A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 2 eBook

A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 2

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Table of Contents

Page 1

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.

January 27, 1883.

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

Page 2

    “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—­”

Page 3

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. 37, l. 23, for “Yet can give,” read, “Yet can I give.”

p. 71, l. 18, del. comma after “live.”

p. 103, l. 9, del. “we.”

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

p. 142, 9 from bottom, for “vouchsafed,” read “vouchsafe.”

p. 154, l. 19, for “There they are,” read “I, here they are.”

p. 190, l. 24, for “woman” read “women.”

p. 194, l. 12, for “unwist,” read “unjust.”

p. 228, last line, for “Equire,” read “Squire.”

p, 258, l. 29, for “1639,” read “1612.”

p. 274, l. 16, for “whore,” read “whore’s;” and in the next line, for “sunnes,” read “sinnes.”

p. 276, l. 4, after “Do not my Dons know,” add “me.”

p. 281, 4 from bottom, for “wo,” read “two.”

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

p. 317, l. 21, for “goon,” read “good.”

Page 4

p. 331, l. i, for “Med,,” read “King.”

THE PLAY OF DICKE OF DEVONSHIRE.

A Tragi-Comedy.

Hector adest secumque Deos in praelia ducit.

Drammatis Personae.

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.

The Play of Dick of Devonshire.

Actus Primus.

(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.  You are for France then too?

Man.  I wayte on my father.

Pedr. Henrico.

Ferd. Eleonora.

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.

Ten.  The like wish I, Don Pedro.

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

Page 5

Pedr.  My thanks to all.—­Stay!

[Peeces dischargd.

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

Enter Bustamente.

Bust.  Such as will make all Spaine dance in Canary.  The Brasile fleete—­

Pedr.  Arriv’d?

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.

Ten.  So we wish all.

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)

Eleonora, Henrico,—­Nay, your good newes deserves a farewell.

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.

Per.  What is that, Gentlemen?

Ten.  I am speaking of a fleete of Enemyes.

Per.  From whence?

Ten.  From England.

Fer.  A castle in the ayre.

Ten.  Doe you not believe it?

Fer.  I heard such a report, But had no faith in’t:  a mere Potgun![5]

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.

Ten.  But how if they intend us?

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.

Bust.  I am of that opinion.

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?

Page 6

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?

Fer.  Because we dreame soe.

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.

Ten. Francisco Bustamente, how is the Castle? what strength?

Bust.  A fort impregnable, wanting neyther soldiers nor munition.

Ten.  Well, looke to’t.

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

Bust.  With my best care.

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.

[Exeunt.

SCENE 2.

    Enter two Devonshire Merchants, as being in Sherryes[6]

1.  Heare you the newes?

2.  Yes, that an English fleete Is making up to Cales.[7]

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.

1.  Troth, so would I mine.

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.  No? then lie tell you:  let us season our sorrow With this discourse.

Page 7

2.  With all my heart I long for’t.

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.

2.  As how, pray?

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.

2.  You say right.

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.

2.  And warme my knowledge and experience by’t.

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.

2.  The King of Spaynes west 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.

2.  Had he not cause, being vexd soe?

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!

2.  It had not spoke such Spanish else.

Page 8

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.

2.  Would we might now give them the selfe same cause To call us soe.

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.”

2.  All this must needs beget Their mortall hate to us.

1.  It did; yet then We lovd them beyond measure.

2.  Why?

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.

2.  Thats to say
A Fleete of Shipps not to be overcome
By any power of man.

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.

Page 9

2. St. George for England!

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.

2.  Oh, sir, I thank you.

[Exeunt.

SCENE 3.

Ent.  Teniente, Don John, Henrico.

Ten.  I ever feard some ill fate pointed at This Citty.

Jo.  Makes the fleete this way?

Hen. Buzzano!

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

Hen.  Where’s Buzzano?  Villaine!

Jo.  Be not discomforted.

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, I can tell you ere I goe.

Hen.  What?

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.

Hen.  Villayne, away; and cast your eyes into the Sea.

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.

Buz.  Thats another matter:  I will orelooke you all presently.
          
                                              [Exit.

Jo.  What were I best to doe?  I doe not like these Navyes.

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.

Jo.  No witches abroad?

Buz.  I see, I see, I see!

    Enter Buzzano above.

All.  What?

Page 10

Buz.  Nay, I cannot tell what yet:  Something it is; I thinke it be a Towne.

Hen.  Some Iland in the Sea!

Buz.  It swims on the water.

Jo.  ’Tis the fleete:  come they this way?

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

Hen.  How far off?

Ten.  Speake, sirra.

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.

Ten.  Here comes Don Fernando.  What newes?

    Enter Fernando with Eleonora.

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.

Ten. Don John, come with me And helpe to encourage the remayning soldiers.

Fer.  New supply shall quickly cheare you hearts.—­ Henrico!

Hen.  Sir?

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.

    Enter Buzzano and Spanyards flying.

Buz.  They come, they come, they come!

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 feare if you goe hence all will not long be well.

Hen.  Distrust you me, Eleonora?

Ele.  No, indeed: 
You ever had with me th’opinion
Of a most noble gentleman.

Fer.  What then?

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.

Page 11

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.—­

    Enter Buzzano.

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

Buz.  Oh, sir, yonders such doings.

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.

Hen.  Still jarring?

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.  Putt on thy merryest face, Buzzano.

Buz.  I have but one face, but I can make a great many.

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.  I prithee call him backe.

Buz.                            Signior Henrico,
She has something more to say to you.    [Redit.

Hen.  To me, sweetest?

Ele. Henrico, doe you love me?

Hen.  By this faire hand.

Ele.  And will you leave me, too?

Hen.  Not for the wealth of Spaine.

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.

Page 12

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.

Hen.  What?

Buz.  That you’le be there and here agen presently.

Hen.  Attend here, sirra.

Buz.  If you must needes goe, pray, sir, keepe yourselfe out of Gun-shott.

Hen.  Mind you your charge.

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.

Ele.  If you will goe may your successe be faire.

Hen.  Farewell; heaven cannot chuse but heare your prayer.
          
                                          [Exit.

Buz.  Now what please you, madam? that I shall amble, trott, or walke?

Ele.  Any pace.

Buz.  Yet, if you would referre it to me, I’de use none of them.

Ele.  What wouldst doe?

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.

Ele.  Talke not of rackes, prithee; the times present too many.

Buz.  Ride me as you will, then; I am used both to curbe and snaffle.

Ele.  I prithee tell me, Buzzano,—­so, I heare thy master call thee—­

Buz.  He may call me at his pleasure, forsooth.

Ele.  Dost thou know the nature of the English?

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.

Ele.  Are they not cruell?

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

Ele.  That’s somewhat yet.

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.  Foole, I meane not your way.

Buz.  Keepe your owne way, madam; I meane the playne way.

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

Page 13

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.

Ele.  How?

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.

[Exeunt.

Actus Secundus.

(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 first shott, when the Convertine came in, 3 men were killd.

Ma.  At the second 4, was’t not?

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.

Page 14

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.

Cap.  Art hurt?

Ma.  Where?

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.

Cap.  Let my Surgeons search it.

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.

    Enter a Soldier.

Cap.  What newes?

Sol.  The fort is yielded.

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

Sol.  But on condition to march away with flying colours, which was granted.

Cap.  What’s become of the Captaine of the fort?

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.

Cap.  Unles he will swim to th’Iland.—­And how fares the Convertine?

Sol.  Her shroudes are torne to pieces & her tacklings to raggs.

Cap.  No matter; she carryes the more honour.

Sol. 5 hundred Bulletts sticke in her sides.

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.

Sol.  Wouldst have ’em twice burnt.

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.

Cap.  The Whitehall[19] men did good service.

Ma.  Who? the Collyers?

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.

Page 15

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

Ma.  Thou deservest more than common encouragement:  prithee, remember me too.

[Exeunt Capt. & Mast.

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.

Sol. 2.  We may hap to be in the suddes ourselves.

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

Sol. 2.  More by a score then I hope wilbe payd these two dayes.

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.

Pike.  Godamercy for that, boy.  A match, a match!

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Henrico Gusman, his sword drawne, & Eleonora.

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.

Page 16

Ele.  I know you will defend me.

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.

Ele.  How?

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

Ele.  There can be no extreme of love[21], sir.

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

Ele.  This is a new language.

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.  Looke on thee.

Ele.  Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall.  Are you well?

Hen.  Well, never better.

Ele.  Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse!  How doth my father?

Hen.  He’s very well, too; feare not.

Ele.  Still I read in your eyes—­

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.

Ele.  Indeed you are not well.

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.

Ele.  Are you not hurt?

Hen.  Yes.

Ele.  Good heaven defend!  I have a soveraigne Balme.
          
                                     [Exit.

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.

Enter Eleonora.

Ele.  Here, good Henrico, let me see your wound.

Page 17

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!

    Enter Buzzano.

Buz.  Did you call?

Hen.  Yes, the Balme here—­

Buz.  What shall I doe with it?

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.

Buz.  All my fellowes are abroad, sir; there’s nobody at home but I.

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.

Ele.  Ha!  I hope he’s well.

Hen.  I wish he were returned, my Eleonora, for both our sakes.

Ele.  The same wish I, sir.

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.

Ele.  I am yours now In holyest Contract.

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.

Ele.  I understand you not.

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.  You’le not be a divell?

Hen.  No, I will but play the man with you:  why, you know ’tis nothing.

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.

Page 18

Hen.  We shall have such adoe now!

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.

Ele.  Helpe, helpe!

Enter Buzzano.

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!

    Enter Henrico & Eleonora, loose haired and weeping.

Hen.  What doe you looke after?

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.

Hen.  Come, dresse your hayre up & be wise at last:  No more, I have done.

Buz.  So I thinke in my conscience,—­he hath done with her.

Page 19

Hen.  If you can be so simple to proclaime it, I can be impudent.

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.

Ele.  Oh, helpe me out of hell!

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!

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

    Enter Pike with his sword in his hand, a Cloake in his Arme.

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?

    Enter Three Soldiers.

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

2.  Will you taste a Lymon? excellent good to coole you.

Pike.  They are goodly ones; where gott you them?

3.  A little above here in an Orchard, where we left some of our Company.

Pike.  But may one goe safe, without danger?

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.

[Exit.

(SCENE 4.)

Page 20

Enter 3 other Soldiers.

1.  They cannot be far before us, I am sure.

2.  But for the hedge we might descry them within two muskett shott.

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!

       [Three or 4 shott dischargd, 2 soldiers slaine,
       the other falls on his belly.

    Enter Pike.

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.

3.  Oh, oh!

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.

Enter Don John arm’d.  Pike drawes & wrapps
his Cloake about his arme.

Jo.  Oh viliaco, diable, Anglese!

[They fight.

Pike.  A pox upon thee, Hispaniola!  Nay, if you be no better in the

Jo.  Mercy, Englishman, oh spare my life! pardonne moye je vous pre.

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.

Page 21

Jo. Don John, a knight of Spaine.

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.—­

    Enter 12 musketiers.

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.

1.  I say he is an Englishman:  lett’s shoote him.

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

Jo.  Oh hold and spare us both, for we are frends.

1.  But by your leave we will part your embraces:  so disarme, disarme.

Jo.  I thanke you, Countrymen; I hope you’le trust my honour with my armes.

1.  Yes, take them signior; but you will yeild the Englishman our prisoner?

Jo.  Yes, with a Villaines marke. [He woundes him.

1.  A villaines mark, indeed! wound a disarmed souldier!

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!

Pike.  Where you please, Although your Law’s more merciles then Seas.

[Exeunt.

(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.

Page 22

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.

Bust.  The best of my desire is to obey.

[Exit with a Guard.

    Enter Don John, Pike (with his face wounded}, a Guard of musketts.

Fer.  Whence is that soldier?

1.  Of England.

Jo.  Or of hell.

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.”

Fer.  ’Tis a goodly fellow.

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.  I could better fast with a noble Enemy then feast with unworthy frends.

Fer.  How came he by these woundes?

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.

Fer.  ’Twas unadvisd.

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.

Page 23

Jo.  It was my fury & thirst of revenge.

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.

Fer.  Poore man, I pitty thee.—­But to the prison with him.

Ten.  And let him be carefully lookt to.

[Exeunt omnes.

Actus Tertius.

(SCENE 1.)

Enter Captaine, Hill, Secretary, Jewell.

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

Sec.  So largely, too, as he did, Captaine.

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.

Sec.  A Barronet at least, one of the lusty blood, Captaine.

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.

Hill.  He was a true Devonshire blade.

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.

Page 24

Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Pike in shackles, nightcap, playsters on his face; a Jaylor.

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.

Pike.  Here’s for you, my frend.

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.  ’Tis overwell as it is, sir.

Jay.  You are most curteous. [Exit.

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.

    Enter Catelyna & Jaylor.

Cat.  Is this the English prisoner?

Jay.  Yes, madam.

Cat.  Trust me, a goodly person.

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

Cat.  Sir, shall I speake with you?

Pike.  Yes, Lady, so you will not mock mee.

Cat.  Indeed I cannot, but must needs acknowledge Myselfe beholding to you.

Pike.  This I must beare; I will doe soe & call’t my sweet affliction.

Cat.  Will you heare me, sir?  I am the Lady—­

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.

Page 25

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.

    Enter Don John.

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.

Cat.  Saints be my witnesses you doe me wrong!

Jo.  Thou robbst my honour.

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

Jo.  Doe you prate, sir?

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.

    Enter Ferdinando, Teniente, Guard.

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.

Page 26

Ten.  It shalbe done.

Fer.  How long hath he bene your prisoner?

Jay. 18 days.

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?

Ten.  ’Tis done, my Lord.

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

Jo.  I shall be ready there, my Lord.

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

Cat.  I hope you’le not deny my company To waite on you to Sherris?

Jo.  No, you shall goe to see your frend there totter.[27]

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

Fer.  Call him; that done, you know your charge.

[Exit Jaylor.

Ten.  And shall performe it.

[Ex.  Fer., John, Catalina.

Enter Jaylor & Woodrow.

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.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter Don Pedro, reading a Letter, & Manuell.

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.

Page 27

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?

Man.  Indeed you take too deepe a sence of it.

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!’

Man.  Good sir, avoid this passion.

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?

Pedro.  From the sad plaintiffe, Eleonora.

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.

Pedro.  All this may be too, sir.

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.

Pedro.  No, perhaps she would not Text up his name in proclamations.

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.

Pedro.  That villaine is thy brother.

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.  As beauteous is my brother in his soule As she can be.

Pedro.  Why dost thou take his part so?

Page 28

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.

Pedro.  Was not she 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?

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 4.)

Enter Fernando & Eleonora.

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!

Ele.  That I might be in that unborne againe, sir.

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.

    Enter Henrico.

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?

Fer.  Fury, keepe off me!

Page 29

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

Ele.  Thou impudent as impious, I have lost—­

Hen.  Doe you call me names?

Ele.  The solace of my life, for which—­

Hen.  A fine new name for a maydenhead!

Ele.  May all the curses of all iniured weomen Fall on thy head!

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?

Hen.  I would I were acquainted with your honours meaning all this while.

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.  How have I preyd?

Fer.  Dost thou delight To heare it named, villaine, th’hast ravisht 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.

Ele.  Oh, my Lord, heare me!  By all that’s good—­

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.

Hen.  And there Ile answer it.

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.

Page 30

Fer.  You shall not need to doubt it:—­come, Eleonora.

[Exeunt.[30]

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?

    Enter Buzzano.

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.  No, sir, your Elder Brother is—­

Hen.  What? speake, Buzzano:  I imagine, dead.

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.

Hen.  Pox on the Buzzard! how he startled my bloud!

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?

Bus.  Yes, & meane what you know, sir.

Hen.  What’s that?

Buz.  Ile keepe your Counsaile

Hen.  My life goes for it else.

{_Exeunt_.

Actus Quartus.

(SCENE 1.)

Enter Henrico (as newly risen).

Hen. Buzzano! slave! Buzzano!

    Enter Buzzano with Cloake & Rapier.

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?

Hen.  No, but blind; do’st sleepe as thou goest?

Buz.  No, but I goe as I sleepe, & that’s scurvily.

Hen.  Call my brother Manuell.

Buz.  Brother Manuell!

Hen.  How? pray (goodman rascall) how long have he & you bene Brothers?

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.

Page 31

Hen.  You are very lusty.

Buz.  I eate eringoes[31] and potchd eggs last night.

Hen.  Goe & call him.

Buz.  What?

Hen.  You hound, is he up?

Buz.  No, he’s in Bed, and yet he may be up too; Ile goe see.

Hen.  Stay, and speake low.—­How now?

[Buz. falls downe.

Buz.  I can speake no lower unlesse I creepe into the Cellar.

Hen.  I’me glad you are so merry, sir.

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.

Hen.  Didst heare nothing?

Buz.  Not in my sleepe.

Hen.  Collect thy sences; when thou wert awake didst thou heare nothing?

Buz.  Nothing.

Hen.  Twixt 12 & one?

Buz. 12 & one?  Then was I in my dead sleepe, cursing the fleas.

Hen.  Or about one & two.

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.

Hen.  Right, now thou com’st to me,—­so did I.

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

Hen.  Art sure thou heardst this?

Buz.  Am I sure these are my eares?

Hen.  And dar’st thou sweare thou heardst it?

Buz.  Lay downe 20 oathes, and see if Ile not take them.

Hen.  And whose voice was it did appeare to thee?

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

Hen.  Come, come, be serious:  whose voice?

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.  No; me it frighted too; up stood my haire stiffe & on end.

Buz.  As a Catts does at sight of a dog.

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.

Buz.  Why, then, I must sweare so, too.

Page 32

Hen.  “Oh it was I that murthered him! this hand killed him!”

[Within, Man] Buzzano!

Hen.  He’s up.

[Man.] Buzzano!

Buz.  I come.

Hen.  Helpe to make him ready,[34] but not a word on thy life.

Buz.  Mum. [Exit.

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.

    Enter Manuell & Buzzano.

Man.  Morrow, brother.

Hen.  Oh, good morrow:  you have slept soundly.

Man.  Travellers that are weary have sleepe led in a string.

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

Man.  Why, Mr. Buzzano, why?

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

Man.  Hooke me? what meanst?

Buz.  These Taylors are the wittyest knaves that live by bread.

Hen.  And why witty, out of your wisdome?

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.  Well, sir, Ile not be hookd then now.

Buz.  Tis well if you be not. [Exit.

Hen. France is an excellent country.

Man.  Oh, a brave one.

Hen.  Your Monsieurs gallant sparkes.

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?

Page 33

Man.  He was too hard tyed by the leg with busines.

Hen.  What busines?

Man.  Tis but stepping into France.  And he perhaps will tell you.

Hen.  Perhaps? tis well:  What part of France did you leave him in?

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?

Hen.  What’s this your foolery?

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

Hen.  How defacd her?

Man.  Hearke, sir:  playd Tarquin’s part and ravisht her.

Hen.  ’Tis a lye.

Man.  I hope so too.

Hen.  What villaine speakes it?

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

Hen.  Letter? from whom?

Man.  A woman.

Hen.  She’s a whore.

Man.  Twas Eleonora.

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.  Villaine!

        They fight:  Enter Ferdinand and attendants.

Fer.  Part them, part them!

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?

Man.  Well, my Lord:  I left him late in Paris.

Page 34

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!

Man.  I?

Hen.  Yes, thou:  Thou, slave, hast bene his Executioner.

Man.  Where? when?

Hen.  There, there; in France.

Man.  Oh heavenly powers!

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

Fer.  Pray, heare me:  Are you in earnest?

Hen.  Earnest?

Fer.  Be advisd.

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

Man.  An armd devill, And that’s thy selfe!  Produce thy proofes.

Hen.  I will, sir; But I will doe’t by law.

Fer.  You are up allready Too deepe, I feare, in Law.

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.

Man.  And prove him a false caytiffe.

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

Hen.  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.

[Exit Fer., Man., &[38]

Hen.  Thither I dare you both, all three.—­Buzzano!

Buz.  Sir?

Hen.  Saddle my Jennet?  Ile to Sherris presently.

Buz.  And I?

Hen.  And you; but I must schoole you, sirra.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Pike, shackled, & his Jaylour.

Jay.  Boon Coragio, man! how is’t?

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.

Page 35

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.

Jay.  That’s farre enough in Conscience.

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.

Pike.  Pheu!

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.

[Knocking-within.

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.

2.  Brother, take heed; doe not misuse that word Of Limbo.[40]

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.

Pike.  What to doe, pray, with me?[41]

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.

Pike.  What must I doe?

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

1.  What Leprosies Have run ore all your Conscience.

2.  What hott feavers Now shake your peace of mind.

1.  For we are come To cure your old Corruptions.

2.  We are come To be your true and free Physitians.

1.  Without the hope of gold, to give you health.

2.  To sett you on your feete on the right way.

1.  To Palestine, the New Jerusalem.

Page 36

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?

1.  To him or me, for you must dye to morrow.

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.

Ambo.  Goe, brother.

1.  A goodly man!

2.  Well limbd & strong of heart.

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?

2.  May be we did; I know not; if he were there ’tis now out of my memory.

    Enter Pike.

1.  Are you resolvd?

Pike.  Yes.

2.  To confesse?

Pike.  I ha’ don’t already.

1.  To whom?

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.

2.  You will not then confesse?

Pike.  No, I confesse I will not.

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 thanke you both.

2.  Prepare to dye.
                     [Exeunt Fryers.

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!

Enter Jaylour, & 3 Spanish Picaroes chayned.

Jay.  Here’s a chearefull morning towards, my brave blouds!

1.  Yes, Jaylor, if thou wert to be hangd in one of our roomes.

Jay.  On, on; the Lords will sitt presently.

2.  What’s hee?

Jay.  An Englishman.

Page 37

3.  A dog!

1.  A divell!

2.  Let’s beate out his braines with our Irons.

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.

    Enter Bustamente shackled, & Jaylor.

Bust.  Whither dost lead me?

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

Bust.  I have worne better Spanish gaiters:  thus rewarded for my service!

Jay.  See, Capt. Bustamente; doe you know this fellow?

Bust.  No.

Jay.  The Englishman brought prisoner into the Citty, & from thence hither.

Pike.  Oh, Captaine, I saw you at the fort performe the part of a man.

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]

Jay.  Come along, you two.

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

Bust.  True, but I doubt not we shall have worse cheare at dinner.

Jay.  When was ever any meat well dressd in the hangmans kitchen!

[Exeunt.

(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.  Where’s the Teniente?

Clarke.  The Duke calls for you.

Ten.  Here, my Lord.

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.

Ten.  My Lord, Ile see it done.

Mac.  Dispatch the rest here.

Jay.  Yes, my Lord; Ile bring them carefully together to end the busines.

Gyr.  Bring Bustamente in.
                                    [Exit Jaylour.

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.

Page 38

Gyr.  Are all the parties here?

Fer.  Yes.
               [Exit Fernan.

    Enter Jaylour, Bustamente, Guard.

Gyr.  Bring them in.

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.

Alq.  These braves[43] cannot serve you.

Gyr.  You must not be your owne Judge.

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.

Bust.  Heare me, my Lords,

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

Bust.  For all my service!

All.  Take him away!

Bust.  You are Lyons & I your prey.

[Exit with Jaylour.

Mac.  Which are Don Pedro’s sons?

Enter Fernando, Henrico, Manuell.

Fer.  These two.

Mac.  Which youngest?

Hen.  I, my Lord.

    Enter Jaylour.

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

Hen.  Which I can prove.

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

Hen.  Let them prove that

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.

Fer.  The wrongs done to my selfe Work me, my lord, to that.

Man.  I would your Grace would heare me speake a little.

All.  You shall have time.

Med.  Take them away, And at their Tryall have the Lady here.

        [Ex.  Fer., Hen., Man., & Jaylour.

Gyr.  Where is the Englishman?

Clarke.  The Englishman!

Alq.  What do you call him? Dick of Devonshire?

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.

Mac.  How many soldiers are in the Towne?

Page 39

Clarke. 5000.

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

Ten.  Here, my Lord.

Med.  Pray, see this done & in good order.

Ten.  I shall. [Exit.

    Enter Don John below.

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

Jo.  Yes, my Lord.

Enter his Lady and a Gentlewoman above.

Mac.  Give me the Note there of the English advertisements.

[They all conferre.

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.

Gent.  Twas bravely done, no doubt he’le speed the better For his mind.

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.

Gent.  I hope most fairely.

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.

Clarke.  Silence!

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.

Mac.  Sirra Englishman, Know you that weapon?—­reach it him.

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

Mac.  How many Spanyards Killd you with that sword?

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

Gyr. Don John, sett he on you or you on him?

Jo.  He upon me first.

Pike.  Let me then be torne Into a thousand pieces.

Lady.  My Husband speaks untruth.

Alq.  Sett he on you first? more coward you to suffer an enemy be aforehand.

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.

Page 40

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

Gyr.  He may be now soe.

Lady.  I blush for him my selfe.

Alq.  Disgrace to Spanyards!

Mac.  Sirra, you English, what was the ship you came in?

Pike.  The Convertine.

Mac.  What Ordnance did she carry?

Pike. 40 peeces.

Gyr.  No, sir, but 38; see here, my Lord.

Alq.  Right, no more then 38.

Mac.  Your fort at Plymouth strong?

Pike.  Yes, very strong.

Mac.  What Ordnance in’t?

Pike. 50 Peeces.

Gyr.  Oh fye, doe not belye your country; there’s not so many.

Alq.  How many soldiers keepe you in that fort?

Pike. 200.

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

Pike.  I doe not know.

Gyr.  We doe, then.

Alq.  Is Plymouth a walld Towne?

Pike.  Yes, it is walld.

Mac.  And a good wall?

Pike.  A very good strong wall.

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.

Mac.  What was that market?

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

Mac.  A poast with speed, to Lisbon, And see’t well mand.

Ten.  One shalbe sent, my Lord.

[Exit.  The soldiers laugh.

Alq.  How now, why is this laughter?

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

All. [Alq.?] Hens! ha, ha, ha!

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.

Page 41

Mac.  How mean’st thou?

Pike.  Let my speech breed no offence:  I thinke they would prove pulletts.

Gyr.  Dar’st thou fight With any one of these our Spanish pulletts?

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.

Mac.  Your name?

Tia. Tiago.

All.  Well done Tiago.

Mac.  Let drums beate all the time they fight.

Lady.  I pray for thee.

Gent.  And I.

      [They fight:  Pike disarmes & tripps him downe.

Pike.  Onely a Devonshire hugg, sir:—­at your feete I lay my winnings.

Tia.  Diable!

[Exit, biting his thumb[44]; the soldiers stampe.

Gyr.  Wilt venter on oanother?

Pike.  I beseech you To pardon me, and taske me to no more.

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

All.  Prithee, fight with him.

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

Mac. English, What say you? will you fight or no?

Pike.  Ile fight.

All.  Give ’em roome! make way there!

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.

All.  What?

Pike.  A Quarter staffe,—­this, were the head off.

Mac.  Off with the head, and roome!  How dost thou like this Spaniard?

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?

Page 42

Mac.  How many wouldst thou have?

Pike.  Any number under six.

All.  Ha, ha, sure he’s mad!

Mac.  Dar’st coape with Three?

Pike.  Where are they? let ’em shew their faces:  so; welcome!

Mac.  How dost thou like these chickens?

Pike.  When I have drest them With sorrell sopps Ile tell you.

Lady.  Now guard him heaven!

        [Drums.  They fight, one is killd, the other 2 disarmed.

1.  Hell take thy Quarter staffe!

2.  Pox on thy quarters!

Mac.  The matter? why this noyse?

[A noyse within of Diable Englese.

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.

Fer.  I will, sir. [Exit.

Lady.  This is done nobly.

Mac.  Here, give him this gold.

Ten.  The Duke Macada gives you this gold.

All.  And this.

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.

Pike.  Oh, my Lord, I am proud of’t.

Mac.  He shalbe with a Convoy sent to the King.

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.

Pike.  On my knees Your vassaile thankes heaven, you, and these Princes.

Mac.  Breake up the Court till afternoon:  then the 2 Guzmans tryall.

All.  Come, Englishman.

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

[Exeunt all.

Actus Quintus.

(SCENE 1.)

Enter Teniente & Henrico.

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].

Page 43

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.  How? such a piece of flesh?  Why, she has limbes Mad out of wax.[49]

Hen.  Then have her to some faire And shew her for money.

Ten.  Is she not sweet complexiond?

Hen.  As most Ladyes are that studye painting.

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.

Ten.  Pray let me see her picture.

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.

Ten.  I believe you would not.

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.

Ten.  But where will you find such a wife on earth?

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

Ten.  The Lordes are come.

Hen.  I care neyther for Lords nor Ladies.

    Enter the Nobles as before; Fernando, Manuell, Clarke, Jaylor.

Page 44

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 call my fathers man in.

Clark.  What’s his name?

Hen. Buzzano.

Clark.  Call Buzzano in!

    Enter Buzzano.

Buz.  Here I am, here.

Clark.  Stand out:  whither goe you?

Buz.  To stand out.

Clark.  Stand there.

Mac.  Now what can he say?

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

Buz.  In my fleabitten Trundle bed.[52]

Clark.  Peace, sirra.

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”!

Gyr.  Heard you this, sirra?

Buz.  As sure as I heare you now.

Alq.  And you’le be sworne ’twas he that so cryde out?

Buz.  If I were going to be hangd Ide sweare.

Clark.  Forbeare the Court.
                                  [Exit Buzzano.

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.

Med.  Bring your best forces up, for these are weak ones.

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.

Fer.  He did indeed.

Mac.  What then?

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.

Mac.  What say you to this?

Alq.  Now he comes close up to you.

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.

Page 45

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.

Man.  I have done; let law proceed.

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?

Man.  I cannot, must not, will not.

Mac.  Jaylour, take & prepare him for the racke:  Wele see it done here.

Hen.  You are righteous Judges.

Man.  Oh villaine, villaine, villaine!

[Exit with the Jaylour.

Med.  Where’s the wrongd Lady?

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

Fernando fetches in Eleonora.

Mac.  Looke on the prisoner:  doe you know him, Lady?

Ele.  Would I had nere had cause to say I know him.

Mac.  Of what doe you accuse him?

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.

Hen.  False!

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.

Mac.  Lady, what say you? which had you rather have, His life or him?

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.

All.  Law you?[53]

Page 46

Mac.  That’s easy enough.

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

Alq.  Then you muste look to dye.

Mac.  Lady, withdraw.

Hen.  Well, if I doe, somebody shall packe.

Ele.  Oh me, unfortunate Creature! [Exit.

    Enter Manuell to be rackt; Jaylour & Officers.

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

Man.  Pray, give me privacy a little with my brother.

All. [Alq.?] Take it.

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.

All. [Alq.?] What sayes he?

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

Mac.  Will you openly confesse?

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.

Mac.  Give him the Law then.

Man.  Ile meete a thousand deaths first.

Hen.  Plucke, & plucke home, for he’s a murtherous Villaine.

Man.  Thou worse, a divell.

Mac.  Racke him!

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

All.  Take him off!

Man.  This hand stabbd him.

Mac.  Where?

Man.  Neere St. Germains In Paris, in a darke night, & then I fled.

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

Jay.  Ile have a holy care of him.

          [Exit Manuell, led by the Jaylour.

Hen.  Who’s now, my lords, the Villaine?

    Enter Eleonora & Buzzano.

Ele.  Oh Justice, here’s a witnesse of my Rape.

Mac.  Did you see’t, sirra?

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.

Page 47

Mac.  What say you, Lady?

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.

Hen.  Cruell Creature!

Mac.  Take him away & lead him to his brother; You both must die next morning.

Hen.  I deserve it; And so that Slave, too, that betrayed his Master.

Buz.  Why should I not betray my Master, when he betrayed his Mistris.

Ele.  Get you gone, sirra.

[Exeunt Henrico & Buzzano.

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

Ele.  Oh that my life from death could sett him free!
          
                                     [Exit.

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

Fer.  Ile doe my best.
                                [Exit.

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

    Enter Buzzano, Don Pedro, Fernando & Eleonora.

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

Mac.  Let us descend to meet a happinesse Crownes all our expectations.

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.

All.  Your love, Don Pedro.

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

Pedro.  Ile play a part in’t. [Exit.

Mac.  Let them be fetcht, & speake not of a father.

Ten.  This shall be done. [Exit.

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.

Page 48

Mac.  Y’are a good Lady.

Med.  Lady, untill they come, repose your selfe.

[Exit Eleonora.

Mac.  How now? so soone come back? why thus returned?

    Enter Pike & a Gentleman, with Letters.

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.

Alq.  I’me glad of’t.

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.  Stand up; that mercy which you aske is signd By our most royall master.

Pike.  My thankes to heaven, him & your Graces.

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.

All.  What is’t?

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.

All. [Alq.?] Let him ene 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.

Alq.  What did she to thee?

Page 49

Gyr.  How did she entertaine thee?

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.

Alq.  So, so.

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.

Mac.  Well said:  in England thou wilt drinke her health?

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 Jaylor.

Jay.  The Prisoners are upon comming.

Mac.  Stand by, Englishman.

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

Mac.  Give the Lady roome there!

Clark.  Peace!

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.

Both.  The stroke is welcome.

Pedro.  Shall I prepare you?

Hen.  Save your paynes, good father.

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

Fer.  Our sorrowes & our sighes fly after them.

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.

Man.  Such a reverend habit Should not give harbour to so blacke a falshood.

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

Fer. 3[55] hellish sins, Robbery, Rape & Murther.

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

Page 50

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.

Hen.  Oh, I am confounded! [Falls.

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.

Man.  Oh, noble sir, I pray forgive my brother.

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

Fer.  Rise, my Henrico!

Mac.  Rise & receive a noble minded wife Worth troupes of other weomen.

Hen.  Shame leaves me speechles.

Pedro.  Gett thee a tongue againe, & pray, & mend.

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.

All.  Fare thee well, Englishman.

Pike.  I will ring peales of prayers of you all, My Lords & noble Dons.

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.

Pike.  I shall.—­Where must I leave my pistoletts?

Gent.  Follow mee.

[Exeunt Omnes.

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.

Page 51

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.

Written in 1635, and now printed for the first time.

The Play of The Lady Mother.

Actus Primus.

(SCENE 1.)

    Enter Thorowgood, Bonvill & Grimes.

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.

Page 52

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].

    Enter Lovell.

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

Bon.  But does he affect the lady; what’s his character?

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.

Tho.  Well said, Grimes.  On!

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.

Tho.  Excellent Grimes still!

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.

Bon.  Peace, sirrah; observe.

Lov.  So, let me see the summa totalis of my sweet ladies perfections.

Grimes.  Good, he has her in whole already.

Tho.  Peace, Grimes.

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.

Page 53

Grimes.  I, there it goes.

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—­

Grimes.  I, marry, sir, now he comes to the purpose.

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

Grimes.  That line has got the prick and prayse from all the rest.

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

Grimes.  How many shreads has he stoale here to patch up this lady?

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.

Bon.  Mr. Lovell.

Lov.  And see, I shall divulge myselfe.

Grimes.  A foole, I doubt not.

Bon.  Is your lady stirring?

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

    Enter Lady & Magdalen.

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.

Lady.  What ayles you, servant? are you not well?

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.

Bon.  O, we feare not them:  shall we goe, sir?

Lady.  Nay, Ile detaine my servant.

Bon.  Harke you, sir, strike home; doe you heare?

          [Exeunt Bonvill, Grimes, Lovell & Mag.

Lady.  Servant, have you leasure To hear what I inioyne you?

Page 54

Tho.  Your good pleasure.

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.

Tho.  Madam, wilt please you to deliver your pleasure?

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.

    Enter Timothy.

Tim.  Madam, this letter and his humble vowes From your deserving sonn.

Lady.  He writes me here he will be here tomorrow.  Where left you him?

Tim.  At your right worthy Cosens.

Lady.  What manner of man is this Mr. Thurston He brings with him?

Tim.  A most accomplishd gentleman.

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

Tho.  I long till I receive the audience of it.

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

Lady.  Ile thinke of it.

[Exeunt omnes.

(SCENE 2.)

    Enter Sucket and Crackby[61].

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.

Page 55

Suc.  What may it be imagind.

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,

Suc.  Nay, but I say, suppose—­

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.

Suc.  O, heeres your uncle, move him; you conceive me; He must disburse.

Crac.  And ’tis as hard to wrest a penny from him as from a bawd.

    Enter Sir Gefferie and Bunche.

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.

Bun.  What does he want of it?

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?

Bun.  Marry, that can I or any one which sees you.

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.

Page 56

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.

Crac.  Shall I have answeare yet, sir.

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?

Crac.  I have bin here this halfe hower and could not get answere.

Sir Geff, To what, good nephew?—­I was meditating a little seriously.

Crac.  Concerning this white earth.

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

Crac.  I meane mony.

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.

Bun.  Faith, there he mett with you.

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.

Sir Geff. Bunch, deliver him ten pounds;—­but, dee heare.

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.

    Enter Magdalen.

Mag.  Sir, I come to give you notice my ladyes walkd into the garden.

Sir Geff.  Life! is she upp so early?

Mag.  An hower since, beleeve it.

Crac.  Is my Mistress stirring?

Mag.  In truth, I know not.

Page 57

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.

[Exeunt Bunch, Sir Geff. and Mag.

Crac.  Captaine, shalls into th’Celler, Captaine?

Suc.  I like the Motion.

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

Suc.  Well considered; ’tis for our reputation.

[Exeunt omnes.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter Bonvill, Clarinna, Belizea and Grimes.

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?

Bel.  Nay, theres his Nephew, Crackby, your sweet servant.

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

Bon.  Why, is he not flesh and blood?

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.

Bel.  Fie,[65] Sister; ’tis a prettye gent, I know you love him.

Clar.  You hitt it there, I faith,[66]—­You know the man?

Bon.  Yes, very well.

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.

Bon.  What man for heavens sake could your nicenes fancy?

Clar.  Not you of all that ever I beheld.

Bel.  And why, good wisdome?

Clar.  Nay, do not scratch me because he is your choyse, forsooth.

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.

    Enter Thorogood.

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

Page 58

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

Clar.  Take him away; we are weary of him.

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.  Do not torture me; Ime resolute to heare it.

Tho.  Your soe admired Mistress Who parted from you now, Belisea,—­

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.

Tho.  Here me, then:  Your Mistress—­

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.

Page 59

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.  Her mother.

Bon.  Ha! her mother?

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.

Tho_.  Your good Genius keepe you. [Exit.

    [Enter Belisea.]

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?

Bon.  Faith, I was thinking where In the whole world to find an honest woman.

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

Page 60

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.

Bel.  Whats the matter?  Why do you staire so on me?

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

Bel.  What meanes this language?

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.

Bel.  Doe you thinke I am what you have term’d me?

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?

Page 61

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.

[Exit.

Actus Secundus.

(SCENE 1.)[70]

Enter Sucket, Crackbie, Grimes.

Gr.  Gentlemen, the rarest scene of mirth towards!

Suc.  Where? how, good Grimes?

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.

    Enter Timothie.

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.

Crac.  Oh, my fine steward!
                                [Exeunt.

    Enter Alexander Lovell with a Bottle of Sacke and a Cup.

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;

Page 62

    Enter Timothy, Grimes, Sucket, Crackby, with flaggons of wine.

Suc_.  ’Tis well don, cherish valour.

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.

Tim.  What wines that, fellow Grimes?

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.

Grimes.  He meanes of drunkards.

[Lovell grunts.

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.

Tim.  Yes, heere, here.[81]

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.

Crac.  And here, Grimes, ty this cloath about his head:  oh, for some blood!

Page 63

Grimes.  Here, I have prickt my finger.

Tim.  Let you and I, Mr. Crackby, goe to buffitts for a bloody nose.

Crac.  No, no, you shall pardon me for that, Tim[82]; no, no; no boyes play.

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

    Enter Musike.

Grimes.  The Town Waites whome I appointed to come and visitt us.

Suc.  ’Twas well donn:  have you ere a good song?

Tim.  Yes, they have many.

Suc.  But are they bawdy? come, sir, I see by your simpring it is you

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?

Suc.  I, and the Musicks like theires:  come, Sirra, whoes your Poett?

Crac.  Some mad wag, I warrant him:  is this a new song?

Mus.  Tis the first edition, sir:  none else but we had ever coppie of it.

Suc.  But you wilbe intreated to let a gent have it?

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.

Suc.  Great Alexander, does not dreame of this, I warrant yee.

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

Crac.  Come, come; who payes the Musicke?  Captain, you have my purse.

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?

Mus.  Daunce?  Yes, sir, we can shake our legs or soe.

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

Mus.  Anything to please you, noble Captaine.

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!

Page 64

[Daunce.

Grimes.  Well don, my hearts; drinke, drinke.

Suc.  Goe you in, Ile follow you.

Om[nes].  Come, Captaine.

Suc.  Farewell, Steward.

Mus.  Dee heare, Captaine?

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

Mus.  We hope your worship will consider our paines?

Suc.  How, my fine knave? letts see, who were the dauncers?

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?

Mus.  Wee.

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

Mus.  Blesse your Captaineship.

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

Mus.  How, sir, how?

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.

Omnes.  Content, content. [Musike softe.

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]!

    Enter Grimes disguised.

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

Lov.  Misfortune? ha, what misfortune? now heaven and’t be thy will—­

Page 65

Grimes.  Pray heaven they be alive.

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

Grimes.  Why, sir, comming out—­umh, umh—­

Lov.  Out with’t, man.

Grimes.  Out of a bad-house, sir.

Lov.  A Bawdie house, I warrant.

Grimes.  Yes sir.

Lov.  Why, now its out.

Grimes.  I, and tis well your worships out.

Lov.  Noe, noe, it had bin better had I never gon in; but on, on.

Grimes.  You were, sir,—­as they say, sir—­you had gotten a Cup to much.

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

Grimes.  Yes, sir; you were not able to stand when you came out, sir?

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.

Lov.  Umh, there was witt in my drinke, I perceive; on.

Grimes.  Then, sir, you tooke up a Spitt.

Lov.  A Spitt?

Grimes.  Yes, sir, and broacht one of the wenches out.

Lov.  How?

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

Lov.  What? thy nose int?

Grimes.  Had I been there it had been at your service.

Lov.  Thanke thee; thou shouldst have lost nothing by it.

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.

Lov.  Ist possible I could doe this?

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

Lov.  Did not I pay for that oath too?

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.

Lov.  Ha, now, now comes the misfortune.

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.

Lov.  Ha, through his heart? the Captaines dead then?

Grimes.  No sir, twas through a silver heart he weares in memory of his Mrs.

Lov.  Ime glad of that:  thou strukst me through the heart with thy newes.

Page 66

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.  Umh, no, but they have stolne my velvet Jerkin.

Grimes.  I, and dam’d your Dublet.

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.  I thanke you, good Mr. Steward. [Discovers

Lov.  Whoes this? Grimes?

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

Lov.  Thou shalt be my hangman first, Rascall.

Grimes.  You wonnot murder? helpe Captain, Mr. Crackby, Tim!

Enter Omnes.

Omnes.  How now! how now! what’s the matter?

Lov.  Whoop! hell broke loose! tis good to shun the Divell.
          
                                                    [Exit.

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

Tim.  Why this is excellent.

Suc.  Grimes, let me hugg thee, thou sonn of witt.

Grimes.  Nay, letts not leave him thus.

Crac.  Leade on, weele follow.

[Exeunt Omnes.

Finis Actus Secundi.

Actus Tertius.

(SCENE 1.)

    Enter Sir Geffry and Lady.

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.

Page 67

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.

    Enter Bonville.

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

Bon.  Madam, I have occasions of importance Wishes a little privacy with you.

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

Sir Geff.  With all my heart:  Ile to the wenches.
          
                                 [Exit.

Bon.  Madam we are alone?

Lady.  You did desire we should.

Bon.  But are you sure none can oreheare us.

Lady.  Unles we be to loud:  What mooves you to require this secresie?

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.

Lady.  What ist, I pray you?

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

Lady.  You urge a repetition, gentle sir, Of a sad truth:  she is.

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.

Lady.  Ist come to this?  You speake misteriously; explaine your meaning.

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

Lady.  Are you serious?

Page 68

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.

    Enter Y[oung] Marlowe and Thurston.

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.

[Exeunt Young Marlowe and Thurston.

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.

Bon.  How, Lady?

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

Bon.  These are arts Orewhelme my dull capacity with horror:  Inconstant!

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.

Page 69

    Enter Belisea.

Bel.  Peace attend you.

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.

Bel.  Can this be possible?

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.

Bon.  Your mother.

Bel.  How! my mother?

Bon.  No creature else Could have inducd me to such a madnes.

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.

Bon.  Will you not heare me out?

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

Page 70

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

[Exit.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Belisea, Clariana and Thorowgood.

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.  Has your worthles freind Hird you to sweare this?

Tho.  I’me none that live By selling oathes.

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.

Tho.  Your pleasure rules me. [Exit.

Cla. Belisea, you did ill Not to heare out the Gent[leman].

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]

    Enter Sucket and Crackby.

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.

Cla.  Heele fight with us, sister:  weed best procure him bound toth peace.

Crac.  Ladies, I must no more endure repulse; I come to be a suiter.

Bel.  For what?

Crac.  Why, that you would with Judgment overlooke This lovely countenance.

Cla.  The hangman shall doe’t sooner.

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

Cla.  To hang at their beds head for a memento mori—­

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

Cla.  It scared her from her witts:  she thought the divell had haunted her.

Page 71

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.  Contemne me not, lady; I am—­

Cla.  A most egregious asse.

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

Cla.  I lay my life a Tinker.

Crac.  And in his parish of account.

Cla.  A Scavenger.

Bel.  Is it a badge of your profession To be uncivell?

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

Bel.  It must be drunke then.

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?

Crac.  My worth deserves it.

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.

Crac.  This is offensive to My reputation.

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.

Suc.  They may stand
In neede of valour.
                                  [Exeunt Suc. and Crac.

Enter Thurston.

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.

Bel.  I will attend her pleasure. [Exit.

Cla.  Doe not goe, wench; we shall scarce be honest.

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.

Page 72

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.

Thu.  You’re no Atlanta; if you be, Ile play Hippomanes and over runn you.

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.

Thu.  I must leave to live then.  Why doe you say soe?

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.  Wherefore, pray?  Our eyes are no more poysonous then they were.

Cla.  Yes, they infect reciprocall.

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.

Page 73

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.

    Enter Lovell.

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?

Page 74

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.

Lov.  It could not be her fault; there’s a mistake in’t.

Thu.  None o’my life, theres none.

Lov.  Let me see, let me see:  No, twas not hers, twas Grimeses knavery.

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!

Thu.  The Devill. [Claps him on the shoulder.

Lov.  Oh helpe, helpe![106] [Exit.

    Enter Lady.

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.

Thu.  And your daughter Repayes me kindly fort.

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.

Page 75

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.

Thu.  He experience Your affirmation:  could you love me?

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.

Lady.  Surely, You are not well.

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.

Lady.  You have prevaild.

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.

Lady.  What ayles you, Sir?

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.

Page 76

Lady.  Doe you not love me then?

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.

Enter Alexan.

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.

    Enter Young Mar.

Y.  M.  What meanes this fury, Madam?

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.  Why, Sir, she has seene the Divell.

Lady.  Ha!

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.

Page 77

Enter Sir Geffery, Crackby, [Suc]ett [and Bun]ch.

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.

Suc.  Here are men that has seene service.

Bunch.  At a mustring or ith Artillery[112] garden.

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.

    Enter Belisea and Clariana.

Bel.  Are these fooles here?

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.

Crac.  Nay, if you take away their portions, Ile Meddle no further with them.

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?

Sir Gef.  Nay, and you begin agen, Ile call your Ladie Mother.

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

Bel.  I am no Plannet.

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.

Page 78

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

Crac.  Baffeld before my Mrs?  Death to fame!  Captaine, good Captaine.

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.

Sir Gef.  Come, you shall love me.

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.

Sir Gef.  Madam! madam! shees in her old fitt!

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.

Sir Gef, Contemne an old man and his feather, Bunch, Ile begon, B[unch].

[Exeunt Sir Gef. and Bunch.

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.  You must not part thus, Mrs; here are men Has scapd—­

Cla.  The Gallowes.

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

Bel.  You are uncivill; pray, desist.

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

Bel.  You will not robb me of it?

Suc.  I will intreate this glove which shall adorne In fight my burgonett.

Cla.  Some honest hostesse Ere this has made a chamber pot of it.

Crac.  It is some rivalls ring and I will have it To weare in spight of him.

Bel.  Helpe, Sister, helpe.

    Enter Bonvill and Grimes.

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.

Crac.  Whats that to you? you might have come before me.

Bel.  What would you have don?

Crac.  Entreated you againe to have come behind me.

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.  Is your life hatefull to you?

Page 79

Bon.  Why doe you inquire, good puff past?

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

Bon.  Ile try that presently;—­feare nothing, ladyes.

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.

Crac.  Take myne, Captaine.

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.

Grimes.  Come, sir. [beats them.

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

Bel.  Oh, my Deare Bonvill.

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.

Bon.  Can you have soe much mercy, You soe much goodnes?

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.  Whats thy misfortune?

Bel.  Alas, my mother has crost her in her affection as she did us.

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.

Bel.  Ile goe any whither To enjoy thy presence; theres no heaven without it.

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.

Cla.  Will you leave me, then?

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.

Exeunt omnes.

Actus Quartus.

SCENE 1.

    Enter Magdalen, Timothy and Alexander.

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?

Page 80

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!

Ma.  You will not goe then?

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.

[Exeunt.

Ma.  Udsme, my lady!

    Enter Lady.

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.

Lov.  Please your good Ladyship.

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.  Madam, you seeme—­

Lady.  Angry at your impertinency; learne manners, leave me.

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.

Enter Maudlin [and Timothy.]

Ma.  Madam, your daughter—­

Lady.  Where is she?  Who? Clariana?

Ma.  The faire Belisea.

Enter Clariana.

Cla.  Did you call me, madam.

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?

Cla.  Yes, on my Soule.

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

Page 81

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.

Cla.  A little labour will serve for that.

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.

Enter Thurston and Thorowgood.

Cla.  Here comes the Gentleman.

Lady.  Be earnest, Clariana, I shall heare you.
          
                                 [Exit.

Tho.  Sir, you must iuistifie this.

Thu.  Feare it not; yonder she goes; I’ll tell her of it, sheele not denie it.

Cla.  Mr. Thurston, whether do you walke soe fast?

Thu.  O, Clarianna, are you there?

Cla.  Nay, stay, I have a suite to you.

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

Page 82

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.

Tho.  He were unwise Would he not graunt it then.

Thu.  Please you declare 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.

Thu.  It is herselfe, Ime sure.

Tho.  It surely is no other.

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.

Tho.  This is the strangest madnes I ere heard of.

Thu.  Is it you, Clariana, that speake all this?

Cla.  You know and heare it is.

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?

Cla.  My Mother.

Thu.  Ha, your Mother!

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.

Page 83

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.

Tho.  You are not mad, sir? what doe you meane?

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.

Tho.  But, harke you, sir, do you intend to love her.

Thu.  Good sir, torment me not.

    Enter Grimes.

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.

Page 84

    Enter Lady.

Lady.  How doe you, sir?

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.

Lady.  Good sir, mistake me not, I am your friend.

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!

    Enter Alexander.

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.

Enter Thorowgood.

Tho.  Madam, theres one brings a sad message to you.

Lady.  From whome, I pray you.

Tho.  From two friends of yours Your cruelty has murdred,

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.

Lady.  This story Conduces nothing to the deathes you talkd of.

Page 85

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.

[Exeunt Thorowgood and Grimes.

Grimes.  O, my deare Master!

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.

[Exit.

([SCENE] 2.)

Enter Alexander and Young Marlowe.

Page 86

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.  Murder, my friend!

Alex.  Noe, tis doing sacrifice to slaunderd goodnes.

Y.  M.  Rob my beloved Sister of a husband!

Alex.  Yes, to redeeme to your mother her lost honour.

Y.  M.  Art not a Divell?

Alex.  Ha!

Y.  M.  Thy breath has blasted me.

Alex.  I must confes indeed I have eaten garlicke.

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.  Dost weepe, old Crocodile? looke dost see this sword.

Alex.  Oh, I beseech you, sir; goe to; what meane you?

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.  Heaven prosper you.  Ha!

    Enter Thurston.

Thu.  Freind, I was looking for you.

Y.  M.  And you have found me, Villaine.

Thu.  What meane you?

Y.  M.  If thou darst follow me I will conduct thee Unto the seate of death.

Thu.  Dare!  Ile goe with thee, hand in hand; goe on.

[Exeunt ambo.

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.

Page 87

[Exit.

Actus Quintus.

(SCENE 1.)

Enter Lady Marlowe sola.

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!

    Enter Thorowgood, Clariana, and Magdalen.

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.

Cla.  Yonder is somebody among the Trees Hard by the River:  alasse, tis shee!

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.

Tho.  Heaven and good Angells guard you!

Cla.  My deare Mother!

Mag.  My gratious Lady!

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.

Mag.  Expect the best:  The Gentleman will perswade her.

Page 88

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.

Mag.  Here is your vayle, and’t please your ladiship.

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.

[Ho]llow within:  Follow, follow, follow! that way he went.

    Enter Young Marlowe, Alexander, [Consta]ble and [office]rs.

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

Tho.  Whats the matter?  Deare Sir, what ayles you?

Lady.  O my Sonne!  I feare.

Alex.  Stand back, goe to; what meanes this rudenes.  I say goe to, keepe back.

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.

Page 89

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.

Tho.  Alas, beleive her not; greife for her sonne Has made her franticke.

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.

Y.  M.  I must acknowledge
Mr. Alexander oft did instigate me
To kill him.

Con.  Sir, you must clere your selfe of this.

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.

[Exeunt omnes.

(SCENE 2.)

A Table:  Enter Judge,[127] Sir Geffery, Crackbie,
Suckett, and Bunch.

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.

Crac.  I might have had her my self, you know, uncle.

Sir Gef.  Peace, Nephew, peace, give Justice leave to speake.—­As I related, the reason I related, Sir, was as I told you.

Sir Hu.  You told me nothing yet, Sir Geffery.

Sir Gef.  Noe? did I not say he should have had her daughter?

Sir Hu.  You did; but what does that conduce to their dissention?

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.

Page 90

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.

Bunch.  They are not come yet to confession, sir.

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 Hu.  Who shall speake for them, 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?

Sir Hu.  No duell can be fayre, cause tis against The kingdomes lawes.

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!

Crac.  Patience, good Captaine; we will have duells lawful.

Suc.  Tis fit they should, being legitimacy managd, sir.]

    Enter Constable and Prisoners.

Sir Gef.  O, soe; are you come? weele tickle you ifaith.

Con.  Soe please you, heare are the prisoners.

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.

Sir Hu.  Good Sir Geffrey, silence a while.  Who is the accuser?

Con.  Here.

Sir Hu.  What have you, freind, to object against this lady?

Con.  That she confesd it was by her procurement and comaunde her sonn murderd young Thurston.

Lady.  Please you, sir, that a poore prisoner may entreate one favour.

Sir Gef.  Yes, you shall have favour!

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Sir Hu.  Any thing mercy can graunt unpreiudiciall to Iustice.

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 Gef.  Marke that, Sir:  shee that slew him! do you hear?

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.

Crac.  O how learnedly could I speake now, might I have licence!

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.

Sir Hu.  Speake freely, lady.

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?

Sir Gef.  Hum, what says Bunch?

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.

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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.  Sir, you are the Judge here?

Sir Hu.  Yes, sir, why question you my power?

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.

[Suc.[131] The man speaks home and boldly.]

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.  Whoe?  I? goe to; ist come to this?

Sir Hu.  Sir, you must answer this.

Sir Gef.  Marke how the mischeife lookes.

Alex.  I doe defie thy mallice, thou falce Judge.  Goe to; my [Mrs.] I appeal to, she that knowes my vertue and Integrity.

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Sir Hu.  Away with him toth Jayle:  a publique Sessions may [ere] long from thence deliver him to the gallowes.

Const.  Come, Sir.
                             [Exeunt Const, and Alex.

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.

Tho.  And what for me?

Sir Gef.  I, what for him, Mr Justice?

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.

Suc.  Death, Sir! 
Dare you presume to draw before us men
Of stout performance?

Sir Gef.  You sir, weele have you hangd to, sir, with the Steward.

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.

Sir Hu.  What are they?

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.

Con.  Noe, my life ont, sir:  they come unarm’d.

Sir Hu.  Be still; letts see this misterie.

    Florish, Horrid Musike.  Enter Death, Gri., and Furies.

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.

    Recorders.  Enter Hymen and the Lovers.

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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?

Sir Gef.  Now, on my knighthood, Mr. Thurston.

Lady.  Amazement leave me:  is he living?

Sir Hu.  Are we deluded?

Tim.  So it appeares, Sir:  the gent[leman] never had hurt; hees here, and let him speake for himselfe and this gentlewoman his wife.

Lady.  Who? Clariana?

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.

Cla.  Which we beg With hearty sorrow, if we have transgresd Our duty to you.

Sir Hu.  I am happie to see so blesd a period.

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.

[Suc.[137] Death, must he have her then?]

Sir Hu.  Spoake like a mother.

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!

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Lady.  Sir, I have vowd,
Since by my meanes my daughter and her love
Perishd unhappily, to seclude my selfe
From mans Society.

         [Bonvil, Belisia, and Grimes discover.

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.

[Suc.[139] Doe you know me, Sir?

Bon.  Yes, very well, sir.

Suc.  You are married, sir.

Bon.  I, what of that?

Suc.  Nothing, but send you Joy, sir?]

Lady.  But where’s my Steward? hees not hangd I hope:  This mirth admits no Tragedy.

Gri.  Behold the figure.

Alex.  I crave forgivenesse.

Lady.  Goe to, you have it.

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!

Tho.  Well said, Sir Geffrey.

Sir Gef.  Hey, when I was young! but come, we loose [time]:  every one his lasse, and stricke up Musick!

Daunce.

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.

[Exeunt omnes.

FINIS.

This Play, call’d the Lady Moth[er] (the Reformacons observ’d) may be acted.  October the xvth, 1635.

WILL.  BLAGRAVE, Dept. to the [Master] of the Revell[s].

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.

Page 96

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).

Such a verse as,—­

    “In every Princes Court highly esteemd of,”

or,—­

    “Now in the time you ought to fix your faith fast,”

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

Page 97

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

Page 98

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:—­

Page 99

([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 prima 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.”

Page 100

THE TRAGEDY OF SIR JOHN VAN OLDEN BARNAVELT.

Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt.

Actus Primus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

    Enter Barnavelt, Modes-bargen, Leidenberck, and Grotius.

Bar.  The Prince of Orange now, all names are lost els!  That hees alone the Father of his Cuntrie!  Said you not so?

Leid.  I speake the peoples Language.

Bar.  That to his arme and sword the Provinces owe Their flourishing peace? that hees the armyes soule By which it moves to victorie?

Mod.  So ’tis said, Sir.

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.

Page 101

Bar.  This to me?

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!

Gro.  You offend him.

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?

Bar.  Doe not measure My ends by yours.

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.

Page 102

Gro.  ’Tis like yourself, Like Barnavelt, and in that all is spoken.

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.

    Enter 2 Captaines.

Bar.  To all my service:[143] Ere long you shall know more.—­What are theis?

Leid.  Captaines That raild upon the Comissary.

Bar.  I remember.

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.

1 Cap.  We must stand to it.

Bar.  You, Sir, you?

2 Cap.  My Lord.

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.

1 Cap.  This indeed is stately:  Statesmen, d’you call ’em?

2 Cap.  I beseech your Lordship:  ’Twas wine and anger.

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.

[Exeunt Barnavelt, Modes-bargen, and Grotius,

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.

1 Cap.  Yet theres hope; For you have one friend left.

2 Cap.  You are deceivd, Sir, And doe not know his nature that gave promise Of his assistance.

1 Cap.  Who is’t?

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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.

1 Cap.  Why, what course will you take then?

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.

2 Cap.  Why, is there Such store they can be spard?

1 Cap.[145] ... ... ...

2 Cap.  I thanck you, Sir.

[Exeunt.

SCAENA 2.

Enter[146] Barnavelt, Modes-bargen, Leidenberck,
Grotius, and Hogebeets.

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.

Gro.  You honour it.

Hog.[147] And all our praires and service.

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.

Hog.  They are worthie Of nothing but contempt.

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.

Gro.  With all zeale and care We will performe this. [Exit.[148]

Leid.  This foundation Is well begun.

Gro.  And may the building prosper.

Page 104

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.

Mod.  May it prove so.

    Enter Bredero, Vandort, Officers.

Bre.  Good day, my Lord.

Vand.  Good Mounseiur Advocate, You are an early stirrer.

Bar.  ’Tis my dutie To wayte your Lordships pleasure:  please you to walke.

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?

Van.  I never sawe The Advocate so mov’d.

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.

Vand.  ’Tis most requisite.

Leid.  And for the honour of the Court.

Vand.  Goe on; You have my voice.

Bre.  And mine;—­yet wee’ll proceed As judgement shall direct us.

Vand.  ’Tis my purpose.

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.

Leid.  Looke to the dores there.

[Exeunt.

Page 105

SCAENA 3.

    Enter[150] Pr. of Orange, Gra:  William,
    Collonells & Captaines.

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.

Or.  No more, good Collonell.

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.

1 Gu.  An houre agoe, Sir.

Or.  Beshrew ye, Gentlemen, you have made me tardy:  Open the dore,

Page 106

1 Gu.  I beseech your Grace to pardon me.[153]

Or.  Do’st thou know who I am?

1 Gu.  Yes, Sir, and honour you.

Or.  Why do’st thou keep the dore fast then?

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.

Or.  ’Twas frendly don and like my noble masters.

Will.  Deny you place? make good the dore against ye?  This is unsufferable, most unsufferable.

Or.  Now I begin to feele those doubts; I feare still—­

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.

Col.  Let’s see then who dare stop ye.

Gu.  Not we, I am sure.

Col.  Let’s see who dare denie ye Your place and right of councell.

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.

Page 107

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.

Will.  Your good and great example tyes us all, Sir.

Cap.  The Councell’s broken up.

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.

Or.  Wayt, my lords!

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.

Bre.  Be not so bitter.

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.