fight
    As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven,
    (And like the Giants graple with the gods)
    At first encounter rush uppon theire foes
    But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye
    As men distraught with lightninge from above
    Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.

    Edricus. Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self.
    Fortune in turninge will exalt your state
    And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe,
    Now you must hope for better still and better
    And Edmond must expect still worse and worse,
    A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye,
    Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile
    On you and frowne on Ironside.

    Canutus. What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes,
    Of her sower visage and her rowling stone?
    Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery.
    Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades
    Ye are but cowards every one of you!
    Edmond is blest: oh, had I but his men,
    I would not doute to conquer all the world
    In shorter time the [then] Alexander did.
    But all my Daines are Braggadochios
    And I accurst to bee the generall
    Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.

    South. Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men,
    All English borne except a Thousand Daines.
    Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive
    If thus to Choller you give libertie.

Canutus. It weare no matter if they all weare slaine,
Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.

    Uska. My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe:
    In all their broyles English gainst English fight;
    The Daines or none or very few are slaine.

    Canutus. It was a signe yee fledd and did not fight.
                            [turns towards Uskatant.
    Ist not a dishonour unto you
    To see a foraingne nation fight for mee
    Whenas my homebred Cuntrymen doe runne,
    Leaving theire king amongest his enimies?

    Edricus. Give not such scoope to humerous discontent,
    Wee all are partners of your privat greefes.
    Kinges are the heads, and yf the head but ache
    The little finger is distempered.
    Wee greeve to se you greeved, which hurteth us
    And yet availes not to asswage your greefe.
    You are the Sunne, my lo:, wee Marigolds;
    Whenas you shine wee spred our selves abroad
    And take our glory from your influence;
    And when you hide your face or darken yt
    With th'least incounter of a clowdy looke,
    Wee close our eies as partners of your woes,
    Droopinge our heades as grasse downe waid with due.
    Then cheere ye upp, my lord, and cheere upp us,
    For now our valours are extinguished
    And all our force lyes drownd in brinish teares,
    As Jewells in the bottome of the sea.
    —I doe beseech your grace to heare mee speake.
                            [Edricus talks to him.

The next piece (leaves 119-135), which is without a title, is founded on the Charlemagne romances. My friend, Mr. S.L. Lee, editor of Huon of Bordeaux, in answer to my inquiries writes as follows: "Almost all the characters in this play are the traditional heroes of the French Charlemagne romances, and stand in the same relation to one another as in the Lyf of Charles the Grete and the Four Sons of Aymon, both of which were first printed by Caxton, and secured through later editions a wide popularity in England during the XVIth century. I believe, however, that the story of the magic ring is drawn from another source. It is unknown to the Charlemagne romances of France and England, but it appears in several German legends of the Emperor, and is said to be still a living tradition at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the episode is usually localised (cf. Gaston, Paris, Histoire Poétique de Charlemagne, p. 383). Petrarch has given a succinct account of it in a letter written from Cologne, in which he states that he learnt it from the priests of the city, and it is through his narrative that the legend appears to have reached England. John Skelton in his poem 'Why come ye not to court?' quotes the story, and refers to the Italian poet as his authority (cf. Dyce's Skelton, II. 48 and 364, where the letter is printed at length). Southey has also made the tradition the subject of a ballad entitled King Charlemain to which he has prefixed a French translation of the passage of Petrarch. In 1589 George Peele in a Farewell addressed to Morris and Drake on setting out with the English forces for Spain tells them to

    Bid theatres and proud tragedians,
    Bid Mahomet, Scipio, & mighty Tamburlaine,
    King Charlemagne, Tom Stukeley and the rest
    Adieu.

Dyce, in a note on this passage (Dyce's Peele, II. 88) writes: 'No drama called Charlemagne has come down to us, nor am I acquainted with any old play in which that monarch figures.' But we know from Henslowe's diary that in at least two plays that were dramatised from Charlemagne romances the Emperor must have taken a part." Mr. Lee concludes his most interesting note by suggesting that the present play may be the one to which Peele alludes; but he will at once perceive from my extracts that the date 1589 is much too early. Here is a passage that might have been written by Cyril Tourneur:—

    Rich. O you've slayne me! tell me, cruell sir,
    Why you have doone thys, that myne innocent soule
    May teache repentance to you— dies.

    Gan. Speake it out,—
    What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe?
    You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so:
    You have the trycke of mightie men in courte
    To speake at leasure and pretend imployment.
    Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall
    Whether you speake the resydue behynde
    Now or at doomes day. If thy common sence
    Be not yet parted from thee, understand
    I doe not misse thee dyinge because once
    I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that
    There is no Devyll in me nor in hell
    That could have flesht me to this violent deathe
    Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.

The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in the Revenger's Tragedy. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or perhaps by the author[281] of the Second Maiden's Tragedy. All the figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to watch the riot of devils. Here is an extract from the scene where Orlando, returning from the wars, hears that Charlemagne, his uncle, has married Ganelon's niece, and that his own hopes of succession have been ruined by the birth of a son:—

    Orl[ando.] I am the verye foote-ball of the starres,
    Th'anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects
    With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves
    Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.
    My starres, my starres!
    O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares
    So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.

    Rei[naldo.] Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne—
    A propertie oth court, that least his owne
    Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt
    In pollycie to scoffe at other mens.
    He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that
    Keepes hym secure from all taxation.

Orl. Y'are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman
And hated of hys father for hys vertues.

Buf. Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe
May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!

    Orl. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs
    Can ere be heard to my desyred good,
    I am not so voyde of humanytie
    But I will thancke your loue.

    Buf. Such as the gallymaufry that is fownd
    In her large wombe may promise: he that has
    The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte
    And knowes no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists
    Invay agaynst plurallytie of liueinge
    And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without
    The remedye of sugar candye for't.
    Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott
    Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes,
    I & allmost disjested too assoone.

    Buf. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,
    For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs
    To mere confussyon; nothing there hath forme
    But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte
    Vice only thrives & merrytt starves in courte.

Rei. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte
Oure fayre eied royall empresse?

    Buf. Trothe I wonderd, Sir,
    You spooke of that no sooner, yet I hope
    None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke
    To kyndell that ill flame.

    Orl. No, of my trothe,
    I knowe thee much too honest; but how fares
    The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?

Orl. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt. —O harte, will nothing breake the?

    Orl. Straunge? not a whytt. Why, if she had beene spayd
    And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyght
    My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde—
    Of a son too. Hencefourthe let no man
    That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve
    Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't
    Would tourne the hope't successe to an event
    That would fryghte nature, & make patyence braule
    With the most pleasinge obiecte.

    Orl. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable.
    Thys observation thou advysest to
    Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate
    That I should be distrackt. I can observe
    Naughte but varyetye of mysseries
    Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours.
    I neare did good for any but great Charles,
    And the meare doing that hath still brought fourth
    To me some plague too heavye to be borne,
    But that I am reserud onlye to teach
    The studyed envye of mallignant starrs.
    If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde,
    It is with studyinge myne afflictions:
    But, for her standing on a roullinge stone,
    Theare learninge faylls theym, for she fixed stands
    And onlye against me.

I may perhaps be tempted to print this play in full. The MS. has suffered somewhat, many lines having been cut away at the foot of some of the pages. Although the first scene is marked Act 2, Scene 2,[282] the play seemed to me to be complete. On the last leaf is written "Nella [Greek: phdphnr] la B." Some name is possibly concealed under these enigmatic letters; but the riddle would defy an Oedipus.

The next play (leaves 136-160) is entitled The fatal Maryage, or a second Lucreatya. Galeas, on returning from the wars, crowned with praises, is requested by his widowed mother to make a journey into the province of Parma to receive moneys owed by Signor Jouanny. On his arrival he falls in love with Jouanny's daughter, Lucretia, runs away with her, and secretly marries her. Galeas' mother, angered at the match, practises to convey Lucretia to a nunnery and get her son married to an earl's daughter; but Galeas defeats his mother's machinations by killing himself and Lucretia. There is a second plot to this odd play, but enough has been said. The meeting between Galeas and Jouanny is the best thing in the play:—

    Ga. I have heard much fame of him since my arrive,
    His generall nature, hospitable love;
    His [He's?] good to all men, enemy to none.
    Indeed he has that perfect character
    Before I see him I'm in love with him.

Jac. His words his bond, and does not break that bond To bankrupt others; he makes you not a library Of large monopolie to cosen all men: Subintelligitur, he hates to deale With such portentious othes as furr his mouth In the deliverance.

Ga. The livery of my griefe: my fathers dead
And mee hath made his poore executor.

    Jou. What? ought hee ten thousand duckets?
    Thy fathers face fixt in thy front
    Should be the paymaster tho from my hand.

Ga. The summes soe great I feare, once read by him, My seeming frend will prove my enemy.

Jac. Faith, if he doe, hee proves like your French galloshes that promise faire to the feet, yet twice a day leave a man in the durt.

Jou. It was his writing, I know it as my owne, Wherein hee has wronged mee beyond measure?

    Jou. Wert thou his father I'm wrongd,—
    Iniurd, calumniated, baffled to my teeth;
    And were it not that these gray haires of mine
    Were priviledgd ane enemy to vallour,
    I have a heart could see your fathers wrong—

Jou. There in a sawpitt, knave, to quitt my self Of such an inury.—Hee writes mee here That I should pay to you tenn thousand crownes.

    Jou. But thatts not my quarrell, sir; for I did owe to him
    Millions of Crownes, millions of my love;—
    And but to send a note here for his owne!
    Ist not a quarrell for an honest man?

    Jou. Why, looke yee, sir:
    When after many a storme and dreadfull blow
    Strooke from fire-belching clouds, bankrupt of life
    I have home return'd; when all my frends denide
    Their thresholds to mee, and my creditors
    Desir'd to sinke mee in a prisoners grave,
    Hee gave mee dying life, his helpefull hand
    Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land.
    Ist not a quarrell then to seeke butts owne?

    Jou. When all the talents of oppression
    Of usurers, lawyers and my creditors
    Had fangd upon my wife and family,
    Hee gave mee dying life, his helpfull hand
    Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land.
    Ist not a quarrell then to seeke but's owne?

Jou. Come in, sir, where I will pay all that you can demand:
Noe other quarrell, sir, shall passe your hand.

Ga. If every [one] should pay as well as you
The world were good, wee should have bankrupts few.

We now come to a play (leaves 161-185), without title, and wanting some leaves at the end, on the subject of Richard the Second. I think with Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, who printed eleven copies of this piece, that it is anterior to Shakespeare's play. There is less extravagance of language than in most of the plays belonging to that early date (circ. 1593?); and the blank verse, though it is monotonous enough, has perhaps rather more variety than we should expect to find. Much of the play is taken up with Greene and Baggott; but the playwright has chiefly exerted himself in representing the murder of Woodstock at Calais. Before the murder, Woodstock falls asleep, and there appears to him the ghost of the Black Prince:

                     … Oh I am nought but ayre:
    Had I the vigour of my former strength
    When thou beheldst me fight at Cressy feild,
    Wher hand to hand I tooke King John of France
    And his bould sonns my captive prisoners,
    Ide shake these stiff supporters of thy bed
    And dragg thee from this dull securyty.
    Oh yett for pittye wake; prevent thy doome;
    Thy blood upon my sonne will surely come:
    For which, deere brother Woodstocke, haste and fly,
    Prevent his ruein and thy tragedy. [Exit Ghoste.

Undisturbed by this appeal, Woodstock slumbers on. Then enters the ghost of Edward the Third. His speech is worthy of Robert Greene:—

    Sleepst thou so soundly and pale death so nye?
    Thomas of Woodstocke, wake my sone and fly.
    Thy wrongs have roused thy royall fathers ghost,
    And from his quiat grave king Edwards come
    To guard thy innocent life, my princely sonne.
    Behould me heere, sometymes faire Englands lord:
    (7) warlicke sonnes I left, yett being gone
    No one succeeded in my kingly throne, &c.

I will not inflict more of this stuff on the reader. Suffice it to say that Woodstock wakes in terror and calls aloud. Lapoole, the governor of the city, who is close at hand with two murderers, enters and comforts him. Here the playwright shows a touch of pathos:—

    Good nyght, Lapoole, and pardon me, I prethee,
    That my sadd feare made question of thy faith.
    My state is fearefull and my mynd was troubled
    Even at thy entrance with most fearefull vissions
    Which made my passiones more extreame and hastye.
    Out of my better judgment I repent itt
    And will reward thy love: once more, good nyght.

Now follows the Lady Mother (leaves 186-211), which I have proved to be a play of Glapthorne's. No doubt it is the same piece as the Noble Trial, entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660, but not printed.

Then we have a masque (leaves 212-223). On the first page are given the nomina actorum, and underneath is written "August 5th, 1643." I was surprised to find in this masque a long passage that occurs also in Chapman's Byron's Tragedie (ed. Pearson, ii. 262). Ben Jonson said (to Drummond of Hawthornden) that only he and Chapman knew how to write a masque. The remark has always puzzled me, and certainly I should never have thought of Chapman's name in connexion with this masque. Here is an extract, containing the passage from Byron's Tragedie:—

    Love. For thy sake, Will, I feathered all my thoughts
    And in a bird's shape flew in to her bosome,
    The bosome of Desert, thy beautious Mistris,
    As if I had been driven by the hauke
    In that sweet sanctuary to save my liffe.
    She smild on me, cald me her prety bird,
    And for her sport she tyed my little legs
    In her faire haire. Proud of my golden fetters
    I chirped for Joy; she confident of my lameness,
    Soon disintangled me & then she percht me
    Upon her naked breast. There being ravishd
    I sung with all my cheere and best of skill.
    She answered note for note, relish for relish,
    And ran division with such art and ease
    That she exceeded me.

    Love. In this swete strife, forgetting where I stood.
    I trod so hard in straining of my voice
    That with my claw I rent her tender skin;
    Which as she felt and saw vermillion follow
    Stayning the cullor of Adonis bleeding
    In Venus lap, with indignation
    She cast me from her.

    Love. Then I put on this shepheards shape you see;
    I tooke my bow and quiver as in revenge
    Against the birds, shooting and following them
    From tre to tre. She passing by beheld
    And liked the sport. I offerrd her my prey,
    Which she receved and asked to feele my bowe;
    Which when she handled and beheld the beauty
    Of my bright arrowes, she began to beg em.
    I answered they were all my riches, yet
    I was content to hazard all and stake em
    Downe to a kiss at a game at chess with her.
    "Wanton," quoth she, being privy to her skill,
    "A match!" Then she with that dexterrytey
    Answered my challenge that I lost my weapons:
    Now Cupides shaffts are headed with her lookes.
    My mother soone perceiving my disgrace,
    My Arms beinge lost and gon which made me a terror
    To all the world, she tooke away my wings,
    Renouncd me for her child and cast me from her;
    And more, to be revengd upon Desert,
    Comanded Danger to be her strong keeper,
    That should she empt my quiver at the hearts
    Of men they might not dare to court her, fearing
    That horrid mischiefe that attends [on] her.
    On this I threw me headlong on the sea
    To sleepe my tyme out in the bottome off it;
    Whence you have puld me up to be a scorne
    To all the World.

    Will. Not so, my prety boy, Ill arme the againe;
    My breast shall be thy quiver, my sighes thy shaffts:
    And heres an opportunytey to be wingd againe;
    Se here the wings of Fortune.

    Love. Fortunes wings
    Are full of giddy feathers to unsure
    For me to fly with all, but I will stay with you,
    I like so well this aire; onely you must
    Provide to keepe me from the hands of Danger
    That wayts upon Dessert.

    Will. Our selfes and all
    Arcadia shall be your guard and wher
    Love passes and recides he shall be allwayes
    Armd and attended by a band of lovers,
    Such faithfull ones as if that ugly Danger
    Were Lucifer himselfe, they should defend you.

Next on our List (leaves 224-244) is the Two Noble Ladyes, or the Converted Conjurer. This "Tragicomicall Historie often tymes acted with approbation at the Red Bull in St. John's Streete by the company of the Revells," is a coarse noisy play. The comic part consists of the most absurd buffoonery, and the rest is very stilted. But there is one scene—and one only—which shows genuine poetic power. It is where Cyprian, the sorcerer, having by his magical arts saved Justina, a Christian maiden, tries to gain her love:—

    Cyprian. Doe not disdayne, faire peece of Natures pride,
    To heare him plead for love that sav'd thy life.
    It was my pow'rfull arte produc'd those monsters
    To drowne those monstrous executioners
    That should have wrought your wracke.

    Justina. Sir, I am sorry
    Hell had a hand in my delivery:
    That action cannot merrit my affection.

    Cyprian. I not alleadge it for desert of grace
    But argument of mercie: pitty him
    That in distresse so lately pitty'd you.

    Justina. I am the troth-plight wife of Clitophon,
    The Prince of Babylon; hee has my hart,
    And theres no share for others.

    Cyprian. That high state
    Is now at a low ebbe: destruction
    Hangs like a threatning Commet ore the walls
    Of Babilon. Then fix thy love on him
    That can more then the greatest prince on earth.
    Love mee, and princes shall thy pages bee;
    Monarchs shall lay their crownes and royalties
    As presents at thy feet; the Indian mynes
    Shall be thy ioyntures; all the worldes rich marchants
    Shall bring their pearles and pretious stones to thee,
    Sweet gums and spices of Arabia,
    Fine Median linnen and Barbarian silkes;
    The earth shall beare no fruit of raritie
    But thou shalt taste it. Weele transforme ourselves
    In quaintest shapes to vary our delights.
    And in a chariot wrought out of a cloud,
    Studded with starres, drawne through the subtle aire
    By birds of paradise, wee'll ride together
    To fruitfull Thessalie, where in fair Tempe
    (The only pleasant place of all the earth)
    Wee'll sport us under a pavilion
    Of Tyrian scarlet.

    Justina. Should these rarities
    (Faithlesse as are your wondrous promises)
    Lead me into the hazard of my soule
    And losse of such ay-lasting happinesse
    As all earths glories are but shaddows to?

    Cyprian. Thincke you this rare pile of perfection.
    Wherein Love reads a lecture of delight,
    Ows not it's use to Nature? There is love
    In every thing that lives: the very sunne
    Does burne in love while we partake his heate;
    The clyming ivy with her loving twines
    Clips the strong oake. No skill of surgerie
    Can heale the wounds, nor oceans quench the flames
    Made by all pow'rfull love. Witnesse myselfe:
    Since first the booke of your perfections
    Was brought so neare than I might read it ore,
    I have read in it charmes to countermand
    All my enchantments and enforce mee stoop
    To begge your love.

    Justina. How ere you please to style
    A lustfull appetite, it takes not mee.
    Heav'n has my bow my life shall never bee
    Elder then my unstain'd virginitie.

    Cyprian. Virginitie! prize you so dearely that
    Which common things cast of? Marke but the flow'rs
    That now as morning fresh, fragrant and faire,
    Lay ope their beautys to the courting sunne,
    And amongst all the modest mayden rose:
    These wanton with the aire until unleavd
    They die and so loose their virginitie.

    Justina. In India there is a flow'r (they say)
    Which, if a man come neare it, turnes away:
    By that I learne this lesson, to descrie
    Corrupt temptations and the tempter flie.

Leaves 245-267 are taken up with the Tragedy of Nero, which was printed in 1624. Then comes [Daborne's] Poore Man's Comfort (268-292), an inferior play printed in 1655. Afterwards follows a dull play (leaves 293-316), Loves Changlelings Changed, founded on Sidney's Arcadia. The last piece in the book (leaves 317-349) is The lancheinge of the May, Written by W.M. Gent in his return from East India, A.D. 1632. There is a second title, The Seamans honest wife, to this extraordinary piece. On the last leaf is a note by Sir Henry Herbert:—"This Play called ye Seamans honest wife, all ye Oaths left out in ye action as they are crost in ye booke & all other Reformations strictly observed, may bee acted, not otherwise. This 27th June, 1633. HENRY HERBERT.

"I command your Bookeeper to present mee with a faire Copy hereaft[er] and to leave out all oathes, prophaness & publick Ribaldry as he will answer it at his perill. H. HERBERT."

It is plain therefore that the piece was intended for presentation on the stage; but it must have been a strange audience that could have listened to it. Dramatic interest there is none whatever. The piece is nothing more, than a laudation of the East India Company. In tables of statistics we have set before us the amount of merchandise brought from the East; and the writer dwells with enthusiasm on the liberality of the Company, and shows how new channels have been opened for industry. One extract will be enough:—

    Nor doe our marchants tradinge into Spayne,
    The Streights, to Venice, Lisbon or the like,
    Give entertaynment unto novices
    Which have not some experience of the sea.
    But when all doors of Charitie are shutt
    The East India gates stand open, open wide,
    To entertayne the needie & the poore
    With good accomodation. Two monthes paye
    They have before hand for to make provision,
    Needfull provision for so longe a voyage,
    And two monthes paye theyr wives are yearely payd
    The better to mayntayne theyr poore estate
    Duringe the discontinuance of theyr husbands.
    Yf in the voyage he doe chance to [MS. doe] dye
    The widowe doth receave whatere's found due,
    Yf not by will disposed otherwise;
    Which often happeneth to be such a sume
    As they togeather never sawe the like.
    And when did any of these widowes begge
    For mayntenaunce in Churches as some doe?
    Blackwall proclaymes theyr bountie; Lymehouse speakes
    (Yf not ingrate) their liberalitie;
    Ratcliffe cannot complayne nor Wapping weepe,
    Nor Shadwell crye agaynst theyr niggardnes.
    No, they doe rather speake the contrary
    With acclamations to the highest heavens.

APPENDIX II.

The following note is by Mr. Robert Boyle, of St. Petersburg, a Shakespearian scholar, whose name is well known to readers of the Anglia and the New Shakspere Society's Transactions. Mr. Boyle, who has a close acquaintance with Massinger, on seeing the proof-sheets of Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt, pointed out several repetitions of expressions used in other plays of Massinger. It will be understood that I do not adopt Mr. Boyle's conclusions unreservedly. Possibly in an Appendix to Vol. IV. I may return to a consideration of Barnavelt, but the present volume has already swollen beyond its limits.

This play, the most valuable Christmas present English scholars have for half a century received, appears indubitably to belong to the Massinger and Fletcher series. Even a cursory glance will convince the reader that it is one of the greatest treasures of our dramatic literature. That such a gem should lie in manuscript for over 200 years, should be catalogued in our first library, should be accessible to the eye of the prying scholar, and yet never even be noticed till now, affords a disagreeable but convincing proof of the want of interest in our early literature displayed even by those whose studies in this field would seem to point them out for the work of rescuing these literary treasures from a fate as bad as that which befell those plays which perished at the hands of Warburton's "accursed menial." The present play has some remarkable features in it. It is taken from contemporary history (the only one as far as we know of that class in which Massinger was engaged). It was written almost immediately after the events it describes. These events took place in the country in which Englishmen then took more interest than in any other country in Europe. There is a tone of political passion in the play which, particularly in one place, breaks out in an expression which the hearers must have applied to their own country. There is no doubt that the audience wandered away in their thoughts from Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt, the saviour of his country from the Spanish yoke, as he professed himself in his defence on his trial, and Spain's determined enemy, to Sir Walter Raleigh, whose head had just fallen on the block, the victim of a perfidious foe and of a mean, shuffling king. The following is the passage:—

    Octavius, when he did affect the Empire,
    And strove to tread upon the neck of Rome
    And all her ancient freedoms, took that course
    That now is practised on you; for the Catos,
    And all free spirits slain or else proscribed,
    That durst have stirred against him, he then seized
    The Absolute rule of all. You can apply this. p. 292.

In a note Mr. Bullen informs us, that "You can apply this" is crossed through. He does not state whether there is anything to show that this was done by Sir George Buck, Master of the Revels, and consequently Censor for the Stage. But this would appear to be the case, the more so as the present play seems to have raised scruples in many places in the mind of the dramatic Cerberus. It is hardly possible to imagine that the spectators did not apply the "free spirits" to Raleigh, and the "Catos" to those members who were shortly after to be imprisoned on account of a memorable protest entered in the journals of the House, which Octavius, who was trying to seize the absolute rule of all, tore out with his own royal hands. There is a peculiar fitness in this hit at James as Octavius which probably did not escape the audience. There is another passage, on p. 253, which, singular to say, seems to have escaped the notice of the Censor:—

    Such mild proceedings in a Government
    New settled, whose main power had its dependence
    Upon the power of some particular men,
    Might be given way to, but in ours it were
    Unsafe and scandalous.

Vandort, the speaker here, is opposing the idea of mercy to Barnavelt. The language is very mild, but receives a peculiar shade of meaning when read in connexion with the following passage by Massinger from the Virgin Martyr, I. 1, 236:—

                   In all growing empires
    Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer
    And be set up examples to strike terror
    In others, though far off: but when a state
    Is raised to her perfection, and her bases
    Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy
    And do't with safety.

The Virgin Martyr is noticed October 6th, 1620, as newly reformed. It was probably written not long before. The two passages above mentioned would seem to bring the two plays into connexion. But, it may be asked, what proof have we that it was a production of Massinger and Fletcher? As for the latter, there can be no doubt. His double endings are sufficient proof. As for the Massinger part, there is first the probability of his being Fletcher's partner, as the play belongs to a period when we know they were working together; secondly, the metrical style could belong to nobody else; thirdly, according to his well-known manner, he has allusions to and repetitions of expressions in his other plays. As I have gone through Massinger with a view to these repetitions, I propose to notice those that occur in the present play. When I allude to a play going under the name of Beaumont and Fletcher as partly Massinger's, I am supported either by Mr. Fleay's tables, published in the Transactions of the New Shakspere Society, or to my own extension of these tables published in the Eng. Studien, a German periodical for English literature and philology.

Act I. The First Scene is by Massinger, who almost always begins the joint plays. On page 210 we have—

is a repetition of the idea in Virgin Martyr. On page 212 "Grave Maurice"; here "Grave" is Count Maurice, who is also so called in Love's Cure, I. 2. Bobadilla's speech. (Love's Cure is by Massinger and another author, not Fletcher.)

Though the thought occurs in Tacitus and Simplicius, Milton seems to have adopted it, as he has done many other of his most striking passages from Massinger. It occurs also in at least one other play of Massinger's, but the passage has escaped me for the moment.

An expression which, with a slight change from "spoken" to "comprehended," occurs in almost every one of Massinger's plays.

Act I. Scene 2, is also by Massinger. On page 218,—

The situation on page 219 has a striking resemblance to a similar scene with Cranmer in Henry VIII. Both Maurice and Cranmer are to be disgraced by being kept waiting outside while their enemies were at Council. I cannot help here repeating what I have expressed before, that Henry VIII. as we have it is not the work of Shakespeare and Fletcher, but of Massinger and Fletcher, with only fragments of the Shakespeare play.

Act I. Scene 3, is by Fletcher.

Act II. Scene 1, is by Massinger.

On page 232, "This I foresaw," is also very common in similar situations. Among numerous cases I refer to the Unnatural Combat, Act III., about the end, and Maid of Honour, II. iii., where exactly the same words are used.

Page 233, "Be ne'er remembered," occurs in almost all Massinger's plays.
It is the most frequent of his many repetitions.

A little lower down. "And something there I'll do," is a well-known
Massingerism, occurring everywhere in his plays.

III. 1, is Fletcher's. On page 250 Barnavelt's hope that the soldiers will regret him because he fed and nursed them, stands in flagrant opposition to what Massinger says of Barnavelt's cashiering the Captain, on page 215.

Page 252, "But that is not the hazard that I would shun," is one of the commonest Massingerisms. The passage on page 253 has been mentioned already. Massinger is almost the only later dramatist who has a large number of dissyllable "tions." We have here (253),—

III. 4, is by Fletcher. On page 263 there is an unmistakable reminiscence of Henry VIII., Wolsey's "Farewell."

III. 5 (also marked 4), is by Massinger. On page 264 occurs, "At no part," one of the commonest Massingerisms; and a little lower down,—

IV. 5, is by Massinger. There are no clear Massingerisms, but the metrical style, and the allusion to Raleigh already mentioned, make it plain that the Scene is his.

V. 1, is also Massinger's. The end of this Scene I have not seen, as pages 296-305 were missing in the proof-sheets I examined. Nearly all Scene 2 is also missing. It and the rest of the play seem to be Fletcher's, who, as usual, spoiled Massinger's fine conception of Barnavelt, and makes him whine like Buckingham in Henry VIII. This moral collapse of all energy in the face of death in the two characters is significant. Massinger would have carried out the scene in quite another tone. Some of the Fletcher scenes in this play, in which he has an unusually large share, are surprisingly good, and remind us of Fletcher at his best, in Philaster and the earlier plays. He fails here, as he always does, in the delineation of character. Nowhere is this break-down more characteristic than in Buckingham and Barnavelt. It gives the end of our play quite a wrench, and deprives Barnavelt of the sympathies which we had been forced to turn on him through his intrepid behaviour in the great trial scene. We had almost gained the conviction that his aims were really pure, and here we are called on to witness his utter collapse, in which he almost whines for pardon for his sins, and, like all worthless fellows without character seems actually to soften in gratitude to the man who sent him to his death.

This conclusion, I say, weakens the dramatic power of the close, but it does not prevent Sir John Barnavelt from occupying a high place among our dramatic treasures. R. BOYLE.

FINIS.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Printed in The Court and Times uf Charles the First, &c. Edited, with an introduction and notes, by the author of Memoirs of Sophia Dorothea, Consort of George I., &c. (Vol. i. p. 104. London, 1848.) 8vo.

[4] Mr. Fleay thinks that Dick of Devonshire was written by R. Davenport. "The conduct of the plot," he observes, "the characterisation, the metre, the language are very like the City Nightcap." The reader must judge between us. I find it difficult to believe that Davenport could have preserved throughout five acts such clear directness of style.

[8] Span. picaro, a rogue or thief. Nares quotes several instances of "picaro" and "picaroon" from our early writers.

[10] Cf. Heywood's Faire Maid of the West: part one (Works, II. 306), "And joyne with you a ginge of lusty ladds." The meaning is "band, company." The word is not uncommon among Elizabethan writers, and is also found much earlier.

[11] Span. caraca, a ship of large size. Nares quotes from Beaumont and Fletcher.

[12] Halliwell quotes Minsheu: "The Spanish borachoe, or bottle commonly of a pigges skinne, with the haire inward, dressed inwardly with rozen and pitch to keepe wine or liquor sweet." Hence the word came to be applied to a drunkard.

[13] A stately Spanish dance. Nares' article sub. 'Pavan' is full and interesting.

[14] The repetition of the words "such a" is probably a clerical error: the Alexandrine is clumsy.

[16] Nares quotes from Taylor's Workes, 1630:—"So horseman-ship hath the trot, the amble, the racke, the pace, the false and wild gallop, or the full speed," &c.

[17] Street bullies, such as are introduced in Nabbes' Bride, Middleton and W. Rowley's Fair Quarrel, &c. The exploits of a "Roaring Girl" are admirably set forth by Dekker and Middleton.

[18] The full form "God refuse me" occurs in Webster's White Devil (ed. 1871, p. 7), where Dyce quotes from Taylor, the water poet: "Would so many else in their desperate madnes desire God to Damne them, to Renounce them, to Forsake them, to Confound them, to Sinke them, to Refuse them?" "Against Cursing and Swearing," Works, 1630.

[19] "The Saturday Night, some sixteen sail of the Hollanders, and about ten White Hall Men (who in England are called Colliers) were commanded to fight against the Castle of Punthal, standing three miles from Cadiz: who did so accordingly; and discharged in that service, at the least, 1,600 shot." Three to One, &c. (Arber's English Garner, I. 626).

[20] Sc. companions: Mids. Night's Dream, III., i.; Shirley's Wedding, k. v., &c.

[22] To "look babies in the eyes" was a common expression for peering amorously into the eyes.

[24] "Barleybreake" (the innocent sport so gracefully described in the first book of the Arcadia) is often used in a wanton sense.

"In tall ships, richly built and ribd with brasse,
To put a Girdle round about the world."

[26] Furnished with "bosses," which seem to have been the name for some tinkling metal ornaments. Nares quotes from Sp. Moth. Hub. I. 582:—

"The mule all deck'd in goodly rich array,
With bells and bosses that full loudly rung."

"A man hanging and tottering and tottering,
As you know the wind will wave a man."

(Quoted by Mr. Fleay in illustration of the "tottering colours" in King
John, v. 5, 7.)

"Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death."—Macbeth, v. 8.

[31] Eringoes are often mentioned as a provocative by early writers: Merry Wives, v. 5, &c.

[34] To "make ready" is to dress; so to "make unready" is to undress. The expression was very common.

[35] A large salt-cellar was placed in the middle of the table: guests of importance sat "above the salt," inferior guests below. Abundant illustrations are given in Nares' Glossary.

[36] In Brand's Popular Antiquities (Bohn's Antiq. Libr., II. 70-77) there is an interesting article on "Groaning Cake and Cheese."

[38] The next word is illegible in the MS. We should have expected "Exeunt Fer., Man., & attendants."

[41] I have followed the punctuation of the MS., though I am tempted to read, "What to doe? pray with me?"

[44] The biting of the thumb is here a mark of vexation: to bite one's thumb at a person was considered an insult (Rom. and Jul., i. 1).

[46] The conceit is very common. Compare (one of many instances) Dekker's Match me in London, iv. 1—

    "You oft call Parliaments, and there enact
    Lawes good and wholesome, such as who so breake
    Are hung by the purse or necke, but as the weake
    And smaller flyes i'th Spiders web are tane
    When great ones teare the web, and free remain."

[47] The reading of the MS. is "snapsance," which is clearly wrong. "Snaphance was the name for the spring-lock of a musket, and then for the musket itself. It is said that the term was derived from the Dutch snap-haans (poultry stealers), a set of marauders who made use of it" (Lilly's Dramatic Works, ed. Fairholt, II., 272). "Tarrier" must mean "a person that causes delay": cf. a passage from Sir Thomas Overbury's character of "a meene Petty fogger":—"He cannot erre before judgment, and then you see it, only writs of error are the tariers that keepe his client undoing somewhat the longer" (quoted in Todd's Johnson, sub tarrier).

[48] "One being condemned to be shot to death for a rape: the maid [sic] in favour of his life was content to beg him for her husband. Which being condiscended unto by the Judge, according to the lawe of Spaine in that behalfe: in steps me the hangman all in a chafe and said unto the Judge. Howe (I pray you, sir) can that be, seeing the stake is already in the ground, the rope, the arrowes, the Archers all in a readines, and heere I am come for him." (Anthony Copley's Wits, Fits, and Fancies, 1614, p. 120.) Here is another merry tale, with rather more point in it, from the same collection:—"A fellow being to suffer, a maide came to the gallowes to beg him for her husband, according as the custome of Spaine dispenceth in that case. The people seeing this said unto the fellow: Now praise God that he hath thus mercifullie preserv'd thee, and see thou ever make much of this kinde woman that so friendly saves thy life. With that the Fellow viewing her and seeing a great skarre in her face, which did greatlie disfigure her, a long nose, thin lips and of a sowre complexion, hee said unto the Hangman: On (my good friend) doe thy duty: Ile none of her." (p. 160.)

[49] Cf. Rom. and Jul., I., iii., 76, "Why, he's a man of wax," where Dr. Ingleby (who has no doubt learnt better by this time) once took the meaning to be, "a man of puberty, a proper man." Steevens happily compared Horace's "cerea Telephi brachia."

[51] "Slug. A ship which sails badly." Halliwell. I cannot recall another instance of the use of the word in this sense.

[52] The "trundle-bed" (or "truckle-bed") was a low bed moving on castors. In the day-time it was placed under the principal or "high" bed: at night it was drawn out to the foot of the larger bed. Vid. Nares, sub "truckle bed" and "trundle bed."

[53] The reading of the MS. is unintelligible. For All. I would read Alq., and for "Law you?"—by a very slight change—"Love you?" (the question being addressed to Henrico). Then what follows is intelligible.

                            "Nay but
    Shall I not be acquainted with your designe?
    When we must marry,
    Faith, to save charges of two wedding dinners,
    Lets cast so that one day may yield us bridegroome,—
    I to the daughter, thou to the mother."

[58] An allusion is intended to the tailor's "hell,"—the hole under the counter.

[61] In the MS. the stage direction has been altered to "Enter Sir Gefferie & Bunche." The whole of the colloquy between Sucket and Crackby is marked as if to be omitted. Doubtless this was one of the "reformacons" made at the instance of the Master of the Revels.

[62] Such would seem to be the reading of the MS., but it is not quite plain. I suspect that the true reading is "tripe-wives" (cf. oysterwives, &c.).

[66] The words "I faith" have been crossed out in the MS.—as being irreverent.

                           "For my services
   Pay me with pricelesse treasure of a kisse,
   While from the balmy fountaynes of thy lips
   Distils a moisture precious as the Dew
   The amorous bounty of the morne
   Casts on the Roses cheeke."

[69] In the MS. the word "witnes" has been crossed out and "vouchers" substituted.

[70] The introductory part of this scene, up to the entrance of the steward, had been omitted by the copyist and is added on the last leaf of the play.

[71] In the margin we find the words "Well said, Mr. Steward: a good observation."

[73] "What? does he plucke it out of his Codpeece? Yes, here lyes all his affeccon."—Marginal note in MS.

[74] "A verrie politique drunkard"—"I think the barrell of Hedlebergs in his bellye."—Marginal notes in MS.

[75] "Tis well his friends here to reconcile … … for assault and battery elce."—the other words in the marginal note are illegible.

[78] Pappenheim fell at the battle of Lützen, November 16, 1632; but there had been fighting at Maestricht in the earlier part of the year.

[80] The first reading was—"Hold, hold, good Captaine, tis our most temperate Steward."

[84] Therefore this play would seem to have been acted at the Whitefriars, i.e. at the Salisbury Court theatre. (F.G. Fleay.)

[85] The "jig" seems to have been a comic after-piece consisting of music and dancing. In Mr. Collier's Hist. of Dram. Lit., iii. 180-85 (new ed.), the reader will find much curious information on the point. The following passage from Shirley's Love in a Maze (1632) is not noticed by Mr. Collier:—

                             "Many gentlemen
    Are not, as in the days of understanding,
    Now satisfied without a jig, which since
    They cannot, with their honour, call for after
    The Play, they look to be serv'd up in the middle:
    Your dance is the best language of some comedies
    And footing runs away with all; a scene
    Express'd with life of art and squared to nature
    Is dull and phlegmatic poetry."

[87] The name of the musician, I suppose; but the reading of the MS. is somewhat illegible.

[88] The passage at first ran as follows: "Umh, how long have I slept, or am I buried and walke in Elizium as the poets faine? Goe to, where are they? in the ayre? I can percieve nothing nor remember anything has been don or said!"

[89] 'Grimes. Soe, now retire a little. Ile play him one fitt of mirthe on my trebble to rouse him. Ext.' These words occur in the left-hand margin. Probably they should stand here in the text 'Ext.' may mean either 'exeunt' (musicians) or 'exit' (Grimes to disguise himself).

[90] 'Who are these! ha! the towne waits? why, how now, my masters, whats the matter, ha?'—Passage cancelled in MS.

[92] "Here Gent[lemen], share this amongst yee and pray for Grimes." These words (addressed to the musicians) follow in the MS. but have been scored through.

[94] The reading of the MS. seems to be "inuolute." Mr. Fleay suggests "invocate."

    'Wishes for husband.
                  A proper Gent[leman]; Ime happy
     She has made so iuditious an election.'

Our author usually makes a trisyllable of "gentleman"; here it counts only as a monosyllable.

[97] Between this word and the next there is a mark of omission in the MS., and the words "t'were Sir" have been written above.

[98] What follows, to the entrance of Thurston, is marked to be omitted. I have thought fit to restore it to the text. "Here's Mr. Thurston," concludes Clariana's speech.

[99] Cf. a similar passage in Glapthorne's Wit in a Constable (Works, I. 182):—

                                "a limber fellow,
    Fit onely for deare Nan, his schoole-fellow,
    A Grocer's daughter borne in Bread-street, with
    Whom he has used to goe to Pimblico
    And spend ten groats in cakes and Christian ale."

From Shirley we learn that the apprentices took their pleasure in the mild form of treating their sweethearts to cream and prunes:—

    "You have some festivals, I confess, but when
    They happen, you run wild to the next village,
    Conspire a knot and club your groats apiece
    For cream and prunes, not daring to be drunk."
                              (Honoria and Mammon, v. i.).

Pimlico seems to have been a place near Hoxton famous for its ales and custards; cf. Mayne's City Match, II. 6.—

    "Nay, captain, we have brought you
    A gentleman of valour, who has been
    In Moorfields often: marry it has been
    To squire his sisters and demolish custards
    At Pimlico."

There is an unique tract entitled "Pimlyco or Runne Red cap, 'tis a mad world at Hoggesden," 1609.

[100] I cannot find that "bob" is used as a technical term in falconry. Mr. Fleay suggests that a "bob'd hawke" merely means a "hawk cheated of her prey." I rather think the meaning is a "hawk beaten or repulsed by her prey."

[101] From "A Kalendar of the English Church," p. 45 (Rivingtons: n.d., but 1865), one learns that "Marriage is restrained by Law at the following times unless with a License or Dispensation from the Bishop of the Diocese, his Chancellor, or Commissary, viz., from Advent Sunday until eight days after the Epiphany; from Septuagesima until eight days after Easter; and from the Monday in Rogation week until Trinity Sunday."

[102] I venture to insert the word "poet": both sense and metre are defective without it.

[112] The "Artillery Garden" was situated in Finsbury Fields, where also was the place of exercise for the City Trained Bands. In the "Antiquarian Repertory" (ed. 1807), i. 251-270, the reader will find an interesting account of the Trained Bands and the Artillery Company. Old writers are fond of sneering at the City warriors. The following passage is from Shirley's "Witty Fair One," v. 1:—"There's a spruce captain newly crept out of a gentleman-usher and shuffled into a buff jerkin with gold lace, that never saw service beyond Finsbury or the Artillery-Garden, marches wearing a desperate feather in his lady's beaver, while a poor soldier, bred up in the school of war all his life, yet never commenced any degree of commander, wants a piece of brass to discharge a wheaten bullet to his belly."

[113] "Vinum muscatum quod moschi odorem referat, propter dulcedinem, for the sweetnesse and smell it resembles muske," &c_. Minsheu's Guide into Tongues (apud Dyce's Glossary).

[114] "Mooncalf" (originally the name for an imperfectly formed foetus) was used as a term of reproach, like dodypol, nincompoop, ninny, dunderhead, &c.

[116] The blades from Bilboa in Spain were esteem'd as highly as those of Toledo manufacture.

[125] The passage is bracketed in the MS., and was probably meant to be omitted.

[129] This passage is bracketed in the MS. It could hardly have been expected to escape official censure.

[132] Early Greek writers held up the Scythians as models of justice and simplicity (Iliad, xiii. 6, &c.). Clearchus (apud Athen., xii. 27) accuses them of cruelty, voluptuous living, and viciousness of every kind; but, in justice to the Scythians, it should be added that in his "animadversiones" to the "Deipnosophists" (when will somebody complete and print Dyce's translation?) the learned Schweighaeuser in no measured language accuses Clearchus of wanton recklessness and gross inaccuracy.

[133] "What is the matter there? looke to the prisoners," was the first reading.

[136] Before correction the passage stood "And now, madam, being your servant and Timothy I bring you newes!" The words "Stay, stay Mr. Justice," &c., were inserted afterwards.

[140] The MS. is a folio of thirty-one leaves, written in a small clear hand: it was purchased for the National Library in 1851 from the Earl of Denbigh.

[141] In May, 1622, "by reason of sickness and indisposition of body wherewith it had pleased God to visit him, he had become incapable of fulfilling the duties and was compelled to resign."—Vid. Collier's "Hist. Eng. Dram. Lit." I. 402 (new ed.).

[142] Mr. Warner, of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum, to whom we owe the excellent Catalogue of the Dulwich Collection, kindly drew my attention to the autograph letter.

[143] In the right-hand margin we find "Jo: R: migh."—the names of the actors who took the Captains' parts. Further on the name "Jo: Rice" occurs in full. John Rice stands last on the list of Chief Actors in the first fol. Shakespeare. The reader will find an account of him in Collier's "Hist. of Eng. Dram. Lit.," iii. 486-88. It is curious that he should have taken so unimportant a part; but perhaps he sustained one of the chief characters besides.—"Migh" = Michael.

[144] It seems to have been no uncommon thing for officers to keep the names of soldiers on the list after their death and pocket their pay: cf. Webster's "Appius and Virginia," v. i., &c.

[145] The reply of 1 Cap., extending to thirteen lines, has been scored through in the MS., at the instance, I suppose, of the censorious Master of the Revels; it is, unfortunately, quite illegible.

[146] The MS. reads "Enter Barnavelt, Modes-bargen, Leidenberck, Vandermetten, Grotius, Taurinus, Utenbogart, Hogebeets." Names not in italics are scored through.

[150] MS. Enter Pr. of Orange, Gr: Henrie, Gra: William, Collonells & Captaines. Gr: Henrie and Collonells are scored through. In the right-hand margin is written the name of an actor, Mr. Rob:

[153] In the MS. there is a marginal note:—"I like not this: neither do I think that the pr. was thus disgracefully used, besides he is to much presented. G.B." The initials are those of Sir George Buc, Master of the Revels.

[155] The stage direction in the MS. runs thus:—"Enter 1 Burger, Vandermitten, Grotius." Vandermitten finally takes the place of 1 Burger and Grotius.

[156] Beneath, in the MS., is written the name of the actor who took the part, "Mr. Gough."

[157] In the right-hand margin are written the initials "R.T." It is unknown what actor was the owner of them.

[160] This Captain is identical with the one in the previous scene: "Jo: Rice:" took the part.

[161] In the MS. Vandermitten is scored through, and Grotius written above; but the alteration is not followed afterwards.

[164] In the right hand margin is a stage-direction, scored through,— "Droms—Enter ye Arminians: pass over."

[165] MS. Enter Bredero, Vandort and 2 Lords. The words in Roman letters are scored through in the MS.

[166] The brackets are mine: whoever excluded the 2 Lords left these words standing by an oversight.

[178] "And bycause some Hares by haunting the lowe watrie places do become foule and mesled, such Hares doe never follow the hard ways nor make such pathes to their formes, but use all their subtleties and pollecies by the sides of the Ryvers, brookes and other waters." Turberville's Booke of Hunting (1575), p. 160.

[184] The Wife's part was taken by "Nich", who may possibly be (as Mr. Fleay suggests) Nicholas Tooley; but I suspect that a younger actor than Tooley would have been chosen for the part.

[188] Sc. merrily (Dutch lustig), "Lustick, as the Dutchman says." —All's Well, II. 3.

[189] A corruption of Dutch brui. The meaning is "A plague on his Excellencie!"

[190] In the MS. follow two and a half lines, spoken by Vandort, and a speech of Barnavelt's, twenty-four lines long. These were cancelled on revision. I have succeeded in reading some of the lines; and perhaps after a keener scrutiny the whole passage might become legible. But I have no doubt that the lines were cancelled by the author himself (Massinger?) in order to shorten the scene.

[191] Nearly forty lines of dialogue that follow are cancelled in the MS., in order to shorten the scene.

[195] This line and the eleven lines following are marked for omission in the MS.

[196] The words "tooke that course That now is practisd on you" are crossed through in the MS., and "cutt of his opposites" substituted in the right-hand margin.

[203] In the right-hand margin we find the actor's name, "Mr. Bir.," i.e. Bir[ch].

[204] "The quantity of ten of any commodity; as a dicker of hides was ten hides, a dicker of iron ten bars. See 'Fragment. Antiq.,' p. 192. Probably from decas, Lat."—Nares.

[206] "Dewse-ace. Deux et az." Cotgrave. (Cf. Love's Labour's Lost, I. 2.) The lowest cast of the dice, two aces, was called "ames ace."

[207] Among the Romans the highest cast was called Venus and the lowest canis. (Cf. a well-known couplet of Propertius, lib. iv. el. viii. l. 45—

"Me quoque per talos Venerem quaerente secundos
Semper damnosi subsiluere canes.")

[210] The actors' names, "Mr. Rob." and "Mr. Rice," are written in the right-hand margin.

[212] To set up one's rest, meant, as has been abundantly shown by Shakespearean commentators, to stand upon one's cards at primero; but the word "pull" in this connexion is not at all easy to explain. The general sense of the present passage is plain: "Is my life held in such paltry esteem that slaves are allowed to gamble for it as for a stake at cards?" We have nowhere a plain account of primero. When the "Compleat Gamester" was published (in 1674) the game had been discontinued. The variety of quotations given by Nares, under Primero and Rest, is simply distracting. There are two passages (apud Nares) of Fletcher's bearing on the present difficulty:—

"My rest is up, wench, and I pull for that
Will make me ever famous." Woman's Prize, I. 2.

    "Faith, sir, my rest is up,
    And what I now pull shall no more afflict me
    Than if I play'd at span-counter." Monsieur Thomas, IV. 9.

Dyce accepts Nares' suggestion that pull means to draw a card; but if a player is standing on his cards, why should he want to draw a card? There is an old expression, to "pull down a side," i.e. to ruin one's partner (by bad play); and I am inclined to think that to "pull at a rest" in primero meant to try to pull down (beat, go beyond) the player who was standing on his cards. The first player might say, "My rest is up"; the other players might either discard or say, "See it"; then the first player would either "revie" it (cover with a larger sum) or throw up his cards. At length—for some limitation would have been agreed upon—the challenger would play his cards, and the opponents would "pull at his rest"—try to break down his hand. I am not at all sure that this is the proper explanation; but pull in the text cannot possibly mean draw a card.

[213] The body of Leydenberg was not exposed until two days after Barneveld's execution.

[214] Charles I. was particularly anxious that these trained bands should be made as efficient as possible, In the "Analytical Index to the Series of Records known as the Remembrancia" (printed for the Corporation of the City of London, 1878) there are several letters from the Lords of the Council to the Lord Mayor on this subject (pp. 533-9). The Directions sent round to the Lord Lieutenants (An. 1638) concerning the Trained Bands of the several counties are given in Rushworth's Historical Collections, Part 2, vol. i. p. 790.

[215] An allusion, of course, to Bardolph's famous definition of "accommodated" (2 Henry IV., iii. 2).

[216] Fox was a cant term for a sword of English make. At Hounslow Heath there was a sword-blade manufactory:—"Nov 30 (1639). Benjamin Stone, blade maker, Hounslow Heath, to the Officers of the Ordnance. Will always be ready to deliver 1,000 swords of all fashions every month throughout the year, and will put in such security as the office shall desire. Has now ready at the Tower and in his own house 2,000 swords to deliver when the officers shall please."—Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, 1639-40, p. 134.

[217] Ticktacks was a game somewhat similar to backgammon. It is described in the Compleat Gamester, 1674.

[219] Tobacco-pipefuls; but no doubt a pun was intended. For Bermudas tobacco Nares quotes from Clitus's Whimz., p. 135, "Where being furnished with tinder, match, and a portion of decayed Bermoodus they smoke it most terribly."

[222] This speech of Sir Richard's is very much in Shirley's style: cf. Lady of Pleasure (I. 1).

[223] Galley-foist was the name given to long many-oared barges, particularly the Lord Mayor's barge of state. Foist is also a term for a sharper; and gallifoist was intended to be pronounced here gullifoist.

[224] An account of the way to play Gleek is given in the Compleat Gamester, 1674.

[226] Father-in-law is often used by old writers for step-father. Perhaps "by a" is a correction for "to a."

[228] A head-covering worn by women. "A night-rail (for a woman) pignon, pinon," Sherwood's Engl.-French Dict. 1650.

[232] Cf. a passage in Shirley's Witty Fair One (IV. 2): "What makes so many scholars then come from Oxford or Cambridge like market-women with dorsers full of lamentable tragedies and ridiculous comedies which they might here vent to the players, but they will take no money for them?"

[234] On June 20, 1632, a royal proclamation was made "commanding the Gentry to keep their Residence in at their Mansions in the Country, and forbidding them to make their habitations in London and places adjoining." The text of the proclamation is in Rushworth's Historical Collections (1680), Pt. II. vol. i. p. 144. In a very interesting little volume of unpublished poems, temp. Charles I. (MS. 15,228, British Museum), there is an "Oade by occasion of his Maiesties Proclamatyon for Gentlemen to goe into the Country." It is too long to quote here in full, but I will give a few stanzas:—

    Nor lett the Gentry grudge to goe
    Into the places where they grew,
    Butt thinke them blest they may doe so:
                Who would pursue

    The smoaky gloryes of the Towne,
    That might goe till his Native Earth
    And by the shineing fyre sitt downe
               Of his own hearth;

    Free from the gripeing Scriv'ners bands
    And the more biteing Mercers bookes,
    Free from the bayte of oyled hands
               And painted lookes?

    The Country, too, eene chops for rayne:
    You that exhale it by your pow'r,
    Let the fatt drops fall downe again
               In a full show'r.

    And you, bright beautyes of the time,
    That spend your selves here in a blaze,
    Fixe to your Orbe and proper Clime
               Your wandring Rayes.

    Lett no dark corner of the Land
    Bee unimbellisht with one Gemme,
    And those which here too thick doe stand
              Sprinkle on them.

    And, trust mee, Ladyes, you will find
    In that sweet life more sollid joyes,
    More true contentment to the minde,
              Then all Towne-Toyes.

    Nor Cupid there less blood doth spill,
    Butt heads his shafts with chaster love,
    Not feath'red with a Sparrow's quill
              Butt of a Dove.

    There may you heare the Nightingale,
    The harmeless Syren of the wood,
    How prettily shee tells a tale
              Of rape and blood.

    Plant trees you may and see them shoot
    Up with your Children, to bee serv'd
    To your cleane Board, and the fayr'st fruite
              To bee preserved;

    And learne to use their sev'rall gumms.
    Tis innocente in the sweet blood
    Of Cherrys, Apricocks and Plumms
              To bee imbru'd.

[235] The Galliard, a lively French dance described in Sir John Davies' Orchestra (st. 67).

[236] Sc. good-bye. Cf. Shirley's Constant Maid, i. 1, "Buoy, Close, buoy, honest Close: we are blanks, blanks."

[239] Puisne (i.e. puny) was the term applied to students at the Inns of Court; also to Freshmen at Oxford.

[241] The first edition of this well-known book was published in 1628. Parsons Resolutions is a fictitious book.

[242] The "lamentable ballad of the Lady's Fall" has been reprinted by Ritson and Percy.

[244] Shirley delights in ridiculing the affectation in which the gallants of his time indulged. Cf. a very similar passage in The Lady of Pleasure, v. 1.

[245] The cant language of thieves. In Harman's Caveat for Cursitors, or some of Dekker's tracts, "Pedlars' French" may be found in abundance.

[246] I print this passage exactly as I find it in the MS. With a little trouble it might be turned into good law.

"You shall lead destiny in cords of silk,
And it shall follow tame and to your pleasure."

[249] A Chrisome child was one that died within a month after birth, at the time of wearing the Chrisome cloth (i.e. the cloth formerly wrapt round a child after baptism). Device implies that his rival is perfectly helpless among ladies, a mere child.

[250] "In the City of London," says Nares, "young freemen who march at the head of their proper companies on the lord mayor's day, sometimes with flags, were called whifflers or bachelor whifflers, not because they cleared the way but because they went first as whifflers did.—'I look'd the next Lord Mayor's day to see you o' the livery, or one of the bachelor whifflers. City Match.'"

[252] To "bear a brain" means to have understanding. The expression is very common.

[254] The earliest reference I have yet found to the "Cup at Newmarket" is in Shirley's Hyde Park, v. 1.

[255] The exact date of his death is unknown; he was dead before the performance of Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair (1614).

[256] "Merlin. The falco aesalon of Linnaeus, a small species of hawk; sometimes corrupted into murleon. It was chiefly used to fly at small birds, and Latham says it was particularly appropriated to the service of ladies."—Nares.

[257] Thomas Heywood gives an account of the "great ship" in his "True description of his Majesties Royall Ship built this yeare 1637 at Wool-witch in Kent," &c. 1637. 4to.

[260] This scene was added, as an afterthought, at the end of the MS. In the body of the MS. we find only "A song ith taverne. Enter Thomas."

[262] All that I know at present of Mr. Adson is that he published in 1621 a collection of "Courtly Masquing Ayres."

[263] A corruption of "save-reverence": we usually find the form "sir-reverence."

[267] Old authors constantly allude to the riotous conduct of the 'prentices on Shrove Tuesday.

Dyce was no doubt right in thinking that the expression is a corruption of sewster's thread. In Ford's Lady's Trial, Gifford altered "sister's thread" to "silver thread." Shirley has "sister's thread" in Hyde Park (V. 1).

[270] With this abuse cf. a very similar passage in Shirley's Duke's Mistress (IV. 1).

[272] "Canaries" was the name of a quick, lively dance. Cf. Middlemen's Spanish Gipsy (IV. 2): "Fortune's a scurvy whore if she makes not my head sound like a rattle and my heels dance the canaries."

[275] Cf. Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour, II. 1: "They say there's a new motion of the city of Niniveh with Jonas and the whale to be seen at Fleet bridge." (A motion, of course, is a puppet-show.)

[276] This line occurs, word for word, in Shirley's Bird in a Cage (IV. 1):—

… "A bird to be made much on. She and the horse That snorts at Spain by an instinct of nature Should have shown tricks together."

[278] In the MS. the speaker's name is omitted. I have chosen Courtwell at a venture.

[280] The Tell-Tale. Through the courtesy of the Master, Dr. Carver, I have had an opportunity of examining this play. It is of no particular interest. The comic part is very poor, suggesting William Rowley at his worst. Here are some fair lines, the best I can find:—

    Duke. Dead, Fidelio:
    Things of theire nature, like [a] vipers brood,
    Kill their owne parents. But having sett the Court
    In some good order, my next busines
    Ys thus disguis'd to overlooke the Camp;
    For a rude army, like a plott of ground
    Left to yt selfe, growes to a wildernes
    Peopled with wolves & tigers, should not the prince
    Like to a carefull gardner see yt fenct,
    Waterd & weeded with industrious care,
    That hee ithe time of pruning nether spare
    Weeds for faire looks and painted bravery, nor
    Cut downe good hearbs and serviceable for
    Theire humble growth: the violet that is borne
    Under a hedg outsmells the blossomd thorne
    That dwells fare higher.

Fide. Yare full of goodnes & have layd out much
In provision for the whole state.

    Duke. My place: I am overseer
    And bound to seet provided for by pattent.
    For as the sunn, when lesser plannets sleep,
    Holds his continued progresse on and keepes
    A watchful eye over the world, so kings
    (When meaner subjects have their revillings
    And sports about them) move in a restless herde;
    The publique safty is theyr privat care.
    But now farewell; the army once surveighd
    Expect mee here.

[281] A few years ago I suggested in "Notes and Queries" that this unknown author was Cyril Tourneur. Afterwards I discovered that I had been anticipated by Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Curiously enough Mr. Fleay had independently arrived at the same conclusion. Mr. Swinburne (Essay on Chapman) is inclined to attribute the Second Maiden's Tragedy to Middleton.

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